‘If it’s there, I will. If it’s there . . .’
‘Someone’s having an affair with an “undesirable”, he said – an affair that became murder.’
Tamsin snorted a little, amused air pushed through the nose, signalling disdain: ‘Has it ever struck you, Abbot, that the reason he might know the murderer, is that he and they are one and the same?’
It was the gardener, Mr Thomas,
who told them about the car, a little before the school clock struck eight. There was a red hatchback parked awkwardly off the road, just beyond the school gates. It was driven into the hedge and the boot hatch was open . . . but there was no visible damage to the vehicle.
‘I ain’t touched nothing,’ said the gardener as they approached the vehicle. ‘So I don’t know if he’s alive.’
‘Someone’s in there?’
‘I think as much.’
‘Well, who’s in there?’
Peter and Tamsin walked side-by-side across the school lawns and onto the gravel driveway.
‘Do you know the driver?’ Tamsin pressed.
‘I can’t say I know him, no,’ said Mr Thomas. He’d been at the school for less than a year and kept himself to himself. He preferred plants to people, less trouble. And while they’d never found the aconite that had killed his predecessor, he remained wary of the flower. Some had been injured just smelling it, it was well known.
‘So it could be anybody?’ she said, irritated. This probably had nothing to do with the school – it could simply be an RTA for Traffic to deal with. She had bigger fish to fry.
‘I just thought you might like to look, what with the murders. I mean, it may be nothing . . .’
‘Of course we’d like to look, Mr Thomas,’ said Peter. ‘We all need each other’s eyes right now. Especially gardeners’ eyes – because gardeners see everything.’
‘I saw a strange one on Sunday afternoon,’ he said. ‘And that’s a fact.’
‘A strange what?’ said Peter.
‘Thought she was a woman, I did – at first, like.’
‘Who?’
‘But it turned out to be a man! Lucky I didn’t kiss ’er, eh?’
They were close to the vehicle, almost able to see in. Tamsin gloved her hands in rubber, and peered through the open driver’s window. And then pulled back.
‘Bad?’ asked Peter.
‘Bad,’ said Tamsin, who then moved forward towards the car window again.
‘One adult male,’ she said, carefully opening the door. The driver was still in the driver’s seat – in a manner. But his upper body was elsewhere, wrenched across to where a passenger would have been, twisted and face down. Feeling sick, Tamsin reached forward and took the pulse from the arm hanging down from the seat . . . he was dead. Well, of course he was dead! There was a tight noose round his traumatized neck – and a rope which Tamsin traced out through the car boot to where she could now see Peter standing, by a tree.
‘A sad use of an oak tree,’ said Peter.
‘So it’s suicide?’ she said, extracting herself from the car and joining the abbot.
The former monk contemplated the scene before him. It didn’t seem complicated.
‘He tied the rope round the tree, returned to the car, noosed it round his neck – and then drove at speed away from the tree.’ Tamsin looked disapproving, like one handed a dirty nappy. She shook her head as she imagined the brief but messy drama so recently played out in this quiet rural idyll.
‘He’s still warm,’ she added.
‘But not warm enough, sadly. We had a similar death in the desert, a Bedouin boy – only he tied himself to a camel and rode him with a passion – until his neck broke. He flew off the back of the camel like one dragged, the animal careering forward.’
‘Could there have been someone else in the car?’
She didn’t have time for the desert.
‘To what purpose?’
‘Assisted dying? I don’t know – but we can’t assume.’ She wasn’t interested in Peter’s opinion, not on this matter. ‘We’ll wait for forensics,’ she said firmly, waving to the approaching police cars. It was SOCO’s turn to pick over the tragedy, with the science of everything at their fingertips – except the science of ‘Why?’
Why would Terence Standing, the bursar of Stormhaven Towers, wish to kill himself – and in this manner?
With the handover made,
a surprisingly quick affair – clearly the first job of the day – Tamsin and the abbot walked back towards the school.
‘You take me to the nicest of places,’ said Peter.
‘I don’t know why you’re grumbling. There can hardly be a more scenic setting in all England than this.’
She didn’t need grumbling now.
‘But it’s also the valley of death,’ said Peter. ‘These Sussex-flint walls are getting more bloodstained by the day.’
‘You’re surprisingly squeamish, aren’t you? But there’s good news.’
‘Really?’
‘One less suspect.’
Peter winced.
‘That’s reassuring only to the police, Tamsin. You need to decentre a little.’ Tamsin snorted a little. ‘This particular event is going to shock people.’
‘I wouldn’t be so sure. No one likes a bursar in my experience.’
And Tamsin thought people who killed themselves were stupid, anyway; she couldn’t manage sympathy.
‘He looked at peace,’ said Peter.
‘You think?’
‘Such an anxious soul in life with those darting eyes . . . peace becomes him. He lost it somewhere along the way.’ Tamsin looked blank – the dead were just the dead to her. ‘But the question is: why would Terence wish to kill himself – and why now?’
‘Am I missing something here?’ she asked.
‘You do have form, Tamsin.’
‘I’m presuming that we haven’t just lost a suspect; but that we’ve found our murderer,’ she said confidently. ‘Well, aren’t you presuming that? Or are you still swaying in the wind, up there on the fence?’ Peter chuckled as Tamsin shook her head. ‘He’s the murderer, no question. And I resent his escape from the due processes of justice.’
‘One of the less delightful escapes,’ said Peter, remembering the yanked body across the car seat, the deep incision of the rope on his soft neck. The white corpse had the look of a dead pig about it. ‘And anyway, what more due process could there be? He’s effectively hanged himself, carried out the death penalty on the state’s behalf . . . though as I say, I’m not sure I walk with you in your assumption.’
‘You mean you don’t agree that Terence was the killer?’ Peter’s face was non-committal. ‘Don’t disregard the obvious, Abbot.’
‘My obvious appears to be different to yours.’
‘So what broke him if it wasn’t guilt?’
‘Oh, it was guilt, I think – but not the guilt of a murderer.’
‘Oh?’
‘He was sobbing in the chapel, when he’s not the type to sob . . . and certainly not about his mother. So what broke him?’
‘He knew what he was about to do.’
‘Anticipatory guilt? No, Judas sobbed after the betrayal – not before. I was thinking more about his relationship with Benedict. Remember the desperate note?’ Tamsin listened. ‘Well, what could be worse for a gay-bashing fundamentalist than to discover he’s gay? He’ll have to bash himself now and that could drive anyone to suicide. Consider the forces against him – the anger of God, persecution from the pulpit, dismissal from the congregation, ostracized in the street by former friends – deep shame! And shame is a violent friend when stirred . . . and I think it was stirred . . . I think someone was stirring quite hard.’
Tamsin, seasoned detective, shook her head.
‘That’s a speech that
gives circumstantial evidence a bad name.’
‘I suspect it’s also true.’
They’d reached the stone arch of the school entrance. They could still see the off-road car, coated figures swarming around it like white bees in spilt red wine, busy with their tasks, each with their role, working wordlessly towards a particular end: an understanding of the last few minutes of the life of Terence Standing.
‘So I’ll handle this meeting, all right?’ said Tamsin, pushing her dark hair back from her face. It was eight thirty now and time for a bleak meet and greet in the common room. Peter thought she was particularly attractive in the wind . . . but wouldn’t be saying. Instead, he simply nodded and they turned left down the long corridor of notice boards, team photos and abandoned school books, somehow left behind for the summer, not part of anyone’s holiday plans. They walked in silence towards the common room where the murderer and friends awaited them.
While Tamsin spoke,
Peter watched. He watched as Tamsin told the assembled cast of the tragic death of Terence Standing. He’d met them only forty-eight hours earlier, though it felt like a lifetime . . . as though these people had always been around in his life. Depressed Geoff, ambitious Penny, hard Cressida, repressed Ferdinand, desperate Bart, controlled Benedict, intriguing Holly, hidden Crispin. Who here was pulling such furious and vindictive strings?
Peroxide Penny, Director of Girls, had been particularly upset about the death of Jennifer at Tide Mills. Next to her was Cressida Cutting, widow of the headmaster pushed from Stormhaven Head. The statistics at least said that she was the killer: ‘It’s always the family.’ And then there was Geoff Ogilvie, early fifties and widening round the girth, though persisting with squash, all thrash and perspiration. He was Director of Boys . . . though facing demotion had Jamie lived. Beside him, Father Ferdinand Heep, the mannered school chaplain who firmly denied any indiscretion with Holly Hope-Walker, the head girl, who swore it was true. ‘A very vivid imagination,’ Ferdinand had said of her. And two seats away, the ginger hair of Bart Betters – the restless body-stretching Director of Wellbeing and a recent irritation to Peter in Loner’s Wood. Further round, and minding his own business, mousy-haired Crispin Caudwell, the head boy, son of a car salesman, a quiet soul – but cautious? Peter wasn’t sure . . . there was something rather bold about him. And, of course, the new arrival to the group, Benedict Bleake – smiling at the mystery which surrounded him.
‘Who the hell is he?’ asked Geoff, when Benedict appeared in the doorway, five minutes after Tamsin and Peter. Benedict had placed himself at the back.
‘He lives here,’ said Peter to bemused looks all round. ‘You may have seen him around.’
Benedict looked faintly embarrassed – but only faintly. For a recluse, he did not seem to mind the attention.
‘He’s a schools inspector,’ said Penny. ‘I remember him now.’
‘A white lie, I’m afraid,’ said Benedict, with self-deprecating charm. ‘Though I do inspect the school in my own little way. I apologize for my deception, though, and wholeheartedly because I hold the truth most dear, value it highly . . . generally speaking.’
‘That’s the ghost!’ said Crispin, a little disturbed.
‘Again, not strictly true,’ said Benedict. ‘Though, of course, I’m sorry if I scared anyone. I believe I had the abbot hiding behind the grandfather clock around midnight!’
There was laughter at that, including from Tamsin, who looked at him quizzically.
‘I’m Benedict Bleake, by the way,’ he said. ‘And that’s Bleake with an “e”, so happier than it sounds – distant relation of the great Nathaniel.’
There was some surprise in the room.
‘And who’s “the great Nathaniel”?’ asked Bart, in a slightly dismissive tone. He didn’t like this intruder. He wasn’t part of things.
‘He founded this place,’ said Benedict, instant chill replacing charm. ‘Though it was a rather different school in those days . . . not the whore of the rich.’ It was spoken in a matter-of-fact way as something self-evident. But the words offended the gathering, stilled them . . . how quickly the atmosphere had changed.
‘Did anyone speak with Terence this morning?’ asked Tamsin.
There was no response.
‘Well, I did, I suppose,’ said Cressida.
‘You suppose?’
‘We were both making a cup of tea in the kitchen here.’
‘At what time?’
‘Around six thirty.’
‘And how did he seem?’
‘His normal self. I mean, what do you want me to say? One doesn’t wish to speak ill but one never felt close to Terence. He was always polite enough – but never what you’d call warm.’
And I’d say the same of you, Doctor, thought Tamsin with admiration.
‘We walked back down the corridor together, and then parted when we got to his room.’
‘He went inside with his tea – and you didn’t see him again?’
‘Correct.’
There was a silence in the room. Was that it? Morning niceties, a cup of tea and then – well . . .
‘What did you speak about,’ asked Peter, leaning forward in his seat to up the pressure a little.
‘Oh, I hardly remember,’ said Cressida, as if the question was ridiculous. ‘It was early and I’m an owl not a lark.’
She hoped for some comic effect here; for supportive grunts from other owls who couldn’t remember anything until midday . . . despite teaching three lessons before. But no grunts came, no affirming smiles – because somehow Terence deserved more, this was the feeling. You may be more an owl than a lark but these were his last words on earth, for God’s sake! What did he say?
‘I’m aware it was early, Cressida, but it was also this morning, so recent . . . you must remember something.’
Perhaps she genuinely doesn’t remember, thought Peter; perhaps she only ever pretends to listen to anyone. Who knows whether the doctor is listening in the surgery? One or two questions, quick diagnosis, then let’s get to the end game as quickly as possible: the prescription. That’s all they want, that’s all they’ve come for – and then they’ll leave, pathetically happy and feeling better already.
‘He asked me if I believed in heaven,’ she said to some shocked reaction.
‘A question even an owl might remember,’ said Peter.
‘Well, I was a bit surprised, yes – and because I didn’t know what to say, I said “Why do you ask?” And he said it didn’t matter, and asked me where the sugar was kept, which was obviously not true – I mean, him saying that it didn’t matter. But then, you know, if he doesn’t want to talk about it . . .’
And more particularly, if you don’t want to talk about it, thought Peter, before Cressida added: ‘Well, what would you have said, Ferdinand?’
‘Me? I would have said, “Of course there’s a heaven!”’
‘Well, that’s your job, isn’t it – to offer some light at the end of the tunnel. It isn’t my job.’
‘The light is also my belief, Cressida.’
‘Really? Then why don’t we see it?’
She was angry. She felt too much self-righteousness in the room, as if everyone else would have been this wonderful counsellor, easing Terence away from his suicidal thoughts. Now she remembered why she’d had nothing to do with the common room mob before Jamie’s death. Or only to hold a glass of champagne with them on special occasions, end-of-term things, ‘drinks at the headmaster’s’ – thank God for outside caterers.
‘We’ll need to speak to you all again,’ said Tamsin, ‘so if you could stay in or around the common room for the rest of the morning, we’d be grateful.’
‘Can we go to our rooms?’ asked Crispin.
‘Not with Holly!’ said Penny, ‘unless there’s an adult present.’
‘We ar
e adults,’ said Crispin, fixing her with a look. ‘And from what I hear, you never had an adult present with your gay friend.’
There was a stunned silence in the common room, all eyes focused on the Director of Girls. Penny was blushing, though whether in rage, embarrassment or shock was hard to tell. Tamsin intervened.
‘Yes, you can all go to your rooms – as long as you’ve signed up for an interview slot. In the meantime, keep your doors locked . . . and don’t go to sleep please, or we might imagine you’re dead.’
She didn’t wish to leave them in any way settled.
The hours between
ten and midday that Tuesday were taken up with further interviews, starting with Penny. She’d recently been the victim of aggressive innuendo by none other than the cautious and usually silent Crispin. His father, as Penny well knew, was a mere second-hand car salesman, if a rather moneyed one – with new offices in Düsseldorf and Qatar. No one was quite sure if there was a mother around; he certainly spoke more of his father, if he spoke of them at all. There was a rumour his mother had died of cancer, but one didn’t like to ask and it was his father who came to things, school events . . . when he could leave the curved delights of the showroom office.
‘So what are we to make of Crispin’s comment?’
Penny feigned incomprehension.
‘Back there, in the common room,’ said Tamsin, clarifying.
‘I have absolutely no idea. You’ll have to ask him.’
‘Well, I’m sure we will.’
‘I was just having a joke. We’ve always thought there was something between Holly and Crispin, so I was trying to lighten the atmosphere. It was just fun – and suddenly he explodes! Typical teenager – his father is a second-hand-car salesman.’
‘Well, he didn’t really explode, Penny,’ said Peter. ‘He made an observation.’
‘An observation? You call relational smut an observation? You’re as bad as the teenagers, Abbot.’
‘I have never imagined otherwise. The teenager in me has never quite been calmed, even if I wish it were otherwise. But in the meantime, you reject the suggestion?’
A (Very) Public School Murder Page 17