Case with Ropes and Rings, Chapter Five

Case with Ropes and Rings

CHAPTER FIVE

Beef had not forgotten, it seemed, that his main field of enquiry was among the boys, and next morning I found that he had started on the process which he called “settling down.” I had had cause before now to marvel at Beef’s facility for making himself at home among all classes of people.  I remembered how the circus hands with Jacob’s Circus had seemed to accept him as one of themselves, and how more than once his matiness and good-fellowship in the local public-house had put him in touch with a clue.  But this, I felt, would be different.  At other times I had been precluded, by the fact that I happen to be a gentleman, from such close fellowship as Beef achieved.  But now, I felt sure, it would be I who made the necessary contacts.  A public-school boy myself, I should be accepted where Beef would be a joke, and my three and a half years at St. Lawrence College, Ramsgate, would stand me in good stead among the boys at Penshurst.

I hinted at this to Beef.

“You never know,” was his only reply, as he hung his silk hat carefully on a peg.  “We shall just have to see how things go.”

Just then a youth of about sixteen, with his hair plastered rigidly in position, and his suit far too well cut for the use of a schoolboy, sauntered up.

“A leave chit,” he drawled, “to go down to the dentist.  Do you mind stamping it?”

“Don’t half tie you down, don’t they?” said Beef.  “Anybody would think you were in prison.”

“We are, practically,” said the boy, in a voice so casual that I wanted to smack him.  “Though I should imagine that the food’s rather better in gaol.”

“Don’t they do you too well, then?” asked Beef with a grin.

“Agony,” drawled the boy.  “I eat mostly at a restaurant in the town.”

“That’s bad,” said Beef.  “And I dare say your Papa pays out a decent bit one way and another for you to be here.”

I imagined that this piece of vulgarity would offend the young man.  But no, he seemed to enjoy the conversation.

“I suppose so,” he said wearily.  “It’s probably only the House I’m in.”

“Whose is that?” asked Beef.

“Jones’.  Quite remarkable that in our condition of semi-starvation we win most of the athletic events.  See you later,” and he sauntered off casually.

During the morning there was a perpetual stream of boys coming for one reason or another to the Porter’s Lodge, for if any of them had to go down town it was Beef’s duty to stamp their passes both on leaving and returning, writing in the times at which they re-entered the school.

It was not till after lunch, however, that he was able to secure an interview which I felt could have any direct bearing on the case.  We were sitting in the stuffy Lodge over a cup of tea which the Sergeant had brewed, and he was enjoying his pipe, when the door opened, and an extremely handsome young Indian walked in.  He spoke with none of the soft chi-chi pronunciation of his race, but in a quite normal English way.  “Sergeant Beef, I believe,” he said.  Beef started.

“Briggs is the name,” he admonished him.  The Indian smiled.

“Oh, yes,” he said.  “I know all about that.  But I happen to have read your previous cases.  I might not have recognised you, Sergeant, but your friend here is quite unmistakable.  There couldn’t be two pair of men like you, anyway, could there?” he asked blandly.

This was all rather discomforting, particularly as the young man seemed completely at home.

“Does anyone else know about this?” asked Beef.

“I don’t suppose so,” said Barricharan.  “I noticed that I was the only person to have taken your book out of the Library.”

I could not resist a gentle reproof to Beef.

“I told you that this would happen,” I said.

Barricharan smiled.

“You needn’t worry,” he said.  “I shan’t give you away.  Only when I saw you established here I gathered that you would probably want to ask me questions, so I dropped in.”

Beef was rapidly recovering himself.

“Yes,” he said, “I do want to ask you some questions, and I hope you’ll answer frankly and to the point.” And he fixed Barricharan with his most severe village constable’s look.  “What did you think about young Alan Foulkes?”

Think about him?” said Barricharan.  “I really don’t know.  We didn’t have a lot to do with one another—apart from sport, that is.”

“Did you like him?” asked Beef pointedly.

“Yes, I suppose so.  I don’t like or dislike people very much,” explained Barricharan.

“You never had any real trouble with him?”

“Endless trouble all the time.  But only,” he added sweetly, “because I couldn’t beat him always.”

“I see,” said Beef.  “Sort of rivals.  Now what about the boxing championship?”

“Well, I hoped to win it.”

“Oh, you did?”

“Yes.  We’d both trained pretty hard and I think that the betting was about level.”

“Oh, betting, was there?” said Beef.

“I believe so.  A man in Williamson’s house usually made a book on these events.”

“And how did you fancy your own chances?” asked Beef.

“I thought that they were pretty good,” said Barricharan.  “You see, Foulkes didn’t get all the sleep he might have.”

“How’s that?” asked Beef quickly.

“Oh, up and about,” smiled the Indian, “up and about.  His friends will give you all the details, I expect.”

Beef nodded, and made a heavy pencil note in his book.

“And yet,” he said, “you didn’t win, did you?”

“No,” said Barricharan, quite equably.  “I was disqualified in the third round for hitting low.”

“And did you hit low?”

“I suppose I must have done.  It was quite unconscious, of course, but I discussed it with Whitehead afterwards, and he’s quite certain that there was no doubt about it, so there you are.” He shrugged his broad shoulders and smiled.

“It was a great disappointment to you?” Beef asked.

“Well, yes, it was.  Life’s full of disappointments, isn’t it?”

“Do you like being in the school?” asked Beef suddenly. 

“Very much.”

“You never feel sort of . . . out of place, in any way?”

“Out of place?” repeated Barricharan, quite honestly perplexed.

“I mean, being a different colour, and that?”

“Good lord, no.  They’re a good crowd here.”

“Just one or two more questions,” said Beef, as though he were a dentist promising that his work was nearly done.  “Did you see Foulkes again after the fight?”

“Oh, yes.  He was in the dressing-room, and we had quite a long chat.”

“What about?”

“He was very sympathetic.  He said that Whitehead had no business to give a decision against me, and he didn’t feel that he’d won the championship at all.  We parted on the best of terms.”

“And that was the last you saw of him?” I thought that there was a moment’s hesitation before Barricharan answered.

“Yes, that was the last,” he said.

“Well, thank you very much,” said Beef.  “Now I hope I can depend on you to keep quiet about That Other.” Then, when he saw an enquiring glance from Barricharan, he added, “Me being a detective, I mean.” The Indian reassured him.

“Oh, yes, that’s all right,” he said, and with a friendly nod he left the Porter’s Lodge.

“Well, what did you think of him?” Beef asked me.

“I thought he was a very nice chap,” I replied.  “Didn’t you?”

“I don’t hardly know what to say,” returned Beef.  “The Oriental mind is a mystery to me.”

“And yet there didn’t seem very much Oriental about him,” I pointed out.  “He was just like an English schoolboy.”

“Ah, that’s what I thought,” returned Beef.  “And that’s what I don’t altogether like.  Still, you never know,” and he gave a great gaping yawn which I thought ill-timed and not very polite.

I decided to take a stroll round the school grounds.  It was a lovely early June day, and the school buildings were almost deserted, save for a boy here and there who was going about his own business.  All the others were apparently on the cricket field, either playing in House games or at the nets.

I met my brother by the Fives Courts, and I remarked on what I had just noticed.

“Well, after all, what can we do?” he said.  “The ‘Dead March’ was played in Chapel the other morning.  We have to leave it to the boys themselves to do their own mourning.  But I don’t make the mistake of supposing that because the boys are playing cricket this afternoon the thing is forgotten.  On the contrary, it has made a terribly deep impression, and one which may affect the future life and character of many of them.  How’s Beef getting on?”

“Since you read my books,” I replied, “you should know I’m never told how Beef is getting on.  He had a long talk with Barricharan this morning.”

“Oh, yes.  But it’s Caspar he should get in touch with.  Felix Caspar was Foulkes’ great friend, and can probably tell you more than anyone.”

“I’ll remind Beef of that,” I promised, and left my brother to return to the Porter’s Lodge.  When I reached this, however, I found Beef deep in conversation with a small, dark, intelligent-looking boy, who appeared to be older than any of the others I had met at Penshurst.

“Ah,” said Beef, as I came into the room.  “I’ll introduce you two.  Mr. Caspar—Mr. Townsend.  Mr.  Caspar hasn’t half been telling me something,” he added.  “I’ve had to explain to him what we’re here for.”

Caspar was sitting in Beef’s arm-chair, and had not risen as I had entered the room.  I thought that this was somewhat ill-mannered in a schoolboy.  I tried to indicate my displeasure by nodding very curtly.

“That makes two boys who know already,” I pointed out.  “It won’t be very long before this information is right through the school.”

“I don’t think so,” said Beef.  “Not unless you or your brother give it away.  Now, Mr. Caspar, will you begin all over again, otherwise Mr. Townsend will be asking me questions.”

“Certainly,” said Caspar.  “I’d better begin by telling you that Foulkes and I have been friends ever since we entered the school.  We came the same term, and started in the same form.  Although I got my removes much quicker than he did, we never lost touch, and this year we met again in school in the Sixth Form, where I have been for two years now.  Of course, being in the same house made a difference.  It was funny in a way that we were such friends, because to all intents and purposes we had very little in common.  You would have thought that Alan would have wanted to be among the bloods of the athletic world, for he was, as you know, marvellous at all games, while I had little interest in games as games, though I was compelled to play them.  I think that he respected my brains, not being an intellectual himself.  Anyhow, we always got on very well together, and, probably in consequence of our diversity of interests, we never had a row of any kind.  Just lately, however, Foulkes has had other interests, outside the school.”

This seemed to interest Beef, who leaned forward.

“What kind of interests?” he asked.

Caspar hesitated.

“I really don’t like telling you this part of the story, but if it will help you at all I suppose that I shall have to.  I mean, I don’t believe that Alan committed suicide either.”

“You don’t?” said Beef seriously.

“No.  He wasn’t at all the sort of chap to do that, and I think it’s rotten that it should be said about him.  That’s why I’m anxious to tell you all I can.”

I felt as I looked at this young man that he was the first of all the boys who made one think that he felt any profound or personal grief over the death of young Foulkes.  Everyone was shocked, everyone was sorry, but with this youth it was a real grief.  I was glad to find one touch of such human feeling in an atmosphere which seemed to me all too casual.

“I’m afraid I don’t know very much, but I can tell you enough for you to find out the rest.  There was a girl in the town, a barmaid, whom Alan used to meet at night . . .”

“Name of Freda,” put in Beef.  “So you knew then?” said Caspar.

“I didn’t know she was a barmaid and I didn’t know he used to meet her, but I did know that there was a young lady.”

“Mind you,” said Caspar, “I don’t know that there was very much in it.  I think Alan rather liked to consider himself sophisticated, and thought it was rather grand to have a girl in the town.  He used to talk to me about it, but what he said was nearly all conventional.  She was pretty, she had lovely eyes, she danced well, all that sort of thing.  But I don’t think there was much more to it than that, as I expect you will find out for yourself.”

“What pub did she work in?” asked Beef.

“I don’t know,” Caspar told him.  “But I know that Alan used to meet her in a pub.  When he came back he would always have had a drink or two, but never enough to make him the worse for it.”

“I see,” said Beef.  “Did he go there on the evening of the fight?”

“I was coming to that,” said Caspar.  “On evenings when he was going to meet her, I always used to slip down and unlock the back door of the house.  I would wait till about eleven-thirty, when everything was quiet and Jones was asleep.  Then I would go down by the servants’ staircase to the back door, unbolt it and unlock it, and go back to sleep.  Alan would come in, bolt it and lock it after him.  Then nothing would be known about it.”

“But how would he have got out in the first place?” Beef questioned.

There was for the first time a faint smile on Caspar’s face.

“Very simple,” he said.  “He wouldn’t come in at all.  If he was on duty as a prefect I would do it for him, and even if Jones did go round the Junior dormitories he would never have dared to look in our cubicles.  In any case, he would generally be too tight to walk round at all.”

Beef sighed rather hypocritically.

“As bad as that?” he said.

There was genuine disgust in Caspar’s voice when he replied.  “Quite as bad as that.”

“So that evening you were to let him in?”

“Yes,” said Caspar.  “He said he might be a bit late.”

“When did he tell you he was going?”

“Oh, quite early in the evening, before the boxing had begun.”

“Did he mention it again?”

“Yes, on our way over from the gym.  He’d been speaking to his brother then, I believe, for a few minutes.”

“And how did he feel about this breaking out?”

“Oh, the same as usual; he never turned a hair.  He was quite cheerful and casual about it.  He just told me to make the usual arrangements in the house.  About eight o’clock he left me.”

“You never saw him again?” asked Beef.

Caspar seemed to have some difficulty in replying, but there was no doubt in his voice.

“No, I never saw him again.”

There was silence in the little Porter’s Lodge for some minutes, and then Caspar said:

“I say, oughtn’t you to ring the big bell?  It’s five o’clock.”

Beef made no reply, but ambled over to the rope which swung the large bell in the turret.  At this he tugged vigorously for about half a minute, and as if by magic a stream of boys came rushing from the playing-fields, all hurrying to get changed from their white flannels into their school uniform before their evening meal and Chapel.  A few who had not been playing lolled in the quad watching them with satisfaction, for they had not to bother about being in time.  When Beef had finished his ministration with the rope, he returned to the Lodge to deal with the few boys who were waiting for him to sign their late passes.

“Caspar stood up, as if about to go, but Beef stopped him.

“Just a moment, please,” he said.  “I hope you don’t mind waiting till I’ve dealt with the routine.”

“Not a bit,” said Caspar, and resumed his seat.

When the last boy had disappeared, Beef turned once more to Caspar.

“Was you or Foulkes head of Jones’ house?” he asked.

“Well,” said Caspar, “I was head of the house, but Alan was captain of games.  It’s rather odd that you should ask that, because normally the captain of games is ex-officio head of the house, especially in a professionally games-playing house like Jones’.  To everyone’s surprise, Jones made me head, although I am not even a colour.  There was actually very little in it as far as seniority went, but with Alan’s record it caused a certain amount of ill-feeling, though neither of us cared a damn about it.  It certainly did look like a slap in the face for Alan, though, because he was almost automatically the choice.”

“So it looked as if Jones really did have a grievance against Foulkes?” asked Beef.

“Yes, it certainly did look like it.”

I felt that it was time that I intervened.

“Well,” I said, “we’re very grateful to you, Caspar, for your information, and appreciate the way in which you’ve come forward.  I can see how you feel about it, and I assure you that what you have done may help us in clearing up this unfortunate business.  Perhaps you will be good enough to let us know if anything else occurs to you.”

The boy nodded, but Beef clumsily interrupted by saying:

“I’ll see to that.”

❦

Case with Ropes and Rings, Chapter Four

Case with Ropes and Rings

CHAPTER FOUR

I was to stay at my brother’s house, an arrangement which did not altogether suit my taste.  On the very first morning at breakfast he began to make invidious comparisons between his life and mine, ending up by saying that he supposed the precariousness of a writer’s life was in my case counterbalanced by a small annuity which had been left me by an aunt, whose favourite nephew I was.  This annuity had already caused considerable bitterness and jealousy on my brother’s part, for he failed to realize that having sneered at the Victorian furniture in her house, and told her to her face that the playing of a small harmonium which she kept in her drawing-room was “disastrous,” he was scarcely likely to benefit from her generosity.

He proceeded then to congratulate me on my discovery of Beef, which I thought a very back-handed compliment.

“You really have got something there,” he said.  “That old policeman’s a genius in his way.  His scope is limited, of course; he would be no good in some great international espionage case, but for commonplace murders and so on he’s excellent.”

“I am interested in the fact that you find it necessary to tell me this,” I retorted curtly.

“My dear Lionel,” my brother replied, “it seems only too necessary to tell you.  However, when your friend has unravelled this mystery, perhaps you will have more faith in him.  We must now go over to school.”

My first impression of Beef in the Porter’s Lodge was an unfortunate one.  Dressed in the garish costume which, we had been told, was the traditional one for his office, he was standing in the doorway looking so self-conscious that he might have been posing for a photograph, while several mildly interested boys stood round with their hands in their pockets.

“I wonder what it’s called?” I heard one boy say to another.

“I don’t know.  Looks a boozer to me,” replied his friend, moving away as though bored.

I approached the Sergeant.

“Better say your name’s Briggs,” I told him in an undertone.  “Some of them have probably read my book, which would give the whole game away.”

“Shouldn’t hardly think it’s likely,” sniffed Beef.  “They don’t sell enough to get down here, and boys like something exciting.”

He was watching the clock above his head studiously, and when it had reached the hour he moved hurriedly across to the button of the school bell.  I saw his wide thumbnail whiten with the energy he put into the ringing of this.  It was the first time that he had done it, and it was evident that he enjoyed the sense of authority it gave him.

He seemed to do fairly well during the early part of that morning, for as I walked about the school I noticed classes changing regularly at their appointed times.  But after the Eleven O’clock Break there appeared to be some confusion.  Small groups of boys hung about with furtive looks on their faces, fearing that if they spoke this extension sent from heaven would be snatched away from them.  A master or two looked up surprised at the big clock in the quad, and went away apparently muttering, as if the whole matter was much too deep for them to understand.  Never had such a thing happened before.  There was a strange feeling of uncertainty about the place, and not liking the appearance of the situation, I dashed down to the Porter’s Lodge, extremely perturbed myself.  But I saw Beef lethargically glancing at the morning paper.

“Beef!” I exclaimed.  “It’s ten minutes past the bell!”

“I know, I know,” said Beef, and yawned.

“Then why don’t you ring it?”

“Give them a bit of extra time off,” explained Beef.  “I know I would have liked it when I was a nipper.”

“But, Beef, you don’t seem to realize that this isn’t a kindergarten.  It’s a great public school.  It’s tradition . . .”

“Can’t see what difference that makes,” said Beef.  “Boys is boys all the world over.  I saw then crowding into the tuckshop just now.  I said to myself, ‘They shall have ten minutes extra this morning.’  Now there are six hundred of them.  So I reckon I’ve given over four days’ holiday one way and another.  And that’s something in a hard-working world.”

“Beef!” I exclaimed desperately.  “Ring that bell!”

With maddening slowness he did eventually press the button, and the school curriculum was resumed.

It was not, however, until the afternoon that Beef began the more serious business of investigation.

“Come on,” he said to me, “we’re going to have a look at the gymnasium,” and I found myself marching across the quad beside a silk-hatted Beef, who looked rather like one of the attendants at the doors of the Stock Exchange.

“They promise me nothing’s been touched,” he said as he unlocked the door.  “So we can have a good look round.  Lock that up again, and we’ll have the place to ourselves for a bit.”

The gymnasium at Penshurst, as I have said, appeared from the outside to be a large building, but from the inside, deserted as it was, it seemed huge.  It was about three times as long as it was broad, with a wooden floor covering the length of the building.  About twenty feet from the ground, above the wall bars which surrounded the walls, were the long, narrow windows which lighted the building.  There was the usual apparatus to be found in buildings of this kind: vaulting-horses, large coconut-matting squares, parallel and horizontal bars, ropes and rings.  At one end was a large wooden gallery, below which were the doors leading to the changing rooms and shower-baths.

After a glance around him in which he might have been a prospective tenant examining the front room of a new house, Beef started a very minute examination of every foot of floor space.  He walked slowly up and down, his eyes travelling left and right till he had thoroughly covered the whole expanse of timber which made the floor.  Having done that he started on the apparatus, even going under the leather of the vaulting-horses as if to see if there were any cuts or tears in which something might have been concealed.  He looked at the ropes which were used for climbing, at the one rope left of the rings, and at the other which had been used for the fatal purpose we knew, and which was lying on one of the benches.

On the ground was the one soft leather boot which Alan Foulkes had not been wearing.  Beef picked this up and pushed his fingers down to the toe, then examined its marking, the tape which had been stitched inside and bore the name A. Foulkes in printed red letters.  He picked up a pair of boxing-gloves which were beside the boot, and made an equally thorough examination of these.  Then, moving over to the chair, which now stood forlornly in the centre of the gymnasium, he ran his eye over it.  I began to get impatient, not only because I felt that this was a waste of time, but also because I was convinced that Beef was behaving in this way with the deliberate intention either of exasperating or impressing me—I could not be sure which.  I imagined that he had read of detectives making ‘searching examinations’ or ‘minute investigations’ of this or that, and now supposed that he must do his part.

“Oh, come on, Beef,” I said, when he had gone on all fours to examine the thick coconut-matting in front of a vaulting-horse.  “Surely that is not necessary?”

I felt that nothing more like an ‘amateur sleuth’ could be imagined than the old Sergeant, kneeling there with his gold-braided silk hat tipped on the back of his head and his face close to the matting.

“We’re only just beginning yet,” he told me, and proceeded to lift the heavy mat to look under it.  I approached to help him, and as I did so he dropped it back into place, covering with dust the new blue serge suit which I had purchased out of the meagre proceeds of Case with Four Clowns.

“Really, Beef,” I expostulated.  But he gave only a coarse laugh and moved over towards the changing-rooms.

He opened every cupboard, his hand went into every locker.  It took him perhaps an hour to go through the changing-rooms alone, and I was threatening to leave him to it when he moved on to the shower-baths.  Here he examined the outlets for water.  These were small, square brass fittings, and to my amazement each one of these had to be levered from its place while the Sergeant’s hand groped down into the space below.

“What are you looking for?” I beseeched him, but he only proceeded with his search.  He went upstairs and spent twenty minutes on the gallery.  It was teatime before he walked out into the main body of the gymnasium, and sat down in the chair for a moment as though exhausted.

Just then there came a knocking on the door of the gymnasium, and I went over to find my brother standing there with a stranger.  I was growing extremely irritated with Vincent’s officiousness in this matter, and that, combined with a long and tiring search in the gymnasium, had rendered me short-tempered.

“Is Sergeant Beef here?” asked Vincent.

“He’s very busy at the moment,” I replied shortly, but my words were tactlessly belied by Beef himself, who lunged forward and asked what he was wanted for.

“This is the Coroner’s Officer,” explained my brother, indicating the jaundiced individual who stood beside him, picking his teeth, and looking as if he wanted a cup of tea.

“So you’re Sergeant Beef?” he said.  “Well, I heard that you’d been put on to this by Lord Edenbridge, and I thought it was only etiquette to come across and make your acquaintance.”

“I take that very kindly,” said Beef.

“Anything you want to know?” asked the other.

“Only one thing,” Beef assured him, “and I can tell you that straight away.  What was in that lad’s pockets when you carried him away?”

“He hadn’t got any pockets,” said the Coroner’s Officer.

“And nothing on him at all except boxing knickers and one boot?”

“Nothing at all.  His other clothes are over there.”

“Yes, I’m just coming to those,” said Beef.  “I really wanted to know whether anything had been found on the lad himself.”

“Well, I’ve told you that,” said the man, then added curiously:  “Are you trying to make out that it wasn’t suicide?”

“I’m just having a look round,” explained Beef vaguely.  ’It doesn’t hurt to make sure, does it?”

The Coroner’s Officer shook his head.

“We’ve made up our minds,” he assured us.  “That’s right,” said Beef.  “Well, I’m very pleased to have met you, but I must get on.”  He turned back to the gymnasium without waiting for my brother or the Coroner’s Officer to leave the room.  Indifferent to our bewildered glances, he began to walk right round the walls, running his hand along a narrow shelf formed by the top of the varnished panelling.  I turned to the others and met the perplexed gaze of the Coroner’s Officer, and the insincere glint of interest in my brother’s eye.  “Extraordinary!” said the Coroner’s Officer.  “He’s an extraordinary man,” said Vincent.  And the two of them made for the door.

When I rejoined Beef, he had begun to turn out the pockets of the dead boy’s clothes.  In them he found the usual jumble of articles that are to be found on the average schoolboy—fountain-pens, games lists, a knife, a small sum in silver, and a pocket-case.  When Beef reached the pocket-case his attention became more fixed.  He examined each paper in turn, and finally pulled out the photograph of a girl with frizzy hair and a pert expression.

“Ah!” said Beef.  “Nice, isn’t she?”

Personally, I thought the young woman rather common, and could not pretend to take much interest.  “She may suit your taste,” I said.

“Now, now,” cautioned Beef.  “You know my days for that sort of thing are over.  My interest in this young lady is purely professional.”

He then pushed the photograph back into the case, the case back into the pocket of the jacket, and hung the jacket back on the peg where he had found it.

“Well, I don’t know what you think,” he said, “but I should call it time for a cup of tea.”

“I should just like to know,” I asked sarcastically, “whether you think you’ve found anything?”

Beef put on his most mysterious expression.  “I’ll go so far as to say,” he murmured, “that I haven’t found exactly what I was expecting not to find.” And with that characteristically bovine remark he led the way out of the gymnasium.

❦

Case with Ropes and Rings, Chapter Three

Case with Ropes and Rings

CHAPTER THREE

“It strikes me,” said Sergeant Beef to my brother when we three had returned to his little house, “as you would be a gentleman who would be able to give me the outlines of this pretty clear.”

My brother smiled.

“Yes,” he admitted.  “I flatter myself that my reading of the classics of modern detection has not been wasted.  I find, unfortunately, that I have no flair for elucidation.  But facts, ah, yes; I can give you facts.”

Out came Beef’s notebook at once.

“Let’s have them, then.”

“First of all,” began Vincent, leaning back in his chair, and bringing his finger-tips together like a parson considering the difficulties of a churchwarden, “I had better tell you something about the family from which the boy came.  Lord Edenbridge is the eighth Marquess, and for two centuries at least the family has been extremely wealthy.  Lord Edenbridge, as you have seen, is a man of frigid disposition.  He lost his wife some years ago, and has never spoken in the House of Lords since.  He still rides to hounds, however, and is Master of the Grathurst.  His main interest in life has always been the welfare of his two sons and his horses.  He won the Grand National three years ago, and his Tobermory is reputed to have a good chance for the Derby.

“We’ve had both his boys here; Lord Hadlow, the elder, left six years ago, and I must say that it was rather a relief to everyone.  He was a most charming lad, but he richly earned the adjective traditionally applied to noblemen in their youth—he was ‘wild.’  There are legends of him which persist to this day.  We never seemed able, however, to pin anything on him.  He was supposed to break out of the school and go up to night clubs in London, returning in time for chapel the next morning.  He was credited with having won and lost large sums on horses, and at one time with having an affair with a well-known actress, whose name escapes me at the moment.  Despite his apparently wild life—drinking was one of his vices—he was, like his brother, an outstanding athlete, and at the same time he managed to do just sufficient work to avoid detection.  Since then, I gather, he has given his father a good deal of trouble.  He has had difficulties with moneylenders, one of whom came into Court.  A man named Steinberg had lent him a hundred pounds while he was still a minor, at a rate of interest which would have shocked a usurers’ conference, and when Lord Edenbridge heard of it he took action, and the man lost his licence.  I tell you this to give you an idea of the sort of story about Hadlow which has reached us down here at Penshurst.”

Beef nodded.

“I know the kind,” he said.  “I remember old Murdock, who kept the ‘Green Dragon’ when I was a constable years ago.  He had a son who done the same thing.  He got through about £70 or £80 of the old man’s money before they realized where it was going at week-ends.  Still, you go on with your story.”

“Alan had been here about four years, and it would be no exaggeration to say that he was one of the most popular boys we have ever had.  His disposition was charming, irresponsible, and generous.  He was an extremely handsome boy, and a magnificent athlete.  Boxing was, perhaps, his chief love, but he seemed to excel at all other sports without taking very much trouble about them.  He was in both the cricket and football teams, a brilliant rather than a sound player, and had been Victor Ludorum in the Sports for the last two years.  You may remember that he won the Hurdles at the Public School Sports at the White City last April.  Perhaps he had faults.  They were those that might be expected in a young man of his temperament and disposition.  He was something of an enfant gâté, with a suggestion of petulance and willfulness, but without any real egotism or malice.  In a word, a popular school hero such as has been described by Vachell in The Hill, and by Austin Harrison in Lifting Mist.

“He had one great friend, a boy called Felix Caspar, son of the great Harley Street specialist, whose name, no doubt, you know.  Caspar contrasted with young Foulkes.  He was one of our most brilliant classical scholars, and had already won a scholarship at Balliol, where he will go next October.  As you know, I’m myself a science man, and think that the study of the minor lyric poets of Rome in its more decadent days, and droning labours over the commonplace adventures of Odysseus, are grossly overdone.  Whether this is so or not, young Caspar excelled in these things, and a remarkable career was predicted for him.

“The two boys spent most of their time together, and since each was pre-eminent in his own world and not in that of the other, there was no disagreeable jealousy between them, and they seemed to appreciate one another’s qualities in a way that is not often given to boys of their years.”

I was watching Beef at work with his pencil and notebook.  He did not look up from his task, to him no light one, of making his illiterate notes keep pace with my brother’s circuitous narrative.  Personally, I could not help wondering why Vincent should think it necessary to go into all these trivial details of school and friendship, but I remembered that he had always liked the sound of his own irritating voice.

He continued.

“There are two other people whom I must introduce to your attention,” he said, “and I speak now not as a master at Penshurst, but as one assisting in an investigation so important that it transcends questions of loyalty and convention.  One is the young man who was Foulkes’ rival for the school Heavyweight Boxing Championship, the other his Housemaster.  The boy, whom, as you will have heard, he eventually beat, was called Barricharan, and is the son of a fabulously rich merchant, an Indian.  You will have, of course, an interview with him later and form your own conclusions about him, but as a matter of mere fact I must tell you that he was Foulkes’ rival in more than this particular championship.  In appearance the two made an astonishing contrast; they were of exactly the same height, and both were extremely well-built, though perhaps the Indian was of more perfectly classical proportions.  However, as Barricharan was black and brown, Alan was flaxen and pink; as Barricharan was dour and aquiline, Alan was broad-faced with a happy grin.  They were rivals in every form of sport.  Both were excellent boxers, as you know, and Barricharan was runner-up to Foulkes in the Victor Ludorum in athletics.  We anticipated a close contest between them for the individual batting cup this term, while in rackets there was little to choose between them.  But it must be added that this rivalry had never given rise to any kind of incident.  It seemed, on the contrary, to be entirely good-natured.  The two boys were not together a great deal, but no one remembered an ugly disagreement between them.

“The Housemaster . . . (I must be quite frank with you over this, and forget that I am speaking of a colleague), Herbert Jones, has been one of the misfortunes of Penshurst, and it is no secret that he has been asked to resign by the Headmaster.  He is due to leave us at the end of this term, and you will, I am sure, congratulate me when I tell you that I am to have his house.”

Beef interrupted.

“Why, what’s the matter with this one?” he asked.  My brother, patiently, with much detail, explained to Beef the privileges of being a Housemaster.

“Oh, I see,” said Beef, nodding.  “Is that how you do it?  Sort of seaside landlady, eh?  I suppose there’s quite a lot of money in it?” Vincent coughed.

“I believe that it is possible to produce a small credit margin,” he admitted.  “But, of course, the welfare of the boys comes first.”

“Still,” said Beef, “catering’s all right if you know how to handle it.  I’ve often thought I’d like a little Free House somewhere where we could do dinners, teas, suppers and that.  Where you’ve got your customers there for a certain eight months in the year and can reckon out ahead what you need of everything, it ought to be a good business.  I’m very glad they’ve given you one of the houses, and I hope you do well with it.”

Vincent smiled.

“But I was telling you about Herbert Jones.”

“Ah, yes,” said Beef.  “Herbert Jones.  What was the trouble, drink?”

“I’m afraid so,” said my brother.  “But there were other things as well.  A most unsteady person.  He is Modern Language Master here, but there have been stories in the school for years now of his association with disreputable women in neighbouring districts, and on more than one occasion I believe the prefects in his house have had to carry him up and put him to bed in a state of hopeless intoxication.  What brought matters to a head, however, was an incident last term, when Jones, returning to his house half drunk, lost his temper with a small boy, and struck him without any real reason across the side of the head.  Young Alan Foulkes led a deputation to the Headmaster, and explained that for the good of the school they wished to give him certain details of Herbert Jones’ conduct.  It was on the strength of this that the Headmaster took action.  Mr. Knox, you will perhaps have noticed, is a somewhat unworldly man, a great scholar and a great gentleman, but not perhaps a great administrator, because he has such faith in the goodness of everybody that he finds it hard to see the minor evils going on under his nose.  A saint himself, he assumes the saintliness of others, and it must have been a terrible shock to him when these boys arrived with the story they had to tell.

“Jones, you see, was more than one of our Housemasters.  He was, in theory, at any rate, a part of the Penshurstian tradition.  His father had been a Housemaster here, and Jones had come down straight from the University to be an assistant master.  He was, though you would not think it to look at him, one of the best fast bowlers the school has ever produced.  He got his Blue at Cambridge, and played for England against the Australians in 1906.  If you follow the annals of cricket you will remember his 7 for 46 against them in the last innings of the Test match at Lord’s.  This made it more hard than ever for the Headmaster to realize that he was dealing with a degenerate drunk, a man more suited to teach at Narkover than at Penshurst.  There has even been some doubt expressed lately of Jones’ sanity, and his eyes have certainly an odd look in them.  All this, of course, you will see for yourself.

“You can imagine that after young Alan Foulkes had made these representations to the Headmaster his position with Jones was a difficult one.  He was Head of Jones’ house, and therefore often in contact with his Housemaster.  And the school was full of stories of the hostility between them.  Alan seemed to bear no grudge, but Jones was for ever attempting to humiliate the boy in front of his fellows, and more than once succeeded in doing so.  His hatred of Foulkes might almost be described as insane, a hatred incidentally which was to some extent shared by his wife.  There you have the situation up to the evening of the school boxing championships.”

Once again my brother cleared his throat like someone picking at a tight wire.

“Ve-ry interesting,” said Beef, “ve-ry interesting.  You certainly have a clear way of putting the facts forward.”  He glanced rudely across at me.

“This boxing championship,” Vincent resumed, “was a great event.  Penshurst has always been a boxing school.  We take it much more seriously than most places.  We have had most of the best-known champions down here to give exhibitions, and it would be no exaggeration to say that the Heavyweight Champion of the School is a bigger noise among the boys than the Captain of Cricket.  The championship is normally held at the end of the Lent term, but we had a measles epidemic last March which disorganised everything, and the fights had been postponed.  There was nothing to choose between young Foulkes and Barricharan, though some critics among the boys used to say that Foulkes had more stamina.  I don’t know a great deal about boxing, but I do gather that they were most equally matched.

“The minor fights went off without incident.  There were some very good scraps among the lighter weights, and White-head, the games master, who was the referee, has told me since that the school has never reached a higher standard.  The first two rounds of the Foulkes-Barricharan fight were terrific.  There were good boxing and hard hitting.  Each took punishment, but neither went down.  Then suddenly, in the third round, a most unexpected thing happened.  Barricharan hit low, and was at once disqualified by Whitehead, so that Foulkes automatically became champion.  But it wasn’t quite as simple as that.  Alan himself, though in great pain, protested that he had not been hit low, and the general opinion in the gymnasium was that if it were a foul it was in no way deliberate.  However, Whitehead was satisfied, and the decision was given.  Barricharan appeared to take it quite well.  He congratulated Foulkes and if he did not do so effusively, it must be remembered that he was not an effusive person.  They shook hands, and Alan seemed very distressed that he had won the championship in this inconclusive and unsatisfactory way.

“The routine of the school continued as usual that evening.  The boys did their preparation and went to bed.  I myself had some papers to correct and brought them over here at about nine o’clock.  I settled down to work and went to bed at eleven o’clock.  Nothing abnormal about the movements of anybody for the rest of the evening has been discovered.  Next morning, however, Foulkes’ cubicle was found to be empty.  Felix Caspar, who made the discovery, appears to have thought that Alan had slipped up to London, come in by an early train, and would be in time for Chapel, so that he made no report.  It transpires that young Hadlow had come down to see the boxing, driving his own car, a very old Bentley, in which he did some remarkable speeds.  I gather that Caspar seems to have imagined that Alan had accompanied Hadlow to London in it.

“It was a man named Stringer who made the discovery.  It was his duty to sweep out the gymnasium.  He should have been there at seven, but for some reason which he has not explained he was late.  He went in at eight-thirty and found young Foulkes hanging from a beam.

“There were several curious features about this, however.  First of all, he was wearing boxing kit, one of his black boxing boots was on and laced up, the other was not.  The rope which had been used was one of the ropes from the rings which had been taken down the previous evening, and there was an overturned chair which, if it was suicide, he had certainly used.  The gymnasium was locked, and no door had been forced, or window broken, but as young Foulkes was known to have a key by special permission of the gym instructor it was not remarkable that he should have entered.  The rest of the details you will doubtless gather for yourself.  So far as any of us here can possibly imagine there was no conceivable reason for suicide.  The boy was immensely happy, and as far as we know had no worries at all.  On the other hand, it is equally hard to imagine that anyone could have a motive for murdering him.  However, all that is for you to discover.”

Beef closed his notebook.

“Well,” he said, “I think I’ve got that clear.  Now what about this porter’s job?”  Vincent smiled.

“I think you will find it a little exacting,” he said.  “The uniform is a traditional one.  You wear a silk hat with gold braid on it, a yellow and black waistcoat, and a coat with gilt buttons.”

At this point I laughed loudly, and Beef turned round to me.  “Whatever’s the matter?” he said.  I looked across at my brother.

“I may have no sense of humour,” I said, “but I can’t help finding the thought of Beef dressed up in this gear which you describe something supremely ridiculous!” And I laughed again, defiantly this time, and in despite of their solemn faces.

“I don’t see why,” said Beef.  “There’s worse things worn outside cinemas.  If it’s an old custom of the school, well, we must follow it, that’s all.  I believe in old customs.”

“Don’t you think that the boys will laugh at you?” I asked.

“If they do, they’ll feel the weight of my hand,” promised Beef with futile emphasis.

Vincent went on to explain what Beef’s other duties would be—the ringing of the electric bell which sounds in every corner of the building and marks the beginning and end of school periods, the taking round during class of the Headmaster’s notices to be read out by each master to the boys he is teaching, and the supervision of the locking of the classrooms.  He then offered to take Beef across and shew him the Porter’s Lodge which would be in future his headquarters.  This turned out to be a cosy little room inside the main arch, where a fire was burning, and an enormous key-rack shewed a great diversity of polished steel keys.

Beef gazed about him with some satisfaction.

“Nice wall for a dart board,” he commented, and proceeded to try on the ornate top-hat which hung there.  It fitted him perfectly, and he stood for a moment examining his large face, He stared at his straggling ginger moustache, his rather liquid blue eyes, and his highly coloured nose with evident satisfaction.

“Well,” he said, “I never thought that I should ever be taking on a job like this.  But there you are, you never know,” and he sat down heavily on the porter’s chair.

When Vincent had left us, I thought it my duty to shew some disapproval of his levity.

“You know, Beef,” I said, “you seem to shew very little appreciation of the fact that a promising young boy has lost his life.”

He stared up at me with innocent surprise.

“I don’t?” he said.  “You don’t know me, that’s all.  I was very sorry to hear about the young fellow.  As soon as I read it in the papers this morning, I said to Mrs. Beef—‘It’s a shame,’ I said, ‘that’s what it is.’  With his whole life before him.  And if I can do anything to make it easier for his Dad, I shall do it.  You mustn’t run away with the idea that I’m heartless, because I have to dress up to do my job.  It’s a serious matter this, and I’m the last to forget it.”

He spoke so earnestly that I was genuinely impressed.

“All right, Beef,” I said.  “You get at the truth, and I won’t grumble at your methods.”

❦

Case with Ropes and Rings, Chapter Two

Case with Ropes and Rings

CHAPTER TWO

Penhurst School, as half the world knows, stands near the Essex coast in the small town of Gorridge.  It is one of the many old schools erroneously attributed to the foundation of King Edward VI.  Unlike many similar foundations which have grown to the status of great public schools from a purely local foundation, it has from the start attracted boys from a far wider area than its own.  For nearly three centuries it furnished the needs of the local inhabitants, for whom it was primarily intended, while also receiving “commoners,” boys not on the foundation, until the appointment of a Headmaster in 1820, under whose lax discipline and lack of interest the numbers of the school dwindled from nearly two hundred boys to forty, nearly all of whom were local, entitled to free education under the old statutes.  His successor, however, a certain William Butler, was a man of different calibre; he was young for a Headmaster in those days, and his energy quickly re-established the school both in numbers and scholarship.  At the end of his thirty years’ tenure of office, Penshurst had come to be considered as one of the half-dozen leading public schools.

We arrived at Gorridge about two o’clock that afternoon and made our way straight to the school.  I pulled my car into the kerb opposite the main gates, and since I already knew the place well I left Beef to form his impressions himself.

Penshurst School may not possess the beauty of Winchester, but it has a certain charm of its own.  The original buildings of the sixteenth century remain untouched, and form a small quadrangle of mellow red brick, leading off from which is the old chapel, now used as a library.  To the left are the school buildings proper, which are constructed on utilitarian rather than aesthetic lines.  But even they have been toned down by time and do not appear to clash with the old part of the school.  The huge hall is a memorial to the efforts of Butler, and it stands isolated, on the east of the main group.  At the back of the school are the wide, terraced playing-fields, flanked by scattered buildings, one of which stands out prominently.  This is the gymnasium, which was built as a memorial to Old Penshurstiai, who fell in the Great War.  The gymnasium is an unusually well-equipped building, far superior to those usually found in schools, and Penshurstians make full use of it.  Of late years the school has had a great boxing tradition, and it is unusual not to find more than two representatives in the Oxford and Cambridge teams.  In fact, in 1932 there were no fewer than seven Blues in the two teams who were Penshurstians.

The Chapel is unfortunate.  It is certainly impressive in size, and seen from a distance after sunset its proportions are good, but it was built at that unhappy architectural period when Butterfield-worship was at its height.  Fifty years have not dimmed its garishness.  Most of the boarding-houses are in the town itself, except for the old School House, the Second Master’s House, and two others, which form part of the old block.

“I suppose there’s something to it,” said Beef.  “I mean, I don’t say I should want a son of mine to learn his lessons here; it might give him ideas.  All the same, you can’t help seeing it’s all right, can you?”

I nodded curtly, for I have always considered the public school system to be an integral part of the great tradition of English superiority to every other race and regime in the entire world.

I then decided to drive round to my brother’s house.

I need scarcely say that this was a very difficult and nervous moment for me.  It was several years since I had seen Vincent, and his caustic way of talking both irritated and embarrassed me at all times.  I could scarcely bear to wonder what he would say about Beef, and when his servant said that he was in, and shewed us into a stuffy, book-lined room, I wished heartily that we were somewhere else.

Vincent entered.

“Well, well,” he said in that mocking voice of his.  “My long-lost brother.  And how are you, Lionel?”

I coughed, and took his proffered hand.

“How do you do?” I said as politely as possible, and proceeded to introduce Beef.

To my amazement, my brother seemed delighted to meet the Sergeant.

“The Sergeant Beef?” he said.  “I’m really honoured now.  I’ve been watching your career for years.  I would like to tell you straight away and without any reservation that I consider you to be the greatest investigator of our time.”

Now I knew my brother sufficiently well to realize that in spite of all his sarcasm he was speaking with sincerity.  Beef himself, of course, was grinning with childish pleasure.

“Thank you, Sir,” he said.

“I speak quite in earnest,” my brother went on.  “I read every detective novel that appears.  I am intimately cognisant of the work of all the investigators solving crimes to-day, and I have even gone so far as to examine the clumsy efforts of Scotland Yard.  But no one, let me tell you, has exhibited such sureness of touch, such incredible astuteness, such feeling for a correct solution as yourself.  You are a master, Sir, a master.”

Beef, like a schoolboy receiving a prize from the hands of one of the Governors, stood first on one leg and then on the other.

“I’m sure it’s very good of you to say so,” he returned.

“Of course,” went on my brother, in his maddening cold voice, “I don’t know that you have found quite the right chronicler.  My brother Lionel is, no doubt, an excellent penman, but when it comes to genius such as yours, Sergeant, you need a light touch and a real gift for writing prose.  You should have approached E.M. Forster or Aldous Huxley, my dear Sergeant.  Only novelists of their calibre could really do you justice.”

I saw that Beef, his vanity swelling ridiculously, was agreeing with him.

“Yes, I’ve often said . . .” he began, but I interrupted.  “Nonsense,” I said.  “What you both seem to have overlooked is that from an obscure police sergeant in a country town I’ve raised Beef to the status of a famous investigator.  I have made Beef,” I snapped decisively.  The two of them exchanged glances.

“My dear Lionel,” said my brother, “genius like that of the Sergeant needs to bush.  And now what can I do for you?” Beef, of course, began clumsily to assert himself.  “It’s about this young fellow that was found hanged in your gym yesterday morning.”

My brother nodded with decided interest.  “Yes,” he said.  “Young Alan Foulkes.”

“It looks interesting to me,” announced Beef.  “It is interesting,” said my brother.  “But I don’t know whether it’s interesting enough for you, Sergeant.”

“Well, that’s what I’m wondering,” returned Beef conceitedly.  “How do you think they would take it if I was to shew my hand in this matter?”

“Well, of course,” my brother surprised me by saying, “we should all be honoured.  I have no doubt that the Headmaster will appreciate it profoundly.”

“ Ah,” said Beef, nodding, “but what about Lord Edenbridge?”

“Lord Edenbridge is here this afternoon,” Vincent went on.  “I think perhaps the best thing I can do is to go over to the Headmaster’s house and explain that you are considering taking the case up.”

I did not know what to think at finding Beef treated in this respectful way.  It would have been gratifying had it not been for my brother’s attitude towards my own literary efforts.

Vincent rose, went to a cupboard, and produced, rather rashly, I felt, a decanter, siphon, and three glasses.  Had he known the Sergeant as I did he would have delayed this until the evening, but he poured out three generous portions.  Vincent and I drank in silence; Beef made loud smacking noises with his lips in appreciation of what he had been given.

“Came in just right, this,” he exclaimed.  “I’ll go and see the Headmaster.  You two make yourselves at home.  And take another drink when you’re ready for it.”

When we were left together, Beef summed up my brother’s attitude with one of his ambiguities.

“Just shews,” he said, “doesn’t it?”  And he reached out for the decanter.

“Do you really think you ought to?” I enquired.  “We have to interview the Headmaster, and perhaps Lord Edenbridge as well.”

“You leave it to me,” advised Beef.  “I know what’s best.” And he poured out, as I thought, recklessly.

We had sat silently for perhaps ten minutes when Vincent returned.

“The Headmaster is most interested,” he announced.  “Lord Edenbridge is with him now, and I do hope you will take the case, Sergeant.”

“If it’s given to you,” I added.

He then led us out into the quad.

A number of boys were lounging about and saw us walking across.  I could not help wondering what sort of a figure I would cut in this procession, and when I heard a young voice remark, “Definitely not Old Penshurstians,” I could have wished that the Sergeant was less conspicuous.  His bowler hat seemed to me to be the cynosure of the boys’ glances.  But Vincent was leading us into the Headmaster’s reception-room.

The Rev. Horatius Knox rose to greet us.  He was a tall, handsome man in the late fifties.  His hair was a thick, bright silver, and he had a fine, aquiline profile.  There seemed to me to be great goodness and gentleness in his face, but I wondered whether he had quite the worldliness necessary for his difficult job.  Looking at him, you would have said that he was a saint rather than a great administrator.

His face just now was lined and unhappy, and I felt that here was someone who was feeling the tragedy profoundly.  I knew that for this man it must have a double horror, the loss of a young life, and an inevitable scar on the good name of the school.  But just now, sitting as he had been with the bereaved father, it was the humanist in him whose emotions were most roused.

“I’ll introduce you both to Lord Edenbridge,” he said in a low voice, and led us down the length of his dignified room.

At the end of this march down an endless carpet, he brought us to a man who had been sitting in a deep arm-chair, who rose to greet us.  I examined Lord Edenbridge with some care.  He was a tall, powerfully built man of about sixty, well dressed, though not with precision.  He was good-looking in a heavy way, with steel-blue eyes set under a pair of prominent eyebrows.  But it was his expression which struck me at once.  This was completely immobile and one could not help wondering how emotion could be shewn on such a lifeless mask of a face.  “This,” explained the Headmaster, “is Mr. Beef.  I understand from my Senior Science Master that he is one of the ablest private detectives at present engaged in the investigation of crime.  And this is Mr. Townsend, his secretary and assistant.”

The Marquess bowed gravely as a Marquess should, and I was pleased to see that he was conforming so nicely to type.  Though I had not admitted it to Beef, I felt that there was some truth in his suggestion that a few distinguished people and large incomes in one of our books would not be a bad thing at all, and if Anything was going to come of this, it would be “handy” (in one of Beef’s own words) to have such an obviously genuine nobleman figuring in it.  “Very sorry to hear about your youngster,” said Beef gruffly.

Lord Edenbridge gave no sign of having heard.  His face remained quite mask-like, and I began to hope that I would be able to apply the term “Spartan” to his character.  I always feel that it goes well with our House of Lords.

But Beef had not finished his clumsiness yet.

“It wasn’t suicide,” he said suddenly.

I noticed that both the Headmaster and Lord Edenbridge looked up suddenly at this, and when Horatius Knox spoke it was with a chill in his voice.

“Really?  And what makes you state that so confidently?  The police hold a contrary opinion.”

“I have my reasons,” said Beef.

I felt as I heard him say that how hopelessly out of place was my old friend in these surroundings.  Such a reply might have satisfied me or one of the ordinary people concerned in Beef’s other cases, but was calculated to do no more than irritate the Headmaster of Penshurst.  My brother, however, rashly put in his spoke.

“You know, Sir, detectives are like doctors.  They like to keep their secrets to themselves, and Sergeant Beef assuredly has good reasons for thinking as he does.”

I felt that I should say my word in defence of the Sergeant.  “In spite of his appearance, he really has,” I said, “a way of solving these cases.”

Horatius Knox coughed, and clutched the lapels of his coat, then tugged them up and down two or three times.  As I watched him, I guessed that this was an idiosyncrasy of his, and I imagined that every small boy in the school who wished to imitate the Headmaster would make this the first step in doing so.  At that moment, to everyone’s surprise, Lord Edenbridge’s expression relaxed sufficiently for him to speak.

“Will you undertake to clear my son of the stigma of suicide?” he asked.

“Can’t make no promises,” returned Beef, shaking his head.  “But I think it’s odds on.”

I tried to nudge him to make him realize that this was no way to address a distinguished man who had just lost his son.  But Beef was uncontrollable.

“I should like to have a go at it, anyway,” he persisted.  “That satisfies me,” was all that the Marquess said, and his face at once relapsed into immobility.  What, I wonder, was going on behind those steel-grey eyes? Perhaps there was such grief as an ordinary man like me could never imagine.  Perhaps there was great bitterness against the world.  Perhaps . . . But we shall never know.

Meanwhile I snatched the opportunity of examining the sanctum of one of our great Headmasters.  Not since I was a boy at St. Lawrence College, Ramsgate, had I entered such a place, and then it was on no very happy occasion.  The high-pitched ceiling, crossed by massive oak beams, was discoloured with the tobacco smoke of years.  The desk was a litter of papers, and books were piled on the floor in a hopeless jumble.  The entire walls were lined with bookcases, and the shelves were filled with books of all sorts and sizes, placed there at random, and with no regard for order or subject.  No attempt had been made to relieve the heaviness of the room, and the windows did not appear to have been opened for months.  It was easy to imagine that in this room had been conceived monuments of classical erudition which would eventually be found in studies similar to this, and the man seemed to be in keeping with the room.

I had already judged this Headmaster to be a man of most distinguished mind and character.  Beef, however, seemed to think otherwise, for his manner of speaking to Mr. Knox lacked the elements of courtesy and respect.

“Putting me on to it is one thing,” he said.  “Helping me to get at the truth is another.  Now, can you suggest any way of introducing me to the life of the school in a manner which won’t attract attention?”

We all gazed rather forlornly at the burly figure of the Sergeant, and seeing that his merely crossing the quad had called forth remarks from the junior boys, it scarcely seemed likely that he could become an integral part of the life of Penshurst without producing a sensation in the school.  My brother, however, once again stepped forward.  “If I might suggest it, Headmaster, Danvers is on the sick list.  Perhaps Mr. Beef could take his place for a day or two?  Danvers,” he added to Lord Edenbridge and me,” is the School Porter.”

Horatius Knox tugged violently at his lapels, and seemed to be addressing Lord Edenbridge more than anyone.

“A great deal of the efficiency of Penshurst School,” he said, “depends on the School Porter.  It needs a man of experience, tact, and unfailing punctuality.  If Mr. Beef has these qualities in addition to his gifts as a distinguished detective, I am quite prepared to allow him to fill the post while he is making his enquiries.”

“What do I have to do?” asked Beef bluntly.  The Headmaster waved this away as a matter too trivial for his attention.

“That will be explained to you,” he said.  “You must in any case be fitted immediately with a porter’s uniform.”

We stood up, and after Beef had made an abortive and unsuccessful attempt to shake hands with Lord Edenbridge, who neither moved nor spoke, we managed to get ourselves out of the room.

❦

Case with Ropes and Rings, Chapter One

Case with Ropes and Rings

by

Leo Bruce

CHAPTER ONE

   

It was nearly three months since Beef had had a case.  The Sergeant, who has his pension and his savings, did not seem to worry much about this, but I have to make my living as an investigator’s chronicler, and I was beginning to get anxious.

I had made several attempts to get him a job, but these had been frustrated by a number of circumstances.  In the first, a nice little murder up in Shropshire, the wife of the murdered man had explained tartly that even if she did employ an investigator, she would not have the killing of her husband with a meat-chopper made the subject of a novel.  Another, a parson in Norfolk, who was having all sorts of trouble in his parish on account of a deluge of anonymous letters, had shaken his head sadly.  “The publicity, my dear Sir, the publicity!”  And Beef had said that he quite understood his objection.  So that it had begun to look as though, in spite of his success in the Circus case, Beef was back to where he began; that was, in the old position in which no one would take him seriously.

He did not fail to complain of this to me.

“It’s the way you write them up,” he said.  “If you make a joke of me, how do you expect people to take me on?”

I tried to explain to Beef that it was my interpretation of his performances, an interpretation which I always considered rather witty, which gave our books even the mild success they had achieved.

“So it may of,” said Beef, with such disdain for grammar that my teeth were set on edge.  “But it doesn’t get us cases.”  And it seemed for the moment that Beef was right.

One morning, however, the familiar voice, rattling my telephone receiver, implored me to come round to Lilac Crescent immediately.  “We’re on to something,” said Beef, “as sure as eggs is eggs.”

Not very confidently, but with the hopefulness that is part of my trade, I got into my car and drove round to the dingy row of houses, defiantly near Baker Street, in which Beef had made his home.  In the small front room he pulled out a copy of the Daily Dose without waiting to greet me, and stuck his large forefinger on a column of it.

“There you are,” he announced triumphantly.

I glanced sceptically at the headlines.  They announced, with that gleeful emphasis which the popular Press reserves for the misfortunes of the aristocracy, that young Lord Alan Foulkes, second son of the Marquess of Edenbridge, who was being educated at Penshurst School, had been found hanging from a beam in the gymnasium on the morning after he had won the School Heavyweight Boxing Championship.

“What about it?” I asked.

“That’s just the case for me,” said Beef.

“Case?  But the poor boy committed suicide,” I pointed out.

“How do you know?” asked Beef.

“Well, I don’t know,” I admitted.  “But it seems fairly obvious, doesn’t it?”

“Not to me, it doesn’t,” retorted Beef, and then added, “Penshurst?  Isn’t that where your brother is a teacher?”

I was startled.  It was quite true that my brother Vincent has been Senior Science Master at Penshurst for some years, but we had never been the best of friends.  His description of me, to a girl in whom we were both interested, as “pompous” had not helped to endear him to me, and when he had further written to my mother that “Lionel had better give up writing and return to insurance, since no one without a sense of humour could hope to make a living by the pen,” I was little short of furious.  I know that it is often necessary for me in writing the stories of Beef’s exploits to be a humourless prig, infinitely credulous and stupid, but actually I like to think that behind that facade there is a quick and effective brain which will some day surprise Beef by finding the solution to a problem before he has done more than fill his giant notebook.

My brother, at any rate, grossly underestimated me, and there was no love lost between us.  The mere thought of Beef’s getting mixed up in a case with which he was in any way associated alarmed me.  I could imagine his cold jeer at my old friend the ex-policeman, and at what would appear to Vincent’s scientific mind as Beef’s fumbling amateurism.  I could imagine him saying of me that, even with what he regarded as my mental inadequacy, I deserved better fare than to spend my life chronicling the clumsy buffoonery of the Sergeant, however successful Beef might have happened to be in the cases which he had undertaken.  I could imagine, too, Vincent’s distaste for a situation in which his quiet life at Penshurst was disturbed by our arrival.

However, I answered:  “Yes, that is the school where my brother is a master, and that makes any suggestion of your going there quite inadmissible.”

“How’s that?” asked Beef with his usual tactlessness.  “Couldn’t he get us the job?”

I sighed as patiently as I could.

“In the first place,” I pointed out, “I can’t see that there is a job.  In the second place, if there were, I can scarcely think of an investigator less suitable than yourself to undertake it.  In the third place, I very much doubt if my brother could do anything.  And in the fourth place, I shouldn’t dream of asking him.  So that settles the matter.”

“I don’t know,” said Beef.  “I don’t know.  I’ve always had a fancy for one of these hanging cases.  You’re often reading in the papers of young fellows tying themselves up in all sorts of ways and then getting hanged from the banisters.  I’d be interested to look into it.”

“Possibly,” I said.  “But I very much doubt if the Marquess of Edenbridge would see it quite that way.  He, perhaps you’re forgetting, has just lost his son in most tragic circumstances.”

Beef took his pipe out of his mouth.

“Tragic circumstances,” he began sententiously, “have never been sufficient to put off an investigator.  They love tragic circumstances, the whole lot of them.  Haven’t you ever noticed in detective novels what a good time everybody has with a few tragic circumstances?”

“But you don’t seem to realize, Beef, that this boy came from one of our greatest families.  Penshurst is among the oldest and finest of the public schools.  You’d be completely out of place in such surroundings.”

“I don’t agree with you at all,” said Beef huffily.  “I’ve nothing against a man being a lord.  He can’t help it.  And as for schools, well, I was educated at Purley Board School.  We were always sorry for the young fellows from the Whitgift, who had to wear those silly little coloured caps on their heads.  We didn’t half knock them off, either,” he added, grinning.

“I don’t know whether you’re trying to be funny, or you’re more obtuse than usual,” I replied.  “Perhaps I should speak plainly.  If there’s a case here at all—which I doubt—it’s a case for an investigator who is at the same time a man of the world, a gentleman, and one used to decent society.  Lord Simon Plimsoll could probably handle it, but not you, Beef, not you.”

“Now look here,” said Beef truculently.  “I’ve had about enough of this.  Either you write up my cases or you don’t.  This is the chance of a lifetime for me, and I don’t mean to miss it.  We’re going to hop in that little car of yours and we’re going straight down to see your brother, and I hope he's got more sense than what you have.”

“We’re going to do nothing of the sort,” I said angrily.

“You may not be,” rejoined Beef.  “But I am, and that’s flat.”

This bludgeoning method of Beef’s always put me in a quandary.  Obviously I could not have him arriving at Penshurst School and announcing to my brother that he was a friend of mine who wanted to investigate the suicide of Lord Alan Foulkes.  So I tried another line of defence.

“But, Beef,” I said, “what we want is a case which you’re commissioned to handle.  There’s no money in solution for solution’s sake.  It was all very well with the Circus, because we had to get you back on the map after your failure in the Sydenham case.  But this time you want something with fees to it.”

“Exactly,” said Beef.  “Exactly.  And there should be a nice little fee with this.  Lord Edenbridge is one of the richest men in England, and if I was to prove that his son hadn’t committed suicide, wouldn’t he want to shew his generosity?”

“It’s a little too far-fetched,” I retorted.

“And talking about fees,” put in Beef impressively, “there’s a thing I’ve been meaning to say for some time.  When we do a case like that Circus one, when there’s nothing direct for me in it, I really don’t see why I should not have a cut at the book rights.”

I was taken aback.

“The book rights?” I repeated.

“Yes,” said Beef.  “And the American rights, and the serial rights, if there are any, and the film rights, if your agents are ever clever enough to sell them.  (I should be all right on the films, and why Gordon Harker hasn’t discovered me years ago as a character for him to play I can’t think.)  Anyway, I don’t see why I shouldn’t have my share.  I do all the work, don’t I?  It’s me as lays my hand on the murderer’s shoulder in the last chapter, isn’t it?  Why shouldn’t I be in on the pickings?”

I stared at him aghast.

“Beef,” I said solemnly, “you’re getting beyond yourself.”

“Mind you,” said Beef, “I’m not saying anything about the cases where I do get paid, like in the Sydenham case.  But it’s those we do just for the story’s sake.  I mean, fair’s fair, isn’t it?”

I did not wish to discuss this monstrous suggestion.

“I shall have to think about it,” I said curtly.

“I should very much like to know what the other investigators would advise,” went on Beef expansively.  “You never hardly find them discussing money.  How do you suppose Dr. Thorndyke and Amer Picon and them got on?  I know Lord Simon Plimsoll has a private income.  Do you suppose the rest of them do it for love?”

“I refuse to discuss it any further,” I said, and picked up my hat.

“Well, it doesn’t matter so much in this case,” admitted Beef, “because if I do what I think I can, Lord Edenbridge will look after me.”

“There isn’t going to be a case,” I said hurriedly.  “I shouldn’t consider approaching my brother.”  Privately I was regretting that I had ever informed Beef of his existence.

“You ought to be glad of it,” the Sergeant persisted.  “It’s just what we need, lords and Old Schools and all that.  Our cases have been getting quite sordid lately.  People like to read about those with money and the goings on of the aristocracy.  I’m really only thinking of your book when I suggest it.”  I felt myself beginning to weaken.

“If I were to consent to our calling on my brother,” I suggested nervously, “would you promise to abide by what he said?  I mean, if he tells you that it’s impossible, you’ll come back straight to town with me?”  Beef considered for a moment.

“All right,” he said.  “If he says it’s orf, I’ll give in.”  I stood up.

“Very well,” I conceded, “I suppose there’s nothing for it.  I shall have to take you down to see him.” Beef grinned.

“That’s right,” he said.  “I knew you would be sensible in the end.  And just to encourage you, let me tell you this.  I’ve got an idea about this case.  I may be wrong, mind you, but I believe we’re going to make history.  If we’re lucky enough to have the police call this suicide, we’re home.  It all depends on the inquest, but you mark my words, Townsend, we’re on to something good.”

“I consider that rather vulgar,” I said, remembering that he was speaking of a tragedy.  But I did eventually lead him round to the car.

❦