4. The Episode of the Indignant Janeite

“Which in effect,” said Cadogan, “leaves us exactly where we were before.”

They were sitting in the bar of the ‘Mace and Sceptre’, Fen drinking whisky, Cadogan beer. The ‘Mace and Sceptre’ is a large and quite hideous hotel which stands in the very centre of Oxford and which embodies, without apparent shame, almost every architectural style devised since the times of primitive man. Against this initial disadvantage it struggles nobly to create an atmosphere of homeliness 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:

1. A grocery shop in Iffley Road had been turned into a toyshop during the night, and then back into a grocery shop.
   
2. A Miss Emilia Tardy had been found dead there, and her body had subsequently vanished.
   
3. 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 didn’t recognize you. Ergo, he didn’t knock you on the head. Ergo, he wasn’t the murderer.”

“That’s rather clever,” said Cadogan grudgingly.

“It isn’t clever at all,” Fen groaned. “It leaks at every joint, like an Emmett railway engine. In the first place, we don’t know that the person who hit you was the murderer; and in the second, all that stuff about the will may be mere hooey. There are other staring gaps, too. It’s possible Miss Tardy wasn’t killed in the toyshop at all. But in that case, why take her body there, and then take it away again? The whole thing’s quite topsy-turvy, and we simply don’t know enough to form an opinion.”

Cadogan’s admiration waned somewhat. He regarded gloomily a group of newcomers to the bar as he emptied his pint glass. “What can we do now, anyway?”

Possible courses of action, when discussed, resolved themselves into four:

1. Attempt to trace the body (impossible).
   
2. Interview Mr. Rosseter again (dubious).
   
3. Get some further information about Miss Alice Winkworth, proprietress of Winkworth, Family Grocer and Provisioner (possible).
   
4. Ring up a friend of Fen’s at Somerset House and check on the details of Miss Snaith’s will (practicable and necessary).
   

“But as far as I’m concerned,” Cadogan added, “I’m going off to the police. I’m sick of rushing about, and my head still aches like a thousand devils.”

“Well, you can wait a minute till I’ve finished my whisky,” said Fen. “I’m not going to make myself sick just because of your miserable, nagging conscience.”

They had been talking in low tones, and he was relieved at being able to raise his voice. Also he had consumed a comfortable amount of whisky. His ruddy, cheerful face grew ruddier and more cheerful; his hair stood up with unquenchable vitality; he fidgeted his long, lanky form about in his chair, shuffled his feet, and beamed on the dark, supercilious features, now particularly dejected, of Richard Cadogan.

“…and then the public schools,” the young man with red hair was piping. The peruser of Nightmare Abbey looked up wearily at the mention of this hoary topic; the hook-nosed person at the bar continued to talk uninterruptedly about horses. “The public schools produce a brutal, privileged, ruling-class mentality.”

“But didn’t you go to one yourself?”

“Yes. But, you see, I shook it off.”

“Don’t the others, then?”

“Oh, no, they have it for life. It’s only the exceptional people who shake it off.”

“I see.”

“The fact is, the whole economic life of the nation has got to be reorganized…”

“Now, don’t you worry about the proctors,” Mr. Hoskins was soothing his companion. “There’s nothing to fear. Let’s both have another chocolate.”

“We might as well play a game while we’re waiting,” said Fen, who still had a good deal of whisky left in his glass. “Detestable Characters in Fiction. Both players must agree, and each player has five seconds in which to think of a character. If he can’t, he misses his turn. The first player to miss his turn three times loses. They must be characters the author intended to be sympathetic.”

Cadogan grunted, and at this point a University proctor entered the bar. The proctors are appointed from the dons in rotation, and go about accompanied by small, thick-set men in blue suits and bowler hats, who are known as bullers. Members of the University in statu pupillari are not allowed on licensed premises, and so their main occupation is to process dismally from bar to bar, asking people if they are members of the University, taking the names of those who are, and subsequently fining them. Not much obloquy or enthusiasm is attached to this procedure.

“Gosh!” said dark-haired Miriam in a small voice.

The self-elected reorganizer of the nation’s finances blenched horribly.

Mr. Hoskins blinked.

The young man with glasses retired deeper into Nightmare Abbey.

The hook-nosed person, on being nudged by the barman, stopped talking about horses.

Only Fen was unmoved. “Are you a member of this University?” he shouted cheerfully to the proctor. “Hey, Whiskers! Are you a member of this University?”

The proctor started. He was (as dons go) a youngish man who had grown a pair of large cavalry moustaches during the Great War, and had never had the heart to cut them off. He gazed glassily about the room, carefully avoiding Fen’s eye, and then went out.

“Oooh!” said Miriam, expelling a long sigh of relief.

“He didn’t recognize you, did he?” said Mr. Hoskins. “Here, have another chocolate.”

“You see?” said the red-haired youth indignantly. “Even the capitalist universities are run on a terror basis.” With a trembling hand, he lifted his half-pint of ale.

“Well, let’s get on with the game,” said Fen. “Ready, steady, go.”

“Those awful gabblers, Beatrice and Benedick.”

“Yes. Lady Chatterley and that gamekeeper fellow.”

“Yes. Britomart in The Faery Queen.”

“Yes. Almost everyone in Dostoevsky.”

“Yes. Er—er—”

“Got you!” said Fen triumphantly. “You miss your turn. Those vulgar little man-hunting minxes in Pride and Prejudice.”

At this exultant shout the muffled, rabbity man at the nearby table frowned, got unsteadily to his feet, and came over to them.

“Sir,” he said, interrupting Cadogan’s offering of Richard Feverel, “surely I did not hear you speaking disrespectfully of the immortal Jane?”

“The Leech-Gatherer,” said Fen, making a feeble attempt to carry on. Then he abandoned it and addressed the newcomer. “Look here, my dear fellow, you’re a bit under the weather, aren’t you?”

“I am perfectly sober, thank you. Thank you very much.” The rabbity man fetched his drink, drew up his chair, and settled down beside them. He raised one hand and closed his eyes as though in pain. “Do not, I beg of you, speak disrespectfully of Miss Austen. I have read all of her novels many, many times. Their gentleness, their breath of a superior and beautiful culture, their acute psychological insight—” He paused, speechless, and emptied his glass at a gulp.

He had a weak, thin face, with rodent teeth, red-rimmed eyes, pale, straggling eyebrows, and a low forehead. Despite the warmth of the morning, he was dressed in the most extraordinary fashion, with fur gloves, two scarves, and (apparently) several overcoats.

Sensing Cadogan’s startled inventory: “I am very sensitive to cold, sir,” said the rabbity man with an attempt at dignity, “And the autumn chill—” He paused, groped for a handkerchief and blew his nose with a trumpeting noise. “I hope—I hope that you do not object, gentlemen, to my joining you?”

“Yes, we do,” said Fen, irritated.

“Don’t be unkind, I beg of you,” said the rabbity man beseechingly. “This morning I am so very, very happy. Allow me to give you a drink. I have plenty of money… Waiter?” The waiter appeared at their table. “Two large whiskies and a pint of bitter.”

“Look here, Gervase, I really ought to be going,” Cadogan put in uneasily.

“Don’t go, sir. Stay and rejoice with me.” There was no doubt that the rabbity man was very drunk indeed. He leaned forward conspiratorially and lowered his voice. “This morning I got rid of my boys.”

“Ah,” said Fen without amusement “And what did you do with the little bodies?”

The rabbity man giggled “Ah! you’re trying to catch me out. My schoolboys, I mean. I am—I was a schoolmaster. A poor birchman. The specific gravity of mercury is 13.6,” he chanted. “Cæsar galliam in tres partes divisit. The past participle of mourir is mort.”

Fen gazed at him with distaste. The waiter brought their drinks and the rabbity man paid for them out of a rather grubby wallet, adding a huge tip.

“Your health, gentlemen,” he said, raising his glass. Then he paused. “But I haven’t introduced myself. George Sharman, at your service.” He bowed low from the waist, and nearly sent his drink flying; Cadogan saved it just in time.

“At this moment,” said Mr. Sharman meditatively, “I should be teaching the Lower Fourth the elements of Latin Prose Composition. And shall I tell you why I’m not?” Again he leaned forward. “Last night, gentlemen, I came into a large sum of money.”

Cadogan jumped and Fen’s eyes hardened Legacies seemed to be in the air that morning.

“A ver’ large sum of money,” Mr. Sharman pursued indistinctly. “So what do I do? I go to the headmaster and I say, ‘Spavin,’ I say, ‘you’re a domineering old sot, and I’m not going to work for you any more. I’m a gentleman of independent means now,’ I said, ‘and I’m going to get some of the chalk out of my veins.’” He beamed complacently about him.

“Congratulations,” said Fen with dangerous amiability. “Congratulations.”

“An’ thass not all.” Mr. Sharman’s utterance was becoming progressively more clouded. “I’m not the on’y lucky one. Oh, no. There’re others.” He gestured broadly. “Lots ‘n lots of others, all as rich as Croesus. An’ one of them’s a beautiful girl, with the bluest azure eyes. My luve is like a blue, blue rose,” he sang in a cracked voice. “I sh’ll ask her to marry me, though she is only a shop-girl. Only a shop-girl’s daughter.” He turned earnestly to Cadogan. “You mus’ meet her.”

“I should like to very much.”

“That’s the way,” said Mr. Sharman with approval He trumpeted again into his handkerchief.

“Have another drink with me, old man,” said Fen, adopting an attitude of bibulous comradeship and slapping Mr. Sharman on the back.

Mr. Sharman hiccupped. “’S on me,” he said. “Waiter…!”

They all had another drink.

“Ah,” said Fen, sighing deeply. “you’re a lucky man, Mr. Sharman. I wish a relative would die and leave me a lot of money.”

But Mr. Sharman waggled his finger. “Don’ try to pump me. I’m not telling anything, see? I’m keeping my mouth shut.” He shut his mouth, illustratively, and then opened it again to admit more whisky. “I’m surprised,” he added in a tearful voice. “After all I’ve done for you. Tryin’ to pump me.”

“No, no…”

A change came over Mr. Sharman’s face. His voice grew weaker, and he clutched at his stomach. “’Scuse me, gen’lmen,” he said. “Back in a moment.” He got to his feet, stood swaying like a grass in the wind, and then tottered unsteadily in the direction of the lavatories.

“We shan’t get much out of him,” said Fen gloomily. “When a man doesn’t want to tell something, drunkenness only makes him more obstinate and suspicious. But it’s a queer coincidence.”

“‘The owl,’” Cadogan quoted, looking after Mr. Sharman’s weedy, muffled form, “‘for all his feathers was a-cold.’”

“Yes,” Fen said. “Like the old person of—Oh, my fur and whiskers.”

“What in God’s name is the matter?” Cadogan asked in alarm.

Fen got hastily to his feet. “Keep that man here,” he said with emphasis, “until I get back. Ply him with whisky. Talk to him about Jane Austen. But don’t let him go.”

“But look here, I was going to the police…”

“Don’t be so spiritless, Richard. This is a clue. I haven’t the least idea where it will lead, but so help me, it’s a clue. Don’t go away. I shan’t be long.” And Fen strode out of the bar.

Mr. Sharman returned to his seat both more sober and more wary than he had been.

“Your friend gone?” he asked.

“Only for a short while.”

“Ah.” Mr. Sharman stretched himself luxuriously. “Glorious freedom. You’ve no idea what it is to be a schoolmaster. I’ve watched strong men go to pieces under it. It’s a perpetual war. You can keep the boys off for maybe thirty years, but they get you in the end.”

“It sounds terrible.”

“It is terrible. You get older, but they’re always the same age. Like the emperor and the crowd in the Forum.”

Then they talked about Jane Austen, a subject made difficult for Cadogan by his imperfect knowledge of that author. Mr. Sharman, however, made up for this deficiency in both knowledge and enthusiasm. Cadogan felt his dislike for the man increasing—dislike for his bleary little eyes, his projecting front teeth, his pedagogue’s assumption of culture; unquestionably Mr. Sharman was an unpleasant illustration of the effects of a powerful greed suddenly satisfied. He did not refer again to his inheritance, or to the ‘others’ who shared it with him, but perorated resolutely on Mansfield Park. Cadogan made monosyllabic replies, and considered with a certain impatience the curious behaviour of Gervase Fen. As it grew nearer lunchtime the bar filled up with hotel visitors, actors, under­graduates. The noise of chatter rose in volume, and the sunlight pouring through the Gothic windows cut the haze of cigarette smoke into pale-blue triangles. “The only solution, I think,” said someone suddenly and with conviction, “is liquid soap.” Solution to what? Cadogan vaguely wondered.

“And then look at the character of Mr. Collins,” Mr. Sharman was remarking. With reluctance Cadogan focused his attention on this personage.

At five minutes to midday there was a loud roar outside, accompanied by a clattering like saucepans at war. A moment later Fen pushed through the swing doors of the hotel to the sound of a sharp detonation. He was greatly exuberant, and carried a brightly jacketed book which he regarded with affection. Ignoring the bar on his left, he went on into the hotel proper, down a blue-carpeted corridor towards the porter’s box. Ridley, the porter, resplendent in blue and braid, greeted him with a certain apprehension, but he only entered one of the nearby telephone boxes. There he put through a call to Somerset House.

“Hello, Evans,” he said. “Fen here… Yes, very well, thanks, my dear fellow, and how are you… ? I wonder if you’d look something up for me?”

An indistinct crackle.

“I can’t hear a word you’re saying… What I want is the details of the will of a Miss Snaith, Boar’s Hill, Oxford, who died about six months ago. It can’t have been proved until quite recently… What? Oh, well ring me back, will you? Yes… At the ‘Mace and Sceptre’. Yes. All right… Good-bye.”

“My soul cleaveth to the dust,” he sang without much humility as he jogged the receiver-rest, inserted two more pennies, and dialed a local number. Once again the telephone shrilled in the study of the Chief Constable of Oxford on Boar’s Hill.

“Well?” said that dignitary. “Oh, my God, is it you again? Not more about this Cadogan man?”

“No,” said Fen, hurt. “As a matter of fact, no. Though I must say I think you’re being most unhelpful.”

“It’s no use. The grocer’s kicking up a stink about it. You’d better keep out of the way. You know what happens when you start interfering in things.”

“Never mind that now. Have you any recollection of a Miss Snaith who lived near you?”

“Snaith? Snaith? Oh, yes, I know. Eccentric old lady.”

“Eccentric? How?”

“Oh, terrified of being murdered for her money. Lived in a sort of fortified grange, with damned great fierce mastiff dogs all over the shop. Died a short while ago. Why?”

“Did you ever meet her?”

“Oh, once or twice. Never really knew her. But what—”

“What sort of things was she interested in?”

“Interested in? Well—education, I believe. Oh, and she was always writing a lot of trashy books about spiritualism. Don’t know if she ever published them. Hope not. But she was terrified of dying—particularly of getting herself murdered—and I suppose it consoled her to think there was an after-life. Though I must say, if I’m going to come back after I’m dead and spell out idiotic messages on ouija boards, I’d rather not know about it beforehand.”

“Anything else?”

“Well, she was really quite a nice old thing, and very sensitive to kindness. But as I say, she was terrified people wanted to kill her. The only person she really trusted was some solicitor fellow—”

“Rosseter?”

“Come to think of it, that was the name. But look here, why—”

“I suppose there’s no doubt her death was an accident?”

“Lord, no. Run over by a bus. She just walked into it—there was no one else anywhere near her. You can imagine that, in view of the circumstances, we investigated pretty carefully.”

“Did she travel about much?”

“No, never—that was another odd thing. Stuck in Oxford all her life. Strange bird. By the way, Gervase, about Measure for Measure—”

Fen rang off. He was not prepared to discuss Measure for Measure at the moment. While he was considering what he had learned the bell rang in the call-box, and he lifted the receiver.

“Hello,” he said. “Yes, this is Fen. Oh, it’s you, Evans. You’ve been quick.”

“Traced it easily,” said the disembodied spokesman of Somerset House. “Elizabeth Ann Snaith, ‘Valhalla’, Boar’s Hill, Oxford. Will dated August 13th, 1937, and witnessed by R. A. Starkey and Jane Lee. Estate £937,642—tidy packet. Personalty, £740,760. A few small bequests—to servants, I imagine—but the bulk of it goes to ‘my niece, Emilia Tardy’, with a lot of queer provisions about advertising for her only in English papers, not communicating direct, and Lord knows what gallimaufry of rubbish. Oh, and a time limit of six months after the Snaith’s death to claim the bequest. Looks as if she was doing everything she could to prevent the miserable Tardy woman getting her paws on the money.”

“And what happens if she doesn’t claim it?”

At the other end there was a pause. “Half a tick, it’s over the page. Ah, yes. In that case, it all goes to a Mr. Aaron Rosseter, of 193A Cornmarket, Oxford. Lucky devil. That’s all, I think.”

“Ah.” Fen was thoughtful. Thanks, Evans. Thanks very much.”

“Any time,” said that official. “Give my love to Oxford.” He rang off.

Outside the call-box, Fen stood for a minute, and considered. The guests of the hotel drifted past him, stopping to ask the porter for timetables, taxis, newspapers. Ridley dealt with them with practised competence. In the dining-room the tables were being laid for lunch, and the head waiter was checking off reservations from a list pencilled on the back of a menu.

Unquestionably, Mr. Rosseter had a very good motive for murdering Miss Emilia Tardy. If he was only one of the executors of the will, he would have had no chance of cheating Miss Tardy out of her inheritance by failing to advertise for her. So when, in fact, she appeared… Fen shook his head. It didn’t really fit. For one thing, it was scarcely conceivable that Miss Snaith should have put such extraordinary powers into Mr. Rosseter’s hands, however much she trusted him; for another, if Mr. Rosseter had murdered Miss Tardy and knocked Cadogan on the head, why had he not recognized him, or, if he had, why had he been so extremely informative? Of course it was not necessarily the murderer who had knocked Cadogan on the head; possibly an accomplice… But, then, why the toyshop?

Fen sighed deeply and patted the book he was carrying. His spirits were extremely volatile, and at the moment he felt a trifle depressed. He waved to Ridley and went back to the bar. Cadogan and Mr. Sharman had reached a conversational impasse; Mr. Sharman had by now voided the whole of his views on Jane Austen, and Cadogan could not think of any fresh topic. At present, however, Fen was intent on avoiding them; he addressed himself, instead, to the melancholy, raw-boned Mr. Hoskins.

Mr. Hoskins was not in any way a troublesome undergraduate: he did his work with efficiency if not zeal, refrained from drunkenness and comported himself in a gentlemanly manner. His only remarkable characteristic was the unfailing spell which he appeared to cast upon young women. At the moment he was sitting before his second small glass of pale sherry and urging black-haired Miriam to the further consumption of chocolates.

Excusing himself to the girl, who gazed up at him with a kind of holy awe, Fen got Mr. Hoskins outside.

“Mr. Hoskins,” said Fen with mild severity. “I shall not inquire why you are devoting the golden hours of your youth to the illegal consumption of sherry in that imitation of Chartres Cathedral—”

“I’m much obliged to you, sir,” said Mr. Hoskins without any special perturbation of spirit.

“I only wish to ask,” Fen proceeded, “if you will do me a service.”

Mr. Hoskins blinked and silently bowed

“Are you interested in the novels of Jane Austen, Mr. Hoskins?”

“It has always appeared to me, sir,” said Mr. Hoskins, “that the women characters are poorly drawn.”

“Well, you should know,” said Fen, grinning. “Anyway, there’s a dreary, sordid fellow in there who has a passion for Jane Austen. Could you keep him here for an hour or so?”

“Nothing easier,” said Mr. Hoskins with benign self-assurance. Though I think perhaps I had better go and pack my young woman off first.”

“Of course, of course,” said Fen hastily.

Mr. Hoskins bowed again, returned to the bar, and shortly reappeared, shepherding Miriam with soothing explanations to the door. There he pressed her hand warmly, waved after her, and returned to Fen.

“Tell me, Mr. Hoskins,” said Fen, seized by a sudden disinterested curiosity, “how do you explain your extraordinary attraction for women? Don’t answer if you think I’m being impertinent”

“Not at all.” Mr. Hoskins conveyed the impression that he found this query most gratifying. “It’s really very simple: I quieten their fears and give them sweet things to eat. It seems never to fail.”

“Oh,” said Fen, a little taken aback. “Oh. Well, thank you very much, Mr. Hoskins. And now, if you’ll come back to the bar…” He began to give instructions.

Cadogan was only too delighted to be released by Mr. Hoskins from his vigil. When he and Fen left the bar Mr. Hoskins and Mr. Sharman were already conversing most amicably.

“Well, what’s going on?” he inquired when they got outside. He was a trifle hazy after five pints of beer, but his head was aching much less.

Fen drew him down the passage and they sat down by the reception desk, in two hard wooden chairs of vaguely Assyrian design. Fen explained about the telephone calls.

“No, no,” he said peevishly, cutting short Cadogan’s startled outcry on the subject of Mr. Rosseter. “I really don’t think he can have done it.” He gave his reasons.

That’s mere quibbling,” Cadogan answered. “It’s only because you have these romantic fancies about that advertisement—”

“I was coming to that,” said Fen malevolently. He paused to examine a young and elaborate blonde who was walking by, clad in furs and with very high heels. “Because in fact there is a connection between that advertisement and Miss Snaith.”

“And what may it be?”

“This.” With something of a flourish, Fen brought forth the book he had been carrying; it was rather with the air of a prosecuting counsel who has some piece of particularly damaging evidence to reveal. Cadogan studied it without much comprehension. It was entitled The Nonsense Poems of Edward Lear.

“You may recall,” Fen went on, waving his index finger didactically about in the air, “that Miss Snaith was interested in comic verse. This”—he tapped the book authoritatively—“is comic verse.”

“You amaze me.”

“Comic verse of the highest order, moreover.” Fen suddenly abandoned his instructive manner and became aggrieved. There are actually people who imagine that Lear was incapable of making the last lines of his limericks different from the first; whereas the fact is—”

“Yes, yes,” said Cadogan impatiently, taking the newspaper cutting from his pocket book. “I see what you mean. ‘Ryde, Leeds, West, Mold, Berlin’. Some fantastic method of designating people by means of limericks.”

“M’m.” Fen scrabbled through the pages. “And I somehow darkly suspect that our Mr. Sharman is one of them. Look here—there was an Old Person of Mold who shrank from sensations of cold; so he purchased some muffs, some furs, and some fluffs, and wrapped himself up from the cold. In the picture he looks like a sort of globular bear. doesn’t that fit?”

“Yes, but—”

“Moreover, Mr. Sharman came into a substantial legacy last night. And so did some others, apparently.”

“Ryde, Leeds, West, and Berlin.”

“Exactly. The Old Man of the West, you remember, wore a pale, plum-coloured vest—”

“There was another, wasn’t there, who never could get any rest.”

“Yes, but they set him to spin on his nose and chin, and there’s nothing distinctive about that, except therapeutically.”

“Ah.” Cadogan paused and reflected that he had drunk too much. “What about Ryde?”

“There was a Young Lady of Ryde,” Fen read after some further search, “whose shoe-strings were seldom untied. She purchased some clogs and some small spotted dogs, and frequently walked about Ryde. It really isn’t uncommon, you know, for people’s shoe-strings to be seldom untied, and clogs are scarcely conceivable. Which leaves the small spotted dogs.”

“I remember Berlin.”

“So do I. He was an Old Man whose form was uncommonly thin…” For the first time Fen hesitated. “It does all sound a bit wild, doesn’t it?”

“Well, what’s your idea?”

“I haven’t any really.” Fen considered. “It’s just this rather shaky train of correspondences; Miss Snaith—comic verse—Rosseter—advertisement—Sharman’s inheritance. But I confess it had occurred to me that Sharman and the ‘others’ he talked about might be the legatees in case Miss Tardy didn’t put in her claim.”

“But they aren’t. Rosseter is.”

“On the face of it, yes.” Taking a cigarette from a gold case, Fen put it slowly into his mouth. “There are such things as secret trusts, you know. You leave your money to one person and direct him to pass it on to another—with certain safeguards to make sure he does. In that way the general public can’t find out who’s getting it.”

“But why on earth should Miss Snaith go in for such a rigmarole?”

“I don’t know.” Fen lit his cigarette and tried to blow a smoke-ring. “I dare say Rosseter could tell us, but he won’t. A heel,” he added, being somewhat prone to out-of-date Americanisms.

“Nor will Sharman,” Cadogan said gloomily. His face lightened as he observed a popular woman novelist stumble on getting into the lift. “I tried.”

“Oh, you’ve been blundering about, have you,” said Fen with interest, “like a bull in a china shop? Well, I was pretty sure he wouldn’t let anvthing out, anyway.”

“By the way, why did you foist him on that undergraduate?”

“Chiefly to keep him under surveillance while I was talking to you.”

“I see. Well, we’ve only got to find a man with a plum-coloured vest, a man who’s uncommonly thin, a girl with some small spotted dogs, a—by the way, what about Leeds?”

“Her head was infested with beads.”

“My dear Gervase,” said Cadogan, “it’s all quite fantastic and hopeless.”

But Fen shook his head. “Not entirely,” he said. “If we can discover a beautiful shop-girl with blue eyes and a small spotted dog… Let’s start now.”

“Start? Now?”

They started.