Was It Murder? Page 12

  The examination was still proceeding when the door opened and Dr. Roseveare entered. (Revell guessed that the faithful Brownley had been to tell him of the invasion.) At any rate, Roseveare betrayed no great surprise at what was in progress; Guthrie’s at seeing him appeared far greater. “Dr. Roseveare?” he queried, unnecessarily, and the other bowed slightly.

  The two men faced each other in silence for several seconds, as if sizing each other up. They were certainly well-matched, both physically and intellectually. Guthrie, with a shrug of the shoulders, began at last: “You must forgive my taking the law into my own hands, Dr. Roseveare.”

  The Headmaster of Oakington was at his suavest.

  “Most certainly, Mr. Guthrie, since the law already IS in your hands. In fact everything is in your hands entirely—including, I fear, our own personal rights and liberties. But of course it has to be endured.”

  “I can assure you that my only aim is to get at the truth. Perhaps you can tell me something about this tragic affair?”

  “I am perfectly ready, as I always have been, to tell you anything that is in my power. Mr. Lambourne, as perhaps you know, had very bad health— his heart was weak—”

  “Thanks, but as there will be an autopsy, we need not argue about that. Tell me—when did you last see Mr. Lambourne?” (As an obvious crib from the famous question addressed to Dr. Crippen, Revell thought this distinctly second-rate.)

  “Last night. About nine o’clock, I should think. I had been dining out, and visited him immediately on my return.”

  “Alone?”

  “He WAS alone, when I arrived here. I stayed for about an hour or so, talking and trying to cheer the fellow up a little. I gathered that you, sir, were to a large extent responsible for his condition.”

  “Never mind that. Who told you, in the first place, that he was ill?”

  “He missed taking his lessons, and the fact was reported to me in the usual way.”

  “Did you visit him at all before the evening?”

  “No. I caused inquiries to be made, but I had not time for a personal visit until after dinner.”

  “You were on good terms with him?”

  “I am on good terms, I am glad to say, with every member of my staff.”

  “Were you satisfied with his work?”

  “Is that question really necessary?”

  “If you don’t answer it, I shall draw my own conclusions.”

  “Perhaps I had better say, then, that while Mr. Lambourne was not the best or most successful of teachers, I knew that he worked hard and I was very willing for him to remain at the School.”

  “All right… Now you said he was alone when you arrived here—in this room—last evening. What about when you left?”

  “Mrs. Ellington arrived about ten o’clock with some invalid food that she had prepared for Mr. Lambourne. I thought I should perhaps be somewhat in the way if I remained, so I left them almost immediately.”

  “Mrs. Ellington, I believe, was formerly a nurse. Do you know if she was in the habit of looking after Mr. Lambourne when he has been ill?”

  “Very likely. She had—and I had also—a very deep sympathy with Mr. Lambourne.”

  “Have you any idea about what time she left him last night?”

  “Not the slightest. Why not ask her yourself?”

  Guthrie allowed the questioning to cease. He had been, if not exactly worsted, at any rate met on equal ground by one of his own mettle. “All in good time,” he said, with a return to his usual imperturbability. “I think we’ll leave things here just as they are for the present, if you don’t mind.” He manoeuvred Roseveare out of the room and locked the door on the outside. “Of course you’ll have to give evidence at the inquest,” he added, putting the key in his pocket.

  “I had imagined so.”

  The two men gave each other a final stare, half-hostile, half-respectful; after which Roseveare strode away with immense dignity.

  Guthrie turned to Revell. “Can’t help rather liking the fellow, can you? Such dignity—such pride—such a marvellous way of quibbling all round the question. What a K.C. he’d have made!”

  “You seemed pretty doubtful about him?”

  “Did I? Oh, I think it was all fairly plausible. But we must have a little chat with the Lady with the Lamp, of course. And by Jove—here she is!” This final exclamation was whispered, for Mrs. Ellington was hastening towards them along the corridor. She was ashen pale, and her eyes showed signs of recent weeping, but there was a calm eagerness in her voice as she addressed Guthrie. “I’ve been looking for you,” she began, abruptly. “I want to see you—to speak to you. It is most important. Will you— both of you—come up to my husband’s room just above?”

  “Certainly, Mrs. Ellington, if you wish.”

  No more was said till they were all three of them seated in the room next to the dormitory in which the first of the tragedies had occurred. Revell was glad to note that Guthrie’s attitude towards Mrs. Ellington was both courteous and kindly. He seemed to have entirely forgiven her for her outburst of the previous day. (And no wonder, Revell thought, since by his death Lambourne had given the most convincing proof of his unfitness to stand the ordeal of a detective’s hostile cross-examination.) “There now,” Guthrie said, as he settled himself in the easy-chair opposite hers. “We shan’t be disturbed here and you can tell me anything you like. Do you mind if I smoke?”

  She signified impatient permission. “I feel I MUST tell you,” she went on, agitatedly. “I hate doing so—more perhaps than I have ever hated anything—but I think it is only fair to so many others. And—I suppose—really, I owe you an apology.”

  “I can’t think what for,” replied Guthrie, gallantly. “And anyhow, don’t let that bother you at all.”

  “It’s because of my attitude yesterday,” she insisted. “I hated to see you bullying Mr. Lambourne—if you WERE bullying him, that is. And yet I can see now how right you were—from your own point of view.”

  “What makes you think so, Mrs. Ellington?”

  She paused before answering, and when she did answer, it was hardly to the point. “I wouldn’t like to be a detective, Mr. Guthrie. It must be so terrible to find people guilty.”

  “Ah, but there are compensations. You often find people innocent as well.”

  Her face brightened. “Yes—and that is why—one reason why —I must tell you. It has all been so frightful for everybody here lately—so much doubt and suspicion…” She nearly broke down, but managed to save herself by a last effort. “Do you know, when I heard that Mr. Lambourne had died during the night, I was glad?”

  “You were?”

  “Yes—glad. Can’t you guess why? Shall I have to put it all into words for you?”

  “Well, I daresay I CAN make a guess. I suppose it was because you think Lambourne’s guilty?”

  Revell started in astonishment, but a slight glance from Guthrie quelled him. Mrs. Ellington slowly nodded. “I not only think he is,” she said. “I KNOW it. It was he who killed Wilbraham Marshall. And Robert as well.” She buried her face in her hands and was silent for a while.

  “Both of them, eh?” Guthrie seemed hardly surprised. “And how do you know that?”

  “Because, Mr. Guthrie, he told me.”

  She gathered courage now that her secret was out. “Yes. He told me last night. He was terribly ill—ill in mind, I mean—and I tried to comfort him. Then he told me. He thought you were on his track and he felt he must tell somebody about it. I seemed to freeze up—I didn’t know what to say to him. Oh, what COULD I have said to him? I believe I told him he must confess to you—and he said he would in the morning—this morning, that would have been. I think he was quite out of his mind when he did it—he was often out of his mind for short spells. I was sorry for him—I couldn’t help it—even after he had told me. Was that wrong of me? He was almost raving at first, but I calmed him and made him give his promise. He said—they were almost his last words— �
�I’ll tell Guthrie to-morrow.’ Then he went to sleep and I left him.”

  She looked first at Guthrie and then at Revell as if in pathetic challenge. It was Revell who first spoke. “But, Mrs. Ellington,” he exclaimed, “why on earth should Lambourne have done it?”

  She shook her head despairingly. “I know—that was just the question I kept on asking him. And his reasons were so strange. That’s why I think he must have been out of his mind. He said—it’s such an awful thing to have to repeat—but he said he hadn’t meant to kill the boy at all in the first place—it was my husband he wanted to kill. And he thought my husband would have been sleeping in the dormitory that night.”

  “Yes, I understand how that could have arisen. Go on, please,” interposed Guthrie. “Did he tell you why he had wanted to kill your husband?”

  She smiled a wan half-smile. “It was because of me, he said. That’s what makes it so terrible for me to think of. But for me… You see, Mr. Lambourne and I have always been friendly—we have tastes in common— books, plays, music, and so on. And because my husband doesn’t care for such things, Mr. Lambourne imagined I was unhappy.”

  “And have you been unhappy, if I may ask the question?”

  She returned him a glance of tranquil sadness. “If you want a really truthful answer, Mr. Guthrie, I could not say ‘no’. But I assure you that Mr. Lambourne exaggerated, and in any case, I never complained to him or discussed my private affairs with him at all.”

  “I see. But all the same, you think his reason for wishing to kill your husband was to free you from a partner he thought you disliked?”

  “Perhaps. It looks like it. But he had nothing to hope for from me— I mean—I want to be quite clear about this—there was nothing whatever between us. We were simply friends, and I had never given him the slightest encouragement to imagine anything else.”

  “The trouble is, of course, that some men don’t need any encouragement. Anyhow, what about the second murder?”

  “I’m coming to that. He said that when he found out that the person in the dormitory bed had been the boy and not my husband, he was at first overwhelmed with remorse. And I do remember, as it happens, how ill he was at the time. Then—so he said—his hatred of my husband grew in him until it gave him no rest at all. And, as time went on, he began to think of an extraordinary way in which his original murder, which had been, as one might call it, a mistake, might be turned to good account.”

  “Yes, I understand. This is all very interesting, and you are putting it very clearly.”

  “The motive was always, you see, the same—hatred of my husband. And the plan that came into his head was—briefly—to murder the other brother so that suspicion should fall on the man he hated. He reasoned that no one could have any apparent motive for murdering the two boys except my husband (who inherited their money, as you know), and that two such suspicious accidents would undoubtedly cause inquiries to be made.”

  “Did he give you any details as to how each of the murders was done?”

  “Yes, he told me everything. The first one was done by letting the gas-pipe drop down on to the bed. He had previously loosened it. He went up into the sick-rooms above the dormitory and staged the whole thing.”

  “Yes. And the second murder?”

  “He went to my husband’s room one day when he was out and took away his revolver and cartridges. He knew that the boy used to take a swim in the evenings during the hot weather. On that particular night he went down to the swimming-bath himself. He found the boy already there, cursing his luck because the water had been drawn out. Mr. Lambourne was in his dressing-gown and pyjamas, as if ready for a swim—it was his excuse, of course, for going there. He chatted with the boy for a time, gradually leading him along the edge of the bath as far as the diving-platforms. He waited till the boy was standing on the edge facing the empty bath with the platforms just above him; then he sprang back suddenly, whipped out his revolver, and shot up at the boy from behind.” She trembled as she spoke the words. “Oh, he MUST have been out of his mind to do such a thing—he MUST have been. Don’t you think so, Mr. Guthrie?”

  “Very possibly, Mrs. Ellington. Most murderers, at the moment of their murder, must be very near the borderline of insanity.”

  “HE was, I am sure.”

  Guthrie nodded. “And I suppose, after shooting the boy he staged the affair to look like an accident?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did he give you any details of how he did that?”

  “He took off the boy’s wrist-watch that he was wearing and climbed up to the top diving-platform with it.”

  “Yes. Anything else?”

  “He… Oh, it’s too terrible—he went down into the bath and hit the boy over the head—but the boy was already dead—”

  “Did he tell you what he hit the boy with?”

  She looked dazed. “No—or at least he may have done, but I don’t remember. It’s so hard to remember every detail of it all.”

  “Yes, of course. And it isn’t, perhaps, so very important, so long as we know he hit the boy with something. After that, I suppose, he just went back to his room and to bed?”

  “No—he was flurried and took a walk to calm himself. My husband can vouch for that, because they met. My husband was having a stroll before going to bed.”

  “Yes, I think I know about that.” He paused thoughtfully and added: “Perhaps, Mrs. Ellington, as you knew Lambourne rather well, you can tell us a little more about him—about the man personally, I mean?”

  She responded eagerly, as if relieved to talk of less tragic matters. “He was a charming man, Mr. Guthrie, in his ordinary moods—one of the cleverest and most interesting men I ever knew. He was very badly hurt in the War—that’s what began the trouble, I daresay. He had the most awful pains in his head, and sometimes deep depression would come over him like a cloud—that was how he described it. He told me once that he hadn’t had more than a dozen happy moments during the whole of the past ten years —and all the dozen, he said, had been when he was with me. I felt sorry for him when he spoke like that. He had no relatives in England and he wasn’t the sort to make friends—he had too sharp a tongue. He wasn’t very popular either with the boys or the masters—he found teaching rather hard, but it was the only way he could possibly earn a living. Dr. Roseveare befriended him—HE understood how he suffered, too, I think. Then his heart went wrong and he was told by the doctors that he might drop dead at any moment. Do you wonder I pitied him?”

  “Not at all. I should have been surprised if you hadn’t. Now don’t distress yourself, Mrs. Ellington”—she had begun to cry softly —“you have really done all that you could possibly do, I think. It has been very good of you to come and tell me all this.” She was still crying, and Guthrie, with a little gesture of kindliness, rose from his chair and touched her lightly on the shoulder. “Well now, I don’t think we need trouble you any more for the time being. If I should want to ask you a few more questions later on, you won’t mind, I know—but I don’t suppose I shall. Your statement seems to clear up an exceedingly distressing and unhappy affair. There’s only one thing I want to ask you—and that is, not to mention to anyone else what you have just told us.”

  “I won’t,” she promised.

  “Have you told anyone so far?”

  “No. Not even my husband. He would have—have misunderstood how —how Mr. Lambourne could have come to be so confidential with me.”

  “Ah yes, I understand. Well, remember, now—not a word to anyone. Good-bye for the time being, and once again—many thanks.”

  She gave him a sad farewell smile as he held open the door for her to escape. “Escape” was indeed the word that occurred to Revell; it was as if she were some wild thing that had been trapped in a cage and was now, by gracious permission of the snarer, allowed to fly stumblingly away.

  “Whew!” exclaimed Guthrie, after she had gone. “That puts the lid on it, doesn’t it? Revell, without asking me any q
uestions (though I know you are bursting to), will you kindly go downstairs and make an appointment for me to see Dr. Roseveare as soon as possible? And then, after that, unless he can see me immediately, you might go down to the tobacconist’s shop in the lane and get me an ounce of shag. Yes, shag, my boy—it’s what I feel like.”

  Revell obeyed. There was really nothing else to be done.

  * * *

  CHAPTER 8. — THE DETECTIVE GIVES IT UP

  The body of Max Lambourne had been taken to the local Drill Hall, and there the inquest was held a couple of days later. It was a far more public affair than the two previous ones; the accommodation for the Press was much larger, since the newspapers had featured the third Oakington tragedy on the grandest scale.

  Revell sat in the public gallery, an interested watcher of the proceedings; he had been informed beforehand that he would not be wanted to give evidence.

  Everyone seemed to have learned a lesson from the two earlier inquests, and to have made up their minds that this one, at any rate, should stand out as a model of correct inquest procedure in every possible way. The Coroner was careful to the point of being punctilious, and even the merely formal matter of identification was treated as if there might be some doubt about it.

  After the jury had viewed the body (which naturally conveyed very little to them), witnesses were called. The first was the School House butler, Brownley. He described how and when he had found Lambourne dead. The Coroner questioned him a little, mainly (so far as Revell could judge) to give the court an impression of his own shrewdness.

  “It was your usual time for calling him?”