The Long Divorce (A Gervase Fen Mystery)

by Edmund Crispin

  The headmaster’s spirits rose. He said, ‘Then this girl is in the play? I’m afraid I haven’t been able to give it much attention this year. It’s Henry V, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes. The choice didn’t please my girls very much. Too few female parts.’

  ‘Doubtless the boys were disappointed for the same reason.’

  Miss Parry laughed, sincerely yet still briskly; as if to imply that humour, while essential to cultivated intercourse, must not be allowed to usurp the place of more important matters.

  ‘Very distressing to all parties,’ she said. ‘Anyway, this particular girl is playing the part of Catherine. Her name is Brenda Boyce.’

  The headmaster frowned as he lit a second match and applied it to the bowl of his pipe. ‘Boyce? Are they local people? A boy of that name was here up to about two years ago. A rather worldly boy, as I recall.’

  ‘That would be a brother,’ said Miss Parry. ‘And you might describe the whole family as worldly. The parents are of the expensive, cocktail-party-and-chromium kind.’

  ‘I remember them.’ The headmaster deposited the spent match delicately in an ashtray surmounted by a silver elephant. ‘Quite likeable, I thought . . . However, that’s not relevant at the moment.’

  ‘The parents are relevant in a way.’ Miss Parry sat back and crossed her sturdy, uncompromisingly utilitarian legs. ‘That is to say that their sophistication offers some clue as to what this problem is not. Brenda, as you might expect from her upbringing, is rather a fast little baggage – she’s sixteen, by the way, and due to leave at the end of this term – and a pretty child into the bargain. She is not, therefore, likely to be upset by any demonstration of – um – youthful erotism.’

  Here Miss Parry gazed at her host with marked severity. ‘Go on,’ said the headmaster. He was aware that Miss Parry required no encouragement from him, but conversational silences, even when motivated by the mere necessity of drawing breath, must out of ordinary courtesy be bridged somehow.

  ‘As you know,’ Miss Parry proceeded, ‘there was a rehearsal of Henry V in the hall here yesterday evening. And when Brenda got home from it at about half past ten, she was, according to her parents, in a very peculiar state of mind.’

  ‘What do you mean exactly?’

  ‘Evasive. On edge. Yes, and frightened, too.’

  They could hear the headmaster’s secretary typing in the little room next door, and the fitful buzzing of flies on the window panes. Otherwise it was very quiet.

  ‘Of course,’ said Miss Parry after a moment’s pause, ‘they asked her what was the matter. And – to be brief about it – she would give no explanation at all, either to her parents or to me, when I questioned her this morning.’

  ‘The parents telephoned you?’

  ‘Yes. They were evidently worried – and that, Dr Stanford, is what worries me. Whatever their faults, they aren’t the sort of people to make a fuss about nothing.’

  ‘What did the girl herself say to you?’

  ‘She implied that her parents were imagining things, and said there was nothing to explain. But I could see she was still upset, and I’m tolerably certain she was lying. Otherwise I shouldn’t have troubled you about it.’

  The headmaster meditated briefly, scrutinizing as he did so the familiar objects of the room: the rich blue Aubusson carpet, the reproductions of Constable and Corot on the walls, the comfortable leather-covered armchairs and the big flat-topped desk at which he sat. He said thoughtfully:

  ‘Yes. I see why the upbringing is relevant. You mean that even if someone had – ah – made a pass at this young woman—’

  He paused on this mildly plebeian mode of expression, and Miss Parry completed the sentence for him.

  ‘It would not have distressed her. Exactly. In fact, it would probably have had just the opposite effect.’

  ‘Indeed.’ The headmaster appeared to be brooding over this evidence of female precocity. ‘Then you think,’ he said presently, ‘that it’s something more serious than that?’

  Miss Parry assented. ‘In a way.’

  The headmaster eyed her with some apprehension; they had spoken of sexual matters before, but for the most part in general and hyperbolic terms, and at the moment directness seemed called for.

  ‘Seduction?’ he murmured uncertainly.

  Miss Parry volleyed courageously. ‘I had thought of that,’ she admitted – and then leaned forward with a gesture almost of impatience. ‘But I’m inclined to rule it out. You’ll allow me to speak frankly?’

  ‘I should welcome it,’ said the headmaster gallantly.

  Miss Parry smiled – a small, nervous smile so out of keeping with her habitual candour that it was a kind of revelation to him; he realized suddenly that she found such topics objectionable not out of prudery or obscurantism, but because their discussion was a real derogation of some unacknowledged ideal of decency to which she subscribed. He liked and respected her for it, and he smiled back.

  ‘There are two possibilities,’ she said. ‘A rape, which she couldn’t help; or a seduction, which she regretted afterward.’

  Miss Parry hesitated. ‘I know it’s unpalatable,’ she went on, ‘to talk about a girl of sixteen in terms like that, but I hardly see how it can be avoided . . . If it is a rape, then I scarcely imagine that one of your boys is responsible . . .’

  ‘Agreed,’ said the headmaster. ‘To my knowledge, there isn’t a boy in the school who’d have the nerve.’

  ‘And as to seduction . . . Well, in the first place, Brenda is a self-possessed and knowledgeable child, quite capable of taking care of herself. And in the second place—’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘In the second place, I asked her outright this morning if anything of that sort had occurred. Her only reaction was surprise – and I’m positive it was genuine.’

  ‘I’m greatly relieved to hear it.’ The headmaster pulled a handkerchief from his breast pocket and dabbed perfunctorily at his forehead. ‘But in that case I don’t understand what upset the girl – or why she should be so secretive about it.’

  Miss Parry shrugged. ‘No more do I. As far as I can see, sex is out of it, and although there are a good many conceivable alternatives, there’s no actual evidence for any of them.’

  ‘Then how can I help you?’

  ‘All I want is to establish, as far as possible, that nothing untoward happened during the rehearsal, or on the premises here. My responsibility ends with that.’

  ‘I see. Well, that should be easy enough. I’ll speak to Mathieson, who’s producing the play . . . If you like, I’ll do it now. I believe he’s teaching this period, so I can easily get hold of him.’

  ‘There’s no immediate hurry.’ Miss Parry rose and stubbed out her cigarette. ‘The whole affair is probably an ignis fatuus. Perhaps if you could telephone me later on . . .’

  ‘By all means.’ The headmaster, too, had risen. He pointed to a statuette of Aphrodite which stood on a rosewood side table by the door. ‘I’m very glad,’ he said, ‘that that woman isn’t responsible. When we have trouble with the play it’s generally safe to assume that she’s at the bottom of it.’

  Miss Parry smiled. ‘The Platonic halves . . .’ she said.

  ‘The Platonic halves,’ said the headmaster firmly, ‘are best kept apart until they’ve left school. Apart from anything else, a little enforced abstinence makes the eventual impact much more violent and exciting . . .’ He became belatedly aware of the duties of hospitality: ‘But won’t you stay to lunch?’

  ‘Thank you, no. I must be back by the time morning school finishes.’

  ‘A pity. But you’ll be at the – ah – celebrations tomorrow?’

  ‘Of course. Who’s giving the prizes?’

  ‘It was to have been Lord Washburton,’ said the headmaster, ‘but he’s fallen ill, so I’ve had to get a last-minute substitute – the Oxford Professor of English, who’s an acquaintance of mine. He should be interesting – in fact, my only fear is that
he may be too interesting. I’m not quite sure that he’s capable of the sustained hypocrisy which the occasion demands.’

  ‘In that case I shall come to the speeches. As you know, I avoid them as a rule.’

  ‘I only wish I could,’ said the headmaster. ‘Not in this particular instance, but in general . . . Well, well. I suppose these crosses helped to justify my three thousand a year.’

  He showed Miss Parry out, and returned to the correspondence which lay on his desk. A Mrs Brodribb, it appeared, had much to say on the subject of Henry’s School Certificate results – a matter on which the headmaster himself was only imperfectly informed. There was to be a meeting of the Headmasters’ Conference in a fort-night’s time. Someone wished to endow a prize for the best yearly essay on The Future of the British Empire . . . The headmaster groaned aloud. There were far too many prizes already. The boys wasted too much of their time competing for them, and the masters wasted too much of their time setting and correcting them. Unluckily, the donor in this instance was too eminent to be offended; the only gleam of comfort was that with tact he might be induced to read the essays, and award the prize, himself.

  The headmaster glanced rapidly at the remaining letters, and then put them aside. The problem of that lasciva puella, Brenda Boyce, had aroused in him a mild curiosity – and since the matter had to be dealt with, it might as well be dealt with now. He went to a dark green metal filing cabinet and investigated its contents; they revealed the fact that Mathieson was at present teaching English to the Modern Lower Fifth. The headmaster picked up his gown and mortarboard and, carrying them under his arm, made for the door.

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  Edmund Crispin was the pseudonym of Robert Bruce Montgomery (2 October 1921 — 15 September 1978), an English crime writer and composer. Montgomery wrote nine detective novels and two collections of short stories under the pseudonym Edmund Crispin (taken from a character in Michael Innes’s Hamlet, Revenge!). The stories feature Oxford don Gervase Fen, who is a Professor of English at the University and a fellow of St Christopher’s College, a fictional institution that Crispin locates next to St John’s College. The whodunit novels have complex plots and fantastic, somewhat unbelievable solutions, including examples of the locked room mystery. They are written in a humorous, literary and sometimes farcical style and they are also among the few mystery novels to break the fourth wall occasionally and speak directly to the audience.

  Edmund Crispin died in September 1978 of a heart attack which was thought to have been brought on by alcoholism. Despite the decline in his health, he continued working until his death.

  Crispin is considered by many to be one of the last great exponents of the ‘classic’ crime mystery.

  ALSO BY EDMUND CRISPIN

  The Case of the Gilded Fly

  Holy Disorders

  The Moving Toyshop

  Swan Song

  Love Lies Bleeding

  Buried for Pleasure

  Frequent Hearses

  The Long Divorce

  Beware of the Trains

  The Glimpses of the Moon

  Fen Country

  This edition published in 2016 by Ipso Books

  Ipso Books is a division of Peters Fraser + Dunlop Ltd

  Drury House, 34-43 Russell Street, London WC2B 5HA

  Copyright © Rights Limited 1951

  All rights reserved

  Edmund Crispin has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988 to be identified as the author of this work

  You may not copy, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by any means (including without limitation electronic, digital, optical, mechanical, photocopying, printing, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages

  CONTENTS

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18