Chapter 24
Chapter
“Who is Miles Hegarty?” Stoker inquired.
The professor paused to relight his pipe, and after several deep puffs, he settled back into his chair, the smoke wreathing his head like a sinuous grey crown. “A man of more imagination than intelligence, I should say. A mediocre teacher and a fine cricketer.”
“What did he teach?” I asked.
“Literature, early modern with an emphasis on Shakespeare and the Elizabethan poets and the occasional lecture on Restoration dramas.”
“A theatrical curriculum,” Stoker observed.
“Not as theatrical as he would have liked,” the professor returned dryly. “More than once I interrupted his lectures to find him entirely off-topic, discussing folklore and superstition. It was a passion of his, almost to the point of mania.”
“Any subjects in particular?” I queried.
“Anything that might excite a boy’s fevered imagination, my dear.
Elusive mountain cats of Scotland, German giants, Irish faeries, Cornish pixies.
Dragons, wyverns, werewolves, the fellow collected everything he could on all of the most fantastical creatures as well as the local practices that would keep them at bay. ”
“What of vampires?” Stoker asked.
“Vampires! Oh, my, yes. He did speak of those. Had rather a pretty collection of books from the more easterly lands of the Austro-Hungarian empire. He was forever begging the language master, Mr. Tudor, to translate for him.”
“Could we speak to Mr. Tudor?” I asked eagerly.
The professor waved a hand, disturbing the circling smoke only slightly.
“Emigrated to Canada last year, I’m afraid.
He always meant to strike out for the wilderness, but I shouldn’t be surprised if Hegarty’s constant demands didn’t hurry him along.
Of course Tudor only spoke German dialects with a smattering of Hungarian, but Hegarty was forever turning up crumbling little volumes of ancient Roumanian or Serbo-Croat.
There were some lovely fairy tales among them, but he was far more interested in having the books about vampires translated.
They do not call them that, mind you, not over there.
But it is the nearest word we have in English.
Tudor didn’t have the stomach for it. He preferred Bavarian romantic poetry, and started ducking into the cloakroom whenever he saw Hegarty coming his way.
He did it so often, the rumour went round that Tudor had a cold in the bowels, and the school nurse insisted upon dosing all the boys with castor oil as a preventive measure.
” He pulled a face at the memory, and Stoker smothered a laugh.
“Do you know where Miles Hegarty came from?” he asked as he reached for another sandwich.
The professor thought a moment, then shook his head. “Somewhere in the Midlands, I should think. I have a vague recollection that he was a Leicester man, but it has been a while and my memory is not what it was.”
The cat reappeared and settled herself once more upon her master’s lap.
He fussed over her for a moment, rising to pour out a saucer of tea to which he added a drop of milk.
“She does like her tea,” he said by way of explanation as he placed the saucer on the floor.
The cat leapt up with the grace of a dancer, placing dainty paws on either side of the saucer as she lapped at the libation.
“Where was I?” the professor asked as he resumed his seat once more.
“Telling us what you remember about Miles Hegarty,” I prompted.
“Ah, yes. He was, as I say, an indifferent teacher. He might have inspired the boys to a good measure of learning if he had been enthusiastic about his subject, but he found Shakespeare and Spenser a little quotidian for his tastes. He only taught them because it was mandated by the curriculum. He preferred the later dramatists, although even those paled to his folkloric studies. Unfortunately, as often as I pointed out to him that our leading universities do not place value in such subjects, he persisted in including them in his lectures. I was forced to ask him to leave at the end of the first year.”
Some small shadow passed over his face, and I leant nearer. “Was there something more?”
“I shouldn’t like to gossip,” he hedged.
Stoker placed his cup and saucer on the table and folded his hands, almost in a gesture of supplication. “Professor, we would not ask if it were not important.”
“How important?”
“If I told you it was a matter of life and death, that would not be too far an exaggeration,” Stoker told him.
“Ah,” was the professor’s only reply.
“You do not seem entirely surprised,” I remarked.
He thought a long moment before he replied, considering his words carefully, it seemed, choosing each one with purpose.
“Some people have a charisma about them, a quality that draws people near. In olden days, folk called it a glamoury, an actual charm worked to make one attractive to others. The trouble is that such a quality may be misused.”
“Did Miles Hegarty have such a quality? Did he misuse it?” Stoker’s queries were gentle, and the professor nodded.
“I believe so, although I could never prove it. I dismissed him, quite rightly, because he failed to adequately prepare his pupils for the subject he had been engaged to teach. But I will admit to a deep and abiding relief the day he left Little Saints. It was as though a cloud had settled over our happy little school. And when he left, the sun shone once more.”
“How did he misuse his influence over the boys?” Stoker asked.
“Not in a meddlesome way,” the professor returned swiftly. “I do not mean anything of that sort. And I even hesitate to mention it as there was never any behaviour on his part to which I could point with conviction.”
“We are not in a court of law,” I said softly. “We do not require proof. In fact, the thoughts of a shrewd and perceptive bystander might be more helpful to us.”
His smile was self-deprecating. “Well, I do not know about shrewd, but one does gain a certain perceptiveness when one runs a school for boys, a sort of sixth sense when trouble is about.” He paused, puffing quietly on his pipe and watching the smoke drift lazily overhead.
“It was nothing more than conversations, really. Little conferences between Hegarty and some of the boys that would abruptly break off when I happened upon them. The boys looked furtive when he was around, as if they shared some great secret and mustn’t be found out.
It was the choice of boys which I noticed as well. ”
“Was there something they had in common?” Stoker helped himself to the last sandwich as he awaited the professor’s reply.
“Indeed.” He tipped his head, studying Stoker from scuffed boots to tumbled hair. “You might look a ruffian, but I know a public school boy when I see one. Eton or Harrow?”
“Rugby, and only for a bit,” Stoker admitted.
The professor grinned. “It is the vowels, you see. One never mistakes the vowels. But if you have been to a proper school, you understand how the factions work, the little cliques that form.”
“I imagine they are the same everywhere,” Stoker said. “Senior lads ride roughshod over the younger boys. There are always a top tier of little autocrats who lord it over everyone else and are rivals to one another even if they put on a show of friendship at times.”
“Precisely.” The professor nodded, lazily dispersing the little cloud that had settled over his head.
“The sons of dukes are never so precious about their rank as the sons of baronets, and knights are the absolute worst. Where was I? Ah, Hegarty’s little pets.
He had a penchant for singling out the boys who were most socially distinctive in their year.
More than once I saw the most illustrious youths disappearing into Hegarty’s rooms for an informal social gathering. ”
Stoker dusted the crumbs of the sandwich from his fingers and gave his belly a happy little pat. “I presume such fraternisation with teachers is not forbidden at Little Saints?”
The professor waggled his hand back and forth.
“It is not forbidden but neither is it encouraged. We expected the schoolmasters to know favouritism is a dangerous practise. It can very easily stir up resentments amongst the boys who have not been befriended. And it often leads to the boys who have been so favoured thinking far too highly of themselves. Beyond that, if the parents catch a whiff of those sorts of goings-on, they invariably complain, and then all the devils in hell cannot mend the matter. Still,” he added with a sigh, “it is impossible to make a formal policy and to enforce it. Lads are always popping in and out of their tutors’ rooms for extra instruction in a thorny subject or for a dressing-down for some infraction.
To chase them all down and make certain they were all attending to school business every minute of the day was far more than my time was worth. ”
“Why would Miles Hegarty make a point of singling out the most socially prominent pupils?” I wondered.
“It sounds as if he were collecting trophies,” Stoker suggested.
The professor nodded. “My thoughts exactly. It is distasteful to think of it, but it did occur to me that Hegarty was not above currying favour with the boys whose prospects were the most promising. Perhaps with an eye to angling for an invitation to a country house or some introductions that would provide him with a more lucrative or prestigious post. It is not unknown for schoolmasters to enter private employment as tutors, and while the remuneration is not much better, the circumstances are indeed an improvement. One lives in decidedly more luxurious conditions than a schoolmaster’s lodgings, and there are other perquisites—travel being the first.”
“The more interesting question,” Stoker said, rubbing his chin absently, “is why the pupils were spending time with Hegarty. Forgive me, Professor, but Little Saints is a small school.”
“You mean we are not distinguished,” the professor corrected, his eyes fairly twinkling as Stoker coloured slightly.
“I meant no offence.”
“None taken! We make no future titans here. We boast no prime ministers amongst our alumni, and our ducal progeny are all third sons or lesser,” he said, tapping the embers from his pipe onto the hearthstone.
“No, Little Saints has no pretensions. It is a good school, even an excellent one, if one judges only on the strength of its curriculum and the character of the young men it sends out into the world. It is the very place to get a thorough grounding in ancient and modern languages, literature, mathematics, and various sciences. We may even distinguish ourselves in our departments of philosophy and history. But what we cannot do is pretend to compete on the grounds of exclusivity. We have taught the odd lordling now and again, but ours is not the name on a nobleman’s lips when he is looking to send his son off to be educated.
Our masters vary, accordingly, from adequate to gifted.
Hegarty was nearer the adequate end of that spectrum.
He taught and he breathed life into his subjects for his pupils, but he never did any proper research, never broke new ground.
His heart was never in his work. I smelt the stink of ambition about him, as if Little Saints were merely a stepping stone on his way. ”
“What was his way, do you think?” I asked. “Where did he mean to go?”
The professor shrugged. “I could not say. But I think it was this undefinable suggestion of moving into more elevated circles that fueled the boys’ interest in him.”
He broke off, pressing his lips together, his gaze shifting slightly.
“There is something more,” I said softly. I moved a fraction nearer to the professor. “Sir, if you know something, however insignificant, please tell us. It might be relevant to our inquiries.”
“I do not see how it could be,” he said, the smile back in evidence once more.
“I am being very silly, the whole thing was simply a jape. I did not take it seriously at the time, and I put even less weight upon it now. I have only just remembered a rumour that went round during the spring term, right about this time, if memory serves.”
Stoker’s gaze sharpened. “What rumour?”
The professor seemed not to have heard him.
He chuckled a little and continued on his narrative.
“People say girls are illogical creatures, but I shall tell you it is nothing but a calumny. Boys are by far the most hysterical when they get an idea, and the way they gossip! The fishwives of Billingsgate market might learn a trick or two from a pair of schoolboys. The tall tales they will invent and then swear it is the Lord’s own truth.
Blasphemous little scamps, the lot of them. ”
“What rumour?” Stoker pressed.
The professor blinked suddenly, drawing himself back from his reminiscences.
“Oh, a bit of nonsense, a story the older boys put about to keep the younger ones in check, no doubt. But they did say that Hegarty was—pardon me for laughing, but you will see the absurdity when I tell you—that Hegarty was a vampire.”
The professor was wrong, I reflected. It was not funny in the slightest.