The White Devil (18 page)

MR. TOOMBS PULLED
the heavy door closed and turned the key, chattering amiably.
Electrifying essay tonight, don’t you think, Piers? All those horrible symptoms. And the section on the Plague—something for you, Judy. Bit of history.
Mr. Toombs kept up his patter until he realized the three of them were hanging back and waiting for him to leave; so he said his goodbyes and they stood facing each other in the gloom as he walked away. Mr. Toombs’s classroom sat at the bottom of a long stair to the High Street, its back to the silent, wooded park.

“What did you think, Andrew?” Dr. Kahn asked him.

“I loved it,” he said, with unaccustomed enthusiasm.

“Did you?” She smiled. “Good. I love it too.”

“I think we should start serving Sprite at Essay Club,” grumbled Fawkes, looking drained.

“It would corrode the goblets,” she answered coolly. “Follow me, please.”

She led them into the shadow between the chapel’s grey flanks and the Classics Schools. “No one will overhear us here,” she said, her voice lowered. “There’s something I wanted to say to you both.”

They waited.

“I believe you,” she announced.

“About what?” Andrew said.

“Fawkes has been telling me about your ghost. About how you think it’s Byron’s friend John Harness. I have been curious, of course. But neither convinced nor unconvinced. Then two things happened. First, I had an odd experience in my own home. I thought I
felt
someone. A threatening someone. Not an actual person, mind you, but a presence. The feeling came just at the moment Piers asked me to help investigate the underground room in the Lot. Curious timing, don’t you think? It was almost as if this . . . someone . . .
knew
you were asking me to help research John Harness, and then came after me. Made a show of strength. I call that intimidation,” she said. “And then the second was tonight, at Essay Club.”

“I didn’t notice anything,” said Andrew, puzzled.

“But I did. You,” she said. “You are the very portrait of Byron.”

“You’re the last to notice,” said Fawkes.

“Sitting there, in the candlelight. In your tailcoat. We could have been transported in time. And it dawned on me. This may be precisely what is happening to your spirit. He sees you. Then thinks he’s somewhere else. Or some-
when
else, if you like—with Byron. It all points to John Harness as your ghost.”

“You’ve had the epiphany,” said Fawkes.

“I have. But I don’t like it. The presence I felt was menacing.”

Andrew felt a rush of hope. “Then maybe you can help me,” he said. He turned to Fawkes. “Remember that . . . vision . . . that I told you about? Where I’m in a dormitory, like the Lot, but with sconces, and carpets, and I’m chasing this figure?”

“Yes, of course.”

“When I first had it, it felt like something terrible
was going
to happen. But I had the dream again. Two days ago, after we found the cistern. And something terrible
did
happen, in the dream. I saw a murder.”

“Then, or now?” demanded Fawkes, anxiously.

“Then,” Andrew reassured him. “Except. Um. I was the one committing the murder. I suffocated someone.”

“
You
suffocated someone?” said Dr. Kahn, surprised.

“
Harness
did. I saw it from his point of view, if that makes sense. Like he was . . . showing me his home movies. I kind of wish we hadn’t opened up that room,” Andrew said to Fawkes. “It’s like we encouraged him.”

“He’s trying to tell you something,” mused Kahn.

“What?”

Fawkes crossed his arms. “If he’s showing you a murder . . . that’s a fairly clear message. He committed a murder. Guilty conscience.”

“I suspect it’s rather more than that. Our ghost may be dangerous in the present.” said Dr. Kahn.

“
May
be? Didn’t Andrew tell you? He saw the ghost smothering Theo Ryder on Church Hill.”

Dr. Kahn looked at Andrew intently. “No. I missed that part somehow.” She frowned. “And here is Andrew, all costumed as Lord Byron, dangling as bait, for a murderer? It’s time to get Andrew out of danger, taken out of school, perhaps. Call his parents.”

“That would be the same as getting me thrown out,” Andrew objected.

“Good. I’d rather see you sent down than strangled.”

“If we’re wrong,” Fawkes said, “we would have ruined Andrew’s school career for nothing. For a will-o’-the-wisp.”

“Then why don’t you suggest something,” she said sharply.

“It’s a ghost. How do you get rid of a ghost?”

“Hold an exorcism,” offered Andrew.

“What is it they do, with the mediums?” Dr. Kahn jumped in. “You know, holding hands around the table with the velvet tablecloth and the candles?”

“Séance?” Andrew said.

“Precisely.” Dr. Kahn nodded. “Summon the spirit, and talk with him. Ask him what he wants.”

“That’s obvious,” said Fawkes. “He wants Andrew.”

“Then what about the murder?” Andrew countered.

“There’s no record of John Harness committing murder,” Fawkes said.

“But I know he did.”

“All right. Why don’t we find out for certain?” Fawkes suggested.

“You mean do more research on Harness,” clarified Dr. Kahn.

“Everything’s research to you,” groused Fawkes. “No, I mean a bloody
tribunal
. Look, what is a ghost? A dead person that’s still meddling with the living. Why? They can’t let something go. In John Harness’s case, there was a murder. He can’t get over it, he can’t get over Byron. So, we find out everything there is to know about the murder, and about Harness’s relationship with Byron.”

“I still call that research,” she quipped.

“
Then
we have a séance. We summon Harness, and we shove it in his face. We say, we know who you killed, and why; but it’s over. The ghost realizes he’s hanging around the wrong century, and off he goes into the light. End of story.”

“Find out who Harness killed, and why,” said Dr. Kahn. “Not bad, Piers.”

He made a mocking curtsey. “May I have a cigarette now?” He fired up his lighter vengefully; his edge had increased since forgoing the Madeira.

“An especially good plan, since we have a resident Byron expert.”

“Who?”

“Who? You.”

“Oh no. I’m being monitored,” Fawkes said quickly. “I nearly got sacked over knocking down the walls in the basement. I can’t go about with an ectometer, scanning for murder scenes and Lord Byron’s lost socks. I won’t last a day.”

“I can research it for Essay Club,” proposed Andrew.

They both turned to him.

“That’s clever,” said Dr. Kahn. “You can disguise the fact that we’re researching the ghost by calling it an essay; or even background for your role in the play. You’re at the center of this, Andrew. You’re the closest to it. It’s right for you to lead the charge. I will assist you. When you feel you’ve gathered enough information, we’ll hold the séance. Or better yet—we’ll hold Essay Club. We have the candles, the dark room, and the circle of people already.”

“Do we have to hold hands?” sneered Fawkes.

“We’ll confront the ghost with who he is, and what he’s done,” said Dr. Kahn. “And then we’ll send him on his way.”

“An airtight plan,” said Fawkes.

“Is it?” she said, still thinking. “I just wonder if we’ll be fast enough. It seems like the ghost is becoming stronger. What was the word you used, Andrew?”

“Encouraged.”

Fawkes added: “Maybe he senses he has our attention.”

“Getting the attention of a murderer. Not advisable,” said Dr. Kahn. She pondered a moment, then perked up. “We can do both. The séance
and
the exorcism. How does one perform an exorcism?”

“I rather think you need a priest,” Fawkes replied.

“Go to Father Peter, then.”

“Me? I just said I was on probation for corrupting the young.”

“Well, Andrew and I can’t invite a priest into the Lot for a bloody exorcism.”

“Whereas housemasters do it all the time.”

“If anyone can, you can.”

“We’re talking about getting sacked on the spot!”

“We’re
talking
about Andrew’s safety.”

Fawkes churned. He needed more information about Harness to make his play publishable. If a priest were able to put a stop to the ghostly activity immediately. . . then he would be left with no evidence, no story. He was about to object again. Then he caught Andrew’s grey eyes on him again, waiting for an answer.

“All right,” Fawkes said, petulantly. He hungrily sucked on his cigarette. “I picked the wrong week to stop drinking.”

“What are you three doing in the dark?”
A voice lashed at them like a whip. “Conspiring?”

They stood squinting in the gloom between the chapel and Classics Schools. Below them, on the gravel where they had emerged from Essay Club, stood a figure in silhouette.

“Is that Sir Alan?” Dr. Kahn called, tugging Fawkes’s sleeve.

“It is indeed. Who’s there, smoking? Ah, it’s you, Piers Fawkes, in the flesh. I was going to hand out a skew, Piers. I think I might after all.” He snickered. “Are we still on for tomorrow morning? Nine sharp? Not too early for you?”

“I’m up at five every day, writing,” puffed Fawkes.

“Are you? How virtuous. Inspired by Dionysus?”

“Apollo,” Fawkes returned.

Sir Alan charged into their midst, rather too close in the dark, trying to peer into their faces. He turned his sharp nose and glasses reflecting the faraway light, on Dr. Kahn. “What did you think of the essay, Judy? Up to snuff?”

“A bit vague in its thesis, I suppose, but overall well done,” she said.

“They used to be an hour,” Sir Alan snorted. His accent rendered it
an ahhh
. “Askew eked out thirty-five minutes. Thirty-five minutes! I timed it on my watch. Maybe nineteen sides? Twenty? Hmph. So much for the giants of old.” He turned to Fawkes and did not conceal a sniff in his direction. “You didn’t drink tonight, Fawkes,” he observed. “Gone cold turkey?”

“I have, as a matter of fact,” Fawkes muttered in reply.

Sir Alan’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “We’ll make a man of you yet.” He then turned his attention to the American. “So you’re in Essay Club now, eh?”

“Yes,” Andrew said coldly.

“Your doing?” Sir Alan demanded of Dr. Kahn. She nodded. He looked Andrew up and down disapprovingly. “Think you’ll manage to write anything, Mr. Taylor?”

“We were just discussing that,” said Dr. Kahn.

“Really? Topic?”

“Still developing,” she said hastily, before Andrew could open his mouth.

“Then I’ll wait with the other commoners, shall I? All right then, I’ll leave you to your topic development. Don’t know why you’re doing it here. If you haven’t noticed, it’s nighttime,” he said, pointing at the sky. “I think I’ll go home and have a whisky. How about that, Piers?” He grinned. “Nine sharp?”

“Nine sharp,” Fawkes repeated.

Sir Alan bustled up the remaining stairs, robes billowing, and disappeared around the corner.

“Do you think he was listening?” Dr. Kahn asked.

“I meant to tell you,” hissed Andrew. “He kept me after class yesterday and started grilling me about you, Piers. He threatened to call my parents if I didn’t rat you out.”

“What did you say?” asked Fawkes in alarm.

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“I walked out on him.”

Fawkes laughed, delighted. “Did you really? Good man!”

“I’m no sellout,” said Andrew with a grin.

Fawkes felt his stomach sink.
Selling out. That’s exactly what you’re doing to the boy. Making him “bait,” to use Judy’s word
. He stared into that handsome face, glowing in the dark, the grey eyes glinting; the expression cockeyed; the smile only half there; the other half held back, protectively, in that fragile, adolescent way. He had seen Andrew Taylor smile maybe a half-dozen times, in all their meetings and rehearsals; and here was one, bestowed on him, and not just a smile, but a kind of supplication.
We’re friends, aren’t we? You approve of me, don’t you?
That puppy-dog neediness. The orphan’s longing.
And you’re using him
, he scolded himself.
God, you’re a shit, Fawkes
.

WHEN THEY REACHED
the Lot, Andrew said goodbye to Fawkes and waited for him to enter his apartment.

I still call that research.

When you feel you’ve gathered enough evidence, we’ll hold the séance.

He stood in the drive, thinking.

The handkerchief.

The handkerchief had been a piece of solid evidence. Maybe even a clue. And he’d left it down in the cistern room, mainly out of the shock of seeing it. What had happened to it? Had Reg thrown it away? Or could it have been brushed into the hole?

Minutes later Andrew was in his room, pulling on khakis and a pair of sneakers.

“Roddy,” he called through the wall. “Hey, Roddy!”

A moment later, roused, his stocky neighbor poked his head in. Roddy wore a bulky black terry cloth robe and flip-flops.

“Hey yourself. Some of us are doing work here, you know. Some of us have A-Levels.”

“Oh, bullshit. I’ll bet you five quid you were eating toast and reading comics.”

Roddy guffawed. “All right, you got me there. But I was eating biscuits. I’ll give you two-fifty.”

“Can I borrow your flashlight?”

“What? Why?” said Roddy.

“I want to see what’s down there.”

“Where?”

“In that cistern, in the basement.”

“That cistern you found, with our inebriated housemaster? No thank you. My dad found one of those, in a row house he renovated in London. He said it was an accident waiting to happen. A complete liability. He had the whole thing filled with cement.”

“Well,” Andrew said, tying his sneaker. “You can come and protect me if you want.”

THEY CLATTERED DOWN
the stairs, Roddy still in his robe (but with a pair of sweatpants added), Andrew leading the way with Roddy’s flashlight (just one sample of the varied equipment Roddy kept in his cupboard—extra toilet paper, bread knife, heating coils, salt and pepper, first aid kit, and, acquired from some London military paraphernalia shop, a gas mask). Andrew clicked the overhead lights on when they reached the basement. Roddy hastily turned them off again.