Free Mr Campion's Fault by Mike Ripley

are not involved in school rugby?’
    Ward shook his head as if he had been accused of a crime. ‘Not me; never played t’game in me life. Physical fitness, gymnastics and cross-country runs, them’s my department. The rugby field was always Bertram’s empire.’
    ‘He did play for the Sappers, you know,’ interjected Major Poole through tight, thin lips, ‘when he was in the Royal Engineers, and for Cambridge. He was quite a talent in his younger days and the boys all looked up to him.’
    Whether or not the pupils of Denby Grange viewed Bob Ward with the same respect was left unsaid. It was clear that Major Poole did not.
    ‘Did he take rugby alone?’ asked Rupert. ‘It must have been quite a burden alongside his teaching duties.’
    ‘He was certainly busy during the winter months, but once the cricket season started he could put his feet up. Bertram wouldn’t have had it any other way, he loved his rugby’ – Poole checked himself as though the thought had just occurred to him – ‘and of course he had Harrop to help him.’
    ‘Harrop?’
    ‘Rufus Harrop,’ said Bob Ward, ‘is our groundsman, gardener and general handyman. He’s not officer class either and not even allowed in the staff room.’
    Mrs Armitage, being a headmaster’s wife, did what all headmasters’ wives did instinctively and intervened as a peace-keeper. ‘Manfred, Bob. Permit me to steal Mr and Mrs Campion. I’m sure they want to get settled in their room but they really need to have a word with the wing commander before he goes home, and he’s keen to get off.’
    ‘He always is,’ said Manfred Poole drily.
    ‘Already got his coat on,’ added Bob Ward, and Perdita sensed something of an unlikely alliance between the two of them when it came to the geography master.
    Celia Armitage linked arms with the pair to steer them to where the grumpy wing commander was sucking fiercely on an untipped Players’ cigarette, speaking quietly as she ushered them over. ‘Bob can be a little prickly,’ she whispered, ‘and Manfred just loves to torment him, so best not to get stuck in the middle. You should have a quick word with Raymond, though.’
    ‘About rugby?’ Rupert asked under his breath.
    ‘No,’ Celia turned her head into Perdita’s, ‘about Helen of Troy.’
    Before Perdita and Rupert could even exchange befuddled glances, they were presented to Raymond Poole, who made no attempt to rise from the armchair which it seemed would rise with him, so snug was the fit.
    ‘Before you go home, Raymond,’ said Mrs Armitage, gently pushing Perdita forward, ‘we thought you should have a word with Perdita about Hilda.’
    ‘Hah! Wondered why I was in the official receivin’ line.’
    Poole crushed his cigarette out in the small glass ashtray he had balanced on the arm of his chair and then flicked along his moustache with a forefinger; a finger and a moustache, Perdita noticed, both stained yellow with nicotine.
    ‘You’ve known her longer than anyone, Raymond, which makes you the SBO,’ said Mrs Armitage diplomatically. Then with a grin added: ‘So who better to warn Perdita about what she might expect? Now excuse me whilst I wash up these cups.’
    Perdita decided her best strategy was to charm this sulking lion, albeit a lion with a receding mane, and so she ignited her best smile.
    ‘Are you a friend of … Hilda, is it? Miss Browne. She passed us in the hallway but she didn’t stop to chat; seemed to be running for a bus.’
    The balding lion growled softly and eyed Perdita as if she were prey.
    ‘Then you’re lucky she didn’t trample you to death.’
    ‘As a matter of fact, she almost did.’
    ‘That sounds like Hilda,’ acknowledged the wing commander without irony. ‘When she wants to go somewhere she just puts her head down and goes full steam ahead. Doesn’t matter what’s in her way; could be a baby in a pram, could be a blind man with one leg, could be a brick wall – Hilda would go through or over