Tom Brown's Body

'Well, we'll see,' said Gavin good-humouredly. 'Sit down.'

'I never sit in the presence of authority, sir.'

'Perhaps, in the presence of authority, you are usually in an almost recumbent position?'

Scrupe hitched his trouser knees gracefully and sat down.

'At your service, sir.'

'Right. What made you go to old Mrs Harries's cottage?'

'When would that have been, sir?'

'Why, did you go more than once?'

'No, sir.'

'All right. Answer the question, then.'

'I am interested in the occult, sir.'

'Yes?'

'Yes, sir.'

'Would the occult, in your view, include reading other people's letters?'

'Certainly, sir. Why not?'

'You don't think it wrong to read other people's letters?'

'I thought we were discussing the occult, sir.'

'Well?'

'The occult is neither right nor wrong, sir. Shakespeare has a phrase – 'but thinking makes it so.''

'I see. So you thought it was all right to read letters which Miss Pearson had written to Mr Conway?'

'No, of course not,' said Scrupe, speaking patiently. 'I'm not talking about those sort of letters. I met Miss Pearson there one day when I was really after something else. She told me she had come for some letters. I advised her not to marry Mr Conway. I escaped by way of a downstairs window.'

'I see,' said Gavin. He hesitated a moment, and then said, 'Look here, Scrupe, I don't suppose you'll believe me, but I would like to tell you that if you could add anything to all this, you'd be doing Miss Pearson no harm.'

Scrupe got up.

'If I think of anything, I'll let you know,' he said grandly.

'No, no,' said Gavin. 'Don't go yet. You know, I suppose, that I have every reason to suspect that Mr and Miss Pearson are responsible for the death of Mr Conway?'

'You're bluffing,' said Scrupe.

'Have it your own way. You must please yourself what you believe. What was all this about borrowing a fancy dress?'

'I was commissioned to borrow it for the School plays, sir.'

'By whom?'

'By Mr Poundbury. I told him I thought I could lay hands on a suitable costume.'

'The one belonging to Mr Conway?'

'Yes, sir. Marion – Miss Pearson – had told me of the one her father helped to make.'

'And did Mr Conway – I mean, was he prepared to lend it?'

'I didn't like to ask him, sir. On the other hand, Mr Poundbury is a very enthusiastic sort of man, so I thought –'

'Oh, rot!' said Gavin. 'You saw the mask by accident when you visited the cottage and –'

'Yes, sir.'

'And that's all I could get out of him,' said Gavin, retailing the conversation. 'I wish you'd have a go at him.'

Mrs Bradley shook her head.

'Where fools rush in, angels fear to tread,' she unkindly observed.

15. And Puppy-Dogs' Tails

*

But now, since you have nothing better to do, ev'n go to your Book and learn your Catechism.

IBID. (Act 1, Scene 6)

THE School Concert was one of the great occasions of the year. From three o'clock the parents began to turn up. Lessons were cancelled from half-past twelve onwards, and the School veiled itself in its best. By half-past three Big School had begun to fill up. Parents did not sit with their boys. These formed a solid phalanx at the back, except for the School prefects (who acted as stewards to the visitors), and the House prefects (who were responsible for the orderliness of their Houses). The masters, gowned and remote, occupied the second and third rows. Directly in front of them, on either side of Mr Wyck (whose throne-like chair was in the middle of the first row), sat such members of the governing body as had chosen to grace the occasion with their presence. Directly behind the Staff sat the twittering and egoistic parents.

*

Ingpen, of Mr Poundbury's House, had, on the day of the plays, a very adventurous time. Spey depended upon no preparatory school in particular for its regular intake, and when, under Mr Wyck's predecessor, the numbers had fallen slightly below the complete accommodation of the School, the governing body had decided to instal a small preparatory department of its own for boys of eight to thirteen.

These children were allotted in strict rotation to the Houses, so that each Housemaster received his fair share of them. Wealthy Housemasters, such as Mr Mayhew, thought them a complete nuisance. Indigent ones, such as Mr Poundbury, charged them some extras and were very glad to have them.

There were strict rules governing their upbringing. They were in charge of a special prefect in each House whose duty it was to make certain that they were not bullied, imposed upon, or spoilt by the older boys. They went to bed a good deal earlier than the rest of the House, and had special dormitories allotted to them. They had their own Day Room, which was not in the House at all, but in an annexe of Big School, so that they were nominally, during parts of the day, in Mr Wyck's own charge.

They were in great request at certain times and seasons. The treble voices in the School choir were bound, for obvious reasons, to be chosen from their number. One of them usually coxed the School boat. As children, dwarfs, Midsummer Night's Dream fairies, girls, and so forth, they were much in request for the School plays. Mr Poundbury, in fact, made even more use of them than this, for he made them pay a Dramatic Society fee and charged them heavily for the hire or purchase of their costumes, two impositions from which his older actors were free. The governing body, as a matter of actual fact, financed all such School activities, but Mr Poundbury felt that the pleasure experienced by the little boys, and the pride taken in their dramatic prowess by their mothers, justified him in these otherwise doubtful sources of private profit.

On the day of the School plays, Ingpen, nephew of the woodwork master and a robust and comely child of nine and a half, awoke at the sound of the rising bell, and, remembering what day it was, jumped out of bed excitedly, slid on his bedside rug underneath which the housemaid had smeared and rubbed up a forbidden household polish, and cracked his head rather hard against the wall towards which, as Fate would have it, he had taken a toss.

Ingpen, who was a plucky enough creature, got up rather shakily, explored, with delicate finger and wincing eyes and mouth, that part of his cranium which had struck the wall, said, 'You silly fools, it's not funny,' to the rest of the dormitory, and was suddenly very sick in the middle of the dormitory floor.

The catcalls, whoops, realistic imitations, and general pandemonium caused by this performance brought along Timms, Mr Poundbury's unfortunate Preep-Weep, as such dry-nurses were called at Spey, for question and answer.

'Now what?' shouted Timms, successfully dealing with the din.

'Please, Timms, Ingpen catted. Look.'

Timms, who had a queasy stomach before breakfast, unwisely accepted this invitation.

'Lord!' he said, in disgust. 'Here, you, Tomalin, go and tell matron. What's the matter with you?' he added wrath-fully to Ingpen. 'Have you been eating in dorm, you