The Floating Body (16 page)

‘My estimate of the character of those two,’ I said to the Famous Four, ‘is exactly the same as yours. But I take it you have some specific concern?’

‘We suspect, sir,’ Hamilton replied, ‘that those two are planning to come down on young Stanhope rather like the wolf on the fold.’

‘But unlike the Assyrians,’ said Clifford, ‘their cohort won’t be gleaming in purple and gold. In fact, there’ll be nothing open or obvious about whatever attack they’re planning on young Stanhope.’

‘They are not only bounders, sir,’ Hamilton explained, ‘they are also sneaks.’

‘But why their special focus on young Stanhope?’ I asked.

‘It’s the young blighter’s own silly fault,’ Cardew said. ‘He keeps going on about his Pater, and about his family estates and so on. He’s still young, sir. Give him another year and he’ll get over that and be just one of the school.’

‘But in the meantime,’ I said, ‘you think that Conway and Wynyard are planning something to take him down a peg or two.’

All four boys nodded in agreement.

‘You surprise me,’ I admitted. ‘We saw the incident at the nets, with the cricket bat that snapped in two. And we all had no doubt that Conway and Wynyard had tampered with the handle. But surely they’ve had their triumph now. Why would they launch another attack on the same small boy?’

I was genuinely puzzled. Both in my short time at schoolmastering and in my memories of my own school days, it seemed to me that the pattern of behaviour—for there was a Conway and Wynyard in every school—was to plague one boy for a while and then move on to the next victim. Surely, I thought, Conway and Wynyard had had their fun with young Stanhope, so why weren’t they moving on to some other game?

‘It seems that at the cricket nets, sir,’ Hamilton explained, ‘Stanhope got all the sympathy. Conway and Wynyard, and their few friends, all hooted with laughter, but the rest of the school didn’t join in.’

‘We have the impression, sir,’ said Clifford, ‘that those two villains feel they didn’t win on that occasion—and so they intend to try again.’

‘I see. Do you have any idea what they might be up to this time?’

A worried look was exchanged by the Famous Four. Then Hamilton said, ‘We fear they’re planning something more serious this time, sir.’

‘Serious? In what sense?’

‘It may be that rather than just trying to make Stanhope a laughing stock, they are planning to get him into serious trouble,’ Hamilton explained.

‘Possibly serious enough to get him sent down,’ Redway added.

That was a worry. If Conway and Wynyard were intending to trap young Stanhope into something that would result in his expulsion from Nesfield Cathedral School, that was serious indeed.

‘Are you sure about this?’ I asked.

Four faces looked slightly uncomfortable until Cardew explained, ‘We weren’t snooping, sir. It’s just that I’m shorter than the high windows in the Old School building, so Conway and Wynyard couldn’t see me passing when they were standing at the window talking about their plot.’

‘What did you hear?’

‘Not much, sir,’ Cardew admitted. ‘Just a few words, really. But enough to make me think they’re planning to steal something and plant it on Stanhope.’

I shook my head in disgust at the grubby villainy of the two School Bounders.

‘So I told the others, sir,’ Cardew resumed, ‘and Hamilton said we should tell you.’

‘Why did you pick me?’ I asked Hamilton. ‘There are other more experienced masters.’

‘We’ve noticed that you’ve been keeping an eye on him, sir—on the sufferings of young Stanhope, that is,’ Hamilton explained.

For a long moment I was lost in silent thought. Clearly we couldn’t let Conway and Wynyard get away with whatever they were plotting. The problem was, we didn’t know exactly what that was.

My prolonged silence prompted Clifford to say, ‘We did notice, sir, that you stepped in to protect young Stanhope the last time Conway and Wynyard were being unpleasant, so we thought you might be able to suggest something.’

‘The problem is that I can’t,’ I said. And again I lapsed into silence, with my brain racing at a hundred miles an hour.

‘Look,’ I said at length, ‘I’m going to assign you four to a task.’

Four eager faces looked at me.

‘Unfortunately it has to be a rather vague task,’ I continued. ‘Would you four be able to play the role of “guardian angels” to young Stanhope? What I mean by that is simply to be very aware of what Conway and Wynyard are up to, and of what Stanhope is doing that might make him vulnerable. He is capable of being a foolish boy—as I know only too well.’

‘I take it you just want us to keep our eyes and ears open, sir?’ Hamilton asked.

‘That’s it exactly,’ I said. ‘Watch for trouble, and keep me informed. At this stage, I think, that’s all any of us can do.’

I went to find Jack and Warnie in their digs at the Deanery. We three were invited to dine at the Head Master’s house that evening prior to the big occasion of Speech Night—with the members of the board of governors and their wives also being present at the feed trough with us.

I found Jack in the Dean’s sitting room, on his own, reading a well-thumbed copy of
Tristram Shandy
. There was no sign of Warnie.

‘He’s slipped off to the nets again,’ Jack explained, ‘to give some more coaching in spin bowling to that young schoolboy. And I have a proposal for you, young Morris.’

‘What sort of proposal?’

‘We have some time before we need to start changing for dinner, and I would like to spend that time paying a visit to each of the masters in their respective studies.’

I raised an eyebrow as I wondered out loud why. Jack pointed out that I was the one encouraging him to involve himself in the investigation into the impossible murder of Dave Fowler, and this was part of that.

I, of course, readily agreed.

We started with Ryan Carleton, the young Music Master in the school and Choir Master in the cathedral. He and his wife Julia occupied the top floor of the same terrace house that held the apartment of Henry Beard and his wife, Samantha.

When we approached the front door of the house we found it unlocked and let ourselves in. The ground floor apartment—Beard’s—was empty. At least there was no response to our echoing calls asking, ‘Anyone at home?’

So we climbed the stairs and found the Carletons’ flat to be in a state of cheerful chaos.

‘Julia!’ Ryan was calling as we knocked on the door. ‘Have you seen my other black sock?’

A shouted reply came from an inner room as Carleton opened the door.

‘We’ve obviously come at an inconvenient moment,’ I said apologetically.

‘Not at all, not at all,’ insisted Carleton. ‘You’ve very welcome, as long as you don’t mind the mess and the general chaos.’

We stepped into his front sitting room.

‘Ryan, would you zip me up, please?’ said Julia as she bustled into the room. ‘Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t know we had guests.’

‘You’ve met Mr Lewis, haven’t you, dear? Oh yes, this afternoon at tea. I’m afraid we’re rather at sixes and sevens. Richard and Ellen Cowper invited us to dinner with them tonight, before the big event—seeing as how they were losing you to the Head and his big bun fight with the governors and their wives. What can I do for you?’

‘We only wanted to ask about Mr Fowler,’ said Jack. ‘We’re still trying to help the police with their investigation—but this is clearly the wrong time . . .’

‘I didn’t like him at all,’ said Julia Carleton.

‘Really? Why not?’ Jack asked.

‘He was . . . creepy. I know you’re not supposed to speak ill of the dead, but he really was creepy . . .’

‘Julia!’ Carleton protested, sounding shocked.

‘Perhaps,’ said Jack, ‘in the case of murder victims the principle of
De mortuis nil nisi bonum
doesn’t apply. Understanding the victim is often the key to understanding the murder.’

Then I chipped in and asked, ‘In what way exactly was he “creepy”?’

Julia Carleton suddenly looked doubtful. She glanced at her husband, then slowly said, ‘I shouldn’t have spoken so quickly. That’s always my trouble—I speak before I think.’

‘But you had something specific in mind, didn’t you?’ Jack pressed her.

Again she looked at her husband, who said, ‘You might as well tell them. You never know, it might even prove helpful.’

‘You mean tell them what I said to you . . . ?’

‘Yes, tell them that. The very first time we ever met Fowler,’ Carleton said to us, ‘the same day we met you, Morris, at the afternoon tea for staff on the first day of term, we came back here and Julia used that same word, “creepy”, to describe him.’ Then he quickly added, ‘But she quite liked you, Morris.’

I said thank you, and then pressed them both again for what lay behind the word ‘creepy’.

‘Well, what she said was . . .’ Carleton began, and then said, ‘You tell them dear.’

Julia Carleton hesitated, blushed and then said, ‘I told Ryan when we got home that day that I didn’t like Dave Fowler because he . . . it was something no man would ever notice, only a woman . . . because, you see, when he looked at a woman . . . he undressed you with his eyes.’ Those last few words came out in an embarrassed rush.

‘And nothing after that day caused you to change your opinion?’ Jack asked.

‘Certainly not!’ Julia was firm on the matter.

We talked to them for a little longer and then left them to their preparations. As we were going back down the stairs, we could hear Carleton saying, ‘Dear, have you seen my collar stud anywhere?’

Henry Beard was still not home, so we headed across the quad to the flat occupied by the odious McKells.

It was the sister, Muriel, who answered our knock. She swung open the door and looked at us as if we were a pair of ill-smelling lepers of whom she was not especially fond. In fact, judging by the look on her face, our appearance at her front door seemed to have given her a sudden toothache.

‘Yes?’ she demanded, in a tone that implied that if we were drowning she’d throw rocks at us.

‘Sort of a social visit,’ I began, smiling and trying to counter the chill in the air.

‘And to ask about Fowler,’ Jack added. ‘The murder investigation is continuing, and we are doing our bit to help.’

This was greeted by a long silence, eventually broken by Muriel McKell saying—in a voice like a buzz-saw attacking a piece of rotten timber—‘We can’t help you, I’m afraid.’ She didn’t sound afraid. She sounded rather pleased to be unable to help. ‘And just at the moment we’re busy.’

With that she closed the door. She didn’t slam it loudly in our faces because this was a polite school in which that sort of thing didn’t happen. But she closed it with a swift, silent movement that implied the loud slam we couldn’t hear.

Jack and I stood in the corridor looking at each other for a moment, smiled and then started to leave, intending to visit Geoffrey Douglas in his bachelor establishment.

However, when we got to the corner in the corridor, we heard knocking on the door behind us. We turned around and saw Conway and Wynyard trying their luck where we had failed.

I laid a hand on Jack’s arm, indicating that we should wait and see what happened.

We were standing in the shadows at the far end of the corridor, and I was intrigued to discover why those two young villains should be knocking at McKell’s door.

After a moment the door was opened—not, this time, by Muriel but by our Deputy Head himself.

‘Yes?’ he demanded curtly.

‘Please, sir,’ said Conway, ‘we thought, that is to say, Wynyard and I thought, that perhaps you’d like us to clean your hiking boots for you, sir.’ Since there was no immediate response he added, by way of explanation, ‘The ones you brought back from your last trip, sir.’

‘No,’ snapped McKell impatiently. ‘Just clear off, the both of you.’

Then he swung the door swiftly closed and the two School Bounders slunk away into the distance.

‘What was that all about?’ Jack asked.

‘There’s an end-of-term exam next week,’ I explained, ‘that McKell is setting. I suspect those two, who have wasted most of the term not studying, are trying to curry favour with him.’

‘Given the man’s personality, an impossible task, I would have thought,’ Jack commented.

‘Quite correct,’ I agreed. ‘But desperate schoolboys will try anything.’

When we arrived at our History Master’s flat, we were welcomed in and offered brandy. While fetching glasses and finding a bottle of Napoleon, Geoffrey Douglas expressed his hearty dislike of all school speech nights, and all formal occasions in general, and his intention of putting off getting ready for the coming ‘awful event’, as he called it, for as long as possible.

Hence he entered into the game of answering our questions enthusiastically.

‘What did I make of Fowler?’ he asked, scratching his chin. ‘It’s a good question, mainly because I don’t have any real answer. I found him to be something of an enigma.’

‘In what way?’ Jack pressed.

Douglas was silent for a while, puffing on his pipe, and finally said, ‘He never gave anything away, if you understand what I mean. Everyone else on the staff, even our ice-cold Deputy Head McKell, will occasionally illustrate an argument or make a point by telling an anecdote from their own experience. Fowler never did that.’

He continued to puff away in silence for a while. Jack joined him and lit up his own pipe while waiting patiently for the next revelation.

‘Fowler was like a man who was blank,’ said Douglas at last. ‘He never mentioned family, or friends, or his university, or previous employment, or hobbies, or sports he played. I spend a lot of time in the Senior Common Room—I’d rather work there than here in isolation. And in all that time I can’t remember Fowler ever telling us anything about himself. That’s why I call him an enigma.’

Jack pursued this line for a while, drawing out further details from Douglas, but all in the same vein—namely, that, for Douglas, Dave Fowler was an unknown quantity.

This thought had never occurred to me until I heard Douglas say it aloud, but the moment he did, it rang a bell. As I looked back I realised with a shock that I had never heard Fowler tell us anything about himself.