Murder at Cambridge by Q. Patrick

Author:Q. Patrick
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: MysteriousPress.com/Open Road
Published: 2018-10-10T16:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER XI

Murder in the Court

Saturday morning at Cambridge is a moment of respite. It is the death of each week’s life, intended by God and undergraduate as a period for sleep and for forgetting. And after my hectic Friday I had hoped to slumber on until it was time for that hybrid meal technically known as “brunch”—a movable feast midway between breakfast and lunch. But Fate had decreed otherwise; for, at the premature hour of 7:30am, I was brought back to life and all its grim realities with a very decided jerk.

“Hilary, Hilary, wake up, man!”

Someone was tugging at my bedclothes and shaking me none too gently by the shoulders. Through one half-opened eye I took in a hazy impression of Lloyd Comstock in pyjamas and dressing-gown with his dark hair sticking out in all directions. He looked like a disgruntled golliwog.

“Listen, man, you must listen,” he urged. “If I don’t have someone to talk to I shall go stark, staring mad. I’ve just had the most horrible experience….”

I turned toward the wall. “Let me dream again,” I murmured, pulling the covers over my ears. “It’s too early for horrors.”

“But, my God, man. I’ve just—I’ve just discovered a dead body—a corpse. Here in the college.” His voice was shrill with excitement.

I sat up, not quite certain whether I was asleep or awake.

“What?” I asked, bewildered.

“About an hour ago, in the court. The police are there now. They told me not to talk, but everyone must have seen it by this time. When I came away, there was a crowd of servants and four policemen, and oh, it was too utterly—beastly.”

He paused and looked around, wildly. I jumped out of bed, ran to my cupboard and poured a stiff tot of brandy.

“Here, take this,” I said, half choking him in my efforts to get it down his throat, “and that is what comes of getting up at such ungodly hours as you do!”

But he did not smile. The neat brandy had made him blink and splutter. Presently he gasped out:

“I got up about six. It was such a ripping morning for a stroll. I just couldn’t stay in bed. Besides—” he added, running a hand through his hair, “I’ve been sleeping rottenly since—since Monday.”

“Yes, but—”

“Well, I was going across the court to the baths when I suddenly noticed a top hat lying on the ground under the white lilac bush just by the front door of the Master’s Lodge. You know?”

I nodded.

He gulped again.

“Well, I thought some of the fellows had probably been having a rag last night—celebrating the cricket match or something—so I stopped to pick it up. As I did so, I saw a man’s boot sticking out from under the bush.

“Of course, I thought it must be some sort of dummy—a wax figure that some bright boy had pinched from a tailor’s shop. I went up closer to have a look and—and then I saw that it wasn’t part of a rag at all—that it was grim earnest—”

He

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