The book had been read many times since that dedication. On almost every page, Black had made annotations in the margins — scholarly observations, in small, delicate handwriting.
There were footsteps. Quayle looked up. Someone was outside in the hallway. There was a faint reflection of candlelight on the shiny floorboards underneath the closed door. Someone had stopped outside his room.
Quayle listened closely. There were softly spoken voices — to whom they belonged and what they were saying he couldn’t determine. There was a click as the door handle was taken in someone’s hand. It slowly began to rotate.
“Who is it?” Quayle asked in a sharp voice.
The door handle fell limp. The reflection of candlelight vanished.
Quayle jumped out of bed. Within seconds, he had opened the door and was standing outside his room.
There was no one there. The only sound he could now hear was that of the wind rustling branches against the windowpanes at the end of the hallway.
Breakfast the next morning consisted of coffee and a cigarette. Quayle consumed it in the servant’s hall around eight. He was alone — the household staff having promptly begun their day at five-thirty. And after breakfast, he ventured to another country: the south wing.
The south wing was the oldest part of the house. It constituted the original Mallbright — the building having been steadily augmented and added to by every successive generation of Wickerns. As a result, the overall structure was that of a vast maze of mismatched rooms, passageways, and staircases.
There was a discernible stillness in the rooms of the south wing. It was as though life had taken pause there and was waiting patiently for the war to end. No one lived in that part of the house. It was dark and empty, and acres of sheets covered nearly everything in sight. There was also a distinctive mustiness — a damp odor that hung in the air in the hallways. It made Quayle’s nose itch.
“Who goes there?”
The blunt barrel of a rifle confronted the inspector. He had just turned a corner in the hallway, and Rawdon was aiming at his head.
“What is the password?” the boy demanded.
“Put that down,” Quayle barked. Rawdon was holding a .303 Lee-Enfield rifle.
“Don’t worry, Inspector,” Richard said. “It isn’t loaded.” He had come out of the darkness from behind his brother.
Rawdon lowered the rifle.
“Why are you boys playing in this part of the house?” Quayle asked. He noticed Richard was holding a similar rifle. “I thought this part of the house was closed down?”
“We’re not playing,” Richard explained. “We’re practicing. If the German army invades, we wish to be ready.” The boy then slung the strap of his rifle over his shoulder and marched back up the hall from where he had come.
Rawdon did the same, but he paused for a moment before following his brother. “He had a secret.”
“Who did?” Quayle asked.
“The schoolmaster.”
“What kind of secret?”
“A dirty secret.” The boy then about-faced and marched off like a toy solider.
Quayle followed after them.
The boys were quick. They slipped away with ease. They knew the layout of the house from instinct, and within a minute, Quayle had lost sight of them completely.
Turning another corner, and starting to run, Quayle’s shin connected with a solid deadweight on wheels — a wooden trolley — and he tripped headfirst over it.
“Oh dear, oh dear! Have you hurt yourself?” It was Mrs. Chalmers. She was approaching from another direction, a tin of Brasso in one hand and a cloth in the other. She helped the inspector back to his feet.
“I’ve told the boys not to play with that,” she said of the trolley. “It’s for moving pianos. It’s not a toy. And it’s not meant to be left out in the hallway where visitors can do themselves an injury by tripping over it.”
“I’m all right,” Quayle insisted. His trouser leg was ripped, and he was bleeding.
The housekeeper led the inspector back to the other side of the house. Along the way, she explained that there were four pianos in the house, that Lady Wickern — God rest her soul — had been a pianist of some ability, and ever since her death, not a solitary note had been played on any one of the things.
Mrs. Chalmers wrapped a bandage around Quayle’s leg as best she could. The inspector had his foot up on a chair in the kitchen.
“It won’t stop the bruising,” she remarked. “But it will settle it down.”
“How did Black and the two boys get along together?” Quayle asked.
“I think the three of them got along well.” She safety-pinned the bandage in place. “They were certainly always together, I can tell you that.”
“What did the boys think of Black, did they ever say?”
She shrugged her shoulders. “I supposed they liked him. I can’t be saying I’ve ever had reason to think otherwise.”
Quayle tried walking. It was uncomfortable. “One other thing. Do you have any idea where I could locate his brother, Des?”
The housekeeper shook her head. “I really couldn’t say.” She then added: “I didn’t know the schoolmaster had a brother called Des. I knew of a brother called David, but he died some time ago.”
Young Margaret informed Quayle she had turned fifteen only two weeks earlier — she was proud of this fact. She was dusting in the main dining room. The dining table was a long slab of oak with seating for forty.
Young Margaret also had an opinion on the relationship between the schoolmaster and the two boys. “He liked Richard and Rawdon very much,” she said. She then corrected herself. “No, he loved them. He thought the world of those two boys. They were like his children.”
She also commented that she found the schoolmaster to be a kind and gentle man. She knew the other household staff didn’t care for him, in particular Mr. Standish, but the schoolmaster had always been thoroughly pleasant to her.
“Where are the bullets kept?” Quayle asked.
“What bullets would they be?” Standish replied. He was standing by the stable entrance. He held the halter to a chestnut-coloured gelding and was gently stroking its neck. Joseph the stableboy was at the rear of the horse, hammering in a new shoe.
“The two boys are inside playing soldiers,” Quayle said. “They’ve got a couple of army-issue rifles.”
“All the bullets are under lock and key.”
“Whose lock and key?”
“Mine. And never you mind the boys. They’re just children. They’re just playing.”
Quayle lit a cigarette. “When I was a lad, I played with marbles and conkers.”
Joseph finished his task. He wandered up alongside Standish and stared at the inspector. It was unnerving. The boy never blinked.
“He’s not right,” Standish remarked. He patted Joseph’s head.
Joseph grinned. “The snow will come soon,” he announced. “Everything will be white.”
“That thought worries me.” Quayle looked out across the lawn and into the distance. Almost all he could see was Mallbright — the estate was several hundred acres of rolling countryside. “Is there anywhere on the property Black could have ventured to and got into trouble?”
“Like I said last night at supper,” Standish rasped, “the schoolmaster’s cleared off. He’ll not be found here.”
Quayle stared at him. “You seem rather sure of that.”
The old man led the horse out of the stable. Its shoes clattered on the cobbles. “There’s nowt happens at Mallbright that I don’t know about.”
“Then, by that statement, you know what happened to him.”