by George Hagen
Tom replied in the affirmative, but the headmaster gained no comfort from this, for the boy's eyes were still defiant.
A GREATER AUTHORITY
ON JUNE 11, TWO CARRIAGES MADE THEIR WAY ACROSS THE DOWNS to Hammer Hall. The first arrived in the middle of a storm. Rain pelted down upon the three members of the party—Dr. and Mrs. Abraham Pigeon, and Sergeant Percy Ketch, of the Boleford Constabulary—as they alighted.
Tom scrambled up to the attic to watch while the other boys identified Arthur's parents in whispers. Mr. Goodkind escorted the group across the muddy fields and up the path to Hammer Peak. Dr. Pigeon followed the headmaster, while Sergeant Ketch offered his arm to the bobbing figure of Mrs. Pigeon in her enormous gray skirts. From a distance, they appeared to float up the mountain and disappear near the misty summit.
A gnawing pain grew in Tom's stomach as he imagined himself to be Arthur, his bones broken, his body cold, lifeless, ascending in spirit, up, up, above the rocks, above the party of adults on the precipice, shining for a moment before hurtling towards the heavens.
When the party vanished, Tom went down to the dining hall. He found many boys clustered in small groups. Even the masters paced about the room, unsure what to do with themselves. All seemed aware that the future of the school hung in the balance. Mansworth lingered by a window, watching for signs of the party's return. An hour passed. Mrs. Brasier and Polly served lunch: cold pies with congealed suet and sodden pastry. Polly performed her rounds with a water jug, missing every cup with ghostly obliviousness.
When a cry came from the courtyard, followed by heavy hoofbeats and the attendant rattle of harness and carriage wheels, many faces flew to the windows to see what new visitor had come.
Tom spied two gentlemen disembarking from the vehicle. The first was a strikingly tall man with wiry black muttonchops in a silk morning coat and top hat. The second manipulated a crutch as he stepped down. William Bedlam smiled at something the fellow with muttonchops said and offered an eager nod in reply.
At that moment, the mountain party returned from their climb. Mr. Goodkind seemed eager to quit the first party for the second and welcomed them heartily. “Greetings, Mr. Mansworth! And you must be Mr. Bedlam! Welcome, welcome!”
Tom ventured into the courtyard; he was wondering whether Mr. Goodkind had taken his charges to heart. Would Mansworth be accused? Perhaps the headmaster had more regard for justice than Tom had imagined.
“A pleasant journey, I hope, sir?” said Goodkind to Bronson Mansworth.
“The trains were efficient. The coach was slow, wretched, and tiresome,” the man grumbled. “But I had the pleasure of making a new acquaintance in Mr. William Bedlam!”
“Yes indeed, sir,” replied Bill Bedlam, with a smile so broad that Tom feared his father's face might split down the middle. “Aye, and we had a fine conversation!”
Goodkind nodded. “It was my sincere hope that you gentlemen would cross paths, and avert an unnecessary scandal,” he added, glancing now in Tom's direction.
At this moment, Tom felt the group's attention bear down upon him.
Mr. Mansworth spoke first: “Young Tom Bedlam, I presume! Allow me to introduce myself. I am the father of Geoffrey Mansworth.”
“Sir,” said Tom, cautiously.
Mr. Mansworth gave Tom's hand a sturdy shake and locked him in his glance. “I understand that you are a friend of my son and the unfortunate deceased. Let me assure you that we intend to get to the bottom of this tragedy my boy.”
“Yes, sir …,” began Tom, but he didn't finish the sentence because of the sudden crippling pressure he felt when William Bedlam's fingers dug into his shoulder.
“Come, lad,” murmured Bedlam in Tom's ear. Lurching on his crutch, he hurriedly escorted his son into the building and down the hall. Tom saw Mr. Mansworth smiling confidently at the headmaster—hardly the expression of a man with a condemned son.
“I bring the most unfortunate news, my boy.”
From his father's rigid frown, Tom half-expected to hear that Arthur's murderer had been identified as Tom Bedlam.
“Your grandfather Mr. Shears has passed on. I'm told, from natural causes, though unexpected and grievous. Naturally,” his father continued, “I inquired as to whether he had directed monies for your education or other sums, but I learned that, as he considered himself to be in good health, no provision was made. The destination of his fortune is now in the hands of the courts—”
Tom became deaf to his father's words. Mr. Shears had been a good man—pugnacious, blunt, but generous. What now? His mother gone, his prospects doomed. All he had left was Bill Bedlam; it was a state of poverty indeed.
Tom nodded soberly. “I see.”
“I'm sorry, lad, but the news came late to me, and so I bring it late to you. It puts your education in jeopardy.”
Tom nodded. “That is why you are here today?”
“Not exactly. I'm here at the invitation of Mr. Mansworth.”
“Mr. Mansworth?”
Bedlam nodded. “For the price of a train and a carriage, yes. It's complicated, Tom, but you appear to wield some influence, so to speak.”
“Influence?”
The actor gave a wink that indicated the distant but expectant figure of Bronson Mansworth. “His son may face criminal charges, Tom, and all because of you.”
“And his own actions,” Tom replied.
Bedlam winced, folded his arms, and brought his lips close to his son's ear. “My boy, sometimes one finds oneself having to choose between one's beliefs and one's best interests. I know you hold young Mansworth responsible for the demise of this boy—Alfred.”
“Arthur.”
“But Mr. Mansworth is a member of Parliament—highly placed, highly respected, much admired, with fat pockets and rows of factories at his disposal.”
“Arthur and I were friends,” replied Tom.
“And so I imagine him, up in heaven,” Bedlam interrupted, “looking down, Tom, wishing the very best luck upon you!”
“I am the least of his concerns now,” Tom replied frankly.
“Tom,” said Bedlam, “young Mansworth is in a fix, and his father desperately wants him out of it. You, my boy are in need of an education. Mr. Mansworth might offer it in return for your silence on the matter of his son's deeds.”
“My silence?”
Mr. Bedlam nodded.
Tom swallowed. “But I would be betraying a friend, more than a friend—”
Bedlam threw his arm over Tom's shoulders and shook him vigorously. “The dead take care of themselves, my boy. Before you presume a murder, let the ghost come, as it did to young Hamlet. You're not a prince. You're just Tom Bedlam. Unless you return to school, you'll be warming your hands at Todderman's furnaces. Here's an opportunity! Please your father by taking it! Please your mother, God rest her, if not me.”
“Would it please her to hear me lie?”
Bedlam's wooden leg struck the floorboards, causing two rooks on the windowsill to take flight. He glared at Tom. “You must prevail, Tom,” he said. “Say what Mr. Mansworth tells you to say. Say it for your future and, if you haven't the sense to do that, by God, say it for me! Say it!”
Awed by his father's blunt words, Tom wondered if the man's cunning and duplicity had given way to some half-decent sentiment. Was it the first sign of fatherly concern for him?
“If I do as you say—”
“Mr. Mansworth will show his gratitude, and you will have an education, lad.”
“But what about Arthur?”
“The dead rest in peace. The living must get on with their lives. You'll have done nothing wrong, lad. What's done is done! Didn't your mother always want an education for you? Didn't she say that?”
Tom noticed the rooks scatter above the trees over Hammer Hall. He remembered his mother's plans for him—life in the country, an education, a future.
He looked down and silently begged Arthur Pigeon's forgiveness.
A MIXED BLESSIN
G
ALL TOM REMEMBERED FROM THE INQUEST WERE THE EXPRESSIONS of Dr. and Mrs. Pigeon—their grief and dismay—while Goodkind heaped words upon Arthur's memory to belittle his fate. “An oddly unsocial boy a wraith of a child, a bird sprung helplessly from the nest, an unavoidable tragedy.”
Tom longed to express his sympathy to them, but when he saw the disappointment in their faces after his testimony, he couldn't approach them. He was too ashamed.
He repeated his testimony in letters to Sissy and Audrey, as if, by repetition, the words would gain credibility. But as he posted these missives, he realized grimly that he had become his father's son; he now spoke words that were not his own, for the benefit of an audience's affection. But Tom was no actor; he could not pass himself off as a character alien to his own conscience.
Mr. Mansworth kept his promise to make Tom's cooperation worthwhile. It was agreed that both Tom and young Mansworth would continue their education at other schools so that the taint of the incident would neither provoke nor burden them with second thoughts. Mr. Mansworth recommended that Tom be sent to a Scottish school while the younger Mansworth attended a school in the south. Thus, the accused and the accuser would have a border between them.
Mr. Goodkind was relieved to have survived the inquest and took steps to ensure that there would be no more accidents on Hammer Peak. He announced that exercise was a “proven stupidity” and that from now on Hammer Hall would cultivate the character of its wards with the help of the riding crop. Since Mr. Grindle had been responsible for sending the boys on their morning jaunts, he was taken to task and demoted to teaching younger boys. This demotion improved the character of every subsequent Hammer Hall pupil, as the master's influence on the younger lads produced a more disciplined and civilized lot.
ON HIS LAST DAY at Hammer Hall, Tom received a letter from Audrey that addressed the tragedy.
My dearest Tom,
Poor, poor Arthur. You described him as so stubborn, so strong-minded, and so cautious of danger that I can't quite believe his life could end so. Are you sure that boy Mansworth wasn't to blame? And what about Polly? What does she believe? The poor girl, I was so sure that they would be together. You must feel a terrible loss at Arthur's death. I wish we were able to meet on the landing, to talk about it, as we used to, with our legs dangling through the banisters. Do you remember? Has it been a year already?
They seem happy with my work at the office. I am so used to my place there, Oscar's clothes, the short haircut, and my “name,” which I answer to now without thinking. Mother seems gratified that I bring home a steady wage, pay the rent, and buy food, but my short hair and clothing concern her. She would like her daughter to appear as a daughter. Frankly, Tom, I like trousers, and I don't miss having to brush my hair!
Oscar is deeply troubled by my situation. Although I pass across the bridge from Vauxhall to the City in a man's clothes, what has changed? I'm disguised for the benefit of those who fear change. I suspect I'm not the only female with this dilemma. Surely society will not come crashing down because a woman adds sums as well as a man. Oscar brought an article home explaining the research of a scientist who claims the female brain is smaller than a man's and therefore indisposed to man's work. But it seems to me that my capacities are no more inferior and my brain thus far more efficient! What matters is that I am supporting the family. Mother's baby was stillborn, alas, but she has recovered; the twins are healthy; and the Orfling (though he steals) remains in his infant size, though he has the sweetest little heart and has learned a few words. He addresses me as Edmund and throws his arms around me when I arrive home in the evenings and promises that we shall be together always.
Audrey
Moved by this letter, Tom concluded that he and Audrey had been forced, under duress, to change something essential to their characters. He had sacrificed the truth; Audrey had sacrificed her femininity. Now she walked the streets of London in disguise, while Tom wandered the corridors of Hammer Hall as a false friend and brother who had allowed a scoundrel to go free.
An hour before he was to leave for his new school, he visited Polly to say farewell and to mourn Arthur with the one other person who had been touched by him.
Mrs. Brasier, her cheeks war-painted with coal dust, knelt with the bellows to pamper the fire, then disappeared in an explosion of sparks, shrieking as flying embers pitted her petticoats with little black holes.
Tom found Polly sitting on the back step, oblivious to her employer's cries, peeling carrots with a vague smile on her lips, her eyes trained on some spot in the fields.
“Polly?”
“Master Bedlam.” Polly raised her skirt in a sitting curtsy and, wary of Mrs. Brasier's cry, began to scrape at the carrots with a little more urgency.
“I came to say goodbye, Polly. I'm leaving for a new school today,” said Tom.
“I know'd that, Master Bedlam. Arthur said you'd come to say g'bye to me.”
Her answer was so matter-of-fact that Tom glanced at the field, expecting his friend to materialize. “Arthur?”
“Aye.”
“When?”
“Just now.” Then Polly shot a cautious glance at Mrs. Brasier and quickly took up another carrot. “She don't like me talking like that. Thinks I'm soft in the head,” she whispered. “But it's true.”
“You've spoken to Arthur?”
Polly nodded. “He's promised to stay with me always.” She smiled broadly. “He's so worried about you, going off to another school. He wanted you to know that.”
“I feel terrible about Arthur, Polly,” Tom confessed.
“Everything will be all right, Tom,” she said. “He don't blame you for what happened.” Her expression darkened. “Mansworth will get what's coming. He will.”
At that moment she cut herself with the carrot knife. She paused to suck her thumb, and her eyes lingered on Tom. “I swear he will.”
Tom could not help entertaining the notion that Polly had Arthur's confidence. “I shall miss him,” he said.
“He'll always cherish you. Like a brother!” Polly replied.
“Like a brother?” Tom felt his eyes moisten. “That's very nice, Polly.”
The girl showed him a ring drawn in ink around her finger. She explained that she and Arthur were married now and smiled—a vague, misbegotten smile, which assured Tom that Polly had, indeed, lost her mind.
TOM DRAGGED HIS TRUNK down from the attic and along the corridor with considerable effort until he arrived in the great doorway of Hammer Hall, where the board greeted newcomers: veritas et laborum. Truth and toil. Two virtues. He noted that he was to leave Hammer Hall with only one to his credit.
He would travel to the new school in Aberdeen without his father. The prospect of a solitary journey to an unfamiliar school didn't worry him. What could be worse than Hammer Hall and its deadly summit?
As the coach entered the courtyard, Mr. Grindle appeared, his hair in a disheveled spray around his collar, knees bent. His normally fearsome scowl broke into a kindly smile.
“Ah, Master Bedlam, I understand you are moving on to bigger and better things!”
Suddenly Tom's grief and bitterness nearly overwhelmed him. He fought for control.
Mr. Grindle put his hand gently on the boy's shoulder. “It's a great pity about young Pigeon. Ugly business. Not a bad boy and I've known some very bad boys.”
Tom whispered, “I'm so ashamed of myself, sir.”
The schoolmaster nodded. “Remember this, Tom. Power corrupts all those associated with it, not just the powerful. Redeem yourself with your next deeds and go on with your life. As for Mansworth, well, he has his conscience with which to wrestle, and his demons are fearsome indeed.”
“His father will arrange a good life for him, sir,” Tom replied.
Mr. Grindle nodded. “That is every father's responsibility.”
With that, the master shook Tom's hand, bade him good luck, and promised him a fine life ahead as long as he didn't devote it t
o the miserable task of teaching schoolboys.
KINDRED SPIRITS
THE SCHOOL WAS CALLED BRODIE, AND ITS PUPILS WERE KNOWN AS Brodie Boys. Depending on the speaker's affiliation, a Brodie Boy was either the intellectual cream of Aberdeen or an overcoddled scoundrel. Tom spent his two years as a Brodie Boy doing his best to avoid either appellation. In town, he never wore his hat with the Brodie crest; in school, he conducted himself cautiously, never taking sides, keeping his opinions to himself.
After having betrayed Arthur Pigeon, Tom considered himself a fraud, unworthy of anybody's friendship. He withdrew, seeming aloof in the company of his classmates, and his silence about his past was interpreted as haughtiness. Though he worked hard at his studies and earned good marks, he felt like an impostor, successful only because of Bronson Mansworth's influence. Mr. Grindle had remarked that power corrupts all who are associated with it; young Tom Bedlam considered himself tainted, and the world around him in collusion.
All news from beyond his school gate reinforced this impression. Oscar Limpkin, for example, had kept Tom informed of events at home. At sixteen, he had been promoted to senior correspondent of the Vauxhall Gazette. Aggressive and resourceful, he was as tireless a reporter as he had been a boy enchanted by his own make-believe. He respected no secret, adored scandal, minded no locks, and heeded no threats. He'd been to opium dens, confessionals, parliamentary corridors, and rat-infested prison cells in search of stories; had questioned lords, matrons, bishops, and murderous robber kings. His affable grin had saved his skin many times—who couldn't admire his bravado? Though he never wasted time in learning to spell, he delivered the facts by deadline; and when he could not deliver the facts, he delivered marvelous fiction.
Through Oscar's letters, Tom learned about the devilry of despicable men, the saintliness of sweethearts, the sloth of landlords, the greed of bankers, the greatness of England, and the diabolical villainy of her neighbors.
