by J F Straker
For some minutes after Colin’s departure the Inspector stood, silent and thoughtful, staring at the fire. The constable waited placidly for orders. Sergeant Maddox, a bull of a man with a weather-beaten face and ears that protruded like fins, walked across to the window. There had been heavy rain throughout the night and early morning, but a break in the clouds promised fairer weather. Raindrops dripped from the trees, which in their November garb no longer screened the school from the road.
At the Inspector’s cough Maddox turned from this rather depressing outlook. ‘A rum go, eh?’ he said, his booming voice tinged faintly with the local accent. ‘What do you make of it, sir?’
‘Nothing yet. Except that it is, as you say, a rum go. I imagine Russell was telling us the truth as he sees it. But is it the real truth? Was Connaught murdered? If he was, then the motive for last night’s affair was probably as Russell said. But if Connaught’s death was an accident ...’ Pitt shrugged. ‘Well, bang goes your motive.’
‘I’d say he’s right,’ said Maddox. ‘He threatens to spill the beans, and someone promptly tries to poison him. Too big a coincidence if the two aren’t connected.’
‘I dare say. But coincidences happen. And the poisoner didn’t have much time to get hold of the poison, did he? A few hours only — and where would he go for it? Russell says he was the only member of the staff who was free yesterday afternoon; and I can’t see him being given that errand. “If you’re passing a chemist’s, old man, pop in and buy me some cyanide, will you?” A bit unlikely, isn’t it?’
‘The chap might have had it by him,’ the Sergeant persisted.
‘You think so? Do schoolteachers usually keep cyanide handy?’
‘Not as schoolteachers, they don’t. Not unless they teach chemistry, which I’m told isn’t usual in prep schools. But it’s used in photography.’ The Sergeant nodded meaningfully at the library walls, plentifully decorated with framed photographs — some of formal school groups, but others containing more artistic merit. ‘Those aren’t oil paintings, are they?’
‘Not in the literal sense. But metaphorically — well, yes, some of them are. I particularly like ...’ Pitt turned reluctantly from the photograph that had caught his eye. ‘All right, Maddox, that’s certainly a line to follow. We will take up the matter of photography with the headmaster. And now, back to the grindstone.’
Diana Farling was not at all perturbed at being called to the presence of the police. She reduced them to their lowest common denominator; they were only men, and men had seldom been a problem to Diana. She gave her evidence calmly. On the previous evening, she said, Christopher Moull had gone up to his room soon after dinner. Mr Smelton had left the common room later, but she and Miss Connaught had sat there reading until half-past nine. ‘I went upstairs then; I had finished my book, and Miss Connaught was not in a mood for conversation. She was a little upset, I think; she and Mr Russell — they’re engaged, you know — had quarrelled after lunch. I think she hoped to see him when he returned.’
The girl paused — for him to ask a question, Pitt thought. When he did not she went on to explain that she had gone into Miss Webber’s room to return the book she had been reading. ‘We got down to a bit of gossip,’ she said, with a slight, rather apologetic smile, ‘and I stayed there until eleven o’clock. It was not until I heard Mr Russell come upstairs that I looked at my watch and realized how late it was.’
‘You didn’t see him?’
‘No. But I knew it was Colin. He’s a heavy man, and he always takes the stairs two at a time. I recognized the thuds.’
‘Anyone else come up those stairs while you were with Miss Webber?’ asked Pitt.
‘Only Miss Connaught. That was about ten o’clock — I suppose she had got tired of waiting. I heard her go into Mr Russell’s room — the door sticks, you have to give it a bang before it will open and then she went along to her own room. She said goodnight to us as she passed.’
‘And you are certain no one else went into Russell’s room during the hour and a half you were talking to Miss Webber?’
‘Quite certain,’ the girl said firmly.
The Inspector indulged in another bout of staring. It was completely impersonal; the recipient was a focus for his thoughts, not his eyes. Diana wondered uneasily if her nose was shining.
‘When Mr Russell announced yesterday that he was making a statement to the police did that surprise you?’ Pitt asked, still staring.
She smiled. ‘It certainly did. Of course, we all knew he had this odd fixation about J.C.’s death, but none of us took it seriously, I imagine. I didn’t, anyway.’
‘Do you take it seriously now?’
‘Because someone tried to poison him, you mean?’ Diana considered this. ‘No, I don’t think so. Frankly, I can’t even believe in the poison.’
‘Why not?’ asked Pitt, surprised. ‘I can assure you that that at least was real enough.’
‘Was it? Well, if you say so ... but it’s all so impossible, Inspector, so out of place. That sort of thing just doesn’t happen in schools.’
‘Obviously you don’t know your Ronald Searle,’ said Pitt, the flicker of a smile on his gaunt face. ‘Is Mr Russell popular here?’
Diana laughed. ‘In other words, who do I think tried to poison him, eh? Well, to be candid, I wouldn’t say we were a particularly matey bunch. We have our little squabbles. But they don’t usually wind up with a dose of poison.’
Pitt wondered if this was an attempt to evade the issue, but he let it pass. As the door closed behind the girl Sergeant Maddox smacked his lips appreciatively. ‘Nice bit of homework, Inspector. What you might call a strapping wench.’
‘You might,’ Pitt agreed. ‘Though I doubt whether she herself would take kindly to the description.’
Miss Webber was able to confirm much of what Diana had said. She had made her customary round of the dormitories at nine o’clock, finishing in the sickroom of which Duke, a suspected case of measles, was the only occupant. She had found him restless and tearful, and frightened at being alone in the dark. To calm him she had given him a night-light, and had left his and her doors ajar so that she might hear him if he called.
‘He didn’t call — or if he did I didn’t hear him,’ Miss Webber admitted. ‘He was sound asleep when I went into the sickroom at eleven.’
‘Perhaps your conversation with Miss Farling was particularly engrossing,’ Pitt suggested.
‘It was, rather. Love and passion are always heady topics for us spinsters,’ she said. ‘When they take place under one’s very nose, so to speak, we like to make the most of them.’
The Inspector admitted that his knowledge of such matters was limited, being confined to the police courts and the Sunday newspapers. Looking at Miss Webber’s plain face and dumpy figure, he doubted whether much love or passion had come her way either.
‘I’m learning a lot about schoolteachers,’ he said. ‘Their lives appear to be much less monotonous than I had imagined. Whose romance were you discussing? Or perhaps I shouldn’t ask?’
‘Oh, it’s no secret,’ she assured him. ‘Every one knows about it.’
‘Except me,’ he pointed out.
Miss Webber happily expanded on the triangle that was James and Colin and Anne, and on the animosity that had flickered between the two men throughout the term and had culminated in a blow. This was interesting news to Pitt, and he asked for more. But Miss Webber had no more to give. ‘Mr James told his father,’ she concluded. ‘That was why the poor boy — Mr Russell, I mean — got the sack.’
It wasn’t the reason the poor boy had given him, Pitt thought grimly.
Miss Dove, the under-matron, had remained in her room throughout the previous evening and had heard nothing; her deafness was reason enough for that. Doris — a pert little teenager with an engaging confidence in herself — declared that she had poured the milk for Russell from a sealed quart bottle and that the glass had not left her hand until she had given it to Miss Connaught. ‘I usuall
y puts it in his room during staff supper,’ she said, her sharp eyes darting with interest from one to the other of the two policemen. ‘But last night I was all on me own. Didn’t remember it until I’d done the washin’ up.’
‘All of which seems to point to Miss Connaught,’ said Pitt. ‘She put the milk in Russell’s room, and there are two witnesses to prove that no one entered the room after that until Russell returned. We’d better have her in.’
‘Russell’s door sticks all right,’ said Maddox. ‘I tried it.’
Although Anne had recovered from her earlier hysteria she was still nervous and upset and in no condition to think clearly. Pitt, realizing that here was a very different witness from the composed Miss Farling and the garrulous Miss Webber, allowed her to tell her story in her own way and at her own pace. Some of her nervousness disappeared as she did so, and she seemed comparatively calm when he began to ask questions.
‘Did you share Mr Russell’s views on your grandfather’s death?’ he asked her. Anne hesitated before replying.
‘Not at first,’ she said. ‘Not until he reminded me about the keys. I knew someone had been in the house, you see. But even then I couldn’t believe it was anyone from here. It’s not that I like them all — I don’t, really. But it’s so impossible to imagine someone you know and work with doing such a horrible thing.’
He nodded. ‘I know, miss. But what about last night? No one from outside the school could be responsible for that.’
‘No,’ she said, distressed. ‘It must be one of them.’ She was not considering the police angle; her thoughts were all of Colin and the danger that threatened him. ‘He believes the poison was meant to stop him from telling you about my grandfather. Now that he’s told you, he says, the murderer won’t be interested in him any more. Well, I can see that, of course, and I hope he’s right. But supposing he’s wrong? Suppose Grandfather wasn’t murdered? That means somebody wants to get rid of Colin for quite a different reason — though I can’t think why, he’s never harmed anyone. They may try again, and ...’
Anne dissolved into tears. Sergeant Maddox fumbled in his pocket for a handkerchief, looked at its soiled greyness, and hastily put it back. He was as relieved as Pitt when the girl eventually dried her eyes and looked at them contritely.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, swallowing hard. ‘It was silly of me to cry.’
‘That’s all right, miss,’ Pitt said. ‘And there’s no need to frighten yourself about what may happen to Mr Russell. He’s safe enough. People don’t go around committing murder with the police on the premises.’
‘Thank you,’ said Anne, blinking her long lashes at them so that the sergeant instinctively squared his broad shoulders and looked for someone to hit. ‘I do feel happier now you are here. But I wish he wasn’t so confident.’ She told them how Colin had teased her after breakfast that morning. ‘He can’t know there won’t be another attempt.’
‘Perhaps he has more confidence in us than you have,’ Pitt suggested.
‘Oh, no, it isn’t that.’ Anne was unconscious of the sting in her words. ‘It’s because he’s so sure that J.C. was murdered.’
Pitt decided he had humoured her long enough. She might be a damsel in distress, but he was no knight errant, and there was sterner business afoot than mopping up a girl’s tears. When he had got from her all she could tell him of the day her grandfather died he said — rather hesitantly, fearful that the tears might flow again — ‘Suppose Mr Russell is wrong, Miss Connaught. Suppose last night’s attempt to poison him has no connection with your grandfather’s death — can you name anyone who might want your fiancé out of the way?’
His fears proved to be groundless. ‘No,’ said Anne, dry-eyed. ‘Every one likes him. That is, they did until he told them he thought J.C. had been murdered. Some of them were annoyed about that.’
‘Including Mr James Latimer, I suppose?’
‘Yes.’
‘There’s no point in beating about the bush, Miss Connaught,’ Pitt said briskly. ‘We know all about the row between Mr Russell and James Latimer on Wednesday evening. Didn’t it occur to you that Mr Latimer might try to retaliate in some way?’
‘Yes, of course. But not that way. He wouldn’t try to kill him.’
‘He might if he hoped to marry you. Paying Mr Russell back in his own coin giving him a clout on the jaw — wouldn’t simplify that problem, would it? But poison might.’
Anne reddened. ‘It wouldn’t — and he knew it wouldn’t. Anyway, Colin was leaving today. James didn’t have to use poison to get rid of him.’
‘If James Latimer hoped to marry you, miss, your fiancé would be an obstacle even if he were in Timbuctoo,’ said Pitt. ‘However, that’s by the way. Luckily, most quarrels don’t end in poison. Er — you had some sort of a disagreement with Mr Russell yourself yesterday, I’m told.’
‘Yes, I did. I was peeved at his holding out on me.’ She smiled faintly at the recollection. Then her eyes widened. ‘How on earth did you know that, Inspector? Did Colin tell you?’
Pitt shook his head, ignoring the first question. ‘How long were you in Mr Russell’s room when you took his milk in last night?’ he asked.
‘Only a few seconds. I just put the glass on the dressing-table and came straight out.’
‘Was the cat in the room then?’
‘I didn’t see it. But it might have been under the bed or behind the furniture.’
‘Did you go directly to your room after that?’
‘Yes. I meant to stay awake until Colin got back, but I must have dropped off to sleep almost immediately. I didn’t hear a thing until Doris brought my tea the next morning.’
‘Nobody seems to have heard anything,’ Pitt grumbled, when Anne had gone. ‘I wonder when the cat was last seen alive. If we can pin that down it might help.’
The Sergeant nodded. ‘You don’t think the girl did it, do you?’ he asked anxiously.
‘I’m keeping an open mind,’ said Pitt adding, as an afterthought, ‘No, not really.’
Maddox sighed his relief.
Smelton was in one of his more irritable moods. He was curt to the point of rudeness, volunteered nothing, and gave it as his opinion that the whole wretched business was just another instance of ‘that young fool Russell’s impudent meddling.’
‘You think he tried to poison himself?’ asked Pitt.
‘No, of course not. But it would never have happened if he had minded his own business from the beginning.’
By dint of patient questioning the Inspector learned that Smelton had stayed to dinner at the school the previous evening because his wife was away for the night, and that afterwards he had gone up to Christopher Moull’s room to borrow a book. As the young man was not there he had returned to the common room, had read for half an hour, and after a further fruitless visit to Moull’s room had gone home. It was then, he said, just after nine o’clock.
‘Did anyone see you leave?’
‘I didn’t go round saying goodnight, if that’s what you mean.’
It wasn’t, but Pitt let it pass. ‘Were you surprised at not finding Mr Moull in his room?’ he asked.
‘No. Why should I be?’
‘Any idea where he’d got to?’
‘Dammit, man, no! He had said he was going up to write letters, but if he chose to do otherwise it was no business of mine. No business of yours either, if you ask me.’
‘I didn’t,’ Pitt said curtly, tired of the other’s ill humour.
Smelton was startled. He was not accustomed to being answered back. ‘That all?’ he demanded, recovering.
‘Not quite. I’m told you don’t subscribe to Russell’s belief that Mr Connaught was murdered?’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
It was too much for Smelton in his present mood.
‘It may be your duty to inquire into the events of last night,’ he said violently, causing Pitt to wonder anew how such a melancholy and moth-eaten exterior co
uld house so irascible a being. ‘But my opinions are my own concern, not yours. I refuse to discuss them.’
‘We’ll stick to facts, then,’ said Pitt. ‘Where were you at seven o’clock on the morning of October the twenty-second — the day Mr Connaught was drowned?’
‘I don’t remember. In bed, I imagine.’
Pitt wondered if he were mistaken in thinking he saw a flicker of apprehension in the man’s eyes. ‘I’m told you were late for school that morning,’ he said, feeling his way.
‘Was I? Probably overslept, then. But let me warn you not to accept as gospel everything that fellow Russell tells you. He’s out to make mischief.’
His tone was surly, but it lacked its former bite. Remembering what Colin had told him, Pitt took a leap in the dark.
‘If I were to suggest that you were not in bed,’ he said, ‘but that you had left home soon after nine o’clock the previous evening and did not return either that night or the next morning — would that surprise you?’
This time there was no mistaking Smelton’s anxiety. His pale eyes clouded, the fingers of both hands twitched nervously. And when, after a long pause, he answered the question he avoided the detective’s eyes and his voice was flat and measured.
‘It would not only surprise me, Inspector; it would arouse in me grave concern for your sanity,’ he said. ‘And now, if you will excuse me ...’
Pitt excused him.
‘Maybe Russell isn’t so far out,’ he said to Maddox. ‘Maybe there was something fishy about Connaught’s death. Smelton wasn’t anxious to discuss it, anyway. Definitely evasive. But not unduly concerned about last night, I thought. Irritable and obstructive, yes; but then I guess he’s that by nature. One might infer, I suppose, that he was involved in one and not the other — which would seem to sink Russell’s idea that the first crime led to the second.’
‘Probably had a night out with the boys and didn’t want it broadcast,’ Maddox suggested. ‘That sort of thing wouldn’t do a chap in his position any good. But what about Moull, sir? Where was he last night when Smelton went up to his room?’
‘In the bathroom or the lavatory, most likely. Not that it matters. Miss Connaught didn’t take the milk up until ten o’clock, and after that, if those two women can be relied on, nobody went into Russell’s room.’