The Journeying Boy

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The Journeying Boy Page 13

by Michael Innes


  At this Cadover, doing what was plainly expected of him, gave evidence of mild mirth. Then, moved by a sudden impulse, he spoke again. ‘I have another question, which I hope you will not find vexatious, sir. Have you any suspicion that there may recently have been an attempt to blackmail your son?’

  ‘To blackmail him!’ The words came with a curious quality – almost as if from one suspecting a trap and momentarily out of his depth. ‘Certainly not. It is a most improbable circumstance.’ The tone was confident again now. ‘Had I reason to suppose anything of the sort I would at once call in the police.’

  ‘It is merely that a criminal who specializes in that sort of thing – in preying upon the common misdemeanours and concealments of adolescents – has been observed lurking near your house. It is more than probable that your son is not involved. But I should advise you, Sir Bernard, to bear the circumstance in mind. A sensitive boy so preyed upon may be enduring a very dangerous strain. On our side, we shall see that the man’s present activities are investigated. And now I must not take up more of your time.’

  The tall figure had already touched a bell and was steering Cadover dismissively towards the door. As he did so he appeared to notice Cadover’s eyes upon a painting at the end of the room. ‘Ah, yes,’ he said, ‘I have that hanging there because it is so uncommonly like my son.’

  Cadover, thus prompted, looked at the painting more carefully; it was of an aristocratic little boy, dark-haired and dark-eyed, dressed in hunting costume. Cadover wished that the light was better; he was fond of painting – and here surely was an original Velazquez! He remembered Lord Buffery’s remarking that Sir Bernard Paxton was a connoisseur. ‘Surely–’ he said.

  ‘Yes – to be sure.’ The tall figure was now waiting impatiently for the door to open. ‘It’s an old picture – very old indeed… If I can be of further help to you, please let me know. But, as you see, you are on a false scent here. Good evening.’

  The silent manservant conducted Cadover across the hall and handed him his bowler hat, not without taking a glance inside it first. Cadover set it firmly on his head, and fleetingly inspected himself as he did so in a large mirror before him. This mirror revealed the door through which he had just come; it opened as he looked and the figure of the eminent scientist whom he had disturbed came rapidly out and disappeared into the gloom of a corridor.

  The manservant had opened the front door and Cadover saw his car waiting at the bottom of the flight of steps and beyond the broad pavement. And at the same time he heard a voice speaking sharply and authoritatively from what might have been the direction of the main staircase of the house. ‘Jollard…’ said the voice. The manservant closed the door softly upon Cadover and he heard no more.

  So that was that. The boy who had thrown the cream jug was out of it. Cadover, with an irrational feeling that he had just failed to make a lively acquaintance, climbed wearily but doggedly into the car. ‘Professor Musket at Dulwich,’ he said. ‘Then round to Sir Ferdinand Gotlop at Bromley and on to Dr Marriage at Greenwich. After that we go right across to Highgate and Wood Green and New Barnet…’

  How very queer the association of these familiar and unassuming names with the recesses of atomic physics! How infinitely alarming, when one came to think of it, the spectacle of Lord Buffery and his electric trains! Cadover sat back in the gathering London night and enfolded himself in gloom like a blanket. The car ran over Waterloo Bridge; he peered westward and shook his head at the blank and innocent face of Big Ben, as if doubtful whether those within the shadow of St Stephen’s Tower had quite as sharp an eye as was desirable upon that sinister billiard-room… The car, sequacious of Professor Musket, purred through the emptying streets.

  Cadover got to bed in the small hours – irritated by defeat; more obscurely irritated by he knew not what. Of those few of London’s millions who were on familiar terms with proton and electron the male progeny were all comfortably – or in some cases uncomfortably – accounted for. Eminent scientists, it appeared, had no special skill in maintaining amicable relationships with their young. Sir Ferdinand Gotlop’s son had run away to sea, another boy made mysterious disappearances for a week at a time, but was at present safely at home studying existentialism; a third was believed to be living in a cellar with a group of juvenile anarchists learned in the manufacture of explosives. But of any youth about to set out for Ireland with a tutor there was no sign whatever.

  Restlessly Cadover searched for an explanation. And the likeliest surely was this: that the dead man’s letter to Miss Joyce Vane was wholly misleading. The father of the lad referred to might indeed be a terrible scientific swell, while his connexion with atomic physics was illusory. The young man might have thrown in this touch just to be impressive – or perhaps he had a vague notion that smashing atoms was the invariable business of all scientists sufficiently eminent. And if something of this sort was the case, the clue provided by this letter was altogether slighter than it had seemed. It was a pointer still, but a pointer into the haystack of London’s scientific folk in general. Long before one could get at the matter this way the identity of the dead man would have emerged by some other route. What Cadover had looked for was a short cut. After numerous exhausting windings it had turned out to be only a dead end. And he still had the uneasy persuasion that time was all important in the case.

  Dawn was breaking before Cadover fell asleep. He dreamed of interminable journeys through the night, of the deep vibration of steamers and the rattle and sway of trains. Sometimes Lord Buffery would appear gigantic in a fitful moonlight, a portentous presence brooding over interminable sidings, here stooping to pick up a steamroller and there straddling across a valley like the cantilevers of a bridge. And up and down the corridors of the labouring trains, round the decks and hatches of the plunging steamers strode a great blonde woman in a wisp of shift – amorous, arrogant, and armed. Now she was stalking Cadover himself – and now a dark-haired, dark-eyed boy dressed in the rich and sombre garments of imperial Spain. The rhythm of the train, of the steamer, formed itself into a single word, pounded out a single insistent trisyllabic word…

  Cadover woke up, aware of a mind at once dream-sodden and on the verge of discovery. In all that maze of talk which he had threaded through London and its environs the night before – in all that maze of talk there had been a single significant word. Or had there been the lack of that word; instead of it had there been an awkward, an unexpected periphrasis? Cadover sat up and shook his head, aware now that he was pursuing only some phantom of thought. He planned the day’s work, the new attack that he would make upon the problem of the unknown body in the cinema.

  10

  The sea was perfectly smooth; the deep vibration of the steamer was scarcely perceptible; of the myriad stars overhead each was precisely in its appropriate place for that particular hour, century, aeon. All these facts were reassuring to Mr Thewless. He stood on deck watching the diminishing lights of Heysham Harbour. Beside him stood a perfectly ordinary boy called – undoubtedly called – Humphrey Paxton. In front of him stretched six weeks or so of considerable but by no means overwhelming difficulty. For these weeks Mr Thewless was already making various competent plans. They would read the fourth book of the Aeneid and thereby bring sex and the emotional difficulties of adolescence a little into the open. They would give a good deal of time – much more time than would normally be justifiable – to English poetry, and they would incidentally consider fancy, imagination, day-dreaming, and the possible confusions of fiction and fact into which certain types of minds – particularly growing minds – may fall. English composition might take the form of writing, on the one hand, an adventure story in which the narrator was the hero, and, on the other hand, a sober but not uninteresting diary of actual observations made upon people and things. Such common-sense measures might clear matters up quite as effectively as the probings of child psychologists.

  For, of course, that there were matters to be cleared up was undeniable
. Humphrey, although a perfectly ordinary boy when broadly regarded, had admittedly his uncomfortable side. He imagined things. More than that, he imagined things with such intensity that he set other people imagining too. During the fatigues of the recent railway journey had not Mr Thewless himself been persuaded into imagining quite a lot? He was resolved that with this sort of thing he would have no more to do. Let it be admitted that the boy had an almost hypnotic power of edging one into a world of fantasy. Let this be recognized and firmly guarded against…

  ‘I’m terribly afraid there’s something I ought to have told you earlier.’

  Pitched conspiratorially low, Humphrey’s voice came out of the semi-darkness beside him. Mr Thewless smiled as one who now possesses an assured wisdom. For here was the boy off again; his tone betrayed it; he must be briefly humoured and then packed off to bed. It was already unconscionably late and they would be berthed in Belfast long before any normal breakfast-time.

  ‘Something you ought to have told me, Humphrey? Well, out with it. But – by Jove! – what about getting a final ginger-beer? I noticed that the bar is still open.’ Mr Thewless was uneasily aware that the epithet ‘sporty’ might be applied to his manner of making this proposition. With a movement towards gravity, he therefore continued, ‘And then we must certainly turn in.’

  ‘I suppose so.’ Humphrey had immediately begun to move towards the bar and the proposed refreshment, but his tone sounded slightly dejected. ‘Yes, I suppose we must try to sleep.’

  ‘Try to sleep!’ What Mr Thewless now heard in himself was an unnecessary jollity. ‘I’m certain you will sleep without rocking tonight. And tomorrow should be a good day. The light railway sounds most amusing.’

  ‘Yes.’ Humphrey sat down and placed his shot-gun (which he now rather absurdly persisted in carrying round) carefully beside him. ‘Do you know why I brought this? It wasn’t to go out shooting helpless birds.’

  ‘Perhaps it was in case the sheep look unhappy.’

  ‘The sheep?’ Humphrey was startled.

  ‘Didn’t Shelley somewhere go round with a gun benevolently putting sheep out of what he conceived to be their misery? It made the farmers very cross.’ Mr Thewless paused and sipped with a dishonest appearance of relish at his ginger-beer. ‘The story may not be true. But it does represent fairly enough Shelley on his freakish side. It was his marked weakness.’

  ‘I see.’ Humphrey stirred uneasily in his chair. ‘But what I wanted to–’

  ‘The powerful imagination of a poet,’ pursued Mr Thewless, ‘requires ceaseless discipline. Only by being confined within its own proper bounds does it maintain sufficient force and impetus for creative work. For a young artist any involving of his own day-to-day affairs in mere fanciful reverie is bad. It is likely to cripple his final achievement. By a strong effort of the will, therefore, he should abstain.’ Mr Thewless frowned, momentarily aware of the echo of some magistral voice long ago lecturing his own perplexed innocence on a somewhat different theme. ‘And this was what was meant by a poet in some ways superior even to Shelley – I refer, Humphrey, to John Keats, whom I am sure you have eagerly read – when he declared that the poet and the mere day-dreamer are sheer opposites. And what is the practical lesson of this? We should not allow ourselves to confuse–’

  ‘I didn’t bring the gun to shoot sheep. I brought it to shoot plotters and blackmailers and spies.’ Humphrey Paxton banged down his glass on the table before him and raised his voice to something like a shout. Fortunately, there was still a good deal of noise in the smoke-room and only one or two people looked round. ‘And I ought never to have left that compartment without it this evening.’

  ‘It sounds,’ said Mr Thewless, ‘as if what you really need is a revolver.’

  ‘Exactly.’ And Humphrey nodded soberly. ‘Have you got a revolver?’

  ‘Dear me, no. You see, plotters and spies don’t much come my way.’

  ‘I’m terribly afraid they are bound to…now.’ Into Humphrey’s voice had come something like compunction and apology. ‘Perhaps I should have considered that. It wasn’t really quite fair to drag you in. I hope Daddy pays you a decent screw?’

  Mr Thewless smiled. ‘As a matter of fact, Humphrey, he is proposing to pay me a good deal more than is customary.’

  ‘That’s odd.’ And Humphrey Paxton looked sharply thoughtful. ‘Would it be dirt money, do you think?’

  ‘That sounds like something rather disagreeable.’

  ‘So it is. It’s the extra pay dockers and people get when doing something thoroughly nasty. Perhaps Daddy thinks that being my tutor is that.’ An expression of rather complacent pathos spread itself for a moment over Humphrey’s features. ‘Do you think I might have another ginger-beer?’

  Mr Thewless fetched the ginger-beer. ‘No,’ he said; ‘definitely not dirt money. I believe your father finds you a little trying in spots. But he was confident that we should find considerable pleasure in working together. Which reminds me that we can make out a scheme of things when on the train tomorrow.’

  ‘Of course dangerous work gets extra pay too. Perhaps it was that. Perhaps he really did have an inkling.’

  ‘Perhaps he had an inkling that you would pitch me some pretty tall stories.’ Mr Thewless determined to be good-humoured. ‘I wonder if I could do it too? Tomorrow we might have a competition and see which of us can imagine the biggest adventure.’

  Humphrey took a gulp at his ginger-beer. ‘This is going to be difficult,’ he said. ‘Of course I didn’t mean to tell you at all. I meant you just to find out – as you’re pretty sure to do. I meant it to be pretty well my own adventure right through. But now I don’t think I can do that. Not after what happened on the train.’

  Mr Thewless looked at his watch. By one means or another this disjointed nonsense of Humphrey’s must be stopped. ‘I think–’ he began.

  ‘I suppose I’m frightened…rather.’ Humphrey looked gloomily at his gun. ‘Have you noticed how sometimes I get just like a kid?’

  ‘Yes, I have.’ Mr Thewless responded soberly to this odd appeal. ‘Our age is not always just what our birthday says. It’s the same with grown people sometimes. They can’t decide what age it’s sensible for them to be. Often people manage to be suddenly much older. Sometimes they manage to stay the same age for years and years. Sometimes they become younger and stay younger for quite a bit. It depends on the sort of things that happen to them. And sometimes people decide that it’s time to be no age at all – and then they die. So there’s nothing very odd or special in occasionally feeling rather a kid. I’ve known big chaps do it quite regularly at bed-time. Had to hug a teddy-bear – that sort of thing.’

  Humphrey, who had listened carefully to this, slightly blushed. Perhaps he had some private reason for finding the reference to teddy-bears embarrassing. ‘You are a very sensible person,’ he said seriously. ‘It’s a pity you’re going to be such an ass over this.’ His blush deepened. ‘Sorry. I oughtn’t to have said “ass”. Not when I wasn’t in a temper.’

  ‘I certainly don’t want to be an ass. But had we not better have this talk in the morning?’

  ‘Very well.’ And Humphrey got to his feet, submissive but plainly discouraged. ‘You see,’ he said, ‘it was the blackmailing that misled me. I – I handled that. And so I thought – But this turns out to be different.’

  Mr Thewless allowed himself an inward sigh. Whatever fantasy was urgently waiting to tumble from Humphrey Paxton’s mind had better tumble now. For assuredly he would not sleep if sent to his cabin in his present nervous state. And Mr Thewless produced from his pocket a bar of milk chocolate which he proceeded to divide. ‘Well, now,’ he said, ‘we’re pretty private in this corner. So let me hear the trouble, Humphrey. And I’ll try not to be an ass.’

  But Humphrey now seemed to find some difficulty in communication. He munched his chocolate, put up a thumb to lick – and was plainly disposed to let it remain performing the function of an infant’s comforter. M
r Thewless tried prompting. ‘You said something about blackmail before. What was it about?’

  ‘It was about a girl.’

  ‘A girl?’ Humphrey at this moment seemed so absurdly young that the words now jerked from him came to Mr Thewless without implication. ‘What do you mean, my dear boy?’

  ‘I know several girls.’ Humphrey was momentarily circuitous. ‘There’s Mary Carruthers, the poetess – although, of course, she’s really a grown woman. But this was Beverley Crupp. She works in a shop. Not that that’s any disgrace.’

  ‘Certainly not,’ said Mr Thewless, automatically but forebodingly.

  ‘You have to learn about things and do them for the first time.’

  Mr Thewless judged that a general acquiescence in this sentiment might be inexpedient. So he ate his last piece of chocolate and said nothing.

  ‘I used to fool around with Beverley in parks, and that sort of thing. The way you see people doing all over the place. It used to puzzle me a lot, even although I’d read books about it. But I wasn’t puzzled after knowing Beverley. It’s quite extraordinary, isn’t it? So unlike anything else. So frightfully exciting.’

  By the perfect innocence of this last word Mr Thewless felt considerably relieved. ‘Well,’ he said briskly, ‘what about this Beverley?’

  ‘One day there was a man taking photographs – the sort of man who snaps passers-by with a little camera and then hands them a card. I didn’t think anything of it. But it turned out to be blackmail.’

  ‘I see.’ Humphrey’s tutor looked at him thoughtfully. ‘Were you very much worried?’

  ‘At first I was – quite frightfully. It made me feel an absolute kid. But then I managed to use my brains. I could see that the thing was something that this photographer-man did regularly. It was more or less his trade. Well, if I refused to give him money and he sent the photograph to Daddy, or anything like that, it would probably be even more awkward for him than for me. For Daddy, of course, would tell the police, and the fellow would be hunted down and sent to prison. And, anyway, the risk wasn’t great. It wasn’t as if I had a mother to be upset. Daddy would be cross, but that isn’t so – so formidable. And he would quickly come to take a man’s view. He would even tell his more particular friends out of a sort of obscure vanity. For a man likes it to be – be borne in upon him that he has a son capable of having sons. A very queer and deep approval of just keeping the human race going is a factor in such cases.’

 

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