Divide between us, isn’t it? Thanks.’ He took the proffered cup.
‘Not done at … er … Leighford?’
Maxwell shook his head. ‘Although I do have several kids to whom every subject is Greek.’
‘Mind you, it’s dying here,’ Maggie Shaunessy said and instantly regretted it. ‘God, this is so difficult.’
‘Soldiers,’ Maxwell changed the subject. ‘You have a Cadet Force?’
‘Army, yes. It used to be combined, I believe, but that was before my time. Those things depend of staffing, don’t they?’
‘Indeed. Who runs that?’
‘David Gallow, Head of History. He’s a Captain or something in the T.A. I’m afraid, coming from a girls’ school, I don’t know much about it. Coffee not too awful?’
‘The coffee’s fine,’ Maxwell smiled.
There was a knock at the study door and the lovely girl popped her head around it.
‘Cassandra?’ Maggie Shaunessy was arranging herself on the chair opposite Maxwell’s.
‘Sorry to bother you, Miss, but Dr Sheffield would like to see Mr Maxwell. Now.’
‘Oh?’ the Head of House frowned. ‘But …’
‘No, no,’ Maxwell was on his feet. ‘His Master’s Voice,’ he swigged what was left in the cup. ‘Thanks … Maggie. Perhaps we can talk again.’
‘I’d like that. Cassandra, take Mr Maxwell across, will you?’
He walked with the girl down the open staircase and out into the day. They passed the limes and made for the main buildings, old Jedediah’s house.
‘Cassandra,’ he said. ‘Old Priam’s daughter.’
‘Sir?’ the girl arched an eyebrow, looking him up and down with vague disgust.
‘In Greek mythology,’ Maxwell explained. ‘Cassandra was the daughter of the Trojan king. The God Apollo was transfixed by her beauty and gave her the gift of prophecy.’
‘I was actually named after the Gulf of Cassandra,’ she told him flatly, ‘in Southern Greece. Where, apparently, I was conceived. That’s fairly typical of my mother, to remember where, but not necessarily with whom.’ They had reached the Headmaster’s door and Cassandra rapped on it. ‘You have a nice day, Mr Maxwell.’ And she was gone, her school skirt swinging to the sway of her hips.
‘Agamemnon’s plaything,’ Maxwell was talking to himself now in the corridor at the end of the world.
‘Ah, Maxwell.’ The Headmaster had dropped the ‘Mr’ in the space of twenty-four hours. Maxwell had been to a school like this; he wasn’t surprised. Surnames were de rigeur – that and silly, politically incorrect sobriquets. He stood in the opulence of Sheffield’s study and wasn’t asked to sit down.
‘Leave?’ Maxwell repeated. ‘That’s a shame, sir.’
‘Yes, well, there it is. No one’s going to be themselves for a while, not really.’
‘All the more reason for me to stay,’ Maxwell told him.
Sheffield looked up at his man. There was a steel about Maxwell he hadn’t noticed before, an inner strength.
‘I could tell you to go,’ Sheffield reminded him.
‘You could,’ Maxwell nodded slowly. ‘But I don’t think that’s the Grimond’s way, is it?’
‘Er …’ Sheffield was rather flustered. One of his housemasters was dead. There were policemen in the quads, paparazzi at the gates in ever increasing numbers, nosing, poking about, photographing. And a stubborn stranger staring back at him across his own carpet. George Sheffield’s world was becoming decidedly pear-shaped.
5
The whispers began that afternoon, shortly after Mrs Oakes had done everybody proud with her baked cod. Maxwell tried to catch them as he wandered the library, drooling at the array of A-level texts for which he himself, given another throw of the psychopathological dice, might have killed Bill Pardoe.
‘They say he was pushed,’ was the sage comment of a Lower Fifth kid out of the corner of his mouth.
‘Sheffield did it,’ his ginger oppo told a little huddle who were supposed to be researching land forms for Geography.
‘They never got on,’ a
‘Not done at … er … Leighford?’
Maxwell shook his head. ‘Although I do have several kids to whom every subject is Greek.’
‘Mind you, it’s dying here,’ Maggie Shaunessy said and instantly regretted it. ‘God, this is so difficult.’
‘Soldiers,’ Maxwell changed the subject. ‘You have a Cadet Force?’
‘Army, yes. It used to be combined, I believe, but that was before my time. Those things depend of staffing, don’t they?’
‘Indeed. Who runs that?’
‘David Gallow, Head of History. He’s a Captain or something in the T.A. I’m afraid, coming from a girls’ school, I don’t know much about it. Coffee not too awful?’
‘The coffee’s fine,’ Maxwell smiled.
There was a knock at the study door and the lovely girl popped her head around it.
‘Cassandra?’ Maggie Shaunessy was arranging herself on the chair opposite Maxwell’s.
‘Sorry to bother you, Miss, but Dr Sheffield would like to see Mr Maxwell. Now.’
‘Oh?’ the Head of House frowned. ‘But …’
‘No, no,’ Maxwell was on his feet. ‘His Master’s Voice,’ he swigged what was left in the cup. ‘Thanks … Maggie. Perhaps we can talk again.’
‘I’d like that. Cassandra, take Mr Maxwell across, will you?’
He walked with the girl down the open staircase and out into the day. They passed the limes and made for the main buildings, old Jedediah’s house.
‘Cassandra,’ he said. ‘Old Priam’s daughter.’
‘Sir?’ the girl arched an eyebrow, looking him up and down with vague disgust.
‘In Greek mythology,’ Maxwell explained. ‘Cassandra was the daughter of the Trojan king. The God Apollo was transfixed by her beauty and gave her the gift of prophecy.’
‘I was actually named after the Gulf of Cassandra,’ she told him flatly, ‘in Southern Greece. Where, apparently, I was conceived. That’s fairly typical of my mother, to remember where, but not necessarily with whom.’ They had reached the Headmaster’s door and Cassandra rapped on it. ‘You have a nice day, Mr Maxwell.’ And she was gone, her school skirt swinging to the sway of her hips.
‘Agamemnon’s plaything,’ Maxwell was talking to himself now in the corridor at the end of the world.
‘Ah, Maxwell.’ The Headmaster had dropped the ‘Mr’ in the space of twenty-four hours. Maxwell had been to a school like this; he wasn’t surprised. Surnames were de rigeur – that and silly, politically incorrect sobriquets. He stood in the opulence of Sheffield’s study and wasn’t asked to sit down.
‘Leave?’ Maxwell repeated. ‘That’s a shame, sir.’
‘Yes, well, there it is. No one’s going to be themselves for a while, not really.’
‘All the more reason for me to stay,’ Maxwell told him.
Sheffield looked up at his man. There was a steel about Maxwell he hadn’t noticed before, an inner strength.
‘I could tell you to go,’ Sheffield reminded him.
‘You could,’ Maxwell nodded slowly. ‘But I don’t think that’s the Grimond’s way, is it?’
‘Er …’ Sheffield was rather flustered. One of his housemasters was dead. There were policemen in the quads, paparazzi at the gates in ever increasing numbers, nosing, poking about, photographing. And a stubborn stranger staring back at him across his own carpet. George Sheffield’s world was becoming decidedly pear-shaped.
5
The whispers began that afternoon, shortly after Mrs Oakes had done everybody proud with her baked cod. Maxwell tried to catch them as he wandered the library, drooling at the array of A-level texts for which he himself, given another throw of the psychopathological dice, might have killed Bill Pardoe.
‘They say he was pushed,’ was the sage comment of a Lower Fifth kid out of the corner of his mouth.
‘Sheffield did it,’ his ginger oppo told a little huddle who were supposed to be researching land forms for Geography.
‘They never got on,’ a
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