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Scarsdell Academy
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When Crowley got back to Scarsdell Academy, he had a sensation of discomfort squirming in his gut. It was no surprise that, like every other village in England, Market Scarston had its secrets; age-old arguments and allegiances, that festered and grew well beyond their original bounds. He also knew that private schools bred contempt, both within their walls and certainly with the community in which they were located. But there seemed to be something more to events of the last couple of days. Nothing he could put his finger on, but the same sense that had saved his life in the Middle East tingled now. The same ephemeral trepidation that had made him pause behind a wall in a run-down, bombed-out village and given him a moment to spot the booby-trap that would otherwise have killed him and his entire squad ticked in his hindbrain now in this quiet, simple English village.
Pull yourself together, Jake, he told himself. Jumpy and scarred from bad experience. No need to get carried away by a crazy, lonely old woman who had lost her son. Then he remembered that she wasn’t actually all that old. And she had lost her son in unusual circumstances. Alert but not alarmed, that was the way forward. He needed to talk to young Tommy Arundel again.
The boys all lived in dorms of four beds, and Davenport told Crowley that Tommy had retired to his. When Crowley reached Tommy’s room, he found that the young man wasn’t alone. Crowley immediately recognized the other man present from various photos around the school. Philip Arundel, Scarsdell Academy old boy, benefactor, and Tommy’s father.
The man wasn’t what Crowley would have expected, despite the photos he’d seen. Philip was clearly a physically fit man, tall, and he moved with an air of vigor. His face bore that permanent sneer of faint disdain so common on people from old money English families, but he was handsome all the same. He had to be at least fifty years old, but aside from a few lines on his face and a touch of gray around the temples, he looked a decade younger. Father and son both turned as Crowley entered.
“How are you, Tommy?” Crowley asked.
“I’m okay, thanks, Sir.” The young man managed a tight smile. His father couldn’t be happy that he’d strayed out of bounds and gotten himself hurt.
“Philip Arundel.” The man stepped between his son and Crowley, clearly annoyed that Crowley had addressed the boy first. Crowley allowed himself a little juvenile pleasure at the deliberate slight.
“Jake Crowley,” he said, returning the handshake.
Arundel smiled, showing altogether too many teeth. “Thank you for rescuing my son,” he said, his handshake a bit too firm, held a bit too long.
Crowley resisted the urge to squeeze back. He did hold on for a just a moment longer as Arundel finally went to pull his hand away. A flicker of annoyance rippled the man’s eyebrows, but Crowley turned immediately to Tommy. “Still sore from the fall?”
“Not bad. I’m to remain off my feet for today. At least, that’s what Nurse said.”
“I understand you displayed some useful skills.” Arundel looked at Crowley, arched an eyebrow. “Both in finding and initially treating Tommy.”
“Just common sense really.”
“Ah, come now, Mr. Crowley. No place for false modesty here. You’ve had field experience of some kind. I can tell simply by looking at you, let alone the things you did for my son.”
Crowley smiled, dipped his head just slightly, but refused to answer. Arundel’s brow knotted. It clearly rankled him that Crowley wasn’t forthcoming, and Crowley enjoyed that. He was also cautious for more serious reasons. Look to the pub, Egerton had said. And Crowley couldn’t help thinking Look to the school might be equally good advice. He had quickly come to suspect everyone around him, and self-important, old-money men like Philip Arundel would top the list of people Crowley would distrust regardless of the situation.
“Where’s home for you then?” Arundel asked, taking a new tack. “Your accent isn’t local.”
“I don’t really have a home other than here, now,” Crowley said, with a half smile. “I’ve moved around a lot previously.”
“Oh? And where were you before this position?”
Crowley was in no doubt that the school’s biggest benefactor had seen his CV. The truth was that Arundel probably already knew a lot more about Crowley than Crowley would like. But this was a question he couldn’t politely skirt.
“I was in the service.”
Arundel waited for more, head slightly tilted. When Crowley didn’t elaborate, Tommy’s father flashed a knowing smile. Despite his annoyance at Arundel winkling an admission from him, a sense of understanding passed between the two men. Crowley suspected he’d moved up a notch in Arundel’s estimation. That in itself gave him an interesting insight into the man.
“What’s your line of work?” Crowley asked.
“Shipping.”
Now it was Crowley’s turn to wait, and this time Arundel was not forthcoming. A silence hung between them, each taking the other’s measure. Tommy looked from Crowley to his father and back again, brow slightly furrowed.
“I know the students are happy to have you here,” Arundel finally said, filling the void that had been growing. “Tommy speaks very highly of you.”
Crowley laughed. “Oh, I doubt that, but it’s kind of you to say.” Tommy showed little to no interest in class, no doubt relying on his family connections. He was one who would never have to actually work for anything in his life, other than work at fulfilling the obsequious role of son to a powerful father. As long as he remained in his father’s good graces, life would be permanently on a silver platter for Tommy Arundel. Crowley himself enjoyed more privileges than the average person, but the sense of entitlement resident in families like the Arundel’s made his skin crawl.
“I’m sure you didn’t just come up here to check on the boy’s injuries,” Arundel said. “Don’t let me interrupt you.” He made a show of stepping back just a meter or so, then gestured generously toward his son.
Crowley saw no harm in telling the truth. He would watch the father’s reaction too. “Remember the mosaic we saw in that underground chamber?” he asked. “I wanted to talk about it some more. I wondered why it seemed to upset you.”
“Why would Tommy know anything about that?” Arundel snapped, suddenly defensive. He seemed personally affronted.
There’s a glimpse of his true nature showing through, Crowley thought. “Well, because Tommy is both a local and a member of the history club,” he said.
Arundel nodded. “Well, yes. The history club is a family tradition.”
“Is that so?” Crowley pulled out his phone, showed Arundel the photo of the mosaic. “You ever seen anything like that before?”
Arundel leaned forward, took a long, hard look, then shook his head. “Fascinating, but nothing I’m familiar with.” Crowley opened his mouth to ask more, but Arundel spoke on. “Did you know you are now a local celebrity, thanks to this find?”
“Celebrity? I hardly think that’s likely.”
“Oh, don’t underestimate its significance, Mr. Crowley. The villagers believe the pit Tommy literally stumbled into is evidence that the battle of Blood Field happened right here in Market Scarston. It legitimizes our claim. One to our side, eh?”
“I’ve noticed the enmity between the two villages,” Crowley said. “It seems a little extreme.”
Arundel smiled, shook his head slightly. “It all started with the construction of a munitions plant in Wellisle during World War I. That village and ours were competing for the plant, and when it went to Wellisle, that turned the fortunes of both villages. Businesses grew up around the plant, people followed the jobs. The wealthier families even drifted that way.” He looked up into memory, as if he’d been there. “Market Scarston was always the noble village, and Wellisle working class. Then, about ten years ago, the map was redrawn so that many of our local estates are suddenly located in Wellisle. It’s apparently a more desirable address these days.” He barked a rueful laugh, but Crowley saw the anger burning in his eyes. This was obviously very personal to him. “But we have the school,” Arundel went on, pride replacing resentment in his tone. “Wellisle will never have a school with our history and traditions.”
At the mention of the word history, Crowley seized the moment to bring the conversation back around. “I must admit, I know nothing about the history club.”
“We study local history,” Tommy said. “All the way back to the days of Roman rule.”
“And before,” Arundel added sharply.
Tommy nodded, chastised. “And before. We do a lot of outdoor activities, hiking, camping, even archaeological digs.”
“It seems strange,” Crowley said carefully, “that given I’m the geography and history teacher here that I have no involvement.”
Arundel chuffed a condescending laugh. “Ah, despite its name, it’s really more of a social and outdoorsman club than an actual history group.”
“Speaking of the club,” Tommy said. “I have an outing.”
“I thought you were supposed to rest?” Crowley said
“That’s what Nurse says,” Tommy said. “But I’m feeling quite well, actually.” He headed for the door. “See you later, Dad, Sir.”
Arundel watched his son leave, then turned back to Crowley. “You can’t keep young people still for a moment.”
“So it would seem.”
Arundel reached out to shake hands again. “I do hope to see you again soon.” There was no challenge to Arundel’s grip, but it was firm, his gaze flinty.
“I look forward to it,” Crowley said.