AS THE THREE OF US approached the school, in a silence that can only be described as deadly, we came upon a group of four or five boys about some business behind the tennis courts, a group of four or five boys whose business it clearly was not to be behind the tennis courts. They were, inexplicably, but as boys do, beating one poor chap about the shins with wickets and apparently trying to force him to drink some doubtless horrible concoction from a cup. Innocent horseplay, no doubt. Catching sight of them in the distance, Alex slowly, quietly and deliberately increased his pace: it was like watching one of Rousseau’s strange lions stalk its prey. Each silent step grew longer and more terrifying and then, when he was almost upon them, he called out in his deep, sepulchral, confiding tones – that might easily have been confused with a snarl – ‘Boys!’ The boys froze, like startled animals, and stumbled up against the fence surrounding the courts. They were cornered.
Alex strode over to them with such controlled and yet such obviously boiling fury that if not exactly murderous it might easily, clearly and most properly be described – as Morley was later to describe it to me – as ‘slaughterous’.
‘Boys?’ he called again, now just inches from them.
All colour had drained from Alex’s face and his fists, or fist, rather, was clenched tight; one could feel him about to pounce. I almost went forward to restrain him, but Morley held out his arm to hold me back and as he did so Alex spoke again, even quieter this time, up so close to them that he might almost have whispered, although what escaped his mouth was in fact more like a deep animal growl. ‘Boys.’
They looked, simply, terrified. Morley still held me back.
‘Yes, sir?’ piped up one poor little fat lad, in a terrified, adenoidal squeak.
I rather wondered what kind of punishment might now be meted out to them. One teacher at my old place of work, the Hawes School, had specialised in knocking heads together, the boys face to face: more than one boy had had his nose broken being subjected to such cruel punishment. Another teacher would have disobedient boys stand up at the front of the class while others were made to paste over their mouths using glue and strips of paper; I had seen boys faint from pure terror at the mere prospect of this punishment. Another colleague kept in his class a range of tools for disciplining that could really only be described as instruments of torture: a birch rod, which he kept planted in a pot of water, in order to keep it pliant; a cat-o’-nine-tails; and a set of battledores of various sizes made of thick sole leather. Yet another, a Scotsman, delighted in a technique he called ‘Kick the Can’, in which boys were instructed to kick their miscreant classmates as they crawled on their hands and knees beneath the desks. Alex’s chosen form of punishment, I had no doubt, would be equally and appallingly violent.
‘Don’t. Do. That,’ he said. ‘Do you understand?’ He raised his thumbless hand. I thought for a moment he was about to strike out with it, but then he simply reached out and put his hand on the shoulder of the fat boy.
‘Yes, sir. Very good, sir,’ said the boy. ‘It won’t happen again, sir.’
‘Go,’ said Alex, turning his back towards them. And they went.
‘Well, you certainly seem to have them under control,’ said Morley admiringly, when we caught up with Alex, whose temper seemed to be entirely and instantly restored.
‘One does one’s best,’ he said, with a pleasant smile.
‘Restraint,’ said Morley, ‘is a virtue. Aequam memento rebus in arduis servare mentem.’
‘Indeed,’ said Alex.
Morley picked up the abandoned cup, the contents of which the boys had been trying to force upon their companion. The liquid had been spilled on the ground. He sniffed at the cup.
‘Mmm. What do you think, Sefton?’
I took a sniff. It smelled to me of sea water – and something else. Something indefinable. I recalled from my own schooldays some of the noxious liquids we had tried to force upon one another.
‘Harmless prank, no doubt,’ said Alex. ‘Anyway, Mr Morley, perhaps you need time to work on your speech?’
‘Yes, I rather think I do,’ said Morley. ‘And I have a couple of articles to send off this morning. A history of the alphabet, something on keeping tortoises as pets, and a review of this book The Hobbit? Have you come across it?’
‘I can’t say I have, Mr Morley, no.’
‘Curious thing. By some man, Tolkien, Professor of Anglo-Saxon at Oxford.’
‘Really?’
‘Dragons and dwarves and what have you.’
‘It sounds fascinating.’
‘Yes. Clearly based on the Eddas. Some sort of allegory about England, I fancy. Need to think about it. Have to have it written and sent by noon, along with the others.’
‘Well, I can certainly make arrangements for your articles to be picked up and sent. We have post collected three times a day from the porter’s lodge.’
‘Excellent. I was rather concerned that I’d have to travel into town somewhere.’
‘No need, no. We’re not as cut off here as some people think.’
‘Clearly. Well, that would be very kind of you, thank you.’
‘And you have everything else you require?’
‘I think so,’ said Morley. ‘Perhaps some barley water and a pot of strong tea? I am well provided with writing requisites.’
‘Very good. I’ll have those sent up to you.’
‘And you’ll know where to find me, when the police arrive?’
‘Indeed. And you, Mr Sefton?’
‘Me?’ I was still thinking about the body on the beach. I was in no state to plan a day’s work.
‘We need photographs, Sefton,’ said Morley. ‘For the book. Some local colour. Interviews. You know the sort of thing. Mustn’t let things slip.’
‘No shirking,’ I said.
‘No shilly-shallying.’
‘No funking.’
‘Precisely.’
‘I’ll get about gathering local colour then,’ I said.
‘Good man!’ said Morley. ‘Good man you are!’
We had now reached the school buildings, where the day had begun in earnest.
‘Now, gentlemen,’ said Alex, assuming authority, ‘you’ll perhaps excuse me. I shall telephone the police immediately about our tragic little accident.’
‘Excellent,’ said Morley. ‘As I say, if we’re required you’ll know where to find us.’
‘Thank you, your cooperation is much appreciated.’
Alex strode away, and Morley disappeared off to write. I entered the school alone through the back corridors.
The place was buzzing with activity. Boys were rushing around, carrying furniture under the instruction of the staff, who attempted to steer them round other boys who were washing and rubbing and scrubbing at floors. There were boys with buckets and boys with brushes – stiff brushes, small brushes, long feather dusters. Boys arranging flowers, and boys cleaning mirrors. Boys buffing brass, and boys dusting shelves. Wall scuffs were being wiped, windows washed, and cracked old floorboards were being coated with wax. Patches of rush matting were being watered from a can. Rugs were beaten and curtains shaken. It was a tornado of activity, like woodworms at a mighty felled oak. I recalled a phrase from Morley’s Manual of Housekeeping: A Practical Guide to Everyday Home Maintenance and Cleaning (1929): ‘The upkeep of our houses and their contents is both a Christian duty and a privilege afforded to the homeowner or householder. As Christian householders we might take our motto from Corinthians 14:40. “Let all things be done decently and in order.”’ Indeed we might. We might also take our motto from Matthew 23:27. ‘Woe unto you, scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites! For ye are like unto whited sepulchres, which indeed appear beautiful outward, but are within full of dead men’s bones, and of all uncleanness.’
As I watched all this hectic human activity I thought of poor Michael Taylor lying down on the beach.
Picking my way among stacked tables and chairs, a piano, statuettes, tea chests, boxes, I made my way to the main entrance to the school. Outside on the gravelled forecourt stood a liveried van, which announced that it was from Potbury and Sons in Sidmouth, along with another small lorry that apparently belonged to a Mr Perry, a haulier from Sidford. While Messrs Potbury and Perry were unloading their vans – a marquee, more tables – yet another lorry arrived, loaded with logs, and then yet another, a Mr Roberts’ coal lorry.
My friend Mr Bernhard the mathematics master stood, waving his arms around like a conductor, shouting instructions at schoolboys, porters and lorry drivers, consulting all the while with a man in a flat cap with a clipboard.
‘Ah, Mr Sefton, Mr Sefton!’ He waved me over. ‘Come, come, come!’
‘You’re running quite a delivery depot,’ I said.
‘Yes,’ he said.
‘Organised chaos?’
‘No, no, no, not chaos at all.’ His attention was then caught by a boy who was struggling past with a large ornamental pot plant. ‘Careful, Evans! Careful!’ Evans looked as though he were about to burst into tears. ‘Go slowly!’ It was difficult to imagine how Evans could go any more slowly, or more forlornly. ‘Everything is going very smoothly, actually, Mr Sefton. Very very smoothly. Our tasks will be completed by noon.’
‘Well, jolly good,’ I said, lighting a cigarette.
‘And this is Mr Potbury, from Potbury and Sons,’ announced Mr Bernhard, introducing me to the man with the clipboard.
‘Roit,’ said Mr Potbury, vigorously shaking my hand.
‘Cigarette?’ I said.
‘You’re a gentleman, sir, don’t mind if I do, sir,’ said Mr Potbury. ‘Proper job,’ he added. ‘Many thanks.’
‘Mr Bernhard?’
‘No, thank you,’ said Mr Bernhard. ‘No time.’
Mr Potbury and I smoked for a moment in silence, watching Mr Bernhard expertly conduct the scene of hurrying and scurrying before us.
‘You’re flat out, then?’ I said.
‘Like pushin’ an ’andcart up ’ill backwards, sir,’ said Mr Potbury. ‘Terrible lot to do.’
‘We will have everything in order and in place by noon,’ said Mr Bernhard, confidently.
‘Of course,’ said Mr Potbury. ‘He’s keeping us on our toes,’ he said to me, adding more quietly, ‘German. Terrible lot of foreign teachers. What’s wrong with our home-grown English teachers, eh?’
‘I…’
‘My wife’s a teacher, she’d have loved a job here. You here for Founder’s Day?’
‘No,’ I said. ‘I’m just here visiting.’
‘Mr Sefton is here to write a book about Devon,’ explained Mr Bernhard, between instructions to a group of boys who were carrying what appeared to be a rock-solid mass of bunting, ‘with Mr Swanton Morley.’
‘Really?’ said Mr Potbury, impressed. ‘The People’s Professor?’
‘The very man,’ I said.
‘I read him every week. Our boys love his Children’s Newspaper.’
‘I’ll tell him. He’ll be delighted.’
‘Where would you suggest they visit, Mr Potbury?’ said Mr Bernhard.
‘Round here?’ Mr Potbury took one final drag on his cigarette and then pinched out the tip with his fingers, and pocketed the stub. ‘Well, they should definitely get down to Beer, shouldn’t they? See the old underground caves.’
‘Yes, I’ve heard about the caves,’ I said.
‘No, no, no!’ cried Mr Bernhard, hurrying over to redirect some poor chair-carrying porters who were about to enter the main entrance. ‘Round the back, please. Round the back.’
‘They are creepy,’ said Mr Potbury. ‘The caves.’
‘Really?’
‘My wife doesn’t like them. Too dark.’ He nodded towards the camera strung around my neck. ‘Taking photographs as well then?’
‘Yes, I am.’
‘You know they’ve got a whole what’s-it-called set up downstairs?’
‘A darkroom? Yes, I heard.’
‘You should see it. I arranged the deliveries from London a couple of months ago when they first moved in. Never seen anything like it.’
‘I might take a look actually.’
‘You should. Just go downstairs, it’s next to the science room. You can’t miss it. Anyway, I should probably get on here or I’ll be in trouble with the Kaiser. No rest for the wicked, eh?’ At which he got on, Mr Bernhard continued on, and I finished my cigarette.
A police car pulled into the forecourt. I rather thought I might make myself scarce. I went down the stairs to have a look at the darkroom: as always, I was seeking distractions, from myself and from the task at hand.
I found the science room and peeked in – the door was conveniently open. This presumably was what had at one time been the building’s cellar: there were no windows, and the place felt damp and solid; I was conscious of a kind of brooding underground presence. The room was not dark, however – or not entirely dark. Row upon row of bare bright light bulbs hung down over the many desks, giving the place the appearance rather of a subterranean operating theatre, or an amphitheatre. I could barely make out the dimensions of the place: outside the bright glare of the lights, shades and shadows substituted for walls.
A woman I had seen at the dinner the previous night but had not met was busy moving around the room. She was, I assumed, the science mistress. In the strange, vast, lit space of the room she appeared to be perfectly tiny – almost like an apprentice or puppet version of herself – and she looked as dark-featured as a Kalderasa. As I observed her unnoticed for a moment it occurred to me that she seemed deeply unhappy, although perhaps this was merely because she was preoccupied: Morley was always sceptical about trying to read people’s emotions and characters from their features. (Contrary to the claims in a number of biographies, indeed, Morley could not abide what he sometimes referred to as the ‘party trick’ methods of fictional detectives. In his celebrated article, ‘Against the Red-Headed League’, with which many will doubtless be familiar, he wrote a long, long rebuttal of Sherlock Holmes’s supposed methods, in Conan Doyle’s famous story, in which the master detective makes the claim, based on a moment’s observation, that a man worked in manual labour, took snuff, was a Freemason, had been to China, and had recently done a considerable amount of writing. Morley’s argument in the article was both highly refined and utterly self-defeating, proving the very thing he set out to decry: a characteristic of his style as both thinker and writer.)
Nonetheless, if one were judging the science mistress by appearances alone, as of course one should not, one might have made certain assumptions about her and might have thought twice about accepting an invitation to tea: she had jet-black hair, and wore a black dress buttoned high at the throat, and boot-black boots, and was enveloped in a black cloak made of some modern, synthetic material that was presumably designed especially for protective use by science mistresses. She was also cursed with odd, uneven features that made it look as though her head might at some time have been pressed in a vice, or as if she were being seen through a distorting mirror. To my naive and untrained eye she looked like the sort of woman who might at any moment cast a spell upon you, toss you into a cauldron, and then fly off into the night on a broomstick. It was partly circumstances, of course: the science room was filled with a strong smell of both sulphur and ammonia, as though the devil himself had recently appeared, and someone had obligingly cleaned up after him. But whatever the reasons, and in spite of all prejudice, the overall impression, as I say, was rather forbidding.
‘Yes?’ she said. I was clearly not, as I had assumed, unobserved. ‘You’re too early for the tour.’
‘The tour?’
‘You’re a parent?’
‘No, I’m here with Mr Morley, who’s giving the Founder’s Day speech.’
‘Of course.’
‘But I’d love to have the tour,’ I said, rather obligingly, still hovering at the door.
‘The tour is for the parents.’
‘Yes.’
I stepped into the room at this point, drawn towards her and also towards a glass tank set on a bench by the near wall that contained a hive of small, writhing creatures – Morley had something very similar back at St George’s. I tried to remember what it was called. He had his aviary, his apiary, and his formicary – for his ants – but this was a …
‘Vivarium,’ she said, without even a glance towards me.
‘Yes. That’s it. A vivarium. I’m sure it must take some considerable upkeep and maintenance?’ Morley taught me over the years to ask obvious questions and to let people talk about what interested them: he claimed this was his technique, though I have to say that I never once saw or heard him use it; he was so busy talking at people that he often failed to hear or understand the simplest of statements.
‘Not particularly,’ said the science mistress. She continued furiously moving things around. ‘The digestion of lizards is very slow.’
‘Right.’
‘No need for frequent meals.’
‘Ah.’
‘And they hibernate in cold weather and in winter hardly need feeding at all; flies and insects, a bit of turf; no artificial heat.’
‘A bit like schoolboys.’
‘Ha,’ she said, clearly unamused.
‘What are they?’
She came over towards me. ‘Lizards,’ she said, with a tone of contempt.
‘Yes, I rather meant, what … kind of lizard are they?’ They were big and they looked scary.
‘South American lizards. Tupinambis merianea, tupinambis refescens and tupinambis teguixin.’
‘Very good.’ I knew as little about lizards as I knew about birds. I glanced around the room. ‘You’ve got it all set up rather wonderfully.’ I wandered over towards the long bench at the front of the room, behind which was a large blackboard, flanked by two doors, one open and one closed. ‘And what’s through there?’
‘Nothing,’ she said. ‘My office. Why?’
‘It’s just, I’m looking for the darkroom, you see.’
‘The darkroom?’ She stiffened in her manner rather.
‘Yes.’
‘Sorry, what was your name again?’
‘Stephen Sefton,’ I said, offering my hand.
She stared at me, lopsidedly, her arms folded. ‘And?’
‘I’m here with Mr Morley. We’re writing a book about Devon.’
She unfolded her arms and adjusted her voluminous black cape about her shoulders, with a fierce, unnatural rustling that suggested she might at any moment take off. She did not in fact take off, but proceeded instead with her work, shifting around the room as we spoke.
‘And why do you want to see the darkroom?’
‘Alex mentioned that he had established a darkroom here.’
‘Did he?’
‘Yes.’ I held up my camera. ‘I take the photographs for Mr Morley’s books.’
‘I see.’
‘So …’
She brushed back past me and disappeared through the door into her office. ‘It’s locked,’ she called from inside the room. ‘The darkroom. It’s locked.’
‘Right. I don’t suppose you have the key?’
‘No.’
‘And you don’t happen to know where he might keep the key?’
‘No,’ she said, emerging from the adjoining room carrying a large box filled to the brim with all sorts of metal instruments – scissors, forceps and scalpels – which rattled as she moved.
‘Here,’ I said, moving towards her. ‘Do let me help you with that.’ As I reached out for the box, I noticed that under the gaping black cloak she was wearing a chain around her neck, attached to which were a number of keys.
‘No, thank you,’ she said, snatching the box away from me, and placing it noisily on the long demonstration bench at the front of the room.
‘If you’re sure.’
‘Quite sure, thank you. If you want to gain access to the darkroom you’d have to speak to Alex himself, I’m afraid. He has the keys. And I am really very busy.’
‘Very well. Well, thank you,’ I said, and, turning away, went towards the door. I had almost gone, when she called out after me.
‘While you’re here,’ she continued, ‘you might want to make yourself useful. If you really want to help.’
‘Certainly,’ I said, turning back.
‘You can help me set out the dissection equipment.’
‘Yes, of course, by all—’ and before I had finished she had disappeared back into the adjoining office and appeared again with another box, a large sealed cardboard box, which she handed to me.
‘Right. You’re planning a dissection then?’ I asked.
‘For the parents. So they can see what their money has bought them. Over here, please,’ she said, gesturing me towards the long demonstration bench, which was set out with various flasks and bottles, enamel trays of instruments, and a dish containing small balls of some damp, strong-smelling cotton-wool wadding.
‘And what are you dissecting?’
‘Frogs.’
‘Really.’ I saw no sign of frogs. ‘And where do you keep the frogs?’
‘There.’ She nodded towards the box in my hands. I realised with a shock that the box was not only rattling, but humming with the most curious sound, like cattle lowing.
‘Frogs?’ I said, dropping the box.
‘Careful!’ she said.
‘Sorry, I …’ I was remembering an incident in Spain, when I had awoken one night in our tent, which we had pitched in a forest, to find it filled with tiny, wailing, vivid frogs spotted all over and with feet like talons.
I bent down, picked up the box of frogs, stood up – and as I did so, in a swift flowing movement, the science mistress produced a small flick-knife from the pocket of her dress, flicked it open, and came suddenly towards me, which caused me almost to drop the box again. Staring directly at me, she sliced perfectly through the string and tape that secured the lid of the box, and then with equal swiftness reached in and removed a frog from the box, grasping it with one hand by its long writhing legs, and reaching with the other hand for a cotton-wool ball soaked in chloroform, which she pressed over its mouth.
‘Keep it shut, please,’ she said, nodding towards the box. I frantically shut the lid of the box. ‘Good. There,’ she added, proffering me the now deceased frog.
I wasn’t entirely sure what to do with it.
‘One on each desk. Every boy’ll get a frog they’re going to demonstrate.’
‘Right.’ I placed the box on the bench, and took the frog to a desk, and we repeated the procedure until there was the sound of no more rattling and humming, and only the smell of chloroform.
‘All done,’ I said.
The strange Mrs Standish
‘Yes,’ she said, scowling.
‘Well … I’ll perhaps go on then.’
‘Yes, that’s all now, thank you,’ she said.
‘Right, well, I’ll …’
She turned her back to me.
‘Sorry,’ I said, ‘I didn’t catch your name.’
‘I’m Mrs Standish,’ she said, as she disappeared into her office.
‘Oh,’ I said. ‘Standish?’
‘That’s right,’ she called.
‘It’s a common name around here?’
‘Not as far as I’m aware,’ she said.
‘So you’re … married to the headmaster?’
She appeared at the door of the office, and smiled at me, baring her tiny teeth. ‘No!’ she said. ‘I am not married to the headmaster! I’m married to Alexander. The other Mr Standish.’
‘Oh. Yes, of course …’
‘Thank you for your assistance. Goodbye.’
A bell rang as I made my way up the stairs away from the dark science room and the strange Mrs Standish and towards the light, dozens of boys rushing down past me.