A (Very) Public School Murder Page 7

  ‘Look, it’s nothing personal . . .’

  ‘. . . but it is ignorant, Chief Inspector, it’s ignorant. And that’s a serious charge.’

  Wonder felt slightly ill. ‘Ignorance is a damaging little fellow,’ continued the abbot, ‘especially when found in the mouth of someone who, like yourself, aspires to leadership.’

  Aspires to leadership? He was a leader and had the pips and the office to prove it!

  ‘I may have gone a little over the . . .’

  ‘Ignorance kills more people than cancer,’ said the abbot, cutting in. ‘This is my experience . . . and probably yours. So I never applaud it, whatever mouth it emanates from – even that of a chief inspector.’ He paused. Wonder willed for the telephone to ring, the fire alarm to sound, the world to end, anything to break the silence.

  ‘Are we done?’ he asked . . . but Peter wasn’t.

  ‘And deciding so firmly about someone you’ve never set eyes on! Really! Perhaps you imagine it’s acceptable behaviour because I’m only a monk? So is it equally permissible to dismiss the overweight as stupid?’ Wonder tried to draw his stomach in, without great success. ‘Is permission given for that? I mean, I’m against all labelling myself, Chief Inspector . . . apart from in the food cupboard obviously.’

  Outside there were voices in the corridor, and a siren in the distance. But inside the room was silence.

  ‘Look, I’m not a religious man, Mr . . .’

  ‘“Peter” is fine.’

  Wonder nodded. He preferred him without a name, preferred him as ‘the monk fellow’. But if needs must . . .

  ‘I’m not a religious man, er, Peter . . .’

  ‘And with the greatest respect, Chief Inspector, I have no interest in your religion . . . or whatever opinions you hold on the matter. We’re not here to discuss those things, and you’re not fit to anyway . . .’

  ‘Well . . .’

  ‘But I am concerned that you use labels to judge people . . . and that a monk is a source of comedy – something about the long-dead Henry III, wasn’t it? And all this, simply because he wears a different uniform to you.’

  ‘Well, if we’re comparing uniforms . . .’

  ‘Are you aware, Chief Inspector, that the police outfit is the one most commonly used by stripagrams?’

  ‘Er . . .’

  What sort of a question is that? Is this man a pervert?

  ‘Yes, I heard a programme all about it on the radio,’ said Peter, ‘very interesting. Do you have a radio? My best-ever Christmas present. You might still be able to catch it . . . it may be a podcast. But what we discovered was this: that up and down the country, the police uniform has a comedy all of its own, at parties of one sort or another . . . both with and without a truncheon.’

  Wonder shifted uncomfortably.

  ‘Yet still you wear the uniform and look very smart, Chief Inspector – all the while hoping, I suppose, that not everyone will reckon you an exhibitionist or cheap sexual entertainer, about to remove his trousers and wave his private parts in the face of the audience. Not everyone in a police uniform is a stripper!’

  ‘Quite.’

  What was he meant to say to that?

  ‘I certainly don’t see you in that way, Chief Inspector. No, I reckon you a good man. Indeed, I’d go further than that and call you a “frontier man” . . . definitely a frontier man.’

  ‘A frontier man?’ said Wonder, with some relief, glad to be away from the hen party. Wonder loved Wild West movies and the High Chaparral – he had the box set – and warmed to this notion. ‘Well, that is a description I recognize, er, Peter. It does feel like a frontier sometimes – and a bloody difficult one, ’scuse my French!’

  This was better.

  ‘Consider it excused,’ said Peter warmly. ‘And I agree with you entirely. Here you are at the painful frontier between law and the breakdown of law. And as you say, it’s a hard frontier to tend.’

  ‘Has its moments, I can tell you!’

  ‘I can imagine – and what a job you do. That’s why you need the uniform, of course, which some might laugh at as a stripper’s costume . . . but we know otherwise.’

  ‘Quite.’

  ‘It’s something to be proud of, to treasure, it’s a mark of honour, the uniform of the frontier man acting almost like – well, a wall I suppose, a wall between two different worlds, between law and no law. A noble uniform indeed!’

  Wonder nodded; this fellow wasn’t completely mad – eccentric, perhaps, but he understood one or two things about policing . . . more than the local press, for a start.

  ‘Yet also a point of connection,’ said the abbot, changing tack.

  ‘What?’

  ‘The wall becomes the conversation. Don’t you think so, Chief Inspector?’

  The wall becomes a conversation? Where is he going now? Strange bugger, this one.

  ‘Do you know the story told by the philosopher Simone Weil? I’m sure you do.’

  He’d never heard of him – or her. Simone . . . probably a woman, though who could tell with those philosopher fellows?

  Peter continued. ‘She tells of two prisoners in adjoining cells and how, over a long period of time, they learn to talk to each other by tapping on the wall. The wall is the thing that separates them but also a means of communication between their two different worlds . . . like a police uniform.’

  Wonder nodded sagely.

  ‘And similar also, I suppose, to the uniform of the monk,’ said Peter, ‘the dress of another frontier man, who stands on the boundary between the visible and invisible world . . .’

  There was a knock on the door.

  ‘Time’s up, Abbot, I’m afraid,’ said Wonder, with pleasure that was hard to hide. ‘That’ll be my next appointment, a local councillor.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Rather a long list of visitors this morning – but then, what’s new?’ He was playing the world-weary executive, implying that while the abbot had all the hours God sends to sit around discussing uniforms and frontiers and the like, he certainly didn’t . . . he had a police HQ to run! ‘Roll on retirement, eh? And endless days of golf!’

  A vision of hell passed through Peter’s mind.

  But the chief inspector wished Peter gone. He was waiting for him to move, to get up from his seat, to take the hint – but Peter didn’t move. So Wonder attempted closure on the matter in hand. ‘I mean, I’m not against your involvement in the case per se, Abbot,’ he said, rising in a manner that clearly said the meeting was over. ‘We can think about it.’

  But still Peter didn’t reckon the meeting over, because that wasn’t enough – not what he had come for at all. He hadn’t got on the bus from Stormhaven to Lewes – a journey of over thirty-five minutes – for some ongoing conversation to be continued at a later date, for the matter to be brushed under the carpet of time, to be resolved at another man’s whim sometime between now and eternity’s end. No, Peter had come for a decision.

  ‘I’m glad to have your authorization, Chief Inspector,’ he said. He now rose from his seat, looking Wonder in the eyes. ‘Frontier men need to stick together.’

  Had he given the monk permission? Wonder wasn’t sure that he had – he’d merely been playing for time, postponing the no. He’d have preferred to put it in a letter than speak it face to face. Only now, the no was apparently a yes . . . and he didn’t need an argument in front of the councillor, who’d come right on in and now stood watching.

  ‘Oswald, good to see you!’ said Wonder, in his most clubbable, man-of-the-people manner. Policeman and councillor shook hands . . . and Peter left as quietly as he had arrived.

  ‘Thank you, everyone,’

  said Tamsin to the assembled company in the common room. ‘My name is DI Shah and I’ll be handling the investigation into the death of – the headmaster here.’ Hell – she couldn’t remember his name! What was his name? But she had their attention – you do in a murder case, at the outset. The truth is, they’re excited.
Some want the gossip about the death . . . their friends want to know. Others aren’t quite here, imagining they’re in a film or a TV series, almost an out-of-body experience. Perhaps one or two experience grief – though it’s more likely to be shock in disguise. But all are glad to be here in some manner – apart, perhaps, from the widow in the corner, who betrays no emotion at all. And while there are some earnest faces on show, none will stay earnest for long. Soon, each will be contemplating the lies and evasions necessary to keep their messy little lives out of the wandering searchlight. Lift the lid on a murder and you lift the lid on much else besides . . . much that isn’t pleasant. Tamsin is aware she’s talking to a determined bunch of deceivers.

  ‘And I don’t want to keep you long this evening,’ she said kindly. ‘It’s been an exhausting day, I have no doubt. But as you know, since the sad death of the headmaster . . .’

  ‘He has a name,’ said Cressida.

  ‘And you are?’

  ‘His wife . . . his widow. And his name was Jamie.’ Tamsin remembered now. Jamie King, that was it. ‘And my name is Cressida, by the way. Just in case it matters.’

  Bitch, thought Tamsin.

  ‘The sad death of Jamie King,’ she continued, relieved she had the head’s name but raging at the intervention. She’d not forget that little hatchet job by Cressida. ‘And for the immediate future – and I apologize for any inconvenience caused – we’re going to ask everyone here to stay in their current accommodation in the East Wing.’

  People took this in. No one had ever done this before, been caught in the aftermath of murder. No one knew what was coming next . . . ordered lives, guided by bells and curriculum, were now adrift on a sea of unknowing.

  ‘Are we to deduce from all this that you believe it may not have been suicide?’ asked Geoff. He’d like some sort of anchor lowered into the water, some sort of certainty. ‘I’m Geoff, by the way, head of chemistry and Director of Boys.’ Tamsin nodded acknowledgement. ‘Oh, and one other request – please don’t say that you’re “ruling nothing in and ruling nothing out” because we deserve more than some dismissive and meaningless cliché.’

  Tamsin noted another enemy. Cressida – and Geoff. She was not used to being challenged so early in the proceedings. This was the problem with literate people; they lived in a climate where being pushy was reckoned a virtue deserving of applause.

  ‘I take your point,’ said the abbot, who had so far sat unnoticed . . . as much as a monk can stay hidden in a school common room in early July. ‘We don’t want clichés. But I do like the old police mantra,’ he said. ‘I don’t know if it’s still around these days, times change! But how did it go? “Assume nothing, believe no one, check everything.” It’s the only way to proceed in any investigation, surely? And it’s how Geoff the scientist proceeds, I have no doubt of that . . . ruling nothing in, ruling nothing out . . .’

  Geoff was reluctantly calmed.

  ‘We’re asking everyone to remain on site,’ said Tamsin, wanting to get on with things before another interruption. This wasn’t a debating society – it was a crime scene. ‘Unless exceptional circumstances arise, of course.’

  ‘And what would they be?’ asked Bart, flippantly. ‘Someone chasing us with an axe?’

  ‘Few murders are committed with an axe, Mr . . .’

  ‘Betters – Bart Betters.’

  So this was Bart Betters, the folk song man.

  ‘In fact, Mr Betters, there were no axe murders in England last year, or indeed the year before.’ Kill him with calmness, thought Tamsin. ‘But for your own safety, all rooms will please be locked after eleven.’

  ‘For our own safety?’ said Terence, the red-tied bursar. ‘That sounds rather melodramatic! Are we to glean from that comment that the killer is in this room?’

  ‘As the abbot suggested, er . . .’

  ‘Terence. Terence Standing.’

  ‘As the abbot suggested, Mr Standing, let’s assume nothing for now. We just want to get to the bottom of recent tragic events, as do you. We’re all on the same side and would appreciate your support in this.’

  ‘And who’s the monk?’ asked Bart. It was the elephant in the room, the question others had been aching to ask. ‘And I suppose why the monk? So two questions!’

  ‘This is Abbot Peter who’ll be helping me with this enquiry.’ She’d forgotten to introduce him, which was a mistake. ‘In Sussex, we’ve learned that sometimes a member of the public can be a significant aid in an investigation, especially when they have an aptitude for people and local knowledge.’ Raised eyebrows surrounded her. ‘But let me reassure you that Abbot Peter has no power here other than to be another pair of eyes and ears. Does that answer your question?’

  ‘I suppose,’ said Bart, dubiously. ‘But it still seems a bit weird.’ He snorted a little laughter, derisive.

  ‘And you aren’t?’ said Ferdinand, surprising himself, though for once, he felt some agreement from those around him. As if Bart wasn’t a bit weird! He carried no particular candle for the abbot – but he didn’t like to see the Church under attack, especially not from the crypto-Buddhist wellbeing mob.

  ‘We have met before, you know,’ said Peter to Bart. ‘You may not remember. It was round a fire on a farm in Spithurst.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Yes, we listened to the song of the nightingale . . . and to other songs from you.’

  ‘Ah, well – I trust you enjoyed it!’ said Bart, warming a little to this fellow.

  ‘The nightingale was wonderful,’ said Peter appreciatively.

  Tamsin felt a speedy end to this banter would be good for all parties. She knew Peter was merely trying to defuse things. But Tamsin had a keen eye for drift, and this was dangerously close.

  ‘We’ll be interviewing you all tomorrow. The times are up on the noticeboard. In the meantime, we’d like to keep the common room as a place where you can still gather, should you wish. And can anyone suggest a venue for the interviews?’

  ‘There’s a waiting room behind reception,’ said Penny, Director of Girls.

  ‘That sounds perfect,’ said Tamsin. ‘The waiting room it is. And just so you know, for the duration of the investigation, Abbot Peter will be sleeping in the East Wing as well. So if you see a monkish figure late at night, it isn’t a ghost!’

  What? thought Peter. He hadn’t been informed of this development.

  ‘Thank you for your patience and cooperation in these difficult times,’ she said and duly brought things to a close. No one moved apart from Cressida, who drifted over towards Penny, whispering in her ear, ‘Don’t mind me – I’m just trying to avoid Ferdinand. I fear another pastoral prowl.’ And Penny nodded with an understanding smile. Peter then crossed the floor to speak further with Bart about the nightingales . . . to show there were no hard feelings . . . while Tamsin got into a brief conversation with Crispin and Holly, who were beginning to enjoy the review weekend much more than they thought they would.

  ‘Forty-eight hours of old people!’ had been Holly’s reaction at the prospect, and her friends had commiserated. ‘Can you literally die of boredom?’ they’d asked.

  Things were looking up, however. They may be in school blazers and tracksuits but they were adults here, not excluded but equal – equals in this strange little show.

  ‘We’re actually suspects!’ she said to Crispin when Tamsin moved on, ‘which is, like, so cool!’

  ‘The murderer is the least likely one,’ replied Crispin, in a serious fashion.

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘That’s what my dad says.’

  ‘Your dad?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Right – and he sells cars . . . so obviously he’ll know all about police work.’

  ‘No, he does! We watch murder mysteries together sometimes – well, we used to. He says it’s always the least likely one, the one who is very nice and helps the police with their enquiries. It’s never the evil one or the nutty one or the oddball or the
unpopular one who you want it to be.’

  Holly pondered.

  ‘So if we cut out the evil, the nutty, the oddballs and the unpopular at Stormhaven Towers – who does that leave?’ she asked, bursting out into loud laughter. Adult heads suddenly turned in disapproval. One shouldn’t laugh amid murder, especially when the widow is present. Holly reddened a little and she spoke more quietly: ‘And anyway, that’s only on telly, Crispin. In real life, the police know the murderer straight away, almost always, within the first forty-eight hours. It’s just about proving it. And it’s normally a relation.’ Crispin looked doubtful. ‘No really, it is!’

  ‘You’re saying it’s his wife?’

  ‘I’m not saying definitely. But by the law of averages, it probably is.’

  ‘Absolutely no way.’

  They both looked across to Cressida who had moved to where Penny had sat. She was looking out of the window, as if in a trance.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Well, she’s a doctor, for a start.’

  ‘So? It’s always the doctor!’

  ‘It’s not always the doctor. It’s the butler sometimes.’ They laughed. ‘Or the Reverend Green with the lead piping in the library!’ They looked across at the chaplain, Ferdinand Heep. Holly wasn’t laughing now, but serious again.

  ‘Dr Crippen was a famous murderer,’ she said. ‘He killed his wife.’

  ‘She had lots of affairs,’ said Crispin drily. ‘Mrs Cutting is nothing like that.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘I just do. And anyway, Crippen was American.’

  ‘Racist.’

  ‘And not even a proper doctor.’

  Crispin had done a school project on Crippen and even visited Hilldrop Crescent in Camden, where the murder took place. He couldn’t say why he was so interested.

  ‘Harold Shipman,’ said Holly. ‘He was a doctor – and English.’

  Crispin shrugged his shoulders and then had a thought.

  ‘It could be you, Holly.’

  Holly thought for a moment. She’d never really talked with Crispin before. They’d had different friends, walked different paths through their schooldays. He wasn’t stand-out gorgeous or stand-out anything, really, so he’d got a bit lost in the crowd . . . despite being head boy. But he was quite sweet really, that’s what she was thinking. She felt playful with him and she hadn’t felt that for a long time. School for Holly had been a game – a game she’d survived and thrived in, been clever and smart . . . she’d somehow stumbled upon the key to power. But it had been an oppressive game, each day a battle and this is what she was now feeling as she sat in the evening sunlight of the common room – bad things done along the way. Yet somehow a weight was now removed from her shoulders. How had that happened? Perhaps she’d confess to the abbot – because she needed to confess to someone, that was obvious . . . and he looked nice in his mad clothes.