Free It's Murder at St. Basket's by James Lincoln Collier Page B

didn’t just get hit. His leg’s broken.”
    â€œChristopher, believe me, one sympathizes fully with your concern for your schoolmate. But one simply can’t interfere, you know. St. Basket’s School is perfectly reputable.”
    â€œPlease, Sir—”
    He leaned back in his chair and stared up at the ceiling. “Of course, there was that awful business a few years ago about the boy who disappeared. I think it shook people’s confidence in the school for a time.”
    Something about that remark made my ears perk up, but I knew I’d better not seem too interested or he wouldn’t tell me about it. “That must have happened before I came, I guess.” I’d forgotten to say Sir again.
    â€œQuite. It would have been six or seven years ago, I reckon. I remember it fairly well because we were considering St. Basket’s for Leslie, you know, and it gave us a moment’s pause.”
    That wasn’t much help. I didn’t care about their moment’s pause. I remembered about the Sir. “What was it that actually happened, Sir?”
    â€œOh, it was all in the papers. A boy simply disappeared, and of course there was a great fuss over it. It was thought to be kidnapping at first, but in the end it was clear that he’d been doing badly at school, and had been despondent. Later on, they found some of his clothes washed up on a beach. Margate or South-end or some such. Poor lad had drowned himself, of course. Seemed a rather sad story, actually. Pakistani boy he was, like your friend at school. Son of one of your Indian nabobs or some such, which was why they suspected kidnapping at first. Well, that’s neither here nor there.”
    But as far as I was concerned it wasn’t neither here nor there. It filled me with electricity, that story. “It sounds pretty interesting,” I said. “I think the kids at school would be interested to know about it, Sir.”
    Suddenly I realized it was the wrong thing to say. He made a sort of face. “I doubt Miss Grime would be happy to have a lot of ancient gossip revived, Christopher.”
    â€œNo, but I mean—”
    He looked at his watch. “I’m sure I must be keeping you from something, Christopher.”
    I got the hint, but I couldn’t go yet. “Please, Sir, will you do something about David?”
    â€œChristopher, I’ve said all I have to say on that subject. I don’t mean to be hard. Perhaps you’ll come down in two weeks’ time for Bank Holiday and we can discuss it then.”
    â€œBut, Sir, in two weeks David could be—”
    He held up his hand like a traffic cop to stop me. “I’m afraid I must insist that the matter is closed.” He stood up, and reached across the desk to shake my hand. There wasn’t anything I could do; so I shook hands, and remembered to be polite. “I’m sorry to have bothered you, Sir,” I said.
    â€œThat’s all right, Christopher,” he said. “Now off with you, before Miss Grime starts thinking you’ve been kidnapped yourself.”

CHAPTER 7
    S HRIMPTON WAS THE one who nailed me when I came in. I told Margaret and Leslie about it at supper. They were just getting started. It was the usual slop—shepherd’s pie, which is that hamburger stuff with mashed potatoes smeared on it, the pale peas for the vitamins, and custard pudding—sort of a lump of cake with a kind of yellowy custard dumped over.
    It was Mrs. Rabbit who brought it up, actually, when she waddled out to see how we were doing. “I see yer put yer foot in it, Yank,” she said. “Blotted yer copybook, innit?”
    â€œI wouldn’t have got caught if Shrimpton hadn’t been in the yard having a smoke.”
    â€œThe ‘ell yer wouldn’t. What cher think Shrimpton was doin’ muckin’ abaht out there? He wasn’t just takin’ in the fresh air. Old Grime was out