Was It Murder? by James Hilton Page B

two.  “I suppose you took a First in Greats at Oxford, eh?” he remarked, as he handed it back.
    “Well yes, I did, as it happens, but—“
    “So did I, too—but I’ve had twenty years of hard experience since, which make up for it.  You’ve made some clever and quite valuable points, but you should beware of theorising too much.  However, there’s one little minor mystery that we ought to be able to clear up within the next few hours.  And that is the very queer attitude of the celebrated Dr. Roseveare.  Will you undertake that little job for me?”
    “I’ll try, of course.  But how do you suggest I should set about it?”
    “In the directest manner possible.  Tell him that the boy’s body has been exhumed and that Scotland Yard is investigating the murder— watch the fellow’s face and don’t give him time to make up a yarn.  Ask him for a full explanation of all that puzzles you.  I’m giving you the job because it occurs to me that he might be franker with you than he would be with me—that’s the sort of sly fellow I am.  Anyhow, we shall see if it works.”  And he added:  “By the way, I wouldn’t chatter too much about all this to Lambourne.  You may perhaps have been a shade too free with that young man.”
     
     
    Guthrie motored Revell back to Oakington towards tea-time, and arranged to meet him again later on in the evening.  When or how Revell was to get back to town afterwards was not even discussed.
    He felt rather bewildered when he was left alone.  So much seemed to have happened during those few hours since the morning.  He had been caught up, as it were, in the swift maelstrom of great events, and though it was just the sort of thing he had always longed to have happen to him, he was not altogether sure that it was as pleasant as he had expected.  Now that he knew beyond all doubt that the affair in the swimming-bath HAD been murder, he felt, more than he had ever felt before, a certain overlying horror in the atmosphere of Oakington.  Strolling round the Ring on that lovely midsummer afternoon, with the song of birds and the plick-plock of cricket in his ears, he felt with awe that somewhere thereabouts, perhaps in one of the rooms whose windows glittered in the sunlight, or perhaps even on the pavilion-roof watching the game, was someone who had carefully and callously schemed the deaths of one and perhaps of two persons.  Over the entire School there seemed to hang the dark and spectral shadow of such a deed, and all the more terribly because it was still invisible to so many.
    He thought of Guthrie with grudging admiration mingled with astonishment that any Oxford man could contrive to look as he did at the age of forty or so.  There was a queer forcefulness about the fellow—a personality, undoubtedly, that hid behind the deliberately average manner.  Guthrie, too, had been very confidential, and Revell felt more than a little proud to think that his own deductions, even without much background of evidence, had proved so largely correct.  Theory, even with the recent stamp of Oxford upon it, had its place if it could so intelligently anticipate the findings of practical research.
    Towards six o’clock he walked up the drive leading to the Head’s house.  He was perhaps just the least bit nervous, but apart from that it was a relief, after so much speculating and theorising, to know that at last he was about to tackle something straightforwardly.
    Roseveare, busy with correspondence in his study, was naturally astonished to see him again.  “Missed your train, eh?  There’s another good one at seven, I think—you can verify it from my time-table here. . . .”
    Revell flushed under the scarcely veiled hint.  “I came back, sir,” he began, slowly, “because I wanted to have a few words with you— confidentially.”
    “Confidentially?  Dear me, that sounds very interesting.  Please sit down—these letters, I hope, will not keep me very