In short, there was a fairly convincing case against the tutor until it came to a question of motive. There one was forced to draw on the imagination. Could his zeal for the college have carried him away to such an extent that he would wish to exterminate a morose, antisocial person like Baumann—a man who took everything he could get from Cambridge and gave nothing in return? Could he perhaps have known of Baumann’s antipicated “trouble” and killed him to save possible disgrace to All Saints?

  It was remotely possible; but I should not have cared to have to convince a jury.

  The Case against Michael Grayling

  Much as I liked Michael and although I would willingly have given him several pints of my own blood at any time that a transfusion might be required, I could not ignore the fact that there was a certain amount of superficial evidence against him.

  In the first place, Baumann’s death would probably solve his most urgent problem, by enabling him to win the Lenox Scholarship and thus stay up and take his degree at Cambridge. But that he would resort to a deliberate murder in order to achieve this end was absolutely and utterly unthinkable.

  Michael was a gentle soul, kindly and courteous to almost everyone and hard or intolerant only towards any kind of sham or pretentiousness. He abhorred cruelty and avoided it as he avoided all the less pleasant aspects of life.

  And in this connection I recalled the fact that nothing had surprised me more than the cruel and postively ghoulish nature of the story which he had told me on Monday night. It had seemed so foreign to his placid, contemplative nature, so far removed from his normal philosophy. For Michael’s happiness and his deeper emotions came from within. Few people suspected that his feelings went very deep. How he would act under some violent, external stimulus, even I, his closest friend, would find it difficult to say.

  If he did kill Baumann, however, I felt sure that his reason for doing so would have been neither selfish nor personal. There would of necessity have been some factor which had not yet come to light. True, he could easily have done it as far as actual times and places were concerned.

  After the lights went out he could have gained admission to Baumann’s room either through the door or by the window. He would have had plenty of time to go down to his own room, find his electric flashlight, collect a tin of Brasso and some cleaning rags and do the job before I came back to my room or the lights went on again. His only difficulty would have been to avoid Somerville and Comstock on the stairs.

  And then, I had noticed that Michael showed a marked aversion to discussing the crime in any of its aspects. Since Monday he had been more of a recluse than ever. For some unknown reason he had been especially anxious to avoid me. Of course he was working very hard, but there was something wrong somewhere. That much was obvious.

  The Case against Camilla Lathrop

  Much as I disliked to tabulate my suspicions against Michael, I felt even less inclination to raise my sharpened pencil against the girl whom I now loved more than ever. And yet—unless one believed implicity in her protestations of innocence—all of her actions on Monday were highly suspect.

  In her defense, however, there was the undeniable fact that she had not been seen to leave or enter the college that night. Also she must have known that she was running the risk of instant dismissal from Newnham if she had come to “A” staircase at ten o’clock at night even on a perfectly innocent errand.

  Apart from these facts in her favour there was little that could be said. She had never established any real alibi for herself. Innocent people do not faint at the word “murder” unless they are in some degree implicated; nor do nice English girls call on unknown undergraduates in their rooms unless they want to find something out pretty badly. On her own admission she knew Baumann well enough for him to give her some of his perfume. Might he not also have mentioned the place where he kept his revolver?

  Again, she seemed more than anxious not to have it known that she had ever been on our staircase during Baumann’s lifetime. Furthermore, she had been frank with me up to a certain point and then relapsed into complete mystery. Were these the actions of an entirely innocent person?

  Perhaps, and perhaps not. Once again I should not have cared to try to convince a jury. Nevertheless, I would not have liked even so kindly a person as Horrocks to know as much as I knew about Camilla Lathrop. I was glad for her sake that it was I who was the repository of her little secrets.

  The Case against Lloyd Comstock and Stuart Somerville

  These two had both had the same amount of time and opportunity to kill Baumann. So far as I knew, both of them had flashlights in their rooms (kept there for use on their “push-bikes”), both of them knew where the revolver was kept and both of them were naturally quite at home on their own staircase.

  With Comstock there was no visible motive for murder except a pronounced and often-proclaimed dislike. With Somerville there was the rather tenuous reason that the South African kept him out of his place on the Cambridge cricket team. Tenuous? Well, I was not so sure. Having lived for almost a year among young Englishmen, I had realized the sad truth that distinction in athletics seemed to supersede all other worldly and spiritual considerations. To be a “blood” at Cambridge meant more to the average undergraduate than the hopes of a ringside seat in heaven.

  But surely Somerville, even if he remained only twelfth man on the Varsity eleven, was “bloody” enough? Perhaps—but an unathletic person like myself could be no possible judge of how much importance Stuart might attach to a cricket blue.

  And yet, from the point of view of character and temperament, I would have said that Comstock was more capable than Somerville of committing a sudden act of violence. Lloyd was nervous, highly-strung and impulsive; Stuart was easy-going, good-natured and mentally lazy. Comstock would certainly have had enough intelligence to think the thing out carefully and methodically, but he would probably have ruined all at the last minute by some rash action.

  If Somerville ever committed anything approaching the perfect crime, it would undoubtedly be the wildest freak of luck or accident! But, being of the “ridin’, shootin’ and huntin’’’ type of young Englishman, he should at least have known that guns and revolvers are not cleaned with Brasso!

  And, although Comstock was more temperamentally fitted for murder than Somerville, I was bound to confess that he had acted far more normally since Monday than had Stuart. Once or twice I had detected a lack of frankness in Somerville’s manner when we were discussing our various movements after the lights went out.

  Perhaps it was only my vivid imagination, but I could not help thinking that it was to him that the inspector referred when he made his cryptic remarks about my not being the only person on the staircase who might know more than he was telling. But I also thought that there were several people to whom this remark might have applied. Almost everyone, it seemed, had something that he was anxious to hide.

  The Case against Mrs. Bigger, Mrs. Fancher or Mary Smith

  It was clear that these three women were in the college on Monday night and that any one of them (with the exception of Mary Smith) could have had easy access to “A” staircase if not to Baumann’s actual rooms. Mrs. Bigger usually left the college at about 7 o’clock and it was presumably a mere coincidence that she should have stayed late on the fatal night.

  She disliked Baumann. She knew where he kept his pistol and she probably knew where Hankin kept the keys to the outer doors or “oaks.” But the idea of Mrs. Bigger’s doing anything more murderous than to flick a fly with her duster was absolutely unthinkable. True, she showed an unhallowed interest in disease, death and morbid pathology, but her interest was, so it seemed, strictly objective, if not actually professional. (Was she not the worthy relict of an undertaker?)

  As for Mrs. Fancher, bedder on “C” staircase, and Mary Smith, housemaid at the Master’s Lodge, I knew them by sight only. Mrs. Fancher was a broad, phlegmatic woman of uncertain age. Mary was young, pretty and had what is usually described as a “wealth” of Titian red hair.

  It would have cost her her job and her reputation to speak to any undergraduate, let alone go to his rooms at night. The thing was unheard of. On the rare occasions when she was obliged to cross the court, she walked hurriedly, her eyes downcast.

  She was notoriously Hank’s property, his inamorata, the girl with whom he was “walking out,” “keeping company” or what have you. It is indeed more than possible that she lingered at the foot of “A” staircase for a word or two with her taciturn Corydon on Monday night.

  Mrs. Fancher, too, doubtless paused to give valediction before escorting her two friends round to the convivial atmosphere of dog’s noses at her husband’s public. But there was nothing sinister in that—surely?

  And yet, the Brasso? The cleaning materials? Who could have obtained them more easily than a college servant who uses such things every day in the performance of household duties? And the ignorance of firearms displayed by the choice of the cleaning materials in question? Might not the subtle analyst argue that they betrayed a female agency?

  But which male of this day and generation knows exactly what implements are used in the care of firearms? I know I don’t—or rather didn’t. And I would wager that few of my intimate friends at Cambridge did either. No one, in fact, except the military-minded Horrocks or the sporting Somerville. No, the tin of Brasso, if it proved anything, merely proved that the murderer was not familiar with firearms or, at least, wished to have it believed that he was more of an amateur than he really was.

  All of which amounted to precisely—nothing!

  After I had dealt with Mrs. Bigger, Mrs. Fancher and Mary Smith, my imagination began to run completely amok. I worked out in elaborate detail, the case against the master, the case against any one of the Masters’ guests and the case against Dr. Warren’s unknown visitor who played Chopin so delicately. Then I turned whimsical and constructed an exquisite case against Hilary Fenton.

  This was interesting in that it showed me the complete futility of my previous paper work. Where all the others had but slight opportunity to do this deed of darkness, I had abundant chances. Where they had but one motive, I had several. I alone could—and did—destroy the evidence of guilt. I was a foreigner, a stranger, an unknown quantity.

  In short, I must (on paper) be the murderer. I was one of those dreadful people who write a mystery story in the first person and (after nineteen chapters of carefully laid false trails) calmly announce that the only point omitted was the simple fact that “I” did it all along!

  My deductions, if carried to their logical conclusion would put a noose around my neck. They must be destroyed.

  But, although the case against me was very strong, I am going to state quite frankly and straightforwardly that I did not kill Julius Baumann. I might add that, in writing this chronicle of his death, I have kept nothing back. I have faithfully recorded all the events as they happened and all my ideas as they occurred to me.

  Never for one single moment have I deliberately caused the lame to stumble or the blind to go out of his way. I have kept faith with my readers by listing all suspects without personal prejudice and by working out the case against them with a calm and unbiased pencil. If I have merely succeeded in proving that I, Hilary Fenton, must have been the guilty party, then I sadly confess that my pencil was sharpened—to no point.

  CHAPTER X

  North by Northwest

  I am rather ashamed to admit it, but during this whole week I was happier than I had ever been in my life before. I should be an unmitigated humbug if I pretended that Baumann’s death had been a matter of personal sorrow to me. True, it had been a great shock, but it had coincided with something which had proved an even greater shock to my nervous system and metabolic processes. I refer, of course, to the fact that I had fallen in love for the first time in my life.

  This devastating occurrence had driven the unpleasant and gruesome aspects of the case to the background of my mind. I could enjoy the agreeable stimulation of an abstract problem. I could enjoy cutting lectures without a qualm of conscience; and my unofficial peeps behind the scenes at the stage properties of a great university made me feel pleasantly important. Then, there was the warm weather to add to my happiness. The roses were beginning to bloom in the fellows’ gardens. The college lawns were unbelievably green, while the fields around Cambridge were dotted with moon-daisies, buttercups and purple vetch.

  Even the old gray buildings had a jaunty, rejuvenated air; and on the undergraduates’ cheeks I noticed a healthy, brownish tinge—the first promises of a deeper summer tan. And one evening, as I strolled along the banks of the Cam, I heard a nightingale, late in its wooing, expressing all the love and tragedy in life—all the emotions which I myself had been experiencing that week.

  There were some signs that the much maligned English summer was actually on its way. This was part of the miracle which I was sharing with the great ghosts of Chaucer, Milton, Wordsworth and Tennyson.

  For they too had lived in Cambridge; they too had (who knows?) loved their respective Camillas here, had seen the dog-roses whitening the lanes in Madingley or Grantchester and watched the fleecy clouds sail high above Great Trinity Court and King’s meadow. In sharing thus their secret, the fringes of their mantle seemed to rustle constantly around me. No wonder I was happy and uplifted.

  But there was one thing which slightly clouded my happiness at this period. I was worried about Michael and unhappy about our relationship which, for the past few days, had been strained and totally lacking in spontaneity. I liked Michael better than any man I had ever known.

  His quiet humour, his steadiness of purpose and his English sincerity were the complement of my somewhat flamboyant flippancy and American ebullience. He seemed to possess all the characteristics which I most admired—all the qualities which were outside my own very limited reach. He had always been a real person and a real friend.

  But since Monday night Michael had been unaccountably reserved, cold and unsympathetic. True, he was very busy with his work for the Lenox Scholarship. There were other competitors besides Baumann—less formidable, perhaps, but competitors none the less. I knew that he was obliged to work hard, but one is never too busy for a smile, a cheerio or a hastily snatched cigarette with a friend. But the trouble was that Michael acted almost as though he no longer regarded me as a friend.

  Friday was the day of his examination. Before going off to join Camilla at Fenners, I decided to try to catch Michael and wish him luck with his afternoon papers. I found him munching a piece of bread and marmalade over a battered copy of Homer’s Iliad. He looked tired and despondent.

  “How d’you make out this morning?” I asked with the fatuous cheerfulness one adopts with people who are going through any kind of ordeal.

  He gave a noncommittal grunt.

  “What is it this afternoon?”

  “Greek and Latin Unseen,” he replied shortly.

  “Well, keep smiling, old man. Remember how Browning says that we should ‘greet the unseen with a cheer.’”

  “There’s nothing very cheerful about it,” he replied with a slow, unwilling smile.

  “Bosh, Mike, don’t be a chump. You know you are a snip for the schol.”

  Instead of laughing, as he usually did, at my exhibition of English public school colloquialism, Michael turned towards his desk and started to collect some pens and pencils. When he faced me again there was a strange expression on his countenance.

  “Perhaps I am,” he said slowly, “since, as you were obliging enough to tell me yourself, my chief competitor has been eliminated. And, some time when neither of us is quite so busy, I imagine you are going to tell me exactly how you knew the fact at least ten minutes before it—er—became a fact!”

  With these words he picked up his gown and strode out of the room.

  “Michael, you ass!” I called after him, but he did not stop or look around. Then, suddenly, an amazing truth began to dawn upon me. Michael must think that I killed Julius Baumann, or, at least, that I knew who did.

  And what was more natural? I tell him that one of his competitors is going to be eliminated. Within a few moments his dead body is discovered. Why should I blame Michael for suspecting me? Had not I, on the previous night, made out a case against him—mine own familiar friend? Had I not?

  But here another, even more terrible thought struck me. Might not the strange expression which I had just seen on Michael’s face have been nothing more or less than—fear? What if he himself had killed Julius Baumann just before I returned to my room on Monday night?

  Would not my innocent remark about elimination have been fraught with a terrifying significance—an indication that I either knew or suspected his guilt? He had heard nothing about Baumann’s letter or the fact that the South African had planned to leave Cambridge. Nor could I tell him—at least, not yet. It was all a ghastly muddle.

  And there were plenty of other muddles for me to think about as I walked along the narrow, winding streets of Cambridge on my way towards Fenners. But the problem which absorbed all the people I passed was the outcome of the cricket match. From stray remarks I gathered that the prognosis was none too favourable for the Varsity.

  “Five wickets down for ninety,” was one comment I heard. “That leaves three hundred for the last five men—and no Baumann. If only Somerville—”

  But at that moment, I caught sight of a familiar figure mounted—horrors!—on a bicycle. It was Camilla Lathrop. Camilla on a “push-bike.” The ways of the English female are indeed strange and past all seeking out!