Death Goes to School

by Q. Patrick

  Sir Wilfrid’s face darkened as he snatched the paper. “Good God, McFee! You told me nothing about this!”

  “I only found it yesterday.” McFee was still watching Nettleton. “I didn’t have a chance to report before. Besides, I wanted the agency to work on it first.”

  The Chief Constable’s eyes were as keen as a ferret’s. “Mr. Nettleton, is this a picture of you?”

  “It is—or rather it was several years ago.”

  “And you are an American?”

  “Strictly speaking, I am.”

  “My God, sir—I mean, well, dammit! You act like a Britisher; you talk like a Britisher. You might have fooled even me.”

  The English master inclined his head. “Thanks for the compliment, Sir Wilfrid. I’ve worked very hard at it. I’ve even been told lately that I’m too English.”

  “But it can’t be true,” broke in Mr. Dodd in utter astonishment. “This young man was recommended to me personally by the master of All Saints. And, at your request, Sir Wilfrid, I wrote once more asking for details. Dr. Rolandson told me he had been an excellent student, and that his mother and father were known to him personally.”

  “They are, sir,” murmured Harvey Nettleton. “He may have been rather ashamed to mention the fact, but he happens to be my uncle.”

  “Your uncle?”

  “Yes, sir. You know that, like most Oxford dons, he’s rather absent-minded. He probably never thought of telling you that, besides being his nephew, I was also an undesirable alien.”

  All this was too much for the Chief Constable, who had sunk back in his chair and was cleaning his monocle on the bandanna handkerchief.

  “Dr. Rolandson is my mother’s brother. My mother was indiscreet enough to marry a rich American manufacturer—Nathaniel Harvey, of Harvey & Harvey. I notice you have one of his brand of automobile, Sir Wilfrid. Very unpatriotic of you when everyone’s telling you to Buy British.”

  The Chief Constable threw a startled look out of the window, as though he expected his car to appear suddenly in the middle of the headmaster’s flowerbeds.

  “Harvey!” he exclaimed weakly. “You mean to tell me your father manufactures the Harvey car? Why, damn it, it’s the only good American machine on the market. Young man, you’ll have to think out a better story than that!”

  “I’m sorry you believe in my father’s automobiles more than you do in me.” Nettleton flicked his cigarette ash on to the floor. “I only wish I were lying. For years I’ve prayed I might never see another Harvey car. That’s the main reason why I came over here for a little peace and quiet. You see, after I left Oxford, Dad wanted me to go into the business and employ my meager literary talents in writing advertising copy for his cars. We had quite a row because I didn’t like the idea. I’ve never been attracted to industrial opulence, anyhow. I wanted to write real stuff—to support myself doing something I liked in a place I liked. Dad thought I was crazy, and more or less told me I could go to—England or any other place for all he cared. I left in indignation, and indulged a rather romantic whim by changing my name.” The young man glanced apologetically at Mr. Dodd. “I came back here to Oxford and told Dr. Ronaldson that I hadn’t a cent. He very kindly recommended me to you, and I got this job. I hope you don’t feel I’ve deceived you, sir. I think I’ve done my work here as well as I could.”

  Mr. Dodd’s lips moved, but he did not speak.

  The English master rose and regarded his astonished audience with solemnity. “That, gentlemen, is the story of my life. If the novel makes money, Dad will run true to form and climb down completely. Anyhow, judging from the dramatic picture in the paper, he’s showing a strong inclination in that direction already. I can go home now and make peace with honor in St. Paul, Minnesota.”

  “Well, Mr. Nettleton—er—Harvey, this yarn of yours is going to need a lot of confirmation before I can accept it entirely.”

  “Oh, the story’s true enough,” murmured McFee surprisingly.

  “You mean you believe all this tommy-rot?”

  “Certainly. The facts are all correct. He is the son of Nathaniel Harvey. I come from that neck of the woods myself and his face has always been bothering me. As soon as I saw that newspaper photograph, I knew for certain. He’s the son of a rich man all right, but as he admits himself, his father gave him the air. Who his parents are has nothing to do with this case.”

  “Of course it hasn’t.” Sir Wilfrid turned to Harvey with the truculence that English officials always use in addressing suspicious foreigners. “Young man, you’re in an extremely awkward position. Your room adjoins the cupboard where Eric Moss’s body was found. You were the only member of the staff to be about when Irving disappeared. You’re an American and it’s an American we’re looking for. What’s more, as an alien, you have been deliberately breaking the laws of this country. Until I have had time to think this matter over, I must give you definite orders not to leave the premises.”

  “Very well, Sir Wilfrid. But you’re going to be disappointed if you want to make a murderer out of me. A black sheep, perhaps, but not a ravening wolf. With your permission, I think I’ll call my father on the ’phone. There are several little things I’d like him to confirm.”

  “Telephone to your father?” echoed Mr. Dodd, aghast at the idea of a transatlantic conversation.

  “Yes, sir. But don’t be alarmed about your ’phone bill. I think he’ll be willing to pay for a collect call judging from that newspaper picture which, incidentally, I hadn’t seen myself until McFee kindly brought it to my attention.” The English master moved to the door, where stood the stolid figure of Inspector Saunders. “You needn‘t worry, Inspector. I won’t run away. If you want me—look for me by the telephone on the first-floor landing. You’re all welcome to come and listen if you’d like to.” He cast a general glance around the assembly—a glance that finally settled on McFee. “If Dad tells me anything interesting. I’ll let you know. After all, this whole business has its roots in America, hasn’t it?”

  McFee looked up from the notebook he had been studying. “I’m going to do a little ’phoning myself, Mr. Harvey. It’ll be amusing if we’re both after the same thing.”

  The English master’s eyes narrowed. “So you’re beginning to get an inkling of who really did it, are you?”

  McFee smiled. “Inkling? Yes, perhaps you might call it—an inkling.”

  XVI

  SCANDAL FOR THE SCHOOL

  The news of Irving Moss’s death had thrown Craiglea into an uproar. Fruitless attempts were made to keep the boys under control, but the constant spectacle of policemen hurrying to and fro, the numberless cars, the whole atmosphere of nervous excitement made it impossible to continue the curriculum with any kind of discipline.

  And then, as a climax, the staff, one by one, had been summoned to the headmaster’s study. Twice Mr. Heath had to leave his form. Mlle. Santais’s composition class was left hanging in the middle of a sentence. Mr. Nettleton was interrupted during a spelling test and departed with a large policeman, not to be seen again by his pupils for the rest of the morning.

  There was hardly a boy in the school who did not immediately associate this latest tragedy with the death of Eric Moss earlier in the term. Chance recollections of that first incident were unearthed and grew to enormous proportions. Winch mi., who had seen Irving leave the dormitory that morning, was the hero of the hour. Time and time again he would go over his experience to an enthralled audience, while some furtive urchin kept cave at the form-room door. The air was full of hideous and bloody conjectures.

  St. John Lucas alone remained unmoved before this wave of mass hysteria. To him Winch mi. and the other eager theorists were mere amateurs. He had his black notebook, the secret backing of McFee—the real inside information. It was only a question of time before the detective would tell him all that had really happened to Irving.

  “If only Winch and that crowd knew what I know,” he told himself, “they wouldn’t be so cocky.”r />
  While the other boys in his form chattered unendingly about Mr. Nettleton’s sudden departure with the policeman, Lucas sat apart with a Gioconda smile on his lips. The small black notebook lay on the desk in front of him. In it he was scribbling something which looked like: “frt nat zakwut quo ddle thla…”

  The situation had become really critical now. Lucas had started to note down all observations in the most secret of his codes.

  With the school routine completely shattered and her husband still in conference with the authorities, the onus of maintaining discipline fell upon Mrs. Dodd. This second tragedy had affected her far more than the first. Her kindly face was drawn and tired, her hair as obstreperous as that of the White Queen herself. She bustled about, giving the impression of helplessness, yet really performing miracles of organization. When Mlle. Santais collapsed after her interview with Sir Wilfrid, Mrs. Dodd herself stepped into the breach. With masterly, though somewhat erratic French grammar, she took over the abandoned composition lesson, and her firm tones could be heard ringing round the Fourth Form class-room: “Maintenant, garcons, donnez-moi votre bonne attention.”

  Even Sophonisba had been roped in to teach by her indomitable mother. She had pinned a notice on the board saying: “No music-lessons today,” and had taken two of Mr. Heath’s geography classes.

  It was not until break that she had a moment to even think.

  She crossed to the door. As she shut it behind her, she heard the sound of a familiar yet somehow different voice farther down the passage. Harvey Nettleton was sitting at the little telephone table, speaking excitedly down the mouthpiece.

  “Sure—anything you say. … O.K., Pop. … And you’ll put a man on that job right away?… Yeah, don’t forget to get in touch with old Bernard-Moss. … What? What’s that?… Damn this connection. … Hey, New York, New York, you’ve cut me off. … What?… Never mind. I’m through.”

  He slammed down the receiver and glanced along the corridor at Sophonisba, who was staring at him in unconcealed astonishment.

  “Hello, just too late to meet my father.”

  “Your father! What on earth—?”

  The young man moved towards her, his blue eyes serious. “Miss Dodd, there’s something I’ve got to tell you.”

  “I’m sorry.” Sophonisba’s face hardened as she remembered the last time he had used that expression. “Mother’s asked me to take your class.”

  “To hell with the class—you’ve got to let me talk. Oh, no, you needn’t worry. I’m not going to bother you in that way again.” He gripped her arm. “It’s just that I’m in a tough spot. I must have your help. This is your room, isn’t it? We can talk in there.”

  Before Sophonisba realized what had happened, he swept her into the bedroom, shut the door, and stood with his back to it.

  “Now, then. Before I start, perhaps I’d better explain that telephone call.”

  “There’s no need to explain. I know you’re an American, if that’s what you mean.”

  “Still hand in glove with the porter, eh?”

  “Not necessarily.” Sophonisba’s tone was cool. “As a matter of fact, it was Lucas who found the newspaper photo in your room. You shouldn’t punish the boys that way if you don’t want them to pry into your personal affairs.”

  “So young Lucas is the star sleuth of your little trio!” Harvey’s eyes were twinkling, but they grew very serious as he saw the stony expression on the girl’s face. “Sophonisba, you don’t—surely you don’t think that I—?”

  “I don’t see why I should have any particular confidence in you.” Sophonisba moved to the window. “After all, your whole life here has been one long mystery, hasn’t it? Not only have you kept things back from the police, you’ve kept them back from me, too. And—and”—she turned and faced him squarely—“you pretended at one time that you were really fond of me.”

  She looked almost amazingly beautiful as she stood there with an angry flush on her cheeks. The young man made a movement towards her.

  “Sophonisba, I—”

  “Please! We can’t talk about ourselves now. There’s so much to do—”

  “But I must talk about myself, Sophonisba.” He took her hand and pressed it almost roughly. “In a few minutes I’m going to be arrested.”

  Sophonisba gasped. “You mean—?”

  “Yes, I mean it. That old fool Pemberly’s going to have me arrested for the murder of Irving and Eric Bernard-Moss. He didn’t actually say so, but I saw it in his eye. Any minute, now, Inspector Saunders will be knocking on the door.”

  “But McFee—he’ll help!”

  “No help from your friend, McFee. His hands are tied. He couldn’t go against the police any more than we can—even if he wanted to.”

  Sophonisba gazed at him. Behind the wreath of cigarette smoke his face was pale and almost humble. Somehow this new humility made him more attractive. When next she spoke, her voice was softer, more sympathetic.

  “But you didn’t really have anything to do with it?”

  Quickly, eagerly, he broke into the explanation he had given the police that morning. When he talked about his novel, Sophonisba’s lips parted with interest. Now and again, it seemed, she was going to interrupt with questions, but his words flowed on as though he were talking against time. At length he stopped and lit another cigarette.

  The room seemed very still as the two young people looked at each other intently.

  “I want to believe you, I do.” Sophonisba’s voice was low. “But if this was all the mystery, why, why didn’t you tell me before?”

  Nettleton looked at his finger-nails. “I didn’t see the point. Obviously you didn’t care. Why should I have bothered you with my stupid little secrets?”

  “And then, there’s something else.”

  “Myra Bernard-Moss?”

  “Yes.” Sophonisba flushed. “It all seemed so—funny.”

  “Funny! There’s nothing particularly funny about it. Mrs. Bernard-Moss recognized me when we met on the cricket-field. She was kind enough not to give me away.”

  “You mean you knew her in America?”

  Harvey passed a hand over his eyes as though in indecision. “Yes. As a matter of fact she was my first love. But it didn’t go very deep on either side. We were in a crazy theatre venture together once, and now she’s a Judge’s wife she’s particularly anxious that no one should know she’s been on the stage. You see, Myra’s got social ambitions.”

  “Is that why she was in your room the night Eric was killed?” asked Sophonisba with unconscious irony.

  Nettleton looked surprised. “Our friend, the porter, seems to have been pretty thorough.” He smiled. “Or do I have to thank Lucas for that as well?”

  Sophonisba nodded, smiling too.

  “Myra has some unconventional habits. Perhaps they’re a hang-over from the old days,” explained Harvey. “But, underneath it all, she’s as cold and respectable as Saltmarsh cathedral. I should have been rather a cad if I’d told the police about that charming and quite spontaneous visit of hers.”

  He broke off at the sound of heavy footsteps coming up the stairs.

  Sophonisba’s eyes flicked to the door.

  “Quick. You said you needed my help. What is it?”

  “No time now. And I mustn’t compromise you by being found in your room.” Harvey pushed open the door and pulled her after him into the passage.

  “For God’s sake,” he said hoarsely as Inspector Saunders and a constable approached them along the corridor, “use all your girlish charms in vamping the Inspector to let us be alone for five minutes. It’s not that I mind being arrested, but”—his voice sank to a whisper—“I believe I’ve got an idea.”

  He was interrupted by Inspector Saunders, who coughed apologetically at Sophonisba before speaking.

  “I’m very sorry, Mr. Nettleton—that is, Mr. Harvey, sir, but I’m afraid we shall have to hold you on a charge of violating the Aliens Act of 1922. Sir Wilfrid wants
you to go with us into Saltmarsh as soon as possible.”

  XVII

  THE RIVALS

  “Very well, Inspector.” Harvey’s tone was calm. “Miss Dodd”—he turned to Sophonisba with exaggerated politeness—“I’m afraid I shall have to ask you to be kind enough to take my classes while I am—er—temporarily detained in Saltmarsh.”

  “Oh, mercy!” Sophonisba made a moue that was almost theatrically helpless. “You simply must explain what I’ve got to do.”

  “I doubt if there’s time now.” Nettleton cocked a hopeful eye at the Inspector. “We mustn’t keep Sir Wilfrid waiting.”

  “Can’t you give me ten minutes?” Sophonisba looked from one man to the other with well simulated bewilderment. “There are all those exercise books in the music-room. And then there are those notes on parsing and analysis—”

  “I’m sorry, Miss Dodd,” interrupted the Inspector.

  “Oh, please, Inspector Saunders. We’ve had so much trouble in the school lately.” Sophonisba seemed suddenly to have inherited her mother’s aptitude for italics. “It isn’t fair to break up the boys’ work this way. Won’t you—won’t you please, let Mr. Nettleton run through the work and show me what I have to do?”

  “Well…” The Inspector was obviously weakening.

  “It won’t take ten minutes, and the music-room’s just at the end of the passage there.”

  “All right, Miss Dodd.” Saunders, who had known Sophonisba since she was a baby, closed one eyelid solemnly to show that he was not taken in by this businesslike conversation. “I’ll wait here. But only ten minutes, mind.” He produced an enormous watch from his pocket.

  Sophonisba and Harvey hurried into the music-room. Almost before they had shut the door, the young man started to speak breathlessly.

  “Listen,” he said. “You’ve been pretty close to what has happened here and what the authorities are doing. Will you trust me enough to tell me now as quickly as you can, everything about this case that I don’t know? I want to see if it fits into the pattern I’ve been working out.”