A (Very) Public School Murder Read online

  ‘Not our case,’ said Tamsin, cutting the conversation dead. Her mind was on the headmaster, nudged into dreadful flight, hurtling down towards the rocks . . . and sent there by someone waiting for them now, in the school; this was her feeling.

  ‘The killer’s waiting for us in there,’ she said, nodding towards the school.

  ‘Well, it’s possible.’

  ‘And at this very moment, they think they can get away with it.’

  Peter smiled.

  ‘Then we must disavow them of that notion.’

  ‘We must what?’

  ‘I suppose the chapel is fairly magnificent,’ he said, gazing upon the edifice on their right. ‘If you like that sort of thing.’

  ‘I don’t.’

  ‘No.’

  Tamsin parked the car in one of the many vacant spaces. This was the holidays . . . and this was a crime scene. In fact, what the hell was the gardener doing? She’d have a word with someone.

  ‘Why do I feel like a new boy all over again?’ said Peter, sensing nervousness from way back reappearing in his body.

  ‘This is when the adventure begins!’ said Tamsin. ‘Are you ready, Abbot?’

  ‘I’m never ready,’ said Peter. ‘How can we ever be ready for the unknown?’

  ‘Has anyone seen my phone?’

  asked Jennifer Stiles, former PA to Jamie King, head of Stormhaven Towers. The gossip was that he had jumped off the cliff at Stormhaven Head, a tragic suicide . . . and one which you’d never have expected.

  ‘But then do we really know anyone?’ someone said.

  It was all very unsettling . . . and the School Review Team were gathered in the common room to meet the police. No one quite knew what they should be thinking or doing and Jennifer’s phone was a welcome distraction. A mislaid phone was more manageable than death – especially the death of someone who twenty-four hours earlier had been sitting among them, talking about the school’s future . . . while planning an end to his own, it appeared, with a leap from Stormhaven Head.

  The presence in the room of his wife – well, widow – Cressida Cutting, just made everything worse. She’d been asked to attend but had arrived in the common room quietly. She placed herself in a corner, away from the others. The unspoken message from her was simple and clear: ‘Please leave me alone in my grief.’ Or maybe just ‘Please leave me alone.’ She was that kind of person. The message she gave off, ever since she’d arrived at the school, had always been one of distance. And no one had seen her in the common room before, which merely added to the strangeness of seeing her there now.

  Then Jennifer arrived and without seeing Cressida, raised the issue of her phone.

  ‘When did you last have it?’ asked Bart Betters, Director of Wellbeing, who liked solving other people’s problems. (Director of Rubbish Solutions was one of the less polite names given to him by his colleagues, who weren’t overly convinced of his value. Another was Director of Fresh Air.) He was currently doing his stretching exercises on the floor. He quite often did this during coffee breaks. Like breastfeeding, people had got used to it, though why he couldn’t go somewhere more private . . .

  Bart said that bodywork was better for wellbeing than reading all the negative news in the papers, which arrived in the common room daily.

  ‘I don’t know when I last had it,’ said Jennifer in irritated response to Bart’s question. ‘If I knew that, I’d know where it was.’ Did Bart really think she hadn’t already considered that? ‘It disappeared at some point yesterday. I just thought it would turn up.’

  ‘And it will turn up,’ said Bart. ‘Let’s be positive – think what would Buddha do?’

  ‘He didn’t have a phone.’

  ‘No, but I mean . . .’

  ‘Do you want to borrow mine?’ asked head girl Holly, holding her sleek gadget in the air. ‘It might be an upgrade.’

  ‘No, I just want mine back,’ said Jennifer. Why would borrowing Holly’s phone help? ‘It’s got my photos on it,’ she added.

  Yes, someone in the room had seen the photos . . . which might make things easier.

  ‘You should always back-up photos,’ said Bart, now doing press-ups in the cause of his own wellbeing.

  ‘Here,’ said Penny, Director of Girls. ‘Give me your bag, Jennifer – I’ll find it. I always find your things.’

  ‘I’ve looked there already,’ said Jennifer. ‘It was the first place I looked.’

  ‘Then I’ll look again,’ said peroxide Penny and with that she took the bag from the table and began the search. Cressida watched from her corner, fascinated. Widow or wife, she’d never allow anyone to hold her bag, let alone open it and nose around inside. But then . . .

  ‘It’s here!’ said Penny.

  ‘What?’

  ‘It had fallen down the side pocket . . . which is surprisingly deep.’

  ‘I’m sure I looked there,’ said Jennifer, both grateful and annoyed. She took both her phone and bag back from Penny.

  ‘I told you I always find things.’

  ‘Speaking of which – who found, er, Jamie?’ asked Geoff, Director of Boys. He was embarrassed at the superficial exchange he’d just watched. Jamie was dead, for God’s sake and his widow of a few hours was sitting in the corner. This was hardly the time to be fussing about a bloody phone.

  ‘I believe some people saw the body from Splash Point and alerted the authorities.’ It was the chaplain, Father Ferdinand Heep, still in his dog collar, who gave this official news. ‘They managed to collect the body in a boat before the tide reached him. A blessing, of course.’

  A blessing? thought Geoff. Is the man completely mad? This is not the time to be talking about blessing.

  ‘One doesn’t want the body floating out to sea on such occasions,’ added Ferdinand as if he heard Geoff’s thoughts. He’d gone over to Cressida when she arrived, to offer pastoral support. But she’d seen him coming and raised the palms of her hands to indicate that she wished to be left alone – rather like a cross held up to a vampire. Ferdinand had nodded knowingly – there are stages of grief, as he often said – and returned to his seat. He was disappointed, however – disappointed that his approach had been treated in this manner . . . and so publicly. And Cressida was not especially regular at the chapel services, of course . . . but he would overlook that in the current circumstances.

  ‘Are you two all right?’ asked Penny. She was enquiring after Holly and Crispin, the head girl and boy from the previous year. They sat next to each other now, brought together by death. The solidarity of youth seemed important in the circumstances, Crispin in his blue school jacket and grey trousers and Holly in her blue and gold school tracksuit. Their clothing suggested a continuation of term rather than the start of their holidays.

  ‘We’re fine,’ said Holly.

  ‘And your parents are happy with this?’

  ‘With what?’

  Who could be happy with a suicide? It was gross.

  ‘Well, with you . . . with us all being asked to stay at the school – until the police let us go, I mean. Not every parent would be keen. I could name one or two.’

  ‘I spoke with my dad,’ said Crispin. ‘I don’t think he realized term had finished.’

  Holly put a hand on his shoulder. It felt a bit strange. She couldn’t have done it twenty-four hours ago . . . but she did feel for him.

  ‘No, it isn’t his fault,’ said Crispin hurriedly, aware of her hand, now withdrawn. ‘He’s just opened a new car dealership in Düsseldorf, a lot of travelling . . . very busy, I think. He says I must stay as long as the police think fit and help in every way possible.’

  In other words, he doesn’t care at all, thought Geoff. He was aware of how much Crispin missed his mother, a victim of cancer two years ago – or that was the story, no one was quite sure. The lad had done so well to carry on – without perhaps knowing that he was carrying on, this was Geoff’s view. When you’re young, you just get on with things . . . it’s only later the dark bird
s of rage and despair come home to roost. Geoff’s childhood had long been lost in the mist of repression and he wasn’t sure he wished to find it again . . . if you don’t want the sludge, don’t lift the drain cover.

  ‘And I was meant to be staying with friends this week, anyway,’ said Holly, cheerfully. ‘So they’re, like, cool with this. And then it’s the family holiday to Barbados which I do not want to go on, no way – so I don’t mind if we stretch this out a little.’

  ‘Well, we’ll see,’ said Penny, cautiously.

  ‘Mum’s new boyfriend is a total pig,’ continued Holly. ‘Like, a total misogynist. He says I should respect him because he’s an adult . . . we don’t speak. And I think he fancies me more than Mum, which is embarrassing.’

  There was a pause in the proceedings. No one had heard about Holly’s home life before. They were weighing her words, various images coming to mind. Ferdinand found it particularly distasteful.

  ‘Do you think you could stop doing your stretching, Bart?’ said Penny.

  ‘It’s just bodywork.’

  There was a light sweat on his ginger brow.

  ‘And it’s slightly getting on my nerves,’ said Penny. ‘I’m not sure it’s appropriate.’ Her eyes led across to where Cressida was sitting, checking her phone.

  ‘Sure, sure,’ said Bart getting up off the floor. ‘I suppose it’s about the fusion of body and mind.’

  ‘No, it’s just irritating,’ said Penny, who was missing her garden. Forty-eight hours away from her flowers and she could sense the need in herself for their calming presence. It was a little known passion but ‘Myra’ – yes, she was well aware of the name – grew all sorts of plants, exotic and unusual, with much loving care . . . and Latin names. She insisted on the Latin names for them all, as if linguistic obscurity made them smell sweeter. For Penny, her garden was a restorative place to be . . . something which could not be said of this common room.

  And then Ferdinand, the chaplain, spoke. He wished it to sound off-the-cuff. ‘By the way, I want everyone to know that I’m here for you – er, should anyone wish to speak with me in a pastoral capacity. Not easy times for any of us, of course, and we’ll all handle this in our own way. But should anyone, well –’

  ‘Are you OK, Terence?’ said Jennifer, ignoring him. As the head’s PA, she worked more closely with Terence, the school bursar, than most in the room. Staff don’t really come across the bursar unless they have contract issues, and even then, he’s a rather elusive figure, his wishes communicated by others. This was Terence Standing’s approach, at least – strawberry blond hair, always the same length and a man who looked like a banker or someone behind a desk. He had a shiny grey suit, white shirt and red tie, almost a school uniform. He was mid-thirties and slim but well-ready for his fifties, nothing would have to change – apart from some balding perhaps, the strawberry blond thinning a little. He’d not exchanged a word with anyone since arriving in the common room, other than to accept a cup of tea from Geoff, with a quiet ‘thank you’.

  Penny looked round at Terence. She hadn’t spoken with him since their strange encounter in the chapel – with him prostrate before the altar, sobbing. Had he seen her? Had he heard her and Jamie argue? She wasn’t sure. But normal service had been now resumed in the ordered world of Terence Standing. He was well under control, back to his organized, methodical self, just not wishing for conversation . . . or not here at least.

  Terence wanted to talk to Benedict, if the truth were known; but how was that going to happen, with the police about to arrive? One thing he was sure of: Benedict must be kept out of this, out of view – so he couldn’t risk a visit. There was no need for the police to speak with Benedict . . . or even know of him. Benedict must stay out of sight, if not out of mind. He’d never be out of Terence’s mind.

  ‘I’m fine thank you, Jennifer,’ said Terence. ‘Just fine.’

  And that was the moment. It was then, at three minutes to five on that Monday afternoon, that a further killing at Stormhaven Towers became necessary. Capital punishment was about to make a return to the UK . . . and quite right too. It derived its meaning from the Latin, capitalis, which meant ‘concerning the head’. But this would not be a beheading or hanging; there were better ways. It had only been a glance across the room, but the glance was enough, the eyes said it all – a death sentence in its way. It was as though a judge had placed the black cap on their head and announced that the prisoner would be taken from this court – or common room – to a place of execution.

  The killer even knew where that place would be . . . after all, they’d seen the photos.

  ‘So this is a public school,’

  said Tamsin. ‘Where the great and good educate their children.’

  ‘I think it’s more the rich,’ said Peter. ‘The great and good is another list entirely.’ As if to confirm the thought, he noticed a large black Porsche sitting elegantly in the sun near the finely carved stone of the school entrance.

  ‘I hope you’re not coveting your neighbour’s ox,’ said Tamsin.

  ‘I feel like one trespassing in a car advert,’ said Peter. ‘Teachers’ pay has clearly improved at public schools.’

  ‘But it’s also called a private school.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You know my next question.’

  ‘The public/private thing?’

  ‘Yes.’

  They were standing by her car, close to the arched main entrance. The school buildings enveloped them, like the jaws of a lion, waiting to tear them to shreds.

  ‘As always, the answer lies in the past,’ said Peter. ‘I think it was Eton College who first called themselves a “public” school. The title was to indicate that they were open to the paying public.’

  ‘You mean some schools weren’t?’

  ‘The religious schools weren’t public – they were open only to members of a certain church. So when Eton declared itself a public school, it did so with a vision of openness and equality . . . times change.’

  They had fifteen minutes before they were to address the staff . . . and Tamsin was happy to leave them waiting awhile anyway. They’d been told to gather in the common room at five, but it didn’t do any harm for everyone to stew a little. So for now, Tamsin opted for a walk around the grounds, taking stock of the place – while Peter explained events earlier in the afternoon, when he’d arrived at Lewes HQ and disturbed her meeting with Chief Inspector Wonder.

  ‘You shouldn’t have been there,’ she said. ‘That’s my place, not yours.’

  ‘I felt I had to visit really, after what you said on the beach at Tide Mills. You had them all laughing at me as an anachronism, jokes about thirteenth-century monarchs, Henry III to be precise.’

  ‘You do know he’s not well?’

  Peter’s anger did not permit a smile.

  ‘And you join in with them, I see.’

  ‘It was just a joke.’

  ‘And I didn’t like them laughing at me.’ Tamsin’s eyebrows arched in shock. ‘I couldn’t get it out of my head. I heard the laughter at night, when I’d wake at two thirty and listen to the sea. I’d start to hear guffawing coppers drowning out the waves – so I thought I’d pay them a visit.’

  ‘You had to walk into the fire,’ said Tamsin, amused . . . admiringly . . . accusingly.

  ‘I always have to walk into the fire,’ said Peter. ‘I wish I didn’t. But I find it very hard to walk round fires.’

  ‘So what happened?’ She did want to know. Wonder had been at his bolshie worst when she’d left him, declaring the abbot ‘a mentally sick throwback’. And she knew what her boss was like – he could be very stubborn when he wanted to be and quite beyond the reach of reason . . . like a two-year-old in a tantrum. She’d honestly thought the battle was lost. So what had Peter said to turn things round?

  ‘Oh, we just discussed uniforms, really – and discovered a shared calling.’

  What was he talking about?

  ‘A shared calling?�
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  ‘We’re both frontier men, this was my main pitch.’

  This wasn’t getting any clearer.

  ‘Tell me what happened.’

  And so Peter recounted how he’d sat down with Wonder in his chief inspector’s office. He’d requested that Tamsin leave, as Peter thought it the better way. So she’d gone off to speak with forensics wondering if either of the two men would be alive on her return. The abbot had spoken quietly and with a smile, you see, which wasn’t a good sign. When Peter’s voice was quiet, he was angry; when he smiled as well, he was very angry, while Wonder – well, Wonder was behaving like a trapped boar that morning, all sweat, shame and fury. It was hard to see a happy outcome.

  ‘I can give you ten minutes,’ the policeman had said, wondering if that was slightly too long to be with this monk. He’d have preferred it if the monk had not heard his comments, of course, that was unfortunate. But he was trying to remain in charge of the situation. He ordered his desk a little, shifting papers, glancing at a memo. He was a busy twenty-first-century man, after all. But while it was his office and he displayed three pips on his shoulder (as well as the dandruff), he did feel strangely unnerved by the stranger facing him.

  ‘I’m grateful for your time, Chief Inspector,’ said Peter quietly and with a smile, which reassured Wonder. The monk was clearly intimidated and, let’s be honest, out of his depth. He could knock this fellow off course quite easily.

  ‘You have a matter you’d like to discuss?’ said Wonder, sitting back in his chair, relaxing now with a renewed sense of power. And then the abbot spoke:

  ‘Grateful for your time, Chief Inspector, though disappointed with your intemperate language about me just now.’ Wonder blushed a little.

  ‘It was just banter.’

  ‘The thing is, Chief Inspector, whatever you wish to call it – you call it banter – you spoke confidently, as if you knew me.’

  ‘Well . . .’

  ‘As if you’d reached a considered opinion about me on the basis of that experience – when, as far as I’m aware, we’ve never met in our lives.’