Authors: Kel Richards
Left alone with Jack, I said, ‘Did you notice how deeply that knife had been thrust into poor Fowler’s stomach? That looked like a powerful, angry blow to me.’
Jack nodded as a look of deep sadness came over his face. ‘That, young Morris,’ he said, ‘is what human nature at its most violent, most angry and most evil can do.’
‘Come on, Jack!’ I protested. ‘Surely you can’t really believe it’s normal to do something like that to a fellow human being?’ I paused to gather my thoughts. ‘Who can do that? Who can strike a blow like that into the body of another human being? Despite what you say about human nature being defective, I just can’t believe that a murderer is “normal” or has “normal human nature” in any sense of that word.’
‘So you would describe murder as being “unnatural”, I take it?’
‘Yes, yes, that’s a good word to use to describe such an act of evil—it’s “unnatural”. Not just murder—killing, any killing. In fact, any act of real, genuine evil, I believe, is against nature. At least against human nature.’
‘We need to be quite clear about such things—so how, exactly, would you describe human nature when in its “natural” or unspoiled state?’
I thought for a moment before I replied. ‘Our nature inclines us to want to see things go well, both for ourselves and for others. We are distressed by suffering we see in much the same way as we are discomforted by our own sufferings. From this, I take it, human nature, in the normal course of things, is kindly, sympathetic and basically . . . well, for want of a better word, good.’
‘And you are not, of course, on your own,’ said Jack. ‘Many, perhaps most, would agree with you. Sadly, the evidence seems to be otherwise. Chesterton was fond of saying that the one doctrine that never needs defending is the doctrine of original sin—since the evidence for its truth surrounds us every day.’
‘Well, Chesterton was a blockhead then! His doctrine of original sin is a gross insult to the whole human race. Furthermore, I refuse to accept that my own nature is fundamentally corrupt and disordered in some way.’
‘Exactly, that’s the rub, young Morris. What concerns us is that the Christian teaching about human nature is telling us something about ourselves that we don’t want to know.’
‘Something about ourselves that is quite untrue, you mean!’ I protested vigorously.
Then Jack did something that quite surprised me: he clapped me gently on the shoulder and said, ‘My dear chap, you mustn’t think that because human nature—
all
human nature—is broken and defective in crucial ways that people aren’t still likeable. You, for instance, are an extremely likeable young man. I always enjoyed teaching you when you were my pupil and I enjoy your company still. But that doesn’t mean that you and I—and humans in general—are somehow basically
good
. That’s a separate thing entirely.’
I admitted to Jack that I was now feeling confused.
‘Which is completely understandable,’ he responded. ‘We take it that if people aren’t good they aren’t likeable and that everything they do is poisoned by their corrupt character. Our problem as human beings, however, is not of that order. We suffer from a corruption that we are, at some level, aware of and fighting against in all our best moments. But the very fact that we
have
to fight against it makes my case.’
Once again his pipe had gone out and he turned his back against the wind and struck a match to relight it. This action seemed to strike a thought.
‘If there was no wind blowing this morning,’ he said, his voice once again cheerful and hearty, ‘I would not have to protect the small, flickering flame of the match. But I must because there is. We would not have to struggle with our consciences as often as we do if there wasn’t a chill wind blowing through every human soul.’
I nodded thoughtfully as Jack continued, ‘We would not be disappointed by our own small moral failures if it were not the case that we have to guard against such failures at every moment.’
Jack paused to look up at the roofline of the Old School and then back down at the gravel road before he added, ‘When something like this happens, we are seeing that inner corruption—that “inner demon”, if you wish—being unrestrained and allowed to break out in violent anger.’
Further discussion was interrupted by the brisk return of Detective Inspector Sexton Locke—this time without his sergeant, who was, I assumed, making enquiries elsewhere in the school.
‘Now, gentlemen,’ he said, ‘I’d like you to accompany me to the roof—to the “scene of the crime”, as it were.’ With these words he turned and led the way.
As we passed under the Old School archway we encountered young Stanhope, running like a boy who was late for class—which indeed he was, the first bell having already rung.
When he saw us, he skidded to a halt and addressed himself to me.
‘What’s happened, sir?’ he asked. This skinny, pale boy with his tousled blond hair blinked at me through his big spectacles, waiting for an answer.
‘Did Dean Cowper talk to you at chapel this morning?’
‘Yes, sir, he did, sir.’
‘What did he tell you?’ I asked, thinking it best if I knew what ‘official’ line of explanation was being taken in the school.
‘He said Mr Fowler’s had an accident, sir. He said he’s dead, sir. Is it true?’
‘I’m afraid it is, Stanhope. Now you run along or you’ll miss your first class.’
He hesitated as if hoping for more details, but Inspector Locke snapped, ‘Be off with you, boy,’ and he took to his heels.
To get to the back stairs that would lead us up to the roof, our small group had to go down one of the long corridors. Here we found a group of Fifth Formers milling around outside their form room door.
‘Off to class, boys,’ I said. ‘The first bell’s already gone and the second will ring any minute. You should be at your desks.’
Hamilton, the leader of the group of boys confronting us, said, ‘If you please, sir, we have a problem, sir.’
I asked him what the problem was.
‘Well, we’re supposed to have a mathematics lesson, sir, and Mr Fowler is . . .’ His voice faded away, indicating that no further explanation was necessary.
‘So who will do trigonometry with us this morning?’ added Clifford, the keenest young mathematician in the group.
‘It’s not trigonometry this morning,’ boomed a voice from the far side of the milling group of schoolboys. The group parted to reveal the school’s History Master, Geoffrey Douglas, ambling towards us in his usual relaxed manner.
‘It will,’ he continued as he approached, ‘be an hour on Roman Britain—so take your seats and get out your history books.’
The boys obediently filed into the classroom.
‘Morning, Morris,’ murmured the History Master as he passed. ‘Difficult days, difficult days. The whole school is in uproar.’
‘Morning, Douglas,’ I replied. ‘If there’s anyone who can settle the boys down, it’s you.’
He nodded in reply and went into the room.
As the form room door closed and a hush settled, our little group—consisting of Locke, Jack, Warnie and myself—proceeded on our way.
Rounding a corner we found ourselves confronted by the Head Master, Dr Rogers, looking more magisterial than ever.
‘Ah, Inspector Locke. I was hoping to find you.’
Locke waited, expectantly and politely.
‘I have just been engaged in telephone conversations with several members of our board of governors, informing them of this most . . . ah . . . unhappy . . . ah . . . incident. They asked me to do all I can to ensure that the police presence in the school, and any police disruption of the school, be kept to an absolute minimum.’
He stopped and raised one eyebrow until it almost curled into a question mark. Clearly he was hoping for some reassurance from the policeman. He didn’t get it.
‘We will, of course, do what needs to be done to investigate this murder,’ Inspector Locke replied, with a quiet intensity.
‘Oh, dear me, dear me,’ murmured Dr Rogers gloomily. Then he brightened up as a thought occurred to him. ‘You do know, don’t you,’ he asked rhetorically, ‘that the Chief Constable is on our board of governors?’
‘I do, Head Master,’ replied the inspector. ‘And knowing that, I made a quick phone call to Sir Edgar before I drove up to the school this morning.’
‘Oh, did you?’ muttered the Head gloomily, suspecting that this was not a good sign.
‘And he assured me,’ Locke continued, ‘that I had his full support in taking whatever steps I deemed necessary. In his words, “The murder investigation must take priority.” However, I’m sure that, for the most part, the school’s activities can continue without being disturbed by us.’
A sour look came over the Head’s face as he muttered, ‘Very comforting, I’m sure,’ then turned his back and walked off down the corridor.
Freed from the Head’s concerns, Locke led us quickly up the rear stairs to the top landing.
Here we found ourselves facing the solid, ladder-like steps, bolted to the wall, that led from the landing to the roof.
‘How did Fowler get his deckchair up these steep steps?’ the policeman asked, speaking his thoughts aloud and directing the question at no one in particular.
‘With some difficulty, I imagine,’ said Warnie with a chuckle.
‘He was a fit young man,’ I volunteered. ‘I think he could have easily enough manhandled something as light as a deckchair up onto the roof.
‘And he clearly did,’ Jack added.
Inspector Locke led the way up the steep, narrow steps, threw open the trapdoor at the top and clambered out onto the roof. We followed him.
By the time all three of us had emerged from the trapdoor, Inspector Locke was standing in the middle of the roof, his hands on his hips, looking around him.
It was an almost flat roof, covered with sheets of lead. There was a slight slope from one side to the other to allow for rainwater runoff. On the lower side was a narrow gutter to catch the rainwater and deliver it into a downpipe.
The deckchair still stood where we had seen it the day before.
‘This is where you saw him?’ the policeman asked.
‘Exactly where the deckchair is now,’ I replied. ‘It hasn’t been moved. We saw him—that is to say, Jack and I saw him—flopped down in his deckchair in precisely that spot, with a book and a straw hat resting over his eyes.’
‘Where are they now?’
‘Where are what?’
‘The book and the straw hat.’
‘The book,’ I explained, ‘is in my room. I picked it up when we were here on the roof, and somehow, absentmindedly, hung on to it. When I got back to my room I found it was still in my hand. It’s still there. In my room, I mean, not in my hand.’
‘And the hat?’ Locke continued.
‘We left it here,’ said Jack. ‘In fact, we didn’t touch it.’
Locke looked around at the open, flat space. There was no straw hat.
‘Perhaps the wind caught it,’ Warnie suggested. ‘Very exposed up here. Any gust of wind could whistle away something as light as a straw hat.’
Inspector Sexton Locke began to pace back and forth on the leads of the roof. Then he turned back to Jack and me and asked, ‘Where, exactly, were you two when you witnessed this incident—or this attack, or whatever it was.’
By way of reply I walked over to the stone balustrade on the cathedral close side of the roof and pointed to the opposite side of the square.
‘In the cathedral itself,’ I explained. ‘I’d been giving Jack the guided tour when David Evans arrived to practise that evening’s anthem and invited us up into the organ loft.’
Locke patiently and thoroughly took Jack and me back over what we had witnessed the day before. Then back over it again—slowly and in detail. Nothing new emerged, so he finally said that he had learned all he could and we all returned to ground level.
Standing in the cathedral close, the inspector announced that he had to find Sergeant Drake and left us. I explained to Jack and Warnie that I had a class to take.
‘In that case, Warnie and I might have a walk through the town,’ said Jack, who loved any excuse to go for a walk. ‘All right with you, old chap?’ he asked his brother.
‘Right as rain,’ replied Warnie with a chuckle. ‘Absolutely as right as rain.’
My class was a difficult one. It’s hard to get schoolboys to concentrate on Robert Browning when their minds are filled with the death of their Mathematics Master.
We were in the midst of working through ‘My Last Duchess’ when we came to the lines ‘I gave commands; then all smiles stopped together.’
Jones, in the back row, eagerly thrust his hand in the air, and even before I could call on him asked, ‘Does that mean she was murdered, sir?’
‘Quite possibly,’ I said. ‘The young woman Browning was writing about, Lucrezia de’ Medici, was only fourteen when she married the Duke of Ferrara and she died quite suddenly at the age of seventeen.’
‘How was she killed?’ asked Blake in the front row. He was the class dummy and was inclined to ask irrelevant questions with a look of blank innocence on his face.
‘That’s not really relevant to the poem, Blake, but there were suspicions at the time that she’d been poisoned.’
I thought this had got their minds off the school’s own tragedy when a voice I couldn’t identify, from somewhere in the back of the room, said in a stage whisper, ‘
Another
murder!’
And Jones, the class clown, joined in with, ‘But this one wasn’t thrown off a roof!’
After that they became more restless than ever.
At length the bell rang, and the mutual torture being enjoyed by the boys and myself—if ‘enjoyed’ is quite the right word—ended.
‘Quietly, boys, quietly,’ I urged as they packed away their books and filed out of the room for their morning break.
With time on my hands I tucked my own textbooks under my arm and headed back to the cathedral. I wanted to climb back up to the organ loft and see just how good and clear our view had really been from that position.
Leaving my books and class roll sitting on a small table inside the north door of the cathedral, I walked briskly to the steep stairs that led to the organ loft. Once I was up on this small platform, I went to the far end and opened the narrow window that looked out over the cathedral close.