Crucible by S. G. MacLean Page B

others on the Links. I had expected him to enter the library immediately after the latter of the others had left it, but it was almost five minutes later that I finally heard a step on the bottom of the stairs. I did not think it was him at first, so slow was the trudge that brought him to the library door. I turned to face it as it opened and could not stop the sound of shock that escaped my throat: he was hunched slightly, holding himself awkwardly to one side, and taking slow and painful steps. He was not looking at me, but down and away to the floor like a frightened dog, and the hand that held his cloak across him had two long and angry gashes across the top and knuckles. I recovered myself quickly and hurried over to take him to the nearest seat.
    ‘Adam, for the love of God …!’ And then I realised:
    Matthew Jack. My voice fell flat. ‘Mr Jack did this to you.’
    He swallowed with difficulty and nodded.
    ‘I cannot believe Dr Dun allowed it.’
    ‘He … he did not,’ said Adam, his voice hoarse, as if he did not trust himself. ‘He was not there for the start.’ I could believe it: the principal did not like to see the boys punished, and often found a reason to absent himself from their public whippings. He swallowed again. ‘I was the fourth. By that time Mr Williamson had gone to fetch Dr Dun; he put a stop to it as soon as he saw. Too late for me and the other three, but the rest were spared it, thank God.’
    I put my hand over his but removed it instantly as he flinched under the pain of the open wounds. ‘Adam, I promise you this: if my word bears any weight with the principal, Matthew Jack will never again lift his hand to a boy in this college.’
    He nodded again, looking at me at last, with bloodshot eyes rimmed with red. He took in the room, as if adjusting to where he was, and why we were here. ‘It seems different now,’ he said at last. ‘Everything looks the same, but it is different.’
    He was right. There was the same curved wooden ceiling, the same fir beams supporting it above the rows of shelves and high glass-fronted presses that lined the walls. Windows, tall, narrow and arched as in a church, let in just what light they had always done at this time of the day, at this point in the year, but the absence of the constant presence of thelibrarian, the knowledge of what had happened to him, rendered the place crypt-like.
    I poured him a beaker of water and waited as, with trembling hand, he took some. ‘Now tell me about Saturday,’ I said. ‘Tell me about the time between your arrival and my own. Who else came to the library during that time? Did anything occur that struck you as strange? Did any change in manner overtake Mr Sim whilst you were here?’
    He thought back. ‘I came in shortly after midday. I had taken my dinner in the hall with the others but wanted an hour or two of quiet study before going down to the Links. I met the porter and two of the college servants coming down the stairs; they had just delivered some books that had been waiting a few days down at the docks, while the town and the college wrangled over who should pay for their transport up to the library. The servants were grumbling greatly about the weight of one of the boxes. When I got up to the library Mr Sim was bent over a large wooden chest and was lifting a letter from it. And he was smiling, at the books themselves almost. He put the letter – or list, I think it was by the look of it – down on top of an open ledger on his desk, and fetched my book for me. I thanked him, and he bent again to the box, and started to lift the books from it, one at a time. I think he had soon forgotten I was there.’
    I had seen Robert in this state many times myself, when he was at his most content. ‘And that was it? No one else came into the library between then and when I came up myself, at around one?’
    He was, like me, looking at the names on the register. ‘No,’ he began, and then, ‘but wait, yes.