Wicked!

by Jilly Cooper

  Jupiter gave her a glare which said, ‘You’re a new girl so shut up,’ and announced that it was essential to look at outside candidates.

  ‘We always have. Several were being considered when it was rumoured that Hengist was taking over Fleetley on Lord Hawkley’s retirement’ – he smiled at David – ‘and I think we should follow these through. Not that I don’t think Alex is doing an excellent job.’

  ‘Then appoint him as head,’ urged Rod Hyde. ‘Schools should not be allowed to drift. A strong hand on the tiller.’

  ‘I suggest we need more time before making a decision,’ said the Lord Lieutenant, thinking what a damned attractive woman Ruth Walton was and the more meetings the better.

  Ruth, in turn, was thinking that David Hawkley was utterly divine: strong, macho, brilliant and so gravely good-looking. Taking off her suit jacket, she breathed in deeply.

  Alex then said he didn’t wish to speak ill of the departed, but he did feel Bagley should be run more economically. So much of the land wasn’t being utilized; so many bursaries had been offered to foreign pupils, particularly if the mother was, er, good-looking.

  ‘And talking of good-looking women,’ butted in the Lord Lieutenant, ‘what about Sally Brett-Taylor, to whom we’re all devoted? She should be allowed to stay in Head House till she finds somewhere suitable to live.’

  ‘Hear, hear,’ said all the governors, except Alex and his allies.

  ‘Surely she could be lent one of the cottages off the campus,’ suggested Rod Hyde, ‘then Alex and Poppet, whom I see as the ideal couple to run Bagley Hall, could take over Head House immediately. It’s hard even for acting heads to be constantly reminded of unfortunate past regimes. It divides loyalties.’

  ‘I agree with Rod,’ said Joan. ‘Head House is a symbol of authority. The school needs strong management at once, particularly during the Queen’s visit.’

  Outside the window, Jupiter could see his sister Dora and Bianca Campbell-Black marching up and down brandishing placards saying: ‘Bring back Hengist Brett-Taylor’.

  Marching the other way, with a four-foot penis destined for the body parts zone of the Science Emporium balanced on his shoulder like a musket, came a grinning Stancombe workman, reducing Bianca and even a tear-stained Dora to fits of giggles.

  ‘Let’s leave this decision until after the Queen’s visit,’ said Jupiter.

  One of the school cooks then came in with tea and biscuits, on which everyone fell.

  Stirring Sweetex into his cup, feeling he wasn’t making sufficient headway, Alex said, ‘Before Randal arrives to brief us, I would like to raise the matter of Theo Graham, whose case is due to come up next month.’

  ‘I hoped the police were dropping the charges,’ said David Hawkley quickly.

  ‘The evidence is so overwhelming. It really pains me to do this,’ lied Alex, ‘but you should look at these.’ Walking down the table, he placed copies of the poems and the photographs of Paris in front of Jupiter. ‘The DVD of young boys of such a distressingly pornographic nature is still with the police.’

  David Hawkley read one poem, then another and another, the hair lifting on the back of his neck. They were exquisite.

  ‘Theo and I were at Cambridge together,’ he said coldly. ‘He is a man of utter integrity. I cannot believe he would ever touch a boy.’

  ‘His base nature clearly overcame him,’ intoned Rod.

  ‘My problem’ – Alex had returned to his seat – ‘is whether to look for a new head of classics. A Mr Margolis is filling in for Theo, but my inclination would be to phase out the dead languages at Bagley.’

  ‘You what?’ thundered David Hawkley.

  ‘Whatever the outcome of the case,’ Alex battled on, ‘if we let Theo back into school, the no-smoke-without-fire brigade would never let up. Theo’s only two or three years off retirement. With a small pay-off, he could enjoy exit with dignity.’

  ‘Theo is one of the greatest classical scholars of his age,’ said an outraged David. ‘If there’s any further chance for your scholars to be taught by him, they should take it.’

  ‘I agree with Alex,’ butted in Rod Hyde, taking two more biscuits. ‘Mud sticks. Bagley has had such appalling press recently, they must prove they’re serious about rooting out corruption.’

  ‘Almost all the boys in Theo’s house have been dispersed, anyway,’ Joan joined in the attack.

  ‘Not quite all of them,’ said a voice, and in walked Paris.

  In one hand he was carrying a dark blue carrier bag patterned with gold Roman emperors, in the other a furiously leaping and mewing cat basket.

  What a beautiful boy, thought David. Adonis bathed in moonlight. He’d never seen anyone so pale.

  Miss Painswick dropped her shorthand notebook and burst into noisy sobs. ‘Oh Paris, thank God you’re safe.’

  ‘Where the hell have you been?’ Alex had gone as magenta as the wallpaper. ‘The entire country’s looking for you. How dare you vanish like that and then barge in here? Go to my office at once. I’ll deal with you later.’

  ‘You’ll deal with me now,’ said Paris coolly.

  ‘Show some manners to your headmaster,’ bellowed Rod Hyde.

  ‘Deputy head,’ countered Paris. ‘I’ve come to talk about Theo.’

  ‘This is not the time,’ screeched Alex, ‘and don’t let that cat out.’

  But Paris had opened the basket.

  ‘He’ll pee everywhere.’ Jupiter snatched up his papers in alarm.

  ‘No, he won’t, I gave him a run five minutes ago.’

  Everyone watched mesmerized as Hindsight landed on the table with a thud. The Bishop proceeded to pour some milk into a saucer and was delighted when Hindsight padded over and drank the lot.

  ‘What a fine cat. Must have been thirsty.’

  ‘Like most of us earlier,’ giggled Ruth Walton. ‘It’s a lovely cat.’

  Alex had had enough. Marching down the table, he grabbed Paris’s arm. ‘Get that cat and yourself out of here, at once.’

  ‘I want to talk about Theo,’ persisted Paris, prising off Alex’s skinny fingers.

  ‘As one person who has never given an account of that night,’ said Jupiter, ‘Paris is a crucial witness and should be heard.’

  ‘Hear, hear,’ piped up Miss Painswick, receiving a daggers look from Alex.

  ‘This is Theo’s cat,’ said Paris, running his finger round and round Hindsight’s plumey tail. ‘He’d be an even better witness.’ Then, out of the Roman-emperor-patterned bag, he produced an ivy-green leather folder filled with manuscript paper. ‘Which one of you’s Lord Hawkley?’

  ‘I am.’

  Paris flushed. ‘Your translations of Catullus and Ovid are really cool.’

  ‘Thank you.’ David’s hatchet face softened fractionally.

  ‘Theo asked me to give you this with his love. It’s Sophocles,’ said Paris. ‘Much better than your rotten Guide to Red Tape,’ he added over his shoulder.

  ‘Sophocles.’ David was down the table in a flash, grabbing the folder, opening it, stopping to read bits in wonder, then flipping through to the end. ‘My God, he finished it.’

  ‘All seven plays, the night before last,’ said Paris. ‘I wrote out the final pages for him.’

  ‘You were ordered not to contact Theo Graham.’ Alex was spluttering, hysterical, impotent with rage. ‘How dare you? This could compromise his trial.’

  ‘Theo’s dead,’ said Paris flatly, seeing a flare of relief in Alex’s eyes. ‘He died yesterday in my arms.’ Then, turning like a viper on Rod: ‘Make something of that, you prurient bastard.’

  The Bishop crossed himself. ‘Took his own life.’

  ‘Not at all, he had an inoperable tumour on his spine, claimed it came from being stabbed in the back so often.’ There was only the slightest quiver in Paris’s voice. ‘He’s been on morphine for weeks. Dr Benson’s been looking after him. He drove up to Windermere this morning and signed the death certificate. He gave me a lift here.�
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  ‘I’m very sorry,’ said a shaken Ruth Walton. ‘Milly was devoted to Theo.’

  David Hawkley put down Sophocles, a tear running down his cheek.

  ‘How did you know where I was, Paris?’

  ‘I rang Fleetley. They said you were here.’

  ‘Why didn’t the police find you at Windermere?’ demanded Joan.

  ‘They were evidently sniffing around last week. I only found him on Monday. At least we had three days together. Merciful death came at last,’ he said carefully, ‘and a dead man knows no pain.’

  Hindsight, ready to witness more drama, settled himself, purring loudly, on the Bishop’s knee. Paris strolled back to Alex and stood over him. ‘You broke Theo’s heart,’ he said softly. ‘He loved Bagley and his archives. They were his life, but he knew once Hengist had resigned, you’d never let him back.’

  ‘You were told not to go near him,’ repeated Alex, clearly jolted. ‘Where did you get his address?’

  ‘From Biffo’s phone book. Poor old bugger was drunk with despair that even though he’d helped you get rid of Theo, you were still going to dump him: “Biffo, you’re not cutting it any more.” The sudden mimicry of Alex’s reedy whine was so exact, the governors shivered.

  ‘At least Biffo had the decency to make sure Hindsight was safely delivered to Theo’s door in Windermere in July,’ Paris told Alex contemptuously. ‘You’d have put him down.’

  ‘That is quite enough on the subject,’ boomed Joan.

  ‘I loved Theo,’ said Paris softly and defiantly. ‘“Forty thousand brothers Could not, with all their quantity of love, Make up my sum.”’

  Glancing across the table at Alex, Rod nodded knowingly.

  ‘I know about shirt-lifters and bum bandits!’ Paris snarled at them. ‘Since I was three, I’ve defended my ass in children’s homes and foster homes all round the country.’

  God he’s wonderful, thought Mrs Walton as Hindsight, finding the Bishop’s knees a trifle bony, settled on her bosom to get a better view all round.

  ‘Theo never laid a finger on me.’ Paris’s voice trembled. ‘The only thing he touched was my heart. He opened my mind; he shared things with me. Yes, I loved him, but not in the way you stinking pervs would understand. The night before the second history paper, I had a nightmare. I woke and found a man in my room, and screamed until I realized it was Theo; he was just turning off my bedside light and putting my books away. He calmed me down. I was so knackered cramming for history, in which I was so desperate to please Hengist, I fell back asleep at once.’

  ‘What about the photographs?’

  ‘They must have been taken on the geography field trip. Look at my hair now.’ He shook his head so it flopped over his face.

  ‘And the poems?’ David handed them to Paris, who took a minute or so to translate the first one.

  ‘I’ve never seen it before; it’s beautiful.’ For a moment he seemed about to lose it. ‘It’s a privilege to have inspired such love.’

  No wonder Hengist cheated for him, thought David.

  ‘Last night, after Theo’d died’ – Paris had regained control of himself – ‘I went outside. It had been grey and windy all day, but suddenly every star in heaven was out: Pegasus and Aldebaran, the Pole Star and the Great Bear, who Theo told me was once Callisto. They’d all come out to welcome a new star to heaven. I felt happy he’d got a lot of fans up there.’

  Paris slumped against the wall, his face in his hands. Miss Painswick and the Bishop blew their noses. Everyone jumped at the sound of slow clapping as Cosmo sauntered in.

  ‘Very good, Paris, you should really go on the stage.’

  ‘Get out,’ howled Alex.

  ‘This is a private meeting,’ said Jupiter icily.

  Ignoring them both, Cosmo helped himself to a biscuit and, murmuring, ‘Hello Hindsight,’ stroked the cat and briefly the splendid bosom of Mrs Walton, who had earlier tipped him off that Theo’s future was on the agenda.

  ‘I shopped Theo,’ he told the flabbergasted company, ‘because I was jealous of Paris. Artie, Hengist, Theo, Sally, the bursar, even Emlyn were always fussing over him. I took and then put the nude photos under the lining paper of Theo’s desk. I made out to Alex, who doesn’t read Greek, that the poems were much dirtier. Theo asked me to get his DVD machine working, so I shoved in a pornographic DVD for a joke. When I heard screaming coming from Paris’s bedroom and Theo came out, it seemed the perfect opportunity.’

  ‘This is disgraceful,’ thundered David Hawkley, who, being married to the widow of Cosmo’s father, the late Roberto Rannaldini, was aware of Cosmo’s capacity for transgression.

  ‘It is,’ agreed Cosmo soulfully. ‘In fact, I was so ashamed when it all backfired, I confessed to Mr Bruce what I’d done and he simply wouldn’t believe me, because he wanted Theo and Hengist out so badly. He’s keener on new blood than Dracula. There won’t be a master left at Bagley, at this rate.’ He smiled lovingly at Mrs Walton.

  Alex was quivering with rage:

  ‘How dare you tell such lies!’

  The governors were clearly astounded. Even Jupiter looked shocked. And where does that put my deputy headship? wondered Joan.

  ‘You can both get out,’ said Jupiter.

  At that moment, Miss Painswick’s assistant, the comely Jessica, knocked on the door. ‘Mr Stancombe’s downstairs.’

  Aware he’d put in a dud performance, Alex ordered Jessica to show Randal up at once, so they could regain the ascendancy, revealing the mysteries of the Science Emporium.

  The governors, however, needed a few more minutes to decide whether Cosmo was telling the truth about Theo.

  ‘Cosmo Rannaldini is a compulsive liar,’ spluttered Alex. ‘Any of my colleagues will bear this out. Theo is past history. Bagley must move on.’

  ‘I think this whole affair’d better be set aside for reflection until after Her Majesty’s visit,’ said Jupiter.

  Joan, who was watching Paris with difficulty shoving Hindsight back in the cat basket, decided to seize the initiative.

  ‘Where are you going, Paris? Someone must alert the authorities that you’re back. Have you any idea how much police time you’ve wasted? What the dickens d’you think you’ve been doing?’

  ‘Finding my real parents,’ snapped Paris.

  On the Mansion steps, he and Cosmo faced each other.

  ‘Plans are afoot to oust Mr Fussy,’ said Cosmo. ‘I’m doing work experience at S and C this week to get dirt on him.’

  Then there was a long pause as a workman passed them in the half-light, buckling under a huge gall bladder.

  ‘Thank you for rescuing Theo’s reputation,’ said Paris softly, ‘and that’s for fucking it up in the first place,’ and he hit Cosmo down the steps, before gathering up Hindsight and disappearing into the October gloom.

  127

  Over at the stables, Patience took the thousandth call from an increasingly frantic Dora.

  ‘I’m so sorry, nothing I’m afraid. The police still think something might come out of our television interview. I’ll ring you the moment we hear anything, and, darling, it’s getting dark, don’t go looking in the woods, it’s not safe with just Cadbury.’

  ‘Where’s Paris?’ wailed Dulcie, who was staying the night.

  Patience had even greater cause for anguish. If the governors rubber-stamped Alex as head at today’s meeting, she and Ian would be out of the Old Coach House by Christmas – so there would be nowhere for Paris to come home to.

  A fatalistic Ian had left the office when Painswick went in to take the minutes and, in anticipation of their departure, was mindlessly sorting out drawers in the sitting room. He had discovered one of Paris’s notebooks. On the first page the boy had scribbled ‘Paris Cartwright’ over and over again, then the initials PC, then ‘politically correct’, then ‘Mr Wright’, ‘Mr Wrong’, ‘Paris always Wrong’. Then ‘Dora Cartwright’, then ‘Paris Alvaston Cartwright’ over and over. Out of the middle pages fluttered
a picture of Theo and a piece of paper with a blob, coloured olive green, turquoise, royal blue and shaped like a peacock’s feather. Perhaps there had been something between him and Theo.

  Overwhelmed with despair and longing, Ian gave a sob. If only he’d been more demonstrative towards the boy. Next moment, the notebook crashed to the floor as Paris walked in, ducking nervously as though expecting blows and recriminations.

  Ian just took his hand and shut his eyes for a moment, then he mumbled, ‘It’s very, very good to see you, Paris.’

  ‘You’re out of logs, I’ll get some.’

  ‘Would you like a gin and tonic?’

  ‘Yes, please.’

  How sweet-faced the boy was, even though he looked as if he’d been sleeping rough, and had lost a hell of a lot of weight.

  By the time Paris struggled back with the logs, Patience had been alerted and came galumphing downstairs.

  ‘Oh Paris, how lovely to see you, we’ve missed you.’

  She longed to hug him. Little Dulcie, who came rushing in in her blue pyjamas, had no such reserve and hurled herself into Paris’s arms with screams of joy. Paris hugged her back, colour suffusing his shadowed face. A minute later Northcliffe bounded in, singing at the top of his voice, dragging one of Patience’s huge bras like a mini Himalayas.

  ‘The mountains have truly come to Mahomet,’ observed Ian. ‘I’ll get some ice.’

  Outside, he made a discreet telephone call.

  ‘It’s OK, Sally, he’s home.’ Then, not knowing the permutations: ‘Could you let Janna know? And Feral too, if you get a moment.’

  If only he could ring Hengist in prison.

  After that, they didn’t leave Paris for a second, fearful he’d vanish. Paris couldn’t stop yawning.

  ‘Your bed’s made up,’ stammered Patience, ‘if you’d like to spend the night.’

  ‘Please,’ said Paris. ‘There just one problem.’ Patience’s heart stopped. ‘I acquired a cat on my travels; he’s outside.’

  Patience laughed in relief.

  ‘That’s wonderful, we’ve got far too many mice and Northcliffe loves cats.’