and comfort. The bar is a fine example of Strawberry Hill Gothic.
It was only a quarter past eleven in the morning, so few people were drinking as yet. A young man with a hooked nose and a broad mouth was talking to the barman about horses. Another young man with horn rimmed glasses and a long neck was engrossed in Nightmare Abbey. And a pale, rather grubby undergraduate with untidy red hair was talking politics to an earnest-looking girl in a dark green jersey.
“So you see,” he was saying, “it’s by such means that the moneyed classes, gambling on the Stock Exchange, ruin millions of poor investors.”
“But surely the poor investors were gambling on the Stock Exchange too.”
“Oh, no, that’s quite different…”
Mr. Hoskins, more like a vast, lugubrious blood-hound than ever, was sitting at a table with a dark and beautiful girl called Miriam. He was drinking a small glass of pale sherry.
“But, darling,” said Miriam, “it will be simply awful if the proctors catch me in here. You know they send women down if they catch them in bars.”
“The proctors never come in in the mornings,” said Mr. Hoskins. “And in any case, you don’t look a bit like an undergraduate. Now, just don’t you worry. Look, I’ve got some chocolates for you.” He pulled a box from his pocket.
“Oh, you darling.”
The only other occupant of the bar was a thin, rabbit-faced man of about fifty, greatly muffled up in coats and scarves, who was sitting by himself drinking rather more than was good for him.
Fen and Cadogan had been running over the facts of the case as far as they knew them, and it was the result of this investigation which had prompted Cadogan’s remark. Those facts boiled down to dispiritingly little:
A grocery shop in Iffley Road had been turned into a toyshop during the night, and then back into a grocery shop.
A Miss Emilia Tardy had been found dead there, and her body had subsequently vanished.
A rich aunt of Emilia Tardy, Miss Snaith, had been run over by a bus six months previously, and had left her fortune to Miss Tardy under certain conditions which made it as likely as not that Miss Tardy would never even become aware of her inheritance (if Rosseter was telling the truth).
“And I suppose,” said Fen, “that he wasn’t allowed to communicate directly with any known address of Miss Tardy. By the way, I was meaning to ask you: did you feel the body at all?”
“Yes, I did, in a sort of way.”
“What was it like?”
“Yes, yes,” said Fen impatiently. “Cold? Stiff?”
Cadogan considered. “Well, it was certainly cold, but I don’t think it was stiff. In fact I’m sure it wasn’t because the arm flopped back when I moved it to look at the head.” He shivered slightly.
“It doesn’t help much ”—Fen was pensive—“but it’s reasonable to suppose, in view of what we know, that she was killed before the witching and important hour of midnight. And that in turn suggests that she did in fact see the advertisement and, presumably, applied to Mr. Rosseter. Hence, again presumably, Mr. Rosseter was lying. And that makes it all very odd indeed, because in that case it’s quite likely that Mr. Rosseter didn’t kill her.”
“Why?”
“You agree that the person who knocked you on the head was probably the murderer?”
“Yes, Socrates.”
Fen glared malignantly and drank some whisky. “And in that case he got a good look at you?”
“All right, all right.”
“Well now, suppose Mr. Rosseter is the murderer. He recognizes you when you come into his office, he knows you’ve seen the body, and he’s horrified to hear you inquiring about an aunt of the murdered woman and about the murdered woman herself. So what does he do? He gives a detailed account of the provisions of the will, which we can check, and then—then, mark you—says he’s had no communication from Miss Tardy, knowing that after what you’ve seen you simply won’t believe him. Ergo, he
It was only a quarter past eleven in the morning, so few people were drinking as yet. A young man with a hooked nose and a broad mouth was talking to the barman about horses. Another young man with horn rimmed glasses and a long neck was engrossed in Nightmare Abbey. And a pale, rather grubby undergraduate with untidy red hair was talking politics to an earnest-looking girl in a dark green jersey.
“So you see,” he was saying, “it’s by such means that the moneyed classes, gambling on the Stock Exchange, ruin millions of poor investors.”
“But surely the poor investors were gambling on the Stock Exchange too.”
“Oh, no, that’s quite different…”
Mr. Hoskins, more like a vast, lugubrious blood-hound than ever, was sitting at a table with a dark and beautiful girl called Miriam. He was drinking a small glass of pale sherry.
“But, darling,” said Miriam, “it will be simply awful if the proctors catch me in here. You know they send women down if they catch them in bars.”
“The proctors never come in in the mornings,” said Mr. Hoskins. “And in any case, you don’t look a bit like an undergraduate. Now, just don’t you worry. Look, I’ve got some chocolates for you.” He pulled a box from his pocket.
“Oh, you darling.”
The only other occupant of the bar was a thin, rabbit-faced man of about fifty, greatly muffled up in coats and scarves, who was sitting by himself drinking rather more than was good for him.
Fen and Cadogan had been running over the facts of the case as far as they knew them, and it was the result of this investigation which had prompted Cadogan’s remark. Those facts boiled down to dispiritingly little:
A grocery shop in Iffley Road had been turned into a toyshop during the night, and then back into a grocery shop.
A Miss Emilia Tardy had been found dead there, and her body had subsequently vanished.
A rich aunt of Emilia Tardy, Miss Snaith, had been run over by a bus six months previously, and had left her fortune to Miss Tardy under certain conditions which made it as likely as not that Miss Tardy would never even become aware of her inheritance (if Rosseter was telling the truth).
“And I suppose,” said Fen, “that he wasn’t allowed to communicate directly with any known address of Miss Tardy. By the way, I was meaning to ask you: did you feel the body at all?”
“Yes, I did, in a sort of way.”
“What was it like?”
“Yes, yes,” said Fen impatiently. “Cold? Stiff?”
Cadogan considered. “Well, it was certainly cold, but I don’t think it was stiff. In fact I’m sure it wasn’t because the arm flopped back when I moved it to look at the head.” He shivered slightly.
“It doesn’t help much ”—Fen was pensive—“but it’s reasonable to suppose, in view of what we know, that she was killed before the witching and important hour of midnight. And that in turn suggests that she did in fact see the advertisement and, presumably, applied to Mr. Rosseter. Hence, again presumably, Mr. Rosseter was lying. And that makes it all very odd indeed, because in that case it’s quite likely that Mr. Rosseter didn’t kill her.”
“Why?”
“You agree that the person who knocked you on the head was probably the murderer?”
“Yes, Socrates.”
Fen glared malignantly and drank some whisky. “And in that case he got a good look at you?”
“All right, all right.”
“Well now, suppose Mr. Rosseter is the murderer. He recognizes you when you come into his office, he knows you’ve seen the body, and he’s horrified to hear you inquiring about an aunt of the murdered woman and about the murdered woman herself. So what does he do? He gives a detailed account of the provisions of the will, which we can check, and then—then, mark you—says he’s had no communication from Miss Tardy, knowing that after what you’ve seen you simply won’t believe him. Ergo, he
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