Kitabı oku: «King of Ranleigh: A School Story», sayfa 19

"Wait," he asked a second later. Then his eyes closed. He threw himself into his characteristic attitude, while a deep frown furrowed his brow. From his position on the dais Bert slowly watched the expressions on the faces of those assembled, watched and waited. There was positive fear and alarm in the case of many of the youngsters. Middle School fellows were obviously stirred, though the presence of so many masters, and of the Head in particular, quelled any outburst. But the seniors were not so vastly impressed. There was resolution on some of the faces, indignation on others, and nowhere could he detect a sign of triumph at Clive's downfall. Nowhere. Jenkins stood with clenched fists, biting his lips and deep in thought. Roper appeared to be on the point of bursting into speech. His cheeks were puffed out and reddened, while his breast was absolutely swelling at the thought of the injustice which he considered had been done. Even Rawlings, the oldest boy present, looked sorry. There was none of the old truculence, the open scorn of his rival, for Clive had now become in every way his rival. More than once in the last year had Rawlings aspired to take the post of Captain of Ranleigh, but, as we have said, his unpopularity was too pronounced. And now that an election was imminent, it was certain that Clive, were he at the school, would have gained the coveted honour. That was Rawlings' fault. He should long ago have cultivated the friendship of his fellows. Now he had lost it for good, and without doubt should have left the school long ago. Why he remained on was never quite understood, though it was rumoured that some family trouble had caused him to stay. Be that as it might, he was still a Ranleighan, still unpopular, while of late, perhaps because his own bosom friends had left, he had become silent and taciturn, given to long fits of brooding, and sometimes to outbursts of passion.

No, there was merely sorrow on Rawlings' features, sorrow and a curiously dazed expression. And elsewhere only on the face of one was there any expression hostile to our hero. Mr. Axim scowled. He felt that he himself now stood as prisoner in the dock. For he it was who had caught Clive, he it was who had scoffed at his declaration of innocence, had summed up the evidence, had produced a motive for the acts, and had thus impressed the Head. And here was open rejection of his decision, of his arguments and of Clive's sentence. The position was, in fact, unique in Ranleigh's annals, unique perhaps in the annals of almost every school in existence.

"Monstrous!" he was muttering. "The evidence is clear. These people will be accusing me of the crime next. As if I were swayed by animus! As if it were not absolutely clear that Darrell is the guilty party.

"I – I protest," he cried, and then was silenced just as had been the case with Mr. Branson. The Head actually scowled at his assistant master.

"Allow me, if you please," he said, with acrid emphasis. And then he faced the School. Slowly he allowed his gaze to pass down the lines of boys assembled at their tables. He seemed to look closely into every face, seemed almost to ask the question on every occasion. Then he threw his head back and closed his eyes. But they were open a second later when he addressed the School in tones more solemn than any had ever known him to employ before.

"Ranleighans," he said, "I beg of you to listen to what I have to say. One of your old comrades has been declared to be guilty of the most dastardly conduct. I need not say more on that point, for the particulars are thoroughly known. Last night the evidence against him seemed to my mind to be conclusive. There was no fault that I could discover, and though Darrell himself denied the acts he still declined to give the name of one he suggested was the author of those fires. Now Seymour Primus demands a respite. I give it freely, willingly. If there be a doubt in this case, if delay may produce some evidence to clear Clive Darrell, then, in Heaven's name, let us delay. But let us also search our own consciences. That one whom Clive Darrell suggests is guilty, whose name he refused to give, is a Ranleigh boy. I beg of that boy to come boldly forward for his conscience' sake, for the sake of Clive Darrell."

The silence was positively trying. Bert felt almost as if he would explode if something did not soon happen to lessen the tension. Boys stood at their places absolutely pale and over-strung, unmanned almost by this ordeal. But none spoke. Not a boy came forward to proclaim his guilt and Clive's innocence. There was not so much as a sound for one full minute. And then there came a startling crash from the far end of the Hall. The clatter of feet was heard, the double doors were burst open, and there entered a small procession.

Susanne led the way, with Masters close behind him. Then came Hugh arm in arm with Trendall. The village sergeant of police followed closely, looking wonderfully important and just a little nonplussed at finding himself for a few brief moments the observed of all observers. But interest passed almost at once from him and those who led the procession. A solitary figure marching behind became the target for all observers.

"Clive Darrell!" shouted Bert. "Hooray for Clive Darrell!"

CHAPTER XXI
KING OF RANLEIGH

Such a scene had never before been witnessed at Ranleigh. Boys positively became frantic. They cheered and cheered as if they would keep on for ever. As for Bert Seymour, he waved his arms overhead and danced in his excitement, surely an unusual state of affairs with one so noted for sedateness.

And through the noise and the lanes of Ranleighans processed Susanne and his followers. There was a curious air of suppressed excitement and determination about them all. They turned neither to left nor to right, and acknowledged none of the frantic greetings thrown at them. Clive himself marched to the dais hands in pockets, not even deigning to glance at Mr. Axim. The latter's face was indeed a study.

"What's this?" he had asked himself at the commencement of the commotion which had ushered in this strange procession. "Feofé? Ah! One of Darrell's special chums, and, of course, the others close in tow. Members of the Old Firm. Can't help admiring the way they stick to a friend, but it's wasted labour."

The distraction was, in any case, at the very commencement welcome to him. We must be absolutely fair in our dealings with this master, and declare that indignation at the doubt cast on his own shrewdness and at Bert's open criticism of his method of summing up the evidence against Clive Darrell was beginning to give way to something approaching doubt of himself. Had he been absolutely impartial? Had he flown to conclusions, and taken too little heed of Clive's persistent denials and dogged refusal to discuss matters with him?

"Ought to have taken the fellow's nature into account," Mr. Axim was telling himself, for he wasn't at heart an unkindly master, nor even unfair. He was hasty, no doubt, and apt to allow prejudice to control his thoughts and actions. But when all was said and done, Mr. Axim was a Ranleighan, and at Ranleigh they go in for a fine stamp of master. And to the credit of this particular one, let it be stated that he was already discounting the wisdom of his late efforts.

"Supposing I'm wrong, and Clive's innocent? Supposing I've been hasty?" he asked himself. "Pshaw! We never got on well together. Didn't understand one another, I suppose. But that shouldn't make me unfair in my dealings with him. I – I – "

"You've acted like a hasty fool!" Old B. told him bluntly, for Mr. Axim in his agitation was speaking in a loud whisper. "You've been hard on the boy. He's innocent. I'll – hang it, man! I'll back him yet to be King of Ranleigh."

"But – but – "

"There isn't one. Did ever you see a guilty boy return to face his school after committing a crime of this nature? Never! Does that police sergeant look as if he had a possible prisoner behind him? Humbug, Axim! Susanne's face is sufficient to inform you that he has a tale of his own to tell us."

And Susanne had. The tall, broad-shouldered Frenchman looked positively brimming over with happiness, though there was an air of seriousness about him which showed that he also had some trouble. The same might be said of Trendall. But Masters was ever notorious for the openness of his feelings and opinions. He was absolutely truculent at this instant when the procession had arrived at the dais. He transfixed Mr. Axim with a glance which made that unfortunate and ill-advised gentleman wish that he had never had any dealings with this matter. Then all eyes were turned on the Head.

"With your permission, sir," said Susanne, halting at the edge of the dais and addressing the master with becoming respect, "with your permission we will mount the dais. We have information to give you. But first it would be as well to tell us what has been passing here in our absence."

The Head waved him up with a quick gesture. The lines were still drawn deep across his forehead, but there was, nevertheless, something approaching a look of relief. "You've arrived in the nick of time," he said. "Let me explain what has happened. I have made an announcement as to Clive Darrell. Seymour Primus, applauded by the School without exception, has traversed the evidence against him and has demanded delay in this unfortunate matter. To that I have agreed. Then, but a few seconds before your arrival, I begged that if any boy were present here who knew himself guilty he should for his conscience' sake and for Clive Darrell's honour at once come forward. Not a boy has stirred. That is the position."

Susanne mounted the dais slowly and deliberately. Those who knew him would have sworn that he was reluctant to speak, and yet he had information to give which would clear Clive's character entirely. He glanced down those expectant lines thoughtfully.

"Er – you fellows," he said, "I've – that is, we went in search of Clive. We were dead certain he was innocent."

Someone started a cheer just to encourage Susanne, for he was but a poor speaker.

"He was supposed to have bolted from the school with the idea of hiding himself. He hadn't. He went direct to the police station."

There was silence. Boys looked at one another. Some of the seniors wagged their heads.

"Bravo, Clive!" cried Mr. Branson, unable longer to contain himself, and then subsided, for the Head had fixed an indignant gaze on him. The police sergeant at once stepped forward. "Fact, gentlemen," he said. "At eight fifty-two he turns up. Of course I had heard of the night's happening. 'Arrest me, sergeant,' he says. 'I've been expelled for setting fire to Ranleigh.' Gentlemen, I didn't believe him."

Ranleigh howled its appreciation of the magnanimous conduct of this officer, Mr. Axim positively squirmed, while the Head looked more than uncomfortable. However, the sergeant had not yet finished.

"I arrested Mr. Darrell," he said. "On talking the matter over with him I suggested investigation. Mr. Darrell stoutly denied the crime for which he had handed himself over to my keeping."

"Ah! Investigation," gasped Mr. Axim. "How? On what lines? Surely we looked into everything?"

The sergeant withered him with a look of scorn. He produced from beneath his cloak a paper parcel and slowly unwrapped the paper.

"That was worth looking into," he said. "It's the first clue that would occur to a baby. That's a kettle, sir, an ordinary kettle. See it?"

He held it up so that all could see, while he glanced sideways at the unhappy master. Nor was the worthy sergeant disrespectful. There was merely mild indignation in his manner. But then he happened to have a lad of his own of Clive's age, and could thoroughly sympathise with that young fellow. His experience also of the law told him that Mr. Axim's deductions had been hasty and entirely misleading, for he had rushed to conclusions without searching for obvious clues and following those thoroughly. At arm's length overhead he now held a common kettle.

"That's a kettle, sir," he said again, "and that's paraffin."

Slowly he tipped it till a clear fluid trickled from the spout, and falling on the wooden boards of the dais began to spread into a dark, oily patch.

"And paraffin's what this incendiary was pouring along the passage," continued the sergeant. "That kettle was in the Headmaster's study. Were you in the habit, sir, of keeping an article like this in that part?"

It must be frankly admitted that the Head looked thoroughly startled.

"A kettle! Certainly not! Such articles are kept in the proper department. But I follow your reasoning, sergeant, we ought to have investigated this matter."

"And so you would, sir, if you hadn't been led off the path in the wrong direction. The detection of crime ain't only a matter of reasoning. It's a question of facts often enough, and this here kettle's a fact. Now, it don't belong to your people. I've asked the maids and the boy. They don't own to it. Then I searched elsewhere. It was about that time that I ran against Mr. Feofé and his friends. They'd been down to the station making enquiries."

The Head looked intensely surprised. Such an act was a direct breach of school rules and discipline. It amounted almost to a breaking out of the school, and was a crime he would, as a rule, punish severely. But, as a matter of fact, he had not even missed these boys from the collection of Ranleighans. He had no suspicion that they were not present, and the fact can be understood considering the nature of the business which had brought him to meet the assembled school. Nor was this the moment in which to discuss their breach of Ranleigh rules. He motioned to the sergeant to continue.

"They'd learned he was along at my cottage, fixed up in the station, and insisted I should fetch him so as to follow the clue I've put before you. Well, gentlemen, there wasn't a doubt as to the owner. We know him. He knows that we know him. He's here present. He's the guilty party."

No one stirred. If the Head expected that now one of the boys would stand forward he was much mistaken. Not one attempted to move. More than that, though he searched the lines of faces, there was not a boy present who looked conscious or guilty. Was the sergeant mistaken? Was it he who had gone astray from the path, and got upon a wrong line of reasoning and evidence? Mr. Axim started. He wanted to prove Clive innocent just as much as anyone else. He was honest enough not to care even if his own deduction proved childish. But, if clues were to be followed, they must be followed with intelligence.

"One moment, sergeant," he said. "This kettle."

"Yes, sir."

"You know the owner?"

"Without a shadow of doubt, sir."

"But do you know that it was the owner who made use of it last evening? Can you prove that fact? Can you show that Clive Darrell did not himself borrow it for this unfortunate business?"

Every eye turned upon the officer. He cleared his throat with a husky cough and returned the frank and anxious stare of Ranleigh with one of confidence.

"I can," he answered, with decision. "The dressing-gown belonging to the owner of that kettle has the tails of the skirt wet with paraffin."

"But – but – " began Mr. Axim.

"But you can say the same for the dressing-gown belonging to Mr. Darrell. It's saturated. You see, he was bowled over in the passage where the stuff had been laid; at least, sir, that's his story."

"Yes, his. He told me that at once."

"But you didn't believe him. I did," said the sergeant sharply, whereat there was a stir amongst the boys. They were on the point of bursting out. That sergeant had become wonderfully popular.

"One of the best!" Masters was observing to himself, while he scowled at Mr. Axim. Not that he meant much by that. Masters had changed his old ideas by now. The teaching staff at Ranleigh weren't such bad fellows, and decidedly not tyrants. But then the days of Masters' impots were long since finished. "One of the best!" he repeated, looking at the sergeant. "I've got a whole quid in my pocket. The Governor actually stumped up to that extent. Blessed if I don't tip the sergeant a sovereign."

"So we've got no further at the moment. Now, sir," went on the officer, addressing the Headmaster, "I'd been making enquiries round the village, and as a result I've learned that there was someone up here buying paraffin. You see, after that first fire, school stores were safely locked away, so that anyone who wanted the stuff had to look elsewhere for it. That paraffin was carried away by a gent who's the same as the one owning the kettle."

There was a deep hum in the Hall. And then a hush which was almost awe-inspiring.

"But that wasn't quite all I wanted. I looked for more. I looked where anyone else might have looked who'd followed the clue of that kettle. I searched the locker and boxes of that individual. I found there a diary, in which each fire is recorded, while the words make it clear that the writer was the man we're after. Now, sir, is there anyone here who doubts longer that Mr. Darrell can be innocent?"

Not one. Their faces showed it. But not a boy spoke, nor even a master. The moment was far too serious for that, for a tragedy lay still before them. Clive was cleared, even to the satisfaction of Mr. Axim. But there was still a guilty party. He was one of the Ranleigh boys, he was there, actually amongst them, and added to the enormity of his crime was the fact that he had failed to come forward. All eyes were on the sergeant. He was looking thoughtfully down the Hall, and seemed to glance at no one in particular. Then the boys turned their attention to the Headmaster, to Susanne, even to Masters and Trendall. Someone stirred. It was Clive. He stepped swiftly across to the sergeant, and then to the side of the Headmaster, whispering to both of them. The School was electrified a moment later when it received a sharp order.

"That will do," said the Headmaster. "Boys will at once go to their class-rooms. This matter is happily ended, and we rejoice that Clive Darrell is still amongst us, an honoured member of Ranleigh."

There was amazement on all faces. Obedient to the order the School at once filed out of the Hall, while questions shot from one boy to another. Susanne went off arm in arm with Masters. Trendall followed our hero, while the latter actually stepped up to Rawlings and took his arm.

"Come on, old chap," he said kindly. "Let's be going. The Head has dismissed the School."

The fellow was dazed. Anyone who had taken the trouble to watch him almost from the commencement of this business would have noticed that Rawlings stood as one in a dream. He seemed unable to follow the discussion taking place on the dais. His eyes were staring, his mouth half open, while his gaze was fixed on Clive Darrell, and now he was babbling and grinning in extraordinary fashion. They led him gently from the Hall to the sick-room, where the doctor was soon in attendance, and that afternoon the School had another sensation. Rawlings had lost his senses. He had become insane, and was no longer responsible for his actions. More than that, it was he who had set fire so often to the school premises, and with the cunning of one who is insane had managed so long to elude his comrades. And now his curious behaviour of late came to be understood. Fellows wondered why they had not noticed his strange ways, his taciturnity and silence. They were, in fact, the early symptoms of the misfortune which had attacked him. Clive, however, was destined to learn more of this extraordinary matter. It appeared, indeed, that for some while Rawlings had been troubled with home matters. Somehow he had discovered that his father was none too honest, and, in fact, had committed a forgery. That act had enabled him to become possessed of the estate which had once been Clive Darrell's father's. And the antipathy which Rawlings had from the first taken to our hero had persuaded him to put aside this most important discovery. But he was not all bad. The fear of a downfall, of loss of dignity, and of poverty had encouraged him to make the utmost of the benefits which his father's fraud had provided at the expense of Clive's people. And then his better nature and his conscience swayed him in an opposite direction. What was he to do? Expose his own father? Bring ruin on him and disgrace, with a long sentence of imprisonment? The responsibility of such a position can be well imagined. The youth was harassed. The matter preyed on his mind, and this breakdown was the result.

"It was rough on Rawlings," said Clive, when he talked the matter over with his old friends. "I'm sorry for him, awfully. And it's really lucky that the father died. Of course, we've come back to our own again. I'm glad for my mother's sake. But I'm sorry for Rawlings."

"And about that fire. You knew it was he?" asked Bert.

"Yes. I felt certain."

"And you wouldn't speak. Why?"

"Because I caught only a glimpse, and because I hated to be the one to ruin him."

That was the sort of spirit at Ranleigh. Perhaps not always employed wisely and in a right manner. But it did the School honour. At any rate, the boys were sufficiently satisfied with the honour and wisdom of Clive Darrell that they straightway elected him as King of Ranleigh.