by Kelley York
For several hours, we lounge there by the water, talking about nothing of consequence—school, places we’d like to travel or live, books, theatre, art… I lie down with my head in William’s lap and he strokes my face, combs his fingers through my hair—he has the loveliest hands—while I recite him poetry and let him guess the author. He only gets about half of them right, but to be fair, I slip a few of my own poems in there and don’t disclose to him that fact. We eat when we get hungry, and despite the cold, we’re content to linger there as long as we can, which is well past lunch and into the afternoon. It’s begun to grow overcast and makes it feel later than it is.
As loath as I am to hear it, William eventually suggests, “We should get back, so we aren’t out past dark.”
I heave a heavy sigh. “So we aren’t encountering ghosts, you mean.”
“That was the idea, yes.” He’s lying beside me on the blanket, tucked close to my side, head upon my shoulder. His head tilts so that he can smile at me. “I would hope to keep our wonderful day wonderful rather than have it ruined by unhappy spirits.”
I push myself up onto an elbow and lean over to kiss him briefly. “Well, if you’re going to be difficult, then let’s get going.”
Together we pack up what remains of our food and the blanket and begin the trek back to the school. It’s a bit like leaving one world to step into another. Being able to be together and enjoy peace and quiet without interruption is lovely, and not something we shall ever get at school.
But it could, I think, be something we could have after Whisperwood. After we’ve made our escape. In some little home in the countryside, perhaps. We shall have to conjure up some story about why we’re living together. Business partners? Siblings? No, that latter would be too easy to disprove.
It doesn’t matter yet; we’ll figure it out.
By the time we’ve reached the dorms, the sun is just about set, and the look of relief on William’s face is noticeable. Even I find myself relaxing a bit.
I walk William to his room. On most past occasions, I would often stick around for a while. We would lie on his bed together or I would stay with him until he’s medicated himself and fallen asleep before returning to my own room. Today, however, something nags at me that we’ve tempted fate enough together, so I give him a smile instead. “Good night, dear William. Thank you for a lovely Christmas. We’re back to fun and games tomorrow.”
I wonder if he’s disappointed that I’m not staying; it’s difficult to tell, although he does look briefly perplexed if nothing else. His expression is soft, and although he doesn’t risk leaning in to kiss me, he does ghost the backs of his fingers against my cheek.
“Good night, James. Sweet dreams.”
The library has been scoured from top to bottom, and neither William nor myself find a single mention of the tunnels. Or the school grounds in general, for that matter.
We’ve searched the school itself, too. But the building is vast, and with school back in full swing, we’re reduced to having to watch every movement out of fear that we’ll be caught poking around somewhere we aren’t allowed. My frustration level is through the roof. Even if we found nothing about the ghosts, I had hoped to learn more about Oscar and his whereabouts.
Nothing. There’s absolutely fucking nothing.
I lay awake most nights, listening to the quiet sounds of scratching, shuffling, crying in the distance. They’ve become so mundane they no longer frighten me.
I’ve begun asking other students questions. I know I must be careful about it, not able to simply jump out and demand to know if they’ve seen ghosts or heard anything about student mortality rates. That would get me in trouble quickly, I think.
Instead, I try to make it seem more like I’m interested in the school experience. Casual, easy. What has been the best thing that has happened at school while you’ve attended? What’s been the saddest? What’s the strangest thing you’ve ever heard? The scariest? That, I find, makes it easier for some of the boys to open up a little. Not that anyone gives me too much information, and almost every single ghostly encounter I hear about is framed as a ridiculous story that someone told them and of course absolutely did not happen to them. I manage to get a few cases of confirmation. Mostly sounds in the hallways, voices when they were otherwise alone…
There are a few, though, who turn their face away as they speak, refusing to look at me. They hesitate, swiftly excusing away their experiences, and it’s their demeanour as they recount those experiences that tells me more than anything else.
After days of asking around, and knowing we’ve run out of places on the grounds to look, the next step of action is—discreetly—questioning the staff. The teachers might not be the best idea just yet, but the maids, the cooks, the slop men, the gardeners… Surely some of them have been here for some time. The chaplain might have been my first choice, but he began here only last term, a replacement for the previous one who passed of old age.
However, I know for a fact that our resident physician, Doctor Mitchell, was here even before Mr. Hart and Mr. McLachlan. I’ve only met him once, sent for treatment after getting a hefty cut down my shin during a rugby match earlier in the year, and I found him to be a feeble, scatter-brained old man who likely should have retired a decade ago.
He is, however, completely unassuming and unthreatening. When I enter the infirmary where he sits behind a desk and scribbles away on charts, he doesn’t even notice me until I clear my throat. “Doctor?”
He lifts his head, the spectacles on his face so thick they make his eyes look big as an owl’s, and the smile he bears is wide and void of a few teeth. “Ah, good afternoon. Feeling under the weather?”
“Not exactly.” I glance about, making note that the few beds here are empty, and we seem to be alone. “But you can help me. I wondered if you remember a boy from many years ago. Timothy Chambers?”
He adjusts his glasses and leans back in his chair. “Timothy Chambers. The name sounds familiar, now that you mention it.”
I take a seat in the chair across from him, wanting to come across as pleasant and as approachable as possible. Not prodding, not prying, right? Just a curious student and nothing more. “He died here about eleven years ago. He’s buried in the school cemetery, actually.”
Doctor Mitchell squints, then his eyes go wide, and he nods fervently. “Yes, yes. I remember Mr. Chambers now. Very sad to have lost such a bright young man.”
Such a statement sounds insincere, especially since— “Bright young man, was he? I heard quite the opposite. That he was a thief and a runaway.”
His smile turns sympathetic. “Many boys who come to Whisperwood have problems to deal with, lad. That doesn’t mean they aren’t intelligent and talented.”
A fair enough assessment, and it brings a number of my friends to mind, all from various backgrounds—not all of them something to be proud of—but each of them quite sharp in their own ways. “Then, if you recall him, do you also recall the manner in which he died?”
He strokes a hand over his snow-white beard. “Mr. Chambers had, I believe, an illness, if memory serves. What has you so interested in this particular boy?”
I expected that question and had time to think of a suitable answer, a pleasant and easy smile upon my mouth. “I’m merely interested in the history of the school. The headmaster was so inspiring in his orientation speech, I’ve been looking into the numerous success stories the school has created. In the process, I came across his name.”
He nods slowly. “Yes, Whisperwood has many stories that please the soul, but unfortunately, even we are not immune to the odd tragedy now and again.”
I dare to venture a little further. “Does illness take students often here?”
“Not terribly.” He looks proud of that. “Every now and again the cold months will hit us harder than usual, and we had an outbreak of cholera once or twice, but for the most part, I’m quite pleased to say that I have been able to keep my files of deaths at the
school—student or teacher—to a minimum.”
“We are lucky to have you, then.” I tilt my head as I watch him, trying to gauge where I stand and where I should be careful. “While I have you here and we’re on the subject, though, would you mind terribly if I asked you a couple more questions?”
“Of course not.”
“You’re so kind. Have there been any accidents during your tenure here? I know the building is very well maintained and secure, and the staff works tirelessly to ensure our safety, but has any boy managed to get himself into trouble?”
The doctor leans back in his seat as he considers it. “We had a drowning, once. And many years ago, decades, now that I think of it, we also had a student who decided it would be amusing to him to climb the bell tower. Poor lad made it to the top and lost his footing. Nasty accident. Terribly unfortunate, too; he was quite charming.”
I’m not certain if he honestly thinks so highly of the students or if he wants me to think that he does. I also feel sceptical about whether this unnamed boy fell by accident or not, and though I desperately want to ask him to expand on that, I don’t feel it would be smart to overplay my hand. The last thing I need is for him to be suspicious of me.
“That’s horrible,” I agree instead, seeing the opening and taking it. “I suppose that would explain why the tower is off limits now. Is it the same for the tunnels beneath the school?”
Doctor Mitchell’s smile fades this time, and my heart about stops in my chest in fear that I’ve stepped a little too far.
“The tunnels,” he repeats, folding his hands in his lap. “Well, those were sealed off long ago. Where did you hear talk of them?”
They do exist. I knew it. “Oh, some of the student yearbooks in the library. I was surprised. I’d never heard mention of them from anyone, and it seemed a strange thing to exist below a school.”
“There’s a great many things strange about this school. None of us can pretend to know what the original architect had in mind when he built it.”
By the way he’s studying me, I think I ought to reel it back in, and I do so with a smile and a swift redirection of topic. “I see. But, tell me, what about success stories? Any boys stick out that you thought weren’t going to make it, but did?”
His eyes brighten, and I believe I’ve succeeded. “A student joined us just a few years ago and injured himself after falling from a horse. I worked on that boy for days; we weren’t certain he’d make it.”
“But you didn’t give up on him.”
“I didn’t give up on him.” His smile here is warm and, I think, sincere. Not that I know how his sincerity works, the depth of it, or its intentions. “The headmaster took a particular shine to him, as well. Saw fit to give him plenty of guidance. Despite his unfortunate background, he’s now serving as an apprentice here. Perhaps he’ll become a teacher one day.”
Simmons. He’s talking about Charles Simmons. I smile, fighting back the urge to make a disgusted face. “Well, Doctor, we are definitely lucky to have you and headmaster King both. I’m afraid I’ve wasted enough of your time already. I should probably be going.”
He gives me an absent nod. “Of course. If I can be of any further assistance, please feel free to let me know.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Not that I think he’ll be of any further use to me. He seems too tied to decorum, the school’s reputation, and his own handiness.
It hasn’t been an entirely useless endeavour, though. I did get confirmation that a student lived and died within these walls, and that he wasn’t the only one. I’m also more certain now that I am going to have to be crafty in coming up with answers because it’s apparent none of the staff will be of any real help to me. More importantly, he admitted to the existence of the tunnels.
It’s a reassurance that William and I are not simply letting our imaginations run wild on us.
Later, I recount the conversation to William, who responds by looking up from his schoolwork with a patient gaze and a frustratingly logical point of view: “So you’ve confirmed what we already knew. Now what?”
Now what, indeed. We know others have seen the ghosts, even if they won’t discuss it openly, but we don’t know the truth behind their deaths. We know the tunnels exist, but still not where to find them.
And still, I remind myself, no new information on Oscar.
“Now,” I begin, brow furrowing. “Now…I think I’d like some dinner. Cannot possibly think on an empty stomach.”
He chuckles and returns his focus to his paper. “Go on, then.”
“Not coming?”
“Not tonight; I haven’t much of an appetite.”
It won’t be the first meal William has skipped, and I’ve lectured him on it endlessly to no avail. The laudanum bottle beside his inkwell on the table has my mouth pulling taut. “That medicine of yours seems to do that, I’ve noticed.”
The pen in his hand comes to an abrupt halt. It isn’t like me to comment on his drug usage, and I’m uncertain if I ought to feel guilty for it or not. I worry for him endlessly, and yet I don’t want to be like his family or even the other students, looking down on him.
With a sigh, I step forward and bow down to rest a kiss upon his head, a hand upon his shoulder, which I feel instantly relaxes at the display of affection. He touches his fingers to mine.
“I’ll eat twice as much at breakfast tomorrow, if you insist.”
No, he won’t, although I imagine he would try. “I’ll see you in a bit,” I murmur, giving his shoulder a squeeze before I depart.
I make quick work of eating, much to Preston and Benjamin’s dismay when they realise I’m taking my leave quite swiftly. I have schoolwork of my own to tend to, and I never enjoy leaving William on his own for long.
“Spencer,” a voice calls when I step into the foyer. I turn to see Virgil trailing after me, and I don’t like the worried pull to his brows. “The headmaster is asking for you.”
I go still, a wave of anxiety-induced nausea sweeping over me. “Did he say what he wanted?”
Virgil shakes his head. “No, sorry. Just that he wanted to speak with you.”
“Wonderful.” I flash a smile that is all teeth and no real humour, because there is no way this meeting is going to be anything good. “I’ll head there promptly.”
Virgil always looks terribly sombre, but even more so as he claps me on the shoulder and says, “Good luck.”
The headmaster’s office is on the second floor of the main building. I’ve never had cause to be in there before now, and I’m surprised by the sheer number of books lining the walls, and the scent of a fire crackling in the hearth is comforting only for half a second before my brain recalls just where I am.
Headmaster King is standing behind his desk when I enter, gazing out the large windows over the grounds. I refuse to show my nervousness. “You wanted to see me, sir?”
King turns with a pleasant smile and his hands clasped behind his back. “Ah, Mr. Spencer. Come in and have a seat. I hope the new term has been treating you well.”
Did Oscar have meetings that started this way? Completely unassuming and normal, wondering what he did to get called here in the first place?
Let’s face it: I know why I’m here. It could be any number of offenses, from my nightwandering to getting involved with another boy to prodding around the school to see what secrets about Oscar or ghosts shake loose. I take a seat as directed. “Quite well, thank you.”
“Excellent.” He studies me thoughtfully, and I wonder if it’s on purpose that he doesn’t sit despite that it would be politer for him to do so. “It’s been brought to my attention that you’ve been inquiring about some things with students and members of the faculty. Things regarding your previous roommate’s whereabouts?”
A lump begins to form in my throat, but I meet his gaze unflinchingly. “Yes, sir.”
He nods once, and his eyebrows lift. “Doctor Mitchell says you had a lot of questions pertaining to past studen
ts who met untimely ends, as well, although I’m not certain how the two are connected.”
“I’m not entirely certain myself, sir.”
King turns to fully face me, though his smile has mostly faded. “I feel I don’t need to explain to you that this is concerning, Mr. Spencer. First and foremost, the spreading of lies and stories is unacceptable.”
“Are inquiries and stories the same thing?” I tilt my head. “Perhaps you should have a conversation with Mr. Hart, if so, because he must be teaching us incorrectly.”
The downturn of his mouth is subtle. I’m treading dangerously here, I know, and this not a situation in which my flippant attitude is going to win me any points. “There is not a staff member or student in this school who has any information as to Mr. Frances’ departure save for myself. What became of him is not for public consumption, and you do him a great disservice by trying to pry into his personal affairs.”
I should watch my mouth. I should bite my tongue and agree and say all the pretty things the headmaster wishes me to say. But he’s just told me that he knows what’s become of Oscar, and I’m so desperate to know I want to fling myself across the desk and shake the information out of him. “I daresay I do a greater disservice to my friend by not trying to ensure his well-being.”
We are at a stalemate, staring at one another with an intensity that makes me sick to my stomach and overcome with anger all at once. I think he might dismiss me, or punish me, or—hell, maybe this is grounds for expulsion, I don’t know.
Finally, he says, “I had reason to believe Mr. Frances was engaging in inappropriate behaviour with a member of the staff, although he would not admit to it. He was due to be expelled and disappeared before we had the chance.”
He may as well have thrown a bucket of cold water on me.
I cannot fathom this. Oscar and a member of staff. Worded like that, the headmaster could mean anyone. A maid, a cook, or…a teacher? A man old enough to be his father? Because only one person comes to mind: Mr. Hart. The flower upon his mantel. The disparaging look upon his face to even speak of Oscar…