Fear to Tread Read online

  “What’s up?” he said.

  Peggy gave him a long, steady, Donovan look which always made him wonder whether he had got up without putting on his tie, and said: “Someone propositioned me last night.”

  “He did what?”

  “It wasn’t a him. It was a woman. I haven’t known her long. I thought she was all right only evidently,” Peggy’s mobile nose was wrinkled, “she isn’t.”

  “Who was it? And what did she say?”

  “I don’t think I’d better tell you who it was, really. It wouldn’t do any good. She was only passing it on from someone else.”

  “All right. Just tell me what she said.”

  “She told me I could make some money. Quite a lot of money.”

  “Oh,” said Mr. Wetherall. “How?” He tried not to sound shocked, but was aware that he wasn’t making a very good job of it. “I mean, don’t tell me if you’d rather not.”

  “I expect I’d better tell you,” said Peggy. “It was cash down, on the nail, if I’d go to the police and say you’d been fooling about with me.”

  There was a long silence.

  “And what did you say?” said Mr. Wetherall at last.

  “Oh, I told her to take a running jump at herself,” said Peggy lightly. “What did she think I was, I asked her. If I went to the police every time people made passes at me, they’d have to call up the specials.”

  “Well, thank you very much anyway,” said Mr. Wetherall. “Don’t you think you ought to tell me this woman’s name?”

  “I don’t think it’d do much good, really. I’d say she was in on the job fifth hand. In fact I only passed it on because I thought you might have been treading on people’s toes without knowing it. Someone’s certainly got it in for you.”

  “Someone certainly has,” said Mr. Wetherall. “Would you mind checking all those bills. The last three lots have been added up wrong, and all in his favour, I notice. I don’t know if Higgins imagines that because we’re a modern school we can’t do simple arithmetic.”

  When Peggy had gone Mr. Wetherall sat for some time staring at the calendar on his desk. He did not seem to be worrying about the date, which had not, in fact, been altered for about a month, but he was reading, with close attention the gilt lettering across the top which said: “Get your Scholastic Supplies from Skimbles” and lower down “Courtesy and Service Combined with Economy.”

  He might hide it from other people, he thought, but it was no use trying to hide from himself the fact that he was badly shaken.

  He had been a schoolmaster, and a headmaster, long enough to know the peculiar pitfalls which lie open beside that path.

  The first malicious whisper; the inevitable busybody; then the enquiries, which hurt everyone; the children questioned by police officers who knew as much about children as he himself knew about murderers; the court proceedings, the case (as often as not) dismissed; and then the clatter of tongues, the “no smoke without fire” brigade – and another promising career moved quietly into baulk.

  How many teachers, how many people known to him personally had gone out on that tide?”

  He recalled that when he had first come to London he had listened to a friend, a very old hand in the trade, who had told him of two resolutions that he himself had made and kept; never, whatever the salary and prospects offered, to teach in a school with girls in it, and never, if he could help it, to see his pupils alone out of school. Even if you had to give private tuition, he said, give it as a class, not to individuals.

  It was absurd that such precautions should be necessary. He remembered he had thought that the man was exaggerating, but had lived to discover the contrary.

  And now, suddenly, this unexpected angle to the attack.

  He felt more than shocked, he felt frightened. There is something unnerving about hidden malignancy when it comes to light. The mine in the path, the blade in the pocket, the poison in the food.

  If his enemies disliked him so much, if they were prepared to go to such lengths, where would they stop? They had foundered this time on the exceptional rock of Peggy’s integrity. He didn’t think they were the sort of people to make the same mistake twice.

  In his considerable distress and confusion he could only find one fixed light, one point which was absolutely clear. He was in a position where there could be no standing still. A sitting man was an easy target. Either he went on or he got out.

  That afternoon Mr. Wetherall set his history class to write an account of the Battle of Leipzig, and turned his problems over in his head.

  He looked so grim that the class worked with great diligence and produced essays of unusual distinction.

  II

  When Mr. Wetherall got home that evening he found a note from his wife and a letter from Major Francis.

  Spelling had never been Mrs. Wetherall’s strong point and her husband was not therefore unduly alarmed to read that she had gone out “to the anti-natal clinic.”

  “Dear Folks,” wrote Major Francis. “How I wish you could be out here now. The Fall’s the best time of year. The colours of the leaves have to be seen to be believed. Don’t believe what you see on the Travelogues. They don’t give you the half of it.”

  Somehow Mr. Wetherall felt vaguely comforted as he read it. It was agreeable to think that someone could get excited about the colour of leaves.

  “When I said that I wished you could be out here,” the letter concluded, “I wasn’t just being polite. I really do wish it. Could you and Alice not come over here for a long vacation? Nothing under six months would be worth your while, and maybe you don’t have school holidays that long, but if you called it a cultural study tour I expect your governors or committee, or whatever it is, would give it their blessing. Why not try it? Just give that great mind of yours to it, Wilfred. I seem to remember you weren’t the man to let difficulties stop you once you’d set yourself on a project.”

  Not the man to let difficulties stop him?

  His mind went back to Major Francis. A big, blond, rather silent man, who wore rimless glasses with an air of serious purpose which camouflaged a very kind heart. A widower; shy to start with, but thawing remarkably once you got to know him. He had been billeted with the Wetheralls for most of two years at Leamington Spa, and a sad coincidence of loss had drawn them very close.

  First there had been the time – he didn’t like to think of it even now – when Alice’s first child had been still-born. No reason in particular, that the doctor could see. Just the strain of life as it was being lived at that time. A microscopic war casualty. (That was what made this one so doubly important. All must go well this time.)

  Then there had been that bleak Monday when the news had come about the major’s only son who had been doing his pilot training at Fort Shilo. Exactly what Mrs. Wetherall had found to say to Major Francis her husband had never discovered. He had kept out of the way, pleading overwork. It was an excuse that really had some validity in that mad time, when horizons were short and everyone was doing the work of three, and seemed to thrive on it. Perhaps everything that had happened in England since had been a reaction from that period.

  He fidgeted round for a bit; wondered if he ought to do something about putting the supper on, but decided that anything he did would certainly be wrong and would have to be done again; thought about a cup of tea but decided that by the time the kettle had boiled his wife would be home; picked up The Times and tried to finish the crossword puzzle which he had started at breakfast; thought a little about his own problems, and came to the conclusion that, since he had already made up his mind, it was a waste of time thinking any more about them.

  When his wife came home she found him asleep.

  III

  Next morning Mr. Wetherall caught the ten o’clock express from Waterloo.

  He started out, as if to go to school, by catching his usual bus, jumped off at the traffic lights before the school stop, and walked along Albany Road until he was quite certain that no one w
as taking any interest in him whatever. Then he picked up a cruising taxi and drove the short remaining distance to the station.

  At twelve-thirty his train slid into a sleepy west-country town, and made its first halt. Mr. Wetherall climbed out. He had a telephone call to make from a box on the platform, and then he walked out into the town.

  It was a wonderful autumn day. A herd of year-old bullocks was being driven down the main street, bunching and clowning. No one paid much attention to them. It was the sort of a town that had long ago got past worrying about year-old bullocks. Moving in the other direction came a file of girls, in straw hats with red ribbons, marshalled by a big lady in tweeds. Compared with the bullocks the girls looked junior league, but may have been more dangerous. There was a tar-sprayer at work in one of the side streets.

  Mr. Wetherall drank in the sights and sounds and smells. A true Londoner, he regarded the country as a perpetual open-air entertainment; a non-stop variety show, always there and to be seen for the price of a railway ticket.

  Bells were sounding from the Abbey as he turned up Cornmarket Street, right at the war memorial and right again into Rowan Street.

  Half-way down on the left, unchanged since he had first seen it twenty years before (practically unchanged in the three centuries before that) stood the old house of John Walters. Only the gilt lettering on the notice beside the door was fading a little.

  “School of Art. Painting, Pastel and Etching. Principal, Lloyd Ap-Lloyd.”

  He pulled the dangling iron bell, which looked like a stage prop but worked.

  A maid appeared and showed him into a study. It was not a large room, and was further diminished by the tangle of drawings which hung from its walls, professional reproductions of old masters, fighting for life with photogravures of Tintagel and Stonehenge, the many products of Mr. Ap-Lloyd’s prize pupils and the water colours of Mr. Ap-Lloyd’s wife.

  Mr. Ap-Lloyd himself appeared, and grasped Mr. Wetherall’s hand. He was a small, Lloyd-George pattern Welshman with white hair.

  “Wilfred. I’m so glad. Come and have a drink.”

  “A drink?”

  “Some sherry. Molly has been looking forward to this.”

  “How’s Peter getting along?”

  “Splendid. Quite splendid. That was a really good turn you did for us. I hope you haven’t come to take him away?”

  “No. Not if he wants to stay.”

  They found Mrs. Ap-Lloyd in the drawing-room. She was twice the size of her husband, and shaped in two bulges, one above the other, like a gasogene. She had the kindest heart of any woman known to Mr. Wetherall, who kissed her affectionately.

  “There you are,” said Mr. Ap-Lloyd. “Tell me what you think of it.” He tipped some sherry from a decanter into a glass.

  “Ha—hm!” said Mr. Wetherall.

  “That’s right,” said Mr. Ap-Lloyd. “If you don’t know, don’t say. It’s a very curious survival, wine snobbery. A product of the time when all gentlemen drank wine, and it was a gentlemanly trait to understand vintages. Nowadays nobody knows a damn thing about it, but they all keep it up. We had Canon Trumpington in here the other day. I gave him a glass of this and asked him what he thought of it. Do you know, he smacked his silly old lips, twiddled the glass round, and said: ‘Delicious, delicious. A real old fino. Not too sweet but not too dry’.”

  “What is it?”

  “South African,” said Mr. Ap-Lloyd smugly. “And I don’t mind taking a bet—”

  “Don’t start bullying Wilfred the moment he gets here,” said his wife. “Particularly after what he’s done for you. Such a boy.”

  “He’s doing all right, is he?”

  “All right. He’s a furore. He’s the fashion. People have quite stopped going to the cinema to see Ronald Coleman. They come here instead, to be taught art by Peter.”

  “My dear, don’t exaggerate.”

  “He’s grown the sweetest little silky beard, so fair that you can only see it in the strong side light. He wears corduroy trousers and – my dear, his shirts. I’ve never seen anything like them. A dozen of them, and all pure silk. When I unpacked them I felt sure he must be a prince in disguise.”

  “Actually,” said Mr. Wetherall, “I think they are part of a consignment stolen from a London railway terminus.”

  “Well, that’s romantic too, isn’t it?”

  “Molly talks a lot of nonsense,” said Mr. Ap-Lloyd. “But, joking apart, Crowdy’s an extremely promising draughtsman. Really, he’s more than promising. He’s got a very mature technique and a sort of eye for line which you can be born with, but you can never learn.”

  “You really think he’s good.”

  “More than good. With a bit of practice and encouragement he might be great. But that’s all in the future. At the moment, he’s extremely useful to me. Assistants are almost impossible to get hold of. I’d like to take him on with a proper contract. I can pay him a living wage whilst he’s completing his training. It’s no kindness. He’ll be worth a lot more soon. Can you fix it with his family. I promise I won’t exploit him.”

  “I’m sure you won’t,” said Mr. Wetherall. “The only trouble is he hasn’t got much family. However, I shouldn’t let that worry you. He’s old enough to make his mind up. Can I have a word with him now?”

  “He’s in the studio. Go along, you know the way.”

  It took a moment for Mr. Wetherall to recognise Peter Crowdy. If the interval had been ten months instead of ten days he could not have been more surprised.

  “That’s a lovely beard, Peter.”

  Crowdy smiled. “It’s part of the uniform,” he said. “All artists have beards when they’re young. Glad to see you, Mr. Wetherall.”

  “You won’t be when I’ve done with you.” Mr. Wetherall backed the words with a smile, but he saw the boy stiffen up.

  “Come on,” he said. “Sit down and get it over. Just imagine you’re having a tooth out. Three hard pulls and away it comes.”

  “O.K.,” said Crowdy. They both sat down on the window seat, under the big window, and looked at each other.

  “If I tell you,” said Crowdy. “Does it mean I shan’t have to tell it all over again – to the police?”

  Mr. Wetherall nearly said “yes,” but the northern light was too uncompromising.

  “You know I can’t bind the police,” he said. “But I promise you I’ll do what I can. And I’ll tell you one thing. It won’t just be the local coppers. I’m going right up to the top with it, if I have to. If what I tell them helps them to get their hands on the people they want, I don’t imagine they’ll be too fussy about the early stages, especially now that—”

  “Now that Dad’s dead.”

  “Yes.”

  “It wasn’t an accident, was it? He was killed.”

  “Yes,” said Mr. Wetherall. “I don’t think there’s any doubt about that at all.”

  “All right,” said Crowdy. “Here it is. You know Dad had a job in the Forwarding Office at Crossways goods station. I don’t know if you know how a Forwarding Office works. Say you’re sending a sewing machine from the country to somewhere in London. You hand it over to your local railway station. It gets entered up in a book and you get a receipt. They send it to Crossways, with particulars. One of the forwarding clerks at Crossways labels it the correct way – ‘Carriage Forward’ or ‘Cash on Delivery’ or ‘Carriage Paid’ or whatever it might be and arrange for it to be put on the proper lorry or van or whatever it may be going out to that district – O.K.?”

  Mr. Wetherall nodded. It seemed reasonably clear.

  “Well, that’s how it worked.”

  “How what worked?”

  “The racket. There was Dad and three or four others in it. More, by the end. It got a bit out of hand. It was too easy. They had labels ready with their own addresses on them – or, anyway, addresses they could use. They just slapped these on to promising-looking parcels, with a ‘Carriage Paid’ label, and the carriers delivered them. The
carriers weren’t in it, see. They just followed the labels and notices. Easy as falling off a log.”

  “What sort of stuff?”

  “Cases of spirits, tea, wireless sets, cartons of cigarettes, sewing machines, lawnmowers. Anything takes your fancy.”

  “I see.” Mr. Wetherall pondered for a moment. “I suppose the person who had dispatched the goods sooner or later produced his receipt and made a fuss and the railway had to pay up.”

  “That’s right.” Crowdy giggled. “Do you know, one chap who was in on it – he sold typewriters – used to tip us off whenever he sent one by rail to a customer and we simply labelled it back to him. Dad said he got to recognise one machine. It came round six times.”

  “Hmp!” said Mr. Wetherall. “What did they all do with the stuff?”

  “That was the crazy part,” said Peter. “A lot of it they didn’t really want at all. It was stealing for the sake of stealing. I know one man had four wireless sets buried in his allotment. Of course, if it was food or drink or smokes they sold them—sold them to—sold them to a local.”

  “I know all about Jock’s Pull-In,” said Mr. Wetherall. “How did you come into this?”

  “It was on account of the labels. The only way the railways had of checking at Crossways was the number of forwarding labels – ‘Out’ labels they called them – that each clerk used. They had to tally with his record book – like a bus conductor and his tickets. Of course, they couldn’t enter the phoney deliveries, and if they’d used official labels on them they’d have been short in their tally at the end of the day. So Dad got me to make some up for them. I drew the originals, and one of the gang had them photographed on special paper.”

  Light dawned.

  “That’s what you were doing that evening.”

  “That’s right. You didn’t half give us a fright.”

  “Hmph!” said Mr. Wetherall again. It was clearly the moment when he ought to tackle the moral side of the business. He felt at a loss. Perhaps robbing a railway didn’t seem as immoral as robbing a person. It had cost Peter’s father his life, and Peter was talking about it as if it was some sort of game.