In My Father's Den

by Gee, Maurice

  “About how you’d expect.”

  “I know the Inveraritys.”

  “She’s hysterical. He’s in a state of shock.” There seemed to be something flippant in the remark. I looked at him sharply, but the lightness in his voice was his first sign of anger. He was watching me with an interest more than clinical. “They told me she came to see you.”

  “She brought back some books. I’m a suspect, aren’t I?”

  “Was it normal for you to have pupils here?”

  “No.”

  “Just Celia?”

  “I gave her special coaching. Not book-work. I just talked to her. She’s the best English pupil I’ve ever had.”

  “Was, Mr. Prior.”

  “Yes, was.” He waited. “Price said to get the parents’ permission. He said to be careful.”

  “The headmaster?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why would you need to be careful?”

  “Celia was seventeen. She was an attractive girl.”

  “And you’re not married?”

  “No.”

  “Any reason?”

  “I’ve never wanted to be.”

  Farnon nodded. “Got that, Bob?” I took out my handkerchief and wiped my hands and face. Again I caught the smell of my sweat and I wondered if it was reaching Farnon. He was looking at my handkerchief. I knew at once he wanted to see bloodstains. I held the handkerchief out to him, and saw that this was a wrong move—what need should I have to think as fast as they? He held it up by the corners. Except for the marks of my sweat it was clean.

  “What’s the smell?”

  “After-shave lotion. I always put a bit on the corner.”

  His mouth tightened. He handed the handkerchief back. “What time did she get here this afternoon?”

  “A bit before three. About ten-to.”

  “Did she have anything except the books?”

  “Some shivery grass. And some wild herbs.” I pointed to the leaves lying on my book. Farnon had already seen them. He looked instead at the grass in the vase. “Where does that grow?”

  “All along the road. She could have got it anywhere.”

  He nodded at the leaves. “What about these?”

  “There’s an old shack down in the hollow. Derelict. The kids call it the haunted house. These were growing in the garden.”

  Farnon nodded. “What I’m trying to get at is whether she met anyone on the way, or arranged to meet him afterwards.” He had taken me on to his side. I watched him suspiciously. “Was she a good girl?”

  “Yes.”

  “Moral?”

  “Yes. I’m sure of it.”

  Glover made a note of my certainty.

  “Did she go with boys?”

  “That’s ambiguous.” I was angry, but he gave a faint smile and said, “Did she have a boy-friend?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “Was she a virgin?”

  “How would I know? Why don’t you wait for your pathologist’s report?”

  “It wasn’t the sort of thing you talked about?”

  “No. It wasn’t.”

  “You talked about books?”

  “Yes.”

  “Schoolwork?”

  “Yes.”

  “Her personal life?”

  “A bit.”

  “Would you say you were more than a teacher to her?”

  “I was a friend.”

  “How much of a friend?”

  “A good friend. A close friend. She was fond of me.”

  “And sometimes you talked about her personal life. Was there anyone who hated her? Or for that matter liked her especially?”

  “I liked her.” A simple statement and it made me cry. I held my handkerchief to my mouth and sobbed, while Farnon watched with curiosity and, I think, a small amount of pleasure.

  I asked if I could go to the bathroom. I splashed cold water on my face and then stripped off my shirt and singlet and washed the top half of my body. I had not cried since my father’s death. The white face and red eyes looking at me from the mirror were shrunken and old but somehow like a very young man’s. I told myself I should be past grief and past self-pity. My pose was detachment, which long practice had made the real thing. Until Celia. My eyes filled with tears again. Angrily I splashed more water on my face. As I reached for the towel I saw Farnon standing at the door watching me.

  “I wasn’t going to run away.”

  He was looking at my chest and arms—looking for scratches. I turned round so he could see my back. Slowly I dried myself and hung up the towel. There were noises in my bedroom and I guessed Glover was there. Farnon heard them too. “I thought you wouldn’t mind if we had a look round. It’s routine.”

  I put on my singlet and shirt and went back to the den. He followed me. “Could we go on, Mr. Prior?”

  I sat down. “There wasn’t anyone who hated her. And apart from me I don’t know anyone who liked her especially. She wasn’t a mixer.”

  “What about friends? At school?”

  “She wasn’t in any clubs. She didn’t play sports. She liked reading and walking and listening to music. She liked weeds.” I motioned at the shivery grass. “And spiders. And things you find under rocks. She liked flute music, and Breughel, and Chinese poetry.”

  “This is interesting—”

  “She was collecting. She was busy becoming someone. Words. She loved words. Her latest one was ‘prodigious’. She used it every chance she got.”

  “All right. Now about school—”

  “Price didn’t like her. She refused to be a prefect.”

  “Any reason for that?”

  “She said she had no intention of being a policeman.”

  Farnon sighed. “How did you feel about it?”

  “I supported her. Price doesn’t like me either.”

  “Are there many people who don’t like you?”

  “I’ve never bothered to find out.”

  Glover was in the kitchen. I heard him open the back door and go outside.

  “What’s he trying to find?”

  “We’ll come to that, Mr. Prior. This personal life you talked about with Celia—what was it?”

  “Her parents. Her father. He wanted her to leave school and get a job. A good old-fashioned type, Charlie. He doesn’t believe in education for girls.”

  “How did she feel about that?” He was simply keeping me talking, giving Glover time.

  “Nothing was going to stop her. She was going to university. The crazy degree she wanted to do. Music, botany, Chinese…. She was sorry for Charlie.”

  “Why sorry?”

  “The marriage wasn’t working. They slept in separate rooms.”

  Farnon widened his eyes. I saw that I had shocked him. “She told you that?”

  “Why not?”

  He went to the window and looked outside. Glover was busy at the garage. I heard the door scrape on the gravel drive. Farnon turned suddenly. “So there were no boys?”

  “Not really. Just casual things.”

  “Or men?”

  “No.”

  “Except you.” His shock had given way to angry distaste. “What did you talk about this afternoon?”

  “Books. These.” I pushed the herbs with my finger. “We tried to find out what they were in an encyclopaedia.” I remembered her saying that her father had bought a set of encyclopaedias at the door—they were the only books he owned and although he never opened them he sometimes tapped their spines possessively. Typical of Charlie. As I thought this a suspicion went off in my mind like a flare, illuminating a picture I had treasured as comic: Charlie Inverarity, thirteen, spiky-haired, masturbating fiercely at a photograph of Betty Grable tacked to the trunk of a pine tree.

  “He did it,” I said. “Her father.”

  “What?”

  “He wanted her. He wanted to go to bed with her.”

  Farnon came back from the window in a couple of strides. His head was lowered like a turk
ey’s and his parrot nose stopped only inches from mine. I pushed myself into the back of the chair.

  “You slimy little bastard,” he said.

  “She told me.”

  “Told you what?”

  The image faded. I was lost. I managed a kind of Fagin shrug. “That he wanted her.”

  “Had he touched her? Had he made any move towards her?”

  “She sensed it. It was a feeling.”

  “She sounds like a cheap little trollop to me.”

  I tried to push him away but he put his hand on my chest and held me in the chair. “Have you heard about corrupting a minor?”

  I struggled to get up. He dug his thumb into my sternum. The pain made me cry out. Then, contemptuously, he took his hand away and stayed leaning close as though offering me a free chance to hit him. I saw Celia vanishing behind this badly-made face and I thought bitterly, it hasn’t taken long, it’s only taken an hour. Now she was just a name, a case—a memory anyone could cheapen. Someone I was in trouble over. Shakily I took out my handkerchief. I wiped my face and hands. Trying to keep my voice steady I said, “I’m telling you this because it’s what she said. It’s something you’ve got to investigate.”

  Farnon straightened up and moved away from me.

  “He could have done it,” I said. “If you didn’t have such a cut and dried mind you’d see that.”

  He sighed, putting on an air of weariness—calming himself. “We’re not as stupid as you think.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Celia’s father was playing golf all afternoon. He was still at the course when we called him.” I heard the garage door scrape on the gravel again. “So we’ll forget this little yarn of yours—and I mean forget it.” He came forward and turned on the reading lamp. Glover came into the room. “Turn off the light, Bob.” Glover turned it off. The reading lamp had a concentrated beam. I sat in this while Farnon and Glover moved dimly outside it.

  They really think I killed her, I thought, and I said in a stupified way, “What’s the matter?”

  “I just thought you’d be more comfortable.”

  “You’ve got no right.”

  “If you’ve done nothing you’re safe, Mr. Prior.”

  I began to babble. I tried to tell them nobody was safe, life was a trap, a torture machine, look what it had done to Celia, anything could happen, anything seem true.

  Farnon ignored me. He lit a cigarette. “You talked about books,” he said. “What then?”

  “School.”

  “Anything else?”

  “I read her a poem.”

  “What poem?”

  “One of Garcia Lorca’s.”

  “Who’s he?”

  I told them.

  “Did you give her anything to drink?” Glover said.

  My mind had a bruised feeling. I began to lie and could not stop even when I saw how they would trap me.

  “No.”

  “Not even a cup of tea?”

  “Yes, a cup of tea.”

  “Did you wash the cups?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who was the visitor you had when she’d left?”

  “I didn’t have any visitor.”

  “You drank sherry with someone.”

  “I had a glass of sherry by myself.”

  “There are two glasses in the sink.”

  I sat in the puddle of light like a frog and stared out at these people who were poking me with sticks. I said nothing.

  Farnon said, “How much sherry did you give her?”

  “None,” I said.

  “We can finger-print the glasses.”

  “She asked for it. It wasn’t my idea.”

  “How much?”

  “One glass.”

  “Sure about that?”

  “Yes. One glass. A small one.”

  “How much did you drink?”

  “The same. A small glass.” I was telling the truth now and was furious when I saw they didn’t believe me. Farnon said, “We’ll see, Mr. Prior. After you’d had this sherry what happened?”

  “She went home.”

  “Why?”

  “It was time. It was quarter-past four. Her mother wanted her home by half-past.”

  “It’s two miles from here to her place.”

  “Yes.”

  “She wouldn’t make it by half-past.”

  “No.”

  “Why didn’t you offer to drive her?”

  “I did. But she wanted to walk. She liked walking.”

  “What sort of car do you have, Mr. Prior?”

  “A Morris Mini.”

  “What colour?”

  “Green.”

  “Have you had it out today?”

  “Yes. I went to the dairy this morning. For a Sunday Times.”

  “And what time this afternoon?”

  “Not. Not at all. I haven’t been out this afternoon.”

  “Beavis told you some boys saw a car at Cascade Park?”

  I nodded, beginning to understand.

  “Did he tell you what sort?”

  “No.”

  “What would your guess be?”

  I shook my head, but they waited. At last I said, “A Mini I suppose.”

  “That’s right. A Mini. Can you guess the colour?”

  “No.” My voice was a whisper.

  “What colour was it, Bob?” Glover leafed through his pad. He was a clumsier actor than Farnon. After a moment he said, “Ah, here it is. Two of them said it was green, and the other thought it might have been blue. I suppose it’s the sort of colour people can’t make up their minds about.”

  “I was home,” I said. “I never left the house.”

  “Has Celia been in your car?”

  “Not since last year. We went to Muriwai.”

  “What for?”

  “Just for the trip. She hadn’t been to a West Coast beach.”

  “And she hasn’t been in the car since then?”

  I shook my head. I couldn’t remember, but made a kind of gambler’s throw. If they found new finger-prints I knew they’d arrest me.

  “Call Menzies,” Farnon said, and Glover went out to the car. Farnon sat down on the sofa.

  “Anything else you’d like to tell us?”

  I shook my head.

  “How long have you been at Wadesville College?”

  “Six years.” He wasn’t really interested, he had put his mind in a kind of at-ease position.

  “Where did you teach before that?”

  I told him.

  “Any family? Parents?”

  “I’ve got a brother.”

  “Where’s he?”

  “On the North Shore. Takapuna.”

  Farnon almost yawned. But asking questions was a habit with him. “Celia’s father told me you used to go to school with him.”

  “Yes.”

  “That makes you a local boy?”

  “My father had an orchard here. Where the factories are now.”

  “What about Mrs. Inverarity?”

  “She came after the war. I took her out a few times. Then she started going with Charlie and they stayed together until they got married.”

  He looked interested at this but did not ask the questions I expected. “What made you come back?”

  “I was born here. It was time to stay in one place.”

  Glover came in. “He’s on his way. There’s a couple of reporters outside. The word seems to have got around that our friend was the last one to see her.”

  Farnon went out. In a few moments he beckoned me into the hall. “You say nothing. You tell them she was a nice girl and say how upset you are. Okay?”

  I said yes and he let me go outside. The night and the air made me feel as if I was coming out of prison. The reporters were waiting half-way down the path. The one from the Express was a small middle-aged man with inquisitive eyes that seemed at the same time hurt and humble. He asked the questions while his companion from the Telegraph wrote and
kept his eye on Farnon who was standing on the veranda. I told them I was shocked and horrified. I told them Celia had been a brilliant pupil. I could see they had guessed what was going on but were nervous of stepping off the line Farnon had drawn for them. He strolled down the path past us and watched the lights of a car coming down the hill towards the hollow.

  “What’s your opinion about how she was killed?”

  “I don’t have an opinion. Ask the Inspector.”

  “Where were you when it happened?”

  “Here.”

  “How did you find out?”

  I told them.

  “What sort of girl was she? You know. Boy-friends. Things she did. Books she read.”

  “I don’t know. I was only her teacher.”

  “You’d know about books. What about the ones she brought back today?”

  Farnon was facing us and Glover was on the veranda. The car came up from the hollow and passed the place where Celia had waved to me.

  “They were part of her English course.”

  “Did she read romances, that sort of thing?”

  “No.”

  “Any little details, Mr. Prior. We’re trying to get a picture of what the girl was like.”

  Farnon had a right to his questions. These men were taking Celia into a world where her death could be enjoyed. I told them I had nothing to say and I went inside. Glover followed me. As I went across the veranda the car stopped at the gate and Menzies the finger-print man got out. I sat down in my chair and Glover stood opposite, watching me.

  “That was a good question,” he said.

  “What?”

  “The books she brought back today.”

  I took them off the top of the low bookshelf by my chair and handed them to him. Breughel, Stanley Spencer, Hieronymus Bosch. I had let her explore without system. Glover leafed through the Breughel and Spencer. I could see he didn’t like them. The cover of the Bosch was enough to make him look up sharply. He turned on the main light and sat down. When he came to The Garden of Delights I asked him if he would like a magnifying glass. He had very young blue eyes. “In your position I wouldn’t joke.” He stood up as Farnon came in. “These are the books he was lending her.”

  Farnon glanced at them. “Go and give Phil a hand.” He looked through the books. “I thought you said they were part of her English course.”

  “It was none of their business.”

  “Doesn’t pay to lie to journalists. Did she like them?”