The Gentle Art of Murder

by Jeanne M. Dams

  ‘That’s a very English slant on the world. Or, sorry, British. You Brits revere the past, at least the good parts, and you have deep respect for tradition and those who passed it along, especially the artists and artisans. On the one hand, people like the thatchers, who have practised their craft for centuries and passed the secrets down to their successors, are honoured in villages all over the UK. At the other extreme are the great architects who planned and built the medieval cathedrals, whose names we may not even know, but whose work still stands, loved and admired and preserved at enormous cost. I think the abiding attribute of those workers was love. They loved their work and its results, and that love adds a quality that can never, never be seen in anything mass-produced. Oh, I’m saying this badly!’

  ‘I know what you mean, though. Those old chaps not only loved their work, they respected it, and that meant they respected themselves and would never, could never, pass off anything shoddy. They’d work till they’d got it right.’

  ‘Which is why it’s lasted for centuries, and will for centuries longer. Whereas …’ I looked at a corner of the studio, where the paint was cracking and peeling from damp. ‘I must say, I don’t understand why the head, who I’m told was an architect, didn’t have something done about this building. He couldn’t have made it beautiful, but he might have fought for some repairs. Surely he understood that things like this could end by making the whole place structurally unsound.’

  ‘One might think so, but one might be wrong, mightn’t one? Chandler won the Marlowe thirty years ago, and to my certain knowledge he’s done nothing notable since. Those laurels he was resting on were getting most frightfully withered and crushed. The wonder isn’t that someone heaved him down the shaft, it’s that they took so perishing long to do it.’

  ‘Is that what you think happened?’

  ‘Well, he didn’t get there all by himself, did he? I do assure you, our late unlamented head was not in the least suicidal. He thought entirely too much of himself for that. And he wouldn’t have wanted to give us the satisfaction. He knew none of us could abide him, and the longer he remained among us, the longer he had to make our lives miserable.’

  His tone had changed. I studied him for a moment and then said, ‘There’s something else, isn’t there? More than just his miserly ways and his aversion to traditional methods in art.’

  ‘Yes. The man was an outright sadist, the sort who probably tore the wings off butterflies as a child. And an implacable homophobe.’

  This time it was his gaze studying me, watching my reaction. I took a deep breath. ‘What form did it take? Sleazy jokes? Veiled threats?’

  ‘Neither. He couldn’t threaten me with exposure; I came out years ago. And the man wouldn’t have recognized a joke if it had come and bitten him on the bum. No, just barbed remarks. Constantly. At the last staff meeting he implied that I … sought relationships with my students. He knew perfectly well that I had lived in a committed relationship for many years. My partner was killed a few months ago. Chandler knew I was grieving, and yet he had the bloody cheek to accuse me of casual affairs, and with the students! I could have killed him then! I wish I had.’

  ‘I’m glad you didn’t, Matt. I won’t say I can understand the temptation, because I’ve never had anyone hurt me that badly. I can imagine, though. I’m so sorry about your partner. How did he die? If you don’t mind talking about it.’

  ‘No. It’s a bit of a relief, actually. At the time I couldn’t even think about it, but I’ve begun to want to get it out, get the poison out of my system. It was all so sordid and unnecessary. We’d been out to dinner. There weren’t a lot of places we could go together, because he was Kenyan, you see. Born in England, but of Kenyan parents.’

  ‘Oh, my. Not just dark-skinned, but very dark?’

  ‘Black as jet. The most beautiful skin …’

  I waited.

  ‘And there’s still some prejudice of that sort, too. His people didn’t like my colour; my people didn’t like his. We had to be careful on that score, not to mention that we were a gay couple. There were a few little places where we always felt comfortable and they knew us, and mostly we went to one of those. But that night was my birthday, and Phil – his African name was Pili, but Phil was easier here – he wanted to take me someplace special, so we decided to try a new wine bar not far from here.’

  ‘There was trouble?’

  ‘From the first. We walked in, and we could see from the look on the proprietor’s face that we weren’t welcome. I don’t know whether it was his colour, or because we were obviously a couple. I would have turned around and left, but Phil was in a funny mood, ready to brazen it out. We were told there was no table available, when we could see the room was three-quarters empty. Phil just started to walk to a table and sit down, but two men stood up and got in his way, and.… ’

  ‘You don’t have to tell me the whole thing, Matt. There was a fight.’

  ‘It turned into almost a riot. The two men pushed us out into the street and got into brawl with Phil, who’s – who was a fine fighter. Strong. Muscular. He held his own, but then some louts from the neighbourhood joined in, and one of them had a knife, and before the police could get there …’

  He made no attempt to wipe the tears from his eyes. They rolled down his cheeks. He swallowed a sob.

  I rummaged in my purse for a tissue, and when he had his face under control, handed it to him. He took it without looking at me.

  ‘I don’t know what to say, Matt. That’s a terrible story. And to have the head taunting you, so soon after … well, all I can say is, if anyone ever deserved his fate, it was Chandler. I’ve disturbed you long enough. I’ll leave you to your work, and your grief.’

  He murmured something, and I turned and left the room. I fumbled on the corridor wall and found a light switch, and kept finding them and turning them on as I made my way down the stairs and out of the building. Let someone else worry about the electricity that was being wasted.

  I took a deep breath of lovely, crisp September air. It was good to get out of that mausoleum of slain hopes and shattered lives.

  NINE

  ‘Well, I met them all,’ I said to Alan as we sat down to a late lunch. ‘The whole staff, I mean. At least the full-time ones.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And I like them all, a lot. Except for William Braithwaite, the painter.’

  ‘Doesn’t he do those abstract things in brilliant colours, sort of a cross between Jackson Pollock and Mondrian?’

  ‘And oh, how he’d hate the comparison! The main difference, as far as I can see, is that both those painters had talent.’

  ‘Ouch. But I agree. I can’t abide his work, though I gather it sells like hot cakes. Why didn’t you like him?’

  ‘Other than the facts that he’s conceited, rude, a bigot and a sexual predator?’

  Alan blinked. ‘I don’t suppose you’d care to expand on those remarks?’

  ‘Finish your sandwich first. You won’t want it after you’ve heard all the stories. Let me tell you about the others, first. Well, you met Dennis, the sculptor and Gillian’s mentor.’

  I told him about Dennis’s problems with Chandler, the man’s refusal even to consider Dennis’s promotion. ‘I can’t make myself feel sorry the man’s dead, Alan. I kept uncovering one layer of nastiness after another. He was bleeding the budget white in all the areas except painting. He apparently thought Braithwaite was such an asset to the department that he should get the lion’s share. And he killed, or tried to kill, the artistic integrity of everyone else on the staff, by insisting that they abandon the way they’d always taught and embrace new methods entirely foreign to their … I nearly said, to their beliefs, and I’m not sure that isn’t the word. Art is a religion to all these men, and Chandler was, as far as they were concerned, preaching heresy.’

  ‘Plenty of scope there for hatred to grow.’

  ‘Even that wasn’t all of it.’ I started ticking off items on my finge
rs. ‘Dennis’s academic ambitions, dismissed as not even worth Chandler’s notice. Then there’s Sam, who loathed Chandler’s insistence that the photography students abandon film and go entirely digital. Matt, the printmaker, is gay and lost his partner in a horrible incident in the spring, and Chandler kept taking swipes at him, suggesting in public that Matt was trying it on with his students. Matt told me about it this morning; I left the poor man in tears.’

  ‘So.’ Alan pushed aside his plate. ‘You said I’d lose my appetite over stories about the painter. So far, Chandler’s done pretty well in that department.’

  ‘Yes. Sorry. But wait till you hear what William, well, he and Chandler together, did to a poor defenceless secretary.’

  I told the story, growing more and more agitated. ‘And Alan,’ I finished, ‘she lost her husband just after she was fired, and she has two young children to support, and no references. How’s she ever going to get another job?’

  Alan whistled. ‘She should talk to a lawyer.’

  ‘Of course she should, but lawyers cost money. Anyway, it’s just a case of he said/she said. She can’t prove anything. Oh, and Alan, I didn’t tell you that now William’s going after Gillian! I told her she should carry a recorder with her and try to tape him, or whatever they call it now. If she had solid evidence of inappropriate behaviour, maybe the sleaze could be brought down. Would that help the secretary at all, do you think?’

  ‘Perhaps. These things are chancy, as I’m sure you know. Misconduct is, as you say, difficult to prove, absent pictures or recordings, and even if the victim has those, the defence is apt to claim entrapment. But to get back to the real problem—’

  ‘This problem is real enough!’

  ‘To the original problem, then, if you prefer – you got no sense of which of the staff might have murdered Chandler?’

  ‘They all had reason to hate him. All except the painter, that is. Dear William was getting everything he wanted from Chandler. Although Gillian said a funny thing. Not amusing, I don’t mean, but odd. She overheard a conversation just at the end of last term. She hadn’t been around enough then to know who was speaking, but now she’s sure Will was one of them, and Chandler must have been the other.’ I related what Gillian had heard, and the conclusion she had drawn from it.

  ‘Hmm. Odd, indeed. I wish she could remember the exact words.’

  ‘Yes. But it was weeks ago, and she was nervous, afraid she shouldn’t be there, someone would catch her, all that. What she seems quite sure about is that there was something wrong about the encounter, something just a little off-key, somehow.’

  ‘And she’s sure it was Braithwaite and Chandler.’

  ‘She’s sure about Braithwaite, since she’s now heard his voice entirely too often. She had met Chandler only once, at her interview, and couldn’t be certain. But the two men were in Chandler’s office.’

  ‘And she had the notion that Braithwaite was pressing Chandler for money.’

  ‘That was what it sounded like to her. And Chandler was saying he couldn’t – oh! You don’t think …?’

  ‘I think I should talk to Gillian myself. But it sounds uncommonly like it, doesn’t it?’

  ‘But … but then it’s all wrong! A blackmailer doesn’t kill the victim, the goose that’s laying all those nice golden eggs. It’s the goose who goes after the blackmailer.’

  ‘Usually, I agree. But we know nothing of the circumstances. It sounds a bit as if the worm had turned. And before we get into any more zoological analogies, I think it might be a good idea to consult the SIA.’

  I just looked at him.

  ‘The Sherebury Intelligence Agency. In other words …’

  ‘Jane!’

  Jane Langland, our next-door neighbour, is, like me, a retired teacher. She combines the appearance of Winston Churchill, or the bulldogs she adores, with a gruff manner and the softest heart I’ve ever known. No human or animal in need has ever been turned away from her door. She’s lived in Sherebury all her life and knows everyone; most of the residents were in her classroom at one time or another. She brings us baked goods now and then, bread and pastries fit for the gods. She gives me cuttings from her garden, and advice about how to talk Bob Finch into planting them. She takes in our mail and looks after our animals if we have to go away. She is invaluable.

  And, as Alan implied, she is a one-woman information bureau. I don’t know how she does it. Of course her old-boys and old-girls network helps, but I’ve often said Jane knows everything that happens in Sherebury, sometimes even before it happens.

  I found a box of chocolates someone had given me, that I’d put away to stave off temptation. When it comes to home-made goodies I’m no match for Jane, and I know it, but she loves good chocolates. With our offering, Alan and I walked through the back garden to Jane’s kitchen door.

  After the usual barrage of enthusiastic canine greetings, we settled down at Jane’s kitchen table, where we’d had so many casual meals, so many conversations. I proffered the chocolates. ‘In payment for services about to be rendered, we hope.’

  ‘Thought you’d be coming round about now. Coffee’s ready.’

  Add clairvoyance to Jane’s attributes.

  ‘This business at the university, is it?’ she said when she had poured the coffee, opened the chocolates and set them temptingly before us.

  ‘Of course,’ said Alan. ‘This is one of those cases where there’s unlikely to be much physical evidence. The general public doesn’t know this, but the police aren’t even at all sure what killed the man. They think it was some sort of poison, but they’ll have to run a whole battery of tests to find out what, and even that may not produce results.’

  ‘Not the fall or the stabbing,’ said Jane. It wasn’t a question. ‘Stands to reason. One or t’other. Not both.’

  ‘Exactly. So until they learn what it actually was – if they learn what it actually was – we’ve little to go on except the characters of the people involved. So what can you tell us about the staff at the Wolfson College of Art and Design?’

  ‘Chandler. Met him once or twice, didn’t know him well. Not from around here. Didn’t care for what I saw. Bully.’

  For Jane, that was an unusually stern judgement. ‘Where was he from, then? Where did he get his education?’

  ‘Came from the Midlands somewhere, studied for a while at Oxford, then went to America. Studied architecture there and then taught at … Harvard? Yale? One of that sort.’

  ‘If he taught at either of those universities he must have been highly qualified. They’re not Oxford or Cambridge, of course, but they’re highly regarded.’

  Thus spoke my husband, who occasionally displays his quite unconscious, and quite natural, bias toward all things English. Harvard and Yale are quite nice little schools, for the colonies. I kept a straight face. ‘Yes, they do have rather good reputations. A good many American presidents have been graduated from one or the other. Which makes me wonder. Both those universities have very stringent entry requirements, and hundreds, if not thousands, of applicants for every one they accept. From what I’ve gathered, Chandler seemed to be a mediocre sort of person, at least academically. How in the world did he get into such a prestigious school?’

  ‘Not sure it was one of those. Might have been one like them. Are there such places?’

  Good heavens! We’d hit a vein of information about which Jane was less than fully informed. ‘There’s a group of colleges – sorry, universities to you – that are popularly known as the Ivy League. Harvard and Yale are two of them, the two oldest, I believe. I know for certain that Harvard is America’s oldest university, founded in sixteen-something, if I’m correct. Then there’s Dartmouth and Princeton and … oh, dear, I can’t remember the rest. They’re all in the east, all very well respected and all extremely expensive. Could Chandler have taught at one of those?’

  Jane shrugged. Alan cleared his throat. ‘I think we need to look into it. Surely the art school would have his crede
ntials on record. As Dorothy says, it seems just a little peculiar that he should have been able to land a teaching position in that sort of university. However, let’s press on.’

  ‘Won the Marlowe Award for Architecture while he was in America. Designed some bank or whatnot in New York.’

  ‘I’ve been meaning to ask,’ I said. ‘What’s the Marlowe Award? I never heard of it.’

  ‘Don’t know. A lot of privately endowed awards in the art world. Ask at the college.’

  ‘Whatever it is, it would explain the job at the celebrated university, if it happened before his appointment there,’ said Alan. ‘Did it?’

  Jane shrugged again. ‘Don’t know. Don’t think so. Think he came back to England directly after he collected the honours. Mooched around for a bit and then came to Sherebury as head.’

  Alan had been making notes. ‘Right. Anything juicy in his background?’

  ‘Not that I’ve heard. You think there is?’

  Jane was entirely trustworthy. I spoke up. ‘Jane, we think it’s possible that he was being blackmailed. We’d like to know why.’

  She shook her head, somewhat regretfully, I thought. ‘Haven’t heard anything like that. Put out some feelers?’

  ‘Please,’ said Alan. He didn’t have to tell her to be discreet. ‘Now. The next man I’d like to know about is William Braithwaite.’

  ‘Ah.’ Jane settled back. ‘W.T. Braithwaite. The “painter”.’

  I couldn’t have said what about Jane’s tone put quotation marks around the word, but they were certainly there. ‘You don’t like his work.’

  ‘Masses of people do. Made a fortune off them.’

  I hadn’t thought about that aspect of it. ‘But if he’s made a fortune, what’s he doing teaching in a small place like Sherebury? I mean, I think it’s probably a pretty good art school, but it isn’t exactly the Slade. For that matter, why’s he teaching at all, if he could be making a lot more money devoting all his time to painting?’