Death at St. Asprey’s School

by Bruce, Leo

  At last there was a tiny sound from the west end of the church where the door to the tower was. The sound, Carolus was almost sure, was of this door being very slowly and gently pulled to.

  Now Carolus moved swiftly. Without waiting to use his lighter he groped his way to that door and stood listening, then he started to open it as gently and silently as the other man had closed it. As he did so he heard steps on the stone stairs above him but he must have made some sound for the footsteps ceased and once again there was silence while each strained his ears to listen for the other.

  Carolus was the first to move. In complete darkness but with his hearing tensely alert he began very slowly to climb the narrow winding staircase. For some distance he was safe enough for the footsteps he had heard had been almost on the level of the bell-ringers’ floor. But there was no sound of movement above him and he knew he was awaited by someone in a stronger position than he was. He ascended as far as he dared, keeping close against the wall to try to gain its support and crawling on all fours as he neared danger. But as he came towards the top of the stairway there was an audible scuffle and he believed that he would be attacked not on the staircase but from the floor of the loft. He knew that his assailant would have every advantage and that he might well share at least the unpleasant experience of Sime in this place.

  But would he? The staircase seemed interminable, twist after twist and Carolus paused every moment to listen. When he believed that he had only a few stairs more to climb he heard more movements from above and knew that he would have no assailant at the stairtop for whoever had been awaiting him had hurriedly crossed the floor of the bell-ringers’ loft and was already on the ladder leading to the roof.

  Now Carolus abandoned all caution and catlike was after him. As he reached the ladder and started to climb it the trap-door above him was slammed down. He was dealing with someone determined that he should not follow. In a moment Carolus was pushing up the trapdoor, but before it was open three inches his adversary had stepped on it and forced it down on Carolus. It was now immovable and would remain so while the other man stood there. If he was bent on suicide by throwing himself from the tower, as it now seemed sure that he was, he was as trapped as Carolus, and there was a deadlock. Carolus could not join him on the tower but he could not reach the parapet while he stood on the trapdoor.

  Meanwhile, Carolus got his breath back and while keeping a continuous upward pressure on the door to know the moment the other left it, he considered the possibilities. While the other remained where he was, he (the other) could not do what Carolus was determined to prevent. But if he stepped off, would Carolus have time to get through and seize him before he threw himself over the parapet? It would be a close thing.

  Five minutes passed of this uncomfortable and dangerous deadlock. Then suddenly, incredibly, dramatically there rose to Carolus on his ladder the sound of organ music from the church below. Someone had entered after them and, presumably having gone to the vestry and switched on the lights, was playing a spirited voluntary. At one o’clock in the morning this seemed macabre enough but as an accompaniment to the life-and-death struggle in the tower, of which the organist must surely be unaware, it was spine-chilling.

  Then Carolus forgot everything in action. The trapdoor broke free, he flung it open, pushed himself through and was in time, just in time, to seize the other man as he was about to throw himself from the parapet.

  But he had reckoned without the strength of a man in the last wild stages of despair and the death wish. He was attacked with the ferocity of a madman fighting for his death. Carolus was lithe and quick and had never lost his skill in unarmed combat, but it seemed that he was not fighting with a creature of flesh and blood but with some monster from science fiction. At one point he found himself underneath while the other pummelled furiously at his stomach and solar plexus, and only by a twist for which his strength was scarcely sufficient did he manage to squirm away and rise to his feet. And all the time he was conscious that he was fighting not only for his own life but for the other’s as well.

  They swayed to and fro across the roof, neither having breath to use his voice, even if there were any point in shouting. Then, as they approached the parapet farthest from the trapdoor, Carolus slipped and was for a moment at a dangerous disadvantage. If the other had held any weighted thing he could, and undoubtedly would have killed him but he had only his hands and feet. Particularly feet. Carolus saw the leg drawn back and the mighty kick on its way, and that was his last moment of consciousness.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Returning to a hazed awareness of the world was painful. His confused mind, trying to resume its processes, threw up from the past the memory of a story he had read in a boys’ paper thirty years ago. It was called With a Madman in a Balloon and was luridly illustrated by a black-and-white drawing of a bearded man in a black cloak and sombrero with fierce eyes and a curved knife who was hacking at the ropes while another cowered in the basket. His struggle on the top of the tower must have called this up from the sub-conscious.

  But he was still on the top of the tower, he realized, and the stars he could see were the familar ones of the universe. Moreover he was not alone. Kneeling beside him and supporting his head was Duckmore. He tried to decide whether he had been unconscious for a few moments or a few hours but could make no guess. It might have been days.

  “Are you all right, Deene?”

  Duckmore’s voice sounded remarkably calm and comforting.

  “Shall be in a minute. How did you get here?”

  “The police let me go. They would not believe what I told them and I see now that they were right.”

  Carolus tried to work that out but he was still dizzy and confused.

  “I couldn’t have shot Sime,” Duckmore went on. “It must have been a delusion due to my state of mind. They kept me till an hour ago then sent me back in a car.”

  “But what brings you here—to the church?”

  “I asked them to drop me here. I don’t suppose you will understand this, Deene, but I felt I had to express my gratitude. I had believed I was a murderer you know. So I came in for a while.”

  “Was that you playing the organ?” asked Carolus, his memory returning.

  “Yes. But I had no idea there was anyone up here. I suppose you know that Sconer is dead?”

  Again Carolus felt his mind driven back into chaos.

  “What?” he asked feebly.

  “Yes. At the foot of the tower. He must have … fallen from here. I knew nothing till I finished playing and set out for the school. Then I saw something lying there. It was beastly.”

  Carolus waited.

  “I saw what had happened,” went on Duckmore. “I thought I ought to come up here and see if there was anyone. I thought he might have been … pushed. And I found you.”

  Carolus tried to stand up but his head seemed to be exploding.

  “I must get up,” he said feebly. “This must be reported to the police at once.”

  “Then you didn’t … push him, Deene?”

  “Of course not, you bloody fool. I tried to prevent him committing suicide. But I must get to Osborne.”

  “I’m thankful for that. I feared … I thought…”

  “So will the police if I don’t get to them first. Listen, Duckmore. Do you think you can help me down?”

  “I’ll try. But that ladder … I’m not good at heights.”

  “Then will you do what I ask you? Go to the Windmill Inn and knock them up. Go on knocking till someone answers. Tell them as little as possible, but enough to stir them up. A man named Gorringer is staying there and Pocket the landlord has a car. Bring them both here, in the car, as quickly as you can. Don’t take no for an answer.”

  “I’ll try,” said Duckmore.

  “You can tell Gorringer it’s a matter of life and death.”

  “All right.”

  “Leave the trapdoor open. If I feel better while you’ve gone I shall try to get d
own to ground level. I’m tired of this tower.”

  “Take care…”

  “Yes. Yes. Now hurry. It really is a matter of life and death, Duckmore.”

  When Duckmore’s face had disappeared through the trap, Carolus began slowly to move his limbs as though testing each in turn. He realized how urgent it was for him to get on his feet and see Osborne. Duckmore was wholly unreliable—he might take it into his head to go himself to Osborne and talk hysterically of Sconer having been pushed from the tower, and it was by no means inconceivable that Carolus himself would be charged with murder. He had seen in previous cases how the police accepted a theory then built a case to support it.

  It took him five agonizing minutes to rise to his feet. His head was still swimming and he felt he could not depend on himself not to faint, perhaps fatally, on the ladder or stairway, but he decided to take the chance. Very cautiously, keeping a firm grip of the sides of the ladder as he did so, he started to step downwards, rung after rung, until he reached the bell-ringer’s loft and there leaned against the wall in exhaustion. The worst was yet to come for the spiral staircase had no handrail.

  So on all fours and backwards, with no dignity at all and much pain, Carolus made his way down in darkness, then sank into a pew at the back of the nave. The church was brightly illuminated—Duckmore must have switched on every light while he played his gaudeamus and forgotten to turn them off when he finished playing.

  It seemed a full hour before the church door opened and Mr. Gorringer strode in, followed by Pocket.

  Sick and stupid though he felt, Carolus could guess the headmaster’s first words.

  “Deene, my dear fellow, what is toward?”

  “Where is Duckmore?” asked Carolus weakly but with some anxiety.

  “Duckmore, who claims to have been released by the police, came to the Windmill Inn and roused us. He explained that you had suffered a serious accident at the top of the church tower, a story which I found improbable, and now see was untrue…”

  “Quite true. I’ve just made the descent. But it wasn’t an accident. Do you think you can get me to the Windmill?”

  Pocket, who looked enthralled by the whole situation, said—“Certainly we can.”

  “But where is Duckmore?” asked Carolus again in a worried voice.

  “Duckmore has gone back to the school. To sleep, he said. Now try to stand up, Deene.”

  “I can stand up,” said Carolus and did so. “But I don’t think I can walk far.”

  “Come now!” said Mr. Gorringer. “Don’t forget that at the Windmill refreshment awaits you. Ups-a-daisy! Quick march! Take his arm, Mr. Pocket and we will put him in the car.”

  Realizing that Gorringer was yet unaware of the broken body of Sconer at the foot of the tower, Carolus tried to occupy his full attention on their way to the lych-gate and succeeded in doing so. With a good deal of unnecessary fuss he was bundled into the back seat of Pocket’s car and driven back to the inn. There, in a comfortable armchair in the saloon bar he leant back and drank a little brandy. Revived he turned to Gorringer and Pocket who seemed now no less than wonderstruck.

  “Sconer is dead,” he told them calmly.

  Gorringer goggled.

  “Are you serious?” he asked.

  “I should scarcely crack jokes about it. He threw himself from the church tower tonight after nearly murdering me.”

  “Good heavens!” said Mr. Gorringer. “Another death. This is tragic news, Deene. Has his wife yet been informed?”

  “Not unless Matron has a telescope which functions at night.”

  Mr. Goringer seemed to be realizing things.

  “You mean to say that the poor fellow’s body is still lying out there … in the churchyard?”

  “It couldn’t be anywhere more appropriate, surely. Yes, it is there. No one has touched it, and no one must touch it until the police have examined it. That is what 1 wanted to ask you, headmaster. Would you leave me here and find Osborne, as quickly as you possibly can? It is essential that I give him a statement.”

  “And who is Osborne?”

  “The Detective Superintendent investigating Sime’s death. He must hear of Sconer’s death from me—otherwise he is quite likely to charge me with murder.”

  “Do not let us enter realms of fantasy, Deene. You have suffered a shock tonight, but to suggest that my senior history master might be under suspicion…”

  “Not suspicion. Charged, I said. So please find Osborne at once, headmaster. He may be at the local policeman’s cottage or he may be spending the night at Woldham. It’s essential that you find him. Take him to the churchyard and show him what’s left of Sconer and tell him I want to make a statement about it. He’ll have to come here, then.”

  “I will do as you ask Deene. That is if Mr. Pocket will kindly drive me?”

  Pocket nodded.

  “I can scarcely absorb the gruesome details. Duckmore released. Sconer a suicide. You the victim of an accident and threatened, you tell me, with a charge of murder… These are deep waters, Deene.”

  Mr. Gorringer shook his head in a sad and puzzled way before he went out followed by Pocket. Carolus heard the car being started and driven away, then let his head fall back and slept.

  But he was not left undisturbed. A light in the saloon bar at two o’clock in the morning must have been an unusual sight in Pydown-Abdale and it attracted certain moths. Mrs. Skippett saw it from her cottage a few yards away and decided to hurry round. She woke Carolus by entering.

  “Well!” she said. “Whatever are you doing here at this time of night and where’s Mr. Pocket? I saw the light on from my cottage and it gave me the flutters. I said to my husband, whatever’s that? I said, blazing away at the Windmill like it was illuminated. Something’s up, I said and popped on my things to nip across and see whatever had happened. I mean it’s enough to give anyone the staggers, isn’t it, lights burning and that? Now whoever’s this coming in? Oh, it’s Mr. Spancock. Good-evening, well, it’s morning really, now, isn’t it?”

  “Extraordinary thing,” telegraphed the Rector. “Lights in the church! All switched on. Not a soul there. Saw the lights here and came across. What’s happened?”

  “A good deal,” said Carolus wearily. “Pocket has gone for the police. I’m afraid I don’t feel up to giving the details till Osborne comes. Why don’t you sit down and wait?”

  “Think I ought to? Very well. On the spot. In the swim,” said Mr. Spancock enigmatically.

  “I don’t know,” remarked Mrs. Skippett, as though to keep the ball of conversation rolling. “You can’t really tell what’s going on, can you? Lights and that. I said to my husband, I can’t sleep, I said. I shall have to go across and see for myself whatever’s the matter, I told him. After all that’s happened lately with Sime being murdered and that. It’s enough to give you the glooms.”

  Carolus closed his eyes again and this time must have slept soundly for a short time for he woke to find Gorringer and Pocket in the room.

  “All may yet be well,” said Gorringer optimistically. “I have interceded personally with the Detective Superintendent…”

  “Oh God,” said Carolus. “Where is he?”

  “He has taken charge of proceedings in the churchyard. When I had made my report it set in motion a good deal of telephoning and I understand that the appropriate officials, doctors and experts, photographers and so on are at work on the … cadaver. I did not enter the churchyard myself out of respect for my old friend. Rather, I came here to tell you that the Detective Superintendent will be here in due course to take your statement. We must hope that he is satisfied with it.”

  “Cadaver?” questioned Mr. Spancock anxiously.

  “Yes, Sconer’s dead,” said Carolus scarcely more expansively.

  “Well, I never,” exclaimed Mrs. Skippett. “Dead, is he? You’d never have thought it, would you? He didn’t look to me like one to go off suddenly. Whatever will his wife say about it? But you never know, do you?
It might happen to anyone. You’re all right one minute and the next you’re on your way to the churchyard. That’s what I told my husband. It’s here today and gone tomorrow, I said and he couldn’t only agree with me. I suppose that’ll put a stop to the school, then? It’s not to be wondered at really, with all that’s been going on.”

  Mr. Spancock seemed to be preparing another question, paring away all verbal fal-lals he asked—“Manner of death?”

  “Suicide,” retorted Carolus who seemed infected by the Rector’s terseness.

  “There!” said Mrs. Skippett comfortably. “What did I say? Did for himself, did he? I’m not surprised, really, when you come to think of it. Her, I mean, and that Matron. You can’t wonder, can you? I mean they never gave him a minute’s peace. Oh well, we’ve all got to go sometime. If it’s not one way, it’s another. I suppose he thought he might as well get it over once and for all. You never know what people think to themselves, do you? I told my husband…”

  She was interrupted by the entrance of Osborne and another plain clothes man.

  Oborne looked pale but hostile. The small mouth in his large face was tight shut and he moved in a decisive way that suggested authority.

  “I understand you want to make a statement,” he said to Carolus.

  “Yes.”

  “You had better come down to the Station, then.”

  “Can’t do that, I’m afraid. At least not just yet. I’ve had a bang on the back of the head tonight which knocked me out completely. Besides, I want witnesses present when I make a statement.”

  “Oh, you do?” Osborne seemed to consider this, then said angrily—“You can have all the witnesses you want. But I warn you, Deene…”

  “Good. These four will do,” and Carolus indicated Gorringer, Pocket, Spancock and Mrs. Skippett.

  “I think I ought to tell you that we do not by any means rule out the possibility that Sconer was murdered.”