Orest Stelmach - The Boy Who Stole from the Dead

“I love your pottery collection, Mr. Darby,” she said, nodding at the bookcase filled with ceramic figurines.

“Why thank you.”

“Toby mugs?”

His eyes widened. “Yes.”

“Royal Doulton.”

He brimmed with delight. “Do you collect?”

“My mother does. Or rather did until it became fashionable. Once other collectors started hoarding new releases for speculative purposes, she gave up.”

Darby came alive. “So did I. What a shame, I tell you. One of the great joys of my life ruined by opportunists. They’re not true collectors. They don’t appreciate the craftsmanship or the whimsy.”

“I see your Alfred Hitchcock has a pink curtain. Not a gray one, which is the common variety. That’s rare, isn’t it?”

“It’s the jewel of my collection.”

Nadia stood up to take a closer look. “It’s spectacular.”

Darby blushed. “Why thank you, Ms. Tesla.”

“Call me Nadia, please. I’ve heard they exist but I’ve never seen one. I appreciate your giving me a glimmer of joy during what is sure to be a grim visit to London.” She sat back down.

“We heard the news about young Mr. Valentine. It’s a tragedy. The faculty—the entire institution—we’re all devastated.”

“Thank you, Mr. Darby. I hope it wouldn’t be too painful if I ask you some questions.”

“Questions? About what?”

“About Jonathan.”

“Forgive me for being so blunt, Ms. Tesla, but what is your connection to Jonathan?”

“I was referred to you by the Office of Alumni Relations at the University of Nottingham. A kind lady there confirmed Jonathan was a graduate of Felshire. I thought he was because I found an old article online, from the school newspaper. It mentioned Jonathan Valentine was named Most Valued Player in a football match against Westminster. Was Jonathan a great athlete?”

Darby squirmed. “Yes, but you haven’t answered my question—”

“Was it just football for him, or did he have other interests beyond scholastics?”

Darby started to answer but stopped himself.

“You do get to know your students fairly well, I suspect,” Nadia said, “given how small the classes are. What did I read? Seventeen students on average per class at Felshire?”

“Yes, that’s about right—”

“Gateway to Oxbridge. I never heard that term before in America. I’ve heard of Oxford, of course. And Cambridge. But never the term ‘Oxbridge’. Was Jonathan’s family disappointed when he didn’t get into either and ended up at Nottingham?”

“Please, madam… Please stop talking for a moment and answer my question.”

“What was the question?”

“Who are you?”

“I told you. My name is Nadia Tesla.” Nadia had considered using an alias but decided against it. A lie would have to be perpetuated. That could become a problem if Darby led her to a person with whom she needed to be honest. The closer she stuck to the truth the better off she was. Besides, the odds Darby knew she was guardian to Valentine’s alleged killer were low.

“Yes. No. I mean, what is your connection to Jonathan? You’re an American. I suspect you’re not related.”

“No. And any such dream is dead now, isn’t it?”

Darby frowned. “I’m afraid you have me at a constant loss, Ms. Tesla.”

“Nadia.”

“Very well, Nadia. Please tell me why you’re here.”

Nadia thought of the time her father asked her if she’d be willing to take the Ukrainian Girl Scout survival test at age twelve. The thought of revealing her true feelings and saying no terrified her. But she felt compelled to do so. She needed to channel the same reluctance and sincerity. She’d concocted the story she was about to tell Darby on the plane to London. Rehearsed it countless times in the hotel. She knew the script. Now it was a matter of delivery. Reluctance and sincerity.

“I was Jonathan’s lover,” Nadia said.

“Oh.” He blushed. His tone eased. “I see.”

“We were going to get married.”

“He always did like older… I’m so sorry.”

“Until Jonathan found out I was pregnant with his child. Then he threw me out of his apartment in the middle of the night.”

“He did what?”

“He said he never wanted to see me again. Said I couldn’t be sure the child was his given I was a whore, and if I tried to sue him to get a DNA test I’d regret the day I was born. I’m just trying to get to know the father of my child a bit, in case he or she asks me about him down the line.”

Darby digested her comments. “Bastard,” he said under his breath. He stood up and closed the door to his office. Collapsed back into his chair. “May God have mercy on my soul for saying this. I know he was the father of your child but you’re better off with him gone. I hate to say it, but the world is better off with Jonathan Valentine dead.”

It was Nadia’s turn to be taken aback. “Why would you say that?”

“I’ve been headmaster here for thirty-two years. During that time I’ve seen some five thousand young men pass through these halls. Jonathan Valentine was the worst of the lot. And whoever the runner up is he’s a distant second.”

“You’re kidding me.”

“No, I am most assuredly not kidding you.” Darby opened a drawer. He pulled out a bottle of single malt Scotch. “Will you join me?”

Nadia patted her stomach. “I’d love to, but under the circumstances…”

“Oh. Something else, perhaps?”

Nadia declined. He fixed himself a Scotch on the rocks.

“In what way was he the worst of the lot?” she said.

“In every way. He was a sociopath. Society’s norms meant nothing to him. He had no morals whatsoever. It would have been bad enough if he were merely a pathological liar with criminal tendencies. But no. He was a rogue, a cheat and a scoundrel, too. And he was charming. So charming. As you know. Or rather, as you knew.”

“Yes. Too well. What were some of the worst things he did, if you don’t mind my asking?”

Darby considered the question. “It’s not that I mind your asking, it’s more that you may mind my answering.”

“How so?”

Darby’s eyes drifted toward Nadia’s stomach.

“He got a girl pregnant,” Nadia said.

“My dear, this is a senior boarding school for boys only. There are no girls.”

“Then I don’t understand.”

“Women, my dear. And note that I’m using the plural case. Women. One was a maid and the other was the music teacher.”

“And he got them both pregnant?”

“At the age of seventeen. Within the span of two months.”

Nadia sat speechless.

Darby nodded. “He ran a gambling operation out of his dormitory, stole gold from the chapel, extorted money from the weaker boys, and beat up the biology teacher.”

“And he wasn’t expelled?”

“He should have been. But he wasn’t.”

Nadia studied Darby. His face was the color of eggplant. The straight line drawn by his lips suggested it was a function of embarrassment and resentment.

“Parental influence?” Nadia said.

Darby shrugged. “Parental influence, a man’s instincts for survival. Sometimes they’re one and the same.”

Nadia let a moment go by. “I’m sorry. I can see you were put in a bad spot.”

Darby sipped his Scotch. “Damn Russians.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Damn Russians, I said.”

“What about them?”

“They came here because England offered legal sanctuary and a fair due process of law. Hypocrites. I’ve had men walk in here with bags of cash offering to build swimming pools, classrooms, and gyms in exchange for admission. One man landed his private helicopter on the cricket field. Asked if he could build his personal landing pad there. You can’t imagine the gall of these people.”