Being Arcadia

by Simon Chesterman

  “I don’t know—yet. With Moira there’s always some kind of plan. But she’s like a Rube Goldberg machine.”

  “A what?” Henry runs a hand through his hair. “Oh, you mean those things where a candle burns through a rope that releases a bowling ball that knocks over a block of wood that catapults a rubber duck into a basket in order to switch on a light?”

  “Er, yes,” she says. “Something that completes a task in the most complicated manner possible. Moira seems less interested in the end, whatever her goal is, than the means.” Losing the other her completely—and then realising that her twin was still alive—has given rise to a curious feeling that goes beyond the satisfaction of an elegant solution. Warmth? Something more than just another problem to solve.

  Henry is looking at her strangely. “You’re starting to like her?”

  She ponders this. “Let’s just say that I’m glad she’s not dead.”

  “Yet,” Henry adds, shaking his head. “Anyway, are you going to class? I gather that’s now optional.”

  “In a minute,” she replies. From the front of Hall she sees Mr. Ormiston walking towards them. “I just need to speak to Mr. Ormiston. I’ll see you there.”

  Henry heads off, nodding to Mr. Ormiston as he does.

  “Good morning, Miss Greentree,” Headmaster says. “I heard about the fire at Oxford. And something concerning a twin?”

  Does he know that Moira visited the Priory School a year ago, that she took Arcadia’s place? Did he meet her? He will find out soon enough, but with the knowledge that Moira is still alive she is economical with the truth.

  “Yes,” she says. “It was shocking to me, too.”

  Seeing that she will volunteer nothing more, he sighs. “Arcadia, you know that there are people around you who want to help. To discover that you have a sibling—a twin that you’d never met—is a pretty big event. I’m sorry that you didn’t feel you could share that with me.”

  He is disappointed, but in her or in himself? He continues to be a difficult person to read. Trustworthy but not reliable, she once concluded. Perhaps that is what he is testing now in his students, whether he can rely on them?

  “I had best get to class,” she says. “Even without the threat of detention, my Aunt and Uncle are still paying fees.”

  She is on a half-scholarship but he does not correct her. “Very well, Arcadia. You know where to find me if you want to talk. In the meantime, please look after our more vulnerable pupils. I do have confidence in our students, but what we are doing over the next week carries some risks. Keep an eye out?”

  “Don’t I always?” she replies, turning to follow the unruly mass leaving Hall.

  It is around lunchtime that the first cracks in the new regime begin to emerge. Solidarity among students gives way to the need for order.

  The focus of the dispute is the midday meal and who should serve it. The chefs are preparing cutlets and vegetables, but serving trays have not been laid out and there are no dishes or cutlery. A queue of hungry teenagers has begun to form, while one or two have gone straight into the kitchen to take a piece of lamb with their hands to eat on the quadrangle.

  Surprisingly, it is Sebastian Harker who steps up with an apparently altruistic proposal. In the past, Sebastian was engaged by the former Headmaster as part of “provocation protocols” to see how Arcadia responded to stress. Magnus once said that similar tests were used to evaluate government agents for fieldwork. Since Milton’s passing, Sebastian has reverted to being merely annoying.

  He is almost a head taller than most of the students and able to project his voice so that all can hear him. “All right guys,” he says to the crowd gathering outside Hall. “We need a system here. Upper sixth will serve this meal, lower sixth will clean up. Fifth form will serve dinner and remove”—the school’s term for second-year students—“will clear. Yearlings are on grounds duty today. Upper sixes, you’re with me, OK?” Without waiting for an answer, he heads into the kitchen. After a moment’s hesitation, the upper sixth students follow. At his side, Joan Hardy whispers into his ear. “Oh right,” he says, turning back to the group. “Wash hands first, everyone.”

  Taking on the first set of duties is uncharacteristic of the Sebastian she has come to know. Is it possible that he has matured over the years at the Priory School? Possible. But as she joins the group preparing cutlery for the students—their teachers, it seems, have decided to pack lunches rather than watch their charges struggle through the first meal alone—she sees Sebastian and Joan exchange knowing looks. Neither has much potential as a poker player: it is evident that they are planning something.

  Precisely what it is remains unclear through the course of the meal. After the others have started their lunch, the upper sixth students take their food also and sit down. Sebastian ostentatiously insists on taking his food last, not even complaining when there are no more chips and he is forced to settle for mashed potato.

  By starting the roster he has established a kind of authority. But is he also taking the biblical notion that the last shall be first literally? In any case, he is not one to delay gratification—no second marshmallow for him—and it will not be long before his intentions become clearer.

  She, on the other hand, is prepared to wait and to watch. Henry sits opposite her, gnawing absent-mindedly on a bone.

  Towards the end of the meal, the lower sixth form students begin the unfamiliar task of clearing dishes. With what he thinks is a subtle wink at Joan, Sebastian extends his leg as part of an exaggerated yawn, tripping one of the lower sixes—a harmless boy by the name of Arthur Saltire—as he passes while carrying the remains of six dishes of pudding.

  Boy, crockery, and pudding tumble to the ground with a crash. Arthur is uninjured, though he lies in a shallow pool of dessert. But Sebastian’s trouser leg has also caught a fleck of custard and he stands up in outrage. “You did that on purpose!” he declares.

  Bewildered, Arthur looks up at the larger boy and mouths that it was an accident. He played a decent Hamlet in last year’s student performance, but now looks genuinely frightened.

  “An accident?” Sebastian mocks his voice, looking around for support or at least for an audience. “I think you resented having to clean up. You didn’t like doing some honest, decent work, and so you were careless. You sauntered down the aisle without a care for who or what you might bump into.”

  “No, I really didn’t—”

  “Don’t interrupt!” Sebastian shouts. He regards the other students, daring anyone to intervene on behalf of the miscreant.

  Opposite her, Henry begins to stand but she puts a hand on his forearm to stop him. Sebastian is looking for a confrontation; there is little value in giving one to him.

  “Listen,” Sebastian says, his voice oozing with reasonableness. “I’m prepared to give you the benefit of the doubt. But we’re going to need some kind of order around here, now that the teachers are skiving off. So I shall be keeping a book. Consider this your yellow card. But remember that another yellow card means you get a red card. And you don’t want to get a red card.”

  Are the ethics of football to govern the school, then? From his pocket, Sebastian produces a small notebook and asks Arthur for his name. Writing carefully in the book, he puts it back in his pocket and stretches out his leg once more for Arthur to clean the custard off with a napkin. He then stands and leaves Hall, Joan hurrying along beside him.

  As they pass her, she hears Joan whisper: “What happens when they get a red card?”

  Sebastian’s reply comes with a smirk: “Wait and see.”

  “Miss Greentree?” At the entrance to Hall Mr. McMurdo looks anxious. Something or someone unexpected has arrived and the school porter has been thrown off his schedule.

  She and Henry have almost finished helping Arthur clean up from his tumble, broken crockery piled onto a tray. He will need to change clothes before going back to class in the afternoon—though of course that is now optional.

 
; “Go on,” Henry says. “We’ll be fine. Right, Arthur?”

  The younger boy gives a half-hearted upturning of the lips and she heads out to see what has discombobulated Mr. McMurdo.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. McMurdo,” she says. “How is everything?”

  The porter frowns. “Well, I don’t mind tellin’ ye that I ain’t comfortable with this no-rules lark. ‘Jus’ make sure the children ain’t at each other’s throats’, they tell me.” He shakes his head. “There’s a natural order to things that needs keepin’. Anyhow, you have visitors, you do. Come to the lodge just now askin’ to see you.”

  A family member would have telephoned. A random visitor would have been turned away. Someone with authority but wanting to follow procedures scrupulously.

  “Is it the police?” she asks as they head across the quadrangle to the lodge.

  Mr. McMurdo looks at her, vacillating between suspicion and concern. “Aye, missy.” He hesitates, before adding: “’Taint none of my concern, but were you expectin’ them?”

  “No,” she replies. “But perhaps I should have been.”

  They enter the lodge and the two officers stand. “Inspector Bradstreet, Constable Lestrange, what an unexpected pleasure,” she says warmly. “You should have telephoned.”

  School policy is—or was—that phones are to be switched off during the day. She has taken to leaving hers on silent mode, but there were no calls. Lestrange, at least, has her telephone number. Are they following procedure, or did they not want to warn her of their arrival?

  “Good afternoon, Miss Greentree,” Constable Lestrange says. “It’s been a while.”

  Inspector Bradstreet is in no mood for pleasantries. “A twin, Miss Greentree? You have a twin? I suppose you merely forgot to mention that when we were investigating the death of Mr. Pratt. Suddenly your alibi at the time he died doesn’t look quite so sound, does it?”

  She looks shocked, or does her best to look shocked: “I was as surprised as anyone to find out.” Now she furrows her brow with confusion. “But I thought that Mr. Pratt was found to have committed suicide. And didn’t his wife plead guilty to perverting the course of justice?”

  “Don’t play dumb with me, Miss Greentree,” Inspector Bradstreet glowers. “You really think you’re the cheese that makes the moon, don’t you?”

  “Er, I’m not sure that’s a thing, sir,” Lestrange interjects.

  “Shut up, Constable,” Bradstreet fumes at him, before turning back to her. “You may have the schoolmasters here convinced by your halo-polishing routine, Miss Greentree, but I know better.”

  Mr. McMurdo has been sorting mail but now he looks up. “Is everything all right, Miss Greentree?” the porter inquires.

  “Yes, thanks,” she says. Turning back to the visitors, she asks: “As I told your counterparts in Oxford, I knew virtually nothing about Moira. I didn’t even know I was adopted until the week my parents were attacked.” She contemplates dabbing her eyes, but too quick a succession of emotions will come across as insincere. “Let alone that I had a twin. Have they learned anything from the body?”

  It is Constable Lestrange who replies. “Not much—it was burned beyond recognition. From what we do have, she’s a complete Jane Doe. There’s no record of her anywhere in our systems. It’s like she didn’t exist.”

  Inspector Bradstreet snorts as if this happens regularly. “You’re just lucky that she’s got unique fingerprints, which should enable us to establish that it’s not actually you that’s dead.” He pauses, realising what he has just said. “I bet you didn’t know that even identical twins have different fingerprints, did you?”

  She does, but knows it would be unproductive to say as much. Confining herself to an exaggerated “Oh”, she waits for him to say what he has come to say.

  “In any case,” Bradstreet presses on, reverting to television caricature, “we are not here on a social call. We received a tip-off and would like to request that you let us search your room. We don’t yet have a warrant, but we can get one. When I explained this to your Headmaster, he said that with your permission we could clear this all up quite quickly.”

  Search her room for what? There is nothing to connect her to Mr. Pratt’s death. Moira spent some time in the room, but that was more than a year ago. She could refuse them and search it herself, but they may well return with a warrant. Cooperating might also offer a chance to find out more about the body that is being examined in Oxford.

  “Be my guest,” she says, leading the way from the lodge. “What’s the alleged crime?”

  “Some missing property,” says Lestrange. “It’s probably just a crank, but we were in the neighbourhood and figured we could clear it up quickly if we popped in.”

  “Tell me,” she says as they cross the quadrangle towards the dormitory building, “how did you conclude that there is no record of this Jane Doe? I can understand not having her fingerprints on file, but have you tested her DNA?”

  “All in good time, lass,” Lestrange says. “We only have DNA samples in the database for criminals, so it’s not much use when identifying a young person if they’ve not had a run-in with the law. In most cases when we find a body, the person either has ID on them—a wallet or a phone—or someone reports them missing and identifies the body.”

  “And that hasn’t happened here?”

  “Not as far as I know. No one’s come forward and we haven’t found a purse or even a set of keys.”

  “That’s quite enough, Constable,” Inspector Bradstreet cuts him off. “You will recall that we are here to investigate, not to gossip.”

  “Very good, Inspector.” Lestrange bows his head slightly, mollifying his superior.

  They climb the stairs of the dormitory building and she opens her door.

  “Is it all right if we look around a little?” Lestrange asks, ever polite but also establishing her consent to the search.

  Even as she waves them in, she knows that something is wrong. It is too late to send them away, but someone else has been in her room. The stacks of paper on her desk are a little too randomly arranged. The drawer is a quarter inch more open than when she left an hour ago. She walks over and puts her hand on the chair—still warm.

  There are only two practical hiding places in the room, but the closet is open and there is no one under the bed. He or she—probably she—has left.

  Lestrange appears to have a semblance of a plan, running his fingers down the shelves of her bookcase. But Bradstreet is merely glancing about, as if waiting for something.

  “If you tell me what you are looking for, I might be able to assist?” she asks.

  “Nah, it’s probably just a wild goose chase,” Lestrange says, crouching to look under the bed.

  Bradstreet, meanwhile, strides purposefully towards the desk and opens the drawer. He is not searching; he is following instructions. “Oh yes, Lestrange? Well, the sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander. What do we have here?”

  “I’m not sure that’s how the phrase is used, sir—” Lestrange swallows the rest of the sentence as he sees what the other officer is holding.

  Triumphant, Inspector Bradstreet lifts the black velvet pouch from inside her desk. Tilting it to one side, an octagonal gemstone about the size of a large grape rolls onto his open hand. He holds it up to the window, the dazzling blue catching fragments of the winter sunlight. His eyes, glinting also, move from the stone to focus on her. “Care to explain yourself?”

  A theft to distract Magnus, but also to implicate her? If Moira has planted the stone here, what does the other her achieve? She hardly needs to get Arcadia’s attention. Is this Moira’s way of saying that she is guilty after all? Guilty of what?

  “St. Edward’s Sapphire, I presume?” she says innocently. “I saw it once when we visited the Tower.”

  Bradstreet cannot stop the smile spreading across his face. “We’re onto you this time, Miss Greentree.” Juveniles are not normally handcuffed when arrested, but Bradstreet takes ou
t a pair and dangles them in front of her nonetheless. “You’re coming with us, young lady—you’re nicked.”

  4

  MISDIRECTION

  “My poor, dear, Arcadia. In the prime of her youth, a promising future ahead of her—all for naught as she turns to a life of crime. Such a waste.”

  “Thanks for the moral support, Magnus,” she says, rolling her eyes. “As ever, you are a pillar of strength.”

  “Always happy to help my baby sister. Or at least, the sister with whom I was raised. Speaking of which, may I?” He gestures at her arm and she lifts the sleeve to reveal his signature. He nods with satisfaction. “One can’t be too careful.” Once fooled by Moira, he seeks to avoid falling into a cliché.

  From the freedom side of the bars, Magnus looks around the holding cell and sniffs with disapproval. “I must say, it’s a good thing you called me rather than a lawyer. With luck, we’ll have you out of here before supper. Just as well, for I gather the food is most unsavoury.”

  “You seem very confident of that,” Inspector Bradstreet says from the doorway. He has been waiting for at least a minute, seeking a dramatic entrance. Constable Lestrange follows him into the custody suite, his own face suggesting a twinge of embarrassment at the Inspector’s theatrics.

  “Are you referring to my assessment of this facility’s cuisine or my sister’s imminent release?”

  Bradstreet rises to the bait. “Your sister, here, was the last person to see not one, not two, but three teachers at her school before they died. And now we find her in possession of one of the most valuable jewels in the world, recently stolen from the Tower of London. I don’t think she’s going anywhere—and I don’t particularly care if she finds our ‘cuisine’ to her fancy.”