“No, there are a great many boys at our school, and besides, you speak of a long time ago.”
I stared. “I speak of a mere eight years since the boy left.”
“Yes, that is what I mean.”
I continued to ask questions to which he continued evasive, and at last I made it plain that I would not countenance it. “I am considering giving a scholarship of considerable value to this school. I cannot believe that you know so little of the boys under your charge that you do not remember any of their names after only eight years. It smacks to me, sir, of something suspicious. I have the direction of several of the school’s trustees.” I did not, but he was not to know it. “If you do not satisfy me, I shall go at once to them. Now, sir, what do you know of this boy?”
He became agitated, muttering of persecution, and complaining that he could not be supposed to know of boys who were here before his time. From that I disentangled a story of deception. This man had been headmaster for the past year and no earlier. He had convinced the trustees that the previous headmaster was failing, and with that achieved he had taken his place. What I had heard was his guilty conscience.
I knew where I was now, and I knew how to find what I needed. “So you were not headmaster eight years ago, but you will have the accounts and the school-roll from that time. Find me a desk, and bring them to me there.”
Still complaining, he obeyed my demand, and I settled down to tease out from their pages the information Holmes required. I found some of it at least to be there.
10
I discovered, once all the rolls had been stacked beside me and I had gone back to the earlier ones, that Michael Bishop had entered the school when he was nine. He was stated to be an orphan and that any communication concerning him should be made to the Harlow Christian Association Orphanage. I turned to the accounts and found that when he was twelve a moderate sum of money had been paid in to the school to cover his costs for the next two years so that he might continue his education. However, there was no name attached to the money, and no indication of who might have provided it. It was always possible that it had been a donation by some benefactor, someone who knew no more of the boy than that he was a bright, hard-working lad who would repay help. I suspected that the orphanage accounts would reveal similar information, which would be of no great use to me.
I took out my notebook and listed the names and addresses of boys who had progressed through Bishop’s classes, those who had still been studying with him until he was at least twelve, when some had left, and those who had remained. One boy had not left the school until he was fifteen, suggesting that his family had some money and a desire for their son to be well educated. This boy and Michael, who too wished for an education, would have something in common that may have made them friends. I returned the documents, took a stern farewell of the headmaster, and returned to my hotel. It was dusk, I was tired, hungry, and if I went next to the home of an elderly woman to ask of her pupils, I did not think I would be welcome at this hour. I therefore sought food and company.
I carefully fell into conversation with inhabitants of the town and I was rewarded.
“Aye, I’ve lived here my whole life. Know the school? I do indeed, my own lad attends and his elder brother before him. Not that this man is a patch on the old headmaster, aye, a strange business that was. They said he was failing, but I never saw sign of it.”
I indicated interest and he snorted. “Aye, well, this new man is younger and more progressive, so they say. One of the school trustees was exceedingly eager to have him and the others went along. There was some sort of meeting where I did hear tell of a witness that said the old man was losing his memory, but like I said, I never saw such, and nor did anyone with whom I spoke. For myself I wonder if it weren’t of benefit to that trustee to have a new man in. Makes me wonder, anyhow, and others with me,” he added thoughtfully. “Aye, more than me are asking questions. It isn’t as if the school’s done better since the new man come in.”
Wishing him to think me sympathetic, I asked about that. “Has it done worse?”
“Aye, somewhat, or so we think, but the accounts are harder to come at nowadays. The old headmaster, he used to say that any man who could read and write should be allowed to see them.”
I thought that this could be as much as fifty percent of Harlow, although only a handful of those might be interested. Still it was an enlightened attitude, and one that I approved. My informant continued.
“I went every two years, just to cast an eye over the bills the school paid. The headmaster always spoke to me honest; knew the accounts like the back of his hand, he did. Could tell you of anything at which you pointed, all the whys and wherefores and how the sum came to be. Once I was able to suggest a way to cut the cost of obtaining milk for the boys and he didn’t hesitate, not for a moment. He questioned me all about it, and damned if the school didn’t switch to buying where I said. Aye, a good man, open and honest. I’m mortal sorry he’s gone.” He blew out a breath and poured the last of his ale down his throat.
I bought him another. “Tell me, sir, have you ever known a family in Harlow named Bishop?”
“Aye,” he said, raising my spirits. “They have a small shop on the outskirts of the town, parents have had it twenty year now, and…” I diverted any reminiscences, for this could not be the family of Michael Bishop, unless…
“Did they have other family who were killed in an accident about thirteen years ago?”
“Nay, but I tell you who did. Johnson and Emily Hislop lost their brother and sister-in-law in the train crash about that time. Nice folks they were, but then the Lord chooses who He takes in His own time.”
I had no interest in Johnson and Emily Hislop, sorry for them though I might be. I did recall the crash; the train had struck a log left upon the line. It was never found who had left it nor if it was accidental or malicious, but the train had derailed and five people had been killed, with twenty-six injured. The thought struck me that Michael Bishop’s parents might have died in that crash, or been among some of the more severely injured who might have died later. I said goodbye to my new friend, and as it was now dinnertime I headed for the hotel, bathed, dined well, and went to bed early, leaving an order that I was to be called at seven and my breakfast was to be ready within the half-hour.
Along with my bacon and eggs I was given a complimentary copy of the local newspaper, a weekly that reported news from several surrounding villages as well, and which was well written. Such a paper would have information about that train crash, and I inquired as to the whereabouts of the newspaper premises. Once breakfast was over, I lingered a while over a pot of quite good tea until the paper’s office might be open. Once I arrived I found a two-storied building that housed The Harlow Weekly Advisor, and I approached the editor introducing myself, and asking if I might look at back copies.
“I see no reason why not, sir. Do you seek some item in particular?”
“Information as to those involved in the train crash some thirteen years ago.”
“We have that, sir. It happened not far out of Harlow, and we had a reporter at the scene just as the police and medical men arrived.”
He led me to a back room that stretched the length of the building, and there on shelves lay bound copies of all of the issues. I began my search for the right issues, and since it was clear he was proud of his paper I praised it until his eyes gleamed.
“Yes, it’s a good newspaper. My grandfather began it, and I took over from him fifteen years back; that’s how I know about the train crash. I’m fortunate, for my grandfather was a wealthy man. His father had been in a good line of trade, and all his money was left to me in safe securities, as a trust to keep the paper running. I am not beholden to advertisers saying I should not tell the truth about some product of theirs, or to the powerful in Harlow, who might try to pressure me to say something other than the truth.”
I bethought me of the headmaster. “What do you know of the school replacing their
headmaster a year or so back? I was talking to a man who has a son at the school, and he mentioned that now the school accounts have been closed to all.”
The editor spun around, checking the offices past the open door. I could see or hear no one, but he moved to where he could see if any should enter before replying noncommittally. “Yes, I have heard that, too.”
“I had occasion to meet the new man yesterday afternoon,” I said cautiously. “He did not impress me greatly.”
“Nor anyone else who has met him, Doctor.”
“I was told that he claimed the old headmaster was failing in his wits and proposed himself to take over.” I spoke bluntly, hoping that he would contradict me if that were wrong. Instead he merely nodded. “I hear too that one of the school’s trustees spoke up for the new man, which is unusual, for trustees, or so I have always found, are conservative. They rarely desire major changes,” I offered.
The editor scowled. “Not unless they have something to gain personally,” he muttered. “But I know nothing for certain. Perhaps if you were seeking information about someone at the school you should talk to the old man. I can give you a name and address.”
I sighed. “I doubt he would tell me anything, gentlemen rarely bruit abroad injustices suffered. But thank you.” As we talked I turned over the copies, reading a few words here and there. I opened the edition that reported the train crash, listing the names of dead and injured. I broke off our discourse to read. There were the ill-omened Hislops, a Benjamin and Martha, and three other deaths. I continued to the next edition, finding that several of the injured had subsequently died. Two of them possibly, from the similarity of names, spouses to those already dead, however none, even amongst the injured, were named Bishop.
I parted from the editor, thanking him for his assistance, and made my way back to the hotel for luncheon and to consider my next move. The old headmaster was unlikely to be helpful, in my opinion.. I could not bully him with suggestions of a complaint to the trustees, and it was clear that Michael Bishop’s parents had not died in that train crash. I knew orphanages, and the man there would tell me nothing since I had no provable authority. Then there was the family of the boy who had been schooled with Bishop. I inquired about them, to be told that that they had left Harlow some three years earlier.
At least I had the name and direction of the lad’s tutor, and it was there that I went next. Her home was a small, tidy cottage, whitewashed, with a pumiced doorstep and neat front garden brilliant with flowering shrubs. There was no reply to my knocking at the front door, so I followed the path around to the back and found the lady weeding a sizeable vegetable garden, while several fruit trees cast a pleasant shade on the remainder of the area. She was, I judged, around eighty years of age, small, white-headed, rather thin, but clearly in excellent health and fitness. She looked up at me in surprise before rising lithely to her feet.
“Did you wish to speak to me, sir?”
I said that I did and explained that I wanted to talk of one of her pupils. She blinked. “Why, sir, I have none.”
“Not now, perhaps, but four years ago you tutored a young man named Michael Bishop. I wanted to ask what you knew of him.” Forestalling any denial, I added, “You wrote a reference for him, of which I have a copy from his employer.”
“Why, that is so. How is Michael?”
“I do not know, for he has vanished, and I want to discover his whereabouts. That is why I ask what you know of him.”
“Ask his employer?” she suggested.
“His employer does not know. All he can say is that certain recent events so upset the boy that he asked for a month’s leave even if it must be unpaid. Since then he has vanished.”
“Then wait until he returns,” she said unhelpfully.
I decided to bluff. “He is required to give evidence at a hearing before the court. They will not wish to wait.”
“When did he leave?”
“Three weeks ago.”
She smiled kindly at me. “Then I am sure that the hearing can wait another seven days. After all, Michael is a good man, hard-working and honest. What could he have to tell a court that is of such importance?”
I was becoming frustrated at her naiveté and I spoke sternly. “What do you know of him? You were his tutor for four years, and he came regularly to your house. You must know more than that he is hard-working and honest.”
She appeared to resign herself. “I can tell you little. I was his tutor, not a confidant. I am too old to be told a boy’s secrets should he even have any, however, if you would care for a cup of tea I will tell you what I can.”
She led the way inside to a neat parlor, not the usual fussy, over-furnished and knick-knacked old-lady room, but one with a gracious bow window and a wide seat. The room contained two comfortable armchairs, with small tables conveniently placed. There was a china cabinet in one corner and a bookcase in the other, the top level of that displaying several ornaments, but otherwise filled with books. It contained modern books amidst a number of leather-bound volumes.
She left me sitting in one armchair while she bustled through to her kitchen, returning almost at once with a tray on which were set out cups, saucers, and a cake plate bearing slices of seedcake, delectable in appearance, along with a steaming silver teapot and a milk jug and sugar basin. She poured me a cup of tea and served me a slice of cake. Then she tilted her head at me inquiringly.
“Now, what is it that you would ask me?”
“All you know of Michael Bishop, beginning when he came to you for tutoring and until he departed at eighteen,” I said precisely.
She began. “He is an orphan, you do know that?” I nodded. “Once he left the orphanage and obtained a position as a shop-assistant,” she broke off to explain. “Really it was more of an assistant’s assistant, for he swept out the shop before it opened, arranged stock on the shelves, cleaned the windows, and did such other menial work as might be asked of him.”
“Do you know how he came to be an orphan?”
“I heard his parents were killed in an accident, but beyond that I know nothing.”
I motioned that she should continue.
“Soon after he obtained that position he came to me asking if I would tutor him. He said that he could pay me, and the truth is, sir, that while I did not need the money, I saw that he was a bright and eager lad who wished to make something of himself, so I agreed. I am too old to teach full time, and my aunt having died twelve years ago and leaving me her property here, I was in a position where I could comfortably retire.”
“Here?” I asked. “You mean that up until her death you did not live here?”
“Why, no. I lived elsewhere, but when I inherited this cottage along with a small income, I was in the position to retire from teaching.” I struck my hand angrily upon my knee and she looked at me nervously. “Is something wrong, sir? Have I offended you in some way?”
I apologized. “No, it is nothing of that sort. I am merely vexed that no one can tell me of Michael Bishop. Every person seems not to have known him at the time he became an orphan; they do not know his family, his address, or to whom he might be related.”
She bowed her head. “I am sorry for that. But all I know of him is that he was an orphan I tutored. He was intelligent and far-sighted. He saved his wages to pay me, and later to pay an apprenticeship charge. Once that was paid he left town asking me, before he departed, for a reference, which I gave him gladly. He has prospered?”
“Yes,” I said, “he has done well for himself. His employer at Loughton Hall Publishers, in Loughton, thinks well of him. Soon he will finish his apprenticeship, and if he continued to save during his time with them, it is possible he will be permitted to buy a small percentage of the business, since he has a peculiar interest in that already.”
The lady was fascinated. “A peculiar interest?” I related all I knew of ‘Miss Gibson’ and her dealings, and the old lady nodded. “Ah, yes. As I said, a good honest boy, he would k
eep his promises and anyone would see that in him. But surely this ‘Miss Gibson’ could tell you something?”
I explained, reining in my temper, that the lady was singularly elusive. In all probability her name was not ‘Gibson,’ and that from her demeanor to date, she had no intention of her whereabouts being discovered.
“You think her to have some ulterior motive?”
I considered that. “No, I think that she has something to lose by being discovered not to be ‘Miss Gibson.’”
“Whatever do you mean?” She gazed at me with wide-eyed interest and I expanded on some of my thoughts.
“Well, the publisher suggests that she is of a noble family. You know such novels sell better if a lady writes them. What if she is merely a woman of the middle classes, one who perhaps has sufficient leisure to write? Perhaps she is the fortunate possessor of a small income or annuity. Or it could be that she is married and her husband does not know what she does when he is from home, and it could be that he would disapprove of her activities.”
She clasped her hands together. “Could it be that she is young, that her father would be furious, regarding the reading of novels as an unsuitable pastime for a girl, and therefore he would be doubly angered by the discovery that she wrote such things?”
I thought it a fair suggestion and we discussed it for some time until the teapot was empty and the cake plate bare. At last I looked at my pocket watch and rose to depart. “You have been most kind,” I told my hostess.
“But not particularly helpful?” Her eyes twinkled at me.
“Really,” I assured her, “you cannot be expected to tell me what you do not know. You have done your best. I am grateful, and our talk may have given me a new direction to explore. However, I must leave you, as I want to catch the train leaving in an hour and I should hurry.”
We parted amicably and I hurried first to the hotel to pay my bill, collect my belongings, and then walk to the station. There I was informed that the train was held up farther down the line and would not arrive for another hour and a half. (I daresay that their timekeeping will improve in future generations.) Leaving my baggage in their office I returned to the bar I had frequented the previous evening, since I thought it was a likely time to meet my acquaintance again.
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