Death in Devon (The County Guides)

by Ian Sansom

  ‘Organised chaos?’

  ‘No, no, no, not chaos at all.’ His attention was then caught by a boy who was struggling past with a large ornamental pot plant. ‘Careful, Evans! Careful!’ Evans looked as though he were about to burst into tears. ‘Go slowly!’ It was difficult to imagine how Evans could go any more slowly, or more forlornly. ‘Everything is going very smoothly, actually, Mr Sefton. Very very smoothly. Our tasks will be completed by noon.’

  ‘Well, jolly good,’ I said, lighting a cigarette.

  ‘And this is Mr Potbury, from Potbury and Sons,’ announced Mr Bernhard, introducing me to the man with the clipboard.

  ‘Roit,’ said Mr Potbury, vigorously shaking my hand.

  ‘Cigarette?’ I said.

  ‘You’re a gentleman, sir, don’t mind if I do, sir,’ said Mr Potbury. ‘Proper job,’ he added. ‘Many thanks.’

  ‘Mr Bernhard?’

  ‘No, thank you,’ said Mr Bernhard. ‘No time.’

  Mr Potbury and I smoked for a moment in silence, watching Mr Bernhard expertly conduct the scene of hurrying and scurrying before us.

  ‘You’re flat out, then?’ I said.

  ‘Like pushin’ an ’andcart up ’ill backwards, sir,’ said Mr Potbury. ‘Terrible lot to do.’

  ‘We will have everything in order and in place by noon,’ said Mr Bernhard, confidently.

  ‘Of course,’ said Mr Potbury. ‘He’s keeping us on our toes,’ he said to me, adding more quietly, ‘German. Terrible lot of foreign teachers. What’s wrong with our home-grown English teachers, eh?’

  ‘I…’

  ‘My wife’s a teacher, she’d have loved a job here. You here for Founder’s Day?’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘I’m just here visiting.’

  ‘Mr Sefton is here to write a book about Devon,’ explained Mr Bernhard, between instructions to a group of boys who were carrying what appeared to be a rock-solid mass of bunting, ‘with Mr Swanton Morley.’

  ‘Really?’ said Mr Potbury, impressed. ‘The People’s Professor?’

  ‘The very man,’ I said.

  ‘I read him every week. Our boys love his Children’s Newspaper.’

  ‘I’ll tell him. He’ll be delighted.’

  ‘Where would you suggest they visit, Mr Potbury?’ said Mr Bernhard.

  ‘Round here?’ Mr Potbury took one final drag on his cigarette and then pinched out the tip with his fingers, and pocketed the stub. ‘Well, they should definitely get down to Beer, shouldn’t they? See the old underground caves.’

  ‘Yes, I’ve heard about the caves,’ I said.

  ‘No, no, no!’ cried Mr Bernhard, hurrying over to redirect some poor chair-carrying porters who were about to enter the main entrance. ‘Round the back, please. Round the back.’

  ‘They are creepy,’ said Mr Potbury. ‘The caves.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘My wife doesn’t like them. Too dark.’ He nodded towards the camera strung around my neck. ‘Taking photographs as well then?’

  ‘Yes, I am.’

  ‘You know they’ve got a whole what’s-it-called set up downstairs?’

  ‘A darkroom? Yes, I heard.’

  ‘You should see it. I arranged the deliveries from London a couple of months ago when they first moved in. Never seen anything like it.’

  ‘I might take a look actually.’

  ‘You should. Just go downstairs, it’s next to the science room. You can’t miss it. Anyway, I should probably get on here or I’ll be in trouble with the Kaiser. No rest for the wicked, eh?’ At which he got on, Mr Bernhard continued on, and I finished my cigarette.

  A police car pulled into the forecourt. I rather thought I might make myself scarce. I went down the stairs to have a look at the darkroom: as always, I was seeking distractions, from myself and from the task at hand.

  I found the science room and peeked in – the door was conveniently open. This presumably was what had at one time been the building’s cellar: there were no windows, and the place felt damp and solid; I was conscious of a kind of brooding underground presence. The room was not dark, however – or not entirely dark. Row upon row of bare bright light bulbs hung down over the many desks, giving the place the appearance rather of a subterranean operating theatre, or an amphitheatre. I could barely make out the dimensions of the place: outside the bright glare of the lights, shades and shadows substituted for walls.

  A woman I had seen at the dinner the previous night but had not met was busy moving around the room. She was, I assumed, the science mistress. In the strange, vast, lit space of the room she appeared to be perfectly tiny – almost like an apprentice or puppet version of herself – and she looked as dark-featured as a Kalderasa. As I observed her unnoticed for a moment it occurred to me that she seemed deeply unhappy, although perhaps this was merely because she was preoccupied: Morley was always sceptical about trying to read people’s emotions and characters from their features. (Contrary to the claims in a number of biographies, indeed, Morley could not abide what he sometimes referred to as the ‘party trick’ methods of fictional detectives. In his celebrated article, ‘Against the Red-Headed League’, with which many will doubtless be familiar, he wrote a long, long rebuttal of Sherlock Holmes’s supposed methods, in Conan Doyle’s famous story, in which the master detective makes the claim, based on a moment’s observation, that a man worked in manual labour, took snuff, was a Freemason, had been to China, and had recently done a considerable amount of writing. Morley’s argument in the article was both highly refined and utterly self-defeating, proving the very thing he set out to decry: a characteristic of his style as both thinker and writer.)

  Nonetheless, if one were judging the science mistress by appearances alone, as of course one should not, one might have made certain assumptions about her and might have thought twice about accepting an invitation to tea: she had jet-black hair, and wore a black dress buttoned high at the throat, and boot-black boots, and was enveloped in a black cloak made of some modern, synthetic material that was presumably designed especially for protective use by science mistresses. She was also cursed with odd, uneven features that made it look as though her head might at some time have been pressed in a vice, or as if she were being seen through a distorting mirror. To my naive and untrained eye she looked like the sort of woman who might at any moment cast a spell upon you, toss you into a cauldron, and then fly off into the night on a broomstick. It was partly circumstances, of course: the science room was filled with a strong smell of both sulphur and ammonia, as though the devil himself had recently appeared, and someone had obligingly cleaned up after him. But whatever the reasons, and in spite of all prejudice, the overall impression, as I say, was rather forbidding.

  ‘Yes?’ she said. I was clearly not, as I had assumed, unobserved. ‘You’re too early for the tour.’

  ‘The tour?’

  ‘You’re a parent?’

  ‘No, I’m here with Mr Morley, who’s giving the Founder’s Day speech.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘But I’d love to have the tour,’ I said, rather obligingly, still hovering at the door.

  ‘The tour is for the parents.’

  ‘Yes.’

  I stepped into the room at this point, drawn towards her and also towards a glass tank set on a bench by the near wall that contained a hive of small, writhing creatures – Morley had something very similar back at St George’s. I tried to remember what it was called. He had his aviary, his apiary, and his formicary – for his ants – but this was a …

  ‘Vivarium,’ she said, without even a glance towards me.

  ‘Yes. That’s it. A vivarium. I’m sure it must take some considerable upkeep and maintenance?’ Morley taught me over the years to ask obvious questions and to let people talk about what interested them: he claimed this was his technique, though I have to say that I never once saw or heard him use it; he was so busy talking at people that he often failed to hear or understand the simplest of statements.

/>   ‘Not particularly,’ said the science mistress. She continued furiously moving things around. ‘The digestion of lizards is very slow.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘No need for frequent meals.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘And they hibernate in cold weather and in winter hardly need feeding at all; flies and insects, a bit of turf; no artificial heat.’

  ‘A bit like schoolboys.’

  ‘Ha,’ she said, clearly unamused.

  ‘What are they?’

  She came over towards me. ‘Lizards,’ she said, with a tone of contempt.

  ‘Yes, I rather meant, what … kind of lizard are they?’ They were big and they looked scary.

  ‘South American lizards. Tupinambis merianea, tupinambis refescens and tupinambis teguixin.’

  ‘Very good.’ I knew as little about lizards as I knew about birds. I glanced around the room. ‘You’ve got it all set up rather wonderfully.’ I wandered over towards the long bench at the front of the room, behind which was a large blackboard, flanked by two doors, one open and one closed. ‘And what’s through there?’

  ‘Nothing,’ she said. ‘My office. Why?’

  ‘It’s just, I’m looking for the darkroom, you see.’

  ‘The darkroom?’ She stiffened in her manner rather.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Sorry, what was your name again?’

  ‘Stephen Sefton,’ I said, offering my hand.

  She stared at me, lopsidedly, her arms folded. ‘And?’

  ‘I’m here with Mr Morley. We’re writing a book about Devon.’

  She unfolded her arms and adjusted her voluminous black cape about her shoulders, with a fierce, unnatural rustling that suggested she might at any moment take off. She did not in fact take off, but proceeded instead with her work, shifting around the room as we spoke.

  ‘And why do you want to see the darkroom?’

  ‘Alex mentioned that he had established a darkroom here.’

  ‘Did he?’

  ‘Yes.’ I held up my camera. ‘I take the photographs for Mr Morley’s books.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘So …’

  She brushed back past me and disappeared through the door into her office. ‘It’s locked,’ she called from inside the room. ‘The darkroom. It’s locked.’

  ‘Right. I don’t suppose you have the key?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And you don’t happen to know where he might keep the key?’

  ‘No,’ she said, emerging from the adjoining room carrying a large box filled to the brim with all sorts of metal instruments – scissors, forceps and scalpels – which rattled as she moved.

  ‘Here,’ I said, moving towards her. ‘Do let me help you with that.’ As I reached out for the box, I noticed that under the gaping black cloak she was wearing a chain around her neck, attached to which were a number of keys.

  ‘No, thank you,’ she said, snatching the box away from me, and placing it noisily on the long demonstration bench at the front of the room.

  ‘If you’re sure.’

  ‘Quite sure, thank you. If you want to gain access to the darkroom you’d have to speak to Alex himself, I’m afraid. He has the keys. And I am really very busy.’

  ‘Very well. Well, thank you,’ I said, and, turning away, went towards the door. I had almost gone, when she called out after me.

  ‘While you’re here,’ she continued, ‘you might want to make yourself useful. If you really want to help.’

  ‘Certainly,’ I said, turning back.

  ‘You can help me set out the dissection equipment.’

  ‘Yes, of course, by all—’ and before I had finished she had disappeared back into the adjoining office and appeared again with another box, a large sealed cardboard box, which she handed to me.

  ‘Right. You’re planning a dissection then?’ I asked.

  ‘For the parents. So they can see what their money has bought them. Over here, please,’ she said, gesturing me towards the long demonstration bench, which was set out with various flasks and bottles, enamel trays of instruments, and a dish containing small balls of some damp, strong-smelling cotton-wool wadding.

  ‘And what are you dissecting?’

  ‘Frogs.’

  ‘Really.’ I saw no sign of frogs. ‘And where do you keep the frogs?’

  ‘There.’ She nodded towards the box in my hands. I realised with a shock that the box was not only rattling, but humming with the most curious sound, like cattle lowing.

  ‘Frogs?’ I said, dropping the box.

  ‘Careful!’ she said.

  ‘Sorry, I …’ I was remembering an incident in Spain, when I had awoken one night in our tent, which we had pitched in a forest, to find it filled with tiny, wailing, vivid frogs spotted all over and with feet like talons.

  I bent down, picked up the box of frogs, stood up – and as I did so, in a swift flowing movement, the science mistress produced a small flick-knife from the pocket of her dress, flicked it open, and came suddenly towards me, which caused me almost to drop the box again. Staring directly at me, she sliced perfectly through the string and tape that secured the lid of the box, and then with equal swiftness reached in and removed a frog from the box, grasping it with one hand by its long writhing legs, and reaching with the other hand for a cotton-wool ball soaked in chloroform, which she pressed over its mouth.

  ‘Keep it shut, please,’ she said, nodding towards the box. I frantically shut the lid of the box. ‘Good. There,’ she added, proffering me the now deceased frog.

  I wasn’t entirely sure what to do with it.

  ‘One on each desk. Every boy’ll get a frog they’re going to demonstrate.’

  ‘Right.’ I placed the box on the bench, and took the frog to a desk, and we repeated the procedure until there was the sound of no more rattling and humming, and only the smell of chloroform.

  ‘All done,’ I said.

  The strange Mrs Standish

  ‘Yes,’ she said, scowling.

  ‘Well … I’ll perhaps go on then.’

  ‘Yes, that’s all now, thank you,’ she said.

  ‘Right, well, I’ll …’

  She turned her back to me.

  ‘Sorry,’ I said, ‘I didn’t catch your name.’

  ‘I’m Mrs Standish,’ she said, as she disappeared into her office.

  ‘Oh,’ I said. ‘Standish?’

  ‘That’s right,’ she called.

  ‘It’s a common name around here?’

  ‘Not as far as I’m aware,’ she said.

  ‘So you’re … married to the headmaster?’

  She appeared at the door of the office, and smiled at me, baring her tiny teeth. ‘No!’ she said. ‘I am not married to the headmaster! I’m married to Alexander. The other Mr Standish.’

  ‘Oh. Yes, of course …’

  ‘Thank you for your assistance. Goodbye.’

  A bell rang as I made my way up the stairs away from the dark science room and the strange Mrs Standish and towards the light, dozens of boys rushing down past me.

  CHAPTER 9

  EVERYTHING IN HAND AND UNDER CONTROL

  DESPERATE FOR FRESH AIR and some semblance of normality, I walked up and straight out the front of the school – and almost into the arms of the law.

  Bernhard was still there with his clipboard. He was talking to the two policemen who had arrived earlier. He seemed to be directing them towards the beach. I was not inclined at that moment to speak to them, or indeed to anyone else, so I hung back until they passed.

  ‘Ah, Sefton,’ said Bernhard, spotting me. ‘All well?’

  ‘Yes, all fine,’ I said. ‘All fine. The police, they’re here to … ?’

  ‘I’m not sure. Something to do with Founder’s Day? They’ve seen Alex. They are looking for the headmaster.’

  ‘Very good,’ I said. ‘And you don’t know where Alex is?’

  ‘He was here a moment ago.’

  ‘Well, I’ll lea
ve you to it.’

  ‘I’ll see you later, at the speech?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  The lorries were still being unloaded of their tables and chairs and I strode briskly up the lane towards the farm buildings where I had spent the previous night. I was going to smoke, perhaps take a few photographs, clear my head, and forget about the morning’s grisly events. I was tired of people – all of them, the living and the dead. Mrs Standish. The headmaster. Alex. The dead boy. Everyone.

  Just before the farm buildings there was a gate on the right into a field and at the gate were gathered a trio of forlorn-looking farm labourers, and Mr Gooding, with an expression of gap-toothed despair.

  ‘Good morning, Mr Gooding,’ I said. ‘Gentlemen.’ One of the labourers I recognised as Abednego, the man who had been out watching the school the night before.

  Mr Gooding looked at me uncomprehendingly, as if he’d never seen me before.

  ‘Stephen Sefton,’ I said, ‘you’re kindly putting me up, in the farmhouse?’

  Mr Gooding continued to look blank and forlorn, just as the headmaster had looked on the beach. The gathered labourers looked at me suspiciously, and in utter silence.

  ‘Father’s lost a donkey,’ said Abednego eventually.

  ‘Lhost a donkey,’ said Mr Gooding.

  ‘Oh dear. I’m sorry to hear that.’

  ‘Lhost a donkey,’ said Mr Gooding again.

  ‘You’re sure you’ve lost it? Don’t they wander, donkeys?’

  ‘Not our donkey,’ said Abednego. ‘He’s been safe tethered in that field for thirty years.’

  ‘It’s them boys,’ said one of the other men. ‘Stuck-up bunch of good-for-nothings, the lot of them.’

  ‘Well, I’m sure they’re not all—’ I began.

  ‘What would you know about it?’ continued the other man. ‘We never had any trouble before the school came. I tell you what I’d do if I got my hands on one of them. I’d—’

  ‘Bhoys!’ said Mr Gooding.

  ‘Sorry, we’ve not met,’ I said to the angry man, trying to calm things down. ‘My name’s Stephen Sefton. And you must be …’

  ‘Shadrach,’ he said.

  ‘Meshach,’ said the other.