FIVE
THE GUEST SET IN STEVENSON
The following morning Bunter, heroically disregarding the lingering effects of the Greene King, made a sortie into the College kitchens and returned clutching to his bosom a frying pan and spatula. Nothing in his manner suggested extreme eagerness to recount to his lordship the events of the preceding night, but his determined assault upon the bacon and eggs he had stored in the little kitchen at the end of the corridor soon resulted in an aroma that no human nostril could long resist. It had penetrated Lord Peter’s slumber within a matter of moments – the door to his rooms having somehow been left slightly ajar – and that nobleman was already seated at the table, wrapped in a peacock-patterned silk dressing gown and sniffing the air like an eager labrador, by the time Bunter’s returning tread could be heard in the corridor.
"Morning, Bunter, find anything out last night?" he said by way of greeting, as a pot of coffee was set down before him.
"A great deal, my lord," returned Bunter, cherishing a small glow of gratification deferred. "If you will allow me to fetch the bacon and eggs, I shall explain in detail." So saying, he departed once again for the kitchen. But as he processed at a stately pace back along the corridor, the bacon still sizzling slightly upon its plate, he found himself accosted by a wistful Junior Member.
"I say, that smells fantastic, is that for his lordship? I wish we were getting that for brekker."
Bunter recognised the young gentleman as the Captain of the Cricket Club, and though it cost him some pain – he had not intended to defer the gratification of delivering his report for quite so long – he had spent too many years in Wimsey's service not to recognise a prime pumping opportunity when he saw one. Accordingly, he took the liberty of issuing an invitation to join his lordship for breakfast.
"Henderson, isn't it?" said Wimsey brightly. "I thoroughly enjoyed the match yesterday. Young Kuryakin is quite an ornament to the team."
"Oh, he is, sir," said Henderson, displaying all the advantages of an expensive education in his ability to juggle the production of entire sentences without interrupting the process of becoming intimately acquainted with the contents of his plate. "He ought to be a Blue, but he won't try out."
"Why's that?"
"He says he can't afford to take the time from his research. He's a graduate student you know, even though he looks about twelve," - this piece of information, offered in all sincerity by one whose scrubbed pink countenance proclaimed him to be barely out of the nursery himself, made Lord Peter smile fondly - "and these overseas chappies do tend to keep their noses to the grindstone."
"But you got him to join the College First Eleven? Don't you chaps practise much?"
"Of course we do," said Henderson, reddening slightly, then added with touching frankness, "Even if it didn't look much like it yesterday. I think Kuryakin just likes to let off steam occasionally. He gets a bit wire-happy sitting over books all day long."
"It must be rather lonely," said Wimsey thoughtfully. "Cramming the whole time."
"I don't think he minds, sir. He doesn't seem all that keen on people."
"Rubs them up the wrong way, does he?"
"In a manner of speaking. He thinks he's cleverer than everyone else. And I suppose he is, but that sort of attitude does rather get up one's nose."
"He's some sort of mathematician, isn't he?" said Wimsey. "Must have been a shock for him when Dr Black snuffed it. Good thing it didn't put him off his game."
There was a pause, during which Henderson thoughtfully shovelled bacon into his mouth and proceeded to chew on it with the air of a man considering whether or not to impart a great secret.
"Actually, sir," he said eventually, "I think he was rather relieved."
"Oh?" said Peter, somewhat taken aback. "What gave you that impression?"
"Well, Black got on his nerves rather. Always inviting him for drinks and so forth. And it would have been awkward to say no. I mean, he was Tutor for Graduates."
"And this made Kuryakin uncomfortable, did it? Any idea why?"
"Black was very anti-Soviet, sir. He probably spent all his time haranguing Kuryakin about politics. I know he once told him he ought to defect. Kuryakin was spitting blood over that. Said he didn't go around telling us we were a bunch of decadent, imperialist wimps heading for the dustbin of world history, so why should Black bang on at him about the evils of collectivism."
"Did he say anything else?"
"He said anyone who didn't believe in class privilege only had to look around him, but we were all too blind to see what was under our noses."
"No, I meant about Black."
"Oh, I see. No, only that he wished he wouldn't keep wasting his time. I think Black tried to get him to come and see him about three times the week before the last match - I remember because Kuryakin asked me if I couldn't reschedule the practice sessions so he had an excuse not to go."
Having delivered this intriguing titbit, Henderson swallowed down the final piece of egg and sprang to his feet, with the air of one who cannot be tempted by even a fourth rasher of bacon to overhear the bugle blast of Duty. "Thanks ever so much for the breakfast, sir. I'm afraid I must dash, I've got a supervision at nine. It's wretchedly uncivilised, but old Hodders is a dragon. I hope you enjoy the rest of your stay, sir. Cheers, Bunter!" And with that he was gone.
"Shame," said Lord Peter, gazing after him. "The conversation was just getting interesting. I wonder why Kuryakin was so keen to avoid Black just before he died? Bunter, you are hovering. You know I will not tolerate hovering, especially at breakfast. If you have something to say, spit it out."
"Yes, my lord. I was awaiting an opportunity to report on the events of last night, my lord."
"Oh, and Henderson interrupted you, did he? Sorry about that. Well, fire away. I am all ears."
Drawing a deep breath, Bunter launched himself upon the tale of the previous night's adventures. Lord Peter listened closely to the key details of the conversation with Croft, striking his palm against the table in triumph when Bunter related the story of the argument in the Fellows' Garden, but his eyes began to shine when Bunter insinuated himself into the shrubbery behind the student residences in First Court.
"There is an uninterrupted view of Mr Kuryakin's window from there, my lord, and the light was burning in his room. Not that this is in itself a matter of any great significance. However, in the course of concealing myself I ascertained that I was not the first person to have taken up this position."
"Indeed? Now that's interestin'. And the basis for this supposition is?"
"Trampled vegetation, footprints and a number of discarded cigarette stubs, my lord. I secured a sample of these last for more detailed analysis." So saying, Bunter pulled a small metal box from his pocket, from which he produced a sad-looking twist of brownish paper.
"Not a professional stakeout, then," said his lordship, frowning over the item. "Nasty little Turkish cigarettes, as smoked by nasty little people with nasty little minds, and no idea of covering their tracks. Hmm, that means our formula now has four unknown quantities: the Murderer, the Poison Pen, the Unseen Argufyer and the Lurker. The entities are multiplying. However, my money is on the Lurker and the Poison Pen turning out to be one and the same, which would be an elegant solution. Of course, it would be even more elegant if they could also be conflated with the Unseen Argufyer and the Murderer, but that's probably too much to hope for. Sorry, I'm ramblin'. Were the footprints any good?"
"I regret to say, my lord, that they were very unsatisfactory footprints. The weather has been inconveniently fine of late and the gardener does not water the shrubbery. On the evidence of the one reasonably clear specimen I could find, I should say that at least one of the shoes was distinctly down-at-heel. Beyond that, I could establish nothing, apart from the approximate size."
"And this was?"
"Eight and a half, my lord."
"Duly noted. The bedders'll know who's a candidate Cinderella. Pray, continue."
"At about half past midnight, I observed Mr Kuryakin open his window and descend to the ground by means of the ivy."
"Good heavens! Our spy in the shrubbery wasn't wasting his nights, then."
"Mr Kuryakin then scaled the College walls and headed into town with the aid of a bicycle. I availed myself of a further bicycle - undergraduates these days are sadly careless about locking their possessions - and gave chase."
"And where did the fox go to earth?"
"In the Cavendish Laboratory, my lord."
Lord Peter groaned. "Don't tell me, my Bunter, after all this excitement, that the quarry was merely taking a late-running experiment off the boil? Assuming quantum mechanics actually do experiments. They sound more like chappies who'd fix your car."
"Quantum mechanics is primarily a matter of theory, my lord. Nonetheless, the department of Theoretical Physics is based in the Cavendish Laboratory, and Mr Kuryakin possesses a key. He neglected, however, to lock the door behind him. Whether he forgot it in his haste, or whether this was another example of youthful carelessness, I cannot say."
"So you entered without breaking, like an enterprising little burglar. I heartily approve. And where did the scent lead?"
"To the second floor, my lord. I could not follow too closely for fear of being observed, although my task was rendered easier by the fact that Mr Kuryakin chose to use a torch rather than switch on the lights."
"Thank God for that! That knocks the experiment hypothesis firmly on the head. Dead, dead, and never called me mother!"
"Indeed, my lord, it was a most satisfactory observation. Mr Kuryakin's destination proved to be a storage room of some kind. I concealed myself behind a bust of Nils Bohr until he re-emerged. At this point I was compelled to choose between trailing him further or determining the reason for his visit."
"And of course you chose the latter," said Lord Peter approvingly. "Come on, don't keep me on tenterhooks, man. What was kept in the store cupboard?"
"Dr Alan Turing's research files."
There was a long silence. Eventually Wimsey said, "I suppose they were passed on to the University at his death. But what on earth were they doing in a store cupboard?"
"Judging by their condition, no-one has touched them since they arrived, my lord. It strikes me as a most culpable oversight."
"Perhaps they're afraid of being tainted by association," said Lord Peter grimly. "Blast them all. Oh hell, I was hoping our little Russian would turn out to be on the side of the angels, but this puts an entirely different complexion on things. All right, we took this job on, so I suppose we'd better finish it. Did Kuryakin bring anything out with him? Any suspicious-looking envelopes? Piles of papers clutched under one arm?"
"I am certain he emerged empty-handed. Whatever he was looking for, he appears not to have found it. Might I ask, my lord, if you have a theory about what might be in the files?"
"You mean you want an explanation for my sudden U-turn as regards our quarry's guilt? I'm awfully sorry, Bunter, but my tongue is tied by the Official Secrets Act. Unhappy that I am, I cannot heave my heart into my mouth, so you'll just have to take my word for it that while Dr Black seems a distinctly unlikely target for KGB attention, Turing is a different kettle of fish. I've good reason to believe that Kuryakin's guilty as charged. The question is, what do we do now? I'm damned if I'm going to let the little blighter get away with it, but if we don't go about this very carefully indeed, he'll bolt. And until we know exactly what he was looking for in those files, we won't know what the Reds are trying to get their hands on."
"Perhaps this is a matter for M15, my lord?" suggested Bunter, endeavouring to conceal his disappointment. It had been altogether too long, in his opinion, since his lordship had had a meaty murder case to chew on, and the thought of turning this one over to the faceless minions of the intelligence service caused him not inconsiderable pain.
Lord Peter clearly shared his reluctance. Instead of agreeing, he wandered over to the window and stood staring out over the Third Court lawn, his hands clasped behind his back. "I daresay you're right, Bunter," he said at last. "I just wish I trusted those fellows not to make a pig's ear of it. Turing deserves better than to be dragged through the mud twice over. What do you say we give ourselves twenty four hours to see what we can turn up? If we can find evidence that Kuryakin really did kill Black, then he'll end up behind bars and Turing's name need never crop up at all. Whereas if I go to MI5, or even the F.O., the first thing they'll do is start wondering if he was the Third Man. It's simply sickening to think of a man like Turing being mentioned in the same breath as traitors like Burgess and Maclean."
Bunter's face betrayed no flicker of relief as he said, "An excellent plan, my lord. Would your lordship wish me to continue to support the suicide hypothesis in the light of the new information?"
Wimsey gave him a sharp glance. "If that's what you want," he said. "I suppose it's no more than I deserve for not sharing the gen. No, no apologies, Bunter, you stick to your guns; you are quite right; even if we can take the KGB half of the accusation as read, the murder half still remains to be proved."
And with that Bunter had to be content.