The Quickening of Tom Turnpike (The Talltrees Trilogy) (17 page)

twenty seven

Caratacus
slammed the door to his Private Room shut after ushering us in.

“Sit!”
he barked, pointing towards the dilapidated sofa.  We shuffled and squeezed
onto it, sinking uncomfortably in.

“Sir...”
I began urgently.

“Turnpike,
enough!” he interjected.  “As you well know, I am a tolerant and reasonable
man.  But my tolerance and reasonableness will not be pushed beyond their
limits.  That is to say that you cannot take advantage of my good nature. 
Understood?  Now then,” he said more softly, “you will each speak only when I
ask you a question and what you say will be the whole truth and nothing
besides.  So, Turnpike, you first.  Where have you three been?”

“Sir,”
I said anxiously, “we’ve been down in the Basement, in the Dungeons, Sir.  Sir,
we had very good reasons...”

“
Thank
you, Turnpike.  You have answered that question.  But do not think that I am
going to give you the opportunity to produce a coherent fabrication, which I
know to be something for which you and Strange have a particular talent.  So
now I will speak to Akwasi.  Tell me, Akwasi, what reasons am I to ascribe to
your being down in the Dungeons,
out-of-bounds
when you should have been
going about your duties?”

“Sir,
we had compelling reasons to believe,” started Samson (a very good start, I
thought, using words like a detective).  He cleared his throat, “Excuse me.  We
had compelling reasons to believe that Colonel Barrington is using a particular
room in the Dungeons as a place to store all of the boys who have fallen ill in
the last couple of weeks...”

“Oh,
I
see
,” said Caratacus sarcastically, shaking his head and laughing, but
without a smile.  “And might I ask, Akwasi, who introduced you to the notion
that Colonel Barrington might do such a thing?”

Akwasi
looked at me apologetically.

“Quite,”
said Caratacus.  “You need not answer that question.  Turnpike, back to you I
think.  You say you would like to talk to me about Ockham’s Razor, eh?  Well
then, tell me what happened after our last discussion on this matter to make
you think that
your
explanation, rather than
mine
, was the
simplest one.”

“Well,
Sir, it was last night, you see.  I was awake in bed and I saw Colonel
Barrington come into our dorm with Head Matron.  I saw them drug Strange and
then carry him away.  I followed them and they went up towards the Sick Bay.”

Caratacus
scoffed, “And you think that a plan to abduct boys and turn them into zombies
is the clearest explanation for this?  I would have thought the most obvious
explanation to be that you were dreaming, wouldn’t you?”

“Well
I suppose so, Sir.  But Freddie was gone the next morning and...”

“Well
it sounds pretty clear to me,” said Caratacus.  “And then I would have thought
that the next most obvious explanation would be that the boy really was taken
ill and had to be carried to the Sick Bay for his own good.  Surely it is not
such a strange thing that the Head Matron should administer medicines to an
ailing child.”

“Well
no, Sir, but it was...”

“No. 
Quite.  I think we might just be getting somewhere.”  I hated it so much when teachers
interrupted like this and pretended only to hear the first few words of every
answer, ignoring especially everything that comes after the word “but”.

“Sir,”
I blurted in frustration.  “The Sick Bay is empty.  There’s nobody there!”

“Turnpike,
calm yourself!  As I said, speak when spoken to.”  This was driving me crazy. 
All I had to do was take him down to the Dungeon with a torch and show him
inside the Crypt.  And we were wasting so much time.  “Pickering,” he
continued, “now tell me what you found when you went down to the Dungeon on
Turnpike’s goose-chase.  That it was empty, I presume?”  Caratacus removed his
glasses and began to wipe them with a cloth.

“It
wasn’t, Sir,” said Reggie.  “There was a room down there and in it were loads
and loads of coffin-like boxes with all of the sick boys inside them, covered
in mud like they were dead and...”

“Pickering,
for Heaven’s sake,” he said.  “You’re gabbling, boy.  What a load of rot!”

“It’s
true, Sir,” I pleaded.

He
replaced his spectacles and rolled his eyes, sighing.  “Akwasi, will you also
vouch for this outlandish tripe?”

“I
will, Sir.”

“Okay,
okay, you three.  I give up.”  He got up from his chair to rummage for
something under his bed.  I couldn’t catch sight of what it was before he
slipped it into the pocket of his tweed jacket.  “Let’s see... Pickering,
perhaps you would take me downstairs to the
Dungeon.  Show me this room
you are all rabbitting on about and I will show you that there is nothing in
it.  Then we can all just get on with our lives.  You two, Turnpike and Akwasi,
will not move from this room until I return.  You are welcome to pop the kettle
on.  Come on, Pickering.”

“Yes,
Sir.”

The
door scraped slowly shut behind them as they left.  I stood up and paced
nervously with my hands on my hips.

“Relax,
Tom,” said Samson.  “It’s out of our hands now.  Caratacus will sort it all out
when Reggie shows him inside the Crypt.”

“I
suppose you’re right.  I don’t know how he’s going to cure Freddie and the
others though.  Maybe he’ll think of something,” I said, thrusting my hands
into my pockets and realising, as I did so, that I still had the Crypt key. 
“Oh look!  I’ve still got this.”

“You’d
better get after them then.”

I
hurried to the door and turned the knob to pull it open. 

“Oh,
that’s odd,” I said.  “It’s locked.”

“Hmm,”
said Samson, after trying the doorknob for himself.  “Well I suppose he did
that because he thought we might run off.  Let’s put the kettle on and wait.”

“I
suppose.  They’ll come back when they realise they forgot it.”

“Or
else Caratacus has one on the Duty Master’s key chain.”

I
filled the kettle and switched it on.  While I waited for the water to boil, I
tried to distract myself and calm my nerves by strolling around the room and
having a closer look at Caratacus’ collection of trinkets and mementos.  On the
wall behind the bed was a small wooden crucifix with an effigy of Jesus,
crowned with thorns.  It was so intricately carved that you could see the
detail of the wound in his abdomen and the blood encrusted on his brow.  I
didn’t remember this from the last time I was here and noticed on Caratacus’
bedside table that there were three small chisels with blades of differing
shapes, two uncarved blocks and some wood shavings, and realised that Caratacus
must have carved the miniature Jesus himself.

On
the wall next to that was an old school photograph.  It must have been taken a
number of years ago – the colours were all starting to fade towards a brassy
hew of orange, giving the picture the quality of an obscure memory of a hot
day.  I peered closer to see if I could recognise any of the faces.  Of course,
none of the boys was recognisable to me.  These boys would have left the school
years ago.  I looked at one standing in the middle of the back row.  He looked
quite like me, but with bushier hair.  He was squinting awkwardly and pouting
slightly, like the photographer had taken the photo while this boy was trying
to decide between two facial expressions.  I wondered what he was doing right
now.  Maybe he was nuclear scientist, or perhaps he was fighting out in Russia. 
Maybe he was in Strangeways Prison, protesting about the poor quality of the
food.  Maybe he was dead.

Looking
along the front row, where the teachers were seated, I recognised about half of
them, though their features were quite difficult to make out.  Mrs. Stowaway
was here at one end, stately, clutching a cigarette.  There was Head Matron,
wooden and upright on her seat, but looking no different at all.  Next to her
was Caratacus, smiling broadly, with a straw boater resting upon his lap. 
Wilbraham was in the middle, colossal and puffed up with authority, a hint of
calculating menace staring beneath his brow.  As I looked along the row of men
and women I did and didn’t know, I noted that Colonel Barrington was absent.  I
wondered whether he had not by then returned from Africa.  But it seemed odd to
me that Head Matron should be here without him.  It put me in mind of the
letters I had found in his room and the “coincidences” which Doctor Boateng had
mentioned that Barrington had spoken of.

I
gasped with a sudden fright.  “Look at this, Samson.”

Looming
at the end of the row of teachers, but standing up with arms folded was a man
in a monk’s cowl.  His hood was down.  He had shabby, thin white hair, reaching
his shoulders and his thin face was haggard with age and exertion.  And sitting
next to him was a black labrador, panting and staring directly at me out of the
picture.  I felt a chill.  It was as if they were watching me.

“The
Wandering Monk,” whispered Samson with reverent amazement, and then jumped when
the kettle clicked behind him.

I
went over to pour the hot water into two cups and, as I did so, I looked at the
three mediæval pictures of saints, whose saints’ names were embossed on the
picture frames.  Saint Peter, Saint Patrick and, at the top, Saint Sebastian. 
I dunked a teabag into each mug and then reached down into the fridge for a
bottle of milk.

Something
was bothering me and I couldn’t quite pinpoint what it was.

“Hmm,
that’s interesting,” said Samson as I took a cup of tea to him.  He was looking
closely at the crucifix that hung on the back of the door.  “It says
Societas
Missionum ad Afros
on this cross.”

“Society
of African Missions or something.  What’s interesting about that?”  I asked,
still distracted by trying to work out what it was that was troubling me.

“Well
I remember them from back in the Gold Coast.  They’re a group of people who
spread Christianity in Africa.”  He turned the crucifix around.  “And it says
Dahomey
on the back.  I suppose he must have spent some time working in Africa.”

“Must
have been a long time ago.  He’s been here for years,” I said.  “Maybe he never
even went there.  Maybe someone gave it to him.” 

“Bit
odd though, isn’t it?”

He
was right.  It was odd.  It must have been a peculiar coincidence, but it was
jolly unsettling. And then I realised what it was that was niggling at my
mind.  It was the saints on the wall.  Didn’t my Germanic Studies textbook say
that they were associated with Voodoo Loas?  Maybe not.

But
I couldn’t suppress a feeling of panic.  I opened the top drawer of Caratacus’
desk.

“What
are you
doing
?” asked Samson.

“I
just need to check something,” I replied.

“What? 
He’ll kill you if he catches you.”

“We’ll
hear the door unlock before he can catch me.  I’m just worried about
something.” 

I
opened each of the other drawers.  They were full of papers: old pay slips, expired
ration books, bank statements and so on.  Grown-up stuff.  Nothing to cause any
alarm.  I took a big glug of tea and began to flick through some of the letters
from the bottom drawer.  Samson got up and stalked around the floor in
agitation.

“Wow!”
I exclaimed.  “These letters look really important...  Oh
wow
!  Can you
believe this?  This telegram has got the
Führer’s
personal seal on it!” 
German was certainly not my best subject,
but I read out what I could understand:  “...congratulations on your valuable
work in Poland... important to the... something of the New European Order and
advancement of the Volksdeutsche... Please proceed with Stage Three...  Signed,
Adolf Hitler.  I can’t believe it...”

“Whoa,
look at these!” interrupted Samson, getting down onto his knees and dragging a
cardboard box out from under Caratacus’ bed.  “They look kind of like the ones
downstairs, don’t you think?”

 He
obviously hadn’t been listening to me and as I turned to look at what it was
that had caught his attention, his face morphed like putty from scowling
curiosity, via surprised realisation, to settle upon abject terror.

“Oh
God, no!” he whispered.

Innocuous
in Samson’s hand sat a lump of very dark wood, only roughly carved here and
there, but enough to give shape to the intention.  It was a boy, and so were
all of the others.

“Fetishes,”
I said, pointing to the chisels and realising that the wood shavings on the
desk had nothing to do with the effigy of Jesus over the bed.  “Caratacus has
been making them.  Look, what does it say underneath?”

Samson
upended it to read an inscription on its base.  He gulped and handed it to me. 
I turned it round in my hands and stared at it, fright preventing me from
wresting my eyes away.  For in Caratacus’ meandering calligraphy that I
recognised so well was inscribed one word. 

“Turnpike.”

My
hand started to tremble, my knuckles white.  Samson clattered though the box
urgently.  “Grüber, Pendleton, Crick...,” his voice lowered, “...Akwasi.”  He
shook his head and exhaled shatteringly.  “So these are for all the boys who
aren’t ill yet.”  He looked up at me.  “He must have taken Reggie’s down with
him.  It must have been the first one of ours that he laid he hands on just
now.  Jesus!  Caratacus and Barrington must be in this together!”