The Complete Bostock and Harris

by Leon Garfield

  Tizzy handed the letter to an ancient coachman and rewarded him with a shilling and a smile in place of the kiss he’d asked. Then, with the smile still about her—for to be asked for a kiss is a marvelous curver of the lips—she left the yard in time to meet with Ralph Bunnion who was on his way into the Old Ship’s back parlor.

  Aroused by Tizzy’s beauty and tortured by the memory of what it had brought him to, Ralph halted. “It’s all your fault!” he snarled. “When blood flows on Saturday, it’ll be on your conscience forever! I hope you’re satisfied.” Then he said, “Murderess!” and stalked into the inn in a blaze of peach velvet and a flash of love-in-idleness.

  Tizzy stared after him, her eyes stinging with tears at the injustice of it all. For a moment she wished with all her heart that Ralph Bunnion would indeed be slain on Saturday; but she repented instantly as that would have made her father a murderer. So did she wish her father killed instead? Again she recoiled from the thought. She began to walk away with downcast eyes and the ancient coachman who’d asked her for a kiss gazed after her and fancied she was limping, as if she’d stumbled and been bruised against one of the world’s sharp corners.

  “Charming young woman,” murmured a stranger with a clubfoot.

  “A lass and a half,” agreed the coachman. “Sweet as a lane in May.”

  The inquiry agent smiled. Quite reasonably he had taken Tizzy to be Maggie Hemp as there seemed no purpose in introducing a newcomer to the scheme at this late stage. The threat of blood on Saturday and the terrible taunt of “Murderess” had further confirmed him. Cautiously he craned his neck to read the name on the letter the coachman still held. “Adam Alexander.” Mr. Raven’s brain reeled. Was there no end to the complexity of the affair? Were its hideous tentacles reaching out to yet another victim?

  Every impulse bade him follow the young woman in the yellow dress; but his foot ached from the constant dragging from place to place. He groaned with frustration and heaved himself up to his little room where he spread out his paper and, in a few minutes, was calmed by studying it.

  Blood on Saturday. At least he had until then. Everything indicated that Brett would hold his hand until that fatal day. “But on Saturday,” he whispered to his boot, “we will forestall him and strike with a thunderbolt!”

  Tizzy Alexander, after thinking miserably about casting herself from the top of Black Rock and so ending her young life on a romantic full stop, had decided to give the world just one more chance and had arrived back at the school before lunch. As she passed slowly before the front parlor window, she heard Mr. Brett talking about the infant Perseus being abandoned to the sea in a fragile ark. Strange how often babies seemed to be abandoned in the Ancient World as well as the modern. Dreamily, for Mr. Brett’s voice always made her deliciously dreamy, she caught herself remembering the little baby she’d found on the Downs on that hateful afternoon when everything had begun. Between her other troubles, she’d thought of it often since it had been whisked away in Ralph Bunnion’s lumpish arms. She’d wondered what had become of it and whether it was now being as loved as she’d have loved it if she’d been given the chance. Now she wondered how it would have been—with the baby of course—how it would have been if she’d gone walking with Mr. Brett instead of Ralph Bunnion. She remembered the last lesson—and sighed. He’d have talked of Ancient History all the way there and all the way back.

  She peered through the window at the twelve large, clumsy boys who sprawled and huddled in their places like heaps of old clothes. It won’t be long before they’re lovers and husbands, she thought with amazement; even those two awful ones in the front . . . what were their names, now? Bostock and Harris. Her gaze shifted. And there’s that poor, fat child, Sorley. But he looks so pale; and thinner. I must mention it to Ma. Perhaps he needs some physic?

  She stopped. One by one the boys had turned and were staring at her. They were grinning. Alarmed, she looked to the front of the class. Mr. Brett was also staring at her. His eyes were enormous and his face was pale as death. He half raised a hand towards her—when she went as red as a poppy and fled into the school.

  “Vy must you frighten the vits out of me, child?” said Mrs. Alexander angrily as Tizzy burst in upon her. “A leddy shoot knock.” Then she shoveled away a large piece of white material into her workbox and shut the lid on it as if it were alive. Tizzy frowned.

  As always, Bostock and Harris walked home together. The coolness between them had gone; theirs was a friendship that was strengthened by disaster. It was now as firm as a rock. Harris had confided in Bostock the misfortune that had overtaken the anonymous letter and had been generous enough not to blame his friend for it. Bostock had listened, staring at Harris in mute and terrified sympathy. He had never known Harris to fail in anything so many times. Bostock felt that it was fate; but he didn’t like to say so as he knew Harris didn’t believe in fate. None the less, there seemed no other explanation and Bostock, in his heart of hearts, was sure that Harris and he were opposed by a power that was beyond them. Genius though Harris undoubtedly was, there were still things in heaven and earth that even a genius might not overcome. He stole a mournful glance at Harris and wondered how he might tell him that it looked like Adelaide was gone for good.

  But he couldn’t bring himself to do it. He saw that Harris was battling with a new idea. Truly there was something heroic about Harris. In the face of all calamity, he fought indomitably on.

  “There’s fourteen shillings left,” said Harris, brooding as if over a great distance. “And fourteen shillings could go a long way.”

  Bostock nodded and wondered how far Harris was considering going with it.

  “Now if we was to invest it, little by little, in that Mrs. Bonney at the poorhouse . . .”

  “Yes, Harris?”

  The lights were beginning to flicker in Harris’s eyes and, in spite of himself, Bostock couldn’t help being excited.

  “If we was to go each day with a shilling or two for the foundlings . . .”

  “Yes, Harris?”

  “So that our comings and goings would seem natural and aboveboard . . .”

  He paused and looked inquiringly at Bostock for another “Yes, Harris,” which somehow he seemed to need. “Then sooner or later she won’t be there, Bosty. It happened before and it’ll happen again.”

  “Yes, Harris?”

  “So we lift Adelaide, Bosty, old friend! Easy as kiss your hand! Don’t you see? It’s as good as done! A little patience, a little money—and it’ll all be over!”

  Once more the lights were fully on in Harris’s eyes. He was all triumph.

  “And—even if it don’t work again,” said Bostock, striving to prepare his friend for the inevitable worst, “we’ll have done a real charity with all that money for the foundlings!”

  “Charity?” said Harris mockingly. “What’s that, Bosty? My poor old friend, there ain’t no such thing as charity.” He laughed sardonically and Bostock steadied himself to have yet another support of his youthful soul knocked away.

  “Hypocrisy,” said Harris. “Nothing more, Bosty. Self-interest rules us all. The man what gives to the poor is only doing it to be well thought of by the world.”

  “But what about them that give secretly, Harris?”

  “Worst of all,” said Harris contemptuously. “They’re the ones that spill it all out in their prayers to buy themselves a seat in Heaven. Sniveling in their pews: Look God, haven’t I been good today? You’ll remember, won’t you, when the time comes?”

  “But you said there wasn’t any God—”

  “Then more fool them and it serves them right when they find out they’ve done it all for nothing. No, Bosty, old friend—all your saints and philanthropists only give to satisfy themselves, else they wouldn’t do it. Stands to reason. Hypocrites, every last one of ’em. Charity’s a snare and a delusion, Bosty.”

  “But it’s supposed to be Christian, anyway.”

  “What’s that, Bosty? Mark my words,
old friend, if there was such a thing as a real live Christian—which there can’t be as nature’s against it—he’d be honest enough and truthful enough in his own heart never to sink to your sneaking charity. He’d be a man, no matter how many poor he came across, no matter how they yelped and whimpered for bread, who’d not demean himself by giving anything away. He’d be a man who’d scorn to puff himself up with goodness. That’s what I’d call a real Christian, Bosty! None of your sniveling hypocrites!”

  Bostock stared at the ground. He was thinking of the shilling he’d put in the collecting box on Sunday; and he was deeply ashamed.

  Mrs. Bonney, having drunk away the two shillings and sixpence of yesterday, was feeling the effects of it. Mr. Bonney was still away so she still had the remaining money and she was sorely tempted. The stranger with the clubfoot had put the fear of the Devil into her—else she’d never have drunk so freely. Now her temper was at its worst and she knew she was being harsh with the foundlings when they howled. But she couldn’t help it. Gin and brandy was the only thing that would put her to rights. In a way, if she spent the remaining two and sixpence at the Old Ship it would be as much for the foundlings’ benefit as for hers. Her temper would be sweetened and once more she’d be as an angel to them. So surely it couldn’t be sinful to aim to be kind?

  She was thus fidgeting with her conscience and the two shillings and sixpence when Bostock poked his fierce head round the door and gave her a further two shillings for the poor.

  “Bless my soul!” said Mrs. Bonney, patting Bostock’s inky hand. “Another little Christian!”

  “No I ain’t,” said Bostock sadly. “I’m a hypocrite, Mrs. Bonney.”

  “I don’t care what domination you may be, Master B.,” said Mrs. Bonney. “You’re a real Christian to me.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  SORLEY was ill. Mrs. Alexander had noticed and mentioned to Mrs. Bunnion that the boy was sickly pale and showed signs of wasting away. Mrs. Bunnion had told her husband, but he had refused to believe it—as indeed he refused to believe anything of an unpleasant nature. Then he saw with his own eyes that the boy took no breakfast on the Wednesday and scarcely touched his lunch.

  At once the headmaster plunged into an extreme of anxiety. Though a sensible and respected man whose scholarly accomplishments no one would have questioned, he was much given to extremes of alarm. They arose from the very weakness of his nature that caused him to ignore disagreeable matters. He knew this weakness and he despised and dreaded it; but he could not help it. He happened to be squeamish about omens of disaster. Thus, by the time something was actually forced on his notice, it had generally swollen to the gravest proportions.

  In a matter of moments he had convinced himself that Sorley was dying. All the tangled troubles of the school and the duel sank away into idle dreams before the stark reality of Sorley’s approaching death. He dispatched Ralph for Dr. Harris, even though he feared that the baronet’s son was already beyond the physician’s skill.

  “I can make nothing of it,” said Dr. Harris after he had examined the listless Sorley. “Everything seems in order—yet . . .?” He prescribed one of Mr. Parrish’s powders to stimulate Sorley’s appetite and departed, leaving Sorley in nature’s hands.

  Dr. Bunnion saw him to his carriage and asked if he should inform Sir Walter of his son’s condition. Dr. Harris, obsessed and distracted by his own strange tragedy, looked at the headmaster vaguely, at first nodding and then shaking his head. “Forgive me,” he said, seeing the headmaster’s bewildered look, “but I have troubles at home. As you must know, we have lost our youngest child.”

  Dr. Bunnion, who naturally took “lost” to mean the child had perished, expressed sympathy; but at the same time felt a pang of uneasiness. If the physician had been unable to save his own child, what hope was there for Sorley? It was exactly as he’d feared; Sorley was doomed.

  He hurried back and administered Mr. Parrish’s powder with his own hands, saying to the pale and haunted-looking boarder, “Never mind, boy—I will send for your father.” He had no intention of sending for Sir Walter, as the thought of that great man terrified him; he had only meant to comfort the boy. Then he left the room, closing the door reverently behind him. When he returned, some two hours later, Sorley had gone.

  The fat boy was running. At first he made for the town; but the sight of people frightened him and he turned towards the great green Downs. Sweat ran off him in streams and his cheeks shook and jumped till he felt they would tear away from his face.

  He had been driven half mad with guilt. Mr. Brett had been following him everywhere, not letting him alone for an instant. Always the figure before him—always the hand on his shoulder, clutching tight. He did not know what it was he’d done, and that made it a thousand times worse. Had it been some particular crime he could have confessed it—as he’d done on the crust of the stolen pie; but it hadn’t been the theft of the pie at all for the pursuit had gone relentlessly on. The very uncertainty of what it was about tormented him like a mortal disease. Sleep deserted him and food—his chief pleasure—tasted rancid in his mouth. What had he done? What had he done?

  In anguish he dredged up every mean and petty act he’d ever committed, every paltry crime and dishonesty that crawled in the dark of his brain. He would confess them all. But there were so many! Every moment more came creeping out. Sins of the day, sins of the night, dark and unwholesome . . . How vile he was! To confess all was unnatural, impossible. Naked he trembled in his mind’s eye, covered with misdeeds that scaled and erupted all over him like a leprosy of the soul.

  His fat flesh seemed gummed to his clothing as the sweat congealed. He collapsed on the grass high up on the Downs and drifted into a terrified half sleep that was worse than no sleep at all.

  He was not strong, clever nor brave, and in his deep self-examination he had wretchedly failed. The threat of his father coming to the school hung over him like a nameless sword. He dared not go back. If only—if only he’d had a friend! Even at home in Cuckfield he’d never had one. His mother scorned him for his absurd appearance, and his father despised him for his dread of all the great dogs and high horses that flashed yellow sneers at him wherever he went. The school had been a haven; Dr. Bunnion and his wife had been kind . . . so kind . . .

  Extremity of distress drove Dr. Bunnion to extremities of discretion and he succeeded in concealing the loss of Sorley until after five o’clock when the day pupils had gone. There was nothing to be achieved by panic, he told himself over and over again.

  Nor, on the other hand, was anything achieved by the lack of it. Despite immense searches—in the confines of the school and among the half-built houses nearby where pits and trenches gaped with horrid blackness, laced with jagged teeth of rubble—Sorley was not to be found.

  “You must send for Sir Walter at once,” Mrs. Bunnion urged; but the headmaster, clinging desperately to the notion of a schoolboy prank, kept shaking his head. “He is coming on Saturday, my dear. He has promised. What can it serve if he comes now? Why distress him prematurely?”

  So the search continued with an energy and urgency that, had he known of it, would have moved the lonely, fat boy to tears. But then men, like teeth, are only valued when they’ve gone, and it takes a gap in the family, like a gap in the mouth, to sharpen the heart.

  Major Alexander, seeing Dr. Bunnion’s total absorption in the loss of Sorley, instantly feared his own concerns would go by the board and the as-good-as-promised dismissal of Mr. Brett would be forgotten in the general confusion. Thus Saturday’s duel would become inevitable; honor demanding that he would have to face Ralph if his private condition was not met.

  “Brett is to blame, sir,” he muttered, whenever he had the opportunity. “He should have kept a closer eye on the boy. No good for the school. Negligent . . . negligent . . .”

  Though the Major spoke sincerely, he was not to know that it had been the very closeness of Mr. Brett’s eye that had done the damage. Nor was M
r. Brett himself aware of this as his only concern with Sorley had been to clutch on to him as a shield against any possible unpleasantness from Dr. Bunnion.

  “Perhaps he’s gone home?” Mr. Brett offered, timidly attempting to ease the headmaster’s mind; but Dr. Bunnion only shook his massive head in which there was rooted the irrational dread that the angel of death had come for Sorley and had taken him, lock, stock and barrel.

  After two and a half hours the search was halted for dinner, during which time the fat boarder’s empty chair exercised a terrible fascination over all present and provoked in every breast fresh fears and thoughts that, often, had very little to do with Sorley but were concerned with the wider and more frightening business of living. Major Alexander thought of the sharp pains of violent death, and Mr. Brett thought of the sharper pains of severed love; while Tizzy Alexander found herself thinking of children left alone and remembering yet again the abandoned baby on the Downs.

  Thus the disappearance of the fat boy took its place as yet another wave proceeding from the pebble that Bostock and Harris had cast into the sunshine calm of the previous Saturday afternoon.

  And still Bostock and Harris went steadily on. Like a pair of cats intent on their prey, nothing deflected them as they moved through the long week towards its end . . . inadvertently drawing after them a tangle of threads that, minute by minute, became more and more hideously entwined.