by Frank Smith
Did it matter? Jane wondered dully. Did Julia Shaw have any feelings at all for her daughter? How many times had she even seen Monica since she’d deposited her almost six years ago at Thornton Hill? Ten? A dozen at the outside. She couldn’t even be bothered with her at Christmas!
Jane felt the tears begin to form again and closed her eyes, but the image of Monica’s cold, white, lifeless face refused to go away. She wished Crowther would go away. Just go away and leave her alone with her thoughts.
‘I can’t be sure,’ Starkie said when Paget asked him how long the girl had been dead. They were in the corridor, and the pathologist was gathering his instruments together. There are conflicting signs, here. At a rough guess. I’d say she died somewhere between midnight and two this morning. I can tell you one thing, though. She was really trying to make a job of it. I found two more syringes mixed up in the bedclothes, both empty, and there are three separate puncture marks.’
‘Which means?’
‘Hypoglycaemic shock, if it was insulin,’ he said. ‘As a diabetic, this girl would know that. It’s not something she would do by mistake.’
‘And that would kill her?’
Starkie pursed his lips. ‘It’s not quite as cut and dried as that,’ he said. ‘Initially, she would experience rapid heartbeat, sweating, dizziness, and mental confusion. That could be followed by the loss of consciousness, and possibly death.’
‘Is there any way you can tell whether it was self-administered?’
Starkie snapped his bag shut. ‘The angle of entry is consistent with what I would expect, assuming she was right-handed, but that’s hardly conclusive. I hope to be able to tell you what was administered, but how it got there I leave to you, Paget. That’s your job, not mine, thank God. The only other thing I can tell you at the moment is that there are scratches and contusions on her upper arms, inner thighs and abdomen; fairly recent ones. I’d say. I’ll have more for you tomorrow.’
‘Tomorrow. I don’t suppose...’ Paget began, but Starkie anticipated him. ‘Don’t even suggest it,’ he said firmly. ‘This may be your idea of how to spend Christmas, Paget, but it certainly isn’t mine. The only carving I intend to do today is on a turkey and a joint of beef.’
He was half-way to the stairs when a thought struck him. ‘What happened to Sergeant Tregalles?’ he asked Paget. ‘I thought you two always worked together. Not ill, is he?’
‘No, he’s not ill,’ Paget assured him. ‘He’s got the long weekend off, that’s all, and there didn’t seem to be much point in dragging him away from his family when I can manage here on my own.’
Starkie snorted. ‘You must be going soft in your old age,’ he said. ‘If it were me, it would be the other way round, I can tell you. Anyway, I’m off. Talk to you tomorrow. Merry Christmas.’
Merry Christmas. Not much chance of that, thought Paget gloomily.
Trouble was, he had allowed himself to hope that this Christmas might be different. To be truthful, he’d fantasized a bit about spending at least part of Christmas with Andrea, but he’d heard absolutely nothing from her since that night a week ago. He’d telephoned, but there was no answer at the flat. He’d left a message at the hospital, but she had never called him back. He knew they were rushed off their feet over there - so had he been this past week - but surely she could have found time to phone back.
That he’d misjudged the situation was becoming painfully obvious, he thought glumly. The way she had withdrawn - almost bolted from the car. Things had been going so well up till then. He should have...
‘Sir...’
Paget jumped, startled by the sudden appearance of Maitland at his elbow. ‘For God’s sake, man! Stop creeping about the place like that,’ he growled irritably. ‘What is it?’
The constable stared at Paget, then looked down at his boots. The chief inspector must be going deaf. ‘Sorry, sir,’ he said, ‘but Inspector Dobbs would like a word.’
There was no note. At least, his people hadn’t found one, Charlie said. ‘All sorts of notebooks, paper and pencils in the desk. She wasn’t short of material. But as far as I can tell, it looks like suicide. I have to go, but if you need anything, ask Grace Lovett. She’s in charge.’ He nodded in the direction of a slim, fair-haired young woman on her hands and knees beside the bed. ‘As for the rest,’ he shrugged, ‘it might be a few days before we have much for you, what with the holidays and all, but we’ll do our best.’
No note. Paget stood in the doorway and looked at the now empty bed. It might mean something or it might mean nothing at all. It wasn’t unusual for suicides not to leave a note. But the question still remained: was it really suicide?
The woman who opened the door in answer to his knock was tall, slim, and striking in appearance. Iron grey hair, beautifully coiffed, framed a strong, handsome face. Her brow was broad, her eyes steady, her chin firm, and her mouth was set in a thin, straight line as if something had displeased her. Apart from a tailored blouse of dazzling white, she was dressed in tones of grey; grey skirt, grey cardigan, and grey shoes whose heels must have been at least three inches high. Jade leaf-shaped ear-rings were half hidden by her hair, and her fingers were adorned with several rings.
Paget judged her to be somewhere between forty-five and fifty.
‘Yes?’ The voice matched the image perfectly.
‘Detective Chief Inspector Paget,’ he said, displaying his warrant card. ‘I’m looking for the housemistress. Miss Wolsey.’
The woman didn’t respond immediately, but her eyes took in every detail, and he had the feeling that he’d been stripped down and reassembled in that brief moment. It was not a pleasant experience.
‘You’d better come in. Chief Inspector,’ she said as she stepped aside. It was less an invitation than a reluctant acceptance of the inevitable. ‘I am Samantha Crowther, headmistress of Thornton Hill. Miss Samantha Crowther,’ she emphasized. ‘I am responsible for the school and its good name, you understand, and before we go any further. I’d like to know how long those cars and vans will be parked out there in the driveway in front of the school for everyone to see?’
As Paget stepped over the threshold, a second woman rose to her feet from the depths of an armchair, and came forward to meet him. ‘I am Jane Wolsey...’ she began, but Miss Crowther cut her off with a wave of her hand.
‘In a moment, Jane, if you please. Chief Inspector?’
Not a word about the young girl who lay dead at the other end of the corridor, he noted. Her manner irritated him, but there was nothing to be gained by getting off on the wrong foot with the headmistress.
‘The school is quite well screened from the road,’ he pointed out, ‘and once the forensic team have all their equipment out. I’ll have them move the vans to the back of the school.’
Miss Crowther nodded as if she had expected no other answer. ‘I really don’t see why all this is necessary,’ she said. ‘We are, of course, shocked and saddened by Monica’s death, but it’s hardly a matter for the police. The girl was a diabetic, and much as it pains me to say it, I suspect it was her own refusal to adhere to the strict regimen required to maintain her health that caused her death. This isn’t the first time, you know. She has done this sort of thing before - disregarding her doctor’s instructions, to say nothing of mine - with the result that she had to be rushed into hospital to - to do whatever it is they do in such cases.’
‘Stabilize her,’ Jane Wolsey said quietly. ‘And it was only once. Miss Crowther.’
‘Yes. Well, but you do see what I mean. Chief Inspector? The ambulance men clearly exceeded their authority in calling you. Miss Wolsey should have consulted me before any such call was made.’
‘I did try...’ Jane Wolsey began, but the headmistress brushed the words aside. ‘Really, Jane, you know I always go for an early morning walk,’ she said as if that explained everything.
‘They had very little choice in the matter, Miss Crowther,’ Paget told her. ‘They are obliged to call us when, in t
heir opinion, a suspicious death has occurred.’
‘Suspicious death?’ Samantha Crowther stared at Paget in disbelief. ‘You can’t possibly be serious?’
‘I’m very serious. Miss Crowther. There are a number of unanswered questions concerning exactly how Miss Shaw died. There will probably be an inquest.’
‘Oh, dear!’ The headmistress looked quite shaken. ‘Whatever will I tell the board?’
‘Her parents haven’t been notified, I take it?’
Miss Crowther shook her head. ‘No. I did try to reach her mother, but being Christmas Day, it’s difficult. Monica’s parents are divorced. Her father remarried years ago and went abroad, I believe. Her mother is Julia Shaw.’ She paused as if waiting for the name to register, but it meant nothing to Paget. ‘She’s a member of the British delegation at the Common Currency conference,’ she explained. ‘She’s in Brussels, but I’ve no idea where, and I can’t get hold of anyone, with all the offices closed today. I left a message with the embassy, but I’m not at all sure that it will get to her. I also tried the house in Hampshire on the off chance, but there was no reply. Perhaps...?’ She eyed Paget speculatively.
‘I see,’ he said. ‘In that case, we will contact Brussels and ask them to have Mrs Shaw get in touch with us immediately.’
‘You will make sure she understands that we did everything possible. Chief Inspector? I’m sure Miss Wolsey...’
‘I’m sure Miss Wolsey will tell me herself,’ said Paget smoothly, ‘so I won’t detain you any longer. Miss Crowther.’ Gently but firmly he herded her towards the door.
Samantha Crowther seemed reluctant to leave. ‘I shall be in my study if I am needed,’ she said. She paused at the door and adopted a more confidential tone. ‘You will make sure that Mrs Shaw understands that there was nothing we could have done to prevent Monica’s death, won’t you. Chief Inspector?’ She eyed him anxiously. ‘I mean, the school cannot be held responsible; you do see that, don’t you?’
‘I’m sure Mrs Shaw will want to speak to you herself. Miss Crowther,’ said Paget soothingly.
‘Yes. Well...’ The headmistress looked anything but cheered by that prospect.
He began to close the door behind her, but Miss Crowther wasn’t quite finished yet. ‘You won’t forget about the vans will you?’ she said. ‘Their presence here invites curiosity, and that is the last thing we want at Thornton Hill. After all, we do have a reputation to uphold. Please have them removed as soon as possible.’
5
‘Please sit down. Chief Inspector.’ Jane Wolsey indicated an armchair beside the fire. The room was warm and Paget removed his coat before sitting down. Now, with the departure of Samantha Crowther, he was better able to focus his attention on the housemistress.
She was younger than he’d first thought; mid-forties perhaps, but with her tear-stained face so pinched and drawn, and her hair so liberally streaked with grey, she looked older. She sat on the edge of the chair, hands folded in her lap, hunched over like some old crone, submissive, waiting. Her large, spaniel-like eyes followed his every move as if fearful of what he was going to say.
As the silence between them lengthened, her hand fluttered self-consciously to her hair as if suddenly aware of its disarray. She used her right hand. Her left hand remained immobile in her lap, curled and shrivelled, its shape more closely resembling that of a claw than a human hand. Nor was it only the hand that was misshapen, he realized; her left arm was withered and shorter than the right.
‘I know this must be painful for you. Miss Wolsey,’ he began, ‘but I’d like you to tell me in your own words exactly what happened this morning. Tell me what you saw and what you did when you went along to Monica’s room. I’m told you were taking her a Christmas gift?’
Jane Wolsey’s eyes went to a large, square package beside the television set. It was wrapped, he saw, in a heavy, gold metallic paper embossed with Merry Christmases in flowing copperplate. Broad red ribbon shot through with gold and silver threads encircled it, and a bow containing a cluster of tiny bells topped it off. The wrapping alone was a work of art; a bit overdone for his taste, but a beautiful creation nevertheless.
‘Yes,’ she said dully. ‘It was to have been Monica’s gift from her mother.’
‘Mrs Shaw had it sent here to you?’
Miss Wolsey shook her head. ‘No, no. I bought it and wrapped it myself,’ she said. ‘You see, when Mrs Shaw found that the Common Currency conference was going to continue on over the holidays, she asked the head - that is. Miss Crowther - to buy Monica a gift on her behalf. Miss Crowther turned the task over to me. Oh, not that I minded, of course, but I wanted it to be just right for Monica.’ Her eyes became moist, and Paget thought she was about to cry, but she lifted her head and carried on.
‘Girls of that age can be very difficult to buy for, you know, so I wanted to be there when Monica opened her gift. To make sure that she liked it. That’s why I took it along first thing this morning.’ She paused, frowned, and looked down at her hands. When she looked up again, Paget could see tears glistening in her eyes.
‘To be honest, there was another reason as well,’ she confessed. ‘You see, Monica was supposed to have gone home for Christmas like all the other girls, but when her mother telephoned at the last minute to say she couldn’t leave Brussels, there was no alternative but for Monica to remain here. I - I didn’t think she should be alone when she first woke up on Christmas morning. I felt someone ought to be there.’
The housemistress went on to say that when she received no answer to her knock she had entered Monica’s room. At first, she thought the girl was playing some sort of game, pretending to be asleep. ‘She was all wrapped up in the bedclothes as if she’d rolled herself in them,’ Miss Wolsey explained. ‘It was only when I went to shake her that I realized...’ A tear escaped and rolled slowly down her cheek. ‘I didn’t know what to do. She was so stiff. I kept telling myself she must have had some sort of seizure.’ Her voice dropped to a whisper. ‘And yet I knew...In my heart I knew.’
‘The ambulance men said you told them to hurry because the girl was very ill,’ Paget said. ‘Why did you say that if you knew she was dead?’
She avoided his eyes. ‘I - I couldn’t bring myself to say the words,’ she said huskily. ‘I really couldn’t. I know it must sound silly, but I was hoping - praying that I was wrong. She...Oh, God!’ Jane Wolsey jammed a tiny handkerchief against her mouth and stifled a sob. Tears filled her eyes and ran down her cheeks. ‘Why?’ she choked. ‘She was so young.’
Paget remained silent. There was nothing he could do or say that would help the housemistress in her grief. He waited patiently, and only when she was calm again did he continue.
Jane Wolsey said the last time she had seen Monica was somewhere between nine and nine thirty the previous evening. ‘I went in to make sure she was all right.’ With a gesture that spoke of habit she pulled the long sleeve of her dress down until the buttoned cuff almost covered her deformed hand.
‘You see, she’d been to a Christmas party at Glenacres in the afternoon. Glenacres is the riding stables where we send our girls for equestrian training. You may have seen the sign on your way here today. Actually, their lower paddock borders our own property behind the school, so it’s very convenient. The girls can walk across the fields and go in the back way rather than go all the way round by road.
‘Monica had some wine at the party - in fact she spilled some of it on her anorak. I took it from her as soon as she got back to try to get the stain out, but I’m afraid it may be there to stay.’ She rose and went over to a chair where a snow-white anorak had been spread to dry, and showed it to Paget. ‘You see?’ she said, holding it out like an offering. ‘She can’t possibly wear it like this. She can’t...’ Abruptly, she crushed it to her in a fierce embrace as if it were the girl herself, and began to weep.
Paget rose and went to her. He took the jacket from her and spread it once more on the chair, then led the housemistr
ess back to her own seat before the fire. ‘Perhaps a cup of tea...?’ he suggested, but she shook her head.
‘I’ll be all right,’ she said. ‘It was just...I’ll be all right.’ She wiped away the tears. ‘I’m sorry. Chief Inspector; what was it I was saying?’
‘You said Monica had some wine,’ he reminded her.
Jane Wolsey nodded. ‘Yes. I’ve no idea how much she had to drink, of course, but she should have had more sense. She knows - knew what it could do to her.’ She swallowed hard and forced herself to go on. ‘Unfortunately, at seventeen, rules don’t mean very much. I’m afraid. Luckily, Sally Pritchard was there and realized what might happen, so she brought Monica back here in her car. Sally works at Glenacres,’ she explained.
‘Not that Monica was actually ill, you understand, but being diabetic, she had to be careful. Any change in her routine such as over-exertion or excitement, and any change in her diet, especially something like wine, could bring on an attack, so I was glad Sally brought her back in the car when she did.’
‘This was late in the evening?’
‘Oh, no. The party was in the afternoon. It must have been about six when Sally brought her home in her car. I could see that Monica had overdone it; her eyes were too bright and her face was flushed. Just excitement, that’s all it was. That’s all it was,’ she repeated softly as if to reassure herself.
She remained quiet for a moment before going on. ‘I made sure that she checked her blood glucose level, of course, and had something to eat, and she took her insulin before getting into a warm bath. When I looked in later, she was already in bed and seemed to be settling down for an early night, so I said goodnight and turned the light out so that she could get some rest.’
‘I see. Tell me, did you see her take her insulin?’
The housemistress looked puzzled by the question. ‘Yes, I did, as a matter of fact, but I don’t see...’