Was It Murder? by James Hilton Page A

attitude—maybe a wrong one, but I can’t help it.  I’ll talk things over with you, of course, as much as you like—give you my ideas and all that.  Only don’t expect me to give any active assistance.”
    Revell laughed.  “You’re almost as queer as all the rest of the business. . . .  Look here, Lambourne, I do want to get to the bottom of things, if I can.  It’s building bricks without straw for the present, I know, but that doesn’t matter.  You suspect a double murder, eh?  Well, the first thing to look for, then, is a motive— unless, of course, we’re dealing with a homicidal maniac.  Do you agree?”
    “Quite.”
    “Well, the only motive I can think of is money.  Two schoolboys can hardly have had any personal enemies.  But it did occur to me that since all Robert Marshall’s money went to his brother Wilbraham, it would be interesting to know where Wilbraham’s money goes now?”
    “I can tell you that—it’s fairly common knowledge, in fact.
    Ellington gets it.”
    “Ellington?  The devil he does!  I say, that’s a bit astonishing, isn’t it?”
    “Oh, I don’t know.  Ellington’s his cousin and next-of-kin.  He couldn’t very well leave it to anybody else.”
    “How much—roughly—does it amount to?”
    “Matter of a hundred thousand or so.”
    Revell whistled.  “Quite enough to make some people commit a couple of murders.”
    “Oh, bless you, yes.  Some folks would commit twenty murders for a fiver, for that matter. . . .  Anyhow, that’s one thing settled.  We’ve found the murderer.  The only thing left to do now is to find out whether there’s really been a murder or not.”
    “You needn’t be so sarcastic,” answered Revell, smiling.  “After all, in a case like this, doesn’t everything depend on personality and motive?  Find the murderer, then you know there’s been a murder.  If you can’t find a murderer, then you’ll have to believe that the whole thing’s been purely accidental.”
    “Good, Revell—you have, I am delighted to see, an intricate mind.  Ellington’s our man, of course.  But unfortunately there’s not a scrap of evidence against him.  All you can say is that he comes into a bit of money through the two successive accidents.  Ah, but stay—there IS just one other little matter.  I’d almost forgotten it.  Ellington was one of the very few people who knew that Marshall was sleeping in the dormitory on the night of the first accident.”
    “Good Lord—I never heard anything about that!”
    “No, I don’t suppose you did,” replied Lambourne, relishing his little sensation.  “It was a point that didn’t come out at the inquest—although, mind you, there was no reason why it should.  Young Marshall, you see, had spent the greater part of his summer vacation abroad—he’d been, I think, with his guardian in Italy.  Anyhow, owing to timetables and what not, the Head had given him special permission not to return until the Monday—the rest of the School, you will remember, having re-assembled on the previous Saturday.  Did they, by the way, have the system of dormitory prefects in your time?”
    “Yes.”
    “Ah, then you’ll understand how it all came about.  Marshall was the dormitory prefect of the junior dormitory.  Now the rule is very strict about having somebody in charge, and as Marshall was to be away on the Saturday and Sunday nights, somebody had to step into the breach, and that somebody was Ellington.  I know, because the fellow asked me if I’d oblige, but I made some excuse—I sleep badly enough as it is, without the additional miseries of a dormitory mattress.  Besides, as housemaster, it was his job, not mine.  Anyhow, he did it on the Saturday night, and was doubtless prepared to repeat the performance on the Sunday night as well.  All the staff knew about it—he’d been cursing his luck in the Common Room.  But then, quite unexpectedly, about half-past five on the Sunday