John le Carré - A Murder of Quality

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A Murder of Quality

John le Carre

ISBN 0-1400-2271-6

Foreword

There are probably a dozen great schools of whom it

will be confidently asserted that Carne is their

deliberate image. But he who looks among their

common rooms for the D'Arcys, Fieldings, and Hechts

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A Murder of Quality

will search in vain.

Chapter 1—Black Candles

The greatness of Carne School has been ascribed by

common consent to Edward VI, whose educational zeal

is ascribed by history to the Duke of Somerset. But

Carne prefers the respectability of the monarch to the

questionable politics of his adviser, drawing strength

from the conviction that Great Schools, like Tudor

Kings, were ordained in Heaven.

And indeed its greatness is little short of miraculous.

Founded by obscure monks, endowed by a sickly boy

king, and dragged from oblivion by a Victorian bully,

Carne had straightened its collar, scrubbed its rustic

hands and face and presented itself shining to the

courts of the twentieth century. And in the twinkling of

an eye, the Dorset bumpkin was London's darling: Dick

Whittington had arrived. Carne had parchments in

Latin, seals in wax, and Lammas Land behind the

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Abbey. Carne had property, cloisters and woodworm, a

whipping block and a line in the Doomsday

Book—then what more did it need to instruct the

sons of the rich?

And they came; each Half they came (for terms are not

elegant things), so that throughout a whole afternoon

the trains would unload sad groups of black-coated

boys on to the station platform. They came in great

cars that shone with mournful purity. They came to bury

poor King Edward, trundling handcarts over the

cobbled streets or carrying tuck boxes like little coffins.

Some wore gowns, and when they walked they looked

like crows, or black angels come for the burying. Some

followed singly like undertakers' mutes, and you could

hear the clip of their boots as they went. They were

always in mourning at Carne; the small boys because

they must stay and the big boys because they must

leave, the masters because respectability was

underpaid; and now, as the Lent Half (as the Easter

term was called) drew to its end, the cloud of gloom

was as firmly settled as ever over the grey towers of

Carne.

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Gloom and the cold. The cold was crisp and sharp as

flint. It cut the faces of the boys as they moved slowly

from the deserted playing fields after the school match.

It pierced their black topcoats and turned their stiff,

pointed collars into icy rings round their necks. Frozen,

they plodded from the field to the long walled road

which led to the main tuck shop and the town, the line

gradually dwindling into groups, and the groups into

pairs. Two boys who looked even colder than the rest

crossed the road and made their way along a narrow

path which led towards a distant but less populated

tuck shop.

'I think I shall die if ever I have to watch one of those

beastly rugger games again. The noise is fantastic,'

said one. He was tall with fair hair, and his name was

Caley.

'People only shout because the dons are watching from

the pavilion,' the other rejoined;'that's why each house

has to stand together. So that the house dons can

swank about how loud their houses shout.'

'What about Rode?' asked Caley. 'Why does he stand

with us and make us shout, then? He's not a house

don, just a bloody usher.'

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'He's sucking up to house dons all the time. You can

see him in the quad between lessons buzzing round

the big men. All the junior masters do.' Caley's

companion was a cynical red-haired boy called Perkins,

Captain of Fielding's house.

'I've been to tea with Rode,' said Caley.

'Rode's hell. He wears brown boots. What was tea

like?'

'Bleak. Funny how tea gives them away. Mrs Rode's

quite decent, though—homely in a plebby sort of

way: doyleys and china birds. Food's good: Women's

Institute, but good.'

'Rode's doing Corps next Half. That'll put the lid on it.

He's so keen, bouncing about all the time. You can tell

he's not a gentleman. You know where he went to

school?'

'No.'

'Branxome Grammar. Fielding told my Mama, when

she came over from Singapore last Half.'

'God. Where's Branxome?'

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'On the coast. Near Bournemouth. I haven't been to tea

with anyone except Fielding.' Perkins added after a

slight pause, 'You get roast chestnuts and crumpets.

You're never allowed to thank him, you know. He says

emotionalism is only for the lower classes. That's

typical of Fielding. He's not like a don at all. I think boys

bore him. The whole house goes to tea with him once a

Half, he has us in turn, four at a time, and that's about

the only time he talks to most men.'

They walked on in silence for a while until Perkins said:

'Fielding's giving another dinner party tonight.'

'He's pushing the boat out these days,' Caley replied,

with disapproval. 'Suppose the food in your house is

worse than ever?'

'It's his last Half before he retires. He's entertaining

every don and all the wives separately by the end of

the Half. Black candles every evening. For mourning.

Hells extravagant.'

'Yes. I suppose it's a sort of gesture.'

'My Pater says he's a queer.'

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A Murder of Quality

They crossed the road and disappeared into the tuck

shop, where they continued to discuss the weighty

affairs of Mr Terence Fielding, until Perkins drew their

meeting reluctantly to a close. Being a poor hand at

science, he was unfortunately obliged to take extra

tuition in the subject.

The dinner party to which Perkins had alluded that

afternoon was now drawing to a close. Mr Terence

Fielding, senior housemaster of Carne, gave himself

some more port and pushed the decanter wearily to his

left. It was his port, the best he had. There was enough

of the best to last the Half—and after that, be

damned. He felt a little tired after watching the match,

and a little drunk, and a little bored with Shane Hecht

and her husband. Shane was so hideous. Massive and

enveloping, like a faded Valkyrie. All that black hair. He

should have asked someone else. The Snows for

instance, but he was too clever. Or Felix D'Arcy, but

D'Arcy interrupted. Ah well, a little later he would annoy

Charles Hecht, and Hecht would get in a pet and leave

early.

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Hecht was fidgeting, wanting to light his pipe, but

Fielding damn well wouldn't have it. Hecht could have a

cigar if he wanted to smoke. But his pipe could stay in

his dinner-jacket pocket, where it belonged, or didn't

belong, and his athletic profile could remain unadorned.

'Cigar, Hecht?'

'No thanks, Fielding. I say, do you mind if I…'

'I can recommend the cigars. Young Havelake sent

them from Havana. His father's ambassador there, you

know.'

'Yes, dear,' said Shane tolerantly; 'Vivian Havelake was

in Charles's troop when Charles was commandant of

the Cadets.'

'Good boy, Havelake,' Hecht observed, and pressed his

lips together to show he was a strict judge.

'It's amusing how things have changed.' Shane Hecht

said this rapidly with a rather wooden smile, as if it

weren't really amusing. 'Such a grey world we live in,

now.

'I remember before the war when Charles inspected the

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Corps on a white horse. We don't do that kind of thing

now, do we? I've got nothing against Mr Iredale as

commandant, nothing at all. What was his regiment,

Terence, do you know? I'm sure he does it very nicely,

whatever they do now in the Corps—he gets on

so well with the boys, doesn't he? His wife's such a nice

person… I wonder why they can never keep their

servants. I hear Mr Rode will be helping out with the

Corps next Half.'

'Poor little Rode,' said Fielding slowly; 'running about

like a puppy, trying to earn his biscuits. He tries so

hard; have you seen him cheering at school matches?

He'd never seen a game of rugger before he came

here, you know. They don't play rugger at grammar

schools—it's all soccer. Do you remember when

he first came, Charles? It was fascinating. He lay very

low at first, drinking us in: the games, the vocabulary,

the manners. Then, one day it was as if he had been

given the power of speech, and he spoke in our

language. It was amazing, like plastic surgery. It was

Felix D'Arcy's work of course—I've never seen

anything quite like it before.'

'Dear Mrs Rode,' said Shane Hecht in that voice of

abstract vagueness which she reserved for her most

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venomous pronouncements : 'So sweet… and

such simple taste, don't you think? I mean, whoever

would have dreamed of putting those china ducks on

the wall? Big ones at the front and little ones at the

back. Charming, don't you think? Like one of those

teashops. I wonder where she bought them. I must ask

her. I'm told her father lives near Bournemouth. It must

be so lonely for him, don't you think? Such a vulgar

place; no one to talk to.'

Fielding sat back and surveyed his own table. The

silver was good. The best in Carne, he had heard it

said, and he was inclined to agree. This Half he had

nothing but black candles. It was the sort of thing

people remembered when you'd gone: 'Dear old

Terence—marvellous host. He dined every

member of the staff during his last Half, you know,

wives too. Black candles, rather touching. It broke his

heart giving up his house.' But he must annoy Charles

Hecht. Shane would like that. Shane would egg him on

because she hated Charles, because within her great

ugly body she was as cunning as a snake.

Fielding looked at Hecht and then at Hecht's wife, and

she smiled back at him, the slow rotten smile of a

whore. For a moment Fielding thought of Hecht

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John le Carré - A Murder of Quality

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