newcomer said. Presumably this was the Henley whose study shared the first floor with Somerville and Lawson. “Come on, then—who’s in for a lark?”
“I am,” Somerville said loudly, as if being first to volunteer would make up for my shaming him. “Come on, lads…Henley, Cosgrave, Smith-Pritchard—what say. Let’s give old Denning a rocket up the rear that he won’t forget!”
There were several nods and a general movement of bodies toward the door. I couldn’t allow this to happen.
Before anyone could stop me, I shoved my way through the pack of boys and out onto the landing. I flung open the door of the WC, darted inside, slammed the door behind me, and rammed home the bolt.
I turned round to see if Mr. Denning was still dead in the tub, which he was.
The door rattled, and from outside in the hall came a murmur of voices, Somerville’s louder than the rest.
“I say, open up, Veronica,” he called. I did not reply. A minute passed.
“Put her out, sir,” Somerville said, apparently addressing the deceased housemaster. “She has no right to be in this house. Please remember that it’s off-limits to females. Just put her out the door, sir, and I’ll see her off the premises.”
Again I kept silent, only gradually realizing that here was a God-sent opportunity for a closer look at the crime scene. Somerville and his cronies could howl all they wanted at the door: There wasn’t a schoolboy on the planet—or a man, for that matter—who would dare disturb a female locked into a WC. I knew that for a fact.
Perhaps they would tire and call in someone with authority: some roving housemaster, or even the headmaster himself.
But in the meantime, I had the late Mr. Denning all to myself.
Tucked knees-up in the tub, he reminded me of one of Mrs. Mullet’s least successful poultry courses, brought cold and naked to the table in the
bain-marie
in which it had been steamed.
A closer look revealed that several small, irregularly shaped chips of copper had broken away from the body and fallen into the bottom of the tub—perhaps when I had moved it earlier. Small patches of the corpse’s skin had been revealed: most of them fish-belly white, but one or two an angry red. And oddly enough, the copper around the red spots had rather a rough, raised surface, like little craters, while that around the white spots was quite smooth and flat.
I was reluctant to touch the corpse—not out of any fear of handling the dead, mind you, but because I didn’t want to leave further signs of my examination. In due time, the police would need to see for themselves this copper-plated curiosity with an electrical cable clipped like a crab to its nose: surely one for the record books.
Using a washcloth to prevent fingerprints, I pried open Mr. Denning’s mouth with a handy wire soap dish. As I had suspected they would be, the mouth and palate were ulcerated and the tongue and gums tinted a greenish blue.
A quick unclasping of the crocodile clip and a look up the nose showed old lesions and extensive erosion of the mucous membranes. I replaced the clip, taking great care to line up its teeth with their previous impressions.
It was then that I noticed for the first time the clothing draped over the sink behind the door: trousers, jacket, and waistcoat, all of navy serge; shirt and linen underthings all neatly laid out. On the floor beneath them, a small military kit bag of khaki color. Without unfolding the trousers, I worked my hand into each pocket and removed its sparse contents: a large ring of keys with a rabbit’s foot charm and a change purse containing a few small coins, including a shilling, a sixpence, and a bent coin marked
C. 20,
with a female Italia on one side and bearing, on the other, the head of a mustachioed gentleman,
VITT. EM. III,
whom I took to be a king. The rest of the markings had been obliterated by a fierce fold in the coin, as if it had stopped a bullet.
Next was a worn black letter case that
“I am,” Somerville said loudly, as if being first to volunteer would make up for my shaming him. “Come on, lads…Henley, Cosgrave, Smith-Pritchard—what say. Let’s give old Denning a rocket up the rear that he won’t forget!”
There were several nods and a general movement of bodies toward the door. I couldn’t allow this to happen.
Before anyone could stop me, I shoved my way through the pack of boys and out onto the landing. I flung open the door of the WC, darted inside, slammed the door behind me, and rammed home the bolt.
I turned round to see if Mr. Denning was still dead in the tub, which he was.
The door rattled, and from outside in the hall came a murmur of voices, Somerville’s louder than the rest.
“I say, open up, Veronica,” he called. I did not reply. A minute passed.
“Put her out, sir,” Somerville said, apparently addressing the deceased housemaster. “She has no right to be in this house. Please remember that it’s off-limits to females. Just put her out the door, sir, and I’ll see her off the premises.”
Again I kept silent, only gradually realizing that here was a God-sent opportunity for a closer look at the crime scene. Somerville and his cronies could howl all they wanted at the door: There wasn’t a schoolboy on the planet—or a man, for that matter—who would dare disturb a female locked into a WC. I knew that for a fact.
Perhaps they would tire and call in someone with authority: some roving housemaster, or even the headmaster himself.
But in the meantime, I had the late Mr. Denning all to myself.
Tucked knees-up in the tub, he reminded me of one of Mrs. Mullet’s least successful poultry courses, brought cold and naked to the table in the
bain-marie
in which it had been steamed.
A closer look revealed that several small, irregularly shaped chips of copper had broken away from the body and fallen into the bottom of the tub—perhaps when I had moved it earlier. Small patches of the corpse’s skin had been revealed: most of them fish-belly white, but one or two an angry red. And oddly enough, the copper around the red spots had rather a rough, raised surface, like little craters, while that around the white spots was quite smooth and flat.
I was reluctant to touch the corpse—not out of any fear of handling the dead, mind you, but because I didn’t want to leave further signs of my examination. In due time, the police would need to see for themselves this copper-plated curiosity with an electrical cable clipped like a crab to its nose: surely one for the record books.
Using a washcloth to prevent fingerprints, I pried open Mr. Denning’s mouth with a handy wire soap dish. As I had suspected they would be, the mouth and palate were ulcerated and the tongue and gums tinted a greenish blue.
A quick unclasping of the crocodile clip and a look up the nose showed old lesions and extensive erosion of the mucous membranes. I replaced the clip, taking great care to line up its teeth with their previous impressions.
It was then that I noticed for the first time the clothing draped over the sink behind the door: trousers, jacket, and waistcoat, all of navy serge; shirt and linen underthings all neatly laid out. On the floor beneath them, a small military kit bag of khaki color. Without unfolding the trousers, I worked my hand into each pocket and removed its sparse contents: a large ring of keys with a rabbit’s foot charm and a change purse containing a few small coins, including a shilling, a sixpence, and a bent coin marked
C. 20,
with a female Italia on one side and bearing, on the other, the head of a mustachioed gentleman,
VITT. EM. III,
whom I took to be a king. The rest of the markings had been obliterated by a fierce fold in the coin, as if it had stopped a bullet.
Next was a worn black letter case that
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