George had regretted his automatic riposte: “No. I’m sure the mysterious mover you’re thinking of was ‘Murder’ himself, not his watchdog, sir.” Bloody stupid! Always a mistake to indulge in arm-wrestling with the Head of English Lit. And particularly when you’d accepted a skirmish using your opponent’s choice of weapon. Edmund Langhorne. King of the Quotation. Arrogant tosspot. And now-quite unnecessarily-his enemy.
George’s sports shirt and slacks were the most unremarkable Lillywhite’s had to offer but they marked him out as an alien element amongst the swirls of custard-stained heavy black repp worn by his academic colleagues. His insouciance signalled that he didn’t much care if he was viewed by the rest as a form of pond life. A sports master filling in with the odd geography lesson or two could only survive the condescension of his fellows by affecting a jolly ignorance of their scorn. He could only know his place, do his lowly job well and bite his tongue. George reckoned his rowing blue, his boxing medals and his broken nose gained him respect from the pupils, though with the staff he’d swiftly acquired the reputation of a pugilist and, inevitably, the nickname of “Gentleman George.”
George settled to listen to the official account of the fiasco on the back stairs yesterday. It was going to be interesting to hear what version of the story the Head would expect them to swallow.
Farman flipped a finger right and left under his nose, checking his moustache was standing at the ready, and cast an eye over the staff, gathering attention. “Gentlemen!” He tucked up the trailing sleeves of his academic gown and clamped them to his sides. He rocked forwards and back on creaking shoes for a moment. He harrumphed noisily. Like a lumbering flying boat scrambling to take off, Gosling always thought.
“Gentlemen! Good morning! You’ll know why we’re here. You’ll all have heard the tragic news. You’ll be aware of Edgar Rapson’s death in mysterious circumstances.” At last airborne, he began a steady ascent: “I won’t say more than that for the moment. It would be inconsiderate of me … nay … possibly unlawful if I were to enlarge on those circumstances at this time. But I think it would be appropriate if we were to pause now in order to remember a valued colleague. All stand.”
Valued colleague! George Gosling sighed. He sprang to his feet, adopted a suitably grave expression and lowered his eyes.
The eulogy winged its duplicitous way over bowed heads, faces fixedly sober for the meagre two minutes it took to remind them all of Rapson’s achievements, character and skills. They looked up with more interest when Farman got on to his outline of the previous night’s events. In death Rapson cut a far more dashing figure. Gosling ran a discreet eye over the company, on the alert for any off-key reaction to the circumstances of their colleague’s death.
“… body discovered late last evening at the bottom of the back stairs … heavy snowfall … any traces of an incursion from outside the school obliterated, but we’re not discounting the possibility … indeed-probability-of aggression by intruders. Cause of death? As yet unknown.…” The lift of his eyes to the ceiling signalled a lie to his audience. “Pathologists still at work.…” The excuse swiftly followed. “All safely in the hands of the Sussex police. You may refer yourselves to Inspector Martin if you have information,” he added. “And I must ask you to prepare to be interviewed individually. School goes on as normal, and when you are called on to make your statement I will ensure you are relieved by another member of staff. And-there is one vital substitution to be made-Rapson was a form master, and his flock is left without a shepherd. Who will replace him?”
Farman surveyed the gathering, taking his time to indicate that the question had been carefully considered by him. “Gosling! I’m going to ask you to take his place. You will not have an easy task. The boys will be much exercised, not only by the death of their master, but also by the regrettable absence of one of their number.”
He put out a hand to deflect questions from the audience who seemed suddenly galvanised. “Drummond is the boy who disappeared at about the same time. Drummond, who came to us from Bengal last year. This boy is a possible witness of Rapson’s last moments. I’m pleased to say he has been located and is being returned to us this very day. You will have further information when I have it myself. You may dismiss, gentlemen. Oh, Gosling? Not so fast! A word if you wouldn’t mind.…”
The other men grinned as they passed him on their way out. “Late again, m’boy? Tut, tut!” The supercilious Langhorne even cocked an eyebrow and without a word slid a copy of the Daily Sketch into the young man’s hand as he filed out.
Farman closed the door when the last master had left. He wiped his forehead on the sleeve of his gown. “Well?” he asked. “And what have you to say?”
“Quite a bit, Farman. Quite a bit! But first-that was rather well handled. You said just enough to satisfy their curiosity and managed to give nothing away. Now, I contacted London. There’s a further problem I’m afraid. They were full of information we’d rather not have on this Sandilands fellow. This self-styled uncle. Had you any idea?”
Farman shook his head. “I told you! Not a hint! Who the hell is he?”
“The last man you’d want poking about down here in the circs. He is what he claims to be-recently appointed Assistant Commissioner. Young. Quite a star. And well connected. You’d have to be to reach those heights by his age. Just the sort of military, ramrod-up-the-backside bloke Commissioner Trenchard would promote.” Gosling sighed. “And you know what the rank of Assistant Commissioner brings with it?” The young man eyed the older with weary scorn. “No, why would you? Well, this one’s C1. ‘C’ for ‘Central.’ He doesn’t concern himself with traffic offences and administration and bureaucracy like the others. His department has authority over the Detective Branch and usually over the Special Branch as well. As far as anyone’s ever allowed to cut any ice with the Branch.… Now, how do you fancy a pack of those smart alecks in knuckle-dusters sticking their patriotic noses in?”
He shot a grin devoid of humour at the headmaster. “Sorry! But, Farman, if this chap is who I think he is, he could have the whole school turned inside out and shaken all about before you could say knife.”
The headmaster cringed. “Can’t have that, Gosling. Can’t allow it.”
“You’ve brought it on yourself, Farman. Should have run a tighter ship. Not given Rapson so much rope.”
“That’s easy enough to say. And what do I do when this gets out? When the daily rags start clamouring for interviews?” He wiped his shining forehead again. “When the parents get wind of it and start withdrawing their sons? They will do, you know!”
“I’ll tell you what you don’t do. You don’t look to me for help. If the lid comes off there’s nothing I can do. I have my orders. The moment the sun shines on this can of worms I withdraw and leave you carrying it.”
“You’re maltreating your metaphors again, Gosling! Thank God I didn’t entrust you with Year Three English!”
“I only do it to annoy. Now-brace up and tell me where this joker’s sprung from, Farman.”
“I’ve searched the boy’s records, and there’s no mention of a Sandilands. Someone’s pulling a fast one. The only connection that occurs to me is-India. He mentioned it himself. Oh-and he bandied the word ‘diplomacy’ about in a menacing way. Reeks of-er-influence, I’d say.”
“Damn it! Look, whoever he is-we don’t want him anywhere near this. The whole thing is supposed to be kept under wraps. Fat chance of that with the Met and the Branch swarming all over it.” Gosling spoke firmly. “Get rid of him. Tell him that you’re happy with Martin’s coverage. The good old Sussex Constabulary can cope. Keep it local. Stress your total confidence in them. You’d be quite right to do that-Martin’s an impressive officer. Be polite but make sure of two things-one: that he’s left the boy behind and two: that he’s buggered off himself by the end of the day.”