01 The Pothunters Read online

  ‘Why, Mr Thomson,’ he said, as Jim came up, ‘I thought you was running. Whoa!’ The last remark was addressed to a bored-looking horse attached to the mowing-machine. From the expression on its face, the animal evidently voted the whole process pure foolishness. He pulled up without hesitation, and Biffen turned to Jim again.

  ‘Surely they ain’t come back yet?’ he said.

  ‘I have,’ said Jim. ‘I did myself up rather in the mile yesterday, and couldn’t keep up the pace. I dropped out at that awfully long ploughed field by Parker’s Spinney.’

  Biffen nodded.

  ‘And ‘oo was winning, sir?’

  ‘Well, Welch was leading, the last I saw of it. Shouldn’t wonder if he won either. He was going all right. I say, the place seems absolutely deserted. Isn’t anybody about?’

  ‘Just what Mr MacArthur was saying to me just this minute, sir. ‘E went into the Pavilion.’

  ‘Good. I’ll go and hunt for him.’

  Biffen ‘clicked’ the blase horse into movement again. Jim went to the Pavilion and met the Babe coming down the steps.

  ‘Hullo, Babe! I was looking for you.’

  ‘Hullo! Why aren’t you running?’

  ‘Dropped out. Come and have tea in my study.’

  ‘No, I’ll tell you what. You come back with me. I’ve got rather a decent dog I want to show you. Only got him yesterday.’

  Jim revelled in dogs, so he agreed instantly. The Babe lived with his parents in a big house about a mile from the College, and in so doing was the object of much envy amongst those who had to put up with life at the Houses. Jim had been to his home once or twice before, and had always had a very good time indeed there. The two strolled off. In another hour the place began to show signs of life again. The School began to return by ones and twos, most of them taking up a position near the big gates. This was where the race was to finish. There was a straight piece of road about two hundred yards in length before the high road was reached. It was a sight worth seeing when the runners, paced by their respective Houses on each side of the road, swept round the corner, and did their best to sprint with all that was left in them after ten miles of difficult country. Suddenly a distant shouting began to be heard. The leaders had been sighted. The noise increased, growing nearer and nearer, until at last it swelled into a roar, and a black mass of runners turned the corner. In the midst of the black was one white figure—Welch, as calm and unruffled as if he had been returning from a short trot to improve his wind. Merevale’s surged round him in a cheering mob. Welch simply disregarded them. He knew where he wished to begin his sprint, and he would begin it at that spot and no other. The spot he had chosen was well within a hundred yards from the gates. When he reached it, he let himself go, and from the uproar, the crowd appeared to be satisfied. A long pause, and still none of the other runners appeared. Five minutes went by before they began to appear. First Jones, of the School House, and Simpson, who raced every yard of the way, and finished in the order named, and then three of Philpott’s House in a body. The rest dropped in at intervals for the next quarter of an hour.

  The Headmaster always made a point of watching the finish of the cross-country run. Indeed, he was generally one of the last to leave. With the majority of the spectators it was enough to see the first five safely in.

  The last man and lock-up arrived almost simultaneously, and the Head went off to a well-earned dinner.

  He had just finished this meal, and was congratulating himself on not being obliged to spend the evening in a series of painful interviews, as had happened the night before, when Parker, the butler, entered the room.

  ‘Well, Parker, what is it?’ asked he.

  ‘Mr Roberts, sir, wishes to see you.’

  For a moment the Head was at a loss. He could not recall any friend or acquaintance of that name. Then he remembered that Roberts was the name of the detective who had come down from London to look into the matter of the prizes.

  ‘Very well,’ he said, resignedly, ‘show him into the study.’

  Parker bowed, and retired. The Head, after an interval, followed him, and made his way to the study.

  [15]

  MR ROBERTS EXPLAINS

  Inspector Roberts was standing with his back to the door, examining a photograph of the College, when the Head entered. He spun round briskly. ‘Good evening, Mr Roberts. Pray be seated. You wish to see me?’

  The detective took a seat.

  ‘This business of the cups, sir.’

  ‘Ah!’ said the Head, ‘have you made any progress?’

  ‘Considerable. Yes, very considerable progress. I’ve found out who stole them.’

  ‘You have?’ cried the Head. ‘Excellent. I suppose it was Thomson, then? I was afraid so.’

  ‘Thomson, sir? That was certainly not the name he gave me. Stokes he called himself.’

  ‘Stokes? Stokes? This is curious. Perhaps if you were to describe his appearance? Was he a tall boy, of a rather slight build—’

  The detective interrupted.

  ‘Excuse me, sir, but I rather fancy we have different persons in our mind. Stokes is not a boy. Not at all. Well over thirty. Red moustache. Height, five foot seven, I should say. Not more. Works as a farmhand when required, and does odd jobs at times. That’s the man.’

  The Head’s face expressed relief, as he heard this description. ‘Then Thomson did not do it after all,’ he said.

  ‘Thomson?’ queried Mr Roberts.

  ‘Thomson,’ explained the Head, ‘is the name of one of the boys at the School. I am sorry to say that I strongly suspected him of this robbery.’

  ‘A boy at the School. Curious. Unusual, I should have thought, for a boy to be mixed up in an affair like this. Though I have known cases.’

  ‘I was very unwilling, I can assure you, to suspect him of such a thing, but really the evidence all seemed to point to it. I am afraid, Mr Roberts, that I have been poaching on your preserves without much success.’

  ‘Curious thing evidence,’ murmured Mr Roberts, fixing with his eye a bust of Socrates on the writing-desk, as if he wished it to pay particular attention to his words. ‘Very curious. Very seldom able to trust it. Case the other day. Man charged with robbery from the person. With violence. They gave the case to me. Worked up beautiful case against the man. Not a hitch anywhere. Whole thing practically proved. Man brings forward alibi. Proves it. Turned out that at time of robbery he had been serving seven days without the option for knocking down two porters and a guard on the District Railway. Yet the evidence seemed conclusive. Yes, curious thing evidence.’ He nodded solemnly at Socrates, and resumed an interested study of the carpet.

  The Head, who had made several spirited attempts at speaking during this recital, at last succeeded in getting in a word.

  ‘You have the cups?’

  ‘No. No, cups still missing. Only flaw in the affair. Perhaps I had better begin from the beginning?’

  ‘Exactly. Pray let me hear the whole story. I am more glad than I can say that Thomson is innocent. There is no doubt of that, I hope?’

  ‘Not the least, sir. Not the very least. Stokes is the man.’

  ‘I am very glad to hear it.’

  The inspector paused for a moment, coughed, and drifted into his narrative.

  ‘… Saw at once it was not the work of a practised burglar. First place, how could regular professional know that the cups were in the Pavilion at all? Quite so. Second place, work very clumsily done. No neatness. Not the professional touch at all. Tell it in a minute. No mistaking it. Very good. Must, therefore, have been amateur—this night only—and connected with School. Next question, who? Helped a little there by luck. Capital thing luck, when it’s not bad luck. Was passing by the village inn—you know the village inn, I dare say, sir?’

  The Head, slightly scandalized, explained that he was seldom in the village. The detective bowed and resumed his tale.

  ‘As I passed the door, I ran into a man coming out. In a very
elevated, not to say intoxicated, state. As a matter of fact, barely able to stand. Reeled against wall, and dropped handful of money. I lent helping hand, and picked up his money for him. Not my place to arrest drunken men. Constable’s! No constable there, of course. Noticed, as I picked the money up, that there was a good deal of it. For ordinary rustic, a very good deal. Sovereign and plenty of silver.’ He paused, mused for a while, and went on again.

  ‘Yes. Sovereign, and quite ten shillings’ worth of silver. Now the nature of my profession makes me a suspicious man. It struck me as curious, not to say remarkable, that such a man should have thirty shillings or more about him so late in the week. And then there was another thing. I thought I’d seen this particular man somewhere on the School grounds. Couldn’t recall his face exactly, but just had a sort of general recollection of having seen him before. I happened to have a camera with me. As a matter of fact I had been taking a few photographs of the place. Pretty place, sir.’

  ‘Very,’ agreed the Head.

  ‘You photograph yourself, perhaps?’

  ‘No. I—ah—do not.’

  ‘Ah. Pity. Excellent hobby. However—I took a snap-shot of this man to show to somebody who might know him better than I did. This is the photograph. Drunk as a lord, is he not?’

  He exhibited a small piece of paper. The Head examined it gravely, and admitted that the subject of the picture did not appear to be ostentatiously sober. The sunlight beat full on his face, which wore the intensely solemn expression of the man who, knowing his own condition, hopes, by means of exemplary conduct, to conceal it from the world. The Head handed the photograph back without further comment.

  ‘I gave the man back his money,’ went on Mr Roberts, ‘and saw him safely started again, and then I set to work to shadow him. Not a difficult job. He walked very slowly, and for all he seemed to care, the whole of Scotland Yard might have, been shadowing him. Went up the street, and after a time turned in at one of the cottages. I marked the place, and went home to develop the photograph. Took it to show the man who looks after the cricket-field.’

  ‘Biffen?’

  ‘Just so, Biffen. Very intelligent man. Given me a good deal of help in one way and another all along. Well, I showed it to him and he said he thought he knew the face. Was almost certain it was one of the men at work on the grounds at the time of the robbery. Showed it to friend of his, the other ground-man. He thought same. That made it as certain as I had any need for. Went off at once to the man’s cottage, found him sober, and got the whole thing out of him. But not the cups. He had been meaning to sell them, but had not known where to go. Wanted combination of good price and complete safety. Very hard to find, so had kept cups hidden till further notice.’

  Here the Head interrupted.

  ‘And the cups? Where are they?’

  ‘We-e-ll,’ said the detective, slowly. ‘It is this way. We have only got his word to go on as regards the cups. This man, Stokes, it seems is a notorious poacher. The night after the robbery he took the cups out with him on an expedition in some woods that lie in the direction of Badgwick. I think Badgwick is the name.’

  ‘Badgwick! Not Sir Alfred Venner’s woods?’

  ‘Sir Alfred Venner it was, sir. That was the name he mentioned. Stokes appears to have been in the habit of visiting that gentleman’s property pretty frequently. He had a regular hiding place, a sort of store where he used to keep all the game he killed. He described the place to me. It is a big tree on the bank of the stream nearest the high road. The tree is hollow. One has to climb to find the opening to it. Inside are the cups, and, I should say, a good deal of mixed poultry. That is what he told me, sir. I should advise you, if I may say so, to write a note to Sir Alfred Venner, explaining the case, and ask him to search the tree, and send the cups on here.’

  This idea did not appeal to the Head at all. Why, he thought bitterly, was this wretched M.P. always mixed up with his affairs? Left to himself, he could have existed in perfect comfort without either seeing, writing to, or hearing from the great man again for the rest of his life. ‘I will think it over,’ he said, ‘though it seems the only thing to be done. As for Stokes, I suppose I must prosecute—’

  The detective raised a hand in protest.

  ‘Pardon my interruption, sir, but I really should advise you not to prosecute.’

  ‘Indeed! Why?’

  ‘It is this way. If you prosecute, you get the man his term of imprisonment. A year, probably. Well and good. But then what happens? After his sentence has run out, he comes out of prison an ex-convict. Tries to get work. No good. Nobody will look at him. Asks for a job. People lock up their spoons and shout for the police. What happens then? Not being able to get work, tries another burglary. Being a clumsy hand at the game, gets caught again and sent back to prison, and so is ruined and becomes a danger to society. Now, if he is let off this time, he will go straight for the rest of his life. Run a mile to avoid a silver cup. He’s badly scared, and I took the opportunity of scaring him more. Told him nothing would happen this time, if the cups came back safely, but that he’d be watched ever afterwards to see he did not get into mischief. Of course he won’t really be watched, you understand, but he thinks he will. Which is better, for it saves trouble. Besides, we know where the cups are—I feel sure he was speaking the truth about them, he was too frightened to invent a story—and here is most of the money. So it all ends well, if I may put it so. My advice, sir, and I think you will find it good advice—is not to prosecute.’

  ‘Very well,’ said the Head, ‘I will not.’

  ‘Very good, sir. Good morning, sir.’ And he left the room.

  The Head rang the bell.

  ‘Parker,’ said he, ‘go across to Mr Merevale’s, and ask him to send Thomson to me.’

  It was with mixed feelings that he awaited Jim’s arrival. The detective’s story had shown how unjust had been his former suspicions, and he felt distinctly uncomfortable at the prospect of the apology which he felt bound to make to him. On the other hand, this feeling was more than equalled by his relief at finding that his faith in the virtue of the genus School-prefect, though at fault in the matter of Plunkett, was not altogether misplaced. It made up for a good deal. Then his thoughts drifted to Sir Alfred Venner. Struggle with his feelings as he might, the Head could not endure that local potentate. The recent interview between them had had no parallel in their previous acquaintance, but the Head had always felt vaguely irritated by his manner and speech, and he had always feared that matters would come to a head sooner or later. The prospect of opening communication with him once more was not alluring. In the meantime there was his more immediate duty to be performed, the apology to Thomson. But that reminded him. The apology must only be of a certain kind. It must not be grovelling. And this for a very excellent reason. After the apology must come an official lecture on the subject of betting. He had rather lost sight of that offence in the excitement of the greater crime of which Thomson had been accused, and very nearly convicted. Now the full heinousness of it came back to him. Betting! Scandalous!

  ‘Come in,’ he cried, as a knock at the door roused him from his thoughts. He turned. But instead of Thomson, there appeared Parker. Parker carried a note. It was from Mr Merevale.

  The Head opened it.

  ‘What!’ he cried, as he read it. ‘Impossible.’ Parker made no comment. He stood in the doorway, trying to look as like a piece of furniture as possible—which is the duty of a good butler.

  ‘Impossible!’ said the Head again.

  What Mr Merevale had said in his note was this, that Thomson was not in the House, and had not been in the House since lunchtime. He ought to have returned at six o’clock. It was now half-past eight, and still there were no signs of him. Mr Merevale expressed a written opinion that this was a remarkable thing, and the Head agreed with him unreservedly.

  [16]

  THE DISAPPEARANCE OF J. THOMSON

  Certainly the Head was surprised.

  He
read the note again. No. There was no mistake. ‘Thomson is not in the House.’ There could be no two meanings about that.

  ‘Go across to Mr Merevale’s,’ he said at last, ‘and ask him if he would mind seeing me here for a moment.’

  The butler bowed his head gently, but with more than a touch of pained astonishment. He thought the Headmaster might show more respect for persons. A butler is not an errand-boy.

  ‘Sir?’ he said, giving the Head a last chance, as it were, of realizing the situation.

  ‘Ask Mr Merevale to step over here for a moment.’

  The poor man bowed once more. The phantom of a half-smoked cigar floated reproachfully before his eyes. He had lit it a quarter of an hour ago in fond anticipation of a quiet evening. Unless a miracle had occurred, it must be out by this time. And he knew as well as anybody else that a relighted cigar is never at its best. But he went, and in a few minutes Mr Merevale entered the room.

  ‘Sit down, Mr Merevale,’ said the Head. ‘Am I to understand from your note that Thomson is actually not in the House?’

  Mr Merevale thought that if he had managed to understand anything else from the note he must possess a mind of no common order, but he did not say so.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘Thomson has not been in the House since lunchtime, as far as I know. It is a curious thing.’

  ‘It is exceedingly serious. Exceedingly so. For many reasons. Have you any idea where he was seen last?’

  ‘Harrison in my House says he saw him at about three o’clock.’

  ‘Ah!’

  ‘According to Harrison, he was walking in the direction of Stapleton.’

  ‘Ah. Well, it is satisfactory to know even as little as that.’

  ‘Just so. But Mace—he is in my House, too—declares that he saw Thomson at about the same time cycling in the direction of Badgwick. Both accounts can scarcely be correct.’