A (Very) Public School Murder

by Parke, Simon;

  ‘By which time you’ll have the murderer?’ said Tamsin, with a cruel laugh. Why did he have to make this so difficult with his pretend kindness, as if he didn’t care? Why didn’t he just rage at her? ‘Maybe Wonder’s right for once,’ she said, gathering her things. ‘You’re doing your best, Uncle, I know you are – but, well – you’re not police.’

  ‘No,’ said Peter, feeling angry. And that’s why I’m going to succeed, he thought.

  The abbot felt surprisingly dangerous.

  Cressida approached Peter,

  as he watched Tamsin drive away from the school.

  ‘Police cutbacks?’ she said. ‘And then there was one?’

  ‘A call from above, she’ll be back soon enough.’ He didn’t add that she’d return in the morning with two detectives who would make him redundant. It might have sounded bitter. ‘But it does mean I have the privilege of interviewing you alone.’

  ‘I was going to ask about that,’ said Cressida. ‘I’m in favour mode, actually, wondering if we could speak at my house?’

  ‘I don’t see any reason why not.’

  ‘I need to get back to feed the cat – and, to be frank, to get away from everyone.’

  ‘Quite.’

  ‘And if you’re there, you can monitor my movements, make sure all is above board – and no one can say I’m sneaking off to plan further carnage.’

  ‘Bluff and double-bluff,’ said Peter. ‘It’s all so exhausting. Another poke about your house and I might find the murder weapon.’

  ‘Strange though it may seem, Abbot, though I am your doctor, I’m not your killer.’

  ‘A bold claim.’

  ‘But until the sick – though clever – soul is dragged from the undergrowth, exposed to the light and led away into custodial oblivion, we must all have our movements monitored, mustn’t we? I think that would be best practice.’

  And so now they sat in her well-organized kitchen. Cressida busied herself with making coffee from a machine that was some way beyond Peter’s powers of comprehension. He was still delighted by a personal kettle. Perhaps he’d have stayed in the desert longer had he owned a kettle.

  ‘They’re very easy to use,’ she said on seeing Peter’s wonderment.

  ‘I’ll take your word for it. The aroma is particularly winning.’

  And then he paused. Through the door of the utility room, Peter saw Jamie’s old running machine, sad for lack of use.

  ‘You don’t want to buy it, do you?’ said Cressida. ‘It’s very good for burning fats.’

  ‘I prefer the outdoors.’

  ‘There’s no wind or ice indoors. That’s what Jamie used to say.’

  ‘And no sense of creation either. Perhaps you should keep it for yourself.’

  ‘You must be joking.’

  ‘It doesn’t appeal?’

  ‘My job is to tell others to take more exercise – not do it myself.’

  ‘I see,’ said Peter.

  ‘After all, I’m a consultant, aren’t I?’ She was now putting some cat food in the bright red bowl as a ginger tom strolled in. ‘And a consultant – as I’m sure you’re aware – is someone who tells other people to do things they’d never dream of doing themselves.’ Peter smiled and sipped a little of his splendid coffee, dark and strong. ‘I have been known to swim,’ she added, ‘when I can find an empty pool or warm sea – which rules out Stormhaven obviously. And I’ll play Scrabble, if forced. But nothing that involves sweat – I’m not keen on sweat. I found it distasteful at school – PE was quite dreadful. And I’ve never been drawn to it since.’

  ‘You don’t appear to be a woman in grief,’ said Peter. Cressida looked a little shocked. ‘Or haven’t you got there yet?’

  She moved into explanatory mode: ‘My reading tells me there’s no formula for grief, that each individual handles the grief journey in their own way.’

  ‘Spoken like a book.’

  ‘Perhaps I need to speak like a book. Perhaps that’s where I am on my journey.’

  She put the red bowl down for the cat, which started to lick and pick with delicate relish. The abbot watched the feeding, thinking of Hafiz. Hafiz was the seagull who lived on his roof and came to his kitchen door for meals. And if the door wasn’t open, he’d bang on it with his beak until it was. Frequently, Peter had answered the front door, only to discover the visitor was round the back . . . and feathered.

  Hafiz, who took his food seriously, would not have been happy at the abbot’s recent absence; he’d have been willing the end of this investigation even more than Peter. But there was good news for Hafiz: whatever the next twenty-four hours held, he should be back to give him tea tomorrow.

  ‘I just can’t manage sadness, I’m afraid, Abbot. I don’t believe that’s a crime.’

  ‘I don’t believe it is.’

  ‘We’ve slept in separate bedrooms for a while – to give each other space.’ She laughed a little at her words. ‘I used to mock people who said that. It’s what you say when a relationship is dying but don’t like the word.’

  ‘I wouldn’t know. I’ve always slept in a separate bedroom.’

  ‘Maybe you’re the lucky one.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘And maybe I will be sad, Abbot – who can say? I don’t really approve of sadness . . . all a bit self-pitying, when really, what have I got to complain about?’

  ‘Your husband has been murdered.’

  ‘Perhaps I’m still in shock and the tears and rage all lie in the future, further down the path. Or maybe the terrible truth is that I simply don’t care that much – and never will.’

  ‘You were here all Sunday afternoon, you say.’

  ‘I was, yes – fortunately. I can see I might need an alibi.’

  ‘And you rang Jamie, I believe – after he’d gone out – from the landline here.’

  ‘You’ve accessed my phone records?’

  ‘Not personally. But they do back up your story. Why did you ring him?’

  ‘We didn’t part on the best of terms. I ignored him. Maybe I felt a twinge of guilt.’

  ‘So who’s the murderer?’

  ‘You ask me? I have absolutely no idea. I’m a doctor not a detective.’ She thought for a moment, familiar with being an expert, whose opinion was valued. ‘You’d have thought the first two deaths were by the same hand – though different means. If it was a simple push, it must have been someone who Jamie knew well, to get so close. And I hear Jennifer was aconite poisoning.’

  ‘How did you know that?’

  ‘If you wish to keep a secret, don’t work in a school. The tentacles of this place are everywhere. A policeman knows a cleaner. A forensics expert is a parent . . .’

  ‘Well, it’s true.’

  ‘And I can’t lie – I wish I’d been there in a way, though hemlock would have been my choice.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘I’ve always wanted to watch someone die of hemlock poisoning. But don’t quote me . . . I wouldn’t want it in our patient brochure.’

  ‘Each to their own.’

  ‘Like Socrates, of course, who did just that – and who must be a hero of yours, Abbot.’

  ‘Am I so transparent?’

  ‘You’re just the maladjusted sort he attracts, those with an inability to succeed.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘But what an intriguing conversation it must have been as they watched him die . . . as the poison gradually worked its way up the great man’s body. He must have spoken such deep things to his killers with death so close.’

  ‘They might just have discussed the weather,’ said Peter and Cressida laughed.

  ‘Whereas I have to watch them live,’ she said, with disappointment. ‘A great deal less interesting, believe me. We celebrate living longer, but really, most people’s lives would
be better shorter. They spend old age complaining anyway. So do I really do them a favour when I bring them back from death’s door . . . rather than hastening them through?’

  ‘Their recovery is a disappointment only to you, perhaps.’

  ‘Well, the flawed healer must be allowed.’

  ‘Consider yourself allowed.’

  ‘A doctor friend of mine is in prison for fraudulently accessing patients’ bank accounts and syphoning off large amounts of money.’

  ‘It’s called private health care.’

  ‘Clever, really. Once he had someone’s bank details for payment of one treatment or other, he’d make other visits there as well, “after hours”, so to speak – and he did earn a great deal of money this way, causing huge upset.’

  ‘Not good.’

  ‘Yet many miss him, they can’t wait for him to get out. And why? Because he was a genius with allergies . . . and there aren’t many of those people around.’

  ‘And you’re fascinated by poison?’

  ‘Show me a doctor who isn’t, Abbot. It’s the flip side of healing. The study of that which kills is the same as the study of that which restores. And so, of course, it’s fascinating. To see how life is taken, is to see how life is saved.’

  ‘So what about Terence?’

  It was time to get less theoretical.

  ‘Terence?’

  ‘What are your views on his death?’

  ‘Am I being paid for this consultation?’

  ‘No – you don’t need more money.’

  Cressida looked suitably shocked.

  ‘Well, he was murdered by religion, obviously.’

  ‘Religion?’

  ‘Religion makes most people unhappy in my experience. It’s meant to make us less fearful, but generally makes us more so. I mean, I’m not a psychiatrist . . .’

  ‘Any particular reason why it might make Terence unhappy?’

  ‘I can’t think of one – unless he was cooking the books, the flawed bursar. But in my experience, religion doesn’t need a particular reason. It’s an open-ended ticket to guilt and self-hatred.’

  ‘Quite.’ He couldn’t argue . . . history wouldn’t allow him to. ‘Well, I won’t keep you, Cressida. You may wish for some solitude before returning to the fray.’

  And with that, he was on his feet, making his way from the well-appointed kitchen to the large oak front door. But before he left, above the shoe rack, he noticed the small digital screen, revealing ‘mileage’ to be ‘1389 miles’.

  ‘What “mileage” is this?’ he asked, intrigued.

  ‘Oh, that was Jamie’s. He loved gadgets. Don’t ask me how it works but it’s linked to the running machine. It was to keep him on his toes, he said. Every time he left the house, he was reminded how much he’d done – or hadn’t done. Sad to say, in his life, he was more aware of what he hadn’t done, than what he had.’

  ‘A sad thought,’ said Peter. ‘I’ll find his killer.’

  ‘Three murders in forty-eight hours,’

  said Wonder, by way of explanation. Tamsin had declared this an ‘unnecessary meeting’ but that was ridiculous. How could Shah, an intelligent woman, not see that this was a necessary meeting? Any enquiry would be questioned at this point – even if there wasn’t an abbot involved.

  ‘Two murders, one suicide.’

  Tamsin was sitting opposite her boss in a skirt which finished above the knee by several inches. Wonder was relieved the desk cut her off at the waist; it kept his gaze more professional.

  ‘Three deaths, though, Tamsin. You get my point.’ It was a hot day and he was sweating a little.

  ‘And the first murder was committed before we arrived,’ added Tamsin. ‘So that’s one murder, one suicide – these things happen when you stir the water.’

  ‘You talk as though it’s inevitable, Tamsin, as though it’s some outworking of – oh, I don’t know – karma or something, for which you have no responsibility.’

  ‘I don’t.’

  ‘What – you don’t think it’s inevitable? Or you don’t bear any responsibility?’

  ‘The latter.’

  She remembered the abbot’s words: no need for apology, she’d handled the case well. She remembered also, with less comfort, his prediction of betrayal – though it was hardly that. She’d make sure he was paid, which was the main thing . . . and nothing need be public. He’d probably be glad to be off the case, anyway. He could get back home and feed his pet seagull, Harold, or whatever it was. She was doing him a favour.

  ‘And I’m happy for him to be replaced,’ she said . . . and Wonder was shocked.

  ‘What – the abbot?’

  ‘Yes. I’m aware he’ll need to be replaced. He hasn’t done as well as he might.’

  ‘Tell me about it.’

  ‘So let’s do the right thing. Is that all?’

  ‘Nothing personal, of course,’ said Wonder, trying to smooth things out in his moment of triumph. ‘We gave the fellow a try . . .’

  ‘I understand.’

  Though it was personal. Wonder had not forgiven the abbot for jumping him into accepting his role in the case . . . all that guff about stripagrams and ‘frontier men’. Well, the tide had turned now. The swell that had brought the abbot to shore was now taking him well out to sea. ‘We’ll have him off the case,’ he said. ‘It will be quietly done, no fuss or anything – and you’ll work with Detective Sergeants Shaw and Jones.’

  ‘Shaw and Jones?’

  ‘Yes. It’s decided.’

  ‘They’re idiots.’

  ‘They’re professionals, Tamsin. And they’re your last chance on the case. We can leave the abbot there tonight, with Pearson and Wilson minding the place – good boys those two. But you’ll need to brief Shaw and Jones immediately. I want them brought right up to date with this car crash of an investigation.’ Yes, that was pretty harsh, Wonder knew that – but then he had the power now . . . the power to knock this cocky officer off her bloody perch. He should do it more often. ‘And then tomorrow you go in and sort this mess out.’

  ‘I’ll do that.’

  ‘And if I don’t have the killer’s head on a plate – I’ll have yours!’

  *

  Tamsin rang Peter shortly after. She explained how there was nothing she could have done, how she’d pleaded with the chief inspector . . . but how his mind was made up. She’d see him at nine o’clock for the handover, but that if he wished to sneak away privately, that could be arranged – a police car would take him back to his house. No hard feelings, she hoped, it just hadn’t worked out.

  ‘I’ll see you tomorrow morning at nine,’ said Peter and ended the call. He put the phone on the bed in his small student room – and turned off the sound. He had no need of Tamsin tonight. But he wouldn’t be sneaking away.

  He looked out of the window. The orange sun was setting over Newhaven to the west. Were the abbot at home, he’d be watching it sink into the sea, that slow silent easing of fire into the water. But he wasn’t at home – he was at Stormhaven Towers, a school aching with murder and deceit; and he had work to do before the sun rose again on the white cliffs.

  ‘Bring on the darkness,’ he said quietly to himself as he left the room. ‘And let there be light.’

  ACT THREE

  The abbot was an embarrassment.

  He was behaving like an attention-seeking vicar at a parish party, when the alcohol has flowed and he suddenly believes he’s amusing.

  ‘I think the abbot may have overindulged a little,’ said Penny. ‘He’s noisier than usual – and lacking in holiness!’

  ‘I preferred him as the strong silent type,’ said Cressida. ‘Tonight, he’s just another fool.’

  Penny and Cressida had grown close over these last two days . . . this was Geoff’s take, at least, as he sat with them in th
e common room that evening, not wholly at ease. Competent women did unnerve him, no question; and when there were two of them together in unspoken alliance – he was a mixture of bullishness and fear. They even held the same drink, G&Ts, with lemon – the last surviving lemon, before the new fruit and vegetable order in September.

  ‘That’s the trouble when you’re not a proper drinker,’ said Geoff, finishing his beer and looking over his shoulder at the embarrassing abbot. ‘When you do drink . . .’

  ‘I wouldn’t mind, but he’s supposed to be the lawkeeper round here!’ added Ferdinand, shaking his head with wry amusement. He’d been floating in the common room, not quite with anyone or any particular group – but now stepping into this conversation. He was hardly unhappy at the abbot’s fall from grace.

  The suspects at Stormhaven Towers had gathered together in the common room after the evening meal. It had been cold meats and salad this evening, with boiled potatoes. Dessert had been ice cream, which echoed the previous two nights – but without the fresh fruit, which appeared to have run out. They ate in the school dining room, eight souls in a hall designed to hold four hundred and with its own grandeur: wood-panelled walls, pictures of the eminent . . . and by God, there’d been some grand nights there down the years – candlelit Christmases, end-of-year beanfeasts, Old Stormhavian bunfights. It was usually a space full of chatter and happy consumption – school food was absurdly good these days. Long gone were the likes of Dotheboys Hall, described in Nicholas Nickleby, where the boys were given brimstone and treacle as medicine – recommended by Mrs Squeers, the headmaster’s wife, in the belief it spoiled the children’s appetites, making breakfast and dinner much cheaper affairs. Times had changed – these days, the school canteen was a positive restaurant.

  But the chef, Ollie, was here under duress, reluctantly postponing his caravan holiday at Winchelsea beach. And to make it worse, he was watched over by police which was uncomfortable. Ollie had a prison record himself. It was a long time ago and financial fraud – computer-screen stuff – nothing that threatened the pupils. And it hadn’t been all bad. Prison had given him the chance to retrain as a chef, and he hadn’t liked working for the council anyway. But you don’t forget the process of detection, the interviews, the charge sheets, the smell of the holding cell, the smug officers, the damning police testimonies in court. You’re never again on their side.