Across the serious face a smile came. It was a smile that was not quite sane. The figure drew a deep breath.
As man was made in the image of his Maker, so there was now a terrible travesty of a creator’s joy.
Yes, everything planned—everyone’s reaction foretold and allowed for, the good and evil in everybody played upon and brought into harmony with one evil design.
There was one thing lacking still….
With a smile the writer traced a date—a date in September.
Then, with a laugh, the paper was torn in pieces and the pieces carried across the room and put into the heart of the glowing fire. There was no carelessness. Every single piece was consumed and destroyed. The plan was now only existent in the brain of its creator.
March 8th
Superintendent Battle was sitting at the breakfast table. His jaw was set in a truculent fashion and he was reading, slowly and carefully, a letter that his wife had just tearfully handed to him. There was no expression visible on his face, for his face never did register any expression. It had the aspect of a face carved out of wood. It was solid and durable and, in some way, impressive. Superintendent Battle had never suggested brilliance; he was, definitely, not a brilliant man, but he had some other quality, difficult to define, that was nevertheless forceful.
“I can’t believe it,” said Mrs. Battle, sobbing. “Sylvia!”
Sylvia was the youngest of Superintendent and Mrs. Battle’s five children. She was sixteen and at school near Maidstone.
The letter was from Miss Amphrey, headmistress of the school in question. It was a clear, kindly and extremely tactful letter. It set out, in black and white, that various small thefts had been puzzling the school authorities for some time, that the matter had at last been cleared up, that Sylvia Battle had confessed, and that Miss Amphrey would like to see Mr. and Mrs. Battle at the earliest opportunity “to discuss the position.”
Superintendent Battle folded up the letter, put it in his pocket, and said: “You leave this to me, Mary.”
He got up, walked round the table, patted her on the cheek and said, “Don’t worry, dear, it will be all right.”
He went from the room, leaving comfort and reassurance behind him.
That afternoon, in Miss Amphrey’s modern and individualistic drawing room, Superintendent Battle sat very squarely on his chair, his large wooden hands on his knees, confronting Miss Amphrey and managing to look, far more than usual, every inch a policeman.
Miss Amphrey was a very successful headmistress. She had personality—a great deal of personality, she was enlightened and up to date, and she combined discipline with modern ideas of self-determination.
Her room was representative of the spirit of Meadway. Everything was of a cool oatmeal colour—there were big jars of daffodils and bowls of tulips and hyacinths. One or two good copies of the antique Greek, two pieces of advanced modern sculpture, two Italian primitives on the walls. In the midst of all this, Miss Amphrey herself, dressed in a deep shade of blue, with an eager face suggestive of a conscientious greyhound, and clear blue eyes looking serious through thick lenses.
“The important thing,” she was saying in her clear well-modulated voice, “is that this should be taken the right way. It is the girl herself we have to think of, Mr. Battle. Sylvia herself! It is most important—most important, that her life should not be crippled in any way. She must not be made to assume a burden of guilt—blame must be very very sparingly meted out, if at all. We must arrive at the reason behind these quite trivial pilferings. A sense of inferiority, perhaps? She is not good at games, you know—an obscure wish to shine in a different sphere—the desire to assert her ego? We must be very very careful. That is why I wanted to see you alone first—to impress upon you to be very very careful with Sylvia. I repeat again, it’s very important to get at what is behind this.”
“That, Miss Amphrey,” said Superintendent Battle, “is why I have come down.”
His voice was quiet, his face unemotional, his eyes surveyed the school mistress appraisingly.
“I have been very gentle with her,” said Miss Amphrey.
Battle said laconically:
“Good of you, Ma’am.”
“You see, I really love and understand these young things.”
Battle did not reply directly. He said:
“I’d like to see my girl now, if you don’t mind, Miss Amphrey.”
With renewed emphasis Miss Amphrey admonished him to be careful—to go slow—not to antagonize a child just budding into womanhood.
Superintendent Battle showed no signs of impatience. He just looked blank.
She took him at last to her study. They passed one or two girls in the passages. They stood politely to attention but their eyes were full of curiosity. Having ushered Battle into a small room, not quite so redolent of personality as the one downstairs, Miss Amphrey withdrew and said she would send Sylvia to him.
Just as she was leaving the room, Battle stopped her.
“One minute, Ma’am, how did you come to pitch upon Sylvia as the one responsible for these—er—leakages?”
“My methods, Mr. Battle, were psychological.”
Miss Amphrey spoke with dignity.
“Psychological? H’m. What about the evidence, Miss Amphrey?”
“Yes, yes, I quite understand, Mr. Battle—you would feel that way. Your—er—profession steps in. But psychology is beginning to be recognized in criminology. I can assure you that there is no mistake—Sylvia freely admits the whole thing.”
“Yes, yes—I know that. I was just asking how you came to pitch upon her to begin with.”
“Well, Mr. Battle, this business of things being taken out of the girls’ lockers was on the increase. I called the school together and told them the facts. At the same time, I studied their faces unobtrusively. Sylvia’s expression struck me at once. It was guilty—confused. I knew at that moment who was responsible. I wanted, not to confront her with her guilt, but to get her to admit it herself. I set a little test for her—a word association.”
Battle nodded to show he understood.
“And finally the child admitted it all.”
Her father said:
“I see.”
Miss Amphrey hesitated a minute, then went out.
Battle was standing looking out of the window when the door opened again.
He turned round slowly and looked at his daughter.
Sylvia stood just inside the door, which she had closed behind her. She was tall, dark, angular. Her face was sullen and bore marks of tears. She said timidly rather than defiantly:
“Well, here I am.”
Battle looked at her thoughtfully for a minute or two. He sighed.
“I should never have sent you to this place,” he said. “That woman’s a fool.”
Sylvia lost sight of her own problems in sheer amazement.
“Miss Amphrey? Oh, but she’s wonderful. We all think so.”
“H’m,” said Battle. “Can’t be quite a fool, then, if she sells the idea of herself as well as that. All the same, Meadway wasn’t the place for you—although I don’t know—this might have happened anywhere.”
Sylvia twisted her hands together. She looked down. She said:
“I’m—I’m sorry, Father. I really am.”
“So you should be,” said Battle shortly. “Come here.”
She came slowly and unwillingly across the room to him. He took her chin in his great square hand and looked closely into her face.
“Been through a good deal, haven’t you?” he said gently.
Tears started into her eyes.
Battle said slowly:
“You see, Sylvia, I’ve known all along with you, that there was something. Most people have got a weakness of some kind or another. Usually it’s plain enough. You can see when a child’s greedy, or bad-tempered, or got a streak of the bully in him. You were a good child, very quiet—very sweet-tempered—no trouble in any way—and sometimes I’ve worrie
d. Because if there’s a flaw you don’t see, sometimes it wrecks the whole show when the article is tried out.”
“Like me!” said Sylvia.
“Yes, like you. You’ve cracked under strain—and in a damned queer way too. It’s a way, oddly enough, I’ve never come across before.”
The girl said suddenly and scornfully:
“I should think you’d come across thieves often enough!”
“Oh yes—I know all about them. And that’s why, my dear—not because I’m your father (fathers don’t know much about their children) but because I’m a policeman I know well enough you’re not a thief. You never took a thing in this place. Thieves are of two kinds, the kind that yields to sudden and overwhelming temptation—(and that happens damned seldom—it’s amazing what temptation the ordinary normal honest human being can withstand) and there’s the kind that just takes what doesn’t belong to them almost as a matter of course. You don’t belong to either type. You’re not a thief. You’re a very unusual type of liar.”
Sylvia began, “But—”
He swept on.
“You’ve admitted it all? Oh yes, I know that. There was a saint once—went out with bread for the poor. Husband didn’t like it. Met her and asked what there was in her basket. She lost her nerve and said it was roses—he tore open her basket and roses it was—a miracle! Now if you’d been Saint Elizabeth and were out with a basket of roses, and your husband had come along and asked what you’d got, you’d have lost your nerve and said ‘Bread.’”
He paused and then said gently: