Tom Brown's Body

by Gladys Mitchell

  Mrs Bradley did not contradict this last statement, although she knew it to be untrue. She would not have been surprised by anything which either boys or their seniors would do. She left the inspector and wandered off to watch a practice game of Rugby football on the upper field. She arrived in time to see a couple of ebony knees and two thin, almost delicate hands and a shining black face set round a wide, appreciative smile, collect a loosely-slung pass and streak for the line like a water-snake.

  'A promising player,' she observed to a large, slouching, slightly scowling youth who was also watching the game.

  The youth raised his tasselled cap and smiled politely.

  'Yes, he's not bad,' he replied. 'He's a bit light and small for Big Game at present, but I should certainly consider playing him in the First Fifteen next season if I were here, which I shan't be. Only trouble is, he bites.'

  'Literally?' Mrs Bradley enquired. The youth nodded, and answered gloomily:

  'Doesn't mean to, I suppose. Gets excited, and the next thing you know is that he's literally chewing pieces out of anybody he has to tackle in the game. He's being thrashed out of it, of course, but it makes things awkward at present.'

  'I believe he is Prince Takhobali?' Mrs Bradley enquired.

  'Yes. Nice enough kid, too. Just goes getting carried away by his emotions.'

  'I wonder whether you would care for me to take him over and treat him?' Mrs Bradley enquired. Cranleigh – for it was that great man in person – stared, smiled, straightened up, scratched his jaw (looking suddenly younger) and said:

  'Do you mean you could stop him biting?'

  'Oh, yes,' Mrs Bradley replied. Cranleigh studied her, and made up his mind.

  'If you could do that,' he said, 'I'm not sure I wouldn't play him against Fieldbury.'

  Mrs Bradley had heard of Fieldbury. It was a very famous school, a great deal larger than Spey.

  'Are they strong this year?' she enquired.

  'Very strong,' Cranleigh responded, 'and we've never beaten them yet. Our only chance would be to play a scrum-half they didn't know. They're banking on our playing Tickner. If I played young Tar-Baby instead, and put Tickner out for this one match . . .' He stopped. 'I'm boring you,' he concluded. But Mrs Bradley was very far from being bored.

  'Do I know Mr Tickner?' she enquired.

  'I don't see why you should. He's a bit of a wart,' said the captain of football candidly. 'He's not a bad half-back, but the trouble is that he only left Fieldbury at the beginning of this half. He played regularly for their Second Fifteen all last winter, and, of course, their First know all there is to know about his game. So, if I could depend upon Tar-Baby's goings-on. . .'

  'You can,' said Mrs Bradley with a superb self-confidence which Cranleigh, himself not utterly lacking in amour propre, was swift to appreciate. 'Send him to the School sanatorium immediately this game is over.'

  'The san?' said Cranleigh. 'Right. He won't want to come, but I'll jolly well see that he's there. Pass, you silly owl!' he suddenly yelled, resuming his study of the game. Mrs Bradley walked back to Mr Loveday's House to inform Miss Loveday that Takhobali would be late for his tea, and then she walked over to the sanatorium to borrow a room from the sanatorium matron. The matron, who was the terror of every Housemaster and by whom even Mr Wyck was secretly overawed, gave way at once to Mrs Bradley, for Mrs Bradley held the sacred status of a Doctor o Medicine besides that of being a grandmother in her own right. The matron, in short, gave Mrs Bradley a choice of four excellent rooms, and placed her staff at Mrs Bradley's orders.

  Mrs Bradley selected the pleasantest of the four rooms, ordered a fire to be lighted, demanded hot buttered tea-cake, China tea, and a couple more cushions, impounded the matron's personal vase of late chrysanthemums, and generally contrived to electrify the matron's maid into wondering whether the last trump was about to be sounded.

  Takhobali turned up shining from his changing-room bath, damp-haired and beautifully dressed, and blinked in astonishment at the sight of the cosy room.

  'Sit down, Prince,' said Mrs Bradley, briskly. Takhobali, with a terrified grin and a gesture which Mrs Bradley recognized as the one used in his Protectorate for keeping off evil spirits, sat on the edge of a chair, but very soon, what with the lassitude which resulted after his game, the delicious food, the crackling fire, and the general air of ease which gradually overtook him, he relaxed, Mrs Bradley was relieved to note, and was soon conversing blithely on casual matters cunningly introduced by his hostess.

  'And now,' she said, 'I expect you feel thoroughly sleepy. Put your feet up, close your eyes, and I'll get the tea cleared away. No, I don't want any help, thank you.'

  'Now, why,' asked the Tar-Baby, curling himself up like a lithe and sleek young leopard, 'why am I brought to this place?'

  'For treatment,' said Mrs Bradley.

  'But I have no injuries. I am not sick.'

  'No. But you are a biter,' said Mrs Bradley distinctly. 'And until you cease to be one, you will not be put into the School Fifteen. Am I right?'

  'Oh – yes,' said Takhobali, raising his head and giving a broad smile. 'I do bite. I do not mean to. It is all for love.'

  'I understand that so well,' Mrs Bradley agreed. 'All the same, you must agree, I think, that it would be better for you not to do it any more. If you really wish me to cure you, I can do so.'

  'Cranleigh has tried. He beats me. It is so good of him. But always I forget, and his trouble goes all to nothing,' said the Tar-Baby, with frank and delightful regret. 'I am so tiresome.'

  'You haven't co-operated with him, that's all. You have said to yourself, He will cure me; you have not said, I will cure myself once and for all. Shall we say that here and now? . . . Close your eyes; relax; breathe a little more deeply . . . and slowly . . . and deeply . . . and slowly ...'

  So natural and uninhibited was the Prince that she soon had him under light hypnotic control, and then she droned into him in her beautiful and sympathetic tones the fact that he would never again bite an opponent during a game of football. She pictured the game for him, she described his own emotions, and then she put a complete and absolute veto on the one particular way in which he was not to express them.

  'You can play him against a girls' school now, if you like, Mr Cranleigh. He still won't bite them, however much he loves them!' she said, later, to the embarrassed but grateful captain of football. 'I think you may include him against Fieldbury if you wish, and very good luck with your match.'

  This slight incident was regarded by the School as belonging to the cauldrons of witchcraft, for, to the delirious astonishment of everybody, Spey beat Fieldbury for the first time in living memory.

  The first bit of luck for Spey came almost at once, for the Tar-Baby collected a wildly-slung pass and lobbed it neatly to Murray, who was just behind his left shoulder. Murray, who was unmarked at the moment, tore for the line, and, the full-back getting across, Murray let the Tar-Baby have the ball a bare ten yards from the line. Takhobali touched down, and the god-like Cartaris, taking the kick, made no mistake about it.

  Fieldbury replied half-way through the second half, during a battle of Titans, with a try which, to the almost indecent joy of Spey, was not converted, and then Cranleigh, from his position as centre three-quarter, took an inspired drop at goal from almost the middle of the field and, to the dumb and then the tumultuous amazement of the School, brought it off. After that Spey fought until the whistle to keep Fieldbury off the Spey line.

  Takhobali played like a demon throughout the game, but, as the beaming Cranleigh observed later to Mrs Bradley, like a muzzled demon. Cranleigh, in fact, to demonstrate his gratitude for Mrs Bradley's endeavours, capped the Tar-Baby after the game, an unprecedented occurrence at Spey, but one which found warm favour with the multitude, for, as one of Mr Loveday's ecstatic boys announced to his fellow-members of the Junior Day Room that evening, whatever you said about the Tar-Baby, he might be as black as a boot and as rich as old Ford, but he
had not an ounce of side and never would have.

  The Tar-Baby had himself photographed as soon as he could, wearing the fantastic head-gear of the First Fifteen. It accorded very oddly with his broad, noble, African face, but that mattered little. He himself was delighted with the effect, and he presented an equally delighted Mrs Bradley with a copy of the photograph, signed, 'From your Tar-Baby which has much thanks.'

  'It is for me to thank you, Prince,' Mrs Bradley gravely and graciously replied. 'You have saved my reputation.' The prince looked puzzled.

  'I think you are not young enough to have one,' he remarked simply. 'But you have rewarded me for my lights, I believe.'

  Mrs Bradley had not forgotten the lights, it was true. She took the earliest opportunity of mentioning them to Detective-Inspector David Gavin of the Criminal Investigation Department when that handsome young Highlander descended upon Spey on the following morning.

  'Um,' said Gavin, who had been supplied with all the evidence the local police had collected and now had a formidable list of suspects at the back of his lively and imaginative mind. 'There wasn't any weed or mud or what-not on the clothes or in the innards of the body except the mud it had collected from being dumped on to that garden. Tell me something about all these people.'

  He produced a list. It was headed by the name of the Headmaster and under that were the names of Marion Pearson, Mr Pearson, Mr and Mrs Poundbury, Mr and Mrs Kay, Mr and Miss Loveday, and John Semple.

  'You should add one or two more names,' said Mrs Bradley. 'Put Issacher, Takhobali, Micklethwaite, Merrys, Skene, and Lecky Harries.'

  'But aren't some of those boys at the School?' demanded Gavin. 'I've already argued with the Super about that. He thinks boys may have done it, but I'm pretty sure that's impossible. Public schoolboys don't murder the Staff.'

  'I agree, in principle,' said Mrs Bradley, 'but Mr Conway appears to have been something of an anti-Semite and that may mean that he suffered from other aberrations such as colour-prejudice.'

  'Say on,' said Gavin. 'I'm listening. But you don't really think boys did this. I can tell you don't.'

  'No, I don't, but we must go to work methodically.'

  Gavin glanced at her suspiciously. She had pulled his leg before.

  14. Enter Priapus Minor

  *

  Poor Lad! How little does he know as yet of the Old Baily!

  IBID. (Act 1, Scene 6)

  A TACTFUL inquiry on the part of the local police into Gerald Conway's financial affairs had disclosed that whatever his murderer's motive might have been, it had not been greed for money. Conway had banked in the town nearest to the School, and had had no income except his salary. This had been paid into his account at half-termly intervals by the governors, and Conway had spent almost all of it, the money remaining to his credit at the time of his death being the sum of sixty-one pounds, seventeen shillings, and five-pence.

  'Well, that disposes of that,' said Gavin, disclosing the facts to Mrs Bradley. 'Can't quite see what he thought he was going to marry on, but perhaps his future father-in-law was prepared to come down handsome. Let's go and visit him, and see.'

  Mr Pearson, the woodwork master, lived on the further side of the village in an architect-designed, delightful, modern house with a sun-lounge, a garden pool with a fountain, and all the amenities which money could provide, for Mr Pearson had other sources of income besides his salary. The details of these other sources – all innocent and praiseworthy enough – came out during the course of conversation, for, like many people whose chief vehicle of self-expression lies in working with their hands, the woodwork master was a simple-minded purveyor, and a voracious recipient, of gossip. The adjective 'old' in front of his name was misleading. He was fifty-two, and powerfully built.

  'Never liked the chap,' was his verdict on Conway, 'but admired his guts and cheek. I got to know him first when he asked me to help him over a fancy dress. Two years ago, it would have been. I was interested in his idea, and I took more trouble, in a way, than the thing was worth. Still, when we'd finished it, it wasn't bad, although I say it.'

  'Where was it made?' Gavin asked. He did not want to know, but the turn the conversation had taken promised well.

  'Here, mostly, although we finished it up at the School. I made some stilts for him, too, at about the same time. I never saw him in the full kit, and I don't know what he did with the outfit after he'd worn it. It was supposed to be for the Chelsea Arts Club Ball. Cost? Oh, I don't know, quite. I think we did the whole thing for about two pounds ten. I didn't charge him beyond the cost of the materials. I was interested, you know. It was good fun making the thing.'

  'Now another sort of question,' said Gavin.

  'You needn't bother,' said the woodwork master, with a one-sided smile. 'I was very glad to hear of Conway's death. My daughter Marion, you know. Yes, girls are rather silly. Actually, I'm quite fond of my daughter, and I believe that people, even young people, should plan their lives as they think best, but Conway was a bit of a bounder. Still, my girl decided to get engaged to him. Yes, Conway asked my consent, and got it. Sorry I've no more information, but kids don't confide in their parents, and quite right, too.

  'The champagne party? Oh, well, you know how it is. Everybody knew I didn't like the fellow, so I thought it best to put a good face on things, for Marion's sake. I suppose I overdid the congratulatory side of the business, but when you dislike people you're apt to lose your sense of proportion.

  'Marion? Well, naturally, she was rather upset at his death, but she'll get over it. She's a sensible girl. Takes after me, I think. Yes, you can see her if you like. No, I've no objection to your questioning her. She's twenty-five, and quite capable, I hope, of telling you to mind your own business. Who else knew I'd made the mask and the rest of the outfit? Why, nobody, so far as I know, except Marion who helped quite a bit. That's how they got to know each other, really, Conway and Marion. I was rather sorry, in the end, that I'd let her help with the thing. You see, I'd heard a fair amount of gossip about him by then, one way and another. I retailed it afterwards to Marion, hoping to choke her off, but you know what girls are like. The bigger the rascal the more exciting the lover, to their minds, I suppose. When I found what was happening I tried to persuade her to snap out of it, but it was no good, of course. Rogue elephants have nothing on girls who think they know their own minds. So I gave in gracefully, don't you know, and announced the engagement myself and threw this champagne party in the Masters' Common Room at School. It went quite well, I think, except for Jack Semple, who, I fancy, was hoping that Marion would have picked him instead of Conway. Still, possibly, as I say, I overdid it.'

  'What about Kay?' asked Gavin.

  'Oh, Kay doesn't drink,' said Mr Pearson, 'and anyway he wouldn't care two hoots whether Marion was engaged or not.'

  'Not if a married Mr Conway stood the chance of the next House?' asked Mrs Bradley.

  'Good Lord!' said Mr Pearson. 'Fancy your thinking of that! I suppose that would make a difference! And, of course, Kay hated Conway like poison. Never a civil word for the chap. I've often thought Kay would slug him in the Common Room. I say, that does add up! Poor old Kay! He isn't much of a hero, though. I shouldn't think he did it, you know.'

  'What do you think?' Gavin enquired of Mrs Bradley when they had left Mr Pearson.

  'I think it might be a good idea to see Marion Pearson,' she replied, 'particularly as her father does not appear to have any objection to your doing so. But I don't know that I'd see her just yet. Her father will have warned her.'

  'Good idea,' said Gavin. 'I thought of it, too. Not that I can see what she can tell us. Of course, she was engaged to the fellow, but she hardly comes on to the list of suspects, does she?'

  'We may know whether she does or not when we have heard what she has to say.'

  They returned to Mr Pearson's house two days later, but had to wait until Marion returned from the village. Mrs Bradley thought she looked tired. She was very pale and
her eyes were dark-circled from loss of sleep.

  'No, I don't mind talking about Gerald,' she said, in reply to Gavin's first question. 'It was a shock when I heard what had happened, but now it's all over, it's as though I'd hardly known him.'

  Mrs Bradley looked perturbed, but Gavin said he could understand what the girl meant. He asked how long the couple had been engaged.

  'Oh, only six weeks, the actual engagement,' Marion told him, 'but we'd had an understanding for about ten months, only Daddy didn't know. He didn't like Gerald much, and I found out why.'

  'Yes?' said Gavin encouragingly.

  'Well, I expect you know what kind of man Gerald was, but I wasn't born yesterday, even if I do call my father Daddy. I simply told Gerald that once he was a married man and a Housemaster he'd have to behave himself, whether he liked it or not.'

  'A Housemaster?' said Gavin. The girl nodded.

  'I've always wanted to be a Housemaster's wife,' she said placidly, 'ever since I was six and proposed to Mr Loveday. That was nineteen years ago, but I've never forgotten it, and neither has Mr Loveday. He still teases me about it when I see him, and when the Lovedays come here to tea he always mentions it. He's an absolute pet. All he cares about in the world is his Roman Bath, and I think that's ever so sweet of him.'

  Gavin laughed.

  'And what did Miss Loveday have to say to your proposal to her brother?' he asked.

  'Oh, Miss Loveday is as much of an old duck as Mr Loveday. I think they're both terribly quaint, don't you? – and they take ever so much trouble over looking after their boys. The Loveday boys are notably well fed. I often tell Miss Loveday that when I'm a Housemaster's wife she'll have to show me all the ropes. She's promised, too, and says she'll lend me all her diet sheets and things.'

  'Which House?' asked Gavin, who was keenly interested in the turn the conversation had taken, but who realized that it would be desirable to treat the subject lightly. 'Which House did you suppose you might be going to have?'