‘Fair thee well, most foul!’ he said, for he’d decided to go home, a noble retreat, which, in the circumstances, everyone would understand. He hoped he’d forgive himself in the morning . . . when the hand came across his mouth, out of nowhere, out of the dry leaves and the bracken, a hand across his mouth, holding a cloth.
A sweet smell . . . and then nothing.
Peter wasn’t answering his phone,
which irritated Tamsin. She wanted to explain the role of Jones and Shaw, just in case they met during the handover and to review the case so far, to get his final thoughts on where they were with the investigation. But if Peter didn’t want to talk, then that was his lookout – Tamsin wouldn’t be losing any sleep.
And really, what else could she have done with Wonder? She could have refused to continue with the case under the conditions Wonder suggested, that had been an option. And perhaps she could have supported Peter a little more. But to what end? It would have been stupid in the circumstances . . . and not something Peter would want, she was quite sure of that. It would have been some meaningless stand on principle – principle without purpose, which would have helped no one. It was ridiculous of Peter to call it betrayal, which he hadn’t as such, but that’s probably what he was thinking. Tamsin was no Judas – and why wasn’t he answering the phone? It was just so childish.
She sat flicking through the TV channels, in search of something half-decent, and reflected on her afternoon meeting with her new colleagues, Detective Sergeants Jones and Shaw. Wonder had instructed her to ‘bring them up to speed’ on the case and this she had attempted, despite initial provocation.
‘I hear it’s been a bit of a car crash,’ Jones had said as they’d sat down to talk about the case . . . which hadn’t been a good start. And from there on, they’d struggled to regard DI Shah as their senior officer . . . struggled to get past her looks, to be honest, so stupid things came out of their mouths. She was bloody attractive obviously, everyone knew that. It had been a subject they’d touched on before the meeting, before DI Shah had arrived.
‘Is she with someone?’ asked Jones, as if he had a chance.
‘How would I know?’ said Shaw.
‘Apparently the chief inspector had a shot at her at Mick Norman’s leaving do a couple of years ago. That’s what I was told.’
‘The chief inspector and Shah?’
‘Apparently he got a bit gropey.’
‘Embarrassing.’
‘Which explains why she gets all the best jobs, you see – she’s got him over a barrel.’
‘Way hey!’
But now they were sitting with her, as work colleagues; they were the fresh blood on a murder enquiry, so to speak. Her skirt was definitely above the knee and she was briefing them, a detective inspector and two detective sergeants, about to start work on the Stormhaven Towers case.
‘Jamie King was the headmaster of Stormhaven Towers,’ she said briskly.
‘More like Toff Towers!’
‘Could you shut up, Shaw?’ suggested Tamsin.
‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘He was pushed over the edge of Stormhaven Head on Sunday afternoon. And on Tuesday morning, the body of Jennifer Stiles, his school PA, was found at Tide Mills. You know Tide Mills? The weird ruins of a mill village by the sea.’
‘Been there, ma’am,’ said Jones. ‘Good blackberry picking.’
‘I’ll remember that for when I’m retired and friendless, Jones. But until then, let’s stay with the murder.’ Jones nodded. ‘Jennifer was concussed by a blow from a concrete slab – but killed by aconite poisoning. Either of you gardeners?’
They smiled conspiratorially, to indicate they were not gardeners, no way! Why would fit young men be gardeners? Jones played rugby in Stormhaven’s First XV.
‘It’s from the wolfsbane plant, quite common in England. She was murdered on Monday evening between eight and midnight. And then on Wednesday – yesterday – the bursar, Terence Standing, committed suicide by tying a rope round a tree, a noose round his neck and then driving away from the tree at high speed with the noose still attached. And if you ever wish to do likewise, Jones, please feel free. Any questions so far?’
‘What about suspects?’ asked Shaw, subdued. Tamsin Shah did subdue people.
‘There are eight suspects,’ she said. ‘And I suggest you take notes – if you can write. We’ll be reinterviewing them all tomorrow – we start with a clean slate. But there are things we know already. They were all members of the Management Review Team, meeting at the end of the school year. The two exceptions are the headmaster’s wife, Cressida Cutting, and Benedict Bleake, a man who lives beyond the wardrobe on Matron’s Landing.’ Jones and Shaw attempted professional detachment but their faces could not hide their dismay. ‘It’s a private school, remember,’ said Tamsin, as if this explained everything. Only in a private school do people live beyond the wardrobe on Matron’s Landing. ‘And they have a chaplain called Ferdinand Heep, who touched up one of the girls: Holly.’
‘That’s disgusting! How old was she?’
‘She’s eighteen now – but sixteen at the time.’
‘Oh.’
That didn’t seem so bad.
‘Holly then proceeded to blackmail him out of the Sunday collections.’ Jones and Shaw listened intently. ‘And would you believe it, she’s on the review team as well, because she was head girl last year.’
Jones and Shaw were looking forward to meeting her.
‘She’s pretty and dangerous,’ said Tamsin.
Jones and Shaw had given up professional detachment, their minds too busy. Interesting case, this one! It beat the break-in at the newsagent’s last week.
‘And then there’s Crispin,’ continued Tamsin. ‘He’s the head boy, who fancies Cressida, the head’s wife – or rather, the head’s widow. But dresses his lust as admiration – ring any bells?’ Jones and Shaw looked straight ahead of them. ‘He may also like Holly, we’re not sure. Geoff Ogilvie is Director of Boys, but he’s a loser, a man on the slide – he’s called ‘“Spanker” Geoff and there’s a volcano of a temper somewhere in there.’
‘It was probably him,’ said Shaw.
‘Penny Rylands is Director of Girls, ambitious, secretive. A close friend of the murdered Jennifer Stiles; very upset by her death. Got that?’
Jones and Shaw were busy writing; they hadn’t really got any of it.
‘And Bart Betters is Director of Wellbeing.’
Jones put down his pen as one defeated by the exam question.
‘Director of Wellbeing? What’s wellbeing?’ he asked.
‘It’s being well, Jones. You wouldn’t understand.’
‘There’s a lot of directors in the school,’ said Shaw.
‘There are. It’s a label that makes people feel important. It means you can pay them less.’
‘Are there any teachers?’
‘None that could have got either of you any qualifications.’ Shaw had done quite well at school, before the A level disappointments. ‘Whereas Cressida Cutting has a lot of qualifications, she’s a doctor . . .’
‘So she knows about poisons, ma’am,’ said Jones, keen to impress.
‘It had crossed our minds,’ said Tamsin, drily. She was still fuming over the investigation being called a ‘car crash’. ‘Cressida does have a cast-iron alibi. A phone call which rules her out from the crime scene. But cast-iron alibis should always make one more suspicious, eh?’
They nodded at the obvious sagacity of this comment.
‘While Benedict Bleake is related to the nineteenth-century founder of the school, Nathaniel Bleake.’
‘Nathaniel!’ Shaw said, laughing. He didn’t know any Nathaniels and found it a funny name.
‘This means he can live at the school, free of charge,’ said Tamsin. ‘Nice work if you can get it.’
‘Indeed. And one of them – one of that eight – is the killer. There may be two. We have been told of an affair but precisely who’s with whom is hard to say – and it may not be reliable information. I want you there at nine tomorrow morning, don’t be—’
Her phone rang. It was PC Goss from the search team. They’d been going though people’s rooms at the school again. She’d ordered a second search after recent developments.
‘Anything missed, Goss? Anything new?’
Even Tamsin was surprised by his answer; she wouldn’t have imagined that. But with the story told, she ended the call quickly.
‘Well, don’t get too excited, boys, but we have a new lead.’ Jones and Shaw were unmistakably excited. ‘PC Goss has just discovered a case of women’s clothing and various wigs under the bed of one of our male suspects – Geoff Ogilvie, Director of Boys. They missed it first time round, don’t know how.’
‘Unlike Gossy to miss a bit of skirt!’
‘Very good, Jones. And it probably isn’t important, beyond entertainment value, but we will bear it in mind.’
Jones and Shaw – still smirking – were then dismissed. And they were quite sweet really, the two of them . . . as long as one remembered they were little boys, of course. Tamsin found herself thinking this – she must be getting soft – as she lay in bed that night, wishing she could speak with Peter. The truth was, sweet or otherwise, she didn’t want to work with two little boys on the case; they were unfit for purpose. She wanted to work with the abbot, she knew that now. She didn’t feel good about herself between her cool, fresh indigo sheets, and maybe that’s why she couldn’t sleep, though it was the abbot’s fault – if the investigation was a car crash, it was the abbot’s fault.
And he was also to blame for having a tantrum tonight, refusing to answer the phone.
She lay on her back in a quiet road in Hove, a recent arrival and still some way from home . . . she eventually found a troubled sleep.
The face was no surprise,
as Abbot Peter returned slowly to conscious thought in the darkness of Loner’s Wood. It appeared suddenly, in the cold, clear moonlight, freed from the obscuring cloud.
‘It’s time for your drink, Abbot,’ she said.
‘What drink?’
Was she offering help?
‘Hemlock time.’
She wasn’t offering help.
‘What are you doing, Cressida?’ he said. ‘I’m here to meet the killer – not you.’
Cressida smiled.
‘I think we both know that isn’t true, Peter.’
‘I know nothing of the sort! For goodness sake, untie me – we don’t have much time!’
‘You knew as soon as you saw the mileage counter by my front door,’ said Cressida calmly . . . and Peter remembered the moment well. ‘I saw your face as you noticed the figure. You knew I’d put in some additional miles since your last visit with Shah. You were interested in it when you left.’
‘It may have caught my eye.’
‘But then all the miles were mine, Jamie never used it – hated it being in the house!’
Peter accepted the situation. He’d feign ignorance no more.
‘I knew it before then, Cressida,’ he said, for clarification – and out of pride. ‘Though confirmation is always reassuring – and yes, the mileage was confirmation.’
And now where the hell was Bart? This is what Peter was thinking . . . he should be here, though perhaps he was waiting. The abbot’s hands and feet were tied with cord, he was going nowhere. But Bart should be here, he should have intervened – well, that had been the plan. Who better as his protector in Loner’s Wood than a runner and woodland survival specialist? He’d no doubt be along shortly. Perhaps he was watching them even now, waiting his moment . . . yet this was the moment: Cressida had the hemlock in her hand. She’d made a drink of it in a child’s drinking bottle.
‘Oh, and just so you don’t wait up, Abbot – Bart is indisposed,’ she said.
‘Bart?’ He tried to sound calm.
‘Yes, he’s asleep on his bed, I imagine. Out cold.’ Peter felt as a man winded, collapsing plans crushing his body, his head screaming . . . but he remained still and silent. ‘Well, it’s been a trying time for us all, Abbot, he must be tired.’
‘No doubt.’ Did she know?
‘I heard your conversation, you see, your clever conspiracy.’ She did know. ‘So we shared a nightcap, Bart and I. He believed I was one of the good guys, in on the plan.’ Abbot Peter listened with dull horror. Here was a killer who had outplanned him with some ease. His saviour was asleep in the school, three miles away, lost to all but his dreams until daybreak. ‘And now, two birds with one poisonous stone,’ she said.
‘Are we bypassing the Hippocratic oath, Doctor?’
‘It’s the Hippocratic oath,’
said Crispin, like an expert slightly bored of their knowledge. ‘And no, I don’t mind you nosing round my room.’
Holly had found the sheet on the side.
‘Where did you get it?’ she asked.
‘Why?’
‘Just asking.’
‘It’s for my project.’
‘So where did you get it?’
‘Dr Cutting gave it to me.’
‘Dr Cutting?’
‘So?’
‘Your totally favourite person!’
‘She’s not my favourite person.’
‘Do you love her or something?’
‘She just helped me with my project.’
‘“She just helped me with my project”,’ echoed Holly, mimicking him in a lovesick manner.
And the truth was, Cressida had helped him with his project – but had also left him overwhelmed and unable to say no to anything. So he’d made the phone call she’d asked him to make, after leaving the key in the flowerpot. It had been strange being in the head’s house alone that Sunday afternoon, quite exciting. And there was probably a good reason for her request, and perhaps she’d come back, this is what he’d been thinking, and . . .
‘It’s a bit ancient,’ said Holly, looking at the sheet. ‘Listen to this.’
‘I’ve read it. I sort of had to.’
‘No, but listen: “I swear by Apollo Physician and Asclepius and Hygieia and Panacea and all the gods and goddesses, making them my witnesses, that I will fulfil according to my ability and judgement this oath and this covenant.” Who’s Hygieia, for God’s sake?’
‘The god of soap dispensers.’
‘But who believes in that now?’
‘It was written in the fifth century bc, Holly.’
And Holly was captivated, despite its age. ‘“To hold him who has taught me this art as equal to my parents and to live my life in partnership with him, and if he is in need of money to give him a share of mine, and to regard his offspring as equal to my brothers in male lineage and to teach them this art – if they desire to learn it – without fee and covenant.”’
‘Doctors had respect for their teachers in those days.’
‘How pompous and old are you sounding?’
‘I’m just saying.’
And then Holly was reading again. ‘“I will apply dietetic measures for the benefit of the sick according to my ability and judgement; I will keep them from harm and injustice. I will neither give a deadly drug to anybody who asked for it, nor will I make a suggestion to this effect. Similarly I will not give to a woman an abortive remedy. In purity and holiness I will guard my life and my art.”’ Holly appeared moved. ‘I suppose it does make you look at Dr Cutting differently.’
Crispin nodded and she read on: ‘“Whatever houses I may visit, I will come for the benefit of the sick, remaining free of all intentional injustice, of all mischief and in particular of sexual relations with
both female and male persons, be they free or slaves.” Or children.’
‘Children?’
‘I added that. Perhaps clergy should sign up to the Hippocratic oath as well.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘It doesn’t matter. Well, it does matter. I’ll tell you. It’s embarrassing.’
‘What’s embarrassing?’
‘Just let me get to the end of this,’ said Holly.
‘Is this the bit about gossip?’
‘“What I may see or hear in the course of the treatment, or even outside of the treatment in regard to the life of men, which on no account one must spread abroad, I will keep to myself, holding such things shameful to be spoken about.” And finally: “If I fulfil this oath and do not violate it, may it be granted to me to enjoy life and art, being honoured with fame among all men for all time to come; if I transgress it and swear falsely, may the opposite of all this be my lot.”’
They sat in silence for a moment.
‘Respect for Cressida,’ said Holly.
‘Right,’ said Crispin and, feeling uncomfortable, asked: ‘So what is it that’s so embarrassing?’
Could she tell him? Was it wise?
‘Two advantages,’
said Cressida.
She held the hemlock close to his lips as moonlight broke through again, a chill light on her face.
‘First, I bring your private inquiry to a standstill, before your great reveal tomorrow. Because that’s the one thing I believed about your show tonight – that you really had cracked the case . . . and really hadn’t told the police.’
‘I wouldn’t be so sure.’
‘A risk I’ll take. And second, Peter, I get to talk to Socrates as he slowly dies . . . well – a stand-in for the great man. You don’t mind being a stand-in, do you?’ Peter felt the tree root against his back, the soft woodland soil beneath his head. He flexed his arms and legs, his movement limited. ‘No offence, Abbot, but I was always disappointed when I read in the theatre programme that a stand-in was taking one of the parts. I’d paid my money – I wanted the best!’
A (Very) Public School Murder Page 22