TWELVE
FROM THE PORTERS' LODGE TO THE MASTER'S LODGE
The following morning, Lord Peter awoke unusually early for a man who had spent half the previous night lurking in the cramped confines of an automobile. The prospect of infiltrating the May Ball with nefarious intent had filled him with an almost childish glee, and his brain was fizzing like an alka seltzer with ideas and plans.
"No, my lord, I should most respectfully advise against it," said Bunter firmly to one particular scheme.
"But you'd make a splendid gypsy hag," protested his lordship, unable to relinquish the hare once it had been started. "It's no more demeaning than doing music hall, you know. We'll get you set up in a little tent and you can read everyone's palms and predict absolutely dire futures for them (none of this 'You'll get a Third if you don't get your finger out,' I want some really apocalyptic stuff), and when Duffers comes in you can go all Macbeth on him – hail him as Master of Christ's, and Fellow of the Royal Society, and Nobel that shall be hereafter, and then say something about Turing and see if a ghastly consciousness doesn't cross his face."
"Perhaps, my lord, you would wish me to shake my gory locks at him and say he did it?"
"That's the spirit, Bunter. Though I don't know if that mightn't be pushing our luck; a bit obvious, don't you think? Still, who can tell what form a man's conscience might take when it's finally pricked into life. I recall a fellow at school who copied another chap's essay on Tacitus and was haunted for weeks by dreams in which a purple hippopotamus was trying to swallow him up. It broke him in the end, and he confessed all to the housemaster. It turned out he had one of those Wodehousian aunts of rigid moral virtue and Stalinesque demeanour, and it was she who was stalking his subconscious in the form of a rapacious hippo. I wonder what Duffield's conscience looks like? Pace Sir Julian Freke, I am inclined to think we all have one, and Duffers certainly did once upon a time, or at least a fear of being found out, which may come to the same thing in the end. Who was that chap who said 'Shame is imagining that other people are watching what we do?' Rather hit the nail on the head, to my mind."
"Perhaps, my lord, we might find a less theatrical way of stimulating Sir John's dormant conscience? One that does not require the services of elderly gypsies?"
Lord Peter, recognising a rare note of desperation beneath Bunter's level tones, gave a wave of his hand and assented. There were, in any case, so many other plans to spin and to abandon that the loss of one more was not too hard a blow to bear.
The strategy that was eventually hatched out, and approved by all parties, was devoid of any such ornamentation as fortune tellers and purple hippos, Lord Peter having observed, as his sense of exhilaration gradually wore off, that they should take a leaf out of the best murderers' books, and keep things as simple as possible. They would take advantage of the fireworks display at midnight, which was bound to draw all eyes heavenward, and most bodies into the Fellows' Garden, to nip into the Chapel and gain access to Duffield's lodgings via the turret staircase that led directly to the Master's bedroom. The door would undoubtedly be locked, but his lordship undertook to distract the Porter whilst Kuryakin helped himself to the big bunch of keys that was kept on the wall behind the Plodge counter. The task of acquiring a substitute set in order that the theft of the real ones not be noticed fell to Bunter. That left a long afternoon for Lord Peter to kick his heels and worry, but at last evening fell and he could devote himself to dressing, and then to mingling.
The College, he found, had been transformed from a sombre seat of learning into a sort of fairyland, although the magic wand behind it was presumably the Bursar's. A ring of torches burned around the perfect circle of First Court lawn, and answering lights winked from the lanterns strung from the ancient guttering. The striped awnings of little booths, dotted here and there about the premises, announced the availability of nibbles and entertainment, whilst as many College staff as could be mustered stalked white-coated through the cheerful throng of undergraduates, proffering trays of champagne. A juggler had taken up position in the centre of Third Court, his twirling batons alight at each end, and a sword-swallower was astonishing little clusters of guests as they paused on their way through the archway of the Fellows' Building.
There was music everywhere. From a stage erected in the Fellows' Garden a live band was boogying enthusiastically, whilst the Hall, more decorously, had become a temporary ballroom, with a chamber orchestra placed high on the balcony to allow room for the couples twirling and circling to the strains of its Viennese waltzes. Lord Peter, in search of a glass of something more bracing than champagne, almost fell over a string quartet tucked inside the entrance to the Buttery, and was assailed by a solo jazz saxophonist outside the Library, whilst the stairway to the SCR throbbed with the strange, haunting rumble of a didgeridoo. Everywhere young people laughed and danced and chattered and embraced, the girls' gowns a whirl of bright colours, the young men in gleaming white dress shirts and the occasional daring red bow tie. As the evening advanced they became more intoxicated, less aware of their surroundings and more inclined to bump against one and giggle in lieu of apology.
The Duty Porters in the Plodge that night, Mr Croft and Mr Daley, were not especially surprised when Mr Kuryakin came in to check his pigeonhole. They had already chased out a number of young men and women who were convinced, in spite of official denials, that the Plodge must contain some secret delight – perhaps a small orchestra concealed behind the counter, or a magician tucked away in the darkest recesses, pulling rabbits from his hat – but Mr Kuryakin was known for his sober habits, and he, at least, was unlikely to serenade them with the most popular tunes from The Pirates of Penzance. They were, however, very much taken aback when Lord Peter Wimsey, popping in to find out whether there had been any telephone calls for him, and resplendent in coat tails and white tie, was suddenly taken very faint and had to be helped out into the fresh air.
"Are you all right, my lord?" asked Mr Croft anxiously, assisting his lordship onto a bench, and "Shall I call for an ambulance, my lord?" enquired Mr Daley, who would under other circumstances have loosened the gentleman's white tie, but was uncertain if this was allowed with almost-Peers.
"No need, no need," said his lordship, wheezing slightly. "Just a dizzy spell. I suffer from 'em occasionally, you know."
"A glass of water, then?" asked Croft, uneasy at the prospect of leaving the old gentleman – who might, after all, be in the throes of a heart attack – without medical attention. At that moment his grateful eye fell upon the figure of the Master, who was heading through First Court in search of the Dean. Observing the figures clustered around the gatehouse, he hurried over to them, and then stopped aghast on recognising Wimsey, who was now gasping really piteously.
"For heaven's sake, Flim, are you all right?" he said, bending over his old friend with anxious concern.
Wimsey wheezed at him.
"You've been overdoing it, old chap," said Duffield. "I'm sorry I ever asked you up here, all this running around investigating is too much at your age. I must insist you lay off it."
"You may be right," said Wimsey, looking him directly in the eye. "We're neither of us what we once were, are we?"
Duffield stared back at him, a consciousness of something behind his eyes. "There's no turning the clock back, old man," he said eventually. "Do you think you can get up, if I give you a hand?"
"Of course I can," said Peter, struggling to his feet. "Dear me, my legs aren't what they used to be either. Oh, call back yesterday, bid time return. How do you cope with the process of decay, Duffers? You look as fit as ever. Mentally, I mean - there's no denying you've put on a bit of padding. Have you got a portrait of your brain in an attic somewhere?"
Duffield gave a rather unconvincing bark of laughter. "The brain is just another kind of muscle," he said. "If you exercise it regularly, it will keep in trim. Shall I walk you back to your rooms?"
"Very kind of you, but no thanks," said Lord Peter hastily, "I'm feelin' much better now. Just in need of a little sit-down, what? Think I might go and listen to that orchestra in the Hall. Bunter can attend me. I gave him the evenin' off, but he said he'd rather stay in with a good book. He's not as young as he once was, either. Toodle pip, Duffers. Enjoy the rest of your ball."
And with a wave of his cane he was off, his white scarf still visible in the gloom, where it caught the occasional gleam from the lanterns long after the rest of him had vanished. Duffield, gazing after him, failed to notice another shadow flit out from the Plodge and conceal itself in B staircase. He frowned, then shook his head and plunged off once more after the elusive Dean. The fireworks were about to start and someone had mislaid the taper.
When the stars of the first rocket exploded above the College, Wimsey and Bunter sprang into action. It was but the work of a moment to unlock the Chapel door. They flitted through, relocked it, and headed through the soft darkness of the nave towards the antechapel, Kuryakin tagging rather wistfully at their heels. The light from Peter's torch flickered across the black-and-white tiles, and gleamed for a moment on the gold and white of the altar as they made their way to the turret staircase.
"I'll keep watch," volunteered Kuryakin unexpectedly.
Peter thought it most unlikely that they would be disturbed, but he understood the difficulty of tearing oneself away when there is an adventure in the offing, and gave his blessing. Kuryakin padded softly back to the door, like a dutiful watchdog, and Peter and Bunter began their ascent. The stone staircase wound so tightly around itself that, in spite of the torch, it was impossible to see more than one or two steps ahead.
"I feel," said Peter, "like David Balfour climbing the tower in the House of Shaws. There is a sense of disaster lurking around every corner. But I do not lose heart. I screw my courage to the sticking place, confident in the knowledge that the Bursar was bound to have noticed if some bloke had absconded with part of the staircase. Ah, here we are. Pass me the keys, would you, Bunter? Thanks. Oh blast it, I was right about disaster lurking. The bally thing's bolted on the inside. And he smote upon the door a second time, 'Is there anybody there?' he said. Though it would be dashed awkward if there were anybody there. I doubt if I could persuade them that we had come to sell them an encyclopaedia. Here's a sad ending to all our schemes. Why do people insist on being so overly thorough about domestic security?"
They returned disheartened down the winding staircase, much to the astonishment of Kuryakin, who had expected the adventure to take a good half hour at least.
"Bolted," said Lord Peter, in answer to the unspoken question. "One more triumph for devils and sorrow for angels. What do we do now?"
"Perhaps, my lord," suggested Bunter, "we could endeavour to gain access via the Hall?"
"We've been through that," said Peter mournfully. "It's too risky. I say, what about Lady Maggie's private window, though?" He swung the torch up towards the roof, and the light glittered on the leaded panes. "I'd be awfully surprised if Duffers had had that latch fixed already. It's worth a try, anyway. The first part's easy, if you give me a leg up past the panelling, and with a bit of luck I could grab hold of that crest there to pull on. Or I suppose I could have done twenty years ago. All right, Bunter you needn't look at me with that mother hen expression, I know my limitations. We shall have to think of another way in, though I'm dashed if I know what."
"I could do it," said Kuryakin.
"Could you, by Jove?" said Peter. "It'd be taking an awful risk, though. If we get caught, I've nothing to lose but my reputation, and I lost that years ago, but it would be a poor lookout for you."
Kuryakin shrugged. "In for a penny, in for a pound," he said.
Wimsey nodded approvingly. "Very well then, my lad, up you go. Give him a heave on the count of three, Bunter. One, two, three! Good lord, he's fast. Darwin's quite right, you know, we must be descended from monkeys, though it's a pity we mislaid the tail in the process, one would come in jolly handy right now. No, move your foot about two inches to the left, there's a sort of sconce thingy sticking out of the wall there. That's the ticket. Now if you grab that twiddly bit – wonder what it's meant to be? Can't be a gargoyle, surely? – Yes! Well done! And the latch hasn't been repaired. Hm, it's just as well it's Kuryakin doin' the bander log impression and not me, I'm not entirely sure I could have fitted through that window. Come on, Bunter, let's get up the stairs before he unbolts the door. Last one up does twenty sit-ups."
It took Kuryakin a while to find the door, hampered as he was by the lack of a torch and an unfamiliarity with the layout of the Master's private rooms, but it was not nearly as long as it seemed to the anxious waiters on the staircase. At last, though, they heard the scrape of bolts, and the door swung open. Crossing the threshold, the trinity of ne'er-do-wellers made their cautious way through the Master's bedroom and down the stairs into his library. Here Bunter had his moment of glory, for the redoubtable Mrs Winterbottom had confided in him, in the course of a discussion about the careless habits of titled employers, that Sir John Duffield had but the one safe and that not even properly concealed behind a picture, but blatantly on display in the library wall, with only the leaves of a ficus benjamina to conceal it from prying eyes.
"A mere fig-leaf, indeed," said Wimsey, rubbing his hands in anticipation. "Nonetheless, it would be easier to work if we shunted it to one side. Oh, thanks awfully, Kuryakin. Bunter, the stethoscope, please. Now, find something to occupy yourselves with, my children, this will take a while."
It did indeed take a while. Bunter, in fact, was kept fully occupied directing the torch at the dial, whilst Kuryakin roamed the room uneasily, his face occasionally lit up by the green and red of a rocket or the strange golden glare of a Roman candle. From time to time he glanced over at Wimsey, who was crouched next to the safe, so absorbed in his task that he appeared to have grown part of the metal. Every so often his gloved fingers would twist the dial a couple of notches, and his entire body grow tense with concentration as he strained to hear the click of the tumblers.
It occurred to Kuryakin to wonder how an English aristocrat in the very opposite of distressed circumstances had acquired a mastery of safe-cracking, but he could not spare a great deal of attention for the mystery. Anxiety that the firework show would end, or the Master return to his lodgings unexpectedly, kept pressing itself upon his attention, and it was necessary to suppress a flinch every time a rocket exploded, or his own steps caused a floorboard to creak beneath the carpet. It was a huge relief when Wimsey exclaimed, "Got it, by Jove!" and straightened up, rubbing his back.
Once the code had been cracked, the safe gave up its secrets willingly. The door swung open at a touch and Wimsey reached in eagerly.
"What have we got here, then? These will be Turing's files, I hope. Swing the torch this way a bit, would you, Bunter? Good lord, what's this? It appears that we have solved the Mystery of the Missing Typewriter. Hang on a mo, I'll pull it out and we can all have a squint at it."
The typewriter was duly laid on the floor, and all three bent eagerly over it.
"That certainly does clear up the mystery," said Wimsey with satisfaction. "Look at the platen. Black did write a suicide note after all – and being in a bit of a state, he failed to wind the paper through properly before he started."
Screwing the monocle into his eye he bent his face closer to the platen, frowning with the effort of making out the words.
"You have got what you wanted; I hope it turns to dust and ashes in your mouth. But do not be too proud. Death is not the end: "If there should follow a thousand swords to carry my bones away, belike the price of a jackal's meal were more than a thief could pay". Keep looking over your…"
"Keep looking over your what?" asked Kuryakin, staring intently at the platen.
"Shoulder, presumably. It breaks off there. Black must have realised the paper wasn't wound through. Well, no wonder Duffield was feeling paranoid. He must have spent sleepless nights wondering who Black had unburdened his heart to. And then he caught you giving him funny looks and decided discretion was the better part of valour."
"I can't make that out at all," objected Kuryakin. "The letters are too faint."
"Here, have a gander through this," offered Lord Peter, handing him the monocle. "Bit of a silly toy, I know, but you'd be surprised how often it comes in handy."
Kuryakin took the monocle eagerly and held it up against his eye with no air of condescension or indication that he found the proceedings silly. It took him a moment or two to work out exactly how to scrunch up his brow so that it stayed in place, but once it was secure he bent over the typewriter and let out a low whistle of surprise.
"It's very powerful…" he was saying appreciatively, when the door swung open and a beam of light cut through the room. Peter and Bunter, shrouded in shadow, could just make out the face of Sir John Duffield behind the torch, but Kuryakin, in the centre of the beam, was lit up like an actor in a follow spot, his eyes screwed up against the light, his pale hair suddenly afire above the black of his evening dress. At the sight of him, Sir John let out a gasp.
"Flim!" he said, his voice faint with horror, and the beam of light wavered in his hands. The young man at the centre of the circle froze for a moment, then straightened up with a jerk, as an expression of arrogant condescension took possession of his face. "For God's sake, Duffers," he snapped, in the clipped, precise tones of the English aristocracy. "You didn't really think you'd get away with it?"
Sir John opened his mouth as if to speak, then staggered suddenly. The torch fell from his hands, bounced once and went out. Bunter, leaping across the room at a speed astonishing in a man of his years, caught him as he sank to the floor.
"I fear he is having a heart attack, my lord," he called into the darkness. "Might I ask you to ring for an ambulance?"