The Incredible Crime Page 13

  “I should think we have, Miss Pinsent. We’ve called him in to help us on more than one occasion; we think a great deal of him,” added Sir Boris, with more truth than Prudence or her father guessed.

  Sir Boris stood looking out of the window, watching the life in the College court, till his attention was caught, as Prudence’s had been before, by the beauty of the pigeons.

  “Yes,” said the Master in reply to his question. “Our Head Porter looks after them, and feeds them when necessary; but I fancy they are nearly self-supporting. No, I don’t suppose the farmers do bless us particularly, but we’ve always had pigeons.”

  “I am going up to town for the day,” said Prudence, “but I shall be down in time for the dinner; but if I’m to catch the ten o’clock train I must go.”

  Later on Sir Boris Buckthorne too took his departure. He explained to the Master that he had some calls to make in the place before driving back to London, and went off on foot. He went to the nearest telephone-box, and after shutting himself in as carefully as possible, called up Scotland Yard. Over the wire he gave a careful description of Miss Pinsent’s clothes which would have surprised that lady, an accurate and dispassionate description of her appearance, the time of her arrival at Liverpool Street, and instructions that she was to be followed. Then he returned to the College entrance. In the street he paused, and turning round, appeared to admire the old gateway, which was surmounted by a dove-cote, a beautiful bit of work. A junior porter was standing outside.

  “Fine old dove-cote that of yours,” said Sir Boris to him.

  “Yes, sir, it is, sir; the only one of its kind.”

  “I remember when I was a boy I knew a dove-cote that had a bell inside, that tinkled when a pigeon went in. I wonder if yours is that sort.”

  “I am sure I don’t know, sir, though now you come to mention it I have sometimes thought I ’eard a bell from the dove-cote, but I may have imagined it.”

  “Yes, yes,” said Sir Boris, “you remember that old-fashioned game of croquet where the centre hoop had a bell?”

  “Yes, sir, I do mind that. Why, there was a set like that until quite lately in our Fellows’ garden.”

  “I have no doubt of it,” said Sir Boris, and after exchanging a few more remarks about the evident superiority of Prince’s College to any other in Cambridge, they parted on the best of terms, the porter back to the dim recesses of his lodge and the Chief Commissioner to the market-place.

  On the right of the market-place, behind the Corn Exchange, is a “passage” which is often quiet and free from people. Along this Sir Boris walked slowly. He was about to pull out his watch when another figure came in sight from the other end. It was McDonald. The two men met, and talked throughout like equals. They paced up and down, deep in conversation. At last Sir Boris, who had been doing most of the listening, said:

  “The fact of the matter is, we simply can’t afford to blunder, as far as Temple is concerned. How did this other fellow, Maryon, take it when you told him our suspicions?”

  “First of all he said I was mad, and then only consented to take me in his boat because he knew Temple was innocent, and it was so utterly ridiculous.”

  “Poor fellow, I am sorry for him. Now listen to me, McDonald,” and Sir Boris began to talk to him in a low voice. They were perfectly safe, as they knew, from being overheard.

  “Yes,” said McDonald, “it’s all possible, of course. I wish you would leave me here and send another man to Suffolk. I don’t like working among people of that sort.”

  “No, I don’t suppose you do; I didn’t altogether enjoy my visit to Prince’s, I can tell you, but it’s you who will go to Suffolk, it’s a heaven-sent opportunity. Here,” fishing a small object out of his pocket, “what is this?” And he handed McDonald a smallish lump of something a dirty yellow, “Not amber, certainly.”

  McDonald turned it over, scraped it with a knife, and then said, “I think it’s a bit of rock-salt; it does turn this colour, but I am not certain. Why, where did you get it?”

  “I picked it up just now, outside the gate of Prince’s, and I rather fancy they use that sort of thing, if it is rock-salt. Anyhow, send it to the Yard and have the subject thoroughly looked up.”

  “If you are right in this new idea of yours,” said McDonald, “and heaven send you are, it frees Miss Pinsent from suspicion; she would never have wantonly drawn your attention to it, and she wouldn’t ever have forgotten you were a policeman if she was concerned in it.”

  “No, no, that’s true. I cannot bring myself to believe she’s in it, but of course I know, alas, that nothing is impossible in this sort of way, nothing at all. I am taking no risks, and I am having her followed to-day in London, to see where she goes, and if she could be passing it on to anyone we know about.”

  So they parted. Sir Boris paid a visit to the Chief Constable at the “Station,” and then was driven back to London.

  Late that afternoon Mr. McDonald started out for a good, long country walk, and came home when it was almost dark along the Backs. Unaccustomed to the ways of Cambridge, he had not realized that all the back gates of the Colleges would be locked at dusk. He was lucky enough, however, to find a member of Prince’s just coming out of their gate, and was let through. Thus it came about that he was walking through the back court of Prince’s at dusk, and chanced to notice what looked like a ball of fur fall from one of the College windows and run away. There had been a slight snowstorm while he was out, and the ground was just whitened. He looked cautiously round to make sure no one was about, and then stepped across the grass to satisfy his professional mind exactly what it was that had fallen. When he came up, there, clear and unmistakable across the snow, lay the track of four padded paws in a straight line. He gazed at it in astonishment.

  “By gee!” he said, “by gee!”

  He counted the windows, and on inquiry at the College gate learnt that Professor Temple had rooms there.

  So it came to pass that as Miss Pinsent emerged from a first-class carriage at Liverpool Street, and walked with comfortable unconcern along the platform, a small, keen-faced, unobtrusive-looking little man followed her, not far behind. He was wearing a cap and was clean-shaven. When Miss Pinsent descended to the Underground and took a ticket to Oxford Circus this same little man was standing next her; he booked for the Marble Arch. They both, however, got out at Oxford Circus, and after a short walk the lady disappeared into a house, whose door was apparently open. The detective allowed a minute or so to elapse, and then strolled by; it seemed to be offices; he stopped to read the name on a brass plate, watched rather superciliously by the lift-boy. The choice appeared to lie between a “dental surgeon,” a “beauty specialist,” and an “insurance agent.”

  The detective put his hand into his pocket, and withdrew some silver coins which he clinked pleasantly.

  “That lady who came in here a little time ago,” he said to the boy, “which of these did she go and see now?”

  “Garn,” replied that gentleman, “which do yer suppose?”

  The C.I.D. man, with a smile as from one man of the world to another, put his hand on the name of the beauty specialist.

  “Got it in one,” replied the boy succinctly, with his eye on the silver coins.

  “Does she often come here, regular customer?”

  “I don’t know so much about regular, but she been pretty often in the last two years, so they all ’ave.”

  “Well, mum’s the word,” and five shillings changed hands. The detective went off round the corner, from where he continued to watch.

  In an hour’s time Miss Pinsent came out, looking even handsomer than ever. The two of them, in the same order as before, took another, rather longer walk. This time the gentleman had very suddenly started a small moustache, and was wearing a slouch hat. The walk ended at a well-known ladies’ club, where one went in and the other prepared h
imself for a long and hungry wait. He occupied himself, however, by taking a lively interest in the many women and few men who went in. Especially one tall, dark, handsome woman.

  Then, after a long wait, he saw and heard Miss Pinsent take a taxi for Liverpool Street, the number of which he noted and then strolled into the club.

  He asked the porter if he could see the secretary, and handed the man his card. A few minutes later a pleasant-faced lady came towards him with his card in her hand.

  “You wished to see me?”

  “Yes, m’m. Would it be possible to speak to you in private?”

  The secretary turned and led him away to her own private room.

  “I am quite unused to having anything to do with the police,” she said, in a tone of mixed vexation and interest.

  “Yes, I am sure you are, m’m, but you must treat what I say to you as confidential. There is a swell lady thief about we are keeping an eye on,” lied the C.I.D. man glibly, “and I am not sure I didn’t see her come here in company of a lady who would know nothing about her, a Miss Pinsent, from Cambridge.”

  “Miss Pinsent is certainly one of our members.”

  “Could you tell me the name of the lady with whom she was lunching to-day?”

  “Yes”—the secretary hesitated for a moment—“every member is supposed to write down the name of any guest she may have in a book kept for that purpose; I will go and look.”

  She remained away for some time. When she came back it was with a worried air.

  “I looked at the visitors’ book,” she said, “and Miss Pinsent made no entry to-day; doubtless she forgot. I am afraid members often do. I asked, however, in the dining-room, and our head-waitress, who has a wonderful memory for faces, tells me Miss Pinsent was giving lunch to a tall, dark, good-looking lady who, she thought, was a stranger to the Club. She was certainly not a member, as she has been put down on Miss Pinsent’s bill as a guest.”

  “Thank you, m’m,” said the detective, rising, “and now if I might just ask your porter if he knows where that lady went to, I’ll trouble you no further.”

  He got the information he desired, and apparently followed it up. Late that evening the taxi-man who had driven Miss Pinsent away from the Club was interviewed, to learn only that she had driven straight to Liverpool Street station and gone in there.

  It was possible to reach the Fellows’ Building from the Master’s Lodge by going through a private door into the Library, and so through the Bursary, and it being a wet evening, Prudence and her father availed themselves of this. The Professor’s bed-maker, her little black bonnet on the back of her head, full of bustle and importance, was established ready to help the ladies with their cloaks. Prudence knew the woman well, as one of her duties was to organize a yearly treat for all the bedders in the College.

  “Yes, ’m,” she said to Prudence, “this is an event indeed, ’m. I don’t know ’as how I ever remember my gentleman ’aving ladies to dine before, and ten covers laid, so Mr. Robins tells me.” Robins was Temple’s gyp, who presently announced them.

  “The Master of Prince’s and Miss Pinsent!”

  The large book-lined room seemed full of people, and though Prudence had been warned, she still wasn’t quite prepared for the tall dignified man, with a strong look of Ben Wellende about him, who came forward to shake hands with her. It was this last that surprised her most, the unexpected likeness to his cousin. The Professor was a genial and courteous host when he chose to make the effort, and the two things combined made Prudence feel more drawn towards him than she had ever done before.

  They moved off to dine in the back room, and as they sat down Prudence observed that though money had been lavishly spent on the table flowers, taste had not: they looked as if they had been arranged, as indeed was the case, by the gyp. The food, however, was above reproach.

  The Professor, it is true, was genial, courteous and very, very learned, but as Mrs. Skipwith once exclaimed, he had no worldly guile whatever; and he made the initial mistake, from his point of view, in asking the mother of a former pupil, who chanced to be in Cambridge, a dowager Duchess; and so she was the chief lady, and not Prudence, and moreover, claimed his attention all through dinner.

  From Mrs. Skipwith’s point of view it was an undoubted success. Her niece, Beryl Boyd, was an exceptionally pretty girl, with a very bright and attractive manner. Through the first part of dinner she had been rather over-awed by the company, but the kind attentions of a young don (the one, by the by, who had claimed relationship with Temple) soon put her at her ease. At the end of dinner she confided to him in a carefully modulated voice, “I have just seen what I thought never happened, that clean-shaven don on the other side of the table has refused the port.”

  “Yes, it seldom happens, but you didn’t see quite enough,” said her neighbour, “the College has some very, very famous port, and that don was watching the Master take his first sip, and when he saw him thoughtfully shake his head, he knew it wasn’t the best.”

  “No!” exclaimed Miss Boyd, “you’re inventing it.”

  “Fact, I assure you; I was watching the whole thing, and what is more, I wouldn’t be in the least surprised if a bottle of the best wasn’t waiting for us after you ladies have gone.”

  But though the Professor was without guile, he never forgot anything, however small, that he intended to remember; and after dinner, instead of going and sitting by Prudence, as might have been generally expected, and as he himself greatly desired, he singled out Beryl Boyd. He appeared to be talking to her with a surprising knowledge about dancing, but the fact of the matter was, Miss Boyd, delighted at the attentions of the great man, babbled away on the subject (it having been suggested by the Professor), without further assistance from him.

  For the first time in his life Temple was enjoying the experience of having a young, modern, and extremely pretty girl making much of him, and he found it very pleasant.

  Consequently the time passed much faster than he had anticipated, and the Duchess began a general move to depart before he had time to talk to Prudence.

  On their way home the Master said to his daughter: “Who was that unusually pretty girl there to-night?”

  Prudence informed him.

  “I wonder if it is on account of her ‘beaux-yeux’ that Temple has shaved off his whiskers; she is over young, I think.”

  It was a revelation to Prudence the sudden indignation that she felt at the suggestion. As she slipped into her silk night-gown, she realized that she knew perfectly well why she had not enjoyed the dinner as she generally did. Professor Temple had failed in manners; it wasn’t that she wanted to talk to him particularly—here she paused for half a moment—no, it wasn’t that, but she was sorry he had failed to play the perfect host, and she got into bed.

  Meanwhile Temple himself, as he smoked his last pipe, felt that he had spent a pleasant evening, but wasted, as far as his chief object was concerned: she had never given him a thought, and with that he got into bed.

  Quite otherwise was it with Susan Skipwith. She opened the door between her room and her husband’s, and as she disrobed, she discussed it with him.

  “Thomas, are you listening?”

  “Yes.”

  “It was a grand success, that dinner, and all owing to me.”

  “If you ask me,” said a voice from the farther room, “it was owing to the College kitchen.”

  “Professor Temple isn’t such a simpleton as you might think,” went on Susan, ignoring her husband’s last remark, “when guided by a really intelligent—”

  “I say,” said Thomas, appearing in the doorway half clad, “did you notice how Temple was getting on with Beryl after dinner? It didn’t seem to me quite the way to ingratiate himself with Prudence; in fact, I doubt if Prue liked it.”

  “There is no one,” said Susan with vehemence, “who has a lower opinio
n of the wits of learned men that I have—”

  “Oh,” said Thomas. “Oh,” and then added, as he retreated into his room again, “we had a bottle of the best port after you ladies had gone.”

  “Disgusting,” said Susan.

  Chapter XX

  Miss Pinsent, in an overall, was arranging great masses of tawny chrysanthemums in the hall of the Lodge when her father and Professor Temple came in. They took off the silk gowns which they were wearing, hung them up by the door, and then strolled towards the fire.

  “Yes, it’s a very serious problem, one of the most serious that the University is confronted with, in my opinion,” the Master was saying, and he held out a gaitered leg towards the fire to warm.

  Temple greeted Prudence and then turned to answer her father.

  “Everyone admits the problem, and yet we get no nearer to solving it, to making the balance fair between research and teaching. Your opinion, Master, standing outside both as you do, I consider of great importance and value and, for the matter of that, mine is equally so, since I may fairly be said to have a leg in each camp.”

  “My dear fellow, you’re a shining example of a man who does much research and whose lectures are yet crowded!”

  Temple grunted. “There’s no doubt about it at all that at the present moment a man who does a little, even sometimes a very little original research is rewarded, often gets a Fellowship on it, and a chap who is a genius at teaching is left quite unnoticed.”

  “He makes money as a coach.”

  “Yes, he may do that, but he gets no recognition from the University; why, there must be hundreds of men doing good work up here who have no part at all in college life; there certainly are on the scientific side.”

  “You are perfectly right,” said the Master, “and it boils down like most problems now to a financial basis. The Colleges are not in a position to increase their Fellowships.”

  “And yet those men ought to be digested by them somehow.”