noisily intent on tea. Fen frowned.
‘About this man Philpotts—’ he began, but interrupted himself to listen to some indefinite bumping and scratching sounds outside the study door. ‘What on earth’s that?’ he enquired.
‘You’ll see,’ said the headmaster a trifle grimly. He got to his feet, went to the door, and opened it. A dog came in.
‘Good God,’ said Fen in a muffled voice.
The dog was a large, forbidding bloodhound, on whose aboriginal colour and shape one or two other breeds had been more or less successfully superimposed. He stood just inside the doorway, unnervingly immobile, and fixed Fen with a malevolent and hypnotic stare.
‘This,’ said the headmaster, ‘is Mr Merrythought…He’s rather old,’ he added, hoping perhaps to distract attention from the singular inappositeness of the name. ‘In fact, I might almost say he was very old indeed.’
‘Is he’ – Fen spoke with great caution, rather as Balaam’s ass must have spoken after perceiving the surprise and alarm created by his first attempt – ‘is he yours?’
The headmaster shook his head. ‘He isn’t anybody’s, really. He belonged to a master who died, and now he just wanders about the site. He ought to be put away, really,’ said the headmaster, regarding Mr Merrythought with considerable distaste. ‘The trouble is, you see, that he’s liable to homicidal fits.’
‘Oh,’ said Fen. ‘Oh.’
‘They happen about once every three months. As a matter of fact there’s one due about now.’
‘Indeed.’
‘But don’t worry,’ the headmaster remarked cheerfully. ‘He likes you. He’s taken quite a liking to you.’
Fen did not appear much pleased by this disclosure. ‘I see no signs of it,’ he objected.
‘He would have bitten you by now,’ the headmaster explained, ‘if he hadn’t liked you.’
At this, Mr Merrythought lurched suddenly forward and began to advance slowly on Fen, who said, ‘Now look what you’ve done.’
‘Don’t be alarmed,’ said the headmaster, standing well out of Mr Merrythought’s path. ‘He wants to make friends.’
But Fen was not able to accept this assurance. ‘Go away,’ he adjured Mr Merrythought. ‘Go away at once.’
‘You mustn’t cross him,’ said the headmaster. ‘It’s fatal to cross him, because then he has a fit. That’s why I had to get up and let him in.’
By this time Mr Merrythought had come up to Fen, who was gazing at him with unconcealed apprehension. Still glaring balefully, Mr Merrythought lowered his head on to Fen’s knees (‘There,’ said the headmaster), and in this posture brooded for some moments, dribbling slightly the while. Presently he went away and began trying to climb on to a table.
‘Well,’ said the headmaster briskly, ‘now that he’s found something to occupy him…You were asking about Philpotts, I think.’
‘Yes,’ said Fen, shifting his chair so as to keep Mr Merrythought well in view. ‘Yes. Quite. Philpotts…Is he a temporary master?’
‘No. On the permanent staff. He’s been here for years.’
‘I suppose you’ve had a lot of staff changes recently.’
The headmaster gestured assent. ‘It’s been a great nuisance,’ he said. ‘Things are more settled now, but at the time it was very trying – and one can’t blame the war for all of it. People got restless, and left inexplicably…There was Soames, for example, who suddenly broke away after twenty years’ teaching and went off to be jokes editor to a firm of matchbox manufacturers. And young Sheridan, of course – quite a brilliant creature – who was lured on to the terra incognita of the BBC and became one of those recurrent people in the Third Programme; Morton went to the BBC too, and took a job as an announcer…I understand that he shouted so loud when introducing a variety programme that he fell down on the floor in a syncope, and never rallied.’ The headmaster appeared much moved. ‘A melancholy end, though I suppose…Oh, Lord.’
This final ejaculation was occasioned by the activities of Mr Merrythought, who was now attempting to scale a wall. He kept falling back on to the floor with a terrible impact.
‘We can’t have that,’ said the headmaster. ‘He’ll hurt himself seriously in a minute.’
He rummaged in a drawer, and eventually produced from it a rubber bone. Mr Merrythought seized this and began to play a game with it. He held it in his mouth and moved his head with great rapidity from side to side. Then he suddenly opened his mouth. If the bone did not catch on his teeth and fall harmlessly on to the carpet, which it generally did, it flew off at a tangent with considerable velocity. Mr Merrythought would then totter away to retrieve it and the whole process would begin again.
‘He’s almost human, isn’t he?’ said the headmaster. ‘Though I doubt if that can honestly be regarded as a compliment…’ There was a knock on the door. ‘Ah. That will be our tea.’
They talked of indifferent matters while they ate and drank. Mr Merrythought was presented with some weak tea in the slop basin, but he only planted his foot in it, uttered a snort of pain, and returned to the rubber bone. Eventually the headmaster looked at his watch and said:
‘I wonder when the superintendent will arrive. In five minutes’ time I’m supposed to be talking to the Classical Sixth about Lucretius. I suppose I shall have to leave them to their own devices.’
‘I’ll take the period if you like,’ said Fen.
The headmaster looked up hopefully. ‘Wouldn’t you find it very tiresome?’
‘Not in the least.’
‘I don’t like leaving them alone,’ the headmaster explained, ‘if it can be avoided. They tend to settle down and play bridge.’
‘All right,’ said Fen, finishing his tea, stubbing out his cigarette and rising. ‘Tell me where they are and I’ll go at once.’
‘I’ll take you over and introduce you.’
‘No, no, my dear Horace. There’s not the slightest necessity for that; I can introduce myself.’
‘Well, if you insist…The room is the first door on the right as you go in at the main entrance. They’re quite a peaceable, genteel lot of boys, you’ll find. Come back here afterwards and I’ll take you to my house…I’m really most grateful.’
‘I shall enjoy myself,’ said Fen truthfully, and made for the door. Mr Merrythought instantly abandoned the bone and lumbered after him.
Fen was indignant. ‘I do believe he’s going to follow me,’ he said. ‘He thinks I’m White of Selborne, I expect.’
‘I’ll pick up his bone,’ said the headmaster, ‘and while his attention’s distracted you must slip out.’
‘Blackmail,’ Fen grumbled. ‘A blackmailing dog.’
But he cooperated in the manoeuvre, and it was successful. Pursued by sounds which suggested that Mr Merrythought’s trimensual fit was imminent, he made his way to the Classical Sixth room.
The High School for girls was in Castrevenford town, with the headmistress’s house adjoining it. And since Miss Parry was a woman sensible of the civilized graces, her study was a pleasant room – broad, cool, predominantly pink and white, with