The Lying Tongue (26 page)

“Sorry?”

“J-just that I can’t quite believe it. That’s exactly where I’m driving to. I have an appointment with the headmaster tomorrow.”

She had opted to play the honesty card as well.

“How incredible,” I said, pretending to sound surprised. “What are you coming down for?”

There was a slight pause on the other end of the line.

“W-well, I thought it would be helpful for everyone to get as much information about Mr. Crace’s life as possible. Just to speed up the process a little.”

“I see,” I said.

“Obviously it was information I was going to pass on to you so you could it take back to Mr. Crace.”

“That’s just wonderful,” I said. “Since we’re both down here, we should meet up at some point.”

“Yes, I would like that very much. But what are you doing in Dorset?”

“Just a spot of research for Mr. Crace,” I said. “As you know, Mr. Crace is a terribly secretive man, and he gave me express instructions not to reveal my true intentions. He told me to come down here and try to find out details about his school without anyone knowing the real reason. He told me he didn’t even want them to know he was alive. So I’ve had to go to the slightly ridiculous lengths of pretending I’m an art history student doing research on the abbey so as to gain access to some of the records.”

“Really?” She sounded intrigued, but was there a note of suspicion in her voice?

“Yes. I know it sounds a little far-fetched, but Mr. Crace insisted. He came up with the plan himself: how old boys and staff members view the objects displayed in the abbey, their personal connections to the relics and the statuary. I’ve had a hard time pulling it off, I can tell you.”

“I don’t doubt it,” she said.

“Look, I’d love to carry on talking, but I’ve got another appointment in a couple of minutes. Where are you staying?”

“At the Hazelbury Manor Hotel. Do you have the number there?”

“No, but I can easily get it.”

“Why don’t you call me there tomorrow after breakfast?”

“That sounds fine. I’ll do that.”

I made my way back to the secretary’s office, but Mrs. Barwick was not there. It was obviously taking her longer than she had thought to locate the old records. As I waited, I looked around the room. The office was the very picture of efficiency, with everything neatly filed away in clearly labeled cabinets. There was a shelf of books, including a dictionary, the Bible, a thesaurus, a set of encyclopedias, and a well-thumbed
Who’s Who.
The walls were lined with faded photographs of the school, etchings of the abbey and a few framed typed letters from well-known old boys. Although I spotted an actor, a television presenter and quite a few famous sportsmen, there was no sign of Crace’s name.

I heard the door open and turned to see Mrs. Barwick there.

“You’ve had your fair share of celebrities,” I said, smiling, “all with good things to say about the school.”

She did not reply. Her eyes, so bright and sparkling a few moments ago, looked stern and serious. She looked older, sadder. In her hand she clutched a piece of paper.

“I’ve got the names you wanted,” she said, finally.

“Oh, good.”

“Well, I’m afraid it’s not all good news.”

“What do you mean?”

She sat down at her desk and placed the piece of paper before her.

“I’ll show you,” she said, gesturing me over.

I looked over her shoulder at the paper on which I had written the list of names that I had requested. By each of the names, Mrs. Barwick had scribbled little notes in pencil, but her handwriting was so small that I could not read her annotations.

“Look,” she said, running her finger down the paper. “I’ve got the addresses for these old boys. Greason, Downing, Simmons, Cooper-Lewis, Alderman, Jones, and Booth-Clibborn.”

They were the names I had picked out at random.

“Levenson you already know about, so that’s good. But Miss Chaning, I’m afraid, has left no forwarding address, so we’ve no contact for her. And as for the rest, I’m sorry to tell you—I really don’t know how best to say this—well, it’s just that Matthew Knowles, Timothy Fletcher, and David Ward are…well, they all passed away some time ago.”

“Are you certain?”

“Yes, it’s all there in their records.”

“When did they die?”

“All at different ages.” She looked closely at her pencil notes on the paper. The three names had little crosses next to them. “Mr. Knowles in 1970, Mr. Fletcher in 1982 and Mr. Ward in 1973.”

“All of them so young,” I said. “Did the records tell you how they died?”

“No, I’m afraid not.”

“Yes, it is bad news.” I started to think out loud. “I wonder what happened to them.”

“God only knows,” said Mrs. Barwick. “But whatever happened, it doesn’t much help your research, does it?”

As I turned to go, the secretary said she would just check the answering machine in case Levenson had called. He had, obviously during the few moments while I had been speaking to Lavinia. Although he said he probably would not have much to contribute, he suggested meeting outside the abbey in twenty minutes.

Adrian Levenson was a physically commanding man even though he was in his mid-to late fifties. Tall, at least six feet two, with broad shoulders, he looked exactly like what he was: a former rugby player turned games master. He was still strikingly handsome, with a rugged, lined face, a squat nose that looked like it had been broken several times, unreadable dark eyes, and a full head of silver-gray hair. As we greeted one another, I noticed that his hands were almost twice the size of mine; his grip left my fingers aching and weak.

“How do you do, Mr…. ?”

“Woods. Adam Woods.”

“That’s right. Good to meet you. I’m Adrian.”

He was superficially extremely friendly, but I’m sure the bully that Chris had described in his diary was not far from the surface. I would have to be careful.

“As you can see,” he said, gesturing at his blue jogging pants smeared with mud, “I’m very much an outdoors man. Always have been. Never really interested in indoor pursuits. Spent as little time in there as possible.”

“It will be interesting to hear your perspective. I’m trying to gather together as many different opinions as possible.”

“And what did you say it was for?”

“It’s for a thesis I’m writing for my art history course. About objects on display—”

“Probably all above my head, I’m afraid,” he said, wiping his dripping nose with the back of his hand. “Give me the thrill of a game any day. Doesn’t matter what it is—football, rugger, cricket, even rounders with the younger boys. Enjoy them all. Do you play?”

When I told him I did not, he looked slightly disappointed in me, as if I had let him down.

“Never mind. Anyway, what do you want me to do?”

“I thought we could just start with a walk around the inside of the abbey. I know you told me you never really paid much attention, but seeing a few of the things may help jog your memory or whatever.”

“Very well,” he said, wiping his mud-encrusted running shoes on the coir mat. “But I warn you, I don’t think I’ll be of much help.”

We stepped inside the cold, damp building, silent except for the sound of our breathing. The weak, gray light cast the abbey in an eerie gloom.

“To be honest, I only come in here when there’s a three-line whip that comes from the headmaster’s office,” said Levenson. “Never liked it, even as a boy. It gives me the creeps.”

I took out my notepad and started to scribble down snatches of our conversation. I had to make it appear as though I was interested in his thoughts on the building and its collection. We walked through the archway, beneath the organ loft, and stopped by the treasury. I pressed the light to illuminate the glass panel.

“Do you remember any of these relics having any particular impact on you when you were a pupil here?”

Levenson looked down at the collection, the ivory triptych, the disintegrated cross, the pewter chalice, the ancient book, as if he’d never seen the objects before.

“As I said, not much of an impact, I’m afraid. I was—still am, most probably—a terrible ignoramus when it comes to things like this. Sorry.”

“Don’t worry, it’s no problem.”

When the timer turned the light off, I didn’t bother to press it again. Instead, we carried on walking down toward the altar into the north aisle. As we turned to face the statue of the woman holding half a skull, Levenson appeared to shiver.

“That’s the only thing that really made an impression,” he said, pointing at the sculpture. “That woman and that godforsaken skull. When I first arrived, some of the older boys used to talk about the curse of the screaming skull, how it was the skull of her lover, a man who had been murdered by her husband. All a complete fabrication, of course, but when you’re twelve and away from your parents, you believe any nonsense like that. Don’t get me wrong, I thought I was pretty tough, but that’s one thing that used to give me nightmares. Not much use to you, though, eh?”

“No, no,” I said, busy scribbling away, “it’s fascinating. Exactly the kind of thing that I can use.”

“Really?”

“Yes,” I said. “Good personal detail. Do you know if it affected any of your school friends in the same sort of way?”

“Oh, it must have. It was one of those stories boys would start to tell after lights-out.”

“And are you in touch with many of the boys you met then?” I said, turning to a page in my notebook where I had listed the names of the boys in the debating society.

“No, not that many. A shame, really.”

“What about…let’s see…Timothy Fletcher? David Ward?”

“No,” he said, blinking.

“Matthew Knowles?”

He shook his head.

“Jameson?”

“No,” he said, trying to keep his voice under control.

I took a deep breath, still pretending to read the names from my book, as though I had selected them completely at random.

“Christopher Davidson?”

His dark eyes seemed a shade darker. His fleshy lower lip twitched like a fat worm exposed to air.

“And what about Gordon…Gordon Cra—?”

As his hand whipped up onto my throat, I dropped my notebook onto the cold, hard floor. He pushed me against the statue with such force that my head hit the marble with an audible crack. His black eyes burned into mine with a fierce violence.

“I don’t know what kind of game—”

“You may have bullied those boys in the past,” I blurted out, suddenly amazed by my own forthrightness, “but you’re not going to bully me.”

His grip tightened around my neck.

“I know what you did to Christopher Davidson.”

He seemed to freeze.

“Drove him to his death.”

His mouth gaped open.

“And his father before him.”

“What are you talking about?” he said, quietly, his grip on me relaxing slightly.

“Chris’s diary. I’ve read it all. It’s all there. All about what you did.”

“I don’t know what you are talking about,” he said, but it was obvious my words had resonated within him.

As he let go of me, this great hulk of a man looked as if he were shrinking before my eyes. His shoulders began to droop down, his chest collapsed in on itself, and his legs appeared like they were about to give way. I had knocked the fight out of him, just with a series of little words, a couple of sentences about something that had happened years ago.

“Look, you’ve got it all wrong.”

“Not according to the evidence Chris left behind. And God knows what you must have done to those other boys.”

“No,” he shouted, but then started to speak quietly. “No, really, it’s not how you think—at all.”

At that moment we heard the door to the abbey bang shut and footsteps whisper across the floor.

“We can’t talk here,” he said, looking around. “I haven’t been up to the tower in ages, but I think I have a key. It will be quiet up there, private. We won’t be disturbed.”