Tom Brown's Body (17 page)

*

The Muses, contrary to all other Ladies, pay no Distinction to Dress.

IBID.
(
Introduction
)

A
T
the School Concert the Housemasters' wives had almost nothing to do. For the most part they sat among the parents and were not easily distinguishable, for several were parents themselves, chiefly, oddly enough, of girls. Mr Wyck, himself the father of two daughters, maintained that this was due to a compensatory clause in the otherwise tooth and nail contract between Nature and Humanity.

The Housemasters' wives, therefore, at School functions, were rather less in stature than the boys' parents, and were scarcely in evidence.

Mrs Kay and Mrs Poundbury were not in evidence at all. Mrs Kay was helping to superintend the preparations for the visitors' teas, and Mrs Poundbury, in the role of assistant stage manager, was behind the scenes helping her husband with the make-up.

There was the usual loud hum of conversation from the audience, and then, just as Mr Wyck was looking at his watch – for the time was ten minutes past four – the curtain rose on what was to be the most talked-of entertainment which had ever been given at Spey.

The first of the three one-act plays which formed the bill on this particular occasion was
Campbell of Kilmhor
with a Scottish boy named Innes in the name part and Skene in the small part of his secretary. This magnificent play was a great success. The women's parts were played by the Headmaster's daughters. The idea of following it with a long interval was a good one, for the other two plays chosen by Mr Poundbury were of very different type. One was Lord Dunsany's
A Night at an Inn –
the murder play referred to by Mr Poundbury and greatly liked by the boys; the other was Pinero's domestic farce
Playgoers,
not less popular because all the women's parts were played by boys.

'Well, how goes the silly old coconut?' asked Mrs Pound-bury, smearing make-up all over Ingpen's face in preparation for his appearance as the kitchen maid in the last of these three plays. 'No, open up, Bill! Don't screw your eyes and nose up like that! You'll come out looking like the clown in a circus if you do! Now, when I've done you, you can watch the
Might at an Inn
from the wings. You'd like that, wouldn't you?' This, she thought, would be the best way of keeping him quiet.

The curtain went up for the second play on an eerie effect of black and white trellis-work lighted with sickly lime-colour. The play began well. All the actors were well cast, and the part of Smithers, the terrified Cockney, was noticeably well taken by a mightily-disguised Issacher, the best actor in the School. Three-quarters of the way through, indeed, the audience were leaning forward in their seats, as the almost incoherent Smithers came back to the stage after he had been sent to the back of the inn to get some water. He was supposed, during his absence from the stage, to have seen something which filled him with fear. The audience was strangely stirred; they were half-way in atavistic worship between wild applause and complete silence, as the boy spoke his lines.

Mrs Bradley leaned forward, too, for in Issacher's shrill accents she heard something which the audience did not hear. She heard the boyish squeak of definite and hysterical terror. This was not acting; this was genuine, unreasoning panic crouched behind the screen of the script.

She had chosen a seat at the end of a row. She got up and made her way quietly through a doorway and so to the back of the stage. Suddenly she heard from the stage, as the curtain suddenly came down, a yell of enlightening horror.

'But I
did
see it, you silly fool! I
saw
it! I
saw
it! I
saw
it, I tell you!'

At the side of the stage she found a half-fainting Issacher, supported by Mr Poundbury, and a very little boy in tears, for Ingpen had seen something else. Mrs Bradley hustled him into the dressing-room and closed the door.

'Now,' she said, 'what did you see?'

But before the sobbing child could get out a word, there was a tremendous commotion at the door, and Mr Pound-bury burst in, dragging Issacher, very green about the gills, and followed by several Sixth-Form boys from his own House.

'Not in here!' he said to these followers, pushing Issacher into a chair. 'Sit down, boy. Away, boys, away!'

'What has happened, Mr Poundbury?' Mrs Bradley enquired.

'I don't know,' answered Mr Poundbury, beginning to recover himself. 'It's something to do with this lad, but I can get nothing much out of him.'

'An accident?' Mrs Bradley enquired.

'I don't really know. Anyway, the curtain's been rung down, and Mr Wyck is out in front telling lies to the audience. Now, boy, now! Pull yourself together!'

Mrs Bradley was entertained by the crude statement describing Mr Wyck's activities.

'You had better leave Mr Issacher to me,' she said. 'Haven't you another play to put on?'

'Yes, yes! But the boys can manage,' said Mr Poundbury, giving Issacher an unnecessary thump on the chest. 'Up, boy, up! The paper must go to bed to-day, you know, and the show must go on!'

Mrs Bradley seized him in a scientific grip and propelled him towards the door.

'Get the
Playgoers
on,' she said, 'and then you can come back here.'

Mr Poundbury wandered stagewards once more. Mrs Bradley returned to the dressing-room and seated herself in front of the two boys.

Little Ingpen glanced fearfully at the door; then, at a nod from Issacher, whose colour was beginning to come back, he went over to the door and turned the key.

'Gosh!' said Issacher, wiping grease-paint from his face with the sleeve of his shirt and then regarding the resulting stains with detachment. 'Don't give me side, but what did
you
make of it, sprat?'

Ingpen was about to tell him when the handle of the door was vigorously rattled and the voice of the call-boy was heard.

'Third play, Ingpen wanted! Third play, Ingpen wanted!' he chanted loudly and continuously. Ingpen rushed to the door and flung it open. Outside with the call-boy was a grim-faced Mr Poundbury.

'Come along, come along, boy!' he said. 'You can't keep the whole stage waiting!'

Ingpen gulped, and then ran past him. Gratefully he joined a huddle of boys in the wings.

'Good heavens! You look as if you'd seen a ghost!' said Scrupe, who lived near Ingpen at home.

'I've seen a murder, Francis,' said Ingpen.

'Then for God's sake forget it,' said Scrupe. 'And mind you give me the proper cue this time, or I'll murder you!'

'And now, Mr Issacher,' said Mrs Bradley, 'what will the harvest be?'

*

The third play, acted by thoroughly excited boys, brought the house down. A ponderous Fourth-form boy named, happily for himself, Cooke, was particularly outstanding as the cook, Scrupe, as a simpering parlourmaid, was also excellent. The young Ingpen, as the kitchenmaid, brought tears to his mother's eyes, and the Captain of Football, as the lachrymose useful-maid, astonished even the Headmaster.

The last-named sought out Mrs Bradley directly the entertainment was over.

'Mrs Poundbury is badly hurt. We do not know yet what occurred. I have sent for Issacher,' he said. 'Do you think, by any chance, that the lad could have attacked Mrs-Poundbury whilst he was off-stage during the second play? All the circumstances were so extraordinary that . . .'

'I think there can be little doubt that Mr Conway's murderer attacked Mrs Poundbury,' said Mrs Bradley composedly, 'and I do not suspect Issacher of having killed Mr Conway. I wonder whether Mrs Poundbury was foolish enough to tell someone about the missing note that turned up so unexpectedly to-day? I should hardly think she would mention it, though. Perhaps the little boy Ingpen told somebody about it. And yet . . .' She looked perplexed. The Headmaster looked thoroughly worried.

'Is there likely to be another attempt?' he asked. Mrs Bradley shook her head.

'Who can tell? It depends upon how much nerve the murderer has, and whether Mrs Poundbury recognized him,' she said.

Mrs Poundbury had been found at the foot of a short flight of stone steps leading from the east end of the dressing-room corridor to the open air. Her skull was fractured, but she had a reasonable chance of recovery.

However, the nature of her accident or the details of the murderous attack – whichever it should turn out 'to be – could not be gathered until she recovered consciousness. Mrs Bradley had made her own views clear. The note had gone, and Mrs Poundbury, in Mrs Bradley's experienced view, was far too intelligent to have destroyed it. It had not been shown to Detective-Inspector Gavin, for Mrs Bradley had asked him point-blank about it as soon as she knew of Mrs Poundbury's injuries.

'I've seen no note,' he said. 'Pity she didn't hand it over to you. It would have saved her this knock on the head. She never got that from falling down steps, did she?'

'No, she did not,' Mrs Bradley replied; for she had made a point of examining Mrs Poundbury. 'The contusions from the fall are clear enough, and the knock on the head was not one of them.'

'I wonder how soon we'll be able to get her to talk to us?'

'Not for two or three days.'

'Too bad. Still, it can't be helped. I wonder what the youngsters can tell us?'

'A good deal that is strange, but not much that's helpful,' prophesied Mrs Bradley. 'We must let them get over the shock before we question them further, I fancy.'

'A bit garbled, arc they?'

'Their stories are curious and interesting. You are having Mrs Poundbury closely guarded, I presume?'

'Yes. Nobody will get at her now. But I doubt whether she'll be able to name her assailant, and, if the note has gone, and the attacker has got what he wants, she's probably safe enough, as long as the thug can be sure she didn't recognize him.'

'Whom do you suspect?' enquired Gavin.

'Mr Pearson is the obvious suspect, of course. It leaps to the eye,' said Mrs Bradley. 'However, there are other possibilities. We must investigate them one by one. All the same, I have made cautious enquiries, and Mr Pearson left his seat at the concert before the performance began, and did not return until the second interval.'

'Rather a long time to be out. I should think he'd have an alibi, you know.'

'Well, we shall see,' said Mrs Bradley.

*

By these Questions something seems to have ruffled you. Are any of us suspected?

IBID
(
Act 2, Scene 2
)

'W
ELL,'
said Issacher, when he had been told by Detective-Inspector Gavin to sit down, 'you saw our play. You know the plot of it. We three sailors and our leader, the Toff, are supposed to have taken the ruby eye from a Hindu god in a temple. The three priests of the temple follow us to England. We rent a disused pub, lie in wait for them there, and murder them one by one. We know there are only three of these priests, so, when it's all over, we celebrate. Then the nervous one – that's me – is sent out to get some water to put on top of the whisky. I am supposed to see the image itself which has come all the way from India to avenge the three priests and get back the ruby eye. Then we are all called out, one by one.'

'Very well and concisely stated,' said Mrs Bradley, as Issacher paused. 'And then . . .?'

'And then,' said Issacher, 'there were two of them, you know – two idols. I looked for Salisbury, who was taking the part of
our
idol, and there he was, and then I saw behind him sort of lurking in the shadows, the
other
idol. Of course I see now it was somebody playing the fool, but at the time I was scared out of my life. This other idol – well, Salisbury looked as beastly as we could manage – a huge green mask and popping-out eyes and a great, lolling, red tongue – but this other idol, well, it was
tall,
you know, and it had eyes that blinked at you. I just bolted back on to the stage and babbled. I don't know what I said. Then young Ingpen began yelling, I believe, and Mr Poundbury drew down the curtain, and hustled us all off the stage on the O.P. side, and then we heard that Mrs Poundbury had fallen and hurt her head. I wondered if she'd seen it, too, and perhaps fainted or something. It was enough to make anybody faint.'

'And that is all you can tell us?' asked Gavin, writing it down.

'That's all. I didn't see anything more. Don't
you
think,' he added, turning to Mrs Bradley, 'that perhaps Mrs Poundbury saw it, too, and ran away, and fainted, and that's how she came to tumble down the steps?'

'An intelligent suggestion,' said Mrs Bradley, before Gavin could speak. 'Thank you, Mr Issacher.'

'Now, I want you to be very careful how you answer this,' said Gavin, looking evenly at the boy. 'Did this second idol remind you of anybody you know? Thinking it over now, in cold blood, I mean.'

'No. I didn't look at it long enough. Besides, it was tall – above human height, I mean.'

'What did you think when you saw it?'

'I – well, it sounds pretty feeble, but –' He hesitated, and then rushed at it. 'It's sheer punk, I know, but I suppose I thought it was the – well, the
real
idol, you know, and that somehow we'd conjured it up. It sounds awful rot now, but when I'm in a part I really feel like the person I'm meant to be, and Smithers didn't expect to find the idol outside the back door of the pub, so I used to try and forget that Salisbury was out there. Well, then, when I saw this other thing –
behind
Salisbury –' He looked anxiously at Mrs Bradley.

'Yes?'

'Well, it was rather, sort of, well, it must have been a very
prepared
sort of joke, if you know what I mean.'

'Mr Issacher,' said Mrs Bradley suddenly, 'have you ever seen a mask such as is used by Tibetan devil-dancers?'

'Oh, yes, and it wasn't like that. That's what Salisbury's mask was like. Mr Pearson, the woodwork master, young Ingpen's uncle, made it for us.'

Mrs Bradley said no more, and, at a nod from Gavin, the boy went out. Mr Wyck, who was present, by invitation of the detective-inspector, whilst the interrogation was being carried out, rang a bell, and in came little Ingpen. The child looked pale and tired. Mrs Bradley deduced correctly that the bump on his head was hurting him, and that it was past his bedtime. She also realized that he dreaded the thought of going to bed that night.

'Ah, Ingpen,' said Mr Wyck, 'your matron thinks you had better have a quiet room and one companion to-night, owing to the bump on your head. You will be sleeping' – he paused impressively – 'next door to
me.'

'Oh, sir! Oh,
thank
you, sir!' exclaimed Ingpen, who, so far, had had no cause to fear grown-up people, and who was, as a matter of fact, enormously relieved and not at all taken aback at the thought of spending the night in the proximity of the Headmaster.

'You must be
quiet
and go to
sleep,'
pronounced Mr Wyck, 'and you may choose your own companion provided that he also is
quiet
and goes to
sleep.
I will make arrangements for you to be taken to your House and back. Now, before you go, is there anything you would like to tell us, my boy?'

'Please, sir,' said Ingpen, 'where did it go?'

'Where did what go?' Mr Wyck enquired.

'The – the
thing,'
said Ingpen. 'I was watching the stage, and Issacher went into the wings, and I heard him shout out, and then he ran back on to the stage, and I thought how well he was doing his part, and then I got suddenly horribly frightened, and I turned my head and
there it was!
And I ran on to the stage . . .'

'Yes, yes, my boy,' said Mr Wyck, reassuringly. 'We know all about that very stupid joke. Think nothing further about it. I suppose you don't know who it was?'

He sent the child, under escort, to Mr Poundbury's House for his pyjamas and to choose his stable companion, and he also sent for Mr Poundbury, who arrived hot, bothered, and full of disjointed exclamations and vague questions.

'Mr Poundbury,' said Gavin calmly, regarding the witness with suspicion, 'your wife was seriously injured during the presentation of the second play. Can you tell us anything about it?'

'Of course!' Mr Poundbury looked surprised. 'I'm always telling her she ought to wear her glasses. You know what it is. All the steps seem to swim into one. Extremely disconcerting, especially as she
will
rush about.'

'And that is your explanation of the accident?'

'Of course it is. How soon can I go in to see her?'

'The day after to-morrow, probably,' said Mrs Bradley. 'And now, Mr Poundbury, to your own share in the mystery: describe to us, if you please, the head and mechanics which you devised for the Hindu idol.'

'I did not devise anything. The boys did that themselves. I believe that the head was made in the workshop. The boys themselves could tell you. It was a copy of a Tibetan devil-mask, I believe. It was modelled in clay, then made over with
papier-maché
and muslin, then they cut out the clay – you know the method, I expect?'

'Yes, I have made puppets that way,' said Mr Wyck, rather to the surprise of his audience. 'But what about this second idol, Poundbury? You know about that, I suppose?'

'I heard a garbled account from some of the boys, but my anxiety, as you will appreciate, was for my wife.'

'But you rang down the curtain,' said Gavin.

'Yes, I operated it myself, as a matter of fact. Issacher was hysterical. I cannot imagine why. Surely a mere practical joke . . .'

'It was this particular practical joke which ruined your play,' said Mr Wyck.

'Suppose,' said Mrs Bradley, gently, observing the effect of this last statement upon the witness, 'that you give us your own version of what happened, Mr Poundbury. Where were you during that first long interval, for instance?'

'Oh, talking to people – the parents like to speak to the producer – and part of the time I would have been behind the scenes, no doubt, making certain that the make-up was as it should be, and hurrying the boys who had been in the first play and were wanted for the second or third one. . . .'

'Ah!' said Gavin, who had been taking notes and who now looked up from his writing. 'And which boys were those, Mr Poundbury?'

'I can't possibly remember. Let me see, now. Yes . . . there would be Issacher, Boltwood, and Skene . . . they were in
Campbell of Kilmohr.'

'Elucidate,' demanded Mrs Bradley.

'Issacher was Captain Sandeman in the first play, and Smithers, the nervous Cockney sailor, in the second play. Boltwood was Dugald Stewart in the first play and the master of the house in the third play. Skene was the secretary, Mackenzie, in the first play, and the housemaid in the third play.'

'The third play, surely, need not concern us,' suggested Mr Wyck.

'Well, that brings us back to this boy Issacher,' said Gavin, 'who is, as I can see for myself, an excitable, foreign sort of type;'

'He is Jewish,' explained Mr Poundbury. 'He is an artistic boy – very musical. A gifted boy in many ways. He is often inclined to be hysterical. He is most conscious of his race and very proud of it. Not an easy boy. Not an easy boy at all. But, of course, the best actor in the School. I wish he were in my House.'

'Do you think he would attack people?' demanded Gavin. Mr Poundbury looked at Mr Wyck.

'I don't say he would
not,
given sufficient provocation,' said Mr Wyck promptly. 'But that could be said of most unbalanced persons, and Issacher is, in some respects, unbalanced.'

'He would not, at any rate, have attacked my wife,' said Mr Poundbury, perceiving the drift of the question. 'The boy was fond of her. She had helped him a great deal over his interpretation of his various parts in the plays, and also with his make-up and costumes. I cannot think that he would so far forget himself, even in his terror, as to attack her. Besides, this suggestion that she was attacked is new to me, and I find it particularly repugnant.'

'Really?' said Mr Wyck.

'It might not have been an attack, of course,' said Gavin slowly. 'A boy half-mad with fright might knock a slight woman down as he rushed past her. Issacher is a stoutly-built boy. He would weigh considerably more, I imagine, than Mrs Poundbury. As soon as we can get her to speak to us, we shall, of course, know more about it. The circumstances seem to have been confused.'

'It seems to me,' said Mr Wyck, 'that we shall get very little further in the matter, either with or without Mrs Poundbury, until we discover who played the practical joke I refer to this second and larger idol, whose existence I should not believe in if the tiny boy Ingpen were not a witness to it. From Issacher's description of the thing he saw, it was so large that it could scarcely have escaped unseen from the building, and, for my own satisfaction, I propose to find out who played such a stupid trick. It is very dangerous to frighten boys so badly. I am not so much concerned about Issacher, since he is older, and has a deeply morbid side to his character, but I am perturbed, and very deeply perturbed, at the thought of the possible effect of such an experience on a tiny boy of the age of Ingpen. It may well leave a permanent impression on such a young child's mind.'

Mrs Bradley agreed, but neither she nor Gavin was inclined to regard the appearance of the second and more horrible idol as a practical joke, for there was no doubt whatever that Mrs Poundbury had been attacked, and there was no doubt that the note had disappeared.

Gavin, in conclave with Mrs Bradley, stated an ugly but obvious fact.

'It's pretty clear,' said he, 'that the second idol, far from being a joke, was the murderer's disguise, and, judging from what has happened, not a bad one. I wonder whether any of the other kids who were in the plays saw anything?'

But it turned out that nobody had set eyes on the second idol except the two boys, Issacher and Ingpen, who had been interviewed already. The other actors in that play were, all but one, on the stage, so that except for young Ingpen, who had had permission to watch from the wings, there were no back-stage or off-stage witnesses, except the boy who had taken the part of the first idol, and he had seen nothing at all.

'What about your stage-hands?' Mrs Bradley enquired. But the stage-hands, all members of Mr Poundbury's House, had nothing to tell.

'When we've set the scene and put the props ready, we go into the body of the hall until we're wanted again,' was the sum of their story. 'Mr Poundbury won't have people hanging about behind the scenes.'

'Who manages the curtain, then?' Mrs Bradley enquired. It appeared that one Billington was responsible for the curtain, but that he went by the script, and returned from the auditorium to his charge at a rehearsed point in the play or scene, ready to lower the curtain when this was necessary. Mr Poundbury himself, of course, had manipulated it during the disturbance.

'What about the prompter?' asked Gavin.

'We don't prompt, sir, from the wings,' replied Billington. 'If anybody fluffs, one of the other people on the stage says the lines. They are all responsible for all the dialogue.'

Mrs Bradley thought this an ideal scheme, and it forged an important little link in the rather slender chain of evidence because it seemed to narrow down the identity of Mrs Poundbury's assailant. There could only be a limited number of people who knew that normally there would be nobody much about whilst a scene was being acted. It narrowed it further to somebody who also knew something about the timing of each play and the order of the programme.

Gavin, at this point, plumped for Mr Poundbury. 'It all hangs together,' he pointed out. 'Nobody meeting him backstage would think twice about it. He had a pretty strong motive for getting rid of Conway, and he may also have intended to kill his wife sooner or later.'

Mrs Bradley admitted the force of this reasoning, and tackled Mr Poundbury again.

'Who, besides yourself, your wife, and the boys concerned, could have known the order in which the three plays were to be produced, and who else could have known how long each one took to perform?' she demanded straightly.

'Oh, the programmes were printed on the School press about a fortnight ago,' Mr Poundbury replied, apparently without a moment's thought. Mrs Bradley noted down this answer.

'So that, roughly speaking, anybody connected with the School . . .' she began.