SEVEN
IN THE SENIOR COMBINATION ROOM
Collins, the College Butler, was a sallow man, whose naturally sour disposition gave way to snobbish gratification at the prospect of showing an almost-Duke around the more historic aspects of the College.
"I've always been a great admirer of John Milton," Lord Peter told him. "Of man's first disobedience and the fruit of that forbidden tree whose mortal taste brought death into the world and all our woe…" – here he ran out of air and drew in a great breath – "I sing. And all that. I'd love to take a squint at his College rooms and the mulberry tree, and anything else of his you've got." And thus, by guile and duplicity (for it was not only Milton who was of the devil's party), Lord Peter gained access to the twin of the murder weapon.
"This is the case where the pistols are kept, my lord," the butler said, leading the way across the Senior Combination Room. Like everything in the College, it was about a quarter of the size that Peter was used to, but exuded the familiar comfortable air of a gentlemen's club. A table spread with daily newspapers offered a degree of contact with the outside world, and an array of comfortable armchairs waited to embrace the rear end of any Fellow in retreat from the rigours of scholarship. The portraits around the walls, Peter noticed, looked down upon the goings-on with an air of positive benevolence, in contrast with the severity of their counterparts in the Hall. The College Butler ignored all such distractions, his mind and eyes focused firmly upon the glass case mounted on the wall just above a small writing desk.
"This is one of the pistols, my lord," he said deferentially. "The other is regrettably not available just at present."
"Oh yes, that unfortunate business with Dr Black," said Wimsey. "How was he able to get at it, anyway? Is the case kept locked?"
"Oh no, my lord," answered the Butler. "It has never been considered necessary. This is the SCR, after all."
"And no-one noticed that it had gone missin'? Who was the last person in the SCR before dinner that night?"
"I couldn't say, my lord. Usually, of course, the Senior Members gather here to await my announcement that dinner is served, but on this particular occasion they had gathered in the Master's Lodge for drinks with the benefactors – it was Founder's Dinner, you see, my lord."
"I see. So people could have been comin' in and out all afternoon?"
"Yes, my lord. But most likely Dr Black took the pistol while we were all at Hall, my lord. He would have known that no-one would be in here at that time."
"Yes, very probably," agreed his lordship. "I say, you don't suppose there's any chance of holding the thing, do you? It would give me quite a thrill to touch something Milton had held in his very own hands. Makes history come alive, what? Thanks awfully. It's a flintlock I see. And with the flint still in it. Well, that explains how Black was able to get it to fire."
"The bullets are kept in a drawer in the desk," offered the Butler. "Or at least they were. The Master has them under lock and key now. He said he didn't want the Junior Members getting up to any foolish tricks now the idea had been put in their heads."
"Very wise," agreed Wimsey. "Can the undergraduates get in here, then?"
"Oh no, my lord, the door is naturally kept locked," said Collins, sounding shocked. "But young gentlemen do find ways and means, you know, especially in Rag Week, and I'm sure the Master was quite right to take precautions. Why, one time they tied two skeletons to the top of the Gatehouse, as if they were climbing the towers. And another time…"
"Very lively bunch they sound," said his lordship, listening with only half an ear. "But in the normal way of things they have no access to the SCR, at least not without a key?" To the butler's discomfort, he had donned a monocle that made his eye look abnormally large, like a goldfish in a curved bowl. "Damn fine engravings, what?" he said, poring over the pistol with a watchmaker's intensity. "A very nice piece of work indeed. I say, Collins, d'you suppose there's any trace of Milton left on this after all these years? Imagine if we could find a fine fat fingerprint, left by the poet himself! Come here, I want to show you something." So saying, he drew a packet of grey powder from his breast pocket, together with a small brass tube with a leather bulb on the end. "We puff the powder over the butt like this," he said, while the butler marvelled at the eccentricities of amateur historians, "and we find that – by George, this thing is simply smothered in prints. Still, one of them may be Milton's, you never know. Perhaps this smear here, it has a certain faded glamour to it, like old poetry. And some of them are probably yours, Collins. Do you polish the pistols often?"
"It is not often necessary, my lord, being as they are kept inside the case," returned Collins in an injured tone.
"Quite right, of course, should have thought of that," said his lordship amiably. "Well, thanks awfully for letting me have a look-see. I'd better toddle off now, I'm meeting a chum for lunch and he won’t be happy if I stand him up for John Milton. Some people have no appreciation of history, unlike you and me, eh?" So saying, he crossed the butler's palm with silver and departed, his cheerful whistle still audible two thirds of the way round First Court. It was the whistle of a man who has finally laid his hand upon a tangible fact, in the midst of an ethereal sea of speculation.