“Foul play? But why should anybody . . .”
“Oh, we’ve no suspicion of any motive. We thought, perhaps, that was where you might help us. It was I and some friends of mine who actually found the body, you know, and there were certain indications which suggested to us that Brotherhood had . . . had been murdered. There was the position of his hat, for example—still, we needn’t go into all that. We did entertain the suspicion very strongly, only the clues we had at our disposal weren’t sufficient to let us follow up our suspicions, if you see what I mean. The only one which we felt might help us to get any further was this photograph. By a mere accident, for which I’m not responsible, it didn’t get into the hands of the police.”
“The police know nothing about it?”
“We have no reason to think they do. But it was found in Brotherhood’s pocket—at least, it was found in circumstances which made it quite clear that it had fallen out of his pocket, when the . . . when his body was being moved.”
Miss Rendall-Smith took another look at the portrait, which still lay in her hands. “Then,” she said, “what exactly do you want me to do about it?”
“Well, you must understand, of course, that we are very reluctant to open up any subject which may be painful to you. But at the same time, since it seemed likely that you had some knowledge of Brotherhood’s history and circumstances which the world at large doesn’t share, we thought perhaps you would tell us whether you can form any guess yourself as to the circumstances of his death. To put it in the concrete, do you know of any one who would have a motive for wishing ill to Brotherhood, or who might be likely to take his life?”
“I see. You want me to help justice. But you want me to help you, not the police.”
“We are helping the police ourselves. Only the police are not always very—what shall I say?—the police don’t always encourage help from outside; there is a good deal of red tape about their methods. I was in the Military Intelligence myself during the war, and had some opportunity of seeing the unfortunate effects of rivalry and jealousy between the various departments. We have not approached the police; we thought it best to work on our own until we could present them with a fait accompli. That is why we have not even mentioned to the police the existence of this photograph which we found on the body.”
“Mr. Reeves——”
A woman can use a surname as a bludgeon. That title of respect, “Mr. So-and-So,” which expresses our relations to the outside world, has often, indeed, had an ominous ring for us. Deans used it when they were protesting at our neglect of chapels; proctors, when they urged the immodesty of going out to dinner without a cap and gown. But nobody can use it with the same annihilating effect as a woman scorned. “Mister”—you are a man, I a defenceless woman. “Mister”—you have the title of a gentleman, although you are behaving like a cad. “Mister”—you see, I treat you with all possible politeness, although you have not deserved any such respect from me. There is irony in the word “Mister”; it makes one long for a title.