by John Hall
There was a groan at this, but they obeyed, reluctantly. I turned a page, and read. Back to the start, and read again. I turned the page over. I had slept badly, as I have told you, and I seemed to have some difficulty focusing on the small print. I shook my head to pull myself together, and closed the book. ‘Very worthy, of course,’ I said, ‘but perhaps we might leave it for later in the term. What else have we on the reading list? Ah, Longfellow’s Hiawatha, I see. Right: “By the shores of –” Glitchy Gloomy? Gitchy – h’mm. “By the –”, yes! Perhaps not. Now, this is more like it. Henry IV, to be sure. A stirring tale, you will agree?’
The faces in front of me did not seem entirely sympathetic to this point of view. I had had enough of this. ‘Well,’ I demanded, ‘what’s wrong with that one?’
One of the boys, bolder than the rest, ventured, ‘The language is a bit quaint, is it not, sir?’
‘Ah, well, I grant you that. But it is several hundred years old, you know.’
‘Do you think they really spoke like that, sir?’ asked another.
I considered this. ‘I don’t imagine they did, now you come to mention it. I suspect that it was partly a desire to produce Literature with a capital “L”, and partly that Shakespeare felt that his characters were so much larger than life that they should behave, and speak, a little out of the ordinary. But it’s a marvellous story, you know, when once you get beyond the quaintness of the dialogue. Here’s a man, an important man too, a king in the play, but he might equally well be a millionaire businessman or something. He wants his lad to follow his father’s footsteps, take over the business, as it were, when the father dies, or grows old, but the son won’t have any of it. Instead, he runs wild, takes up with an elderly rakehell – wastrel, I mean – and then, when the father runs into trouble, and everyone thinks the son will let him down yet again, he comes back with a vengeance and discards his old friends.’ I looked round. They seemed a touch more inclined to be sympathetic now, but perhaps still not entirely convinced. I sighed. ‘Very well, part of my task is to develop your youthful critical faculties. What sort of books and stories do you like?’ I nodded to the nearest boy.
‘Well, sir.’ He hesitated, then with a sudden eagerness, ‘I like the stories in the Strand magazine, sir.’
‘The Strand, eh? What about the rest of you?’
There seemed general agreement on this point. ‘And why is that, do you think?’ I persisted.
That puzzled them for a moment, then, ‘Easy to read,’ said one, and ‘No long words,’ and ‘Exciting tales,’ came from various parts of the room.
‘There you are,’ said I. ‘They are easy to read because their writers understood the rules of grammar, which you will be learning soon. As for the plots, the tales themselves, many of the themes echo the classic subjects which you will meet in Shakespeare and the other great writers. Which stories d’you like best?’ I added, curious on this point.
‘Sherlock Holmes!’ came a dozen voices.
‘Why, most of those are ten years old,’ I told them. ‘Well enough written of course, or at any rate the critics have been kind enough to think so. As for plots, Holmes’s life has been sufficiently exciting to need no – or at any rate, very little – embellishment.’
‘Do you know Mr Holmes, then, sir?’ someone asked.
A great stillness seemed to descend on the room. I cursed myself bitterly for the fool that I was. I should have seen this coming, I told myself. I temporized, ‘I have some nodding acquaintance with Dr Watson.’
They gazed at me with something like awe. Flattering, of course. Very flattering; I cannot and do not deny that. But very dangerous ground, none the less. I added hastily, ‘I should perhaps say that my acquaintance is of the sketchiest,’ but that did not seem to lessen their amazement.
At that point, I was saved by the bell for the next class. The boys filed out, with many a sidelong glance at me. I could pretty well understand their attitude. Here was I, an unknown elderly teacher, no special attributes or qualities, and it turned out that I was a friend of their hero, one of the greatest men of all time! No wonder they were silent as they left the room.
But I had blundered, and badly, I knew that. I mopped my brow at the thought. I could only hope that my disclaimer had some effect and that the tale did not spread round the school and come to the notice of the staff.
Meantime, I had other classes to take. If I have set down my initial experience at some length here, that is partly because it set the pattern for the rest of the day. I had four more classes, boys of various ages, and I used the same approach with each class, asking them to tell me what books and stories they liked, and discussing the reasons for that enjoyment – although I made very sure that I did not mention the Strand again! If they thought me odd, then at least they thought me an odd teacher, and to my newly refurbished grammatical mind the noun seemed to me to be more important than the adjective. In a word, I bluffed my way through the day.
There is another reason for my setting these events down here, and that a more sinister one, for my innocent reference to Holmes had a consequence later, as you will see.
For all that I had taken four or five classes without any incident other than the one which I have just related, I was ready enough for my dinner, and a pipe of tobacco, and a drink, and above all just a blessed rest, when the final bell of the scholastic day sounded. I took my books and papers back to my rooms, intending to relax before dinner, but found that the fire had not been lit. I put a match to it, but it was a cold day, and I felt disinclined to wait until the room should have warmed up. I knew that there was a fire burning in the Senior Common Room, and so I piled some coals on my own fire, so that the room would be pleasantly warm and welcoming on my return, then took pipe and pouch, and, as an afterthought, a sheaf of those essays which I had collected from my pupils, and set off across the quadrangle.
I had not gone more than a dozen yards, when I spotted my old friend, the mysterious Mr Tromarty. It was about half past four by this time, and the quadrangle was quite dark, so that Tromarty, who was going in the same direction as I was, would be unlikely to see me even if he looked round. To make doubly sure, I found such cover as there was in the angles of the wall and so on. It seemed to me very much as if Tromarty were heading towards those ruins of which Graves had spoken earlier, and this suspicion grew stronger as Tromarty left the neighbourhood of the school buildings and headed across the playing field, now all brown and muddy. I had to follow him, but feared that, even with the aid of darkness, I should be seen out in the open. I therefore slowed my pace and allowed Tromarty to increase the distance between us. I had been right in my surmise, though, for it was towards the little spinney which contained the ruins that my quarry now headed.
I increased my speed, and made for a sort of rustic pavilion, a shed used by the groundsman or possibly the school cricket team, as I supposed. Arrived at this, I sheltered in its lee for a moment, and could just make out that Tromarty had indeed entered the spinney, thus confirming all my suspicions. I could not let him get away with it, whatever ‘it’ might be, and set off after him accordingly.
However, as I turned the corner of the shed, I bumped – quite literally – into two boys who were lurking in the shadows, just as I had been. I had met a good many boys that day, and had no hope of remembering all their various names, but I recognized these two at once, for they were none other than Watson Minor and Edmonds, from my own Third form. ‘What on earth are you doing out here?’ I asked in some surprise. ‘Should you not be doing your prep?’
They shuffled their feet and gazed at the ground in silence. I nodded at Edmonds. ‘Either your trousers are on fire, boy, or you failed to extinguish the cigar whose aroma is offending my nostrils.’
Edmonds started, but said nothing. ‘Give it here,’ I said, holding out my hand.
Edmonds reluctantly handed over what our American friends call a ‘stogie’, a short, squat, evil-smelling thing that insulted the name of �
�cigar’. I took a cautious experimental puff at it. ‘Good God! Where on earth did you buy this thing?’
‘The shop in the village, sir,’ said the unhappy Edmonds. ‘Threepence for four.’
‘You were robbed,’ I assured him. He stared at me in silence. I considered. These boys were thirteen or fourteen, and I suppose my own first unhappy attempts at smoking were made at about that age. I could not stop them trying the weed, but I could at least try to influence their taste. I tapped my pockets, and found my case. ‘Here,’ and I handed them each a decent torpedo-shaped Cuaba. ‘But don’t tell anyone that I gave them to you.’
If they had been surprised at my finding them, they were astonished at my reaction. For my part, I wanted desperately to follow Tromarty, see what he might be up to, but I hesitated to do so in the presence of these lads.
‘Beg pardon, sir,’ said Watson Minor as I stood there undecided, ‘but was it Mr Tromarty you were wanting?’
‘Tromarty? No, no. Why do you ask that?’
‘Mr Tromarty just went by, and I thought you might want to speak to him.’ Watson Minor waved a hand. ‘He’s on his way back to the school, sir, in any event.’
I looked where he pointed, and in the dim light I could see the tall, spare figure of Tromarty scuttling back towards the school buildings. ‘No, no,’ I repeated, ‘I wasn’t follow – I mean, I had not wished to speak to Mr Tromarty. Just getting a little air, that’s all. Still, he has the right idea, for it is a trifle chilly outside. I think I’ll go back as well. Don’t stay out here too long, will you?’ And I returned to my room, which was now at a reasonable temperature, and lit my pipe.
Five
If I had been elated at the thought that my deductions regarding Tromarty had been proved correct, I was now somewhat mystified that he had hastened away from the old abbey ruins with such precipitation. I relit my pipe, which had gone out as I puzzled over this unexpected speediness. It seemed to me that there were two logical explanations. Either Tromarty had seen me following, and cut short whatever nefarious activity he had in mind; or his business in the little spinney had been quickly concluded. I was rather inclined to dismiss the first possibility, for I flattered myself that I had been careful, but then Tromarty may possibly have heard my talk with the two boys, although I should not have credited him with such very acute hearing. The second possibility was more like it; if he had arranged a meeting, let us say, with some confederate, then it need not last very long, only long enough to give some instructions or hand over a note or message. That was not so very unlikely. Tromarty would not want to attract attention to himself by being seen going into the spinney and remaining there for a long time, but a fleeting visit, something which might seem merely an absent-minded wandering into the little wood during a constitutional, would be easily enough explained to any enquirer. A knock at the door interrupted my musings. I opened the door, to see Miss Windlass standing there. ‘Ah,’ said I, intelligently enough. I glanced back into my study, unsure as to the propriety of asking her to step inside, but not wanting to leave her standing there in the corridor.
‘I shall not keep you, sir,’ she told me. ‘It is a matter which concerns a couple of the boys in your charge, Watson Minor and Edmonds.’
‘Indeed?’ Scarcely better, but I did not know what else to say.
‘Indeed,’ said Miss Windlass severely. ‘They both reported sick this evening, and will miss dinner.’
‘Did they, and will they, by Jove?’ Feeling that I was not doing very well at all here, and that more was required of me, I added, ‘Anything serious?’
‘I should judge not, Mr Harris. It strikes me that their symptoms are perfectly consistent with their having ¬experimented with strong tobacco. From the odour which clings about their persons, I should judge it to have been cigars which wrought the mischief.’
‘Ah. I see,’ I managed. ‘Well, growing boys, you know. Boys will be boys.’
‘Under ordinary circumstances, I should have reported this to the head, for I regard it as a very serious business. However, since it is your first day at the Abbey School, I thought you might care to handle the matter yourself. Of course, should you wish me to do so, I shall inform the head at once.’
‘Good Lord, no! That is to say, I should really prefer to handle this myself. They’ll know about it, I promise you.’
‘I thought you might see things in that light, sir.’
‘Very good of you,’ I mumbled. ‘Save my bacon, so to speak? Yes, very good of you. You may be sure that I’ll deal with them appropriately.’
‘They are still in the sanitarium,’ Miss Windlass told me. ‘Both boys have been rather ill.’
‘I see.’ On surer ground now, I told her, ‘Senna and castor oil, that’s what they need. Finest thing out.’
Miss Windlass’s face, which was by no means unattractive, positively lit up. ‘My own prescription exactly!’ she told me. And then, ‘Have you some medical skill yourself, sir?’
I had rent my cloak of secrecy quite enough that day. I told her, ‘In India one had to have some skill in that direction, although I can claim no sort of qualification. A strong draught is very often efficacious, in my limited experience.’
‘I have already dosed them suitably,’ said Miss Windlass, almost affably.
Emboldened by her amiability, I asked her, ‘Do you normally report cases of sickness to the headmaster? I ask lest anything of the sort arises in future.’
‘Oh, yes. Dr Longton is always kept informed of illnesses. In this instance, of course, where the matter is somewhat different, I use my own discretion.’
‘Well, I am very glad that you came to me,’ I said, quite truthfully. Miss Windlass smiled, and turned as if to go. I asked, ‘Miss Windlass, I have heard some curious tales concerning my predecessor, Mr Greville, was it? I wondered if you had observed any signs of odd behaviour in him, or anything of that sort?’
Miss Windlass stared at me, frowning.
I went on hastily, ‘I do not ask out of idle curiosity, but rather because the circumstances seem to have been so very curious, and you yourself, with your medical skills and powers of observation, might well have spotted some tell-tale signs.’
Obvious flattery is seldom seen as such even by men, and never by women, and Miss Windlass seemed to soften at this. ‘No,’ she told me, ‘I cannot say that I ever observed anything out of the ordinary about the unfortunate young man. Had I done so, I should of course have informed Dr Longton.’
‘Yes, I suppose so. So you have no sort of explanation at all, then?’
Miss Windlass shook her head. ‘Rumour has it that Mr Greville was a secret drinker, but I attach little validity to that. However, it would explain much.’ And she shook her head again, sadly, and bade me farewell.
I sat down, and resumed my earlier speculations. I had arrived at the conclusion that Tromarty had met some confederate in the little spinney, and it seemed to me that would make perfect sense if Tromarty were to have an accomplice. However reprobate the man himself might be, he was none the less elderly and rather puny, not a man who could easily overpower a young, vigorous fellow such as I imagined the murdered man Greville must have been. Moreover, this accomplice must be what I think the City gents call ‘an outside man’, for if he were on the school staff then there would be no need for this clandestine creeping, it would be easy enough to arrange a private meeting indoors. Well, I thought, I had my inside man, Tromarty, so the next thing was to follow him – properly, next time – and identify his accomplice, get a description of the other man at the very least, a name and address if possible. The latter would entail following the second man, of course, for although Tromarty might use his associate’s name in the course of conversation, I could hardly expect him to reveal the exact address in a casual meeting! Still, I thought I had done pretty well thus far, and the identification of Tromarty’s henchman should present me with little real difficulty.
In that spirit of modest pride and determinatio
n to do even better, I set off for dinner. As I ate, I was conscious that one or two of my fellow diners were casting occasional glances in my direction. At first I thought nothing much of it, but then I glanced up to see Herr Wieland actually staring at me. He coughed, and his fair complexion flushed like any schoolgirl’s. ‘Your pardon, Herr Harris,’ said he. ‘I meant no offence, sir, but there is some story going round that you are a friend of the renowned Sherlock Holmes.’ And a great silence seemed to descend on the hall.
So that was it! Inwardly cursing myself, I managed a silly grin, and mumbled, ‘I have a slight, a very slight, acquaintance with Dr Watson, sir. Nothing more exciting than that, I do assure you.’
Herr Wieland nodded, and smiled, and the room returned to normal. But I felt as if my carefully prepared disguise had been completely stripped away, leaving me exposed to the harsh glare of reality. I glanced down the table towards Tromarty, and saw him staring at me through his gold-rimmed spectacles. Damnation, I thought, he knows!
As I say, things returned to normal, probably very quickly at that, although to me the silence had seemed to last for an age. Herr Wieland began talking again about Germany and her colonial ambitions, although I cannot quite recall what started him off on that topic. He was quite determined that Germany should have her colonies and her empire, and had I not already identified Tromarty as my man, I think that my suspicions about Herr Wieland may well have been stirred. That apart, the rest of the meal passed without anything remarkable occurring, and I heaved a sigh of relief as we filed out, thankful that the prospective danger seemed to have passed off without any real harm being done.