It was therefore, now quite possible to examine in the presence of Miss Waterhouse the chances of Miss Harrison. The opinion was that they were favourable, but that some strenuous work would be required on her part during the present week. Mr. Wargrave, it seemed, was being coy.
IV
To his charges at that moment Mr. Wargrave seemed anything but coy.
Indeed, as Master Allfrey, aged eleven, very pertinently remarked to Master Knox, aged twelve: “I tell you, Groggy, old Stinks is a fair stinker. I’d sooner have Pudden, or even old Posh, any day.” An observation which Master Knox rightly interpreted as follows: “Believe me, Knox, Mr. Wargrave is not a pleasant fellow to have in authority over one. I would sooner be in the charge of Mr. Rice, or even Mr. Parker.”
One of Mr. Wargrave’s habits which had endeared him neither to his colleagues nor his charges was that of improving the hour of the moment, shining or not. It was Mr. Wargrave’s custom, for instance, once a week to give voluntary lectures on science in one of the classrooms after prep. in the evening, during the half-hour before bed-time which on the other days of the week was devoted to the purging of those animal spirits which afflict the young. Both masters and boys agreed that this showed altogether too much zeal. Only Amy approved; and Amy’s approval resulted in the “voluntary” attendance at the lectures proving very much of a courtesy term.
In vain did the little lads savagely mock among themselves at Mr. Wargrave’s solemn mannerisms, his stiff collars and strange ties, his rather pronounced Lancashire accent, his ill-cut clothes, and all the other characteristics which made young Mr. Wargrave the Blighter he was unanimously voted. In vain. Against his earnest intentions for their good they were helpless. With all the strength of his twenty-seven years Mr. Wargrave strove for his charges’ good.
And yet, as Master Knox, aged twelve, equally pertinently remarked to Master Allfrey, aged eleven, with just that touch of condescension which his superior year demanded: “Well, my good fool, the beastly stinker isn’t a beastly sahib, that’s why. I’ve a beastly good mind to write to my beastly people about him. They’d be fair beastly riled if they beastly well knew, I can tell you.”
“Now then,” said Mr. Wargrave, “stop chattering, Knox and Allfrey, and hurry up with that mortar. We want to get this course laid before changing-time, you know. Get a move on.”
Messrs. Knox and Allfrey hurriedly resumed work with their spades.
The work on which they were engaged was another of Mr. Wargrave’s admirable schemes for teaching the young the Useful Things of Life. (“Though what use it’s going to be unless we’re all going to be beastly bricklayers I’d beastly well like to know,” as Master Knox was wont to observe with some bitterness.) He had propounded it to Mr. Harrison earlier in the term, and been met with Amy’s full approval. Since then, and in their spare time, the school had most unwillingly built a low wall across the bottom of Mr. Harrison’s lawn where before only a wire fence had stood to divide it from the paddock beyond. What irked them chiefly was that the really interesting job of actually laying the bricks had been annexed throughout by Mr. Wargrave; theirs only the soul-destroying jobs of mixing the mortar, fetching, carting, and carrying, and acting generally as bricklayers’ labourers. Nor had their gloom been lessened by the contemptuous snorts of Mr. Parker as he passed them, the benevolent observation of Mr. Harrison, who appeared callously delighted at getting his wall built for nothing beyond the cost of materials, or the open jeers of Mr. Rice.
At first it had been good fun. Mortar can be made the most amusing stuff. A dollop of it shoved down young Williams’s back, or rubbed in Haddon Hall’s hair, or thrown surreptitiously at Adye so that it lodged most humorously in his mouth, was without doubt capable of making its recipient look a perfectly beastly fool. But Mr. Wargrave had no sense of humour. He had stopped all such attempts to leaven labour with a little innocent fun in the most heavy-handed way. By the end of the term the whole school was vowing, with bitter unanimity, that they would never have anything to do with the building of a brick wall again as long as they lived. Mr. Wargrave, it must be admitted, belonged to the type of schoolmaster that is made but not born. Practically all schoolmasters do.
Muttering naughtily beneath their breaths, Messrs. Knox and Allfrey began with moody spades to turn over what remained of the pile of mortar. The knowledge that Miss Harrison had come out of the house and was now eyeing them in her usual gimlet way, did not alleviate their depression.
“Cave—Goggle-eyes,” whispered Master Allfrey to Master Knox, whose back was towards the newcomer; and immediately Master Knox’s back began to be afflicted by a strange feeling, as if a series of neat little holes were being punched in it up and down his spine.
Amy turned to Mr. Wargrave with a slight frown. Not even her intentions towards him could interfere with her duty. “Do you think it wise to put Knox and Allfrey at any job together? They encourage one another, you know.”
A lesser one than Mr. Wargrave would at once have dislodged from the mortar-heap either Knox or Allfrey. He did nothing of the sort. He merely said, a trifle shortly: “I put them there together on purpose. I intend them to encourage one another. I’m waiting for them.”
Amy looked at him in admiration.
V
Mr. Rice had changed, and was knocking a ball against one of the brick walls which bounded Mr. Harrison’s tennis-court. From one side to the other he bounded gracefully, keeping the ball continually in play with deft strokes. The windows of one side of the house, and actually of Mrs. Harrison’s bedroom, looked down on the court; and one never knew.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw a slender, white-clad figure approaching across the court. She hailed him, and as if with a start of surprise he despatched the ball towards a clump of bushes that stood in a corner, surrounding a summer-house.
“Clumsy!” called out Mrs. Harrison gaily.
Mr. Rice smiled. “You made me jump. Never mind. I’ll get it.” He went into the summer-house.
A moment later his voice floated out from it. “I say, this is rather funny. Come and see where it’s lodged.”
Phyllis Harrison went into the summer-house.
“Where is it? I don’t see it.”
“Nor do I. But it was a good idea, wasn’t it?”
Mrs. Harrison laughed happily.
“Darling!” observed Mr. Rice, and took her in his arms.
An assistant master at such a hole as Roland House, Mr. Rice held, is entitled to any amusements he can get.
CHAPTER VI
I
The time was now ten minutes to two, and a fine summer afternoon. Outwardly all was peace, and even love. Miss Waterhouse, for instance, loved and was beloved; Mrs. Harrison loved, and thought herself beloved; even Amy Harrison was exuding by the wall something in Mr. Wargrave’s direction which might pass for love, tempered with common sense, though still not quite sure what she was getting back in return. Everything, in fact, for a preparatory school nearing the end of its longest term, was on the surface almost too good to be true. But only on the surface. Underneath it deep currents ran wickedly. Only a splash was needed to bring them into action.
The splash was duly supplied, by a certain Jenkinson major. It was as if Jenkinson major had hurled a large rock into the placid pool of that afternoon, so that from its impact circling eddies swept out, one after another in ever-increasing orbits till they had rocked and shaken everything within sight.
Jenkinson major intercepted Mr. Rice as he left the tennis-court, having hung about for over twenty minutes for that purpose, and said: “Sir, please, sir, did you know, sir? I can’t play in the match this afternoon, sir.”
“What’s that?” frowned Mr. Rice. Jenkinson major was the best bat in the school. His presence in the Green team had had to be counter-balanced by an adroit arrangement of the rest of the batting strength in the other teams. “What’
s that? Not ill, are you?”
“No, sir.”
“What’s up, then? If it’s matron . . .”
“Please, sir, it isn’t matron, sir. It’s Mr. Parker, sir. He’s kept me in, sir.”
“What!” thundered Mr. Rice.
In delighted terror Jenkinson major explained. Mr. Parker had said his Virgil paper that morning had been a disgrace to the form, a disgrace to the school, a disgrace to the massed preparatory schools of England. He had to stop in that afternoon and work through it with books.
“It’s rather a shame, sir, isn’t it? Considering the match, I mean, sir. I thought I’d better tell you, sir, in case you wondered where I was, sir.”
“Go and change, Jenkinson,” said Mr. Rice, with compressed lips. “I will speak to Mr. Parker.”
“Yes, sir, thank you, sir,” squeaked the delighted Jenkinson, who had counted upon that very outcome, and rushed off to spread the joyful news that old Pudden wasn’t half in a hairy bate and was going to tick old Posh off to Hades.
Mr. Rice strode into the masters’ sitting-room. His very tread thumped out such fury that after one startled glance Mr. Duff shot into cover behind the Daily Express and remained there during the whole interview.
“Look here, Parker,” said Mr. Rice, in the voice of one who has stood about as much nonsense as he intends to stand. “Look here, Jenkinson major’s just told me that you’ve kept him in this afternoon. There’s some mistake, of course.”
Mr. Parker, who had been waiting and not without some trepidation for this moment ever since lunch, lowered The Times and prepared for battle. “There’s no mistake. Why should there be?”
“Well, you can’t keep him in this afternoon.”
“I can and I have kept him in this afternoon.”
“But it’s the league final.”
“Indeed?” said Mr. Parker coldly. “I’m afraid I can’t help that.”
“The match will be a farce without him.”
“I’m sorry,” said Mr. Parker, without truth, and picked up The Times again.
“Damn it, man, keep him in some other afternoon. Tomorrow if you like, but——”
“Is there any need to swear about it, Rice?”
“Oh, don’t be such an old fool!”
They eyed one another stormily. Mr. Parker began to breathe in heavy little snorts.
Mr. Rice forced a smile. “Anyhow, no need to lose our tempers about it. He ought to be kept in, of course. I quite see that. But not this afternoon, you see. It’ll only spoil the match for all the rest, which naturally you don’t want to do. Do you?” He supposed that the old idiot must be humoured.
“I’m exceedingly sorry if the match will be spoiled,” returned Mr. Parker with ponderous dignity, still breathing heavily, “but I’m afraid I have no alternative.”
“But damn it, man——”
“I’d really be obliged if you wouldn’t swear, Rice.”
“You know perfectly well you did it on purpose,” roared Mr. Rice, with new fury. “You wanted to spoil the match.”
“I don’t understand you. His Virgil paper was a disgrace.”
“Damn his Virgil paper!”
“And damn your infernal professional leagues!” suddenly shouted Mr. Parker.
“I’ll go and see Harrison! You’re jealous. That’s what you are—jealous!”
“You can go to hell!”
Mr. Duff cowered as if it was lightning that had been playing round him. He knew it was all very childish, and yet it did not seem childish in the least.
II
At this point Mr. Rice had the game in his hands. If he had gone straight from the masters’ sitting-room to Mr. Harrison, which actually meant to Amy, for by this time Amy had joined her father in his study, Mr. Parker’s defeat was assured. Mr. Parker was an Inefficient, and it was Amy’s habit to side automatically against the Inefficients, right or wrong. Where Mr. Rice made his capital mistake was in forcing Amy, vastly against her will (which of course made her all the more angry), into Mr. Parker’s camp.
The insignificant cause of this strange alliance was the person of one Purefoy, who, encouraged by the story of Jenkinson major, was lying in wait for Mr. Rice in the neighbourhood of the masters’ sitting-room.
“Sir, please, sir!” bleated Master Purefoy.
“Go away,” said Mr. Rice.
“Sir, Jenkinson major said I’d better tell you, sir.”
The name of Jenkinson major brought Mr. Rice up short. “Well?”
“Sir, I can’t play in the match this afternoon, sir.”
“What!” roared Mr. Rice. “Do you mean to say Mr. Parker . . .?”
“Sir, no, sir. I’m not in his form, sir. Miss Harrison said I wasn’t to play, sir.”
Mr. Rice regarded the boy. Purefoy was the school’s star fast bowler. Had he been in the Yellow team his absence that afternoon would not have mattered so much, for it would have neutralised to some extent that of Jenkinson major. But he was not. He was in the Green team. The Green team consisted in fact of Jenkinson major and Purefoy. There were nine rabbits as well, but they did not count. Without Jenkinson major the Greens were only half a side. Without Jenkinson and Purefoy they were no side at all.
“And why,” asked Mr. Rice with deadly calm, “did Miss Harrison say that you were not to play this afternoon, Purefoy?”
“Sir, she said I’ve got a cold, sir,” squeaked Purefoy indignantly. “Just because I happened to sneeze, sir, only once, sir, when she——”
“That’ll do. Have you got a cold or not?”
“No, sir, I haven’t, sir.”
“Then go and change,” ordered Mr. Rice.
In high delight Master Purefoy scuttled away. He had a tale to cap even Jenkinson’s. Old Pudden was fair on the war-path. He was going to put it across old Goggle-eyes now as well as old Posh.
Mr. Rice strode on. With barely a courtesy knock on the door he strode into Mr. Harrison’s study, where Amy was engaged in telling her unfortunate parent a good deal about himself that he had only remotely suspected, and more still that he had not suspected at all.
He welcomed his junior master’s intrusion. “Ah, Rice,” he said. “You want to see me? Amy . . .”
“I should prefer Miss Harrison to stay,” replied Mr. Rice, very formally and correctly.
Mr. Harrison blinked at him. People seldom wanted Amy to stay when there was a good chance of getting rid of her.
“Yes?” he said.
Mr. Rice detailed his grievance about Jenkinson major.
Mr. Harrison, looking distressed, made deprecatory noises. Mr. Parker was his senior master. It was impossible to have senior masters overridden by junior ones. Mr. Parker was almost a friend of the family. It was impossible to indulge friends of the family at the expense of reason and justice. Mr. Harrison found it all very difficult.
As usual when things were difficult he looked at Amy.
Amy drew down her sparse brows and prepared to deliver the official verdict. It was at this point that Mr. Rice threw the engagement away.
“And by the way,” he said loudly, “I met Purefoy just now. He said you’d told him he couldn’t play because he’s got a cold. He hasn’t got a cold at all. I sent him off to change.”
“You—sent him off to change?” Amy gasped. “When——”
“There’s too much coddling in this place,” pronounced Mr. Rice, still more loudly. “Even if he had got a cold, which he hasn’t, you don’t imagine it’s going to hurt him to play cricket on a hot day like this? Just the thing for a cold. Don’t want to make mollycoddles of the boys, do you?”
Mr. Harrison listened aghast. Not ever before had he heard such robust words addressed to his daughter.
Amy herself was no less aghast. A moment before she had actually been sympathising with this insu
fferable young man—had been thinking that Mr. Parker was a jealous old fool, trying to put a particularly mean spoke in his rival’s wheel, and that it was high time that a firm stand was taken. Now she saw she had been wrong. It was indeed time a firm stand was taken, but not against Mr. Parker. Amy now saw quite clearly that Mr. Parker was not a jealous old fool at all, but a singularly far-sighted man who recognised in-sufferableness when he met it and knew how to deal with it. Mr. Parker bounded up so high in Amy’s estimation that he became almost unrecognisable.
“You sent Purefoy off to change?” repeated Amy wonderingly. “Mr. Rice . . .”
“Well?” said Mr. Rice aggressively.
“I never heard such a piece of impertinence in my life,” said Amy, with another incredulous gasp.
Mr. Rice turned a fiery red. “Impertinence! Well, I’ll be . . . I came here to complain to your father of your impertinence. I’m the games master, aren’t I? How dare you order a boy not to play cricket without reference to me?”
“How dare I . . . ?” choked Amy. “In my own school. . . .”
“Your father’s school,” corrected Mr. Rice loudly. “Good God, anyone would think you owned the place.”
“Father!” cried Amy shrilly.
“I can tell you, everyone’s getting a bit sick of it,” shouted Mr. Rice, “and it’s about time someone said so to you.”
“Father!”
Murder in the Basement Page 7