A Question of Proof Page 15

  When the bell rang for recess, Nigel went out into the yard and inquired for Smithers. He was pointed out a yelling ring of boys. They were engaged in a local form of bear-baiting known as ‘chub-chub’; this consisted of darting in at the victim, giving his cheek a violent tug, and melting again into the crowd of the oppressors. The victim, needless to say, was Smithers. He was red in the face and his eyes were strained with pain and humiliation; he backed slowly away from his tormentors, swinging wildly at them with the flat of his hands – he had once hit someone with a fist, and had not been allowed to forget such a violation of the code of sportsmanship. As he backed, malicious feet swung at him from behind and pushed him into the middle of the ring again. Nigel approached the group. He was glad to see that Stevens II and Ponsonby were not among them. He felt furiously angry. The boys stopped and stood sheepishly when they saw him. He whipped them soundly with his tongue for a minute – Nigel could be devastating when he wished. He made more impression than he realised at the time, for he knew the insensitiveness to rebuke of boys in the mass. Several masters had from time to time given tongue publicly on the subject of the bullying of Smithers, but it had had little effect; the boys knew that one must expect that sort of thing from masters, it was what they were paid for. But this intervention of a disinterested party, so to speak, and the heroic detective at that, was a different matter. It gave them a shock; and life was much easier for Smithers from that moment.

  If Nigel had made an impression on these tough eggs, Smithers’ tormentors, the effect of his action on Smithers himself was enormous. The boy was a little dazed at first by the sudden relief; a little suspicious, too, as a trapped animal is suspicious of its rescuer. But soon enough, to continue the metaphor, he was ready to eat out of his hand. He found himself walking towards the field at the side of this kind and godlike man, a man who was talking to him as no one seemed to have talked to him for years. Nigel was wiser than to make any reference to the scene which had just taken place or to the dead Wemyss. This boy was no murderer, and anything he had to say could well wait for a few hours, till he had calmed down a bit inside. So he was content to draw the boy out about his home and his interests; it was easy enough, because Smithers turned out to be an authority on the beasts and birds of the countryside, and Nigel never had need to pretend interest in any subject of which he was ignorant. They had been talking for nearly a quarter of an hour when there was a pause and the boy gave him a look which he could not quite fathom; he imagined, however, that Smithers was going to try to express his gratitude, so he said quickly:

  ‘Don’t you bother about that. Come and have tea with me – to-day or tomorrow – I’ll tell you later. And, of course, if ever there’s anything particular you want to talk about, I’m always here.’

  Smithers opened his mouth, but the bell rang for school, and Nigel was spared any display of gratitude which may have been coming to him. He had scarcely got indoors again when he received a message – Superintendent Armstrong was in the morning room and would like to see him. Nigel smiled ruefully. Armstrong certainly did not let the grass grow under his feet. He had been a fool, indulging in that piece of rodomontade over the telephone. And the superintendent soon let him know it.

  ‘Now, sir, what’s all this about your knowing who the murderer is?’ Nigel was a little nettled by the aggressive manner of the question.

  ‘Just that,’ he said, ‘but it’s not for publication yet.’

  ‘Come, come, Mr. Strangeways. My time is valuable. I take it this is not a practical joke. If you have proof about the murderer, I must ask you to hand it over to me at once.’

  ‘I never said I had proof. I said I knew who the murderer was. You have all the facts in your possession that I have. We agreed not to bother each other with theories until either of us had a fairly watertight case.’

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t understand you, sir. You say you know who did the murder, but have no proofs. It sounds silly to me.’

  ‘Not the sort of proofs that would satisfy you; or a court of law,’ added Nigel hastily. ‘I’ve not found an eyewitness, or a signed confession or any hot news like that. My clues are of the invisible, intangible sort.’

  ‘Oh Lord,’ snorted the superintendent, ‘what they call psychological induction: or have you been consulting a medium?’

  Nigel grinned patiently. ‘No, I’ve been talking to one of your suspects – by the way, Mr. Evans is not the murderer; I’ll give you the significant extracts and you can go home and chew on them.’

  He proceeded to relate some of Michael’s reminiscences and certain conversations at which he himself had been present. As these have all been recorded already, there is no need to repeat them. When he had finished, Armstrong remarked irritably:

  ‘Well, really, sir, if I didn’t know of your reputation, I should be inclined to say –’

  ‘Don’t say it! Let us rise above personal abuse.’

  ‘And you don’t propose to tell me the name of this’ – the superintendent choked –’this psychic suspect of yours?’

  ‘No. Not at present. What’d be the use? You go the high road and I’ll go the low road – and I’ll see you in Scotland if you ever get there.’

  ‘I’ll see you in –’ remarked the superintendent with the beginnings of again.

  ‘Now, now! No recriminations! But, seriously, give me another day. Come up tomorrow afternoon, there’s going to be an exciting cricket match; either I’ll have something more solid for you by then, or I’ll give you my theory, for what it’s worth.’

  Armstrong had to be content with this. But he felt vexed; what on earth did Strangeways see in those conversations that he couldn’t? And to discharge some of this vexation he proceeded to take the high road with a vengeance, as was testified in the course of the day by the faces of Hero and Michael, Wrench and Rosa – those oddly juxtaposed pairs of lovers. But their stories remained unshaken. The high road didn’t seem to lead anywhere.

  ‘It’s a gesture, certainly, but pretty safe from Percy’s point of view,’ Michael replied. It was Tuesday afternoon. He and Nigel were sauntering out onto the field, where already a few fathers were getting their eyes in at the nets. ‘After all,’ he continued, ‘the business-as-usual slogan gets the British middle class where they live – it has just the right combination of backs-to-the-wall bulldog courage and commercial savoir-faire. In this case it will leave its only rival – the respect-for-the-dead ballyhoo – at the post. Those parents who are shortly going to take the field will get quite a kick out of feeling that they are carrying on; just like the old days – the General Strike and the Great War. I gave my sons and kept the home fires burning, only in this case it’s Percy giving his nephew. Thank God the boys don’t think like that. Two teams demonstrating the middle class’s capacity for carrying on would be more than I could bear.’ Michael was trembling all over, as he always did when engaged in controversial statement.

  ‘You take things too much to heart,’ said Nigel lightly. ‘Admittedly most of this business-as-usual stuff is hypocrisy. But a certain amount of hypocrisy is necessary to oil the wheels of society. Very few people have either the ability or the training to understand their own motives – and a good thing too. It’s all very well for the philosopher, but it’s no use for the practical man; he’d never get anything done if he appreciated his motives for action. Only a great man can be a consistent protestant, and the rest of us must have our external sanctions – slogans if you like – and live under authority. It seems to me the real job of you schoolmasters is to train boys in the choosing of the best slogans to obey.’

  ‘And if I did, I should be chucked out of here soon enough. The best slogans I know are the ones in the Sermon on the Mount and “to each according to his need, from each according to his ability.” As a matter of fact I shall probably be in prison before I have time to do any proselytising. That blasted superintendent put me through the hoops again yesterday. Oh, there he is. I wish he’d get out the handcuffs and
have done with it.’

  Armstrong came up and greeted them; Michael impassively, and Nigel with ill-concealed impatience.

  ‘Not till after the match,’ remarked Nigel in answer to his unspoken appeal; ‘don’t let’s mix up business and pleasure. The murderer can’t get away.’ He glanced significantly to where the plainclothes constable lounged near the gate, a substantial skeleton-at-the-feast.

  They strolled once or twice round the boundary line. The boys were taking their places on benches or the grass on the far side of the field. On the other side, between the school building and the boundary line, were deck chairs for the more privileged spectators, with the tea tent immediately behind them. On the right-hand side of the field, looking from the school, was the pavilion, the nets beyond it. Michael could see Major Fairweather tossing up with Anstruther; it was evident, from the jocular backslappings which followed, that the fathers had won. Nigel invited the superintendent to occupy one of the benches with him; he wanted to watch the cricket and not to have his attention distracted by the restlessness and amateur comment of proud mothers. Michael hurried across to the other side of the ground; of two evils he would prefer hobnobbing with the parents to hobnobbing with the superintendent; also, Hero was there. She was sitting beside the headmaster, and gave Michael a sad, caressing look as he approached. Then some parents came up to her, and Michael set himself to be sociable.

  The umpires came out; Griffin with his rolling gait, and Tiverton looking trim and professional. They were followed by a lanky bespectacled parent, and the Vicar of Sudeley, an old Cambridge blue. There was a tradition handed down among parents of the better sort that in this match one did not make more than twenty-five, and made it as quickly as possible. Unfortunately, there always seemed to be one or two parents more interested in their average than in tradition and a jolly game. A sensible captain generally ran these out, or told someone else to. But Major Fairweather was not this type of captain. Michael felt uneasy. And his uneasiness was justified when the innings were brought to a close, but the fathers had scored two hundred and three. The boys straggled in to tea, looking disconsolate.

  Events after tea seemed at first to justify their worst forebodings. Griffin was still umpiring at one end, but Tiverton had been relieved by one of the parents. Off the second ball, Major Fairweather at square leg held a low, hard catch – a shot which any right-thinking father would have allowed to pass to the boundary. Stevens I, the other opening batsman, overawed by this reverse, allowed himself to be bowled shortly after by a rank bad ball. Then the score crept up and up; one hundred and twenty-one for four; one hundred and fifty for five; one hundred and fifty-eight for six; one hundred and seventy for seven; one hundred and eighty-four for eight; one hundred and ninety-four for nine. The fathers were all on their toes now; they meant to win.

  The spectators ceased to be bored or mildly interested. Every ball was preceded by nervous suspense and followed with signs of relief or wild applause. ‘That’s the idee! That’s the idee!’ yelled the school – a catchword of the moment – as each run was scored. Even the little boys, who had spent most of the match tumbling over each other on the boundary, stopped their antics and mingled their batlike shrieks in the applause. It was a regular school-story finish; the sort of finish that does, as a matter of fact, occur quite frequently in prep-school matches.

  XI

  ‘I Have Thee Not …’

  ‘THIS IS GOING to be a good finish, Hero,’ said Mr. Vale.

  ‘Yes, it’s frightfully exciting, isn’t it.’

  Hero leaned forward. The first ball of a new over. Giffard could never do it. She saw the ball miss stumps and wicket-keeper, and long legs tearing round to cut it off from the boundary. Anstruther turned and leaped forward for the third run. ‘He’ll never do it,’ she cried. There was a grunt from her husband. Anstruther got home. ‘Hooray, he’s done it.’ Hero turned to Vale, eyes sparkling with enthusiasm. ‘Isn’t it –? Wake up, Percy! Are you feeling ill?’ She shook him. As he slumped slowly sideways, and on to the ground, she saw a tiny hole, a tiny ooze of blood through the coat on his back. It was too much. Hero moaned and fainted away.

  Michael heard that little moan. It almost broke his heart. He ran to Hero and laid her on the ground and took her head on his lap. A crowd gathered round. Tiverton and Sims were bending over the headmaster. Wrench, pale as death, stood a little aside. The superintendent and Nigel came pounding across the field, scattering the players. ‘She’s fainted. Run and get her some water!’ somebody said. Michael was off like a flash, making for the school; he heard, as in a dream, an angry shout from the superintendent, ordering him to stop. It would have taken an electrified fence to stop him. Armstrong shouldered his way through the throng, gave one look at the body, and shouted for the plainclothes man. He ordered him to ring up first Dr. Maddox and then the police headquarters at Staverton. While he was giving directions his eyes were not on his subordinate; they wandered vigilantly from side to side of the field. ‘No one passed into the school just now, Jones?’

  ‘Only Mr. Evans, sir. Said he was getting water for Mrs. Vale, so I let him pass.’

  ‘All right. Off you go! Mr. Strangeways, will you please stand at the school gate and allow no one to pass in on any pretext whatsoever. You there, Mr. Griffin? Right. I want you to station yourself at the end of the path leading to the wood. If anyone tries to get away through the wood or over the hayfield, jump on him.’ The superintendent posted two of the most stalwart parents, who had been taking part in the match, at other strategic points. He was now certain that no one could leave the field, and he was pretty certain that no one but Evans had left it since the murder. Armstrong next turned to the bystanders and began shouting an order. But there was a hum of conversation around, and a number of people were standing at some distance out of earshot. ‘I’ll get the megaphone,’ said Wrench, and walked quickly over towards the pavilion. Armstrong had raised his hand, then dropped it; but he followed Wrench with his eyes till he saw him emerge from the pavilion carrying the megaphone and start walking back. Meanwhile Evans had arrived with a tumbler of water. Hero’s clothing had been loosened and she had been made more comfortable. Michael propped her head up, sprinkled water on her forehead, and as she rose up into consciousness again, held the glass to her lips. Armstrong gave him a searching look, then he raised the megaphone and bellowed: ‘Ladies and gentlemen, no one is to leave the field. Mr. Vale has met with an accident, and the doctor has been sent for. Mr. Tiverton there? I want all the boys collected by those benches on the far side and kept there. Will those gentlemen who were playing in the match stay just outside the pavilion.’ He lowered the megaphone and addressed the parents and masters standing nearby. ‘Will you gentlemen move these chairs further away; the ladies can sit down; we shall have some time to wait. No one must go near Mr. Vale.’

  The plainclothes man returned and reported that the doctor and the police reinforcements were on their way. Armstrong sent him to relieve Strangeways at the gate, and when the latter returned began questioning those who stood nearest. ‘Did any of you see what happened? Which of you were closest to Mr. Vale when the – er – accident occurred?’ Sims, Wrench and Gadsby stepped forward. Sims, it appeared, had been standing a yard or so to the right of the headmaster’s chair, behind it; Wrench and Gadsby behind it to the left. Gadsby said that Tiverton had passed a remark with him about half a minute before Mrs. Vale fainted and had then moved away. The visitors sitting on the chairs on either side of Mr. and Mrs. Vale had not moved during the fatal minute. Indeed, from the moment the bowler had begun his run for the first ball of that last over till Mrs. Vale had fainted, no one had had eyes for anything but the game. ‘And you, Mr. Evans?’ Armstrong repeated the question rather sharply. Michael, who had turned Hero’s chair with its back to the huddled body on the ground and lifted her gently into it, was stroking her hand, oblivious to the crowd’s gaze and the superintendent’s words.

  He looked up vaguely, jerked his h
and over his shoulder, and said, ‘Me? I was standing over there.’

  ‘Come, sir, please be a little more explicit.’

  ‘Over there, I tell you. Near Sims.’

  ‘That’s right, superintendent. He was standing beside me at the end of the last over,’ said Sims, gratified at his brief moment in the limelight.

  ‘And then?’

  ‘Then? Oh, I see. W-well, I m-mean I didn’t n-nnotice anything once the over b-began,’ stuttered Sims.

  Armstrong motioned the bystanders, whose curiosity had led them to draw nearer the protagonists, to move back. He then approached Mrs. Vale. She looked up at him, horror still close beneath the surface of her eyes.

  ‘Now, madam, I’m very sorry to have to trouble you just now. But you realise that the sooner I get all the facts, the quicker we shall find your husband’s – murderer.’ He raised his voice slightly on the last word and glanced keenly about him. The faces were rigid and white, immobile with shock. Like a breeze rippling over a field of corn and dying at its farthest limit, the word ‘murder’ rustled through the crowd, causing a visible tremor in its mass, and communicating itself even to those who waited on the other side of the ground.

  Hero moistened her bloodless lips. ‘I don’t know. He spoke to me just before the over began. And when we had won the match I turned to him again. I thought he’d gone to sleep. So I shook him, and he fell off the seat, and I saw –’ Her voice shuddered and broke.

  ‘Are you quite certain you heard or saw nothing else? I’m sorry, Mrs. Vale, but I must ask you this. Nothing, however unimportant?’

  ‘When they were running I said, “He’ll never do it” or something, and my husband gave a sort of grunt – answering me. Oh, God, he wasn’t answering me. He was –’ Hero had been speaking in a tense whisper, but such was the concentrated silence of the onlookers that every word reached them. Hero’s body straightened, then collapsed into the arms of Michael standing beside her chair. He held her there, tight, stroking her golden hair.