Different Class

by Joanne Harris

  The lights were on in Winter’s house. I opened the gate, and knocked on the door. After a moment, it opened, and Gloria’s face appeared in the gap. She looked both angry and a little harassed – of course, I knew her aversion to juvenile trick-or-treaters.

  ‘Mrs Winter, good evening—’

  ‘What?’ she said. ‘I’m not buying anything, and you’re too bloody old for treats.’ Then she looked again, and said: ‘Mr Straitley? From the Grammar School?’

  I nodded. ‘Hello, Gloria.’

  ‘Oh.’ She seemed to hesitate. ‘Come in.’ I followed her into the hall, a shrine to a number of china dogs. ‘What do you want, Mr Straitley?’

  ‘I wondered if I might have a word with your son.’

  Now she was looking confused. She said: ‘Why? What’s he done now?’

  I explained that Gloria’s son had been helping me with my computer skills. ‘Outside his other duties, of course.’

  Gloria looked no less confused. ‘What duties? You mean at the school?’

  And now, I suddenly realized that Gloria had no idea where her son worked, or what he did. Had he never told her? Was he ashamed of his menial role?

  I said: ‘We met at the Scholar. I happened to mention the challenges of being a veteran Master, faced with the march of Progress in all its electronic forms. He offered to give me a helping hand in embracing information technology.’

  Gloria seemed to relax at that. She had always had a sharp tongue, but now everything about her was sharp; her nose; her chin; her voice, and, of course, those dark and still-expressive eyes.

  ‘Oh, yes, the Scholar,’ she said. ‘He sometimes goes there after work. All hours they keep him at that bloody hospital.’

  I made no comment at that, but filed away the information for later. I knew my co-conspirator enjoyed reinventing himself online, but lying to his mother seemed to be a different category of reinvention. Once more, I reminded myself that I knew very little about him, except for what he has told me – which may or may not be the truth—

  ‘Anyway, he’s out,’ she said. ‘What did you want him for, anyway?’

  I said: ‘It’s not important. Unless—’ I paused for a moment. ‘I heard that you’d been caring for Margery Scoones up until her death.’

  Gloria gave me a sharp look. ‘Caring? Well, you could call it that. Mostly it was watching TV and listening to her talk rubbish. Cleaning up, if she let me. Though with them bloody boxes everywhere, all over the house—’

  ‘One of those boxes came from – a very dear friend of mine,’ I said. ‘He left the contents to Mr Scoones – with a letter, I believe. I wondered if you’d come across that letter, maybe by accident.’

  I was watching her carefully, on the alert for signs of unease. She held my gaze – looking, if anything, more aggressive than ever.

  ‘What if I did?’ she said at last.

  I said: ‘Eric Scoones was very upset. He accidentally burnt the box while he was burning Margery’s things. I was hoping perhaps the letter had escaped. The last words of an old friend – I hoped perhaps you’d put it away. Put it in a safe place.’

  Gloria’s gaze did not flicker. ‘No. I didn’t tidy anything.’

  ‘If only you knew where it was,’ I said, ‘Eric and I would be grateful. Certainly there’d be a reward. Probably a substantial one.’

  ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I’ve not seen it.’

  A long career in finding out young miscreants has made me adept at eliciting confessions. Unlike the lawmen of the real world, in which a suspect is deemed to be innocent until proven otherwise, we of St Oswald’s always begin an interrogation with an apparent assumption of guilt, with which we confront the suspect in the hope that he will confess. As in certain martial arts, I find the resulting battle of wills is generally won or lost within the first few seconds of engagement, although I myself have been known to break a schoolboy’s defences with a single, piercing glance.

  It’s a game of bluff, of course; but I am rather good at it. And although my last adversary had proved herself to be tough as nails, I left the house certain of two things. One: that letter to Eric contained something that I needed to know, and two: for all her assurances, Gloria Winter was lying.

  2

  November 4th, 2005

  Your brother was late. It was 9.05. I’d almost given up on him. Some people just aren’t reliable; or maybe they’re inconsiderate. In any case, Mousey, it was rude; and if I’d not already decided to put him down, I think that would have clinched it.

  He’d parked his car next to Goldie’s. He got out and looked around. I could sense his caution; like a rat sensing danger, but hungry for the food in the trap. Just how hungry was he? I thought. And just how far would Goldie go?

  Your brother was wearing a knitted cap and his dark-blue parka. He must be older than I am, I thought, but still he looks younger and fitter. Still, I didn’t think he’d fight back. He never did in the old days.

  He said: ‘Did you bring the money?’

  I nodded. Harrington just stared at him with a look of hatred. Of course, I knew he’d be furious. A menial – an inferior – holding us to ransom like that over something that happened so long ago. And what did he have on us?

  Still, Mousey, who cared? They’d both be dead by nine fifteen.

  3

  November 4th, 2005

  By the time I got to the end of Dog Lane, it was already a quarter to nine. The porch light was on in front of my house, and I could see a figure in a blue overcoat standing by the front door. Relief made me reckless.

  ‘Mr Winter!’ I called. ‘I’m so—’

  He turned; and in the glow of the lamp, I saw a familiar profile. Not Mr Winter, as I’d supposed, but the neat, sharp features of Dr Devine, now suffused with triumph.

  ‘I knew it!’ he said, as I approached. ‘I knew you couldn’t have moved those boards without the aid of an accomplice. What are you up to now, eh? And how did you talk him into it?’

  I sighed and took out the front-door key. ‘Not now, please, Devine,’ I said. ‘I’ve had a very tiring day. I’ve been helping Eric sort out some of poor Margery’s things.’

  The nose twitched. ‘Ah, yes,’ said Devine. ‘I expect the fellow’s upset.’

  I thought his voice was rather cold – for reasons that have more to do with ambition than personality, Dr Devine and Eric Scoones have never been the best of friends. Now, his lack of sympathy for a grieving colleague reminded me of why I disliked the man.

  I opened the door, and he followed me, unasked, into the front hall. That, I thought, was bordering on rude, and rudeness, whatever his other faults, was not Devine’s modus operandi – but for the moment, I refrained from comment. He was not in the habit of making calls, and I guessed he had a reason, which he would doubtless divulge, given time.

  The central heating hadn’t come on, and the house smelt vaguely damp. I took off my coat, lit the fire, turned – then saw Devine, still by the door, holding a piece of paper.

  ‘This was in your letterbox,’ he said. ‘It looks like a note of some kind.’

  I took the note, which was written on the back of a folded envelope. ‘Of course it’s a note,’ I said crossly. ‘And don’t even try to pretend you haven’t already looked at it. I don’t know why you’re suddenly so interested in my comings and goings. Or is this all just a very dull form of German trick-or-treating?’

  ‘Straitley, read the note,’ said Devine.

  I unfolded the envelope. The note was only a few lines long; the writing small and even.

  Dear Mr Straitley,

  I’m sorry I wasn’t able to speak with you this evening. I’m setting off on a trip tonight, and I was hoping to talk to you first. You’ve always been polite to me – which is more than I can say for anyone else on the staff. In fact, working with you has almost made my time at St Oswald’s seem worthwhile.

  I’ll be at the canal bridge at 9.00. Be there if you want to know more. But do remember what Soph
ocles said: ‘What a terrible thing is wisdom, when it brings no profit to the wise.’ If, on reflection, you’d rather not know, I’ll completely understand.

  Sincerely,

  B. B. Winter

  I looked at Devine. ‘What time is it?’

  He checked his watch. ‘It’s ten to nine. But you’re not really planning to go, are you? And on the basis of what, exactly? A note on the back of an envelope, in the middle of the night?’

  ‘Hardly the middle of the night,’ I protested.

  Dr Devine just looked at me.

  ‘It’s complicated,’ I told him.

  Once more Devine just looked at me. I recognized an ancient St Oswald’s Master’s technique I often used with the Lower School.

  ‘And personal,’ I added, with a hint of censure.

  Devine gave an expressive sniff. ‘Oh, don’t be so dramatic,’ he said. ‘How can you possibly think I don’t know how you’ve been spending the past few weeks? I mean, you’re hardly subtle. First that ridiculous garden gnome, and then all the hints about Harry Clarke, not to mention the Honours Boards, and creeping around after the Head. What did you think you were doing, eh? You might as well have been carrying a sign saying: Rebellion in Progress.’

  I said: ‘Bob Strange has cameras hidden all over the School, you know.’

  ‘Of course I know,’ said Dr Devine. ‘I’m Health & Safety Officer.’

  For a moment I was robbed of speech. ‘You knew?’ I said.

  He had the grace to look embarrassed. ‘I saw Jimmy checking the cables,’ he said. ‘Of course I asked Bob about it.’ He gave another sniff, and I sensed that he was torn between his loyalty to the management and his personal sense of propriety.

  ‘Bob explained,’ Devine went on. ‘He said it was because of last year. Said having cameras in School might have averted a tragedy. Told me if I let people know, I might be in breach of contract. The bastard. As if I would—’

  I was impressed. In thirty-four years, I have never heard Dr Devine refer to a senior colleague in such unbridled terms. I thought back to the first day of term, and the altercation I’d overheard between them. Roy Straitley knows—

  Roy Straitley knows what? Knows what he owes to St Oswald’s? Knows how the management has failed in its duty towards the staff? Knows how the likes of Bob Strange will always manage to serve themselves?

  ‘What I’m saying is,’ said Devine, ‘you’ve been keeping tabs on the Head. And if there is a rebellion, I want to be part of it.’

  I have to say, I was impressed. In all my years at St Oswald’s, I’d never seen Devine like this. It occurred to me that for thirty-four years I actually might have misjudged the man, and for a moment I almost considered filling him in on Winter’s research. Then I remembered his lack of support, both for Harry, during the trial, and now, for poor, grieving Eric, and decided I was better alone. Besides, I thought, I had nothing to lose. Dr Devine still had a career. And what was the point in risking that, on a simple intuition?

  ‘Dr Devine. I have to go,’ I said, reaching for my coat. Ten minutes’ walk along the canal – ten minutes’ run – and I could be there in time.

  The tumblers were falling faster now. Harry’s letter to Eric. Gloria’s denial of ever having seen it – even with the promise of a significant reward. Winter’s mysterious double life. Harrington’s expression when I saw him in the Scholar. And Eric saying: How well do we really know our friends? How do we know what they’re hiding?

  ‘You’re not going there alone,’ said Devine. ‘Not after what happened last year.’

  I shrugged. I suppose he had a point – last year’s Bonfire Night brought, not only gunpowder, treason and plot, but also the murder of Colin Knight, a near-fatal stabbing, and, of course, that ill-timed heart attack, smugly described by my doctor as ‘your body’s last warning to lay off the pies, the pasties, the cheese and the Gauloises’.

  I said: ‘Oh, lightning never strikes in the same place twice, Devine.’

  He huffed. ‘Statistically incorrect. In fact, this kind of lightning is likely to strike whenever a silly old fool sticks his neck out above the parapet.’

  I ignored him and opened the door. I supposed the man was right, but I had no time to argue the point. I had no idea how long Winter would wait for me on the canal bridge. But whatever he knew, I wanted to hear, regardless of those tumblers dropping relentlessly in my head.

  A firework rose from Malbry Park like flowers from a magician’s hat; a green chrysanthemum; then a blue. A second later, I heard the sound; that faint, percussive popping. What did Winter have to say? Why had he suggested the bridge? And what did he mean, quoting Sophocles when he knew I was desperate for answers?

  I left Devine in the doorway, not even pausing to lock the door. He started to call after me—

  ‘Straitley! Don’t be a damn fool! Straitley! I need to talk to you!’

  But there was no time to hear him now. All I could think of was Winter, whose mother had cared for Margery Scoones, and Eric, who had burnt Harry’s box. Could Eric have known something, back then, that might have affected the trial? Could he now, for the sake of ambition, be hiding something that could incriminate Johnny Harrington?

  Reaching Dog Lane, I started to run, ignoring Devine’s cries of protest. Another hatful of flowers bloomed, and I forced myself to increase the pace. This is my favourite time of year – this time of fire and falling leaves – and with my heart in its fragile state, I cannot be sure if I will see another.

  But tonight was no time for fireworks. Tonight there was no time for doubt; or friendships; or nostalgia. Tonight, I needed answers. Tonight was a night for dark thoughts, dark deeds; and memories of lost boys – Scoones and Straits, and Colin Knight; and Charlie Nutter, who was one of ours, and Lee Bagshot, who was not; all of them victims, sacrificed to the spirit of dark, lonely water.

  4

  November 4th, 2005, 21.03

  I ran from Dog Lane to the canal. Well, I did my best to run. In fact, I probably looked and sounded like one of those zombies from the old films: wheezing and shambling along the canal-side in the darkness.

  If there were ghosts, I told myself, then surely this was where they should be. Perhaps the ghost of Lee Bagshot – drowned, and whose injuries, according to the coroner, might have been the result of a blow, or might have simply been caused by the fall. And Charlie Nutter, also drowned, albeit in three feet of water. And now something inside me protested, in the voice of Lady Bracknell: To lose one boy by drowning may be considered a misfortune. To lose two boys, however, begins to look like—

  Murder?

  I could see the canal bridge now; the place where Charlie Nutter died. There’s a street-lamp on the opposite side, one of the few remaining white ones. Its light illuminated the bridge and glazed the murky water. The path on which I stood was dark: on this side of the canal I could not be seen by anyone. For a moment, I stopped, and saw two men standing on the bridge. But neither man was Winter. One was Johnny Harrington. The other was David Spikely.

  21.06

  The last time I’d seen Spikely, he was twenty-one, and looked forty. Now he is almost forty, and looks far younger than he did then. His hair has grown back; he looks fit and relaxed, and he has lost a great deal of weight. Even so, I knew him at once. Something in his walk, perhaps. Or perhaps it is simply the fact that, although he may forget any number of other things – his glasses, overdue library books – a St Oswald’s Master never forgets a boy for whom he was once in charge.

  I pressed my back into the hedge that runs alongside the bridle path. A weeping willow, leafless now, but trailing a curtain of pale fronds, served as additional camouflage. If I stayed without moving, I could remain unseen. Through the smoke of Bonfire Night, I could smell the sleeping canal; that dank and somehow melancholy scent of abandoned things left to decompose. Small sounds came from the hedge at my back; maybe a mouse or a small bird.

  I listened: Spikely and Harrington were clearly awaiting s
omeone. They stood there side by side on the bridge, Harrington looking impatient, Spikely in a gabardine coat like a gentleman spy from a forties film noir. Neither spoke, and I noticed that Spikely was carrying a sports bag, much of the kind that St Oswald’s boys use to carry their schoolbooks.

  Was this what Winter had meant me to see? Was it an exchange of some sort? Or were they waiting for someone else with whom to conduct their business? There came the sound of a car on the road. Then, headlights swept the bridle path, and for a moment I was blind, caught like a moth in the full beam. The two men had their backs towards me, otherwise I would have been seen. But my two ex-pupils were too preoccupied by the arrival of the car to look at the path behind them; and when they turned back, the car was parked, its headlights off, and I was in darkness once more.

  But I had recognized the car. I’d seen it only the other day, outside a house in White City. Most recently (and memorably) used by the perpetrators of the theft of a hundred and fifty Honours Boards—

  It was Winter’s blue Peugeot.

  21.08

  Winter got out of the little car and stepped on to the canal bridge. For a moment I thought he looked my way, and I wondered if he had seen me. Should I stay hidden, or show myself? I started to move forward, but Winter gave a shake of his head. It might have been a coincidence – the turn of his face against the light – but it made me think twice, and I remained hidden in the shadows.

  Clearly, Winter had a plan that involved my staying hidden there – to overhear, or to intervene? There was no way of knowing. What was the significance of the sports bag, and why had he said he was leaving? I have to say, I was feeling a little uncertain about Winter. The fact that he’d kept Nutter’s death from me; his furtive, evasive manner – not to mention the letter, and the fact that he’d told me his mother was dead – well, I’ve been a Master for far too long, and watched too many boys attempt to get away with murder to fail to see the potential for deviousness in my young friend. And yet, I believed he was trying to help; that perhaps against his instincts, he might be putting himself at risk.