“Then I will make a comment in return. Were you not aware that there is a history of the school in the library? Judging from the number of people I have seen heading in that direction you’ll probably find yourself at the end of a long queue.”
Bear grinned and said, “A queue is something I can deal with.” He was back in ten minutes. He said, “You’re quite right. The book had been more or less torn in two, but I got hold of the right half. Would you believe it, counting the present one we’ve had thirty-eight heads. One of them was in the job for fifty years, but the next one only stuck it for a year thus restoring, as you might say, the average. And talking of averages, I’ve had rather a bright idea. Question Thirty-Five – ‘What is the highest score recorded as having been made in a cricket match at Chelborough? House games and lesser games are excluded.’ It’s a crafty question, because it looks as though it’s meant to be confined to school matches.”
“No comment,” said Stewart.
“But it doesn’t actually say so. I suppose you know that the school allows the pitch to be used in the summer holidays by the local cricket club. Tom Jennings prepares the pitch for them, for a consideration I imagine, and acts as one of the umpires. I believe some pretty large totals have been notched up. I’m going to have a word with him.”
When he had departed Peter said, “We hadn’t thought about that one, had we? I suppose it’s all right.”
“Certainly. And the best of British luck to Henry.”
“Of course, it won’t stay exclusive for long. Anyone who wants to check on cricket scores will be bound to have a word with Jennings. Once Henry has put the idea into his head he’ll tell all of them about holiday matches.”
“’Facts are chiels that winna ding’,” said Stewart, “’and downa be disputed’.”
“I gather we’ve won the head’s approval. Would you have guessed that his second name was Percival?”
Later that same day a deputation attended on the Reverend Brind. It was headed by Measures and was made up of the more influential middle-school boys. At the last moment Dakin had been press-ganged into it and carefully coached. They found their housemaster in his study. On the desk in front of him they were pleased to see an open copy of the School Magazine.
Measures was the spokesman. He said, “I can see you know about the competition, sir.”
“I have just been studying it. Most ingenious.”
“Yes sir. There were three questions we thought you might be willing to help us with.”
“You are allowed to have help, then? The solution has not got to be all your own work?”
“Oh no, sir. Everyone’s helping like anything.”
“Well, then?”
“The first was your middle name. We know that the first name was ‘Alvin’.”
“The ‘W’ in my name stands for Washington. I was, I understand, named after the great American statesman. In the hope, no doubt, that it would make me as truthful as he was.”
This was greeted with a polite murmur of laughter.
“And the next?”
“The date on which this became one of the official boarding-houses.”
“I noticed the question. It is a tricky one. Originally the whole of this building was part of the scholastic establishment. Some of these rooms were classrooms, others were used as accommodation for the visiting staff. I happen to know, however, that it was first separated off and used as a boarding-house in the autumn term of 1888.”
This reply was greeted with enthusiasm. “You see, sir,” explained Measures, “You’ve given us a swop.”
“A swop?”
“I mean, sir, we can exchange it with boys in other houses for their dates.”
“I see. Good. And that’s all?”
“There’s one other, but it shouldn’t be difficult. Question Twenty-Five. How much did each house subscribe for the school mission in each term last year?”
“I’m not so happy about that. It’s a financial question and these matters are usually regarded as confidential. Have other housemasters been willing to divulge these figures?”
“Oh yes, sir. We’ve already got York House, Firbank, Old House and Westbury.”
When Mr. Brind still seemed to be hesitating someone kicked Dakin on the ankle. He said, “You know, sir, that the profit is going to one of my uncle’s charities. I expect he’ll choose the Inner City Relief Fund. I’m sure he’d be glad to know that you’d helped us.”
“Yes. I see,” said Brind. The way in which he said it seemed to imply that he saw a great deal more than they did. He unlocked the drawer of his desk and extracted a red covered account book.
“The figures for this house,” he said slowly, “were for the spring term – fifty-five pounds. For the summer term – fifty-seven. And for the autumn term – fifty-three.”
Pencils were scribbling busily.
“Is there anything more?”
“No sir. That’s exactly what we wanted.”
After they had departed, Brind got to his feet and moved across to the window and stared out of it. It had started to rain.
“Exactly what they wanted,” he repeated softly. “Well, well.”
“I’ve got it,” said Bear, bursting into the study. Had there been more space he would have performed a war dance.
“Calm down, Henry,” said Stewart. “What have you got?”
“The answer to Question Thirty-Five. The only true and correct answer. Two years ago the Chelborough Club played a visiting team that called themselves the Rabbits. ‘They weren’t no rabbits at cricket,’ said Jennings. ‘Top-class club players most of ‘em. I well remember the score, because they’d rattled up four hundred and forty-seven with one ball to go. I was wondering whether they’d top four-fifty when the batsman – had a beard nearly as long as Grace’s – ran half-way down the pitch and hit the ball slap into the pavilion.’ Four hundred and fifty-three runs. That’s the right answer, no argument.’”
“And I expect Jennings will have passed it on to dozens of other earnest enquirers.”
“Certainly not. I’ve promised him ten per cent of the prize money if he keeps his mouth shut.”
“I’m surprised at you,” said Stewart. “What a demoralising effect money can have. Have you got all the other answers?”
“Not yet. But I’ll have them by this evening. We’re doing a trade with a syndicate in Brooke House. We were able to sell them some good stuff we’d got from Brindy.”
“Well, well,” said Stewart. “So Alvin has been bearded in his den, has he and forced to reveal all. We are indeed approaching the finale.”
“So now we know,” said Stewart.
“Now we know,” agreed Peter.
Neither boy sounded happy.
It was Wednesday evening. The competition result had been announced and the first prize, amid howls of ‘favouritism’, had been awarded to Bear as the only competitor to have the correct answer to Question Thirty-Five.
In answer to Question Twenty-Five, most of the other boarding-houses had returned totals comparable to School House. The Day Boys, where the contribution came directly out of the pockets of their parents, had topped the list. The girls, who were uninterested in slum boys, were last. The total for the year was one thousand four hundred and seventy-five pounds.
“Which means,” said Stewart, “that Brindy pinched four hundred pounds.”
“Yes,” said Peter.
The two boys looked at each other. What had started as a game had degenerated suddenly into real life. After a long and uncomfortable pause Stewart said, “Well, what are you going to do about it?”
“What am I going to do about it?”
“It’s your battle. I’m just your Chief of Staff. If you want to stop now, there’s no compelling reason for going on.”
“You mean, just sit back and do nothing?”
“If that’s what you want.”
Peter thought about this for a full minute, his face getting redder as he did so.
Then he said, “No. I’m damned if I do. That four hundred pounds which Brindy pocketed was meant for a lot of East End kids. We can’t just let that go.”
“You’re forgetting two things,” said Stewart coolly. “The first is that the four hundred pounds isn’t going into Brindy’s pocket. It’s simply been diverted, via the Inner City Relief Fund, to a lot of different kids.”
“All the same—”
“The second and more important thing is that we didn’t go into this to blacken Brindy’s character. The object of the exercise was to make him think twice about blackening your character and taking away your scholarship.”
“You may be right,” said Peter. “But it’s still bloody awkward. Do you mean that I’ve got to form up in front of him and say, ‘Either you give me a good report, or I tell on you to the authorities’? I couldn’t do it.”
“Nothing would be gained by such crudeness. No. A little subtlety is called for. You introduce the topic as though it was quite unimportant. You say, ‘We thought, when we visited the Mission last holidays, that Father Elphinstone was getting rather past it. He was quite confused about figures. Do you know he was complaining that last year he only had £1,075 from us? What he clearly meant was £1,475. If he gets confused like that about simple arithmetic one wonders whether he’s really up to the job’.”
“Hold on,” said Peter, who was scribbling wildly. “I want to get this down. Father Elphinstone – can’t add up – too old for job. Right?”
“Then you brush the whole thing lightly aside. Say, ‘That wasn’t what I wanted to talk about. It’s my scholarship. If it’s going to be taken away, I shall have to leave. I really don’t know what I’d do. Perhaps Father Elphinstone would take me on as an assistant. He certainly needs a younger man to help him’. Brindy’s no fool. By that time he’ll have understood exactly what you’re getting at.”
“I wish you could do it. You’d be so much better at it than me.”
“Your bird. You’ve got to shoot it.”
At this point young Bartlett poked his head round the door.
“Your manners leave much to be desired,” said Stewart. “Did no one ever tell you that it is usual to knock before entering?”
“Sorry, Ives. But it was urgent. Brindy – I mean Mr. Brind – wants to see Dolamore right away.”
“You may set his mind at rest. Dolamore will be with him anon.”
Bartlett grinned and removed himself. Peter had picked up the paper on which he had been scribbling and was muttering to himself. “Father Elphinstone – simple arithmetic – my scholarship.”
“Don’t deliver it as a recitation,” said Stewart. “If it is to be convincing it must sound impromptu. And try not to look as though you were on a visit to the dentist.”
After Peter had left he sat looking out of the window. Dusk was closing in and someone had turned on the lights in the chapel. They shone out through the memorial window which honoured the Chelburians who had fallen in two World Wars. At the last armistice day service the Reverend Alvin Brind had preached a sermon which had touched the hearts of all in the crowded chapel.
‘Good Lord what is man?’ he quoted to himself from his favourite poet. ‘For as simple he looks, Do but try to develop
his hooks and his crooks, with his depths and his shallows, his good and his evil, All in all he’s a problem must puzzle the Devil.’
As minute succeeded minute, adding up slowly to ten, fifteen and then to twenty minutes, he wondered what could be happening. One thing was clear, Peter had not been slung out on his neck. It was nearly half an hour before he heard him coming back. He tried to detect from his manner of walking whether he was despondent or triumphant.
When he came in and sat down his expression gave nothing away.
“Well,” said Stewart. “Did you manage to deliver your message?”
“Not exactly. No.”
“Then what did you say?”
“So far as I can remember I said ‘yes’ twice and on two other occasions I gave a sort of gulp. Something you might transcribe as ‘uh-huh’.”
“Explain yourself.”
“Well, Brindy seemed to be in a surprisingly genial mood. He invited me to sit down and started to talk about my scholarship. Here it comes, I thought. He’s breaking it to me gently. Quite wrong. He was saying what a remarkable turn for the better my work had taken recently. He’d had two letters from my uncle, reporting my interest in Pepys and his diary and the shorthand and so on.”
“Interesting.”
“He said that this autumnal flowering of intellect at puberty was by no means unusual. I was clearly a late developer and was now starting to demonstrate my true abilities. He added that he’d had a similar report from Lathom, who’d told him that my Latin construe had suddenly shown signs of definite improvement. That was where I inserted my first uh-huh.”
“A justifiable comment. Did you get the impression that he guessed, perhaps, that the translation was not all your own unaided work?”
“There was a glint in his eye, which seemed to indicate some reservations, but I was too interested in what came next to worry about that. This bit was on a very matey, man-to-man sort of basis. He didn’t actually pat me on the back, but the general impression was that we were two old friends discussing topics of mutual interest. What he was going to tell me, he said, was highly confidential and I was to keep it to myself for the moment. He didn’t mind me passing it on to you, as he had every confidence in your discretion.”
“Indeed! And what did you say?”
“That was where I got in my first ‘yes’. Then he said, ‘This chance of commending your work, as I certainly shall do when your scholarship comes up for review, has been particularly timely, as it is the last opportunity I shall have. At the end of this term I am handing over School House to Mr. Lampier and my history teaching to Mr. Westall. Following the retirement of the precentor – none too soon, in my view – there has been a reshuffling of cathedral posts and I have been offered the Succentorship. It was not quite what I anticipated, but I have accepted it. No doubt it will be a first step to higher things’. Here I interpolated a second and rather hearty ‘yes’.”
“And then?”
“Then he got a bit serious and said, ‘I shall be very much occupied with making the necessary preparations for this change, so I may not have much chance to speak to you again. We have had our differences in the past, but I think we can regard the account as closed’. I can’t remember if I said ‘yes’ or ‘uh-huh’, but he must have got the impression that I agreed with him, because he shook me warmly by the hand and I slid off.”
“What an old snake,” said Stewart. He started to laugh quietly. “The account closed, a balance struck, a red line drawn under it. You get what you want. He gets what he wants.” He thought about it. “A success, not a victory, wouldn’t you say?”
Peter said, “Uh-huh.”
Part Two
IN-FIGHTING
There are two kinds of dealers involved in the illegal art trade. One might be the proprietor of a small Chelsea antique shop or Third Avenue junk shop, a flea-market brocanteur; the other a hazy figure who maintains no gallery and operates from his home. . . . Once set up in the trade, there is an almost constant flow of art coming from churches and châteaux all over Europe. Uninsured, unphotographed and often unmentioned in the press, these stolen objects make up a lucrative business. With the quantity of freight being shipped today there is no problem with transport. The objects pass so easily that the process can scarcely be called smuggling.
Bonnie Burnham. The Art Crisis
1
Number Twelve Priory Crescent North was the sixth door that Peter had knocked on that morning. At two there had been no answer. At three of the others his reception had been discouraging.
The door on this occasion was opened by a cheerful-looking woman not much more than thirty, Peter guessed. His street directory had told him it would be a Mrs. Carstairs.
She proved more agreeable than the other five. She neither blocked the entrance nor jammed the door with her foot, but came right out of the house, examined Peter and must have decided that she liked what she saw.
“I’m sure you’re selling something,” she said. “But as long as it’s not double glazing or insurance.”
“Neither,” said Peter. “I’m selling knowledge.” He indicated the heavy canvas bag which he had put down on the step.
“An encyclopaedia, is it?”
“Not just an encyclopaedia. The New Omnium Encyclopaedia. The most up-to-date of all of them.”
“Perhaps I could have a look at it.”
“Easier if we took it inside.”
Mrs. Carstairs thought about this and then said, “I must agree that you don’t look like someone who’s going to rob me or rape me, and in any case, there’s only two pounds fifty in the whole house and that’s for the laundry, so come in.”
Following her in Peter noticed a school cap and a school hat hanging in the hall. He guessed that, with her husband away at work and the children at school, Mrs. Carstairs was simply glad of company and that this was why she had so recklessly invited him into her house.
Or not so recklessly, perhaps. The window of the sitting- room was wide open and he could see an elderly man in the next garden assaulting the weeds with a hoe. He had a sour look on his face, as though he hated the weeds and blamed them for daring to be there. Peter decided that he would skip Number Fourteen.
He extracted a number of the volumes of the encyclopaedia from the bag and displayed them on the table. They were attractive-looking books with cleverly designed covers.
“The set consists of ten volumes,” said Peter. “Just over forty thousand articles, eight million words and two thousand five hundred illustrations.”
“My goodness. That’s certainly a lot of words. Would you care for a cup of coffee?”
“I’d love one.”
The omens seemed favourable. So far, in a fortnight of effort, he had achieved only one actual sale, to an eccentric old lady who lived in a house full of cats and parrots. In addition there had been a number of expressions of interest which had not, so far, ripened into cash. Was this going to be his second real sale?
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