Cold, Lone and Still

Dame Beatrice telephoned me on the following day to ask me to accompany her on a visit to the warden at the hall of residence. He had terminated his vacation and was staying there because he had plenty to do before the new term began. I could not imagine what more Dame Beatrice required of the warden, still less could I fathom her purpose in taking me with her to visit him. When I told Sandy I had to be out of the office again, all he said was, ‘And to think I once fondly imagined that you worked here!’ I said I had an idea that we were about to reach a climax in the matter of finding out who had killed Carbridge but, when Dame Beatrice and I reached the hall of residence next day, her first question to the warden gave no hint of this.

‘Would you mind telling me how long you have been in charge here?’ she asked.

‘I have been here for a little more than five years. My predecessor retired at the end of an Easter term and I took over in the following May.’

‘Had you any previous knowledge of any of the students who were here when you took office?’

‘No, none of them, nor would they have known me. I came here from Hull, and at the time I had no contacts in London.’

‘Would there be records of former residents of this hall? — students, I mean.’

‘Oh, yes, of course. We like to keep up with our students’ future progress. Some of them turn out to be quite notable people in their own field.’

‘I imagine you do not keep records of those attendant on them while they are in residence.’

‘If you refer to the cook and the maids and so forth, no, we do not. I inherited the domestic staff when I accepted the post and they have remained faithful, I am glad to say. I suppose your immediate interest is in the man Bull. He, too, was here when I came and, on the whole, has given very satisfactory service.’

‘Would it be possible for me to look at your lists of former students?’

‘Of course, Dame Beatrice. As a matter of fact, I myself looked them over not long after that unfortunate party to see if I recognised the names of any of the older guests, as it seemed likely that whoever committed the murder had an inside knowledge of the building. I was very much in two minds whether to grant permission to Trickett to hold that party. Parties can be allowed, and are allowed, during term, but then, of course, my wife and I are on hand and can keep a grasp on the reins. However, Trickett is a steady, reliable youth, so I acceded to his request. How much I wish I had not!’

‘Few of us have the gift of foresight,’ said Dame Beatrice. ‘I am particularly interested in the name Todd.’

‘The strange thing is,’ the warden said, ‘that the only Todd I could find would be at least sixty-five years of age by now. It is really rather puzzling.’

‘And most intriguing,’ said Dame Beatrice, ‘because the Todd I have in mind must have changed his name.’ The warden produced his lists. As Dame Beatrice finished checking each year’s intake, she handed the document to me. It appeared that the hall of residence could accommodate thirty-six students in groups of twelve, for as the normal college course lasted for three years, twelve students were all that could be admitted in any particular year. I took the precaution of going back twenty-five years, but the only Todd that I, like the warden, tracked down, was indeed an elderly gentleman who could not possibly be the Todd we were after.

We worked steadily through the lists and then Dame Beatrice, handing them back, remarked, ‘You appear to get a number of foreign students here.’

‘Most places of higher education do. Here we get West Indians, Pakistanis, students from other parts of India, occasionally one or two from European countries —’

‘And, if his name is anything to go by, one from Spain.’

‘Spain?’ said the warden. Dame Beatrice handed him one of the documents. ‘Oh, yes, a man named Grantoro. Why did you single out that name? Simply because it is Spanish?’

‘I have never met it before.’ Both the warden and I saw this as an evasive answer and Dame Beatrice realised this and cackled. ‘ “The proper study of mankind is man”,’ she said, ‘and the study of man includes the language he uses to disguise (we are told) his thoughts.’

I glanced at her and light dawned on me. ‘Toro,’ I said, ‘means bull. Grantoro, big bull.’

‘Exactly,’ said Dame Beatrice. ‘I wonder, Mr Terrance, whether we might send for your caretaker?’

Puzzled but acquiescent, the warden touched the bell and sent a servant to find Bull. As soon as the old man saw Dame Beatrice, he stiffened and a look of obstinacy came into his face, but it was to me he spoke. ‘I’ve give it up,’ he said. ‘The young lady don’t want to do me life story. She ain’t been nowhere near me all this week.’

‘No. She is away from home,’ said Dame Beatrice. ‘Bull, why did you tell her (and Mr Melrose here) all those lies about your former profession?’

‘They wasn’t lies. I was assistant to the public executioner.’

‘Yes, in a Spanish province, not in England. You were not a hangman, but a garrotter. Your son was so bitterly ashamed of your public image that he did not register at the polytechnic in your name, but translated it to Grantoro.’

‘That wasn’t nothing to do with my job. I’d give it up. It was because he didn’t care to be known as the caretaker’s son.’

‘Why didn’t you admit you knew Carbridge?’ asked the warden. ‘You recognised the body as soon as you saw it, didn’t you? Carbridge and your son were fellow students here, although Grantoro was a third-year and Carbridge a first-year. This morning, I received a letter from my predecessor, who has only just heard about the murder. He says that, several years ago, Carbridge also changed his name. He is down in the lists simply as “Bridge” — that’s why no one noticed before.’

‘And at some time during their student days,’ said Dame Beatrice, ‘Bridge found out that Todd, then calling himself Grantoro, was your son and he also found out what your former profession had been. My granddaughter found that out, too, and decided that she wanted no more to do with your autobiography. Mere squeamishness, of course, but most girls are squeamish when it comes to putting an iron collar round a criminal’s neck and tightening it until it throttles him. A drop at the end of a rope seems infinitely preferable to women if a criminal has to be executed.’