‘WELL, THIS IS RATHER DISTRESSING,’ said Morley. ‘Photographs, Sefton?’
‘We have requested your assistant not to take any photographs, sir,’ said one of the two policemen who had arrived to investigate the death of Michael Taylor, and who had now taken charge of events. They had indeed requested me not to take any photographs, though the request had been couched in rather more direct – shall we say Anglo-Saxon – language.
‘My assistant is a professional photographer, Officer,’ said Morley. This was, in fairness, something of an overstatement: I was then and remain now at best an enthusiastic amateur. Morley sometimes jokingly referred to me as his ‘Cartier’, but I was alas no Bresson and anyway I was not particularly inclined at that moment to take any photographs – particularly not photographs of a mutilated cow.
The poor thing seemed to have had its stomach split from top to bottom, and its head had also been brutally removed: it was the head that the boys had been vigorously prodding with their sticks, making quite a mess of it in the process. The bloody head sat staring at us now, set apart from the carcass, as though bizarrely illustrating some complex Cartesian point about the division between mind and body: the kind of illustration indeed that Morley himself might have included in one of his books on philosophy for children. (All Cretans Are Liars: Philosophical Puzzles, Conundrums and Quizzes for Use in Schools, Colleges and at Home, for example, published in 1932, includes a rather odd, jumbled appendix of diagrams and doodles – featuring teapots, razors, lions, tooth fairies – all apparently intended to illustrate Zeno’s Paradox, the Gordian Knot, the Problem of Evil and etcetera, though in fact, to my mind at least, they simply confused matters further. It was not perhaps his most successful book.)
‘Hmm,’ continued Morley, surveying the scene of butchery. ‘Distressing. But very interesting.’
Thankfully, by the time I had alerted the police to the mystery of the poor dead cow, Founder’s Day was coming to an end, parents were drifting away, boys bidding them farewell, and so this latest All Souls’ scene of distress – down in the bushes, beyond the croquet lawn – seemed to have gone unnoticed by those not directly involved. The two policemen had quickly and efficiently taken statements from the boys who were present at the cow-prodding, and I had explained to them the matter of the disappearance of the chickens – and the goat and the donkey – from the farm.
‘Disgusting,’ said one of the policemen, who was in possession of an extraordinary pair of jug ears and a menacing stare. ‘Should be ashamed, the lot of them,’ he said, raising a fist towards the boys, who remained gathered around as though awaiting their own horrible execution.
Left to his own devices I rather think the jug-eared policeman might well have begun dispensing summary justice: I feared serious consequences for the boy or boys who were found responsible for the cow’s slaughter. But fortunately, having bid all the necessary farewells, the headmaster had also joined us: he looked grief-stricken, but was clearly a restraining presence upon the long arm of the law. Morley, meanwhile, and in contrast, seemed rather blasé about the whole thing.
‘Interesting,’ he said. ‘Very very interesting. Gentlemen, might I make a suggestion?’ He drew the headmaster and the policemen towards him with a wave. I also gathered closer. ‘Talk among yourselves,’ he instructed the boys; and they did: he always had the knack of command. ‘Gentlemen,’ he continued, lowering his voice rather. ‘I wonder if we might … at least … attempt to make a silk purse out of our proverbial sow’s ear here, as it were – if you forgive the mixed metaphor.’
‘What?’ said one of the policemen.
‘I’m afraid I don’t understand,’ said the headmaster.
‘I think if we are rather practical-minded there might be an opportunity here …’
‘Practical-minded, sir?’ said the policeman.
‘Yes, I rather wondered,’ said Morley, hesitating, ‘I rather wondered if you might let me have the head?’
‘Which head?’ said the headmaster, clearly alarmed.
‘The cow’s head, sir?’ said the jug-eared policeman.
‘Yes. That’s right. I thought it might make an interesting lesson for the boys.’
‘A lesson?’
‘Yes.’
‘What are you planning to do, Morley?’ asked the headmaster.
‘To cook it,’ he said, staring at the cow’s head staring back at us. It did not look like a head that wanted to be cooked.
‘You want to destroy the evidence?’ said the policeman.
‘No. No. I want to use the evidence,’ said Morley, who was carefully watching the boys as we spoke. ‘To see if we can …’
‘To see if we can what?’ asked the policeman.
‘Well, it’s certainly not a lot of good to you or anyone else lying there, is it?’ He indicated the vast head, which continued to stare blindly up at us from the dirt, and which continued to look distinctly unappetising. ‘The carcass is the thing, surely, in terms of evidence, since it seems to have been rather particularly mutilated. The head has simply been hacked off. Wouldn’t you agree?’
‘What on earth are you thinking, Morley?’ said the headmaster.
‘I’m thinking that what we really need is a gunny sack …’
‘A gunny sack?’
‘Yes.’
‘For what—’ began the headmaster.
‘It’s an extremely odd request, sir, if you don’t mind my saying,’ interrupted the non-jug-eared policeman.
‘Not at all. I just thought it might be a useful distraction for the boys, in the rather distressing circumstances. And I wonder also if it might help us to flush out the culprit.’
The two policemen glanced first at one another and then over at the nervous huddle of boys.
‘Flush ’em out, sir?’
‘Basic psychology, gentlemen. You’re familiar with Freud?’
‘Is it a place?’
‘I’m familiar with Croyde,’ said the jug-eared policeman. ‘My wife’s sister’s husband’s family come from Croyde—’
‘Freud, Viennese. Fashionable among my daughter and her friends.’
‘I have read The Interpretation of Dreams,’ said the headmaster.
‘Not his best,’ said Morley. ‘I would direct you rather to The Psychopathology of Everyday Life: rather revealing. Anyway, gentlemen, in very crude Freudian terms I wonder if what we might be faced with here are certain forbidden wishes and desires being thwarted, as it were, going underground – subterranean, yes? – leading to unexpected but related outbursts of violence and sexual perversion, like hot springs bubbling up from a secret system of caves and conduits.’
The two policemen looked at one another.
‘I don’t like the sound of that, sir, if you don’t mind my saying so.’
‘Indeed. But this is the very nature of civilisation, according to Freud.’
‘Not as I know it, sir.’
‘No, perhaps not,’ agreed Morley.
‘Nor I,’ said the headmaster. ‘Thank goodness.’
‘Did you say he was from China, this Crude?’
‘Freud,’ said Morley. ‘Viennese, not Pekinese. So what we are witnessing with this spate of attacks is perhaps the surfacing of repressed emotions, guilt and what have you, that are literally bubbling up and popping out.’ He made a literal popping and bubbling noise.
The two policemen looked at one another again: you could tell they were beginning to think that Morley was actually deranged.
‘So perhaps,’ said the headmaster, saving the day, ‘if we closely observe the boys’ reactions as we deal with the cow, we might be able to discern their innocence or guilt?’
‘Yes, the long and the short of it, Headmaster.’
Again, the two policemen looked at one another. One of them nodded to the other and they took themselves off to huddle and converse, casting suspicious glances towards us.
‘It’s not a bad idea,’ said one of the policemen, returning.
‘It’s—’ began the other.
‘It’s just that we would need a gunny sack,’ said Morley.
‘A gunny sack, sir?’
‘Potato sack, grain sack. Something used for gardening or seeds, perhaps? And some clay. Wood for a fire. Get the boys to organise it.’
The policemen conferred again.
‘Very good, sir. If you proceed as you suggest, we shall observe the boys’ reactions.’
‘Excellent!’ said Morley. ‘Excellent. By indirection we shall catch the conscience of the king, eh?’ This again perplexed the policemen rather, but Morley continued. ‘And also it is important that one learns in life that anything can be transformed. Waste not, want not, eh?’ He nodded back over towards the boys, who were looking at us expectantly.
The jug-eared policeman gave a final consenting nod, accepting what was – I thought, and even by Morley’s standards – a ludicrous enterprise.
‘Excellent! Now, boys, boys!’ he called and the boys came hurrying over. ‘The police have given us permission to use the cow’s head here for an experiment.’
The police stood by a tree and surveyed the wide-eyed boys.
‘What sort of experiment?’ said one boy.
‘That will emerge as we proceed, boys,’ said Morley. ‘Like the meaning of life itself. Now, first we need some good clay. Any ideas?’
‘We use clay in the art room, sir.’
‘Of course you do! Run along then, young man, and bring us back a good bucketful of clay.’
The policeman looked for a moment as if he were going to protest.
‘I hardly think the boy is going to run away, do you, Officer?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Are you likely to run off, boy?’ asked Morley.
The boy looked terrified.
‘No, Mr Morley, sir.’
‘Good. What’s your name?’
‘Shipman, sir. But the masters call me Captain.’
‘Well, Captain, my captain, we also need a gunny sack. Think you could pick something up on the way?’
‘A gunny sack, sir?’
‘Potato sack? Something similar?’
‘Yes, sir. I can get something from the kitchens, sir.’
‘Excellent, excellent. Run along then, Captain.’
The boy ran off towards the school as fast as he could.
‘Good. Now, we also need a sharp knife.’
The policeman now looked extremely disconcerted.
‘Come, come, boys,’ said Morley. ‘Sharp knife anyone?’
One of the boys – a plump little thing – looked silently up at the tall, thin pale white boy standing next to him. The tall, thin pale white boy looked as though his features had been whittled from a tall, thin pale white whittling stick.
‘Knife?’ said Morley.
The plump boy swivelled his eyes up at his tall thin pale companion.
‘Come along now, gents,’ said Morley, holding out his hand. ‘We need a knife. For our experiment.’ He walked up and down before them. And then again. And again. ‘Can’t proceed without a knife, alas.’
The plump boy nudged at his companion and the tall thin boy sheepishly produced a long Bowie knife which he had concealed down his trousers.
‘Super,’ said Morley. ‘Thank you.’ The policemen looked on in astonishment. Morley took the knife and examined it. ‘Excellent,’ he said. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Hughes, sir.’
‘Best keep it in a sheath in future, Hughes, eh?’
‘Yes, Mr Morley.’
‘Give you a nasty nick otherwise.’
The policemen were now frantically making notes.
‘And finally, a shovel. Anyone got a shovel?’
None of the boys had a shovel, obviously.
‘A shovel?’ said the policeman.
‘There’s the gardener’s shed over past the tennis courts,’ said the freckled, ginger-haired scrap of a boy, who had played Hippolyta in the little Founder’s Day playlet, and who looked as though he might at any moment float away.
‘Hie thee to the gardener’s shed then, Ginger,’ said Morley. ‘Hie, hie, hi!’ And the ginger-haired boy hied, as he was told. ‘And you’ – Morley then indicated a burly-looking lad, who was sniggering at Ginger’s eager departure – ‘when Ginger returns, I want a pit dug, six foot by six? Understand?’ The burly boy nodded, no longer sniggering. ‘Good. In the meantime,’ continued Morley, ‘I think the police might need a word with some of you, perhaps? Hughes?’ He nodded towards Hughes and his plump accomplice. ‘And the rest of you are going to build a fire. Sefton, if you wouldn’t mind taking charge of the fire?’
‘Very good, Mr Morley.’
While I organised a group of boys to gather firewood and to make a mountain of branches and twigs, Morley and the policemen took Hughes and his friend to one side. After twenty minutes or so of questioning, the policemen escorted the boys away and Morley and the headmaster came and stood by our fire-to-be.
‘All well?’ I asked.
‘All shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of thing shall be well,’ replied Morley.
‘Julian of Norwich,’ said the headmaster.
‘Precisely,’ said Morley.
‘The police are dealing with the matter,’ said the headmaster.
‘For better or worse,’ said Morley. ‘Now, tell me, boys, who on earth has set this fire?’ he asked, staring at our little mountain of sticks and branches.
‘We did!’ cried several of the boys.
‘He did!’ said several others, pointing at me. I had, admittedly, taken charge of the fire-setting.
‘Sefton?’
‘Yes, Mr Morley?’
‘Boys I can forgive, but Sefton, you really have no idea how to set a fire?’
I rather thought I did know how to set a fire, but clearly I was mistaken.
‘What on earth is being taught to our young people, Headmaster?’ Morley proceeded to kneel down and started picking off sticks and twigs, one by one. ‘You know, sometimes I wonder if we might benefit from a curriculum that applied across the whole of England, that we might all enjoy the same privilege of understanding.’
‘An impractical undertaking, I would say, Mr Morley,’ said the headmaster.
‘Nothing is impossible, Headmaster, unless we decide it is so. My curriculum – a national curriculum, shall we call it? – would include cookery, gardening, practical household skills, the memorisation of texts. And the setting of fires. What do you think, boys?’
‘Yay!’ cried the boys.
He straightened up. ‘No. No good. We’ll have to start again, I’m afraid.’ He kicked aside what remained of the pile of wood we had gathered. ‘Also, we need the fire in the pit, Sefton. How’s our pit?’ he asked the burly boy, who was busy digging with the spade that had been returned by Ginger.
‘Nearly done, sir,’ puffed the burly boy.
‘Good. Now, perhaps a demonstration? How to set a fire. Step one. First things first. What’s the most important thing in setting a fire, boys? Any suggestions?’
‘The wood, sir?’ said a small blond smirking boy.
‘Precisely!’ said Morley. ‘But what wood? Which wood?’
‘Whatever wood one is able to find, sir?’ said the boy.
‘A beginner’s mistake!’ said Morley. ‘There is wood, young man, and there is wood.’
I sensed the beginning of a lecture. Which indeed came.
First he picked up a small branch. ‘Elm, as you know, boys, when lit, is inclined to smoke. A lot.’ He tossed the elm branch away.
‘Ah,’ said the headmaster.
‘All wood is possessed of different qualities in this crucial regard. Lime, for example. Anyone know what lime does when set alight? Sefton? Lime, when alight?’
‘I’m not entirely sure, Mr Morley.’
‘Lime smoulders, gentlemen. Smoulders like a goddess of the silver screen.’ He tossed away a lime branch.
There came a slight tittering from some of the boys.
Morley then began kicking through the remaining twigs and branches. ‘Elder, oak, robinia – all terribly acrid. Poplar? Very bitter. Larch and Scots pine – they crackle too noisily and throw out sparks at such a great distance that you almost have to wear protective equipment. But the best for heat, boys, hands down?’
‘Spruce?’ I said, keen to get the questions and answers over with.
‘Spruce, Sefton? Spruce? Apple, man! Boys!’ he said, pointing at me with both hands. ‘Boys! Behold a man who does not know how to set a fire!’ The boys looked at me rather pityingly. ‘Do you want to end up like this, boys?’ There was a general shaking of heads. They did not want to end up like me. ‘Apple,’ continued Morley, picking up a small branch admiringly. ‘Wonderful wood for burning. Wonderful. Little flame, great heat and burns down to a beautiful white ash. Hazel also good.’ He picked up another branch. ‘Holly – rapid burning but good. Cherry, slow to kindle, but excellent once alight. But … Aha!’ He bent down and took a branch from the ground like a prospector discovering diamonds while panning for gold. ‘Ash, gentlemen, ash for a fire – ash is the king of woods! Burns green as well as dry. You are of course familiar with the saying “Ash that’s green is fire for a queen.”’ The boys nodded, as if they had heard the saying – which they certainly had not. ‘Beautifully clear-flamed. And beech is good. Juniper wonderful for scent. Lilac almost a rival to sandalwood. Walnut also. Larch. The good old Weymouth pine …’ He seemed to have gone into a reverie.
‘So, Mr Morley?’ I interrupted.
‘So?’
‘What would you like us to do with the wood?’
‘I’d like them to go and collect some wood we can burn, Sefton. As I had originally hoped they would. And pile it in the pit. How’s our pit?’
‘Deep, sir,’ said the hard-labouring burly boy, now up to his knees in a hole.
‘Excellent! So, what is the king of woods, boy?’
‘Ash!’ came the chorus.
‘Very good. And the queen?’
‘Apple!’ called a couple of lone voices.
‘Excellent!’ said Morley.
‘And elm and lime the jack and ace?’ I said light-heartedly.
‘No, Sefton. No. Did you not listen, man?’
At which moment the boy Captain came hurtling out of the woods towards us, bucket of clay in one hand, large sack in the other.
‘Perfect timing, Captain, perfect!’ said Morley. ‘Half of you then – you half – off to scavenge. The others, stay here with me. We have other work to do.’ Half the boys scurried off, the rest of us remained.
‘Now,’ said Morley. ‘What we need to do is this.’
Rolling up his sleeves, he then led the boys through the final stages of the experiment. First, they larded the sack with clay. This took some time: it was a messy job. The boys who arrived back with branches, meanwhile, were instructed in the correct method for laying the fire, which soon was blazing in the fresh-dug pit, and as the flames began to leap in the dark and damp of the dusk there was a gathering sense of anticipation among the boys, as though they were participating in some profound ancient ritual.
Finally, as we stood gathered in the heat and light, Morley produced his pocket knife – ‘A knife, some string and a pencil stub,’ he liked to say, ‘should be enough to see a man through the darkest day’ * – and he instructed the boys in the delicate art of removing a cow’s horns from its head, though this proved rather easier said than done, and the severance was only eventually effected – with surprising strength and gusto – by the small ginger boy, brandishing the shovel. The horns went, in the end, with a crack. We then placed the poor dehorned cow’s head inside the larded sack and Morley held up the grisly thing in the gathering gloom, like Perseus having bagged his Medusa.
‘Shall I be mother?’
The fire now having burned down, he popped the sack into the pit full of burning ashes, the top of the sack almost level with the ground. The boys then piled more ashes from the fire on top and proceeded to build another fire above it.
‘I do hope you’ll be able to join us for breakfast?’ Morley said to the headmaster. ‘It’ll need a little finishing off in a skillet, but I can guarantee you’ll never have eaten brain and tongue quite like it.’
This proved too much for a couple of the exhausted, dirty boys – who had doubtless earlier been scoffing pies and sneaking sherry – who promptly vomited, copiously, into the bushes.
‘Excellent!’ said Morley. ‘Now, where were we? Weren’t we playing croquet?’
* This is obviously not entirely true: a knife, some string and a pencil stub are not sufficient to see a man through the darkest day. In recent years many readers have contacted me for copies of an article originally written by Morley for his friend Baden-Powell and published in the magazine The Scout in April 1931. The article is titled ‘Swanton Morley’s Tobacco Tin Survival Kit’. I reproduce it here in full, with the kind permission of the Scouting Association.
SWANTON MORLEY’S TOBACCO TIN SURVIVAL KIT
I remember first trekking with Baden-Powell some time after his return from Africa in 1904. We enjoyed a number of walking and climbing holidays together in Scotland and in Cumberland and Westmorland. I learned much on these trips from B-P’s skills as an explorer, backwoodsman and frontiersman. On our trips we would often discuss the bare essentials necessary to survive in the wild. B-P would of course be able to survive only with a knife but it was clear to me that for the rest of us a small number of other tools and equipment would be necessary. Hence my devising the tobacco tin survival kit, which I present now as a useful tool kit for the worldwide Scouting movement. My own survival kit is contained in a handsome blue Edgeworth High Grade Plug Slice tin, given to me by my gardener, Mr George Haynes some time around 1906. On one of our walks together B-P admired my ingenious device and I later presented him with his own survival kit, contained in a Super Black Cat Craven A tin. It is important to note that the use of a tobacco tin does not and should not encourage the use of tobacco.
Knife: This is unlikely to be contained in the tin but is obviously the most important item to carry. Buy the best you can and keep it sharp and clean.
Matches: As many of the strike anywhere variety as possible. Consider a minimum of 20.
Flint and Striker: This is essential for when you run out of matches. Note: using a flint and striker requires practice.
Candle: When you light a match, light a candle, which will save you lighting other matches.
Wire Saw: Used to cut wood, bone and metal.
Brass Wire: For snaring and improvising pot hangers.
String: Kite string is strong and lightweight.
Needle and Thread: For threading gut.
Fishing Kit: Some fishing line, swivels, split shot and hooks.
First Aid Supplies: As much as possible.
Mirror: For signalling, rather than personal hygiene.
Whistle: I never leave home without one.
Wrap the outside of the tin with tape and elastic bands which can be used for spring traps.