A Question of Proof (2 page)

‘Terrible affair, this Staveley murder,’ exclaimed Gadsby, rustling his
Daily Express
in a marked manner. ‘I see they’ve nearly finished the fullah’s trial. I always say’ – Michael trod heavily upon Griffin’s toe under the table – I always say, ‘Tiverton, that you never know what a fullah’s capable of when there’s a woman in the case.’

Griffin and Evans sighed rapturously at this new specimen for their collection – they were confirmed platitude-hunters – while Gadsby proceeded on his remorseless way:

‘Here’s this chap Jones, a bank-clerk, married man, exemplary life; suddenly falls for a barmaid; trots round the corner for a packet of arsenic; does his wife
in
. What amazes me, Griffin, is the nerve some of these quiet little chaps have. I remember in my platoon –’

Griffin interrupted hastily to dam the torrent: ‘Yes, when we find you lying in a pool of gore, we’ll search Sims first for the blunt instrument. He’s a nasty look in his eye, has our Mr. Sims.’

Gadsby gave vent to a bellow of laughter, which occasioned an acid comment from the prefects’ table – ‘Old Gaddie’s giving tongue again.’ Sims sniggered feebly, rather pleased by the suggestion:

‘Oh, come, Griffin, I mean to say – What am I to murder Gadsby for? After all, he hasn’t got a wife.’

‘Don’t be too sure of that,’ put in Tiverton, and winced at the still louder peals of laughter elicited from Gadsby by his remark.

‘No cherchez la femme for me,’ said Evans. ‘If I was looking for a murderer I should look for an egotist. Wrench is my man.’

The prospective culprit shot a venomous glance at him over the top of his paper. Evans turned to Tiverton, ‘Though I can’t see any of us qualifying as a victim. It’s only in school stories that the staff are always assaulting each other with umbrellas and living in a perpetual welter of bad blood.’

‘Quite right, Evans,’ said Gadsby, ‘all morbid nonsense. We’re all matey enough here, old man, aren’t we?’

‘One big, happy family, as Percy puts it,’ remarked Tiverton distastefully.

‘Well, chaps,’ Griffin exclaimed, ‘if murder’s done here, it will be committed by me upon the person of that human wart, young Wemyss. Just because he’s Percy’s nephew he thinks he can boss the whole bloody place. Of all the slimy, overfed specimens – and he’s just enough low cunning to keep out of serious trouble himself. But whenever there’s a row on he’s at the back of it –’

‘Like one of Buchan’s Napoleons of international crime,’ put in Evans.

‘Napoleons of international –’ retorted Griffin obscenely. ‘I’ll wring his neck for him one of these days. Do you know what he did –’

We may safely leave Griffin to his cataloguing of the crimes of the boy Wemyss and tune in to another station, the prefects’ table.

‘What’s the first race this afternoon?’

‘The 440, you boob. It’s all up on the notice board. Oh, I forgot, you can’t read.’

‘Funny boy! I say, Stevens, I heard the Griffin say you might bust the record.’

‘Oh, rot! I haven’t an earthly; anyway, old Simmie will probably muck up the stopwatch like he did last year.’

‘Talking of Simmie, have you heard what Wemyss did in his French class yesterday?’

‘Stale! Tell us something new!’

‘But seriously, it’s about time that squit Wemyss
was
suppressed. Pedantic Percy’s little pet is getting above himself. He tried to bribe Patterson to beat up Smithers at the hay battle last night.’

‘Well, are you going to report him to Percy?’

‘Be your rank! A-ah, I strongly deprecate idle talebearing: I choose my prefects to govern, not to – hahum – gossip.’ This last in a devilishly accurate reproduction of the Rev. Vale’s more didactic utterances.

The head of the school, a serious, comely child of thirteen, now delivers judgement:

‘No, there’s no use applying to Percy. But we might hold a court on him –’

‘I’m prosecutor!’

‘I’m executioner!’

‘Shut up! It isn’t a joke. It’s a bit thick the way he carries on with old Simmie. Ever since he came –’

‘Mother Stevens protecting her little Simmie!’

‘Oh, fry your face! I’m sorry for Simmie. He’s a born ass, but Wemyss goes a bit too far.’

‘I say, Stevens, what about getting your brother to set his gang on him? Wemyss is not one of the Black Spot, is he?’

‘I don’t think so; but they’re jolly secret about their members. That’s a crazy notion, though. I’ll talk to my brother in recess.’

‘Secret society beats up headmaster’s nephew.’

‘To hire mercenaries – I may even say thugs, is scarcely the a-ah conduct of a Sudeley Hall prefect or an English gentleman, etc., etc.’

Let us turn from the deliberations of the prefects to another table. A small, puffy boy of eleven years or so, with a vicious expression and the usual hallmarks of too much pocket-money, is guzzling his porridge and tormenting his neighbor alternately. It is the abhorrent Wemyss, or more correctly the Hon. Algernon Wyvern-Wemyss. His neighbour is a fat youth, heavy and resentful of eye, incurably slow in speech and action; his parents are farmers and he is here as a sacrifice to their craving for social elevation. There are one or two of him in most schools, born to be baited: the parents of such, Michael was wont to say, should be prosecuted in the criminal court for sending them.

‘Well, Smithers, how are the livestock doing?’

‘Oh, funny!’

‘Fatting ’em up, and killing ’em off?’ This was a phrase incautiously used by Smithers in an expansive moment some terms ago, and had not ceased to be used in evidence against him.

‘You’re fat enough; we’d better kill you off, hadn’t we?’ Roars of applause.

‘Funny, aren’t you?’

‘Does your father wear leggins?’

‘You’d better shut up.’

‘If he looks like you, I bet the cows kick him when he tries to milk them.’

The overwrought Smithers breaks out and clouts his tormentor on the head. The Hon. Wyvern-Wemyss sets up a theatrical screech. Cries of ‘Fat ’em up and
kill
’em off!’ ‘Go it,’ ‘Prime Beef,’ etc., from all round. And Tiverton comes wearily down to put an end to this tableau of original sin.

One more conversation and our prologue will be over. Stevens minor, the dictator (title derived from Evans’ modern history teaching) of the Black Spot society, leans close and whispers to his lieutenant, a cheerful, chubby infant, Ponsonby:

‘This afternoon: immediately after lunch; in Mouldy’s hut: private conclave: password “Dead Man’s Chest,” countersign – “Bottle of rum.”’

‘But, you fool,’ hisses the lieutenant, ‘we’re supposed to be in the day room then.’

‘We can easily oil out; there’s no roll-call. It’s a life or death matter.’

It is a couple of hours later. Michael has a period off. He fills a pipe and walks down the long passage between classrooms that lead out to the grounds. On either side of him arise sounds of education, curiously antiphonal in effect; a strident, confident recitative from the master, alternating with a treble solo or unison passage. In Sims’ room something halfway between a marathon of coloratura sopranos and a witches’ sabbath seems to be taking place. Michael shrugs his shoulders and passes on. Tiverton’s rather petulant tones on his left: on his right Wrench is teaching the youngest form – a fluky, spasmodic voice; but he is doing it well; he has a gift. I must be nicer to him, thinks Michael. But how nightmare-ish
these
disembodied voices sound. And no doubt mine sounds just as repellent; though I flatter myself that I speak to boys in my natural voice. Anyway, it can’t be as bad as that hectoring drawl of Percy’s. No, I don’t like the man, I definitely do not like the man. What on earth did darling Hero go and marry him for?

He emerged into the airy sunlight, lit his pipe, and strolled down the asphalt path between Big Field and the Hay Field. Mould, the groundsman, was whitewashing afresh the lines of the running track. Big circular stacks of hay, hollow in the middle, reminded him of yesterday’s hay battle. A good romp. Tomorrow they would be dismantled and carted. He walked to the end to the path where the grounds were bounded by a thicket, and turned back. Passing behind the school block and the back of the headmaster’s house he came to the high brick wall of the private garden. At the far end of this, where a shrubbery ran close to the outer side of the wall, was Hero’s pillarbox. Just like her, he thought – not for the first time – her strange mixture of madcap play and reckless loving, to have chosen this romantic line of communication. He looked round once, his heart beating quicker, annoyed by the word ‘furtive’ entering his head, took out a loose brick, transferred a piece of paper from the cavity to his pocket, and replaced the brick. Then he walked back and sat down on a seat by the Big Field, and read her note.

‘Darling, I shall be in the Vth form haystack during lunch tomorrow. Yes, highly imprudent, isn’t it? But please come. I must see you. I
must see
you. H.’

He sat there, content to feel happy, till the bell range for recess. Then he went in to the common room. Surely they must be able to read his secret on his face, see that he was walking in an air of glory? Wasn’t Tiverton looking at him in a rather peculiar way? He endeavored to compose his features into a workaday expression. Unsuccessfully, it seemed.

‘Have you taken to Kruschen, or what is it?’ said Tiverton.

‘No, I’ve just had an hour off.’

Griffin came up to him, ‘Will you change the chaps after lunch? I want to have a last look round in case Mouldy has committed any gaffes. Oh, and I say, Sims wants to know if you’ll take on the stopwatch this year.’

‘Certainly, if he really doesn’t want to – are you sure, Sims?’

‘Yes, I’d really rather you did. I made rather a bloomer of it last year. I mean, I get so excited that I forget to press the button.’

‘All right, then: but I shall probably commit some solecism myself.’

‘Well, for God’s sake don’t commit it during the 440,’ said Griffin, ‘I’m backing Stevens for a record. Will anyone offer me three to one against?
None?
Have you no sporting instincts? Two to one, then?’

‘Done,’ said Wrench.

On which immoral note this chapter may very well close.

II

Lyric and Elegiac

‘
In the morning, in the morning
,

In the happy field of hay
’

was lilting in Michael’s mind as he hurried out of the buildings, having seen every one sitting down safely to lunch and made appropriate excuses for his own nonattendance. The kitchen windows did not give on to the hayfield. Of course, there might be a servant wandering about in the classrooms at the back. Well, if they see us, they see us. Let them. It’s about time we had a showdown. The possibility gave Michael a warm, excited feeling inside, like brandy. He was a natural fatalist – the type of person who, rather lacking in personal initiative, welcomes the feeling of having definite action imposed upon him by circumstances. He gave one look at the blank rows of windows and stepped quickly through the gap in its walls into the haystack.

Hero was there already, in a green dress, with a packet of sandwiches at her side. She was fresh and straight as the green corn. Michael drew her down
and
kissed her, with the scent of hay in his nostrils. A little stream of wind flowed into their sanctuary, blowing her golden hair against his cheek.

‘Darling, you
are
crazy. You’ll be asking me to meet you under Percy’s study table next.’

‘Do you mind?’

‘I love you, my sweet.’

‘I think you’d better stop kissing me now. I want to eat my lunch. There are some sandwiches here for you, too.’

‘But “I on honey dew have fed”.’

‘My dear, you are lovely. No one else could carry off a remark like that.’

‘Leaving that aside for a moment, what explanation have you given to the authorities for this picnic?’

‘I told Percy that I wanted to have my lunch out in the sun. He’s used to my fantastic behaviour by now.’

‘You know, I feel rather bad, the way we talk about him – as though he was your aunt, or a dog, or something.’

‘Yes, I suppose it is rather awful. Of course, I’ve never loved him; but since I have loved you, I do feel much more kindly to him. It sounds very wicked, somehow, but there it is.’

‘Just like a woman, making the best of both worlds.’ He spoke lightly, but was aware that some hidden motive of antagonism or jealousy had caused the words. She felt it, too.

‘Darling, that was a cruel thing to say.’

He took her hand, with a quick impulsive gesture.

‘I know. I’m sorry, my beautiful. But why, why did you marry him?’

‘Panic: sheer panic. Michael, you don’t know what a craving women have at times for comfort, reassurance, the feeling of firm ground beneath one’s feet.’

‘And now you’ve gone out of your depth again.’

‘But I feel different now. I’ve got you beside me, and it makes me seem buoyant and much stronger. I don’t think I could be a coward again, unless you stopped loving me.’

‘Hero, you’re much braver than I am.’

‘I don’t know. One can’t really tell till the emergency comes along, can one? I wish sometimes that some crashing big one would turn up, and cut this tangle we’ve got tied up in.’

Michael stroked the feathery down of her arm; said tentatively: ‘What do you think about this divorce business? Would Percy –?’

‘Dear, we’ve had this out before. I’m not sure, but I think it’s a thing he would be hopelessly obstinate over. And anyway, I’m not going to ruin your career.’

‘My career!’ broke in Michael bitterly: ‘an assistant master in a preparatory school. God help us! Don’t you understand that if I was prime minister, poet laureate, admiral of the fleet, and editor of the
Times
, I’d rather have my career ruined by you than live without you. The trouble is, I’ve no money: none of your “comfort and reassurance”.’

Tears started in Hero’s eyes.

‘Oh, my sweet, I didn’t mean that. You know I didn’t mean that. This business has just got me down. But, Hero, you would like us to be more than lovers, to be married, wouldn’t you?’