Well-Schooled in Murder

by Elizabeth George

  “You’re wanting the Headmaster,” the secretary announced. “He’s in a meeting at the moment. You’ll wait in his study.” That said, she brushed past them, opened Lockwood’s study door, and motioned them inside. “I can’t say how long the Headmaster will be” was her final cool comment before leaving them.

  “Nice lass, that,” Havers commented when they were alone. “Has all her instructions down, doesn’t she? Red carpet treatment and all.”

  Lynley took the opportunity to examine the photographs and drawings that documented the school’s history on one of the study walls. Sergeant Havers joined him.

  The photographs spanned the last one hundred and fifty years, with fading daguerreotypes representing the earliest pictorial records. Across the decades, schoolchildren gathered at the base of Henry VII’s statue; they lined up in neat rows in front of the school; they marched in columns across the playing fields; they rode in heavy-wheeled wagons along the school drive. They were uniformed and clean and smiling, one and all.

  “Notice anything about them, Sergeant?”

  “No girls until recently,” she replied. “Thank God for the latter half of the twentieth century.”

  “Yes, there’s that. And something else.”

  She went from picture to picture. She pulled at her chin. “Minorities,” she commented. “Where are they?”

  “Just the occasional face. Not unusual two hundred years ago. But surely a bit odd in the last ten years.”

  “So we’re back to bigotry?”

  “I don’t think we can dismiss it yet, Havers.”

  “I suppose it’s something to play with. Why not give it a try?”

  They turned from the wall as the study door opened. But it was not Alan Lockwood who entered the room. Rather, it was his wife. She carried a large arrangement of flowers in a shallow bisque bowl.

  Her steps did not falter when she saw Lynley and Havers. She merely smiled fleetingly at them, nodded hello, and took the flowers to the table that sat in the alcove created by the wide bay window.

  “I brought these for the council room,” she explained pleasantly. “Flowers make a room so much more welcoming, and since Alan is meeting with parents there, I thought that the flowers…” She rearranged three tuberoses. Their sweet fragrance was heady in the close air. “I’m afraid I didn’t get them ready in time. The meeting’s well under way. So I’ve brought them in here.” She moved aside the silver candelabrum at the table’s centre. “It’s a bit much, isn’t it? Both the candelabrum and the flowers.” She frowned, looked about the room, and took the candelabrum to the fireplace where she placed it on the mantel. It partially obscured the Holbein portrait. Apparently satisfied with this arrangement, she nodded and tucked a strand of grey hair back into place above her forehead. “I do all the flowers for the school. From our conservatory. But I’ve told you that, haven’t I? Sometimes I can’t remember what I’ve said and what I haven’t said to people. The first sign of senility, Alan tells me.”

  “Hardly.” Lynley smiled. “Just a lot to remember. I should guess you speak to dozens of people every day. That’s a lot to keep straight.”

  “Yes, of course.” She went to her husband’s desk and needlessly straightened a stack of folders that lay there, perfectly straight in the first place. The activity suggested that she had come into the study with a purpose other than delivering flowers.

  “He works so hard and gets so tired that he doesn’t always think before he speaks, Inspector. Things slip out in irritation. Like that remark about senility. But he’s a good man, my Alan. A very good man. Decent. Respectable.” She found a pencil tucked between two of the folders and neatly lined it up with a pen. “Alan’s not appreciated as he ought to be. People don’t know what he does behind the scenes, and he doesn’t tell them. That’s not his way. He’s across the hall right now, meeting with four sets of parents whose boys might otherwise go to Eton or Harrow. Rugby. Westminster. But he’ll convince them to choose Bredgar. He does that all the time.”

  “That must be the most anxious part of a headmaster’s job,” Lynley remarked. “Seeing to it that enrollment stays at a steady level.”

  “But it’s more than that to Alan,” she replied. “He’s determined to bring the school back to where it was just after the war. That’s his mission. Before Alan came, enrollment was off. Exam results were deteriorating, especially the A-level results. But he intends to do something about that. He has already. The new theatre was his idea, Inspector. A way of attracting more students to the school. Well, the right sort of students, naturally.”

  “Was Matthew Whateley the right sort of student?”

  “I gave him violin lessons. Before Bredgar, I played with the London Philharmonic. I suppose you didn’t know that. No one does, really. It’s not something one drops into conversations with the masters’ wives. But I gave it up because it does take some effort to be a proper headmaster’s wife, doesn’t it? And Alan needed me. As did our own children, of course. We’ve two small boys in primary school. Has Alan spoken of them? I play with Bredgar’s orchestra now, and give lessons here and there. It’s not quite the same”—she smiled with regret—“but it’s something. Keeping one’s hand in.”

  Lynley was not oblivious of the fact that she had avoided his question. “How often did you see Matthew?”

  “Once a week. He didn’t practise quite as much as he should have. But that’s fairly typical of boys, isn’t it? Although I dare say I did expect more of a scholarship child.”

  “It was an academic scholarship, not a music scholarship, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes. But one hopes a scholarship student will be a bit more well-rounded, Inspector. Matthew wasn’t really the brightest boy to apply for the scholarship.”

  “You knew the other applicants?”

  “Not exactly. Only what Alan made mention of at dinner. He always said that Matthew wasn’t quite what Bredgar Chambers was looking for. Of course that wasn’t Alan’s fault. Nor was it his fault that Matthew was selected for the scholarship, so he can’t be blamed at all for his death, can he? He felt he had to—”

  “Kathleen.”

  Lynley and Havers swung round to see that Alan Lockwood had entered the room. He stood at the doorway, his face livid.

  Hearing him, Kathleen Lockwood closed her mouth slowly. She swallowed. “Alan.” One hand fluttered towards the table. “I’ve brought you flowers. I thought to have them in time for your meeting, but I didn’t. So I brought them in here.”

  “Thank you.” He stepped to one side of the door, his message clear. She read it, and without a look at either Lynley or Havers, she left the room. Lockwood shut the door behind her and faced the detectives. He gave them the benefit of a cold, evaluative examination before he went to his desk and stood behind it, wise enough to realise that he projected both authority and confidence by remaining on his feet.

  “I’ve been made aware that your sergeant has spent most of the morning prowling about the grounds, Inspector,” Lockwood said. Each syllable sounded brittle. “I’d like to know why.”

  Lynley did not answer at once. Rather, he went to the table, drew out one of the chairs, and waited as Sergeant Havers did likewise. Neither of them sat. The Headmaster watched them. A vein throbbed in his temple. He crossed the room to the window and pushed it far open.

  “I’d appreciate an answer,” he said.

  “That’s understandable.” Lynley’s reply was perfectly pleasant. He indicated another chair. “Please sit down, Mr. Lockwood.”

  For a moment, Lockwood looked as if he would refuse. But after a marked hesitation he sat at the table, across from them. Since the study faced east, the afternoon light did not hide his face as the morning light had done on their previous visit.

  “Your porter found Matthew’s school clothes on the rubbish pile,” Lynley explained. “Since the boy’s clothes are all accounted for now, it seems reasonable to conclude that Matthew was removed from the school nude.”

&nbs
p; Lockwood’s eyes grew dark. “That’s absurd. Absurd.”

  “Which part? The clothes being found or Matthew being taken from the school nude?”

  “Both. And why wasn’t I told about the clothes? When did Orten—”

  Lynley interrupted. “I should imagine Mr. Orten thought it a matter best left to the police. We’ve a killer at large. There’s no telling who it might be.”

  Lockwood’s response was icy. “What exactly are you telling me, Inspector?”

  “That Sergeant Havers has spent a good part of the morning looking for a place where Matthew might have been held securely from Friday afternoon when he disappeared until he was removed and taken to Stoke Poges.”

  “Impossible. One can’t hide a child here.”

  Lynley recognised that Lockwood could hardly do anything save deny plausibility. He pointed out to the Headmaster that keys were available and security was poor.

  Lockwood countered adroitly. “There are six hundred pupils in this school, Inspector. Not to mention members of staff. Can you actually believe that this boy was kidnapped, held hostage, murdered, and that afterwards his nude body was somehow transported off the grounds? All without anyone’s being the wiser? That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.”

  “Not when you consider the full circumstances behind the disappearance,” Lynley said. “Whatever transporting occurred, it’s reasonable to conclude that it would have been done in the dead of night when everyone was asleep. Additionally, it was a weekend. How many students had exeats? How many were off at the hockey tournament I’ve been hearing about? How many remained behind? How many staff members were actually here? We both know how deserted a school can be on a weekend, Mr. Lockwood. Now that we know Matthew was here, we’re going to have to start questioning the staff. The local police will have to be brought in for this.”

  “That’s unnecessary, Inspector. If any questioning of staff needs to be done, I’ll see to it myself.”

  Lynley’s response did much to clarify Lockwood’s position in the investigation. “Where were you Friday night, Headmaster?”

  Lockwood’s nostrils flared. “I’m a suspect, I suppose? No doubt you’ve a motive signed, sealed, and delivered.”

  “In a murder investigation, everyone’s a suspect initially. Where were you Friday night?”

  “Here. In the study. Working on a report for the Board of Governors.”

  “Until what time?”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t notice.”

  “And when you had completed your work?”

  “I went home.”

  “Did you look in on any of the houses on your way?”

  “Whatever for?”

  “You pass directly by the girls’ houses—Galatea and Eirene—to go home, don’t you? It seems reasonable to wonder if you looked in on them.”

  “Reasonable to you, perhaps. But not to me. And certainly not on a Friday night. As you said, those are the girls’ houses. I’m hardly going to prowl about them at night.”

  “But you could go in if you wanted to. No one would think it odd to see you.”

  “I’ve better things to do than check up on my housemasters. They do their jobs. I do mine.”

  “What about Ion House where the sixth form social club is? The older pupils who don’t leave the school gather there on Fridays, don’t they? Did you never look in on them?”

  “The pupils police themselves. They don’t need me to do it for them. You know that as well as I do. That’s what the prefect system is all about.”

  “You have confidence in your prefects, then?”

  “Utter. Absolute. They’ve never given me a cause to doubt them.”

  “What about Brian Byrne?”

  Lockwood made an impatient movement with his shoulders. “We’ve been over this ground before, Inspector. Brian hasn’t given me cause to be sorry he’s a prefect.”

  “Elaine Roly seems to think he’s a bit too needy himself to be an effective prefect.”

  “Needy? What on earth—”

  “Needy for friendship and approval. Not the best choice to watch over other boys.”

  Lockwood looked amused. “That’s the pot and the kettle. If anyone’s needy for friendship and approval, I’d say Matron Roly heads the list herself. It’s Roly who spends most of her free time trying to worm her way into Frank Orten’s affections. As if that old misogynist would ever look at another woman after his wife dumped him. As for Brian Byrne, he became a prefect the way everyone else did. A member of staff nominated him.”

  “Who?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t recall.” Lockwood reached out and touched an Easter lily that was part of his wife’s arrangement of flowers. He played his fingers along the stem. Seeing him do so, Lynley marvelled at the manner in which the body told the truth even when the intellect attempted to lie.

  “Is your wife considered a member of staff?” he asked. “After all, she’s in the school orchestra. She gives music lessons. Even if she isn’t paid for doing so, surely she has an honorary staff position. Surely she has input into decisions. Decisions like—”

  The flower snapped from its stem. “All right. Kathleen nominated Brian. I asked her to do so. Giles Byrne wanted his son to be a prefect. Is that what you’re so set upon knowing? It hardly has any bearing on Matthew Whateley’s death.”

  “Did Giles Byrne want his son to be prefect of any particular house?”

  “Erebus. That’s not a crime. It’s Byrne’s old house. I consider it logical that he’d want his son to live there.”

  “Mr. Byrne seems to have a number of connections to Erebus, doesn’t he?” Lynley queried. “He himself lived there. His son lives there. Matthew Whateley—his nominee for a scholarship—lived there. And earlier, Edward Hsu lived there as well. What do you know about Byrne’s relationship with him?”

  “Just that he tutored the boy, and that the memorial in the chapel was placed there by Byrne. He was fond of Edward Hsu. But that was long before my time.”

  “And Edward Hsu’s suicide?”

  Lockwood did not disguise his irritation. “You can’t be suggesting there’s some connection here? Edward Hsu died in 1975.”

  “I’m aware of that. How did he die? Do you know?”

  “Everyone knows. He got into the bell tower, climbed onto the chapel roof, and threw himself off.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Have you a file on him?”

  “I hardly see the relevance—”

  “I’d like to see it, Headmaster.”

  Lockwood pushed himself forcefully away from the table. Without replying, he left the study, and snapped at his secretary in her office outside. When he rejoined them, he carried a manila folder open across his left palm. There were very few papers within it, and Lockwood went through these quickly, pausing to scan a letter written on onionskin.

  “Edward Hsu came to us from Hong Kong,” he said. “His parents were still living there as recently as 1982, according to this letter. They’d been considering setting up a scholarship in his memory, but evidently nothing came of it.” Lockwood read on. “They sent Edward to be educated in England as his father had been educated. His entrance exam results are high. He seems to have been a gifted student. He probably would have made a great success of himself, but he never got as far as his A-levels to prove it. There’s nothing else here, but no doubt you’re determined to see that for yourself.”

  Lockwood handed over the file. DECEASED was written diagonally across it in large red letters. Lynley read through the scant material himself, finding nothing more save a photograph of Edward Hsu as he must have looked upon entering Bredgar Chambers as a thirteen-year-old. He raised his head. Lockwood was watching him.

  “There was no note to indicate why the boy took his life?” Lynley asked.

  “Nothing, as far as I was ever told.”

  “I was noticing all the photographs on your wall. It was interesting to note how f
ew minority pupils you’ve had here through the years.”

  Lockwood’s eyes moved to the pictures, then back to Lynley. His expression was unreadable. He said nothing.

  “Have you ever considered what Edward Hsu’s suicide might imply?” Lynley asked.

  “The suicide of one Chinese student in five hundred years of this school’s history hardly implies anything to me. And I see no connection whatsoever between that death and the death of Matthew Whateley. If you do, perhaps you’ll be so good as to point it out to me. Unless, of course, you’re going to bring up Giles Byrne again, and his connection with both boys. But if you do that, you might connect Elaine Roly to both of them as well. And Frank Orten. And anyone else who was here in 1975.”

  “Was Cowfrey Pitt here then?”

  “Yes.”

  “And did the Bredgar Volunteers exist then?”

  “Yes. Yes. What on earth does this have to do with—”

  Lynley cut him off. “Your wife spoke highly of the attempts you’ve been making to build enrollment in the school, Headmaster. And to improve exam results. But you’d have to be careful what kind of student you allowed in, wouldn’t you—on a scholarship or otherwise—to keep those exam results high?”

  Lockwood rubbed his palm across a patch of angry, razor-worn skin on his neck. “You have an irritating habit of skirting issues, Inspector. Hardly behaviour I’d expect from the police. Why don’t you ask me what you want to ask me and avoid all the subterfuge?”

  Lynley smiled. “I’m merely wondering if Giles Byrne called in a debt that didn’t work out in your plans for the school. If you were intent upon sending as many students as possible to Cambridge or Oxford—or at least more students than had been sent there since the war—you probably wouldn’t appreciate having a less gifted student foisted upon you.”

  “Matthew Whateley wasn’t foisted. He was chosen. In a fair process involving the entire Board of Governors.”

  “Involving Giles Byrne in particular?”

  Lockwood’s temper flared. “You listen to me,” he hissed. “You handle the investigation. I’ll run the school. Is that clear?”