by Bruce, Leo
Was it a smile which stretched Matron’s thin lips over her dentures?
“He’d never dare,” she said finally, and left it at that.
Chapter Four
Carolus wandered out on to the lawn on which the St. Asprey’s Archery Club, as the Men had begun to call themselves, practised their sport. A little thatched summerhouse stood in a corner of the lawn near what he took to be the shooting base and in his restless inquisitive way Carolus peered into it. He was surprised to find a tall man examining an arrow.
Denis Kneller looked like an old-fashioned colonial, his tanned face, bright blue eyes and large pipe suggesting camp-fires and trapping, or diamond mines, or tea-planting in faraway places. He spoke slowly, too, and moved deliberately as though profoundly concerned with what he was doing.
He looked up at Carolus without hostility.
“You’re the new Man, I take it.” he said, thrusting forward a brown hand. “I’m the cook.”
There was a hint of defiance in this self-introduction.
“I hear you’re very keen on all this,” said Carolus nodding towards the arrows.
“So, so,” said Denis Kneller with marked casualness. But Carolus saw the eyes blaze with the unmistakable light of fanaticism and knew that he had touched on an obsession. He was willing to learn for there seemed to him something occult, almost mythical about the whole business of archery, but he would like to have obtained information by his own questions instead of hearing a slow, not over-articulate discourse delivered between puffs from Kneller’s pipe. When Kneller began to talk in a way that pre-supposed understanding from Carolus of ‘the Royal Tox,’ Carolus stopped him.
“What’s that?” he asked.
The Royal Toxophilite Society, it appeared and Carolus learned that the Prince Regent had been its patron, and was still remembered in ‘the Prince’s lengths’ (100 yards, 80 yards and 60 yards, still used in the championships) and the ‘Prince’s reckoning’ for the values of the rings of the target, from the gold centre which scored nine, red seven, blue five, black three and the white outer ring one. Kneller further explained that an ‘end’ consisted of six arrows shot in two groups, and what was a ‘York round’ and an ‘American round’. It was all very esoteric.
Carolus asked what was the distance of the target here and Kneller explained that as Mollie Westerly was a keen archer they did not use the greater ranges which in men’s championships were as long as a hundred yards. “But”, he said, “the thing is to be able to shoot at different ranges from thirty to eighty yards, say. We can’t manage more than sixty here. The targets are standing at forty now.”
“It looks enormous to me,” admitted Carolus.
“Not really,” Kneller told him seriously. “They’ve become very keen, you know, and some of them are quite good. There’s a couple who live in the neighbourhood, Bill Ferris and his wife, parents of one of the boys, who come over most afternoons and are really up to championship standard. Ferris learned to shoot in Belgium which gives him a different kind of accuracy.”
“Why?”
“Tir à la perche” explained Kneller. “They shoot there at dummy wooden birds with plumes on them perched on the crossarms of a thirty-five metre mast. On its top is the king bird the, coq, and there are big and small birds at different heights. The archers shoot straight upwards with very heavy arrows called maquets and have to dislodge the birds. This gives them altogether a greater facility. Shooting at a target on the ground is apt to make you proficient only at certain lengths and marks. Those who practice tir à perche are more versatile.”
“Yes, I can imagine that. From what wood are bows made nowadays?”
“Yew,” said Kneller emphatically. “By tradition and in fact. It is as it always has been the best wood for the bow.”
“What about field archery? Does anyone in civilized countries try to kill wild animals with a bow and arrow?”
“I should think they do!” said Kneller enthusiastically. “A man named Saxton Pope in America made friends with Ishi, the last of the Yana Indians who taught him all he knew. Pope and another professor, Arthur Young, proved that most game animals could be killed by bow and arrow. They killed grizzly bear and moose, and Young achieved the believed impossible by killing the great Kodiak bear with a single shot. Then they went to Africa and shot lions. Extraordinary, really.”
“Quite,” said Carolus. “Surely it couldn’t be done with arrows like these?”
“You use a hunting arrow or broadhead,” said Kneller, unscrewing the head from the arrow he held. “Wait, I’ve got some here and will show you, I was a member of the N.F.A.A. in America and have always been more interested in hunting than in target shooting. Look at this—heavier, more fletching and with a steel tip of razor sharpness.”
“Dangerous looking thing, that.”
“A man would have to be a good shot to put it to any effective use,” said Kneller. “But we’ve worked out a field round with targets of various sizes and go round it like a golf course on Sundays.”
“Who are your best shots?”
“Young Mayring’s getting pretty good, and Bill Ferris’s wife Stella. Mollie Westerly’s very accurate on the target at one range, forty yards, but gets lost at other lengths. Jim Stanley—very nice chap on the staff who suffers from being popular with Mrs. Sconer—has come on wonderfully. I’ve interested him in field archery now and he ‘killed’ a wooden hare at twenty yards last Sunday. Dear old Jumbo Parker’s not much good but he likes to come out with us. But Duckmore is a mystery. He doesn’t seem to be able to hit the target yet he has got the manner of a skilled professional and has the whole vocabulary of archery at his fingertips. He seems to be suffering from a strain of some sort; I think he may have been good once, but you need calm and peace of mind to be good at this.”
“That completes your membership?”
“Yes. Horlick, the gardener, who’s a bit of a character likes to try his luck sometimes when he’s not being watched from Matron’s window. But that’s not often. That window overlooks the range and if you’ve met Matron you’ll know that she doesn’t miss much.”
“Nothing, I should imagine. Does she approve of archery?”
“Matron approves of nothing,” said Kneller. “But that is not of prime importance. She is merely an observation post. And now with Sime laid up we are watched from two quarters. His bed commands an excellent view of us.”
The two had come out of the summer-house now and Carolus looked at the school buildings.
“Which is Sime’s room?” he asked.
“That,” said Kneller, indicating a white bungalow, “is the staff quarters. There are four bedrooms there and the common-room. As you see it’s joined by a passage with the main house. Sime, Stanley, Duckmore and Mayring sleep in the staff bungalow and we send along coffee at eleven and tea at four o’clock to the common-room. Mollie Westerly and Matron have rooms in the private part of the house, so has Jumbo Parker who was here before the bungalow was built. That’s Sime’s window with a crowd of small boys round it.” He indicated a window some yards from where they stood. “I suppose they’ve put you in the spare room next to Matron’s?”
“Yes.”
A smartly dressed man and woman appeared by a garden path. The man was burly and tweed-clad, a prosperous-looking fellow in his early fifties, the woman, also in tweeds had a good complexion and an attractive smile. At a distance she looked very young but when they approached Carolus saw that she might not be much younger than her husband though fresh-looking and attractive. Kneller introduced him to Mr. and Mrs. Ferris.
“You’re standing in for Sime, I take it?” said Bill Ferris with a friendly smile.
“Yes, for a week or two.”
“Bad luck his being laid up.”
“I rather gathered it was good luck that he wasn’t killed,” said Carolus.
“Yes. See what you mean. D’you go in for this archery stuff of ours?”
“I never have. It looks as th
ough I must make a start. You’re all pretty keen, I hear.”
“Gets the old turn down.” said Bill Ferris. “Or so Stella tells me.”
“It doesn’t seem to have done much for you,” said Stella smiling.
Pleasant, cultured, upper middle class, wealthy, country-dwelling English people, Carolus thought; well mannered, probably hospitable and, one would suppose, the soul of honour. What was it he did not like about them? Bill’s rich resounding voice? Stella’s pearls? Or something watchful and tense in both of them?
“How’s Sime?” Bill asked Kneller.
“I haven’t seen him. He’s eating all right,” said Kneller sharply.
Bill looked across at Sime’s window.
“I see my youngster’s among the worshippers at the shrine,” he said peevishly.
“Oh darling, what’s it matter?” asked Stella. “There’s always a popular master at every school.”
“Yes. but why Sime?” He turned to Kneller. “Anything else happened?”
“There was a row in Sime’s room last night. It started as an argument about the Second Eleven, I believe and grew into an almighty shindy between Sime, Stanley and Mayring. But that’s nothing unusual.”
Mollie Westerly appeared, looking, Carolus thought, very unlike any schoolmistress he had seen. She was in her middle twenties, cool, rather lovely in a Mediterranean way and her clothes had that simple-appropriate look of quality which can only be achieved at great expense. She gave Carolus a polite smile but said almost at once—“Why haven’t we started? It’s half past two.”
The crowd of boys round Sime’s window had been drawn away by the main body on its way to the cricket field.
Mollie’s brisk decisiveness semed to animate Kneller and Bill and Stella Ferris for bows were produced and practice began. This was not a casual affair—each took six arrows and shot them all at his own target—then all four walked down to retrieve their arrows chattering about the sport as all practicants of all sports do. There did not seem much difference between their respective skills. Stella Ferris was the only one who missed the target altogether with one arrow. Kneller had the highest score.
Carolus watched while the process was repeated and noted how orderly it all was. They might have been governed by the strong rules which are obeyed at rifle butts, and for the same reason—to avoid any possibility of accident. The bow and arrow were still, after all, as lethal as at Crecy.
“Like to try?” Kneller asked him.
“I would, but not today.” Carolus said.
Kneller sat with him on a bench while the other three continued their practice.
“You find it interesting?”
“Of course. I’ve never considered it except historically, you know. I suppose the invention of the bow ranks almost with making fire and using speech as a step forward in human progress. It really put mankind on top of the animal world, didn’t it?”
“I’ve never thought of that. It was certainly the most accurate way of projecting a missile till firearms came.”
“But not the only way.”
“No. The sling, the boomerang, the blow-pipe, the dart…”
“And, of course, other forms of catapult projection. It must have suggested those.”
Kneller did not seem much interested, but Carolus, watching him, went on.
“The crossbow was a kind of catapult, wasn’t it? But the Greeks used an enormous engine called a ballista, I seem to remember, which could hurl great rocks and beams with remarkable accuracy. I am sorry that this kind of thing has sunk to the mere schoolboy’s catapult. I should like ballista-firing to be revived.”
“It couldn’t have the appeal of archery,” said Kneller briefly.
“I don’t know. It wouldn’t be difficult to construct a rough implement, powerful enough to hurl a rock some yards at a given object. It could be pretty accurate, too. If it did not kill, it could impel…”
“I suppose you’re pulling my leg,” said Kneller slowly. “It would have nothing to do with archery.”
“No,” agreed Carolus, “except that one was a later development of the other and suggested by it. Look, I think I should go over and make the acquaintance of the man I am replacing. How do I find his room?”
Kneller told him the way.
“Go into the staff bungalow there by that green door. Sime’s room is on your left, number 3.”
Carolus found Sime propped up in a bed facing the window. His appearance was not prepossessing. He had a rather brutal and beefy face with small cunning pig’s eyes and a thick neck. It was the face of a big man but Carolus would have been surprised to know that Sime was six foot two in height as in fact he was. He looked up surprised when Carolus, after a tap entered, but seemed to guess Carolus’s identity and gave him a grudging smile as he put down the Dennis Wheatley novel he was reading.
“You’ve come to take over my job, I gather,” he said. “I wish you luck with the little fiends. But I don’t think it will be long before I’m on my feet.”
“I hope not,” said Carolus politely. “What a piece of bad luck for you. You must hate being laid up in this lovely weather.”
“It wasn’t a matter of luck. Some bastard pushed me down that staircase.”
Carolus showed no particular curiosity, only a polite concern.
“It was at the church, wasn’t it? Some of these old tower staircases are dangerous.”
Sime seemed exasperated.
“Nothing to do with the staircase. It was the push I’d got. I’d just driven up on my way to Cheltenham, and thought I’d take a look at the view from the tower. Then this had to happen.”
“You weren’t able to drive home afterwards of course.”
“No. They had to bring my car. I’d left it at the gate. I wonder they didn’t find a charge to make about that. It was out there all night. It’s that push I can’t get over, though.”
“Really? Did you actually feel that?”
“Of course I did. The hell of a great thump in the small of the back. However, you want to know about these classes of mine.”
For twenty minutes Sime gave a resume of his programme and Carolus wondered how he had gained the reputation of a brilliant teacher for he seemed to be behind all his schedules and had very little understanding of his pupils’ young individualities. He seemed to take it for granted that Carolus would be as little interested as he was in them. When he finished Carolus tried a more general approach.
“School seems in a bit of a mess,” he said.
Sime looked up quickly.
“In what way?”
“Atmosphere,” said Carolus vaguely. “Everyone seems half scared.”
“All a lot of nonsense. Some half-wit playing practical jokes. I’m the only one who has a right to be scared and I’m not at all.”
Suddenly Carolus dived forward from where he sat and pulled from under Sime’s pillow a 22 revolver, the butt of which he had just seen protruding.
“Then why have you got this?”
He watched Sime’s face. He saw an angry contortion of the features change almost instantly to a grin.
“It’s no business of yours,” said Sime equably. “But I don’t mind satisfying your curiosity. (Rather cheek, you know, pulling that out.) I like firearms. Got quite a collection at home. Bought that in a pub in London last holidays. I shouldn’t be surprised if it had been used in hold-ups. But I did not want anyone to find it while I was laid up. That’s all.”
Carolus thought it wise to appear to accept this. He wanted Sime’s confidence and thought now that his own move had been ill-advised. So he did not mention what he had seen—that it was loaded. He handed it back.
“Sorry,” he said. “It was a bit cheeky, as you say. I like firearms myself.”
They talked amicably for a few minutes more, then Carolus asked if Sime was comfortable, right in front of a window.
“I don’t mind, really. It was that bitch Matron who had my bed moved here. Said it was easier for th
e doctor. I suppose she thinks everyone is as inquisitive as she is. All I can see from here is that ridiculous archery.”
“You don’t go in for it?”
“Kids sport. I’m not a blasted Red Indian. The rest of the staff has gone mad on it.”
“So it seems.”
“I hadn’t time, anyway. I wanted to get a decent cricket eleven together. Young Mayring’s quite good but I’m responsible for the cricket here. It takes time, coaching the little beggars.”
Carolus stood up to go.
“I say, would you do me a favour?” Sime asked. “I want a letter posted and can’t rely on any of the lot here.”
“I’ll certainly post it.”
Sime handed him a stamped and adressed envelope.
“Stick it in your pocket,” he said. “This inquisitive crowd we’ve got would want to know all about it.”
Carolus did so.
“You going in to staff tea? The common room’s next door. You’ll find them all there presently.”
When he was out of Sime’s room Carolus looked at the letter. If this had been a murder case he would not have scrupled to read the contents but in the circumstances he did not feel justified in doing so. But he noted the name and address on it—Mrs. Ricks, 22 Sapperton Road, Cheltenham.
Chapter Five
It was still to early for staff tea and wandering outside again Carolus met a genial-looking elderly man who was coming from the direction of the archery lawn. He guessed it was Jumbo Parker.
The Oldest Member of the staff greeted him in a friendly way, complained of the rheumatism which was causing him to walk in a stiff-legged way, and suggested that they should go in together and wait in the master’s common-room for tea.
“It will be along in a minute,” he said. “I must say Mrs. Skippett’s never late. You go in and I’ll join you.”
The common-room had a well-worn look, curtains, chair-covers and some shreds of Axminster carpet were all near their end. There were armchairs but one was of creaking wickerwork and the springs in another had ceased to co-operate. The smell of pipe smoke, some piles of exercise books, a bottle of red ink on a stained table-cloth through which the deal of the table was visible—it was all in the narrowest convention of preparatory school common-rooms.
