‘Walk forward to my desk, boy, and press the bell you see there. We will order this affair one way or the other.’
Markham and Williams were summoned. When they entered, the headmaster turned from the window and faced us. He said to them:
‘Your friendship is in dispute. Your accuser stands beside you. Do not lie, boys. I know a lie. I can feel a lie on its utterance. Have you reason for shame?’
Williams, whose eyes were fastened on the legs of the headmaster’s desk, shook his head. Markham replied that he had no cause to be ashamed.
‘On what then is your relationship based? Have you like interests? Of what do you speak together?’
‘Of many things, sir,’ Williams said. ‘Politics and affairs of state. Of our ambitions, sir. And our academic progress as the term passes.’
‘We talk of one subject only, sir,’ Markham said. ‘The death of my father and stepmother.’
‘Yet you, boy,’ the headmaster said to Williams, ‘would claim a wider conversational field. The air is blackened with the lie. Which boy are we to believe?’
‘Markham is ill, sir. He is not at all himself. I give him what help I can. He does not recall the full extent of our conversation.’
‘We speak of one subject,’ Markham repeated.
‘Why, boy, do you speak of this subject to the exclusion of all others?’
‘Because I killed my father, sir. And my stepmother too.’
‘Markham is ill, sir. He…’
‘Leave the room, you boys. Markham, you shall remain.’
Neither Williams nor I spoke as we walked away from the headmaster’s door. Then, as our ways were about to divide, I said:
‘You know he didn’t. You know it is not true.’
Williams did not look at me. He said: That’s right. Why didn’t you tell Bodger that?’
‘You’ve made him believe he did it, Williams.’
‘Markham’s all talk. Markham’s a madman, eh?’
‘You’re an evil bastard, Williams.’
‘That’s right. I’m an unhealthy personage.’
He went on his way and I stood where he had left me, looking back at the closed door of the headmaster’s study. The little red light which indicated that for no reason whatsoever should the headmaster be disturbed gleamed above it. Within, I guessed that the curtains were by now closely drawn, since to do so was the headmaster’s practice on all grave occasions.
Suddenly I had the absurd notion of returning to this darkened room and demanding to be heard, since now I was free to speak. I felt for the moment that I could put his case more clearly, more satisfactorily than Markham himself. I felt that I knew everything: the horror of the thought that had leapt in Markham’s mind when first his father told him of the accident in Florence; the game he had made of it, and the later fears that Williams had insidiously played upon. But as I paused in doubt I heard the urgent chiming of a bell, and, like the object of some remote control, I answered the familiar summons.
That same evening Markham was driven away. He was seen briefly in the headmaster’s hall, standing about in his overcoat, seeming much as usual.
‘They’ve sent him up to Derbyshire,’ said Mr Pinshow when later I attempted to elicit information. ‘Poor lad; so healthy in the body, too.’ He would say no more, but I knew what he was thinking; and often since I have thought of Markham, still healthy in his body, growing up and getting older in the place they had found for him in Derbyshire. I have thought of Williams too, similarly growing older though in other circumstances, marrying perhaps and begetting children, and becoming in the end the man he had said he would one day be.
‘Flowers?’ said Mr Runca into his pale blue telephone receiver. ‘Shall we order flowers? What’s the procedure?’ He stared intently at his wife as he spoke, and his wife, eating her breakfast grapefruit, thought that it would seem to be her husband’s intention to avoid having to pay for flowers. She had become used to this element in her husband; it hardly ever embarrassed her.
‘The procedure’s quite simple,’ said a soft voice in Mr Runca’s ear. ‘The magazine naturally supplies the flowers. If we can just agree between us what the flowers should be.’
‘Indeed,’ said Mr Runca. ‘It’s to be remembered that not all blooms will go with the apartment. Our fabrics must be allowed to speak for themselves, you know. Well, you’ve seen. You know what I mean.’
‘Indeed I do, Mr Runca –’
‘They came from Thailand, in fact. You might like to mention that.’
‘So you said, Mr Runca. The fabrics are most beautiful.’
Mr Runca, hearing this statement, nodded. He said, because he was used to saying it when the apartment was discussed:
‘It’s the best-dressed apartment in London.’
‘I’ll come myself at three,’ said the woman on the magazine. ‘Will someone be there at half past two, say, so that the photographers can set up their gear and test the light?’
‘We have an Italian servant,’ said Mr Runca, ‘who opened the door to you before and who’ll do the same thing
