The Floating Body (12 page)

‘In truth the picture is not bleak, it’s complex.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, let me sketch out half a dozen or so factors operating in the human heart. I think you’ll see that although human beings are defective, or corrupt, we are still complex beings.’

‘Very well, let’s hear your analysis,’ I said.

Jack took a deep draft from his pint and then said, ‘Firstly, human beings are rational. In our normal daily lives we trust our reason—we constantly use it to work things out. We know when we get things wrong because we know what it means to get things right.’

I nodded, so he continued. ‘Second, human beings are moral because we have a moral nature and can glimpse an unattainable moral ideal. We know that God’s law exists—and we know that we fall far short of it—because we fall far short of our
own
moral standards.’

I was feeling in a rather glum mood that night so I muttered in response, ‘I wish I was a better person than I am. Well, some of the time anyway.’

‘Third,’ Jack continued, ‘human beings are creative. This is one of the most interesting things about us. It’s what makes my field of study possible. However, we’re not just “creators” but what Tollers calls “sub-creators”—we were made
by
God
like
God. God is the Creator and we resemble him in being “sub-creators”.’

‘I hadn’t thought of it like that before,’ I said, staring into my beer and thinking about my secret ambition to become a novelist.

‘Fourth, human beings are immortal. I know you and I have debated this in the past, and you don’t entirely see things from my perspective. But it’s immortality that gives our lives ultimate moral value. It’s immortality that gives our lives consequence and purpose.’

‘That’s four,’ I commented. ‘You said you had about half a dozen.’

‘Fifth, human beings have dignity,’ Jack resumed patiently. ‘Being immortal, rational and morally responsible gives us dignity. And finally, human beings are broken. Our moral grasp falls short of our moral vision, our reasoning can lead us astray, we can be “sub-creators” in dark and destructive ways as well as inspiring ways, and we can treat each other as beings without dignity. We do this because . . .’

‘Because,’ I offered when Jack paused, ‘because of that Christian doctrine of “sin” you were throwing at me last time we debated this.’

Jack nodded and said, ‘It certainly explains human nature, doesn’t it? It explains
us
.’

As Jack finished I looked across the snug and was surprised to see a man I thought I recognised—a man I would not have expected to see in the small cathedral town of Nesfield.

‘Jack,’ I said as I pointed over his shoulder. ‘Standing over there in the doorway—isn’t that . . .’

Jack turned around to look. The doorway on the far side of the room, the door between the snug and the bar parlour, was dimly lit and the man standing there was in shadow.

‘I believe you’re right, young Morris. That is quite definitely our old friend Detective Inspector Crispin of Scotland Yard. Invite him to join us.’

I needed no more encouragement. Putting down my glass, I took the few steps across the room and tapped the man, whose back was towards us, on the shoulder.

He spun around quickly, almost defensively. That was, I guessed, the trained reaction of a professional policeman. Then he saw who I was and his face broke into a cheerful grin.

‘Tom Morris!’ he said. ‘As I live and breathe—what are you doing here?’

‘I teach up at the school,’ I explained. ‘But, rather more to the point—what are you doing here?’

The Scotland Yard man tapped the side of his nose and winked.

‘I am involved in what we call “an on-going investigation”,’ he said.

‘And look who else is here,’ I said to the inspector. As I spoke I stepped to one side so that Crispin could see Jack, seated at our corner table on the far side of the snug. Jack raised his glass in a salute to the Scotland Yard man.

‘Well, this is a delight!’ he said as he strode across the room. Jack rose from his seat and the two men shook hands in a warm and hearty greeting. Then Jack invited Crispin to join us, and he drew up a chair at our table. We called over to the barmaid and ordered an extra pint for our guest, and fresh pints for ourselves, and then began the interrogation—although exactly who was interrogating whom was not exactly clear.

‘Now how does it happen that I find you here in Nesfield, Mr Lewis?’ asked the Scotland Yard man.

‘Through the good offices of young Tom here,’ Jack explained, ‘I am guest speaker at the Nesfield Cathedral School’s Annual Speech Night.’

‘And when is that?’

‘In two nights from now,’ I explained. ‘The event is open to the public. Why don’t you come along, inspector?’

Crispin smiled thoughtfully and said, ‘Yes, I just might do that. I’d like to hear you speak, Mr Lewis. What’s your topic?’

‘What I have to offer my unsuspecting hearers are some reflections on education with special reference to the teaching of English in the upper forms of schools.’

‘Sounds a bit dry,’ commented Inspector Crispin, ‘if you don’t mind my saying so.’

I laughed and said, ‘The one thing Jack never is, is dry. One of the most popular lecturers in Oxford.’

‘So how do you make the subject interesting, Mr Lewis?’

‘When I explain the role of Morality, in the form of Natural Law, in education, I think I’ll spark some interest—and even get a few backs up.’ Jack chuckled at the prospect as he said this.

‘Now, inspector,’ I intervened, changing the subject, ‘this tired old cliché about “pursuing on-going investigations” just won’t do, you know. It won’t wash—not with us. Why are you really in Nesfield?’

A sly smile crept across the Scotland Yard man’s face as he said, ‘As much as I might wish to discuss my work with you, Mr Morris, a police officer is not always at liberty to speak about certain things with civilians—at least not in the middle of an investigation.’

‘I take it you’ve heard of our murder, inspector?’ asked Jack.

‘And most interesting, most intriguing it sounds,’ said Crispin.

‘Ah, the penny drops,’ I cried. ‘Our local man, Inspector Locke, said he had a friend from Scotland Yard in the district and he would consult this unnamed friend. I take it he was referring to you?’

‘There’s no harm in admitting that my old friend Sexton Locke has, indeed, taken me through the details of the Fowler murder case. But more than that I cannot say.’

‘So is it the Dave Fowler murder that brought you down here then?’ I persisted.

‘No, as a matter of fact, it’s not,’ said Crispin firmly. ‘I’m here making inquiries into an entirely different matter. It’s just that this other matter has brought me to the district, and I was happy to sit down with my friend Sexton and talk over the bewildering murder mystery he’s investigating.’

‘And what exactly do you make of our intriguing little puzzle, inspector?’ asked Jack.

‘Very little so far,’ the Scotland Yard man admitted.

‘What help have you been able to give Inspector Locke?’ I asked.

‘Same answer, I’m afraid, Mr Morris: very little so far.’

‘But you will be helping him to investigate?’

‘No, this murder is definitely Inspector Locke’s case,’ said the Scotland Yard man, shaking his head. ‘I have no intention of interfering.’

While this conversation was going on, I looked up through the doorway into the bar parlour. Judging from the noise coming from the front bar, the grudge match between Warnie and the publican was still going on—and was a close-fought affair.

As I watched I saw our esteemed Deputy Head Master, Gareth McKell, step up to the bar and place an order.

‘Have you developed any theories, Mr Lewis?’ Inspector Crispin was asking Jack.

‘As it happens,’ Jack replied, slowly and cautiously, ‘the very beginnings of an idea have begun to develop in my mind.’

I was startled to hear Jack say this, and just as startled to see a large man approach McKell at the bar and tap him on the shoulder. McKell turned around to look at the looming giant who had thus interrupted his drinking. Was it my imagination, or did a look of fear flicker fleetingly across McKell’s face?

That big man was speaking closely in McKell’s ear and pointing towards the door of the pub. McKell downed the remains of his double whisky in a single gulp and followed the big man outside.

Meanwhile, Crispin was saying, ‘Tell me about this idea of yours, Mr Lewis.’

Jack laughed and said, ‘Ideas are sometimes rather like photographs: they start as negatives and only slowly, in solution, does the positive image appear. This seed of an idea that occurred to me this afternoon is certainly not yet developed. The positive image has not yet begun to appear.’

Jack paused to take a deep draught from his pint, and then said, ‘Now, inspector, surely you can tell Tom and me—as old friends—a little more about this mysterious investigation that’s brought you to Nesfield?’

Crispin finished his drink in thoughtful silence, and then said, ‘Very well. But for your ears only, mind.’

He looked around as if fearing being overheard, and then said quietly, ‘Diamond smuggling. I’m working on a diamond smuggling case.’

‘What? Here in Nesfield?’ I spluttered with amazement.

‘I’ve already told you more than I should,’ replied the Scotland Yard man. And despite my continued probing, he remained as tight lipped as a mussel in cold water.

The next morning I was setting out across the cathedral close from my rooms when a window opened behind me and a head appeared. It was the sullen and grumpy Henry Beard, whose mission in life appeared to be providing a dark cloud to cover any sunshine that happened to be about at the time.

‘Morris,’ he called, ‘can you spare me a minute?’

I said I could, and I did—mounting the front steps to his terrace house.

‘Come inside, come into the study,’ said Beard, trying, and failing, to be uncharacteristically hearty and welcoming.

As I strolled into his study I remarked, ‘This place is certainly a mess.’

‘I’m not much at housekeeping,’ Beard admitted.

‘Pity your wife’s away,’ I said, remembering he’d said she was off visiting relatives. ‘She’d tidy this up in no time.’

Beard grunted in reply, but I wasn’t really listening. I was surveying the shelves of his study and noticing something I hadn’t seen before. I suppose I hadn’t been in this room for more than a minute at a time in the past, but now I had the chance to look around.

The shelves were loaded with sporting trophies. All shapes and sizes of dusty monuments to past triumphs stood as mute testimony to Henry Beard’s surprisingly athletic past. At least, it surprised me.

‘Very impressive,’ I said, pointing to the load of cups and shields that Beard had won as a young man. They were now collecting dust, grime and mildew and were sadly neglected, but there were certainly a lot of them.

‘From before the war,’ said Beard quietly, almost through clenched teeth. ‘When I came back I was no longer very interested . . .’ His voice trailed away.

‘But look at them all: golf, tennis, archery, both long bow and crossbow, middle-distance running, and a fishing competition you seem to have won several times. Pity they’re so dusty.’

‘Samantha polishes them,’ he said, reminding me of his wife’s name. ‘Or she will when she gets back. But look here, Morris, old chap. That’s not what I asked you here to talk about. It’s about this added burden, these extra mathematics classes.’

‘As I’ve already explained, that’s not my cup of tea. If you want me to teach a class on cross-sections of the cone I’m just not your man.’

‘Yes, yes, yes,’ muttered Beard impatiently, ‘I understand all that. But very basic arithmetic, for the younger boys—you could manage that, couldn’t you?’

‘Well . . .’ I hesitated.

‘Look here,’ urged Beard, seizing his moment, ‘this is the revised timetable old Rogers has just brought around. If you could only take the Lower Third in this period here—this week and next week—it would be a small part of the load off my shoulders. And it’s very basic, you know. So how about it, old man?’

I peered at the timetable, feeling divided. On the one hand, I felt bad about leaving the hapless Beard thrashing about trying to cope. On the other, I had a horror of trying to teach even the most basic mathematics. Then, as I looked down at the revised timetable, the light dawned and the weight rolled off my shoulders.

‘Beard, old chap, that’s when I take the Fourth for poetry. See—there’s the class. It’s a clash. I’m afraid I can’t help you. Sorry about that.’

I added the last words as a look of devastated disappointment began on Beard’s forehead and slowly crept over the remainder of his face—like a tide washing down a beach. When the entire acreage of his visage was thus covered, he lost interest in me and ushered me out as quickly as he decently could.

At the foot of the steps leading down from Beard’s terrace I encountered the Head Master.

‘Ah, yes, just the man I want to see,’ said Dr Rogers, his distinguished head of thick white hair ruffling in the breeze as he spoke. ‘I’m just in the process of assigning tasks to each of the masters for Speech Night.’

First school was about to begin and the cathedral close was filled with a gaggle of schoolboys trooping off to their first classes for the day. Some appeared eager—the swots, I suppose—while most ambled along, the snail-like stragglers more interested in talking to each other than getting into their classrooms on time.

‘Now the task I’d like you to look after, Mr . . .’ The Head’s voice trailed away.

‘Morris—Tom Morris,’ I prompted.

‘Of course, of course. You mustn’t imagine I’d forgotten, Mr Morris. Oh, no, no, no. I’m not a man who forgets. Now, where was I up to? I was just saying—’

‘What my task would be on Speech Night.’

‘Ah, yes, of course, exactly. Now I’ve put you down to supervise the junior school. You are to ensure that all the junior forms are seated in the cathedral by a quarter to the hour—that should be well within your capacity, I imagine.’