Tom Brown's Body (4 page)

That old idiot would have complained by now to Wyck. And there was that yellow swine Kay.
He
was married already. The boys did not like him much, it was true, but he ran his blasted O.T.C. pretty well, and the governors liked it. Fine old crusted Tories to a man, and liked the thought of boys playing at soldiers. And Semple, pious prig, was on his side. And Semple's uncle was chairman of the governing body this year. And Semple was fond of old Loveday and had looked pretty sick last night in the Common Room. Damn Semple! He was after Marion, too. It might turn into a sort of comic-opera rivalry between them. 'You can't have the man and the money too!' Ah, but you
could
have the woman and the House. And Marion, as old Pearson's daughter, would be smiled upon, without doubt, by the governing body. Whoever got her would certainly get Loveday's House when the old fool thought fit to retire.

Yes, he'd been wrong to play Semple's game by taking a rise out of Loveday. Marion would be sure to hear of it and would think it rather a rotten thing to do. Perhaps it was, in a way. The old man could not help being three-quarters senile.

Mr Conway kicked a pair of gym shoes irritably under a balancing form, pulled off his white sweater, and put on his pullover and a jacket. He exchanged his sneakers for walking shoes, and went off to have his tea.

Just as he reached the gymnasium door a handsome and beautifully built boy of about fifteen came crashing into him.

'Sorry, sir!' he gasped.
'Beastly
sorry, sir!'

'You bring me a hundred lines and look where you're going next time!' yelled Mr Conway.

'Yes, sir. Please, sir, could you come, sir? There's a cad outside, sir, trying to throttle Scrape.'

'Why on earth couldn't you say so at first?' demanded Mr Conway. He broke into a run, the youth cantering lightly at his heels.

*

Depend upon it, we will deal like Men of Honour.

IBID.
(
Act 3, Scene 6
)

I
N
nearly every school there is at least one licensed eccentric. Martin, of
Tom Brown's Schooldays,
is a classic example. The position of school madman – envious in its way – was held at Spey by Scrupe, of Mr Mayhew's House. Scrupe was sixteen and a half, and owing to the fact that he found it impossible (or so he had informed Mr Conway, who taught the subject) to concentrate on Latin because he had been brought up to speak Spanish, he had been removed from the Classical side and set to study Economics with Mr Kay and Mathematics with an unorthodox little man much beloved by the Old Boys.

This gentleman's name was Mr Reeder. He was apt to become bored during Maths lessons, finding boys slow and their imaginations limited. As a rule, therefore, he could be relied on for entertainment. The red herring was seldom dangled before him in vain.

'Sir,' said Scrupe to Mr Reeder, during the week following the outing of Merrys and Skene, 'what are the statistics for murder in this county?'

'They will increase by one, if you ask silly questions,' said Mr Reeder. 'And, by the way, what is all this about you and a stolen cockerel?'

'Oh that, sir?' said Scrupe easily. 'Yes, that was very unfortunate. The farmer was under a misapprehension. It was not I who stole his cockerel.'

'Why should he have fastened on you, then?'

'I happened to be passing the farmyard, sir, and I stopped to admire his dog. A handsome pedigree animal, sir, and, if I am any judge –'

'Sit down,' said Mr Reeder. Scrupe, who seldom obeyed orders from masters without questioning them first, said plaintively:

'Sir, I am sure the farmer mistook me. Do I remind you of anyone?'

'Yes,' said Mr Reeder, who was tired of the lesson and welcomed the chance of a diversion, 'Thurtell and Hunt.'

'Please, sir, who were they?' enquired Biggs, in response to a meaning kick from Scrupe.

'Your education seems to have been neglected,' said Mr Reeder, whose hobby was criminology; and he proceeded, to the ecstasy of the form, to recount a sordid and unedifying history which he terminated only in time to set the boys some preparation before the bell went.

'What
was
all that about Scrupe and a cockerel?' he enquired of Mr Semple when they met in the quad before lunch. Mr Semple, looking thoroughly uneasy, replied that he had no idea, but that Scrupe, in his opinion, was born to be hanged.

'Oh, I don't know,' argued Mr Reeder, taking the words literally for his own amusement. 'When one goes over the records, don't you know, there seems nothing in Scrupe's character to indicate his bent for a life of crime.'

'Murder isn't a crime,' said Mr Semple, scowling. Marion Pearson was meeting Mr Conway for lunch in the only respectable hostelry the town boasted and was going to play golf with him afterwards. It was Mr Conway's afternoon off, and Mr Conway had taken pains to acquaint the Common Room of his plans.

He kicked the edge of the turf angrily, but Mr Reeder, launched unexpectedly upon his favourite topic, disregarded his companion's state of mind, although this was obvious.

'Interesting that you should say that,' he said, bending to light his pipe which he then took out of his mouth in order to stab into the air the substance and import of his remarks. 'I find that people vary enormously in their approach to murder. Of course, the known motives for it are few, and I must say that I don't find myself in agreement with those who incline to believe that one murder begets another.'

'Don't you?' said Mr Semple, who was in so evil and unusual a frame of mind that he would cheerfully have added Mr Reeder's murder to that of Fate's darling, Mr Conway, could that have been achieved by wishful thinking.

Mr Reeder, unaware that his doom would have been sealed but for Mr Semple's upbringing and inhibitions, babbled cheerily on, and again, unwisely, introduced the subject of Scrupe and the stolen cockerel. At this, Mr Semple snorted with rage and left him, and Mr Reeder had to wait until nearly nine o'clock at night before he obtained the information he required.

'I say, what do you think of Scrupe and the cockerel?' he demanded of Mr Conway, who was proud of his own participation in the riot outside the School gateway.

'Scrupe is a most infernal boy,' interpolated Mr Loveday, 'and I cannot think it was wise to interfere to the extent of indulging in fisticuffs – as I understand a junior member of the staff did – in defence of the lad.'

Mr Conway laughed and made a show of lazily stretching his arms.

'Oh, I don't know,' he remarked, without letting his eyes rest on Mr Loveday. 'Some of us, perhaps, have the courage of our disillusionment. I loathe Scrupe – always have! – but I dislike to see an unequal fight – always have! So, of course, one joined in – from the purest of motives, Loveday, of course – rescue of the perishing and all that. One hopes that one made oneself –'

'Damned conspicuous,' said Mr Semple, neatly.

'What did the Headmaster say?' enquired Mr Tuttle, another of the junior masters and Mr Conway's chief toady rather than crony. Mr Conway threw back his head and laughed loudly.

'Commended my courage and deplored my lack of discretion,' he said. 'He has also interviewed the farmer. I have no further information.'

'It doesn't sound like Scrupe – chicken-stealing,' said Mr Reeder. 'Wonder what his idea was?'

'I think the farmer's barking up the wrong tree,' said Mr Conway who, for all his conceited ill-nature, had a fair understanding of boys. 'Having snatched the young idiot from sudden death, I questioned him. He denies all knowledge of the bird, and, whatever opinion one may hold of his mental powers, I'd say he's no liar.'

'Scrupe is a curiously clever boy,' said Scrupe's Housemaster belligerently.

'Operative word "curiously", I should imagine,' said Mr Conway with lazy scorn. He disliked all Housemasters on principle, and regarded them as a race of nincompoop partisans where their boys were concerned.

'Indeed!' said Mr Mayhew, Scrupe's particular partisan. 'Allow me to point out to you, Conway –'

'Here's the Old Man!' said Mr Reeder, in what he evidently regarded as an almost inaudible whisper. 'Oh, no! It's only Pearson. Come in, Pearson, old man!' Mr Pearson, the woodwork master, came in.

'Gentlemen,' said he, perfunctorily, and as though he did not believe what he was saying.

'Good evening, Pearson,' said Mr Loveday who, as the oldest member of the resident staff, came forward to do the honours. 'This is a very great pleasure.'

'Thank you,' said Mr Pearson, this time as though he did not believe what Mr Loveday was saying. 'I come not as guest, but as host; only, as your Common Room is considerably more spacious than my drawing-room at home, I trusted that it would not appear out of place for me to request the comfort of your domain for a small – a very small celebration.'

He moved aside, and, to the stupefaction of the entire Common Room, he was discovered to be followed by the Headmaster's butler, parlourmaid, and secretary, all bearing bottles of champagne, and by his own housekeeper, his housemaid, his kitchenmaid, and his jobbing gardener, all carrying trays of glasses.

'Th-thank you very much, Pearson. A very great pleasure, I am sure,' stammered Mr Loveday, feeling that he must be dreaming. 'To what are we indebted – that is to say –'

'It is to say,' said Mr Pearson, with a ghastly attempt at lightheartedness, 'that I desire to felicitate that dear fellow Conway there upon his engagement to Marion, my daughter. I understand that the marriage was arranged yesterday afternoon, and that it was because of his understandable joy and self-esteem that our good Conway interested himself in a dispute from which, I am given to believe, he emerged with great credit. Gentlemen,' concluded Mr Pearson, almost in tears, 'permit me to invite you all to join me in my hearty felicitations.'

Mr Semple and Mr Conway stood with their winking glasses like two men in a dream. Then their eyes met, and they suddenly drained their glasses. Neither tasted the champagne. Mr Kay put his glass down on a side table, and murmured a teetotaller's arrogant, insufferable excuses. Mr Pearson opened another couple of bottles and splashed the wine into the glasses.

'You know,' said Mr Reeder, 'I'm still not satisfied about Scrupe and the cockerel. Wasn't it
before
Conway went out that he had the fight with the farmer?'

'What on earth does that matter?' enquired Mr Sugg. 'He laid the fellow out, I'm glad to say.'

'Yes – yes, I did,' stammered Mr Conway. All eyes were turned on him. 'Any-anybody else would have done the same. Fellow had a cart-whip, you know, and while I've no doubt a damned good hiding would do Scrupe a world of good, I didn't like the look of the instrument, as the regulations so tactfully call it. So I – well, just sailed in and laid the chap out. That's all.'

'Enough, too, conceited puppy,' growled Mr Loveday to Mr Mayhew, to whom (although they were great rivals as Housemasters) he had turned in the knowledge that Conway was a favourite with neither of them.

'Quite agree, quite,' said Mr Mayhew. 'I've no doubt that Scrupe could have taken care of himself. My boys are not accustomed to molly-coddling.'

Mr Kay muttered something under his breath and walked out.

'I say,' said Mr Reeder in a confidential undertone to Mr Sugg, 'Conway doesn't look as though he'd ever heard of his own engagement until Pearson mentioned it. Did you ever see a fellow more taken aback?'

'I expect he wanted it kept dark for a bit, you know,' said Mr Sugg. 'The governors don't like the men to marry young. They expect them to be at least on the short list for a House before they embark on the holy estate.'

'Ah, that would be it,' agreed Mr Reeder. 'Wonder what made Marion tell her father? Secretive, hard-headed little piece. Always has been, from childhood.'

Mr Semple remained just long enough in the Common Room for his going not to excite comment, and then quietly made his way out. He went straight to Kay's cottage. He knocked at the door, obtained no answer, went round to the window and tapped on that.

There was no light in the room except firelight, but the curtains had not been drawn together, and he could make out some curious object dangling on a string over the hearth. He could not make out what it was, but the glow of the fire lighted up a dripping pan into which fell something which sizzled as it dripped.

Mr Semple went round to the front door again and knocked; but there was no response. Moodily he turned away and went back to School. He did not re-enter the Common Room. He went straight to the School House and up to his room. There was Rugby football going on at the end of his corridor. Mr Semple knocked two boys' heads together and kicked the bottom of a third. Feeling slightly better after thus rationalizing his feelings for Mr Conway, he went into his room, filled a pipe, and, forgetting to light it, sat and sullenly brooded.

He went to bed later than usual and slept well, although he had imagined that he would lie awake all night and grind his teeth in jealous anguish over the treachery of women. It was not until two mornings later that he got up early to rouse Kay for their morning exercise.

*

Where shall we find such another Set of practical Philosophers?

IBID.
(
Act 2, Scene 1
)

O
N
the edge of Mr Kay's garden, just in front of the railings, they saw the body, this time of a man, and neither had the slightest doubt whose body it was, although it was lying on its face.

'Good Lord! It's Conway!' exclaimed Semple. 'Surely he's not. . .?'

'Surely he's not!' reiterated Kay, going up close. 'Good heavens! He must have been lying here for hours! He's soaked right through from the rain!'

He stopped down by the body and was about to turn it over when Semple said:

'What about a doctor? Just in case there's something that could be done. Anyhow, I wouldn't touch him. If he's got any broken bones you'll do more harm than good. Perhaps we could just loosen his collar. I'll do it while you send for a doctor.'

'Right. I'm on the phone,' said Kay, immediately straightening. 'Could you go over to Mr Wyck? I think he ought to know about this. I'm sure poor Conway is dead. Don't you think we should get Mr Wyck as soon as we can?'

'Yes, I do,' replied Semple. 'And I'll have to make certain no boys are likely to come this way. When you've telephoned for a doctor, I think we ought to get the police. Conway's been attacked, I rather think. Come and look at this deep mark on his neck! It looks as though someone tried some thuggery on him. I'm going to suggest to Mr Wyck that we call the police!'

He walked quickly out of the cottage garden – for he had stepped over the fence to look at the body – and then he stepped on to the turf and began to run. Mr Kay went into the cottage and picked up the telephone receiver.

*

Mr Wyck made no attempt to disguise his incredulity at the report brought by Mr Semple.

'Conway? Dead? Killed? – or suicide? Oh, nonsense!' he said. Then he added, 'It's quite impossible.'

'I'm afraid it's happened, sir,' said Mr Semple patiently. He accompanied the Headmaster to the cottage, where Mr Wyck was able to satisfy himself that matters were as dreadful as Mr Semple had indicated.

'We must have a doctor at once,' he said.

He stood looking down at the sprawled figure of Mr Conway from a point of vantage which gave him a view of the sinister deep red line which seared the young man's thick neck, and he realized at once that no doctor could make any difference.

'Mr Kay has telephoned, sir,' said Mr Semple. 'Here he comes.' Mr Kay came out of the cottage as the Headmaster looked up. He was very pale, but he greeted Mr Wyck in his usual tones, and with the accepted formula.

'Good morning, Headmaster.'

The Headmaster lifted gloomy eyes to Kay's face. He nodded an acknowledgement of the greeting but did not reply to it. After a few moments of brooding upon Mr Conway's body, he murmured:

'Terrible, terrible! Poor fellow! I wonder what possessed him? I had no idea of this! No idea at all. He must have been in some trouble we did not know of.'

'You don't really suppose this was suicide, sir?' asked Mr Semple incredulously. 'Look at the mark on his neck! You can see it plainly, even without turning him over. And then, sir, who cut him down? And where is the rope or weapon – or anything?'

'Come further off, my dear fellow,' said Mr Wyck, 'and explain to me what you mean.'

'Well, sir,' said Mr Semple, when they were at what Mr Wyck apparently regarded as a seemly distance from the body, 'I saw a bit of dirty work during the war ... I was a Commando, as I think you know . . . and if ever I saw a man who'd been set on, I'm afraid it's poor Conway. Besides, he was the very last type to make away with himself. He was far too conceited, although I don't want to criticize him now.'

'I don't believe you are right about that, you know,' said Mr Wyck soberly. 'He had the kind of character which I have often associated with suicides. Still, there is the other violence you mentioned. If the poor fellow has been set on and robbed, you had better keep all your information for the police. I will telephone them immediately, and then we had better all three wait until they turn up. Fortunately it is still very early. We shall not be missed for an hour or more yet. You will both keep silent upon this subject, of course, as long as you possibly can. Rumours will spread soon enough. I wonder – there was that farmer, a brutal, uncontrolled person –'

By this time Mr Kay, who had been looking anxiously up the road for the first sign of the doctor's car, had joined them, and the Headmaster turned to him, and seemed to scrutinize him closely. A flush rose beneath the yellow colouring of Mr Kay's sallow countenance, and he said, in a tone to which Mr Wyck was unaccustomed:

'There is no need to look at me like that, Headmaster! I can assure you that, although the circumstances look particularly black against me, I had no hand whatever in this deed!'

'I beg your pardon, Kay,' replied Mr Wyck equably to this outburst, although his eyebrows had risen and he looked grim. 'And I think perhaps you should ask mine. I had no thought in my head about the blackness of the circumstances except in so far as they affect poor Conway himself. I take it that you are concerned to find him like this within the bounds of your garden?'

'I most certainly am!' replied Mr Kay, with the same explosive energy as that to which the Headmaster had already objected. 'And I'm concerned to think of the attitude the police will adopt towards this business! I am bound to be involved, and I dislike the thought very much.'

'Well, you had better take another short stroll along the road, and see whether anyone is coming,' said Mr Wyck, perceiving that Mr Kay was really overwrought, and that there was nothing to be gained at the moment from discussing the tragedy with him.

Mr Kay, without another word, stepped over the low fence which separated his cottage garden from the School drive, and walked out through the gates.

'Unstable, unstable,' muttered Mr Wyck, who was feeling overwrought, too, as his active brain began to realize the magnitude of the disaster which had fallen like a blight upon the School. 'Now what can he know about it, Semple? No, don't answer, my boy! That is a most improper question for me to ask. And keep an open mind, my dear fellow, and a still tongue. And remember that farmer.'

'Of course, sir,' said Mr Semple, who, as an Old Boy, had never learned to call Mr Wyck by the title in use by the rest of the staff.

At this moment there was the sound of a car, and the doctor arrived from the village. He was the School doctor, and knew Mr Wyck well. He was shown the body and he knelt on the wet earth beside it. His examination was brief.

'Bad show,' he said, standing up and looking down at the sticky mould on the knees of his trousers. 'Better not brush that off until it dries. Yes, he's dead, I'm afraid. All his own work, do you suppose? . . . Don't answer that. It couldn't be. No weapon. And, unless I'm a half-wit, the fellow's been drowned. Post-mortem will settle that, though. Don't touch, him. Have you sent for the police? . . . Don't answer that either. Sorry for you! Damned sorry! Somebody didn't like him very much!'

His hearers were much too honest to challenge this last statement.

*

'No sign of the rope, either? Well, I think I'd like a word with the owner of the cottage,' said the local Superintendent of police, when the official photography was over, and permission had been given for the body to be removed to the mortuary. 'There will be an inquest, of course, but meanwhile . . . Mr Kay, isn't it, sir?'

The yellow-faced Mr Kay came forward at once.

'But I don't know anything about it, you know,' he said. 'The full extent of my knowledge is the same as your own and that of Mr Semple, who was on the spot, actually, a little sooner than I was myself.'

'I see, sir. So Mr Semple, then, was the person who may be said to have discovered the body. Perhaps, Mr Semple, you would just let me have the details.'

'Oh, Lord!' thought Mr Semple. 'I wish I'd never let myself in for this! Might have known there was something fishy about a Dago! The little tick means to rat. Oh, well, here goes!'

He accompanied the Superintendent into the cottage and there gave an account of himself and of the discovery of the body. It had been seen, he averred, by himself and Mr Kay at approximately the same instant.

'Mr Kay, then, was left here while you went up to the School to inform the Headmaster, Mr Semple?' said the Superintendent. 'How long, sir, do you think you were gone?'

'I couldn't tell you to within a minute or so, but I should think I was gone about ten to twelve minutes. I ran to the School House, but walked back with Mr Wyck.'

'And when you returned the body was, of course, sir, in the same position as when you left it?'

'Oh, Lord, yes, so far as I'm aware. You don't suppose Kay turned it over and faked the evidence, do you?'

'I don't suppose anything yet, sir,' replied the Superintendent in tones of reproof. 'I believe it was Mr Kay who sent for the doctor?'

'Yes, it was, but we agreed upon it, of course. It was just that it was his telephone.'

'Then if you will kindly step outside, sir, I had better speak to him in here.'

Mr Wyck had already returned to the School House, leaving word with the police that he would be grateful for a word with the Superintendent when he had finished with Mr Semple and Mr Kay.

Mr Semple, who had retrieved his spikes, ran after the Headmaster and caught him up at the entrance to the School House garden.

'I need not repeat my request to you to keep all this to yourself for the present, Semple,' said Mr Wyck.

'Of course, sir.'

'What puzzles me,' continued the Headmaster, as they went into the House by the side door from which they had left it, 'is what on earth poor Conway could have been doing at Kay's cottage. I thought they avoided one another as a usual thing.'

'The doctor didn't say anything in our presence as to the time it all took place, sir, did you notice?'

'I had not realized that. But, yes, the time of death would make a difference, no doubt, although I cannot see, at this stage, quite what difference. The whole business is black; very black. I am completely puzzled. One would have supposed that if a miscreant had attacked poor Conway, Kay would have heard some sound of it. And in any case, what was Conway
doing
there? That is the immediate problem.'

'The last I saw of Conway yesterday was at just after eleven,' volunteered Mr Semple. 'I was in the Common Room talking to Saville and Manley when Conway came in. He saw us, and went straight out again. I knew the time, more or less, because Manley suddenly looked at his watch and said that it was past eleven and he would be locked out if he did not go. As soon as he went, Saville and I went to our rooms, and I went to bed. I should think I was in bed by about a quarter to twelve.'

'But why on earth should Conway have gone out to the cottage so late at night?' asked Mr Wyck, perplexed. 'He didn't even
like
Kay, did he?'

It was after this that the rumours flew round the School, and the voice of surmise and suspicion was heard in the land.

'I say!' said one pop-eyed Lower Boy to another. 'There's been a murder! Somebody has cut Mr Conway's throat, and there's pools of blood all over Mr Wyck's garden.'

'I say,' said Meyrick to Eaves. 'You don't think – you didn't think – I mean, you don't suppose Merrys and Skene murdered Mr Conway, do you, while they were A.W.O.L. again?'

'Good Lord, no,' said Eaves, horrified. 'And don't you start saying things like that. In fact – look here –' They went into a guilty huddle, and did not hear the bell for the next lesson.

His Housemaster sent for Scrupe.

'Er, Scrupe,' said Mr Mayhew. 'That is – Mr Reeder tells me – I feel it cannot possibly have any bearing, but –'

'You mean the statistics for murder in this county, sir?' said Scrupe helpfully. 'No, sir. Not an inkling. Just ornery curiosity, sir, I assure you.'

'Just – ?' said Mr Mayhew.

'Ornery – a low-grade American adjective indicative of something repellent or undesirable, governing the word curiosity, noun, abstract, neuter gender, deriving from – I'm afraid I don't know any Latin, sir, but in Spanish it would be
curiosidad,
and therefore I deduce that it would have a Latin root, but, of course, as I don't take Latin any more, I am probably wrong, sir. I say, sir,' he added, in his natural tones, 'I'm awfully
sorry
about Mr Conway. You know, he rescued me from that beastly farmer.'

'Oh, not at all, Scrupe. Thank you, thank you,' said Mr Mayhew hurriedly. 'I just sent to ask you – to make quite certain –'

'Of course, sir, I may be psychic,' suggested Scrupe, disappearing again behind his protective facade.

'Oh, I hardly think so. I hardly think so,' said Mr May-hew, even more hurriedly than before. 'But you're sure you don't – didn't – that is, of course not! Of course not! Thank you, Scrupe. You will not, of course, repeat this conversation.'

'Just as you say, sir,' said Scrupe. He went straight to the two boys who shared his study and informed them that Mayhew obviously had a guilty conscience.

'I say, Tar-Baby,' said Everson of the School House to the most picturesque member of Mr Loveday's, 'I suppose your natural instincts didn't get the better of you during last night?'

'Yes, please, Everson?' said Prince Takhobali, the good-tempered but temperamental scion of a West African royal house. He had been called Tar-Baby, needless to say, since the first mention of his name coupled with the sight of his dark face. He had been ragged very little since his introduction into Mr Loveday's House, for he accepted everything English with the same unconquerable, gleaming, ritual, fatalistic smile, and was apt to indicate his opinion of his questioners with a different sort of relish.

'Mr Conway's been murdered,' explained Everson, 'so, of course, we thought it might be you.'

'I heard that Mr Conway was drowned,' agreed the Tar-Baby. 'It is great luck for some persons.'

'You're telling
me!'
said Everson, with vigour. 'Although of course he wasn't drowned. He's been knifed. And I should say it
is
luck for some persons. Were you one of them?'