Love Lies Bleeding

by Edmund Crispin

  ‘I suppose you’ve had a lot of staff changes recently.’

  The headmaster gestured assent. ‘It’s been a great nuisance,’ he said. ‘Things are more settled now, but at the time it was very trying – and one can’t blame the war for all of it. People got restless, and left inexplicably…There was Soames, for example, who suddenly broke away after twenty years’ teaching and went off to be jokes editor to a firm of matchbox manufacturers. And young Sheridan, of course – quite a brilliant creature – who was lured on to the terra incognita of the BBC and became one of those recurrent people in the Third Programme; Morton went to the BBC too, and took a job as an announcer…I understand that he shouted so loud when introducing a variety programme that he fell down on the floor in a syncope, and never rallied.’ The headmaster appeared much moved. ‘A melancholy end, though I suppose…Oh, Lord.’

  This final ejaculation was occasioned by the activities of Mr Merrythought, who was now attempting to scale a wall. He kept falling back on to the floor with a terrible impact.

  ‘We can’t have that,’ said the headmaster. ‘He’ll hurt himself seriously in a minute.’

  He rummaged in a drawer, and eventually produced from it a rubber bone. Mr Merrythought seized this and began to play a game with it. He held it in his mouth and moved his head with great rapidity from side to side. Then he suddenly opened his mouth. If the bone did not catch on his teeth and fall harmlessly on to the carpet, which it generally did, it flew off at a tangent with considerable velocity. Mr Merrythought would then totter away to retrieve it and the whole process would begin again.

  ‘He’s almost human, isn’t he?’ said the headmaster. ‘Though I doubt if that can honestly be regarded as a compliment…’ There was a knock on the door. ‘Ah. That will be our tea.’

  They talked of indifferent matters while they ate and drank. Mr Merrythought was presented with some weak tea in the slop basin, but he only planted his foot in it, uttered a snort of pain, and returned to the rubber bone. Eventually the headmaster looked at his watch and said:

  ‘I wonder when the superintendent will arrive. In five minutes’ time I’m supposed to be talking to the Classical Sixth about Lucretius. I suppose I shall have to leave them to their own devices.’

  ‘I’ll take the period if you like,’ said Fen.

  The headmaster looked up hopefully. ‘Wouldn’t you find it very tiresome?’

  ‘Not in the least.’

  ‘I don’t like leaving them alone,’ the headmaster explained, ‘if it can be avoided. They tend to settle down and play bridge.’

  ‘All right,’ said Fen, finishing his tea, stubbing out his cigarette and rising. ‘Tell me where they are and I’ll go at once.’

  ‘I’ll take you over and introduce you.’

  ‘No, no, my dear Horace. There’s not the slightest necessity for that; I can introduce myself.’

  ‘Well, if you insist…The room is the first door on the right as you go in at the main entrance. They’re quite a peaceable, genteel lot of boys, you’ll find. Come back here afterwards and I’ll take you to my house…I’m really most grateful.’

  ‘I shall enjoy myself,’ said Fen truthfully, and made for the door. Mr Merrythought instantly abandoned the bone and lumbered after him.

  Fen was indignant. ‘I do believe he’s going to follow me,’ he said. ‘He thinks I’m White of Selborne, I expect.’

  ‘I’ll pick up his bone,’ said the headmaster, ‘and while his attention’s distracted you must slip out.’

  ‘Blackmail,’ Fen grumbled. ‘A blackmailing dog.’

  But he cooperated in the manoeuvre, and it was successful. Pursued by sounds which suggested that Mr Merrythought’s trimensual fit was imminent, he made his way to the Classical Sixth room.

  4

  Holocaust

  The High School for girls was in Castrevenford town, with the headmistress’s house adjoining it. And since Miss Parry was a woman sensible of the civilized graces, her study was a pleasant room – broad, cool, predominantly pink and white, with a delicately patterned chintz on the armchairs and Dresden vases on the mantelpiece. There were many flowers, and beyond the windows you could see, on the left, a sparkling segment of the river, with five of the pollarded willows which stood along the tow path. The late afternoon sun flared on the red brick wall enclosing the small garden, drawing the scent from the roses, lying in rich, butter-gold streaks across the lawn where a tall gate intercepted its rays. Beyond the wall was a huddle of old houses, and beyond them the spire of St Sepulchre’s, its brazen weathercock motionless and glittering against the sky.

  At five o’clock on the afternoon in question, Miss Parry was gazing at this scene, in an attempt to dispel the mental indigestion occasioned by reading thirty consecutive essays on the pontificate of Leo X, when her telephone rang. She reached for the instrument a little reluctantly. In the normal way she enjoyed responsibility, but for one reason and another the past week had been abnormally trying, and she was conscious of a growing desire for solitude and leisure. Feeling this a treachery, and having a practical rather than an analytical mind, she was inclined to blame the heat. On the other hand…

  ‘Castrevenford 473,’ she said. ‘Yes, this is Miss Parry speaking. Who is that?…Oh, Mrs Boyce…Brenda hasn’t arrived home?…I see…To the best of my knowledge she left here just after four, yes…Possibly she’s gone to the shops, or to a cinema…Oh, I see. Yes, that does rather alter the situation…Naturally you’re worried, if you particularly asked her not to linger on the way home…Yes…Yes…Well, there are still a few of the older girls in the building; I’ll ask them…Of course…Yes. I’ll ring you back immediately. Goodbye.’

  The bell jangled spectrally as she replaced the receiver. After a moment’s consideration she got to her feet, left the study, walked along the short passage which connected her house with the school buildings, crossed the gymnasium, and entered a corridor of studies. From one of the nearest, youthful voices could be heard arguing. Her arrival at its door was heralded by a furious noise suggestive of the Deutschland breaking up on the Kentish Knock.

  ‘Damn these hockey sticks,’ said one of the voices with injured fervour.

  ‘Elspeth, you shouldn’t swear so.’

  ‘I shall say damn, and I shall say blast, and I shall say bloody hell—’

  ‘Elspeth!’

  With raised eyebrows Miss Parry opened the door.

  The study appeared to be occupied chiefly by comestibles, textbooks, games equipment and bedraggled wild flowers wilting over the edges of jam-jars. Its furniture was rudimentary, and its windows looked out over the tennis courts. Crammed into it were four sixth-form girls, wearing pleated navy-blue skirts, black shoes and stockings, short-sleeved blouses and ties. Officially, they were a committee meeting of the High School Literary Society; actually, they appeared to be doing little beyond eating. They stood petrified at their headmistress’s apocalyptic entry, like those Cornish maids whom the wrath of Jehovah transmogrified in granite for dancing naked on the sabbath day.

  Miss Parry favoured them with a comprehensively omniscient and admonitory stare. She said, ‘Has any of you girls seen Brenda Boyce since school ended?’

  There was a moment’s silence until someone plucked up courage to reply. Then, ‘No, Miss Parry,’ said Elspeth.

  And, ‘No, Miss Parry,’ the others chorused respectfully.

  ‘Did any of you see her leave for home?’

  ‘No, Miss Parry,’ said Elspeth.

  ‘No, Miss Parry,’ said the others.

  The generalized lack of information conveyed by this liturgical responsory struck Miss Parry as profitless. She directed her attention to Janice Dalloway, the girl (she was suffering, it should be said, from a temporary access of evangelical mania) who had rebuked Elspeth’s blaspheming.

  ‘When did you last see Brenda?’ Miss Parry demanded.

  ‘Oh, Miss Parry, it was at the end of history, only Miss Fitt kept me behind to talk about m
y work and then I came straight here so I didn’t see her when she went out of school.’

  ‘Perhaps she’s in her study,’ a third girl volunteered.

  Miss Parry, expectant of further suggestions, received none. ‘Very well,’ she said at last. ‘Go on with your meeting. And remember that you must be out of the building by six o’clock.’

  ‘Yes, Miss Parry,’ said Elspeth.

  ‘Yes, Miss Parry,’ the others chanted dutifully.

  ‘In the normal way,’ Miss Parry added in parting, ‘I like to regard your studies as inviolate – which is to say that I don’t take official cognizance of what is said in them. But swearing, Elspeth, is another matter.’ She paused; Elspeth went rather pale, and studied the floor intently. ‘If I hear you using language like that again, there will be trouble.’

  She departed, closing the door behind her. A gust of awe-stricken whispering pursued her along the corridor.

  The study which Brenda Boyce shared with another girl was very similar to the first, but tidier, and at present empty. Miss Parry was on the point of quitting it when she caught sight of an envelope lying on a desk by the open window. Investigating, she found it was addressed to herself, and opened it.

  Dear Miss Parry

  Please don’t worry about me. I’m going away with someone who will make me happy. I can look after myself, so don’t worry. I’ll be writing to Mother and Father. Thanking you for everything you’ve done for me,

  Yours sincerely,

  Brenda Boyce

  Miss Parry uttered an involuntary exclamation of annoyance and dismay, yet – oddly enough – the first thought that occurred to her was that Brenda’s prose style had undergone a remarkable change. None of the usual prolonged euphuistic periods were in evidence – though this rather consciously unlettered simplicity might be due to the stress of some emotion…Miss Parry hunted out a specimen of Brenda’s handwriting and compared it with the handwriting of the note; they tallied exactly – but the stylistic dissimilarity remained. From the laborious flamboyance of ‘the visit to France, the spectacle of bare scaffolds streaming with aristocratic gore, awoke multifarious echoes in Wordsworth’s rhythmicized autobiography’ it was a far cry to ‘I’m going away with someone who will make me happy’. Too far a cry, Miss Parry reflected. She put the paper and envelope carefully into a pocket, and strode back to her study, little relishing the job of communicating her discovery to Brenda’s parents.

  In the event, however, they were contained and sensible about it – the more so as Miss Parry did not apprise them of her vague doubts regarding the authenticity of Brenda’s letter. Mr Boyce asked her to communicate immediately with the police; she had more information than they, he said, and the superintendent had better see her first.

  But the superintendent, she was informed over the telephone by the sergeant in charge at the police station, was at present visiting the headmaster of Castrevenford School. Miss Parry thanked him, replaced the receiver, and, lifting it again, dialled the number of the headmaster’s study.

  The call came through just as the superintendent was on the point of departure. He was a tall, burly, youngish man in plain clothes whose features some freak of heredity had assembled into a perpetual expression of muted alarm, so that to be in his company was like consorting with a man dogged by assassins. Apparently he regarded the business of the cupboard as a will-o’-the-wisp, and he was rehearsing his views to Fen, who had that moment returned from his period with the Classical Sixth, when the telephone rang. It was the headmaster who answered it.

  ‘Yes, Miss Parry,’ he said. ‘What? Disappeared?…Good God…Yes, the superintendent’s here. One moment.’

  He handed the instrument to Stagge, who listened in silence to Miss Parry’s narrative. ‘Very well, ma’am,’ he said finally. ‘I’ll come down immediately. We’ll trace her if it’s humanly possible…Yes. Goodbye.’

  He rang off, and explained the situation to the others. ‘So it’s possible she’s gone away with some man,’ he concluded, and glanced at the headmaster. ‘I don’t know if one of your older boys—’

  ‘Oh, my dear fellow,’ the headmaster expostulated, ‘that’s hardly probable. When a girl of that age elopes with a man, it’s generally someone much senior to herself.’

  ‘Just the same, sir, if you could make a check…’

  ‘I can’t, superintendent. At least, not until ten o’clock. The boys are allowed to be out with their parents this evening, and they’re not due back before then.’

  Stagge squared his shoulders and picked up his hat. ‘Well, I shall have to do what I can. I hope you’ll let me know, sir, if anything more that’s unusual happens here – anything at all, however harmless it may seem. One can never be sure what one’s up against.’

  And with this nebulous threat he departed. The headmaster relapsed into a chair.

  ‘This would happen just before speech day,’ he muttered. ‘Heaven help us.’

  ‘Heaven help the girl,’ said Fen rather grimly. ‘I don’t believe in this elopement. It’s the sentimental who elope, and according to you Brenda Boyce is anything but sentimental.’

  ‘You mean—’

  ‘I mean that she’s been either abducted or killed.’

  The headmaster stared incredulously. ‘But why, my dear Gervase? Why?’ And when Fen shook his head and remained silent, ‘It’s incredible…I don’t know what’s going to happen about the play. I must tell Mathieson.’ He got up and went to the window, whence he was lucky enough to observe that pedagogue slowly receding on a bicycle. ‘Mathieson!’ he called. ‘Mathieson!’

  Mathieson braked violently, wobbled, dismounted, and led his machine back to the window. The headmaster hurriedly explained matters to him.

  ‘Well, headmaster,’ he said eventually, ‘the girl who’s playing Isabella knows the part of Katherine, and is more or less capable of taking it. That means I shall have to spend the whole of tomorrow drumming Isabella’s part into someone fresh…Fortunately there’s very little of it.’

  The headmaster agreed that this was indeed fortunate; he seemed almost inclined to congratulate Shakespeare on his prescience in the matter. After a little further discussion Mathieson went away, and Fen drove the headmaster back to his house, where they bathed and dined. Over coffee, the headmaster said, ‘I’m afraid I shall have to neglect you this evening. I’ve got to go back now and interview one or two of the more importunate parents, and after that there’s a Fasti meeting.’

  ‘What in God’s name is a Fasti meeting?’

  ‘It’s to settle the school calendar for the rest of the term, and make sure that the various arrangements don’t clash.’

  ‘Are they likely to?’

  ‘Very likely. There are sixteen different school societies, all with their meetings. There are sports fixtures and prize examinations and supernumerary chapel services. There are lectures, concerts, recitals, cinema shows…Never a dull moment, I assure you.’

  ‘That’s all right,’ said Fen. ‘I shall go on working at my detective novel.’

  ‘At your what?’

  ‘I’m writing a detective novel.’

  ‘Indeed,’ the headmaster remarked non-committally.

  ‘It’s a very good one,’ said Fen with great simplicity. ‘You see, it all begins on a dark and stormy November night in the Catskill Mountains…’

  ‘Yes,’ said the headmaster, rising hastily. ‘Well, later, my dear fellow. I must be off now.’

  ‘And in a log cabin there’s a beautiful girl sitting shivering by the fire. She’s shivering, you understand, not because she’s cold, but because,’ said Fen dramatically, ‘she’s afraid.’

  ‘I see,’ said the headmaster, sidling towards the door. ‘Well, you must tell me all about it when I’ve time to do it justice. In the meanwhile, make yourself at home. There’s whisky in the drawing-room sideboard.’ He hurried out.

  Darkness was falling when he left the house, climbed into his car and drove back to the school site
, and it was still oppressively hot. But the parents proved less refractory than usual, and the Fasti meeting, though lengthy, less productive of acrimony. Shortly before a quarter to eleven it broke up, and the headmaster was just preparing to depart when Galbraith appeared. He had returned to his bachelor home shortly before four that afternoon, but now trouble had arisen over the chapel tickets and he needed advice. Seating accommodation in the chapel was very restricted, and tickets for parents who wished to attend the speech day service had to be stringently rationed. Some misunderstanding had arisen between Galbraith and the Chaplain, and more tickets had been issued than could possibly be honoured…The headmaster had had a tiring day, but he discussed ways and means with as much enthusiasm as he could muster.

  He was still discussing them when, at two minutes past eleven, the telephone rang. Virginia Love’s voice was so blurred with hysteria that he hardly recognized it. He listened in stupefaction to what she had to tell him.

  ‘Very well,’ he said, and stumbled over the words. ‘This – this is a most tragic business, Mrs Love. I don’t know what to say…my utmost sympathy…I’ll get in touch with a doctor and with the police…Yes…Yes, of course…Goodbye.’

  He rang off, controlling himself with difficulty, and turned to Galbraith.

  ‘It’s Love,’ he said. ‘Shot.’

  Galbraith looked bewildered; his professional competence seemed incapable of coping with anything like this. ‘Shot?’ he echoed foolishly. ‘You don’t mean killed?’

  ‘Yes. Killed.’

  ‘Suicide?’

  ‘I don’t know. His wife was too upset to say very much. But in any case—’

  The telephone rang again. The headmaster took it up; listened, incredulous and appalled.

  ‘All right,’ he said at last. ‘Stay there, and don’t touch anything. I’ll make the necessary arrangements.’ He replaced the receiver. ‘That was Wells, speaking from Hubbard’s Building. He’s just found Somers in the common room…’

  He put out one hand to brace himself against the back of a chair. His face for a moment was livid.