"And his legal guardian?"
Jones replaced his glasses and peered incredulously. “Why do you need to ask? Can't he speak for himself? Is he missing?"
"No, sir.” Leatherdale flipped back a couple of pages. “'Concussion, compound fracture of the right leg, extensive minor contusions.’ He was just starting to come around when I left."
"Good God!” Jones paused, as if shocked by his own profanity, then added, “His guardian is his uncle, the Reverend Roland Exeter, director of the Lighthouse Missionary Society."
He spoke as if everyone knew the Reverend Dr. Exeter, and admittedly Leatherdale had heard of him. He did not reveal that he had already spoken with the holy gentleman on the telephone early that morning, nor that it had taken the Reverend Exeter's housekeeper considerable time to persuade him even to come to the phone. When he had come, he had explained at length that his religious beliefs forbade him to travel on Sundays—no, not even to visit an injured nephew involved in a murder case.
"Exeter also corresponded with a chap in the Colonial Office,” Jones said, frowning. “I have his name and address somewhere, I'm sure. A Mr. Oldcastle, as I recall. In such cases, His Majesty's Government takes an interest, of course, and quite rightly so."
"No other relatives?"
"Only a cousin, so far as I know."
Leatherdale's antennae quivered, but he said, “Family friends?"
"None I have ever heard mentioned."
"Does the name ‘Jumbo’ mean anything to you, Mr. Jones?"
"Common nickname, that's all. We have a Jumbo Little in Fourth Form."
"No. Tell me about the cousin."
"Miss Alice Prescott. I have her address also, I believe."
"They are close?"
Jones forced a thin smile of acknowledgment. “Exeter went to her twenty-first a couple of months ago. Until she reached her majority, they were both wards of their reverend uncle. I have not met the lady for several years, but I believe the young man is seriously smitten. I do not know how she feels about him. He is three years her junior and they are first cousins."
"I shall see she is informed, sir."
"Thank you. I'm sure Exeter will be grateful, and if she is anything like he thinks she is, she will respond."
A good housemaster was much more than a jailer. Leatherdale raised his estimation of David Jones. In the case of at least one of his charges, he had obviously won trust and friendship.
"Tell me of the boy himself, sir."
"Solid!” Jones thought for a moment. “Fair athlete, but not exceptional, except at cricket. There he was one of the best fast bowlers we've had for some time. A bit of a loner, especially since the tragedy, but popular despite that. He made an excellent prefect. Born leader—kept the youngsters in line and never raised his voice. They worshiped him. Damnably weak in maths—can't seem to see the point of ‘em. A real flair for languages. Walked off with the medals in Greek and German and came close in Latin, too. More competition in French,” he added vaguely.
This sort of stuff would be deadly in court.
"So he has left school. What are his ambitions, can you say?"
Jones hesitated. “If I know Exeter, then he's panting to get into uniform like all the others. Teach the Hun a lesson, by Jingo!"
"And if there's no mobilization?"
"He was going up to Cambridge. Looks like he has his choice of two or three colleges—there is money in the family for that sort of thing."
"To follow in his father's footsteps? Colonial Office?"
Pause. “Oh, no. Modern languages."
Leatherdale made a note. The witness was holding something back. Probably young Exeter resented the organization that had condemned his father for being too good at his job. His ambitions could hardly be relevant to the murder, though.
Motive? Leatherdale wanted the motive. What turned a model public schoolboy into a savage killer?
"No family on his mother's side?"
"Exeter himself knows of none. She was a New Zealander."
"Of European stock?"
Jones laughed contemptuously. “You're looking for a touch of the tar brush, Inspector? I admit he has black hair, and he takes a good tan, but those eyes! Blue as they come. Looks Cornish, I'd say."
Nettled in spite of himself, Leatherdale said, “I didn't see his eyes, sir. They were closed.” He shrugged and took up his quest again. “What of his private life? Any wild oats in his background?"
The French master had aged several years since he sat down. The condescension had long since faded from his manner, but that remark brought an angry flush to his cheek. “I have already given you my appraisal of Exeter. He is a young English gentleman."
"A direct answer, if you please, Mr. Jones."
Jones snorted. “Boys in public school have no private life. What happens in the holidays is beyond my ken, but I should doubt it very much, in his case. Schools such as Fallow are a great deal more celibate than any monastery the church ever knew. I told you—I think Master Exeter has his heart set on his cousin. I simply cannot imagine his being promiscuous."
Reluctantly, Leatherdale noted the reply. “Forgive this next question, but it must be asked. How about, ‘The love that dares not breathe its name'?"
"No! Any hint of that in Fallow is cause for immediate sacking—boys or masters!” Jones glared for a moment, then sighed. “Of course it is always a potential problem in any all-male community. Some otherwise exemplary schools ... you know, I'm sure. We are not naive. We watch for it. We haven't had a case in several years. Cold baths and constant vigilance, Inspector!"
"Not Exeter?"
"Absolutely not."
He seemed to be sincere. He might not be quite as shrewd a judge of his charges as he believed. A storm of passion of one sort or another was the only credible motive in the case. Leatherdale toyed with his pen for a moment, wondering if there was anything more he need ask about Exeter. The housemaster's enthusiasm for the boy was worrisome. However misplaced, it would go down well with a jury.
When he looked up, Jones seemed to brace himself in his chair. “And the other boy you are interested in, Inspector? Smedley, I suppose?"
"Timothy Fitzjohn Bodgley."
"What?” Jones could not have displayed greater shock had he been informed that he had been chosen to tutor the Prince of Wales in Hebrew. “Explain!"
"At the moment the details are confidential, Mr. Jones. It missed the Sunday papers, but some of it will most certainly be in tomorrow's."
The master moaned. “For God's sake tell me! This is awful!"
"First your comments on young Bodgley, if you please. Was he also in your house?"
"Yes he was. He and Exeter were close chums as juniors and the friendship lasted—they don't always, of course. It's less on Exeter's side than Bodgley's, I'd say. Exeter is more, er, self-sufficient.” Jones began polishing his glasses again, gazing blankly meanwhile, as if he could not see without them. “Bodgley's a delicate boy. He is frequently troubled by asthma. This has kept him back in games ... He was known as Bagpipe."
"His father is an Old Etonian.” Leatherdale did not mention that he had researched his chief constable in that worthy gentleman's own copy of Who's Who.