The Weight of the Evidence

by Michael Innes

  To these harmless – and even philosophic – proclivities Mr Murn was promising himself a larger measure of indulgence in the future. The Pest – for it was thus that Mr Murn had long privately designated his principal – had been brought to judgement; and a great deal of unnecessary scientific activity could now be abandoned.

  And yet Mr Murn at the moment was not altogether free of his new world. He was troubled in his mind. He was troubled, for one thing, about the dark-room. He was troubled about the curious popularity that the dark-room had enjoyed just round about the hour of Pluckrose’s death…

  Hissey had, of course, used it on and off for years; he was well known as a textual scholar and an epigrapher; in the course of a copious correspondence with other learned persons he was constantly in need of photographic reproductions of this inscription and that. It was a pity that Hissey so obstinately believed in his ability to do the work himself; it meant mess, spoilt paper, and sometimes broken plates. Still, Hissey’s pottering around the photographic rooms was always explicable. Young Marlow, however, was a rarer visitor; occasionally he persuaded the laboratory assistant to make his rotographs or photostats but he seldom tried to do anything himself. There, nevertheless, he had been. And there, too, had been Marlow’s usual companion, Pinnegar. In fact, a regular cloud of witnesses – but witnesses of what? And Mr Athelstan Murn, forgetting his morning’s labour of surveying Nesfield, turned his eye cautiously in the direction of his desk. Several times he did this, and on each occasion an observer might have remarked that his gaze was more troubled than before.

  Mr Murn stroked his beard – and paused as if he suddenly found the action disconcerting. Or even – the observer might have remarked – dangerous… Mr Murn rose and made his way to his desk; his hand went out to a lowermost drawer; he hesitated and returned to his chair. He looked doggedly out of the window. Two girls with short and blowy skirts were crossing the road to the university refectory, and Mr Murn ought to have been pleasantly interested in four calves, in the glimpse of a thigh. Mr Murn’s gaze, however, though dutiful was abstracted; presently it was back once more on the drawer; and in a very few seconds Mr Murn was again on his feet. But this time it was towards the waste-paper basket that he moved. He stooped, retrieved Professor Pluckrose, and restored him to his nail. He stood back to observe the effect. Very evidently it displeased him greatly. Nevertheless Mr Murn gave a resigned sigh and returned to his chair. He had scarcely had time to seat himself when there was a knock at the door. ‘Come in!’ called Mr Murn. He contrived to put a surprising amount of cheerfulness into the injunction.

  This was because Mr Murn instinctively felt that his awkward moment had come.

  ‘A great loss,’ said Mr Murn. ‘A great loss to science. And, of course, a personal loss, as I need hardly add.’ And Mr Murn directed a glance of great pathos towards the photograph of the late Professor Pluckrose which hung above an untidy bookcase at the other end of the room.

  ‘Quite so.’ Appleby looked decently solemn. ‘In fact, I understand that Mr Pluckrose was a man who greatly endeared himself to all with whom he came in contact?’

  ‘Just that.’ Murn’s hand moved towards his beard, but suddenly checked itself. ‘The thing could not be better put; not even in an obituary notice.’ For an incautious moment the late professor’s assistant looked disconcertingly merry. ‘It has been a terrible blow.’ And Murn, going hastily to another extreme, took a handkerchief from his pocket and brushed away a venerable and manly tear.

  ‘We are finding it necessary to make a pretty exact check on the movements of everybody who was in this part of the building when the thing happened. My colleague, Inspector Hobhouse of the Borough Police, is at work on that now.’ Appleby paused impressively. ‘But as you, Mr Murn, were closely associated with the dead man it has occurred to me that you may be able to tell us a little more than just that sort of thing.’

  ‘Certainly – anything that I can do, of course. And I rather understand from what you say that the affair is still a mystery?’

  ‘Still very much of a mystery. We have made a little progress here and there, but the circumstances are still extremely obscure.’

  ‘Dear, dear! I am sorry to hear it.’ Murn settled himself a little more comfortably in his chair. ‘For instance, nobody saw it happen?’

  ‘Not so far as our present information goes.’

  ‘Nobody, say, saw the assailant’s features at the window of the tower?’

  ‘I’m afraid not.’ Appleby looked curiously at Murn, who was himself looking with an expression of some anxiety in the direction of his desk. ‘I believe there is one witness who might possibly have been in a position to do so, but it seems likely that his attention was engaged elsewhere. In fact, he was thinking something out.’

  ‘Ah. I have come myself to feel that too much analysis is a mistake. I am inclined to recommend the superior uses of contemplation. I am disposed to conclude that the contemplative life produces the better nervous tone.’

  ‘No doubt, sir. But I don’t know that it would altogether serve in my profession. And perhaps you could tell me something about Pluckrose’s relations with his colleagues. Could they, for instance, be described as uniformly cordial?’

  ‘Cordial?’ Murn’s mind appeared to be elsewhere and he answered incautiously. ‘The man was a pest.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  Murn blinked. ‘I was about to say that Pluckrose was a Pestalozzian. That is to say, as a teacher his methods followed the system of the celebrated Zurich reformer. But that is perhaps scarcely relevant.’

  ‘I should say not relevant at all. Though interesting, no doubt.’

  ‘As for Pluckrose’s relations with his colleagues, it must be said that they were occasionally clouded. Dear fellow though he was, you will understand. He had a passion for the advancement of knowledge – often of other people’s knowledge. And that, of course, led to trouble from time to time. For instance, he quite upset Hissey over some temple in Tartary.’

  ‘A temple in Tartary?’

  ‘Yes – just the sort of thing that was none of Pluckrose’s business, one might say. A German archaeologist – by name of Munchausen, if I remember aright – discovered in some unlikely place a temple with Roman inscriptions. They evoked a lot of discussion – some, I believe, are at Cambridge – and Pluckrose maintained that the whole thing was a fraud. Hissey is quite a friend of this Munchausen, and he was most upset. And there have been a good many frictions of that sort – and others yet more trivial. You have no doubt heard of the affair of Prisk and the telephone.’

  ‘The telephone Prisk and Pluckrose had to share? Yes, we’ve heard of that one.’

  ‘And I fear it must be said that Pluckrose – dear fellow though he was – occasionally fomented quarrels. As well, I mean, as getting personally involved in them, For instance, there was some ill-feeling a little time ago between Prisk and our Vice-Chancellor, Sir David Evans. It was over a little matter of some distinction conferred by the Prussian Academy.’

  ‘We have a note of that too.’

  ‘Well, Pluckrose, I fear, did something to exacerbate it. Principally, no doubt, because he dislikes Evans. Indeed, I may say that between Pluckrose and Evans there was some rather serious trouble.’

  ‘Can you tell me what it was about?’

  Murn looked quite uncomfortable. ‘It is really a most delicate matter. Or perhaps I ought to say a most indelicate matter. Among young men – yes. But when it comes to elderly men of no undistinguished position–’

  Appleby stared. ‘Good Lord! You don’t mean to say it was a woman?’

  ‘I fear it was just that.’ Mr Athelstan Murn glanced out of the window. ‘In fact, one might say it was a girl. I am myself strongly of the opinion that one ought not to get mixed up with them. Have a good look at them – yes. But when it comes positively to–’

  ‘I see. Certainly a great deal of trouble would be avoided if you could persuade people to your point of view.�
�� Appleby paused. There had recurred to his memory the masterly insinuations of Miss Dearlove. ‘You really mean to tell me that Sir David Evans and Professor Pluckrose were at loggerheads over a girl?’

  ‘Well, yes. Since you more or less asked me, you know.’ Murn looked quite reproachful. ‘Of course, it isn’t very generally known. It just so happens – In fact, Miss Godkin could tell you more about it than I can. If you cared to approach her on such a topic. Though I suppose that sort of thing is just in your line.’

  ‘Miss Godkin!’ Appleby was startled. ‘You don’t mean to say that this girl was a student – student in that lady’s hostel, St What’s-its-name?’

  ‘St Cecilia’s. But it is not, seemingly, quite as bad as that, I am glad to say. The young person has been living at St Cecilia’s, but she is not a student at the university. She is a German girl, temporarily under Miss Godkin’s care.’ Murn paused. ‘And an absolute stunner.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ Appleby was, if anything, more startled still.

  ‘You should see her legs.’ Murn settled comfortably back in his chair. ‘And her – her bust.’

  ‘Dear me. An alluring girl, plainly.’ Suddenly Appleby chuckled. ‘Zuleika Dobson!’ he exclaimed.

  Murn shook his head. ‘I think not. I believe her name is Else Schmauch.’

  ‘No doubt. But Zuleika Dobson was a girl about whom a whole university went crazy. Would you say that something of the sort was the position here?’

  ‘Fräulein Schmauch has certainly caused something of a sensation. Though I must say that her conversation–’

  ‘So you know her?’ Appleby looked sharply at Murn.

  ‘As an acquaintance, my dear sir. Occasionally I dine with Miss Godkin in the hall at St Cecilia’s. There are – um – some interesting frescoes at which I am always glad to have a look. And I have met the young person in that way.’

  ‘May I ask if you have been at loggerheads with anybody over her?’

  Mr Murn, thus suddenly attacked, made an agitated grab at his beard – and promptly let it go, much as if it were a bunch of nettles. ‘My dear sir–’

  ‘You have given me a number of facts, any or all of which may be valuable, which in effect suggest a number of possible motives for the crime which has occurred here.’ Appleby looked at Mr Murn in the friendliest way. ‘I wonder if any of your colleagues, equally obliging, could volunteer information on any little frictions in which you yourself have been involved?’

  Appleby, thus rounding upon Murn, was doing no more than follow in a routine manner the unpleasant necessities of his calling. He had no reason to suppose that this elderly spectator of the human scene had any further secret to unfold. It was surprising, therefore, as well as gratifying that Murn should now throw his hands above his head in a gesture of despair. ‘I called him a viper!’ he exclaimed. ‘Dear, delightful fellow that he was, I called him a horrible viper.’

  Very gravely, Appleby shook his head. ‘This is bad, Mr Murn; this is bad, indeed.’

  ‘There had been a little misunderstanding over a piece of biochemical research in our department. I had been given to suppose that we were regarded as at work upon it jointly. And then Pluckrose – dear, impetuous fellow that he was – communicated the results to a scientific journal without making any mention of my name. Most unhappily, I was aggrieved. And I called him a viper.’

  Appleby produced a notebook. ‘And what is a viper? Something that one crushes, I should say.’

  Murn groaned. ‘And that was what I said. You have no doubt heard all about it. Several of my colleagues were present at the time. I told him that he was a viper whom it would give me great pleasure to crush beneath my heel.’ Murn groaned again. ‘How unfortunate it has all been! How it has spoilt the whole affair!’

  ‘Spoilt the whole affair?’

  ‘My dear sir, Pluckrose is dead. It is a beautiful fact.’ Murn was now looking at Appleby with a sort of open-eyed innocence that was extremely convincing. ‘I have dreamed of it for years. And now it is all spoilt by this terrible anxiety. By this fiendish plot to accomplish my ruin. You are sure nobody was seen at that turret window?’

  ‘Naturally I can be sure of nothing of the sort. But so far no evidence of the kind has turned up.’

  With an agility surprising in so ancient a person, Murn sprang to his feet and moved towards his desk. ‘I will confide in you,’ he said – and opened a lowermost drawer. ‘I have here an – an object which I discovered secreted in the dark-room shortly after Pluckrose’s body had been found. Its significance I shall leave you to determine.’

  And Mr Murn stooped, withdrew something from the drawer, laid it on top of the desk, and stepped back. Appleby advanced, stared – and then swung round much as if he suspected Mr Murn of having performed a theatrical trick. Mr Murn, however, was exactly as he had been before.

  Again Appleby turned to the desk. What lay on it was a large, a white, a venerable beard.

  Appleby picked up the beard and examined it minutely. ‘You say you found it?’ he asked.

  ‘In a cupboard in the dark-room. I’d hardly be likely to buy a beard, you know.’ And Murn managed to contrive a momentary appearance of mirth. ‘But it’s extremely upsetting in the circumstances, you must agree.’

  ‘I think it’s extremely interesting.’ Appleby had produced a magnifying glass and was giving an exhibition of the most orthodox criminal investigation. ‘There’s dust on it – and if it’s the same dust as is in the cupboard that will go a little way towards substantiating your story.’ He looked up. ‘And I may say that this is about our first clue – of a tangible sort such as one could thrust under the nose of a jury. This and a photograph of a scratched floor and a cast-iron sink. Would you mind coming along now and showing me just where you discovered it?’ They moved towards the door. But before Pluckrose’s photograph Appleby paused. ‘Did you see the body?’ he asked abruptly.

  Murn jumped. ‘The body? No. That is to say, I wasn’t asked–’

  ‘It didn’t look like that any longer. Come along.’

  Murn made a distressed noise and followed Appleby from the room. They turned right and went down the corridor; through the high windows on their left light seeped in from the Wool Court. ‘By the way,’ said Appleby, ‘you know the fountain out there, Mr Murn? It was full on when the body was discovered. Is that usual?’

  ‘Decidedly not.’ Murn seemed to welcome this request for collaboration. ‘The fountain was designed for a much larger space, and was moved to the court when we built the new library. Turning it full on would make the devil of a mess.’

  ‘Which is more or less what happened. Can you think of any reason why?’

  Murn considered. ‘I think I can. As you know, the engineering shops are opposite, and there are people working there most of the morning. I don’t think the court can be observed from there, because of the arrangement of the windows. But it is possible–’ He paused. ‘Perhaps we might step out and see.’

  They turned left down the next stretch of corridor, passed the problematical dark-room on their right, and went through the door which opened on the Wool Court.

  Murn stroked his beard with something like renewed confidence. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘it is rather as I thought. The engineers, you see, have one door giving on the court; it is over there by the corner opposite the tower. I believe it opens on what is called the forge room, which is very little used. But it is always possible that somebody might be about there. And if you wished to screen this opposite corner from observation you might do worse than simply turn the fountain full on. The valve is no doubt somewhere close by.’

  ‘You don’t know just where?’

  Murn started at the abruptness of the question. And then he smiled. ‘Mr Appleby,’ he said, ‘I come from Norfolk. And I will answer you in the dialect of that county. You can’t patch it on me. Beard or no beard, you can’t patch it on me.’

  ‘It looks rather as if someone else is trying to patch it on you. And we
might try a little experiment. You might stand down here and I might put on the beard and go up to the turret window. And you might decide how much I looked like you.’

  ‘I think you had better get someone else to decide.’ Confession and this little matter of investigating the fountain appeared to have soothed Murn’s nerves; he glanced placidly up at the tower, placidly down at the spot where Pluckrose’s chair had stood, and then led the way back into the corridor. They turned right and stopped before the second door. ‘I suppose, Mr Appleby, that you know the lie of the land. This is called the photographic room, and the only entrance to the dark-room is off it to the right. And on the other side is Pluckrose’s private laboratory – which is not, of course, the same thing as his private room. That is further up the corridor, just beyond the telephone he shared with Prisk. I don’t expect there’s anybody here.’

  They went in. The photographic room was long, narrow, and lined with benches, sinks, shelves, and cupboards. At the far end of the left-hand wall was a door leading to the private laboratory, and opposite this was a doorless aperture which was presumably the entrance to the maze. Murn was mistaken as to the room’s being untenanted; at a small table sat Hobhouse taking down a statement from a white-coated laboratory assistant. This piece of business had apparently just concluded, for the man now rose and went out by the laboratory door. Hobhouse looked from Appleby to Murn – and from Murn to the false beard which Appleby still carried in his hand. ‘What you might call emergency equipment?’ he asked.