by Andre Norton
8
“Your Word Against Theirs”
Chris opened his eyes. This time he was not surprised to see overhead the ceiling of the room in Aunt Elizabeth's apartment instead of the years-darkened wood of the inn. He did not move at first, just lay thinking of the scene from which he had come by some means he could never understand. The fear which had held him so strongly as he sat with bound hands and listened to Hawkins’ careful questioning of Tim was gone.
But he had been left with a want to know more. What had happened to Tim? And had they ever caught Catsby? He thought mostly about Hawkins and about his father—the Ira Fitton of the inn, the father who had believed in him and had then moved to do the best he could for his son.
Chris could close his eyes and see that other's face as if Sergeant Major Fitton stood in this very room here and now. A queer sense of loss crept in to fill the emptiness which fear had left. In spite of all that had happened to him, had threatened him this time within the walls of the Red Hart, he longed to be back there.
“Chris!”
There had come a cautious tap at the door; his name was called in a voice hardly above a whisper. He wriggled out of bed. What did Nan want? It was very early yet; the light was gray.
“What is it?” His answering whisper sounded like a hiss.
“Chris—you are here then—”
Now what in the world did that mean? Chris opened the door a crack. Nan pushed it farther open, enough for her to slip in.
“You—you're all right?”
“Why shouldn't I be?”
“I thought—the Squire—he was going to take you. I heard him talking to the Nevisons. I didn't know what was going to happen!”
“You were there then? But I didn't see you, not this time!”
She held her robe closer about her as if she were cold, though the bedroom was so warm after the remembered ever-present chill of the inn that Chris felt nearly too hot.
“I was a Nan again, too, a different one though. Sometimes I wonder—Was I once all those Nans? This time I went down to the inn. I told your father about Tim, about what the Squire might try to do. My father wanted Tim to change his story; he offered him the money to say he saw you actually setting fire to the rick. What happened, Chris? Did Tim lie?”
“He didn't get a chance.” Chris swept a pile of clothing off the chair and motioned Nan to sit down. “Hawkins fixed him, but good.”
Nan listened so eagerly that Chris found himself describing the scene at the inn with more detail than he planned. When he ended with the departure of the Squire, she looked disappointed. “That was all?”
“Oh, Hawkins said something about Tim's helping with more facts and so making it easier for himself. But—it all seemed so easy, Nan, when Hawkins laid it out so they could see—drawing up the plan which proved Tim couldn't have been where he said he was, and finding out about Tim and Catsby being so close. Easy—when you know how to do it.”
The happiness was gone from Chris's face now. He had that shut-in sullen look again.
“Chris,” she ventured, “what's the matter? It came right in the dream, didn't it?”
‘This isn't the dream,” he returned flatly.
“You are in trouble.”
At first he resented Nan's statement. It was no business of hers. Who was she? Then memory returned; there were a number of Nans now he could think of. There was the Nan who by a trick had helped him save Master Bowyer; there was the Nan who had led him to warn the dragoons; there was that last Nan—he had no doubt that she had done exactly as she had just now told him, carried the news of Tim to his father so both Ira Fitton and Harry Hawkins had been forewarned as to what weapon the Squire held. Then there was this Nan. When he looked directly at her, one face seemed to fit over another until they became the one he knew best.
“I'm in trouble.” And because he could not see any way that he could fight this time, he told her of his attempt to outwit Canfield and what had come of it.
“So there are two questions which were the same.” She sat up very straight in the chair, her hands folded in her lap. “But, Chris, if you had been selling the whole exam, the way they said, then all the questions would be the same, wouldn't they?”
“They can say I was doing it for money,” he pointed out.
“There has to be some way you can prove it,” she said hotly. On her face was the same look of determination he had seen two of those other Nans wearing. Her chin was up and her eyes were bright with beginning anger. Not against him, Chris realized with a small odd shock, but for him! Nan was ready to help.
“I don't know how.”
“This Mr. Battersley, how well do you know him, Chris?”
“Not much better than I know any of them.” For the first time he allowed a crack to open in his shell against the world. “I hate the place! Battersley's tough, but he's fair. And he knows his stuff. I got pretty good marks on my papers so far this term.”
“And Canfield and the rest?”
“They aren't in my section. That's the point. I have that class before they do, so it'd be easy to slip along information about the exam.”
“Then why go to all the bother of making up questions,” Nan pointed out. “And the wrong questions?”
“They say it's for the money.”
Nan considered the point. There must be some chink in Canfield's argument—there had to be. But it was not going to be as easy to find as the weak point in the Squire's accusation had been. That had been built on a lie, and one easily overturned by a man used to questioning liars and ready to expect some sort of cover-up.
“Can they prove you need money?”
Chris looked thoughtful. “I don't see how they can, but, of course, one can always use money. I showed Aunt Elizabeth my wallet. I've two dollars left from my allowance—that's all. But they can say I hid it somewhere.”
“It's your word against theirs then—”
“That's just the point, you see. They're big—or at least Canfield is. He's captain of the soccer team, and his gang will back up what he tells them. I'm a loner—”
“You are you,” Nan said quietly; and something in the way she looked at him made Chris feel queer, as if she believed he could do just about anything he wanted to—beginning with taking on the whole Academy. Except that was impossible, of course.
“I'd go to Mr. Battersley,” she continued. “Your best argument is the fact that the exams don't agree. How many questions were there anyway, Chris?”
“Six. But—” He shook his head slowly. “I can't blab to the Batman that I was so afraid of being roughed up that I made all this up. It's the disgusting truth"—he made himself say that—"but it's one I'm not going to tell.”
“Has anyone ever done this before—sold exams, I mean?” Nan was off now on another tack.
Chris shrugged. “I don't know. At least no one ever told me about it. I've only been there this one term anyway.”
“It sounds to me,” Nan said slowly, “as if this Canfield had an answer ready because he expected some trouble. Just like Pat—”
“Pat who?”
Nan gave him a quick, uncomfortable glance. And then made up her mind swiftly. Maybe if she showed him he was not the only one—She told her story of the “shopping” trip in a few sentences which did not spare her own ignorance.
“But you did it!” Chris nodded. “You got them off your back! Only I can't use your gimmick—it wouldn't work. This is not the same thing at all.”
“I did it,” Nan remembered, “because I thought about Uncle Jasper—and how I was able to trick him. Chris, you did things which were brave. You went for the dragoons, and you told the truth to the Bow Street runner so he was able to save you. There's got to be a way—”
“Those—I was dreaming!”
“I wonder.” Nan got up from the chair and went to pick up the inn. For the first time she had no feeling of discomfort as she handled it. When she set it back on the night table, she brushed an e
nvelope to the floor. Hurriedly she picked it up.
“That's mine!” Chris snatched it from her with some of his old hostility.
But Nan dared to answer him this time. “That's from your father—and you never even read it.”
Chris's scowl was blacker than she had ever seen it. He twisted the envelope between his fingers as if he would tear it apart unopened. Then, with a defiant glance at her, he ripped it open and spread out the typewritten sheet it contained.
At least, thought Nan bleakly, he gets a letter; I get postcards. Just then she did not know whether she envied Chris or not.
“Chris—Nan—”
Aunt Elizabeth! Nan hurried to the door and peeped through the crack she allowed to open there. Aunt Elizabeth must be calling from the kitchen. Without a backyard look she went across to her own room and started hurriedly to dress.
Chris read the letter. So they were coming home—and Dad had a surprise he was sure would suit Chris. Well, Chris had had enough of Dad's surprises. He crumpled the page in one hand and glanced at the inn. For a moment he wished once more he was back there—with Sergeant Major Fitton, who perhaps did not go in for surprises but who was satisfyingly there when someone needed him.
He set about dressing. Nan had meant well, he would admit that, but nothing she had said was of very much help. He would have to go to the Academy with Aunt Elizabeth and face them all with only his own word. And to Chris at that moment that seemed of very little worth indeed.
Aunt Elizabeth made a lot of cheerful talk which he did not listen to through breakfast nor even in the taxi she had ordered. They were both to be dropped off at the Academy, and Nan was then to go on to school alone. Chris, remembering Nan's story of how she had confronted Pat and Marve, wriggled on the seat. But she had had a good out. He wished for a moment or two he had Harry Hawkins instead of Aunt Elizabeth here beside him, the comfort of that deep rolling voice in his ears instead of the light chatter which was so disturbing.
As they went into the Academy, he caught sight of Canfield up ahead. There was a man with him. Canfield's father? Were they going to drag everyone's family into this? Chris did not let himself turn and run as he wanted to, but the hopeless depression within him grew darker and darker.
It was not the Headmaster who sat in the office—though it was his office. Mr. Battersley occupied the chair behind the desk there, rising to greet both Aunt Elizabeth and Mr. Canfield, who wore an impatient expression.
Chris sat on the edge of the hard chair. He did not glance at Canfield. But he did meet the Batman's gaze and held it until the man looked over to where Canfield must be.
“I have been asked to conduct this meeting"—Mr. Battersley's dry, emotionless tone could cover anything; it was well known that you could not shake the Batman—"since it is in my class this matter began. I have had your story, Canfield—”
“It's perfectly plain what happened"—that was Mr. Canfield cutting in.
A single lift of the Batman's eyebrows seemed enough to dry up that fuming voice. “Fitton"—Chris looked stolidly back at the Batman—"I presume you have been told what this is all about.”
“They say I sold the copies of the test.”
“Not the test—a test,” Mr. Battersley corrected. “There are two similar questions. The rest—I am interested by this, Fitton—where did you get the others? Oddly enough they are perfectly legitimate questions based on this semester's work. But they are not ones I considered using this time, nor have I used them in the past. I must believe that you yourself concocted them?” He made that a question instead of a statement.
“Yes,” Chris answered with the flat truth.
“Enterprising of you. Now"—the Batman's gaze went to Canfield—"you have told me that Fitton approached you and offered to sell you a set of exam questions. Since your class record is anything but distinguished, you agreed to his proposition. He supplied you with a carbon which you proceeded to share with certain friends, until Mr. Powers saw what was going on and confiscated the papers and sent you to me. You then admitted what happened and said that the idea was Fitton's and you had each paid him five dollars for the use of the carbon. Am I correct in stating what you claim as facts?”
“The little double-crosser! He never meant to give us the real thing—he was too yellow to get it!” Canfield was seething.
“Fitton?” Again Mr. Battersley swung back to him.
Canfield was no Tim Dykes confronted by the force of the law and fear of those questioning him. But the way Mr. Battersley had expressed that, his choice of words— Dare Chris believe the Batman still had an open mind and he was not already convicted? He must do the best he could—just as Hawkins had done his best at the inn.
“I made up the questions,” he said. “That much is right. But I did not sell them.”
“Just what was your purpose, Fitton? To make trouble generally?”
“They said they wanted questions—I went over what we'd had in class and gave them an exam. I wasn't going to take the real one—”
“Ah.” Mr. Battersley put the fingers of his hands together, erecting a “steeple.” “You interest me, Fitton. So it was suggested that you obtain the exam for the benefit of others?”
“That's a lie!” Canfield's voice was high and shrill. “He came to us. It was all his idea!”
“You made some very revealing remarks earlier, Canfield, when you referred to the fact that Fitton was “too yellow,” as you termed it, to get the real examination. If he approached you after he had supposedly stolen my papers, why would you have that vehement reaction?”
“Now look here,” Mr. Canfield cut in, “so the kid got suckered in by this Fitton. He'll admit he did that much, but you have no right to imply that he put Fitton up to it in the first place.”
Mr. Battersley paid no attention; instead he looked directly at Chris once more. “Were you approached to steal the exam?”
“Yes.”
“Did you accept money for this?” He twitched the sheet lying on the desk before him.
“No.”
“He's a liar! Ask Jimmy Baxter—Harvey—DeTenbus—” flared Canfield.
Again Mr. Battersley paid no heed to that interruption to his questioning.
“This examination represents a lot of complicated work. It could only have been done by someone who had a driving purpose. You admit that you did it, Fitton; now I am going to ask you why?”
Chris knew there was no escape; he had been driven into a corner, and truth was the only way out. But suddenly, as it had come to him in the inn when he knew that no lie could ever serve and that he must face himself as he was, he answered, “Because I was afraid.”
Those four words fell into a silence which grew more awful as every second ticked away. But he had said them, and they were the truth.
“I am not going to ask you of what you were afraid, Fitton—oddly enough I don't believe that you are any more.” The precise voice reached Chris with the same authority that Harry Hawkins’ strong rumble had carried.
“This matter must go to the Headmaster and I do not know what his decision will be. I shall make my own report. However, I am convinced of one thing; this was not done for any gain. Canfield"—he made that name snap like a whip— “you never gave any money to Fitton. Now, did you?”
There was a silence as deep as before.
“I—” It was as if Canfield had tried and failed.
“At least you have not lied yourself in any deeper. I will tell you now that Harvey Reed has admitted that no money was passed. And the rest of his story differs quite a bit from what you told me yesterday. You did not pick your confederates very well, it would seem. But for the rest—it is entirely up to Dr. Stevens.”
Chris drew an uncertain breath. He did not know whether what he felt was relief or not; he certainly could not be as sure of the future as he had been when the Bow Street runner had taken charge. But today it had been his word against theirs—and Mr. Battersley had believed him. And the Ba
tman had been right, too: Chris was not afraid any more. Canfield had shrunk—he was no longer a dictator who had full control over Chris's well-being.
He heard Mr. Canfield still protesting. Aunt Elizabeth, for once, had said nothing at all, to both Chris's surprise and relief. Now she might even be ready to find her tongue again. But none of that mattered. He did not even care that he would have to face Dr. Stevens and might even be kicked out of the Academy. Nothing mattered except that he had said he was a coward—and then had found out that it was not true! A sudden warmth filled him. It was like standing before the fire on the inn hearth out of the freezing chill of the winter night.
Because he had never faced up to his fears before, he had twisted and tried to evade, told himself he just wasn't going to be drawn into anything. Because he did not want to face himself as the timid coward he was—or had thought he was.
And was no longer. Nan had told him—the inn had told him—and now he knew.
9
A Family—Maybe
“What happened?”
Nan came into the apartment as if she had been running a race. Chris looked up from his book.
“I got suspended—for the rest of the week, or until Dr. Stevens makes up his mind.”
“But they believed you!” That was no question, rather a statement.
‘The Batman did.” Chris did not want to talk about it; he had heard enough from Aunt Elizabeth. Yet—he owed Nan this. Slowly he described that sorry scene in the office; at least he saw it as a sorry one. He still cringed inside whenever he thought of admitting that he was afraid—afraid of Canfield and his gang.
“You weren't afraid"—Nan broke in swiftly as if she could read his thoughts—"at least not so much afraid you couldn't say so. You—you were braver than I was. I should have taken that pin back to the counter—told them everything. But—then I couldn't.”
Chris eyed her curiously. “You say, then you couldn't. Why?”