by George Hagen
Tom stepped forward, but before he reached Mansworth, Privot pushed him aside and, with a grin, shook Mansworth's hand.
Surprised, Mansworth acknowledged the gesture with a smile, but then Privot twisted Mansworth's fingers back and kicked his leg from Arthur's chest.
“Get off him, swine. Leave him alone.”
A chorus of jeers repeated this utterance, and Mansworth's gaze turned with dismay on his new critic.
“I'm not taking the crop again for you,” Privot warned him.
“Get on, you bullyfrog!” added Winesap.
As Mansworth recoiled, and Arthur got up, new footsteps echoed across the courtyard. It was Polly. She walked up to Mansworth. “Leave him alone, you cur,” she said and spat in his face. She took Arthur's hand, and the pair walked out of the yard together—the leaden-footed girl and the gangly boy—swinging their arms.
A pang of jealousy struck Tom. How easily Arthur seemed to have fallen in with Polly. Tom's own desire for Sissy had cost him months of yearning, lust, and cunning, and even the sacrifice of Audrey's lemon tarts. How had love come so easily to Arthur?
Tom noticed that he was not the only jealous soul. Every other schoolboy stared after them, no doubt estimating when his time would come and wondering if it would be as sweet.
Mansworth's expression differed, however: his lips were drawn tightly across his teeth in a ghastly smile; jealousy appeared to be the last thing on his mind.
The next morning, Tom was shaken into consciousness.
“Wake up, Tom,” whispered a voice. The Bible-size windows of the attic glowed blue in the darkness. Then the odor of onions filled his nostrils.
“I'm sleeping,” Tom muttered.
“You kept me up all night with your tossing and turning!” complained the voice. “I need to talk to you.”
Tom groaned and opened his eyes. Arthur was kneeling beside his bed. “Tom, there's something I must know. When is your birthday?”
“April twenty-ninth.”
“What year were you born?”
“Eighteen sixty-seven.”
Arthur sighed, and his head sank below Tom's pillow. When he reappeared, he looked upset. “My birthday's in June of the same year. We cannot possibly be brothers.”
Tom put his hands behind his head and stared grimly at the dark rafters. “I see,” he said, finally. “It's quite impossible.”
“I thought I knew who I was,” Arthur muttered. “And now it's a mystery. Can't you imagine what it's like to think you know who you are, then realize it's a riddle again? I'll spend my life passing strangers and wondering if they're my father, my mother—”
“—or brother,” Tom added glumly, but as he thought about Arthur's news, he couldn't help feeling that their bond remained intact. They were still friends—still allies. Regardless of whether they were brothers, they shared a mystery, and this was a strong kinship; but the anguish on Arthur's face was plain, and Tom suddenly felt sympathy for him. He needed consolation.
“Arthur,” he began, “imagine the fuss here if we admit that we're not brothers. Winesap might start a rebellion. We should keep it to ourselves, if only for the sake of the school.”
Arthur looked relieved. “Yes,” he said with a serious nod, “you're quite right. No one shall know.”
Tom pulled up his blanket, but Arthur remained by his bed. “Arthur,” he whispered, “go back to sleep.”
“Tom, there's another problem. It's Polly,” Arthur whispered. “It was a lark to hold her hand yesterday, but I was only joking. She's taken leave of her senses—if she had any to begin with. She's written ‘Mrs. Polly Pigeon’ all over the walls of her room. Mrs. Polly Pigeon! It's enough to make one change one's name!”
“You're the envy of half the school,” said Tom sternly. “However mad she may be, you can't tell anybody that. Everybody admires you.”
Arthur took this advice solemnly. “But she's raving, Tom. What am I going to do with her? She'll drive me round the bend!”
Before Tom could reply, footsteps pounded up the stairs. Mr. Phibbs struck his stick against the rafters. “Come, hooligans—get dressed for your run!” On seeing Arthur by Tom's bed, Mr. Phibbs's eyebrows rose. “Dressed already, Pigeon? On your way!”
Arthur gave Tom a last imploring glance.
“We'll talk at the top of the peak,” Tom promised.
That morning a dense fog hung over the mountain as the boys made their ascent. Tom, last in a line of stragglers, rubbed sleep from his eyes as he dodged puddles and thornbushes. A stand of oaks marked the path leading to the peak; their trunks were twisted and gray, and reminded him of the lumps of decomposed meat lying on the street outside the offal house in Vauxhall.
He couldn't see more than a few yards, but he could hear boys talking in the mist about Polly being “taken.” His thoughts turned to Arthur, and he wondered if his friend was simply repelled by affection of any sort, just as he had once rejected Tom's friendship. Perhaps Polly wasn't mad. Perhaps the shock of being wrenched as an infant from his mother's side had left Arthur unable to accept a kindred spirit.
Ahead, Tom could just discern the dense scrub where the path veered towards the summit of Hammer Peak, but trees stood in silhouette, with every open space portending a precipice. He slowed his pace, trying to recognize the turns of the path. A sudden spray of pebbles announced the descent of Mr. Phibbs, who was pounding his gnarled stick on the path with muttered curses. “On your way, lads!” The school disciplinarian's trembling cheeks shone as he paused before Tom, as if to sum up his progress, though he was merely catching his breath.
“Am I close to the top, sir?” said Tom.
“Not close enough, Bedlam. On your—” The master's feet slid on a patch of wet rock, and he righted himself with both arms flying out, jowls shaking.
Meanwhile, Privot was bounding down the trail. He panted behind Mr. Phibbs. “I'm out of breath, sir!” he said with an exaggerated gasp. In fact, he could barely stop himself leapfrogging the schoolmaster.
“Enough whining, Privot,” barked Phibbs. “In my youth I walked twice this far every morning!”
“In an avalanching blizzard, with your father balanced on yer shoulders, I'll be bound, sir,” added Winesap.
“That's enough!” said the master, cuffing the boy's head.
Tom continued his ascent until their voices faded and even the heavy thump of Mr. Phibbs's stick could no longer be heard. Then, rounding a corner where the fog rolled forward in the breeze of an unseen abyss, Tom heard a cry.
It was an awful sound—a long, guttural, helpless shriek.
Whether it was above or below him, Tom couldn't tell, but a chill crept up through his chest, and the muscles in his thighs went slack.
“Hallo!” he called.
There was no reply.
Spurred by his worst thought, Tom sprinted the last few yards to the summit. He saw nothing at first, just the awful whiteness of the drop. Then he recognized several boys peering over the southern edge, where Mansworth reclined on sunny mornings. Cooper turned to Tom with a wretched stare. He mouthed something quietly.
“What is it, Cooper?”
Cooper shook his head; his mouth was open, aghast.
“What has happened!” Tom cried.
“Somebody … somebody fell, I think,” said Cooper.
From behind them, Mansworth clambered up, gasping, his eyes bright and wild. There was no joy in his expression, though; the smug petulance of his mouth implied grotesque victory of some sort.
“Was that you?” asked Tom.
“What?”
“Who cried out?”
“It was,” Mansworth replied, meeting the glances of the other boys, who stared at him bleakly.
“I thought somebody fell,” said Tom.
“I almost did,” said Mansworth. He dusted off his hands. “But as you can see, I'm unhurt.”
Tom noticed three scratches running down Mansworth's arm.
“What are those?”
His defiant reply seemed odd to Tom.
“Where's Arthur? Has anyone seen him?”
The other boys shook their heads.
“He must still be on his way up,” said Mansworth.
“He was ahead of me,” said Tom. “Where could he be?”
“Probably back at school, where we all should be,” Mansworth replied, steering his eyes to the other boys. As if he exerted some new authority the other boys retreated in single file down the path. Only Tom and Mansworth remained, their eyes locked.
“Where's Arthur?” Tom repeated.
Mansworth shivered; his eyes fell before Tom's direct stare, then returned, as if hoping the question would have evaporated in that short moment. But Tom wouldn't release him; his eyes bored into the fellow until Mansworth could bear it no longer. He composed a dismissive smirk, kicked the ground, and stalked down the path.
Tom Bedlam trembled by the precipice. A fresh mist rolled forward. Arthur had been there; he could feel it in his churning stomach and the chill creeping over his skin. Somewhere deep in the chasm below, the boy lay. Tom's knees buckled. He told himself to breathe.
He had seen accidents on Procession Street, but there had been plenty of people to intercede. A huge crowd would gather, and remarks of outrage, compassion, and doubt would be made; but here, on this cold peak, was a stark, palpable horror. He began to run down the path, oblivious to the sharp branches and bracing cold. His relief came only at the base of the mountain, where Mr. Phibbs was standing by the gray oaks.
“Arthur Pigeon is missing, sir. I'm afraid he's fallen from the top of the mountain!”
“Fallen?” Phibbs was about to laugh.
“Yes, sir, I think so!”
The disciplinarian's smile faded. His expression turned to dread, then resolution. He told Tom to go to his classes while he went up the path to investigate.
All afternoon, the sun shone upon Hammer Hall, though the air remained chilly and damp. An unforgiving light spilled through the grubby windows, and the boys cringed. It searched the blackened walls of Mrs. Brasier's kitchen and even penetrated the stuffy interior of Mr. Goodkind's study until he closed his shutters. Polly was beside herself that afternoon. She asked Tom if he'd seen Arthur, confessing that she'd given him a lock of her hair the day before, tied with Mansworth's ribbon. Tom said he hadn't seen him all day.
When Mr. Phibbs appeared at dinner, he took Tom aside and told him he had seen no sign of an accident. “The constabulary has been alerted, but nobody has time to search the mountains for some hooligan dodging his lessons! Young Pigeon is probably having a good chuckle over this,” he added and promised that the harsher elements would drive Arthur home in a hungry and repentant state. “Cheer up, Bedlam. No boy has ever died at Hammer Hall!”
When the lights were out and Arthur remained missing, some boys speculated that he had run away. Cooper and Lopping changed their stories. Tom suspected that Mansworth had threatened them, but it was possible that they too didn't want to believe the most horrific possibility. No boy had ever died at Hammer Hall. It was inconceivable and, therefore, impossible. Only by reminding himself of this did Tom fall asleep that night.
A WEEK PASSED, with much rain, fog, and speculation. Polly went about her duties in a trance. She gazed accusingly at each boy until he shrank away and soon focused her attention on Mansworth, who defied her stare with patronizing humor. “You're looking rather dour, Polly. Where's that pretty smile of yours?”
Tom's dreams kept taking him back to Hammer Peak; more often than not they concluded with that chilling cry. He would find himself sitting upright in his bed in a cold sweat, but by morning he had convinced himself that his nightmares were unfounded. No boy had ever died at Hammer Hall. His schoolmates concocted the most outlandish theories about Pigeon's disappearance: he had run away, been taken by smugglers, and was voyaging to Tahiti; he had stumbled upon highwaymen, lost an eye, but was now robbing travelers on the London road; he had been adopted by a baron who was grooming him to rule Bavaria. It was curious to Tom that the boys refused to entertain some tragic fate. Instead, Arthur was a figure of liberation.
“My money's on the army,” said Privot. “They'll take you if you lie about your age.”
“Mine's on the circus,” replied Winesap. “Maybe he's become a juggling sword swallower.”
“Well, either he's a sword juggler or a sword swallower. He can't be both!” said Mansworth.
This comment was answered with silence. Apparently Mansworth was not welcome to participate in such talk. Baking in their hostility, he exploded. “You're all pathetic! Can't you talk about anything else? He's gone, and he'll never come back!”
Perhaps it was the air of authority, the grim conclusion, or the bitterness in his voice, but everybody was cowed by this remark.
I'm sure he's in the circus, mouthed Winesap.
“Army” whispered Privot.
SIX DAYS LATER, Lopping took Tom aside at breakfast. He told him he had seen Mr. Grindle staggering through the fields followed by two shepherds. They were weathered, roughly dressed men, often seen wandering with their flocks on the steep rises of Hammer Peak. Lopping explained that one had been clad in an oily shearling coat, but the other had worn only his shirt in the mist. His coat was wrapped tightly around a large bundle carried over his shoulder.
Grindle didn't appear at breakfast. Cooper claimed to have seen him driving the shepherds and their burden in a cart towards the village.
“Probably found a sheeplingor a lambkin” said Winesap.
Tom, however, had to be sure, and approached Mr. Phibbs as he finished his breakfast. “Please, sir,” he began, phrasing his question with desperate optimism, “they didn't find Arthur, did they?”
Perhaps the other masters had been dreading just such a question, for they suddenly frowned at their plates. The disciplinarian stiffened his lower lip and tilted his head to Tom without looking at him. “Look here, Bedlam,” he said, then paused, sensing the glances of his colleagues. Suddenly, his reply became a protest. “It's really none of your business!”
In an instant, Tom realized his worst fear. He withdrew with slow steps, as if the shepherd's burden now fell on his own shoulders. Every boy guessed from Tom's expression what Phibbs had refused to say. There would be no more talk about circuses and highwaymen. The fantasies were over. The hero had become a victim. It was the most wretched news.
In the hour before supper, as the dismal crew huddled in their cots— many of them silently contemplating the power of evil and the high price of rebellion—the thump of Mr. Phibbs's stick called everyone to attention. Beads of sweat rolled down the master's cheeks as he staggered up the stairs and passed the cots, one by one. “You think I don't know what's what, but I know. Hooligans! Savages!” He stopped, finally, at Mans-worth's bed, his eyes boring into the boy with feverish intensity. Then he drew in his breath, whirled around, and shouted: “Bedlam!”
“Sir?”
“To the headmaster's study!”
THE CHAIR OFFERED by Mr. Goodkind came short of a normal seat by a good two inches, causing Tom's knees to rise above his waist and rendering the headmaster more imposing, and his desk all the more vast.
“You were friendly with young Pigeon?”
“Yes, sir.”
Goodkind circled the desk, folded his arms, and looked down at Tom. “Pigeon was found,” he said. “He must have fallen. You have been cautioned about the dangers of climbing, have you not?”
“We're sent up to the peak every morning,” Tom replied. “There were no warnings.”
Disappointed by Tom's reply, Goodkind modified his tone. “We must remember that accidents happen, Bedlam, especially to the careless. You've seen a young bird on the ground, have you not? A nestling, barely alive, fallen, through no one's fault, by the wayside?”
“Arthur was terrified of heights, sir. He would never have been c
areless.”
The headmaster stared at Tom coolly. “Young Master Pigeon fell a great distance. This is an unfortunate fact. By the Grace of God, some prevail, and others perish.”
Grief is stealthy. Now it seized Tom unannounced, and in spite of the headmaster's stern gaze, he crumbled. If his friend was dead, then so too was he. His hope for Arthur's safety was dashed as assuredly as Arthur's body had been in that wretched, wind-torn chasm. Tom gripped the oaken rim of the master's desk, his eyes welled, and sobs wrenched his chest.
Goodkind winced at the display before him. He stood, offering no gesture, waiting, simply, for it to subside. Tom, however, was in the grip of an anguish that had been pent up for many weeks, and had no control over himself.
Only when he finally gasped for air did the headmaster seize the moment. “I need a sensible fellow like you, Bedlam, to speak to the constabulary. A witness to attest to this accident.”
Tom wiped his eyes. “Yes, sir.”
“Good boy.”
The boy's eyes rose slowly to meet the headmaster's gaze. “Except it was no accident, sir. It was Mansworth. He killed him.”
Goodkind skirted his desk and picked up his riding crop. “Mansworth, you say?” He turned the crop through the air in a figure eight. “You saw him push Arthur? You saw a crime committed? You will swear to it?”
Tom regarded the crop. “I did not see, but I know a crime was committed.”
“Either you saw something or you did not.” Goodkind scratched his cheek absently with the crop handle. It was a gesture rendered odd by its constant repetition. Tom began to feel as if he himself was the itch.
Closing his eyes, he pitted his conviction against the headmaster's threat. “I know he followed Arthur up the hill, sir, and I heard Arthur's cry. Then I saw Mansworth climbing back after a struggle. I believe he was responsible.”
Putting the crop down, the man leaned forward, his face inches from the boy's. “Well, Bedlam, the fact is that Mr. Pigeon fell. Alone. From a great height. And only God knows how.”
“Mansworth had threatened him many times in the past—”
Goodkind picked up the crop and struck the desk with a hard snap. “I must insist that you limit your remarks to the facts you have witnessed! Have I your assurance?”
