Ribblestrop by Andy Mulligan
Chapter Twelve
Dear Mother and Father . . .
. . . imagine out astonishment when, just as we thought death was certain, the ground seemed to open up and the friend I told you about – Millie, who is a very brave girl – was there in person, having opened some kind of magic cellar or passageway. We found out later that smugglers used it in the old days! Amazing that the mechanism still worked after all those years – actually, a bit suspicious!!! Anyway, I spoke to Sanchez, who is helping me write this letter, and he agreed with me that we ought to call it after her: I haven’t had a chance to chat it over with the girl herself as she is in a bit of a state, talking about hospitals and sweets that give you visions, which nobody understands! Sounds to me like she had a nightmare – and not surprising either as she had been lost for nearly twenty-four hours. Anyway: my own idea is to call it Millie’s Chasm of Death, even though, of course, nobody died. It is halfway along what my new best friend Sam wants to call The Tunnel of Fear.
Near thing, though, eh? So long for now – please don’t forget to send postal-order. I am totally penniless due to some very unforeseen circumstances. And dead keen to be first with a school bank account. The headmaster says he needs cash, urgently – rates of interest very good. (Joke!) TTFN! Love to Gran. Yours ever, Jake.
This letter was item 9b in the ultimate Police Prosecution. A legible version is reproduced here with the permission of the Ruskin Estate.
Chapter Thirteen
You entered the headmaster’s study through a thick, black door.
Millie had been asked to wait outside it, so she stood with her ear pressed to the woodwork trying to make sense of the muffled voices within. She’d seen the policeman arrive, driving over the park in a big white car, brilliant with fluorescent markings. She’d noticed a chrome searchlight on the driver’s side and tinted windows. She had been warned that she might have to give a statement, though her instinct was to say nothing at this stage. She had no idea who to trust, and knew from years of experience that the moment you commit lies to paper, you’re at a major disadvantage. In any case, how deep would they dig? One of Millie’s fears was that someday, someone would start gathering together all the little crimes that she’d so far concealed—and that might include her recent spending spree in Selfridges, and several like it. She never kept the credit cards, of course, so in theory they had no proof . . . but it was always a worry.
She thrust her hands into her pockets and paced up and down. She could not make sense of the recent past and had found it difficult to describe the horrors she’d been through. Sanchez, Sam, Ruskin, big Henry, the orphans—they’d looked at her as if she was mad. It wasn’t that they didn’t believe her, exactly. It was simply that they didn’t know what to say. The bottles and jars, the caged animals, the little paws and faces and the creature that rocked and chattered—she’d described it all as vividly as she could, and everyone had been suitably horrified. She’d talked about the chair, the freezers, and her blackout. Then the food on the fancy tray left by someone invisible; then, as if that wasn’t enough, the long trek in a maze designed to send you insane . . . Everyone listened, but what could anyone say? Millie ached with frustration. Yes, she wanted sympathy and a fair bit of admiration—both would be useful. But most of all she wanted a chorus of furious outrage followed by a full investigation. She knew that what she’d seen was sinister and dangerous—and certainly secret. Talking about it to the wrong person would be even more dangerous, so she kicked the wall and put her ear back to the paneling.
On the other side of the door sat Percy Cuthbertson. He was sprawled on the sofa, smiling broadly. Percy Cuthbertson—Chief Inspector of Police to the district of Ribblestrop—was in a very good mood. He was a meaty man, with iron-gray hair combed thin across his skull. His teeth were on full display, as if someone had asked to see them. There was something sharklike about the smile, as if the little beady eyes had spotted prey. He’d been in this room twice before and always profited. He was a man who made a profit most of the time.
“Little terrors, all of them,” he chuckled. A northern accent: Percy Cuthbertson was a Yorkshireman by birth but had moved in on Ribblestrop fifteen years ago. He’d brought two brothers and a nephew down, over the years, and now had a nice little network operating. “You don’t need to tell me, sir,” he laughed. “I’ve had three of the wretches myself. Two boys and a girl and they drove us to distraction—specially the girls, eh! Children are children, y’see. They get into scrapes, they go where they’re told not to, and they put gray hairs on your head!”
“Well, I’m relieved to hear you say that,” said the headmaster. “Understanding is what we need at the moment.”
“If a door’s locked,” said the inspector, “a child wants to see inside.”
“Yes.”
“When a child finds a tunnel . . .”
“Yes.”
“. . . it wants to explore. That’s the natural way with children, and you can’t change natural law. What a good job they’re right as rain, eh? What a good job no one was hurt.”
“Yes, they seem to have passed it all off as an adventure. Which is marvellous.”
“The natural resilience of youth, sir. Moments from death, and they pass it off as a bit of a lark. Have you sacked that man, whatshisname—Routon? He must be feeling pretty sick.”
“Well, it was an honest mistake. He has a war wound, and—”
“A dozen or so kids lost up a tunnel . . . honest mistake?” Inspector Cuthbertson paused and sipped his tea. “A little girl rummaging round underground . . . an honest mistake? She’s poking her nose into who knows what, and they’re all seconds away from a very nasty death, and it’s all because of a war wound? It’s the timing, sir, that’s what bothers me. The bad luck. Just as you thought you were turning the corner—just as we thought everything had been . . . straightened out—lightning strikes twice.”
“Yes,” said the headmaster. There was a new edge to the inspector’s voice and the headmaster felt it was wise to be silent.
The policeman was staring hard. He had a gingernut between fat fingers. He spoke softly and quickly, the smile well and truly gone. “Lightning does strike twice sometimes, doesn’t it? And it’s never convenient. Not when everyone’s hoping for improvement. The new deputy on her way, eh? Past mistakes behind us. New children, looking forward to the term, and even a bit of cash for new projects. Out of the blue—crack!—a disaster that could close you down.”
“Nobody was hurt, Inspector.”
“Yes, but an enquiry, sir. A full-scale public enquiry looking at all your certificates and insurances, just when you don’t want one.”
“I’m sure the children will get over it—”
“Awkward questions. Requests to see licenses! ‘Duty of care,’ they’ll say. ‘In loco parentis.’ Journalists sniffing around and—oh my word!—prosecution for gross negligence. All because an honest mistake lets the little terrors up the wrong railway line. Headmaster, I did not expect to be sitting in this office quite so soon. This is incompetence way beyond anything I’ve ever seen. You say no one was hurt, but have you talked to the train driver? Psychological damage, sir, that’s what we’re dealing with. Seems a very similar thing happened to him just the other day, in Reading. Passenger delay, sir. Claims for compensation. Questions about trespass, access, maintenance: are you covered against this sort of thing, sir? How many millions of pounds of public liability do you have?”
The headmaster found his voice was shaking. “Well, it’s not something one can plan for,” he said. He tried to find a deeper register, but his voice insisted on rising high.
“Is it not?” said the inspector.
“Well, no.”
“Some would say it’s your job to plan.”
“Ah.”
“Some would say it’s your job to play safe rather than sorry, especially after the disappearance of little whatshisname last term, our little orphan boy. No, don’t say anything, sir—I kno
The headmaster felt the room tilting under his chair and he realized he was cornered. He felt handcuffed and helpless, as if the big man was sitting on him.
“What we’ve got to do,” continued the policeman, hauling himself to his feet, “is act fast. You understand? Ten thousand, I’d say. Ten thousand, and we might stand a chance. If we spread a little goodwill now, and make a few offers in advance of a prosecution, well . . . I think the red tape could be cut. Have you got it, though, that’s the question?”
“Well . . .”
“You’ve got new pupils. You must have fees.”
“I do, but—”
“What about those foreigners, don’t they pay? How much have you got, man?”
“It’s just that the money is . . . allocated.”
“Unallocate it, sir.”
The headmaster’s muscles had gone soft and he wondered if he could stand. Ten thousand pounds represented Sam’s fees, Ruskin’s insignificant little top-up, the check from social services for Millie, and the first orphan down payment. Lady Vyner was chasing ten times that amount! He found he was looking at the wall safe. He found he was on his feet, with the key in his hand. The inspector was moving toward him and the silence was throbbing; he fitted the key and the safe was open. He stared at the piles of notes. They took up such a little space, and the only other item on the shelf was a conker he’d promised to look after for Ruskin. He pulled the money together and counted it onto the desk, his hands shaking, notes fluttering.
“This is all the . . . cash I have at present.”
For a big man, Inspector Cuthbertson could move quickly. He was at the desk in a moment, and his meaty hands took over, flicking the notes like a cashier. In seconds they were folded up and tucked away and the pile was gone. He patted his jacket pocket and put his shoulders back. “Good man,” he said. The headmaster could smell gingernut. “I like to keep things simple, and I’ll say it again: trust is the key to this town. It’s the oil that greases the wheels and we all speak the same language. So I’ll tell you something else.” The inspector lowered his voice. “I did you a favor last night. Now you’ve got eleven, I mentioned you to my brother.”
“Oh?”
“Harry Cuthbertson, you’ve still not met him. Director of Sport at the high school. Yes, sir—we were at a council dinner, we were sorting out a few bits and pieces and your name was mentioned. I said, ‘They’re up to eleven now—he’ll be up for a game!’ ”
“In what . . . why? I don’t understand. Eleven what?”
“Boys, sir!” The inspector was putting on his coat. “Eleven men—a soccer team! That’s another reason we don’t want you closing down, it’s the soccer season and our Harry’s looking for fixtures. I said to him, ‘Get in touch with Ribblestrop.’ His boys are mustard, though—you won’t stand a chance, but a game’s a game. There’s a lad named Darren—seriously, best center forward I’ve ever seen, and there’s a scout coming down from a London club, keeping an eye.” He was putting on his hat. “Keep out of trouble, sir, and give me a ring if you need to—you’ve got my private number.” He touched the peak respectfully and opened the door.
Millie fell into the room and sprawled on the carpet. She was up at once and stood neatly to attention.
“You wanted to see me,” she said.
“Millie!” said the headmaster. “Well . . . yes, we did. The inspector here was—”
“I’m sorry, I was leaning against the door. Hello.”
“I forgot about you,” said Inspector Cuthbertson. “You’re the little explorer.”
He stared at Millie and Millie stared back. She knew him instantly, from the checked band around his hat to the quarryman’s hands. She knew his voice and shoulders and his bright eyes, which—close up—had a hint of madness.
“You’re the one who got herself lost,” he was saying. He’d put on a slow voice, as if Millie might have problems following language. “I was saying to the headmaster here, my own kids were just the same.” He took the lapel of Millie’s blazer between finger and thumb and went down on his haunches.
“Millie was a bit of a hero,” said the headmaster. “All things considered.”
“A very lucky girl. Does she realize that?”
“Why am I lucky?” said Millie.
“Brave, as well,” he said. He showed Millie his teeth and locked his eyes onto hers. “I’ll tell you why you’re lucky, my dear. You got yourself lost in a very dangerous place. Catacombs and labyrinths, you can wander down there for days. I’ve heard all sorts of things about those tunnels.”
“Yes. I expect they’re quite famous.”
“What’s your name again, lovey? It’s gone clean out of my head.”
Millie swallowed her irritation and smiled: “Millie Roads, sir. Pleased to meet you.”
The inspector had his head on one side. “You don’t call me ‘sir,’ my dear.” He wagged his head like a clown. “You call me Percy. All the boys and girls round here call me that. I help with the youth club, do the Christmas disco. I do Santa Claus up at the hospital.” Millie was trying not to blink. They were staring each other out. “I’ve always had a soft spot for kids.” The inspector bent forward and pushed a strand of Millie’s hair away from her eye. “Your headmaster and me work together, keeping everybody safe. Now, what did you see down those tunnels?” he whispered. “Buried treasure?”
“No. Not a lot really,” she said.
“Secret rooms?” He chuckled. “Ghosts and ghoulies?”
“No.”
“Anything strange, lovey? Anything a policeman should know about? Like I said, there’s a lot of gossip about those tunnels and who’s down there.”
“I just got very tired. What might I have seen?”
“That’s what I’m asking, lovey. You’d be wise to tell me.”
“Haven’t you been down there?”
Inspector Cuthbertson stared at her in silence for a moment and his lips gradually closed. “You’d better listen to me, chicken,” he said. He pushed at another strand of her hair, both hands close to her head. “What’s out of bounds is out of bounds for good reason. We’re going to get new locks fitted and you need to tell your little friends to stay aboveground.”
Millie said nothing. She drew back her lips, itching to bite the fat fingers or the chubby wrist. She remembered a friend of hers at a previous school. One of the math teachers had attempted to straighten her tie. She’d bit hard, clamping her jaws shut tight. Oh, the screaming and the jet of bright red blood. He’d lost the movement of three fingers; the teeth had cut clean through the sinews. After all, the jaw muscle is one of the strongest in the body. And all for the sake of a straightened tie.
The telephone was ringing on the headmaster’s desk. “I hope we meet again,” she said. “I’ll pass everything you’ve said on to my friends, so thanks for the advice.”
“Ribblestrop Towers, good afternoon.”
Millie and the inspector continued to look at one another.
“How did you hurt your fingers?” he said.
Millie still had her hands behind her back. He must have noticed the bandages as she fell through the door.
Over at the desk, the headmaster’s face was turning pink. “Clarissa!” he cried. “You’re here already—that’s wonderful!”
“I fell down,” said Millie.
The inspector lowered his voice. “I like to know who’s on my patch, Millie Roads. I gather you like lighting fires, like another little boy we had here.”
“Oh, that’s excellent news!” said the headmaster.
“If you light fires round me, it’s you who’ll get burned,” whispered the poli
The headmaster was chuckling. “Yes, of course! I’ll pull the children together, they’d be delighted. Just a moment—Millie?”
“Sir?”
“If you’ve finished, Inspector, we’ve just had some wonderful news. Our new head of science—just arrived! She’s parking up on the terrace and it’s all hands to the pumps. Millie, could you round up the others, we need to unload some equipment. Clarissa,” said the headmaster into the telephone, “the police are just leaving: we’re on our way. Stay exactly where you are.”
Chapter Fourteen
Professor Worthington, MA(Hons.), BSc., FWIW, CCS (Ottawa) made a dramatic first impression. The sound of the screaming engine had drawn the boys already: they were there before the headmaster. As he emerged from the main gate, gown fluttering, he was in time to see a large hire-truck make another violent effort to get its backside up the stone steps to the terrace by the fountain. It had made the first five and now appeared to be stuck, motor howling. He sprinted to the scene, as the driver’s door flapped open. An elderly lady was at the wheel, craning her head round the shoulder of her vehicle. The engine roared yet louder and the back wheels shot gravel in all directions: there was a crunch as another step was mounted, wedging the chassis on old stone.
“Stop!” cried the headmaster. “Stop, Clarissa!”
“Giles! Is that you?”
The driver swung herself down from the cab and tottered on the balustrade. She let herself be helped to safety by the headmaster and they clasped each other’s hands. Sam, Ruskin, Millie, and Sanchez were now gathered, watching the spectacle—the couple kissed lightly on both cheeks, and then the driver let the headmaster help her to firmer ground. She had the look of an elderly movie star: her grasshopper skinniness was wrapped in furs and feathers, as if she’d dressed for the premiere of her own film. She smiled broadly.