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“No, I guess not. I haven’t even read it myself.”
“You were the faculty adviser, and you didn’t read the script?”
“No, the boy who directed it came over all Woody Allen and insisted that the actors saw only the pages of the scenes they were appearing in. He was very secretive about the project. I wondered why, at first, but he assured me that there was no nudity, no sex, and only minimal, prep-school-boy bad language.”
“Ah, now I begin to get it.”
“Get what?”
“Well, after I saw the scene in our dean’s office, I filched the script
from his secretary’s desk and read it.”
Now Ripley was getting worried. “Was there anything alarming in it?”
“Nothing that would alarm the general public, since it’s only a student film, but you should hope the headmaster never sees the film.”
“Why on earth should I be concerned about that?”
“You obviously don’t get it, Alan. The script fairly closely follows some real events at the school. It would have been before your time, of course-five or six years ago. I could see why you wouldn’t have known. I can also see why the student wanted to keep his film under wraps. I take it you haven’t seen the finished product.”
“No, the boy left school early, and he was still editing, I think. He promised to send me a DVD, but he hasn’t as yet done so.”
“Mmmm, yes.”
“James, exactly what real events does the film follow?”
“Well, as I said, it was before your time there, and after mine. I didn’t hear about this until I attended my tenth reunion. There was some talk about it at that time.”
“Go on.”
“Well, the rough outline is something like this: a master diddles a student, student drops out of school, hangs himself while allegedly doing that sex thing that’s supposed to generate an orgasm with partial asphyxiation-but suicide is a possibility.”
“Good God!”
“Hang on to your hat, my friend, there’s more.”
“The investigation is cursory-small-town Virginia police, you know, but back at Herald, the boy’s death brings attention to bear on a chemistry master. A few weeks later, the master is found dead in his study.”
“Dead how?”
“The supposition is suicide, but the autopsy report does not give a cause of death. But the fellow is a chemistry master, after all, and the feeling is that he mixed up some sort of untraceable potion and offed himself.”
“This is awful,” Ripley said, downing the remainder of his scotch.
“Just one more thing: there was a suspicion in the air that one or more of his students, out to avenge their classmate, may have concocted the potion and somehow introduced it into his system. The police questioned everybody, but they could find no evidence pointing to anyone in particular. By that time, the master’s remains had been cremated, and his ashes scattered on the James River, so the whole business eventually petered out.”
“James,” Ripley said, “is there any way you can get your hands on that script, or the DVD?”
“Nope. The boy asked for both to be returned to him, and they were. He didn’t want anyone to see it. Actually, that may not be a bad thing for you. And, if the headmaster gets wind of the flick, you might want to stick with only the facts you knew before this conversation, which I will keep to myself. After all, being dumb is better than being complicit.”
“You have a point,” Ripley said. “Tell me how this film came to be in your dean’s office.”
“The boy, this Peter Barrington, has applied for admission to the school, and the word is, he had a favorable interview. The dean did tell his secretary that the committee all thought his film was brilliant, the sort of thing that might do well at the indie festivals.”
“You said Barrington?”
“Peter Barrington.”
