Nimmo was standing by the side of a much shorter and much broader man, who had an iron-grey look about him —hair, eyes, suit, even his skin, appeared to be much the same colour. And there was something Teutonic about the shape of his head; Rollison placed him as Professor Offenberger, one of the few men whose renown as a mathematician was worldwide.
Naomi was introducing them, indicating each with a small wave of her hand.
“Mr. Rollison, I don’t know whether you know Dr. Carfax.” Carfax, one of Britain’s most renowned scholars, a leading pro-Shakespeare figure whenever Shakespeare’s authorship was challenged, was sitting, so Rollison’s identification of the others was quite right. “Professor Nimmo, Professor Offenberger. I’m afraid Dr. Brown hasn’t arrived, but as he doesn’t answer his telephone he is presumably on his way here.”
“Unless,” said Offenberger, in a hard, near-guttural voice, “he is also dead. Is that what you have come to tell us, Mr. Rollison?”
Carfax, who had a rose-pink complexion and looked a picture of health despite his infirmity, half-closed his eyes in patient resignation that anyone should say such a thing. Nimmo waved his hands in disclaimer.
“Nonsense, Otto, you have death on the brain.”
“That is the way it comes,” said Offenberger with grim humour. “But I say we should already tell the police that George is late. How can we be sure all is well with him after these dreadful things? You know the latest, perhaps, Mr. Rollison? The poor girl, Winifred de Vaux, is dead—murdered like our good friend Webberson.”
“Yes,” Rollison answered. “The police told me.”
“Did they tell you also who is doing these wicked things? Why every girl, and also all of us, are threatened with death? And it is no use raising your eyes to heaven, Will.” He turned his curiously iron grey eyes towards Carfax, who was certainly looking as if he were invoking aid from on high. “We all of us are threatened. We take no notice, until the girls disappear and much worry there is. And now Keith is dead of the bloody—” he pronounced the word ‘bloddy’— “hammer, and Naomi’s head is nearly smashed in. Do you deny it is serious? Do you
He still pointed and the others all stared at Rollison, as if he were an oracle.
“I—ah—am never happy about stopping good work,” Rollison murmured.
“But how can we the good works do if we are dead?”
“An excellent point,” said Rollison. “Do you know who is trying to kill you? And do you know
“If we know, we tell the police,” rasped Offenberger.
Rollison’s gaze moved slowly to the other men, and rested finally on Carfax, who looked almost cherubic, his fair hair concealing any streaks of grey, and whose head and shoulders and torso gave a remarkable impression of strength, in sharp contrast to the thin legs which dangled over the edge of the chair.
“Supposing you don’t know, but only guess,” Rollison asked mildly. “Would you tell the police whom you suspect?”
“It would be a waste of time,” said Carfax, his voice beautifully modulated. “We believe—”
“You must speak for yourself,” Naomi broke in quietly. “Yes, Naomi, I am doing so, and I speak also for Arthur, and probably for Otto. What kind of man would wage a war of persecution like this? Do we need to ask? We believe that the man involved is a fanatical bigot, probably extremely religious, who did his best to prevent us from launching this scheme, and when that failed has resorted to this hideous campaign. And the man we have in mind is so highly regarded at Westminster and in Whitehall, so immensely wealthy, that the police simply cannot agree as to his involvement. I speak, of course—” Carfax paused, to look round at each of the others, and received a nod from both men— “of Sir Douglas Slatter.”
“I simply cannot believe it,” Naomi said in a husky voice. She sat with both hands clasped tightly on the desk in front of her. “I know he has been difficult, and that some of the girls imply he has
“If he’s the puritanical fanatic Dr. Carfax suggests he might be, would he make passes like that?” Rollison wondered aloud.
“I’ve known some of these religious maniacs—” began Nimmo, only to break off. “That isn’t a fair thing to say. If a man’s a pathological sex case, he can still be honestly religious. And we’ve something more than suspicion and prejudice to go on, Rollison. The lease of these premises is virtually up, and Sir Douglas, who is the landlord, will not extend it. I feel that the timing of these attacks is too much for coincidence.”
“I can see why you do,” agreed Rollison. “Sir Douglas—”
“According to his own lights I believe Sir Douglas is a good man,” interrupted Naomi, stubbornly. “Mr. Rollison—” She broke off.
“Will you check more closely on Slatter?” asked Car-fax. “You may not have the same prejudices as the police.”
“I shouldn’t under-estimate the police,” Rollison said drily. “So yes—I will see what I can find out about Slatter. But before I do—are you seriously considering closing down Smith Hall?”
“How can we go on?” demanded Offenberger. “How is it possible? I have been warned like the others—stop coming here, finish the work—or you will be killed. I do not want to be killed. And I say to you all, let us not be obstinate. There are other girls, other men, who are very clever. These girls will be the loss, yes, but not irrepairable.”
“Irrepar—” Carfax began to correct, but stopped.
“Are they then?” Offenberger demanded fiercely. “It has been a good and courageous experiment but this is not now a matter for private individuals. The brains of the country, they should be looked after by the country itself. Professor Nimmo has spent a fortune here, all of us give what we can but it is—no good. We stop. I vote for we stop.”
