I removed the telltale piece of cotton wool from my chin, smiling. “Well, how are things going?” I asked with ill-concealed eagerness.

  The inspector’s face had now assumed the secretive, self-important expression of one who is delivering an urgent telegram, the contents of which he will not disclose to any but the right person.

  “On the last lap, sir, and just coming up the straight, as you might say. At least, I think I know who was the last person to speak to Hankin in the court on Friday night.”

  “Is that so? Well, I can see from your face that you are not telling, but you might let me know about the teacup. Has your analyst examined it yet?”

  “Yes, Mr. Fenton. We had his report this morning. There was enough prussic acid in it to poison a young elephant, let alone a pretty young lady!”

  I shivered. “My God, man, aren’t you going to do anything about it?”

  A flash—the nearest approach to anger that I had ever seen—appeared for a moment in his heavy, placid face.

  “Do anything about it, Mr. Fenton! What do you think I’ve been doing night and day this past week? Staying home and playing rummy with the missus? Work, Mr. Fenton, and work as I needn’t have done at all if my pals had been a little more open with me—a little bit more confidential like you might say.

  “There wasn’t any reason as I can see, sir, why you shouldn’t have told me about that letter you posted for Mr. Baumann on Monday night. You could have saved me a mint of trouble there, Mr. Fenton, and you didn’t do no good by your secretiveness. Indeed you might have done a great deal of harm—and harm in a quarter where you’d have least liked to do mischief.” Here his voice rose a trifle and the plumlike bloom began to return to his cheeks.

  “I didn’t press you to tell the things as concerned your own private feelings, Mr. Fenton, but I did tell you I wasn’t going to stand for no hanky-panky when it was a case of murder. And now I feel I should remind you that there is such a thing as withholding material evidence and hindering an officer of the law in the performance of his duty.”

  This was terrible. “Horrocks,” I cried, “I’m sorry, frightfully sorry you feel that way about me. But there were reasons—really there were. I gave Baumann a solemn promise that I would never tell about posting his letter and I felt in duty bound to keep my word. But now that Dr. Warren has told you the whole truth about—er—Miss Lathrop and her family, and now that she’s cleared of all possible suspicion, I might just as well break down and tell you everything I know.”

  Here I launched forth into a full account of the various incidents which had connected me with Julius Baumann and his tragic death. I omitted nothing, overemphasized nothing and slurred nothing over. Horrock’s brow cleared perceptibly as I talked, but it was not until I described the events of the previous evening that he interrupted me.

  “What was the address of this cottage you went to, Mr. Fenton?” he asked surprisingly.

  A sudden realization of my stupidity overwhelmed me. I hadn’t the faintest idea.

  “Good Lord!” I cried contritely, “I was so upset I didn’t even notice. I know I came back along K. P.—but the taxi driver! He’d be sure to know. Let’s go and find him.”

  The inspector shook his head slowly. “No time for such trifles, sir. But it’s too bad, too bad—and here was I thinking that we might be able to offer you a snug little billet on the Cambridge Police Force. Well, well—” here his face broke into a broad and bushy smile, and for the first time in the history of man I caugh a glimpse of his large, yellow teeth, “—it can’t be helped, sir. But was it by any chance a white thatched cottage with rambler roses in the garden, an oaken front door with two knobs and upper windows a good bit smaller than the lower ones?”

  “Horrocks, you are a wiz—I mean, a wizard! The night was dark and I have only a vague recollection of roses, whitewash and honeysuckle. But, now you mention them, I believe you are right about the other points, too. How on earth did you know?”

  Horrocks laid a large forefinger along the side of his nose and closed one of his heavy-lidded eyes.

  “One has to inquire about these little things for one’s self, Mr. Fenton, since one’s friends won’t.”

  “Talking of inquiring for one’s friends,” said a voice behind him, “Grayling and I have just been saying that we all ought to go and inquire about the Old Pill’s state of health some time today. How about it, Fenton?”

  The speaker was Lloyd Comstock who was now standing alongside with Michael. The inspector nodded them good morning.

  “I’m going there at four-thirty,” I replied rather irritably. “Miss Lathrop is going, too.”

  “In that case,” remarked Comstock imperturbably, “well have no difficulty in persuading the Honorable Somerville to come along. I heard him say this morning that she looked like the sort of cold water that runs hot if only you leave it running long enough.”

  A stinging retort sprang to my lips but, like jesting Pilate, my friends had not waited for an answer.

  The inspector looked speculatively after their retreating figures. “I think,” he said slowly, “I’ll join that little party at Dr. Hyssop’s this afternoon—that is, if you’ve no objection, sir.”

  “No, Horrocks, of course not, but—” I looked at him imploringly—’’but don’t come too early. How about five o’clock.”

  The detective smiled indulgently. “I’m a better pal than you are, Mr. Fenton. I know when young people want to be together. Now I must get to work. There’s plenty to do!”

  He moved away, but he had not gone more than three yards when he came back towards me.

  “Just one little piece of advice, Mr. Fenton. A word to the wise, like you might say, sir. I wouldn’t speak to the young lady about that little visit you made last night’if I were you. It would only upset her and—and she’s going to have plenty more trouble before we’ve finished.

  “Besides, the party you visited was taken into Addenbrooke’s Hospital this morning. Mrs. Bigger went along to keep an eye on her. I’m afraid she’s pretty bad, sir, and it won’t do her nor the young lady any good—well, you understand I’m sure, sir, that having been separated so long, as you might say …”

  He might have been speaking of his own mother or sister so sympathetic and kindly was his tone.

  “You’re dead right, Horrocks,” I agreed, and he marched off through the college gateway with a brisk, military step.

  He left me with a desire to go out and buy a hat so that I could take it off to the tact, industry and almost incredible acumen of Inspector Herbert Horrocks and all he stood for.

  Every time I saw the inner workings of this man’s mind, I was seized with a blind and almost overwhelming feeling of Anglophilia. I did not know who had murdered Baumann and Hankin—I did not know who had tried to poison Camilla—but I did know that, had I myself been the guilty party, I would rather have had Sherlock Holmes, Philo Vance and all the famous detectives of fiction on my trail, than this one stolid, solid, florid English policeman.

  I repeat that I did not know who had committed these two murders, nor, when I presented myself at the Master’s lodge at four-thirty that afternoon did I have any more idea than (I hope) the reader now has. My mind was still a farrago of half-formulated notions and my ideas were as foggy as yesterday’s weather.

  “It’s all right, Mary,” I said as the pretty housemaid was about to announce me. “I’ll go right in. They are both expecting me.”

  I knocked softly at the library door and pushed it gently open. For a moment I stood on the threshold gazing at the scene in front of me.

  The Master was seated in his favourite armchair by the window with Camilla on a low stool at his side. A ray of afternoon sunshine had stolen through the thick velvet curtains, catching her hair and surrounding her face with an aureole.

  The old man’s head was bent over hers so that his flowing white beard was also within the circle of light, which accentuated his benevolent age just as it enhanced her youth and beauty. And the old leather volumes on the shelves seemed to hold the impression, to stamp it on the memory and make it eternal.

  I felt as if I were looking at the original of a peaceful interior by one of the old Dutch masters—at two figures waiting for the brush of a Rembrandt or a Hals to immortalize them and send them down through future ages as a study in contrasts.

  Without intending to eavesdrop, I stood there a few minutes staring at these two. They seemed to be completely wrapped up in each other and quite unconscious of my presence. The Master was the first to break the silence and, as I listened to his words, I instinctively knew what they had been talking about and why I had been feeling so elated all that day.

  “My dear, I am a grandfather—indeed, I am a great-grandfather—and if one of my grandsons or my great-grandsons were to come and tell me that he had been lucky enough to win your love, it would be one of the happiest days of my life. You need have no fears about your own family, my child. And as for the young man, I know his people, too. They are splendid folk, and he—well, he’s almost like one of my own.”

  At this point I realized that I was listening to something which I was not altogether intended to hear. As I stepped forward, Dr. Hyssop rose from his seat and made me flatteringly welcome.

  “And now,” he cried, after Camilla and I had exchanged stiff, self-conscious greetings, “I am going to give you children a little treat. We might perhaps call it a celebration. No, no, it’s not tea this time. It’s a sip, just a sip of my very best sherry.” He glanced at his clock.

  “Of course, it’s a trifle early for sherry, but have you ever noticed how pleasant it sometimes is to do the right thing at the wrong time? I put this particular wine in the cellar myself ten years before your father came up to Cambridge, Hilary. No one but myself is allowed to touch it, so—if you will excuse me …”

  He bustled from the room with the concentrated eagerness of a child who has gone to fetch his favourite toys.

  I turned to Camilla, who was now standing by the window looking out at the roses in the fellows’ gardens. For a moment we stood there together, watching a kingfisher darting to and fro along the banks of the Cam like a flash of blue-green steel in the afternoon sunlight. I moved a step nearer and the next thing I knew was that she was in my arms, that her lips were warm against mine and a few erring strands of her lovely dark hair were brushing against my cheek.

  “Darling,” I whispered, “I love you. I love you so. You’re beautiful—like that bird—our halcyon….”

  At this moment the Master reappeared bearing aloft, like a sacrificial offering, an old black bottle covered with the dust and cobwebs of past decades. He started to draw the cork with the care and precision of a surgeon performing a delicate operation.

  Camilla, who had stayed by my side at the Master’s entrance, now seated herself sedately on the sofa as Mary appeared with a tray and three glasses.

  Dr. Hyssop made happy, satisfied little noises as he poured out the clear amber fluid into the crystal goblets. He watched their progress with zealous, almost maternal solicitude after he had handed them to the maid. She, seemingly entering into the spirit of these mystic rites, carried the tray to the sofa and bent reverentially over Camilla as she passed her a glass.

  “A toast,” cried our host pleasantly, when the three of us were left alone together. “Will you propose a toast, Hilary, my boy? Something worthy of the occasion?”

  An idea, indeed a whole series of ideas had flashed through my head within the last few minutes. Like the ray of light which had filtered through the curtains onto Camilla’s hair earlier that afternoon, a sudden inspiration had come to me, clarifying and illuminating the dark places in my mind.

  I rose to my feet. “Let us drink,” I said, “to a happy and speedy issue out of all our afflictions.”

  Then, as we raised our glasses, I added, “And I really believe that this issue will be a great deal speedier than anyone expects, because I’ve just had an idea, in fact, I believe I know—”

  But I was interrupted at this point by the appearance of Mary Smith, who announced that Inspector Horrocks was at the front door. As we heard his heavy tread in the passage outside, the Master hurriedly refilled our glasses and whispered to me a trifle plaintively: “Do you think, Hilary, that he would appreciate—that I ought to offer him some of this sherry? There’s not much of it left and …”

  “I’m perfectly certain he’d prefer stout,” I replied. “Guinness is his brand, I believe.”

  The Master looked relieved and whispered an order to Mary. He then nodded hospitably towards the newcomer, who was immediately supplied with a large brown bottle of his favourite brew.

  “Inspector Horrocks, we are just having a little celebration.” Here he smiled toward Camilla and me. “I hope you will drink with us before we get down to other—perhaps less pleasant business.”

  “Thank you, thank you kindly, sir. My business is not what you might call pressing. It can wait, sir. Business can always wait for a glass of stout.”

  When all the glasses were empty, the Master resumed, “And just before you came in, Inspector, our young American friend here was saying something rather interesting. May I suggest we give him the floor for a few moments?”

  Horrocks smiled broadly, refilled his glass and performed a remarkable swallowing trick—so remarkable, indeed, that for a moment I thought the tumbler would follow the stout down his gullet or get lost in the jungle of his moustache. He then wiped his mouth, smiled again and gave me a paternal nod. “Mr. Fenton hasn’t had the floor half enough for my liking, sir,” he said meaningly.

  I was so excited by the sudden flash of inspiration which had just come to me that I could not speak for a moment. I was conscious of three pairs of eyes staring at me expectantly, then. I heard a tremulous voice, vaguely resembling my own, saying in thin, reedy tones:

  “I don’t know how much you know, Horrocks, but I’m pretty sure I know now who it was that killed Baumann and Hankin. And not only do I think I can prove my point, but I also believe that I’ll be able to show you the actual person—for, unless I am much mistaken, the murderer is going to come into this very room … while we are here….”

  CHAPTER XIX

  North Junior

  But my announcement, which was intended to be quite startling and dramatic, had very little visible effect on the imperturbable Horrocks. He raised his glass calmly to his lips and took a sip of stout before speaking:

  “Well, you being the amateur, as you might say, Mr. Fenton, I think an old professional like myself should stand aside for a moment and let you have the first ball. I might mention, though, sir”—here he turned apologetically to Dr. Hyssop—’’that I have just sworn out a warrant. It’s here in my pocket and when I leave the college tonight, someone is going to leave with me.

  “There’s a plainclothes constable standing at the gates now with certain orders so we needn’t be afraid that anyone will give us the slip.” Here he turned toward me with a nod. “And you can take your time, Mr. Fenton, take your time. To be quite frank, sir, I’m not too sure of my own ground and your story may be a help—a great help. Only, just at the moment, I’d rather you didn’t name no names, sir. There are reasons why … reasons which I’ll explain later, when I have my innings.”

  Horrocks’ calm attitude and his inability to get excited had restored, in a measure, my own composure.

  “All right,” I replied, “I won’t mention any names until you give me the high sign, Inspector. But I would like”—I turned toward my host—“have I your permission, Master, to go over this whole business from the very beginning?”

  Dr. Hyssop nodded his head and closed his eyes wearily.

  “I’ve been a fool,” I cried, “a blind, stupid fool. I’ve made every kind of mistake, but there is one thing I’ve been right about. From the very first I felt positive that the murderer was a member of this college. That must have been obvious to anyone who knew anything about college rules and regulations.

  “But I couldn’t see what on earth his motive was. Last night, as I told you, Inspector, I studied the history of the North family and discovered that Mrs. North had had another child who would now be about the age of the average undergraduate.”

  “Twenty and nine months, to be exact,” murmured Horrocks.

  Camilla started. “Well, I never heard of that,” she exclaimed, “and I can hardly believe it. Are you quite sure, Hilary?”

  “Quite sure,” I replied gently. “Your—Mrs. North—had a baby a few weeks after the end of the second trial. I hate to distress you by dragging in your family this way—”

  “Oh, go on, please go on!” she cried with nervous impatience. “This isn’t a time to consider anyone’s feelings.”

  “All right, then. Let’s begin with William North’s third child whom I’ve been calling North Junior in my mind ever since last evening. If no one objects, I’ll go on that way. Then I needn’t mention any definite names, Horrocks.”

  The inspector nodded. “I think you’re on the right track, Mr. Fenton, but take your time, sir, take your time.”

  I continued: “Well, as I said before, I was quite certain that North Junior was in residence here at All Saints. He must have known about his relationship to Julius Baumann and to yourself, Camilla. Also he must have known that you both had money of your own. Money which he thought, or hoped, might eventually come to his mother and thus, at her death, to himself.

  “Or perhaps he just hated you both in a blind, unreasoning way. That would be motive enough in itself when one considers the—er—unfortunate circumstances of his birth. At any rate, he planned to kill Baumann, and we all know with what fiendish cunning and precision he waited for his opportunity. He chose the night of the thunderstorm for obvious reasons.

  “I believe that it was the merest coincidence that this was the day on which his father, William North, escaped from the home. But we need not go into the complications caused by this coincidence. All that concerns us is that, somehow or other, North Junior got into Baumann’s room that evening—exactly how or when does not matter, but it must have been in the neighbourhood of ten o’clock.