The English School of Murder

by Ruth Dudley Edwards

  ‘That does it,’ said Rachel. ‘I’ve had it with foreigners for tonight. I’m totally out of touch with cricket. Tell me how Surrey are getting on in the county championship.’

  Chapter 16

  Though Rich’s mother was long dead, she played an important role in saving her son from being swallowed up by his clients. Most of these came to London for a matter of two or three weeks, having been told by friends to expect a wonderful time with Rich and his jolly young helpers. The more demanding of them expected these up-market equivalents of Butlins Redcoats to be permanently at their beck and call. Had Rich not been able to plead filial duties, he would rarely have had a weekend to himself.

  Even with a very small staff, Rich was able to organise extra activities for every night of the week, so many of the punters had no objection to being left to their own devices at the weekends. Shopping took up all of Saturday, and with most of them staying in the same hotel, there was no shortage of company.

  Unfortunately for Rich, he and his staff were often victims of their own success. Most of their punters were hedonistic, selfish people who were disinclined to put themselves out for each other. Consequently, they enjoyed themselves far more with a professional escort in attendance. So when one of their number suggested persuading Rich or Gavs or Cath to join them at the weekend, there would be plenty who would concur enthusiastically. They had no qualms about spoiling someone’s weekend. In their view, they were conferring favours by taking school staff out and entertaining them lavishly. It was a pity that Jenn, who actually liked being taken out, was the least popular.

  Latterly, pressure from Gav’s partner was intensifying and Cath had stated firmly that she needed three out of four weekends completely free. Rich found himself fighting to have any weekends at all to himself; without the help of his late mother he would have had none.

  At the best of times he would have resented Galina’s coercion, while also realising he had little choice but to acquiesce. He knew her type all too well. Thwart them and the grapevine would begin to hum with suggestions that service at the Knightsbridge was no longer what it had been: she and her kind were unforgiving. In such circumstances Rich could do little but shrug and remind himself that every job had its drawbacks. This time was different: he felt very bitter that he could not even be left alone for a few days to grieve. Even allowing that Galina and the others did not know fully the depth of his relationship with Ned, he would have thought that they would realise that the loss of a business partner could hurt.

  Before he could relax, he had to talk to Gavs. To his relief, he, rather than Kenneth, answered the phone.

  ‘Gavs, that bitch Galina blackmailed me into having a picnic on Sunday and she was very insistent that you should come as well.’

  ‘Well, I promised to spend the whole weekend at home. We’ve got a lot of decorating to do.’

  ‘I’d be awfully grateful if you could stretch a point, Gavs. They’ll be disappointed if you don’t come—particularly Galina and Ahmed.’

  ‘Ahmed?’

  ‘That’s what she said.’

  ‘I’ll have to ask Kenneth. Is there any reason why he shouldn’t come too?’

  ‘You should be the judge of that, Gavs. You’ve been to picnics before. Is it his sort of thing?’

  ‘Could be. I’ll ring you back.’

  And to Rich’s great relief, Gavs reported within five minutes that they would both be on parade on Sunday.

  All Friday evening he sat in his little Georgian house sipping his treasured wine and thinking regretful and loving thoughts about Ned. The neighbourhood odd-job man had already put in a catflap, so Plutarch was let out and stayed away for hours. It was with mixed feelings that Rich saw her return in the late evening. He wanted her safe and with him as a link with Ned, yet he hated her and what she was already doing to his immaculate sanctuary. He was losing hope that she would settle down quickly and stop her campaign of destruction. He could not remember that Ned had ever talked about her chewing or shredding fabrics and furniture. But then, as he recalled with a sigh, Ned would scarcely have noticed.

  They ate. Plutarch was given tinned salmon, which Rich hoped might put her in good humour. He made himself a Salade Niçoise and finally felt able to listen to some music. As he lay back in his favourite armchair and closed his eyes, an enormous weight landed squarely on his stomach and winded him. He stayed still, and Plutarch turned round and round until she found a comfortable position. Tentatively Rich tried stroking her, and to his astonishment, then his delight, she began to purr.

  He had twelve hours sleep that night, waking eventually because Plutarch, who had chosen his bed as her sleeping quarters, wanted her breakfast. Later on, Rich went out to buy supplies. He always went to Fortnum and Mason for a hamper for these picnics. Most of the participants were too lazy to shop anywhere outside Knightsbridge—indeed some of them never outside Harrods—so Fortnum’s had novelty value for them. He took the hamper and the other provisions to the school, put the champagne and white wine in the main refrigerator in the cloakroom and checked in the big cupboard that there was sufficient cutlery and crockery. It had been nearly three months since the last picnic. He wished very much that he did not have to go through with this one.

  ***

  By the time the picnic began on Sunday, Rich had put in several hours work. He was a great believer in doing things properly. The extra work, the little touches, all added up to class, and it was class that had the punters coming back time and time again and urging their friends to try a wonderful experience.

  The garden, to which Amiss had given scarcely a glance during his few days on prefab duty, was very cleverly landscaped. The enclosed area where the garden furniture stood was entirely private, and covered over with an arch of climbing roses. Honeysuckle and virginia creeper assisted in giving it the aura of a green and pink boudoir. Rich spent some time positioning the furniture. The white-painted, wrought-iron dining-table and chairs were placed where the sun would hit them in early afternoon. He pushed slightly to the side the reclining chairs and the swinging two-seaters.

  During the next few hours he organised the music, the flowers, the food and the wine. He modelled the layout on a magazine colour spread of a party in the South of France and imitated it so successfully that Galina and Fabrice, the first to arrive, were actually moved to clap. ‘Reech, Reech,’ cried Galina, rushing over to give him a kiss. ‘What genius you ’ave to make a so beautiful picnic.’ And then with a merry laugh, ‘But what genius I ’ave to order you to make one.’

  Rich had had a long apprenticeship with the wealthy and had learned the hard way what gave them pleasure. Early on he had sussed out how you made friends with those who were actually your employers. He modelled himself on those hairdressers and fashion designers of international repute who rubbed shoulders with princesses and the wives of tycoons.

  The key was to dress as well as the BPs, have manners that were better than theirs and be such fun that their real friends—their equals—congratulated them on their finds. But what was much more vital was never to presume. If they invited one to their parties one accepted with delight; if they did not, one never showed resentment: one had no rights. In a nutshell, you sang for your supper and knew your place. And you did that while giving the impression that you loved them for themselves and were indifferent to their money. The combination of requirements would have been almost impossible to achieve had it not been that the wealthy were themselves part of the conspiracy. Because they wanted to be loved for themselves or at least to appear to be loved for themselves, they helped the illusion along. Part of his cleverness consisted in knowing how to give them a good time but have them think they contributed to it. Thus after an evening out with Rich, his companions thought they had been hilarious company themselves. And when it came to parties at the school, Rich always made them help with the drinks and encouraged them to help clear up afterwards. He had first had this idea when he read about Queen Elizabeth insisting on h
erself washing-up after picnics at Balmoral. ‘Isn’t Rich too awful,’ they would scream. ‘He makes us work like slaves’, and he would produce his most manly laugh and urge them on with cries of ‘All hands on deck’, ‘Come on, show a leg’, and various other nautical injunctions which they tried to learn to show off with back home.

  So now, although he had done all the serious work, he was able to demand that they prepare the picnic. He had left for them the kind of chores they loved: unwrapping the contents of the hamper; fetching the champagne and opening it; later doing the same with the white wine. He even required Galina to cut some bread. By the time most of the others had arrived, Galina was able to fall into a chair calling for others to take on the onerous duties. It was official: she was exhausted from preparing the picnic.

  Rich’s only qualm was about Gavs’s friend Kenneth, who could be surly—a luxury allowed only to paying customers. Fortunately on this occasion his behaviour was impeccable and when Ahmed arrived two hours late and sat beside him he became positively animated.

  Towards four, everyone except Rich was slightly drunk and a gentle stupor was descending on all of them. The two-seaters were occupied by embracing couples and Galina and Fabrice had just returned from the house, to which they had retired for half an hour. Galina suddenly fractured the peace by clapping her hands loudly and shouting, ‘Reech, next course, please.’

  ‘Everyone’s happy, Galina.’

  ‘They will be more happy. Come on Reech. Where ees it?’

  So Rich, who only wanted to go home to Plutarch, produced from his pocket the cocaine and the razor blade and started work. As always, he flatly refused to take any himself. ‘Not on duty, loves.’ The price he paid for this was extreme boredom and sometimes great irritation. This time all went swimmingly for the first hour and then Fabrice started a conversation about dangerous sports.

  It began in great good humour, but within ten minutes Ahmed had turned it into a bragging competition. Fabrice had mentioned that he was an enthusiastic skier and Ahmed had said idly that he had always wanted to try it. When it had then emerged that Alessandro, Davina, Marcello and Rich were highly proficient and everyone else competent, Ahmed clearly felt dishonoured. He boasted about the speeds at which he drove; Alessandro mentioned mountain climbing; Davina crewed her husband’s racing yacht; Marcello was a wind surfer. Ahmed came in with hang gliding and Marcello capped it with sky diving. Ahmed thought hard and claimed to fly his own private plane. The others looked unconvinced. Plunging in even deeper, Ahmed began to boast about his strength. Karl said he had boxed for his university; Kenneth was a judo black belt; Fabrice fenced. ‘Wallahi!’ swore Ahmed. ‘Who here kill a man?’

  Several of those present were used to Ahmed’s melodramatic outbursts and paid little attention to this one, but Davina cried, ‘Ahmed, we do not believe you.’ As Rich remarked later to Plutarch, if the silly bitch had set out deliberately to enrage an Arab, she could hardly have done a better job.

  ‘You…you…brostitute,’ screamed Ahmed. ‘You dirty beef.’

  It took Rich, Gavs and the more responsible element the best part of half an hour to restore order. ‘Is not allowed to say this,’ Ahmed kept shouting. Eventually Alessandro removed the sobbing Davina, and Gavs and Kenneth the still enraged Ahmed, and Galina and Fabrice followed suit almost immediately.

  Rich sat alone until the light began to fail. Then he pulled himself together and spent two hours clearing up and restoring the school to the condition in which it must be the following morning. Exhausted and sore at heart, he went home to Plutarch.

  Chapter 17

  ‘They’re all rich.’

  ‘I realise that,’ said Amiss patiently. ‘Now go to sleep.’

  ‘So that’s a large part of the reason why you hate them. Of course it’s also a large part of the reason why they deserve to be hated—not because they’re rich, I mean, but because of what they’ve let money do to them.’

  ‘Do you mean I’m envious?’

  ‘Of course you are. Anyone would be. Except unworldly people like Ned Nurse. It’s the injustice of it all that’s getting to you. They’re all parasites: not one of them has earned what he’s got. You’re jealous because they’ve no more right to it than you have. And you feel puritanical because of the worthless way they use their wealth. All that is much more important than their nationalities: that’s just the icing on the cake. So stop worrying about hating them and just enjoy it, whatever form it takes.’

  ‘I’m not quite with you.’

  ‘I mean you hate Galina because she’s an undeserving rich bitch. So hate her. She also has many Italian mannerisms. Just hang on to the fact that her hatefulness and her Italianness are coincidental.’

  ‘I think I follow.’

  ‘I’ll try once more. Ahmed is an Arab. He has many characteristics associated these days with Arabs from nations that have become Westernised very fast. He’s a shit. That doesn’t mean Arabs are necessarily shits. Got it?’

  ‘You’re talking false syllogisms?’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Got you.’

  ‘Good-night.’ She turned over. He put his arm around her and they fell asleep instantly.

  ***

  ‘Nice weekend?’ Pooley tried not to sound bitter.

  ‘Marvellous. I went to Paris. How about you?’

  ‘It was long.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘I’ve just clocked up twenty-four hours overtime, which would be nice if I needed the money, but I don’t.’

  ‘It’s only recently I’ve begun to understand the disadvantages under which the rich labour.’

  ‘I’m too tired for this, Robert. Please, just tell me anything you think I should know before tomorrow morning when Doug and I have got to try to turn this into a murder inquiry.’

  Amiss was conscience-stricken.

  ‘Nothing that won’t keep, Ellis. The important thing is that the police find out officially that he never touched alcohol: that should be easy. Now go to sleep and we’ll talk tomorrow.’

  ‘May I invite myself for next Saturday in any case?’

  ‘Of course you may.’

  ‘And by then we may have a murderer?’

  ‘Ees possible. Good-night.’

  ‘Good-night.’

  ***

  ‘Reech?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I am Galina.’

  ‘Hello, Galina. Isn’t it a little late? Shouldn’t you be getting some sleep?’

  ‘I am not sleepy. I’ad sleep before.’

  ‘Can I help you?’

  ‘I ring up to thank you for a beautiful picnic. Everyone had a very very lovely time.’

  Rich was so touched by her thoughtfulness that he forgave her for ringing at midnight. ‘That’s very nice of you. I appreciate it, Galina.’

  ‘Reech?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I want Bob.’

  Rich was mystified. ‘You’ll be seeing him in the morning, Galina. Can’t whatever it is wait till then?’

  ‘You do not understand. I want him. I am bored with Fabrice. Next week, I want Bob. To dance, to laugh, to make love.’

  ‘Bob has five of you to look after, Galina.’

  ‘But I am bored and I want someone young.’

  ‘You must sort this out yourself. Good-night. See you tomorrow.’

  As he put down the phone, Rich hoped she was still under the influence of something and would be more circumspect in the morning. He drew the line at forcing his staff to go to bed with punters. Still, no need to worry, he thought. That cocky little devil will cope fine. He’ll probably be happy to oblige if the price is right.

  ***

  Doug Layton and his inspector arrived at the school half-way through Monday morning and saw Rich Rogers. Within a couple of minutes they had established that Ned Nurse and alcohol did not mix.

  ‘He just never drank, Inspector.’

  ‘Do you mean never ever?’

  ‘Not in
nearly forty years. The first and last time was when he was on National Service. He got so sick he could never face alcohol again.’

  ‘So how do you explain the alcohol in his bloodstream?’

  ‘I can’t.’

  ‘Could it have been an accident?’

  ‘I don’t see how,’ said Rich helplessly. ‘It’s not as if we were serving a fruit punch or anything. It was a cocktail party. Everyone had to order what they wanted from the people with the cocktail shakers. Ned and any other non-drinkers would have been drinking from a jug of fruit juice. There couldn’t have been any confusion.’

  ‘Who was serving the cocktails?’

  ‘Two of my staff and two students.’

  ‘May we see them?’

  ‘Certainly.’ And Rich went off to summon Cath, Jenn, Fabrice and Marcello.

  ‘It’s a messy one. I can’t make up my mind.’

  ‘Sir, we’ve got means, motive and opportunity,’ said Layton, who had picked up some of Pooley’s style. ‘His drink must have been spiked. Clearly anyone at that party could have done it, and at least one of them has a real motive.’

  ‘Rich Rogers.’

  ‘Absolutely, sir. Half a million quid is a lot of money.’

  ‘But he was doing perfectly well out of the profits anyway. Why would he kill to get the building?’

  ‘I don’t know, sir. But it seems to me we’ve got to press on. If Nurse didn’t take the drink on purpose, which he almost certainly didn’t, and he couldn’t have been given it by accident, which seems almost certainly the case, then he must have been given it on purpose. Sounds like murder to me.’

  ‘Unless someone did it as a joke.’

  ‘Well, then why wouldn’t they own up?’

  ‘In a foreign country?’ The inspector chewed his upper lip. ‘I don’t know, Layton. I just don’t know.’