Settling Scores

by Martin Edwards

  As I made this remark, I noticed that he held in his hand a copy of “The Sportsman,” a paper it was his habit sometimes to peruse.

  “I learn from this newspaper,” he said, holding it up, “that a young man who hurls a sixteen pound hammer a matter of between one hundred and seventy and one hundred and eighty feet, is regarded by the sporting public of this country as something of a genius?”

  “Yes, indeed,” I answered, “especially when a Freshman, in his first year of open competition, breaks British record and bids fair to eclipse the World’s Champion, whose performance has stood unchallenged since 1913; for I assume that your remark relates to the Oxonian, J. C. McLaglan, who is attaining fame so rapidly in the world of sport. He seems, also, to have courted a quite unnecessary degree of notoriety by growing a beard. The papers have been full of his pictures.”

  “I gather, further,” said Old Ebbie, following his original train of thought, “that the taste of the British public is gradually changing. Football furnishes an absorbing interest for two-thirds of the year; cricket, which has fallen into disfavour with the uneducated and unintelligent, has small claims to general attention during the summer months, so that the more exciting, but no less scientifically practised sport of athletics proper bids fair to provide the popular spectacle from April to September.”

  “Yes,” I answered, “but it is not a matter of satisfaction to the best class of amateur athlete.”

  “Indeed, and why is that?” asked Ebbie.

  “Because the growing popularity of the pastime has attracted the attention of the bookmakers. For example, there is almost as much betting this year upon the result of the Inter-University Sports at Queen’s Club as on the Boat Race.”

  “Ha!” ejaculated Old Ebbie, and not another word did he speak for upwards of half-an-hour.

  “Well,” he said at last, “I have here a letter from the Dean of St. Luke’s College, Oxford. There has been some trouble about a cheque which he asks me to investigate privately. It appears that some person, posing as an undergraduate and wearing the St. Luke’s College colours, purchased certain goods from a local tradesman, for which he paid with a cheque; this, upon presentation at the London bank upon which it was drawn, was returned and marked ‘no account’; and neither the name of the drawer nor his handwriting in any way resembles those of any undergraduate of the college in question. Not unnaturally the dean would prefer to have the problem solved privately, and in the meantime he has reimbursed the tradesman out of his own pocket.”

  “And has the origin of the cheque form been ascertained?” I queried.

  “Yes,” answered Old Ebbie, “it was torn, with its counterfoil, from Lord Rockpool’s private cheque book.”

  “Hum,” I said, “I know young Rockpool slightly, having served on the staff of his father, the Earl of Hartland, for a short time.”

  I met Ebbie at Paddington pretty early next morning, and together we journeyed down to Oxford, where the courteous old dean entertained us to lunch at his college, refusing to say one word concerning the case until we had eaten.

  After lunch he took us to his study and placed the returned cheque, signed “James Vivian,” in Old Ebbie’s hands. There was absolutely nothing which he could tell us personally about the affair, but I could see that my friend was keenly interested from the manner in which he scrutinised the pink, engraved slip of paper.

  “The hand is disguised, and will tell us nothing more than that the cheque was drawn by a well educated man who used a fountain pen,” he said; “the name of ‘James Vivian’ has been assumed by someone who, having written the first letter, hesitated a moment before choosing the nom de plume he would employ. He is either an American or one who has lived in the United States long enough to have become accustomed to American business methods.”

  “Dear me,” exclaimed the dean, “how do you deduce these circumstances?”

  “It is simple enough,” answered Old Ebbie with a slight smile. “You will observe that the writing is fine and well formed; the broadening of the letters shows that they have been written slowly, which would hardly be the case with an educated man, unless he was giving to those letters an unfamiliar or seldom employed shape. If you will look at the writing you will notice a certain hardness of outline and also a degree of blackness, which proves that no blotting paper has been employed; now a shop-keeper almost invariably offers a customer who writes a cheque the use of a sheet of blotting paper, unless, as in this case, the writing dries at once, as is the way with some fountain pen ink. There is a slight, but none the less significant, thickening at the termination of the final up-stroke of the initial ‘J,’ where the man paused an instant before inscribing the next letter. On the whole, I should say that he was used to writing the ‘J,’ but not the ‘a’ which follows it. Finally, you will observe that in dating the cheque he has placed the number representing the month first, the number representing the day of the month second, and the number representing the year last, as is the American custom.”

  “It all sounds very simple as you explain it,” said the dean, “but I must confess that I had overlooked all those little details which you make to appear so painfully simple and obvious.”

  “Ah,” said Old Ebbie, “d’you remember what Stevenson said? ‘There is nothing more disenchanting to man than to be shown the springs and mechanism of any art.’”

  “Surely this is a very slight affair with which you occupy your valuable time, my dear Ebbie,” I remarked as, having said good-bye to the dean, we strolled down the High to the small jeweller’s shop at which the cheque had been given in payment for goods to the extent of some fifty pounds.

  “There is nothing macabre about it, certainly,” he answered, “but there are some unusual circumstances which raise this case above the category of commonplace crimes. We shall see.”

  “Well,” said Ebbie to the jeweller, whose shop was small and dark, “the dean of St. Luke’s has sent us to see you about this bad cheque.”

  “Yes, sir, I shall be pleased to answer your questions,” said the man.

  “Have you a list of the things purchased?”

  “There was only one purchase, sir; a ring comprising a single large diamond held in a woman’s hand.”

  “But surely that was an extraordinary piece of jewellery for an undergraduate to acquire?”

  “So I thought, but the gentleman seemed much taken with it, and quite turned up his nose at a stone of the first water in a simple setting, which I offered, and even recommended, in preference to the other. But he said it was for his own use and he preferred it.”

  “Hum! Had you ever seen this customer before?”

  “No.”

  “Would you know him again?”

  “I’m afraid not; I was just closing the shop and most of the lights were out; moreover, he wore a heavy ulster with the collar turned up and had a scarf of St. Luke’s colours wrapped right up round his chin.”

  “Did you notice anything peculiar about him?”

  “Nothing, except his arms, sir, which were abnormally long.”

  “Come,” said Ebbie, “that is at least something to go upon. Had he any accent?”

  “Not an accent, sir; but, now that you mention it, I remember that he seemed to choose his words with some care. But a great many young gentlemen do that nowadays in their first term.”

  “By the way,” said Ebbie, as we were leaving the shop, “he wrote the cheque with a fountain pen, didn’t he?”

  “Why, yes, sir,” replied the man in some surprise.

  “It is always something to have one’s deductions confirmed as one goes along,” said Ebbie, when we found ourselves once more upon the pavement. “It would appear that despite a certain degree of education our man is not quite a gentleman.”

  “Because he chooses his words carefully?” I asked.

  “No, but because he buys a ring better suited to the hand of a professional boxer than to that of an Oxford undergraduate.”

 
From the terse manner in which the answer was given I gathered that my companion did not wish to converse, and so I remained silent as we walked to “Green Lawns,” a large house standing in its own grounds, at which we had been informed that Lord Rockpool was staying. It was a low, prepossessing building, well sheltered by trees, the front facing the road and the back looking across a stretch of smooth lawn, which ran almost up to the wall, towards St. Cuthbert’s College, from which, also, it was screened by a row of trees.

  The rooms occupied by Lord Rockpool were immediately over the dining-room and drawing-room, which opened straight on to the lawn by way of French windows, set in three-sided bays, which projected from the main structure, the windows being protected by shutters at night. We ascertained later, that these shutters were always closed at tea-time, that is to say, before it was quite dark, during the winter months. These twin bays were covered with lead, their flat roofs being some ten and a half feet above the ground.

  The manservant who answered the door informed us that his lordship was at present attending a committee meeting of the Oxford University Athletic Club, of which he was at that time President, but that he would most certainly be in at six o’clock.

  Leaving our names and a message that we had been asked to call upon Lord Rockpool by the dean of St. Luke’s, we made our way to the Randolph Hotel, whither our baggage had preceded us, and where we now ordered tea.

  At six o’clock precisely we presented ourselves again at “Green Lawns,” where the door was answered by the same manservant, who informed us that his lordship was in and would see us. I noticed at the moment that the man was perturbed, if not actually agitated.

  I was behind my companion as we entered Rockpool’s room, and was amused to observe the slight start of surprise caused by the somewhat bizarre appearance of the old chemist, who was clad, as usual, in square-tailed morning coat, with large flap pockets, Gladstone collar, and crossover bird’s-eye cravat. A moment later Rockpool caught sight of me, and came quickly forward.

  “How d’you do, Captain Hicks?” he said. “We have not met since you stayed at Hartland more than a year ago.”

  “The last time I saw you was at Queen’s last March, when you won the Mile,” I answered; “but upon that occasion I had no opportunity of speaking to you.”

  To my intense surprise a shadow crossed his face upon my mentioning his victory against Cambridge. And then I noticed that the window was wide open; another surprising circumstance, for the evening was cold, even for early March.

  Before anything further could be said, Lord Rockpool turned to Old Ebbie.

  “And you,” he said, holding out his hand, “are the famous Mr. Ebenezer Entwistle, whose brain is said to be one of the acutest at present employed in criminal research. Well, sir, I am delighted to make you welcome, for you come at a most opportune moment.”

  “You, my lord, are interested then in this affair of the false cheque which has been uttered?” asked Old Ebbie in his quiet, cultured voice, which seemed always to place him at once upon a friendly footing with those with whom he was brought into contact, no matter what their station in life might be.

  “But very indifferently, I fear,” answered Rockpool. “The affair is trivial, after all: the tradesman has been paid and the dean can afford the money, so it seems the only loser is the poor devil who allowed himself to be tempted to the commission of such a petty and pitiful felony.”

  “But how do you suppose the person in question was afforded the opportunity of extracting a cheque from your book?” asked Ebbie.

  “Nothing could be easier,” answered Rockpool. “I have several banking accounts, and usually carry a book in the pocket of whatever coat I happen to be wearing. Why, it was only the other day that the ground man at the Iffley Road track returned to me a cheque-book which he had found in the breast-pocket of an old blazer I had given him to throw away, and which had been hanging on a peg in the dressing-room for months.”

  “And was it from that particular book that the cheque-form was purloined?”

  “No, but from another, with which I am afraid that I was equally negligent. I shall be more careful in future, since this unsavoury episode has aroused my sense of responsibility and I now realise that my carelessness has in some measure led another man into crime. So strongly have I felt this, indeed, that I asked the dean to allow me to reimburse the silversmith the ‘pair of ponies’ of which he was defrauded, but Dr. Seaton would not hear of it, a circumstance which has annoyed me greatly.”

  “I see,” said Ebbie; “but have you no idea as to the approximate date upon which this cheque-form was purloined?”

  “Not the least in the world, for I had not used the book myself for more than three months; so you see that it is no use for us to discuss that matter any further; and, meantime, I have a much more extraordinary problem to offer you, if you would care to undertake the investigation?”

  “I must first hear the nature of the case before I can say whether I will undertake it or not,” my friend answered guardedly.

  “Very well,” said Rockpool, “I will relate the circumstances; but whether you undertake the case or not, what I am about to say must, of course, be treated in the strictest confidence. I ask for this assurance, since the matter affects the University as a whole. If I alone were concerned, I should be perfectly content to rely upon your discretion.”

  “You may do so in any case, my lord,” said Old Ebbie, with equal formality.

  For some moments Rockpool sat at the table considering the situation before committing it to speech.

  “I wonder,” he said at length, “if either of you is sufficiently interested in sport generally to have observed that the exaggeration of professionalism is gradually killing the public interest in Association football, which, for many years, has been a sort of fetish with the masses. The professionals, by eliminating the charge, have deprived the game of a feature of robustness which was, at one time, closely allied to the art of tackling, which still keeps the Rugby game healthy. Furthermore, the finicking exactness of the professional player has robbed the game of its goal-getting possibilities, and, therefore, the public are looking around for some other form of sport upon which to fasten their affections. Athletics, a branch of sport which has hitherto been almost entirely free from professionalism and the betting evil, has, in consequence, come in for a quite unpleasant boom.”

  “So I have already gathered,” interrupted Old Ebbie.

  “Not unnaturally,” continued Rockpool, “both here and at Cambridge we have been pestered to death by newspaper people and Press photographers, since the daily papers are concentrating upon the approaching Oxford and Cambridge sports in a most unprecedented manner.”

  “In fact,” I interposed, “the sports this year are creating just as much public interest as the Boat Race?”

  “Yes,” answered Rockpool, “and I am afraid that people are betting equally freely upon both events. And then, of course, that infernal fellow McLaglan growing a beard gave the Press photographers an excellent opportunity of exploiting us.”

  “But surely it is unusual for a Fresher thus to go against the wishes of his associates?” I said.

  “An ordinary Fresher, yes,” replied Rockpool, “but McLaglan has come up late and must be nearly thirty years of age. I should think he has been abroad a good deal. He is very independent.”

  “I see,” I answered.

  “We had a meeting with the C.U.A.C. Committee a week ago,” he continued, “when it was agreed that we should do all in our power to support the Amateur Athletic Association in its endeavour to combat the betting evil, for which reason it was decided that, contrary to previous custom, we should not this year publish the selected teams until the eve of the contest. You must quite understand,” he added impressively, “that we do not object to publicity or to providing sport for the genuine sport-loving public, but we do resent being exploited for the benefit of those people who follow sport purely and simply for what they can g
et out of it.”

  “Yes, the point is quite clear,” answered Ebbie.

  “This afternoon,” continued Rockpool, “the committee of the O.U.A.C. met to award Blues; a point of contention arose, and it was some considerable time before we finally selected the team which will meet Cambridge at Queen’s, at the end of the month. Even so, those who are to have their Blues will not be told yet, but everyone who has been training has been requested to continue work at Iffley Road.”

  “And what was the particular point of contention?” asked Ebbie.

  “As to whether McLaglan should be given his Blue,” answered Rockpool.

  “What!” I exclaimed, “exclude the British record holder from the team, impossible! Besides, my dear fellow, it seems to me that Oxford and Cambridge are so evenly matched this year that McLaglan’s hammer throwing is the one thing which may prevent the sports from resulting in an inconclusive tie.”

  “That was what the majority of the committee thought,” said Rockpool drily, “but McLaglan has not the right outlook in relation to sport. This is not snobbishness,” he added, “for a board-school boy would be equally as welcome in the team as an Etonian, if he was a sportsman, which McLaglan is not. He is boastful and a bad loser, and has already done a number of things well calculated to bring University athletics into bad repute.”

  “Such as growing a beard?” queried Old Ebbie, with a sly smile.

  “Yes, that amongst other things.”

  “Such as?”

  “A suspicion of shadiness in money matters.”

  “But what made him grow a beard?” I interposed.

  “Heaven alone knows,” replied Rockpool. “But we are getting away from the main issue. I returned here from the committee meeting a few minutes after you had called, and immediately sent Smithers, my man, out to get an evening paper. I placed the list of Blues who will compete against Cambridge upon my desk, and then it suddenly occurred to me that some of those infernal newspaper fellows would be along at any moment, pestering me for information. I ran downstairs to give the parlour-maid instructions to tell them, should they call, that I had nothing to communicate. I found the girl laying my landlady’s dinner table.