by Bruce, Leo
On the other side of the main block was a bungalow in which were bedrooms for the staff and the staff common-room.
On the ground floor were ways through to all three parts of the building. One could start in Mrs. Sconer’s drawing-room, pass through the private hall to the central block and through this to the staff bungalow without going out of doors. One could also pass from the private part of the boys’ dormitories on the first floor.
That Parker had his room in the private part of the house was another privilege that had come with long service. He had made it into something of a bed-sitting-room.
When Carolus returned from the Windmill that evening and was making for his room. Parker opened his door.
“Like a nightcap?” he asked.
Carolus accepted and found that Parker had whisky and a siphon. Parker was a long way from being drunk but he could not have been described as cold sober.
“Been down to the Windmill?” he asked.
Carolus said—“Yes. Strolled across.”
“I used to go most evenings,” said Parker. “But I find the walk back rather too much for me these days and beer doesn’t agree with me as it did.”
“How’s the rheumatism?” asked Carolus.
Parker looked surprised.
“Oh that! Quite gone, thanks. I don’t suppose it was rheumatism. Or just a twinge. Yes, as I was saying I find that just one nip of Scotch at bed-time suits me. This is my twenty-first year with Sconer, you know.”
“So I’ve heard. It’s a long time.”
“Big part of a life, really. I’ve seen the school grow from almost nothing. We had eight boys when I first came.”
“And now you’re sixty-eight.”
“Yes. We’ve worked hard, mind you. Sconer’s the best of men to work for. Mrs. Sconer is not such a dragon as some people think. Matron’s the trouble there. I’m afraid she’s a mischief-maker.”
“Pity. I’ve been hearing tonight about a very attractive member of the staff you had last term—Sally O’Maverick.”
Parker looked up.
“What did you hear about her?”
“Nothing really, except that she was very popular and that her dismissal was due to Matron.”
“I suppose Pocket told you that? You shouldn’t listen to a lot of talk. If it comes to that, Mollie Westerly is thought by most people to be far more attractive.”
“She’s certainly not the sort of person I expected to meet on a school staff.”
“Not at all. She’s more … more dignified than Sally O’Maverick was.” Parker’s voice dropped. “Her room’s next door,” he explained. “She went to bed about half an hour ago. The walls are thin here and I shouldn’t like her to think we were talking about her.”
“You always have a mistress for the junior boys?”
“Yes. Sconer believes in that. They have more patience with the little ones. We’ve had a lot since the school opened.”
They fell silent for a while. Then Carolus, whose hearing was remarkably sharp, pulled a piece of paper towards him and wrote on it—“Someone is listening at the door.” Parker read this, nodded and went on in an even voice—“A lot of masters, too. They come and go. I shouldn’t like to think how many.”
Listening, Carolus heard from the passage a series of faint taps but they were not on the door of Parker’s room. They seemed to waken no response and continued, gentle but persistent.
“Someone’s knocking on Mollie Westerly’s door,” whispered Parker.
The two men continued to sit still and listen. Presently they heard the door of the next room opened and there was a sound of whispering. ‘All right, wait a minute’, they heard Mollie say impatiently. There was another silent pause, a louder whisper of ‘Thank you!’ and the door was shut.
With surprising energy Parker crossed the room and threw open the door.
“What on earth are you doing here?” Carolus heard him ask. Then, “Come in and explain yourself.”
It was Duckmore. He was wearing a dressing-gown and bedroom slippers and seemed to be trembling. He kept his closed hand in front of him as though it held treasure.
“I couldn’t sleep,” he said. “Mollie told me about the sleeping tablets she brought back from Beirut. I came to ask her for one.”
He opened his hand and showed a tiny yellow pill.
“You came right over from the bungalow for that?” asked Parker.
Duckmore’s hand was unsteady.
“Yes. They’re wonderful. I’ve had them before. Just one gives you a beautiful long deep sleep, and they seem to work at once—within a few minutes. Can I have a little water to take it with?”
Parker, seemingly perfectly calm, poured some water into a tumbler.
“It’s difficult to believe,” he said. “Such a tiny little pill. Thank God I don’t need anything like that. You’d better get back to bed before it begins to act.”
“It’s the strain,” said Duckmore with a note of hysteria in his voice.
He left them, moving a little uncertainly to the door. They heard his footsteps in the passage as he shuffled away. “Nervous type, poor Duckmore,” said Parker. “He seems to feel the disturbances here more than anyone. I can’t think why. He has private money—quite a lot. I believe. If he’s worried about life at St. Asprey’s all he has to do is to leave.”
“What is his story?” asked Carolus.
“No one seems to know. He was in the last war, I believe. Sconer engaged him about two years ago. He was recommended by the parents of one of the boys. He’s a nice enough chap. Perhaps his trouble is that he’s studying too hard.”
“Oh. He’s studying?”
“Yes. Theology. I think he wants to take Orders.”
Carolus rose.
“Thanks for the drink,” he said. “I must get some sleep.”
On the following afternoon when Carolus had spent a somewhat fruitless and irritating morning with Sime’s classes, he drove over to Pyedown-Abdale church. He was not surprised to find it a building of some grandeur with a high square tower at the West end, for he knew how many Gloucestershire villages had lost their population and importance and kept only a large church to remind them of the past. The door, on the South side, was open and he entered to find the nave cool, musty and empty. But the door leading to the tower staircase was locked, and without hesitation Carolus drove to the Rectory and asked for Mr. Spancock.
Mr. Spancock nodded vigorously when Carolus explained what he wanted. Carolus was fascinated by his profile, two almost straight lines, one from the tip of his nose to the top of his forehead, the other from the same point to his Adam’s Apple, neither chin nor brow breaking the symmetry.
“I’ll come with you,” he said.
“Please don’t bother.” Carolus wanted half an hour alone in the tower which had been the scene of Sime’s accident.
“Certainly. Delighted. Just let me get my torch. Ah, here we are!” Then with coy slanginess—“Let’s go!”
As they approached the door the Rector said—“I’ll show you how to get in, any time you want. To the church, that is. Tower’s always open—except for the last few days. Police orders. There! See that niche? Key there. Everyone in the parish knows that. Organist comes. Parker, you know. And Skippett—sexton.”
They entered the church.
“Fine tower,” the Rector said as they approached it. “Been kept locked lately. Police. But they’ve finished now.”
“You mean the police wanted it locked after the accident?”
“Rather! Spent hours there. Photographs. Finger prints. Told me it can be opened now. For bell-ringers.”
As the Rector was inserting a large key in the door to the tower Carolus looked up at the vaulted roof above him.
“What height from the ground is the floor of the belfry?” he asked.
“More than thirty feet. Spiral staircase. Worn steps. Death-trap.”
They started to ascend and Carolus saw what he meant. He had rarely climbe
d such a precipitous staircase and the stone steps were as Mr. Spancock said, worn. Each had an indentation of several inches at the centre. If as Sime claimed he had been pushed from the top it was hard to see how he had survived the fall.
The Rector was waving his torch as he led the way and it made shadows and streaks of light on the stone walls. Carolus waited till they had reached the loft in which the bell-ropes hung, then, before more than glancing about him, said—“May I borrow your torch for a moment?”
“Natch,” said the Rector smiling at his own comparatively up-to-date utterance.
Carolus behaved rather unexpectedly with the torch, which was large and powerful. He switched it on and kept it on while he returned to the staircase and descended some fifteen steps. Then he began to ascend again playing the torch on the walls to right and left of him at a foot or two only above the level of the stairs. After some moments at about six steps from the top he stooped to examine a small green stain on the stonework on his right. Then he looked at the wall on his left and found opposite to this a similar green stain. Finally he joined the Rector in the loft.
There was not much light here but Carolus could see the bell-ropes hooked back to the wall and on the side of the room farthest away from the top of the staircase an oak table. He made a careful examination of this.
“Rather fine,” he pronounced after a few moments.
“Really? Refectory?”
“Old,” said Carolus catching the spirit of brevity from the Rector.
Near the top of the stairs were some curtains of dusty red plush some eighteen inches from the wall on which were some rusty hooks.
“Bell-ringers’ coats,” explained the Rector.
“Ah yes. Does anyone else come up here?”
“Been some trouble before the accident. Seen it myself. Man with field glasses on the tower. Suppose it was Sime.”
“Can we go up?”
“Sure!” said the Rector, smiling again. “Follow me!”
They ascended by a ladder permanently fixed to the wall and the Rector opened a trap door. He led the way to leads, moving with noticeable agility. The view was magnificent and stretched in every direction, though St. Asprey’s, on the hill, cut off a more distant horizon.
“I don’t wonder someone came up here with field-glasses,” said Carolus. “This is superb.”
The Rector vigorously shook his head.
“Wasn’t that,” he said.
“No? What makes you so sure?”
“Sime was no landscape lover. Espionage more likely.”
“I see. Yes, with a pair of field-glasses one could keep pretty close observation on the school—perhaps recognize everyone moving about. I can see that flashy blazer of Mayring’s now. He’s on the cricket field.”
They started to climb down.
“Awfully good of you to come. Rector,” said Carolus. “I’m most grateful to you.”
“Seen all you want?” asked the Rector pleasantly as they reached ground level.
“I think so.”
“Good. Splendid. Shan’t lock this again. Bell-ringers. You must have a look at the glass.”
They went up to the chancel.
“No wonder Parker likes playing the organ,” said Carolus when he saw it.
“Yes. A beaut, isn’t it?” said the Rector. “Choir stalls are fab, too.”
They walked slowly down the nave and into the open air.
“I’ll run you back,” said Carolus.
“Thanks. Don’t mind walking a bit. No distance.”
“I wouldn’t dream of letting you.”
“Oh well,” said the Rector and climbed in.
When they reached the Rectory and the car was in the drive, Mr. Spancock spoke nervously.
“Can’t ask you in, I’m afraid.” Then, as though to explain everything, “My wife,” he added.
What did one say? wondered Carolus.
“Very sorry. Hope you understand.”
“Of course. Thank you again,” said Carolus.
(It was some time before he had a chance of asking Mr. Pocket the explanation of this but he found it was a simple one. “She drinks,” said Pocket without elaboration.)
It was past half-past four and time to return to the school if he wanted to be there for common-room tea, an occasion usually for conversation, if not confidences.
He drove slowly and some five hundred yards away from the school gates stopped altogether for Duckmore, wild-eyed and obviously out of control, was running full pelt towards him. He quickly jumped from the car and seized the little man as he tried to pass.
“What’s the matter with you?” he demanded.
Duckmore stared without recognizing him.
“I’m going,” he said. “I must go!”
“Why?”
“There’s been an accident.”
“Get into the car and pull yourself together.”
“No, no! I must go. Sime’s dead.”
Carolus almost picked the man up and shoved him forcibly into the seat of his car.
“Calm down,” he said. “You didn’t kill him, did you?”
“No, but… I want to get away.”
“You shall.” said Carolus, driving on to the school. “But not yet. Don’t try it that way, Duckmore.”
In the drive was Mayring who had apparently come out in pursuit of Duckmore.
“Look after him,” said Carolus quickly. “Don’t let him try to leave.”
The young man nodded and Carolus left them there and hurried to the staff entrance. Standing at Sime’s door was Jim Stanley in the attitude of a guardian.
“You can’t go in,” he said. “There has been an accident.”
“Out of the way,” said Carolus, all his normal suavity gone.
“Mr. Sconer says…”
This was one of the few occasions on which unarmed combat served its turn. He threw Stanley to the floor three yards away and entered.
The window was wide open and Carolus had a glimpse of green and gold and a peaceful early evening. But facing it, still propped up on his pillows, Sime glared sightlessly ahead, and his chest and the sheets around his abdomen were scarlet with blood. (There was a macabre suggestion of a red pullover as Carolus first looked.) The cause of this was immediately obvious. A long arrow which Carolus recognized as a broadhead had entered his throat just above the adam’s apple and remained there falling downward but still deeply embedded. Sime was dead.
But there was another thing which Carolus saw as quickly. On the wall above Sime’s head was a large framed photograph of some team, a dozen faces staring manfully at the camera as athletes do. Among them, Carolus had noticed on his previous visit, was the young Sime, no more prepossessing in appearance than Sime at forty, and inexperienced rather than innocent in appearance. This photograph had been shattered by a blow it seemed and some of the chips of glass had showered on Sime’s unconscious head.
Carolus looked from the window across to the point from which the archers practised, then made a close examination of the man and the room. He touched nothing.
He was interrupted by Stanley.
“You’ve got no right in here! I was told to keep everyone out till the police come.”
“That’s all right,” said Carolus calmly. “I’ve seen all I want.”
“You had no right…”
“Come on. We’ll leave this to the police. They have been sent for?”
“I suppose so. Sconer went to phone them.”
“Sorry I had to be violent, Stanley. Please accept my apology. I think you will understand later why I had to do it. You’re not hurt?”
“No. But I might have been. However, if you come out now I shan’t say anything.”
Carolus left him standing outside the door again and looked in the common-room. Four cups of tea had been poured out but Parker’s was the only one drunk. He looked utterly dejected.
“It will ruin the school,” he said.
“Probably. The point is su
rely that a man’s been killed.”
“I knew he’d do no good here as soon as he came. What are the parents going to say?”
Carolus seemed about to speak sharply but instead walked out and shut the door.
In the passage he met Sconer with two obvious plain clothes men on their way to Sime’s room. Sconer ignored him and he passed the policemen and went to the private part of the house. Without hesitation he entered the drawing-room and found Mrs. Sconer alone there.
“You’ve heard? “ she asked.
“Yes. The police are there now.”
She jerked back her head with a pained gesture.
“The police!” she said. “Was it necessary to call them?”
“Of course it was.”
“A terrible, terrible accident,” said Mrs. Sconer.
Carolus lost patience.
“Accident my foot,” he said. “The man’s been murdered and you must know it.”
“Oh no, no!” cried Mrs. Sconer. Then in the words and almost the tone which Parker had used she added, “It will ruin the school!”
Chapter Seven
After that outburst Mrs. Sconer was silent for a few moments then became more practical.
“You have experience of this sort of thing,” she said in a somewhat hostile way. “What do you advise us to do?”
“There’s not much you can do. The police will investigate and make an arrest. I shouldn’t think it will take them long.”
“An arrest?” said Mrs. Sconer in a hollow voice. “Here? At St. Asprey’s? You mean you think someone connected with the school will be suspected of killing this man?”
“It’s difficult to see how any stranger can have killed him.”
“Mr. Deene! You came here to help us. I should have thought you would be the first person to say this was an accident. A stray arrow.”
Carolus smiled grimly.
“Arrows don’t stray into a man’s adam’s apple,” he said. “Sime was killed with remarkable accuracy.”
“It couldn’t have been by chance?” pleaded Mrs. Sconer.
“Virtually, not. At least I can’t name a figure high enough for the chances against. It would be several hundred millions to one, I should imagine. I think you will face it all the better when you recognize that Sime was murdered.”