It is surprising how much can be done in a very few minutes. Harriet calculated that the Hall had probably been wrecked first of all, being in a detached wing, where noise was not likely to attract much attention; au that was done there could have been done in a couple of minutes. From the extinguishing of the first lights in Tudor to that of the last lights in the New Quad, rather less than ten minutes had elapsed. The third, and longest part of the business-the wrecking of the rooms in the darkened buildings, had taken anything from a quarter to half an hour.
The Warden addressed the College after Chapel, again enjoining discretion, begging the culprit to come forward, and promising that all possible measures should be taken to identify her in case she did not confess. “I have no intention,” said Dr. Baring, “of inflicting any restriction or punishment upon the college in general for the act of one irresponsible person. I will ask anyone who has any suggestion to make or any evidence to offer with regard to the identity of this foolish practical joker to come privately, either to the Dean or myself, and make the communication in strict confidence.”
She added a few words about the solidarity of the College and departed with a grave face, her gown floating behind her.
The glaziers were already at work restoring damaged window-panes. In the Hall, the Bursar was affixing neat cards in the places of portraits whose glass had been broken: “Portrait of Miss Matheson: Warden 1899-1912. Removed for cleaning.” Broken crockery was being swept from the grass of the Old Quad. The College was engaged in presenting a serene face to the world.
It did not improve anybody’s temper to discover a printed message, consisting of “HA! HA!” and a vulgar epithet, pasted across the mirror in the Senior Common Room, shortly before lunch. The Common Room had been empty from 9 o’clock onwards, so far as was known. The Common Room maid, going in at lunch-time with the coffee-cups, had been the first to see the notice; and it had by then dried hard. The Bursar, who had missed her pot of Gloy after the night’s excitement, found it placed neatly in the centre of the S.C.R. mantelpiece.
The feeling in the Senior Common Room after this episode underwent subtle alteration. Tongues were sharpened; the veneer of detachment began to wear thin; the uneasiness of suspicion began to make itself felt; only Miss Lydgate and the Dean, being proved innocent, remained unmoved.
“Your bad luck seems to have repeated itself, Miss Barton,” observed Miss Pyke, acidly. “Both in the Library affair and in this last outbreak, you seem to have been first on the spot and yet unhappily prevented from securing the culprit.”
“Yes,” said Miss Barton. “It’s very unfortunate. If next time my gown gets taken as well, the College sleuth will begin to smell a rat.”
“Very trying for you, Mrs. Goodwin,” said Miss Hillyard, “to come back to all this upset, just when you needed a rest. I trust your little boy is better. It is particularly tiresome, because all the time you were away we had no disturbance at all.”
“It’s most annoying,” said Mrs. Goodwin. “The poor creature who does these things must be quite demented. Of course these disorders do tend to occur in celibate, or chiefly celibate communities. It is a kind of compensation, I suppose, for the lack of other excitements.”
“The great mistake,” said Miss Burrows, “was, of course, our not keeping together. Naturally I wanted to see if any damage had been done in the Library-but why so many people should have come pelting after me-”
“The Hall was my concern,” said the Bursar.
“Oh! you did get to the Hall? I completely lost sight of you in the quad.”
“That,” said Miss Hillyard, “was exactly the catastrophe I was trying to avoid when I pursued you. I called loudly to you to stop. You must have heard me.”
“There was too much noise to hear anything,” said Miss Stevens.
“I came to Miss Lydgate’s room,” said Miss Shaw, “the moment I could get dressed, understanding that everybody was to be there. But there was really nobody. I thought I must have misunderstood, so I tried to find Miss Vane, but she seemed to have gone off into the Ewigkeit.”
“It must have taken you a remarkably long time to dress,” said Miss Burrows. “Anybody could run three times round College in the time it takes you to pull your stockings on.”
“Somebody,” said Miss Shaw, “apparently did.”
“They’re beginning to get fractious,” said Harriet to the Dean.
“What can you expect? The silly cuckoos! If they’d only sat tight on their little behinds last night, we could have cleared the whole business up. It’s not your fault. You couldn’t be everywhere at once. How we can expect discipline from the students, when a whole bunch of middle-aged seniors behave like a flock of hens in a crisis, I can’t think. Who’s that out there, conducting that strident conversation with a top window? Oh! I think it’s Baker’s young man. Well, discipline must be observed, I suppose. Give me the house telephone, would you? Thanks. I don’t see how we’re to prevent this last outbreak from getting-Oh! Martha! The Dean’s compliments, if you please, to Miss Baker, and will she kindly bear in mind the rule about morning visitors-And the students are getting rather annoyed about the destruction of their property. I think they’re actually getting worked up to calling a J.C.R. meeting, and it’s unfair on them, poor lambs, to let them go on suspecting one another, but what can we do about it? Thank God, it’s the last week of term! I suppose we’re not making a ghastly mistake? It must be one of us, and not a student or a scout.”
“We seem to have eliminated the students-unless it’s a conspiracy between two of them. It might be that. Hudson and Cattermole together. But as for the scouts-I can show you this, now, I suppose. Would any of the scouts quote Virgil?”
“No,” said the Dean, examining the “Harpy” passage. “No; it doesn’t seem likely. Oh, dear!”
The reply to Harriet’s letter arrived by return.
My dear Harriet,
It is exceedingly good of you to be bothered with my graceless nephew. I am afraid the episode must have left you with an unfortunate impression of both of us. I am very fond of the boy, and he is, as you say, attractive; but he is rather easily led, and my brother is not, in my opinion, handling him in the wisest way. Considering his expectations, Gerald is kept absurdly short of money, and naturally he feels he has a right to anything he can lay hands on. Still, he must learn to draw the line between carelessness and dishonesty. I have offered to augment his allowance myself, but the suggestion was not well received at home. His parents, I know, feel that I am stealing his confidence from them; but if I refused to help him, he would go elsewhere and get himself into worse trouble. Though I do not like the position into which I am forced of “Codlin is the friend, not Short,” I still think it better that he should turn to me than to an outsider. I call this family pride; it may be mere vanity; I know it is vexation of spirit.
Let me assure you that so far, when I have trusted Gerald with anything, he has not let me down. He is amenable to some of the shibboleths. But he is not amenable to a discipline of alternate indulgence and severity; and indeed I do not know who is. I must again apologize for troubling you with our family affairs. What on earth are you doing in Oxford? Have you retired from the world to pursue the contemplative life? I will not attempt to dissuade you now, but shall address you on the subject in the usual form on the 1st April next.