Death Goes to School

by Q. Patrick

  St. John Lucas felt suddenly sick. His eyes flashed hopelessly about the room. There was Mrs. Dodd abstractedly beating time with her topknot of hair. There was his father, bellowing lustily and pretending he knew the words. He caught what he imagined was a glance of understanding between Mr. Nettleton and Mrs. Bernard-Moss. Why had Mrs. Blouser come in like this? What did it all mean? Where was Mr. Dodd?

  The headmaster was not seen again until the school assembled for prayers half an hour later. Yet in the interval a great many things had happened, which seemed extraordinary even to those boys who were not normally perceptive. Cars had driven up to the house continuously, and among them had been noticed the old Morris Oxford which belonged to Dr. Woodhouse. The school seethed with eager curiosity. Was it measles, mumps or chickenpox? Even St. John Lucas found his apprehensions giving way before the general excitement. His heart was beating with tremulous anticipation as he streamed with the others into the big schoolroom.

  Here another surprise awaited him. Prayers at Craiglea was normally a ceremony in which only the boys and male staff participated. Occasionally there was a visiting “big gun”—some wandering canon or peripatetic bishop—who was asked to say a few words and lead the boys in prayer. This morning, however, not only had the whole staff assembled, but even the servants, male and female, were drawn up in rows along the panelled walls of the Big School. Several housemaids, neat but not gaudy, were bunched together under the scholarship roll. McFee’s head brushed against the 1928 cricket team, and a legendary cook—seldom seen by the boys—stood with folded arms by the glass cupboards which held the athletic cups. Sir Wilfrid and the Bishop were there, too. Only four people were missing—Mrs. Bernard-Moss, the Moss twins and the headmaster.

  “Is it going to be a pi-jaw?” the boys asked themselves in wonderment. “Or is the Old Man just lining everyone up for Lucas’s pater?”

  They were not kept long in doubt, for a few seconds later, Mr. Dodd himself hurried in. From the strained expression on his usually benign face, even the smallest boys could tell that something really important had happened. There was an air of solemnity about the scene such as had not been felt since Malcolm Mills had been expelled for stealing several years ago.

  The headmaster approached the dais and held up a hand for silence. A few chairs cracked, then the hall was absolutely still.

  “Boys,” he began in a voice that was resonant with seriousness, “I regret to have to tell you that a very unfortunate accident occurred last night. One of your number, Eric Bernard-Moss, has been—er—very badly injured. The doctor is with him now. It is possible that one of you was quite unwittingly the cause of these—injuries. Perhaps some innocent ragging or skylarking took place in the dormitory last night which has had consequences more serious than were intended. If anyone knows anything about this I can assure him that every effort will be made to make allowances, and no blame will be attached except where blame is due. If, on the other hand, any boy should hide knowledge of what may have happened to cause the injury to young Moss, he will be threatened with instant expulsion.”

  These words were followed by so deep a silence that the dropping of a pencil from the neighborhood of the clumsy Derek Pemberly reverberated through the hall like a pistol shot. Boys and staff stared at the headmaster in open-mouthed mystification.

  “No one has anything to say? Very well.”

  “I am going to ask the Lord Bishop of Saltmarsh to lead us in prayer.”

  There was a respectful rustling as the assembly rose to its feet. The Bishop’s beautifully modulated voice echoed around the raftered ceiling of the Big School.

  For some reason unknown to the boys, he had chosen a prayer from the service for the burial of the dead.

  “I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord. …”

  IV

  AN ENEMY HATH DONE THIS

  After morning prayers, when the boys had dispersed to their various classrooms, Mr. Dodd, Sir Wilfrid and the Bishop were joined by Dr. Woodhouse. The four men retired to the headmaster’s study. Unnoticed by the others, young Lucas followed them in. The room, like all others of its kind, had a bleak, impersonal appearance, and smelt vaguely of chalk and old books. Its austere atmosphere was not brightened by the presence of Mrs. Blouser, who was awaiting them in one of the worn leather chairs. The school matron was still semi-hysterical and as white as her own crumpled apron. She sprang up as the four men entered.

  “It’s true, is it, Doctor?” she asked earnestly. “It really is true?”

  Dr. Woodhouse gave a brief nod. “I’m afraid so.”

  “Dead!” The word echoed flatly along the crowded bookshelves. “And me findin’ ’im there all bundled up! Good gracious ’eart, I never knew such things—”

  “Now, Mrs. Blouser,” put in the headmaster quietly, “do not distress yourself more than necessary. It has been a great shock to us all, but I must ask you to tell your story once again for Sir Wilfrid. He is the Chief Constable and naturally must be given an exact account of what happened.”

  Mr. Dodd took up his position behind the paper-strewn desk and indicated chairs. Sir Wilfrid, very brisk and military, sat down, followed by Dr. Woodhouse and the Bishop. Mrs. Blouser was left standing alone in their midst. She twisted a damp handkerchief between her plump fingers.

  “It was like this, sir,” she began, eyeing the Chief Constable nervously. “Yesterday Mrs. Dodd asked me to put clean sheets on the beds on account of the company. But there was so much to do I ’adn’t more time than to do the beds and bundle the dirty sheets into the linen-cupboard between B dormitory and Mr. Nettleton’s room, expectin’ to take them away and get them ready for the laundry this morning. Well, while the boys were at breakfast, I went up to fetch ’em out. I opened the door and it was then…” Her voice trailed off.

  “Yes, yes, go on,” barked the Chief Constable impatiently.

  Mrs. Blouser raised her eyes. “I didn’t see ’im straight away, sir. The cupboard was crammed full of them dirty sheets an’ I started to take them out likes I always do. I’d pulled out about ’alf a dozen when suddenly—I saw an ’and. That’s all, sir, just an ’and sticking out of the sheets, like. At first I couldn’t believe it. I just stood there, staring. Then I realized the boys would be comin’ out of breakfast soon. I knew I had to do something, so I bent and began to push the sheets away as fast as I could. It was then I saw ’im. He was all crouched up like, right at the back of the cupboard. I didn’t know ’oo it was or anything. I thought it must be some sort of an ’oax. I shouted at ’im, but he just stayed there, still as a stone. I touched him.” The school matron paused and continued in a low whisper: “’E was all stiff and cold, sir. I don’t remember much more. I think I screamed, and the next thing I knew I was running to the dinin’ ’all to fetch Mr. Dodd.”

  This narrative seemed to have exhausted Mrs. Blouser. She passed a hand over her damp forehead and turned almost imploringly to the headmaster.

  “That’s all, Mr. Dodd. I don’t know nothing else. Can I go now, sir? I’ve come over a bit queer. I think I need a breath of fresh air.”

  “Of course, of course.” Mr. Dodd glanced up at her wearily. “We won’t need you any more just now.”

  He waved towards the door and the matron made a hurried departure.

  Throughout Mrs. Blouser’s story, Sir Wilfrid’s Anglo-Indian complexion had been, growing more and more fiery. Now it was the color of a chili.

  “This is a terrible business,” he ejaculated. “Terrible! You’ve examined the boy, eh, Doctor?”

  “Yes.” Dr. Woodhouse’s tone was professional. “I’ve had McFee carry the body over to the sanatorium. I have just come from there.”

  “How did he die?”

  “Well, Sir Wilfrid, before I express my official opinion…”

  “Damn any official opinion,” snapped the Chief Constable, squeezing the monocle into his left eye and regarding the doctor fiercely. “As a medical man, surely you can tell us whether
or not the body was smothered.”

  Dr. Woodhouse coughed. “From a cursory examination, I would most certainly say that death was due to suffocation. The boy must have died about eight hours ago—that is, between one and two o’clock last night.”

  “Hmph. Can you explain how he got into that cupboard?” The Chief Constable twirled one end of his military mustache. “Seems damn fishy to me.”

  “The boy could have walked in his sleep.” The doctor’s voice was guarded. “Of course, it’s rather unusual that he should have squeezed himself in between the sheets, but it’s perfectly possible. I have read of equally extraordinary cases.”

  “I suppose there will be an inquest,” the headmaster was saying bleakly.

  “Inquest?” echoed Sir Wilfrid. “Yes, I’m afraid so—eh, Doctor?”

  Dr. Woodhouse eyed Mr. Dodd mildly. “Yes. My own personal opinion is that the whole affair was an unfortunate accident and no one is to blame. After all, there were no marks of violence on the body, no signs of struggle. But even so, I’m afraid an inquest is inevitable unless the cause of death can be more definitely verified. I myself would not care to sign the certificate under the circumstances. But I will see the coroner and arrange all the details personally.” He picked up his bag and crossed to the door. “And I’m sorry about this, Dodd. I’ll do all I can to help.”

  “Sorry!” echoed Mr. Dodd as the door closed behind the doctor. “Well, gentlemen, this is the ruin of my school. It is the most terrible thing that could have happened.” His voice was hollow. “An inquest—the publicity. Parents will be taking their boys away by the dozen within the next twenty-four hours.”

  Behind the screen, Lucas’s heart was beating wildly. He peered more courageously into the room, forgetting in his excitement the perils of discovery.

  “Nonsense, Dodd,” Sir Wilfrid was saying, and as he spoke, his face grew steadily redder, his voice more gruff. “D’you think your friends would let you down now of all times, eh? I’ve always been pretty grateful to you and Mrs. Dodd. You’ve been dashed decent to my boy, Derek. I know I’m not much of a man for words and expressing myself, but don’t think I haven’t appreciated all you’ve done. There’ll be an inquest all right, but it can be kept out of the press. We can avoid anything like an open scandal.” Relieved now from the necessity of articulating his emotions, Sir Wilfrid assumed a very official tone. He put a finger to his nose and looked for all the world like a shrewd turkey-cock. “The coroner’s a personal friend of mine. You needn’t be afraid of the verdict. I know you well enough to realize you and your staff will be exonerated from any charge of negligence. And as for the boys, there is no reason why an accident of this sort should affect them. My son will stay on, and I’m sure my lord will feel the same way.”

  “Of course I shall leave St. John with you.” The Bishop also had reddened with emotion and was leaning forward earnestly. “I only hope the doctor was right in exculpating him from any share in this tragedy. He was, to say the least of it, extremely imprudent. With Sir Wilfrid and myself to back you up, Dodd,” he added, smiling a trifle apologetically at this reference to his own influence in Saltmarsh, “you should have no trouble from the other parents.”

  Mr. Dodd rose, his eyes moist with gratitude. “Gentlemen, I thank you for your confidence. I thank you more than I can say.” His voice trembled slightly as he spoke. “I can only swear to you that, as God is my witness, I believed your confidence is not misplaced. Mr. Nettleton, who was on duty last night, is a man whom I feel I can trust implicitly. He was recommended to me personally by my old friend, the master of All Saints, Oxford.”

  Lucas, who had been leaning forward eagerly, slipped back behind the screen as he saw the study door open. The headmaster had noticed it, too. He broke off and moved towards the tall figure of Mrs. Bernard-Moss.

  The American lady was pale and slightly haggard, but the whiteness of her cheeks added a certain poignancy to her face.

  “I cabled my husband immediately,” she said briefly, casting a general glance around the assembly. “A reply should arrive any minute.” She crossed to one of the leather chairs and sat down. “Have you anything fresh to tell me?”

  In a few tactful words, Mr. Dodd explained to her how the matter stood, concluding by assuring her that, although the actual circumstances of her stepson’s death were still undiscovered, both he and Dr. Woodhouse felt sure that the whole matter would eventually prove to have been a most unhappy accident.

  Mrs. Bernard-Moss regarded him without emotion. When he was done, she took a cigarette from a lacquer case.

  “So the doctor thinks that Eric died by accident,” she said, the gaze from her amber eyes resting on each of the men in turn. “I would like to agree with him, but I’m afraid I cannot. …”

  She broke off and touched the spring of a tiny enamel lighter. There was a little click, followed by a spurt of flame which lit up the soft contours of her face.

  “You see,” she continued quietly. “I am almost positive that the boy was deliberately—murdered.”

  V

  BLOOD WILL HAVE BLOOD

  The effect of Mrs. Bernard-Moss’s words upon the gathering was electric. Behind the screen, Lucas’s mouth dropped wide open. Sir Wilfrid’s monocle fell with a tinkle against his watch-chain, while Mr. Dodd took a step forward.

  “Murder!” He spoke as though he had been half expecting, half dreading the articulation of this word. “Murder at Craiglea! why, it’s impossible!”

  “When I think of this lovely English village, I can scarcely believe it myself,” murmured Mrs. Bernard-Moss sending blue spirals of smoke up to the ceiling. “But my husband and I have been fearing something of this sort. That is one reason why I came over here so suddenly.”

  “Fearing it!” burst in the Chief Constable. “You mean to tell me you were expecting this? Why, who on earth could want to murder a young boy?”

  “Quite a few people, in this case.” Mrs. Bernard-Moss crushed the cigarette beneath a perfectly manicured finger. “To you English people it may sound incredible, but you must let me explain the situation. My husband is a judge of the criminal court of Minnesota, you know. Not so long ago in our state, which has a large German population, there was a serious outcrop of Hitlerian anti-Jewish riots in which many people were killed. After investigation, it was discovered that they were definitely backed by the Nazi party.”

  Mrs. Bernard-Moss’s lovely eyes wandered to the window and rested there, contemplating the bright sunshine and the formal rose-beds of the headmaster’s garden.

  “Eventually, several of the ringleaders of this society were arrested and brought up before my husband. The defense argued that the actual deaths were merely the outcome of political unrest and that the defendants could not be held personally responsible. The prosecution, on the other hand, brought forward a great deal of circumstantial evidence to prove that the prisoners had actually plotted the death of certain individuals and led the riots accordingly. It was hinted that my husband was prejudiced in the matter. He is of Jewish extraction himself, you know. At any rate, as a result of his direction to the jury, the men all received very heavy sentences, and one of them was condemned to the electric chair.”

  At the words electric chair, St. John Lucas almost jumped out of his seat.

  “The life of an American judge is never entirely free from danger,” continued Mrs. Bernard-Moss, instinctively pushing into place a lock of raven hair that had slipped from beneath the gray hat. “After this trial, my husband has had a lot of trouble. Almost weekly he has been receiving threatening letters. They have come from many different places, but they are all the same in tone. They accuse him of personal bias. They speak of revenge in rather a melodramatic fashion. He has killed their friends. They are not going to rest until he and his entire family are wiped out. Of course, when the Judge first received these letters, he took all the routine precautions. He installed a teletector in the house and consented to having a bodyguard of police. But h
e didn’t take the matter very seriously—at least, not until the attempted kidnapping.”

  “Kidnapping!” broke in Mr. Dodd with horrified astonishment.

  “Yes. There was a kidnap attempt made on the boys last spring. That is why my husband sent them to school in England. He imagined they would be safer over here. I believe he even put a private detective agency on the job of protecting them.” Mrs. Bernard-Moss took out her lacquer cigarette-case once again. “Of course, all this started before the Judge and I were married, but it is still going on. Only last April my husband’s car was shot at in the street, and then—we received the latest letter. It came from this very neighborhood.”

  “Good heavens!” exclaimed the Bishop, fingering the amethyst cross on his waistcoat.

  Behind the screen his son gave a low whistle.

  Sir Wilfrid’s official composure had almost deserted him. “A letter from Craiglea?” he exclaimed, as though it were a personal insult to himself that anything so barefaced should have emanated from his own particular district.

  “Well, the postmark was actually Saltmarsh, but that’s near here, isn’t it?”

  “You brought the letter?” asked Sir Wilfrid sharply.

  “Yes.” Mrs. Bernard-Moss fumbled in her bag and produced a crumpled envelope. “It’s just three words,” she explained as the Chief Constable literally snatched it from her hands. “‘WE’RE HERE—WAITING’.”

  Sir Wilfrid stared at the envelope. The address was carefully printed in block capitals. Above the bearded face of His Majesty King George V, the word SALTMARSH was faintly decipherable. The date was three weeks earlier.

  “As soon as we got it,” Mrs. Bernard-Moss was saying, “I persuaded the Judge to let me come over at once. He was eager to come himself, but it was absolutely impossible for him to get away. It seems I arrived just too late.”

  Sir Wilfrid gazed at her apoplectically. He was too much of an “English gentleman” to show open doubt of a lady’s word—especially of so attractive a one as Myra Bernard-Moss. But the whole scheme of gangs, vengeance and kidnapping was absolutely outside the realms of his comprehension. They were so far-fetched—so damnably un-British.