Tom Brown's Body (14 page)

'Bonfires?' enquired Mrs Bradley. The crone looked towards the direction from which the voice came.

'Ah, it's you,' she said. 'You're standing on Tom Tiddler's Ground. Did you know?'

'Yes,' Mrs Bradley replied. 'I did know, and I am trusting to you to get me out of it. How often did Gerald Conway come here?'

'Conway?' said the witch. 'A deep and resounding delivery, a conceited presence, a bull of a man, a bully of a man, a woman's man, a despicable fool of a man, a drowned man, his own worst enemy?'

'I feel that you have summed him up well. How often did he come?'

'Hereabouts and thereabouts, five times in a month, seven times in a year. Now he lies dead, and none so poor to do him reverence.'

'He didn't come five times in a month,' said Mrs Pound-bury from behind Mrs Bradley's shoulder. The blind woman started.

'Strange,' she muttered. 'I did mot know that anybody else was there. Who are you?'

'Never mind,' said Mrs Poundbury. 'I am nobody you would know.'

'You were born in the dark,' said the sibyl. It was Mrs Poundbury's turn to look startled and anxious. She did not leave it at that, but turned and fled from the presence of the witch.

'Born in the dark and now lives in the dark,' said Mrs Harries. 'I suppose my potions were for her? Did she come here with
him?''

'It is possible,' said Mrs Bradley guardedly, feeling that it was not yet clear whether Mrs Poundbury and Mrs Harries had met before. She went a little nearer to Mrs Harries and said in low tones, 'I wonder whether it is of any use to ask how many times you let a room in this cottage of yours?'

'I shall answer you, although it is none of your business,' replied the witch. 'You have heard the answer once, and I will repeat it. I let the cottage five times in a week. That was during the summer. In August. Yes, back in August. I was paid well.'

'Ah, yes, I see. But you were gone each time before your tenants came in? You never spoke to the woman who came here with Mr Conway?'

'Never. It was in the contract.'

'And have you retained the contract?'

The old crone looked suddenly crafty. She shook her head.

'I know better than to keep evidence for which I might pay heavily,' she said. Mrs Bradley had a sudden idea which she did not disclose to her hostess. The latter lived up to this title by fishing in the pocket of the coarse apron she was wearing and producing an onion. 'Take it,' she said. 'I have said the runes over it. It will smell like a pomander from the moment you take it from my hand.'

Mrs Bradley was the least suggestible of women. She took the onion and sniffed at it delicately. An aroma, very faint but undoubtedly characteristic, of clove pinks, came from it. The crone chuckled and mumbled. Mrs Bradley took another sniff at the onion, and there was no doubt about the scent. She closed her eyes, concentrated mentally on the smell of onion, and achieved the result she intended. The onion, unlike Ben Jonson's rosy wreath, again smelt only of itself. She put it back gently into the old woman's hand. The witch grimaced and then nodded.

'We be of one blood, thou and I,' said Mrs Bradley. She went out to the country road, very thoughtful, and joined Mrs Poundbury, who was now seated in the car.

'Well?' demanded Mrs Poundbury.

'No, it wasn't you,' said Mrs Bradley. 'At least, I hardly think so. You knew the cottage but I don't think you've ever been inside it before. And if it wasn't you ...' She did not finish the sentence. There was no need.

'Ah!' said Mrs Poundbury, enlightened. 'She's an uncanny old thing,' she went on. 'I
was
born in the dark, you know. The electric light failed as I decided to embark upon a separate existence. But how could she
possibly
have known?'

Mrs Bradley did not attempt to answer this rhetorical question.

*

'Twas to her I was oblig'd for my Education.

IBID.
(
Act 1, Scene 2
)

'I
T
would be interesting to know,' said Mrs Bradley to the local inspector of police, 'whether Mr Loveday's keys have ever been missing.'

'He
says
they haven't, but he seems a vague sort of gentleman to me,' the inspector replied.

'What does
Miss
Loveday say?'

'She says she wouldn't put anything past the boys. But, of course, it's not boys we're after, whatever the Superintendent may say.'

'What does the Superintendent say?' asked Mrs Bradley, who had not heard the conversation between the Superintendent and Mr Wyck on the subject of boys and their possible misdoings.

'He says we've got to remember that Home Office affair, but that's all poppycock, if you'll pardon the expression, being one not often used by ladies. Young gentlemen like these at Spey don't go about murdering their schoolmasters. But what does seem to me the point about this business is that more than one person was concerned in it. A gang of boys and a pretty clever leader is the Super's idea, and he makes a proper sort of case for it. Of course, I suppose it
could
have been that, but only theoretical, like, if you under-stand me. What do
you
think about it being some of these boys, ma'am?'

Mrs Bradley ran her mind with agile ease over Scrupe and Micklethwaite, and then over Prince Takhobali. She also considered the temperamental and knowledgeable Issacher. She shook her head.

'Unlikely,' she said briefly. 'Most unlikely. But, of course, not quite impossible.'

'You've said it, ma'am. Unlikely, but, of course, not quite impossible. Began as a lark, most likely, and then it went a bit too far. Very high-spirited and a bit revengeful and determined, some of these young gentlemen, ma'am. You'd be surprised.'

Mrs Bradley did not contradict this last statement, although she knew it to be untrue. She would not have been surprised by anything which either boys or their seniors would do. She left the inspector and wandered off to watch a practice game of Rugby football on the upper field. She arrived in time to see a couple of ebony knees and two thin, almost delicate hands and a shining black face set round a wide, appreciative smile, collect a loosely-slung pass and streak for the line like a water-snake.

'A promising player,' she observed to a large, slouching, slightly scowling youth who was also watching the game.

The youth raised his tasselled cap and smiled politely.

'Yes, he's not bad,' he replied. 'He's a bit light and small for Big Game at present, but I should certainly consider playing him in the First Fifteen next season if I were here, which I shan't be. Only trouble is, he bites.'

'Literally?' Mrs Bradley enquired. The youth nodded, and answered gloomily:

'Doesn't mean to, I suppose. Gets excited, and the next thing you know is that he's literally chewing pieces out of anybody he has to tackle in the game. He's being thrashed out of it, of course, but it makes things awkward at present.'

'I believe he is Prince Takhobali?' Mrs Bradley enquired.

'Yes. Nice enough kid, too. Just goes getting carried away by his emotions.'

'I wonder whether you would care for me to take him over and treat him?' Mrs Bradley enquired. Cranleigh – for it was that great man in person – stared, smiled, straightened up, scratched his jaw (looking suddenly younger) and said:

'Do you mean you could stop him biting?'

'Oh, yes,' Mrs Bradley replied. Cranleigh studied her, and made up his mind.

'If you could do that,' he said, 'I'm not sure I wouldn't play him against Fieldbury.'

Mrs Bradley had heard of Fieldbury. It was a very famous school, a great deal larger than Spey.

'Are they strong this year?' she enquired.

'Very strong,' Cranleigh responded, 'and we've never beaten them yet. Our only chance would be to play a scrum-half they didn't know. They're banking on our playing Tickner. If I played young Tar-Baby instead, and put Tickner out for this one match . . .' He stopped. 'I'm boring you,' he concluded. But Mrs Bradley was very far from being bored.

'Do I know Mr Tickner?' she enquired.

'I don't see why you should. He's a bit of a wart,' said the captain of football candidly. 'He's not a bad half-back, but the trouble is that he only left Fieldbury at the beginning of this half. He played regularly for their Second Fifteen all last winter, and, of course, their First know all there is to know about his game. So, if I could depend upon Tar-Baby's goings-on. . .'

'You can,' said Mrs Bradley with a superb self-confidence which Cranleigh, himself not utterly lacking in
amour propre,
was swift to appreciate. 'Send him to the School sanatorium immediately this game is over.'

'The san?' said Cranleigh. 'Right. He won't want to come, but I'll jolly well see that he's there.
Pass,
you silly owl!' he suddenly yelled, resuming his study of the game. Mrs Bradley walked back to Mr Loveday's House to inform Miss Loveday that Takhobali would be late for his tea, and then she walked over to the sanatorium to borrow a room from the sanatorium matron. The matron, who was the terror of every Housemaster and by whom even Mr Wyck was secretly overawed, gave way at once to Mrs Bradley, for Mrs Bradley held the sacred status of a Doctor o Medicine besides that of being a grandmother in her own right. The matron, in short, gave Mrs Bradley a choice of four excellent rooms, and placed her staff at Mrs Bradley's orders.

Mrs Bradley selected the pleasantest of the four rooms, ordered a fire to be lighted, demanded hot buttered tea-cake, China tea, and a couple more cushions, impounded the matron's personal vase of late chrysanthemums, and generally contrived to electrify the matron's maid into wondering whether the last trump was about to be sounded.

Takhobali turned up shining from his changing-room bath, damp-haired and beautifully dressed, and blinked in astonishment at the sight of the cosy room.

'Sit down, Prince,' said Mrs Bradley, briskly. Takhobali, with a terrified grin and a gesture which Mrs Bradley recognized as the one used in his Protectorate for keeping off evil spirits, sat on the edge of a chair, but very soon, what with the lassitude which resulted after his game, the delicious food, the crackling fire, and the general air of ease which gradually overtook him, he relaxed, Mrs Bradley was relieved to note, and was soon conversing blithely on casual matters cunningly introduced by his hostess.

'And now,' she said, 'I expect you feel thoroughly sleepy. Put your feet up, close your eyes, and I'll get the tea cleared away. No, I don't want any help, thank you.'

'Now, why,' asked the Tar-Baby, curling himself up like a lithe and sleek young leopard, 'why am I brought to this place?'

'For treatment,' said Mrs Bradley.

'But I have no injuries. I am not sick.'

'No. But you are a
biter,'
said Mrs Bradley distinctly. 'And until you cease to be one, you will not be put into the School Fifteen. Am I right?'

'Oh – yes,' said Takhobali, raising his head and giving a broad smile. 'I
do
bite. I do not mean to. It is all for love.'

'I understand that so well,' Mrs Bradley agreed. 'All the same, you must agree, I think, that it would be better for you not to do it any more. If you really wish me to cure you, I can do so.'

'Cranleigh has tried. He beats me. It is so good of him. But always I forget, and his trouble goes all to nothing,' said the Tar-Baby, with frank and delightful regret. 'I am so tiresome.'

'You haven't co-operated with him, that's all. You have said to yourself, He will cure me; you have not said, I will cure myself once and for all. Shall we say that here and now? . . . Close your eyes; relax; breathe a little more deeply . . . and slowly . . . and deeply . . . and slowly ...'

So natural and uninhibited was the Prince that she soon had him under light hypnotic control, and then she droned into him in her beautiful and sympathetic tones the fact that he would never again bite an opponent during a game of football. She pictured the game for him, she described his own emotions, and then she put a complete and absolute veto on the one particular way in which he was not to express them.

'You can play him against a girls' school now, if you like, Mr Cranleigh. He still won't bite them, however much he loves them!' she said, later, to the embarrassed but grateful captain of football. 'I think you may include him against Fieldbury if you wish, and very good luck with your match.'

This slight incident was regarded by the School as belonging to the cauldrons of witchcraft, for, to the delirious astonishment of everybody, Spey beat Fieldbury for the first time in living memory.

The first bit of luck for Spey came almost at once, for the Tar-Baby collected a wildly-slung pass and lobbed it neatly to Murray, who was just behind his left shoulder. Murray, who was unmarked at the moment, tore for the line, and, the full-back getting across, Murray let the Tar-Baby have the ball a bare ten yards from the line. Takhobali touched down, and the god-like Cartaris, taking the kick, made no mistake about it.

Fieldbury replied half-way through the second half, during a battle of Titans, with a try which, to the almost indecent joy of Spey, was not converted, and then Cranleigh, from his position as centre three-quarter, took an inspired drop at goal from almost the middle of the field and, to the dumb and then the tumultuous amazement of the School, brought it off. After that Spey fought until the whistle to keep Fieldbury off the Spey line.

Takhobali played like a demon throughout the game, but, as the beaming Cranleigh observed later to Mrs Bradley, like a muzzled demon. Cranleigh, in fact, to demonstrate his gratitude for Mrs Bradley's endeavours, capped the Tar-Baby after the game, an unprecedented occurrence at Spey, but one which found warm favour with the multitude, for, as one of Mr Loveday's ecstatic boys announced to his fellow-members of the Junior Day Room that evening, whatever you said about the Tar-Baby, he might be as black as a boot and as rich as old Ford, but he had not an ounce of side and never would have.

The Tar-Baby had himself photographed as soon as he could, wearing the fantastic head-gear of the First Fifteen. It accorded very oddly with his broad, noble, African face, but that mattered little. He himself was delighted with the effect, and he presented an equally delighted Mrs Bradley with a copy of the photograph, signed, 'From your Tar-Baby which has much thanks.'

'It is for
me
to thank
you,
Prince,' Mrs Bradley gravely and graciously replied. 'You have saved my reputation.' The prince looked puzzled.

'I think you are not young enough to have one,' he remarked simply. 'But you have rewarded me for my lights, I believe.'

Mrs Bradley had not forgotten the lights, it was true. She took the earliest opportunity of mentioning them to Detective-Inspector David Gavin of the Criminal Investigation Department when that handsome young Highlander descended upon Spey on the following morning.

'Um,' said Gavin, who had been supplied with all the evidence the local police had collected and now had a formidable list of suspects at the back of his lively and imaginative mind. 'There wasn't any weed or mud or what-not on the clothes or in the innards of the body except the mud it had collected from being dumped on to that garden. Tell me something about all these people.'

He produced a list. It was headed by the name of the Headmaster and under that were the names of Marion Pearson, Mr Pearson, Mr and Mrs Poundbury, Mr and Mrs Kay, Mr and Miss Loveday, and John Semple.

'You should add one or two more names,' said Mrs Bradley. 'Put Issacher, Takhobali, Micklethwaite, Merrys, Skene, and Lecky Harries.'

'But aren't some of those boys at the School?' demanded Gavin. 'I've already argued with the Super about that. He thinks boys may have done it, but I'm pretty sure that's impossible. Public schoolboys don't murder the Staff.'

'I agree, in principle,' said Mrs Bradley, 'but Mr Conway appears to have been something of an anti-Semite and that may mean that he suffered from other aberrations such as colour-prejudice.'

'Say on,' said Gavin. 'I'm listening. But you don't really think boys did this. I can tell you don't.'

'No, I don't, but we must go to work methodically.'

Gavin glanced at her suspiciously. She had pulled his leg before.