Fleming, controlled again, felt the unexpressed sympathy. He imagined Shulter on the other side of a partition in a confessional. A quiet presence. Only the Church of England didn't have confessionals, did it? David hadn't been brought up C. of E. or R.C. His christening had been in the U.R.C. Which Godly trade union was to take charge of the burial ceremony?
Shulter pressed on gently with the practicalities. "I'll go with you to the undertaker. I wish I could take over all that side of it for you, but I'm afraid it's something you have to do yourself."
"I realise that."
"The funeral will probably be early next week – a few days after the inquest. Unless you decide to make other arrangements, I'll take the service – if you'll allow me to."
"I'm not a member of.your church."
"That doesn't matter."
"Or even a believer."
"That doesn't matter either."
Shulter suddenly remembered some words of David's… not spoken to him but to another boy in his hearing after David thought he was out of earshot. "It seems to me you've got to flipping well take a heck of a lot on trust -• do you think that's what he means by faith?" He debated whether or not to repeat the words to Fleming. They were so apt in this particular situation Fleming might believe he had made them up. He risked it.
Fleming heard David in the words. Trust. Faith. The words in the present context were hollow. David had trusted him and he in turn had trusted the school to take care of him. The kind of faith that consoled after the debacle was something outside his ken. He wished it were not. He wished he could go now with Shulter to his church and heave off this burden at the altar steps. He wished he could have a simple peasant faith – or the kind of faith that David was looking for.
He was aware that Shulter had something else to ask, and was wary of asking it. He waited and the question came with some hesitancy.
"The school has its own small chapel. At one time it was used for services. It's consecrated. Until the funeral would you like David's body to lie there – or do you want him to be taken to the undertaker's Chapel of Rest?"
Fleming's answer came with no hesitation whatsoever. "Anywhere but the school. The bloody place killed him."
Shulter, about to protest, thought better of it. Fleming's hatred was beyond reason. He hoped it was without just cause.
By three o'clock the day had begun to be beautiful. The morning clouds had shredded in the wind and though the rain was still sporadic it gleamed with sunshine. The inlet of water, channelled from the harbour, rolled in with a soft breathing movement that touched the old craft of the Maritime Museum so that they, too, rolled and breathed and muttered like old men dreaming.
A Portuguese frigate painted in strong blues and crimsons splashed the water around it with paler blues and crimsons. Next to it the wind played in the lug sails of a Chinese lorcha. An elderly Thames barge and a Danish jagt moved in unison, their timbers creaking.
The paddle-steamers resisted the wind but responded to the water with slow rhythms evocative of ancient sea-shanties. The extraordinary peace of the place was suddenly shattered by the scream of a gull as it alighted on a tall thin funnel. From nearby a dozen gulls swooped in, calling and thrashing the water with their wings.
The small group at the entrance gate waited wordlessly and watched the gulls come and go. Hammond, standing a little away from the others, wished that he could have prevailed upon Brannigan to let him come alone. Brannigan at the last minute had decided to dilute the interview by bringing four of the senior boys, too. He had argued that Fleming would want to interview them anyway, and that the interview might as well take place on the ship where the accident had happened. Durrant, at fifteen, was the youngest and not sensitive. Masters, Welling and Stonley at sixteen plus were old enough to face the facts of the situation. In another year or two they would be out in the world. Fleming, no matter what his feelings were, wouldn't ride them hard. It was unspoken, but implied, that in their presence Fleming wouldn't ride Hammond too hard either.
Hammond guessed that Fleming would see it as a bodyguard and add contempt to all his other emotions. He felt tired – even a little uncaring – as if the anxiety of the last few days had slowly exuded like pus from a boil. His mind refused to conjure up what had happened in detail, instead scraps of information he had dictated to the boys swam up to the surface like so much flotsam in the harbour. The Sirius on her trip across the Atlantic had averaged 6.7 knots. The Comet averaged 6.7 in British coastal waters. Both better than the Clermont's 4.7 knots. Snorter's propeller and Smith's screw of the early nineteenth century were the forerunners of Ericsson's double propeller of the mid-nineteenth century.
Brannigan said, "He's just crossing the road by the traffic island."
Fleming saw the four boys before he noticed Brannigan and Hammond. Their stillness as they watched him approaching was almost hypnotic. He felt like an aircraft being beamed in on radar and then, breaking the pull of their eyes, he looked beyond them and saw Brannigan and another younger man who must be Hammond.
So this was the one. Tall – slightly stoop-shouldered -• thick, fair hair badly cut – bony features – a long wide mouth – unrevealing eyes.
Brannigan made the introduction quickly and nervously, almost immediately turning from Hammond and drawing the boys forward. "These are the older lads who were on the ship at the time. I didn't think it was wise or necessary to have the younger ones along… This is Welling."
"How do you do, sir?" Welling dared to do what Hammond hadn't. He extended his hand.
Fleming took it. The boy lacked the usual awkwardness of adolescence. He had a glossy gracefulness. Masters was different in both physique and character. He was short and swarthy and mumbled inaudibly. His intense embarrassment struck a sympathetic chord in Fleming. This time he proffered his hand and the boy took it. Stonley, nondescript and silent, inclined his head stiffly and then moved quickly so that Durrant could come forward. Fleming remembered the name.
"Durrant."
"Yes, sir. How do you do, sir?"
There was a certain bravado in the tone, something in the expression in the eyes, that seemed to belong to another situation. He looked at a tall, rather ugly, gangling boy who had bashed David for voicing a preference for baseball. But not just that, he sensed something more. Durrant looked back at him and saw quite simply an enemy. The method of his extermination would become clear in time. His imagination was already feeding on it.
"You're the boy who objects to baseball, Durrant?"
The quick tongue touched the thick lower lip. "Only in this country, sir. He went on about it a bit."
"And you hit him – a bit?"
"Not hard, sir."
Fleming turned from him and looked at Hammond again. He indicated the boys. "Your idea?"
Brannigan spoke before Hammond could answer. "No -• entirely mine."
"I fail to see the reason for it."
"You wanted an enquiry. The boys were there. They will be able to tell you what they saw or didn't see."
He had to agree to it. He wondered what kind of loyalty Hammond could drum up. The feeling of being behind enemy lines was strongly with him again. Hammond was being safely hedged around. The degree of his vulnerability depended on the boys and Brannigan himself.
Hammond said gruffly, "We can meet alone, if that's what you want, later on… I haven't tried to sympathise with you. Anything I say you'll probably misconstrue. If I say I'm sorry that David died – and I am, desperately and deeply sorry – you'll see it as an admission of guilt. I admit nothing. There was no negligence."
Fleming was silent.
Brannigan, deploring Hammond's attitude but not surprised by it, suggested that they should go into the Museum. He had already bought the tickets, including one for Fleming. A party of Swedish students of both sexes went through the gate at the same time. They spoke loudly, cheerfully and incomprehensibly and looked with some curiosity at the group of boys and men who spoke not at all.