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Authors: Gladys Mitchell

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“I talked very seriously to Gassie this evening just before dinner,” he said.

“What did you tell him?”

“I told him everything, beginning with the clues the students had given us and the interview we’d had with the committee— the Rag Committee, I suppose they’d call themselves. I told him of the search we’d made, and I impressed on him—or tried to—that the students themselves weren’t happy about Jonah’s disappearance.”

“What did he say to that?”

“Well, he admitted it was worrying. He also said that he’d been in contact with one or two of the local farmers to ask whether there had been any complaints of animals being killed, but he had rounded up no information.”

“Rather a strange thing to have done, surely?”

“Oh, no, not really. We have had complaints—few and far between, I must admit—but it’s not unknown for some of our bold spirits to raid a farm for sucking pigs. Then they have a barbecue, you know—that sort of thing. He was thinking of that messy javelin, of course. In spite of talking about red paint, he thinks there might be blood on it, you know.”

“I gather, from what you said about pigs, that the farmers wouldn’t be altogether surprised to get his enquiry?”

“Not at all surprised, and he’s well in with them because, if there ever have been complaints, he has provided very generous compensation.”

“To keep the thing out of the hands of the police, I suppose.”

“Yes, that’s it. It is one of his proudest boasts that none of the students has ever been in trouble with the law. That’s why the parents have so much confidence in him. As for Jonah’s disappearance, he said the chances were that he’d simply slung his hook, feeling that the students had had enough of him. I wish I still thought that was the case, but there’s something else—something I shall have to mention to Gassie. You remember we got paid on Wednesday morning? Well, in his bureau I found Jonah’s cheque, and a whacking big one it is. You see the point: it hasn’t been paid in. If he’d really slung his hook, he wouldn’t leave money behind. Well, I’ve told them to bring round my car. Could you spare time to accompany me to the pub? I tried it before, so I don’t think it will be the slightest bit of use, but Gassie suggested it, so I think perhaps…”

It was half-past nine when they reached the village. The night was clouded over and the stars were hidden. From the pub bright lights shone out on to the road and there came the hum of many voices, sounds of laughter and, as Hamish and Henry entered the bar, the sharpish plop of darts and the clink of glasses. The pub was crowded and the landlord and his barmaid were at full pressure.

Henry wormed his way through the crush to the bar counter and ordered. As he paid for the beers he said, “Jones been in tonight?”

“Haven’t set eyes on him since Tuesday, sir.”

“What time on Tuesday?”

“About 6 p.m. (All right! All right! Be with you in a minute.)” The landlord moved further down the counter to attend to an impatient customer, and Henry carried the drinks to a table at which Hamish had managed to secure two seats.

“Any luck?” asked Hamish.

“Last seen for certain at around opening time on Tuesday evening. It doesn’t get us any further. We know he was out and about until after lunch on Wednesday.”

A hanger-on, who voluntarily collected empty glasses during rush hours in return for a free drink, came along and began to mop up their table.

“Hullo, Morgan,” said Hamish. “Mr. Jones been in tonight?”

“Ain’t seen ’im, sir, not for some time, nor yet tonight. Us thought maybe he was took bad,” said the rheumy-eyed old man. “Not like ’im to miss us out, it ain’t.”

“Quite,” agreed Henry. “Any special reason why you thought he might have been taken ill?”

“No, only just as he don’t appear to be around, like. A rare one for his regular two or three doubles, is Mr. Jones. Not as nobody ’ceptin’ the till ever benefited.”

“That shall never be said about me. Your reproachful tone touches my heart, Morgan.” A tenpenny piece changed hands. “And that is all you can tell us?”

“Now, then, Morgan!” called the landlord. “Glasses wanted!”

“Think ’e paid me, wouldn’t you?” grumbled the old man. “All right! All right! Comin’ over,” he savagely responded. He left Hamish and Henry and shambled to the bar counter with his thick fingers thrust inside half-a-dozen empty glasses which he dumped down in front of the landlord. At the same moment a second barmaid, in all her evening finery and with a tremendous corsage of artificial flowers pinned to the front of her dress, came out from behind the scenes and joined the landlord at the counter. With a word or two in her ear, the landlord left her and her companion to cope with the customers and came over to Hamish and Henry. He leaned over and spoke in low tones.

“Mr. Jones owes me fifteen nicker,” he said. “Carted off a car-load of stuff and five hundred fags last Monday. Asked him to pay me when he come in here Tuesday evening, but he said I’d have to wait ’til next day, as he hadn’t got his cheque book with him. ‘You know as I don’t take cheques,’ I said. Well, he agrees about that. ‘I mean the bank,’ he says. ‘I can’t get your money ’til I’ve been to the bank, and I can’t go there tonight, of course. You’ll get your money all right,’ he says. ‘What’s more, I’ve never welshed on you yet. I’m a good customer,’ he says, ‘so I don’t think much of your attitood.’ Well, he
has
been a good customer. I don’t say nothing about that, but I likes my money on the dot. You can’t afford to run up a slate in a pub, not to the tune of fifteen quid at a time. ‘I let you have the stuff as a favour yesterday,’ I said, ‘and I expected the money this morning.’ Well, he promised it faithful, but, like I’m telling you, I’ve never seen no more of him, and now you gents comes along here enquiring after him. When am I going to see my fifteen quid? That’s what I want to know.”

“Oh, you’ll get it all right,” said Henry. He turned to Hamish. “The College will pay it,” he said. “I’ll make myself personally responsible for bringing it here tomorrow,” he added, addressing the landlord.

“God bless tomorrow, in case it ever comes,” said the landlord sardonically. “But what brings you gents here? Don’t tell me he’s done a bunk!”

The next news of Jones’s whereabouts was dramatic and shocking. A white-faced student—a blameless type who had been expelled from his school for being in possession of pornographic literature which had been palmed off on him by some unknown addict who must have heard that fifth-form studies were to be searched for drugs—came bursting into Hamish’s room just as he was preparing to go down to breakfast on the morning following the visit to the inn.

“James,” the boy said, “the dogs! They’re digging up the long-jump pit.”

“Buried a bone there, I suppose,” said Hamish, but with a horrid premonition of the truth.

“No!” said the boy. He made a retching sound. “We think they’re digging up Jonah.”

chapter
7
Talk

T
he dogs lived in College, but actually belonged to Celia. They were a couple of lively, friendly, agreeable, wire-haired fox-terriers, great favourites with the students, who groomed and exercised them and who teased the plump, good-natured Celia about them, alleging that she kept them to protect her virginity from the Warden’s predatory advances. As the Warden was a pillar of monkish virtue where the women on his staff and the women students were concerned, this had continued down the years as a time-honoured jest.

There was no jest attached to the present circumstances, however.

“Jones?” said Hamish. “Are you sure?” There was no need for the question. He had realized that before he asked it. The boy put his hand over his mouth and tore for the nearest lavatory. Hamish, striding along the corridor to Henry’s room, encountered Martin, who was just going down to breakfast. “Hold it!” he said. “I want you.”

“What the hell!” exclaimed Martin to the empty air; but, being simple-minded and naturally obedient, he remained where he was until Hamish came back accompanied by Henry. They leapt down the stairs and, once out of doors, began to run. There was no doubt about what was going on at the long-jump pit. The terriers were sending the heavy, damp sand flying in all directions. Hamish stepped into the pit and collared one of them; Martin picked up the other. The dogs squirmed in their arms and fought to get free.

“Take ’em away and lock ’em up somewhere,” said Henry. “It’s Jones all right. Get Gassie and then phone for a doctor. When you come back, we’d better get poor Jones to his quarters and clean him up a bit.”

“Oh, no,” said Hamish quickly. “You’d better leave him just where he is. He can’t have died naturally, you know.”

Henry straightened up and looked at him. “I see. Yes, of course,” he said simply. “Well, if you’ll get rid of the tykes and see to the rest of it, I’ll stay on guard here and keep the students away.”

“When I’ve telephoned the doctor, I’ve two more calls to make,” said Hamish to Martin, as they bore away the yelling, excited dogs.

“Yes, while you’ve got the phone to yourself, it’s as well to make all your private calls at once,” Martin agreed, “There’ll be such a hoo-ha later on, I’ll bet.” Only one of Hamish’s calls was personal. When he had rung up the College physician he telephoned the police, but then he put though a private call to the Stone House at Wandles Parva in Hampshire.

“Could I speak to Dame Beatrice, please?”

“Ah, it is Monsieur Jacques.” Not for worlds would Dame Beatrice’s elderly French housekeeper attempt to pronounce the word Hamish. “Please to ’old the line.”

Dame Beatrice’s unmistakably beautiful voice came over the telephone.

“Hamish, dear child?”

“I can’t stop, darling, but could you possibly come over? We’ve got trouble here. I think it might be murder.”

“Your mother and I will pay you a visit this afternoon as though it were merely a passing call, if that will do.”

Hamish came out of the alcove which housed the telephone and almost cannoned into the Warden.

“I beg your pardon, sir,” he said, stepping aside.

“The police!” said Gascoigne. “We must have the police!”

“They are on their way, sir. We assumed that you would wish them to take over as soon as possible.”

“This is a dreadful business, James, quite, quite dreadful. I cannot imagine how the students who are responsible will feel about such a terrible ending to their prank.”

“You really think it was a prank, sir?”

“Poor Jones! Poor Davy! With all his faults, I never wished him dead.”

“I have to inform you, sir, that my mother proposes to visit me this afternoon.”

“To visit you? Oh, dear! I think you must put her off. I don’t see how we can possibly entertain callers at a time like this.”

“I am very sorry, sir. I’m afraid she will be on her way. There is one thing, though. She will be accompanied by Dame Beatrice Lestrange Bradley, who is my godmother.”

“Dame Beatrice?”

“The psychiatrist, sir.”

“A rope in the house of the hanged, eh?”

“With great respect, sir, I think it might be helpful to allow her to take a look at one or two of our doubtful cases. We don’t want any mistakes, and she won’t make any.”

“How do you mean—doubtful cases?”

“Well, sir, not to put too fine a point on it, we do have some rather neurotic types here, don’t you think? It would not take Dame Beatrice very long to sort out the sheep from the goats.”

“How would that help us?”

“It would not help
us
, sir, but it might help innocent parties.”

“I fail to understand you, James. She would hardly be in a position to find out who was responsible for the heartless prank which has culminated in this terrible tragedy. If it is known—nay,
once
it is known—that poor Davy may have been accidentally killed as the result of a College practical joke, every one of the students is going to close his lips and harden his heart, you may be sure. I have known of other incidents— not that they ended as seriously as this one…”

Henry came round the corner of the corridor.

“Oh, there you are, Gassie,” he said. “The doctor is here. I am sure you will wish to speak to him. I have placed Martin, Jerry, Barry and Miss Yale on guard and have had the gardeners rope in an enclosure around the pit. The sooner the doctor has seen the body, the sooner we can get poor Jones removed to a more seemly environment.”

“Not until the police have been here,” said Hamish, looking at the Warden for confirmation. “They’ve got to see the body exactly as it is, you know.”

Dame Beatrice and Laura Gavin lunched on the way to Joynings and reached the College at just after three. Sports practices had been suspended and both swimming pools were closed. This was only partly out of proper feeling. The police, in any case, wanted the sports field to themselves while they made their preliminary investigation and took measurements, isolated footprints, and put their photographers to work, and they also wanted to make a detailed inspection of the covered bath, especially of the cubicle in which the javelin, of which they took possession, had been found on the previous day.

They had scarcely taken their departure when Hamish, who had been hovering between his room and the open front door, met Dame Beatrice’s car and, postponing the necessary greetings to and by the Warden, took his mother and Dame Beatrice to his quarters.

“So it’s murder, is it?” asked Laura.

“Well, that has not been stated, mamma,” said Hamish, “but it’s a fair assumption, I’m afraid.”

“Who are the suspects?”

“Oh, now, really, mamma!”

“Too many to name, I should imagine, judging from your letters.”

“Yes, Mr. Jones seems to have had enemies,” said Dame Beatrice. “We will come to them in due course. I should be more interested, at the moment, to contact one of his friends.”

“Well, the Warden would be the nearest, I suppose, although I have reason to believe that he had it in for Jones, too,” said Hamish.

“I thought you told me in your letters that Jones was favoured by the Warden because he was his brother-in-law,” said Laura.

“True enough, mamma. But there was a later development. One of the maids complained and her father came up to the College. None of it was very savoury, I believe, and I happened to be present when the Warden talked to Jones about it.”

“Oh, yes? What did he say?”

“Well, he didn’t get very far, I’m afraid. It seems that, at some time in the past, Jones had rendered him some service or other. I don’t know what it was, but Jones played it up for all it was worth and practically dared Medlar to dismiss him.”

“Sounds like blackmail,” said Laura.

“Well,” said Hamish, “it wouldn’t be like Jones to have done anybody a disinterested kindness.”

“Mr. Jones disappeared last Wednesday afternoon, I think,” said Dame Beatrice. “Could we have the whole story?”

Hamish told them all that he could. It did not, he thought, amount to very much. Almost as soon as he had finished, and before they could comment or ask questions, Laura and Dame Beatrice received an invitation to take tea with the Warden.

“And when you have finished your own tea, sir,” the servant added to Hamish, “Mr. Medlar would be glad if you would join him and the rest of the staff in his private apartment.”

“The police,” said Gascoigne, when his staff had been accommodated with chairs and everybody except Hamish and the Warden were politely but enquiringly regarding Dame Beatrice and Laura, who were seated side by side on a settee, “have gone now, as you no doubt are aware. There will have to be an inquest, of course. That is unavoidable. However, the police seem prepared to take the line that poor Davy’s death was brought about accidentally by one of the students. The police believe that a careless javelin-thrower mortally wounded him, then panicked and attempted to hide the body. This opinion I myself share.”

“Oh, no, it isn’t nearly good enough!” cried Henry.

“Why not?” asked Miss Yale sharply. “Lets everybody out nicely, I would have thought.” There was a murmur indicative of agreement with this opinion.

“I would not query it,” said Henry, “but for two things: first, there is no doubt that Jones was kidnapped and hidden away, so that, since Wednesday, nobody except those responsible for this so-called ‘rag’ has seen him alive, and, besides, there is something which invalidates the theory that he could have been killed on the field by somebody practising with a javelin on his own.”

“What?” demanded Barry.

“I lock the javelins away after every group coaching, so that nobody ever
is
at solitary javelin practice,” explained Henry. “I should hope we know better than that! If angry passions should arise—and they do, of course—you couldn’t trust some of the students with a javelin. We’ve a number of people here who have committed acts of violence in their time. Why, as you all know, even the cutlery is kept locked away when it’s not in use. Very irresponsible idiots we should be if we left things like javelins and the shot and the hammer lying about for any bloody-minded lunatic to pick up and use! The only people to have access to them are Gassie, Miss Yale and myself.”

“Oh, no. The rest of us have keys,” said Lesley.

“But the javelin found in the indoor bath-house wasn’t taken from stock,” said Jerry. “Didn’t you say it had Gassie’s inscription on it?”

“I have shown my javelin to the police, of course,” said Gascoigne, “but they are convinced that the stains on it are merely red paint put there by one of the students as a bizarre joke to frighten the woman diver who might use that particular cubicle. They will have the stains analyzed, of course, but, although the doctor has told them that poor Davy died as the result of a stab-wound—whether intentionally or accidentally inflicted—they are disinclined to believe that my javelin had anything to do with his untimely death. I sincerely hope and believe that they are right.”

“I too, sir, since, so far as I know, I was the last person to handle that particular javelin,” said Hamish.

“You? Oh, you mean at the swimming-bath? But that is not correct, James. Both Henry and I, I believe, handled it after that.”

“I was not referring to its presence at the covered pool, sir. I was thinking of the time when I catalogued your collection. I certainly handled it then and had every opportunity of abstracting it and bringing it away with me, had I wished to do so.”

“Are you telling us that
you
removed my javelin from the collection, James? You astound me!”

“I appreciate your feelings, sir, but allow me to assure you that I have never removed any object whatsoever from your collection. I thought it might avoid speculation, however, if I mentioned my connection with the javelin before it occurred to others to do so. Everybody knows that I catalogued the collection, so, to return to what I assume to be the point at issue, I am as hopeful as yourself that the stains on the javelin will prove to be red paint and not blood.”

“Well!” said the Warden. Before he could add to this exclamation a servant came to tell him that he was wanted on the telephone. Nobody spoke while he was gone. Barry took out a packet of cigarettes, looked at it and put it away again. Martin whistled a doleful little melody. Hamish looked across at his mother and raised his eyebrows. She grimaced and nodded. Dame Beatrice remained seated, straight-backed and inscrutable, an idol carved out of old ivory. Miss Yale got up suddenly and went out of the room. Time passed and the ticking of the clock could be heard like the pulse of a heart-beat.

Gascoigne returned before the silence became too oppressive.

“All is well, so far as my javelin is concerned,” he said. “I was right in assuming that the stains are nothing more than red paint. I must, of course, find out the identity of the mischievous person who purloined it from my collection, and I may have a clue to his identity when the inspector returns. The police found a piece of writing in the cubicle. It ran…” his smile became benevolent… “ ‘Gassie’s secret weapon.’ I doubt, though, whether I shall find it in my heart to be too hard on the culprit. It must be a great relief to us all to be able to write my javelin off as a misconceived jest. All the same, we are still faced with the fact of poor Davy’s death and of his most unseemly burial. The police, needless to say, are to come again to harass us. By the most fortunate chance, we have with us this afternoon someone of vast experience and, I am sure, of faultless tact”—he bowed to the settee—“who will consent, I hope, to assist us in finding the unfortunate youth who, I am sure, accidentally wounded poor Davy to death and then tried—and how uncouthly, poor boy!—to hide what he had done. Once we know his identity the inquest on Davy will be a mere formality, so I know you will all place any knowledge or suspicion you have of the culprit’s identity at the disposal of Dame Beatrice, so that she may clear the matter up for us and allow the College to resume what is popularly known as normal working.”

He beamed upon the assembled staff. Dame Beatrice put an end to his expectations.

“I cannot undertake to find the criminal,” she said, emphasizing a word which nobody, so far, had used, “before the inquest is over and the verdict has been given, unless, of course, the proceedings should be adjourned.”

“You will not attempt to find the culprit until after the inquest?” asked Gascoigne, mingling incredulity with the disappointment in his tone.

“It is doubtful whether I
can
find him or her in so short a time, and that would settle our argument,” Dame Beatrice stated calmly. “All the same, I shall be glad to accept your invitation to have a word with your staff.”

“Anything, anything! Anything which will help to clear up this dreadful matter.”

“I wonder, then, since you are so good, whether I might begin with you yourself.” She glanced around the assembly. “You would prefer to answer my questions in private, I think.”

“No, no, not at all. I should prefer my staff to hear anything I have to say, although I fear there is little I can tell you.”

“I believe that Mr. Jones was a relative of your own.”

“Oh, yes, yes, indeed. Only by marriage, of course, but in that way we were related. He was my deceased wife’s brother.”

“When did he join your staff?”

“Four years ago last March.”

“Did he obtain the post by merit or because of the relationship?”

Gascoigne displayed horrified disapproval of this question, but decided to answer it in the same dispassionate tone as that of his inquisitor.

“Both,” he said. “He was a competent instructor, but I must admit that he was preferred to other candidates for the post because—well, for my dear wife’s sake—I felt that I owed him a living.”

“Very naturally, I suppose. Did the appointment cause any surprise or ill-feeling?”

“Well, it is strange that you should ask that. I had intended the gymnastics post to go to one of our old students. In fact I had half-promised it to him, and I know he was bitterly disappointed when I gave it to Davy. Fortunately another post, that of swimming coach, fell vacant, so I gave this fellow the job. Unfortunately he turned out to be something of a sadist. The students resented his methods and in the end they beat him up so severely that he had to go to hospital. James now holds the post and I wish he could be persuaded to stay with us. Now, Dame Beatrice, is there any way in which I can further assist you?”

“If I am to talk to some of the students, it would be helpful if you could suggest which of them you would like me to examine.”

“Ah, yes, of course.” He went over to a filing-cabinet. “I keep a reasonably detailed note of the reasons for students coming here and my own reasons for accepting them. If you would care to glance through these,” he handed her a fat folder, “I think you will get some idea of which cases would most interest you.”

Miss Yale, who had returned while this conversation was going on, now remarked, in a most emphatic tone, “I’ve got something important to say, I’ve been checking the equipment. That’s to say, I’ve been inspecting the cupboard where the javelins are kept. There’s one I think you’d better look at, Gassie.”

“Not blood-stained?” asked Gascoigne, alarmed.

“No, but you had better come and see it. Henry, you, too.”

Without being invited, Dame Beatrice and Laura added themselves to the party and the five of them crossed the field to the changing-rooms. Miss Yale unlocked the door, led the way past the cupboards and lockers, through an arch and so into a room where the apparatus was kept. Here she unlocked a cupboard whose doors were of steel. There were a dozen javelins neatly stacked on grooved shelves, four javelins to each shelf. Miss Yale waved a large hand and stood back.

“Take a look, Gassie,” she said.

“You know the stock and I do not,” said Gascoigne to Henry. “What is Miss Yale telling us?” Henry cast an eye over the javelins and took up one of the implements by the cord-bound grip. He weighted it with bent elbow and shook it a little, then he held its point towards Miss Yale.

“This the one you mean?” he asked.

“Yes, of course. You can see why, can’t you? As soon as Gassie mentioned red paint I thought of red herrings.”

“Red herrings?” repeated Gascoigne blankly.

“So you dashed across here,” said Henry, “just like that.”

“Certainly I did.”

“Why?” asked Dame Beatrice.

“Because, if Henry can’t count, I can,” replied Miss Yale firmly. “The last time I checked the javelins, my four were there, but Henry’s tally was seven, not eight.”

“There are eight here now,” said Laura.

“I confess I didn’t realise one of mine was missing until now,” said Henry. “I only count them at stock-taking. I unlock the cupboard and stand by while the chaps help themselves.”

“Why did you suddenly decide to check?” repeated Dame Beatrice.

“Why?” said Miss Yale, in a tone which indicated that she was unused to being asked to explain her actions. “Oh, I don’t really know. Javelins having entered into the business, I thought it might be as well to look at the College collection of them, that’s all. And it’s just as well, perhaps, that I did.”

“I don’t really see why,” said Gascoigne testily, because he was alarmed. “After all, now that the stains on my javelin are found to be red paint, we still have to question whether the fatal wound inflicted on Davy was caused by a javelin at all. It does not follow automatically, does it?” he went on. “The doctor only mentions a stab-wound.”

“Put your finger on the point of the javelin which Henry is holding, and don’t press too hard,” said Miss Yale grimly. “If that bit of steel was ever issued by a highly respectable manufacturer of sports equipment, I’ll swallow it.”

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