An Oxford Tragedy

by J. C. Masterman

  He looked at me to see what impression his words had made. I felt puzzled how to reply.

  ‘Callendar is an old and trusted servant of the college,’ I began, but Brendel interrupted me with, I thought, unnecessary haste.

  ‘Yes, yes, and Hargreaves is a respected and trusted Dean, but that’s not the point. Callendar might have done it, just as, in the present state of our knowledge, Hargreaves might have. Anyhow, think over the new list of suspects.’

  Twelve o’clock began to strike as he spoke, and he got up to go.

  ‘I will certainly,’ I said, ‘but you may be quite sure that X is the only one on your new list who is ever likely to hang for the murder of Shirley.’

  Chapter Thirteen

  Every man has his special foible; my own was a harmless one, which had for many years given me a good deal of quiet pleasure. I had made it my boast that I could tell the character of any visitor in general outline by the nature of his knock on my door. An amiable weakness, no doubt, and a claim not susceptible of very accurate demonstration, but still it had provided me with much innocent amusement. My rooms were well adapted for the exercise of what I had come to look upon as my special gift. As is often the case at Oxford my oak, or outer door, opened into a small lobby, leading from which were two more doors, the one giving admittance to the larger of my two sitting-rooms, the other to my bedroom. A stranger, entering this lobby, was wont to pause irresolutely before the two doors, and this fact made his knock, when at length it came, especially instructive to me. If it was hesitating and self-exculpatory, I immediately translated it in some such words as these: ‘I trust that I have not knocked at the wrong door; if this is your bedroom, pray forgive me,’ and I pictured to myself an individual timid and self-effacing. The pause too which elapsed between the arrival and the first knock was of great importance. A visitor of quick decision would soon make his choice of doors and put the matter to the test; one of cautious temperament would hesitate much longer before he made up his mind. I had even once been able to add to my collection a stranger so diffident and yet so anxious to do right that he had knocked simultaneously on both doors, on one with his right, on the other with his left hand. But many of my visitors gave information to me by their knocks of quite another kind. There was the angry knocker who, after a very brief pause, would strike loudly on one door or the other, as though he meant to say, ‘I really don’t care if this is the right door or not, but damn you all the same for leaving me in doubt!’ When such a knock came I diagnosed an egotist of the dominating type, and braced myself for an unpleasant interview. Sometimes again the knock would announce to me criticism of a more patient though equally disapproving kind, and I would guess a business man, or one of those self-chosen organizers and reformers, saying with his knuckles, ‘What an inefficient arrangement; why in Heaven’s name don’t you have a card pinned up to tell me which to choose?’ Such deductions were only the A B C of my art; with my academic friends and pupils my technique was much more advanced. Undergraduates, I was wont to maintain, changed their methods from year to year. A freshman’s knock was usually shy and apologetic; it seemed to say, ‘I’m compelled to do this, but perhaps I may be lucky enough to find you out – if so I shall waste no time in retiring.’ Quite different the second-year man’s rather noisy summons! ‘If anyone owns this college, it’s probably I and my friends; I’ve brought up some work for you – not a great deal, but quite as much as you’re entitled to expect – you may criticize it if you like, but I don’t mind much what you say, and anyhow life is a pleasant thing at my age, and I can’t waste too much time over my tutor.’ The third-year man again would knock quite differently. My interpretation in his case was something after this kind. ‘Are you in? If so, please reply without delay. The schools are getting near, and I have no time to waste. It would be useful to discuss things with you, and I should like to get to business quickly, so please cut out unnecessary preliminaries.’ The fourth-year man or the B.A. again had his own special method. His was the knock of a man who had learned how to use his time well, and yet had no need of excessive haste. ‘Are you in?’ he would say. ‘If so I shall be glad to have some conversation with you. I come as an intellectual equal to discuss subjects in which we have a common interest. I hope for your sake, as well as mine, that you are at home and disengaged.’ Those who visited me often, of course, I could name before ever they entered my room. Mitton had a more apologetic knock than even the most callow of freshmen; when I heard him I used to think of a spinster district visitor uncertain of her reception. He seemed to be saying, ‘Could you be so very kind as to admit me for a few moments? I really won’t stay longer, and whatever you do don’t get up from your chair or put yourself out in any way.’ How different was Hargreaves! His knock was that of the successful, dominating, almost bullying person, and it always exasperated me. It seemed to betoken a man who neither expected delay nor tolerated opposition, who assumed as a matter of course that his presence would be welcome and that everything and everyone else would wait on his convenience. The arrival of Trower was heralded by a terrific bombardment on the panels of my door. In early life he had taken part in military operations in Ashanti and other parts of Africa, and I always supposed that he had acquired there habits which he found it impossible to shake off. Savage chieftains, who had heard lions roaring by night, or gorillas drumming on their chests, or elephants trumpeting in the forest, might yet, I felt, have surrendered at discretion if Trower had thundered at the entrance of their huts. Even Doyne, who was in the room, like a draught of fresh air, before I had time to say ‘Come in,’ was mild in his methods of knocking compared to Trower. As for Shirley, he used to enter without knocking at all, a habit for which I had never been able to excuse him.

  A sure instinct warned me that I was not likely to be long undisturbed on Monday morning. I had hardly lit my after-breakfast pipe, and prepared to diagnose my first knock, when it came. ‘No academic knuckles, those,’ was my immediate mental note. The knock was business-like and incisive. It said in effect, ‘Are you in? If so, I have business to discuss with you, which is important and for which I require your attention.’ There was even a hint of menace. ‘I shall take careful note of all you say, so be careful.’ I guessed Cotter, and said, ‘Come in.’ My guess was correct.

  The Inspector wasted no time; he accepted a chair and refused a cigarette.

  ‘I need your help again, Sir,’ he began. ‘This case is not going well – in fact it’s not going at all. The line of investigation through Mr Scarborough was no use; he burned his hand that night, and couldn’t have fired the shot; the evidence of your Head Porter clears him entirely.’

  ‘Exactly,’ I said rather incautiously.

  ‘Did you know that?’ he asked suspiciously.

  I hastened to clear myself of the implied charge of having again withheld information from the Inspector.

  ‘I only heard it late last night,’ I explained, ‘long after we’d had our talk, and too late to let you know. But I’m glad that he’s no longer suspected.’

  Cotter nodded. ‘Yes. His alibi is all right. But I can’t get a start anywhere; there’s still no clue, and I can’t even put together a reasonable theory to account for the crime. I even considered at one time the possibility that the murderer might have intended to shoot Mr Hargreaves and then shot Mr Shirley by mistake. But in that light it hardly seems possible that the murderer could have mistaken one head for the other over the top of the chair, however quickly he fired. And besides it doesn’t help me a bit, for there’s even less motive to allege in that case than in the other. No one seems to have liked Mr Shirley, but Mr Hargreaves is apparently a very popular person. I’m up against a brick wall, and that’s the truth. I’ve cross-examined practically everyone who was in the college that night, and I can’t find any clue whatever. It seems to me that there’s only one thing to do. I must find some suggestion of motive, something to give me a start, and so I want you to talk again to everyone closely connected
with Mr Shirley. I can’t get anything out of his widow, and still less from his father-in-law, but you may be able to. Will you try them again, and go over every little detail in his life, and his acquaintances, and his affairs? Something must surely turn up which will give me a start.’

  ‘I’ll try, of course,’ I said doubtfully, ‘but I don’t feel much confidence in the result. Still, I’ll do my best.’

  Cotter thanked me, and got up.

  ‘If nothing new turns up this is going to be one of the great unexplained mysteries,’ he remarked gloomily, ‘and I shan’t exactly gain much in reputation from it.’

  He had hardly left me when I heard a knock which by now I knew well, for it was Brendel’s. It was firm and reassuring, but without a hint of aggression. To me its message had come to be, ‘I hope you are in, for I should like a talk with you, and I think I may be helpful to you.’ My ‘Come in’ was therefore prompt and cordial.

  When I had told him of Cotter’s visit, and of the latter’s pessimistic outlook, he smiled, and warned me to go warily with my questions to Mrs Shirley. I was already conscious that I had undertaken rather lightly a difficult and not very agreeable task, and I began to wish that I had declined it. Brendel, however, quieted my doubts, and said that he was confident that my tact would smooth out the difficulties. He then asked me about the funeral arrangements for that day.

  I explained to him what had been arranged; there was to be a service in the chapel at two o’clock, and the second part of the service would follow at the cemetery. To my great surprise he showed the keenest interest in all the details, and I had to tell him whom it was proposed to admit, and who would in all probability go on to the cemetery. Shirley was a man of few friends, but the President had been nervous lest the vulgar excitement caused by his death should attract a crowd, and we had therefore settled that except for members of the college, who would naturally attend, and a few relatives, no one should be admitted to the chapel except by a special permit. We anticipated that only the relatives and the Fellows of the college would follow the body to the cemetery.

  ‘I should like to go to both parts of the service,’ said Brendel when I had finished; ‘will there be any objection?’

  ‘None, of course, but no one could possibly think it incumbent on you to attend, unless you wish it.’

  He smiled a little wryly.

  ‘The detective can’t always be over-nice in his methods. I don’t want to deceive you about my intentions. I go to the funeral because I want to watch some of the mourners. And so that I may watch well may I now see your chapel, and learn where they will all sit?’

  I could not pretend to like the idea of using a funeral service for such a purpose, but I could hardly press my objection, which was in fact one of sentiment rather than of reason, so I made a virtue of necessity and walked down with Brendel towards the chapel.

  As we crossed the Quad, the porter hurried across the path and handed me a telegram. I opened it and found that one of my minor worries was at an end, for it was from Fred Scarborough, and ran as follows: ‘Have burned your letter unread. Are you all mad at St Thomas’s? Shall expect the whole story later.’ I showed it to Brendel, and then led the way into the chapel.

  Our chapel was an eighteenth-century addition to the college, of no great size, but perfectly proportioned and beautiful both in design and decoration. It was rectangular in shape, with long pews, dark with age, running in three rows along each side. The organ was at the west end, on one side of the entrance, and opposite it, on the other side, was a small vestry. Brendel was not blind to the beauties of the building, which he examined with care and with aesthetic appreciation. But he was even more interested in the practical details of seating and accommodation.

  ‘I think I understand,’ he said, when I had concluded my explanations. ‘The whole of the undergraduates sit at the east end on both sides of the chapel; and those seats at the west end are reserved for the Fellows. The rows behind the Fellows’ seats, are they at the disposal of visitors?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You say that the Fellows sit on both sides of the chapel; has each a special seat, or does each sit where he will?’

  ‘The President and Vice-President – that is myself – have our special seats, and of course the Chaplain, but the rest have not.’

  ‘But do the others in practice usually sit in the same places?’

  ‘Well, as a matter of fact, most of them hardly ever come; when they do they sit sometimes on one side and sometimes on the other. Trower always takes that corner seat, because he likes to read the lessons, but the rest, I fancy, chop and change.’

  ‘I see. Now may I sit in a back pew, on either side, whichever I choose?’

  ‘Certainly. There won’t be a crowd, for we’ve taken steps, as I told you, to keep out strangers. I think you are sure to find room on whichever side you like.’

  He made another careful survey of the chapel, and I could not help feeling that he was wasting a good deal of time over a very trivial matter, but I knew better than to point out this to him. Finally, he seemed satisfied and we left the chapel.

  The rest of the morning seemed interminable to me. I had pupils to teach, but I found it impossible to concentrate my mind upon their work. I could think of nothing but the unexplained mystery, and Shirley’s body lying in its coffin.

  It was almost with a sense of relief that at last I found myself seated in my pew in chapel, waiting for the service to begin.

  Brendel came in at the last moment. I saw him give a long unhurried look at the congregation, first on one side and then on the other, before he moved to a vacant seat two or three places from me on the north side of the chapel. Hardly had he seated himself when he bent across and murmured some words into the ear of a cousin of Shirley’s, who was sitting almost next to me, in the same row as Brendel. I thought I caught the words ‘rather deaf … don’t hear at all well … mind if I change places?’ and apparently I was not deceived, for the other man nodded, and he and Brendel rapidly changed places. I had not time to speculate about Brendel’s remark, which I knew to be quite untrue, for at that moment the service began.

  I had come to chapel with a sense almost of relief, but my mood soon changed to one of unrelieved gloom and misery. Like most normal men I hold all funerals in abhorrence, those at Oxford more especially. The long black gowns, the wearing of which on such occasions is imposed upon us by University traditions, gave the ceremony an appearance which is macabre as well as funereal. The contrast between the rows of youthful undergraduate faces at one end of the chapel and the senior members of the University, many of them old and bent, at the other, seemed to emphasize the shortness and precarious nature of human life, whilst the unrelieved black of the congregation and the haunting sadness of the music filled me with a depression that I could barely conceal. I felt anew the pain and grief of the wife of the murdered man and of her sister, the two people whom of all my acquaintance I most loved and reverenced; I saw as it seemed even without looking in his direction the figure of the white-haired President, bowed and broken in spirit. For the first time I realized the whole horror of what had occurred; for the first time I faced the knowledge that life at St Thomas’s could never be the same as it had been before the shadow of crime had fallen upon the college. It seemed to me as though happiness had been blotted out from the lives of those whom I most cherished, and that my own life was involved in the common ruin. I had never had any real affection for Shirley himself, but his murder seemed at that moment to be the death-knell of my own quiet happiness. Up to then in some curious way I had felt that the events which had suddenly disturbed the whole tenor of our collegiate life had been external to myself. I had watched them as a spectator, even when I had been participating in them. I had felt all the time as though in some miraculous way things would suddenly be restored to the state in which they had been before the murder; that I should resume my old life of ease and contentment; that the dark clouds of crime and tragedy wou
ld suddenly disperse. But now at last I realized the inevitability of what had happened, and I felt the whole load of irremediable misery. Others, I think, must have suffered in the same way; even those of my colleagues who had discussed the crime as though it had been a mere problem in crime and detection, seemed now to feel that indeed it impinged upon their own lives.

  The second part of the service at the cemetery was almost unbearable. A light rain had begun to fall, and dripped miserably upon the small crowd of persons round the open grave. At one moment I feared that Mary, who stood facing me, was going to faint, so desperately pale and ill did she look. The same thought seemed to occur to Mottram, who was standing near to her, for I saw his arm stretched out for a moment to support her. But she seemed to recover almost immediately, and Mottram’s arm fell back to his side. Slowly the rain increased; the atmosphere was one of inspissated gloom. Short though it was it seemed to me that the service would never end. But at last it was over, and the cars drove us slowly back again to St Thomas’s.

  It was a dismal home-coming. I paced up and down my room in a state of acute depression, and a prey as usual to wretched indecision. Should I, or should I not, go to the Verekers’ that evening? I longed to lend them what help and sympathy I could, and I felt sure that a visit from me would never be considered in that house as an intrusion; but I could not make up my mind to go. Might I not do more harm than good, if I tried to find words of sympathy and comfort?

  About half-past five I could bear my own company and my own thoughts no longer. There are times when human society of some kind is an absolute necessity. I had decided that I would not go to the Verekers’, but with some human being I must converse. Almost by chance I decided to go to see if Mottram was in his rooms. What guided me there I cannot say, for he was a man whom I seldom visited; probably it was the fact that I had a mental picture of him standing opposite to me at the graveside. Be that how it may, I found myself walking across to the back Quad, and mounting his staircase.