Murder in the Museum, A British Library Crime Classic Read Free Page A

interrogative.
    â€œOh, yes.” Shelley smiled, and his smile transformed that somewhat grim face, with its eyes of steel grey, into a new countenance, friendly and inviting confidences—a deceptive change that had, in its time, been the undoing of many a criminal.
    â€œProfessor Julius Arnell,” he went on. “That’s the fellow’s name. Does it mean anything to you?”
    â€œI know his work, of course,” said Henry.
    â€œWhat sort of work?” Shelley could be crisp enough in his utterance when he felt himself to be on the track of some useful information.
    â€œHe was probably the world’s greatest authority on the minor Elizabethans,” said Henry. “He had written many books on the lesser dramatists of that time, and he was, I believe, Professor of English Literature at one of the provincial universities. I never remember seeing him in the Reading Room before, however. Possibly he was able to come up only now and then. I expect he had to do a good deal of lecturing in connection with his post at Portavon—yes, that’s where he was—as they usually work their staff pretty hard in those places.”
    â€œDid he have any enemies?” Shelley whipped the question out, like a rifle bullet.
    Henry smiled. “I didn’t know him at all, Inspector,” he said. “He may have had hundreds of enemies in his private life, for all I know. All that I can tell you is that he was pretty cordially hated in the world of literary research.”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œIsn’t it obvious enough?”
    â€œI don’t think it is. Explain yourself, my dear fellow.” Shelley’s temper was even enough, but he was beginning to find the little man’s finicky correctness more than a little trying.
    â€œWhen a man reaches the position of being a leading authority on any subject,” Henry explained patiently, “he cannot say much on the subject of his speciality without treading on someone’s corns. You see?”
    Shelley nodded. “I see,” he said. “And you think that Arnell may have been murdered by someone who loathed him because he had a bit of a nasty temper in matters of literary research and so on.”
    â€œOh, no!” Henry pushed the idea away from him, horror expressed in every line of his meek little face. “I did not suggest anything of the sort, Inspector. I did not mean you to infer anything at all like that. Please don’t read into my words more than I say.”
    â€œRight ho, Mr. Fairhurst,” Shelley agreed with heavy joviality. “And who were the other experts in this business of the lesser Elizabethan dramatists—which, I think you said, was Arnell’s speciality?”
    â€œThat’s not easy to say,” answered Henry, seeing only too clearly whither this cross-examination was leading, and mentally viewing himself as the principal witness for the crown in a case against one University Professor for the murder of another one. “You might ask,” he went on, unhappily, “Professor Wilkinson of Northfield University, and Dr. Crocker, who is, I think, in some sort of official position, of Oxford—as far as I know, they were the only two who knew much about the work which Arnell had done—I’ve heard them discussing things together at meetings of learned societies, and so on, which I have occasionally attended.”
    â€œThank you, Mr. Fairhurst,” said Shelley appreciatively. “You have been very useful to us. If you will hold yourself in readiness for the inquest, I think that we have finished with you for the moment.”
    â€œBut don’t you…don’t you…” Henry stuttered and dithered in his eagerness to get the question out.
    â€œDon’t we what?” asked Shelley ungrammatically.
    â€œDon’t you want to hear how he died?”
    â€œWe know that,” answered the detective with a smile.