Gaudy Night

7

It was a matter of mild public interest at Shrewsbury College that Miss Harriet Vane, the well-known detective novelist, was spending a couple of weeks in College, while engaged in research at the Bodleian upon the life and works of Sheridan Le Fanu. The excuse was good enough; Harriet really was gathering material, in a leisurely way, for a study of Le Fanu, though the Bodleian was not, perhaps, the ideal source for it. But there must be some reason given for her presence, and Oxford is willing enough to believe that the Bodleian is the hub of the scholar’s universe. She was able to find enough references among the Periodical Publications to justify an optimistic answer to kindly inquiries about her progress; and if, in fact, she snoozed a good deal in the arms of Duke Humphrey by day, to make up for those hours of the night spent in snooping about the corridors, she was probably not the only person in Oxford to find the atmosphere of old leather and central heating favorable to slumber.

At the same time, she devoted a good many hours to establishing order among Miss Lydgate’s chaotic proofs. The introduction was re-written, and the obliterated passages restored, from the author’s capacious memory; the disfigured pages were replaced from fresh proof-sheets; fifty-nine errors and obscurities in the cross-references were eliminated; the rejoinder to Mr. Elkbottom was incorporated in the text and made more vigorous and conclusive; and the authorities at the Press began to speak quite hopefully about the date of publication.

Whether because Harriet’s night prowlings, or because the mere knowledge that the circle of suspects was so greatly narrowed, had intimidated the Poison-Pen, or from whatever cause, there were few outbreaks during the next few days. One tiresome episode was the complete stopping-up of the lavatory basin drain in the S.C.R. cloak-room. This was found to be due to some torn fragments of material, which had been rammed firmly down through the grid with the help of a fine rod, and which, when the plumber had got them out proved to be the remains of a pair of fabric gloves, stained with brown paint and quite unidentifiable as anybody’s property. Another was the noisy emergence of the missing Library keys from the interior of a roll of photographs which Miss Pyke had left for half an hour in one of the lecture-rooms before using them to illustrate some remarks about the Parthenon Frieze. Neither of these episodes led to any discovery.

The Senior Common Room behaved to Harriet with that scrupulous and impersonal respect for a person’s mission in life which the scholarly tradition imposes. It was clear to them that, once established as the official investigator, she must be allowed to investigate without interference. Nor did they hasten to her with protestations of innocence or cries of indignation. They treated the situation with a fine detachment, making little reference to it, and confining the conversation in Common Room to matters of general and University interest. In solemn and ritual order, they invited her to consume sherry or coffee in their rooms, and refrained from comment upon one another. Miss Barton, indeed, went out of her way to invite Harriet’s opinions upon Women in the Modern State and to consult her on the subject of conditions in Germany. It is true that she flatly disagreed with many of the opinions expressed, but only objectively and without personal rancour; the vexed subject of the amateur’s right to investigate crimes was decently shelved. Miss Hillyard also, setting aside animosity, took pains to interrogate Harriet about the technical aspect of such historical crimes as the murder of Sir Edmund Berry Godfrey and the alleged poisoning of Sir Thomas Overbury by the Countess of Essex. Such overtures might, of course, be policy; but Harriet was inclined to attribute them to a careful instinct for propriety.

With Miss de Vine she had many interesting conversations. The Fellow’s personality attracted and puzzled her very much. More than with any other of the dons, she felt that with Miss de Vine the devotion to the intellectual life was the result, not of the untroubled following of a natural or acquired bias, but of a powerful spiritual call, over-riding other possible tendencies and she felt inquisitive enough, without any prompting, about Miss de Vine’s past life; but inquiry was difficult, and she always emerged from an encounter with the feeling that she had told more than she had learnt. She could guess at a history of conflict; but she found it difficult to believe that Miss de Vine was unaware of her own repressions or unable to control them.

With a view to establishing friendly relations with the Junior Common Room Harriet further steeled herself to compose and deliver a “talk” on “Detection in Fact and Fiction” for a College literary society. This was perilous work. To the unfortunate case in which she had herself figured as the suspected party she naturally made no allusion; nor in the ensuing discussion was anybody so tactless as to mention it. The Wilvercombe murder was a different matter. There was no obvious reason why she should not tell the students about that, and it seemed unkind to deprive them of a legitimate thrill on the purely personal grounds that it was a bore to have to mention Peter Wimsey in every second sentence. Her exposition, though perhaps erring slightly on the dry and academic side, was received with hearty applause, and at the end of the meeting the Senior Student, one Miss Millbanks, invited her to coffee.

Miss Millbanks had her room in Queen Elizabeth, and had furnished it with a good deal of taste. She was a tall, elegant girl, obviously well-to-do, much better dressed than the majority of the students, and carrying her intellectual attainments easily. She held a minor scholarship without emoluments, declaring publicly that she was only a scholar because she would not be seen dead in the ridiculous short gown of a commoner. As alternatives to coffee, she offered Harriet the choice of madeira or a cocktail, politely regretting that the inadequacy of college arrangements made it impossible to provide ice for the shaker. Harriet, who disliked cocktails after dinner, and had consumed madeira and sherry on an almost wearisome number of occasions since her arrival in Oxford, accepted the coffee, and chuckled as cups and glasses were filled. Miss Millbanks inquired courteously what the joke was.

“Only,” said Harriet, “that I gathered the other day from an article in the Morning Star that ‘undergraduettes,’ in the journalist’s disgusting phrase, lived entirely on cocoa.”

“Journalists,” said Miss Millbanks, condescendingly, “are always thirty years behind the times. Have you ever seen cocoa in College, Miss Fowler?”

“Oh, yes,” said Miss Fowler. She was a dark, thick-set Third Year, dressed in a very grubby sweater which, as she had previously explained, she had not had time to change, having been afflicted with an essay up to the moment of attending Harriet’s talk. “Yes, I’ve seen it in dons’ rooms. Occasionally. But I always looked on that as a kind of infantilism.”

“Isn’t it a re-living of the heroic past?” suggested Miss Millbanks. “O les beaux jours que ce siècle de fer. And so on.”

“Groupists drink cocoa,” added another Third Year. She was thin, with an eager, scornful face, and made no apology for her sweater, apparently thinking such matters beneath her notice.

“But they are oh! so tender to the failings of others,” said Miss Millbanks. “Miss Layton was ‘changed’ once, but she has now changed back. It was good while it lasted.”

Miss Layton, curled on a pouffe by the fire, lifted a wicked little heart-shaped face alight with mischief.

“I did enjoy telling people what I thought of them. Too rapturous. Especially confessing in public the evil, evil thoughts I had had about that woman Flaxman.”

“Bother Flaxman,” said the dark girl, shortly. Her name was Haydock and she was, as Harriet presently discovered, considered to be a safe History First. “She’s setting the whole Second Year by the ears. I don’t like her influence at all. And if you ask me, there’s something very wrong with Cattermole. Goodness knows, I don’t want any of this business of being my brother’s keeper-we had quite enough of that at school-but it’ll be awkward if Cattermole is driven into doing something drastic. As Senior Student, Lilian, don’t you think you could do something about it?”

“My dear,” protested Miss Millbanks, “what can anybody do? I can’t forbid Flaxman to make people’s lives a burden to them. If I could I wouldn’t. You don’t surely expect me to exercise authority? It’s bad enough hounding people to College Meetings. The S.C.R. don’t understand our sad lack of enthusiasm.”

“In their day,” said Harriet, “I think people had a passion for meetings and organization.”

“There are plenty of inter-collegiate meetings,” said Miss Layton. “We discuss things a great deal, and are indignant about the Proctorial Rules for Mixed Parties. But our enthusiasm for internal affairs is more restrained.”

“Well, I think,” said Miss Haydock bluntly, “we sometimes overdo the laisser-aller side of it. If there’s a big blow-up, it won’t pay anybody.”

“Do you mean about Flaxman’s cutting-out expeditions? Or about the ragging affair? By the way, Miss Vane, I suppose you have heard about the College Mystery.”

“I’ve heard something,” replied Harriet, cautiously. “It seems to be all very tiresome.”

“It will be extremely tiresome if it isn’t stopped,” said Miss Haydock. “I say we ought to do a spot of private investigation ourselves. The S.C.R. don’t seem to be making much progress.”

“Well, the last effort at investigation wasn’t very satisfactory,” said Miss Millbanks.

“Meaning Cattermole? I don’t believe it’s Cattermole. She’s too obvious. And she hasn’t the guts. She could and does make an ass of herself, but she wouldn’t go about it so secretively.”

“There’s nothing against Cattermole,” said Miss Fowler, “except that somebody wrote Flaxman an offensive letter on the occasion of her swiping Cattermole’s young man. Cattermole was the obvious suspect then, but why should she do all these other things?”

“Surely,” Miss Layton appealed to Harriet, “surely the obvious suspect is always innocent.”

Harriet laughed; and Miss Millbanks said:

“Yes; but I do think Cattermole is getting to the stage when she’d do almost anything to attract attention.”

“Well, I don’t believe it’s Cattermole,” said Miss Haydock. “Why should she write letters to me?”

“Did you have one?”

“Yes; but it was only a kind of wish that I should plough in Schools, the usual silly thing made of pasted-up letters. I burnt it, and took Cattermole in to dinner on the strength of it.”

“Good for you,” said Miss Fowler.

“I had one too,” said Miss Layton. “A beauty-about there being a reward hell for women who went my way. So, acting on the suggestion given, I forwarded it to my future address by way of the fireplace.”

“All the same, said Miss Millbanks, ”it is rather disgusting. I don’t mind the letters so much. It’s the rags, and the writing on the wall. If any snoopy person from outside happened to get hold of it there’d be a public stink, and that would be a bore. I don’t pretend to much public spirit, but I admit to some. We don’t want to get the whole College gated by way of reprisals. And I’d rather not have it said that we were living in a madhouse.”

“Too shame-making,” agreed Miss Layton; “though of course, you may get an isolated queer specimen anywhere.”

“There are some oddities in the First Year all right,” said Miss Fowler. “Why is it that every year seems to get shriller and scrubbier than the last?”

“They always did,” said Harriet.

“Yes,” said Miss Haydock, “I expect the Third Year said the same about us when we first came up. But it’s a fact that we had none of this trouble before we had this bunch of freshers in.”

Harriet did not contradict this, not wishing to focus suspicion on either the S.C.R. or on the unfortunate Cattermole who (as everybody would remember) was up during the Gaudy, waging simultaneous war against despised love and Responsions. She did ask, however, whether any suspicion had fallen upon other students besides Miss Cattermole.

“Not definitely, no,” replied Miss Millbanks. “There’s Hudson, of course-she came up from school with a bit of a reputation for ragging, but in my opinion she’s quite sound. I should call the whole of our year pretty sound. And Cattermole really has only herself to thank. I mean, she’s asking for trouble.”

“How?” asked Harriet.

“Various ways,” said Miss Millbanks, with a caution which suggested that Harriet was too much in the confidence of the S.C.R. to be trusted with details. “She is rather inclined to break rules for the sake of it-which is all right if you get a kick out of it; but she doesn’t.”

“Cattermole’s going in off the deep end,” said Miss Haydock. “Wants to show young what’s-his-name-Farringdon-he isn’t the only pebble on the beach. All very well. But she’s being a bit blatant. She’s simply pursuing that lad Pomfret.”

“That fair-faced goop at Queen’s?” said Miss Fowler. “Well, she’s going to be unlucky again, because Flaxman is steadily hauling him off.”

“Curse Flaxman!” said Miss Haydock. “Can’t she leave other people’s men alone? She’s bagged Farringdon; I do think she might leave Pomfret for Cattermole.”

“She hates to leave anybody anything,” said Miss Layton.

“I hope,” said Miss Millbanks, “she has not been trying to collect your Geoffrey.”

“I’m not giving her the opportunity,” said Miss Layton, with an impish grin. “Geoffrey’s sound-yes, darlings, definitely sound-but I’m taking no chances. Last time we had him to tea in the J.C.R., Flaxman came undulating in. So sorry, she had no idea anybody was there, and she’d left a book behind. With the Engaged Label on the door as large as life. I did not introduce Geoffrey.”

“Did he want you to?” inquired Miss Haydock.

“Asked who she was. I said she was the Templeton Scholar and the world’s heavyweight in the way of learning. That put him off.”

“What’ll Geoffrey do when you pull off your First, my child?” demanded Miss Haydock.

“Well, Eve-it will be awkward if I do that. Poor lamb! I shall have to make him believe I only did it by looking fragile and pathetic at the viva.” And Miss Layton did, indeed, contrive to look fragile and pathetic, and anything but learned. Nevertheless, on inquiry from Miss Lydgate, Harriet discovered that she was an exceptionally well-fancied favourite for the English School, and was taking, of all things, a Language Special. If the dry bones of Philology could be made to live by Miss Layton, then she was a very dark horse indeed. Harriet felt a respect for her brains; so unexpected a personality might be capable of anything.

So much for Third-Year opinion. Harriet’s first personal encounter with the Second Year was more dramatic.

The College had been so quiet for the last week that Harriet gave herself a holiday from police-duty and went to a private dance given by a contemporary of her own, who had married and settled in North Oxford. Returning between twelve and one, she garaged the car in the Dean’s private garage, let herself quietly through the grille dividing the Traffic Entrance from the rest of College and began to cross the Old Quad towards Tudor. The weather had turned finer, and there was a pale glimmer of cloudy moonlight. Against that glimmer, Harriet, skirting the corner of Burleigh Building, observed something humped and strange about the outline of the eastern wall, close to where the Principal’s private postern led out into St. Cross Road. It seemed clear that here, in the words of the old song, was “a man where nae man should be.”

If she shouted at him, he would drop over on the outer side and be lost. She had the key of the postern with her-having been trusted with a complete set of keys for patrol purposes. Pulling her black evening cloak about her face and stepping softly, Harriet ran quickly down the grass path between the Warden’s House and the Fellows Garden, let herself silently out into St. Cross Road and stood beneath the wall. As she emerged, a second dark form stepped out from the shadows and said urgently, “Oy!”

The gentleman on the wall looked round, exclaimed, “Oh, hell!” and scrambled down in a hurry. His friend made off at a smart pace, but the wall-climber seemed to have damaged himself in his descent, and made but poor speed. Harriet, who was nimble enough, for all she was over nine years down from Oxford, gave chase and came up a few yards from the corner of Jowett Walk. The accomplice, now well away, looked back, hesitating.

“Clear out, old boy!” yelled the captive; and then, turning to Harriet remarked with a sheepish grin, “Well, it’s a fair cop. I’ve bust my ankle or something.”

“And what were you doing on our wall, sir?” demanded Harriet. in the moonlight she beheld a fresh, fair and ingenuous face, youthfully rounded and, at the moment, disturbed by an expression of mingled apprehension and amusement. He was a very tall and very large young man; but Harriet had clasped him in a wiry grip that he could scarcely shake off without hurting her, and he showed no disposition to use violence.

“Just having a beano,” said the young man, promptly. “A bet, you know, and all that. Hang my cap on the tip-top branch of the Shrewsbury beeches. My friend there was the witness. I seem to have lost, don’t I?”

“In that case,” said Harriet severely, “where’s your cap? And your gown, if it comes to that? And, sir, your name and college?”

“Well,” said the young man, impudently, “if it comes to that, where and what are yours?”

When one’s thirty-second birthday is no more than a matter of months away, such a question is flattering. Harriet laughed.

“My dear young man, do you take me for an undergraduate?”

“A don-a female don. God help us!” exclaimed the young man, whose spirits appeared to be sustained, though not unduly exalted, by spirituous liquors.

“Well?” said Harriet.

“I don’t believe it,” said the young man, scanning her face as closely as he could in the feeble light. “Not possible. Too young. Too charming. Too much sense of humour.”

“A great deal too much sense of humour to let you get away with that, my lad. And no sense of humour at all about this intrusion.”

“I say,” said the young man, “I’m really most frightfully sorry. Mere lightheartedness and all that kind of thing. Honestly, we weren’t doing any harm. Quite definitely not. I mean, we were just winning the bet and going away quietly. I say, do be a sport. I mean, you’re not the Warden or the Dean or anything. I know them. Couldn’t you overlook it?”

“It’s all very well,” said Harriet. “But we can’t have this kind of thing. It doesn’t do. You must see that it doesn’t do.”

“Oh, I do see,” agreed the young man. “Absolutely. Definitely. Dashed. silly thing to do. Open to misinterpretation.” He winced, and drew up one leg to rub his injured ankle. “But when you do see a tempting bit of wall like that-”

“Ah. yes,” said Harriet, “what is the temptation? Just come and show me, will you?” She led him firmly, despite his protests, towards the postern. “Oh, I see, yes. A brick or two out of that buttress. Excellent foothold. You’d almost think they’d been knocked out on purpose, wouldn’t you? And a handy tree in the Fellows’ Garden. The Bursar will have to see to it. Are you well acquainted with that buttress, young man?”

“It’s known to exist,” admitted her captive. “But, look here, we weren’t-we weren’t calling on anybody or anything of that kind, you know, if you know what I mean”

“I hope not,” said Harriet.

“No, we were all on our own,” explained the young man, eagerly. “Nobody else involved. Good Heavens, no. And, look here, I’ve bust my ankle and we shall be gated anyhow, and, dear, kind lady-”

At this moment, a loud groan resounded from within the College wall. The young man’s face became filled with agonized alarm.

“What’s that?” asked Harriet.

“I really couldn’t say,” said the young man.

His groan was repeated. Harriet grasped the undergraduate tightly by the arm and led him along to the postern.

“But look here,” said the gentleman, limping dolefully beside her, “you mustn’t-please don’t think-”

“I’m going to see what’s the matter,” said Harriet.

She unlocked the postern, drew her captive in with her, and relocked the gate. Under the wall, just beneath the spot where the young man had been perched, lay a huddled figure, which was apparently suffering acute internal agonies of some kind.

“Look here,” said the young man, abandoning all pretence, “I’m most frightfully sorry about this. I’m afraid we were a bit thoughtless. I mean we didn’t notice. I mean, I’m afraid she isn’t very well, and we didn’t notice how it was, you know.”

“The girl’s drunk,” said Harriet, uncompromisingly.

She had, in the bad old days, seen too many young poets similarly afflicted to make any mistake about the symptoms.

“Well, I’m afraid-yes, that’s about it,” said the young man. “ Rogers will mix ’em so strong. But look here, honestly, there’s no harm done, and I mean-”

“H’m!” said Harriet. “Well, don’t shout. That house is the Warden’s Lodgings.”

“Help,” said the young man, for the second time. “I say-are you going to be sporting?”

“That depends,” said Harriet. “As a matter of fact, you’ve been extraordinarily lucky. I’m not one of the dons. I’m only staying in College. So I’m a free agent.”

“Bless you!” exclaimed the young man, fervently.

“Don’t be in a hurry. You’ll have to tell me about this. Who’s the girl, by the way?”

The patient here gave another groan.

“Oh, dear!” said the undergraduate.

“Don’t worry,” said Harriet. “She’ll be sick in a minute.” She walked over and inspected the sufferer. “It’s all right. You can preserve a gentlemanly reticence. I know her. Her name’s Cattermole. What’s yours?”

“My name’s Pomfret-of Queen’s.”

“Ah!” said Harriet.

“We threw a party round in my friend’s rooms,” explained Mr. Pomfret. “At least it started as a meeting, but it ended as a party. Nothing wrong whatever. Miss Cattermole came along for a joke. All clean fun. Only there were a lot of us and what with one thing and another we had a few too many, and then we found Miss Cattermole was rather under the weather. So we got her collected up, and Rogers and I-”

“Yes, I see,” said Harriet. “Not very creditable, was it?”

“No, it’s rotten,” admitted Mr. Pomfret.

“Had she got leave to attend the meeting? And late leave?”

“I don’t know,” said Mr. Pomfret, disturbed. “I’m afraid-look here! Its all rather tiresome. I mean, she doesn’t belong to the Society-”

“What Society?”

“The Society that was meeting. I think she pushed in for a joke.”

“Gate-crashed you? H’m. That probably means no late leave.”

“Sounds serious,” said Mr. Pomfret.

“It’s serious for her,” said Harriet. “You’ll get off with a fine or a gating, I suppose; but we have to be more particular. It’s a nasty-minded world, and our rules have to remember that fact.”

“I know,” said Mr. Pomfret. “As a matter of fact we were dashed worried. We had a devil of a job getting her along,” he burst out confidentially. “Fortunately it was only from this end of Long Wall. Phew!”

He pulled out his handkerchief and wiped his forehead.

“Anyhow,” he went on, “I’m thankful you aren’t a don.”

“That’s all very well,” said Harriet austerely; “but I’m a Senior Member of College and I must feel responsibility. This isn’t the kind of thing one wants.”

She turned a cold glance on the unfortunate Miss Cattermole, to whom the worst was happening.

“I’m sure we didn’t want it,” said Mr. Pomfret, averting his eyes; “but what could we do? It’s no good trying to corrupt your porter,” he added ingenuously; “it’s been tried.”

“Indeed?” said Harriet. “No; you wouldn’t get much change out of Padgett. Was anybody else there from Shrewsbury.”

“Yes-Miss Flaxman and Miss Blake. But they had ordinary leave to come and went off at about eleven. So they’re all right.”

“They ought to have taken Miss Cattermole with them.”

“Of course,” said Mr. Pomfret. He looked gloomier than ever. Obviously, thought Harriet, Miss Flaxman would not mind at all if Miss Cattermole got into trouble. Miss Blake’s motives were more obscure; but she was probably only weak-minded. Harriet was fired with a quite unscrupulous determination that Miss Cattermole should not get into trouble if she could prevent it. She went across to the limp form and hauled it to its’ feet. Miss Cattermole groaned dismally. “She’ll do now,” said Harriet. “I wonder where the little fool’s room is. Do you know?”

“Well, as a matter of fact, I do,” replied Mr. Pomfret. “Sounds bad, but there-people do show people their rooms, you know, all regulations notwithstanding and all that. It’s somewhere over there, through that archway.”

He waved a vague hand towards the New Quad at the other end of nowhere.

“Heavens!” said Harriet, “it would be. I’m afraid you’ll have to give me a hand with her. She’s a bit too much for me, and she can’t stay here in the damp. If anybody sees us, you’ll have to go through with it. How’s the ankle?”

“Better, thanks,” said Mr. Pomfret. “I think I can make shift to stagger a bit. I say, you’re being very decent.”

“Get on with the job, said Harriet, grimly, ”and don’t waste time in speeches.”

Miss Cattermole was a thickly-built young woman, and no inconsiderable weight. She had also reached the stage of complete inertia. For Harriet, hampered by high-heeled shoes, and to Mr. Pomfret, afflicted with a game ankle, the progress across the quads was anything but triumphal. It was also rather noisy, what with the squeak of stone and gravel under their feet, and the grunts and shufflings of the limp figure between them. At every moment, Harriet expected to hear a window thrust up, or to see the shape of an agitated don come rushing out to demand some explanation of Mr. Pomfret’s presence at that early hour of the morning. It was with very great relief that she at last found the right doorway and propelled Miss Cattermole’s helpless form through it.

“What next?” inquired Mr. Pomfret in a hoarse whisper.

“I must let you out. I don’t know where her room is, but I can’t have you wandering all over College. Wait a minute. We’ll deposit her in the nearest bathroom. Here you are. Round the corner. Easy does it.”

Mr. Pomfret again bent obligingly to the task.

“There!” said Harriet. She laid Miss Cattermole on her back on the bathroom floor, took the key from the lock and came out, securing the door behind her. “She must stay there for the moment. Now we’ll get rid of you. I don’t think anybody saw us. If we’re met on the way back, you were at Mrs. Hemans’ dance and saw me home. Get that? It’s not very convincing, because you ought not to have done any such thing, but it’s better than the truth.”

“I only wish I had been at Mrs. Hemans’ dance,” said the grateful Mr. Pomfret. “I’d have danced every dance with you and all the extras. Do you mind telling me who you are?”

“My name’s Vane. And you’d better not start being enthusiastic too soon. I’m not considering your welfare particularly. Do you know Miss Cattermole well?”

“Rather well. Oh, yes. Naturally. I mean, we know some of the same people and that sort of thing. As a matter of fact, she used to be engaged to an old schoolfellow of mine- New College man-only that fell through and all that. No affair of mine; but you know how it is. One knows people and one kind of goes on knowing them. And there you are.”

“Yes, I see. Well, Mr. Pomfret I am not anxious to get either you or Miss Cattermole into a row-”

“I knew you were a sport!” cried Mr. Pomfret.

(“Don’t shout)-but this sort of thing cannot go on. There must be no more late parties and no more climbing over walls. You understand. Not with anybody. It’s not fair. If I go to the Dean with this story, nothing much will happen to you, but Miss Cattermole will be lucky if she’s not sent down. For God’s sake, stop being an ass. There are much better ways of enjoying Oxford than fooling round at midnight with the women students.”

“I know there are. I think it’s all rather rot, really.”

“Then why do it?”

“I don’t know. Why does one do idiotic things?”

“Why?” said Harriet. They were passing the end of the Chapel, and Harriet stood still to give emphasis to what she was saying. “I’ll tell you why, Mr. Pomfret. Because you haven’t the guts to say No when somebody asks you to be a sport. That tom-fool word has got more people in trouble than all the rest of the dictionary put together. If it’s sporting to encourage girls to break rules and drink more than they can carry and get themselves into a mess on your account, then I’d stop being a sport and try being a gentleman.”

“Oh, I say,” said Mr. Pomfret, hurt.

“I mean it,” said Harriet.

“Well, I see your point,” said Mr. Pomfret, shifting his feet uneasily. “I’ll do my best about it. You’ve been dashed spor-I mean you’ve behaved like a perfect gentleman about all this-” he grinned-“and I’ll try to-good Lord! here’s somebody coming.”

A quick patter of slippered feet along the passage between the Hall and Queen Elizabeth was approaching rapidly.

On an impulse, Harriet stepped back and pushed open the Chapel door.

“Get in,” she said.

Mr. Pomfret slipped hastily in behind her. Harriet shut the door on him and stood quietly in front of it. The footsteps came nearer, came opposite the porch and stopped suddenly. The night-walker uttered a little squeak.

“Ooh!”

“What is it?” said Harriet.

“Oh miss it’s you! You gave me such a start. Did you see anything?”

“See what? Who is it, by the way?”

“Emily, miss-I sleep in the New Quad, miss, and I woke up, and I made sure I heard a man’s voice in the quadrangle, and I looked out and there he was miss, as plain as plain, coming this way with one of the young ladies. So I slipped on my slippers, miss…”

“Damn!” said Harriet to herself. Better tell part of the truth, though.

“It’s all right, Emily. It was a friend of mine. He came in with me and wanted very much to see the New Quad by moonlight. So we just walked across and back again.”

(A poor excuse, but probably less suspicious than a flat denial.)

“Oh, I see, miss. I beg your pardon. But I get that nervous, with one thing and another. And it’s unusual, if you’ll excuse me saying so, miss…”

“Yes, very,” said Harriet, strolling gently away in the direction of the New Quad, so that the scout was bound to follow her. “It was stupid of me not to think that it might disturb people. I’ll mention it to the Dean in the morning. You did quite right to come down.”

“Well, miss, of course I didn’t know who it was. And the Dean is so particular. And with all these queer things happening…”

“Yes, absolutely. Of course. I’m really very sorry to have been so thoughtless. The gentleman has gone now, so you won’t get woken up again.”

Emily seemed doubtful. She was one of those people who never feel they have said a thing till they have said it three times over. She paused at the foot of her staircase to say everything again. Harriet listened impatiently, thinking of Mr. Pomfret, fuming in the Chapel. At last she got rid of the scout and turned back.

Complicated, thought Harriet; silly situation, like a farce. Emily thinks she’s caught a student: I think I’ve caught a poltergeist. We catch each other. Young Pomfret parked in the Chapel. He thinks I’m kindly shielding him and Cattermole. Having carefully hidden Pomfret, I have to admit he was there. But if Emily had been the Poltergeist-and perhaps she is-then I couldn’t have had Pomfret helping to chase her. This kind of sleuthing is very confusion-making.

She pushed open the Chapel door. The porch was empty.

“Damn!” said Harriet, irreverently. “The idiot’s gone. Perhaps he’s gone inside, though.”

She looked in through the inner door and was relieved to see a dark figure faintly outlined against the pale oak of the stalls. Then, with a sudden, violent shock, she became aware of a second dark figure, poised strangely, it seemed, in midair.

“Hullo!” said Harriet. In the thin light of the South windows she saw the flash of a white shirt-front as Mr. Pomfret turned. “It’s only me. What’s that?”

She took a torch from her handbag and recklessly switched it on. The beam snowed a dismal shape dangling from the canopy above the stalls. It was winging a little to and fro and turning slowly as it swung. Harriet darted forward.

“Morbid kind of imagination these girls have got, haven’t they?” said Mr. Pomfret.

Harriet contemplated the M.A. cap and gown, arranged over a dress and bolster hitched by a thin cord to one of the terminals with which the architect had decorated the canopies.

“Bread-knife stuck through the tummy, too,” pursued Mr. Pomfret. “Gave me quite a turn, as my aunt would say. Did you catch the young woman-?”

“No. Was she in here?”

“Oh, definitely,” said Mr. Pomfret. “Thought I’d retreat a bit further, you know. So in I came. Then I saw that. So I came along to investigate and heard somebody scrambling out by the other door-over there.”

He pointed vaguely towards the north side of the building, where a door led into the vestry. Harriet hastened to look. The door was open, and the outer vestry door, though shut, had been unlocked from within. She peered out. All was quiet.

“Bother them and their rags,” said Harriet, returning. “No, I didn’t meet the lady. She must have got away while I was taking Emily back to the New Quad. Just my luck!” She muttered the last exclamation under her breath. It was really sickening to have had the Poltergeist under her hand like that, and to have been distracted by Emily. She went up to the dummy again, and saw that a paper was pinned to its middle by the bread-knife.

“Quotation from the classics,” said Mr. Pomfret, easily. “Looks as though somebody had a grouse against your dons.”

“Silly young fools!” said Harriet. “Very convincing bit of work, though, come to look at it. If we hadn’t found it first, it would have created quite a sensation when we all filed into prayers. A little investigation is indicated. Well, now, it’s time you went quietly home and were gated for the good of your soul.”

She led him down to the postern and let him out.

“By the way, Mr. Pomfret, I’d be obliged if you didn’t mention this rag to anybody. It’s not in the best of taste. One good turn deserves another.”

“Just as you say,” replied Mr. Pomfret. “And, look here-may I push round tomorrow-at least, it’s this morning, isn’t it?-and make inquiries and all that? Only proper, you know. When shall you be in? Please!”

“No visitors in the morning,” said Harriet, promptly. “I don’t know what I shall be doing in the afternoon. But you can always ask at the Lodge.”

“Oh, I may? That’s top-hole. I’ll call-and if you’re not there I’ll leave a note. I mean, you must come round and have tea or a cocktail or something. And I do honestly promise it shan’t happen again, if I can help it.”

“All right. By the way-what time did Miss Cattermole arrive at your friend’s place?”

“Oh-about half-past nine, I think. Couldn’t be sure. Why?”

“I only wondered whether her initials were in the porter’s book. But I’ll see to it. Goodnight.”

“Good-night,” said Mr. Pomfret, “and thanks frightfully.”

Harriet locked the postern behind him and returned across the quadrangle, feeling that, out of all this absurd tiresomeness, something had been most definitely gained. The dummy could scarcely have been put in position before 9:30; so that Miss Cattermole, through sheer folly, had contrived to give herself a cast-iron alibi. Harriet was so grateful to her for advancing the inquiry by even this small step that she determined the girl should, if possible, be let off the consequences of her escapade.

This reminded her that Miss Cattermole still lay on the bathroom floor, waiting to be dealt with. It would be awkward if she had come to her senses in the interval and started to make a noise. But on reaching the New Quad and unlocking the door, Harriet found her prisoner in the somnolent stage of the rake’s progress. A little research along the corridors revealed that Miss Cattermole slept on the first floor. Harriet opened the door of the room, and as she did so the door next it opened also, and a head popped out.

“Is that you, Cattermole?” whispered the head. “Oh, I’m sorry.” It popped in Harriet recognized the girl who had gone up and spoken to Miss Cattermole after the Opening of the Library. She went to her door, which bore the name of C. I. Briggs, and knocked gently. The head reappeared.

“Were you expecting to see Miss Cattermole come in?”

“Well said Miss Briggs, ”I heard somebody at her door-oh! it’s Miss Vane, isn’t it?”

“Yes. What made you sit up and wait for Miss Cattermole?”

Miss Briggs, who was wearing a woolly coat over her pajamas, looked a little alarmed.

“I had some work to do. I was sitting up in any case. Why?”

Harriet looked at the girl. She was short and sturdily built, with a plain, strong, sensible face. She appeared trustworthy.

“If you’re a friend of Miss Cattermole’s,” said Harriet, “You’d better come and help me upstairs with her. She’s down in the bathroom. I found her being helped over the wall by a young man, and she’s rather under the weather.”

“Oh, dear!” said Miss Briggs. “Tight?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“She is a fool,” said Miss Briggs. “I knew there’d be trouble some day. All right, I’ll come.”

Between them they lugged Miss Cattermole up the noisy, polished stairs and dumped her upon her bed. In grim silence they undressed her and put her between the sheets.

“She’ll sleep it off now,” said Harriet. “I think, by the way, a little explanation wouldn’t be a bad idea. How about it?”

“Come into my room,” said Miss Briggs. “Would you like any hot milk or Ovaltine or coffee, or anything?”

Harriet accepted hot milk. Miss Briggs put a kettle on the ring in the pantry opposite, came in, stirred up the fire and sat down on a pouffe.

“Please tell me,” said Miss Briggs, “what has happened.”

Harriet told her, omitting the names of the gentlemen concerned. But Miss Briggs promptly supplied the omission.

“That was Reggie Pomfret of course,” she observed. “Poor blighter. He always gets left with the baby. After all, what is the lad to do, if people go chasing him?”

“It’s awkward,” said Harriet. “I mean, you need some knowledge of the world to get out of it gracefully. Does the girl really care for him?”

“No,” said Miss Briggs. “Not really. She just wants somebody or something. You know. She got a nasty knock when her engagement was broken. You see, she and Lionel Farringdon had been childhood friends and so on, and it was all settled before she came up. Then Farringdon got collared by our Miss Flaxman, and there was a frightful bust-up. And there were complications. And Violet Cattermole has gone all unnerved.”

“I know,” said Harriet. “Sort of desperate feeling-I must have a man of my own-that kind of thing.”

“Yes. Doesn’t matter who he is. I think it’s a sort of inferiority complex, or something. One must do idiotic things and assert one’s self. Am I making myself clear?”

“Oh, yes. I understand that perfectly. It happens so often. One just has to make one’s self out no end of a little devil… Has this kind of thing happened often?”

“Well,” confessed Miss Briggs, “more often than I like. I’ve tried to keep Violet reasonable, but what’s the good of preaching to people? When they get into that worked-up state you might as well talk to the man in the moon. And though it’s very tiresome for young Pomfret, he’s awfully decent and safe. If he were strong-minded, of course he’d get out of it. But I’m rather thankful he’s not, because, if it wasn’t for him it might be some frightful tick or other.”

“Is anything likely to come of it?”

“Marriage, do you mean? No-o. I think he has enough sense of self-protection to avoid that. And besides-Look here, Miss Vane, it really is an awful shame. Miss Flaxman simply cannot leave anybody alone, and she’s trying to get Pomfret away too, though she doesn’t want him. If only she’d leave poor Violet alone, the whole thing would probably work itself out quite quietly. Mind you, I’m very fond of Violet. She’s a decent sort, and she’d be absolutely all right with the right kind of man. She’s no business to be up at Oxford at all, really. A nice domestic life with a man to be devoted to is what she really wants. But he’d have to be a solid, decided kind of man, and frightfully affectionate in a firm kind of way. But not Reggie Pomfret, who is a chivalrous young idiot.”

Miss Briggs poked the fire savagely.

“Well,” said Harriet “something has got to be done about all this. I don’t want to go to the Dean, but-”

“Of course, something must be done,” said Miss Briggs. “It’s extraordinarily lucky it should have been you who spotted it and not one of the dons. I’ve been almost wishing that something might happen. I’ve been frightfully worried about it. It isn’t the kind of thing I know how to cope with at all. But I had to stand by Violet more or less-otherwise I should simply have lost her confidence altogether and goodness knows what stupid thing she’d have done then.”

“I think you’re quite right” said Harriet. “But now, perhaps, I can have a word with her and tell her to mind her step. After all, she has got to give some guarantee of sensible behaviour if I’m not to report her to the Dean. A spot of benevolent blackmail is indicated, I fancy.”

“Yes,” agreed Miss Briggs. “You can do it. It’s exceedingly decent of you. I’ll be thankful to be relieved of the responsibility. It’s all rather wearing, and it does upset one’s work. After all, work’s what one’s here for. I’ve got Honor Mods. next term, and it’s frightfully upsetting, never knowing what’s going to happen next.”

“I expect Miss Cattermole relies on you a lot.”

“Yes,” said Miss Briggs, “but listening to people’s confidences does take such a time, and I’m not awfully good at wrestling with fits of temperament.”

“The confidante has a very heavy and thankless task,” said Harriet. “It’s not surprising if she goes mad in white linen. It’s more surprising if she keeps sane and sensible like you. But I agree that you ought to have the burden taken off your shoulders. Are you the only one?”

“Pretty well. Poor old Violet lost a lot of friends over the uproar.”

“And the business of the anonymous letters?”

“Oh, you’ve heard about that? Well, of course, it wasn’t Violet. That’s ridiculous. But Flaxman spread the story all over the college, and once you’ve started an accusation like that it takes a lot of killing.”

“It does. Well, Miss Briggs, you and I had better get to bed. I’ll come along and see Miss Cattermole after breakfast. Don’t worry too much. I dare say this upset will be a blessing in disguise. Well, I’ll be going now. Can you lend me a strong knife?”

Miss Briggs, rather astonished, produced a stout pen-knife and said good-night. On her way over to Tudor, Harriet cut down the dangling dummy and carried it away with her for scrutiny and action at a later hour. She felt she badly needed to sleep on the situation.

She must have been weary, for she dropped off as soon as she was in bed, and dreamed neither of Peter Wimsey nor of anything else.