Gentlemen & Players (20 page)

“I’ll come with you,” she said, pulling up to the curb.

“No need,” I said, but she insisted, and I realized that, ironically,
she
was concerned for
me
—a sobering thought, but a kind one. And perhaps she was right; because as soon as we entered the lane we saw it—certainly it was too big to miss—not just graffiti, but a mural-sized portrait—myself, mustached and swastika’d, larger than life in multicolored spray paint.

For half a minute we just stared at it. The paint looked barely dry. And then a rage took hold of me; the sort of transcendent, vocabulary-blocking rage I have felt maybe three or four times in my entire career. I vented it concisely, forgetting the refinements of the
Lingua Latina
for the pure Anglo-Saxon. Because I knew the culprit; knew him this time without a shadow of a doubt.

Quite apart from the small slim object I had spotted lying in the wedge of shadow at the base of the fence, I recognized the style. It was identical to the cartoon that I had removed from the 3S notice board; the cartoon that I had long suspected was the work of Colin Knight.

“Knight?” echoed Miss Dare. “But he’s such a little mouse.”

Mouse or not, I knew it. Besides, the boy has a grudge; he hates me, and the support of his mother, the Head, the newspapers, and heaven knows what other malcontents has given him a sly kind of courage. I picked up the slim object at the base of the fence. The invisible finger poked me again; I could feel my blood pounding; and the rage, like some lethal drug, pumped through me, bleaching the world of its color.

“Mr. Straitley?” Now Dianne looked concerned. “Are you all right?”

“Perfectly so.” I had recovered; I was still trembling, but my mind was sound, and the savage in me checked. “Look at this.”

“It’s a pen, sir,” said Dianne.

“Not
just
a pen.”

I should know; I searched for it long enough, before it was found in the secret cache in the Porter’s Lodge. Colin Knight’s bar mitzvah pen, as I live and breathe; cost over five hundred pounds, according to his mother, and conveniently embellished with his initials—
CNK
—just to be sure.

6

Tuesday, 26th October

Nice touch. That pen. It’s a Mont Blanc, you know; one of the cheaper ones, but even so, quite out of my league. Not that you’d know it to look at me now; the polyester-shine is gone, to be replaced by a slick, impenetrable veneer of sophistication. One of the many things I picked up from Leon, along with my Nietzsche and my penchant for lemon-vodka. As for Leon, he always enjoyed my murals; he himself was no artist, and it astonished him that I was able to create such accurate portraits.

Of course I’d had more opportunity to study them; I had notebooks filled with sketches—what was more, I could forge any signature Leon gave me, which meant that both of us were able to benefit with impunity from a number of excuse notes and out-of-school permission slips.

I’m glad to see that the talent has not deserted me. I sneaked out of school during my afternoon free period to finish it off—not as risky as it sounds; hardly anyone ever uses Dog Lane except for the Sunnybankers—and returned in time for period eight. It worked like a dream; no one saw a thing except the half-wit Jimmy, who was repainting the school gates and who gave me his idiotic grin as I drove through.

I thought at the time I might have to do something about Jimmy. Not that he would ever
recognize
me or anything; but loose ends are loose ends, and this one has remained too long untied. Besides, he offends me. Fallow was fat and lazy, but Jimmy, with his wet mouth and fawning smile, is somehow worse. I wonder that he has survived this long; I wonder that St. Oswald’s—with its pride in its reputation—tolerates him at all. A care-in-the-community case, as I recall; cheap and disposable as a forty-watt bulb. The word is
disposable
.

That lunchtime I carried out three small and unobtrusive thefts; a tube of valve oil from a pupil’s trombone (one of Straitley’s pupils, a Japanese boy called Niu); a screwdriver from Jimmy’s lock-up; and, of course, Colin Knight’s famous pen. No one saw me; and no one saw what I did with those three items when the time came.

Timing—
timing
—is
the all-important factor. I knew Straitley and the other linguists would be at the meeting last night (except Grachvogel, who had one of his migraines following that unpleasant little interview with the Head). By the end of it, everyone else would have gone home, except for Pat Bishop, who can usually be trusted to remain in school until eight or nine. I didn’t think he would be a problem, however; his office is on the Lower Corridor, two flights down, too far from the Languages Department for him to hear anything.

For a moment I was back in the sweetshop, spoilt for choice. Obviously Jimmy was my primary target, but if this thing worked out I could probably have anyone in the Languages Department as a bonus. The question was, who? Not Straitley, of course; not yet. I have my plans for Straitley, and they are maturing very well. Scoones? Devine? Teague?

Geographically, it had to be someone with rooms in the Bell Tower; someone single, who would not be missed; most of all someone
vulnerable
; a lame gazelle that has fallen behind; someone defenseless—a woman, perhaps?—whose misfortune would provoke a real scandal.

There could only be one choice. Isabelle Tapi, with her high heels and tight sweaters; Isabelle, who regularly takes time off for PMS and has dated virtually every male member of staff under fifty (except Gerry Grachvogel, who has other preferences).

Her room is in the Bell Tower, just up from Straitley’s. It’s an odd-shaped, whimsical little space; hot in summer, cold in winter, with windows on four sides and twelve narrow stone steps leading from the door up into the room. Not very practical—it was a storeroom in my father’s day, and there is barely enough space there to seat an entire class. You can’t get a mobile phone signal there to save your life; Jimmy hates it; the cleaners avoid it—it’s almost impossible to get a vacuum up those little steps—and most of the staff—unless they have taught in the Bell Tower themselves—hardly even realize it’s there.

For my purpose, then, it was ideal. I waited until after school. I knew Isabelle would not go to her departmental meeting until she had had a coffee (and a chat with the beastly Light); that gave me five or ten minutes. It was enough.

First, I went into the room, which was empty. Next, I took out my screwdriver and sat down on the steps with my eyes level with the door handle. It’s a simple enough mechanism, based on a single square pin that connects the handle to the latch. Depress the handle, the pin turns, and the latch opens. Nothing could be easier. Remove the pin, however, and no matter how much you pull and push at the handle, the door stays shut.

Quickly, I unscrewed the handle from the door, opened it a crack, and removed the pin. Then, keeping my foot wedged in the doorway to stop it from closing, I replaced the screws and the handle as before.
There.
From the outside, the door would open perfectly normally. Once inside, however…

Of course you can never be
completely
sure. Isabelle might not return to her room. The cleaners might be uncharacteristically thorough; Jimmy might decide to look in. I didn’t think so, however. I like to think I know St. Oswald’s better than most, and I’ve had plenty of time to get used to its little routines. Still, not knowing’s half the fun, isn’t it?—and if it didn’t work, I told myself, I could always start again in the morning.

7

St. Oswald’s Grammar School for BoysWednesday, 27th October

I slept badly last night. Perhaps the wind, or the memory of Knight’s perfidious behavior, or the sudden artillery fire of rain that fell just after midnight, or my dreams, which were more vivid and unsettling than they have been for years.

I’d had a couple of glasses of claret before bed, of course—I don’t suppose Bevans would have approved of
that
, or of the tinned steak pie that accompanied them—and I awoke at three-thirty with a raging thirst, a sore head, and the vague foreknowledge that the worst was yet to come.

I set off early to school, to clear my head and to give myself time to think out a strategy to deal with the boy Knight. It was still pouring, and by the time I reached St. Oswald’s main gate, my coat and hat were heavy with rain.

It was still only seven-forty-five, and there were only a few cars in the staff car park; the Head’s, Pat Bishop’s, and, to my surprise, Isabelle Tapi’s little sky blue Mazda. I was just considering this (Isabelle rarely gets in before eight-thirty; and on most days closer to nine) when I heard a sound of a car pulling in sharply behind me. I turned and saw Pearman’s grubby old Volvo swerve across the half-deserted car park, leaving a quavery stripe of burnt rubber across the wet tarmac in his wake. Kitty Teague was in the passenger seat. Both looked tense—Kitty sheltering under a folded newspaper, Pearman walking very fast—as they approached.

It occurred to me that it might be bad news about Pearman’s wife, Sally. I’d only seen her once since her treatment, but she had looked dry and yellow under the big brave smile, and I’d suspected then that her brown hair was a wig.

But when Pearman walked in with Kitty at his heels, I knew that it was worse than that. The man’s face was haggard. He did not return my greeting; he barely saw me as he pushed open the door. Behind him, Kitty caught my eye and immediately burst into tears; it took me by surprise, and by the time I had recovered enough to ask what was happening, Pearman had vanished down the Middle Corridor, leaving nothing but a trail of wet footprints across the polished parquet floor.

“For heavens’ sake, what’s wrong?” I said.

She covered her face with her hands. “It’s Sally,” she said. “Someone sent her a letter. It came this morning. She opened it at breakfast.”

“Letter?” Sally and Kitty had always been close, I knew; but even so this distress seemed unwarranted. “What letter?”

For a moment she seemed incapable of answering. Then she looked at me through the ruins of her makeup and said in a low voice, “An anonymous letter. About Chris and me.”

“Really?” It took me a while to understand what she was saying. Kitty and
Pearman
? Pearman and Miss Teague?

I really must be getting old, I thought; I had never suspected. I knew they were friends; that Kitty had been supportive—frequently beyond the call of duty. But now it all came out, though I tried hard to stop it; how they had kept it a secret from Sally, who was ill; how they had hoped to marry someday, and now—now—

I took Kitty to the Common Room; made tea; waited with it for ten minutes outside the ladies‘. Finally Kitty came out, looking pink-eyed and rabbity under a fresh coat of beige powder, saw the tea, and burst into helpless tears again.

I’d never have thought it of Kitty Teague. She’s been at St. Oswald’s for eight years, and I’d never seen her close to this. I offered my handkerchief and held out the tea, feeling awkward and wishing (rather guiltily) for someone more qualified—Miss Dare, perhaps—to take over.

“Are you all right?” (The clumsy gambit of the well-meaning male.)

Kitty shook her head. Of course she wasn’t; I knew that much, but the Tweed Jacket is not known for his savoir-faire with the opposite sex, and I had to say something, after all.

“Do you want me to fetch someone?”

I suppose I was thinking of Pearman; as Head of Department, I thought, the whole thing was really his responsibility. Or Bishop; he’s the one who normally deals with emotional crises among the staff. Or Marlene—
yes!
—a sudden wave of relief and affection as I remembered the secretary, so efficient on the day of my own collapse, so approachable with the boys. Capable Marlene, who had endured divorce and bereavement without breaking down. She would know what to do; and even if she didn’t, at least she knew the code, without which no male can hope to communicate with a woman in tears.

She was just coming out of Bishop’s office as I arrived at her desk. I suppose I take her for granted, as do the rest of the staff. “Marlene, I wonder if—” I began.

She eyed me with well-feigned severity. “Mr. Straitley.” She always calls me
Mr. Straitley
, even though she has been Marlene to all members of the teaching staff for years. “I don’t suppose you’ve found that register yet.”

“Alas, no.”

“Hmm. I thought not. So what is it now?”

I explained about Kitty, without giving too many details.

Marlene looked concerned. “It never rains but it pours,” she said wearily. “Sometimes I wonder why I bother with this place, you know. What with Pat running himself into the ground, everyone on hot bricks over the school inspection and now this—”

For a moment she looked so harassed that I felt guilty at having asked her.

“No, it’s all right,” said Marlene, seeing my expression. “You leave it to me. I think your department’s got enough to be dealing with as it is.”

She was right about that. The department was down to myself, Miss Dare, and the League of Nations for most of the day. Dr. Devine was off timetable for administrative purposes; Grachvogel was away (again), and during my free periods this morning I took Tapi’s first-year French class
and
Pearman’s third-year, plus a routine assessment of one of the freshers—this time, the irreproachable Easy.

Knight was absent, and so I was unable to challenge him about the graffiti on my fence, or about the pen I had discovered at the scene. Instead I wrote a complete account of the incident and delivered one copy to Pat Bishop and a second to Mr. Beard, the Head of IT, who also happens to be Head of the Third Form. I can wait; I have proof of Knight’s activities now, and I look forward to dealing with him in my own time. A pleasure deferred, so to speak.

At break I took Pearman’s corridor duty, and after lunch I supervised his group, Tapi’s, Grachvogel’s, and mine in the Assembly Hall, while outside the rain poured down incessantly and, across the corridor, a steady stream of people filed in and out of the Head’s office throughout the long afternoon.

Then, five minutes before the end of school, Marlene delivered a summons from Pat. I found him in his office, with Pearman, looking stressed. Miss Dare was sitting by the desk; she gave me a sympathetic look as I came in, and I knew we were in for trouble.

“I take it this is about the Knight boy?” In fact I had been surprised not to see him waiting outside Pat’s office; perhaps Pat had already spoken to him, I thought; although by rights no boy should have been questioned before I had had the opportunity to speak to the Second Master.

For a second, Pat’s face was blank. Then he shook his head. “Oh, no. Tony Beard can deal with that. He’s the Head of Year, isn’t he? No, this is about an incident that happened last night. After the meeting.” Pat looked at his hands, always a sign that he was out of his depth. His nails, I saw, were very bad; bitten down almost to the cuticles.

“What incident?” I said.

For a moment he did not meet my eye. “The meeting ended just after six,” he said.

“That’s right,” I told him. “Miss Dare gave me a lift home.”

“I know,” said Pat. “Everyone left at about the same time, except for Miss Teague and Mr. Pearman, who stayed for about another twenty minutes.”

I shrugged. I wondered where he was going with this, and why he was being so formal about it. I looked at Pearman, but there was nothing in his expression to enlighten me.

“Miss Dare says you saw Jimmy Watt on the Lower Corridor as you went out,” said Pat. “He was polishing the floor, waiting to lock up.”

“That’s right,” I said. “Why? What’s happened?”

That might explain Pat’s manner, I thought. Jimmy, like Fallow, was one of Pat’s appointments, and he’d had to put up with a certain amount of criticism about it at the time. Still, Jimmy had always done a reasonable job. No great intellect, to be sure; but he was loyal, and that’s what really counts at St. Oswald’s.

“Jimmy Watt has been dismissed, following the incident last night.”

I didn’t believe it. “What incident?”

Miss Dare looked at me. “Apparently he didn’t check all the classrooms before locking up. Isabelle got shut in somehow, panicked, slipped down the stairs, and broke her ankle. She didn’t get out till six o’clock this morning.”

“Is she all right?”

“Is she ever?”

I had to laugh. It was typical St. Oswald’s farce, and the Second Master’s mournful expression made it even more ridiculous. “Oh, you can laugh,” said Pat in a sharp voice, “but there’s been an official complaint. Health and Safety have got involved.” That meant Devine. “Apparently someone spilt something—oil, she says—on the steps.”

“Oh.” Not so amusing, then. “Surely you can have a word with her?”

“Believe me, I have.” Pat sighed. “Miss Tapi seems to think there was more to it than just a mistake on Jimmy’s part. She seems to think there was deliberate mischief involved. And believe me, she knows her rights.”

Of course she did. Her type always do. Dr. Devine was her Union rep; I guessed that he would already have briefed her on precisely the kind of compensation she could expect. There would be an injury claim; a disability claim (surely no one could expect her to go to work with a broken ankle); plus the negligence claim and the claim for mental distress. You name it, she’d claim it: trauma, backache, chronic fatigue, whatever. I would be covering for her for the next twelve months.

As for the publicity—the
Examiner
would have a field day with this. Forget Knight. Tapi, with her long legs and expression of martyred bravery, was in another league.

“As if we hadn’t enough to deal with, just before an inspection,” said Pat bitterly. “Tell me, Roy, are there any other little scandals brewing that I should know about?”