The muscle relaxant has almost worn off, yet she allows herself to be helped down the line of cages towards the control room. Bell remains on the ground, a hand gingerly reaching up to the nose that Miss Alderman’s shoe appears to have broken.
The substitute teacher pauses to pick up the revolver and trains it at Bell’s prostrate form.
The click of the weapon being cocked rouses her. “Don’t,” she hears herself say. “Not that he doesn’t deserve it, but you shouldn’t have to live with the consequences.”
Miss Alderman hesitates, and in the silence they hear the sirens. Police. And an ambulance. Then pounding on a door.
There is another click as Miss Alderman uncocks the gun, tucking it into her belt. For good measure the teacher kicks Bell in the abdomen, causing him to double over in pain, then resumes helping Henry walk Arcadia towards the control room.
From outside they hear a loud hailer. The police warn that the building is surrounded. Is it seven o’clock already?
They reach the control room. She is able to stand now and lets go of Henry and Miss Alderman. Her bag is still on the floor and she is bending to retrieve it when her eye catches movement in the other room.
Bell is moving towards them, fists clenched. An animal noise issues from his throat as she slams the door in his face, locking it from the inside. Through the glass panel, she sees the rage in his eyes, the fury that would burn them all. And, as she holds his gaze, she starts to see the madness that has long smouldered and now consumes him.
He bangs on the door until his skin is torn. Then his eyes narrow and a grin begins to spread across his bloodied mouth. The keychain is in his pocket. He looks down to remove it, which is when she sees the macaques gathering behind him.
Bell holds up the key to the glass panel, leering at her as he fits it into the lock. The white-tufted macaque now holds the metal pipe Moira wielded and is chattering to the others. She feels the handle beginning to turn, when a dozen sets of teeth and nails attack him from behind. Unable to fight them all off Bell collapses to the ground, crushing one beneath his body. The others redouble their efforts and he writhes in pain. At a signal they stop, their white-tufted leader screeching an order while standing a few inches from the face of the man who raised them and tortured them. He looks up in confusion, as the macaque bares its teeth once more and lifts the pipe high above its head.
12
FAREWELL
“All rise,” Mr. Ormiston says, inviting those present to stand as the upper sixth students enter Hall for the last time. A nod to the organist and the introductory chords to the anthem “Jerusalem” echo through the wood-panelled chamber:
And did those feet in ancient time
Walk upon England’s mountains green? …
The Leavers’ Assembly is a tradition as old as the Priory School itself. Both celebration and farewell, it marks a transition in the lives of the pupils even as it reaffirms the constancy of the school. As they pass through the oaken doors, some of the younger students crane their necks to catch a glimpse of their seniors, perhaps looking forward eagerly to the day when they, too, will leave the school. Perhaps fearing it.
Arthur Saltire catches her eye and gives her a thumbs up. She nods in response, keeping in step with Henry who walks alongside her. His blond hair has been trimmed for the occasion; combined with the academic gown he looks older somehow.
It is now eight months since he followed her to Bell’s warehouse, another debt she owes him. A keeper, as Moira said. They approach the stage and she lets her fingers brush against his. He half turns, the corner of his mouth rising in a grin.
They have both been offered places at Magdalen, which is still advertising for a new tutorial fellow in medicine. The official story is that Dr. Bell fell while on a morning walk and hit his head, dying tragically. A brilliant, if eccentric scholar will be missed by all who knew him. She has seen the autopsy report, however, which indicated that his head was hit multiple times before he died, with additional scratch and bite marks over much of his body.
The secret laboratory has been closed down and the macaques taken to Marwell Zoo. Magnus’s people saw to that, doubtless acquiring all the data from Bell’s experiments along the way.
And was Jerusalem builded here
Among these dark satanic mills? …
Magnus himself had arrived sometime after the police first stormed the building. Even at that early hour he wore a suit perfectly tailored to his portly frame.
“I see you got Moira’s message and followed the device on Dr. Bell’s van,” she said. “Though why she told you to come only at 7am escapes me.”
“What are you talking about, sister dear?” he replied, biting into a pain au chocolat that was recently purchased at the late Dr. Bell’s preferred café. “Moira simply dialled 999 from a landline here and asked the police to tell me my sister was present.”
She could not hold back a laugh. Her sister had lied—theatrical to the very end. Magnus looked at her quizzically but declined to ask where the humour was to be found as her tears of laughter flowed and flowed. Awkwardly, he put an arm around his sister, patting her back as she wept into his shoulder.
Bring me my spear! O clouds, unfold!
Bring me my chariot of fire! …
The police later dredged the river and found several macaque carcasses, but no trace of Moira. The current was strong, she was told at the time; the body could well have been carried all the way out to sea. Since the police had already registered Moira as deceased, it did not take much of a nudge from Magnus for them to drop the matter entirely.
A week later, Magnus delivered Moira’s backpack to her. In it were the chess pieces, an empty bottle, and the other her’s cigarette lighter. On a cold, clear day they walked through the woods by the Priory School to the river’s edge, where she built a mound of fallen leaves and twigs and placed the black queen atop it. With the lighter, she ignited the modest pyre, tending it until the most versatile, most powerful piece on the board was reduced to ash. With her hands she poured the carbon remains into the bottle, sealed it, and set it afloat on the stream. Brother and sister watched in silence as the current bore it around a bend in the river and out of sight.
Today, Magnus stands with the relatives of the graduating students, wearing his festive red bow tie. As she and the other upper sixes reach a row of seats on the stage, they turn to face their family members and the younger students. At the back of Hall a well-dressed woman and her husband are attempting to navigate their way to some empty seats. Standing next to her, Henry groans with embarrassment at his parents’ tardiness.
At Magnus’s side is a wheelchair.
I will not cease from mental fight,
Nor shall my sword sleep in my hand, …
Soon after Bell’s death, she explained to Magnus the potential for his discoveries to help coma patients. Most of Bell’s work disappeared into the classified Project Raven, but the therapeutic aspects were discreetly transferred to a promising young medical researcher at Cambridge working on neuro-regeneration. Mother was included in the first clinical trials and the results have been promising.
Within two months, Mother regained consciousness and is now able to recognise faces, though she has yet to speak. In the wheelchair she does not sing, but her head bobs in time with the music. Occasionally, her eyes meet her daughter’s. There is hope.
… Till we have built Jerusalem
In England’s green and pleasant land.
The anthem concludes and Mr. Ormiston returns to the lectern as the assembly is seated. “Congratulations,” he says to the graduating students. “Today is the last day that you have to listen to the Headmaster of the Priory School.”
Polite laughter ripples through Hall. “Over the past years,” he continues, “it has been my job and that of my colleagues to help you become men and women, to prepare you for the world and your place in it. We have taught you, and we have tested you. But the greatest tests are yet to come.”
He surveys the young men and women before him. “One of the challenges you will all face is that, eventually, you will run out of tests to pass. From that point on,” he is now looking at her, “you will be setting your own exams. I hope you are ready for them.”
A pause and then he turns to face the larger audience. “And now it is my pleasure to invite the dux of the school, Arcadia Greentree, to say a few words. Miss Greentree?”
Another custom of the Leavers’ Assembly is to have a valedictory address by one of the students. Mr. Ormiston approached her a month earlier to ask if she would speak. “No one typically remembers anything said at a graduation,” he began, underselling it somewhat. “I know you’ve had a difficult few years, but you’re one of the best students the school has ever had—that I’ve ever had. This will be our last chance to leave an impression on these young men and women, to plant a seed before they go off into the world.” He paused, before adding: “I also think it would be good for you.”
She did not ask what benefit he thought it would confer on her, but agreed to speak. In the subsequent weeks there was little time to think of it, however, and now she moves to the lectern with no speech prepared and barely an idea of what she wants to say.
Facing the audience, she sees Mother’s eyes wandering around the room before coming to rest on her own. A smile crinkles Mother’s face and her eyes resume their journey. Magnus leans over to wipe away a drop of saliva with a monogrammed handkerchief.
On the other side of the wheelchair sits Sophia Alderman, a name the substitute teacher has decided to keep. When the police arrived at Bell’s laboratory, Arcadia offered to create an opportunity for her to escape before the uniformed officers entered the room. “I’m tired of running, Arcadia,” the teacher said, kissing her on the cheek.
“Why did you do it?” she asked.
“Do what?” Miss Alderman began, then sighed. “Why did I agree to bear another couple’s child? I was young, I was foolish. He flattered me with stories of greatness.”
“You said you regretted it.”
Miss Alderman looked her in the eye. “My mistake wasn’t agreeing to carry you in my womb. The mistake was ever agreeing to give you up.”
They embraced, and then the substitute teacher went to turn herself in to the police. After several hours of questioning about the death of Charles Milton, she was released—almost certainly through some intervention by Magnus. Having successfully impersonated a teacher, Miss Alderman is now training to be a real one.
Another ripple of laughter spreads through Hall, though it is now laced with awkwardness. Arcadia has been standing at the lectern in silence for too long. Mr. Ormiston leans forward to see if she is all right.
She nods and clears her throat. Someone titters, assuming incorrectly that she is nervous. And then it comes to her.
“Once upon a time,” she begins. There is another titter from one of the yearlings at such a cliché. “Once upon a time, there was an old woman. She was blind. But she was wise.”
It is the story Mother told her many years ago, the story that she later discovered exists in many cultures. Sometimes the woman is old, sometimes young. Sometimes it is a guru sitting on a mountaintop.
“Now one could tell a different version of this story about an old man, or maybe it was a young girl. The bird might have been, in fact, a butterfly. But let us stick with this version for the moment: an old woman, blind, wise.”
Mr. Ormiston sits back in his chair, listening.
“One day,” she continues, “some clever young people decide to visit her. Born to the brightest parents, they attended the best of schools. They know their place in the world and are determined to put the old woman in hers. She may be blind, they think, but she is not wise. And she is not cleverer than they. For they intend to prove her to be a fraud.”
The tittering has stopped and Hall is silent.
“One of them, a young man, has brought with him a small bird, a baby raven,” she says. “He holds the chick cupped in his hands and approaches the woman.
“‘Old woman,’ he says. ‘They tell us that you are wise. So tell me what it is that I have in my hands.’
“She listens carefully. Perhaps she hears the movement of the chick. ‘I believe,’ she begins, ‘that you are holding a bird in your hands.’
“Some of the young people raise their eyebrows at this. The man is not finished, though. With a shake of his head he indicates for them to wait. For the best is yet to come. ‘Tell me, old woman,’ he challenges her. ‘Is it alive or dead?’
“The old woman is silent.
“He repeats his question: ‘Old woman, is the bird I am holding alive or dead?’ And he smirks. Because if she says it is dead, he will release it and the flapping of its little wings will show her to be a fool. But if she says it is alive—if she says the bird is alive, he will crush it to death and drop the carcass in her lap.
“Still the old woman says nothing. She is silent for such a long time that a few of the young people begin to laugh.
“Finally she speaks. ‘I do not know,’ she says at last. ‘I don’t know if the bird you are holding is alive or dead. The only thing I know is that it is in your hands. It is in your hands.’”
The peal of bagpipes marks the end of the formal part of assembly, with guests invited to a modest reception of cucumber sandwiches and fruit juice.
Another familiar face approaches from the side of Hall. “Good morning to you, Miss Greentree.”
“Good morning Constable”—she notes the new epaulettes on his uniform—“I’m sorry, Inspector Lestrange. Congratulations.”
“Thank you. Yes, Inspector Bradstreet decided to take early retirement. Worried about his ticker, I think.”
She is not surprised at the promotion. Lestrange became something of a media darling after he found the ravens stolen from the Tower of London. A pet shop near the Priory School reported the mysterious delivery of six black birds and it was Lestrange who made the connection. He was not blamed when, upon their return to the Tower, it was discovered that their clipped wings had been repaired and three managed to fly away themselves.
“It’s very good of you to come today,” she says.
He shifts in boots that are now well suited to him. “Ah, it’s the least I can do after all you’ve done for us. You were right about those bank robbers, by the way. A search of hospitals for recent knee reconstructions narrowed it to two blokes, one of whom was playing for West Ham United at the time of the theft.”
She nods, waiting for him to ask what he has come to ask.
“So you’re off to university, then,” he says. “I guess we won’t be seeing quite so much of you.”
“I guess not,” she replies. Waiting.
“Would it be OK if, every now and then, I gave you a call to get a second opinion on a case?”
She inclines her head. “I would like that very much, Inspector.”
“Miss Greentree!” The call comes from the door, where Mr. McMurdo, the porter, stands. He hastens across to her, nodding his apologies to Inspector Lestrange, who goes off in search of a sandwich.
“I’ve got the strangest delivery for ye,” the porter gasps. He has run all the way from the lodge. “Courier just dropped it off, sayin’ utmost urgency. Though I’m no sure what ye’d be wantin’ with all this.”
He passes her a large FedEx pouch weighing at least two kilogrammes. The return address is a transhipment centre in London, but it bears an oversea postmark. She thanks him, rips the plastic, and takes out a hessian sack, inside which are three small mallets. A bag of hammers.
Breath quickening, she looks inside the sack for a message and finds a postcard. The picture shows a statue of an odd creature that is half-lion, half-fish, a jet of water issuing from its mouth into a lake—or perhaps it is a bay. She turns the card over to read the short message written in a careful hand:
Dear Arky,
Sorry for not writing, but I lost my pen.
In addition, after some pretty cool last words, I wanted to be sure I wouldn’t need to use them again too soon.
Naturally, I was right and Dr. Bell-end was wrong. Granted, it took a few months, but I’ve now completed a doctorate and am running a lab doing some ground-breaking work on stem cells.
(As for that researcher your brother picked at Cambridge, she may be thick as two planks but at least knows how to take advice. Perhaps I’ll keep an eye on her, but your mother seems to be progressing well. Oh, and do make sure she keeps taking the DHA.)
Regarding myself, life expectancy may not quite hit three score and ten years — but as you said yourself, Arky, who wants to live forever? Even though we cannot make our sun stand still, yet we will make him run!
So anyway, Arky, be good — and if you can’t be good, be quick and don’t get caught.
Love always,
Moira
She looks up from the card, allowing herself a smile. She will see her sister again. There is no return address, but the merlion statue is a sufficient clue to get her started.
Lifting up the bag of hammers, she is heading towards Mother when she almost bumps into Sebastian.
“So you’re off to Oxford, I hear?” he says easily. “I guess this could be the last we’ll see of each other.”
“I guess so, Sebastian,” she replies without stopping. “Life really is full of little consolations, isn’t it?”
She continues across Hall to where Mother sits in her chair with Magnus and Miss Alderman. A shaft of sunlight bathes the trio in a warm glow. “It’s a beautiful day outside. Shall we head out to the quadrangle?” she asks.
Magnus is turning the wheelchair when Henry joins them, his parents stranded in conversation with Pipe-Major Scott. “Nicely said—your speech, I mean,” he says, stretching out a hand to shake hers. An oddly formal gesture, but she holds out her own. “It’s in your hands,” he says, hesitating.
Being Arcadia Page 15
