Was It Murder? by James Hilton

sightseeing, anyhow—I think you’ll have to admit that much. . . .  Yes, these boards HAVE been loosened, but it was probably done by the electricians when they wired the dormitories.  That’s what you were thinking, isn’t it?”
    Revell was too startled to answer.  The other continued:  “Come now, why don’t you be frank about it?  You came up here because you remembered that a boy named Marshall had been killed last September by a gas-pipe falling on top of him in the dormitory immediately below.  Isn’t that correct?  No need to mind admitting it—I’m up here for the same reason, as a matter of fact.”
    “Perhaps you’ll tell me who exactly you are,” said Revell, guardedly.
    “Certainly.  My name’s Guthrie.  Yours is Revell, I believe?”
    “Yes.”
    “I thought so.  Well, Mr. Revell, you don’t seem inclined to trust me very much.  Just tell me this, though—have you definitely formed the opinion that the first of the Marshall boys was murdered?  Because I can tell you absolutely that the second boy was.  That’s quite settled.”
    “WHAT!  What do you mean?”
    “Steady—don’t get excited—we don’t want people to hear us talking.  I’m prepared to be frank with you if you’ll be the same with me.  Can we call it a bargain?”
    Revell slowly nodded.  “You were saying about the second Marshall—“
    “Oh yes.  He was murdered all right.  We dug up his body last night and found a bullet in his brain.”
    “GOOD GOD!”
    The other made a sign that they should both be as quiet as possible.  “In fact,” he whispered, “I think we’d better finish this conversation in a more convenient spot.  Can I trust you to go down ahead of me, to walk out of the School gates, and meet me in five minutes’ time at the corner of the Patchmere lane?  And, of course, on no account to mention a word about this to anyone you happen to meet?  Go along then—I’ll follow discreetly and lock up—
    I’ve got a key.”
    Five minutes later the two met again in the bright sunshine of the country cross-roads.  Revell by that time had managed to conquer his amazement; he greeted the other with a slight smile.  “First of all, Mr. Guthrie, I really would like to know WHAT you are and how you come into all this,” he began.
    “Soon, Mr. Revell—all in good time.  Are you busy just at present?”
    “I was thinking of catching the eleven o’clock train back to town.”
    “Were you?  Could you possibly make it a later one?”
    “Oh yes.  What do you want me to do?”
    “Well, you might lunch with me at Easthampton, to begin with.  My car’s at the pub along the lane here—we can be at Easthampton in half an hour.”
    Easthampton, the busy market town fifteen miles away, had several pretty good hotels, and at one of them, the Greyhound, Guthrie appeared to be staying.  “There’s too much gossip in a little place like Oakington,” he said, as he left his car in the hotel-yard.  “Come on—there’s not a great crowd here, so we shall be able to talk.”
    He chatted about unimportant matters till the waitress had left them alone after their meal; then, offering Revell a cigarette from his case, he went on, as if there had hardly been any interruption since the conversation in the Oakington sick-rooms:  “Yes, it was a bullet all right—found it in the first five minutes.  That old darling Murchiston’s too old for his job—don’t believe he’d have found a cannon-ball even.  Still, we mustn’t blame him, since he served our purpose pretty well.”
    “The Coroner seemed just as big a fool.”
    “Oh, the Coroner?  Mustn’t blame him, either, I’m afraid—he only did as he was told.  Privately he suspected something was wrong, but we suggested to him that a verdict of Accidental Death would be a good thing if it could be managed.  And it was.  Oh, he’s smart enough—make no mistake about it.”
    “YOU suggested to him about the