A Trace of Deceit

by Karen Odden

  “I hope he isn’t,” Matthew said soberly.

  A sudden roll of the boat made him groan. His knuckles whitened as he grasped the rail, and he blurted, “Can you leave me—quickly—I’m going to be sick.”

  I handed him my handkerchief and abandoned him to his misery.

  Chapter 17

  We disembarked, and I left Matthew to sit and recover himself while I went to the railway station to purchase our tickets. Fortunately a large map of the island hung on the wall, and beside it hung a map of Newport. The town was represented by a loose crosshatch of streets, and I found Shanklin High Street tucked behind St. Thomas’s Square, right across from the platform.

  I returned to the bench where Matthew sat and handed him the tickets. He already looked less pale.

  “Feeling better?” I asked.

  “Much.” A grimace. “I’m just dreading having to go back.”

  After a few minutes, we heard the train clacking along. It came around the corner and slowed to a stop, and a lone porter stepped off. He blew a short blast on his whistle, and Matthew and I, the only passengers on the platform, climbed into one of the carriages. The train started up, and I anticipated it approaching a quick hum. Instead, we merely trundled along, and I began to fidget. It wasn’t logical of me, of course—minutes wouldn’t matter, but I felt a growing sense of urgency. Matthew raised an eyebrow. “Not the London and North Western, is it?”

  I tried to smile.

  He looked at me understandingly. “I know it feels there’s a lot riding on this meeting, but if it leads nowhere, I have some other ideas.”

  I nodded. “Thank you.”

  The train rolled to a stop at an open platform with two benches beside a sign that proclaimed NEWPORT, and we disembarked. A dozen people occupied the square, lingering and laughing. One woman had a picnic basket, and three little children following alongside; a young man with a bicycle had paused, one foot on the ground, to admire the view.

  “There’s no hurry here, is there?” Matthew commented, as our own pace slowed. Perhaps he felt as I did, that we’d seem out of place if we hurried along the way we did in London.

  Several streets intersected near the bell tower, but there were no signs, so Matthew stopped into a shop to inquire about Shanklin High Street. The haberdasher pointed down a road wide enough for a single carriage. We walked along until we found Charles Rawlings’s cottage and passed between two stone pillars into the yard. There was a tidy garden, a white stone birdbath, and a gravel path to the entrance. At the door, we found neither bell nor knocker, and with some trepidation, I raised my hand and rapped.

  It was opened by a woman not much older than I.

  “Good afternoon,” she said, smiling.

  Matthew introduced us and asked if Mr. Rawlings was in.

  A look of curiosity crossed her face. “I’m his grandniece, Catherine Wooster. And he’s here, but he’s not accustomed to visitors. Would you like to come in? I’ll see if he’s feeling well enough.”

  We entered the front room. It felt warm and close, the result of the sun coming in the window for the entire morning. A multicolored rag carpet covered the floor, and the hearth was clean and ready for the fire to be lit. Two bookshelves were full. On the mantel were four framed photographs in sepia tones, all featuring groups of young men dressed in white and standing behind their rowboats. Out of the corner of my eye I saw movement, and I started. A calico cat, nicely camouflaged by a woven blanket, lay on one of the armchairs. She gazed at me through her slit eyes, stretched her two front legs straight out, and tucked them back under her chest before closing her eyes again.

  “Catherine said you wished to speak with me,” came a man’s voice.

  I turned to see a gentleman, stooped and spare, perhaps sixty years old, walking with the assistance of a wooden cane. He had a long, narrow face, a fringe of gray hair around his ears, and a pinkish pate. His brown eyes were rheumy, but his smile was pleasant, and he gestured toward the couch. “Please, sit. Sit.”

  He lowered himself into one of the armchairs and peered at us. “I cannot see so well anymore, but even if I could, I don’t believe I’d recognize you.”

  “No, we’ve never met,” I spoke up. “This is Matthew Hallam, and I’m Annabel Rowe. My brother, Edwin, went to school at Tennersley, years ago.”

  His smile faltered, as if a memory had snagged. And then his cheerful expression returned, as if the memory pleased him. “Ah, Edwin Rowe! Of course!”

  I felt relieved he remembered.

  Matthew rose and pointed to the photographs on the mantel. “Is he in any of these?”

  “No-o-o.” He drew out the monosyllable. “Those are some of our crew teams. In addition to my duties as headmaster, I trained all the boys.” His smile was droll. “Edwin is a very talented young man, but he wasn’t a rower.”

  “Mr. Rawlings,” I said gently, “I don’t suppose you heard. Edwin died recently.”

  His forehead wrinkled in deep horizontal lines. “Died! Why, that’s a tragedy! So young, and such a talent.”

  “What do you remember of him at Tennersley?” I asked.

  “Oh.” He spread his hands. “He was one of our most successful students. A very talented boy. A happy boy.”

  I felt myself stiffen in surprise, for the one thing I’d gathered from those sketchbooks was that Edwin was not a happy boy at the school.

  Matthew turned away from the photographs on the mantel. “Do you have the class picture from his year, Mr. Rawlings? I’d love to see it.”

  He began to push himself to standing.

  “May I fetch it for you?” I asked hurriedly and began to rise.

  “No, no.” He waved me off, and with as much alacrity as his stiff joints would allow, he went to the bookshelf and drew out a leather-bound album. He came toward me, his elbows bent, and offered it. “Be careful, it’s heavy.” I placed it in my lap and opened the cover before he’d even returned to his chair.

  “They’re all in there,” he said as he lowered himself back onto the cushions. “We hired a photographer to commemorate the opening of school, beginning my first year as headmaster.”

  I handled the endpapers gingerly, for they felt as brittle as dried leaves. Then came the pages with the class pictures. Each was covered with a thin cover-glass to protect the surface. The first was dated 1851, and it was a daguerreotype, horizontal, and approximately six inches by nine. It showed three rows of boys. In the first row were the younger boys, seated on wooden chairs, their hands folded in their laps. In the second row were older boys, standing; the oldest boys occupied a riser at the back.

  Carefully I turned until I found the page for 1861, the autumn Edwin arrived, and I scrutinized the picture. As in all the others, the boys were arranged in three rows. Edwin was seated second from the left in the front. He looked small and thin compared to most of the other boys, and his rigid posture made me wonder if he was already unhappy, or merely uncomfortable at having his picture taken.

  Matthew leaned over my shoulder as I scanned the rest of the picture. On the far right was a face I recognized. “There’s the one Edwin called Witty.”

  “Ah, Lewis Witt,” Mr. Rawlings said.

  I started. Felix had mentioned a friend named Lewis.

  The headmaster folded his hands—large, long-fingered, knobby at the knuckles—and rested them under his rib cage. “The two of them were thick as thieves—although Lewis was not always the best influence on your brother.”

  “He wasn’t?” I asked.

  He tipped his chin and his eyebrows rose in V’s. “Oh, no. We ran a proper school, and Lewis wasn’t the sort of boy who appreciated rules and order. Not a bad boy, but accident-prone and rather a troublemaker, I’m afraid. He enjoyed his pranks and would often lure the other boys along.” He sighed. “One night, Lewis convinced Edwin to leave school grounds, and they jumped on a train for London—an action completely against school rules. We allowed Edwin to return.” His lips curled a bit. “But
it was Lewis’s third offense. I was sorry to lose him, though. He was a good rower. In the top boat for two years.”

  So Edwin’s close friend was expelled, I thought.

  “But Lewis’s departure was a boon for Edwin,” Mr. Rawlings said. “Your brother immediately settled down to his studies.”

  “Oh?” I encouraged him.

  “Edwin didn’t just have talent—it was genius, and we all knew it. Even the younger boys.” Mr. Rawlings rubbed thoughtfully at his chin. “Rarer still, he had a remarkable natural diligence, that boy. He was in the studio whenever he wasn’t in classes. Sometimes he’d remain there after curfew.” He sighed philosophically. “Perhaps I shouldn’t have allowed it, but I couldn’t see the harm, and Edwin made wonderful progress. He was even commissioned to do a portrait for one of the board members. Hiram Boulter was immensely pleased with his protégé.”

  “Mr. Boulter was the art master, then?” Matthew asked.

  Mr. Rawlings’s voice deepened with pride. “He was. You may have heard of him. He’d won several prestigious awards before he arrived at our school. A tremendous asset. Have you seen any of his work?” He squinted first at me and then at Matthew.

  “I’m afraid not,” Matthew replied.

  I examined the second and third rows of the class photograph. Will Giffen was easy to find, already more a young man than a boy, with broad shoulders, features that had lost their round softness, and a riot of what looked like light brown curls. I looked at the two boys on either side of him. One had fair hair and a squarish jaw; he didn’t look familiar from Edwin’s sketchbooks. But the other did. I leaned over to study him more closely, and I was sure. It was the dark-haired boy who’d been standing with Will at the river in Edwin’s sketchbook—and who’d been at the auction.

  “Matthew,” I said softly and pointed.

  “There he is,” Matthew murmured.

  I rose and carried the book to Mr. Rawlings, pointing at the boy. “Who is this?”

  He bent over the photograph. “Next to Will? Why, that’s Samuel Boulter.”

  “Boulter?” I echoed. “Was he the art master’s son?”

  He peered again at the image. “Yes. He looked very like his father.”

  I returned to my chair and turned another page. The following year, Edwin was in the second row, with Lewis beside him. The next two years, Edwin was in the second row, but Lewis was gone, and Will and Samuel had moved to the third row. The year after that, Edwin was gone, as was Sam. Will was the only one remaining.

  “Mr. Rawlings,” Matthew spoke gently. “Why is there no portrait of Mr. Boulter on the wall at the school? I noticed his was the only one missing.”

  He waved his right hand dismissively. “Oh, when he left, he asked to take it with him. It was his property, after all. Most people leave their portraits for posterity, but the board agreed he could have it.”

  “Why did he leave?” Matthew asked, his voice pleasant. “Was there some difficulty?”

  “No, no.” Suddenly he stiffened and his jaw came out. “Look here. You’re not planning to rake all that up again, are you?”

  I flinched at the rancor in his voice. Mr. Rawlings glared at us, and his brows had drawn down. Perhaps the cat heard the same harsh note I did, for she slid off her chair and slinked out of the room.

  “I beg your pardon?” Matthew asked.

  “We ran a proper school.” The skin over Mr. Rawlings’s knuckles had whitened, and his entire frame was braced as if for a fight. In the gathering silence, both Matthew and I sensed the story we’d come to hear was hovering thick in the air. “A good school, turning out boys with a sense of what was manly and decent and honest.”

  “Well, of course you did,” Matthew said amiably. “We’ve heard that from everyone.”

  Mr. Rawlings looked mollified, and the lines around his mouth eased. “There is one thing I could not abide—a liar. And when we found one”—he poked a forefinger at the air with each word—“we—rooted—him—out.”

  Matthew gave a small cough. “Were there particular boys you had trouble with?”

  “Alan Kane.” Mr. Rawlings spat out the name, and his mouth curled in disdain. “He was a sly, manipulative boy. No one liked him.” He tilted his head toward me. “He told terrible lies about Edwin.”

  Matthew shifted beside me. “What sorts of lies?”

  Mr. Rawlings’s lips pursed in disgust. “Oh, all sorts of things, none of which bear repeating. But when he slandered a teacher—well, we couldn’t overlook that.”

  “Why would he do that?” Matthew asked.

  “He was homesick.” Mr. Rawlings grimaced. “He wanted to go home, plain and simple. So he told his father that Hiram Boulter was being cruel to him. And Alan’s father believed him because he didn’t understand boys.” Mr. Rawlings poked his forefinger in the air again. “When Alan came to me, I knew he was lying. I hadn’t been headmaster for over a decade without knowing how to spot the signs of truth or a lie. He hung his head, wouldn’t meet my gaze honestly.”

  “Those are signs,” Matthew acknowledged.

  “Of course they are!” Mr. Rawlings nodded vigorously. “I went immediately to Hiram and asked him if he had been unkind to Alan, teased him or tormented him in any way. Naturally, he was horrified and could think of nothing he’d done.” His chest rose and his mouth tightened. “Hiram had a spotless reputation! Yes, he was strict and exacting, but he was a brilliant painter and an extraordinarily dedicated teacher. He cultivated their talents, nurtured their abilities, took his time with them.” Mr. Rawlings scowled. “And I will tell you, in the end, Hiram was more generous than I toward Alan. He said he forgave Alan—because it was possible that Alan had truly mistaken Hiram’s strictness for cruelty.”

  “So Alan went home?” Matthew asked.

  “Oh, yes. Good riddance. Alan left and Mr. Boulter remained.”

  “How long was Mr. Boulter at the school?” I asked.

  “Until the spring of 1865. I remember because I left the following year.” Mr. Rawlings cradled one hand inside the other and rubbed gently at his knuckles. “The board shifted the curriculum of the school toward maths and the natural sciences and away from the arts. Frankly, I think it broke Hiram’s heart. He didn’t even finish out the year.” Mr. Rawlings gave a phlegmy cough. “His departure changed the school forever. I know Edwin was very upset. He left the school only a day or two after Hiram did. Such a shame.”

  I could see Edwin being upset over losing his mentor, but that wouldn’t explain his general unhappiness.

  Matthew was asking something about another teaching position.

  “Yes, of course.” Mr. Rawlings’s face twisted with the effort to remember. “Hiram went to a school in Manchester, I think. I don’t . . . I don’t recall the name. Sam still had several years of schooling, and he went with his father, of course.”

  I sensed Matthew had been waiting for Mr. Rawlings to mention Sam, wanting to return to the topic with some appearance of naturalness.

  “What can you tell us about Sam, Mr. Rawlings?” Matthew asked. “What sort of student was he?”

  “Oh, he was clever, and a good artist, naturally. But he preferred sporting games, rowing and the like.” His chest puffed out a bit and one side of his mouth curved up. “He was in our top boat three years running.”

  “I see.”

  I studied the images from Edwin’s four years, and I thought I could begin to see the character of the entire class. There were boys who stood confidently and boys who seemed uncertain of themselves. Though the boys occupied different places in each photograph, Will and Sam always stood together.

  “I never heard from Edwin after he left—but I do hope he found a proper situation for himself. Did he continue to paint?” Mr. Rawlings asked, hopefulness lighting his face.

  “Some,” I managed.

  “Hm. A pity.” He passed a hand over his eyes wearily. “Forgive me. Suddenly I’m very tired.”

  I closed the book and set it on
the table. “Thank you for talking with us, Mr. Rawlings.”

  “Yes,” Matthew said as he rose from the couch. “Thank you, sir. We can see ourselves out.”

  The headmaster remained seated, staring off into the distance, trapped in a reverie of his own. As we exited the room, I heard him mumble under his breath, “A good boy. A happy boy. A proper school.” The way he murmured those phrases made me think of a rope worn thin with too much handling.

  Matthew opened the door, and as we reached the gray stone pillars, I put a hand on one to feel its solid warmth and took a breath of the clear island air. We certainly knew more than we had an hour ago. But nothing Mr. Rawlings said shed any clear light on what I’d thought was Edwin’s pervasive unhappiness. On the contrary, Edwin had a good friend in Lewis, at least for a while, and it sounded as if he had found an art teacher who inspired him.

  Had I misread those sketches?

  We started toward the train station and Matthew jerked his head back toward the house. “It’s good we came. He might be wrong about Edwin being a happy boy, but at least we know who Lewis Witt and Sam Boulter are.”

  I couldn’t see how that would help, but suddenly Matthew put his hand on my arm to stop me.

  “Wait,” he said and darted back toward the house. I waited several minutes until he reemerged from between the pillars. He strode toward me. “I wanted to see a picture of Alan before we left,” he explained.

  “So you found Alan’s story odd, too,” I said.

  “I’m always dubious when everything is proper except for one person, particularly if they’re cast out.”

  “Like a scapegoat,” I said in surprise. It hadn’t occurred to me.

  We fell into step and Matthew added, “He was still muttering those phrases when I went back in, like an incantation.”

  “Keeping less pleasant thoughts at bay, you mean.”

  “Rather.” His tone was absent, and I gathered he wanted time to reflect. I didn’t mind. For my part, I had plenty to consider as we made our way to the station and from thence onto the boat back to Portsmouth.