Ribblestrop (22 page)

In fact, the pressure on the school day was becoming intolerable: there was simply too much to do. Clubs and activities started. There was stone dressing club, which met on the ruined walls,
from six thirty to eight thirty. There was timber reclamation and site-clearing society, which started in the dining hall before dawn. The headmaster continued with his reading and writing sessions, and he also ran a very popular music appreciation society, just after midnight, with cocoa and cookies. Homework was slotted in wherever you could slot it, and there were occasional rambles, so that the map of the school could be extended.

Most importantly of all, Captain Routon was demanding more and more soccer practices, and this provided Sanchez with an excuse
not
to explore underground. Millie was furious, but as she had been unable to locate an access point to the cellars, there was little she could do. She studied the map daily. She walked the grounds, hunting unsuccessfully for the shaft she'd seen from underneath. The door she'd accidentally wandered through all those weeks ago seemed to have disappeared, and her quarrels with Sanchez ended in frustration: without knowing
how
to get down, how could they proceed?

Soccer dominated. The high school had confirmed the game in writing, and Ribblestrop Towers had been formally entered into the league. The captain did not find it easy to discipline his side, because—as in Miss Hazlitt's classes—wild enthusiasm was getting in the way. The frenzied kicking had to be tamed. He hated to see some of the boys' looks of boredom, but with one ball, he felt he had to concentrate on simple passing. True, the orphans no longer handled the ball, but they seemed to hate the idea of sides: it was so much more fun to tackle anyone and everyone.

*

It was Wednesday night, six weeks into term: sunset. Captain Routon had split the group into two teams and watched in despair as the game flowed off the pitch, down to the lake. The ball was soon in the water, but as the orphans were all excellent swimmers, water polo seemed to come very naturally.

By dusk, not a child was dry. Heads bobbed way out into the lake and somewhere in the reeds a rowing boat was found. The ball was booted onto the island and forgotten: the two teams
fought for control of the vessel. Shrieks and splashes were trilling over the lake. There seemed to be a diving contest taking place.

When Captain Routon blew the final whistle, nobody heard. He had to blow it several times before the boat turned and nosed back toward the bank. Ruskin and Asilah were at the oars, and the children were singing. Laced with weed, slimy with mud, the boat moved gently to the bank, the mariners singing their hearts out:

“
Ribblestrop, Ribblestrop, precious unto me;

This is what I dream about and where I want to be.

Early in the morning, finally at night,

Ribblestrop I'll die for thee, carrying the light.
”

Millie and Sanchez were dispatched with flashlights to find the ball, while everyone else trooped home for showers.

Dr. Norcross-Webb had managed to hold on to a corner of his office, much to Miss Hazlitt's irritation. The rest of the children were passing under his window and he smiled as he heard them singing. Asilah was leading, his strong treble voice calling, and the rest of the boys chanting a lilting, lyrical response. They had moved on from the songs he'd taught them; this time they were singing one of their own. It was a sort of lullaby the Himalayan nomads sang when they were thanking the Creator for the mountains, and the headmaster had heard it years ago on a climbing expedition. It was the sweetest of songs, with a simple refrain that he now started to hum. Laughter was drifting up over the singing.

It was interrupted by the sound of a window clattering open. Then a voice: “Sam Tack!”

The song stopped. Miss Hazlitt, who had returned to Ribblestrop that very day, was leaning over the windowsill, her bandaged hand a claw over her chest. The headmaster had forgotten she'd been working at the big desk, and he stood up, wondering what could be wrong.

“Yes, you!” she shouted. “Tack!” The voice ricocheted off the courtyard and walls: it surrounded Sam like the voice of a vengeful God. He couldn't see where it was coming from; it was all around him.

“Hello?” he said.

“
Yes, sir
, is what you say!”

“Yes, sir? I mean,
miss
—can I help you?”

The team clustered around Sam, looking up. All were dripping; all tried to make out who could be leaning out under the gargoyles, screaming.

“I want to see you in my office!” boomed the voice. “Immediately. In full school uniform: is that clear?”

“Er, yes, miss. Ah . . .”

“What's the problem?”

Sam's heart sank. He had never mentioned it. He had tried to forget it. Nobody had ever said anything to him despite the fact that every orphan had one and wore it with pride. The loss of his cap had always been there, nagging at his mind. Even Millie had one, though hers was nailed to the outside of her shed as a toilet-roll holder. He braced himself for fury and decided to deal with the matter then and there.

“Miss, do you mean with my cap?”

“Are you trying to be clever, Tack?”

“No, miss. It's just that when I was getting on the train—you know, before we got off it again and got in the helicopter—”

“What in heaven's name are you talking about?”

“I had a fall. My father was going to send it on, but he couldn't get down from the platform.”

“They're not really part of the uniform, are they?” said Ruskin. “Aren't they optional?”

“Don't interrupt!” howled Miss Hazlitt. “I've had quite enough of your irrelevant nonsense, I'm not putting up with any more. I am talking to Tack, and I want him up here in five minutes! In my office.”

She slammed the window so hard a pane of glass fell and shattered at Sam's feet.

“Is everything all right, Miss Hazlitt?” said the headmaster.

“We've got him,” she said. She turned, and there was a curious gleam in her eyes. She wore just the same black, funeral skirt and
jacket, shiny with age. Her hair was drawn back, and her face looked dangerously sharp in profile. In her working hand, she held a toothbrush. “I've got him,” she whispered. “I'm going to get to the bottom of it now, once and for all—it's been Tack all along.”

“Bottom of what? I'm not sure what you mean.”

“Aren't you? That surprises me, Headmaster, a man like you, with such a firm grip. I've been doing a little
investigating
. I put a camera in the boys' bathroom, since they chose not to answer my questions. I thought a little surveillance would do them good, and I'm pretty close to a breakthrough.”

“Miss Hazlitt, I don't follow—”

“They think they can get away with anything, that's the problem with this school. They all think it's forgotten and that's why they get confident. It's a war, and they think they're winning.” She laughed. “This toothbrush—you don't know what it is, do you? It was in the door, but you never stopped to think. I'll tell you: it's a key. I had it examined by a locksmith in London, and it belongs to Sam Tack. He was using it to pick the lock to this office. I've filmed them cleaning their teeth and he's the only boy without a toothbrush! What do you make of that?”

“You filmed the boys in their bathroom?”

“I'll shake the truth out of them yet. I'll find out what they're up to . . . You know the map's gone missing?”

“What map?”

“For goodness' sake, the map to the cellars—the one you left in the photocopier! I told you, somebody must have broken in and removed it.”

“But we photocopied it, we must have copies . . .”

Miss Hazlitt covered her eyes.

“You'll have to excuse me,” said the headmaster. “I need to chat with Routon about the roof trusses, the deliveries are going to be very tricky. But, you know, I can't imagine Sam stealing
anything
—he's just not that kind of boy.”

*

Sam was shaking. He was a brave, resilient child, but he had a horror of being in trouble. He was racking his brains for some crime he'd committed, and the cap seemed the only one. He had the fastest shower he could decently have and emerged in his towel.

“Ruskin, do you have a cap?”

“I do, but I don't know where it is.”

“I wonder if Sanchez has one. I can't just go through his things . . . Where is he?”

“They went back to the island, him and Millie.”

“What shall I do?”

“Sam, get dressed and see what she wants. It's probably something nice, like a food parcel.”

Sam knocked so timidly on the headmaster's door that Miss Hazlitt didn't hear him. He stood there, sweating, too nervous to knock again in case she was deliberately ignoring him. Fifteen minutes passed, and Miss Hazlitt decided to storm the boys' dormitory. She ripped open the door, and there was Sam, shrinking in the blast of sweaty perfume. She nearly fell over him, but grabbed the doorframe with her injured hand. “Where have you been?” she hissed. The pain brought the usual beads of sweat to her brow and her face changed color.

“Here,” said Sam.

“Where?”

“Here. I knocked, but—”

“Don't lie. Don't lie to me, you're in quite enough trouble as it is!”

“What?”

“And don't say
what
, say
pardon
.
Pardon, miss
. How does it take a boy twenty-five minutes to come from outside there to here?”

“I had to take a shower.”

“Why?”

“I, er . . . We . . . We were in the lake, and—”

“What on earth were you doing in the lake? Out of bounds! Seriously dangerous: do you know what would happen if one of you drowned in that lake? We'd be closed, just as we're getting
somewhere. You don't think, do you? Get inside!”

Sam had been rocked onto his heels. His mouth could barely close. The noise, the sheer volume, was aching in his ears. He entered the headmaster's office. There was no headmaster, and Sam's heart fluttered with fear. He watched with alarm as the woman slid out her cell phone and turned it off. On the desk was a glass of water and a selection of brightly colored pills.

“Stand up straight,” she said. “We've got all the time in the world.”

The voice had softened. It was now more unpleasant. It reminded Sam of his dentist back at home: an elderly man who didn't believe in anesthetic. When he said, “Open wide, Samuel,” it had just the same, soft menace as Miss Hazlitt.

“Straighten your tie, please, Sam. I want you to take these pills.”

Sam looked at the desk again and felt his mouth go dry. Off to his left, he heard a soft, metallic purring, but he couldn't take his eyes off the dish and the multicolored sweets.

“Miss. What are they?”

“What are they? You want the chemical formula? Why?” Miss Hazlitt was behind him now, and it was even more unsettling than when she'd been in front. She was fiddling with something at the wall, and he could hear some kind of lock mechanism.

“I don't know, I was told never to take sweets from . . . from . . .”

“Be a good boy, Sam, and swallow them. Everything's going to be easy if you cooperate. Here we are, Inspector: you've arrived at just the right time. Samuel here is being very helpful and I'm quite sure we'll get to the bottom of everything. I'm sure he has nothing to conceal. In fact, I think he's covering for someone and will feel
better
when he's got it all off his chest.”

She was still behind him. Sam could hear heavy footsteps and the sound of a door squealing on unoiled hinges. Then a deep, northern voice, slightly breathless: “This is Sam, is it?”

Sam managed to turn, just his head. For a moment he couldn't
get his bearings; one of the walls seemed to have shifted. Part of the paneling had swung open, and there was a metal grille, like a tiny prison cell. In front of it was the police inspector—the one from the car, huge in a capelike raincoat. Miss Hazlitt was at his side, folding the paneling back as he watched. It closed with the softest of clicks and Sam realized he had glimpsed a lift, and that's what the purring had been. A lift to where, though? To the police station? He felt his knees beginning to tremble.

“Inspector Cuthbertson's here,” said Miss Hazlitt, “because things are getting a little bit serious. Luckily, there's still time to straighten everything out, but only if you're ready to tell us the truth and help us. Now what I want you to do is swallow your medicine, like a good boy. Can you do that?”

“I don't know.”

“Perfectly harmless, son,” said the inspector. “We use them all the time—they help people relax and tell the truth.”

Sam felt a hand on his shoulder. It was Miss Hazlitt's. The glass of water was in front of his nose suddenly, and he had no choice but to take it. One by one, he swallowed the pills. They immediately lodged in his throat and he was retching; the glass was at his lips, and he was gulping it until it ran down his chin and his shirt.

“Stand up straight,” said Miss Hazlitt. “Hands by your sides.”

She was perched on the desk, her good hand holding her chin. Sam adjusted his uniform, put his arms down by his sides, and stood to attention. He was breathing heavily and he knew the policeman was behind him. He closed his eyes and offered up a silent prayer, clinging to the fact that he had nothing to hide. Honesty, he thought: always the best policy, and the railway authority was looking for the cap, his father had told him as much in a recent letter and would be bringing it down personally the moment it was found.
Tell the truth, Sam
—his father, his mother, the Sunday school woman, they had all said the same thing. In any case, there were truth drugs in his system now and he had nothing to hide. “I'm sorry,” he said. “It went under the train.”