The more I consider the nature of Edward the more incredible it all seems. He is to all outward showing the most wholly and over-masteringly ordinary undergraduate. Every afternoon, nearly, he may be heard ordering his tea down the Carlton Club telephone, “China tea, dry toast and butter and white cake, for one, please.” He is clothed in tweeds or flannels3 and usually wears an old Wykamist tie. No proctor would hesitate to recognize him as a member of the University.
Yet in this is Edward alone among all the other young men in Old Wykamist ties and the Carlton Club. Some few weeks ago he murdered his tutor, a Mr. Curtis. So very few people out of College were aware of Mr. Curtis’s existence that his sudden death was received without consternation4. He was just no more seen, as undistinguished dons do disappear in large Colleges. After all it was to everyone’s interest to keep things quiet—Mr. Curtis’s sole relative, a brother with a large practice at Pangbourne, quite realized this when the Warden6 explained things to him. The police, I think, never heard of it; if they did it was quite soon forgotten. It was said by Poxe—though with how much truth I would not venture to judge—that pressure was brought on Cockburn to keep the affair out of the Isis (there was some doubt about his degree—the Dean of Edward’s College was examining it—but, as I say, I will not make myself responsible for anything Poxe says).
I do not know why Edward hated Mr. Curtis so much. I never had the privilege of meeting him but as I used to watch him moving about the quad7, usually alone or with Anne, who is married to the Warden, I thought that he seemed, considering that he was a history tutor, a pleasant young man enough. But, however that may be, Edward hated him with an absorbing and unmeasurable hatred8, so that at last he became convinced that Mr. Curtis’s existence was not compatible with his own. This was a state of mind into which any undergraduate might have slipped; where Edward showed himself essentially9 different from the other young men in Old Wykamist ties in the Carlton Club, was in his immediate10 perception that the more convenient solution was not suicide but murder. Most undergraduates would kill themselves sooner or later if they stayed up long enough, very few would kill anyone else.
Once decided11 upon, the murder was accomplished12 with the straightforward13 efficiency which one would expect from a student of the cinematograph and one who, until his second failure in History previous (through his inability to draw maps) had been a senior History scholar.
Mr. Curtis’s room was on the first floor just above the side gate. The side gate was closed at nine and the key kept in the porter’s lodge14. The other key was kept in the Bursary. Edward knew that this was the key which he would have to take. He went into the Bursary at lunch time and found the Bursar there. The keys were hung on a nail by his desk. The Bursar sat at the desk. Edward began a story of a burned carpet; the Bursar became angry but did not move. He included the sofa; the Bursar stood up but remained at his desk. Edward threw a chair into the conflagration15 and then described how the three mini-max extinguishers which he had promised were all empty, “perhaps during the Bump Supper; you know, sir.” It was enough; the Bursar strode up and down thoroughly16 moved; Edward secured the key and hurrying to his room burned the carpet and the sofa and the chair and emptied the extinguishers in case the Bursar should come to investigate. His scout17 thought him drunk.
Edward then hurried to Mr. Curtis and secured an interview for ten that evening; he sent a note to the President of the Union desiring to speak that evening, it was on Thursday that these things occurred—and then feeling that he had accomplished a good work, lunched very quietly at the Carlton Club.
After lunch Edward set out on his bicycle and rode through much dust to Abingdon. There not at the first antique shop but at the smaller one on the other side of the square, he bought a dagger18; at Radley he bought a stone and sitting under a hedge, he sharpened it. Returning with this in his pocket, he lay for a long time in a very hot bath. It was with considerable contentment that he sat down to eat dinner alone at the George—there were still several details to be thought out.
The Union that evening was fuller than usual; some politician from London of enormous distinction was speaking. Edward, in private business, asked questions of force and ingenuity19 about the despatch20 boxes, the clock, the gas burners in the roof and the busts21 of the Prime Ministers: he was observed by all. At five to ten he slipped out saying to the Teller22 as he went that he was coming back; others were about him who were making for the coffee room while drinks could still be obtained. Edward’s bicycle was among the others at the St. Michael Street gate, clustering about the notice which forbade their presence. In eight minutes he was back again in his place, reviewing with complete satisfaction his evening’s achievement; almost immediately he was called upon to speak. His speech was, perhaps, more successful as an alibi23 than as a piece of oratory24, but few were there to hear it. As he walked home that evening there was singing in his heart. It had been an admirable murder. Everything had happened perfectly25. He had gone in at the side gate, unobserved, and reached Mr. Curtis’s room. His tutor had that habit, more fitting for a house master than a don, of continuing to read or write some few words after his visitors entered, in order to emphasize his superiority. It was while he was finishing his sentence that Edward killed him and the sentence was merged26 into a pool of blood. On his way back, Edward had gone down George Street as far as the canal and there had sunk the dagger. It had been a good evening, Edward thought.
Hastings, the night porter at Edward’s College, always liked to delay people and talk to them in the porch. It was a habit which many resented, but Edward tonight was so overflowing27 with good nature that he actually started the conversation.
“A dull debate at the Union tonight, Hastings.”
“Indeed, sir; and did you speak?”
“I tried to.”
“Ah, well, sir; if you wanted excitement you should have stayed in College tonight. Most unusual happenings, sir. I don’t think I ever remember anything quite like it happening before, not since I’ve been at the College.”
“Why, what’s happened, Hastings?”
“You may well ask, sir. I knew his Lordship would come to a bad end.”
“Do tell me what has happened, Hastings.”
“Well, sir, you knows what Lord Poxe is when he gets drunk, sir. There’s no stopping him. Well, he come in tonight, sir, oh, very drunk. He never see me when I opened the door—just ran straight in and fell down on the grass. Then he gets up and starts swearing something wicked—said the dons hadn’t no right to put grass there for a gentleman to fall over. Said he was going to go and murder the lot of them.”
“Well, Hastings?”
“Well, he’s done it, sir.”
“What! all of them, Hastings?”
“No, sir, not all; but Mr. Curtis sir. The Dean went to find him to tell him to go to bed and found him asleep on the floor of Mr. Curtis’s room and Mr. Curtis,” with great glee, “dripping blood, sir. Quite slowly, pit-a-pat, as you might say.”
“Well, I’m damned!”
“Yes, indeed, sir. So was the Dean. He is with the Warden now, sir.”
The sky filled with chimes; it was twelve o’clock.
“Well, I must go to bed, Hastings. It’s a funny business.”
“Yes, sir, and good night, sir.”
“Good night, Hastings.”
So Edward went to bed with a grave disquiet28. It was a pity that Poxe should have done this; it was really a very great pity. But as he grew sleepier the conviction grew that perhaps this was the best that could have happened. He thought of Poxe—a sad figure. His father had been forced to resign from the Diplomatic Corps29 after that disgraceful business with the Montenegrin minister’s younger daughter, and had then married his first cousin, begotten30 an heir and drunken himself to death at the age of forty-two. It was thought that Poxe would never beget31 an heir, and it was certain that he would not live to be forty-two. He was nearly always half-sober. And so Edward’s thoughts drifted to the decay of great families, to renaissance32 Italy, and then far away beyond St. Mary’s tower where it was just striking half past twelve. A good evening and sleep.....
Everyone in College had heard the story next morning. It reached me through my scout who called me with: “Half-past-seven sir, and Lord Poxe has murdered Mr. Curtis.” I met Poxe in the bathroom, very white and dejected. I asked him about the murder.
“Well, I suppose I’ve rather rotted things up this time. I can’t remember a thing about it except that I was furious about some grass, and that two people put me to bed. It’s a melancholy33 business. They can’t hang me, can they?”
I suggested inebriates’ asylum34 and had my bath. I was sincerely sorry about poor Poxe, but felt he would probably be better shut up. After all it was not safe to have a man who did that sort of thing about the College; it was not as though he was seldom drunk. I went to breakfast at the Old Oak tea rooms and found Edward there. He was in great form, and for this I disliked him that he should be in good form at breakfast; however, he was really rather amusing about the Poxe murder as it was already called.
Edward asked if he might work in my rooms—he knew I never used them—as he had had a fire in his. I said that I wanted them this morning and advised the Union. Then I went back.
At about eleven, I saw from my window the Warden’s side door open and Poxe come out, radiantly cheerful. I called him into my room, and he told me of what had happened. It must certainly have been a cheering interview for Poxe.
He had gone to see the Warden with all the trepidation35 that should befit a young nobleman suddenly confronted with the prospect36 of being hanged. The old man had been seated on one side of the table with the Dean next to him. Poxe had been asked to sit down. The Warden had begun:
“I have asked you to come and see me, Lord Poxe, in what for both of us, I think, and certainly for me, is a very bitter occasion. Last night, when in a state of intoxication37, as you will perhaps have been informed, you entered the room of your tutor, Mr. Curtis, and stabbed him to death. I suppose that you do not deny this?”
Poxe was silent.
“It was a foolish act, Lord Poxe, an act of wanton foolishness, but I do not wish to be hard on you,” the Warden’s voice broke with emotion, “my poor boy, you are the fifteenth Lord Poxe and, as I have at different occasions reminded you, not unconnected with my own family. Lady Emily Crane, your great aunt, you will remember, married a Mr. Arthur Thorn, my grandfather. I feel that the College owes it to your position to treat this matter as discreetly38 as possible.”
Poxe nodded enthusiastically. Among tradesmen and dons he had always found his title of vast value.
“The Dean and I have discussed the matter at some length and have come to the conclusion that there is no reason why this matter should be referred to the ordinary State authorities at all; it has, as, of course, you are aware, always been a principle of University government so far as is possible to impede39 and nullify the workings of the ordinary courts of law. In this case it seems particularly advisable, as it is only too likely that the criminal courts would be unwilling40 to treat this matter with the clemency41 which we think desirable.
“Nor, indeed, is a precedent42 far to seek. In the fifteenth century a commoner of this College struck off the head of the Bursar—true, that was in open fight and not before the young man had received severe injuries; but things, of course, were far rougher then. On that occasion the distinguished5 scholar, who held the position it is my privilege unworthily to occupy, inflicted43 upon the delinquent44 the fine of twopence to be paid to the Bursar’s relatives.”
Poxe brightened.
“Of course, the value of the penny has, since that time, markedly decreased, but calculating it as nearly as one can in days of rather haphazard45 accountancy, the Dean and I decided that the fine must have valued about thirteen shillings.
“I need hardly say, Lord Poxe, that this whole matter has been acutely distressing46 to the Dean and myself. We hope and trust that it will not occur again. It is probable that in the event of a second offence, the College would find itself unable to treat the matter with the same generosity47. Thank you, Lord Poxe.”
And thus the interview closed and Poxe went out, elated, to celebrate his escape in the manner which most immediately suggested itself to him; and Edward, in his fire-blackened room, felt that everything was turning out well.
Without difficulty, an aged48 and dissolute doctor was unearthed49 in St. Ebbs50, where he lodged51 in squalor with one of the College servants, and earned an irregular livelihood52 by performing operations in North Oxford53; this sorry man was persuaded to write a certificate of death from natural causes. The funeral was brief and ill attended. The Warden toiled54 for three days in the composition of a Greek epitaph and on the third evening persuaded the Dean to write one in Latin. And so for Poxe and Edward the matter ended.
One thing I feel should be added. It is merely an incident that may be of no significance but which may explain much that seems improbable. I was told it in an intimate moment by Anne, who is married to the Warden, and of whom many stories are told. This is what she said, that on the night when Mr. Curtis died, she ran in a high state of emotion to her husband, the Warden, and cried, “Oh why, why did you kill him? I never really loved him.”
She stopped, seeing the Dean there also. He, a gentleman, rose to go, but the Warden detained him. And then Anne, falling on her knees, pounded out a tale of the most monstrous55 and unsuspected transactions between herself and Mr. Curtis.
“Supposing there were a trial,” asked the Warden, “could this be kept a secret?”
The Dean doubted gravely whether this would be possible.
And then came to the Warden the full realization56 of the imperishable obligations of precedent, the memory of the head of the Bursar, the appreciation57 of the greatness of families not unconnected with his own.
“At least, I think it must have been then,” Anne said as she turned up the light.
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1
manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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3
flannels
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| 法兰绒男裤； 法兰绒( flannel的名词复数 ) | |
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4
consternation
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| n.大为吃惊，惊骇 | |
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5
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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6
warden
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| n.监察员，监狱长，看守人，监护人 | |
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7
quad
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| n.四方院；四胞胎之一；v.在…填补空铅 | |
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8
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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9
essentially
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| adv.本质上，实质上，基本上 | |
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10
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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11
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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12
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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13
straightforward
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| adj.正直的，坦率的；易懂的，简单的 | |
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14
lodge
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| v.临时住宿，寄宿，寄存，容纳；n.传达室，小旅馆 | |
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15
conflagration
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| n.建筑物或森林大火 | |
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16
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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17
scout
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| n.童子军，侦察员；v.侦察，搜索 | |
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18
dagger
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| n.匕首，短剑，剑号 | |
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19
ingenuity
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| n.别出心裁；善于发明创造 | |
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20
despatch
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| n./v.(dispatch)派遣；发送；n.急件；新闻报道 | |
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21
busts
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| 半身雕塑像( bust的名词复数 )； 妇女的胸部； 胸围； 突击搜捕 | |
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22
teller
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| n.银行出纳员；(选举)计票员 | |
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23
alibi
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| n.某人当时不在犯罪现场的申辩或证明；借口 | |
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24
oratory
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| n.演讲术；词藻华丽的言辞 | |
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25
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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26
merged
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| （使）混合( merge的过去式和过去分词 )； 相融； 融入； 渐渐消失在某物中 | |
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27
overflowing
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| n. 溢出物,溢流 adj. 充沛的，充满的 动词overflow的现在分词形式 | |
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28
disquiet
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| n.担心，焦虑 | |
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29
corps
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| n.(通信等兵种的)部队；(同类作的)一组 | |
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30
begotten
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| v.为…之生父( beget的过去分词 )；产生，引起 | |
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31
beget
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| v.引起；产生 | |
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32
renaissance
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| n.复活，复兴，文艺复兴 | |
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33
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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34
asylum
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| n.避难所，庇护所，避难 | |
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35
trepidation
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| n.惊恐，惶恐 | |
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36
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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37
intoxication
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| n.wild excitement;drunkenness；poisoning | |
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38
discreetly
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| ad.(言行)审慎地，慎重地 | |
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39
impede
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| v.妨碍，阻碍，阻止 | |
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40
unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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41
clemency
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| n.温和，仁慈，宽厚 | |
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42
precedent
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| n.先例，前例；惯例；adj.在前的，在先的 | |
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43
inflicted
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| 把…强加给，使承受，遭受( inflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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44
delinquent
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| adj.犯法的，有过失的；n.违法者 | |
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45
haphazard
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| adj.无计划的，随意的，杂乱无章的 | |
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46
distressing
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| a.使人痛苦的 | |
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47
generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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48
aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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49
unearthed
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| 出土的（考古） | |
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50
ebbs
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| 退潮( ebb的名词复数 )； 落潮； 衰退 | |
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51
lodged
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| v.存放( lodge的过去式和过去分词 )；暂住；埋入；（权利、权威等）归属 | |
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52
livelihood
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| n.生计，谋生之道 | |
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53
Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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54
toiled
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| 长时间或辛苦地工作( toil的过去式和过去分词 )； 艰难缓慢地移动，跋涉 | |
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55
monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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56
realization
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| n.实现；认识到，深刻了解 | |
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57
appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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