As he continued in the direction of the bicycle shed, he remembered that he had the authority to withdraw money from an account with the Bank of Australia that was showing a balance of over £4,000.
He checked the form of the other horses, and couldn’t see how Drumstick could possibly lose. This time he would place £5 each way on the filly, so that at three to one he was still sure to get his money back, even if Drumstick came in third. Keith pushed his way through the turnstile, picked up his bike and pedaled furiously for about a mile until he spotted the nearest bank. He ran inside and wrote out a check for £10.
There were still fifteen minutes to go before the start of the second race, so he was confident that he had easily enough time to cash the check and be back in time to place his bet. The clerk behind the grille looked at the customer, studied the check and then telephoned Keith’s branch in Melbourne. They immediately confirmed that Mr. Townsend had signing power for that particular account, and that it was in credit. At two fifty-three the clerk pushed £10 over to the impatient young man.
Keith cycled back to the course at a speed that would have impressed the captain of athletics, abandoned his bicycle and ran to the nearest bookie. He placed £5 each way on Drumstick with Honest Syd. As the barrier sprang open, Keith walked briskly over to the rails and was just in time to watch the mêlée of horses pass him on the first circuit. He couldn’t believe his eyes. Drumstick must have been left at the start, because she was trailing the rest of the field badly as they began the second lap and, despite a gallant effort coming down the home straight, could only manage fourth place.
Keith checked the runners and riders for the third race and quickly cycled back to the bank, his backside never once touching the saddle. He asked to cash a check for £20. Another phone call was made, and on this occasion the assistant manager in Melbourne asked to speak to Keith personally. Having established Keith’s identity, he authorized that the check should be honored.
Keith fared no better in the third race, and by the time an announcement came over the P.A. to confirm the winner of the sixth, he had withdrawn £100 from the cricket pavilion account. He rode slowly back to the post office, considering the consequences of the afternoon. He knew that at the end of the month the account would be checked by the school bursar, and if he had any queries about deposits or withdrawals he would inform the headmaster, who would in turn seek clarification from the bank. The assistant manager would then inform him that Mr. Townsend had telephoned from a branch near the racecourse five times during the Wednesday afternoon in question, insisting each time that his check should be honored. Keith would certainly be expelled — a boy had been removed the previous year for stealing a bottle of ink. But worse, far worse, the news would make the front page of every paper in Australia that wasn’t owned by his father.
Betsy was surprised that Keith didn’t even drop in to speak to her after he had dumped his bike behind the post office. He walked back to school, aware that he only had three weeks in which to get his hands on £100. He went straight to his study and tried to concentrate on old exam papers, but his mind kept returning to the irregular withdrawals. He came up with a dozen stories that in different circumstances might have sounded credible. But how would he ever explain why the checks had been cashed at thirty-minute intervals, at a branch so near a racecourse?
By the following morning, he was considering signing up for the army and getting himself shipped off to Burma before anyone discovered what he had done. Perhaps if he died winning the VC they wouldn’t mention the missing £100 in his obituary. The one thing he didn’t consider was placing a bet the following week, even after he had been given another ‘sure thing’ by the same stable lad. It didn’t help when he read in Thursday morning’s Sporting Globe that this particular ‘sure thing’ had romped home at ten to one.
It was during prep the following Monday, as Keith was struggling through an essay on the gold standard, that the handwritten note was delivered to his room. It simply stated, ‘The headmaster would like to see you in his study immediately.’
Keith felt sick. He left the half-finished essay on his desk and began to make his way slowly over to the headmaster’s house. How could they have found out so quickly? Had the bank decided to cover itself and tell the bursar about several irregular withdrawals? How could they be so certain that the money hadn’t been used on legitimate expenses? ‘So, Townsend, what were those “legitimate expenses,” withdrawn from a bank at thirty-minute intervals, just a mile from a racecourse on a Wednesday afternoon?’ he could already hear the headmaster asking sarcastically.
Keith climbed the steps to the headmaster’s house, feeling cold and sick. The door was opened for him by the maid even before he had a chance to knock. She led him through to Mr. Jessop’s study without saying a word. When he entered the room, he thought he had never seen such a severe expression on the headmaster’s face. He glanced across the room and saw that his housemaster was seated on the sofa in the corner. Keith remained standing, aware that on this occasion he wouldn’t be invited to have a seat or take a glass of sherry.
‘Townsend,’ the headmaster began, ‘I am investigating a most serious allegation, in which I am sorry to report that you appear to be personally involved.’ Keith dug his nails into his palms to stop himself from trembling. ‘As you can see, Mr. Clarke has joined us. This is simply to ensure that a witness is present should it become necessary for this matter to be put in the hands of the police.’ Keith felt his legs weaken, and feared he might collapse if he wasn’t offered a chair.
‘I will come straight to the point, Townsend.’ The head paused as if searching for the right words. Keith couldn’t stop shaking. ‘My daughter, Penny, it seems is... is... pregnant,’ said Mr. Jessop, ‘and she informs me that she was raped. It appears that you’ — Keith was about to protest — ‘were the only witness to the episode. And as the accused is not only in your house, but is also the head boy, I consider it to be of the greatest importance that you feel able to cooperate fully with this inquiry.’
Keith let out an audible sigh of relief. ‘I shall do my best, sir,’ he said, as the headmaster’s eyes returned to what he suspected was a prepared script.
‘Did you on Saturday 6 October, at around three o’clock in the afternoon, have cause to enter the cricket pavilion?’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Keith without hesitation. ‘I often have to visit the pavilion in connection with my responsibility for the appeal.’
‘Yes, of course,’ said the headmaster. ‘Quite right and proper that you should do so.’ Mr. Clarke looked grave, and nodded his agreement.
‘And can you tell me in your own words what you encountered when you entered the pavilion on that particular Saturday?’
Keith wanted to smirk when he heard the word ‘encountered,’ but somehow managed to keep a serious look on his face.
‘Take your time,’ said Mr. Jessop. ‘And whatever your feelings are, you mustn’t regard this as sneaking.’
Don’t worry, thought Keith, I won’t. He pondered whether this was the occasion to settle two old scores at the same time. But perhaps he would gain more by...
‘You might also care to consider that several reputations rest on your interpretation of what took place on that unfortunate afternoon.’ It was the word ‘reputations’ that helped Keith to make up his mind. He frowned as if contemplating deeply the implications of what he was about to say, and wondered just how much longer he could stretch out the agony.