‘Threat?’ Cardew repeated. ‘You dare sit there and say you’re going to threaten me?’
‘Well, I suppose I could call it something nicer, if that would make you any happier,’ Patterson conceded. ‘I could say it was an inducement. Or perhaps an incentive.’ He shook his head. ‘No, on the whole, I think threat would be by far the most appropriate word.’
‘You can’t seriously expect-’ Cardew began.
‘I want you to be quite frank about the little weaknesses of the boys I’m interested in,’ Patterson interrupted. ‘And if you’re not prepared to cooperate, then I’ll dig up all the dirt I can on every other boy who’s passed through EHC. It wouldn’t take much to make your name mud — I’d only have to come up with a few sordid disclosures before parents start putting their boys’ names down for every other house but yours.’
‘This is outrageous,’ Cardew said.
‘Ain’t it, though,’ Patterson agreed.
Cardew gulped. ‘Some of the boys thought Fortesque was too soft to be considered a great President of Pop,’ he said. ‘Is that. . is that the sort of thing you’re interested in?’
‘It may be,’ Patterson said. ‘Why did they think he was soft?’
‘I suppose it was mainly because he never held a Pop-Tanning during his whole term of office.’
‘Pop-Tanning,’ Patterson repeated, rolling the word slowly around in his mouth. ‘Now, I have to admit, that is a new one on me. What exactly is a Pop-Tanning?’
‘It’s a beating which the President is permitted to inflict on a miscreant from lower in the school,’ Cardew said.
‘Oh, it’s a bare-arsed tanning, is it?’ Patterson asked.
‘Of course not,’ Cardew said disdainfully. ‘Only masters are allowed to thrash naked buttocks. In a Pop-Tanning, the boy is told to report to Pop wearing an old pair of trousers.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘Isn’t it obvious?’ Cardew asked, slightly shiftily.
‘No, but I expect it will be once you’ve explained it to me,’ Patterson said firmly.
‘The boy wears old trousers because, during the course of the beating, the trousers will become shredded.’
‘It’ll shred the trousers, will it?’ Patterson said thoughtfully. ‘If there’s enough force behind it for that, it’ll cut through the flesh and make his buttocks bleed as well, don’t you think?’
‘Most probably.’
‘And Fortesque disapproved of it?’
‘Of course he did not disapprove of it! He respected our traditions as much as the next boy. He merely chose not to enact one of them.’
‘He disapproved of it,’ Patterson insisted.
‘In many ways, he was a rather gentle boy,’ Cardew admitted reluctantly. ‘Not on the rugby field — there, he was a lion who would crush anyone who got in his way — but certainly when he was not playing sports. .’
‘What about the others?’ Patterson asked.
‘Soames was all for giving a boy a good beating when he deserved it. He thought it would make a man of him — and so it does.’
‘Maude?’
‘Maude went through his whole school career without being beaten once himself. I believe that may make him unique.’
‘But did he enjoy seeing other boys beaten?’
‘He certainly did not shrink away from observing it.’
‘And Hatfield?’
‘If the others thought something was a good idea, so did he. If they were against something, he opposed it. Since his friends were divided on the question of beating, he tried to sit on the fence — which is typical of his class! He was never truly respected here, you know. Even his own fag despised him.’
‘Did Fortesque and Soames ever argue about their different attitudes to beating?’ Patterson asked.
‘Never. They were always the very best of friends.’
‘Did Soames resent the fact that Fortesque was elected President of Pop, rather than him?’
‘Not at all. He thought that Fortesque truly deserved the honour, and would have been most distressed if he hadn’t been elected.’
‘So, as far as you understand the situation, Soames had no reason at all for hating Charles Fortesque?’
‘For hating him?’ Cardew repeated, with an incredulity which Patterson was sure was entirely genuine. ‘Soames didn’t hate Fortesque. Quite the contrary — he admired him tremendously, and would have laid down his life for him without a moment’s thought.’
SIXTEEN
They stood there, side by side, in front of Calais Town Hall. Their heads were shaved, and — to make the executioner’s job easier — they had already placed nooses around their own necks.
They really had expected to die, Blackstone thought, examining the bronze statue first from one angle and then from another. It was obvious, not just from the expressions on their faces, but from the tension in their muscles and the tightness of their chests. These Six Burghers of Calais had accepted that someone would have to pay the price for resisting the siege, imposed by Edward the Third of England, for eleven long months. And when they walked through the city gates — barefoot, and naked except for their long simple shirts — they were praying that their deaths alone would be enough to satisfy King Edward, and that their city might yet be spared.
At the last moment, they’d been saved. Touched by their willingness to sacrifice themselves for the greater good of their town, Philippa of Hanault, Edward’s queen, had interceded with her husband on their behalf, and Edward had proved willing to forego what he saw as his just revenge.
It was sacrifice that this war was all about, too, Blackstone thought, as he turned away from the statue — not conquests or spoils, or any of the other things that war was normally concerned with — but sacrifice. The young men at the front were being asked to throw away their own lives in order that their country — as they knew it — might go on living.
And as much as he might personally despise the three lieutenants who Patterson had called the three musketeers — as much as it would give him satisfaction to see them swinging from the end of a rope — he had no doubt that they were just as willing to make the sacrifice as the Six Burghers of Calais had been.
‘Mr Blackstone!’ said a voice behind him. ‘What a great pleasure it is to see you, sir.’
Blackstone turned, and shook the hand of the new arrival. ‘It’s good to see you, Bob,’ he said.
‘Did you have a comfortable journey, sir?’ the corporal asked.
‘It was tedious,’ Blackstone replied. ‘I lost track of the number of times we were shunted into the sidings in order to let another train through. And two or three times — for some inexplicable reason — we actually went into reverse. As a result, it took me nearly twenty-four hours to complete a journey that probably wouldn’t have taken more than four or five by road.’
‘Well, that’s the war for you,’ Baker said. ‘You should have asked for a car and driver.’
Good idea — at least on paper — Blackstone thought.
But he doubted that Captain Carstairs would have been at all receptive to the request. Besides, just making the request would have meant telling the captain where he was going — and why he was going there — and he suspected that Carstairs wouldn’t have liked that one bit.
‘Well, well, well,’ Baker said, enthusiastically, ‘who would ever have thought that, after all this time, you and me would end up meeting like this, in the centre of Calais.’
The enthusiasm seemed forced, and was perhaps being used to mask anxiety, Blackstone thought.
But why was Baker anxious? It was true that a body had gone missing, but that neither explained his nervousness now, nor his unwillingness to talk about it over the phone.
‘Yes, it’s certainly funny the way things turn out,’ Baker said, more to fill the silence than for any other reason.
‘You’re making it sound like a chance meeting, Bob,’ Blackstone said. ‘But it isn’t, is it? We’re not just two old mates getting together for a drink — we’re here for a purpose.’