Night of the Twelfth

by Michael Gilbert

  ‘A night walker?’

  ‘On two or three nights in the week he leaves this place around eleven o’clock and goes for a walk across the common.’

  ‘He’s very keen on regular physical exercise.’

  ‘Certainly. But it seemed to be an odd time of night to take it. I discovered it by accident. I had periodical reports to make to Colonel Brabazon and the easiest way of keeping in touch was to walk to his house on the other side of the common. On several occasions I nearly bumped into the Commander. On one occasion, I did bump into him, rather hard. I had been asked to check the cars in the staff garage – with particular reference to their tyres. The Commander caught me at it when he was coming back from one of his rambles.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘He didn’t have time to say anything.’

  ‘Didn’t he recognize you?’

  ‘Apparently not. It was dark inside the shed, and I took him by surprise. He hit his head on one of the cars as he went down, and was dazed for a bit. I waited up for him, in case he was worse than I imagined, but he didn’t need medical attention. He’s got quite a thick skull.’

  ‘But why didn’t he report it? Why didn’t he say something next morning?’

  ‘That,’ said Manifold, ‘was one of the most intriguing aspects of the whole affair. It seemed to indicate that he wasn’t anxious for enquiries to be made about his nocturnal expeditions.’

  ‘If it has to be one of them,’ said Mr Fairfax, his lips contracting into a spasm of distaste, ‘it sounds as though Commander Gaze would be your most likely candidate. And yet, I find it impossible to believe.’

  ‘Impossible?’

  ‘I’ve known them all for a number of years. Seen them at work. Seen them with the boys.’ Anger was ousting shock. ‘Really, you’ve put me in an intolerable position. If I am to believe what you have told me, how can I go on working with them, entrusting my boys to them.’

  ‘What’s the alternative?’

  ‘To get rid of them all, and start again with an entirely new staff.’

  ‘Wouldn’t that be unfair to three men out of four?’

  ‘You talk like that, because you’re a policeman, not a school master.’ A sense of outrage was thickening his voice. ‘I read in the paper what the man did to that boy. He tortured him before he killed him. How can I look at a man, and think of him doing it, without being sick.’

  Manifoid said, very patiently, ‘There’s only about two weeks of this term left. I can promise you this. We’ll have caught him before the end of term.’

  ‘How can you be sure?’

  ‘He’s between two fires. The internal investigation that I’ve been put here to conduct. And a much larger, slower, more certain investigation that’s closing in on him from outside. If he hadn’t been a man of very steady nerve, I think he’d have done something stupid already. It can’t be long now.’

  Mr Fairfax gave a short, bitter laugh. He said, ‘One of the most difficult things is going to be to remember to go on treating you as a schoolmaster.’

  ‘You’ve been doing all right so far,’ said Manifold. He was relieved to note that the first shock had expended itself. ‘Keep it up. Talking of which, I believe I’m meant to be taking prep. I’d better be off.’

  There was something else. It was at the back of Mr Fairfax’s mind. Manifold had reached the door before he remembered it. He said, ‘When you were talking about Latrobe you said that there was one thing which might have made you suspect him.’

  ‘There’s a theory,’ said Manifold. ‘But it’s no more than a theory at the moment, that the man might have induced boys to accept a lift by dressing up, in the first instance, as a woman.’

  The architect who had originally converted Trenchard House into a school had constructed a study for the Headmaster at the back of the entrance hall, up a flight of six steps, at entre-sol level. He had so arranged it that this room led, in turn, up a further short flight, to a corridor in the private part of the house. This was very convenient since it enabled the Headmaster to make public appearances from his study, but to disappear, at will, into his own quarters. It had another result, which Lucy Fairfax had discovered by accident. She had found that if she sat on the edge of the bed in their bedroom, which was beside the study, and slightly above it, she could hear, by some trick of acoustics, everything that was said in the study. This had been a source of considerable entertainment. She had listened to parents being blarneyed, masters being rebuked, boys being punished. But she had never before listened to anything half as interesting as the conversation she had just managed to overhear.

  Manifold’s last remark seemed to cause her such intense amusement that she relaxed on to the bed and positively shook with laughter.

  16

  ‘I promised Fairfax that we’d nail him by the end of term,’ said Manifold. ‘And it ought to have been easy enough. I thought I could do the job in a few days. I mean – living right among them. Actually I’m as far from it now as I was when I first started. The trouble is, I’m beginning to believe that this end of it isn’t really a police job at all. It’s a job for a professional psychiatrist.’

  ‘My dear chap,’ said Colonel Brabazon, ‘in that case, why not consult one?’

  ‘Consult a psychiatrist?’

  ‘Why not? If this was a case involving computers you’d go to a computer expert, wouldn’t you? Or if it was old coins you’d consult a – I never can remember that word.’

  ‘A numismatist.’

  ‘Right. A numismatist.’

  ‘Had you anyone particular in mind?’

  ‘Certainly. Go straight up to London and have a word with Dr Sampson. I’ll warn him to expect you. And we’ll send him copies of all the technical reports. It’d be better if he could see these people himself, but that might be difficult in the circumstances. However, you can let him have the details of their past lives, and so on. And give him your own impressions of them. And don’t forget to take him copies of those remarkably good photographs you were showing me. How did you get Mr Diplock to hand them over?’

  ‘I told him I had connections with a photographic publisher who would be very interested to see them.’

  ‘Did he believe you?’

  ‘It’s difficult to know what Mr Diplock believes.’

  The general police view of psychiatrists is that they are people who tell lies in court to gain acquittals for people they have sweated blood to put there. They were prepared to make a cautious exception in the case of Dr Sampson, for various reasons, some of which were not, perhaps, entirely logical.

  George Earle Sampson was a qualified doctor who had specialized in three different fields. He had started his professional career as a pathologist, and had moved on from there to the field of nervous diseases. Having thus studied, as he pointed out, the effects of violence and shock on the human body and on the human nerves, it had been a logical progression to move on and consider the effect of like forces on the human mind.

  He very rarely appeared in court and when he did, spoke the truth as he saw it. In appearance he resembled a bull walrus, and had played water polo for England.

  He said, ‘You realize that what Brabazon really expects me to do is to go off into a trance and pick the man for you by divination.’

  ‘He’s got great confidence in you,’ said Manifold tactfully.

  ‘And you know why? It’s because, once when I was staying with him, I told him that the young man who’d come down to audit his farm accounts was a crook. I didn’t do that by psychiatry. I happened to notice he was wearing hand-lasted shoes and an Ibol wrist watch. You can’t do that on a junior accountant’s pay. These are very good photographs. Is this the photographer?’

  ‘That’s Mr Diplock. It’s one he must have taken of himself. He’s got one of those remote control gadgets. He takes a lot of pictures without people knowing he’s doing it.’

  ‘Just so. And of course this is the only one which is no use to us.’

&n
bsp; ‘Why?’

  ‘Well, since it’s a picture of himself,’ said Dr Sampson reasonably, ‘he must surely have known he was taking it. Unless he did it in his sleep. That means that what we’ve got here is his public face. In the other cases, since I assume they had no idea they were being photographed, we’ve got their private faces. Very private, in some cases.’ He was staring, fascinated, at the reflection of Lucy Fairfax, caught in the glass. ‘Introduce me to these people. Who’s this thin young man?’

  ‘Constance Latrobe, aged twenty-four. French father, English mother. Educated at the Lycée in Kensington and at London University. Good second in the English School. Keen on acting and directing and a flair for both. When he was at London he put on and acted in a modern dress production of The Taming of the Shrew which got considerable acclaim from professional critics.’

  ‘What part did he take?’

  ‘He played Katharina.’

  Dr Sampson grunted. ‘And being only twenty-four, do I take it this is his first job?’

  ‘Correct. He’s been at Trenchard House for three years.’

  ‘Anything you noticed about him particularly?’

  ‘Well, he’s in love with one of the boys. Ben Sacher’s son, Jared.’

  ‘Photograph?’

  ‘In this group. He’s the one in the middle.’

  ‘Good-looking boy, How old?’

  ‘Nearly fourteen. Mental age sixteen plus.’

  ‘They grow up quicker than we do,’ agreed Dr Sampson. ‘When you say Latrobe’s in love with him–’

  ‘I meant precisely that. Sacher is the object of his affections. At a respectful distance. I’m quite sure he’s never even touched him.’

  ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘Because the other boys, including Sacher, pull his leg about it unmercifully. If he had, they wouldn’t.’

  ‘You can leave the psychology to me,’ said Dr Sampson. He considered the photograph. Latrobe had been caught in the full light of day, half closing his eyes as he stared into the sun, which threw into relief the high cheek bones and the hollows under them. The mouth was open in a smile which showed very regular teeth and the tip of his tongue peeping between them.

  Dr Sampson picked up the next photograph.

  ‘And this young man?’

  ‘Nigel Ware. Chelborough and Cambridge. Natural athlete. Rugby football, cricket, tennis, squash. You name it, he plays it and plays it well. Totally unintellectual. Totally unambitious. Engaged to the assistant matron.’

  ‘Photograph of her?’

  ‘This one.’

  ‘Well, well,’ said Dr Sampson, after an appreciative pause. ‘He’s got good taste. I’d guess that’s what female novelists refer to delicately as a body made for love.’

  The photograph had been taken in the school swimming baths, which the staff were allowed to use in the early evening, when the boys were doing prep. Elizabeth was standing on the end of the spring-board, with her hands raised, ready to dive.

  ‘And who’s the other female?’

  ‘That’s our Lucy. Mrs Fairfax.’

  The joint photograph was one of Mr Diplock’s cattier efforts. The contrast between the two women, seen side by side, in bathing dresses, was striking. Lucy was sitting on the side of the bath, one foot dangling in the water, the other foot on the edge, with the leg bent. The way she was sitting emphasized the heaviness of her body, the overfull breasts beginning to sag, the strong almost masculine muscles in the arms and legs.

  Dr Sampson said, ‘It wouldn’t call for very acute psychological insight to suggest that perhaps the two ladies don’t get on very well together.’

  ‘They loathe each other’s guts.’

  ‘Please try to be a little more precise.’

  Manifold said, ‘Sorry. That was rather a loose expression.’ He paused to collect his thoughts. ‘When Lucy talked to me about Elizabeth she didn’t exactly run her down, not in so many words. The line she took was that Elizabeth was a girl of remarkably forceful character, who’s hooked a weak-minded male creature and will marry him mainly for the fun they’ll have in bed.’

  ‘Most of them don’t wait to get married nowadays.’

  Manifold thought about this. He said, ‘She’s not promiscuous. I should put it rather that she realizes that providence has given her a lot of bargaining power with that body of hers and she’s prepared to use it shrewdly to achieve her own ends.’

  ‘Can’t blame her for that. Now let’s hear Elizabeth on Lucy.’

  ‘The line she takes is that she pities her, condemned to live all her life in a place that’s intellectually beneath her, married to an unsatisfactory husband.’

  ‘Is he impotent?’

  ‘I did wonder. They’ve got no children and would clearly like them.’

  ‘Is that him?’

  ‘Those are all Mr Fairfax, yes.’

  Mr Diplock had produced for him three photographs of the Headmaster. In the first of them he was talking to Colonel Brabazon. In the second, to a young man in rimless glasses whom he had identified as the absent Mr Millison. In the third, to a very small and frightened-looking boy. Dr Sampson spread them, side by side, on his desk and stared down at them, his walrus moustache twitching with amusement.

  He said, ‘The three faces of authority. You’re right, the man’s a genius. That chap Diplock, I mean. He’s wasted as a school master. He ought to be running a photographic studio. Tell me more about Mr Fairfax.’

  ‘I didn’t bring the detailed report on him, because he’s out of the hunt. He’s got an absolutely water-tight alibi.’

  ‘Don’t talk to me about alibis,’ said Dr Sampson sharply. ‘I’m not a policeman. I’m a scientist. I want all the facts, not just a selection that you happen to consider important.’

  ‘I’ll tell you what I can remember, His father was a First World War hero. DSO and bar and a lot of other gongs, but a good head on him, too. Stayed on in the army, was a Brigadier in the early thirties and had a command in Palestine. He might have gone right to the top – after all, Monty was a Brigadier in Palestine at that time – but he was very badly injured when his car was blown up by terrorists. He was invalided out, went into the City and made a lot of money. He had two daughters in the early twenties and our chap, Thomas Edward was born in 1927. He seems to have been terrified of his father, who was a real old-fashioned domestic tyrant. He left Wellington in 1945, having missed a place at University, and took up prep-school mastering, I should guess, in order to get away from home. Five years later his father killed himself, his wife and one of his daughters in a car smash. That left Thomas with enough money to buy in at Trenchard House. He bought his senior partner out ten years ago.’

  ‘How did you get all this stuff?’

  ‘In this particular case I gather one of our fatherly Superintendents went and chatted up the surviving sister.’

  Dr Sampson was examining the three photographs with minute care. He said, ‘An early history like that could very well be a contributory cause of impotence. He might get over it if he’d submit to shock treatment.’

  ‘He’s had a few shocks already this term,’ said Manifold. ‘That’s Mr Diplock. A professional prep-school master. Three schools before Trenchard House. First one in Farnham. Second one up in Scotland at Kirkmichael, near Inverness. That was really a composite school, all ages from eight to eighteen. I gather he didn’t like it much. Came south again to a school at Broadstairs. After that Trenchard House. The details are all in that dossier. The scholastic agents turned them up for us. He’s a bachelor, lives with two aged aunts. Indulges in mild foreign travel in the summer holidays. Hobbies. Lepidoptera, philately, numismatics and photography, in that order.’

  ‘What does he do in the winter, hibernate?’

  ‘He does look a bit like a tortoise. He’s quite a shrewd old boy really.’

  ‘Why do you say old? He doesn’t look much more than fifty.’

  ‘Come to think of it, that’s right,’ said Manifol
d. ‘He strikes you as old because he’s cultivated an old man’s habits. It’s a Mr Chips syndrome. The pottering and peering and the wise-cracks fired off in a creaking voice. The boys imitate him beautifully.’

  ‘He’s probably imitiating himself most of the time,’ said Dr Sampson. ‘Who’s this?’

  ‘Gregory Gaze. Lieutenant Commander RN, retired. Pre-war Dartmouth cadet. Class of 1938. Sub-lieutenant 1940. Lieutenant 1942. War service mainly in the Far East. Sound, but not outstanding. No merits, no demerits. Made Lieutenant Commander in 1952. Left the Navy in 1968.’

  ‘Still a Lieutenant Commander?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Passed over for promotion. Could be the basis of an inferiority complex. Do the boys like him?’

  ‘Well enough. He gives them the old sea-dog line. The younger ones swallow it. Early morning runs for health, late night walks for sex.’

  ‘Sex?’

  ‘He’s having it off with a woman who runs a riding stable on Tinmans Common. I didn’t tell the head about it because I didn’t really think it was fair. It’s a huge, rambling old place. Pretty soon we’re going to have to search it.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Easy place to hide a car.’

  Dr Sampson wasn’t interested in cars. He was sizing up the face. He said, ‘Naval Officers are deceptive people. They’re usually type-cast as bluff simple extroverts. Probably on account of their bluff simple faces. Actually, their training, and the lives they have to lead, are calculated to produce the most complex introverts. Haven’t you got any more? There must be some other men round the place.’

  ‘Mr Bishop, who comes in twice a week to teach carpentry. Charlie Happold, the gardener, and young Roger who helps him.’

  ‘Then why have you left them out? Any of them could have picked up one of those bits of paper you seem to set such store by.’

  ‘I suppose it’s no use pointing out that Mr Happold is nearly seventy and young Roger not yet seventeen. And that both of them were busy, at the time that matters, helping Mr Fairfax to disinfect classrooms.’

  ‘Never leave a job half done. I should have thought your training would have taught you that. What about Mr Bishop?’