Love Lies Bleeding. Edmund Crispin
the second place, I asked her outright this morning if anything of that sort had occurred. Her only reaction was surprise – and I’m positive it was genuine.’
‘I’m greatly relieved to hear it.’ The headmaster pulled a handkerchief from his breast pocket and dabbed perfunctorily at his forehead. ‘But in that case I don’t understand what upset the girl – or why she should be so secretive about it.’
Miss Parry shrugged. ‘No more do I. As far as I can see, sex is out of it, and although there are a good many conceivable alternatives, there’s no actual evidence for any of them.’
‘Then how can I help you?’
‘All I want is to establish, as far as possible, that nothing untoward happened during the rehearsal, or on the premises here. My responsibility ends with that.’
‘I see. Well, that should be easy enough. I’ll speak to Mathieson, who’s producing the play…If you like, I’ll do it now. I believe he’s teaching this period, so I can easily get hold of him.’
‘There’s no immediate hurry.’ Miss Parry rose and stubbed out her cigarette. ‘The whole affair is probably an ignis fatuus. Perhaps if you could telephone me later on…’
‘By all means.’ The headmaster, too, had risen. He pointed to a statuette of Aphrodite which stood on a rosewood side table by the door. ‘I’m very glad,’ he said, ‘that that woman isn’t responsible. When we have trouble with the play it’s generally safe to assume that she’s at the bottom of it.’
Miss Parry smiled. ‘The Platonic halves…’ she said.
‘The Platonic halves,’ said the headmaster firmly, ‘are best kept apart until they’ve left school. Apart from anything else, a little enforced abstinence makes the eventual impact much more violent and exciting…’ He became belatedly aware of the duties of hospitality: ‘But won’t you stay to lunch?’
‘Thank you, no. I must be back by the time morning school finishes.’
‘A pity. But you’ll be at the – ah – celebrations tomorrow?’
‘Of course. Who’s giving the prizes?’
‘It was to have been Lord Washburton,’ said the headmaster, ‘but he’s fallen ill, so I’ve had to get a last-minute substitute – the Oxford Professor of English, who’s an acquaintance of mine. He should be interesting – in fact, my only fear is that he may be too interesting. I’m not quite sure that he’s capable of the sustained hypocrisy which the occasion demands.’
‘In that case I shall come to the speeches. As you know, I avoid them as a rule.’
‘I only wish I could,’ said the headmaster. ‘Not in this particular instance, but in general…Well, well. I suppose these crosses helped to justify my three thousand a year.’
He showed Miss Parry out, and returned to the correspondence which lay on his desk. A Mrs Brodribb, it appeared, had much to say on the subject of Henry’s School Certificate results – a matter on which the headmaster himself was only imperfectly informed. There was to be a meeting of the Headmasters’ Conference in a fortnight’s time. Someone wished to endow a prize for the best yearly essay on The Future of the British Empire… The headmaster groaned aloud. There were far too many prizes already. The boys wasted too much of their time competing for them, and the masters wasted too much of their time setting and correcting them. Unluckily, the donor in this instance was too eminent to be offended; the only gleam of comfort was that with tact he might be induced to read the essays, and award the prize, himself.
The headmaster glanced rapidly at the remaining letters, and then put them aside. The problem of that lasciva puella, Brenda Boyce, had aroused in him a mild curiosity – and since the matter had to be dealt with, it might as well be dealt with now. He went to a dark green metal filing cabinet and investigated its contents; they revealed the fact that Mathieson was at present teaching English to the Modern Lower Fifth. The headmaster picked up his gown and mortarboard and, carrying them under his arm, made for the door.
‘For I have learned,’ said Simblefield, a small, spotty, cowardly boy, ‘to look on nature not as in the hour of thoughtless youth but hearing oftentimes the still sad music of humanity nor harsh nor grating though of ample power to chasten and subdue.’
He paused, and an expression of pleasure appeared on his unprepossessing features. Simblefield’s highest aim, in the recitation of poetry, was to get through his allotted portion without actually omitting any of the words; and this he had succeeded in doing. That there were subtleties of interpretation beyond and above this simple ambition he was, of course, vaguely aware, but in the flush of his present triumph he held them of no account.
In the silence which followed his breathless intoning, Mr Hargrave, the school’s most savage disciplinarian, could be heard in the next room booming Latin at his cowed and sycophantic form. Simblefield looked expectantly at Mr Mathieson, who was gazing with folded arms out of the classroom windows. Being an exceptionally naive and stupid boy, Simblefield supposed that Mr Mathieson was seeking for words adequate to commend his performance; but in this diagnosis Simblefield was mistaken, for in fact Mr Mathieson had fallen into a transient and inchoate daydream, and was momentarily unaware that Simblefield had finished. He was an untidy, heavily built man of middle age, clumsy in his movements; and he wore an ancient sports coat with leather pads sewn to the elbows, and a pair of baggy grey trousers.
The sound of fidgeting aroused him, and his reverie merged discouragingly into the austere reality of the classroom. It was a large, box-like place, the lower reaches of its walls liberally decorated with ink and fingermarks. The master’s desk, ponderous and antiquated, stood on a dais beside a pitted and pock-marked wall blackboard. There were a few cheerless pictures of indefinite rustic and classical scenes. A thin film of chalk covered everything. And some twenty boys sat behind wilfully collapsible desks, occupying their brief intermission in various more or less destructive and useless ways.
Mathieson observed that Simblefield was no longer giving tongue, but was, instead, gazing at him with much complacency.
‘Simblefield,’ he said, ‘have you any notion at all of the meaning of this poem?’
‘Oh, sir,’ said Simblefield feebly.
‘Just what is our attitude to nature in our thoughtless youth, Simblefield? You must be well qualified to answer that question.’
There was some laughter of a rather insincere kind. ‘Potty Simblefield,’ said someone.
‘Well, Simblefield? I’m waiting for an answer.’
‘Oh, sir, I don’t know, sir.’
‘Of course you must know. Think, boy. You don’t take much notice of nature, do you?’
‘Oh, yes, sir.’
‘No, you don’t, Simblefield. To you, it’s simply a background for your own personality.’
‘Yes, sir, I see, sir,’ said Simblefield rather too readily.
‘I have grave doubts, Simblefield, as to whether in fact you do see. But some of the others may.’
There was an instant clamour. ‘I understand, sir.’ ‘Only a fool like Simblefield wouldn’t understand.’ ‘Sir, it’s like when you go for a walk, sir, you don’t really notice the trees.’ ‘Sir, why do we have to read Wordsworth, sir?’
‘Quiet!’ said Mr Mathieson with determination. An uneasy hush ensued. ‘Now, that is precisely the way in which Wordsworth did not look at nature.’
‘Wordsworth