Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 133, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 805 & 806, September/October 2008

The Wickern Boys by Stephen Ross

© 2008 by Stephen Ross

2006 Department of First Stories author Stephen Ross makes his second appearance in EQMM this month. His “day job” as an IT programmer and technical writer also involves editing and contributing to his company’s magazine, and he sometimes freelances as a newspaper columnist. But writing is not Mr. Ross’s only interest. The New Zealand resident also composes songs and plays the piano.

The knife-edge of winter was a pleasant time during which to travel by rail. Autumn’s dying breath could be observed from the warmth of the train carriage, and the moment savored with a sip from a flask of hot tea.

Inspector Quayle drained the mug. It wasn’t that he enjoyed the yearly demise of the English countryside, but rather, he welcomed the sense of coziness it ushered in — a warm fire, a comfortable armchair, and a damn good book. And were it not for the fact the country was at war, he would have enjoyed it a whole lot more.

Quayle lit a cigarette. He was a slim man with a slight moustache. There had to be better things to occupy his time than investigating the disappearance of an elderly schoolmaster-cum-tutor from a country estate in the West Midlands. It wasn’t as if London was without its share of missing persons — Herr Hitler was seeing to that on a nightly basis.

The word had come from on high. The schoolmaster was an elderly man by the name of Peter Black. Black was tutor to the two Wickern boys at Mallbright, and the boys’ father, Lord Wickern, was a senior official at the ministry of defense with the ear of the prime minister. Black had vanished, seemingly without trace, and Lord Wickern wanted it “looked into and taken care of.“

The journey was three hours by rail out of Paddington Station. Mallbright was nestled in among the rolling hills and vales north of the Cotswolds. It had been the seat of the Wickern family since the time of Cromwell.

The Mallbright groundsman collected Quayle from the local train station in the late afternoon, and from there it was a forty-minute ride by horse and open carriage.

The groundsman went by the name of Standish. He was a gruff old man of few words. Easily in his eighties, wiry with a grizzled jaw, he had the appearance of someone who’d been left out in the rain for a year. And fifteen minutes into the carriage ride, he finally spoke. He leant back in the driver’s seat and asked a question over his shoulder: “Is it just you, then?”

“What were you expecting?” Quayle asked. He was seated directly behind the old man.

“The master said there were coppers coming. Is it only you?”

“Yes. Finding a missing schoolmaster is hardly a priority at this point in the kingdom’s history.”

The groundsman nodded appreciatively. He snapped his whip at the horses.

Quayle adjusted his scarf. It was bitterly cold. “Aside from the Wickern boys, who lives at Mallbright at the moment?”

“There’s Mrs. Chalmers, the housekeeper. There’s young Margaret, the housemaid. There’s Joseph, the stable lad. And then there’s me — I look after the grounds and tend to things.”

“And the schoolmaster would have made five?”

“Aye, a staff of five. In ordinary times, we be forty-two of us, but not since the war come.” He shook his head. “They’ve all gone now — some into factories, some into uniform.”

The final approach to Mallbright was along a sweeping drive leading to a building that reminded Quayle rather of the British Museum — three floors of austere gray architecture and a facade the length of his entire neighborhood back in Shepherd’s Bush.

“How often does Lord Wickern come up from London?”

“We’ve not seen the master in a year.”

As the horses brought the carriage closer to the house, Standish glanced back over his shoulder. “This is what we’re fighting for,” he rasped.

“Your master’s house?”

“England.”

Mrs. Chalmers, the housekeeper, was a strong-minded Irishwoman who walked with the clip of a woman thirty years her junior. She was dressed in drab colors and her hair was tied back into a severe bun. Quayle trailed along behind her.

“The schoolmaster’s been gone for nearly two weeks,” Mrs. Chalmers reported. “One day he was here, the next day he was not.”

The interior of the house — if such a word suited — was labyrinthine. Hallways and passages led to even more hallways and passages, with staircases leading up and down seemingly around every turn. And every inch of it was devoid of life. It was like touring a mausoleum.

“This must be a difficult place to keep clean,” Quayle observed. His voice actually echoed.

The Irishwoman glanced back at him. There was weariness in her brow. “Most of the rooms have been shut up since the war’s come. The south wing has been closed down entirely — ever since Lady Wickern died.” She crossed herself. “God rest her soul.”

“The boys’ mother?”

She nodded. “Lady Wickern was returning from New York in the first months of the war. A German U-boat sank her ship in the middle of the night. All lives were lost.”

The destination of Mrs. Chalmers’ march was the schoolmaster’s bedroom. It was a small, tidy room. There was a bed, a bookshelf, and a writing desk with a view of the grounds to the west of the house.

She drew back the curtain. “Like I said. One day the schoolmaster was here, the next day he was not.”

“What do you think happened to him?” Quayle asked.

She looked doubtful. “Were it not for his shoes, I wouldn’t have troubled Lord Wickern. I would have assumed the man had just up and left in the night.”

“His shoes?”

“Black has four pairs of shoes, and if you look in his closet, you will find four pairs of shoes.”

Quayle looked. There were four pairs of polished shoes.

“He was always a fancy dresser,” the housekeeper remarked. “Always well turned out.”

Quayle had noted the clothing hanging above the shoes. The schoolmaster evidently knew a good tailor.

“And as best I can see, not one stitch is missing. If he did just up and leave in the night, he did so in bare feet and in his nightshirt.”

Quayle took a look under the bed. There was a suitcase. He dragged it out. The suitcase was adorned with numerous luggage labels. He opened it. It was empty.

“Where’s his passport?”

The housekeeper didn’t know.

On the bedside table was a pair of spectacles and a book: Charles Dickens’ A Tale of Two Cities. On the writing desk beneath the window lay a pocket watch and a pipe. There was also a ration book — it was in Black’s name. Even just a cursory glance about the room suggested that if the man had just up and left in the night, he had apparently done so empty-handed.

“I will need to speak to the boys.”

“They’ll be at their lessons in the schoolroom.”

“Without a teacher?”

Mrs. Chalmers nodded. “They’re very good. Like little gentlemen, they are.”

The schoolroom was on the floor above the servants’ hall. There was a blackboard at the front, next to which was a desk for the teacher. There was a large globe, several bookcases lined with scholarly tomes, and, facing the blackboard, six student desks — suggesting the room had served many generations of Wickerns.

“You’re a policeman, aren’t you?” one of the Wickern boys inquired. He didn’t look up from his book. His voice sounded like that of a mildly irritated peer of the realm.

Quayle had entered and had been observing from the rear.

The boys were seated at their desks. The boy who had spoken was studying a book on the history of the monarchy. He glanced back over his shoulder to confirm his suspicion. The scar on his cheek announced him as Richard Wickern — he had fallen badly from a tree when he was six.

Quayle crossed the room. “I’m Detective Inspector Quayle.” He walked around and in front of the desks.

The Wickern boys were identical twins. They had matching small faces, curly blond hair, and pale blue eyes. There was only one distinguishing feature that could separate the two of them — Richard’s scar.

“Are you with Scotland Yard?” the other boy, Rawdon Wickern, asked.

“Yes.”

Rawdon was preoccupied with tying knots into lengths of twine, reading the instructions from a Boy Scout manual. He was as well spoken as his brother. “Have you come to look for the schoolmaster?”

“Yes, I have.”

“May we see your identification?” Richard asked.

Quayle obliged.

Richard took the inspector’s badge, and the two boys examined it with forensic interest.

The Wickern boys were dressed alike in tailored outfits. They were children, but with their manner and tone of speaking — daggers dipped in honey — they were like two miniature Edwardian gentlemen.

“Where were you born, Inspector Ian Edward Quayle?” Richard asked.

“London.”

“Shouldn’t you be fighting in the war?” Rawdon asked.

“I’m too old for that.”

“How old are you?”

“Sixty-six.”

“We’re fourteen. We’re twins.”

“Did you fight in the Great War?” Richard asked.

Quayle nodded. “I was a sergeant.”

Richard passed the identification back. “Have you met our father?”

“No, I haven’t.”

“Our father works at the War Office.”

“He’s very important,” Rawdon added.

“So I understand.”

Richard leant back in his chair and stared indifferently at the inspector. “We don’t know where Black has gone.” His pronunciation of the schoolmaster’s name was with such distinctive sharpness, it almost carved the word into two syllables.

“What kind of man was he?” Quayle asked. He lit a cigarette.

Young Margaret motioned to speak, but then thought better of it. The housemaid couldn’t have been much older than the two boys, a tiny thing with a face of freckles.

The five of them — Quayle, Standish, Mrs. Chalmers, Margaret, and Joseph the stableboy — were seated at the dinner table in the servants’ hall. Supper had been polished off, and coffee was being drunk. The Wickern boys had been fed earlier, upstairs in the dining room, and had been seen off to bed.

Joseph the stableboy had said nothing throughout the supper. He was a peculiar boy of eighteen. His eyes never appeared to focus on anything, and his face seemed to be permanently on the verge of a smile.

“The schoolmaster was always reading,” Mrs. Chalmers commented. “He always had a book in his hand.” She licked her fingertip and dabbed up the remaining crumbs from the breadboard. “I couldn’t begin to think what’s happened to him.”

Standish lit his pipe. “Maybe the man got what he deserved.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“I’m just saying.” Standish stubbed out his match in an ashtray. “I never did like the man.”

“Why didn’t you like him?” Quayle asked.

The groundsman’s face crinkled up into a scowl. “He was a bit toffee, for a servant. He spoke with an accent like he was one of them upstairs.”

“So, he was well spoken and well dressed,” the housekeeper said. “That’s no reason to wish ill of him.”

Standish shook his head. “If you ask me, you’re wasting your time.” He glanced across the table at the inspector. “The man’s cleared off. It’s as plain as the moustache under your nose.”

“We heard something,” young Margaret finally said.

“What did you hear?” Quayle asked her.

“In the night. We heard a noise. I reckon it was a gun.” She nodded with wide eyes. “It came from the south wing.”

“There’s nowt in the south wing,” Standish remarked.

Mrs. Chalmers was shaking her head. “That noise, whatever it was, had nothing to do with the schoolmaster’s disappearance. We heard that noise the night after he’d gone.”

Mallbright was freezing at night. It was after two in the morning, and Quayle was sitting upright in bed, buried under a mound of blankets and wearing a woolen nightcap. He had been billeted in the schoolmaster’s room. The bed had been made fresh the day the man had disappeared, and Mrs. Chalmers saw no good reason in opening up any other rooms, given that an empty bed already lay waiting.

Quayle examined the book lying on the bedside table. He opened it to the first page. “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.” Dickens was one of his favorite authors. The author was also apparently one of the schoolmaster’s favorites — there was a dedication on the book’s title page. It was written in a wide hand:

The book had been read many times since that dedication. On almost every page, Black had made annotations in the margins — scholarly observations, in small, delicate handwriting.

There were footsteps. Quayle looked up. Someone was outside in the hallway. There was a faint reflection of candlelight on the shiny floorboards underneath the closed door. Someone had stopped outside his room.

Quayle listened closely. There were softly spoken voices — to whom they belonged and what they were saying he couldn’t determine. There was a click as the door handle was taken in someone’s hand. It slowly began to rotate.

“Who is it?” Quayle asked in a sharp voice.

The door handle fell limp. The reflection of candlelight vanished.

Quayle jumped out of bed. Within seconds, he had opened the door and was standing outside his room.

There was no one there. The only sound he could now hear was that of the wind rustling branches against the windowpanes at the end of the hallway.

Breakfast the next morning consisted of coffee and a cigarette. Quayle consumed it in the servant’s hall around eight. He was alone — the household staff having promptly begun their day at five-thirty. And after breakfast, he ventured to another country: the south wing.

The south wing was the oldest part of the house. It constituted the original Mallbright — the building having been steadily augmented and added to by every successive generation of Wickerns. As a result, the overall structure was that of a vast maze of mismatched rooms, passageways, and staircases.

There was a discernible stillness in the rooms of the south wing. It was as though life had taken pause there and was waiting patiently for the war to end. No one lived in that part of the house. It was dark and empty, and acres of sheets covered nearly everything in sight. There was also a distinctive mustiness — a damp odor that hung in the air in the hallways. It made Quayle’s nose itch.

“Who goes there?”

The blunt barrel of a rifle confronted the inspector. He had just turned a corner in the hallway, and Rawdon was aiming at his head.

“What is the password?” the boy demanded.

“Put that down,” Quayle barked. Rawdon was holding a .303 Lee-Enfield rifle.

“Don’t worry, Inspector,” Richard said. “It isn’t loaded.” He had come out of the darkness from behind his brother.

Rawdon lowered the rifle.

“Why are you boys playing in this part of the house?” Quayle asked. He noticed Richard was holding a similar rifle. “I thought this part of the house was closed down?”

“We’re not playing,” Richard explained. “We’re practicing. If the German army invades, we wish to be ready.” The boy then slung the strap of his rifle over his shoulder and marched back up the hall from where he had come.

Rawdon did the same, but he paused for a moment before following his brother. “He had a secret.”

“Who did?” Quayle asked.

“The schoolmaster.”

“What kind of secret?”

“A dirty secret.” The boy then about-faced and marched off like a toy solider.

Quayle followed after them.

The boys were quick. They slipped away with ease. They knew the layout of the house from instinct, and within a minute, Quayle had lost sight of them completely.

Turning another corner, and starting to run, Quayle’s shin connected with a solid deadweight on wheels — a wooden trolley — and he tripped headfirst over it.

“Oh dear, oh dear! Have you hurt yourself?” It was Mrs. Chalmers. She was approaching from another direction, a tin of Brasso in one hand and a cloth in the other. She helped the inspector back to his feet.

“I’ve told the boys not to play with that,” she said of the trolley. “It’s for moving pianos. It’s not a toy. And it’s not meant to be left out in the hallway where visitors can do themselves an injury by tripping over it.”

“I’m all right,” Quayle insisted. His trouser leg was ripped, and he was bleeding.

The housekeeper led the inspector back to the other side of the house. Along the way, she explained that there were four pianos in the house, that Lady Wickern — God rest her soul — had been a pianist of some ability, and ever since her death, not a solitary note had been played on any one of the things.

Mrs. Chalmers wrapped a bandage around Quayle’s leg as best she could. The inspector had his foot up on a chair in the kitchen.

“It won’t stop the bruising,” she remarked. “But it will settle it down.”

“How did Black and the two boys get along together?” Quayle asked.

“I think the three of them got along well.” She safety-pinned the bandage in place. “They were certainly always together, I can tell you that.”

“What did the boys think of Black, did they ever say?”

She shrugged her shoulders. “I supposed they liked him. I can’t be saying I’ve ever had reason to think otherwise.”

Quayle tried walking. It was uncomfortable. “One other thing. Do you have any idea where I could locate his brother, Des?”

The housekeeper shook her head. “I really couldn’t say.” She then added: “I didn’t know the schoolmaster had a brother called Des. I knew of a brother called David, but he died some time ago.”

Young Margaret informed Quayle she had turned fifteen only two weeks earlier — she was proud of this fact. She was dusting in the main dining room. The dining table was a long slab of oak with seating for forty.

Young Margaret also had an opinion on the relationship between the schoolmaster and the two boys. “He liked Richard and Rawdon very much,” she said. She then corrected herself. “No, he loved them. He thought the world of those two boys. They were like his children.”

She also commented that she found the schoolmaster to be a kind and gentle man. She knew the other household staff didn’t care for him, in particular Mr. Standish, but the schoolmaster had always been thoroughly pleasant to her.

“Where are the bullets kept?” Quayle asked.

“What bullets would they be?” Standish replied. He was standing by the stable entrance. He held the halter to a chestnut-coloured gelding and was gently stroking its neck. Joseph the stableboy was at the rear of the horse, hammering in a new shoe.

“The two boys are inside playing soldiers,” Quayle said. “They’ve got a couple of army-issue rifles.”

“All the bullets are under lock and key.”

“Whose lock and key?”

“Mine. And never you mind the boys. They’re just children. They’re just playing.”

Quayle lit a cigarette. “When I was a lad, I played with marbles and conkers.”

Joseph finished his task. He wandered up alongside Standish and stared at the inspector. It was unnerving. The boy never blinked.

“He’s not right,” Standish remarked. He patted Joseph’s head.

Joseph grinned. “The snow will come soon,” he announced. “Everything will be white.”

“That thought worries me.” Quayle looked out across the lawn and into the distance. Almost all he could see was Mallbright — the estate was several hundred acres of rolling countryside. “Is there anywhere on the property Black could have ventured to and got into trouble?”

“Like I said last night at supper,” Standish rasped, “the schoolmaster’s cleared off. He’ll not be found here.”

Quayle stared at him. “You seem rather sure of that.”

The old man led the horse out of the stable. Its shoes clattered on the cobbles. “There’s nowt happens at Mallbright that I don’t know about.”

“Then, by that statement, you know what happened to him.”

Standish answered with stony silence. He led the horse away.

Three hours later, it occurred to Quayle he should have brought something to eat. He had gone on a ramble to the far reaches of the grounds with nothing more than a sore leg, cigarettes, and a half-full hip flask of brandy.

He also realized he didn’t much fancy winter in the countryside. The air had a forbidding and arctic bite to it, the trees were all dead, and the ground was sodden. And nowhere on the estate was the schoolmaster to be found — as far as he could determine.

In the late afternoon, Quayle found the Wickern boys back in the schoolroom. They were reading — one had a book on British naval victories, the other a book on Napoleon’s defeat at Waterloo. Neither was in a pressing hurry to acknowledge the inspector’s presence.

He stood in front of their desks and cleared his throat.

Rawdon eventually looked up.

“What was his secret?” Quayle asked.

The child didn’t answer. His expression gave away nothing.

Richard glanced at his brother. It was an icy stare.

“You said the schoolmaster had a dirty secret. What was it?”

“It is distasteful,” Richard answered on his brother’s behalf. “And we do not care to discuss it.”

Rawdon brought a single finger vertically to his pursed lips and made the gesture of silence. “We’re reading,” he whispered. The pair of them returned to the depths of their books.

Quayle exhaled a gust of air. The two boys might have been child-ren, but they had mastered the landed gentry’s ability to thoroughly ignore anyone should they choose to.

“Last night, someone went to open the door to my room,” Quayle said. “That was you two boys, wasn’t it?”

Richard nodded unabashedly. “You are correct.”

No explanation was forthcoming.

Quayle put a cigarette to his mouth. “May I ask why?” He took out his matches.

“We were on patrol,” Rawdon answered. “And we would prefer it if you did not smoke in this room.”

“What do you mean — you were on patrol?“

“Night watch,” Richard said. “We patrol the house at set times during the evening.”

“We don’t want to be caught off guard,” Rawdon added. “If there is an attack, it will come in the night.”

Quayle returned his cigarette to the case. He shook his head. “You boys are utterly obsessed with this war.”

“War is a serious thing, Inspector,” Richard remarked.

“You’re children. You’re living here in the lap of luxury. You’re hundreds of miles from the hell that is London at the moment, or the Continent. You should be enjoying your childhoods.”

The sound of a distant bell echoed in the hall outside the schoolroom. The two boys instinctively closed their books and stood up from their desks.

“Excuse us,” Richard said. “That is our call to dinner.”

“So, where is the schoolmaster?” Mrs. Chalmers asked.

“Yes,” young Margaret asked. “Do you know what’s happened to him?”

Quayle shook his head. “No, I don’t.” He glanced across the table at Standish. The old man avoided his eyes and drank from his mug.

The four members of the household staff, together with the inspector, were back at the dinner table in the servants’ hall. They were eating a supper of bangers and mash, albeit meager portions. Outside the house, the howling of wind could be heard. The weather had turned in the night.

Mrs. Chalmers looked dissatisfied. “Have you in fact learnt anything about his disappearance?”

Quayle wiped his lips on a napkin. “I don’t know where the schoolmaster is, but I am certain of three things.”

“It’s going to snow soon,” Joseph said. He giggled. “Everything will be white.”

Standish hit the boy over the back of the head to shut him up, after which Joseph stared at the tabletop with a sour expression.

“I’m certain he didn’t leave this house of his own volition,” Quayle said. “His personal effects are still present in his room. Simply put, as you yourself observed, Mrs. Chalmers — four pairs of shoes.”

“And the second thing?” she asked him.

“Black was well traveled. The markings on his suitcase demonstrate that — Paris, Frankfurt, Vienna, and so on. And yet his passport is not to be found.”

“Did you not find it in his room?”

“No. In fact, it’s the only possession of Black’s that does seem to be missing. I am certain the explanation for its absence will prove important.”

“What is the third thing?” young Margaret asked.

Quayle ran his eyes around the table. They came to a rest on Standish. “I am absolutely certain there are people in this house who know more about what happened to the schoolmaster than they are telling me.”

Young Margaret noticed the inspector’s stare.

“I’m going into the village tomorrow,” Quayle said. “I’m going to call on the local constabulary, and the constabulary for the district. I’m going to organize a thorough search of this entire house and of the grounds. I will get to the bottom of this mystery, you can sleep soundly on that.”

Mrs. Chalmers had also noticed. She herself was now staring at the groundsman.

“And when the truth comes out,” Quayle added. “I may find I am not a happy man.”

“Standish,” Mrs. Chalmers asked. “Do you know something about where the schoolmaster’s gone?”

The old man shook his head. He ignored their eyes and proceeded to light his pipe.

At that moment, upstairs in the schoolmaster’s bedroom, Richard was seated on the edge of the bed. He was examining Quayle’s police notebook, having already quietly and efficiently gone through the inspector’s other belongings.

Downstairs, the door to the servant’s dining room was open, and outside in the hallway, unseen by any of those seated at the table, was Rawdon. His back was hard against the wall next to the open doorway and his head was crooked, affording him the best position to hear the conversation from within.

Quayle lit a cigarette. “Mrs. Chalmers, did you know that Richard and Rawdon come out and play at night, after everyone’s gone to bed?”

“They do?” This was news to her.

“They patrol the house, pretending to be soldiers.”

Young Margaret was nodding. “I’ve heard them.”

“Well, they should be in their room and in bed,” Mrs. Chalmers said. “They shouldn’t be out at night.”

“I don’t think they should be playing with rifles, either,” Quayle added. “Whether they’re loaded or not.”

Standish cleared his throat. “If the German army comes, them two young masters will be the only ones here to protect us.” He swallowed the last contents of his mug, stood it on the table with a clap, and got to his feet. He muttered something to Joseph, clipped the boy about the head, and then the two of them left.

Mrs. Chalmers gave their departure a long stare. “I hope this dreadful war ends soon,” she said. “So we can all live normally again and this house can be back to the way it should be.”

“Amen to that,” Quayle said.

Sometime after one in the morning, Quayle woke. The bedroom door was open, and the bed was shaking. There were shadows — someone had climbed onto the bed and had straddled him. Clomp. He was hit in the head with a club of wood and knocked unconscious.

Quayle regained some of his senses. His limbs were bound with tight rope. He could see little. He was on his side, less than a foot above the ground, and was moving slowly along the hallway — he was lying on the piano trolley.

A voice whispered: “He’s awake.”

Clomp.

Quayle opened his eyes. There was a candle burning. His sight was blurred and his head was throbbing. He had a migraine. He felt his hands — they were no longer tied together. His nightdress was filthy, and he ached from bruises. He had been dragged across the floor for part of his journey and dumped into this location.

He was on the floor in a room without windows. The door was shut. The only thing in the room was a small wooden box — an empty wine case. A solitary candle in a silver holder stood upon it.

He sat up. The floor was stone and cold. The air was damp and musty. The dampness was familiar. His nose itched. He guessed he was in the south wing, beneath the floors, in the cellar.

The door opened. Richard and Rawdon entered. They were dressed in black clothes — uniform-like — and they blended into the night like shadows. They wore solemn expressions.

“What in God’s name are you boys playing at?” Quayle asked.

“Whom are you working for?” Richard asked.

“Why have you come to Mallbright?” Rawdon asked.

“Why have you dragged me down into the cellar in the middle of the night?” Quayle shot back at them. He clambered to get up. He was groggy. His eyes could barely focus. When he was almost to his feet, a chain connecting from the wall to a manacle clamped around his ankle came abruptly to its full length. The jolt toppled him, bringing him crashing back to the ground again.

“Unlock this!” Quayle barked from the floor. “Let me out of this!”

The boys stared at him, unmoved.

“You two are in a lot of trouble,” Quayle growled. “I don’t give a damn who you have for a father.”

“You are compiling reports,” Richard said. He held up the inspector’s notebook. “There are reports in this book on everyone in the house, about the house itself, our weapons, and the location of our ammunition.”

“I’m a policeman,” Quayle said. “Those are notes. That is what you will find in a policeman’s notebook.”

“You acknowledge this book is yours,” Richard asked. “And written by your hand?”

“Of course it’s mine and written by me,” Quayle answered him. “You know that very well. You’ve apparently stolen it from my room.”

The two boys nodded to each other, then turned about and left.

“Come back here,” Quayle shouted after them.

They left the door open. He was indeed in the cellar. There was a dark corridor leading away from his cell.

Quayle tried to free his leg, but it wasn’t possible. The manacle was iron and layered with rust. The chain was bolted to the wall.

“Hello?” Quayle shouted. “Can anyone hear me?”

Rawdon stepped into the doorway — the two boys were apparently just outside, just beyond the door. He shook his head. “You’re too far away for any of them to hear you.” He stepped out of sight again.

Quayle could hear the boys’ voices, faint whispers and murmurs. A discussion went on for some time. There was debate. And then agreement.

A moment later, they returned.

Richard stepped up and addressed the prisoner. “Ian Edward Quayle, if that is indeed your true name, you have been found guilty of spying for the German enemy.”

Quayle stared in disbelief. “Spying?”

Richard nodded. “And for this crime, you have been condemned to death.”

Quayle roared in anger. “This game stops right here and right now!”

Richard turned about and left the room.

Rawdon remained. He stared thoughtfully at the inspector. “What you said tonight at your dinner was correct. The schoolmaster’s passport was important.”

Quayle tried to get to his feet, but could only manage to get to his knees.

Rawdon reached into his back pocket. He produced a German passport. He stepped forward and held it open in front of Quayle’s face. “Read the name.”

Quayle read it aloud: Peter Heinrich Schwarz.

“Schwarz is the German word for Black,” Rawdon explained. “The schoolmaster lied about his identity. He was German. He pretended to be English. He hid this passport, but we found it.”

Quayle remembered the brother’s dedication in the book in the schoolmaster’s room: DES. Mrs. Chalmers had said she only knew of a brother called David. DES wasn’t a name — it was the initials of a name.

“This is the schoolmaster’s dirty secret?” Quayle asked.

The boy nodded.

Quayle shook his head wearily. “Hundreds of Germans living in this country have changed or hidden their names, so as to avoid persecution or internment. They have nothing to do with the fighting.”

Rawdon closed the passport and returned it to his pocket.

“It’s not a crime to have been born in Germany or to have had German ancestry.”

“We are at war with Germany,” Rawdon replied. There was no emotion in his eyes.

“My God,” Quayle said. “This is what happened to the schoolmaster. You dragged him from his bed and brought him down here.”

Richard returned. He held one of the rifles.

The enormity of what had happened, and what was now happening, burned inside the inspector’s skull.

Rawdon brought a finger to his lips... silence.

Richard aimed the rifle. Before he pulled the trigger, he said: “This is for our mother.”