Once he had recovered from the shock and reluctantly accepted that the Saint’s alibi was not merely cast iron but made of titanium alloy, Nutkin had instituted the ritual known as Standard Procedure. The store had been cleared of customers and searched, the staff had been questioned and their statements taken, the stock room had been dusted for fingerprints and the body examined, photographed, and finally despatched to the morgue.
The net result of so much activity had been to establish that the murder of the store boss was in some way connected with the killing of the master of St. Enoch’s — a fact that had been fairly obvious from the moment the porter had given his description of the murder.
A clue that confirmed a probable link between the killings had been spotted by the Saint. Left to his own devices after being clearly exonerated of Wakeforth’s murder, he had ignored Nutkin’s instruction to leave the store and instead wandered up to the tycoon’s office. Browsing through his diary, he had found an entry: “Lazentree 3.30.” The date was December 23, two days away. It was unexplained. He had bought Wakeforth’s secretary, who always accompanied her boss on visits to his stores, a calming brandy in a nearby pub, and she had identified the handwriting as his but had had no idea what the meeting was to have been about. Nutkin’s investigation did not seem to have noted it, but it had made the Saint somewhat curious about the connection of Stanton Wakeforth with St. Enoch’s.
One good thing to have resulted from Wakeforth’s death was that his last ukase had been forgotten, and Chantek and Ted had been allowed to go back to their jobs. The Saint was no longer concerned with the hung-over Santa, but Chantek was a different matter and had provided a delightful companion at dinner that night. Not yet having been thoroughly contaminated by the rising Western tide of feminine assertiveness, she happily and shamelessly deployed all the complaisant wiles which were the natural legacy of her other-worldly upbringing.
Simon Templar was not numbered among the ranks of those who believe that early rising leads to health, wealth, and wisdom, and he was the last customer left in the restaurant when he was finally thinking of leaving the breakfast table and officially acknowledging that the day had begun. At that moment what is commonly termed a discreet cough sounded in close proximity.
“I should take something for that,” he murmured without looking up from the article he was finishing.
There was a brief pause before the intruder spoke.
“Are you Mr. Simon Templar?”
There was an officious undertone to the voice which matched the abruptness of the cough. The Saint folded his paper and eyed the newcomer speculatively.
“That depends on whether you are (a) from the Inland Revenue, (b) from a news agency, (c) from the police, or (d) looking for a donation,” he replied.
On reflection, the other could not have been any of those alternatives, except just possibly the first. His pinstriped suit was too severely cut to belong to a reporter, and at around five feet seven he was a shade too small for the constabulary. There was a sharpness about the eyes and a tightness about the lips which did not suit the image of a charity worker. But rather than a tax collector he reminded the Saint of a bank manager.
The man smiled, or, to be precise, his lips twitched in what was an effort to produce a smile.
“I am Godfrey Nyall, bursar of St. Enoch’s College,” he stated formally. “I wonder if I might have a word with you.”
Simon gestured towards the vacant chair beside him.
“Wonder no more. Sit down and have as many words as you wish. Would you like some coffee?”
Nyall accepted the chair but declined the coffee. He came immediately to the reason for his visit.
“I read in the paper this morning that it was you who found Sir Basil’s body.”
“That’s right.”
“And you were also present when Mr. Wakeforth was murdered.”
“Just a knack, really,” smiled the Saint, with a dismissive shrug of his shoulders.
Having established his facts, Nyall appeared uncertain how to continue, and Simon had to prompt him.
“What can I do for you?”
“I, that is, we — the senior members of the faculty-would like to talk to you. Naturally we have already spoken with the police, but with a person such as yourself involved — quite innocently of course — we thought it might be...”
Nyall floundered, and again the Saint came to the rescue.
“Useful? Advantageous?” he suggested.
The bursar nodded.
“Yes. It’s not that we lack confidence in the police, you understand — just that a man of your reputation — that is, your experience in such matters — might be able to give us some suggestions, or — er — advice...”
It was one of the most roundabout invitations Simon had received for a long time, but none the less welcome for being so. Evidently the dons of St. Enoch’s had not been overimpressed with the good superintendent. And it solved the first of his problems as perfectly as if he had written the script himself.
“If there’s anything I can do to help, I shall certainly be glad to do it,” he said.
Nyall looked relieved.
“Thank you, Mr. Templar. Unfortunately the dean is in London today but we expect him back early this evening. Would it be convenient for you to come to the college at half past eight tonight?”
“Fine by me,” Simon agreed.
He had been prepared to go with the bursar immediately but was not sorry about the delay. He had had his own plans for the day which had nothing to do with solving crime but everything to do with developing his acquaintance with Chantek, whose day off it happened to be.
The bursar took his leave, and the Saint ushered him out of the breakfast room into the hotel lobby, but after one glance at the crowd of reporters gathered between the reception desk and the door turned on his heel and eventually made a less hazardous exit via the kitchens.
A slow thaw had started and the city streets had been reduced to dirty grey strips of slush, but the flat lands of the Cambridgeshire countryside were still carpeted in white with a thin mist blurring the edges of the fields. The Saint allowed the Hirondel to idle along winding lanes, letting the starkness of the scenery be warmed by the vivacity of the girl beside him. They lunched at Newmarket and motored back in a wide loop via Bury St. Edmunds and Haverhill at a speed lazy enough to bring them back to Chantek’s digs in a house near the college soon after dark, where she insisted that he come in for tea. It was cosy by the small coal fire, and when she offered to fix a snack it was difficult to remind himself that sometimes business had to be put before pleasure. But her good night was long and lingering enough to force him to hurry the last few yards to be on time at St. Enoch’s for his appointment.
Godfrey Nyall collected him from the gatekeeper’s lodge and led him into the central block of the college and through a labyrinth of corridors to the senior common room. It was spacious and elegant with oak-panelled walls, a deep-pile carpet, and rows of bookshelves holding richly bound volumes. The overall effect was more reminiscent of the smoking room in a St. James’s club than a staff room in a university.
Two men rose to greet them as they entered, and Nyall performed the introductions.
“Professor Edwin Darslow. Professor Denzil Rosco.”
The Saint shook hands and let himself be planted in a wing armchair at the hearthside. He accepted the whisky they offered, and took advantage of the pause while it was poured to observe his hosts.