‘Lived,’ the old man corrected him. ‘Not in years, the Scroopes. Lady Maude wouldn’t have it. Had a better kitchen put in t’other wing.’
Reardon let Heaviside lead them towards the stairs, suspecting that this section of the house, evidently the earliest part of Maxstead Court, would be something of a rabbit warren, though it was not really dark inside. It was daylight and most of the windows had lost their glazing anyway. But despite it being eighty in the shade outside, the place had a dank, clammy feeling to it, and he wasn’t wrong about it being a maze. As they went forward the silence engulfed them, the only sounds other than Heaviside’s cough their footsteps on the old floorboards, the creaking timbers of an ancient house, the scuttering of small creatures behind wainscotings.
‘Spooky, ain’t it?’ Gilmour said behind him.
Reardon grunted. He was no stranger to places where violet death had occurred. There was a reason for stories of them being haunted. Murder left a stain on the air, and vibrations behind it. Nor did it end there – it sent out ripples, its tentacles stretched out to touch everything and everyone who’d been connected with the victim in life. A cold finger touched his spine.
They progressed through what felt to be an endless labyrinth of passages and rooms, although any enquiry as to their functions was met with a shrug and a negative shake of the old man’s head. At last they reached the stairs, cordoned off by a warning rope stretched across the foot.
‘Thank you, we’ll manage on our own now,’ Reardon told him.
‘Find your own way, can you? Please yourself then, you got time to waste.’ As if he knew what the answer would be, without waiting for one Heaviside lifted the rope and ducked under.
Reardon could have asserted his authority and insisted, but decided it wasn’t worth arguing with this stubborn old cuss. They followed him, prepared to tread warily, but these particular steps proved to be stone, and dangerous only in that their centre was worn and hollowed by the passage of time and thousands of feet.
Once upstairs, following Heaviside towards the place they were looking for, Reardon conceded he had done well not to leave them to find their own way. They might have wandered around up here until the end of time amidst those countless rooms, most of their doors closed, and passages that appeared to be dead ends. Negotiating a rabbit warren would have been a doddle compared with this place! There, at last, the old man indicated what they sought. It was at the end of a narrow, windowless, perhaps ten-foot passage. Gilmour shone the torch they hadn’t needed until now as they approached it cautiously. They stared at a door barred across with several lengths of floorboard nailed to the frame to prevent it being opened – on to what would be nothing but space.
Heaviside watched them silently for a moment or two before turning away and growling, ‘Well, there ’tis. Can’t stand here talking all day.’
‘Just a minute, don’t go,’ Reardon said. ‘Somebody’s had those planks off and put them back again.’
The nails which had originally secured the timbers to the frame had evidently been prised out with some force, leaving splintered holes in the old woodwork, and then nailed back, but not quite in the same place. Some of the nails had bent when they were re-hammered in, and when Gilmour took hold of one of the boards and shook it, it threatened to come away. The door had been unbarred with malicious intent, leaving no doubt that it had been deliberately done to send Isabelle Blanchard to her death.
‘Well, maybe somebody has been at ’em,’ said Heaviside, ‘but I don’t know nothing about that. Except it weren’t me.’
Folbury’s fledgling detective section consisted so far only of Reardon himself, Gilmour and two detective constables. Jim Gargrave was new to the division, and Dave Pickersgill had been transferred from Inspector Waterhouse’s uniforms, here in Folbury, much to Waterhouse’s chagrin. The new section was a thorn in his flesh; he had been in sole charge until now, he couldn’t see the need for change, and Reardon’s tact was stretched to its limit to keep relations sweet.
Before the arrival of the two DCs to make a necessary, but what he reckoned – apart from the door that had been tampered with – would prove to be an almost certainly unproductive search of the empty wing, Reardon made his way to Miss Hillyard’s study. Meanwhile Gilmour, at his diligent best, took himself off to interview the maids, the housekeeper, and anyone else who might provide some information they could use. Not that he expected much from it, but it was a necessary preliminary before the business of real detecting, and you never knew. Since the newly formed detective division had begun to operate, there had been no murders in their line of work – except for one, when a workman in a sweet factory had shoved a colleague into a vat of boiling sugar after an argument, in full view of six witnesses. Murder, all right, but not a case needing many detecting skills on their part. There was enough to keep them busy, God alone knew, but it was mostly to do with petty crime. This was different. He was looking forward to getting stuck in, to justifying to the top brass that the newly formed detective force hadn’t been such a bad idea after all.
Reardon understood why his wife’s first interview with Miss Hillyard had given Ellen such a favourable impression. He felt the same way when they began their conversation. Remaining calm even in the face of the disaster which had befallen her school, she had given direct answers to his questions and didn’t waste time bemoaning the shattering discovery and the upheaval of the last few hours, nor the effect it was going to have on her pupils, although that had to be uppermost in her mind. She had gone so far as to say that she hoped the enquiry would be conducted as discreetly as possible, as she was concerned at the effect this was going to have on her girls, but at the same time assuring him that everyone concerned would cooperate fully in discovering how this dreadful accident could have happened.
Being married to Ellen meant that he’d met quite a few teachers in his time, and Edith Hillyard was a lot less intimidating than some of the headmistresses he had encountered, though he suspected she might show dragon’s claws when the occasion demanded. She looked so perfectly at home in her study, a quiet, tastefully furnished room, her little dog, after one sniff at his feet, obediently retired to curl up in its basket. Mistress of her own domain, Miss Hillyard, quietly confident, headmistress personified. The sort of woman you would implicitly trust your daughters to, without any worries. A safe pair of hands, as no doubt the politicians would have it. She was hiding her anxieties well, and he respected her for it, though he was hardly surprised. Never mind outward appearances, women in her position invariably had a core of steel; it was what got them where they were.
‘We’ll do all we can to help,’ she reiterated.
‘Thank you, I would appreciate that.’
An intelligent woman like her could not already have failed to draw the obvious conclusions. She, too, had seen what Ellen and Miss Draper had seen and must realize that very soon the truth of how the Frenchwoman had died must emerge, but if she wanted to keep up the fiction of accidental death for the moment, he was willing to go along with it. He had sympathy with her over that. Her school was still in the early stages of being established and its reputation could easily be damaged by any whiff that anything in its environment (or whatever had caused the death of the French teacher) might be dangerous. The scandal of a murder could finish it off completely.
He understood what she must be going through, but she had to be the starting point for their enquiries. ‘You understand it’s necessary to find out as much as we can about Mademoiselle Blanchard and her background?’
‘Of course. Though I don’t know that I can be much help.’
‘Let’s begin with how long she had worked here.’
‘She joined us in January, at the beginning of the new term. I needed a good French teacher rather quickly when the person I had appointed had to give back-word because she suddenly had to have an operation – a serious one, by all accounts. She didn’t know how long it would be before she could return, but fortunately s
he was able to recommend a temporary replacement.’ Mlle Blanchard, she explained, was a Frenchwoman who had previously been teaching English in France but had recently come to England. She hesitated. ‘Well, I met her, and found she spoke perfect English and indeed seemed highly suitable. As it turned out, I’d made the right decision – she proved to be an excellent teacher. You may imagine how upset I was when she decided to leave so suddenly, without giving me any notice. She said she had family problems at home, but she was vague and declined to say what they were.’
‘Home being France, I suppose? Where exactly?’
Another hesitation, then she shrugged. ‘I’m not quite sure.’
There was something going on here that he couldn’t quite put a finger on, other than a justifiable annoyance, or anger, at the woman’s desertion. ‘We need to inform her family, her next of kin, Miss Hillyard,’ he reminded her, surprised that she didn’t know where the teacher had come from.
‘I have an idea she didn’t have any family, but I think she must have come from somewhere in Alsace.’ She gave it a moment’s thought. ‘I believe the school where she taught was the Lycée Honoré de Balzac, in Metz, so I suppose they would have an address.’
‘You’ll have references from them?’
‘Actually, no, I haven’t.’ She bent from her smoothly polished, uncluttered desk and spoke to the little dog, which had emerged from its basket and was sniffing around Reardon’s feet. It responded immediately when she called, and she lifted it on to her knee, stroking its head with a large, capable hand. After a while, she went on, ‘She promised she would write and ask for them, and as I was desperate, I told her there was no need to wait for a reply before starting; she could begin immediately. I had no doubt they would be good. Yes, I do realize that sounds most … unprofessional. But Mlle Blanchard was only temporary and she had seemed like a godsend in the circumstances, and, as I said, she turned out excellently, so I didn’t bother when the references didn’t come. I was hoping she would stay on when it seemed that Miss Catherall’s illness was more serious than at first thought, and that it was unlikely she would be returning.’
No references? This seemed to him quite an oversight, but he let it pass. ‘I take it she lived in at the school?’
‘Of course.’
‘It would be helpful if we could see her room.’
‘You may, but I doubt it will be any use – she left nothing behind and it was thoroughly cleaned out when she went.’ She smiled. ‘We won’t be needing it, of course, now that your wife will be teaching here. May I say how delighted I am? I’m sure she will fit in well with us.’
‘I’m sure she will. Ellen is very adaptable.’ But he wasn’t to be deflected. ‘You say Mademoiselle Blanchard was already living in England when you offered her the post?’
‘That’s right. She may have been staying with her friend Miss Catherall, the teacher who was taken ill and recommended her, but I don’t know for certain.’
‘Was that the forwarding address she left when she went?’
‘She didn’t leave one, and I didn’t ask.’ She sighed and again began the rhythmic strokes on the golden fur of the little dog. If it had been a cat it would have purred; as it was, he – or she – emitted little snuffling noises to show its ecstasy. When Miss Hillyard spoke again he noticed her slightly heightened colour. ‘I’m afraid our last meeting was somewhat acrimonious. She left without notice at the beginning of the Easter holidays. Leaving me in the lurch, Inspector Reardon. Her excuses were feeble and, frankly, I wasn’t inclined to be sympathetic to her. She showed me a side to her character I hadn’t suspected; she was offhand and really rather rude. I won’t tolerate that sort of attitude from anyone – girls or staff. I wrote her a cheque for the salary she was owed and I have to say I was glad to see the back of her.’
It occurred to him that he would not like to be on the receiving end of it if he had crossed Miss Hillyard, especially if she felt she had right on her side. ‘In that case,’ he said, ‘we may have to trouble the lady she replaced, since she obviously knew her – Miss … Catherall, I think you said?’
She stood up and fetched a manila folder from a filing cabinet. ‘Phoebe Catherall. She lives with her mother, I believe.’ She wrote down an address in the Moseley district of Birmingham, and passed it over. ‘You can try, of course, but it’s doubtful if she’ll be well enough.’
‘Thank you. If not, the mother might know something. But I’ll speak to the other teachers first. Maybe they’ll remember more about Miss Blanchard and we won’t have to trouble either of them.’
Miss Hillyard allowed herself a small, relieved smile. ‘Maybe they will. They had slightly more to do with her on an everyday basis than I did.’ Pushing back her chair, she placed the little dog on the floor and made as if to rise, her smile indicating termination of the interview, but Reardon wasn’t finished yet.
‘The puzzle is, of course, why she came back to the school if she left it under unpleasant circumstances. And of course why she was in that empty part at all.’ Or indeed, he thought, if she had ever gone away at all, but had lain there, under that tarpaulin, all that time.
‘Yes, that question had occurred to me, too.’
‘Can you give me the precise date she left?’
That, too, she could supply. ‘Of course.’ She produced the necessary information, all neatly docketed in the manila folder. The date Isabelle Blanchard had started, the date she had left. Details of her salary. Everything except her past.
‘And when exactly did the building work on the school finish?’
He made a note of the date she gave, the first week in April. Before the dead woman had left. So at what point after that had her body landed on the pile of rubble and been left to rot, hidden under the tarpaulin?
He then learnt the story of how the builder, a Mr Frank Broderick, had died, leaving not only the restoration work unfinished, but his affairs in disorder. The untidy state of the site was accounted for when she told him how his team of workmen, with wages still owed to them and no prospect of payment, had downed tools and walked out. It was all taking time to sort out, but she was in touch with the young fellow who had been Broderick’s assistant, and who was hopeful of restarting the business. He was, in fact, due to come here for a meeting with her the following day.
‘Good. I’m anxious to have a word with him in any case, but it can wait until then. We shall need to speak to the pupils, too, the older ones at least.’
Of a sudden, she was a tigress, ready to defend her young. ‘Is that really necessary? How can they possibly know anything about this unfortunate occurrence?’
‘I’m afraid it will be necessary. It’s surprising what information turns up, even in the unlikeliest of situations, even from children. Sometimes especially from children.’ He gave her his most reassuring smile. ‘And we’re not ogres.’
‘Of course not.’ She sighed. ‘Very well. But please remember, they are vulnerable young girls. I won’t have them upset in any way.’
‘I’m afraid we’ll have to be nosing around here for some time, but we’ll try not to be a nuisance and we won’t disrupt your school routine, or your pupils.’ He had tried to assuage her misgivings, but hoped he had got the message through to her that they weren’t here for a joyride.
She eyed him steadily. ‘What I said applies to my staff, too – all of whom I can vouch for, I might say. I was very careful when choosing them. I’d known them all previously, one way or another, apart from Daphne Cash, the games mistress, who came in response to an advert.’
‘Small world. It must have been an advantage, knowing those who applied.’
She smiled again. ‘It didn’t happen like that. I invited them to join me.’
THREE
Talking to the rest of the staff hadn’t taken long, mainly because none of the teachers could throw any more light on Mam’selle’s circumstances than Miss Hillyard had been able to do. Reardon had given the nod to Gilmour, letting him do the
talking while he himself listened, watched and tried to sum the speakers up. It had soon become evident that Gilmour wouldn’t be required to do much talking. All of them were well accustomed to taking the floor, expressing themselves and explaining facts to others, but in the end there was nothing more to be gained, apart from the fact that Mlle Blanchard had evidently been at some pains to keep her previous life hidden, had not in fact allowed herself to become close enough to anyone for them to have inadvertently discovered what she didn’t want to reveal.
It had been a cold, calculated and brutal way of killing anyone, and Reardon soon came to the conclusion that it was not one he could readily associate with any of the women they’d just listened to. The main feeling he came away with was that they were all pretty much what they seemed on the whole; intelligent and well adjusted, as far as he could tell so far, their lives fulfilled by using their brains on something other than simply being housewives and mothers, if only by teaching sometimes reluctant schoolgirls.
He didn’t lose sight, however, of the fact that there were bound to be tensions among any group of women living so closely together, though they were not evident here on the surface. But who knew? One of them might have known Isabelle Blanchard previously and have borne her a grudge. A lingering grudge, enough to lure her back to get rid of her permanently? It was possible, anything was possible, and sooner or later, they would all have to be seen separately, but it wasn’t yet a priority.
The one who didn’t seem to fit in with the group was the art mistress, Jocasta Keith. Saying little, sitting aloof and smoking constantly – this last to the disapproval of Miss Elliott at least, the oldest of the other teachers. He decided he should talk to her alone quite soon. She might be more forthcoming away from the other women. The discontent he sensed in her didn’t fit in with his theories about these women being happy in their chosen sphere. In fact, her impatience with the whole situation was obvious, holding herself aloof as she did, as if the whole matter was of no concern to her, and not troubling to hide her feelings.
The Property of Lies Page 4