The car glided to a stop in front of an imposing doorway, flanked by steps. There was no drawbridge or portcullis, but the architecture implied that there should be. The morning was magically peaceful, with doves cooing somewhere and a few faint clicks and puffings from the engine.
"Tudor House, sir,” said the chauffeur, opening the door. He must know, having driven the Young Master here often enough.
Leatherdale stepped down. “Shan't be more than twenty minutes, I expect, but you've got time to go find a cuppa round the back if you want."
A respectful smile thawed the man's professional inscrutability. “Why, I'd trust ‘em with my life, sir! But I'll stay here."
Eight boys had condensed out of the summer morning to examine the car. They ranged in height from not much over four feet to not much less than six. They wore toppers and tails and not one hand was in a pocket. They were standing back, carefully not crowding close enough to the machine to provoke its guardian, murmuring technical details without raising their voices: “Guff! She'll do more'n that...” “Bags more'n thirty horsepower!"
These unfortunates must be boarders with no homes to go to, residing at Fallow over the summer holidays. Lordie, what would it cost even to clothe a boy here? On a Sunday morning, Leatherdale would have expected them to be marched off to church parade. Then he realized that the tallest boy was Oriental and three of the others various shades of brown. Perhaps none of them were Christians. Rather startled by that possibility, he set off up the steps.
"Inspector Leatherdale?” The speaker was standing in the doorway, a bearded, paunchy man with a marked resemblance to the late King Edward.
Who else would it be, coming to ruin a perfect summer Sunday?
"Mr. Jones?"
Jones was staring past his visitor at the thousand-guinea motor. Perhaps his query had not been totally inane. Policemen did not normally travel in quite such style.
The hallway was dim and baronial, so full of silence that it seemed to echo with it, smelling of polish and chalk, exercise books and blotting paper. Marble stairs flanked by iron railings led up to mysterious heights. The room to which the visitor was led was equally institutional, furnished with aging armchairs and an ingrained reek of pipe smoke. Despite the windows open at the top, the air was stuffy and dead. Stern portraits of elderly gentlemen peered down disapprovingly between bookshelves, and the linoleum by the door was dangerously worn.
"Masters’ common room,” Jones explained quite needlessly. “May I offer you some tea, Inspector?"
Leatherdale declined the tea and accepted a chair with his back to the windows. It was more comfortable than it looked, and much too comfortable for a man who had been granted only two hours’ sleep.
Jones took a chair opposite, first removing a copy of the Times, which he brandished to demonstrate indignation. “Seen this morning's news? The Prussian rogues have invaded Luxembourg! And declared war on Russia. Belgium, Holland, Sweden—all mobilizing. Bounders!"
"Bad business,” Leatherdale agreed.
"The Kaiser's a maniac! Doesn't he realize that we mean what we say? England's made it perfectly plain, hasn't it, for years, that if Luxembourg or Belgium is invaded, then we'll have to fight? Don't the blighters understand that our word is our bond? That they're going to bring the British Empire in against them?” He slapped the paper down angrily. “May as well get it over with, I suppose. The Hun has made it pretty clear that he plans to smash France and Russia first and then deal with us later."
Leatherdale made sounds of assent. Jones's resemblance to the late king was astonishing, except that he wore pince-nez, which flashed in the light from the window. From lifetime habit Leatherdale quantified his estimates—middle fifties, five-foot-eight or-nine, weight close to fourteen stone, well dressed, hair brown turning gray at the temples, full beard likewise.
"I mean we have no choice, have we?” Jones persisted. “When a chap already has the world's biggest army and keeps adding to it, and then his neighbors justifiably start to get alarmed and add a few guns of their own and the Germans scream that they're being encircled...” Having apparently lost the thread of his sentence, he scowled into silence and leaned back to regard his visitor. “Madmen!” he added. “Huns!"
His accent was pure Oxbridge, a long way from the mining valleys of his ancestors, the sort of drawl that always carried hints of arrogance, whether intentional or not. He wore a brown suit of good Harris tweed and a pair of stout brogues—and also an entirely inappropriate old boy tie. Leatherdale decided he resented that tie. Whatever school or university or regiment it represented, it was around that shiny white collar at the moment only to impress him.
"I shan't keep you from your ramble any longer than I have to, Mr. Jones.” He pulled out his notebook. “I need some background information. To be specific, I need to see the personal files on two of your boys. Technically old boys, now, I believe."
"I'm frightfully sorry, Inspector, but that will not be possible.” Jones blinked solemnly. Was he enjoying himself baiting the rustic policeman? Or was he merely the chicken left in charge of the farm, scared to do anything at all while the watchdogs took their holidays at the seaside?
"This is not a matter of cribbing apples, Mr. Jones.” Did he think Leatherdale had nothing better to do on summer Sundays?
The master tapped his beard with the tips of his steepled fingers. “I do not doubt that the matter is important. I should be happy to assist you in any way I can, but the filing cabinets are locked and I have no keys."
Without question, his first priority would be to protect the school's reputation. He could have been picked out as a schoolmaster a furlong off. He had the diffident, mannered speech, the air of tight control, and even the curious blunting of masculinity that sometimes showed in men who must constantly guard their tongues. Clergymen had it also. He was a book whose pages were becoming yellow and dog-eared, the binding threadbare and gilt lettering worn. It would open to predictable pages.
Now he reached for the arms of his chair, as if to pull himself out of it and end the interview. “I do wish you had mentioned documents when you telephoned, Inspector. I could have saved you the journey. You only said you wanted information, and you will recall that I did explain that the Head will not be back until Thursday at the earliest, and any statements really ought to come from him. I am just in loco magistri, you might say, not authorized to comment at all.” The pince-nez glinted.
He was not a material witness, who must be played like a ten-pound salmon on a five-pound line. Far from it—he was just a watchdog that could be brought to heel. Yet the man could help, if he would. Juries hated to convict without being shown a motive. Jones could clarify the motive in this case. Which one was the pouncer—the killer or the victim? Or both?
Leatherdale decided to try a couple more drops of honey before applying vinegar. “Now, if I may have your full name, sir?"
"David Jones. French master."
How many hundreds of boys had been processed into speaking French with that accent? “You have been here how long?"
"Ten—no, eleven years now. Before that—"
"Not necessary, sir. I just wanted to know how well you are acquainted with the boys in question."
The fancy spectacles shone white and inscrutable. “I am not sure that I might not be in breach of confidence were I to discuss any of our pupils without the Head's authorization or perhaps the advice of a solicitor, Inspector."