‘Well, Sir?’
I had been dreading this. And yet, as I try to tell myself, sometimes a lie is better. Benedicta Wild was not the type to let an exciting discovery pass. Nor was she likely to understand the repercussions of such a discovery, and its impact on a failing school.
I smiled and said: ‘Good morning, Miss Wild. I trust the first week of the new term is proving both joyous and invigorating.’
She gave me a look. ‘I’d rather you didn’t call me that, Sir.’
‘Miss Wild?’ To be honest, I’d almost forgotten my conversation with Allen-Jones.
She nodded. ‘I’d rather you called me Ben.’
‘Ah, yes. I heard about that.’
Ben nodded encouragingly.
‘I’m not sure how this concerns me,’ I said, with an attempt at levity. ‘As I once told Allen-Jones, unless it affects your Latin –’
‘He said you might say that,’ said Ben, with alarming forthrightness. ‘It won’t affect my Latin, but it’s important to get it right. You do understand that it isn’t the same as me coming out as gay, Sir?’
‘Well, as I said to Allen-Jones –’
‘It’s easy. Just start with the pronouns.’
‘Pronouns,’ I said, feeling flustered. This is what happens, I told myself, when you allow issues of gender to escape the Latin grammar book. Well, at least, perhaps this would help provide a much-needed diversion from the remains at the Gunderson Pool.
No such luck. Ben lowered her voice. ‘Sir – what about the body?’
‘The body?’ I said.
That look again.
‘Oh, that. It’s all being dealt with.’
‘Is it?’ said Ben, with, I thought, some disbelief.
‘Oh absolutely,’ I went on with an affectation of nonchalance. ‘In fact, the police have already called. You’ll have noticed the excavation site has been covered, in order, no doubt, to preserve any possible forensic evidence.’
‘Oh,’ said Ben.
There was a pause, during which I finished my tea and longed for a Digestive biscuit.
‘And?’ said Ben. ‘Do you have any news?’
‘I have no news, or conclusions,’ I said. ‘I am making no judgement here. It could be that there is no case, and that what you saw was nothing more than a bundle of oddments. But I, like you, shall leave it to the authorities to determine. And, like you, I hope, I shall henceforth try to put it out of my mind and enjoy the last of the summer.’
‘It’s been raining all morning, Sir,’ said Ben, who seemed about to say more, but was interrupted by the bell, signalling the end of Break.
‘Off to your lessons now,’ I said, trying not to sound as if the invisible finger that so often lurks beneath the third button of my waistcoat wasn’t playing my chest like a drum. I could feel it – boom-boom – counting out the measures of my life.
‘But Sir, what about –’
I finished my tea, feeling another, less playful stab from the invisible finger. ‘I think we can safely leave it to – damn it!’
‘Sir? Is anything wrong?’
I tried to tell her there was not. But the words wouldn’t come; they seemed to have lodged somewhere at the back of my throat. I saw the polished parquet floor of the Upper Corridor tilt, and I noticed a scrap of foil on the ground, like a patch of mica. For a second the silver foil was all I could see, or understand. The pain in my chest – no playfulness now – swelled like an accordion. And then I hit the ground, and heard my teacup skate across the floor, and voices calling, and Ben’s sharp voice above the rest, saying: ‘Get help. Straitley’s collapsed.’
I’d always rather hoped that my last words would be something profound. Maybe some Classical reference. Morior invictus, perhaps. Or should it be; Melita, domi adsum? But that eventuality had always seemed comfortably remote, and I had assumed that I would have time to plan my exit accordingly. But now here I was on the parquet floor, which smelt of polish, and chalk dust, and feet, and all I could feel was annoyance that my final utterance was likely to be no more than a mild profanity.
From somewhere behind me I heard the voice of the Head of the French Department, Miss Teague, raised in sudden, sharp alarm. I’ve always been fond of Kitty Teague. A sensible, practical woman, who has had a few trials of her own. There came the sound of running heels, and a surge of renewed activity.
I became aware of a presence, and a hand on my forehead.
‘Hang on, Roy,’ said Kitty Teague. ‘You’ve just had a little fall. You’ll be fine.’
‘Eric,’ I mumbled. ‘Find Eric.’
Then there was nothing but darkness.
2
September 11th, 2006
At last. I’d been wondering how long it would take for the stress of it all to get to him. Not that he’s in much danger – a simple panic attack, that’s all – and he was already recovering by the time the ambulance arrived.
The doctor has ordered some hospital tests, plus a week’s rest, no fuss, no espressos, and a change in his medication. I arranged for a Sixth-Form girl – not Benedicta Wild – to check on the patient once a day, to bring him his groceries, make his tea, and otherwise ensure that he does not even think of going out until the enforced rest period is over. The girl, whose name is Emma Wicks, is under instructions to report anything of concern, and has embraced the task with enthusiasm – not least because she believes that it will count towards her Duke of Edinburgh Gold Award.
I called round before school to see how he was, and found Straitley already up, though still in his pyjamas, listening to the radio and reading a copy of The Malbry Examiner.
‘Tell me, Mr Straitley,’ I said. ‘Do you ever do as you’re told?’
‘Very seldom, Headmaster.’
I smiled and made a cup of tea. It was decaffeinated, I noticed. Probably for the best; I thought the old man looked strained and colourless. He took it with little enthusiasm, his hand on the saucer not steady.
‘How are you feeling?’
‘Cedere nescio,’ he said. ‘To yield is not in my nature. Unless you happen to have with you a packet of Digestive biscuits, in which case I’m all yours.’
I assumed a stern expression. ‘No biscuits for you, Mr Straitley. You know what the doctor said. In fact, you’re going straight back to bed, after you’ve drunk this cup of tea. I shall remain to make sure you do.’
Straitley gave me a narrow look. ‘I will if you finish your story,’ he said. ‘Did you speak to your daughter? Did you ever find out the truth about your brother’s disappearance? And what was the link with St Oswald’s?’
That look. It cheers me to the soul. It’s the look of a man who needs something. I’m rather good at meeting men’s needs: I’ve had to, over my career. Women who say what they really want tend to succeed less often. In my experience, female success comes with a degree of guile. The ability to fool men into thinking that your ideas were theirs all along, and that you don’t need validation.
Men are surprisingly fragile. You could see that in our boys, who, as soon as they got a low mark in French, would immediately stop working, and pretend they didn’t care, preferring to be thought lazy rather than mediocre. Men are often no different. They need to hear their praises sung. Johnny Harrington was a case in point. You might have thought that, as Head of St Oswald’s, he would have been able to manage without. But half of my job then was telling him how well he was managing, even when I was managing most of it.