A Trio of Murders: A Perfect Match, Redemption, Death of a Dancer

by Jill McGown

  Theoretically, anyone could have come into the school grounds and attacked Mrs Hamlyn as she walked across to the junior dormitory. Realistically, it was unlikely that a total stranger would chance on a night when everyone was safely in one place, rather than coming or going. Everyone except the victim, that was. She was using the short cut from the Hall to the dormitory, alone and in the darkness. Anyone in the school, however, could have known that; it had hardly been a secret. Any of the guests could have followed her.

  And statistically it was more likely to be someone she knew. Lloyd sighed. It was the same problem as Judy had with the thefts. Too many suspects.

  Allison glanced round the dark playing-field. ‘How wide a search are you doing?’ he asked.

  ‘Ten feet either side of the footpath,’ Lloyd said. ‘To start with.’ Daylight was still hours away. He sighed again.

  ‘Do you want any more photographs?’ asked the thin man with the beard. ‘The doctor’s got all he wants for tonight. I’ll be back in daylight.’

  ‘Fine.’ Allison sighed, too.

  It was the universal reaction to something that could never be righted. Insurance replaced burgled goods; shop windows could be renewed; supermarkets could mark up their prices to take account of shoplifting. But, no matter what anyone did, the young woman on the ground was no more. Lloyd’s anger might help him get to the bottom of it, but it wouldn’t bring her back.

  ‘Bob Sandwell’s been talking to the catering staff, I understand,’ the chief superintendent said, as the photographer thankfully packed away his camera.

  Detective Constable Sandwell seemed to discover things by osmosis. Already, he was the one everyone asked if they wanted to know which building was which; he doubtless knew all the catering staff by their first names. Lloyd waited to hear what he had discovered from the ladies.

  ‘And it seems that Mrs Hamlyn had something of a reputation,’ said Allison. ‘To put it mildly.’

  ‘Does that matter?’ said Judy’s voice, from behind them, startling them. ‘Sir,’ she added, with a delayed, acid politeness that bordered on insubordination.

  ‘All right, Sergeant,’ he said good-humouredly. ‘I’m not suggesting it was her own fault.’ He looked down at Diana Hamlyn’s corpse.

  Carefully, Freddie turned the body, and continued his patient eyes-only examination before taking samples. He finished with a minute description of the still-frozen ground below the body, and a final taking of the temperature.

  ‘We’ll be in a better position once we’ve had the postmortem results,’ said Allison, for want of something to say, in Lloyd’s opinion.

  ‘. . . as at two fifty-five hours,’ Freddie said, dictating the body temperature to his assistant, whose own didn’t look much higher. He gave her the ground temperature, and looked up at them.

  ‘That’s about it until I can examine her properly,’ he said, packing away swabs and tapes. ‘She can go to the mortuary now.’ He stood up, flexing his back. ‘Is there somewhere Kathy can go and thaw out?’ he asked, taking the notebook from her.

  ‘Yes,’ said Sandwell eagerly, appearing from nowhere. ‘I’ll show you,’ he said to Kathy, who gratefully followed his tall figure out of the light, towards warmth.

  ‘How long?’ asked Judy.

  ‘I’d say between two and five hours,’ Freddie said with suspicious promptness. He was normally very loath to give estimates at any time, and never liked to be asked before the post-mortem.

  Lloyd looked at his watch. Between ten and one. But they already knew that, of course. She’d been seen in the Hall at ten, and the treble nine call had been made at ten past one. ‘Thank you,’ he said to the smiling Freddie.

  ‘What do you expect? There’s dozens of factors to be taken into consideration.’ He stepped carefully back, out of the shelter.

  ‘Is there a chance of narrowing it down?’ Lloyd asked into the darkness.

  ‘For once there might be,’ Freddie’s disembodied voice said. ‘She’d just had dinner for a start.’ He came back into the light. ‘And the temperature readings are interesting – I think I’ll be able to narrow it down a little. She was nice and fresh.’

  He couldn’t disguise his enthusiasm, and never tried to. Freddie liked dead bodies.

  ‘Sir?’ A young uniformed constable looked uncertainly from the chief superintendent to Lloyd. ‘Mr Waters has just come in. He’s the art teacher – the one that was missing. We’ve asked him to wait in the Hall.’

  ‘All yours,’ said Allison. ‘I’ll have another word with the head.’ He turned back. ‘He seems to have been a bit liberal with the medicinal brandy,’ he said. ‘I don’t think you’ll get much out of him until the morning. Shall I tell him to expect you then?’

  Allison left as Sandwell delivered Freddie’s assistant back to him, and they roared off in Freddie’s powerful car, with little regard for the younger residents, who until then had slept on, unaware of the drama going on.

  Lloyd and Judy walked into the building, through a cloakroom in which only Mrs Hamlyn’s coat remained.

  ‘She didn’t mean to be out in the rain for long,’ Judy said.

  The catering staff moved round the Great Hall in a silent pall of disbelief, having been told that they could at last clear away. The party’s abrupt and shocking end was evidenced by the balloons still trapped in the netting slung from the rafters.

  They found Mr Waters sitting at a cluttered table, wearing jeans, a thick sweater, and a surly expression.

  Lloyd introduced himself and Judy, and asked Mr Waters where he had been, immediately eliciting hostility.

  ‘Why should that concern you? What’s going on?’

  ‘A crime’s been committed here,’ Lloyd said.

  Waters raised his eyebrows. ‘So? I wasn’t here, was I?’

  ‘What time did you leave here, Mr Waters?’ Judy asked, her notebook at the ready.

  ‘How the hell should I know?’

  ‘Were you at the dinner here tonight?’

  ‘Yes. I left early.’

  ‘Would you mind telling us why?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Lloyd sat down beside Judy, opposite Waters. ‘Someone was murdered here tonight,’ he said, his voice almost conversational. ‘Would you know anything about that?’

  Waters’s eyes widened. ‘Murdered?’ he repeated. ‘Who?’

  ‘A Mrs Diana Hamlyn,’ said Lloyd, watching carefully for Waters’s reaction. It wasn’t any of the things he had expected.

  ‘Diana?’ he said. ‘Murdered?’ He looked almost amused. ‘Are you telling me that Hamlyn finally cracked?’

  Lloyd sat back in his chair and regarded Waters for some moments; until Waters began to look uncomfortable. ‘Do you have some reason to think that Mr Hamlyn murdered his wife?’ he asked at last.

  ‘I’d have murdered her,’ he replied.

  Lloyd smiled coldly. ‘But you didn’t,’ he said.

  Waters shook his head. ‘She wasn’t my wife,’ he said.

  ‘And had she been your wife? What would have been your motive for murder?’ asked Lloyd.

  ‘Only that she was screwing half the men in this school,’ Waters replied.

  ‘Does that include you?’ Judy asked, with polite interest, not looking up from her notebook.

  Judy waited for a reply, as Lloyd watched Waters argue with himself.

  She looked up. ‘Does that include you?’ she asked again, as though he might not have heard.

  ‘Yes, all right. It did, at one time.’

  ‘Mrs Hamlyn was raped,’ said Lloyd.

  A broad smile spread over Waters’s features. ‘Raped?’ he repeated incredulously. ‘Diana Hamlyn, raped? You have to be joking.’

  ‘I wish I were. But it would be a joke in very bad taste.’

  ‘Who the hell would need to rape Diana?’ he said.

  ‘Why did you leave the dinner?’ Judy asked.

  Waters didn’t reply.

  ‘Where did you go?’

  Water
s just looked at her without speaking.

  ‘What were you doing?’ she tried.

  ‘Minding my own fucking business,’ said Waters.

  ‘That’ll do, Mr Waters,’ said Lloyd.

  Waters clapped his hand to his mouth. ‘Oh, am I offending the lady?’ he asked.

  ‘I wouldn’t know,’ said Lloyd. ‘You’re offending me.’ He got up, and walked round the table to Waters, bending down to talk to him. ‘The English language is a very flexible instrument, Mr Waters. The use of entirely inapposite adjectives offends me very deeply.’

  It was a lie, of course. Lloyd could throw in as many inapposite adjectives as the next man. But Judy would never forgive him if he admitted that it was using them in her presence that he found offensive. He stood up, and looked again at Sam Waters. ‘I take it you didn’t attend the dinner dressed like that?’ he asked.

  Waters raised his eyebrows. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Is my dress something else that offends you?’

  ‘Not in the least,’ said Lloyd smoothly. ‘But you’ve changed your clothes, Mr Waters. And I’d rather like to see the ones you were wearing earlier.’

  ‘What?’ Waters stared at him. ‘You think I did it?’

  ‘You won’t tell us what you were doing,’ said Lloyd.

  ‘It’s none of your bloody business, if you’ll forgive another inapposite adjective.’

  ‘Oh, but this time the adjective is right, and you’re wrong. It is a bloody business – but it is mine. And I’d like to see the clothes you were wearing this evening.’

  ‘Don’t you need some sort of warrant?’ Waters said, and got up. ‘Oh, what the f—’ He put a finger to his lips. ‘Oops,’ he said. ‘Hell. Is that all right?’

  Lloyd ignored him.

  ‘They’re in my flat. And since I’ve had a bloody awful evening which culminated in being sent five miles out of my way by a road diversion, only to be accused of murder when I finally get here, that is where I’m going.’

  Lloyd smiled again, with no more warmth than before. ‘Then, we had better come with you,’ he said.

  ‘Suit yourself,’ he said, striding away.

  Lloyd had rarely disliked anyone as much in so short a time. But, he reminded himself as he and Judy followed Waters out of the Hall, that didn’t make him a murderer.

  It just made him an inapposite adjective good candidate.

  Chapter Three

  Philip Newby lay awake in the darkness. It was cold in the little unheated bedroom, but there were beads of perspiration on his temple as he lay still clothed on top of the bed, afraid to move. He would have to move, sooner or later. It would be daylight in a few hours, and he could hardly walk around like this. Thank God it was Saturday.

  He swallowed, his mouth dry, and forced himself to sit up, closing his eyes as the pain gripped his lower back. Perhaps he wouldn’t be walking around at all by the morning. But he could sit up; he could ease himself off the bed. He stood one-legged, and moved round the room, supporting his weight on the chair-back, the dressing-table, the end of the bed, until he reached the light-switch.

  He could see himself in the dressing-table mirror. Bent over like an old man, his blood-stained shirt hanging out, his jacket and trousers smeared with mud. He had to straighten up. He had to. The image went as he screwed his eyes up against the pain, and lifted his head, wanting to howl like the wounded animal he was. Little dots of light swam in front of his eyes when he opened them, but when they cleared he could see himself again. Erect. And that was a joke, he thought.

  Now, no joke – he had to get the clothes off. It was difficult enough at the best of times. He weighed up the pros and cons, and decided to start with the trousers. It was a slow, agonising operation.

  He had got the trousers and the jacket off, and was standing in his shirt and underpants when he heard Sam’s key turn in the door. One hand on the desk, he allowed as little of his weight as possible to fall on his bad leg as his good one kicked the clothes out of sight under the bed. Just in case he was too stiff to get rid of them in the morning.

  He could hear voices; a woman’s, and at least one other man’s. He could hear the rise and fall of a voice that wasn’t Sam’s.

  The wardrobe was just within his reach, and he pulled open the door, fumbling amongst the clothes for the stick. It was the middle of the night, and the voices sounded urgent, official. He had no desire to be discovered in this condition.

  His hand grasped the metal, and he pulled the stick out. At last he could move more freely. He got into his dressing-gown, pulling the belt tight, covering his shirt. Perhaps the pain was lessening, he told himself, as he opened the door.

  ‘What’s going on?’ he asked, his voice failing as the agony seized him again.

  He could hardly think, as the man introduced himself. Chief Inspector Lloyd, he heard, and those three words were all that went through his head, like a mantra, as he tried to cope with the pain. Other words fought their way through. This is Sergeant Hill. Sorry to have disturbed you at this time of night. Serious incident.

  ‘Would you be better sitting down, Mr Newby?’

  He didn’t know if he could sit down. Or get up again if he did. He shook his head.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Sam asked, the first time he had spoken.

  Philip nodded, teeth clenched together.

  ‘What happened to you?’ the sergeant asked.

  ‘Car crash,’ he said.

  ‘When did it happen?’

  ‘Eighteen months ago. It’s not usually as bad as this.’

  ‘Well, Mr Waters?’ asked Chief Inspector Lloyd.

  ‘It’s over there,’ Sam said, jerking his head towards a large box in the corner of the room. ‘Help yourself.’

  The chief inspector went over, and took out the suit, his eyes widening when he saw it. Philip frowned as he watched him examine it.

  ‘It’s damp,’ said the chief inspector.

  Sam shrugged.

  ‘Is it hired?’

  ‘Borrowed,’ said Sam. ‘Do you want to take it away? Examine it for blonde hairs?’

  ‘Yes, thank you. Since you have been kind enough to offer. Do you want to tell us where you were tonight between ten and midnight, Mr Waters? It would save a great deal of time.’

  Sam told the chief inspector that he had no intention of divulging this information, but he took only two words to do it.

  Philip stared at him, at the chief inspector, at the sergeant.

  ‘Very well, Mr Waters,’ said Lloyd. ‘We’ll be back, I’ve no doubt.’

  Philip marshalled his wits, and looked again at Sam. ‘What’s this about?’ he asked.

  Sam smiled. ‘Someone raped Diana,’ he said.

  ‘Raped her?’ said Philip. ‘What do you mean, raped her?’

  Matthew had hidden the evidence somewhere which was itself a challenge; he’d have to get rid of it all now, but for the moment he was safe. He had got back to the Hall, and had asked Mrs Treadwell to dance; as far as he could tell, he hadn’t even been missed, but it didn’t really matter if he had.

  The ball had been almost over when Hamlyn had come stumbling in like a drunk; Matthew had been contemplating whether it would be going over the top to invite Mrs Treadwell up for the last waltz. It was, after all, conceivable that Mr Treadwell would feel obliged to take his wife on to the floor, but he hadn’t danced with her all night, and Matthew had thought she might appreciate the gesture. But the moment never came; Hamlyn had run blindly up to the top table, Treadwell had stared at him for a moment, then had moved uncertainly towards the dais, and the music had petered out. Then he had said that there had been a serious incident, and that the police would have to be called, and asked everyone to stay until they got there.

  Matthew was awake, working out what to do next, how much – if anything – he should tell the police. The others hadn’t talked much about what had happened; they had silently got into bed, and eventually had gone to sleep.

  But Matthew watched. From th
e window, he could see the line of police cars at the far side of the playing-fields. He was stiff and cold, after hours of watching. Two of the cars still sat there, but the one the sergeant had come in had moved, and just five minutes ago he had watched it sweep round the road to where it now stood outside the junior dormitory. Sergeant Hill and the man had got out of it, and had gone into the building, presumably up to the Hamlyns’ flat, where the light had burned all night.

  Matthew didn’t like it when he didn’t know exactly what was happening. He even contemplated the fire-escape again, to eavesdrop, if he could. He abandoned that idea, but he was going to carry on watching.

  All night, if he had to.

  ‘Raped?’ Caroline Knight stared at Chief Inspector Lloyd.

  ‘Yes, Mrs Knight,’ he said, with just a trace of a Welsh accent. ‘I’m afraid so.’

  She had been told, when someone had finally got round to telling her, that Diana was dead. That her body had been found on the playing-field. No more.

  ‘Does that surprise you, Mrs Knight?’ The cool question came from the sergeant. Caroline remembered her from last month, when she had come about the thefts.

  ‘Well . . .’ Caroline felt a little uncomfortable under the sergeant’s steady brown gaze. ‘No one’s really told me what’s going on. I knew someone had . . .’ She broke off, not wanting to say the word. ‘But I had no idea that she had been raped.’ She sat down. ‘That’s dreadful,’ she said.

  Sergeant Hill wrote something in her notebook, and Chief Inspector Lloyd took over.

  ‘Forgive me, Mrs Knight,’ he said. ‘But you did seem a little more surprised than shocked.’

  ‘Yes,’ she admitted. ‘It was silly of me.’

  Robert Hamlyn was being attended to by Matron, and Caroline had found herself in sole charge of the junior dormitory by default. The police had asked if they could speak to her, but had said that it could wait until the next day. Caroline had said they could come in; she couldn’t sleep anyway. But she hadn’t been prepared for the almost hostile sergeant.

  ‘Shall I tell you some of the other reactions we’ve had?’ Sergeant Hill was saying, as she made a business of turning back the pages of her notebook. ‘We’ve had “Who the hell would need to rape Diana Hamlyn?”, and “What do you mean, raped?” Now you say you’re surprised. Why?’