Golden Rain

by Douglas Clark

  GOLDEN RAIN

  A Masters and Green Mystery

  Douglas Clark

  © Douglas Clark 1980

  Douglas Clark has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  First published in 1980 by Dell Publishing Co., Inc.

  This edition published in 2019 by Endeavour Media Ltd.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter One

  The day began like any other at Bramthorpe College for Girls; always referred to simply as Bramthorpe, only ever being afforded its full title in the official lists of Principal Girls’ Schools in reference books and almanacs.

  The electric bells sounded throughout the building at a quarter to nine. At that precise moment two doors were opened. Day girls and boarders alike streamed through, directly into the cloakrooms to hang up coats and to change into houseshoes. In seemly fashion—no shouting or running in the corridors was permitted—the young ladies then made their way to their form rooms where monitors collected the exercise books containing the previous evening’s written prep.

  At ten to nine, the second bell sounded. By now the cloakrooms were empty, but just to make sure, the duty mistress of the week visited them, noting carefully any gross untidiness so that the culprits—easily identified by the numbers on the pegs—could be spoken to later. At the same time, the school prefects left their sanctum and went one to each form room. Their job was first, to ensure that the monitors had collected and counted the exercise books and then carried them to the open lockers outside the staff common room, there to be left for the mistresses concerned to collect for marking. Second, to ensure that girls whose first lesson would be elsewhere than in their own form rooms collected from their desks the books that would be needed during the first period. Third, to ensure that every girl took from her desk her Bible and hymn book. Fourth, and finally, to make sure, as soon as the third bell sounded at five to nine, that girls left their form rooms, armed with all the necessary volumes, and made their way to Big Hall for Assembly.

  It was all a routine, smooth and practised. Some forms had a long way to go to the hall. The next five minutes, however, allowed plenty of time. In the hall, waiting to receive them, was the duty mistress. Each girl filed to her allotted seat. The prefects sat down the left-hand gangway, each with the form for which she was responsible. While the duty mistress kept order, the prefects counted their charges and noted any empty seats. At two minutes to nine, the other mistresses filed in and up the stairs onto the stage. The one who accompanied the singing removed the all-enveloping dust-cover from the grand piano and took her seat at the instrument. The other mistresses sat down—being careful to remove their hymnals from the seats of their chairs before doing so.

  But today there was a difference. The deputy headmistress, Miss Bulmer, did not enter with the rest of her colleagues. Her non-appearance was enough of an incident to cause comment in this well-ordered assembly.

  “Where’s the Bull?”

  “The Bull’s got collywobbles—I hope.”

  “Quiet. Samantha Ellison . . . and you, Sara Brett . . . you are talking.” The duty mistress was picking out the culprits in her effort to quell the murmur of comment.

  Nine o’clock. As the bells sounded, the hall door nearest the stage opened—as it always did—but not, this time, to admit the headmistress. In her stead came the missing Miss Bulmer.

  “It’s not the Bull who’s ill. It’s the Old Dutch.”

  “The Old Dutch is taking the day off, lucky thing.”

  This time the murmurs went unchecked. The duty mistress, her period of policing over, had taken her place among the other mistresses. As everybody rose from their seats at the entry of Miss Bulmer, the excited whispers, by no means lost in the shuffle of feet, continued. Miss Bulmer, grave-faced, walked slowly to the head’s rostrum. She spoke no word; made no attempt to quieten the assembly. She stood and faced them, row upon row of youthful faces, and there was something in her attitude which brought them to silence. The whispering died, to be followed by a long moment of completely unbroken quiet. Only then did Miss Bulmer speak.

  “Miss Holland,” she said quietly and sadly, “died during the night.”

  It was a bombshell. All the brightness and happiness seemed to fade from the young faces as though some force had miraculously and slowly—as the realisation sank into their minds—removed masks of joy and replaced them with masks of sadness.

  “I can tell you no more. Instead, however, of singing the hymn we were to have sung today, we will sing Mabel Holland’s favourite hymn: ‘Jerusalem the Golden’.”

  It was a subdued rendering, quiet and poignant. Miss Bulmer had chosen a special piece from the Scriptures—“And I saw a new Heaven and a new Earth”—and a suitable prayer. Her quiet words told. When she ended with the Grace, none of the movement which usually signalled the end of the little service took place.

  “There will be no further games this week. Lessons will continue in the quiet and orderly manner as usual. Other mistresses will be along to take any periods normally taken by Miss Holland. Break will be taken out of doors. There will be no curb on conversation, but please behave quietly and sensibly. Everybody will leave the school premises promptly at four-thirty. That means any music or play rehearsals normally held between four thirty-five and five o’clock will be cancelled, and the fiction library will not open at that time. That is all.”

  The members of staff trooped solemnly off the stage. They had heard the news earlier, but had given nothing away before Miss Bulmer’s announcement to the school. It would have been difficult to tell from their faces their inner thoughts about the sudden death of their head.

  “Three A,” said Miss Bulmer.

  The row of side doors was opened by the prefects and the Upper Third, dismissed first, filed silently out of the hall.

  One by one forms left when nominated. The prefects made their way to the back, where the school captain was collecting their absence reports, each written on a little sheet of paper from specially printed note pads. Form designation, date, absentees and (a section rarely, if ever, used) latecomers. The school captain, eighteen-year-old Melissa Craig-Deller, walked up the hall, as she did every morning, to hand the little forms to Miss Bulmer.

  “Thank you, Melissa.”

  “Some of the younger girls were crying, Miss Bulmer.”

  “And some of the not so young, Melissa.” Miss Bulmer glanced absent-mindedly at the papers in her hand. “You were at the back and so did not see their faces. From here I could detect a sense of shock. A definite sense of shock on two or three faces.”

  “I told the prefects that we would collect for a wreath, Miss Bulmer. They would like to do so, so that the flowers can go from the girls. We can do it quite quickly.”

  The deputy headmistress pursed her lips slightly. “Don’t be in too much of a hurry, Melissa. There may be some delay.”

  The head girl stared for a moment. “Is there . . . is there something wrong, Miss Bulmer?”

  “Not wrong, exactly, Melissa. But Miss Holland died unexpectedly, when she was apparently in the best of health. When that happens—when the person who dies hasn’t received attention from a doctor for a long time—there has to be an inquest. That is the law, Melissa. A doctor has to certify the cause of death, and in Miss Holland’s case, as she hadn’t called on her doctor for more than two years, naturally he could not supply the certificate. So it could be that the formalities will take a little longer than they would normally. That is all. A short delay.”

 
“I see, Miss Bulmer.”

  “You had better get along to first period now, Melissa. But, please, don’t talk to your friends about what I have just told you. It might start all manner of speculation about Miss Holland’s death when, for all we know, it could have been, for instance, a simple heart attack or thrombosis.”

  “I’ll say nothing, Miss Bulmer.”

  “Thank you, Melissa.”

  *

  “Accident,” said D.I. Lovegrove as he made his report to Chief Superintendent Hildidge, head of the Bramthorpe police. “Accident.” He yawned as if to emphasise that he had been up all night and that the sudden death of the headmistress of a girl’s school was more of a boring nuisance than anything else.

  “Accident? What did she die of?”

  “We don’t know that yet, sir. But it was obvious she was poisoned. Her own doctor said so and the police surgeon. All the hallmarks of poison.”

  “You don’t know what killed her, but you know it was an accident?”

  “Either that or suicide, sir. God, I’m shagged. I could sleep for a week.”

  “Perhaps you would be kind enough—before you start snoring in that chair—to tell me why you are so certain it was accident, with the faint possibility that it might just be suicide?”

  Something in Hildidge’s voice should have warned the Detective Inspector that the Chief Superintendent was not too happy with so bald a report and so hasty a conclusion. But the nuance didn’t register. Lovegrove yawned again, leaned further back in his superior’s guest chair, crossed his feet and put his hands into his trouser pockets.

  “Stands to reason, sir. This Holland dame . . .”

  “Just one moment. I know we are told a prophet is not without honour save in his own country, Lovegrove. But I think I should remind you that Bramthorpe is one of the best and most highly thought of schools for girls in this country, and consequently in the world, and that Miss Holland is—or was—a headmistress without equal in the eyes of many people who know and care about these things. So less of the bit about this Holland dame.”

  “Sorry sir. I was forgetting your daughter went there. Must be costing you a packet. It would come cheaper at one of the local comprehensives.”

  “Hardly.”

  “No? I thought . . .”

  “Never mind what you think, Lovegrove. For the record, my daughter, Helen, won one of the Bramthorpe Foundation Scholarships. She is getting a first-class education at a real comprehensive school for little more than it would cost me at one of the local schools. That being so, Lovegrove, you will realise that I am not only interested in Miss Holland’s death, I am deeply and personally affected by it. So your report had better be made with those facts in mind. Now get on with it and make it good.”

  Lovegrove hauled himself, clumsily, into a more vertical position. He hadn’t any idea why Hildidge was getting uptight about a sudden death. They were happening all the time. What did it matter, basically, how this headmistress had died? She was dead, wasn’t she? Accident or suicide? It was immaterial. Just so long as there was no hint of foul play—which there wasn’t—to interest the police professionally. But the Old Man sounded snarly. Was it the death of Miss Holland or had his missus bawled him out or burnt the breakfast toast? Whatever the cause, Lovegrove prudently decided to make a formal, verbal report; and that—barring the discovery and naming of the poison involved—would be that. He could then wrap the whole thing up with a written report in less than an hour.

  “Miss Holland lives in the School House, sir.”

  “I know that, dammit.”

  “With a housekeeper, Mrs Gibson. She’s the widow of the man who was parks superintendent with Bramthorpe Council. She’s a very respectable woman.”

  Hildidge nodded. Whether to imply he knew Mrs Gibson’s identity or to agree that she was a worthy citizen was not apparent, but at least it encouraged Lovegrove.

  “She had yesterday off.”

  “Tuesday? That’s a funny day to have off.”

  “That’s what I said to her, but she reckons if she has Wednesday off, it’s half-day closing and she can’t do her bits of personal shopping unless she does them in her boss’s time.”

  “Get on with it.”

  “Mrs Gibson still has her old man’s Mini. She uses it for going to see her married daughters and her grandchildren. She went off yesterday at ten in the morning. Up to Petworth. Miss Holland was in school till lunchtime. Then she had the afternoon to do whatever headmistresses do in the afternoons in schools where the kids play games every day.”

  Hildidge growled. “You don’t know what you’re talking about, Lovegrove. Those girls work longer hours than you do, most of the time. Games on Tuesday and Thursday afternoons. School matches Saturday afternoons. They’re in school Monday, Wednesday and Friday afternoons, until half-past four—none of your finishing at half-past three like most kids round here—and they go to school on Saturday mornings until half-past twelve. Just to top it off, they do two and a quarter hours of prep every night, and that includes Saturdays. Work that out and you’ll find it comes to well over forty hours a week without their games periods.”

  “Is that right, sir? I mean, the unions wouldn’t wear it.”

  “Of course it’s right. That’s why the place has its academic reputation.”

  “I see. Well, sir, Miss Holland returned to the School House for lunch, which used to be nothing more than biscuits and cheese, fruit and a cup of coffee. She used to get it for herself on Tuesdays, so presumably that’s what she had. Then later in the afternoon she must have gone to Fellows the chemist’s, to buy a few bits and pieces . . .”

  Hildidge sat up. “What, exactly?”

  “They were still there in the bag with the pay slip. Just some hand lotion and face powder and a couple of films. All accounted for on the bill.”

  “Have you seen the chemist?”

  “Not yet, sir. He’ll hardly be open yet.”

  “Go on.”

  “Mrs Gibson said Miss Holland was quite used to getting her own supper on Tuesdays if she wasn’t going out to dinner, which she wasn’t due to do last night. So Mrs Gibson had gone to the butcher before she went off yesterday morning and bought a bit of frying steak and some mushrooms . . .”

  “Ah! Mushrooms! They could be the poison—if a toadstool had got in among them.”

  “That’s what I thought, sir. But we’ll have to wait and see what Forensic has to say.”

  “All right. What next?”

  “Mrs Gibson got back at about half-past eleven. She let herself in the front door—it’s an old mortise lock and she’s got her own key—and she said she knew straight away there was something wrong.”

  “How?”

  “She said there was a smell in the hall. Vomit. There was a light on on the stairs, and in the sitting room. She looked in the room. The telly was still on, but Miss Holland wasn’t about. So Mrs Gibson went to look for her. Half-way up the stairs was a great splodge of vomit. Then she got really worried.”

  “Why?”

  “She reckoned Miss Holland was so meticulous that if she had puked on the stairs and it had made her feel better—like getting it up often does—she’d have cleaned up the mess. As she hadn’t, she must still be pretty ill.”

  “Reasonable enough.”

  “Anyhow, she found Miss Holland lying on her own bed. She’d vomited to glory and the bedclothes were all scrunched up. She reckoned as soon as she saw her she knew she was dead. So she went downstairs and called the doctor. He arrived about midnight. He looked round for any bottles of stuff she could have taken, but there was nothing he could see, and then he called the nick. I got over there by about one o’clock. We searched the place. There wasn’t anything—no drugs except a little slide pack of paracetamol and only three of those had been used, a half-empty bottle of cough linctus and some throat pastilles. And we examined the premises. No sign of any break-in and everything locked up tight. She was taken away for post mortem and the
medics scraped up the puke for examination. They’ll let us have their report by lunchtime with a bit of luck. And that’s it, sir. She was alone in the house. Nobody broke in. As far as we know, nobody called. There’s no toxic substance in the house.”

  “But she died of poison?”

  “The medics say so. I can’t argue with them. But what it was and how she came to get it, heaven only knows. It must have been an accident, sir, or, as I said, suicide, with nobody else implicated.”

  “So you say,” grunted Hildidge, “but I met Miss Holland on a number of occasions. I’d have bet any money that she was not a woman to make a fatal mistake, which accident presupposes, and I’m damn sure she wouldn’t commit suicide.”

  “We’ll have to wait and see, sir.”

  “Wait? What for?”

  “The forensic report, sir.”

  “And the inquest, I suppose?”

  Lovegrove grimaced. “The coroner’s verdict will tell us whether the case is closed or not.”

  “And with what you have to tell him, he’ll give the same verdict as you.”

  “Why not? You know old Gilchrist. He doesn’t like postponements. He likes a verdict immediately. He won’t want to hang on sine die for us to make inquiries into what he thinks is an open-and-shut case. And that’s how it should be. Over and done with. Tidier.”

  Hildidge looked across at the detective inspector with a certain amount of distaste. But he knew his subordinate was correct. Dr. Gilchrist was an autocratic coroner who gave the impression that he always knew best. He didn’t like waffle. If the police could prove there was a case to investigate, he would play along with them. But without hard fact to suggest Miss Holland had met her death as the result of foul play, he would bring in an accident or suicide verdict. And yet Hildidge wasn’t happy about it.

  “Get off home for a few hours,” he said to Lovegrove. “Be back here after lunch for when the forensic report comes in.”

  “Right, sir. I could do with forty winks.”