‘Why, boy, do you speak of this subject to the exclusion of all others?’
‘Because I killed my father, sir. And my stepmother too.’
‘Markham is ill, sir. He…’
‘Leave the room, you boys. Markham, you shall remain.’
Neither Williams nor I spoke as we walked away from the headmaster’s door. Then, as our ways were about to divide, I said:
‘You know he didn’t. You know it is not true.’
Williams did not look at me. He said: That’s right. Why didn’t you tell Bodger that?’
‘You’ve made him believe he did it, Williams.’
‘Markham’s all talk. Markham’s a madman, eh?’
‘You’re an evil bastard, Williams.’
‘That’s right. I’m an unhealthy personage.’
He went on his way and I stood where he had left me, looking back at the closed door of the headmaster’s study. The little red light which indicated that for no reason whatsoever should the headmaster be disturbed gleamed above it. Within, I guessed that the curtains were by now closely drawn, since to do so was the headmaster’s practice on all grave occasions.
Suddenly I had the absurd notion of returning to this darkened room and demanding to be heard, since now I was free to speak. I felt for the moment that I could put his case more clearly, more satisfactorily than Markham himself. I felt that I knew everything: the horror of the thought that had leapt in Markham’s mind when first his father told him of the accident in Florence; the game he had made of it, and the later fears that Williams had insidiously played upon. But as I paused in doubt I heard the urgent chiming of a bell, and, like the object of some remote control, I answered the familiar summons.
That same evening Markham was driven away. He was seen briefly in the headmaster’s hall, standing about in his overcoat, seeming much as usual.
‘They’ve sent him up to Derbyshire,’ said Mr Pinshow when later I attempted to elicit information. ‘Poor lad; so healthy in the body, too.’ He would say no more, but I knew what he was thinking; and often since I have thought of Markham, still healthy in his body, growing up and getting older in the place they had found for him in Derbyshire. I have thought of Williams too, similarly growing older though in other circumstances, marrying perhaps and begetting children, and becoming in the end the man he had said he would one day be.
The Penthouse Apartment
‘Flowers?’ said Mr Runca into his pale blue telephone receiver. ‘Shall we order flowers? What’s the procedure?’ He stared intently at his wife as he spoke, and his wife, eating her breakfast grapefruit, thought that it would seem to be her husband’s intention to avoid having to pay for flowers. She had become used to this element in her husband; it hardly ever embarrassed her.
‘The procedure’s quite simple,’ said a soft voice in Mr Runca’s ear. ‘The magazine naturally supplies the flowers. If we can just agree between us what the flowers should be.’
‘Indeed,’ said Mr Runca. ‘It’s to be remembered that not all blooms will go with the apartment. Our fabrics must be allowed to speak for themselves, you know. Well, you’ve seen. You know what I mean.’
‘Indeed I do, Mr Runca –’
‘They came from Thailand, in fact. You might like to mention that.’
‘So you said, Mr Runca. The fabrics are most beautiful.’
Mr Runca, hearing this statement, nodded. He said, because he was used to saying it when the apartment was discussed:
‘It’s the best-dressed apartment in London.’
‘I’ll come myself at three,’ said the woman on the magazine. ‘Will someone be there at half past two, say, so that the photographers can set up their gear and test the light?’
‘We have an Italian servant,’ said Mr Runca, ‘who opened the door to you before and who’ll do the same thing for the photographers.’
‘Till this afternoon then,’ said the woman on the magazine, speaking lightly and gaily, since that was her manner.
Mr Runca carefully replaced the telephone receiver. His wife, a woman who ran a boutique, drank some coffee and heard her husband say that the magazine would pay for the flowers and would presumably not remove them from the flat after the photography had taken place. Mrs Runca nodded. The magazine was going to devote six pages to the Runcas’ flat: a display in full colour of its subtleties and charm, with an article about how the Runcas had between them planned the décor.
‘I’d like to arrange the flowers myself,’ said Mrs Runca. ‘Are they being sent round?’
Mr Runca shook his head. The flowers, he explained, were to be brought to the house by the woman from the magazine at three o’clock, the photographers having already had time to deploy their materials in the manner they favoured.
‘But how ridiculous!’ cried Mrs Runca. ‘That’s completely hopeless. The photographers with their cameras poised for three o’clock and the woman arriving then with the flowers. How long does the female imagine it’ll take to arrange them? Does she think it can be done in a matter of minutes?’
Mr Runca picked up the telephone and dialled the number of the magazine. He mentioned the name of the woman he had recently been speaking to. He spoke to her again. He said:
‘My wife points out that none of this is satisfactory. The flowers will take time to arrange, naturally. What point is there in keeping your photographers waiting? And I myself haven’t got all day.’
‘It shouldn’t take long to arrange the flowers.’
Mrs Runca lit her first cigarette of the day, imagining that the woman on the magazine was saying something like that. She had a long, rather thin face, and pale grey hair that had the glow of aluminium. Her hands were long also, hands that had grown elegant in childhood, with fingernails that now were of a fashionable length, metallically painted, a reflection of her hair. Ten years ago, on money borrowed from her husband, she had opened her boutique. She had called it St Catherine, and had watched it growing into a flourishing business with a staff of five women and a girl messenger.
‘Very well then,’ said the woman on the magazine, having listened further to Mr Runca. ‘I’ll have the flowers sent round this morning.’
‘They’re coming round this morning,’ reported Mr Runca to his wife.
‘I have to be at St Catherine at twelve,’ she said, ‘absolutely without fail.’
‘My wife has to be at her business at midday,’ said Mr Runca, and the woman on the magazine cursed silently. She promised that the flowers would be in the Runcas’ penthouse apartment within three-quarters of an hour.
Mr Runca rose to his feet and stood silently for a minute. He was a rich, heavily jowled man, the owner of three publications that appealed to those involved in the clothing trade. He was successful in much the same way as his wife was, and he felt, as she did, that efficiency and a stern outlook were good weapons in the business of accumulating wealth. Once upon a time they had both been poor and had recognized certain similar qualities in one another, had seen the future as a more luxurious time, as in fact it had become. They were proud that once again their penthouse apartment was to be honoured by photographs and a journalist. It was the symbol of their toil; and in a small way it had made them famous.
Mr Runca walked from the spacious room that had one side made entirely of glass, and his feet caused no sound as he crossed a white carpet of Afghanistan wool. He paused in the hall to place a hat on his head and gloves on his hands before departing for a morning’s business.
At ten to ten the flowers arrived and by a quarter past eleven Mrs Runca had arranged them to her satisfaction. The Runcas’ Italian maid, called Bianca, cleaned the flat most carefully, seeking dust in an expert way, working with method and a conscience, which was why the Runcas employed her. Mrs Runca warned her to be in at half past two because the photographers were coming then. ‘I must go out now then,’ replied Bianca, ‘for shopping. I will make these photographers coffee, I suppose?’ Mrs Runca said to give the men coffee in the kitchen, or tea, if they preferred it. ‘Don’t let them walk about the place with cups in their hands,’ she said, and went away.