Was It Murder? (21 page)

Roseveare again agreed, and Revell, who had carefully planned his own moves in the conversation, continued:  “A rather amusing example of his slack ways came under my notice quite recently, in fact.  I remember it particularly because it happened on the night before he was found dead—I’d decided to chaff him about it the next day, poor fellow.  I was taking a stroll about the quad latish in the evening—perhaps it would be half-past eleven or so—when, as I came near School House, I thought I heard voices in the Common Room.  Naturally I went to investigate, and what d’you suppose it was?  Two juniors playing chess!  Of course it was no business of mine, especially as they said Lambourne had given ‘em permission, so I just left ‘em there, and Heaven alone knows when they DID go to bed.  But chess, mind you—at getting on for midnight!”

He saw that Roseveare had gone very slightly pale and that his knuckles were whitening as he clenched them on the table.  “Who were the ruffians—purely as a matter of curiosity?” he queried, with an effort to appear casual.

But Revell had expected the question, and was not to be caught so easily.  “Didn’t ask ‘em, I’m afraid, and probably wouldn’t know ‘em even if I saw ‘em again.  You can guess they had the lights pretty low.”

And then he changed the subject.  He was quite satisfied; he had made another observation.

In his talks with Mrs. Ellington he never mentioned the murders.  It was easy not to, now that the affair had practically died out of the newspapers; and, of course, the fact that in her eyes Lambourne was the proved culprit while he himself believed so differently, acted as a simple barrier to discussion between them.  Sometimes, though not often, she mentioned Lambourne in some other connexion, and Revell was pleased to note how generous and fair-minded she was; her belief in his guilt had not closed up all the wells of her pity for him.

She was, Revell thought, entirely and deliciously adorable.  Sometimes, as they took tea together, or as they chatted during some chance meeting in the lane, he almost caught himself wanting to kiss her.  Her delicate smallness appealed so mutely for protection, and her dark eyes, that were sad as a rule when they first met, brightened so noticeably during their moments together that he could not but feel that she, as well as he, was attracted.  It more than gratified him; it almost, when he grasped the full significance of it, intoxicated him.  Oakington was a dark forest, and he himself was a knight of chivalry faced with the task of rescuing a particularly enchanting damsel from the maw of a particularly nauseating ogre.  More and more, as those days of July slipped by, his aim became rescue as well as retribution; and though he dreaded the moment when she would learn the truth, he looked forward to the equally inevitable moment when she would realise how and from what he might have saved her.

They came to calling each other by their Christian names.  Hers was Rosamund.  He made absurd puns about it; once, when she came cycling along the drive on a rainy afternoon, he called out “Sic Transit Gloria Rosamundi”, which he thought not bad.  She smiled, dismounted, and answered:  “I’m going to have a real transit very soon.  Tom’s arranged that we shall leave England on the tenth of August.  Just think of it—only a fortnight after Term ends for all the shopping I shall have to do!”

“You’re going away so soon?”  He was almost bewildered.

“Yes.  We shall be on our plantation or whatever it is by the time the Autumn Term begins here.  It’s a terrible rush, but of course if we’re going to go, there’s not much point in delaying over it.”

Revell nodded, still dazedly.  He was amazed to discover what a

personal blow it was to him.  Disappointment and then indignation

succeeded.  “But, Rosamund, what an awful life for you!  Have you

really thought what it will mean?  Some God-forsaken back-block in

the middle of Africa—no theatres, no books, no shops—“

“Oh, but we shall have a car,” she interrupted, “and every three months or so I shall drive the two hundred miles for a week’s shopping in Nairobi.  And Mudie’s will probably send out a box of books now and again, including yours as fast as they come out, Colin.  And there are several other people living within twenty miles or so.”

“God—I don’t know how you can bear to think of it all.”

“But I don’t think of it.  I just live on from day to day.”  She stared mutely at the front tyre of her bicycle.  “What else is there to do?”

“I know.”  It was pouring with rain, but neither of them moved.  “I shall be sorry not to see you again,” he said at last.

“Yes.  And I too.  We have been good friends.”  And she added, with a lessening of reserve that only emphasised the reticence of her entire attitude hitherto:  “I believe you understand a great deal more than I could ever tell you.  Perhaps we shall meet again at the concert to-night?  Will you go?”

“If YOU go.  Rather.  I’ll keep a seat for you.”

She smiled and mounted her machine, and he went back to his room in a state of curiously mingled joy and misery.  She had spoken to him perhaps more intimately than ever before, yet it was all clouded over by the imminence of her departure.  He had never guessed that it could matter so much to him.  Just over three weeks and she would be en route with her husband for Africa.  Revell perceived, with a feeling of sheer panic, that there was no time to be lost.  The unmasking of Ellington would have to take place during those three weeks, or else never at all.  And his own observations, though so far significant, were hardly yet of a kind to be acted upon.

The departure was itself, of course, a suspicious thing.  Why such enormous hurry to get away from Oakington?  Did it not seem as if Ellington wished to put as great a distance as possible between himself and the scene of his crimes?

Meanwhile, all the more intensely in the face of their possible separation so soon, Revell looked forward to the concert.  It was a terminal affair, held in the Memorial Hall, and attended by the whole school.  A few of Oakington’s most promising musicians took part, and this native talent was helped out by visiting artists from London who might or might not be worth hearing.  Revell, whose appreciation of music was fastidious, would never have thought of going but for Mrs. Ellington; yet for her sake he would cheerfully endure, if not fire and water, at least Liszt’s Second Rhapsody bungled by a nervously ambitious schoolboy.

She joined him just before the concert began and smilingly thanked him for keeping a seat for her.  (Ellington, of course, was not with her; he was entirely unmusical.)  During the first half of the programme, made up of various items by the boys, Revell hardly exchanged a word with her, but when the interval came they chatted a little.  It had always been their habit to pretend, to themselves, at any rate, that they were only left together by some astonishing accident of fate; thus Revell, observing the convention, gave the necessary opening.  “I suppose Mr. Ellington couldn’t manage to come?”

And she answered:  “No, he doesn’t care for concerts much.  He’s gone to Easthampton on business and won’t be back till the last train.”

The second half of the programme consisted simply of the Kreutzer Sonata, played by a visiting pianist and violinist of considerable talent.  Revell, at any rate, with Mrs. Ellington by his side, was in a mood to be impressed.  The Kreutzer had always been a favourite of his, and to hear it now gave him an extraordinary sensation of having Heaven on his side.  During the tranquil adagio movement he was calmed, mellowed, made ready for the triumphant ecstasy to which the final presto movement raised him.  When the last chord had been struck he was left full of speechless emotion.  Only after they had fussed their way out through the crowd and were standing together in the bright star-shine did he find words, and then merely to suggest a stroll.

She agreed.

They set out for the conventional circuit of the Ring.  There was no moon, but a sky pale with stars, and the beauty of it threw enchantment even over the architectural monstrosities of the skyline.  Oakington was going to bed; ten o’clock chimed from the School clock; light after light disappeared from those rows of windows that were the dormitories.  The smell of the trees and the mown grass was in the air; an owl hooted into the blue-black silence.

He began, with the Kreutzer Sonata still dreamily in his ears:

“D’you know, Rosamund, I’m beginning to find myself in a queer situation.  I—I rather think—I’m falling in love with you.”

“Are you?”  She did not seem particularly surprised, but there was a tremor of something else in her voice.

“Yes, I’m afraid so.  Do you mind?”

“Why should I mind something so—so—something so—“  She hesitated, and then suddenly seemed to shake herself into another mood.  “Really, Colin, I don’t quite know what I’m talking about, and neither do you, I think.  I don’t mind, of course—in fact, I feel rather thrilled about it—but it’s all rather futile and pointless in a way, don’t you think?”

“Yes, but—“  He tried to protest, but there was no need, for with

immense astonishment he found her in his arms and her lips

approaching his.  “Colin,” she whispered, “Colin—just once—and

then never again—just once—“

He kissed her.  It went to his head like rare wine; he began to chatter wildly in his enthusiasm.  Gone now was his caution in mentioning Ellington; he spoke of him quite openly as a man whom she did not and could not love.  “Oh, why DID you marry him, Rosamund?  I’ve always wondered.  He’s so utterly the opposite of you in every way—do you think everyone hasn’t noticed it?  Rosamund, you hate him, I know—you MUST do—it’s impossible to think of you spending all the rest of your life with him.  And in Kenya, of all places.  Rosamund, you simply CAN’T do it!”

“I can.  I shall just have to.”

“Not if you were to run away from him.”

“But I couldn’t do that.”

“Why not?”

And he had a swift vision of Rosamund and himself sharing some art-and-crafty studio in Chelsea, himself writing high-brow novels and Rosamund painting futurist pictures or making terra-cotta statuettes or casting horoscopes or keeping a hat shop or employing her time in some such task that possessed the conventional amount of unconventionality.  His own four or five pounds a week plus, say, half as much from her, would easily permit them to sustain an idyllic existence on love, art, gin, and tinned sardines.  Delightful prospect!  Was he game for it?  He believed he was, and with rising enthusiasm in his voice, rapidly sketched out to her the bare outlines of such a future.

“You’re a dear boy,” she said, when he had finished.  “I believe I should be perfectly happy with you like that, too.  But of course you don’t really mean it.  It’s the Kreutzer Sonata gone to your head, that’s all.  What a pity I’m not a designing woman, or I might take you at your word!”

“DO!” he cried, eagerly.  “I only wish you would!”

She laughed.  “Suppose I do, then?  When shall we go to your little Chelsea studio?  To-night?  There’s the last train to town at eleven, you know.  Or perhaps to-morrow would give us more time to pack.  And I could leave the conventional note on the dressing-table for Tom. . . .  Ah, I can see from your eyes that you don’t really mean what you’ve been saying.  Never mind—I’m not offended.  I love you for your romantic impulsiveness.”

“But I DO mean it,” he retorted, stung a little.  “I mean every

word of it.  And at the end of the Term—“

“Why wait till then?”

“I—I don’t know—except that it would give us time to—to prepare things.  And there would be less scandal here, too.  After all, there’s been enough lately.”

That seemed to bring a cloud within sight of them both.  “True,” she admitted.  “It’s been the most dreadful of years—when I look back on it all—“  She shivered a little.  “The only bright spot was when you came here.  You’re such an unlikely sort of person to be a headmaster’s secretary.  Whatever made you give up that wonderful life in London to come to Oakington?”

“Just a change of atmosphere.”

“Yes, I should think so.”  She was silent for a while, and then added, in a different voice:  “No, Colin, on second thoughts I don’t know that I’d want to go away with you.  You wouldn’t treat me as I’d want to be treated.  You’d think me too small—too scatter-brained, I suppose—to be trusted with your intimate secrets.  You don’t REALLY trust me, do you?”

“Trust you?  Why, of course I do!”

“Then why didn’t you tell me the truth about why you came here?  Do you think I really believe you only came for a change of atmosphere?  Besides, you don’t do an hour’s secretarial work in a week.  No, my dear Colin, you’re a clever boy, and you’re having some clever game of some kind, though I’m not quite certain what it is.  And I shouldn’t wonder if you’ve only been making love to me with some hidden purpose.”

“Rosamund, that’s not true!”  He was sincerely indignant that she

should think him capable of such a thing.  “I assure you—“

“You assure me that you came here from London merely for a change

of atmosphere, and that the Head lets you stay here as his

secretary and do no work?”  She suddenly began to cry.  “I’m

sorry,” she whispered, “but I can’t help it.  I believed you for a

moment—just while you were kissing me—but—but now—“

“No, really—“  He tried to take her in his arms again, but she eluded him.  “Really, you mustn’t do that. . . .  Rosamund. . . .

It isn’t that I’ve been really deceiving you—it’s—oh, dash it

all, if there’s no other way of convincing you, I’ll tell you

everything—“

“Not if you’d rather not.  Not unless you’re sure you thoroughly trust me.”

“Of course I trust you.  It never had anything to do with that.  It was merely—oh, Rosamund, didn’t you say yourself how dreadful the past year had been?  Well, I knew that, and I wanted to save you from being dragged into any more of it.”

“More of it?”  Her voice was incredulous.  “But surely—surely it’s

all over now?  I had hoped—“

“Yes, I know.  So had I—so had everybody.  But I’m rather afraid it isn’t—or at any rate, may not be—QUITE over yet.”