Death In The Common Room (2) "Oh, now," Brandy said soothingly. "You know it's just the science thing. He needs someone to chew it over with, inspire him. And he knows you'll just be bored if he keeps on about it. Obviously, Boffin wants to keep his time with you for - well, other, more romantic things." "But Boffin doesn't do any other, romantic things!" For the first time since I'd known her, Margaret showed a flash of real anger. "When we're alone, all he talks about is his bloody science, if he talks at all!" Spats and I glanced at each other uncomfortably, not knowing what to say to this outburst. Brandy continued to gaze sympathetically at the fuming Margie, his soft grey eyes full of calm understanding, saying nothing. Slowly she began to simmer down. "You pay more attention to me than he does." She murmured. "Sometimes I could just...I could..." she broke off, shaking her head, tears coming into her eyes. Spats coughed and picked up his book. I began an intricate study of a maple leaf that had fallen beside me. Brandy, perceptive and gentlemanly as always, got up and led Margaret back towards her college. We could hear his murmured words of sympathy as they walked away. Just before they rounded the corner out of site, he put an arm around her waist in a brotherly fashion, and she leaned her head on his shoulder. Chapter Three Boffin We heard nothing of Margaret for almost three days; she would talk only to Brandy, and he refused, naturally, to report on their conversations. Within a week, however, she was with us once more, laughing and cheerful, and the crisis seemed to be over. As a partial celebration - although poor Boffin seemed to have no idea that anything had ever happened - we decided to take the weekend for a train journey to London, to visit the house of Freud. In good spirits we embarked, and settled ourselves comfortably in the large compartment we had booked. The usual group - Brandy, Spats, Boffin, Margaret and me. Michael Braithwaite had considered joining us but refused when he was instructed to rewrite a complex essay. Although we all liked Michael, it was pleasing to us that our visit would involve only the Inner Circle, as we jocularly called it. Margie seemed on good terms with her affianced once more; Spats was in a good mood because he had been given permission to produce, of all things, a musical version "The Importance of Being Earnest" at the college Christmas entertainment at the end of the year. Brandy was in a slightly less buoyant mood because Spats was chasing him to play the part of Jack Worthing, who did most of the singing. I myself was cheerful because Spats had not as yet demanded that I should take to the stage, although he had roped me in for some behind-the-scenes donkeywork. All in all it was a generally contented and optimistic company who made their way to London in the middle of October. Brandy soon cheered up; his disapproval had been only fun after all, and he was greatly interested in Freud. Our journey was not marred by foreknowledge of the tragedy to come. As the train rattled along, we chatted pleasantly among ourselves, and the topic fell to the discussion of, of all things, murder. It was Brandy who started it, ever fascinated by the darker side of human nature, perhaps because his own dark side was so little in evidence. "I've been reading a good novel lately," he began, entering a lull in the conversation shortly before dinner was served in the dining car. "Wodehouse?" Spats demanded instantly. "No, Spats, not Wodehouse. Christie, Agatha." Spats frowned for a moment, then his face cleared. "Excellent choice, old thing. I have always said, for the whodunit, that Christie is without equal." "You've never even read Christie, you abysmal fraud." Brandy exclaimed derisively. Spats sniffed. "Brandy, old thing!" "Don't say 'Brandy old thing'. You sound like a berk. Now, as I was saying, this novel..." "Was it a Miss Marple?" Margie interrupted. Brandy gave a small sigh. "No, it was..." "Marbles? Whose marbles?" Boffin muttered blankly. Brandy ignored him and went on firmly, "It was a Hercule Poirot. I am partial to Hercule Poirot. Now shut up and listen. This murderer..." "Aha! A murderer!" "Yes, Spats, a murderer, what were you expecting? Now listen, this murderer decides to invite Monsieur Poirot over for dinner..." "Why would a criminal invite the world's greatest detective over for dinner?" An exasperated sigh escaped our friend. "I was coming to that! Anyway, so Poirot, seven other people, and this murderer are all having dinner, and then they decide to play bridge..." "They couldn't all play bridge. Bridge is played in fours. One of them would have had to sit out." "Precisely!" Brandy agreed with relief. "The murderer did. And he was murdered." He went on to give an involved description of the situation surrounding the fictional host's death. "And whodunit?" Spats inquired, when he paused for breath. "I don't know yet! I haven't finished it. I only started it this morning. Then I was interrupted by Spats." There was an immediate outcry. "You can't give us all that introduction and leave us in suspense!" "Well really, old crumpet!" "You must tell us who the killer was!" "I said, whose marbles? Did they kill him with a marble or something?" Margaret laughed at him. "Nobody's marbles, silly. And anyway I said Marple, and that was ages ago!" Boffin shrugged, and smiled vaguely. "Sorry, love." Margaret just shook her dark head. By the time we arrived at London, it was late, dark and cold. We walked through a cold, wet street, dark pavement sparkling in patches as it reflected the lamplight. The darkness was exciting at first, when we were surrounded by people and brightly lit night-clubs; at we left the busy part of town behind, however, it began to seem oppressive. Margaret shivered and pressed close to Boffin, taking his arm. He smiled at her. "What's up?" "It's so dark." She murmured. "I can't stand the dark. And I'm cold." "Well, you wanted to come, dear." He replied, cheerfully and unsympathetically. Boffin really was appalling at understanding other people's feelings; and, very likely, his own as well. He could not understand either why Margaret was so offended by his lack of tenderness towards her. Scowling, she pulled away from him and pressed against Brandy instead. He placed a comforting arm around her. "Don't worry, Margie. We won't be long now!" "Don't patronise me!" She snapped, surprising us all. "I'm a woman, not a child! If you can't think of anything to say which isn't chauvinistic, don't bother!" Brandy, astonished, drew back. Immediately, Margie flung herself into his arms. "Oh, I'm sorry, darling, I'm sorry! It's just this place...and I'm tired...." Somewhat nonplussed, he stroked her hair soothingly. Boffin just watched, puzzled. "Hmm? Eh?" Brandy just shook his head. "Come on. Let's get her to the boarding house." The rest of the trip was entirely uneventful. Margie apologised profusely to all of us, especially Brandy. It was clear that she'd been overworking herself; in her effort to be "as good as any man" she was actually striving painfully to be ten times better. No matter how high her achievement, if any man did better, it was ultimately reduced to insignificance, and she had to begin once more, struggling and beating herself up over every minor setback. We admired her, and we sympathised with her, and tried to give her some leeway. Boffin, vague as ever, never recognised the struggle his girl was going through, although he was always sorry for her weariness and occasional depression. All in all it was remarkable that she bore up as well as she did. Brandy, of course, with his natural perceptiveness, was good with her, as indeed he was with all of us, soothing our fears and crises of confidence. She responded to him, naturally, more so than she did to Boffin's well meant but ultimately helpless comforting. The break seemed to have done Margie good, however, because she seemed much refreshed when we returned to Oxford, as though a weight had fallen from her mind. We had been back hardly an hour, and had congregated in the common room discussing our trip, when a familiar tweedy figure slipped quietly in through the half-open door. "Gentlemen!" Fotheringay greeted us. "Miss Race." He added politely, noticing her. We murmured rather weary greetings. It had been only a short time since the end of a long trip; we were all tired, except perhaps for Boffin, who was quite used to working through the night in his laboratory on a regular basis. "Ah, Bassington. I was hoping you'd be back in time." "In time for what, Professor?" "Why, to show me that new experiment of yours, of course! You did say it was on the verge of completion - you know, before I started teaching I did rather similar work. I was at..." Although Boffin hung fascinated on his every word, the rest of us, fond as we were of the vague professor, found such conversation rather dull. Spats, whose attention threshold barely extended to the first ten minutes of a lecture, got up first, and after wandering around the common room briefly, said good night and headed for his room. Margaret followed shortly after; Boffin barely acknowledged her murmured goodbye. Her last. Brandy attempted to listen politely to Fotheringay's discourse; he lasted longer than any of us (I was dozing pleasantly in an easy chair), but eventually, at almost eleven thirty, he yawned a good night and stumbled off to bed. When I woke from my doze Boffin was talking about his project; barely paying attention I got up and staggered to the door, muttering my excuses. I had barely got over the threshold when the Professor suddenly interrupted Boffin's lengthy description of some kind of mould. Something in Fotheringay's tone arrested my fuddled attention; becoming more alert I hovered just outside the door, listening unseen, feeling guilty but also painfully curious. I was surprised to hear the Professor's voice raised, harshly controlling what sounded like a most uncharacteristic anger. "Have you any idea, Bassington - any idea how long it took me to reach a similar conclusion? Oh, a less complex one of course; I would not claim to possess such extraordinary intelligence as you! You are nineteen years old, Bassington, and I am forty-five. It took me your lifetime - mark that! Your entire lifetime to reach a level inferior to that at which you are now! And you, boy, you sit there wittering about your brilliance." Fotheringay either paused for breath or regained some control, for Boffin at this point broke in, in an astonished voice. "Professor - professor, everyone knows how brilliant you are and how remarkable your achievements! I'm not even qualified..." "But don't you see that that's just the problem! You have more aptitude and ability for science naturally, and more natural understanding, than I have amassed in twenty five years of good solid education." Although I could not see his face, I imagined Fotheringay's expression from his tone: pained, angry, but also fearful and hurt. I could not entirely empathise with his black envy of a man young enough to be his own son, and one so friendly and without the merest trace of arrogance. But I could understand it; Fotheringay would never achieve in his entire life what Boffin had achieved in a few years. The honours and recognition that our young friend would reap was everything that the professor had himself hoped for. In Bassington, he saw his own hopes and dreams, his own ambition and brilliance - and his own failures, conspicuous by their absence in the younger man. Poor Fotheringay! It was as though everything he had loved and understood came crashing to the ground, bending before a young man for whom he genuinely cared. I suppose that felt like a kind of betrayal. Still, that does not justify what Fotheringay did...and what he would forever regret. A sudden stab of guilt brought an end to my little eavesdropping session, but not before Fotheringay had calmed somewhat. Boffin suddenly rose, and I slipped up the stairs, fearing he would catch me and be offended (although that was given his nature unlikely). As I swiftly headed for my room, I noted a light underneath Brandy's door opposite mine. I knocked. "Come in!" A soft voice answered. Entering I found my two friends, Brandy and Spats, settled comfortably, Brandy sitting at his desk with his feet on top of it, and Spats sprawled on a nearby rug. "Hullo there, Dan! What've you been up to, old thing?" Embarrassed, I shrugged. "Well - actually I was listening to Fotheringay and Boffin." "Eh? Send you to sleep did they?" "They were arguing." I sat down, bewildered. Spats immediately jumped up. "Arguing? Those two? This I have to see! Coming, Brandy?" My friend shook his head, half amused. "Spats, you're an appalling busybody. It's none of your business, you know." "It is my business if there's a fight! Boffin's half-promised to play Algy in my play. He can't do it with a busted nose." And, whinnying, he was off. Brandy watched him go; we heard him thunder down the stairs with no regard for sleeping neighbours, and the silence. I turned to Brandy. "You know, It's strange how Fotheringay was acting. He seemed so bitter. I didn't think he was like that." Brandy shrugged, then looked thoughtful. "What exactly was it that they were arguing about?" I was about to answer, my lips parted, when suddenly the door burst open and Spats flung himself into the room. Brandy inhaled a breath, presumably to chew him out for making such a racket in the middle of the night, when we noticed the look on his face. Moncrieff was deathly pale, his eyes wide and staring. He put a hand on my shoulder as though to steady himself. "Good God, Spats! What on earth's the matter?" Blank eyes, fixed like a man who has seen a ghost. "It's...it's...oh my dear God..." Brandy was across the room in a single bound, grabbing Spats by the shoulders and shaking him, not too roughly. "Spats, pull yourself together and tell me what's wrong! Are you ill? What is it?" Slowly the dazed, fear-filled eyes turned to him. "It's Boffin Bassington." Spats said in a strange, flat voice. "He's dead. He's hung himself." Chapter Four A Tragedy, a Mystery The response that met this appalling statement was one of utter shock. I stared blankly at Brandy; he gazed helplessly back at me, then regaining his composure, turned to Spats and said sharply, "Are you sure?" "Of course I'm bally sure! People don't look like that when they're still alive, for God's sake!" "Then you've actually seen him?" Spats nodded, and sank shakily into a chair. I slipped across to Brandy's desk and opening a drawer, felt for the secret compartment my friend had shown me some weeks ago. My efforts were rewarded; my fumbling fingers grasped a small bottle of good whisky, and I hastened to pour a little into three dirty tea mugs. Spats drank his in a single grateful gulp, let out a long, tremulous, hissing sigh, and closed his eyes. "Now," Brandy began firmly, "tell us everything. What exactly happened when you went downstairs?" "I got the common room door; there was no one about. Everything was still. The door was closed, and it wouldn't budge, I think he must have jammed it from the other side." Spats shivered; I poured him another shot of whisky. "Anyway," he continued, "I managed to shove the door opened, thinking it had just stuck normally, and when I got inside...there he was. Just...hanging. He'd used his belt, stood on a chair and kicked it away. I...I tried to get him down, but...it was too late." Spats covered his face with both hands. His shoulders were shaking violently. "But you've called for help?"
Copyright © 2000 Hildebrande K Reynolds |