Ellery Queen’s Anthology. Volume 1, 1960

Louis Golding Pale Blue Nightgown

One of the most distinguished short stories it has ever been the privilege of “Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine” to bring to its readers...

Mr. Dofferty was tall and thin and had big hands and feet. The small boys called him “Lampy,” which was an abbreviation of “Lamppost.” He hated the small boys calling him “Lampy,” not only because he was sensitive about his appearance, but because he hated small boys. He would rather have taken the top form in a refined girls’ school and would have got on very well there. He could have talked about Swinburne with the girls, and about his foreign travels. “Was there ever really a Dolores, Mr. Dofferty?” “Do the young warriors in Kashmir still go out to battle with roses behind their ears?” He would have been very happy in such a place.

But it had not worked out that way. He was getting on in years by the time he got his teacher’s certificate, and he could not pick and choose. He became a pupil-teacher at a boys’ school in Doomington. They were common boys. In the course of time he became headmaster.

He knew that he deserved better things. He let it be known that he had traveled about the East quite a lot in his young days; and it was true, for he had been the son of a noncommissioned officer out in India. Later, he was employed on a tea plantation in Ceylon. When that failed, he came to England to take up teaching.

He was very proud of having traveled in the East. His “sanctum,” as he called it, was cluttered with eastern curios. There were prayer-wheels and fly-whisks, curtains and cushions, elephants carved in ebony, ashtrays and pen-trays of Benares ware, a Malay kris he used as a paper-knife, a soapstone Buddha he used as a paperweight. It was not very suitable furniture for a headmaster’s room in a poor boys’ school in Doomington, but it put people in their place. It put him in his place, too. He was a traveler, an empire-builder.

He did not feel so sure of himself when he went out into the playground. He would have preferred to stay in his sanctum, but he had a feeling that the small boys took to talking and laughing about him when they got together. He would stand for a long time, quite still, behind the windows of one of the classrooms, and then, all of a sudden, he was a few inches behind you. For a person with such large feet, he moved very quickly and quietly over the gravel.

The schoolday came to an end at half-past four. It was bad enough when the boys collected in the play-intervals between lessons, but when the last lesson was over, there was absolutely no excuse for them to be hanging about, whispering, and pointing with their thumbs over their shoulders. On the day in Mr. Dofferty’s history with which this tale is concerned, there was an unusually large troop of boys assembled near the wood-work room, at the bottom end of the playground. Mr. Dofferty happened to be at the top end of the playground. He observed that only one of the boys was talking, a small, pale boy named Albert Hewitt. The rest were listening. At least, they were listening in the intervals of laughing. The narrative with which Albert Hewitt was regaling them seemed to entertain them mightily, though Albert himself seemed not at all amused. On the contrary, his spotty little face seemed paler than usual; his eyes seemed to stand quite a way out of his head.

Mr. Dofferty did not like Albert Hewitt; he thought him a soapy, sneaky sort of boy. He had had occasion more than once to take him into his sanctum and use the cane on him. What was the boy doing, holding forth at this time of day, when well-behaved boys should be making tracks for home, with their heads filled with the night’s homework? What and who was there to talk about that was so frightfully funny?

Of course; Mr. Dofferty could swear to it... “Lampy,” and once again, “Lampy.” It was a long way from the bottom end to the top end of the playground, but Mr. Dofferty had extraordinarily acute hearing. “Lampy” again, and a roar of laughter. The boy was talking about his headmaster; he was making jokes about his headmaster. Mr. Dofferty’s lips set thin and hard.

Mr. Dofferty made a sort of sideways movement on a segment of a wide circle towards the group of boys. He looked a bit like a huntsman keeping to windward of his quarry. The maneuver was successful. He had come up to within a few yards of them, always in the rear of Albert Hewitt, before the boys became aware of him. Then, suddenly, the boys caught sight of him: all but Albert Hewitt. One moment later they had scuttled away, like a warren-full of rabbits shocked into a hedge by a footstep. A hand came down heavily on Albert Hewitt’s shoulder.

“You were talking about me, I think,” said Mr. Dofferty. His voice was gentle.

Albert Hewitt’s body quivered under the great hand. He did not dare to turn round.

“No, sir, Mr. Dofferty, I wasn’t,” said the small boy.

“You were referring to me by another name,” pointed out Mr. Dofferty.

“No, sir, Mr. Dofferty, I wasn’t,” the small boy said again. His voice was hardly more than a whisper.

Mr. Dofferty removed his hand from Albert Hewitt’s shoulder.

“Perhaps you’ll turn round, Albert,” he suggested.

Albert turned round. He did not dare to look up into Mr. Dofferty’s face, cold and remote. The thin thighs of the headmaster seemed to soar into space, like trees. The playground was appallingly empty, but for himself and the soft voice that came down from so high.

“I would like you to look into my face,” requested Mr. Dofferty, “Will you?”

The small boy did as he was told.

Mr. Dofferty continued. “Excellent, Albert. Now, I feel quite certain you won’t lie to me. You were referring to me by a name which I have forbidden the school to use. Is that not so, Albert?”

“Yes, sir,” whispered the small boy. His lips started quivering. He found it as difficult not to lower his eyes from Mr. Dofferty’s eyes as it had been difficult a moment ago to raise them.

“Now, now.” Mr. Dofferty wagged his finger almost playfully. “Don’t make an exhibition of yourself. No harm will come to you, so long as you’re a good boy and speak up. What was it you were saying to those boys, Albert? Come, come, Albert, what was it?”

The boy said not a word. He stared up into Mr. Dofferty’s eyes, as if he had neither ears nor tongue.

“What are you staring at me like that for?” barked Mr. Dofferty. “Is there anything wrong with me?”

The boy’s head sagged suddenly towards his chest.

“Well, Albert!” The headmaster’s voice had become gentle as a dove’s again. “Are you going to tell me what it was you were saying about me?”

“I wasn’t saying nothing,” Albert said. His lower lip projected a little.

“Obstinate, eh?” said Mr. Dofferty, quite gaily now. “You know, Albert,” he almost wheedled, “it will be a lot better for you if you tell me what you were saying.”

“I wasn’t saying nothing,” Albert repeated.

“I see,” Mr. Dofferty said shortly. He raised his eyes to roof-level and joined his hands behind his back. He seemed to be communing with himself. Then he spoke again. His tone was very matter-of-fact. “If you go on disobeying me, I’ll take you into the sanctum and thrash you. Do you hear?”

“Yes, sir,” the boy mumbled.

“Very well, then. Are you going to tell me what you were saying?”

“No, sir.”

“I’ll take you into the sanctum and thrash you within an inch of your life. Are you going to tell me?” Again silence. “Are you going to tell me?” Mr. Dofferty reached down and got his fingers round the boy’s arm.

With a quick involuntary gesture the boy wrenched his arm free.

“It was only a dream!” he cried. “Let me go home!”

“Oh, it was only a dream?” said Mr. Dofferty, easily. “Why didn’t you say so before, you silly boy?” His heart felt curiously lighter. He took his watch out of his waistcoat pocket. “You’re right!” he exclaimed. “It’s time we were both going home!”

“Oh, thank you, thank you very much, sir!” cried Albert. “Good afternoon, Mr. Dofferty.” The boy was already scampering off.

“Oh, by the way!” the headmaster called after him.

The boy turned. “Yes, sir?” he asked fearfully.

Mr. Dofferty did not say anything for a moment or two. He realized, in fact, he had nothing to say. He was merely aware that he did not like the boy going off like that, as if he had not used the forbidden nickname, as if he were innocent as the shorn lamb. Then he found his lips uttering a question concerning which his mind had no curiosity at all. For, after all, what interest was it to Mr. Dofferty, headmaster, Mr. Dofferty, world-traveler, what dream a snivelling, little elementary schoolboy might dream?

“What did you dream about, Albert?”

The boy’s jaw fell. The faint flush of color that had come up into his face went out completely.

“Nothing,” he muttered.

“Nonsense!” said Mr. Dofferty. “You were dreaming about me, weren’t you?”

Then, suddenly, Mr. Dofferty remembered how amused all the small boys had been while Albert Hewitt had been holding forth. He had been telling them his dream, of course, a dream about their headmaster. Mr. Dofferty blushed. It was in the last degree undignified for a person in his position to insist on ferreting out a small boy’s dream, whatever the dream was about. But he could not bear the way the boy was lying to him. If the boy would only own up simply and honestly, they could go home, both of them.

“Well, are you going to say something?” asked Mr. Dofferty.

The boy was as silent as a lump of wood.

Mr. Dofferty, suddenly, lost patience. “Very well, then. You will please come along with me.”

He strode forward towards the big door in the middle of the building. The boy hesitated for one moment. He looked round wildly. It was impossible to get away from those long legs.

The sanctum was a room on the right-hand side of the main corridor. Mr. Dofferty took out his bunch of keys and unlocked the door.

“This way,” he said frigidly.

The boy followed. He knew the way well enough. There was a faint smell in the air which turned his stomach, as it had been turned once or twice before. Mr. Dofferty burned joss-sticks, now and again, when his nostalgia for the East got him badly.

The headmaster went over to the table in the middle of the room and carefully removed two or three of his oriental knick-knacks — the soapstone Buddha he used as a paperweight, the ivory-handled Malay kris he used as a paper-knife, the heavy, brass, Chinese seal. He sat down in the space thus cleared and reached casually along the table for his cane.

“Stand here,” he ordered the boy. The boy came and stood beside him. “What was your dream about?”

The boy stood obdurate.

“You’re not going to tell me?” Mr. Dofferty roared. “So, you’re not going to tell me?” He lifted the cane high in air, ready to strike.

“I’ll tell you!” the boy shouted suddenly. “Please, sir, I’ll tell you!”

Mr. Dofferty’s face was a white as a tablecloth, his lips were almost as white. “Very well, then! Go on!”

“I... I... dreamed—” the boy whimpered — “I... I dreamed... that I—” Then he looked up beseechingly. “I can’t tell you, sir!” he wailed.

“I think you can,” said the other.

The boy swallowed hard. “I dreamed in my dream, sir, you was wearing — you was wearing—”

“Go on!”

“You was wearing a long nightgown, sir. It was a silk one, sir, pale blue silk. And... and—” Again the words stuck in the boy’s throat.

Mr. Dofferty was not aware of the boy’s discomfort. He was aware only of his own. He knew he had never felt so ridiculous in all his life before.

“Go on!” he said thickly. “Anything more?”

“Yes, sir!” blubbered the boy. “You was wearing a wreath of daisies round your head!”

“I see,” whispered Mr. Dofferty.

But he did not mean that he himself saw. He meant that the small boys saw, the small boys who had laughed uproariously when Albert had told them his dream. He saw with their eyes his own unspeakable grotesqueness — pale blue nightgown and wreath of daisies.

Why didn’t the small boy get to hell out of it? What was the blob of dirt hanging about for? He must take himself in hand. He must not let the boy realize how naked he had left him, shivering in the whistling blackness, with only a pale blue nightgown round his skinny body, a wreath of daisies for headgear.

“Is that all?” he asked, with a deadly attempt at casualness.

Then the boy gave tongue, with a voice so shrill and terrible that it seemed to pierce the ear-drums.

“That’s all!” he screamed. “I tell you that’s all. I didn’t dream nothing more! Nothing at all!”

The eyes glared. The jaw was so rigid that the words came through with the effect of ventriloquy.

For the first time in the encounter Mr. Dofferty’s intellectual interest was aroused. He forgot his anger with the boy and his shame of himself. He was conscious only of an exceeding curiosity. What more was it the boy had dreamed, the terror of which made him a gibbering idiot?

What on earth could it be?

“Listen, Albert,” he said coaxingly. “Don’t be frightened. I know you dreamed something more. I’d like to know what it was. Won’t you tell me?”

“Nothing more! I didn’t dream nothing more!” The boy stamped his feet.

“I assure you, you’re going to tell me!” Mr. Dofferty said. “You might as well tell me now, as later.”

He was not going to have the struggle start all over again. He was feeling completely worn out. He got down from the table. The cane had fallen to the floor. He reached down and lifted it. He swished it through the air. “Won’t you tell me, Albert?” he asked once again.

The boy said nothing.

Then the man’s patience snapped. The cane went hissing into the air and came screaming down again. He did not know where it landed, on the boy’s hands, body, or face.

The boy did not know, either. He knew nothing more excepting that the whole world was a blackness with a great wind roaring in it. Then, at last, the wind ceased roaring and there was light in the world again. He became aware that he was in the sanctum of Mr. Dofferty, his headmaster. He became aware of Mr. Dofferty’s body extended interminably between his own legs and the legs of the table. The Malay kris that Mr. Dofferty used as a paper-knife stuck out from between his ribs.

The boy leaned forward, pointing towards the ivory handle, where the blood gushed above the blade.

“That’s what I dreamed!” his lips went. “That’s what I dreamed!”