An Oxford Tragedy

by J. C. Masterman

  ‘It was in that state of mind that I went to the funeral. A funeral is an emotional business, and I thought it not unlikely that I should see a little further into Mottram’s heart, though I’ll not pretend that I enjoyed doing detection work in circumstances like those.’

  Brendel paused for a moment, as though he wished to rid himself of an unpleasant memory. Then he continued.

  ‘We’ve some great descriptive writers in Germany, Winn, but I dare say you’ve not read many of them. One day I’ll lend you a story by Stefan Zweig; called Vierundzwanzig Stunden aus dem Leben einer Frau. It’s a grand piece of writing. It’s the story of a woman married to a wealthy husband, who used to gamble at Monte Carlo. She was bored by the gambling, but she used to watch the gamblers, and after a time she saw that it was more exciting to watch their hands than their faces. Her husband died, but she still haunted the rooms, because it filled her time and gave her interest. And always she watched the hands, and read in them every emotion of hope and triumph, of terror and despair. One day she saw a pair of hands, more expressive than any she had seen before – at one moment they were poised like an animal waiting for its spring, the next they advanced with tigerish cupidity to seize the spoil, and then a little later they would sink back into a kind of feline repose, ready to turn in an instant to action. She watched them, fascinated by their beauty and muscular power and cruelty and intensity of purpose. And then at the end, suddenly, they dropped on the table as though all life and hope had left them, and she knew, knew with a horrible certainty, that the end had come, and that the owner of those hands had decided that death was preferable to a hopeless struggle. The rest of the tale doesn’t matter – you shall read it for yourself; but think now, as I often do, of the hands and all that they betray. I have been told by some lawyers that they listen for the feet – that the witness may control his features and clutch the edge of the witness-box with his hands, but that his feet shuffle and rattle on the floor as he tells a lie. It may be so – I don’t know – but the hands are usually good enough for me. You will remember that I went to the funeral, and you may even have noticed that I took pains to sit almost behind Mottram in the chapel. There I watched his hands, and they were the hands of a tortured man! There was further confirmation at the cemetery. I wonder if you observed that at one moment Miss Vereker looked like fainting? I did, and so did Mottram. His eyes had never left her as we stood near the grave, and he moved in an instant to support her, but Hargreaves, who was next to her, and who was engaged to her – Hargreaves never noticed. I don’t think he gave a thought to her all through.

  ‘When I got back from the funeral I felt sure that I was right, but still I had no proof, and I began to wonder what I should do next. It was then that you came to see me and told me of the talk which you had interrupted between Mottram and Hargreaves, and of the extraordinary request of Mottram that you should hold your hand for three days at least. Exactly what he meant I could not tell, but I could hazard a fairly shrewd guess. There must be some sort of an arrangement between the two, and there must be some sort of a dénouement to be expected soon. Whatever was in store for us I could see no possible harm in waiting, and so I advised you to do as Mottram asked.

  ‘I did nothing more until I read that announcement in The Times, and then I knew that the drama had reached its climax. For a brief moment I was inclined to revise my whole theory. Did it not seem that Hargreaves had been the murderer, that Mottram knew it, and that he had used his knowledge to force Hargreaves to break his engagement? It was even possible that Mottram had surprised the other red-handed; that would explain the open shirt. Somehow my instinct made me reject that explanation, though logically I could not ignore the possibility of its being true. I still clung to my former theory, though I had to adapt it to the new fact. Clearly, if Mottram was guilty, he had some hold over Hargreaves, some power which was sufficient to make the latter obey him. I could not know all the details, but I was, all things considered, surprisingly near the truth. The new danger I also foresaw. Even if Mottram was a murderer he had neither the temperament nor the insensibility to live on under the shadow of an undiscovered crime. If, as I now guessed, he had been waiting for this engagement to be terminated, was it not only too likely that he would cut all the knots by an act of self-destruction? I could not, of course, understand all his motives, but the danger of suicide was apparent to me. I went straight to him, and begged him to come for a long drive with me into the country. His surprise was evident but I simply wouldn’t let him refuse. I had another reason too. He had come from the north, from a country of hills and moors; I wanted to get him out on to the Downs, for I knew he’d talk more freely out there. Some men are choked down in the valleys. We drove out through Wantage and Hungerford to Marlborough and on to Wootton Bassett, and then we left the car and walked on. He had the sort of simplicity of a man who has lived much to himself, even though at times he tried to dramatize himself a little (you noticed that in his letter?) but then weak men are always apt to be a little melodramatic. He talked of his early life, and of his struggles, and of his work. And then at last, when we’d walked a long way we began to speak of Shirley’s death, and he asked me whom I thought to be the murderer. I think I’d always known all through that walk that he would ask some such question, and I had my answer ready. Very carefully and very quietly I gave him my reconstruction of the crime, and when I’d finished I asked him whether that was what had happened and he said “Yes.” Then he filled in a few of the missing details – about the gloves and the reading-lamp and all that, as though he were telling a story about someone we’d both known years ago. When he finished he said, “I think we ought to get back to Oxford now; I want to write it all down to-day,” and so we went back to the car. We talked about the country and the hills, and a host of things like that, but never another word about the crime. But on the way back he asked me if I’d mind coming up in the evening about ten to fetch him from the Lab. I said that of course I would, and he asked if I’d bring you with me. Then I knew what he meant to do. I said nothing to stop him; it would have been useless, and I think it would have been wrong.’

  Brendel paused reflectively, and watched the smoke from his cigar drifting upwards. Then he spoke again with a sudden fierceness.

  ‘I’m not afraid of that responsibility. I should do the same again. He couldn’t have lived with all that burden to bear.’

  His voice sank to its customary calmer tone.

  ‘You see, Winn, I didn’t perform any great feat of detection. I only applied a few very simple principles. I told you that first evening, and I repeat it now, that in any given case the number of possible murderers is ridiculously small, and in this special case circumstances reduced the number still more. Only one of those who dined could have done it, and of them nearly all were ruled out for general or special reasons. And yet, for all that, viewed simply as a crime Shirley’s murder had some aspects which made it extraordinarily interesting. It was, you see, to begin with, almost a perfect murder. The opportunity was there, so that the murderer need leave no clue of any kind whatever. And it had one really remarkable feature. No single person connected with it told a lie – except Callendar, and he confessed to you almost as soon as he had told it. Even Mottram told the strict truth to Prendergast, when he was asked to describe his movements that night. He left out a good deal, but he told no lie. I wonder what he would have said if Prendergast had asked each suspect in turn whether he had killed Shirley. I’m not at all sure he wouldn’t have confessed. Still, that’s all hypothetical. The fact remains that no protagonist told a lie. Yet in almost all crimes the culprit is discovered because he had lied. He tells one lie to cover his tracks, and that one lie is the parent of others – till at last the whole fabric crashes. Consider the case of the man who tries to manufacture a false alibi, or the case of the man who uses poison. There is always one lie necessary in the beginning, and that invariably has to be bolstered up with others, till the whole mechanism of the culprit
’s everyday life breaks down. I daresay I’m mixing my metaphors, but you’ll see what I mean. But in this case there was no lie, and that is precisely why a really competent man like Cotter could never get going. He couldn’t find a clue, and he couldn’t find a false statement which might have started him off. Yet you noticed how quickly he was on the trail of Callendar’s little suppression of the truth and your collusion. Well, I think that’s about all, and it’s probably enough to destroy your belief in me as a detective; you see, I did nothing but put two and two together and make the answer four. But perhaps there are questions you’d like to ask about it?’

  ‘No, no,’ I said, ‘I don’t depreciate what you did at all. It’s wonderful to me that a stranger could have noticed so much, and argued so clearly. But there are two questions I want to ask you.’

  ‘Go ahead, then.’

  ‘The first is this. Would Cotter have discovered that Mottram was the murderer if you’d not been here?’

  ‘I think Cotter has a very shrewd idea now. I’ve always said that he was, within his limits, a very competent man, and I’m pretty certain that he eliminated everyone save Mottram and Hargreaves, just as I did. He works slowly, but surely. Of the two he would certainly suspect Mottram, for he’s a type that Cotter can’t really understand. Hargreaves is the sort of man with whom he is accustomed to deal, and whom he appreciates. But he was up against a brick wall, for he couldn’t find any motive for the murder. You’d be surprised if I told you how often Cotter had been up to Mottram’s laboratory to see him on some pretext or other. Yes, I’m sure he suspected Mottram, but he couldn’t prove anything. If Mottram had brazened it out and kept his mouth shut no one on earth could ever have proved that he was guilty. Now that he’s dead Cotter will feel sure that he was the murderer, but still he can prove nothing whatever, and his lips will be sealed. What was the other question?’

  ‘Just this. Why on earth did Hargreaves wait ten minutes before he went up to his rooms after he had left Common Room?’

  Something like the old smile flickered round Brendel’s mouth, and the wrinkles puckered the corners of his eyes in the old fashion.

  ‘Well done, Winn,’ he said. ‘I’m glad you asked that, though I’m not quite sure that I know the answer. Or rather I have two answers, and either may be correct. In the first place his own statement may have been strictly true. Your Quadrangle at night is beautiful, so beautiful that it gives a fresh joy to the eyes each time they rest on it. Hargreaves has lived there all his life, he’s a materialist and all that, and yet human beings are curiously compounded, and there’s a love of beauty deep in the hearts of us all. Don’t you think it’s possible that as he stepped out into the Quadrangle that night he was struck afresh by its grace and calm so that he wanted to feast his eyes on it for a few minutes whilst the mood was on him? But there’s another explanation, and I’m afraid it’s more probable. Shirley had come in that night, ostensibly to talk about the Library. But very soon Hargreaves was to become his brother-in-law by marriage, and as such a member of his family. Shirley was a man who saw things clearly and he didn’t mince his words. Don’t you think it probable that Hargreaves wasn’t quite easy in his conscience; that he was afraid that Shirley might have something to say about his manner of life and his doubtful pleasures? Don’t you think, I mean, that Hargreaves was a little frightened of that interview, and that he was postponing it as long as he decently could? That, I’m afraid, is what I believe, though of course I can’t tell. But there’s one curious little fact about it. It was because Hargreaves did spend ten minutes outside before he came back to us that I ultimately decided in my mind that he must be innocent. Listen. He is whatever his shortcomings, a very able man, and if he had planned a murder he would have done it with the maximum of efficiency. Well, I put myself in his place. One morning, when no one was about, I went to Common Room and took out my watch. I walked thence to Hargreaves’ rooms; I listened to see that no one was watching me; I opened the door, I lifted an imaginary revolver from the table and I shot an imaginary man. Then I turned on the lights to see that I had left no traces, and I felt the imaginary heart of the imaginary corpse. I walked back to the Common Room slowly and I looked at my watch again. I had taken just five and a half minutes over the whole proceeding. No, I said to myself, if Hargreaves had killed Shirley he would have wished to summon us as quickly as he could, for every minute increased his personal danger. He would have been back in Common Room within six minutes, and not after ten. At first I thought exactly the opposite of all this; I thought that he would have been afraid that we should notice that the murder had only that moment been committed, and he would have waited. But the more I pondered over it the more clearly I saw that the danger of delay would seem far more menacing to him than the danger of our too accurate observations. I felt convinced that if he had been the murderer he would have been back in Common Room in the shortest possible time. The little fact of his delay, which seemed so damning for him, was in my considered view his greatest safeguard.’

  Chapter Eighteen

  It’s the last Sunday of term, and I’m sitting alone in my rooms. I ought to be at evening chapel, but I can’t stand Mitton’s sermons; for one thing they’re always the same – he’s telling them now that everything is for the best because God is watching over all our doings. In a moment he’ll be talking of the ‘trivial round, the common task’ and working up towards his peroration about hard work and simple faith. I suppose it’s all right, but I couldn’t bear it to-night.

  My mind keeps straying back over the days that have passed since Mottram’s suicide … I’m in the Coroner’s Court again, and listening to his solemn inanities. How exactly they misrepresent the true facts! He’s dwelling unctuously now on the brilliant promise of the dead man, he’s speaking of the over-stretched bow which snaps suddenly, he’s alluded with just the right touch of dignified sympathy to the dead man’s grief at Shirley’s death and his disappointment at his scientific setback … The verdict’s a foregone conclusion, of course, but he must say his words … And now I’m saying farewell to Mary – she’s going with her sister for a long sea-voyage, to forget it all, but they never will forget. She presses my hand and thanks me ‘for all I’ve done,’ but her eyes betray her, and tell me the truth. She thinks that I have failed her. And of Mottram she speaks with a cruelty, which is no less cruel because it is quite unconscious. ‘Oh, Mr Winn, I liked him so much: I could never have believed that he would be so weak and … yes, so wicked as to take his own life.’ My lips are sealed; I can’t save his memory even from that … Another farewell. I am standing on the platform as Brendel’s train moves out. He looks at me with a smile of good-will, which is also, somehow, full of pity. I suppose he knows that my life is all broken up. Shall I ever see him again, I wonder, and gather strength from his encouragement? … I’m in Common Room, and they’re still talking about the mystery of the murder. They’ll never find out now. Hargreaves is no longer with us. He asked the college for a year’s leave of absence, and we let him go. Somehow no one, not even the best of his friends, wanted him to stay. I don’t think he’ll ever come back. But the others are speaking of the murder as though it had happened a year ago. Really their minds are on other things – they’re concerned with the future rather than the past. Shepardson is thinking of the changes he will make in the Library, where he has succeeded Shirley; Doyne is full of his new duties as Dean. How infernally callous they all are! Trower is much concerned to fill Hargreaves’ rooms. ‘Such a damned nuisance, Winn; no one wants to live where there’s been a murder. But I’ve got a plan. I’m going to turn that set into a lecture room. Young men nowadays are always cutting lectures, but the thought of going to a room where a poor devil was done in may attract their curiosity. Yes. I’ll turn that set into a lecture room. Rather a sound idea, what?’ Curse the man; hasn’t he any sensibility at all? …

  In chapel they’re just starting the last hymn, for I can hear the organ. Ah. It’s just what Mitton would c
hoose to-night!

  God moves in a mysterious way

  His wonders to perform.

  A grand hymn and grand music, but it doesn’t fit my mood. How can it, when everything has gone wrong! … Shirley and Mottram are dead, and Hargreaves will never come back, and Ruth and Mary are lost to me. My friends are all gone, and I’m lonely … I wonder if, with all their callousness, Doyne and Trower and Shepardson aren’t really right? How little the life of a great college like this concerns itself with any individual, how easily it goes on without him! How much would any of them care if I went to-morrow? How long should I be remembered? The individual passes, but the college goes on … But I can’t bring myself into tune with new ideas. I can’t help thinking only of the disastrous past. It’s all wrong – all tragic, and life spells futility, and failure, and frustration … They’re getting to the end of that hymn now, and I can hear those tremendous last lines:

  God is His own interpreter,

  And He will make it plain.

  If only I could really believe that; if only I had the sort of blind faith that Mitton has! But I can’t believe it; it will never be plain to me … Perhaps I am too old.

  A Note on the Author

  Sir John Cecil Masterman, (1891–1977), was a son of Captain John Masterman and he was originally destined to follow his father’s footsteps. Masterman spent five years as a naval cadet but dropped out as he felt unsuited for a military career. Instead he pursued academic interests and in 1909 was elected for a scholarship in modern history at Worcester College, Oxford; academic life became his lifelong devotion.