The Complete Stories (67 page)

  Everyone in College had heard the story next morning. It reached me through my scout who called me with: "Half-past-seven sir, and Lord Poxe has murdered Mr. Curtis." I met Poxe in the bathroom, very white and dejected. I asked him about the murder.

  "Well, I suppose I've rather rotted things up this time. I can't remember a thing about it except that I was furious about some grass, and that two people put me to bed. It's a melancholy business. They can't hang me, can they?"

  I suggested inebriates' asylum and had my bath. I was sincerely sorry about poor Poxe, but felt he would probably be better shut up. After all it was not safe to have a man who did that sort of thing about the College; it was not as though he was seldom drunk. I went to breakfast at the Old Oak tea rooms and found Edward there. He was in great form, and for this I disliked him that he should be in good form at breakfast; however, he was really rather amusing about the Poxe murder as it was already called.

  Edward asked if he might work in my rooms—he knew I never used them—as he had had a fire in his. I said that I wanted them this morning and advised the Union. Then I went back.

  At about eleven, I saw from my window the Warden's side door open and Poxe come out, radiantly cheerful. I called him into my room, and he told me of what had happened. It must certainly have been a cheering interview for Poxe.

  He had gone to see the Warden with all the trepidation that should befit a young nobleman suddenly confronted with the prospect of being hanged. The old man had been seated on one side of the table with the Dean next to him. Poxe had been asked to sit down. The Warden had begun:

  "I have asked you to come and see me, Lord Poxe, in what for both of us, I think, and certainly for me, is a very bitter occasion. Last night, when in a state of intoxication, as you will perhaps have been informed, you entered the room of your tutor, Mr. Curtis, and stabbed him to death. I suppose that you do not deny this?"

  Poxe was silent.

  "It was a foolish act, Lord Poxe, an act of wanton foolishness, but I do not wish to be hard on you," the Warden's voice broke with emotion, "my poor boy, you are the fifteenth Lord Poxe and, as I have at different occasions reminded you, not unconnected with my own family. Lady Emily Crane, your great aunt, you will remember, married a Mr. Arthur Thorn, my grandfather. I feel that the College owes it to your position to treat this matter as discreetly as possible."

  Poxe nodded enthusiastically. Among tradesmen and dons he had always found his title of vast value.

  "The Dean and I have discussed the matter at some length and have come to the conclusion that there is no reason why this matter should be referred to the ordinary State authorities at all; it has, as, of course, you are aware, always been a principle of University government so far as is possible to impede and nullify the workings of the ordinary courts of law. In this case it seems particularly advisable, as it is only too likely that the criminal courts would be unwilling to treat this matter with the clemency which we think desirable.

  "Nor, indeed, is a precedent far to seek. In the fifteenth century a commoner of this College struck off the head of the Bursar—true, that was in open fight and not before the young man had received severe injuries; but things, of course, were far rougher then. On that occasion the distinguished scholar, who held the position it is my privilege unworthily to occupy, inflicted upon the delinquent the fine of twopence to be paid to the Bursar's relatives."

  Poxe brightened.

  "Of course, the value of the penny has, since that time, markedly decreased, but calculating it as nearly as one can in days of rather haphazard accountancy, the Dean and I decided that the fine must have valued about thirteen shillings.

  "I need hardly say, Lord Poxe, that this whole matter has been acutely distressing to the Dean and myself. We hope and trust that it will not occur again. It is probable that in the event of a second offence, the College would find itself unable to treat the matter with the same generosity. Thank you, Lord Poxe."

  And thus the interview closed and Poxe went out, elated, to celebrate his escape in the manner which most immediately suggested itself to him; and Edward, in his fire-blackened room, felt that everything was turning out well.

  Without difficulty, an aged and dissolute doctor was unearthed in St. Ebbs, where he lodged in squalor with one of the College servants, and earned an irregular livelihood by performing operations in North Oxford; this sorry man was persuaded to write a certificate of death from natural causes. The funeral was brief and ill attended. The Warden toiled for three days in the composition of a Greek epitaph and on the third evening persuaded the Dean to write one in Latin. And so for Poxe and Edward the matter ended.

  One thing I feel should be added. It is merely an incident that may be of no significance but which may explain much that seems improbable. I was told it in an intimate moment by Anne, who is married to the Warden, and of whom many stories are told. This is what she said, that on the night when Mr. Curtis died, she ran in a high state of emotion to her husband, the Warden, and cried, "Oh why, why did you kill him? I never really loved him."

  She stopped, seeing the Dean there also. He, a gentleman, rose to go, but the Warden detained him. And then Anne, falling on her knees, pounded out a tale of the most monstrous and unsuspected transactions between herself and Mr. Curtis.

  "Supposing there were a trial," asked the Warden, "could this be kept a secret?"

  The Dean doubted gravely whether this would be possible.

  And then came to the Warden the full realization of the imperishable obligations of precedent, the memory of the head of the Bursar, the appreciation of the greatness of families not unconnected with his own.

  "At least, I think it must have been then," Anne said as she turned up the light.

  FRAGMENTS: THEY DINE WITH THE PAST

  Almost the first thing which Toby said to me when we met was, "Imogen is in London again."

  Even to Toby to whom this could never mean as much as to the rest of us, it seemed the only thing of immediate importance; to me, more than as pleasure or pain, though, of course, it was both of these, it came as a breaking away of near memories.

  For some moment of time the bar where we stood was frozen in space; the handles, the slopped wood, the pallid man beyond them lost perspective; "If you like our beer tell your friends; if you don't tell us" stood as cut in stone, the ordainment of priest kings, immeasurably long ago; the three years or a little more that stood between now and that grim evening in April fell, unhonoured, into the remote past and there was no sound from the street.

  Then, instantly almost, the machine fell to its work again and I said as though nothing had intervened between his voice and mine:

  "Was she with him?"

  For even now, after three years or more, I could not easily say his name; I spoke of him, as slatternly servants will speak of their master, impersonally. And indeed it was thus I thought of him; the name was an insignificant thing labelling an event. Toby understood something of this as anyone who had known Imogen, must have understood, even he; for he was associated with much that was wholly alien to him; he had been in Adelphi Terrace in that strange evening in April when Hauban had gazed out across the river for two, three hours, and scarcely a word spoken.

  To my question, down such valleys of thought, his answer made a way; she had been with him; they in a taxi; Toby had seen it from the top of a bus in Regent Street.

  And so, quite naturally, I went to find Hauban, whom I had not thought to seek when I had landed that morning—or was it three and a half years ago? Thus suddenly had I returned to the past. And when I found Hauban, he said:

  "So you, also, are returned to England."

  Thus I knew that he too had seen Imogen and with his next words he invited me to dinner where I should meet many old friends, whom he would assemble to greet my return. But he and I and his guests knew that not for my welcome were we assembled, though no word was spoken of Imogen all the evening through.

  And the thought of her was about and between us all; with such shy courtesy did we treat her, who had been Queen, for all who had loved her were gathered there and none dared speak even her name.

  CONSPIRACY TO MURDER

  During the first week of term, Guy first mentioned his neighbour to me. We were sitting on my window seat looking over the quad, when I noticed slinking out of the J.C.R. a strange shambling man of middle age. He was ill-dressed and rather dirty, and he peered forward as he walked.

  "That strange man," said Guy, "has got the room opposite me."

  We decided that this would be dull for Guy, for we had often seen these strange old men before and knew that they had no interest to offer, except the dull curiosity of asking why they had come to Oxford. And they were nearly always ready to tell their story of miserly saving and the thirst for knowledge. Therefore when, a fortnight later, Guy began to talk of him again, I was considerably surprised.

  "You know, he leads an incredible life; my scout told me that he has never been out to a meal or had a single man in to see him. He doesn't know one of the other freshers and can't find his way about Oxford. He's never heard of half the Colleges. I think I shall go in and talk to him one evening. Come up with me."

  So one evening at about half past ten, Guy and I went across to this strange man's room. We knocked, and getting no answer, opened the door. The room was in darkness, and we were about to go, when Guy said: "Let's have a look at his room."

  I turned on his light and then gave a gasp of astonishment. The little man was sitting in his arm chair with his hands in his lap looking straight at us. We began to apologize, but he interrupted us.

  "What do you want? I do not wish to be disturbed."

  "Our names are Guy Legge and Barnes," I said, "we just came in to see you, but if you're busy —" I was strangely discomforted by this man and had not yet recovered from the shock of finding him sitting there in the dark.

  "It was unnecessary to come and see me. I don't want to know you Barnes, or you Legge, or anyone else."

  And outside the door I said, "Well I'm damned. Of all the abominable men —"

  But Guy took me by the arm and said, "Dick, that man scared me."

  So it began.

  A few nights later I was engrossed in an essay when I heard someone beating on my oak.

  "Go away, I'm busy."

  "It's I, Guy. May I come in?"

  "Oh, it's you. Well do you mind awfully if I work tonight? I've got to get this essay done by eleven tomorrow."

  "Let me in, Dick. I won't disturb you. I only wanted to know if I could come in and read in here."

  So I opened the oak and when he came into the light I saw that he was looking pale and worried.

  "Thanks awfully, Dick. I hope you don't mind my coming in. I couldn't work in my room."

  So I returned to my essay and in two hours it was finished. I turned round and saw that Guy was not working. He was just sitting gazing into my fire.

  "Well," I said, "I've finished this thing and I'm going to bed."

  He roused himself, "Well, I suppose I must get back," and then at the door, "You know, Dick, that man next door haunts me. I've never met a man who hated me as he does. When we meet on the stairs, he shrinks away and snarls like a beast."

  And I, sleepily, laughed at him and went to bed.

  And for the next week or so, Guy came to my room every evening until one Sunday night he said, "Dick, I don't want to go back, I'm not sleepy. May I read in front of your fire all night?"

  I told him not to be a fool; he was looking thoroughly tired. And then he said, "Dick, don't you understand, I'm afraid of that man next door. He wants to kill me."

  "Guy," I said, "go to bed and don't be an ass. You have been working too hard."

  But a quarter of an hour later, I felt that I could not go to bed and leave Guy like this, so I went up to his room. As I passed the strange man's door, I could not help a little qualm of fear. I knocked at Guy's bedroom door and inside I heard a little cry of terror and the sound of bare feet. I turned the handle, but the door was locked and I could hear Guy's breathing through the door; he must have been pressed against it on the other side.

  "D'you always lock your bedder door?" I asked, and at the sound of my voice, I heard him sigh with relief.

  "Hullo, Dick. You quite startled me. What do you want?"

  So I went in and talked to him; he always slept with his door locked now, and his light on; he was very much scared but after a few minutes he became calmer and soon I went away, but behind me I heard him lock his door.

  Next day he avoided me until evening; then he came in again and asked if he might work. I said:

  "Look here, Guy, tell me what is the matter with you." And almost immediately I wished that I had not asked him, because he poured out his answers so eagerly.

  "Dick, you can't think what I've been through in the last ten days. I'm living up there alone with only a door between me and a madman. He hates me, Dick, I know it. It is not imagination. Every night he comes and tries at my door and then shuffles off again. I can't stand it. One night I shall forget and then God knows what that man will do to me."

  So it went on and one day I went up to Guy's room in the morning. He was not there, but his scout was, and I found him in the act of taking the key from Guy's bedroom door. I knew I had no right to ask him, but I said:

  "Hullo, Ramsey, what are you doing with Mr. Legge's key?"

  Ramsey showed, as only a scout can show, that I had been guilty of a gross breach of good manners and answered me:

  "The gentleman next door wanted it, sir. He has lost his and wanted to see if it would fit."