He had still not found a connecting link between the three murders, and without that he had no way of guessing whether and where the murderer might strike again.
What little he had discovered had been largely the result of waiting on events and backing an instinct sharpened by many years of adventuring. He decided to keep to the same route.
He wiped off the box of cartridges and the pistol case, replaced them in the drawer, and relocked it. He doubted that the room had any more secrets to reveal, and with a final lingering look around and a rapid polishing of other things he had touched to remove his own fingerprints, he left the study.
He was retracing his steps towards the college gates when he turned a corner and almost collided with the hurrying person of Godfrey Nyall.
The bursar stepped back abruptly with a surprised expression. He looked as if he had dressed hastily that morning. The scuffed shoes, the sag in the knot of his tie, and his rumpled clothes were in contrast to the neatly attired man who had appeared at the hotel the previous morning and later dispensed sherry in the common room.
“Mr. Templar!” he exclaimed rather breathlessly. “I didn’t know you were in the college.”
Simon had been thinking of seeking out the bursar before leaving St. Enoch’s.
“Actually I was looking for you,” he lied smoothly. “But I couldn’t find your office.”
“It’s near the main entrance,” said Nyall. “You must have passed it when you came in.”
The Saint smiled disarmingly.
“How silly of me. Can you spare a few minutes?”
The bursar hesitated for only a moment and then nodded.
“Of course. I just have to collect something from the common room. Perhaps you would wait for me in my office.”
“Sure,” said the Saint, and strolled away, conscious as he did so that the bursar had not moved and was watching him go.
As Nyall had said, it would have been hard to use the main entrance and miss his office. There were in fact two offices, an outer one with a desk for a secretary and beyond that the bursar’s own sanctum. The typewriter was hooded and the desk top beside it bare, suggesting that the secretary, like the students, was on holiday. Nyall’s office was spacious and imposing in the severe Victorian manner of large mahogany furniture and dark-coloured carpet. Those walls not hidden behind lattice-fronted bookcases were adorned with portraits in carved wooden frames and a few landscape prints in gilt surrounds.
The Saint perched on the edge of the leather-topped desk and glanced at the papers spread across it. They were mainly the heavier dailies plus a scattering of financial publications.
As he had not had a chance to read the morning papers, he selected one at random and began to flick idly through the pages. A column on the front page given over to the murder of Wakeforth and the Santa Claus link with the murder of Lazentree related that there had been no fresh developments. Inside the Saint found little to interest him, but he noted that the contents had certainly been of interest to someone, presumably Nyall.
In both the political and financial sections certain paragraphs, and in some instances whole stories, had been ringed in blue pencil. Political unrest in one of the South American banana — or in this case coffee — republics, news of a drought in West Africa, and conversely of a flood in East Africa, were marked, as were a feature article on the effects of strikes in United States copper mines and a speculative piece on the size of the following year’s cocoa bean harvest.
Simon put the paper down and stood up. As he did so a photograph hanging on the wall near the desk caught his eye, and he walked over and studied it more closely. It showed a dozen soldiers in tropical kit standing and sitting in what appeared to be a jungle clearing. The men had the grim, weary eyes of seasoned soldiers in wartime which overshadowed the smiles they had offered the cameraman. Neither the location nor the date nor the identities of those shown was given but despite the years that had passed since its taking there was no mistaking Godfrey Nyall. He stood in the centre of the group, his slouch hat pushed back off his forehead, leaning on the barrel of his rifle. The soldier was slimmer, straighter, and harder than the man he had grown into, but there was the same strict look about the eyes and the same purposeful chiselling of nose and mouth. Simon looked for signs of his rank and found none. His companions also wore no indication of their status, which made the Saint even more curious. There was an explanation nagging at the back of his memory but refusing to formulate itself.
He was still puzzling over the picture when the door opened and he turned to greet the bursar.
“I’m sorry to have kept you waiting,” said Nyall. “Have you found out anything more about the murder of Sir Basil?”
“Only that he was due to meet Stanton Wakeforth at 3:30 p.m. today,” said the Saint, finally deciding that the time had come to make use of the clue he had found in the store tycoon’s diary. “Do you know why?”
Nyall’s brow furrowed and he slowly shook his head.
“He told me nothing about it,” he replied at length. “I didn’t even know they were acquainted. But then unless it had some direct bearing on St. Enoch’s funds there would have been no reason for me to be informed.”
“I take it that you are responsible for the college coffers,” said the Saint.
“Of course, it is my main responsibility,” Nyall answered as he went behind his desk and sat down. “We are not a wealthy college like some others in Cambridge, but there are still substantial amounts involved.”
“Mainly government grants, bequests, donations, that kind of thing?” Simon hazarded.
“Mainly,” Nyall agreed. “But there are investments to be considered as well.”
“Stocks and shares, you mean?”
Nyall’s lips broke in a brief, almost patronising smile.
“Nothing exciting, I’m afraid. Mainly long-dated government bonds, gilts, a small portfolio of some of the blue chip companies,” he said dismissively. “We can’t afford to be gamblers.”
The Saint nodded.
“No, I suppose not. Will Sir Basil’s death affect the finances at all?”
Nyall tidied up the papers and placed them in a pile on one side of the desk while he replied.
“No, I should think not, at least in the short term. Of course, he was a well-known man, and a figurehead always helps to make a college better known generally and so leads to more donations.”
There was a rap on the door and Dr. Burridge entered. He looked uncertainly from Nyall to the Saint.
“Good morning, Mr. Templar. I’m sorry, Godfrey, I didn’t realise you were busy. I’ll return later.”
“Don’t go on my account,” said the Saint, who had glimpsed Chantek crossing the courtyard outside. “I was just about to leave anyway.”