Nor was Scoresby greatly impressed. “A number ten,” he grunted dismally. “There must be hundreds, if not thousands, and I don’t see how we can trace them all, even with the help of Scotland Yard and all the county police. Still, it may be something. We can add it to the description.” Once more, he bent over the task of composing one coherent picture of the varying words by which the woman whom he wanted to see was described.
There were, for instance, those used by Martin Hands. “Not a bad-looking girl in her way, though not my type. What I call a fluffy bit, but smart, even if her colour scheme was a bit loud. Height? Oh! I don’t know, a bit shorter than Patricia and Barbara, who, I believe, are about five feet six. Fair. An essentially purple sort of woman. Eyes? I haven’t the slightest idea. Small. Just a fair, ordinary sort of woman. Might be English, or might not.”
Lansley had been more definite. “Five feet four. Fair complexion. Wishy-washy blue eyes. Rather badly made up. She looked as if she really had a sallow skin, and had dabbed rosy patches on it. Rather hairy in the wrong place round the neck. Small nose, of no particular shape.”
Scoresby turned to Reeves’s description.
“Blue eyes. One front tooth stopped with gold.” (Here, at least, was something definite.) “When last seen, wearing a purple and yellow dress—” That he need not worry about for Patricia’s description of her clothes, if resembling a draper’s catalogue, was very definite. “Yellow linen jumper suit, or perhaps linen tweed,” it began.
At that moment, Scoresby remembered, Patricia had broken off to explain to him that linen tweed was quite a new material, which she really did not know absolutely for certain, but she thought that this woman was wearing it. “She was smart, you know, and even though her colour-scheme was loud, it was a good colour-scheme. She had on a petunia belt and a tuck-in scarf. A travelling coat—and why she wanted it I can’t think—of petunia tweed flecked with yellow, seven-eighth’s length, sacque shape. Yellow crochet gloves—I’ve never seen anything like them, though I was reading the other day that they are rather fashionable now—yellow bag, silk stockings, and very high-heeled tan shoes, decorated with an unusual number of punched holes. I think that’s all about her clothes, sergeant.”
“It would be, miss,” Scoresby had answered; “only what colour might petunia be?”
“A bright sort of magenta. Like the flower, you know.”
“Thank you. And she herself?”
“Goes to a good hairdresser and manicurist, but doesn’t take enough trouble in between. Her ‘perm’ was growing out, so that it was straight on top, and there were straggling curls round her neck. Her nails had been well varnished but the varnish was chipping off, and her lipstick was smudged.”
“And her face? I mean, what did she look like herself?”
“I didn’t really notice. She was a blonde. Ineffective looking, I thought.”
“Ineffective” had been Salter’s word, too, but otherwise he had contributed very little to the description, except that he had taken a dislike to her, and that she used too much scent. He had added that he thought her pearl necklace was imitation, but he gave no reason why, except that they usually were. Barbara Carmichael, on the other hand, had felt instinctively sorry for her.
“I know so well,” she had said in her Cassandra-like way, “how you begin to look when the world is more unkind than usual. She looked—how shall I put it?—downtrodden, worried.”
Somehow the epithet “downtrodden” did not seem applicable to Hands’ “essentially purple sort of woman”, nor to the colour-scheme. But then he was not quite sure what was meant by “petunia” as a colour. Nor was his small dictionary of much help. “A Brazilian genus of ornamental plants of the nightshade family, with small leaves and funnel-form flowers” was, no doubt, an accurate description, but it did not get him much further on. In fact, it had intrigued him so much, that he had sent to the county library, which proudly boasted an Oxford English Dictionary and had the extract copied.
From that he received a great deal more help. “The dark violet or purple colour of the petunia” was mentioned. There was talk of the yoke being of “petunia velvet, with a deep frill of lace”, and, so long ago as 1894, the Westminster Gazette had said, “The duchess wore a very rich costume of petunia and black.”
But would the duchess have worn a very rich costume of petunia and yellow, even if she was quite a young duchess? And was linen tweed “very rich”? In fact what sort of a woman was it for whom he was looking? Fairly well off apparently, for she wore expensive clothes, was well turned out and apparently (to judge by the information as to car number ten) owned or, at any rate, drove a car. “Downtrodden”? A curious phrase! Why? And why silent? “A fluffy little bit” might only too easily have nothing of the slightest importance to say, but that type usually said something. Even if she were French, and knew not a single word of English, which was improbable, as she was apparently alone, she would have tried the experiment of some single remark in her own language, with a strong probability that one of the five people present would have made some sort of an attempt to reply.
With an effort Scoresby pulled himself together. She had spoken to Salter in perfectly good, even, colloquial English, and without even an accent. Still, it was queer how the impression of her being French persisted.
Once more he began to concentrate on a description suitable for circulation. “Seven-eighth’s length, sacque shape,” beat him entirely, and so it had to be omitted, along with “a fluffy bit” as being probably libellous. It took him rather longer than he expected, probably because he was over-tired. Still, something in the end was composed.
7
An Unpleasant Duty
Unspoken, as yet, but becoming more insistent every moment in Flaxman’s mind, was the problem of whether he was entitled to keep the whole control of the investigation in the hands of his own men.
When he had first come to Treve, the county had had nothing in the way of a detective force, and he had had some difficulty in persuading the county council to provide him with the funds necessary to start and train one. After all, they had pointed out, there was very little crime in the county, and what there was was not mainly of a kind which required detective-methods to solve. The criminal was generally quite obvious or, in the cases where there was difficulty, would be found at once or hidden entirely, according to the feeling of the inhabitants of the county. Poaching, for instance, would never be detected, and no one had really thought of a murder happening in the neighbourhood.
However, Flaxman had stuck to his point and, eventually, he had got permission for Scoresby to be imported, and a few local men trained to work under him. For in Treve only a local man really had a chance, and Scoresby himself would have had great difficulty if he had not originally come from there. Only Reeves, as it happened, was not brought up in the county, although his mother was born in Trevenant itself, and lived there all her life until she married a Londoner, who came down there in connection with the putting up of the works which employed Hands and Lansley, and were largely owned by the former.
But now, very definitely, something had happened, and Scoresby and his party were hard at work upon it. But were they good enough and was he (Flaxman) entitled to refrain from seeking the general aid of Scotland Yard, especially as he would have to ask for it in some particulars?
It was a nasty problem. So far, fortunately, the Press, other than the local papers, was taking very little interest in Yeldham’s death. There was, however, one aspect which might bring them in, and that was the question of Finchingfield College. A bad school, Flaxman believed, although popularly reputed to be in the first flight. But, to be fair, he knew nothing particular against it except his own intense prejudice against the term “an old Finch”.
Yes, Finchingfield might easily be the point from which trouble might be stirred up and apparently it was going to be, since he held in his hand a telegram announcing the imminent arrival of its headmaster. Flaxman sat in his study
and allowed his gaze to wander over his garden to the fields beyond, and up to the ridge on the skyline where a few pigeons were flapping busily to and from the stubble that lay beyond. He was trying to remember if he had ever been told anything about Kinderson, the headmaster of Finchingfield.
If his recollection was right, he was a layman who had been appointed at an early age with a great reputation for drive. It was reported in advance that he was going to do great things. He might have done for all Flaxman knew, but what they were he had not heard. Certainly, when Kinderson arrived, he looked the sort of man who would always be doing something, though whether, perhaps, it was always the right thing might be a totally different matter. In short, Flaxman took an immediate though quite unreasoning dislike to the alert, sharp-featured, over-intellectual, but rather unhealthy-looking man who advanced across his study and offered a rather flabby and slightly damp hand, a characteristic which, in the chief constable’s experience, seldom went with real force of character and ability.
However, he shook the flabby object, not too warmly, and wished Kinderson as pleasant a “good morning” as he could manage, at the same time offering his cigarette case and introducing Scoresby.
Kinderson refused the cigarette, gave Scoresby the most casual nod, and began at once to talk about himself.
“I am afraid,” he said, in a rather high, rasping voice, “that it is necessary to go back a few years. When I was first appointed to Finchingfield I found a very unsatisfactory state of affairs. The school, taking its tone from the senior masters, was very old-fashioned in its ideas and its outlook. It was essentially conservative, and I dislike all things that are conservative. There was a current impression that, if a boy was educated at Finchingfield, that was sufficient, no matter what he was taught or, indeed, whether he was taught anything at all; though usually some education of a sort was provided. The curriculum placed the weight of its emphasis on the classics and, in a lesser degree, on mathematics. French, of course, was taught, but other modern languages and science were only just tolerated, while the important things of life, a sense of progress, an international outlook, and the arts, were entirely neglected. Of course, I set to work to reform all that. I am, I may say, destined by nature to be a reformer.”
The last sentence was delivered as if most of the words should be written with capital letters and Flaxman, feeling that something was expected of him, indicated that he had heard something of the sort.
Kinderson condescended to bestow upon him a smile that had no geniality.
“Yes, I fancy that my work is becoming well known, but let me not stray into irrelevancies. I met at the outset opposition—considerable opposition—the leader of which, I am sorry to say, was our recently departed friend, Yeldham.”
“He had recently departed from Finchingfield, too, had he not?” Flaxman asked, resenting what he believed to be a phrase that was purely hypocritical.
“He had, but not until after some difficulties had had to be smoothed away. From the very start he opposed my policy. I do not wish to say a word against him. He acted very energetically according to his lights and with, I am sure, what he considered to be the very best interests of the school at heart. The heart, I might add, was an organ to which he was too fond of referring, which you might almost say he wore too conspicuously on his sleeve. Unfortunately, he and I did not see eye to eye as to what were the best interests of the school and, to put the matter frankly but fairly, he organised what was little less than a conspiracy to thwart me. Of course, deeply though I respected the great work he had done for the school, I could not allow that.”
“So you got rid of him?” Flaxman saw no reason why he himself should not be mentally honest.
“In the end. But it proved a very difficult matter. The finances of the school had unfortunately not been put on so sound a basis in the past as I should have liked, and there had been for some years an insufficiency of ready money—I dislike the misleading term ‘capital’ as conceding obsolete economic untruths, but perhaps you would understand me better if I used that term. In fact, there was really not enough money for the new and absolutely necessary laboratories and art schools that I required.”
“And Yeldham offered to lend some of it?”
“No. He refused. Whereas, in the past, he had done so. In fact, he had himself bought the actual building of the house over which he presided and, after some rather harsh words to me, he told me that he had no intention of allowing it to be in his phrase ‘turned into a kindergarten for young Bolshevists’. Naturally, I told him, without loss of dignity, that he was under several misapprehensions, and displaying a lamentable ignorance of his own fundamental fallaciousness, but that he could not stay the march of progress. That was over eighteen months ago because, in fact, there was a hitch. Salter, whom I had brought in from another school, where he had worked with me, and whom I intended to take over Yeldham’s house, had no money of his own, and the governing body showed a very mistaken sense of loyalty to Yeldham.”
Flaxman could not resist stealing a glance at Scoresby. The sergeant’s bushy eyebrows were working up and down in a way which was well known to Scoresby’s friends to indicate intense and growing irritation, and it was noticeable that, so far, he had not thought it worthwhile to make any lengthy or verbatim notes of what Kinderson was saying. The loyalty of the governing body was apparently a very sore point with the headmaster since, for almost a minute, he was silent, nursing his grievance.
“Mr Salter, sir,” Scoresby asked suddenly, “came from another school? He was not an assistant master at Finchingfield?”
“He was with me before. I had to go outside those who were too deeply impregnated with the Finchingfield tradition.”
“Is that usual, sir? I mean, aren’t the house masters usually promoted from amongst those who are there already?”
“Dear me!” Kinderson managed to convey his surprise that such a person as Scoresby should know anything as to how public schools were organised. “No, it is not usual. I do not believe in doing the usual.”
“The originality must have been very popular with the junior masters,” Flaxman commented dryly.
“Several of them left. In fact, it proved an admirable way of getting rid of those whom I had no positive reason for dismissing, but of whose presence I was glad to be relieved.”
“But, so far, I don’t think you have told us what arrangements you made with Yeldham as to his house.”
“No.” Kinderson leant back in his chair and crossed his legs. “No, you are right. I was anticipating events. I am afraid it is rather a characteristic of my brain to move too fast. And yet it is the very question of the arrangements ultimately made which has brought me here.”
Flaxman, with a slight inclination of his body, indicated that he was glad to hear that there was a point, and that they might eventually reach it. He hoped it would come quickly. Otherwise he was genuinely afraid that either he or Scoresby would be very, very rude—and that nobody connected with the police is allowed to be.
“Ultimately.” Kinderson went on meditatively. “For though I believe that the actual time spent was not long by ordinary standards, yet to me it seemed an intolerable and unusual delay, and all the while the relations between myself and Yeldham got steadily worse. You see, much though I respected him, it was absolutely necessary to remove him if I was to be able to exercise full control over the school while the financial difficulty was very real. The only thing to do, therefore, although it was a course of which I was not inordinately fond, was to make his position frankly impossible. There are more ways than one of achieving one’s object.”
“So you hounded him out of the school?”
“Hardly that, my dear sir. There is no need to use harsh phrases. I made his position difficult, acting in his best interests as well of those of the college. Any sensible man would have seen it at once, but Yeldham was very full of prejudices, and really most remarkably tenacious. I believe that he even hoped that it would be I
who would go, which shows that there was no limit at which he was prepared to stop. The situation was getting very delicate when, fortunately, he inherited this property here and the excuse of looking after it gave him an opportunity to beat an honourable retreat. I believe he felt leaving the college very keenly, especially as I hinted to him that I hoped he would not visit his old house too often. It would hardly have been fair on Salter, who had a very difficult task in front of him to restore discipline.”
In Flaxman’s mind was a growing sense of wonder at the ineptness of the governing body of Finchingfield College. It was amazing that they could ever have appointed such a man as Kinderson to be headmaster. But probably he was more careful in dealing with them as to what he revealed of his character, than he was to an outsider, who was of no importance in his life. Moreover, Kinderson had, as Flaxman knew, a great reputation in educational centres, and he did achieve results. Possibly his ruthlessness had its advantages too, and not every “old Finch”, Lansley, for instance, had approved entirely of Yeldham. Perhaps he was being too hard on Kinderson, and there might be a good deal to say on the other side. All the same, if he had had any sons, nothing would have induced him to send them to Finchingfield. In fact, the more he thought of it the more there seemed to be said for the old-fashioned in education.
But the chief constable’s reverie was broken into by Scoresby.
“And the financial arrangements, sir?”
“Exactly. It is the financial arrangements which bring me here. Eventually a compromise was arranged.” Kinderson uncrossed his legs and leant forward so that he was sitting on the extreme edge of his chair while he emphasised the points with the first finger of his right hand on the palm of his left. “We had the house valued—as a building that is, and disregarding to some extent its value to the school. I must admit that when Yeldham had bought it that aspect of its worth had been taken into consideration, and I believe that Yeldham dropped a certain amount of money over it, but then he could afford to be generous. Besides, what is money? An obsolete token in the modern world. In addition, Yeldham was a bachelor, and he must have been glad to do something for the school to which he always professed to be devoted.”
And Death Came Too Page 6