Daughters of Darkness

by Sally Spencer

  I’m not!

  The problem with this particular card is that it deliberately plays on a snobbery that I personally despise, and thus, when using it, I despise myself a little. Having said that, of course, I wouldn’t be here in this office, talking to my new friend Sue, without that snobbery.

  ‘So what do you think of my school?’ Mrs Horner – Sue – asks.

  My school!

  A warning message lights up inside my head, and scrolls its way across my brain.

  ‘Play it carefully with this bugger, Jennie,’ the sign says, ‘because she’s just the sort of woman who’ll withdraw her cooperation at even the slightest hint of criticism.’

  ‘So what do you think?’ she asks again, with just a touch of impatience in her voice.

  ‘It reminds me of some Oxford colleges,’ I answer, cleverly.

  Why is that clever?

  Because it means whatever you choose it to mean.

  And what my friend Sue chooses it to mean is that I think this a fabulously top-hole place.

  ‘The Board of Governors appointed me to my post specifically because they wanted someone who was dynamic enough to sweep away all the cobwebs that have been allowed to accumulate since I-don’t-know-when,’ she says. ‘Their expectation is that I will drag the school, kicking and screaming if necessary, into the second half of the twentieth century.’

  And did they also hire you to speak in clichés? I wonder.

  But I say nothing – which, as it turns out, is exactly what she requires. Because she doesn’t really care what I want to contribute to the conversation – all she wants is a captive audience.

  And she plays to that audience for the next fifteen minutes. She tells me of her battles with the conservative elements in the school – battles which would have broken a lesser woman – and how she has emerged from the fray triumphant. She offers me a vision of the future, in which the school’s brilliance will inspire others, and folk will come from far and wide to study it and marvel.

  At least, I assume that’s what she says, because after the first couple of minutes, I switch off completely.

  Finally, she remembers I’m not just there to be an unwilling witness to her fantastical bragging.

  ‘So what was it that you wanted to see me about, Jennie?’ she asks.

  ‘Dr Grace Stockton,’ I tell her.

  ‘Doctor Grace Stockton.’ She repeats the words carefully, because anyone with the word ‘doctor’ in front of her name must merit serious consideration. ‘It’s before my time,’ (she makes it seem like the Dark Ages – and she probably considers that that’s exactly what it was), ‘but didn’t Dr Stockton give a lecture here three or four years ago?’

  ‘Yes, she did.’

  ‘I seem to have the vague impression from somewhere or other that something unpleasant happened to her.’

  ‘Yes, it was quite unpleasant – she was murdered.’

  Mrs Horner grimaces. The kudos that Grace Stockton had gained in her eyes as an academic has been quite drained away with the knowledge that she was stupid enough to get herself killed. After all, no one admires a victim, do they?

  ‘I don’t really see how I can help you, then,’ Mrs Horner says, having already gained what she wanted from our encounter, and now ostentatiously glancing at the door. ‘If she was only here for the one afternoon …’

  ‘She wasn’t. She taught here in 1944.’

  Mrs Horner favours me with another frown.

  ‘There may be some record of Dr Stockton’s time here as a teacher,’ she says, ‘though I wouldn’t hold my breath, because until I took over, the whole attitude to paperwork was quite lamentable.’

  ‘I’d be grateful for anything you’ve got,’ I say humbly.

  The conversation, having reached its zenith – the dazzling career of Mrs Sue Horner MA – it is now, as far as she is concerned, in free fall, and is beginning to bore and irritate her in about equal measure.

  ‘When she can find the time, I’ll get my secretary to …’ she begins airily. ‘No, I’ve a better idea. You can have a talk with Miss Benton. She was here in 1944.’ She sighs, theatrically. ‘It sometimes feels as if she’s always been here.’

  ‘When can I see her?’ I ask.

  ‘Oh, anytime, I imagine.’

  ‘I don’t want to interrupt her teaching.’

  ‘Oh, good heavens, I don’t let her actually teach. Education has moved on somewhat since she was trained. She just couldn’t cope. So I’ve given her an office of her own, and she counsels any girl who feels the need of counselling. She’ll probably be free right now. She usually is.’

  ‘It’s very kind of you – positively generous, in fact – to give her so much consideration,’ I say – though it’s not so much a case of complimenting her on her thoughtful act as it is poking her with a metaphorical stick, just to see how she’ll react to it.

  She looks slightly uncomfortable. ‘One or two of the governors asked me to see what I could do for her, and were more than pleased when I assigned her this new role,’ she says.

  Translation: I wanted to get rid of her, but a couple of members of the board had a strong enough sense of decency to make sure it didn’t happen.

  ‘Thank you for your time, Sue,’ I say.

  ‘My pleasure, lady,’ she replies in a truly cringeworthy American accent. ‘If I ever need the services of a private eye, I’ll be sure to look you up.’

  And I’ll be the one hiding behind the filing cabinet until you get tired of waiting and bugger off, I think.

  As I walk down the corridor in the wake of Mrs Horner’s secretary (who, like her boss, makes a positive virtue out of being brisk) I’m building up a mental picture of Miss Benton. She will be close to retirement (obviously), with white hair which has been lightly permed. Chances are, she will be wearing a floral dress, and may – or may not – have a string of artificial pearls around her aging neck.

  Her office, I should think, will be in marked contrast to the modern science labs I glance at as we pass them, and will probably bear a close resemblance to a broom cupboard.

  We reach the end of the corridor.

  ‘That’s it,’ says the secretary, pointing to a door which, unlike all the others on this corridor, has no sign on it to identify it. ‘You can introduce yourself to her, can’t you?’

  There is contempt in her tone – contempt for Miss Benton which is more than evident in the way she says ‘her’ and contempt for me because, by asking to visit Miss Benton, I have painted myself with the same brush.

  ‘Thank you,’ I say humbly. Then I add, ‘I do hope they catch the Southwark office rapist soon.’

  ‘What!’ she says.

  ‘Haven’t you heard?’ I ask. ‘He always targets office workers. Actually, now I stop to think about it, he always targets school secretaries.’ I paused for a second. ‘Still, if you go straight home after school and lock all your doors, you’ll probably be all right.’

  She rushes off down the corridor, heading, no doubt, straight for her boss’s office, where she will demand to know why she hasn’t been informed of the danger she is in.

  You couldn’t have said that to her if you’d been Detective Constable Redhead, could you? I ask myself. In fact, you couldn’t have said it even if you’d been DCI Redhead.

  Ah, the joys of freedom!

  I chuckle to myself, and knock on Miss Benton’s door.

  The door opens, and a girl comes out.

  ‘Thanks a lot, miss,’ she says over her shoulder, then she smiles at me, and is gone.

  ‘Come in, whoever you are,’ says an obviously aging woman’s voice.

  I step inside, and immediately award myself full marks for imagination. Miss Benton does indeed have white hair, lightly waved. She is wearing a floral dress. True, there are no artificial pearls, but then I always postulated them as no more than a possibility.

  I was right about the office, too. It is just about large enough for a small table and two chairs, and the only li
ght enters through a skylight. This set-up says, more clearly than words ever could, that the occupant of the office is not to be taken seriously.

  ‘What can I do for you, my dear?’ she asks.

  ‘Mrs Horner thought you might be able to help me,’ I begin. ‘I’m a private detective, and I’ve—’

  ‘Oh, how exciting,’ she interrupts me. ‘Do sit down.’

  It is no mean feat to squeeze my legs under the tiny table, and I have only just accomplished it when there is a knock on the door, and another girl appears.

  Two girls in two minutes! It would appear that Miss Benton’s counselling is not quite as obsolete and unwanted as Mrs Headmistress Horner would like to think it is.

  ‘Not now, Linda,’ Miss Benton says to the girl. ‘In fact, it would be better if we didn’t do this in school at all.’

  The girl instinctively glances over her shoulder, and says, ‘You’re probably right, miss.’

  Miss Benton opens her appointments diary. For a dinosaur’s date book, it seems pretty well filled up.

  ‘I’ll tell you what,’ she says, ‘I’ll see you in the car park behind the Bull and Bush, at six o’clock. Then we can really get down to cases.’

  The girl grins. ‘Right you are, miss,’ she says, and departs.

  ‘You probably wonder why I’ve arranged to meet her in the car park,’ she says to me.

  ‘I wouldn’t be much of a private eye if I wasn’t at least a little bit curious,’ I reply.

  ‘I assure you, I have no carnal thoughts about Linda,’ Miss Benton says. ‘If I have a sexual encounter – and they are, alas, few and far apart these days – I much prefer my partners to have something meaty hanging between their legs. No, the reason we are meeting in the car park of the Bull and Bush is to avoid the green-eyed monster.’

  She looks at me expectantly.

  ‘Jealousy,’ I say. ‘It is the green-eyed monster that doth mock the meat it feeds on.’

  Miss Benton claps her hands together – carefully and delicately, but with obvious delight.

  ‘Oh, you are well-read,’ she says. ‘The problem with Linda is that she’s the head prefect and the captain of hockey. And to cap it all, she’s likely to win a scholarship to Cambridge next year.’

  ‘I see,’ I say.

  ‘No, you don’t,’ she contradicts me.

  ‘No, I don’t,’ I agree.

  ‘The headmistress doesn’t want me here, but she will admit that I perform a useful function, which is to give guidance to what she thinks of as the deadwood in the school – and who I prefer to think of as the academically and physically challenged. I keep them out of her hair, leaving her more time to concentrate on what really matters.’

  ‘But Linda is a winner,’ I say, catching on.

  ‘But Linda is a winner,’ Miss Benton agrees. ‘Winners belong – body and soul – to Mrs Horner. She sees their success as almost entirely her doing, and she demands complete loyalty from them. Cross her, and she’ll find a way to get back at you. Suddenly, you’ve been dropped from the netball team. Or your offers from universities are not quite as good as expected, which makes you think – quite correctly – that your reference from the school has been lukewarm. What I’m really saying, I suppose, is that our beloved headmistress is nothing but a complacent and vindictive bitch.’ She pauses. ‘You’ve met her, so you’ll have seen that for yourself, won’t you?’

  I hesitate for a moment, then say, ‘I wasn’t with her long enough to establish that she’s vindictive.’

  Miss Benton favours me with another little clap.

  ‘Was that a test?’ I ask.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And did I pass?’

  ‘With flying colours. So what do you want to know?’

  ‘I’d like you to tell me whatever you can about Grace Stockton,’ I say

  ‘In a moment,’ Miss Benton replies. She reaches into her drawer and produces a large can of air freshener. ‘Could you bolt the door, please?’

  I struggle out of my chair, slide the bolt, and struggle back in. While I have been doing that, she’s reached into her drawer again, and produced a joint.

  ‘It’s purely medical – for my arthritis,’ she explains.

  She lights up, inhales deeply, and offers the joint to me.

  I shake my head. ‘My pot days are over. I’m now slave to quite another drug,’ I tell her.

  She nods. ‘Each to her own. Why do you want to know about Grace?’

  ‘She was murdered …’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘… and her daughter wants me to track down her killer.’

  ‘Do you think you can?’ Miss Benton asks.

  ‘Not really – but I’m giving it my best shot.’

  Miss Benton nods again. ‘Grace came to work here in ’43. It wasn’t that she needed the job – she was already employed by some ministry or other, besides which she was doing some independent social work – but she’d heard we were short-handed, and wanted to help.’

  ‘She wasn’t qualified,’ I say, remembering that when her university had moved to Cambridge, she hadn’t gone with it.

  ‘No, she wasn’t qualified,’ Miss Benton agrees, taking another pull on her joint. ‘But the headmistress back then was what I’d call a real headmistress – she didn’t judge people on certificates, she judged them on how they did the job – and Grace was a superb teacher.’

  ‘She must have got married and pregnant while she was here.’

  ‘She did.’

  ‘How did she feel about being pregnant?’

  ‘Why do you ask?’ Miss Benton says, suddenly suspicious.

  ‘To tell you the truth, I don’t know,’ I admit, and I wonder why the question should get such a reaction. ‘It’s more of a gut feeling than anything else. That’s how I work.’

  Miss Benton seems satisfied. ‘Grace was very excited about being pregnant,’ she says. ‘But it seemed to me at the time she was excited for the all the wrong reasons.’

  ‘All the wrong reasons?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t mean she didn’t want the baby. Please, don’t think that for a minute. I saw them together, once Julia was born, and it was obvious she adored the little mite. But she still saw Julia more as a gift for her husband than as a person in her own right. I’d go further – presenting him with this gift was the only thing that made her worthy of him, as far as she was concerned.’

  ‘Really?’ I say, noncommittally.

  She grins. ‘You’re patronizing me, aren’t you? “Poor old bag,” you’re thinking. “Not only has age melted her brain, but now there’s the pot she’s just smoked in there, kicking around in the slush”.’

  ‘I didn’t mean to …’ I begin.

  ‘Don’t worry about it,’ she says cheerfully. ‘I’ve been patronized by experts in my time – and you don’t even come close. But if I were you, I wouldn’t dismiss what I’ve said completely out of hand. You have to remember that Grace was brought up in Papua New Guinea among the natives, and it’s the lessons we learn earliest in life that are the most difficult to dislodge.’

  ‘So you’re saying it’s possible to be a strong, high flying, independent woman – which she obviously was – and a tribal wife at the same time?’ I suggest.

  ‘Exactly! We’re all capable of contradictions. I’d be willing to bet that there are times when you’re at a sophisticated cocktail party, talking ever so smartly, and you suddenly feel like no more than a snotty-nosed kid from the north.’

  She’s not quite right there. My mother would never have allowed me to have a snotty nose, because that wasn’t ‘respectable’, and therefore the worst crime imaginable. But I can still see what she’s getting at.

  ‘So Grace worked here until her husband returned from the war, did she?’ I ask.

  ‘No. One day towards the end of 1944, she simply didn’t turn up. She sent the headmistress a letter of apology, but that was some time later. She said in it that she’d nearly been killed by a flying bomb, and
that made her realize that her first duty was to her baby, which was why she was getting out of London.’

  ‘Can you remember anyone from that time who might have wanted to kill her?’ I ask.

  ‘Hitler had it in for her – I do know that,’ Miss Benton says. She grins again. ‘Seriously, everyone liked her – and with good reason. She was hard working, and she was kind. It’s impossible to believe she could have done something which would make anyone want to hurt her.’

  ‘What was she like when she came back three years ago?’

  ‘Older, wiser, with a little more natural authority (though she always had plenty of that) but otherwise pretty much the same. She was still the marvellous teacher I remembered, and she had all the time in the world to listen to the girls after she’d finished her talk.’

  Miss Benton suddenly frowns.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ I ask.

  ‘There was one girl – I say “girl”, but what I mean is “old girl” – who she was really rather abrupt with, which was strange, because the girl in question, Annie Tobin, had been one of her favourites when she was teaching here. I believe Annie did a lot of babysitting for her, while she was out doing her good deeds, which makes it all the stranger that she should choose to treat her unkindly.’

  I feel a shiver run through me, as if death has just blown on the back of my neck. It may mean nothing – often, in the past, similar feelings have turned out to be a false alarm – but I don’t dare ignore it.

  ‘Do you have this Annie Tobin’s address?’ I ask.

  ‘No,’ Miss Benton says. ‘But I can tell you where she works.’

  TWENTY-FOUR

  September, 1944

  Grace looked across the table at Jane, who was cradling her baby in her arms, and she felt a wave of pride and happiness sweep over her.

  They had done it, she told herself.

  Against all the odds, they had bloody well done it!

  Who would have been willing to bet, a few months earlier, that Jane could have given up alcohol completely?

  No one.

  But she had!

  Who would ever have imagined that a woman like herself, with very little formal education, and virtually no medical training at all, could have delivered a baby – a beautiful healthy baby – right here on this table?