“Well – yes.”
“Then why have you told me? How do you know I’m not going to repeat it to all the other girls in the house?”
“I don’t think you will.”
“But you don’t know.”
Until then they had been speaking in whispers. But Lisa was so indignant that she had forgotten caution. Miss Troop, who had reached the back of the pavilion, heard the voices. They were coming from the shed where nets and other accessories were stored. And one of the voices was a girl’s.
She did not hesitate. She was a muscular product of Bedford Physical Training College and unafraid of any likely opposition. As she strode forward the toe of her sensible shoe hit a stone and sent it spinning against the door a second or two before she got there.
The warning, though short, proved fatal to her plan. It gave Stewart time to get onto his feet. He saw the figure framed in the doorway and without a moment’s hesitation ran forward and butted with his head.
Miss Troop gave out a sound which was half-way between a gasp and a scream and fell over backwards onto the gravel path. She was winded, shaken and wildly indignant. It was several minutes before she could scramble to her feet.
Then she started to think furiously.
‘If the girl had been one of the members of the house, she had got such a start by now that she would have climbed back by whatever route she had got out. But she might not have had time to clear up all evidence of the escapade. Her clothes might be torn. She might be bruised or cut. She hoped she was.’
She had dropped her torch when she fell and it was no longer working. This meant that she had to go carefully until she reached the road. Then she broke into a vigorous canter. Speed was vital. Every second was important. When she burst into her sitting-room she found Mrs. Marble asleep in front of the fire with a half-empty decanter on the table beside her; and not only asleep, but snoring gently.
Miss Troop was in no mood for formality. She grabbed Mrs. Marble’s arm and shook it. Mrs. Marble opened her eyes, took one look at her assistant and said, “My goodness. What have you been up to?”
“Never mind about me. It’s the girls. Or one of them. We must go round all the dormitories and cubicles now.”
“Whatever for?”
Miss Troop was conscious that time was being wasted. This upset her and made her less coherent than usual. However, in the end Mrs. Marble seemed to have grasped the essentials of her story. She said, “What makes you think that one of our girls was involved?”
“I heard her speak.”
“Could it not easily have been a boy. Until their voices break they sound quite girl-like.”
Miss Troop had not thought of this and it made her angrier than ever. She said, through clenched teeth, “I know it was one of our girls. When they – when I was knocked over – I heard her giggle as she ran past. It was definitely an upper-class giggle.”
Mrs. Marble considered this. She said, still showing no signs of stirring from her chair, “I would hardly regard that as conclusive. But even if it was, have you considered the effect you will produce if you go round the house looking like that?”
“Like what?”
“Have a look in the glass.”
This was the first time Miss Troop had thought about herself. She took a quick look and could not help agreeing. Her fall had not only torn the sleeve of her anorak, it had left a deposit of mud on her chin and a long scrape down one side of her face.
“You must clean yourself up first,” said Mrs. Marble. “And I should advise an application of disinfectant to that scrape. There may be bits of gravel in it.”
“And by the time I’ve done that,” said Miss Troop bitterly, “the girl will have tidied herself up, too, and will be pretending to be fast asleep.”
Mrs. Marble was a tactician. She said, “You’re right about that. I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll have a word with the headmaster first thing tomorrow morning and he’ll speak to the housemasters. They may have some idea who the boy was and that could lead, in turn, to the girl.”
With this Miss Troop had to be content.
“I agree with you,” said the headmaster. “If Miss Troop’s suspicions are well founded, it was a disgraceful episode. Involving a physical attack on a member of the staff.”
“Deplorable,” agreed Mrs. Marble. But she thought that the headmaster did not sound desperately upset.
“I will certainly ask the housemasters for the names of likely candidates. There are only a limited number of boys who are sufficiently mature to – er – date girls. Or,” he added, being a realist, “for the girls to wish to date them.”
“When Miss Troop spoke to me last night, headmaster, it did occur to me to wonder whether she had acted wisely in rushing straight in. If she had returned to the school for help it should have been possible to apprehend the culprits without difficulty. I didn’t say so at the time, because she was clearly upset. But it does seem to me that she behaved imprudently.”
“Indeed,” said the headmaster. “And if she raises the matter with you again, I think you should tell her so.”
That night he repeated the whole episode, in detail, to his wife. When she heard about the upper-class giggle she laughed so much that she almost rolled out of bed.
On the following morning the headmaster found an opportunity to speak separately to all of his housemasters. Apart from the Day Boys’ House and the Girls’ House there were seven boarding-houses at Chelborough. The heads of four of them thought about the matter and reluctantly scribbled down the names of half a dozen boys each who might be sufficiently attracted by the selection of females on offer to take the trouble to break out at night for an assignation. The head of the fifth, who was young and idealistic, denied that any of his boys would behave in such an unseemly way. The head of the sixth, who was elderly and disillusioned, said that the senior boys in his house were so busy chasing the smaller boys that they had no time to think about girls.
It was only the Reverend Alvin Brind who unhesitatingly nominated a single candidate. He said, “I have no evidence that anyone was out of the house that evening. Indeed, I make it my personal responsibility to see that all doors are locked at seven o’clock. Anyone who has a legitimate reason to be out has to come through the private part of the house and explain himself to me.”
“Quite so,” said the headmaster patiently.
“However, if it were shown that, despite my precautions, a boy had succeeded in breaking out I should not be at all surprised to find that it was Ives.”
“Stewart Ives,” said the headmaster. “You really think so?”
“I do.”
“A remarkable boy in many ways. One of the finest racquet players we have had in the school for years.”
“I would have more confidence in him if he devoted his talents to team games.”
“It’s a curious thing,” said the headmaster ignoring this, “that in every generation there seems to be one boy whose name is familiar to everyone from the youngest to the oldest. He may not be outstanding at work, or a cricket or football colour or one of the nominal ‘bloods’ in the school hierarchy, but he is what television would no doubt class as a ‘personality’. In Ives’ case it might be something to do with his editorship of the school magazine, although we’ve had enterprising editors before who have left no particular mark on the school. No. It must simply be a question of character. It did occur to me to wonder – although, as you know, I never interfere in these matters – why you had not made him a house prefect.”
Brind, who had listened with ill-concealed impatience to these remarks said, “You talk about character, headmaster. Surely the real point is whether it is a good character or a bad one. I find him a disruptive influence. And, for all his talk, one who accomplishes very little.”
4
“Action!” said Stewart. “The hour has struck.”
Peter looked up suspiciously. He had found a puzzle in one of the intellectual monthlies which involved the solution o
f interlocked anagrams in English and Latin. It was the sort of challenge which he enjoyed.
It was some days after the Miss Troop episode, of which Stewart had given him an abbreviated account. He was now busy filing and shaping the wards of the growing selection of keys which lived under a loose plank in the study. He said, “We are going to commit a burglary.”
“We are?”
“It’s a two-handed job.”
“Couldn’t you get Barker to help you? He can’t be sacked twice.”
“No. The job must be done by us.”
“You’re mad,” said Peter. “And I don’t see why I should get involved in some lunatic scheme which will probably end in you getting not only sacked, but jailed as well.”
“There’s gratitude for you,” said Stewart.
“What do you mean?”
“Here am I working my fingers to the bone, metaphorically speaking, to save you from having to leave Chelborough in disgrace at the end of term and you are not prepared to lend a hand to help. Really, words fail me.”
Peter stared at him. “What are you talking about?”
“I have concluded that the only way of proving certain suspicions which I have about our housemaster, is to examine his papers.”
“Oh, if it’s Brindy you’re going after—”
“Did you think I was going to rob a bank? No, no, just a simple domestic crime. All the same, it will need thought and care. Most crimes do. Let me show you.”
He extracted from the table drawer a sheet of paper on which he had started to draw a plan of the private side of the house.
“Few boys have been subjected to more heart-to-heart talks and improving homilies from Alvin than myself. Standing demurely in front of his desk, listening to his remarks on purity and the team spirit, I allowed my eyes to wander, from time to time, over his study-cum-sitting-room and its fixtures and fittings.”
As he said this Stewart was filling details into his plan.
“I also, as you may remember, joined the Geographical Society and the Computer Club last term. Both bodies hold evening meetings and I was thus able to go out and return through the private part of the house. On one occasion when Alvin was absent I penetrated to the kitchen quarters and had a most interesting talk with Annie. I was then able to complete my ground-floor plan, particularly the kitchen and scullery. However, let us concentrate, for the moment, on the study which forms, as you will see, a sort of no-man’s-land between the school side of the house and the private side. It has French windows leading out to the garden and two doors. One on the school side, the other on the private side. This is our battleground. Now let me test your tactical sense by asking you a question. When we are engaged in the study, which of those doors would you lock?”
“Easy,” said Peter. “Lock the private side-door and leave the school side one open.”
“Easy, but wrong. We lock them both. We also leave the French windows open. Should Alvin come down from his bedroom it will take him some time to deal with the private side-door, even if he has a spare key, since we shall have left the key in that lock, on the inside. In the end I think he will give up and decide to come in through the boys’ part of the house and enter the study that way, perhaps hoping to use his spare key. Whichever course he adopts we shall have plenty of time to replace any papers we have disturbed and to depart through the French windows, leaving the swag behind us.”
“The swag?”
“Certainly. In case we are interrupted, we are staging the episode as an outside job. There are a number of silver objects in the room. Photograph frames, candlesticks, athletic cups and so on. All these we shall have placed in a sack, which we lay ready in the flowerbed outside the window. That is the picture we are painting. The burglar, alarmed by the arrival of the householder, has dropped the sack there and fled. You will now see, incidentally, why it is necessary to lock both doors. The burglar would certainly have done that as a safety precaution before commencing operations.”
“You talk about locking doors. Where’s the burglar supposed to have got the key? Or did he bring duplicates with him?”
“Unnecessary. Annie tells me that when Brindy goes to bed he locks the school side-door and leaves the key in the lock. Our burglar finds to his delight – as I have ascertained to be a fact – that this key also fits the private side-door. Excellent. He locks it as well and leaves the key in that lock. Now he cannot be disturbed from either direction.”
“I suppose that means that we shall have to break in through the French windows.”
“Indeed no. They are very securely fastened. We could only open them from the outside by breaking the glass and since Brindy sleeps in the room above, that would be unwise. At one time,” added Stewart dreamily, “I did think of introducing a powerful sleeping-draught into his bedtime cup of cocoa—”
“For God’s sake!” said Peter.
“But I decided, in the end, that the practical difficulties ruled it out.”
“So I should bloody well hope. You might have poisoned him.”
“I should not have regarded that as a disaster. But don’t worry. A far simpler solution presented itself when I inspected the kitchen. The window of the scullery has a primitive catch which will be easy to force. We enter through it, pussy-foot along to the study and lock both doors, leaving the key in the private side-door. We then open the French windows, place the various silver articles outside in a sack and are comfortably placed to proceed with our work.”
“Which is?”
“We concentrate on the desk. If what I’m looking for is anywhere, that’s where we shall find it. Both the upper drawers are likely to be locked. There’s no question of forcing them. The noise involved rules that out. We must hope that one of my special keys will do the trick.”
“When do we start?”
“Shortly after midnight tonight.”
Peter gulped. His mouth was suddenly dry.
“Annie tells me that Alvin is an early bedder. I did wonder whether perhaps she went to bed with him, but I don’t think his tastes lie in that direction.”
Peter, feeling a worm as he did so, said, “Am I really going to be much help?”
“Certainly. I shall need you to give me a leg up through the scullery window. And anyway, as it’s all for your benefit, you should be glad to help.”
“I don’t quite know what you’re hoping to find. But if I’m going to be useful, of course I’ll come.”
“I felt you would want to. We will, of course, wear gloves. Rubber gloves will be best. I have two pairs. Even more important is the question of footwear. I gave a lot of thought to this. In the end I found, put away in a cupboard at home, what seemed just the job.” From his box he produced two pairs of felt overshoes. “I think Mr. Pye must have acquired them on one of his trips to Canada. They’re made to wear over your shoes. Try them on. They are quite silent and leave no identifiable print. You find them comfortable? Good, then I think that’s all. Unless you have any suggestions.”
“No,” said Peter. “You seem to have thought of everything.”
He wished he could have sounded more enthusiastic.
He and Stewart shared a small, three-bed room with a West Indian boy known to his friends as Snowball. He was snoring as they crept out of the room. Once they had started, it wasn’t too bad. They left the house by the unbarred window, circled the school building and opened the scullery window without difficulty. Peter hoisted Stewart up and was pulled up by him. Stewart had a torch. Peter had a sack which they had scrounged from the mower-shed behind the pavilion. They reached the study safely, took the key out of the school side-door and locked the private side. Then they drew back the curtains and opened the French windows.
The moonlight, flooding through, enabled them to work with only occasional use of the torch. Peter felt the tension of the moment like a movement in his body. It was different from that time in the church in France. Then he had been frightened. Now he was excited. He was conscious all the
time of their housemaster, asleep in bed, in the room directly above them. He almost hoped that he would wake up and come down. Would he be wearing pyjamas? It might be a nightshirt. His legs would stick out like matchsticks. Peter was so engrossed with this idea that he allowed two of the candlesticks he was packing into the sack to clink together. This drew a venomous hiss from Stewart, who had been trying key after key in the lock of the right-hand drawer.
After that he was more careful, but he realised that he was happier than he had ever been in his life before. For the first time he had slipped outside himself and could see himself, not as a tiresome bundle of sensations, but as an interesting person, doing an important job, redolent with prospects of triumph and disaster. It was to happen again, more than once, but he never forgot this first entrancing revelation. It reminded him of the first time he had been allowed to taste a top-class claret, but it was more potent than any wine.
He realised that he had been neglecting his part in the affair. All the silver he could lay hands on was now safely stowed in the sack. He carried it to the window and stepped outside. As he lowered it into the flowerbed he fancied he saw someone moving in the hedge at the bottom of the garden. The movement was not repeated. Probably it was the clouds playing tricks with the moon.
When he got back into the room, Stewart was using his torch to examine the contents of the drawer he had succeeded in opening.
He said, putting his mouth close to Peter’s ear, “See what I’ve found here.”
It was three small packets of papers, each with an elastic band round it. Peter thought they were sets of accounts. They went into Stewart’s pocket. The only other papers seemed to be form lists and reports. He turned his attention to the second drawer. No trouble this time. The same key opened it. He took out five notebooks bound in green cloth and two larger books with red covers. Stewart handed Peter the torch and started to flip through them. Peter could tell by the expression on his face that he was pleased.
Scarcely moving his lips he said, “Treasure trove.” He handed Peter the green books, took the red ones himself and jerked his head towards the open window. They crept out into the moonlight, crossed the lawn and went out through the gate in the hedge. It was close to the point where Peter thought he had seen someone moving. When they were clear of the garden he mentioned this. Stewart said, “Easy to imagine things at night.”
Paint Gold and Blood Page 5
