Tom Brown's Body Page 6

  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?'

  'I? Oh, no. I do not need to be lucky. I am good,' said the Tar-Baby simply, his smile widening. He caught Everson's flying foot and landed him flat on his back. 'You should not kick good men. And he was drowned.'

  'Dash it!' said Everson, rubbing the back of his head. 'He wasn't drowned, you ass! He was murdered.'

  'Drowned and murdered, yes,' agreed the Tar-Baby. 'Drowned and murdered, Mr Everson.'

  'How do you know? Did Issy tell you?'

  'Nobody told me. I found out for myself. Mr Conway was choked round his neck, and then he was put in the water.'

  'What water, image?'

  'Mr Loveday's bath,' replied the Tar-Baby.

  *

  'I say,' said Merrys to Skene, 'what are we going to do?'

  'Do?' said Skene. 'Be your age. What the hell can we do?' He was paler even than usual, and looked dogged. His doughy face was puffy.

  'We could say we knew Mr Kay was at that house that night, and was threatening to do someone in.'

  'What good would that do? Yes, and where would it land us? Hang it, Conway wasn't murdered at that house! Besides, we don't know anything about the time!'

  'I know. But he was found in Spivvy's garden, and we heard what was said about somebody hanging for somebody.'

  'Somebody said Mr Wyck's garden, but it wasn't. As a matter of fact, I heard he'd been drowned in the Roman Bath. He wasn't found in Spivvy's garden at all. So you see that lets Spivvy out.'

  'Good Lord, of course it doesn't! If Spivvy did it, the last place he'd choose would be his own garden. Don't be a fool.'

  'Well, why does everybody say it was Spivvy's garden, then?'

  'Because of the blood. I wish we hadn't mentioned murder to Meyrick and Eaves, all the same, though. They'll think we know something. And, after all, we don't, really. We can't be sure that it was the Spiv who said anything, and, anyhow, it was days ago!'

  'I don't like it much, though,' said Merrys. 'Say what you like, Spivvy was there when hanging was being talked about, and it was S
pivvy's garden where the blood was found – though chaps still say it was the body. I asked Stallard what would happen next, and he said he supposed the police would have to be brought here.'

  'They've been here already. Issy saw them. He sees everything. They'll trace our footprints and the marks of Albert-Edward's bike, I suppose,' said Skene gloomily. 'And there's your beastly fountain pen. If anybody finds that – '

  'Well, I did say I wanted to find it. It was you that –'

  'Well, never mind that. It's a beastly nuisance, anyway.'

  'Yes, I know. Perhaps I didn't lose it in that garden, after all, though.'

  'That wouldn't matter particularly. Wherever it's found, we're sunk. The police are like bloodhounds. They never let go when they've got their teeth in you.'

  'That's bulldogs, you fool. Anyway, let's wait till the pen is found. Better still, let's find it ourselves before the police do. Hang it, we've got the start of them. And, whatever you do, don't you go blabbing your head off. It won't do any good, and it'll mean we'll be sacked for certain. And my father's ill. I don't want to go home and say I'm sacked. It'd be perfectly beastly. Swear you'll keep your mouth shut.'

  'That's all very well, and of course I shall. But, hang it all, it was your idea. I say, that cottage was a bit weird, you know. I heard that a witch lives there, and those women who opened the door were sort of queer. Honestly, what do you think we ought to do?'

  'Nothing!' said Merrys, too much afraid now to take the risks he had previously advocated. 'It was ages ago, anyway. It couldn't have anything to do with Conway, could it? Do you know what I think? I think that farmer's got something to do with it.'

  'What farmer?'

  'Why, the one that swore Scrupe had taken one of his cockerels and killed it.'

  'Why him? He wouldn't know Conway.'

  'Well, Conway sailed into him all right when he went for Scrupe with his cart-whip.'

  'I expect he's had his revenge, then.'

  'The police will soon find that out. They'll trace his footprints.'

  'Do you think footprints would be clear enough, with chaps barging in and out from the gate and all that?'

  'There might be blood on his boots.'

  'I say, shut up! Look here, let's keep quiet about the cottage. We don't want to get mixed up in things. Murder or no murder, we'd still be sacked if it came out where we'd been. And I don't see why we should tell. It's nothing to do with us, really.'

  'As long as Spivvy didn't recognize us we're all right; but the thing is, did he?'

  'If only you hadn't been chump enough to wear your school cap and drop your beastly fountain pen!'

  'Well, I couldn't help it, you ass!'

  'You can be had up for being an accessory, you know,' pursued Skene. 'You can get seven years, I believe.'

  'We'll have to chance that. What strikes me is that if we go about blabbing we may find ourselves in Queer Street. A bloke who would murder Conway wouldn't be inclined to stick at us.'

  'But you don't honestly think Spivvy did it? Hang it, he wouldn't stand a chance against Conway.'

  'Not if Conway knew, but Issy says that Conway didn't know. He was set on and – and finished off, before he knew what was happening. Look here, I'll tell you what! If Spivvy is arrested, we shall know it's all right. But if anybody else is arrested – one of the beaks, I mean – we shall have to tell.'

  'You said just now – I thought we agreed –'

  'That can't be helped. If somebody got hanged and we hadn't said anything, we'd be murderers ourselves.'

  'I wouldn't mind being a murderer. Look at Landru.'

  'Well, we'd be just the same as the cads, then. They never stick their necks out.'

  'Why should we?'

  'Oh, be your age!' said Merrys irritably, already again beginning to regret his unusual lapse into chivalry. 'We've jolly well got to, that's all. Besides' – his face brightened – 'don't you see? Spivvy won't split on us.'

  'No, but what about him murdering us?'

  'We can't keep on going over that. Are we going to say anything or aren't we?'

  'Let's see what happens,' said Skene. Rumours and counter-rumours continued to infest the School. They were not resolved into truth and falsehood until after the report of the inquest, but this was not yet. Mr Kay began to shun his fellow men, and, after dark, he crept down to Mrs Harries's cottage again.

  6. Policemen's Feet on Ida

  *

  Murder is as fashionable a Crime as a Man can be guilty of.

  IBID. (Act 1, Scene 4)

  'WELL,' said Mr Preedy, the School bursar, 'the police will be here again this afternoon.' He was addressing Mr Reeder and Mr Semple, who had waylaid him on the way out from lunch.

  'It was odd about that boy Scrupe,' said Mr Loveday, who had overheard the remark.

  'I don't see that at all,' said Mr Mayhew, who was with him; and he launched into a lengthy defence of Scrupe which no one heeded.

  'I hope that the police will soon turn their attention from the scene of the crime to the home of its perpetrator,' said the Bursar. 'Not enough is being done by them, in my opinion. Not that I – or, I imagine, any of us – can give them any further information. I'm afraid the whole thing is going to be muddy, very muddy. So bad for the School. And I do not see what Mr Wyck is going to say to the boys, yet something must be said to them. That is clear. We can't have them spreading unhealthy rumours. Why, one boy even thought the body had been found in the Headmaster's garden instead of in that of Mr Kay!'

  'The whole thing is a damned nuisance,' said Cranleigh, captain of football, to his cronies Keithstone and Murray. 'Just on the eve of the Helston match, of all senseless times to choose for a first-class stink! I suppose the old man will make me scratch, as Conway took some of the games.'

  This, however, was the last thought in Mr Wyck's worried mind. Much better, he thought, particularly as it was an away match, to let the School go over to Helston and enjoy themselves. The motor coaches had already been ordered, and the best thing the School could do was to pile into them, get away from a morbid atmosphere for a bit, and shout their heads off on the Helston playing-fields.

  'I say, I suppose it's all right to have Spey here?' said one infant Helstonian to another. 'As long as they stick to murdering their beaks one doesn't mind much, but supposing they start in on us?'

  'You won't be missed,' said his comrade.

  *

  'We should wish, sir,' said Superintendent Beadle of the county police, 'to leave your boys out of it for the present, and concentrate upon what your gentlemen can tell us.'

  'Leave the boys out for the present?' said Mr Wyck. 'Oh, but surely, Superintendent, you can dismiss the boys and my staff from your enquiry! We have told you all we know, and I am absolutely certain –'

  'Quite so, sir,' said the Superintendent, in the comforting tones which the Headmaster already knew so well and was to grow to dislike so much. 'Quite so. Only, you see, since that affair at –'

  'Oh, but that was a Home Office school,' said the Headmaster hastily. 'One can scarcely compare those young hooligans with a school of this type, surely!'

  'Boys will be boys, sir. Young savages, most of 'em are. That's our experience, anyway. Get carried away. Panicky. Do anything in the heat of the moment, however much they might come to regret it later on. But at the moment I would like to have another word with your Mr Kay, sir, thanking you, and with your permission.'

  Mr Kay, looking hot and bothered in spite of the wintry chill of a bitter November afternoon, faced the Superintendent across the Headmaster's sitting-room carpet.

  'Sit down, sir, please,' said the Superintendent kindly. 'Now you say you heard nothing at all after the postman passed your window at about a quarter past nine?'

  'Nothing at all, Superintendent.' Mr Kay was emphatic.

  'Very well, sir. But it may interest you to know that the postman did not call at the School last night.'

  'But I heard the sound of his bicycle wheels
on the drive. He went past the windows of my cottage. Yes, and the same thing happened some days ago. I remember it quite distinctly.'

  'You may have heard the sound of bicycle wheels, sir, but not those of the postman's bicycle. We have made very careful enquiries, and the postman did not come nearer the School than the Vicarage, a mile and a half away.'

  'But I'm certain I heard the wheels,' Mr Kay protested. 'Who else could it be but the postman?'

  'One of the boys doing a mike?' suggested the Superintendent. 'I suppose they break out sometimes and go on the spree?'

  'I shouldn't think so,' said Mr Kay, betraying to the trained eye of the Superintendent distinct traces of nervousness, however. 'Besides, the boys are not allowed to keep bicycles at School.'

  'Perhaps one of the servants, then?' suggested the Superintendent.

  'I couldn't say. You had better ask the Headmaster.' Mr Kay sounded decidedly flustered now. He had taken a charm off his watch-chain and was twisting it between his thumb and finger.

  'I shall do that, sir. Now, your story as to finding the body. You say this was at half-past seven this morning, just as it was beginning to get light. You also say that Mr Semple was with you, and that he may have seen the body before you did.'

  'That is so. I was going out for my usual morning exercise. But I've told you all this before.'

  'Just so, sir. But a relevant fact might emerge.'

  'I don't see how it can,' said Mr Kay, peevishly. 'I've told you every single solitary thing I know. Semple came to call me up – I'd overslept for some reason –'

  'For what reason, should you suppose, sir?'

  Kay looked baffled and furious.

  'How on earth should I know for what reason? My wife not being there to wake me, I suppose,' he answered. 'Anyway, Mr Semple went over to inform Mr Wyck, and that is all I know, except that I first rang up the doctor.'

  'You did not touch the body, sir?'

  'I told you, last time, that I did not. We all read detective stories nowadays, and naturally I know better than to touch anything. Semple loosened the collar and disclosed the marks on the neck, and there was no sign of the rope with which, presumably, the job was done. Neither have you found that rope in my possession. There really isn't anything else I can do for you.'