The Warden looked from Miss Hillyard to Mrs. Goodwin and back to Peter.
‘Yes,’ she said., ‘I think it was wise to establish that.’
‘The next day,’ said Peter, ‘I asked Miss de Vine for the name of the man in question, whom we already knew to be handsome and married. The name was Arthur Robinson; and with this information I set out to find what had become of him. My working theory was that X was either the wife or some relation of Robinson: that she had come here when Miss de Vine’s appointment was announced, with the intention of revenging his misfortunes upon Miss de Vine, the College and academic women in general; and that in all probability X was a person who stood in some close relation to the Jukes family. This theory was strengthened by the discovery that information was laid against Jukes by an anonymous letter similar to those circulated here.
‘Now, the first thing that happened after my arrival was the appearance of X in the Science lecture-room. The idea that X was courting discovery by preparing letters in that public and dangerous manner was patently absurd. The whole thing was a clear fake, intended to mislead, and probably to establish an alibi. The communications had been prepared elsewhere and deliberately planted – in fact, there were not enough letters left in the box to finish the message that had been begun to Miss Vane. The room chosen was in full view of the Scouts’ Wing, and the big ceiling light was conspicuously turned on, though there was a reading-lamp in the room, in good working order; it was Annie who drew Carrie’s attention to the light in the window; Annie was the only person who claimed to have actually seen X; and while the alibi was established for both scouts, Annie was the one who most closely corresponded to the conditions required for X.’
‘But Carrie heard X in the room,’ said the Dean.
‘Oh, yes,’ said Wimsey, smiling. ‘And Carrie was sent to fetch you while Annie removed the strings that had switched out the light and overturned the blackboard from the other side of the door. I pointed out to you, you know, that the top of the door had been thoroughly dusted, so that the mark of the string shouldn’t show.’
‘But the marks on the dark-room window-sill—’ said the Dean.
‘Quite genuine. She got out there the first time, leaving the doors locked on the inside and strewing a few of Miss de Vine’s hairpins about to produce conviction. Then she let herself into the Scouts’ Wing through the Buttery, called up Carrie and brought her along to see the fun. . . . I think, by the way, that someone of the scouts must have had her suspicions. Perhaps she had found Annie’s bedroom door mysteriously locked on various occasions, or had met her in the passage at inconvenient times. Anyhow, the time had obviously arrived for establishing an alibi. I hazarded the suggestion that nocturnal ramblings would cease from that time on; and so they did. And I don’t suppose we shall ever find the extra key to the Buttery.’
‘All very well,’ said Miss Edwards. ‘But you still have no proof.’
‘No. I went away to get it. In the meantime, X – if you don’t like my identification – decided that Miss Vane was dangerous, and laid a trap to catch her, This didn’t come off, because Miss Vane very sensibly telephoned back to College to confirm the mysterious message she had received at Somerville. The message was sent from an outside call-box on the Wednesday night at 10.40. Just before eleven, Annie came in from her day off and heard Padgett speak to Miss Vane on the ’phone. She didn’t bear the conversation, but she probably heard the name.
‘Although the attempt had not come off, I felt sure that another would be made, on either Miss Vane, Miss de Vine or the suspicious scout – or on all three. I issued a warning to that effect. The next thing that happened was that Miss Vane’s chessmen were destroyed. That was rather unexpected. It looked less like alarm than personal hatred. Up till that time, Miss Vane had been treated with almost as much tenderness as though she had been a womanly woman. Can you think of anything that can have given X that impression, Miss Vane?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Harriet, confused. ‘I asked kindly after the children and spoke to Beatie – good Heavens, yes, Beatie! – when I met them. And I remember once agreeing politely with Annie that marriage might be a good thing if one could find the right person.’
‘That was politic if unprincipled. And how about the attentive Mr. Jones of Jesus? If you will bring young men into the College at night and hide them in the Chapel—’
‘Good gracious!’ exclaimed Miss Pyke.
‘—you must be expected to be thought a womanly woman. However; that is of no great importance. I fear the illusion was destroyed when you publicly informed me that personal attachments must come second to public duties.’
‘But,’ said Miss Edwards, impatiently, ‘what happened to Arthur Robinson?’
‘He was married to a woman called Charlotte Ann Clarke, who had been his landlady’s daughter. His first child, born eight years ago, was called Beatrice. After the trouble at York, he changed his name to Wilson and took a post as junior master in a small preparatory school, where they didn’t mind taking a man who had been deprived of his M.A., so long as he was cheap. His second daughter, born shortly afterwards, was named Carola. I’m afraid the Wilsons didn’t find life too easy. He lost his first job – drink was the reason, I’m afraid – took another – got into trouble again and three years ago blew his brains out. There were photographs in the local paper. Here they are, you see. A fair, handsome man of about thirty-eight – irresolute, attractive, something of my nephew’s type. And here is the photograph of the widow.’
‘You are right,’ said the Warden. ‘That is Annie Wilson.’
‘Yes. If you read the report of the inquest, you will see that he left a letter, saying that he had been hounded to death – rather a rambling letter, containing a Latin quotation, which the coroner translated.’
‘Good gracious!’ said Miss Pyke. ‘Tristius haud illis monstrum—’
‘Ita. A man wrote that after all; you see; so Miss Hillyard was so far right. Annie Wilson, being obliged to do something to support her children and herself, went into service.’
‘I had very good references with her,’ said the Bursar.
‘No doubt; why not? She must somehow have kept track of Miss de Vine’s movements; and when the appointment was announced last Christmas, she applied for a job here. She probably knew that, as an unfortunate widow with two small children, she would receive kindly consideration—’
‘What did I tell you?’ cried Miss Hillyard. ‘I always said that this ridiculous sentimentality about married women would be the ruin of all discipline in this College. Their minds are not, and cannot be, on their work.’
‘Oh, dear!’ said Miss Lydgate. ‘Poor soul! brooding over that grievance in this really unbalanced way! If only we had known, we could surely have done something to make her see the thing in a more rational light. Did it never occur to you, Miss de Vine, to inquire what happened to this unhappy man Robinson?’
‘I am afraid it did not.’
‘Why should you?’ demanded Miss Hillyard.
The noise in the coal-cellar had ceased within the last few minutes. As though the silence had roused a train of association in her mind, Miss Chilperic turned to Peter and said, hesitatingly:
‘If poor Annie really did all these dreadful things, how did she get shut up in the coal-hole?’
‘Ah!’ said Peter. ‘That coal-hole very nearly shook my faith in my theory; especially as I didn’t get the report from my research-staff till yesterday. But when you come to think of it, what else could she do? She laid a plot to attack Miss de Vine on her return from Town – the scouts probably knew which train she was coming by.’
‘Nellie knew,’ said Harriet.
‘Then she could have told Annie. By an extraordinary piece of good fortune, the attack was delivered – not against Miss de Vine, who would have been taken unawares and whose heart is not strong, but against a younger and stronger woman, who was, up to a certain point, prepared to meet it. Even so, it was serious enoug
h, and might easily have proved fatal. I find it difficult to forgive myself for not having spoken earlier – with or without proof – and put the suspect under observation.’
‘Oh, nonsense!’ said Harriet, quickly. ‘If you had, she might have chucked the whole thing for the rest of the term, and we should still not know anything definite. I wasn’t much hurt.’
‘No. But it might not have been you. I knew you were ready to take the risk; but I had no right to expose Miss de Vine.’
‘It seems to me,’ said Miss de Vine, ‘that the risk was rightly and properly mine.’
‘The worst responsibility rests on me,’ said the Warden. ‘I should have telephoned the warning to you before you left Town.’
‘Whose-ever fault it was,’ said Peter, ‘it was Miss Vane who was attacked. Instead of a nice, quiet throttling, there was a nasty fall and a lot of blood, some of which, no doubt, got on to the assailant’s hands and dress. She was in an awkward position. She had got the wrong person, she was bloodstained and dishevelled, and Miss de Vine or somebody else might arrive at any moment. Even if she ran quickly back to her own room, she might be seen – her uniform was stained – and when the body was found (alive or dead) she would be a marked woman. Her only possible chance was to stage an attack on herself. She went out through the back of the loggia, threw herself into the coal-cellar, locked the door on herself and proceeded to cover up Miss Vane’s bloodstains with her own. By the way, Miss Vane, if you remembered anything of your lesson, you must have marked her wrists for her.’
‘I’ll swear I did,’ said Harriet.
‘But any amount of bruising may be caused by trying to scramble through a ventilator. Well. The evidence, you see, is still circumstantial – even though my nephew is prepared to identify the woman he saw crossing Magdalen Bridge on Wednesday with the woman he met in the garden. One can catch a Headington bus from the other side of Magdalen Bridge. Meanwhile, you heard this fellow in the cellarage? If I am not mistaken, somebody is arriving with something like direct proof?’
A heavy step in the passage was followed by a knock on the door; and Padgett followed the knock almost before he was told to come in. His clothes bore traces of coal-dust, though some hasty washing had evidently been done to his hands and face.
‘Excuse me, madam Warden, miss,’ said Padgett. ‘Here you are, Major. Right down at the bottom of the ’eap. ’Ad to shift the whole lot, I had.’
He laid a large key on the table.
‘Have you tried it in the cellar-door?’
‘Yes, sir. But there wasn’t no need. “Ere’s my label on it, “Coal-cellar” – see?’
‘Easy to lock yourself in and hide the key. Thank you, Padgett.’
‘One moment, Padgett,’ said the Warden. ‘I want to see Annie Wilson. Will you please find her and bring her here.’
‘Better not,’ said Wimsey, in a low tone.
‘I certainly shall,’ said the Warden, sharply. ‘You have made a public accusation against this unfortunate woman, and it is only right that she should be given an opportunity to answer it. Bring her here at once, Padgett.’
Peter’s hands made a last eloquent gesture of resignation as Padgett went out.
‘I think it is very necessary,’ said the Bursar, ‘that this matter should be cleared up completely and at once.’
‘Do you really think it wise, Warden?’ asked the Dean.
‘Nobody shall be accused in this College,’ said the Warden, ‘without a hearing. Your arguments, Lord Peter, appear to be most convincing; but the evidence may bear some other interpretation. Annie Wilson is, no doubt, Charlotte Ann Robinson; but it does not follow that she is the author of the disturbances. I admit that appearances are against her, but there may be falsification or coincidence. The key, for example, may have been put into the coal-cellar at any time within the last three days.’
‘I have been down to see Jukes,’ began Peter; when the entrance of Annie interrupted him. Neat and subdued as usual, she approached the Warden:
‘Padgett said you wished to see me, madam.’ Then her eye fell on the newspaper spread out upon the table, and she drew in her breath with a long, sharp hiss, while her eyes went round the room like the eyes of a hunted animal.
‘Mrs. Robinson,’ said Peter, quickly and quietly. ‘We can quite understand how you came to feel a grievance – perhaps a justifiable grievance – against the person responsible for the sad death of your husband. But how could you bring yourself to let your children help you to prepare those horrible messages? Didn’t you realise that if anything had happened they might have been called upon to bear witness in court?’
‘No, they wouldn’t,’ she said quickly. ‘They knew nothing about it. They only helped to cut out the letters. Do you think I’d let them suffer? . . . My God! You can’t do that. . . . I say you can’t do it. . . . You beasts, I’d kill myself first.’
‘Annie,’ said Dr. Baring, ‘are we to understand that you admit being responsible for all these abominable disturbances? I sent for you in order that you might clear yourself of certain suspicions which—’
‘Clear myself! I wouldn’t trouble to clear myself. You smug hypocrites – I’d like to see you bring me into court. I’d laugh in your faces. How would you look, sitting there while I told the judge how that woman there killed my husband?’
‘I am exceedingly disturbed,’ said Miss de Vine, ‘to hear about all this. I knew nothing of it till just now. But indeed I had no choice in the matter. I could not foresee the consequences – and even if I had—’
‘You wouldn’t have cared. You killed him and you didn’t care. I say you murdered him. What had he done to you? What harm had he done to anybody? He only wanted to live and be happy. You took the bread out of his mouth and flung his children and me out to starve. What did it matter to you? You had no children. You hadn’t a man to care about. I know all about you. You had a man once and you threw him over because it was too much bother to look after him. But couldn’t you leave my man alone? He told a lie about somebody else who was dead and dust hundreds of years ago. Nobody was the worse for that. Was a dirty bit of paper more important than all our lives and happiness? You broke him and killed him – all for nothing. Do you think that’s a woman’s job.’
‘Most unhappily,’ said Miss de Vine, ‘it was my job.’
‘What business had you with a job like that? A woman’s job is to look after a husband and children. I wish I had killed you. I wish I could kill you all. I wish I could burn down this place and all the places like it – where you teach women to take men’s jobs and rob them first and kill them afterwards.’
She turned to the Warden.
‘Don’t you know what you’re doing? I’ve heard you sit round snivelling about unemployment – but it’s you, it’s women like you who take the work away from the men and break their hearts and lives. No wonder you can’t get men for yourselves and hate the women who can. God keep the men out of your hands, that’s what I say. You’d destroy your own husbands, if you had any, for an old book or bit of writing. . . . I loved my husband, and you broke his heart. If he’d been a thief or a murderer, I’d have loved him and stuck to him. He didn’t mean to steal that old bit of paper – he only put it away. It made no difference to anybody. It wouldn’t have helped a single man or woman or child in the world – it wouldn’t have kept a cat alive; but you killed him for it.’
Peter had got up and stood behind Miss de Vine, with his hand over her wrist. She shook her head. Immovable, implacable, thought Harriet; this won’t make her pulse miss a single beat. The rest of the Common-Room looked merely stunned.
‘Oh, no!’ said Annie, echoing Harriet’s thoughts. ‘She feels nothing. None of them feel anything. You brazen devils – you all stand together. You’re only frightened for your skins and your miserable reputations. I scared you all, didn’t I? God! how I laughed to see you all look at one another! You didn’t even trust each other. You can’t agree about anything except hating decent
women and their men. I wish I’d torn the throats out of the lot of you. It would have been too good for you, though. I wanted to see you thrown out to starve, like us. I wanted to see you all dragged into the gutter. I wanted to see you – you – sneered at and trampled on and degraded and despised as we were. It would do you good to learn to scrub floors for a living as I’ve done, and use your hands for something, and say “madam” to a lot of scum. . . . But I made you shake in your shoes, anyhow. You couldn’t even fmd out who was doing it – that’s all your wonderful brains come to. There’s nothing in your books about life and marriage and children, is there? Nothing about desperate people – or love – or hate or anything human. You’re ignorant and stupid and helpless. You’re a lot of fools. You can’t do anything for yourselves. Even you, you silly old hags – you had to get a man to do your work for you.
‘You brought him here.’ She leaned over Harriet with her fierce eyes, as though she would have fallen on her and torn her to pieces. ‘And you’re the dirtiest hypocrite of the lot. I know who you are. You had a lover once, and he died. You chucked him out because you were too proud to marry him. You were his mistress and you sucked him dry, and you didn’t value him enough to let him make an honest woman of you. He died because you weren’t there to look after him. I suppose you’d say you loved him. You don’t know what love means. It means sticking to your man through thick and thin and putting up with everything. But you take men and use them and throw them away when you’ve finished with them. They come after you like wasps round a jam-jar, and then they fall in and die. What are you going to do with that one there? You send for him when you need him and do your dirty work, and when you’ve finished with him you’ll get rid of him, you don’t want to cook his meals and mend his clothes and bear his children like a decent woman. You’ll use him, like any other tool, to break me. You’d like to see me in prison and my children in a home, because you haven’t the guts to do your proper job in the world. The whole bunch of you together haven’t flesh and blood enough to make you fit for a man. As for you—’