An Oxford Tragedy

by J. C. Masterman

  Brendel paused, and then added dryly, ‘And that is the end of the saga of the two normal rather simple young men, who are not academically-minded. It was also the end of my little party. I forgot to say that I had provided a bottle of that very excellent Taylor ‘08 port, in case the burgundy failed to loosen tongues. It was about this time that my Mexican guest, who had listened without interruption to Martin’s tale, got up and intimated courteously that it was time for him to be going. I observed that the port was finished. So they all thanked me, and we parted with the warmest expressions of mutual esteem.’

  Chapter Twelve

  Brendel’s face was a perfect network of wrinkles. ‘That was the end of my party, and a very satisfactory end, too. Consider. Scarborough is cleared, I am sure, beyond all fear of suspicion. But more important than that, Shepardson is safe as well. You noticed that, surely. It was the chief object of all my manoeuvres to make sure about that. Now we know with absolute certainty that Martin and Howe were with him until Hargreaves came into the Quad. Could Shepardson possibly have visited Hargreaves’ rooms and murdered Shirley in that short interval whilst Hargreaves was standing below in the Quad, or walking round it? I suggest that you’ve only got to put the question, and consider the difficulties, to arrive at your answer. Of course he couldn’t have done it! Shepardson has his alibi, and I must confess that I’m relieved. I never really thought he was the criminal, but the actions and reactions of these learned and disputatious men are difficult to predict, and I couldn’t disguise from myself that he might have done it. Now he’s cleared. Yes, it was really a very satisfactory luncheon party for me. I’ve established the innocence of two of the suspects, I’ve learned a lot of new idioms, and of your famous Oxford educational methods I have now the most vivid picture.’ He chuckled again at the recollection of Howe and Martin with their tutor. ‘Young men don’t differ much all over the world, in Vienna or Oxford or anywhere else. Murderers don’t differ much either,’ he added in a changed and rather grim voice. ‘There is always plan and motive and opportunity, and our murderer is still amongst us.’

  It seemed to me a long time before he spoke again. He appeared to be lost in a reverie, in which I did not feel disposed to disturb him, but at length he re-lit his cigar and continued his narrative.

  ‘I’ve done some other things besides entertaining undergraduates to lunch, and you must hear about them. Scarborough is cleared and so is Shepardson, so we can dismiss them from our minds; but if I remember rightly Prendergast drew up a list of eight suspects – you probably remember that list?’

  ‘I’m not likely to forget it, though the whole theory was hateful to me, and I don’t believe in it. His eight suspects were himself, Shepardson, Mitton, Trower, Mottram, Hargreaves, Tweddle of Balliol and Doyne. I think that was the lot.’

  ‘Yes, and we’ve cleared Shepardson, or rather his pupils have, so that leaves us seven. And I fancy that my researches have made some of them pretty safe too. If you’ll listen I’ll run through the list.’

  He opened his note-book and studied it for a moment. ‘First there’s Trower. I’ve got no certain evidence to clear him, and yet I’m sure that he can be eliminated. He went out at ten o’clock with Mitton; he said that he started to go through some accounts, and then went to sleep in his chair. Highly suspicious of course, but one small fact makes me sure it’s true. It’s just this. In spite, my dear Winn, of the brilliance of our conversation after dinner your gallant Major certainly went to sleep for quite five minutes in Common Room soon after we had had coffee. As a stranger I was observing you all pretty closely, and I’m certain I wasn’t deceived about that. Of course these military men are accustomed to take a rest when they can get it, but I simply can’t believe that he would have had a nap half-an-hour before committing a brutal murder. And if by some extraordinary chance he had, why then he would have invented a better or at least a different explanation of his post-murder occupation than another forty winks. No. I just can’t fit him into the chief part, and I’ve crossed him off the list. Then there’s Mr Tweddle of Balliol. I’ve explored him a bit, and I confess that I laid a few traps for him.’

  ‘What do you mean by that?’ I asked.

  Brendel smiled. ‘Oh, the ordinary kind of trap. With the aid of the introductions you gave me I made my way into Balliol society and contrived to meet Tweddle in the Common Room there. I reminded him of our former meeting, professed to be interested in those ghastly subjects which he professes, and asked him round here to my rooms. He accepted. You’ll find my room, I said, on the next staircase to Hargreaves’. His face was a complete blank; he didn’t know who Hargreaves was, nor where his rooms were. I watched him pretty closely, and I’ll swear he hadn’t the remotest idea as to Hargreaves’ domicile, and why should he, unless he was the murderer? But a man who has committed a crime is always expecting awkward questions of that kind, and guarding himself against the wrong answer. He’s got to be what you call a pretty cool hand not to give himself away by admitting knowledge which he ought not to have, or by disguising it too obviously. Again, I mentioned Mrs Shirley quite casually in the course of conversation, and found that he had no idea that such a person existed. Of course he may have been deceiving me all the time; he may have coached himself to make just the right answer to every question, but I can’t bring myself to believe that he is the sort of man to do that. Besides, I couldn’t find any connexion whatever between him and anyone in St Thomas’s except your scientists. The more I probed the more firmly I became convinced that his head has room for no other subject than higher mathematics. I therefore crossed him off the list also; he need never have been on it if he’d had the ordinary common sense to remember to take his scarf with him that evening. If he’d remembered it he’d have saved me a lot of trouble. However I’m quit of him now. As soon as I got back to college I telephoned to him to say that I had stupidly forgotten a previous engagement at the time at which I had invited him round here, and that I’d write later to suggest another date. But I never shall – the life of the detective imposes its duties, but a tête-à-tête with Mr Tweddle on higher mathematics is more than I can be expected to endure unless I must.’

  He drew a line firmly through Tweddle’s name in his notebook and turned to the next page.

  ‘Then we come to Doyne and Mitton,’ he remarked with an involuntary smile. ‘Let’s dispose of them. I suppose that a master in the art of detection would have turned them inside out by now. Their alibis were wretched or nonexistent, and each of them had the opportunity to shoot Shirley. I’d better confess to you right away that I’ve paid no attention to them whatever, beyond taking a cup of tea one day with Mitton, and chatting with both of them in Common Room. I simply can’t begin to suspect either of them. Mitton is the gentlest of men, who wouldn’t hurt a fly; he’d blush too much to take aim with any lethal weapon; – and Doyne – well, he’d make so much noise about the job, and be so cheerful over the preliminaries that everyone would come along to see the crime. Seriously, how can one think of either of them as a criminal? Of course in books mild young men in Holy Orders and light-hearted care-free young fellows like Doyne are the very stuff out of which criminals of almost incredible turpitude can be constructed, but surely it’s not so in real life. I can’t and I won’t keep either of them on my list, and if I’m wrong I’ll never study another crime.’

  There was another pause whilst Brendel crossed out the names of Mitton and Doyne, and turned over the next page of his note-book.

  ‘Next we have Prendergast, and he is not so easy. I’ve not ignored the possibilities of Prendergast all through. He’s an older man, and he’s got both the brain and the willpower. There are certain good qualities, even if they’re misdirected, which a man must have for a crime of this kind, and Prendergast has them. I don’t believe that Mitton could commit a murder, but in certain circumstances Prendergast might. He’s a deep man, and an able man, and a determined man, and so I’ve given a good deal of attention to his movements on W
ednesday night. Listen. It’s suspicious to begin with that it was he who first advanced the theory that one of those who dined at high table had committed the murder. Grant for a moment, and merely for the sake of argument, that he is the murderer. He guesses that sooner or later someone will point out that suspicion rests in the first instance on those who were dining; it is therefore sound policy for him to draw attention to the fact himself to avert suspicion from himself. Secondly he does not leave Common Room till ten o’clock. Why? Because everyone who goes out before him falls into the class of suspects if, as he hopes, each goes to his own rooms. Of course the time left to him is short. He has to run up and shoot Shirley before Hargreaves goes up himself to his rooms. But Hargreaves is deep in conversation at ten o’clock, and has apparently forgotten his appointment with Shirley. Prendergast can, then, probably count on ten minutes or a quarter of an hour. What does he do? He has to shoot Shirley and leave no trace, and of course his first thought is finger-prints. There are two ways in which a murderer can avoid them satisfactorily; either he can put on a pair of gloves, or he can wrap his handkerchief round his hand before he fires. But if you try the latter method you will find that it needs a little arrangement, and it has the drawback that the murderer may touch other objects with his hands after the crime has been committed. Now the fact that Shirley had apparently not moved in his chair points to the fact that the murderer picked up the revolver and shot him almost before Shirley heard the door open. In other words, it is a fair assumption that the murderer used gloves and did not arrange a handkerchief round his hands. Do you agree?’

  A nodded assent.

  ‘Good. Then we can reconstruct Prendergast’s movements, still on the assumption that he was the criminal. A man who had the nerve to wait till ten as he did would have his plans cut and dried. He walks straight to his rooms, takes a pair of gloves from his drawer, walks back to Hargreaves’ rooms, pulls on the gloves as he mounts the stairs, opens the door of the inner room, picks up the revolver, shoots Shirley, and returns to his own rooms. If he meets anyone going up as he comes down he can give the alarm, and say that he has found Shirley shot; he’s only in danger himself for about three minutes. With that possible reconstruction of events in my mind I did an old-fashioned piece of detection. I made friends with his servant, and asked him some questions. Candour, even if it was artificial candour, seemed the right line, so I boldly told him that the police had got it into their heads that the murderer had stolen a pair of gloves from someone in college in order to conceal finger-prints. Could he tell me if Mr Prendergast had missed any gloves from his drawer? He was interested at once, and did just what I had hoped he would – that is to say he took me straight up to Prendergast’s bedroom (I must confess that I’d picked an hour when Prendergast was lecturing). He opened a drawer, and there were the gloves: – one pair of motoring gloves, much too thick and clumsy for the purpose, and three pairs of wash-leather gloves. But all the latter had been cleaned since they had been last used. You can’t put on a pair of gloves without making it obvious that they had been used, and his servant was perfectly confident that Prendergast had no other gloves in his rooms. Indeed he possessed no other pair. So it’s quite certain that if Prendergast did it he didn’t do it in the way I described. And yet with his precision and nerve he would have done it in that way. He would have been sure that his gloves would have fitted him, and you want well-fitting gloves.’

  More and more as he talked Brendel seemed to have half forgotten my presence; he spoke like a man arguing with himself, and gradually establishing his own conclusions.

  ‘I can’t say for certain that Prendergast did not do it,’ he went on after a ruminative pause, ‘but yet I’m almost sure that he didn’t. Unless I’ve read his character all wrong he would have been an extraordinarily efficient murderer, if a murderer at all – and if competent, then he would have acted as I suggested – yet that he didn’t do. I may have to come back to him, but for the time being I shall put him out of my mind. That leaves Mottram and Hargreaves alone out of all our original eight, and either of them might have been the murderer. Mottram is a retiring man, but there are hidden fires, or I am much mistaken. It is true that he went to his laboratory and that he was still there just after ten when his friend Holt visited him. But what was there to prevent him from coming down in his car, committing the murder, and returning? I’ve tried it in your car; he could have done the whole thing including the journey both ways in less than a quarter of an hour – and his alibi is only spasmodic. He’s just as much under suspicion as ever he was. And Hargreaves too; I can find nothing which clears him. He was ten minutes alone in the Quad – so he says – before he went up to his rooms. Why didn’t he go straight up to see Shirley? Isn’t the explanation a little thin? But if he murdered Shirley at ten minutes past ten he might wait ten minutes before he returned in case even inexperienced persons like ourselves should realize that Shirley was only that moment dead. And then his character. I notice that you all tend to defer to Hargreaves, and to regard him as a person of importance, and yet somehow none of you really like him very much. Is he a little too sure of himself, a little overpowering, something of a bully – or is it only that you are jealous of him? I don’t know, but I suspect that he is not quite the sound, reliable, good citizen that he likes to think himself. No, Hargreaves as well as Mottram is still on the list.’

  I felt that it was time that I interrupted him.

  ‘Really, Brendel,’ I said, ‘this wretched theory of yours and Prendergast’s is destroying itself. It seems to show that the murderer must have been Mottram or Hargreaves, but by applying your own methods I can show that that is all nonsense. Mottram was the only man amongst us who was a genuine friend and well-wisher to Shirley, and that surely exonerates him. As for Maurice Hargreaves, he was on better terms with Shirley than most of us were, and besides, how could he have shot him in his own rooms? Flesh and blood couldn’t stand that. Won’t you admit that if he did mean to shoot Shirley for some reason of which we know nothing he’d have chosen any other place than his own room to do it in? No, no, it won’t do. Believe me, you’re barking up the wrong tree with Mottram and Hargreaves.’

  ‘Even you, in this home of pure English! “Barking up the wrong tree” is admirable, and I thank you for it.’

  I refused to be put off by his pleasantry.

  ‘It seems to me quite certain that we have got to abandon Prendergast’s theory, and start afresh. Theories are all very well, but we must be prepared to abandon them when they don’t work out. Think of the improbability of anyone who dined that night shooting Shirley.’

  Brendel shook his head ever so slightly.

  ‘But consider the alternative! Are we to suppose that some enemy saw Shirley go up to Hargreaves’ room, followed him there, found the revolver ready to his hand, and seized the opportunity? What a series of coincidences! I’ve generally found, Winn, that, when the only alternatives are the improbable and the wildly improbable, it is wiser to concentrate on the former. However, we shall get no further by discussing that. Let’s have a new list of suspects, for the old one is out of date. I insist on putting Hargreaves and Mottram on it until you have adduced some evidence to clear them, and you would add an unknown X, whom we haven’t yet got into touch with, isn’t that so?’

  I nodded.

  ‘But there is one great difficulty, Winn, with regard to your unknown. He has to get into the college, and he has to get out again. If, as you would like to think, he’s not a member of St Thomas’s at all he has either to come in before nine o’clock, and hide himself somewhere, or else slip past your porter when he’s not looking. Neither of those alternatives is an impossibility, but surely they’re unlikely in the highest degree. And then again, having killed Shirley, the murderer has to secrete himself in college all through the night, or else run the gauntlet of the porter once again. Again I ask, is it likely? Wouldn’t one of your lynx-eyed young men have noticed a stranger? Wouldn’t someone have spoken to
him? Of course there’s the Fellows’ door of which you spoke. Someone may have stolen a key, or even had a key made on purpose – but that at best is only a slender possibility, and there’s no evidence to support it at all.’

  ‘Just one thing,’ I interrupted him. ‘When I talked things over with Cotter we noticed that there was another way in, which you and I didn’t discuss. I ought to have mentioned it before. You can come into the smaller Quadrangle through the President’s Lodgings. Cotter took quite a lot of interest in the people who were in the Lodgings that night – I mean the servants and so forth.’

  Brendel nodded appreciatively.

  ‘Cotter is a competent man; of course he would notice that. I also took some little interest in that door and in those people. Unless the butler there is lying no one entered the Lodgings that night except the President, his daughter, his two guests and the servants. But that doesn’t exclude the possibility that one of them may have slipped out into the Quadrangle and visited Hargreaves’ rooms. Well, X is a comprehensive symbol, and must include for the time being all unknowns whether they entered through the President’s Lodgings or otherwise. That’s three suspects, Hargreaves, Mottram, and X – and by the way, after our last additions, X may be a man or a woman – but there’s still a fourth possibility.’

  ‘Is there another?’

  ‘Yes, and suggested by yourself in the first instance. Doesn’t it occur to you that we have given very little attention to Callendar and his boy? Yet we know that they were both in possession of the important facts; they both knew where Shirley had gone, they both probably knew where the revolver lay. And that boy is very much awake too, as you have reason to know. Why shouldn’t one of them have done it, or even, why shouldn’t they have been in collusion? One might have shot Shirley whilst the other watched to see that the coast was clear. We know of no motive, it is true, but we do not in any of the other cases. Besides, you probably know less about their thoughts and feelings than about those of your colleagues.’