A Trace of Deceit

by Karen Odden

  His voice receded as we passed him. Most people on the platform continued to move as fitfully as fish in a barrel, but Matthew maneuvered us toward the doorway of the first-class carriage halfway back in the train, reached a hand to help me mount a set of wooden blocks, and found us seats facing each other. The carriage smelled musty, and the brown velvet was faded around the tarnished brass tacks.

  “I can’t ride backward,” he said apologetically. “Do you mind?”

  “Not at all.”

  The locomotive pulled us slowly out from under the roof of the station and through the cramped, crowded streets of the city. At last the buildings thinned, and with London behind us, the distinct sounds of the pistons working up and down converged into a steady hum, and the train settled into a pace that sent the telegraph poles receding with increasing speed. As we reached the countryside, my eye fixed on a road spinning away into a stand of trees, a dusky purple tide of heather in the middle distance, a huddle of houses on a remote hill.

  How seldom I left London, and how circumscribed my life is by my flat and the Slade, I thought. Not that I would have it otherwise, but now that I was away, it came to me with a pinch of longing how much I missed the varied colors of the countryside’s landscape, the ability to see long distances, and the limpid quality of the light.

  The last time I had ridden a train through scenery like this had been with my father and Edwin. Mother had stayed home, but Edwin was on holiday from school. We took a rare journey to visit my father’s ailing mother in Eastbourne, a seaside town on the southeast coast. I must have been eight or nine because my toes barely brushed the carriage floor while Edwin, sitting beside me, could plant his heels on the boards. Across from us, Father had fallen fast asleep, his jaw slack in a way that I never saw when he was awake. It left his mouth slightly open, and Edwin had leaned over close to my ear to whisper, “What would happen if a fly flew in?”

  With the suddenness of a needle poking through cloth came another memory of Edwin from that fortnight: the two of us alone on a crescent of wheat-colored beach with speckled gray rocks at the margin. Edwin’s trousers were rolled up to the knee, revealing his legs, thin and white. His feet were bare, and laughing, he raced toward the rocks, then turned back to shout encouragement: “Come on, Bel!” I’d trotted after him as quickly as I could in my skirts, and we’d spent hours prowling among the rocks and pools, inspecting crabs and hunting for shells. Our search had produced three large speckled ones that we brought back for Mother to put in her garden. Over the years, two of them had been smashed somehow, but one of them remained whole until after my parents died. The morning my mother’s casket was removed from the house, one of the pallbearers accidentally stepped on it. I came out the door and saw it crushed into jagged pieces. And—absurdly—that was the moment when I felt as if the whole world were broken.

  As the train slowed momentarily, my tears rose, faster than I could blink them back. I felt a soft handkerchief pushed into my hand, and I pressed it to my eyes, holding my breath to keep from sobbing out loud.

  But now that I’d remembered the moment at the beach, I couldn’t get the picture of Edwin out of my mind, and my grief rose like a tempest. I found myself crying fiercely, partly out of regret because until now I hadn’t remembered that lovely moment at the shore. It worked like a wedge in a crack, letting light into a darkened place, throwing into sharp relief what might have been. While there weren’t many happy memories of Edwin after he left for school, this one showed Edwin in his best light, and it belonged only to the two of us. I only hoped Edwin had remembered it better than I had all this time. Now it was mine alone—and if I hadn’t taken this train ride, would it have been lost to me?

  I felt a rising agitation. What else was I not remembering, if I’d forgotten something like that?

  And then doubt crept in like a smudge.

  Had that day at the beach indeed happened this way, or was I only wishing it had been so? Had Edwin in fact called to me, or was that merely what I would have wanted?

  My tears slowed, and I recovered myself enough to realize Matthew had watched me in silence the entire time. I felt a rising embarrassment and muttered something by way of apology.

  “For months after my father died, my grief came and went,” Matthew said quietly. “Often it was a smell that brought it on. The Macassar oil he used, or his favorite tea, or his scotch. Did something just remind you of Edwin?”

  I sniffed and nodded. “This railway trip. My father and Edwin and I went to the seashore once, and Edwin was . . . he was still happy.” I paused and added, chokingly, “Ever since I looked at those sketchbooks, images come to mind of things I’ve pushed aside for years. Except the memory of the day at the beach is so beautiful that I don’t even know if what I remember is entirely true.”

  “I think all our memories have a trace of deceit in them,” Matthew said, his expression sympathetic. “Our recollection is a flawed, imperfect thing, unstable and prone to suggestion. I see it all the time when we ask people for evidence. Despite their best intentions, they report things that can’t possibly be true—such as a train arriving at a particular time when official records show it was two hours delayed. Or they’ll say something happened at a particular intersection of streets—when those streets don’t ever meet. Or they change their stories because they wish the truth were different, or because they remember new things, or because they read an account in the newspaper.” He shrugged. “Memory is the exact opposite of a painting or a photograph, I suppose. It’s just the nature of it.”

  I smiled wanly. As we were pulled into Watford Junction, I watched as a scene very like the one at Euston replayed itself: the railway servants, the people mounting and dismounting the train, the hawkers with their pasties and broadsheets and newspapers. And then the train started up again, we rounded a curve, and it all vanished.

  “I lost a friend several months ago,” Matthew said. “An inspector. We’d come up from Lambeth together.”

  I turned away from the window. “I’m sorry. What was his name?”

  Matthew was sitting forward, his elbows on his knees, his body shifting with the movement of the train. “William. William Crewe. He was murdered. Stabbed. Same as Edwin.”

  I drew in my breath. “Do you mean to say they’re connected somehow?”

  His eyes widened and he said hastily, “No! Lord, no. That’s not—I’m sorry. I’m not explaining this properly. I’m telling you this because”—he took a deep breath—“because I know it’s difficult, when we lose someone, to confront the amount of grief we feel.” His blue eyes were dark with feeling. “It’s like a bloody mountain. And when William died—well, the details don’t matter, but I was partly to blame. I didn’t go looking for him when I should’ve. I waited too long.” His face tightened with pain, and he averted his eyes for a moment before meeting my gaze again. “My point is, after it happened, I threw myself into the investigation. Three weeks it took me to find the man who did it, arrest him, and make sure he paid with his life.” A pause, and his words came more slowly. “You’d think seeing him punished would help. But it didn’t. At the end of it, my guilt and my grief were still there and all the larger for having been neglected.” His voice was uneven, as if something were rubbing his throat raw. “What I mean is we may find out who did this to your brother—and even punish him for it—but it’s not likely to make your grief any less. When William died, someone told me the only things that help are tears and time. So don’t apologize for weeping.” He leaned forward, close, and his hand came up to tuck a curl away from my face, and for a second his palm lay flush and warm against my cheek. “I think I’ve made a muddle of this. I only mean to help.”

  Our eyes met and held for a long moment.

  “Not a muddle at all. Thank you,” I whispered.

  The train gave a jolt. The side of his mouth curved up briefly in a smile, his hand dropped away, and he leaned back. We sat quietly for a dozen miles or so, but it was a comfortable silenc
e. I gazed out the window, letting my eyes rest on the rolling hills, the trees feathered with orange and gold, the old walls of rough stone outlining the fields, a herd of cows placidly chewing their cud—and I felt a measure of peace, a slight lifting of the heaviness in my chest.

  At last we reached Bletchley, and as the train left the station he broke the silence: “The next stop is ours.”

  We neared Milton Keynes, and the train slowed to a halt. It was half past two by the clock at the station, and as we stepped away from the platform, we could see a grass-covered knoll not far away. On top of it stood Tennersley, reared against a blue sky with clouds scudding westward.

  Chapter 15

  The school was enclosed by a black wrought-iron fence tipped with points in the shape of arrowheads. As we drew close, it was as if the pencil sketches from Edwin’s books were colored in, for he’d represented the place truly. I saw the two wings of the main building, an elegant three-story edifice, with a square tower made of hewn caramel-colored stone. But though the style dated from a previous century, the stone appeared freshly scrubbed. The trees and shrubs placed at precise intervals softened the starkness of its walls, but they seemed to have been recently planted, lacking the robustness of mature plants.

  The gate was open, and we followed the curved drive to the front door, an ostentatious oak affair. It opened easily, however, and we found ourselves in a square entrance hall with electric lamps and two mirror-image sets of wooden stairs leading to the upper floors. The smell struck me immediately—a mix of cooked food and wood polish. A door to the left stood open, and I saw a young man looking over what seemed to be accounts at a wooden desk.

  “I beg your pardon,” Matthew said, leaning into the room. “Might I have a word with the headmaster?”

  The young man looked up, his brown eyes blinking behind his spectacles. “Oh! Beg pardon, I didn’t hear you.” He pushed himself to standing. “I’m Marcus, one of the prefects here. May I tell him who’s calling?”

  “Matthew Hallam, of Scotland Yard, just come from London.”

  He froze and his face blanched. I wondered if the look of guilt he wore was indicative or merely reflexive at hearing the words Scotland Yard.

  “Yes, of course,” he stammered. “I’ll fetch him.”

  He took the stairs two at a time, and a few moments later he returned, followed by a man of about thirty-five with a tidy brown beard. His fingers curled around his lapels, and he came forward with a pleasant, open smile.

  “How do you do? I’m headmaster here. Albert Donnelly.” He reached a hand toward Matthew and nodded to me. “Please, come upstairs.”

  We followed him to the floor above and entered his office.

  The large room occupied the back corner of the central tower. It had windows on two sides, with an expansive view, elegant paneling, and a Turkish carpet. Below I heard the sounds of boys playing what sounded like rugby, their cries and shouts penetrating the diamond-shaped panes. The desk sat at an odd angle, but as Mr. Donnelly sat down in his chair and we took seats across from him, I realized the wisdom of the arrangement: he could merely turn his head to keep an eye on the fields below.

  Matthew sat back against the wooden slats. “We have some questions about a young man who was once a student here. His name was Edwin Rowe, and he attended from the fall of 1861 through the spring of 1865. Did you know him?”

  He shook his head ruefully. “Before my time, I’m afraid. I’ve only recently taken the position as head beginning last December.”

  “Is there anyone here who might remember him?” I asked. “He was my brother.”

  “Ah, I see.” He fiddled with a button on his waistcoat. “I doubt it. You see, we had a fire here, in 1869, and the school was closed as a result. It took us some time to rebuild. Naturally, we couldn’t ask the teachers to remain indefinitely without a position or a salary, so they moved on.”

  A fire would explain the scrubbed appearance of the stonework and the immaturity of the trees outside.

  “Was the entire building burnt down?” Matthew asked.

  “The stone was salvageable, of course. I’m afraid the interiors of the central tower and the west wing, including the chapel”—he waved toward the wing on his right—“were utterly destroyed. The east wing was the only part that remained intact.”

  “Do you have any records of the school? Any pictures of the students?” I wanted to know.

  He was already shaking his head. “We have some of our previous teachers’ portraits that survived because they were hung in the gathering room in the east wing. But photographs and rosters and all of those sorts of things are gone. Such a tragedy, really.” He made a loose fist around his beard and stroked it. “Perhaps you’d like to visit the man who was headmaster. He might have some memorabilia from that time.”

  “Do you have his name?”

  “Mr. Rawlings. Charles Rawlings. He lives in retirement on the Isle of Wight, I believe. We still send him a circular. Let me see . . .” He opened a desk drawer and drew out a folder, consulted a page, and wrote a note on a piece of paper that he pushed toward us. “Here’s his address.”

  “Would you mind if we looked at the east wing?” I asked. “I’d like to see someplace where Edwin spent time.”

  “Of course.” He rose, and we took his cue. “And if there’s anything else I can do, please let me know.”

  He led us back downstairs and gave directions to Marcus.

  “Yes, sir.” The prefect hopped up anxiously and chose a brass key from one of a dozen that were hanging from metal hooks in a wooden cabinet. “It’s this way . . . er, please, sir . . . and miss.”

  His evident discomfort made me long to put him at ease, but I had a feeling anything I said would only make things worse. I glanced at Matthew; he wore an understanding smile.

  We followed Marcus across the entrance to a door; it opened with less ease than the door we’d come through, and the hallway felt small and shabby compared with the entranceway. Marcus was lanky the way young men are sometimes, as if his bones hadn’t properly knit together yet, and as he walked ahead, some of the straight brown hairs at the crown of his head bounced.

  He turned to glance back at us. “Mr. Donnelly told you about the fire, then?”

  “Yes,” Matthew replied. “Does anyone know how it started?”

  “The fire chief said it was probably a lamp in one of the rooms,” he offered. “But no way to be certain.”

  We reached the end of the corridor, and he used the key to open a door that squeaked shrilly. I felt a rush of air that was at once chilly and stale, and we stepped inside a rectangular room hung with framed portraits, most of which could have used a good cleaning. At one end stood an enormous hearth, swept bare but stained dark from old fires. The only light came from diamond-paned windows above; some of them rattled in their casements, and the cool air found its way down to us.

  “Is this room not used anymore?” Matthew asked.

  “Oh, we use it sometimes,” Marcus said. “For events and presentations, that sort of thing. There’s a special dinner next week.”

  “How long have you attended the school?”

  “Five years. I’ve one more left.”

  “How would you describe it? Are most of the boys happy here?”

  “Of course!” he said smartly. “It’s a very good place.”

  My eye was caught by an engraved plaque on the wall, and I walked toward it. “What’s this?”

  “It’s the honor roll.” He pointed to a plaque on the opposite wall. “It starts there, with the very first forms.”

  Matthew studied the newer panel. “Are you Theodore Marcus?”

  He flushed a bit. “Yes.”

  “I see your name there for mathematics and Latin,” Matthew noted. “Congratulations.”

  His flush deepened. “Thank you, sir. Bit of friendly competition for those. Top boys get privileges, you see. We’re allowed to go into town and that sort of thing.”

  My ey
e sought the dates near the top of the plaque. And there was Edwin’s name for art, three years running.

  “I . . . er, I should get back to my work,” Marcus said nervously.

  “All right,” Matthew replied. “Do you mind if we stay here for a bit?”

  He looked relieved. “Not at all. Stop by the office before you leave, so I know to lock up.”

  I smiled to thank him, and a moment after he left Matthew sneezed loudly.

  “It’s dusty, isn’t it?” I commented, running a finger along the upper edge of the wainscoting. “Did you see Edwin’s name?”

  “For art, yes.” He gazed up at the portraits hanging between the square moldings above the oak panels. “Look at all these,” he said. The first showed a sober-looking man in a heavy white wig, his left hand resting on a globe. We walked from portrait to portrait, passing by the ones with names and dates before Edwin’s time.

  At last we reached several with dates that corresponded with Edwin’s tenure here:

  Lionel McAdams

  Geoffrey Conlin

  Michael Sterns Sacks

  Robert Louis Melford

  The styles of the portraits varied little. Most of the men were seated at desks. None wore wigs. Their dress was modest and even severe, but none of the men looked unsympathetic, and most were comely. I half expected Matthew to make a comment about how much the artists had flattered their subjects.

  Instead he was pacing along the entire section of the wall, staring intently at each nameplate. “Where is the art master?” he demanded.

  “What?”

  “Up until now, there are teachers in five subjects—you see the books?” He strode back to the earlier group of paintings and pointed as he came toward me. “See on their desks? Books in Latin. Mathematics, obviously, with the Euclid and compass. This one has history books and a globe. This one has Plato and Shakespeare. And here is the art teacher, with the easel in the background. But where is the art teacher in this group?”