by Dave Duncan
Leatherdale decided to try a couple more drops of honey before applying vinegar. “Now, if I may have your full name, sir?”
“David Jones. French master.”
How many hundreds of boys had been processed into speaking French with that accent? “You have been here how long?”
“Ten—no, eleven years now. Before that—”
“Not necessary, sir. I just wanted to know how well you are acquainted with the boys in question.”
The fancy spectacles shone white and inscrutable. “I am not sure that I might not be in breach of confidence were I to discuss any of our pupils without the Head’s authorization or perhaps the advice of a solicitor, Inspector.”
Yes, he was enjoying himself.
“The keys to the filing cabinets? Who has them?”
“The Head, of course. Dr. Gibbs.”
“And the duplicate set? There must be a duplicate set?”
“I don’t know. I certainly don’t know where they are, if they exist.”
“Mr. Jones, the matter cannot wait until Thursday. How may I get in touch with the Headmaster?”
A gold tooth flashed as Jones smiled. “I don’t think you can, Inspector. He was on his way to Crete to visit Evans’s dig. He has four senior boys with him, and two more are on their way to join him—or they were. Dr. Gibbs and his companions got as far as Greece. With the present turmoil, I suspect their journey home may take longer than expected.”
Leatherdale favored him for a moment with a blandly thoughtful expression. Then he said, “Technically the board of governors would have overall authority over the premises?”
Jones flinched. “I suppose they must, but the board have always—”
“In a sense, sir, you and I work for the same man. General Bodgley is not only chairman of your board, but also my chief constable. I should perhaps have brought a note from him, but I assumed you would cooperate without it.”
“Cooperate? I assure you—”
“Actually that is his car and chauffeur outside. Perhaps if we can reach him by telephone…”
The watchdog was in full retreat already. “Inspector, er, Leatherdale, I assure you that I am trying my best! I do not know where the keys to the cabinets are kept. I do not know exactly where the Head is. I can show you his telegram, but it was dispatched from some railway station in Austria and will not help you. The bursar is touring in Switzerland. If General Bodgley does not have a duplicate set of keys, and I would not expect him to, then I cannot imagine who else does.” Jones clawed at his beard with his left hand.
“Dr. Gibbs does not employ a secretary?”
“Paddling at Blackpool, I believe. This is August Bank Holiday weekend, Inspector! England is closed. However, if any Fallow boy is in trouble, then of course I am more than ready to assist your inquiries in any way I can.”
Better. Leatherdale nodded. “I just need information about a couple of them, that’s all.”
“Their names?”
“Edward George Exeter?”
Jones stiffened. “Exeter? Oh, Lord! You don’t mean they got caught up in the Balkan imbroglio, too?”
“Nothing to do with the Balkans that I know of, sir.”
“But Exeter and Smedley were on their way to join Dr. Gibbs. The two I mentioned.”
“They were forced to cancel. They returned home from Paris.”
“Well that’s a relief! A great relief! I was quite concerned about them and I—” Jones’s smile vanished as fast as it had come. “You mean there’s been an accident?”
“No, sir.”
This time the shock was obvious. “Exeter is in trouble?”
“What can you tell me about him, sir?”
The teacher drew a deep breath. “Exeter was house prefect in his final year! An excellent boy in every way. He was here in Tudor! I was his housemaster, Inspector, so I know him well. Exeter would be almost the last boy I would expect to fall afoul of the law! That is the case, isn’t it? You’re telling me that he is being investigated by the British police?”
“I am afraid that is the case.”
Looking stunned, Jones pulled a linen handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed his forehead. His distress and astonishment seemed quite genuine. “I mean, he has definitely not just met with an accident or something?”
“Too early to say, sir. No charges have been laid as yet, but at the moment the situation does look grave.”
“God bless my soul!” Jones sprawled back in his chair. “Exeter? I nominated him for my house prefect, Inspector, and he performed every bit as well as I expected. I cannot give you a higher character reference than that—cannot give any boy a higher recommendation. You did not say that…I mean, I have notes of my own on boys in Tudor. I shall gladly make them available.” Again he moved as if to rise, although now it was an obvious effort.
“Later, sir, I shall appreciate seeing them. Meanwhile, tell me what you know of him. His character, his background. His family, particularly.”
Jones sank back again, fumbling with his handkerchief. He paused for a moment to gather thoughts, then spoke without looking up. “Leadership, Inspector. Leadership is our product. They come here as children. They leave as young men. Rather innocent young men by the world’s standards, I suppose, but well molded to take their place in the service of the Empire. Many a lad has walked out of here and in three or four years been running a chunk of country somewhere half the size of England—dictator, judge, soldier, engineer, tax collector, policeman, all rolled into one. Not for power, not for money, but purely out of a sense of duty!”
Leatherdale waited.
Jones’s glasses glittered. “Latin and Greek and all that—none of it really matters. It isn’t what you know that matters in this world, it’s what you are! Esse non sapere—school motto. We teach them honor, honesty, and fair play. They take it from there. Not all of them, of course, not by a long shot. But the best ones are as good as you’ll find anywhere. I’d have classed Exeter with the best.” He looked across defiantly at the policeman.
Mrs. Bodgley had said very much the same.
“Some specifics, if you please.”
Jones stuffed the handkerchief back in his trouser pocket. “Edward Exeter? Born in British East Africa—in ’96, I suppose. Came here when he was about twelve. Left officially a week ago. Good pupil, credit to the school. Turned down a chance to play for the county this summer.”
He paused then. Still Leatherdale waited, sensing better game on its way.
“Exeter’s had more than his share of tragedy already. I’m sure you recall the Nyagatha affair?”
“Vaguely.”
“Exeter’s father was the district officer. He and his wife were among the dead. They were due to go on leave within days.”
“The general mentioned something about it. He was, er, rather vague.” That was an understatement of elephantine proportions.
Jones pulled a face. “You’d best look up the official report if you’re interested. The whole thing was just one of those senseless episodes of bloodshed that seem to be the inevitable price of progress. Less than ten years ago that whole area was just uncharted bush, you know. Barbarism is still very close below the surface. The trouble did not even originate in Exeter’s district. Some disaffected warriors of a neighboring tribe—Meru, or some name like that—outlaws, hungry, raiding for food…massacre, atrocities, followed by retribution. So history rolls along, leaving a few more gravestones by the roadway to be mourned for a generation.” Mr. Jones sighed at the folly of mankind.
“How old would Exeter have been, then, sir?”
“Sixteen.”
“He was here, in Fallow? How did he take it?”
“Oh, really! How do you think? He was shattered, of course. The news came in on a weekend and no one in Whitehall bothered to notify him. The first he
knew was when the newspapers arrived on Monday morning. He hadn’t seen his parents in four years, and was looking forward to a reunion that summer.”
“No brothers or sisters?”
Jones sighed again. “None. He made a wonderful recovery. Tremendous pluck. His marks hardly dipped. And then, just as he seemed to be over the worst of it, the board of inquiry report came out and opened all the wounds again.”
“Spell the name of that place, sir, if you please. And the exact date, or as close as you can recall?” Leatherdale knew he was getting full cooperation now. He felt no satisfaction from so easy a victory. “How did it open the wounds, sir?”
“Well, it opened wounds for Exeter.” Jones removed his pince-nez and wiped them on his tie. He dabbed one eye surreptitiously with a knuckle. “His father was cleared of any blame in the atrocity itself. As I said, the perpetrators were just a band of malcontents wandering off the reserve. But Exeter was severely criticized for not maintaining a garrison of trained native troops handy to defend the post. Young Exeter will tell you—and I can almost sympathize with his views—that his father was being condemned for being too good at his job. If he’d been a worse governor and ruled by terror as some of them do, then he would have had protection to hand! Another of the ironies of history, mm? But Exeter has already passed through the Valley of Shadows, young as he is.”
“And his legal guardian?”
Jones replaced his glasses and peered incredulously. “Why do you need to ask? Can’t he speak for himself? Is he missing?”
“No, sir.” Leatherdale flipped back a couple of pages. “ ‘Concussion, compound fracture of the right leg, extensive minor contusions.’ He was just starting to come around when I left.”
“Good God!” Jones paused, as if shocked by his own profanity, then added, “His guardian is his uncle, the Reverend Roland Exeter, director of the Lighthouse Missionary Society.”
He spoke as if everyone knew the Reverend Dr. Exeter, and admittedly Leatherdale had heard of him. He did not reveal that he had already spoken with the holy gentleman on the telephone early that morning, nor that it had taken the Reverend Exeter’s housekeeper considerable time to persuade him even to come to the phone. When he had come, he had explained at length that his religious beliefs forbade him to travel on Sundays—no, not even to visit an injured nephew involved in a murder case.
“Exeter also corresponded with a chap in the Colonial Office,” Jones said, frowning. “I have his name and address somewhere, I’m sure. A Mr. Oldcastle, as I recall. In such cases, His Majesty’s Government takes an interest, of course, and quite rightly so.”
“No other relatives?”
“Only a cousin, so far as I know.”
Leatherdale’s antennae quivered, but he said, “Family friends?”
“None I have ever heard mentioned.”
“Does the name ‘Jumbo’ mean anything to you, Mr. Jones?”
“Common nickname, that’s all. We have a Jumbo Little in Fourth Form.”
“No. Tell me about the cousin.”
“Miss Alice Prescott. I have her address also, I believe.”
“They are close?”
Jones forced a thin smile of acknowledgment. “Exeter went to her twenty-first a couple of months ago. Until she reached her majority, they were both wards of their reverend uncle. I have not met the lady for several years, but I believe the young man is seriously smitten. I do not know how she feels about him. He is three years her junior and they are first cousins.”
“I shall see she is informed, sir.”
“Thank you. I’m sure Exeter will be grateful, and if she is anything like he thinks she is, she will respond.”
A good housemaster was much more than a jailer. Leatherdale raised his estimation of David Jones. In the case of at least one of his charges, he had obviously won trust and friendship.
“Tell me of the boy himself, sir.”
“Solid!” Jones thought for a moment. “Fair athlete, but not exceptional, except at cricket. There he was one of the best fast bowlers we’ve had for some time. A bit of a loner, especially since the tragedy, but popular despite that. He made an excellent prefect. Born leader—kept the youngsters in line and never raised his voice. They worshiped him. Damnably weak in maths—can’t seem to see the point of ’em. A real flair for languages. Walked off with the medals in Greek and German and came close in Latin, too. More competition in French,” he added vaguely.
This sort of stuff would be deadly in court.
“So he has left school. What are his ambitions, can you say?”
Jones hesitated. “If I know Exeter, then he’s panting to get into uniform like all the others. Teach the Hun a lesson, by Jingo!”
“And if there’s no mobilization?”
“He was going up to Cambridge. Looks like he has his choice of two or three colleges—there is money in the family for that sort of thing.”
“To follow in his father’s footsteps? Colonial Office?”
Pause. “Oh, no. Modern languages.”
Leatherdale made a note. The witness was holding something back. Probably young Exeter resented the organization that had condemned his father for being too good at his job. His ambitions could hardly be relevant to the murder, though.
Motive? Leatherdale wanted the motive. What turned a model public schoolboy into a savage killer?
“No family on his mother’s side?”
“Exeter himself knows of none. She was a New Zealander.”
“Of European stock?”
Jones laughed contemptuously. “You’re looking for a touch of the tar brush, Inspector? I admit he has black hair, and he takes a good tan, but those eyes! Blue as they come. Looks Cornish, I’d say.”
Nettled in spite of himself, Leatherdale said, “I didn’t see his eyes, sir. They were closed.” He shrugged and took up his quest again. “What of his private life? Any wild oats in his background?”
The French master had aged several years since he sat down. The condescension had long since faded from his manner, but that remark brought an angry flush to his cheek. “I have already given you my appraisal of Exeter. He is a young English gentleman.”
“A direct answer, if you please, Mr. Jones.”
Jones snorted. “Boys in public school have no private life. What happens in the holidays is beyond my ken, but I should doubt it very much, in his case. Schools such as Fallow are a great deal more celibate than any monastery the church ever knew. I told you—I think Master Exeter has his heart set on his cousin. I simply cannot imagine his being promiscuous.”
Reluctantly, Leatherdale noted the reply. “Forgive this next question, but it must be asked. How about, ‘The love that dares not breathe its name’?”
“No! Any hint of that in Fallow is cause for immediate sacking—boys or masters!” Jones glared for a moment, then sighed. “Of course it is always a potential problem in any all-male community. Some otherwise exemplary schools…you know, I’m sure. We are not naive. We watch for it. We haven’t had a case in several years. Cold baths and constant vigilance, Inspector!”
“Not Exeter?”
“Absolutely not.”
He seemed to be sincere. He might not be quite as shrewd a judge of his charges as he believed. A storm of passion of one sort or another was the only credible motive in the case. Leatherdale toyed with his pen for a moment, wondering if there was anything more he need ask about Exeter. The housemaster’s enthusiasm for the boy was worrisome. However misplaced, it would go down well with a jury.
When he looked up, Jones seemed to brace himself in his chair. “And the other boy you are interested in, Inspector? Smedley, I suppose?”
“Timothy Fitzjohn Bodgley.”
“What?” Jones could not have displayed greater shock had he been informed that he had been chosen to tutor the Prince of Wales in
Hebrew. “Explain!”
“At the moment the details are confidential, Mr. Jones. It missed the Sunday papers, but some of it will most certainly be in tomorrow’s.”
The master moaned. “For God’s sake tell me! This is awful!”
“First your comments on young Bodgley, if you please. Was he also in your house?”
“Yes he was. He and Exeter were close chums as juniors and the friendship lasted—they don’t always, of course. It’s less on Exeter’s side than Bodgley’s, I’d say. Exeter is more, er, self-sufficient.” Jones began polishing his glasses again, gazing blankly meanwhile, as if he could not see without them. “Bodgley’s a delicate boy. He is frequently troubled by asthma. This has kept him back in games…He was known as Bagpipe.”
“His father is an Old Etonian.” Leatherdale did not mention that he had researched his chief constable in that worthy gentleman’s own copy of Who’s Who.
Jones smiled faintly at nothing. Then he replaced his spectacles and seemed to come back to life. “You are wondering why he did not send his own son there? Because of the asthma. Fallow is closer to home than Eton. Or are you wondering why our chairman is not an Old Fallovian? That’s a matter of politics—money and influence, Inspector. And if you are wondering whether young Bodgley was of better family than most of our boys, the answer to that is yes. The blood runs blue in the Bodgley veins. His future in the Empire, if any, will be at the level of British resident, far above the district officerships to which Exeter might aspire. Foreign Office and corps diplomatique would be more his field. He’s a bit spoiled, pampered and oversheltered, and inclined to feel sorry for himself. I might just be persuaded that he had been led into wrongdoing by an older, stronger character—which I would not believe of Exeter—but basically he’s a fine young man, and I am convinced that whatever you suspect these two of, your information is incorrect.”
He tried to smile, but the result was grotesque. “There! I have been completely frank, have I not? Now will you inform me of the trouble they appear to be in? Less than a week ago I saw my young friends walk out into a world that looked ready to throw itself at their feet. I asked Exeter to sacrifice a glass of retsina to Poseidon in my name. Now you tell me he is back in this country and under suspicion of wrongdoing.”
