Martin, who was just going down to breakfast. “Hold it!” he said. “I want you.”
“What the hell!” exclaimed Martin to the empty air; but, being simple-minded and naturally obedient, he remained where he was until Hamish came back accompanied by Henry. They leapt down the stairs and, once out of doors, began to run. There was no doubt about what was going on at the long-jump pit. The terriers were sending the heavy, damp sand flying in all directions. Hamish stepped into the pit and collared one of them; Martin picked up the other. The dogs squirmed in their arms and fought to get free.
“Take ’em away and lock ’em up somewhere,” said Henry. “It’s Jones all right. Get Gassie and then phone for a doctor. When you come back, we’d better get poor Jones to his quarters and clean him up a bit.”
“Oh, no,” said Hamish quickly. “You’d better leave him just where he is. He can’t have died naturally, you know.”
Henry straightened up and looked at him. “I see. Yes, of course,” he said simply. “Well, if you’ll get rid of the tykes and see to the rest of it, I’ll stay on guard here and keep the students away.”
“When I’ve telephoned the doctor, I’ve two more calls to make,” said Hamish to Martin, as they bore away the yelling, excited dogs.
“Yes, while you’ve got the phone to yourself, it’s as well to make all your private calls at once,” Martin agreed, “There’ll be such a hoo-ha later on, I’ll bet.” Only one of Hamish’s calls was personal. When he had rung up the College physician he telephoned the police, but then he put though a private call to the Stone House at Wandles Parva in Hampshire.
“Could I speak to Dame Beatrice, please?”
“Ah, it is Monsieur Jacques.” Not for worlds would Dame Beatrice’s elderly French housekeeper attempt to pronounce the word Hamish. “Please to ’old the line.”
Dame Beatrice’s unmistakably beautiful voice came over the telephone.
“Hamish, dear child?”
“I can’t stop, darling, but could you possibly come over? We’ve got trouble here. I think it might be murder.”
“Your mother and I will pay you a visit this afternoon as though it were merely a passing call, if that will do.”
Hamish came out of the alcove which housed the telephone and almost cannoned into the Warden.
“I beg your pardon, sir,” he said, stepping aside.
“The police!” said Gascoigne. “We must have the police!”
“They are on their way, sir. We assumed that you would wish them to take over as soon as possible.”
“This is a dreadful business, James, quite, quite dreadful. I cannot imagine how the students who are responsible will feel about such a terrible ending to their prank.”
“You really think it was a prank, sir?”
“Poor Jones! Poor Davy! With all his faults, I never wished him dead.”
“I have to inform you, sir, that my mother proposes to visit me this afternoon.”
“To visit you? Oh, dear! I think you must put her off. I don’t see how we can possibly entertain callers at a time like this.”
“I am very sorry, sir. I’m afraid she will be on her way. There is one thing, though. She will be accompanied by Dame Beatrice Lestrange Bradley, who is my godmother.”
“Dame Beatrice?”
“The psychiatrist, sir.”
“A rope in the house of the hanged, eh?”
“With great respect, sir, I think it might be helpful to allow her to take a look at one or two of our doubtful cases. We don’t want any mistakes, and she won’t make any.”
“How do you mean—doubtful cases?”
“Well, sir, not to put too fine a point on it, we do have some rather neurotic types here, don’t you think? It would not take Dame Beatrice very long to sort out the sheep from the goats.”
“How would that help us?”
“It would not help us , sir, but it might help innocent parties.”
“I fail to understand you, James. She would hardly be in a position to find out who was responsible for the heartless
“What the hell!” exclaimed Martin to the empty air; but, being simple-minded and naturally obedient, he remained where he was until Hamish came back accompanied by Henry. They leapt down the stairs and, once out of doors, began to run. There was no doubt about what was going on at the long-jump pit. The terriers were sending the heavy, damp sand flying in all directions. Hamish stepped into the pit and collared one of them; Martin picked up the other. The dogs squirmed in their arms and fought to get free.
“Take ’em away and lock ’em up somewhere,” said Henry. “It’s Jones all right. Get Gassie and then phone for a doctor. When you come back, we’d better get poor Jones to his quarters and clean him up a bit.”
“Oh, no,” said Hamish quickly. “You’d better leave him just where he is. He can’t have died naturally, you know.”
Henry straightened up and looked at him. “I see. Yes, of course,” he said simply. “Well, if you’ll get rid of the tykes and see to the rest of it, I’ll stay on guard here and keep the students away.”
“When I’ve telephoned the doctor, I’ve two more calls to make,” said Hamish to Martin, as they bore away the yelling, excited dogs.
“Yes, while you’ve got the phone to yourself, it’s as well to make all your private calls at once,” Martin agreed, “There’ll be such a hoo-ha later on, I’ll bet.” Only one of Hamish’s calls was personal. When he had rung up the College physician he telephoned the police, but then he put though a private call to the Stone House at Wandles Parva in Hampshire.
“Could I speak to Dame Beatrice, please?”
“Ah, it is Monsieur Jacques.” Not for worlds would Dame Beatrice’s elderly French housekeeper attempt to pronounce the word Hamish. “Please to ’old the line.”
Dame Beatrice’s unmistakably beautiful voice came over the telephone.
“Hamish, dear child?”
“I can’t stop, darling, but could you possibly come over? We’ve got trouble here. I think it might be murder.”
“Your mother and I will pay you a visit this afternoon as though it were merely a passing call, if that will do.”
Hamish came out of the alcove which housed the telephone and almost cannoned into the Warden.
“I beg your pardon, sir,” he said, stepping aside.
“The police!” said Gascoigne. “We must have the police!”
“They are on their way, sir. We assumed that you would wish them to take over as soon as possible.”
“This is a dreadful business, James, quite, quite dreadful. I cannot imagine how the students who are responsible will feel about such a terrible ending to their prank.”
“You really think it was a prank, sir?”
“Poor Jones! Poor Davy! With all his faults, I never wished him dead.”
“I have to inform you, sir, that my mother proposes to visit me this afternoon.”
“To visit you? Oh, dear! I think you must put her off. I don’t see how we can possibly entertain callers at a time like this.”
“I am very sorry, sir. I’m afraid she will be on her way. There is one thing, though. She will be accompanied by Dame Beatrice Lestrange Bradley, who is my godmother.”
“Dame Beatrice?”
“The psychiatrist, sir.”
“A rope in the house of the hanged, eh?”
“With great respect, sir, I think it might be helpful to allow her to take a look at one or two of our doubtful cases. We don’t want any mistakes, and she won’t make any.”
“How do you mean—doubtful cases?”
“Well, sir, not to put too fine a point on it, we do have some rather neurotic types here, don’t you think? It would not take Dame Beatrice very long to sort out the sheep from the goats.”
“How would that help us?”
“It would not help us , sir, but it might help innocent parties.”
“I fail to understand you, James. She would hardly be in a position to find out who was responsible for the heartless
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