Gaudy Night

by Dorothy L. Sayers

  ‘No, no,’ said Mr. Jenkyn. He fingered his hands nervously and hitched his gown with its velvet facings protectively about his shoulders. ‘I had better be away in pursuit of those that have.’

  ‘Good night,’ said Harriet.

  ‘Good night,’ said Mr. Jenkyn, courteously raising his square cap. He turned sharply upon Mr. Pomfret. ‘Good night, sir.’

  He stalked away with brisk steps between the posts into Museum Road, his long liripipe sleeves agitated and fluttering. Between Harriet and Mr. Pomfret there occurred one of those silences into which the first word spoken falls like the stroke of a gong. It seemed equally impossible to comment on the interruption or to resume the interrupted conversation. By common consent, however, they turned their backs upon the pro-Proctor and moved out once more into St. Giles. They had turned left and were passing through the now-deserted Fender before Mr. Pomfret found his tongue.

  ‘A nice fool I look,’ said Mr. Pomfret, bitterly.

  ‘It was very unfortunate,’ said Harriet, ‘but I must have looked much the more foolish. I very nearly ran away altogether. However, all’s well that ends well. He’s a very decent sort and I don’t suppose he’ll think twice about it.’

  She remembered, with another disconcerting interior gurgle of mirth, an expression in use among the irreverent: ‘to catch a Senior girling.’ ‘To boy’ was presumably the feminine equivalent of the verb ‘to girl’; she wondered whether Mr. Jenkyn would employ it in Common Room next day. She did not grudge him his entertainment; being old enough to know that even the most crashing social bricks make but a small ripple in the ocean of time, which quickly dies away. To Mr. Pomfret, however, the ripple must inevitably appear of the dimensions of a maelstrom. He was muttering sulkily something about a laughing-stock.

  ‘Please,’ said Harriet, ‘don’t worry about it. It’s of no importance. I don’t mind one bit.’

  ‘Of course not,’ said Mr. Pomfret. ‘Naturally, you can’t take me seriously. You’re treating me like a child.’

  ‘Indeed I’m not. I’m very grateful – I’m very much honoured by everything you said to me. But really and truly, it’s quite impossible.’

  ‘Oh, well, never mind,’ said Mr. Pomfret, angrily.

  It was too bad, thought Harriet. To have one’s young affections trampled upon was galling enough; to have been made an object of official ridicule as well was almost unbearable. She must do something to restore the young gentleman’s self-respect.

  ‘Listen, Mr. Pomfret. I don’t think I shall ever marry anybody. Please believe that my objection isn’t personal at all. We have been very good friends. Can’t we—?’

  Mr. Pomfret greeted this fine old bromide with a dreary snort.

  ‘I suppose,’ he said, in a savage tone, ‘there’s somebody else.’

  ‘I don’t know that you’ve any right to ask that.’

  ‘Of course not,’ said Mr. Pomfret, affronted. ‘I’ve no right to ask you anything. I ought to apologise for asking you to marry me. And for making a scene in front of the Proggins – in fact, for existing. I’m exceedingly sorry.’

  Very clearly, the only balm that could in the least soothe the wounded vanity of Mr. Pomfret would be the assurance that there was somebody else. But Harriet was not prepared to make any such admission; and besides, whether there was anybody else or not, nothing could make the notion of marrying Mr. Pomfret anything but preposterous. She begged him to take a reasonable view of the matter; but he continued to sulk; and indeed, nothing that could possibly be said could mitigate the essential absurdity of the situation. To offer a lady one’s chivalrous protection against the world in general, and to be compelled instead to accept her senior standing as a protection for one’s self against the just indignation of the Proctor is, and remains, farcical.

  Their ways lay together. In resentful silence they paced the stones, past the ugly front of Balliol and the high iron gates of Trinity, past the fourteen-fold sneer of the Cæsars and the top-heavy arch of the Clarendon Building, till they stood at the junction of Cat Street and Holywell.

  ‘Well,’ said Mr. Pomfret, ‘if you don’t mind, I’d better cut along here. It’s just going twelve.’

  ‘Yes. Don’t bother about me. Good night . . . And thank you again very much.’

  ‘Good night.’

  Mr. Pomfret ran hurriedly in the direction of Queen’s College pursued by a yelping chorus of chimes.

  Harriet went on down Holywell. She could laugh now if she wanted to; and she did laugh. She had no fear of any permanent damage to Mr. Pomfret’s heart; he was far too cross to be suffering in anything but his vanity. The incident had that rich savour of the ludicrous which neither pity nor charity can destroy. Unfortunately, she could not in decency share it with anybody; she could only enjoy it in lonely ecstasies of mirth. What Mr. Jenkyn must be thinking of her she could scarcely imagine. Did he suppose her to be an unprincipled cradle-snatcher? or a promiscuous sexual maniac? or a disappointed woman eagerly grasping at the rapidly disappearing skirts of opportunity? or what? The more she thought about her own part in the episode, the funnier it appeared to her. She wondered what she should say to Mr. Jenkyn if she ever met him again.

  She was surprised to find how much Mr. Pomfret’s simple-minded proposal had elated her. She ought to have been thoroughly ashamed of herself. She ought to be blaming herself for not having seen what was happening to Mr. Pomfret and taken steps to stop it. Why hadn’t she? Simply, she supposed, because the possibility of such a thing had never occurred to her. She had taken it for granted that she could never again attract any man’s fancy, except the eccentric fancy of Peter Wimsey. And to him she was, of course, only the creature of his making and the mirror of his own magnanimity. Reggie Pomfret’s devotion, though ridiculous, was at least single-minded; he was no King Cophetua; she had not to be humbly obliged to him for kindly taking notice of her. And that reflection, after all, was pleasurable. However loudly we may assert our own unworthiness, few of us are really offended by hearing the assertion contradicted by a disinterested party.

  In this unregenerate mood she reached the College, and let herself in by the postern. There were lights in the Warden’s Lodgings, and somebody was standing at the gate, looking out. At the sound of Harriet’s footsteps, this person called out, in the Dean’s voice:

  ‘Is that you, Miss Vane. The Warden wants to see you.’

  ‘What’s the matter, Dean?’

  The Dean took Harriet by the arm.

  ‘Newland hasn’t come in. You haven’t seen her anywhere?’

  ‘No – I’ve been round at Somerville. It’s only just after twelve. She’ll probably turn up. You don’t think—?’

  ‘We don’t know what to think. It’s not like Newland to be out without leave. And we’ve found things.’

  She led Harriet into the Warden’s sitting-room. Dr. Baring was seated at her desk, her handsome face stern and judicial.In front of her stood Miss Haydock, with her hands thrust into her dressing-gown pockets; she looked excited and angry. Miss Shaw, curled dismally in a corner of the big couch, was crying; while Miss Millbanks the Senior Student, half-frightened and half-defiant, hovered uneasily in the background. As Harriet came in with the Dean, everybody looked hopefully towards the door and then away again.

  ‘Miss Vane,’ said the Warden, ‘the Dean tells me that you saw Miss Newland behaving in a peculiar manner on Magdalen Tower last May-Day. Can you give me any more exact details about that?’

  Harriet told her story again.

  ‘I am sorry,’ she added in conclusion, ‘that I didn’t get her name at the time; but I didn’t recognise her as one of our students. As a matter of fact, I don’t remember ever noticing her at all, until she was pointed out to me yesterday by Miss Martin.’

  ‘That’s quite right,’ said the Dean. ‘I’m not at all surprised you shouldn’t have known her. She’s very quiet and shy and seldom comes in to Hall or shows herself anywhere. I think she works nearly all day at the Ra
dcliffe. Of course, when you told me about the May-Day business, I decided that somebody ought to keep an eye on her. I informed Dr. Baring and Miss Shaw, and I asked Miss Millbanks whether any of the Third Year had noticed that she seemed to be in any trouble.’

  ‘I can’t understand it,’ cried Miss Shaw. ‘Why couldn’t she have come to me about it? I always encourage my pupils to give me their full confidence. I asked her again and again. I really thought she had a real affection for me . . .’

  She sniffed hopelessly into a damp handkerchief.

  ‘I knew something was up,’ said Miss Haydock, bluntly, ‘But I didn’t know what it was. The more questions you asked, the less she’d tell you – so I didn’t ask many.’

  ‘Has the girl no friends?’ asked Harriet.

  ‘I thought she looked on me as a friend,’ complained Miss Shaw.

  ‘She didn’t make friends,’ said Miss Haydock.

  ‘She’s a very reserved child,’ said the Dean. ‘I don’t think anybody could make much out of her. I know I couldn’t.’

  ‘But what has happened, exactly?’ asked Harriet.

  ‘When Miss Martin spoke to Miss Millbanks about her,’ said Miss Haydock, cutting in without respect of persons upon the Warden’s reply, ‘Miss Millbanks mentioned the matter to me, saying she couldn’t see that we could be expected to do anything.’

  ‘But I scarcely knew her . . .’ began Miss Millbanks.

  ‘Nor did I,’ said Miss Haydock. ‘But I thought something had better be done about it. I took her out on the river this afternoon. She said she ought to work, but I told her not to be an idiot, or she’d crack up. We took a punt up over the Rollers and had tea along by the Parks. She seemed all right then. I brought her back and persuaded her to come and dine properly in Hall. After that, she said she wanted to go and work at the Radder. I had an engagement, so I couldn’t go with her – besides, I thought she’d think it funny if I trailed after her all day. So I told Miss Millbanks that somebody else had better carry on.’

  ‘Well, I carried on myself,’ said Miss Millbanks, rather defiantly. ‘I took my own work across there. I sat in a desk where I could see her. She was there till half-past nine. I came away at ten and found she’d gone.’

  ‘Didn’t you see her go?’

  ‘No. I was reading and I suppose she slipped out. I’m sorry; but how was I to know? I’ve got Schools this term. It’s all very well to say I oughtn’t to have taken my eyes off her, but I’m not a nurse or anything—’

  Harriet noticed how Miss Millbank’s self-assurance had broken down. She was defending herself angrily and clumsily like a schoolgirl.

  ‘On returning,’ pursued the Warden, ‘Miss Millbanks—’

  ‘But has anything been done about it?’ interrupted Harriet, impatient with this orderly academic exposition. ‘I suppose you asked whether she’s been up to the gallery of the Radcliffe.’

  ‘I thought of that later on,’ replied the Warden, ‘and suggested that a search should be made there. I understand that it has been made, without result. However, a subsequent—’

  ‘How about the river?’

  ‘I am coming to that. Perhaps I had better continue in chronological order. I can assure you that no time has been wasted.’

  ‘Very well, Warden.’

  ‘On returning,’ said the Warden, taking up her tale exactly where she had left it, ‘Miss Millbanks told Miss Haydock about it, and they ascertained that Miss Newland was not in College. They then, very properly, informed the Dean, who instructed Padgett to telephone through as soon as she came in. At 11.15 she had not returned, and Padgett reported that fact. He mentioned at the same time that he had himself been feeling uneasy about Miss Newland. He had noticed that she had taken to going about alone, and that she looked strained and nervous.’

  ‘Padgett is pretty shrewd,’ said the Dean. ‘I often think he knows more about the students than any of us.’

  ‘Up till to-night,’ wailed Miss Shaw, ‘I should have said I knew all my pupils intimately.’

  ‘Padgett also said he had seen several of the anonymous letters arrive at the Lodge for Miss Newland.’

  ‘He ought to have reported that,’ said Harriet.

  ‘No,’ said the Dean. ‘It was after you came last term that we instructed him to report. The ones he saw came before that.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘By that time,’ said the Warden, ‘we were beginning to feel alarmed, and Miss Martin rang up the police. In the meantime, Miss Haydock made a search in Miss Newland’s room for anything that might throw light on her state of mind; and found – these.’

  She took a little sheaf of papers from her desk and handed them to Harriet, who said ‘Good God!’

  The Poison-Pen, this time, had found a victim ready made to her hand. There were the letters, thirty or more of them (‘and I don’t suppose that’s the lot, either,’ was the Dean’s comment) – menacing, abusive, insinuating – all hammering remorselessly upon the same theme. ‘You needn’t think you will get away with it’ – ‘What will you do when you fail in Schools?’ – ‘You deserve to fail and I shall see that you do’ – then more horrible suggestions: ‘Don’t you feel your brain going?’ – ‘If they see you are going mad they will send you down’ – and finally, in a sinister series: ‘You’d better end it now’ – ‘Better dead than in the loony-bin’ – ‘In your place I should throw myself out of the window’ – ‘Try the river’ – and so on; the continuous, deadly beating on weak nerves that of all things is hardest to resist.

  ‘If only she had shown them to me!’ Miss Shaw was crying.

  ‘She wouldn’t of course,’ said Harriet. ‘You have to be very well balanced to admit that people think you’re going mad. That’s what’s done the mischief.’

  ‘Of all the wicked things—’ said the Dean. ‘Think of that unfortunate child collecting all these horrors and brooding over them! I’d like to kill whoever it is!’

  ‘It’s a definite effort at murder,’ said Harriet. ‘But the point is, has it come off?’

  There was a pause. Then the Warden said in an expressionless voice:

  ‘One of the boat-house keys is missing.’

  ‘Miss Stevens and Miss Edwards have gone up-stream in the Water-fly,’ said the Dean, ‘and Miss Burrows and Miss Barton have taken the other sculler down to the Isis. The police are searching too. They’ve been gone about three-quarters of an hour. We didn’t discover till then that the key was gone.’

  ‘Then there’s not much we can do,’ said Harriet, suppressing the angry comment that the boat-house keys should have been checked the moment Miss Newland’s absence had been remarked. ‘Miss Haydock – did Miss Newland say anything to you – anything at all – while you were out, that might suggest where she was likely to go in case she wanted to drown herself?’

  The blunt phrase, spoken openly for the first time, shook everybody. Miss Haydock put her head in her hands.

  ‘Wait a minute,’ she said. ‘I do remember something. We were well up through the Parks – Yes – It was after tea, and went a bit farther before turning. I struck a bad bit of water and nearly lost the pole. I remember saying it would be a nasty place to go in, because of the weeds. It’s a bad bottom – all mud with deep holes in it. Miss Newland asked if that wasn’t the place where a man had been drowned last year. I said I didn’t know, but I thought it was near there. She didn’t say anything more, and I’d forgotten it till this moment.’

  Harriet looked at her watch.

  ‘Half-past nine, she was last seen. She’d have to get to the boat-house. Had she a bicycle? No? Then it would take her nearly half an hour. Ten. Say another forty minutes to the Rollers, unless she was very quick—’

  ‘She’s not a quick punter. She’d take a canoe.’

  ‘She’d have the wind and stream against her. Say 10.45. And she’d have to get the canoe over the Rollers by herself. That takes time. But she would still have over an hour. We may be too late, but it’s just wo
rth trying.’

  ‘But she might have gone in anywhere.’

  ‘Of course she might. But there’s just the chance. People get an idea and stick to it. And they don’t always make their minds up instantly.’

  ‘If I know anything of the girl’s psychology,’ began Miss Shaw.

  ‘What’s the good of arguing?’ said Harriet. ‘She’s either dead or alive and we’ve got to risk a guess. Who’ll come with me? I’ll get the car – we shall go quicker by road than by river. We can commandeer a boat somewhere above the Parks – if we have to break open a boat-house. Dean—’

  ‘I’m with you,’ said Miss Martin.

  ‘We want torches and blankets. Hot coffee. Brandy. Better get the police to send up a constable to meet us at Timms’s. Miss Haydock, you’re a better oar than I am—’

  ‘I’ll come,’ said Miss Haydock. ‘Thank God for something to do.’

  Lights on the river. The splash of sculls. The steady chock of the rowlocks.

  The boat crept slowly down-stream. The constable, crouched in the bows, swept the beam of a powerful torch from bank to bank. Harriet, holding the rudder-lines, divided her attention between the dark current and the moving light ahead. The Dean, setting a slow and steady stroke, kept her eyes before her and her wits on the job.

  At a word from the policeman, Harriet checked the boat and let her drift down towards a dismal shape, black and slimy on the black water. The boat lurched as the man leaned out. In the silence came the answering groan, splash, chuck of oars on the far side of the next bend.

  ‘All right,’ said the policeman. ‘Only a bit o’ sacking.’

  ‘Ready? Paddle!’

  The sculls struck the water again.

  ‘Is that the Bursar’s boat coming up?’ said the Dean.

  ‘Very likely,’ said Harriet.

  Just as she spoke, someone in the other boat gave a shout. There was a heavy splash and a cry ahead, and an answering shout from the constable:

  ‘There she goes!’