An Oxford Tragedy

by J. C. Masterman

  My interview with him was painful, and I will not dwell on it. ‘This is a dreadful thing for the college, and for my poor daughter.’ That was the burden of his cry, and I could do or say nothing to help. I could only tell him all that I knew of the crime, and of the investigations of the Oxford police. They had found, so I had been told, no clue of any kind, and had no theory to explain the murder. With commendable promptitude they had decided that the best assistance available was needed and they had already telephoned to London. Inspector Cotter, from Scotland Yard, was to arrive by the two o’clock train. I promised to report any new developments and took my leave.

  As I went out I met Mary; she must have been waiting for me in the hall. ‘Mr Winn,’ she exclaimed, ‘this is terrible. I can’t understand it. It all seems so horrible and so unreal. Who could wish to shoot him, and in Maurice’s rooms?’ I saw that she was overwrought, and tried to pacify her as best I could.

  ‘Mary,’ I said, ‘your first duty is to Ruth. You must keep calm, if only to help her. I suppose she has come down here?’

  ‘Poor Ruth! Yes, she has come home for the time being. Of course I’ll do my best to help. But, Mr Winn, we must find out the truth about this wicked murder. It’s the mystery which makes it so hideous. Promise me that you’ll find out.’

  I had never refused a request from Mary in my life, and I could not now.

  ‘Yes, Mary,’ I said, ‘I promise you I’ll find out. Now, good-bye.’

  How I was to fulfil my promise I had not the remotest idea, but somewhere in the back of my mind I had a childlike faith in Brendel. If any man could get at the truth, surely it was he.

  Shortly after two o’clock Inspector Cotter arrived. Anyone less like the detective of fiction it would be impossible to imagine; to me, alike in dress and manner and personal appearance he seemed to be the embodiment of the average man. Only his eyes were out of the ordinary, for they were keen and intelligent. It was soon clear that the Inspector, even if he lacked the appearance of a man of parts, was no sluggard at his work. He examined every detail of the Dean’s rooms, exploring, measuring, noting. Then one by one he questioned those of us who had been present on the previous evening.

  He made no attempt to hurry, and no attempt to force an answer, yet question followed question with relentless relevance. Every fact which could have any bearing on the tragedy was elicited in its turn and duly tabulated. I had always flattered myself that I knew how to conduct a viva voce examination; when I watched Inspector Cotter at work, I realized that I had not learned the rudiments of the art of inquiry.

  ‘A competent chap, that,’ said the Bursar appreciatively after a quarter of an hour’s interview. ‘He asks all the right questions, and notes down all the answers’ The Bursar certainly thought that the expert had given official approval to his own favourite methods. Only Maurice Hargreaves, after a prolonged tête-à-tête, emerged, flushed and slightly angry. I took some pleasure in reflecting that he had in all probability found it hard to explain exactly why he had left a loaded revolver lying on the table in his room.

  At six o’clock Cotter came back to my rooms, and asked if he might talk to me again. I acquiesced, of course, and settled him into an arm-chair by my fire. I was gratified to find that he had no affectation of mystery or secrecy, nor did he attempt to hint at any clues which his examination had revealed. He seemed anxious only to arrive at the truth, and keen to avail himself of any help which he could get.

  ‘Mr Winn,’ he said, ‘I’ve seen all that I can, and I think I’ve spoken to everyone who might be able to throw any light on this affair. Now I want to ask you some more questions, and I hope you’ll be able to answer them.’

  He paused, and looked at me as though asking a question. ‘Go on,’ I said. ‘I see no reason at all why I should not give you a perfectly straightforward answer to any question which you can ask.’

  ‘Thank you. But before I begin there are certain facts which you ought to know.’

  He paused again, this time to give weight to what he had to say, then he continued.

  ‘Mr Winn, this was a callous and brutal murder. That is the one fact of which I am convinced. No other explanation is tenable. The revolver has been carefully examined for finger-prints and this is the result: the murderer, whoever he was, most certainly wore gloves. You don’t wear gloves in a gentleman’s room in Oxford except for a purpose, do you?’

  Again he paused to let this fact sink into my mind. Then he went on rather bitterly. ‘And that, Mr Winn, is the only fact that we have got to help us. We know that Mr Shirley was shot, we know that the murderer remembered to put on gloves to shoot him, we know that he used the revolver in the room to do it with; we know, from what Dr Kershaw says, that he did it round about ten o’clock – let’s say to be safe between nine-fifteen and ten minutes past ten, when you went up to the room. Beyond that we’ve got nothing – nothing whatever. You see,’ his tone was almost resentful, ‘a hundred people a day would go up to that room to see Mr Hargreaves about one thing or another, and no one would pay any attention to them. A Dean seems to be a busy person in this place. And of course no one noticed the shot, with all those young idiots letting off fireworks and shouting about down below. It couldn’t be more unlucky. There isn’t a damned clue anywhere. But I’ll get him all the same.’

  He fixed his eyes on me. ‘And now, Sir, perhaps you’ll be very kind and let me fire off some questions at you?’

  ‘Carry on,’ I replied, ‘I’m quite ready.’

  ‘First of all I want to be quite sure about strangers getting into this college after dark. Your porter told me about the arrangements, but I want to be quite sure I’ve got it right.’

  ‘That’s quite simple,’ I said. ‘The gates are shut and locked every evening at nine o’clock. After that everyone who comes in has to give his name. The Head Porter, or one of the under porters, sits in the lodge and opens the gate, and enters the names in a book. You can see the book if you like and check up the entries. Undergraduates pay a small fee on their battels for coming in after a certain time. I forget exactly what it is, but I know that it is increased if they come in after eleven. After twelve they can’t come in at all except with special leave, and there’s no one at the gate – but of course that doesn’t affect the matter.’

  ‘And there’s no way in except through the lodge?’

  ‘Oh, yes, there is. There’s an entrance by the kitchen, locked up when the chef and the staff go home, I suppose about nine o’clock, and there are two small entrances, one in the back Quad, and one at the bottom of the staircase where Mr Hargreaves’ rooms are, but they can only be opened by private keys.’

  ‘Who has got keys to them?’

  ‘All the Fellows, and I think, the Head Porter. We use the entrance on the Dean’s staircase a good deal. It’s generally called the Fellows’ door.’

  ‘Couldn’t anyone else have one of these keys?’

  ‘I don’t think so. You see we keep them pretty carefully. It wouldn’t do at all if an undergraduate, for instance, got hold of a private key into the place. Once every term the Bursar sends round a note to ask each of us if our pass key is safely in our possession. Once someone lost his, and we had all the locks and keys changed for security.’

  ‘Are there any other ways in at all?’

  I smiled. ‘I’m led to believe that it’s possible to climb in, but some of the undergraduates know more about that than I do. I don’t think it’s very easy. If it’s important I expect that I could find one of them to show you the popular routes.’ As I spoke my thoughts turned to Scarborough and Garnett.

  ‘I don’t think we need trouble about that; not yet anyhow. It amounts to this then. There’s a very strong presumption that the murderer, whoever he was, was in the college before the gates were shut at nine o’clock.’

  I agreed; any other conclusion seemed highly improbable.

  I expected that Cotter would turn to some other aspect of the case, but I was wrong. He still see
med hardly satisfied, and he now produced from his pocket a plan of St Thomas’s and laid it before me.

  ‘I don’t want to be tiresome,’ he said half apologetically, ‘but I’d be obliged if you’d glance at that plan and show me just where these different entrances are; and while you’re doing that perhaps you’d make quite sure that you’ve not missed out any of the ways in. In my profession we can’t leave anything to chance.’

  I could not help feeling a little irritated at his request. It was not really credible that after living for forty years in the college I should forget one of the gates. However I could not well refuse his request, so I took up the plan and proceeded to enlighten him.

  ‘Here is the main gate at the south side of the large Quadrangle, and here, on the opposite side, is what I called the Fellows’ door. And here … Oh, good gracious, there is another way in that I had quite forgotten.’

  Cotter made a very praiseworthy attempt to conceal his smile.

  ‘It’s the President’s Lodgings,’ I explained. ‘Of course I never thought of that. You see the President’s House, or Lodgings as we call it, forms the greater part of the eastern side of the smaller Quadrangle. It has a front door and a back door both opening into the garden, and so into the street, and another door – a second front door you might almost call it – which gives access to the Quadrangle. But it’s really of very little consequence, for no one in the house would be likely to use it at that time of night.’

  ‘Still, I should like to know who would be in the house at that time.’

  ‘The President and his daughter, Miss Vereker, the butler and three or four maidservants. Oh, and an old friend of the President’s and his wife. I remember that because it was the reason why the President wanted Professor Brendel to stay in college rather than with him. He always prefers to be able to devote himself to one guest at a time.’

  Cotter made a brief entry in his note-book, and then continued his interrogatory.

  ‘Did anybody stand to gain by Mr Shirley’s death – financially, I mean, or in any way like that?’

  ‘I don’t think so; he was a poor man – I doubt if he had any money to speak of outside what he earned. His wife had a few hundreds a year from her mother, but even so they were by no means well off. No, I can’t think that anyone could benefit in that sort of way from his death.’

  Cotter paused again before his next question, and his tone when he continued was fairly apologetic.

  ‘I put some of these questions to the President,’ he said, ‘because I understood that he was the father-in-law, but he didn’t seemed disposed to tell me anything.’

  I smiled again. It was not difficult for me to imagine the frosty though courteous determination with which the poor old President would decline to discuss his private affairs with a detective.

  ‘Never mind,’ I said, ‘I’ll try to repair the omissions.’

  ‘Well, was Mr Shirley quite happy in his family life?’

  ‘Yes, I think so far as a man of his temperament could be happy he was. Certainly there had never been the hint of a quarrel between him and his wife.’

  ‘Hm. Good. And had he any enemies in the college?’

  That was a more difficult question, and I hesitated for a time before I answered.

  ‘Well,’ I said at last, ‘the fact is, Inspector, that Shirley was a very unpopular man. It’s no good my trying to conceal that fact from you, even if I wished to. He had hardly any friends, except perhaps Mottram, and a good many enemies. Most members of Common Room used to avoid sitting next to him if they could.’

  The Inspector’s interest was visibly aroused.

  ‘That might be important,’ he said. ‘Was there anyone with whom he had any special quarrel?’

  I began to wish that I had not spoken quite so definitely, but there was no going back now.

  ‘Yes, he had quarrelled openly, I’m afraid, with Shepardson. He had written some rather nasty things about Shepardson’s book, and they hadn’t been on speaking terms for the last month or two. But for Heaven’s sake don’t get a wrong impression. Men don’t shoot one another because of literary disagreements, however bitter they may have been in print.’

  ‘Perhaps not, but we can’t afford to neglect any point, however unpromising. Was this Mr Shepardson at dinner last night?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you had some sort of a discussion about murder, so they tell me, started by this Professor Brendel. Now who exactly is he?’

  I explained to him the reasons for Brendel’s visit, and told him what I remembered of the discussion.

  ‘Yes, I believe I’ve heard of Brendel not so long ago,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘One of our men was out in Vienna and ran into him there. If what he told me is true your Professor Brendel can see further through a haystack than most.’

  He pocketed his notes and stood up.

  ‘Well, I mustn’t keep you any longer,’ he said. ‘I think I’ll go and see the porter who was on duty at the lodge last night, and I’d like to have a bit of a talk with this Professor Brendel. But it’s a fair puzzle, however you look at it. Good night, Sir, and thank you.’

  He went out, and I decided that it was time for me to dress for dinner.

  Chapter Seven

  We were a largish party at dinner that night, for everyone was anxious to hear what the police investigations had elicited. Even two of my married colleagues, who seldom deserted their homes in North Oxford except on Sunday evenings, and a professor who was attached to St Thomas’s, had been driven by curiosity to put their names on the list for dinner that night. I had not seen Brendel all day. He had given the first of his lectures that afternoon, and had therefore had little time to spare. He gave me a friendly greeting as we went into Hall, but I thought he looked tired and harassed.

  By tacit agreement we kept off the subject which filled all our minds so long as we were in Hall – it seemed better not to discuss it before the servants – but as soon as we were settled in our places in Common Room an eager debate began. It would have taken more than a murder to repress John Doyne’s spirits for long, and his first question to me was almost flippant.

  ‘What has the official sleuth discovered, Winn?’ he said. ‘He was closeted with you for the best part of an hour. Is he going to arrest you in the morning for murdering one of your colleagues.’

  ‘Really, John,’ I protested, ‘you mustn’t talk like that. No. Inspector Cotter seems to be utterly fogged. There is one thing though, but please don’t mention it outside this room. They’ve discovered that the murderer put on gloves, so he must have planned the whole thing in a filthy coldblooded way. Beyond that they’ve discovered nothing at all. The Inspector says that there simply isn’t a clue of any kind. But they’re working hard, and leaving no stone unturned.’

  My information produced an immense and immediate sensation.

  ‘That’s awful,’ said Dixon. ‘The brute must have worked the whole thing out, and shot him down like a dog.’

  ‘But Sherlock Cotter is leaving no stone unturned,’ said the irrepressible Doyne. ‘I suppose that, in detective circles, is the same as what the politicians call exploring every avenue. That means in this country, you know’ (he turned to Brendel), ‘that they haven’t the foggiest idea what to do, and are just waiting for something to turn up. Couldn’t we help Cotter; we all know the facts, and are, as we all admit, an exceedingly intelligent set of men. What’s your theory, Winn?’

  ‘I’m afraid I haven’t the remotest idea,’ I answered. ‘The whole thing is utterly mystifying. How can anyone explain a murder when there’s no clue, and no motive for the murder?’

  ‘Ah, the truth is you’ve no imagination,’ said Doyne. ‘But I have, and my theory is this. You all remember Maurice’s story last night about Fothergill murdering his scout and burying him in the meadow. I believe that this is the second chapter of that old story. Fate working out its inexorable revenge. Somewhere in the scout subconsciousness, you know, there has always
been a desire to right that ancient wrong. The vendetta has been handed down from scout to scout, and this is the result. Probably Shirley’s scout, day after day for twenty years, heard him complain of his breakfast until at last he could bear it no longer, and shot him through the head. How’s that for an explanation?’

  ‘Ingenious, John, but manifestly fallacious,’ said Whitaker. ‘To begin with Shirley has breakfasted for the last three years at home in North Oxford, and Crossett who used to be his scout in college died last year. My explanation is much simpler. Some undergraduate who had felt the heavy hand of the Dean, arrived to shoot him; the Dean was not at home, so rather than waste an opportunity he shot Shirley instead, and then cleared out. How about that?’

  ‘Equally impossible,’ returned Doyne, ‘the motive is inadequate, and no undergraduate would put on his gloves to shoot the Dean. You must try again.’

  Mitton had been growing visibly agitated as the conversation proceeded, and now he turned a bright pink and uttered a not unreasonable protest.

  ‘For pity’s sake stop talking like this about it,’ he blurted out. ‘Shirley has not been dead for twenty-four hours, and you can jest about it. You’ve no business to speak like this about a sacred subject. Surely the whole thing is clear enough. This is, after all, a Christian College, and it is inconceivable that anyone here could have done such an act. The murder must have been the work of a homicidal maniac. He must have hidden himself in the room and waited for poor Shirley there.’

  ‘Padre, Padre,’ interrupted Doyne, ‘you must control your language. How can you speak of the murder of a colleague as a sacred subject. It’s really not decent. Besides your theory is ludicrously inadequate. Did Providence inform your homicidal maniac that there would be a revolver waiting for him to use in the Dean’s rooms? And did he, when he had finished his shooting, climb out of college over the chapel roof, or did he wait all night hidden in some forgotten corner? Really, I’m disappointed at your efforts to help. I don’t think you’re really trying.’