The gathering had indeed heard of him as their expressions revealed. The subdued hostility that Lord Grantchester had shown to his presumptuous entrance seemed to give way to curiosity.
“You’re the feller that’s been involved in all these murders,” he said.
Simon nodded.
“That’s what I want to talk to you about.”
“Me?” said his lordship in surprise.
“You,” confirmed the Saint.
He looked at the puzzled faces of the others and saw no sense in alarming them.
“Just a brief private talk,” he amplified.
Lord Grantchester considered the request for a moment and then shrugged.
“Very well, but it will have to be brief. We hold a fancy-dress ball every Christmas Eve and there’s still a lot to be done.”
As he crossed the room towards the Saint he glanced out at the snow.
“If they can all get here,” he added, more to himself than his visitor. “Damn phone’s out of order. Don’t know who’s coming and who ain’t. Little bit of snow and the whole country grinds to a halt.”
He led the way into the library and shut the door. They sat on either side of a fireless grate. The Saint explained his theory about the murders and then came to the reason for his visit.
“Were you the fourth person involved in Sir Basil’s plans for the new faculty?”
Lord Grantchester nodded.
“Sir Basil knew I was a former student at St. Enoch’s. He was quite honest about it. Said that a lord would attract the people whose money he was after.” Lord Grant-Chester chuckled to himself. “I’m a director on the board of half a dozen companies and I’m not even sure what they do. People like to have a title on their letterheads.”
He became serious again.
“This was a bit different, though. You see, there’s a family trust. It was set up some years ago so that the blasted tax man wouldn’t get everything when the head of the family snuffed it. The family draws salaries from the trust just as if it was a company. There’s also a provision for donations to charities. Certain tax advantages, you understand. The idea was that St. Enoch’s would put up thirty per cent of the money from its own resources. Sir Basil told me he was tapping three businessmen for twenty per cent each, and the Grantchester Trust would contribute the final ten per cent.”
“But Sir Basil didn’t say who those businessmen were?”
“I left it to him to find ’em. If their credit references were okay, they were okay with me. This was all way back in the autumn. I’ve been abroad since then. Can’t stand the cold these days. Only come back for Christmas. Sir Basil wrote to me a couple of weeks ago saying everything was arranged. Could we all meet on Christmas Eve to sign the papers? Seemed in a bit of a hurry but I said it sounded fine. Subject to the audit, of course.”
The Saint pounced on the word.
“Audit? What audit?”
Lord Grantchester chuckled again.
“See you’re not a businessman, young feller,” he said. “This may be charity but it’s also business. We’re not talking about a few quid, you know. By the time it was finished the whole thing was going to cost getting on for half a million.”
The Saint whistled softly. He hadn’t realised that so much money was involved.
Lord Grantchester continued: “Of course there would have to be an audit of the college’s books. They were putting up the biggest single slice. Otherwise everyone else could have put up their money and then found the college couldn’t meet its obligations. Then what? Damn easy to give money away, damn hard to get it back, especially when it’s been turned into bricks and mortar.”
The last segment of the puzzle slotted neatly into place.
“I think you should know,” said the Saint deliberately, “that these murders you’ve been hearing about just happen to have eliminated Sir Basil’s backers. With one remaining exception, so far as I’ve been able to find out.”
His lordship might have been regarded by many as a stuffed shirt, but there was no doubt that it was a stuffing of excellent quality. He eyed the Saint with a calmly speculative expression.
“So you think this maniac who’s murdered the others will have a go at me too?” he said at length.
“I’m sure of it,” Simon replied firmly. “I’d like your permission to search the house, and to hang around for a while.”
Lord Grantchester pondered the request.
“Damn inconvenient,” he muttered. “The family are here already and the first guests will be arriving soon. Don’t want to alarm people.”
“I promise not to alarm people,” Simon told him. “But I do think that it’s necessary. This man isn’t a maniac. He’s a cold calculating killer, and a fancy-dress ball would give him a perfect opening.”
Lord Grantchester recognised the strength of the Saint’s argument. He stood up.
“Very well. But please be as discreet as you can.” He stopped at the door. “I’ll tell the staff you’re a surveyor.”
“A surveyor?” the Saint repeated rather blankly.
“That’s right. From the insurance company. The west wing is practically falling down. Been locked up for years because it’s unsafe. Got to do something about it.”
Simon smiled and promised to pose as a surveyor. What a surveyor would be doing working so late on Christmas Eve might be a difficult question to answer if he was challenged, but with luck it wouldn’t be asked.
So the west wing, the oldest part of the house, was unsafe. So it was probably the best place for a break-in. So nobody went there any more, so it was safe as a hiding place. So he would start in the west wing. He told Lord Grantchester his intention and was given directions.
As he traversed the house towards the west wing he tried to put himself in the murderer’s place. Would he break in early, hide, and wait for the fancy-dress ball to start, and then mingle with the guests until he saw an opportunity to strike? Or would he arrive among other guests, in costume, and hope to sneak in unchallenged?
The Saint decided that, since the weather might drastically reduce the numbers present, he’d opt for the first choice. If necessary, he could still hide and get at his victim when the household had gone to sleep.
He entered the west wing by a door on the ground floor, the only one, Lord Grantchester had told him, that was not kept locked.
In the manner of houses of its period, the ground floor was served by one long corridor that ran between all the rooms until it reached the far end of the wing. In the centre it spread out into a square-shaped hall with a flight of wooden stairs leading straight up to a balustraded gallery.
What little furniture remained in the rooms was shrouded in dust sheets which in the half-light looked like slumbering ghosts. The air was heavy with the smell of mould and damp and rotting woodwork. The Saint refrained from announcing his presence by switching on the lights or using his torch and made do with the moonlight that was helped by being reflected from the snow outside.
He checked all the downstairs rooms and returned to the hall. He climbed to the landing at the top of the stairs and considered his next move. From the gallery ran two passages, one towards the centre of the house, the other to the opposite end. He flipped a mental coin and came down in favour of the latter.
Here the corridor ran between other rooms and was so dark that he had no alternative but to switch on his flashlight. It was the shape and size of a fountain pen, with the small beam further restricted by silver foil pasted over the lens. It emitted only a pencil-thin ray, but his night vision was as keen as any cat’s and it was enough.
He moved slowly and cautiously along the passage, his ears straining to pick up any sound that might betray the presence of another intruder. He checked the rooms as he passed them without finding anyone. Of course there was no certainty that the killer was yet on the premises. And then the creak of a floorboard made him freeze.