room for a bit. Tiverton was there, I remember. Then I changed; upstairs. Then I came down again. I’m afraid this is all rather inadequate.’
‘Have you any idea what time you came down, sir?’
‘Well, it struck two as I was going up the stairs. And one takes about a quarter of an hour to change. So I suppose –’
‘I see. You came down about quarter past two. Then you went into the common room, didn’t you?’ ‘Yes.’ Sims shot a quick glance at the superintendent. ‘No, I’m wrong. Whoever told you? I went outside and had a cigarette.’
‘Whereabouts did you go?’
‘Oh, out at the back. Along by the hayfield, you know. I walked up and down the path. Griffin must have seen me, you know. He was out on Big Field.’ Armstrong did not fail to note an apprehensive timbre in the tone of Sims’ last statements, but he gave no sign of it.
‘Quite. And I take it you saw nothing out of the way?’
‘No, of course not. I should have told you. There was no one out on that side of the house but Griffin. Evans came in just as I was at the door.’ ‘Thank you, sir. Then, if you have no suggestions to make, will you be so good as to send along Mr. Evans?’
Unless he is lying – no, unless he and Mr. Griffin are in collaboration, and if Mrs. Vale’s evidence is correct, that would seem to fix the murder between one-thirty and two-fifteen, unless, of course, it was committed somewhere else. Far too many ‘ifs’ and ‘unlesses,’ thought Superintendent Armstrong, fingering a certain envelope in his pocket.
‘Ah, good evening; Mr. Evans, isn’t it? Have you any theories about this crime?’
Michael was conscious of antagonism; a very faintly contemptuous accent on the word ‘you’ (had some one else been bothering the superintendent with theories?), and a general air of dangerous quiescence in the superintendent’s big body slumped back heavily in his chair.
‘Me? Oh, Lord, no.’
‘You have never heard anyone threatening to murder this boy?’
‘Of course not. Do murderers commonly proclaim their intentions in public?’
The superintendent’s brow contracted. He said, ‘You do not recall a conversation at breakfast today?’
‘What on earth? Surely you are not suspecting Griffin? It’s too ludicrous. Why, anyone might talk about screwing a boy’s neck. I do myself about twice a week.’
‘Very well, sir, we’ll pass that over.’ Michael had an uneasy feeling that Armstrong was by no means passing it over. Was he just an ordinary police numskull? No, there was a formidable intelligence in those small eyes. Then why go off on this ridiculous tack about Griffin? Perhaps he is trying to put me off my guard. Be careful.
‘Now, just a few formal questions, sir. I am told you were not in school for lunch.’
‘No, I went out – into the wood beyond the playing fields.’
‘Did you see Mrs. Vale?’
O God, now it’s begun. What has she told him? Chance it.
‘No.’
‘Oh, I thought you might have. She was having lunch in the hayfield.’ Thank God. It seems all right so far.
‘Did you have anything to eat, sir?’
‘Yes, I took some sandwiches with me.’ That should be safe enough.
‘I see… I expect they were busy in the kitchen today.’ The superintendent’s voice was just a shade too offhand. Michael sensed the trap.
‘I keep a loaf and butter in my room.’ Well, so I do. Damn and blast! I should never have said that. I should have waited till he asked. Out of one trap into another… Armstrong, however, made no comment.
‘I take it you saw no one in the wood, or on the hayfield?’
‘No. Griffin came out not long after the bell rang. He and Mould, the groundsman, were in Big Field all the time, I think, after that.’
This was going fine. Nothing to be afraid of in this fat official in blue. Just my guilty conscience.
‘I understand, then, that you didn’t go into the hayfield at all, sir? You were in the wood from one-thirty to about
‘Have you any idea what time you came down, sir?’
‘Well, it struck two as I was going up the stairs. And one takes about a quarter of an hour to change. So I suppose –’
‘I see. You came down about quarter past two. Then you went into the common room, didn’t you?’ ‘Yes.’ Sims shot a quick glance at the superintendent. ‘No, I’m wrong. Whoever told you? I went outside and had a cigarette.’
‘Whereabouts did you go?’
‘Oh, out at the back. Along by the hayfield, you know. I walked up and down the path. Griffin must have seen me, you know. He was out on Big Field.’ Armstrong did not fail to note an apprehensive timbre in the tone of Sims’ last statements, but he gave no sign of it.
‘Quite. And I take it you saw nothing out of the way?’
‘No, of course not. I should have told you. There was no one out on that side of the house but Griffin. Evans came in just as I was at the door.’ ‘Thank you, sir. Then, if you have no suggestions to make, will you be so good as to send along Mr. Evans?’
Unless he is lying – no, unless he and Mr. Griffin are in collaboration, and if Mrs. Vale’s evidence is correct, that would seem to fix the murder between one-thirty and two-fifteen, unless, of course, it was committed somewhere else. Far too many ‘ifs’ and ‘unlesses,’ thought Superintendent Armstrong, fingering a certain envelope in his pocket.
‘Ah, good evening; Mr. Evans, isn’t it? Have you any theories about this crime?’
Michael was conscious of antagonism; a very faintly contemptuous accent on the word ‘you’ (had some one else been bothering the superintendent with theories?), and a general air of dangerous quiescence in the superintendent’s big body slumped back heavily in his chair.
‘Me? Oh, Lord, no.’
‘You have never heard anyone threatening to murder this boy?’
‘Of course not. Do murderers commonly proclaim their intentions in public?’
The superintendent’s brow contracted. He said, ‘You do not recall a conversation at breakfast today?’
‘What on earth? Surely you are not suspecting Griffin? It’s too ludicrous. Why, anyone might talk about screwing a boy’s neck. I do myself about twice a week.’
‘Very well, sir, we’ll pass that over.’ Michael had an uneasy feeling that Armstrong was by no means passing it over. Was he just an ordinary police numskull? No, there was a formidable intelligence in those small eyes. Then why go off on this ridiculous tack about Griffin? Perhaps he is trying to put me off my guard. Be careful.
‘Now, just a few formal questions, sir. I am told you were not in school for lunch.’
‘No, I went out – into the wood beyond the playing fields.’
‘Did you see Mrs. Vale?’
O God, now it’s begun. What has she told him? Chance it.
‘No.’
‘Oh, I thought you might have. She was having lunch in the hayfield.’ Thank God. It seems all right so far.
‘Did you have anything to eat, sir?’
‘Yes, I took some sandwiches with me.’ That should be safe enough.
‘I see… I expect they were busy in the kitchen today.’ The superintendent’s voice was just a shade too offhand. Michael sensed the trap.
‘I keep a loaf and butter in my room.’ Well, so I do. Damn and blast! I should never have said that. I should have waited till he asked. Out of one trap into another… Armstrong, however, made no comment.
‘I take it you saw no one in the wood, or on the hayfield?’
‘No. Griffin came out not long after the bell rang. He and Mould, the groundsman, were in Big Field all the time, I think, after that.’
This was going fine. Nothing to be afraid of in this fat official in blue. Just my guilty conscience.
‘I understand, then, that you didn’t go into the hayfield at all, sir? You were in the wood from one-thirty to about
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