Let's Kill Uncle (6 page)

‘I’d like a few words with you please. It’s about Barnaby.’

Mrs Brooks joined them.

‘We couldn’t help overhearing your conversation, Sergeant. I am sure there is some logical explanation. Barnaby is
not
a bad boy, please believe us when we say we know.’

‘Perhaps not,’ Sergeant Coulter stared at his boots. ‘But, nevertheless he does these things.’ He paused and gazed at the end of his cigarette. ‘I think perhaps the best thing to do would be for us to hold a little meeting, and discuss Barnaby. You, Mrs Nielsen, Mr Duncan, Lady Syddyns. I’ll see if maybe I can get Mr Rice-Hope to come over, perhaps he’ll have some advice.’

The Brookses nodded meekly. Sergeant Coulter, in his official capacity, terrified them.

‘Would this afternoon be all right?’

They nodded again.

‘Very well. Two-thirty?’ He touched the brim of his hat and left them.

At two-thirty that afternoon, they were all gathered at the store. Crime was unknown on the Island and the case of the Crown
vs
. Barnaby was an important incident in their lives. Even Mr Rice-Hope, the minister from the neighbouring island of Benares, made a special trip.

Mrs Nielsen volunteered the information that Christie had been present on both occasions. She offered to pay half the cost of the glass for the greenhouse, since she was being paid for Christie’s board and the child was a small eater. She also suggested that Mr Duncan try paint remover on the Iron Duke.

Mr and Mrs Brooks, more disturbed by the stigma of the law than the amount of money involved, were only too glad to pay for the other half of the glass.

Mr Duncan, moustaches still bristling at the outrage suffered by the Iron Duke, had no comments to make except that he did not wish to find Barnaby on his property again. Then, mumbling darkly that certain persons were born to be hanged, he jammed his hat on his head and stalked out.

‘Really!’ Mrs Brooks reached for her digitalis. ‘Really! I never would have expected Mr Duncan to take such an attitude. Why, that bull is dangerous and the child might have been killed. Sydney, did you notice he was only concerned with the bull? He didn’t even mention the danger to Barnaby. That bull should be kept in a barn away from children.’

Sergeant Coulter stared down at her in disbelief. Not a word of censure to Barnaby for his actions. Merely worried that the little bastard was endangering his precious life.

‘Now look here,’ he said, ‘I’m not satisfied about this yet. That boy is going to stay off Mr Duncan’s property. And furthermore, it’s all very well to offer to pay for the glass to replace Lady Syddyns’s greenhouse, but someone has to install it.’

Mr Rice-Hope, the peacemaker, broke in.

‘Sergeant, I will be only too happy to install the glass.’ He paused. ‘It has occurred to me, Sergeant, that perhaps the root of the little fellow’s trouble lies in the fact that he is separated from his uncle. Mrs Rice-Hope said the same thing this morning. Children usually have a reason for being naughty, and I think Barnaby is lonely and misses his uncle.’

‘No doubt,’ replied Sergeant Coulter drily, ‘but as a policeman, Mr Rice-Hope, my duty lies in protecting the possessions and property of the people of this island. Whether he is lonely or not is quite beside the point. He has to learn, and he will learn, that he can’t get away with this.’

Mr Rice-Hope, the gentle result of five generations of clergymen, privately thought Sergeant Coulter was being rather harsh about the whole affair. Obviously the boy needed love, not discipline. Had not Gwynneth said so that very morning?

‘I was wondering,’ he ventured, ‘if I should write a letter to his uncle, not complaining about the boy, mind you, but merely explaining the circumstances. I think we should ask his advice and inquire when he will be here. He really should be kept informed about Barnaby.’

All agreed, and when the meeting broke up, Sergeant Coulter stood at the counter thinking. The boy seemed to enjoy giving a bad impression of himself. A means of getting attention, no doubt. Sergeant Coulter shrugged to himself. Maybe Barnaby did miss his uncle.

He saw the boy playing with a few marbles at the base of the war monument. As he approached from one side, Gwynneth Rice-Hope came from the other.

‘My dear!’ she cried, ‘there you are!’

Sergeant Coulter blanched and secret gales lashed the rocky pinnacles of his heart.

But Gwynneth Rice-Hope’s overflowing Christian love was directed to the boy at the foot of the monument.

Barnaby listlessly continued playing with the marbles.

Since he was not going to rise for her, she would kneel for him. Handling children was basically praise and love, praise and love.

‘My,’ she said as she sat beside him, ‘that looks like fun.’

Barnaby eyed her without interest.

She glanced up, saw Sergeant Coulter, smiled and turned back to the boy.

‘You’re a really good marble player, aren’t you, Barnaby?’

‘No,’ said Barnaby.

She was not discouraged.

‘I’ve just been talking to Mr Rice-Hope, dear. He’s going to write a nice letter to your uncle.’

The boy’s manner changed. He watched her like an alert animal.

‘Why, there’s nothing to worry about, Barnaby. He’s going to tell your uncle what a very, very good little boy you are, and how much everybody here loves you.’

Without warning, the boy sprang to his feet, almost exploding with rage.

‘You - you - you stupid bitch!’

He kicked the marbles aside and ran away.

The policeman’s face darkened. In a split second the disciplined Sergeant Coulter vanished and a very righteous Albert took his place. No one was going to talk to
her
that way.

He ran after Barnaby and Mrs Rice-Hope saw him collar the boy roughly. He shook him, and leaning down,
spoke earnestly to him. The boy gazed up, nodded and walked slowly back to Mrs Rice-Hope with Albert at his heels.

He stood before her, staring at his running shoes. Finally he raised his eyes and said: ‘I’m sorry I said that. I shouldn’t have. I won’t say it again.’

Mrs Rice-Hope tried to clasp him to her to reassure him of her never-failing affection, but he backed away.

‘You’re a very brave little boy to apologise,’ she said.

Barnaby looked at her with surprise.

‘Oh, that’s okay,’ he said with his sudden cheerful smile, ‘Sergeant Coulter said he’d break every bone in my body if I didn’t.’

With a startled glance at Albert, Mrs Rice-Hope left. When she reached the mission boat at the dock, she turned and gave a long look at the two who stood by the war monument.

She was profoundly shocked. At big, brutal Sergeant Coulter.

Sergeant Coulter, his expression sour, gazed down at Barnaby.

‘Well, my little friend, you finally told the truth.’

His hand hovered over Barnaby’s head as he took a deep breath.

‘Now you get this straight! Any more of your didoes and you’ll be off this island so quick it’ll make your head swim.’

‘Me?’ Barnaby’s face was innocent. ‘Where’ll you send me? Nobody but the Brookses wants me.’

That, Sergeant Coulter realised, was unfortunately only too true.

‘There are things called reform schools, Barnaby. You just keep on at the rate you’re going and you’ll end up in
one. Why did you swear at her? All she said was that they were going to write your uncle that you were a good boy. And what did I tell you about swearing?’

The boy shrugged. ‘I forgot.’

‘Why did you break all those windows? Why did you paint the Iron Duke? What gets into you, anyhow? Why do you do these things?’

‘She told me to - Christie. It’s her fault.’

‘Yes, it’s always Christie’s fault, isn’t it? I suppose if she told you to jump off the wharf you would. Barnaby, you’re not even trying to be good.’

Barnaby backed away from him.

‘I try but I can’t.’

‘No you don’t.’

‘But I do, Sergeant. Only I can’t.’

‘Why not?’ Hands on hips, Sergeant Coulter leaned over the child.

‘You wouldn’t understand.’

The muscles of Sergeant Coulter’s jaws tightened ominously.

‘Don’t tell me what I can understand. Why can’t you be good?’

‘My uncle likes me the way I am.’ Barnaby’s face had a guarded look.

Sergeant Coulter straightened up.

‘I’ve had enough of your lying. As a matter of fact I’ve had quite enough of you. To date I’ve found you telling the truth exactly once. It’s always somebody else’s fault, isn’t it? Don’t give me any more of this nonsense.’

Barnaby mumbled something and raised his hands, palms up.

‘What did you say?’

Barnaby kicked his toes in the gravel.

‘I said I told you you wouldn’t understand,’ he replied in a loud, clear voice.

Sergeant Coulter swallowed and said nothing for a few seconds, then his face relaxed.

‘Try a bit harder, Barnaby.’

‘Okay.’

‘Yes, sir!’ snapped Sergeant Coulter.

‘Yes, sir.’

Christie came bouncing toward them.

‘Where have you been?’ she asked Barnaby. ‘I’ve been looking all over for you.’

She turned to Sergeant Coulter.

‘Isn’t he awful, Sergeant? Isn’t he just awful? Agnes Duncan told me what he did. You’re going to get it, Barnaby Gaunt!’

‘Maybe he isn’t the only one,’ said Sergeant Coulter. ‘He says you told him to do it.’

That was a great big fib and Barnaby was a liar, said Christie righteously. All she said was she bet Barnaby was afraid of the bull and he said he wasn’t. And then she said that she bet the Iron Duke would look funny with blue spots, and she bet Barnaby was afraid to paint them on him and he said he wasn’t.

And what about Lady Syddyns’s greenhouse? Had she or had she not told Barnaby it would be fun to chuck some rocks at it?

Yes, she had
said
that. But she sure would never of gone and
done
that. Would her mother ever get after her if she did anything as bad as that!

Sergeant Coulter stared down at them.

‘I’m warning you both. Any more nonsense and you’ll be sorry. I mean it.’

As the children stood at the foot of the war monument watching the impressive figure disappear, their eyes were soft.

Suddenly Barnaby ran after the policeman.

‘Sergeant Coulter!’

Albert stopped and turned.

‘I’d jump off the wharf if you told me to.’

Sergeant Coulter gazed at the upturned face without emotion.

‘That won’t be necessary, Barnaby. Just try and behave for a change. And stop lying.’

He took two more paces.

‘Yes, sir!’ shouted Barnaby.

Sergeant Coulter wheeled as though he were on a parade ground.

But the child was not mocking him.

T
HE PAINT REMOVER
had scarcely dried on the Iron Duke’s coat when Sergeant Coulter received a summons from the crankiest spinster on the Island.

Murder had been done.

Albert glanced nervously at the twisted grey peach tree which was still latticed against the southern wall of Miss Proudfoot’s house.

The little stinkers would pick on her. She spelled one word, and one word only to Albert. Trouble.

During his own boyhood she had caught him with the telltale juice of her stolen fruit still trickling down his chin. After caning him mercilessly, she marched him, like a Crusader with a captive Turk, to his father, who repeated the thrashing.

Albert the man stood now, notebook in hand, towering over his ancient enemy as he recorded the details of the crime.

That morning, said Miss Proudfoot, she had put Fletcher out for his usual airing. She noticed nothing untoward at the time, as she placed him in the shade of her lilac bush.

Grotesque tears rolled down her leathery cheeks as she spoke. It was like seeing a lizard weep, and Albert was both awed and embarrassed.

After leaving Fletcher, she sobbed, she could hear him chattering, but as he always did that when he heard the birds singing in the garden, she thought nothing of it.

About ten minutes later, she heard other voices and decided to investigate.

Fletcher was gone, and that dreadful boy from the store was running down her garden path. Beyond him she saw the goat-lady’s girl.

She chased them but had been unable to overtake them. A half hour later, having dressed herself suitably to go to the store and complain to Mr Brooks, she opened her door and found Fletcher on her doorstep. Dead.

Sergeant Coulter leaned down and picked up the ouncelight body of Fletcher. Even in death the eyes were glazed with fright, and the poor little feet with claws like cobwebs clutched for an absent perch.

He examined the bird carefully as it lay on the palm of his hand. Fletcher’s feathers were ruffled, but there was no blood on him. The pathetic little beak was still open as if he had died with a shriek of terror on his lips.

Sergeant Coulter nodded in sympathy to Miss Proud foot as he assured her he would investigate the matter imme diately.

There would be another meeting at the store tomorrow, and in the meanwhile he would call on the goat-lady.

As he bade Miss Proudfoot good day, his face was sterner than usual. They had apparently outgrown their usual vandal pattern of behavior. This bore the sinister taint of sadism.