by Vera Morris
Stunt grimaced and nodded. ‘This way.’ He turned right along the corridor. ‘The dormitories are on the north side of this floor; the south side is used for offices and Mr Baron’s room, the sanatorium and matron’s office and the rooms of the resident staff.’
‘And they are?’
‘I’m sure Mr Baron can answer all your other questions.’ Stant was looking uncomfortable.
The wall of the corridor opposite the windows was panelled in oak, stained black by time, or inadequate cleaning, or both. No paintings or portraits were present, unlike the rooms and corridors of the main part of the school.
‘Why did Mr Baron want to see me in his private quarters not in his office?’
The man shrugged his shoulders. ‘Not sure. Wednesday afternoon is his free time. Probably wanted to stay in his private room; if he appears in the main school he’ll get waylaid with some problem or other.’
The narrow corridor opened into an octagonal space with windows set in to four of the walls looking out over the school grounds to woods beyond. A circular metal staircase twisted up from a recess in the fifth wall. The master knocked gently on a door set between two panelled walls. The door swung open.
‘Good afternoon, Mr Diamond. Please come in. Thank you, Mr Stant.’ He nodded to the master, who turned abruptly on his heels but not before Frank had seen the look of devotion in his eyes.
The first impression of the man was of energy and power. Mr Baron was tall and slim. He moved silently, leading Frank to the centre of a large room. From previous case notes Frank knew he was forty-five; he looked younger.
‘Please take a seat, Mr Diamond.’ He pointed to a leather armchair, one of a pair, matched by a three-seater sofa; the furniture was grouped round a hearth in which logs burned in a cast-iron grate; a beautiful rug lay before the fire. The rest of the room was elegantly furnished and included a baby grand piano under an oriole window. Was the furniture supplied by the school? If it was his own, teaching salaries must be looking up. He’d better get Laurel to rethink her choice of career.
He sank into the armchair. The soft leather was comfortable and a faint smell of a floral polish scented the air.
‘Can I offer you some refreshment? Tea? Or would you prefer something stronger?’ Ralph Baron indicated an oak dresser with silver trays on which stood decanters wearing matching silver labels: whisky, rum, brandy and gin.
Frank could have murdered a pint of Adnams but he didn’t think that would be on offer. ‘Tea would be fine.’
As Ralph Baron moved to the table and picked up a telephone, Frank studied him. David’s drawing of him was accurate, apart from not showing the expensive watch he was wearing – a Rolex Oyster?
He turned to Frank. ‘How do you like your tea? Lemon or milk?’
God’s teeth. He wasn’t too keen on tea and certainly not the pale lemon stuff with a floral perfume. ‘Assam, if you have it, please, milk and no sugar.’
Baron turned back to the phone. ‘A pot of Assam and my usual, Mrs Weston. Perhaps a few scones?’ He listened and smiled. ‘Thank you.’
Frank scanned the room again during this brief phone conversation. The walls were covered in paintings: some of the oils looked like old masters, the majority were watercolours. They made the room look more like an art gallery than a personal space.
‘I see you’re admiring my collection, Mr Diamond.’
More clocking it than admiring. ‘You’ve certainly been busy, Mr Baron.’
‘Do you like art? Are you a collector?’ The tone of the voice suggested he didn’t think Frank would say yes.
Frank didn’t feel in the mood for an in-depth discussion on matters artistic, but he wanted to make a connection to Ralph Gabriel Baron. He needed to be able to talk to the staff and pupils and upsetting the headmaster wouldn’t help. He liked the art produced between 1830 and 1920, anything before or after he found too religious or to abstruse. Time to flannel. ‘It’s something I’ve always been interested in, but so far I haven’t had the time or the spare money to indulge in buying works of art. You have some beautiful paintings.’
Baron’s eyes lit up, and his full lips parted in a smile.
So far so good.
‘Do have a look round while we wait for the tea.’ He rose from his chair, moving with an athlete’s grace, and walked to a row of watercolours on the far wall.
Frank followed him. He hoped he wasn’t in for a grilling or even worse a long, boring lecture on different water colour techniques. He noticed not only did Baron sport an expensive watch, but his shoes looked handmade.
‘If you had the chance what kind of work would you collect, Mr Diamond?’
‘Probably modern art, abstract,’ he lied. There wasn’t any in the room, so he hoped he was on safe ground. ‘I’m looking forward to going to Andy Warhol’s exhibition at the Tate.’ He wasn’t but Laurel had mentioned it recently.
Baron’s lips twisted and turned down at the corners. ‘Oh, dear. Not for me. Anything after 1900 I’m afraid I’m not interested in. Although …’
Frank looked at him quizzically. ‘Yes?’
Baron’s face darkened. ‘Nothing. Nothing. Do look at some of these watercolours.’ He pointed to several, saying the name of the artist, and telling Frank why the paintings were so special.
Samuel Prout, Edward Lear, David Cox. Frank knew some of these names and he sealed them in his memory for checking later for desirability and value. Baron’s face was lit up with desire and ownership, his hands caressing the frames of each picture.
There was a knock on the door and a middle-aged woman wearing a green overall entered carrying a laden tray which she placed on a table. Her face was stern, unsmiling.
‘Thank you, Mrs Weston,’ Baron said.
The woman nodded, giving Frank an appraising glance, her dark eyes cold and hostile.
Frank wondered if his tea might be poisoned.
‘Anything else, Mr Baron?’ she asked. Frank wasn’t sure of the accent.
‘No, thank you, Mrs Weston.’ She left and Baron poured the tea which they drank at the table.
‘I can’t quite place Mrs Weston’s accent. Is she foreign?’ Frank asked.
Baron looked up from buttering his scone, his eyebrows raised. ‘Very astute, Mr Diamond. You have a good ear, especially as she only spoke four words. I’m not sure which middle-European country she originated from; she’s a widow, married an Englishman after the war and she stayed here.’
‘Does she live nearby?’
Baron frowned. ‘She lives in, she’s the school cook.’ He bit into the scone, chewed furiously, then swallowed. ‘Mr Diamond, I think we ought to get on with whatever you came about. I have several things I need to do this afternoon.’
The change in his attitude was sudden. Why? A question about an employee? He hadn’t liked Frank’s interest in Mrs Weston. Did Mrs Weston know David? Was that it?
‘Certainly, I’m grateful you could spare me the time today. As you know the Pembertons have—’
‘Yes, yes, I know all about that. The police, and later the detectives the Pembertons hired, came to the school. Haven’t you read their notes?’
Getting shirty. Why? ‘Yes, but I must try to find David. You told Mr Pemberton you’d give your permission for me and my partners to talk to the staff and pupils who knew David. You did agree to that?’ He risked a mouthful of tea. It was well flavoured and strong. Baron wiped a non-existent crumb from his full lips with a linen napkin.
‘I did.’ He sounded as though he wished he hadn’t.
‘Excellent. We’ll be as discreet and as quick as we can.’ Perhaps a little white lie might help. ‘I’m sure we won’t uncover anything new, but I have to try for the Pembertons’ sake.’ He shrugged his shoulders apologetically, trying a winning smile.
Baron’s shoulders relaxed and his face lightened. ‘Good.’ He pushed the plate towards Frank. ‘Scone?’
He declined. ‘Excellent tea, congratulations to Mrs Weston.’
‘Would it be convenient to come in tomorrow and talk to a few of the staff?’
Baron shot up from his chair as though the starter’s gun had gone off. ‘No. We’ve two lots of prospective parents visiting tomorrow, and we’re too busy on Friday. You can come on Monday.’ He walked to the door and opened it, signalling the interview was over.
Damn. Baron would have time to possibly influence anyone who might have information. But why would he do that? ‘Very well, thank you. Would you be able to arrange rooms for us to talk to the staff and pupils?’
Baron nodded. ‘I must insist a member of staff is present when you talk to any pupil.’
Double damn. ‘Of course. I’d be grateful if I could have a list of all the staff and pupils who were at the school when David was.’
Baron smiled. ‘You’ll find several of them have left, both staff and pupils.’
‘I expect that’s normal in a school?’
Baron smiled again. ‘Yes, that’s normal.’ He waved his hand, ushering Frank from the room.
As they walked down the corridor which overlooked the playing field a door opened and the woman in the nurse’s uniform came towards them; it was the woman David had drawn. She didn’t look any more pleasant in the flesh.
‘Good afternoon, Headmaster.’ She had a slight accent also.
Baron nodded and was about to walk past her, but Frank stopped. ‘Ah,’ he turned to Baron, ‘your school matron, I presume,’ He shot her a smile and stuck out his hand. ‘Frank Diamond.’
Baron juddered to a halt. ‘Nurse Gammell, this is Mr Diamond. He’s a private detective who will be coming back to the school next week to ask the staff and pupils about David Pemberton.’
Nurse Gammell’s face remained expressionless. ‘I look forward to talking to you then, Mr Diamond.’
Frank didn’t believe her.
Chapter 10
In the dining room of Greyfriars Laurel put down the phone. It was the third time she’d tried to contact Nancy, hoping to hear what had happened when she saw her brother, but each time there was no reply. She must still be at Sam’s; she hoped she and Clara were going to work together and make the time Sam had left as comfortable and as pleasant as possible. She was happy for Nancy as it looked as though her fears about Clara was unfounded, although she must have been shocked when she saw Sam, as the poor man was obviously not far from death. She sighed; it meant her work with Nancy was over and now she’d be involved with the David Pemberton case. She’d have to get on with it and not be such a wimp. The thought of going into a school and questioning teachers and pupils made her stomach clench, but she was skilled at working with children and her experiences of schools generally would be useful. She shook her body, like a colt rising after a roll in a meadow, getting rid of bits of grass. No more negative thoughts.
There were sounds from the kitchen, and a delicious savoury aroma. How lucky they were to have Mabel. Frank said he’d never eaten so well; his mother hadn’t been a great cook, in the university canteen meals were chips and more chips, and when he was with the police meals were often erratic, eaten on the hoof, and heavily weighted towards fat and carbohydrate. At least once a week Frank cooked for himself at his cottage. Said he didn’t want to lose his touch; Stuart vouched he was red hot on omelettes. So far, she hadn’t been invited for dinner à deux.
She opened the kitchen door. ‘Hello, Mabel. Smells delicious. One of your fish pies?’
Mabel was attacking a pan of boiled potatoes with a masher. ‘Hello, dear. Yes, just got to put the top on.’
She sat down at the table and watched Mabel cover the contents of a large dish with the mashed potatoes, rough up the surface and liberally sprinkle it with grated cheese. She stepped back, and admired the finished dish. 'There, that's done. I’ll put it in the oven later.’
‘That’s one of Stuart’s favourites, isn’t it?’
Mabel turned and looked at her. She flopped down in the chair opposite Laurel. ‘He likes most of my dishes,’ she said. She wouldn’t meet Laurel’s eyes and looked down at the table frowning, picking up dropped flakes of cheese with a damp finger and eating them.
Laurel wasn’t sure if she should say something, but someone had to. Mabel was older than her, she’d been married and widowed, but something was badly awry between her and Stuart. She remembered how happy they’d both been when Stuart announced their engagement in this very house, soon after Mabel had come back from hospital, after Philip Nicholson had been arrested for several murders, and the near fatal attack on Mabel. She, Frank and Dorothy had been so happy for them.
‘Mabel. I realise it isn’t any of my business, but can I help? You know how much you and Stuart mean to me. If you tell me to shut up I will, and I won’t be offended.’ She looked at Mabel who’d raised her head and was staring at her with teary eyes. She reached out a hand and Mabel took hold of it, gulping with suppressed emotions.
‘I don’t know who to talk to, Laurel … you’ve never been married, you can’t understand …’
She took a chance. ‘I was engaged once.’
‘It’s not the same, dear. When you’re living with someone …’
‘I know I haven’t had your experiences, but I do understand about wanting someone and how strong those emotions can be.’ God, she sounded like a marriage guidance counsellor.
Mabel’s grip tightened. ‘Oh, Laurel, if I could only find the courage to—’
The kitchen door swung open.
‘Hello, you two. What are you plotting? Wow, that smells good,’ Frank said, as he breezed in.
Mabel pulled back her hand and quickly rose from the table.
Laurel felt like attacking him with the masher.
Laurel poured Dorothy a gin and tonic and a Jameson’s for herself. Mabel was sitting in an armchair sipping a sweet sherry and Frank was looking out of the sitting-room window holding his glass of beer to the fading light. They’d agreed to share the day’s discoveries after supper. Stuart Elderkin hadn’t yet come back from his appointment with Ann Fenner.
Mabel got up. ‘We can’t wait any longer. That pie will be dry soon. We’ll have to start without him,’ she said crossly.
‘I’m sure he’ll be back before we’ve finished our drinks,’ Dorothy said. ‘He’s never late for meals, too afraid he won’t get his fair share.’
Mabel sniffed and went to the kitchen.
‘Stuart said Ann Fenner didn’t want to meet in Aldeburgh, he thought of taking her to Southwold.’ Frank said.
‘That explains it, lucky her, they’ve got some nice tea shops there,’ Dorothy replied. She turned to Laurel. ‘Any luck with Nancy’s problem?’
She shrugged. ‘I think Nancy’s worries are over. Hopefully it’s all sorted out by now. She was going to see her brother this afternoon. I’ll give you all the details later.’
‘That’s a relief.’
They turned their heads at the sound of the front door slamming; Stuart Elderkin came into the room. ‘Not late, am I?’
‘Good day?’ Frank asked.
Stuart pursed his lips and nodded. ‘Tell you after supper,’ he said smugly.
‘I’ll let Mabel know you’re back and I’ll lay the table. Shall I get you a beer, Stuart?’
Stuart rubbed his ample stomach. ‘Might squeeze one in, Laurel. Thank you.’
Laurel passed round the fish pie for second helpings. ‘One of your best, Mabel. Where did you get the queenies from?’ She was conscious Mabel looked miffed, mainly because Stuart had asked for a small helping of pie. He was living dangerously.
‘The fishmonger in Aldeburgh had some; he had big scallops, but these little on
es are sweeter, I think.’ She glanced toward Stuart, but he was doodling on the tablecloth with his knife.
‘Ever tried grilling them with butter and garlic?’ Frank asked. ‘Only trouble is you need a lot of them and they’re the devil to clean.’
Mabel didn’t reply to him.
Laurel decided it was time to get on with the evening’s business. ‘Shall we make a start, Frank?’
‘Wait ’til I get my notebook,’ Dorothy said, rushing from the room.
Mabel snatched up the plates, not asking if they’d finished. ‘I’ll clear up, we can have cheese and biscuits later, if anyone wants them.’ She glared at Stuart.
When everyone was back Laurel went first and told them about her visit to Sam’s. There were murmurs of sympathy for Samuel Harrop when she described his condition.
‘Poor man,’ Dorothy said, ‘such a brilliant surgeon.’
Then Frank told them of his afternoon at Chillingworth.
‘What do you make of the set up?’ Stuart asked.
‘I’m not sure, something doesn’t seem right. We start interviewing Monday. Want to join in, Laurel, being as you think you won’t be needed by Nancy anymore?’
‘Yes, of course,’ she said brightly.
Dorothy turned to Stuart. ‘Was your afternoon with Ann Fenner successful?’
Laurel wished she’d used a different word. Stuart lit up his pipe, settled back in his chair and told them what Ann Fenner had said about David. ‘It seems when he wants to talk he can. In Ann Fenner he found a sympathetic ear.’
Dorothy nodded approvingly. ‘I’ve never met the woman; seen her once or twice in Aldeburgh, but I’m impressed. She sounds a sensible, kind woman.’
Stuart puffed on his pipe. ‘She is.’
‘Did she tell you why her feelings about Carol Pemberton were hardened?’ Frank asked.
‘Yes, it took a bit of persuading, but under the influence of a few sherries at The White Lion, she finally spilt the beans.’
As they waited for Stuart to have a final puff and then knock out his pipe in the fireplace, Laurel glanced at Mabel. The anger had died to be replaced by a look of worry and sadness. Did she think she’d lost Stuart by her behaviour? She had treated him badly over the last few weeks. If only Frank hadn’t come into the kitchen when Mabel was about to tell her something important.