Well-Schooled in Murder

by Elizabeth George

  “Or anyone else with access to the masters’ common room,” Lynley pointed out.

  Orten countered in a manner that implied how improbable he believed his own words. “Headmaster. Skivvies. Wives. Who else?”

  The porter. Lynley didn’t say it, but he saw it wasn’t necessary. Orten’s cheeks had begun to redden even as he listed the possibilities.

  Lynley and Havers paused by the Bentley, Havers to light a cigarette and Lynley to frown at her for doing so. She looked up, caught his expression, and held up a stubby-fingered hand in admonition.

  “Don’t even say it,” she warned him. “You know you’re longing to rip this right out of my mouth and smoke it down to the nub. At least I’m honest about my vices.”

  “You parade them,” he replied. “You broadcast them to the world. Is virtue even part of your vocabulary, Sergeant?”

  “I chucked it along with self-control.”

  “I might have known.” He gazed at the main drive that curved gently to the left beneath a giant beech tree, and from there to the secondary lane leading off towards the vehicle shed, the boys’ houses, and the science building. He dwelt upon the information Frank Orten had given them.

  “What’s up?” Havers asked.

  Lynley leaned against the car, thoughtfully rubbed his hand against his jaw, and tried to ignore the scent of tobacco smoke. “It’s Friday afternoon. You’ve nabbed Matthew Whateley. Where will you keep him, Sergeant?”

  She tapped cigarette ash onto the pavement, playing it about with the toe of her badly scuffed brogue. “I suppose it depends upon what I wanted to do with him. And how I wanted to do it.”

  “Carry on.”

  “If I wanted to have a bit of physical fun with him—the sort of thing that the school’s resident paederast or a paedophile might well be chuffed by—I’d take him where there’s not the slightest chance that he’d be heard if he didn’t enjoy the activity as much as I did.”

  “Where would that be?”

  She scanned the grounds as she answered. “Friday afternoon. All the boys are on the playing field. Games going on. It’s after lunch so I’d stay away from the kitchen where the skivvies are doing their cleaning up. Boys might be coming and going in the houses. Girls as well, in Galatea and Eirene. So I’d go for one of the storage areas. In the theatre, perhaps. Or in science or maths.”

  “Not in one of the buildings in the main quad?”

  “Too close to the administration wing, I’d say. Unless…”

  “Go on.”

  “The chapel. The vestry. That rehearsal hall next door.”

  “All fairly risky for the type of encounter you have in mind.”

  “I suppose. But say it was a different kind of encounter. Say it was only a bit of a nab to scare the lad. On a bet. For a joke. Then I’d take him to a different place. It wouldn’t have to be remote at all. It would just have to be frightening.”

  “Such as?”

  “Climb up the bell tower and onto the roof. Perfect if he’s afraid of heights.”

  “But hard to manage if he’s struggling, wouldn’t you say?”

  “If he’s duped into following someone he trusts—or someone he admires, or has no reason to fear—then he might go along. He might be told to do so. He might think he’s been given an order that he has to obey, never knowing that the person who’s giving it has something altogether different in mind when they reach their destination.”

  “It comes down to that, doesn’t it?” Lynley said. “Destination. Chas Quilter showed you the school yesterday. Have you a good idea of its layout?”

  “Fairly.”

  “Then do some prowling. See if you can ferret out a place where Matthew might have been kept for at least a few hours in perfect secrecy, no one the wiser.”

  “Think like a paedophile?”

  “Whatever it takes, Sergeant. I’m going to search out John Corntel.”

  She dropped her cigarette to the ground and crushed it out. “Were those thoughts connected?” she asked him.

  “I hope not,” he replied and watched her set off down the main drive.

  He walked back to the secondary lane which would take him to Erebus House and John Corntel’s quarters. He had only got as far as the fork, however, when he heard his name called. Turning, he saw Elaine Roly hurrying towards him, rearranging the lace collar of her dress as she donned a black cardigan. Large spots of water darkened the dress itself.

  “Trying to wash the little ones,” she said in explanation, brushing at the spots as if this would dry them. “I’m not much good with boys that young, I’m afraid. When they get a bit older, I can manage them fine.”

  “As you’ve done in Erebus House,” Lynley replied.

  “Yes. Indeed. Are you heading there now? I’ll walk with you, shall I?” She began to do so. Lynley said nothing to her at first, waiting for her to say something that would explain why she had called out to him. Certainly her purpose could have nothing to do with an impulsive desire for companionship in a walk up the lane. She pulled at the buttons of her cardigan, as if checking to make sure each was firmly sewn onto the wool. He heard her sigh. “Frank didn’t tell you about his daughter, Inspector. You’ll think he’s hiding something. I can see you’re clever enough to know when someone’s not being completely straightforward with you.”

  “I did think there was more to his story.”

  “There is. But it has to do with pride, not with hiding. And there’s his job. He does want to protect his job. That’s understandable, isn’t it? The Headmaster isn’t the type to overlook an absence when one’s supposed to be on duty. Even if it’s an emergency with no time to let Mr. Lockwood know the details.” She was speaking quickly.

  “Saturday night?” Lynley asked.

  “He wasn’t lying. He simply wasn’t telling you everything. But he’s a good man. Frank’s a fine man. He’s not involved in Matthew’s disappearance.”

  Through the trees that lined the lane, Lynley saw that the pupils were leaving the chapel, some coming out the front doors of the school, heading south in the direction of the theatre and technical centre. They were talking and laughing. As he watched them, it seemed to Lynley that the death of one of their number should have affected them more, should have sobered them, should have allowed them to see how brief a span of time was allotted them. It didn’t, however. That was the way of the young. They were always convinced of their own immortality.

  Elaine Roly said, “Frank’s divorced, Inspector. I doubt he’d tell you that. It wasn’t a pleasant situation, from what little he’s told me. While he was stationed at Gibraltar, his wife took up with a brother officer. Frank was a bit of an innocent at the time. He never suspected a thing until she asked for a divorce. He was bitter about everything. He resigned his commission, left his two daughters with his wife in Gibraltar, and returned to England. He came right here to Bredgar Chambers.”

  “How long ago?”

  “Seventeen years. Just as he said earlier. The girls are older now, of course. One lives in Spain. But the other—the younger girl, Sarah—lives in Tinsley Green, on the other side of Crawley. She’s been troubled for years, married twice, divorced twice. She’s dabbled a good bit in alcohol and drugs. Frank thinks he’s responsible, since he deserted her and her sister. He puts himself on the rack over that.

  “Sarah phoned Frank on Saturday night. He could hear the children crying. She was crying as well, talking about suicide. That’s Sarah’s way. She’d had a row with her current boyfriend, I should think.” Elaine Roly reached out, touched Lynley’s arm lightly for emphasis. “Frank went to his daughter on Saturday, Inspector. He was supposed to be on duty. He didn’t think to tell the Headmaster where he was going. Perhaps he didn’t want to, for he’d only been with her on Tuesday—his regular night off—and the Headmaster might have drawn the line at another evening away from the school, mightn’t he? So when Frank got the call, he simply panicked and left. It was just as well.”

  �
�Why?”

  “Because when he got to Tinsley Green, Sarah was unconscious. He got her to hospital just in time.”

  The information explained Orten’s reticence this morning. But even if the veracity of Elaine Roly’s story was sustained by a few quick telephone calls, Lynley saw that the matron of Erebus House had inadvertently added another twist to the events of the past weekend at Bredgar Chambers. For Tinsley Green was not more than two miles from the M23 and the great system of highways that led to Stoke Poges.

  “Have the children been here with him since Saturday night?”

  Innocently, she blackened him. “Not exactly. Directly after he sent for an ambulance, he phoned me from Sarah’s cottage and asked if I would fetch the children from her neighbour. She’s an elderly woman—very fond of Sarah—but she couldn’t be expected to see to the boys overnight. So I went for them myself and kept them in my flat in Erebus until Sunday afternoon.”

  “You went to Tinsley Green yourself?”

  “Yes. That’s right.”

  “How did you get there?”

  “In my car.” She added hastily, “The Headmaster didn’t…Mr. Corntel knew. I went to his rooms. I told him everything. He’s a fine man, Mr. Corntel is, and he gave me leave to go straightaway as long as the house prefect and the senior boys knew so that they would be available should any of the younger boys need me. Not that giving Brian Byrne additional responsibility is ever a wise idea, as far as I’m concerned. But as this was an emergency…” She lifted her shoulders in a regretful shrug.

  “It sounds as if it was no secret that you were going off campus. How did Mr. Orten hope to keep his trip to Tinsley Green from the Headmaster if you were being so above board about your own?”

  “Frank didn’t intend it to be a secret, Inspector. He was going to tell Mr. Lockwood eventually. He still intends to do so. Except that when Matthew Whateley disappeared, it hardly seemed the time or the place to bring up a few hours of absence. I expect you agree with that.”

  Lynley sidestepped her request for reassurance. “When he saw that the rubbish fire had been rekindled Saturday night—early Sunday morning, really—I imagine he’d only just then returned from Tinsley Green.”

  “Yes. But you see, he didn’t want to tell you that. With everything else that’s happened…Mr. Lockwood doesn’t look upon shirking one’s duty with a very pleasant eye. And he does seem to be on the cutting edge right now. So in a few days, when Frank feels the time is appropriate, he’ll tell him.”

  “What time did you leave for Tinsley Green?”

  “I’m not certain. After nine. Half-past. Perhaps a bit later.”

  “And you returned at what time?”

  “I do know that. It was eleven-forty.”

  “You drove directly there? Directly back?”

  Her fingers climbed from her chest to her throat, touched her lace collar delicately. There was a formality to her answer that indicated she understood the meaning and the suspicion behind Lynley’s questions. “I did. Directly there. Directly back. I did stop for petrol, but that’s reasonable, isn’t it?”

  “And Friday afternoon? Friday night?”

  There was no mistaking the fact that Elaine Roly now read the questions as an affront. “What about them?” she asked coolly.

  “Where were you then?”

  “Sorting laundry in Erebus in the afternoon. Watching television at night, in my flat.”

  “Alone?”

  “Quite alone, Inspector.”

  “I see.” Lynley paused to study the building they were passing. Calchus House was carved above the door. “What odd names these houses have been given,” he remarked. “Calchus, who persuaded Agamemnon to sacrifice his own daughter in exchange for fair wind. The herald of death.”

  It was a moment before Elaine Roly replied. When she did, her voice was once again friendly, as if she’d made a decision to overlook the effrontery of Lynley’s previous questions. “Herald of death or not, Calchus died of mortification when Mopsus proved himself the better man.”

  “A lesson to be learned everywhere one looks at Bredgar Chambers?”

  “It’s part of the philosophy of the school. It’s worked well.”

  “Nonetheless, I should think I’d be far happier in Erebus House than Calchus. Rather primeval darkness than the herald of death. You said you’ve been there eighteen years.”

  “Yes.”

  “How long has John Corntel been housemaster?”

  “This is his first year. And a good job Mr. Corntel has done. A very good job. And he would have continued to do a good job had not…” She stopped. Lynley looked at her, saw how her face had settled.

  “Had not Matthew Whateley happened on the scene?” he enquired.

  She shook her head. “Not Matt. Mr. Corntel was doing a fine job with Matt, with all the boys, until he got distracted.” She said the last word like an execration, and she needed no prompting to continue. “Miss Bond. She’s had her eye on Mr. Corntel since the day she arrived on this campus last year. I noted that the minute I saw her. He’s marriage material as far as she’s concerned and she means to have him. Make no doubt of that. Little witch wants to turn him inside out. And has done so, if you want the truth from me.”

  “But you say that in spite of Emilia Bond, Mr. Corntel has managed to do a fine job. No troubles with Matthew?”

  “None at all.”

  “Did you know Matthew yourself?”

  “I know all my boys, sir. I’m matron. I do my job.”

  “Is there anything special you can tell me about Matthew, something you noticed that others might have overlooked?”

  She thought about this only a moment before saying, “Just his colours, I suppose. All those tags that his mum used to help him with his colours.”

  “The numbers in his clothes? I noticed them. She must have worried about his appearance a great deal to take that kind of trouble. Most lads, I imagine, don’t bother to notice what they’re putting on from one moment to another. Did Matthew actually follow his mother’s directions when he dressed?”

  The matron looked at him in some surprise. “He had to, Inspector. He didn’t know his colours.”

  “Didn’t know—”

  “Colour deficient, they call it. He couldn’t see colours properly at all. Especially the school colours. He had the most trouble with them. His mum told me as much on parents’ day during Michaelmas term. Worried that when his clothes were laundered the tags would fall off and Matt would be in a dither about what to put on in the morning. Evidently they’d used the number system for years at home, with no one the wiser.”

  “And anyone the wiser here?”

  “Just myself, I should guess. Perhaps the boys in Matt’s dormitory if they took note of his dressing in the morning.”

  And if they had…The boy’s problem with colours could have been a source of painful teasing, the sort of ragging that cuts even as it wears the guise of camaraderie. It was just one more detail that made Matthew Whateley different from his peers. But surely, Lynley thought, not different enough to kill.

  12

  “John, we must talk. You know that. We can’t go on avoiding one another like this indefinitely. I can’t bear it.”

  John Corntel didn’t want to look up. He didn’t want to respond to the tentative pressure of her hand upon his shoulder. He was sitting in the student memorial chapel and had been doing so since the end of the morning service, hoping its stillness might act as a surrogate for inner peace. It had not happened. Instead, he felt only a numbness that seemed to grow from within his body, having nothing to do with the frigid air of the chapel. He said nothing in response to Emilia Bond’s words. Instead, he let his eyes drift from the marble angel atop the altar to the heartfelt memorials that lined the walls. Beloved student, he read. Edward Hsu, beloved student. What a marvel it was to read those words, to recognise in them the connection that could exist between two people when one wanted to teach and the other to learn. He could
not help thinking that had he himself loved his students more, had he given them the devotion he had mindlessly directed elsewhere, he would not be in such turmoil now.

  “I know you’ve no lesson until ten o’clock, John. We must talk.”

  Corntel realised that there was no way to avoid it. This final confrontation with Emilia had been brewing for days. He had only hoped to put it off a bit, to have more time to marshal the thoughts and the words that would serve to explain the inexplicable to her. In a week, he might have managed to gather the resources he needed to carry the conversation off without breaking. But he knew that he should have realised earlier that Emilia was not the type of woman to wait placidly for him to come to her.

  “There’s no place for us to talk right now,” he told her. “We can’t talk here.”

  “Then we’ll walk. There’s no one on the playing fields at this hour of the morning, and no one to overhear.”

  Her manner seemed determined, but when Corntel looked at her—standing in her oversized black gown next to the pew in which he was sitting—he saw that the natural colour of her face was gone, that her eyes were bloodshot, that the skin round them was swollen. Seeing this, he felt something beyond himself for the first time in days, a vague pinprick of empathy that momentarily pierced his armour of despair. But then that feeling faded, leaving the two of them much as they had been before, separated by an abyss that words alone could not bridge. She was so young—too young. Why had he failed to realise that before?

  “Come with me, John,” she said. “Please. Come with me.”

  He supposed that he owed her at least a brief conversation. Perhaps it was ridiculous to assume that a few more days of preparation—a few more days of avoiding her—would make this final time together any easier or more bearable for either of them.

  “Very well,” he said, and got to his feet.