GEORGE GOSLING PUSHED his way through the crowds of boys milling about in the entrance to the hall on his way to the staffroom. An early and unscheduled meeting had been called by the headmaster for the whole of the teaching staff. It would be left to Matron and a couple of helpers to contain more than one hundred excited boys in the hall until normal classes could be resumed. He didn’t envy Matron her task. The boys had got wind of the event of yesterday and their awful unbroken voices screeched and yammered around him as he made his way along the corridor. Some of the little brutes even tried to accost him for information.
“Sir! Sir! Is it true?” This was Spielman, whose mastoid-infected ears had triggered the whole nasty business. “Was it Drummond who killed Rappo? They’re saying he’ll swing for it. Is it true? Will he swing? Sir? Sir?”
Gosling clenched his hands behind his back. The impulse to wipe the ghoulish fervour from the ugly little face was almost overwhelming.
“Oh, I doubt it,” he said dismissively. “Down here in Sussex they tend to go in for penal servitude for life for youngsters these days.” Masterson’s brief came back to him: Ingratiate yourself with both boys and staff. Make sure that they trust you. Gosling leaned over and smiled his crooked, boyish, all-pals-together-in-adversity smile. “But you seem to know more about this than I do, Spielman. Why is it that the sports master’s always the last to find out what’s going on? Hey! Foster! Tonsils giving you any trouble today? No? Good man!”
He was the last to enter the staffroom. He slid in quietly but he’d been noticed. The head looked pointedly at his watch and the other twelve teachers, gowned and huddled in their usual groups, smiled, gratified that they were not the target of all eyes. Unconcerned, Gosling gave a formal nod to the headmaster and said in a cheerful voice, “I’m two minutes late—frightfully sorry, sir. Matron needed a little help marshaling the mob and I happened to be passing.…”
“I’ll hear your apologies later, Gosling. We have more important matters than staff punctuality on our agenda this morning.” The voice, icy and dismissive, was at odds with the Pickwickian corpulence.
George chose a seat, as he always did, near the door and to the side of the gathering. From here he had a clear view of his colleagues and could come and go attracting the least attention. One of the staff, more observant than the rest, had once jokingly remarked on this ability of his to disappear or materialise at their elbows: “Remind me, if you can, Gosling—who was it Macbeth described as ‘moving like a ghost’?” And after a token pause to allow for a response: “Ah, yes, of course, I believe it was the wolf. A creature with which, I suspect, you have much in common.” He’d turned to enjoy the smirking appreciation of his colleagues.
George had regretted his automatic riposte: “No. I’m sure the mysterious mover you’re thinking of was ‘Murder’ himself, not his watchdog, sir.” Bloody stupid! Always a mistake to indulge in arm-wrestling with the Head of English Lit. And particularly when you’d accepted a skirmish using your opponent’s choice of weapon. Edmund Langhorne. King of the Quotation. Arrogant tosspot. And now—quite unnecessarily—his enemy.
George’s sports shirt and slacks were the most unremarkable Lillywhite’s had to offer but they marked him out as an alien element amongst the swirls of custard-stained heavy black repp worn by his academic colleagues. His insouciance signalled that he didn’t much care if he was viewed by the rest as a form of pond life. A sports master filling in with the odd geography lesson or two could only survive the condescension of his fellows by affecting a jolly ignorance of their scorn. He could only know his place, do his lowly job well and bite his tongue. George reckoned his rowing blue, his boxing medals and his broken nose gained him respect from the pupils, though with the staff he’d swiftly acquired the reputation of a pugilist and, inevitably, the nickname of “Gentleman George.”
George settled to listen to the official account of the fiasco on the back stairs yesterday. It was going to be interesting to hear what version of the story the Head would expect them to swallow.
Farman flipped a finger right and left under his nose, checking his moustache was standing at the ready, and cast an eye over the staff, gathering attention. “Gentlemen!” He tucked up the trailing sleeves of his academic gown and clamped them to his sides. He rocked forwards and back on creaking shoes for a moment. He harrumphed noisily. Like a lumbering flying boat scrambling to take off, Gosling always thought.
“Gentlemen! Good morning! You’ll know why we’re here. You’ll all have heard the tragic news. You’ll be aware of Edgar Rapson’s death in mysterious circumstances.” At last airborne, he began a steady ascent: “I won’t say more than that for the moment. It would be inconsiderate of me … nay … possibly unlawful if I were to enlarge on those circumstances at this time. But I think it would be appropriate if we were to pause now in order to remember a valued colleague. All stand.”
Valued colleague! George Gosling sighed. He sprang to his feet, adopted a suitably grave expression and lowered his eyes.
The eulogy winged its duplicitous way over bowed heads, faces fixedly sober for the meagre two minutes it took to remind them all of Rapson’s achievements, character and skills. They looked up with more interest when Farman got on to his outline of the previous night’s events. In death Rapson cut a far more dashing figure. Gosling ran a discreet eye over the company, on the alert for any off-key reaction to the circumstances of their colleague’s death.
“… body discovered late last evening at the bottom of the back stairs … heavy snowfall … any traces of an incursion from outside the school obliterated, but we’re not discounting the possibility … indeed—probability—of aggression by intruders. Cause of death? As yet unknown.…” The lift of his eyes to the ceiling signalled a lie to his audience. “Pathologists still at work.…” The excuse swiftly followed. “All safely in the hands of the Sussex police. You may refer yourselves to Inspector Martin if you have information,” he added. “And I must ask you to prepare to be interviewed individually. School goes on as normal, and when you are called on to make your statement I will ensure you are relieved by another member of staff. And—there is one vital substitution to be made—Rapson was a form master, and his flock is left without a shepherd. Who will replace him?”
Farman surveyed the gathering, taking his time to indicate that the question had been carefully considered by him. “Gosling! I’m going to ask you to take his place. You will not have an easy task. The boys will be much exercised, not only by the death of their master, but also by the regrettable absence of one of their number.”
He put out a hand to deflect questions from the audience who seemed suddenly galvanised. “Drummond is the boy who disappeared at about the same time. Drummond, who came to us from Bengal last year. This boy is a possible witness of Rapson’s last moments. I’m pleased to say he has been located and is being returned to us this very day. You will have further information when I have it myself. You may dismiss, gentlemen. Oh, Gosling? Not so fast! A word if you wouldn’t mind.…”
The other men grinned as they passed him on their way out. “Late again, m’boy? Tut, tut!” The supercilious Langhorne even cocked an eyebrow and without a word slid a copy of the Daily Sketch into the young man’s hand as he filed out.
FARMAN CLOSED THE door when the last master had left. He wiped his forehead on the sleeve of his gown. “Well?” he asked. “And what have you to say?”