by Ellis Peters
It went on like that all day, and by last period in the afternoon, which was Latin, he had even begun to look a little ill with the indigestible weight of his thoughts. Virgil could hold him no better than x and y, though he had normally a taste for the full, rolling hexameters, which were round in the mouth as a sun-warmed apple in the palm, tactile satisfaction somehow molten into the ear’s delight. He made a stumbling mess of passages which would ordinarily have made his eyes lighten into gold; and Chad, after a succession of rather surprised promptings and patient elucidations, gave him a more searching look, and on the strength of it let him out gently a few lines before he had intended to do so. Dominic retired ungratefully, with bewildering promptness and a single-mindedness Chad could not help admiring, and sank his teeth once again into the throat of his own peculiar problem. Which by then he had almost settled, in so far as it could be settled short of the assay.
Chad set some written work, and perceiving, as he expected, that one pen was loitering after only a few tentative words, called Dominic to him. “The rest of you,” he said almost automatically, as the few inevitably inquisitive heads were raised to follow Dominic’s resigned progress, “get on with your work. We’re no better worth prolonged examination than we were five minutes ago.” The “we,” Dominic thought, was rather decent of him.
The Fourth Form, as always, looked mortally offended at being told to mind their own business, and elevated their eyebrows and looked down their noses in their best style to indicate their total lack of interest in anything so insignificant as Dominic Felse and Chad Wedderburn. And if here and there an ear was flapping a little in their direction, it flapped in vain. Chad had a quiet voice, and leaned forward over his desk to reduce the distance between them so that it might be even quieter and still adequate. He looked, now that Dominic examined him closely, distinctly worn and haggard, and his scar stood out more lividly than usual, though his manner was exactly as they had known it ever since his return, unhurried, calm, past surprise but wryly alert to impressions, and sensitive in response to them. If sleep had largely left him, if he knew as well as they did that the whole village was settling his guilt and seething, with speculations as to his future, he gave no outward sign of it, made no concessions. And he could still see sufficiently clearly to observe that one of his boys had something on his mind. The only mistake he had made was in thinking that it might be something which could be got rid of by sharing it.
“Come on, now,” he said quietly, “what’s the matter?”
“Nothing, sir,” said Dominic, but in a discouraged tone which did not expect to convince.
“Don’t tell me that! Your mind hasn’t been on what we’re doing here for one minute this afternoon. I know your work well enough to know that. What’s wrong? Are you feeling off-color?”
“Oh, no, sir, really I’m all right.”
“Then there’s something worrying you sick. Isn’t there? Don’t you dare hand me: ‘Oh, no, sir!’ again,” he said smartly, warding off another disclaimer, “or I’ll take you at your word, and make you pay through the nose for what you just did to the shield of Æneas. How would you like it if I kept you here for an hour after school, and let you make me a decent translation of the whole passage?”
Dominic’s face woke into sudden alarm and reproach, because his inner world was touched. He breathed: “Oh, but, sir, please— You don’t really mean it, do you? Please not today! I’ve got such a lot to do this evening, honestly.”
“I’m sure you have,” said Chad, watching every change of the vulnerable face, and at a loss as yet to account for the success of his pinprick. “Suppose you tell me the truth, then, and talk yourself out of it. Or, of course, you could regard it as merely getting a load off your chest, in strict confidence. Wouldn’t you like to unload?”
Dominic would, as a matter of fact, have liked to very much; but if he couldn’t entirely trust George with it, how could he give it to anyone else? No, as soon as it was shared it was rendered ineffective. He had to carry it through alone, or some ham-handed well-intentioned adult would throw sand in the works. He had it ready now, exactly planned out in his own mind, and no one knew anything about it except himself, and no one was to know except Pussy, who had only a minor part and could in any event be trusted to the death. So nobody could ruin it. And that was the best, the only way.
“It’s only something I have to do,” he said carefully, “and I would like to tell you, but I mustn’t—not yet.”
“Something as anxious as you’ve been looking? Couldn’t you use some help, then? It might not look so bad if you compared notes with somebody else over it.”
“Oh, it isn’t bad,” said Dominic, opening his eyes wide. “It’s a bit difficult, but really, it’ll be all right. Only it’s important that I should have this evening free; truly it is. I’m sorry I mucked up the construe, I didn’t have my mind on it.”
Chad looked at him silently and thoughtfully for what seemed a long time; and by the pricking of his thumbs he was warned that the child was most certainly up to something. No light employment, no mischief, no slender personal affair to be squared up in half an hour of getting round someone; but a serious undertaking. Nothing less could account for the odd, withdrawn look of the hazel eyes, which regarded him from beyond an impassable barrier of responsibility. A look at once calm and desperate, resolved and appealing. “I’d like awfully to tell you,” said the eyes, “but I can’t, so don’t ask me. I’ve got to do this myself.” And deep within all the other expressions they held was a bright, still excitement which made him very uneasy.
“You’d rather I didn’t pursue the subject. Well, I can’t press you to tell me, if you don’t want to. But at least remember, Dom,” he said, suddenly flicking a petal of color into Dominic’s cheeks with the unexpected use of his name, “that there’s no need for you to look far for help, if you do want it. If it’s something you don’t want to take home—well, even beaks are capable of listening to something more important than Virgil, on occasion. I hope you’d feel you could come to me, if you ever did need a second judgment.”
Dominic, pink to the temples, but remarkably composed, said: “Thanks awfully, sir! Only I can’t—not yet.”
“All right, leave it at that. You can go back to your desk.”
Somehow the probing of that level, illusionless voice, and its unexpected kindness, had shaken Dominic’s peace of mind, making him turn and look more closely at what he was doing; and he was a little frightened at what he saw, but it was fright without the possibility of retreat. He had started the thing already, and it would have to run.
When he was released from school he ran nearly all the way back into the village, and caught Pussy just biking into the yard of the Shock of Hay, wobbling across the dipping threshold with her eyes alert along the road for him. They retired into the loft, which was their usual conference hall when the cooler weather came; and before he was well out of the trapdoor and into the straw beside her, Dominic had her by the arm in a hard, sudden grip which made her stare at him in astonishment. Pussy saw the excitement, too, and glimpsed, but did not recognize, the desperation. She asked promptly: “What on earth’s the matter? What’s going on?”
“Listen! I’ve got to go, awfully quickly, so listen seriously, and don’t make any mistakes. There’s something you’ve got to do for me, do you understand? Got to! If you muff it, goodness knows what will happen.”
“I’m no more likely to muff things than you are,” she said, the hackles of her pride rising instantly. “Have I ever let you down? Have I?”
“No, you never have. You’ve always been fine. And listen, this is the most vital thing you ever did for me, and there’s nobody in it but just us two. So you can see how I’m trusting you.”
“Well, and you know you can. Is it something about the case, Dom? Have you found out something?”
“I don’t know—I think so, but I don’t know. It may turn out wrong, that’s what we have to test. I’m taking a ch
ance on something, and you’ve got to work this end of it, and you’ve got to work it right, or I shall be in a spot. And not only me, because everything may come unstuck, and then we’ll be back where we started, or even worse off. So make absolutely sure for me, Pussy, please!”
“You don’t have to go on about it,” she said with spirit “Just tell me what I’ve got to do, I won’t make a mess of it.”
Bright and feverish, his eyes gleamed yellowly in the shadows, burning on her with a frightening light. His hand kept its slightly convulsive hold of her arm. She had never seen him like this before, not even when they found Helmut in the brook.
“You know where the top lane from the station comes up to the gate into the Harrow grounds? The one among the plantations? You’ve got to get hold of my father, tonight, and make him go there with you. Cooke or Weaver, too, if you can get them, but there must be my father, and some other witness, too. You’ve got to get them into hiding in the wood there, near the gate, where they can hear and follow if anyone comes along the path, and you must have them there before nine o’clock. That’s vital. I shall come along there just after nine. I want my father to hear and see everything that goes on, and keep pretty close to me. Is that quite clear?”
“Clear enough! But is that all? What happens then?”
“Nobody knows that yet, idiot!” Dominic’s nerves were a little ragged, and his manners frayed with them; but for once Pussy did not combat the issue. “That’s what we’ve got to find out. That’s what my father’s got to be absolutely sure to see. You’ve got to keep him quiet until something does happen, and you’ve absolutely got to keep him within earshot of us, or I’m wasting my time.”
“But how am I going to do it? What am I to say to him, to make him take me seriously? He may be busy. He may not listen to me.”
“Tell him I’m on to something important. Tell him I’m in a jam— I probably shall be by then,” said Dominic. “If he doesn’t believe I’ve got anything for him, maybe he’ll believe I’ve got myself into a mess, anyhow, trying. But it’s your job. I don’t care what you tell him, provided you get him there. Now I’ve got to go,” he said, wriggling through the straw with a dry rustling, “but Pussy, please, for Pete’s sake don’t let me down. I’m relying on you.” He slid his long legs through the trap, and his foot ground on the rungs of the ladder.
Pussy clawed at his sleeve. “No, wait, Dom! It’s something dangerous you’re doing—isn’t it?”
“I don’t know—I keep telling you, I just don’t know what will happen. It may be!”
“Why not tell him about it, instead of just dragging him about by guesswork in the dark? Wouldn’t it be better? Tell him, and let him help properly, instead of being blindfolded. Think how much better and safer it would be!”
“Oh, don’t be a fool!” said Dominic ill-temperedly. “If I told him, there wouldn’t be any experiment. He’d never let me try it. All I’d get would be a flea in my ear, and we’d be no farther forward. And this is something I’ve started already—if he made me give it up we’d be wasting everything we’ve done. That’s why I’ve got to go off tonight and give the thing a push without Dad knowing anything about it. And that’s why you’ve got to look after his end of it, after I’m gone. Do talk sense! This is something the police couldn’t do, it wouldn’t be right for them. But I can! And then they’ve got to help me finish it, because it’s the only way of getting me out of the mess.” He ended a little breathlessly, and the sick shining of his eyes scared her.
“But can’t you tell me? I could be more use if I knew what you were doing. If anything goes wrong, I shan’t know what to do, because I don’t know what you want. I shan’t even know, perhaps, if something does go wrong. And suppose your father wants you at home tonight? How can you make a good enough reason for not doing what he wants? It’s all so sloppy!” said Pussy helplessly. “A lot of dangling strings!”
“No, it isn’t. I’m going to gobble my tea and be out before my father comes home. I’m not staying to ask any questions, or to answer any. Before nine o’clock I’ve got things to do. And if I’m right,” he said, shivering a little in excitement, so that the ladder creaked as he stepped lower, “you’ll all know what to do. And if I’m wrong, it won’t matter, I’ll have made such a mess of everything, nothing can make it any worse.”
Watching him sink slowly through the floor, like a demon in a pantomime, resolutely drawing away from her and leaving her with all the weight of his project in her hands and none of the fun, she began to protest further, and then stopped, because there was nothing more to say. She would do as he asked, no matter how it enraged her to be treated in this fashion, because heaven knew what mess he would get himself into if she did not. And there would be time afterwards to take it out of him for hogging his secret.
“I can’t stay any longer,” he said, vanishing, “or I’d tell you everything, honestly. You’ll know by tonight. Don’t be late!”
“We’ll be there,” said Pussy, flatly and finally, and slithered after him down the ladder.
Dominic hurried home, by the same road which Charles Blunden’s funeral had taken that morning, on its way to the church. It had been a long funeral, the biggest Comerford had seen for years. The coffin had been hidden under the mass of the old man’s white and gold and purple flowers.
IX—Babes in the Wood
One
« ^ »
Chad Wedderburn hesitated until nearly eight o’clock, but he went in the end.
The remembrance of Dominic’s overburdened eyes had haunted him all through the marking of two batches of homework, and made a small counter-circling pool of uneasiness on the borders of his own taut and isolated disquiet. He knew he was letting things go, lying down and letting events run over him, because he was sick of himself and his unsloughable memories; and because where one hope—but had it ever reached the stage of being a real hope?—had blotted out all lesser and more accessible consolations, and remained itself forever out of reach, there was no longer any inducement to stand upright, or any point in fighting back. He resented his own bitter acquiescence, but it was logical, and he could not stir himself out of it. He had suffered, whether by his own fault or the mismanagement of others, injuries to his nature which unfitted him for loving or being loved by an innocent like Io; and only the artificial stimulus of rivalry with Charles had ever made him quicken to the possibility of so happy and normal a relationship, exult in what seemed to be hopes, and sulk over what seemed to be reverses. Only seemed to be.
With the stimulus withdrawn, the thing was seen to be still a simple and irrevocable impossibility. But surely poor Charles didn’t have to get killed to show him that.
He knew, none better, that they were already saying he had killed Charles. With all the acquired stoicism of six years of warfare, he found himself still capable of unpracticed emotions not so easy to contain as pain, exhaustion and fear had proved; and he supposed there was little Comerford did not know about his feelings for Io Hart. Busily misinterpreting what they knew, they had made him a murderer, because he was a dog with a renowned name, which the spiral courses of history were about to use to hang him. He had, had he not, been a great killer in his day?
So he let fall out of his hands every intention of defending himself. For what? There remained a certain interest in watching the events which moved in on him, but no point whatever in caring about the issue.
Yet other people went on existing, side by side with him in the world, with a certain intermittent warmth and poignancy which still troubled him. Especially when they looked at him with harried, adventurous young eyes like Dominic’s, and reluctantly declined to confide in him. Another human being taking large and probably disastrous decisions, too early and too anxiously, perhaps mutilating himself before he was even whole. And because one had resigned all responsibility for one’s own fate, did it follow that one could not care for his?
He hesitated a long time, but he went in the end. Down to the villag
e, among the covert, regretful, fascinated eyes, and knocked at the door of the police-station, and asked for George. He wondered if the three youths passing with their girls believed that he was in the act of giving himself up. More than likely they did.
Bunty was surprised to see him. She stood the door wide, and asked him into the office, to close the door on the chill of the evening. He thought how very like her son was to her, even to the tilt of the head and the disconcertingly straight eyes.
“I’m sorry, but George is out at the moment. He’s been gone ever since mid-afternoon, and told me he might be late getting home.” She smiled at him, rather wryly. “I don’t even know where he is. I haven’t seen much of him myself, lately. Is it something urgent?”
“Well, I hardly know. It isn’t business exactly, I only wanted to talk to him about Dominic. But since he’s already out of reach, I dare say tomorrow will do as well.”
