A (Very) Public School Murder Read online

  ‘And that’s cool as well,’ she said. ‘Like, I could be a murderer. That’s epic!’ Apart from anything else, it felt like she was a woman at last. ‘And I could, you know! I could do it. I could easily have done it.’

  She raised her hands as if to attack Crispin, who laughed awkwardly and pulled away. His mind was elsewhere, on the murder moment. He’d been there, you see – the thought had just struck him.

  ‘I was there,’ he said to Holly.

  ‘Where?’

  And then he hesitated.

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’ He was suddenly sweating. ‘I think I’ll go to my room.’ He needed to think.

  ‘OK,’ she said, and watched him leave.

  Holly now sat alone. And then she turned and caught Ferdinand staring at her, as though she was a ghost.

  ‘You might have told me

  this was a residential job,’ said Peter. They were walking towards the house of the late Jamie King and his widow, Cressida Cutting. ‘I would have put up my rates.’

  ‘You don’t have any rates. Or none that are negotiable.’

  ‘Even so.’

  ‘I only had the idea as I was talking.’

  ‘And you didn’t think to run it past me first?’

  ‘How was I to run it past you in the meeting? You need to go with the flow, Abbot.’

  Peter laughed.

  ‘I don’t remember you ever going with the flow, Tamsin.’ He was right – she never went with the flow. ‘You fight the flow every inch of the way, with every ounce of your being. You build a dam or send the flow underground. What you never do is go with it.’

  ‘And anyway, you’ll love it, Uncle, you know you will – all this boarding stuff.’ Peter felt a strong inner reaction. He disliked people assuming what he would feel . . . they were always wrong, and generally attempting only to make themselves feel better . . . as Tamsin was now. ‘It’ll be like being back in the monastery,’ she said, ‘with your little cell and a community of oddballs. PC Wilson is bringing your stuff.’

  ‘Wilson?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And how is Wilson getting hold of “my stuff” – breaking and entering?’

  ‘I sent him into Lewes to buy everything you need. They’ve got good shops there and it won’t do you any harm to have some new pyjamas.’

  ‘How would you know that?’

  He didn’t have any pyjamas.

  ‘I’m guessing.’

  The abbot considered the unfolding story of his overnight stay and Wilson’s shopping expedition. He’d initially felt like the victim of a police stitch-up . . . which he was. But he also saw potential in the development.

  ‘I’ll need running gear,’ he said firmly.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’ll need to run while I’m here – and I’m not going naked.’

  ‘No, that wouldn’t be good. Especially not in a school.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘It’s the sense of entitlement that disappoints me. It’s like the politicians’ expenses scandal.’

  Peter ignored her.

  ‘I won’t be staying over without the running gear, Tamsin. Running keeps me sane.’

  ‘Isn’t prayer meant to do that?’

  ‘Prayer and running.’

  ‘You’re pushing it, Abbot.’

  ‘No, you’re pushing it, Detective Inspector – and I’m responding. I’m the one in the East Wing, going to bed with a murderer down the corridor, possibly next door, while you enjoy the luxury of your little flat in Hove . . . which I still haven’t seen, by the way.’

  ‘When I’ve got it all sorted . . .’

  ‘Size nine running shoes, Adidas preferably.’

  They arrived at the door of the headmaster’s house, tasteful mock-Georgian and surrounded by trees. Inside was the widow, Cressida Cutting. They glanced at each other in a moment of camaraderie and rang the bell.

  ‘Let loose the dogs of inquiry!’ whispered Peter.

  Cressida opened the door,

  and without a welcome, silently guided them inside to the front room, where yesterday, Jamie had paced with worry. He’d left with the spoken desire that they should talk together more. And now they wouldn’t talk at all.

  ‘Good of you to see us, Cressida.’

  ‘Did I have a choice?’ she said with an accusing smile. ‘Do sit down.’

  Two large sofas offered themselves, at right angles, expensive beige fabric with a subtle Japanese-style black and pink print – and a glass coffee table in the middle ground. The room was decorated with quiet luxury, held in the arms of a beautiful walled garden through the large patio window . . . though the garden showed some signs of neglect.

  ‘I’m afraid Jamie didn’t like having the school gardener in,’ she said, anticipating their thoughts. ‘He found it intrusive. Everyone needs to get away from where they work – from the staff.’

  ‘Quite,’ said Tamsin. She always needed to get away.

  ‘But unfortunately gardens don’t tend themselves,’ said Cressida. ‘I don’t know what I’ll do with it now – well, I don’t suppose I’ll be here for much longer . . .’

  There was a pause.

  ‘It is very sudden and a shock, we do know,’ said Tamsin, briefly aware of how difficult this all must be for the woman opposite. Yesterday, she had a husband and a house. Today, she just had the house . . . and soon, she would have neither. ‘I mean, our visit. But we do need to speak with you this evening.’

  ‘That’s fine,’ said Cressida, revealing her frustration. In Peter’s experience, only the stressed used the word ‘fine’ to describe themselves or their predicament.

  ‘You were with your husband shortly before he died . . . as far as we know, the last to see him before he died.’

  ‘Well, not quite the last – if what you propose is indeed true.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘If he was murdered . . . then I wouldn’t have been the last to see him.’

  ‘No, of course . . .’

  ‘Though I’m not convinced that he was.’

  ‘We’re not proposing anything at the moment, Cressida,’ said Peter. ‘And we appreciate how difficult this must be for you.’

  It was also difficult for Peter, finding a new way to relate to his doctor. In the surgery, it was she who asked all the questions and held all the power.

  ‘It’s not difficult,’ she said. ‘It’s just meaningless. The death, the investigation – it’s meaningless.’

  Tamsin and Peter felt awkward on the sofa. The abbot was also concerned lest his habit stain the beige fabric and the delicate flower print, visible now he was close to it. A trip to the launderette was probably due – no, long overdue – and this was not a good place to discover that.

  ‘Look, just ask the questions you wish to ask,’ said Cressida, ‘and let’s get this over with, shall we?’

  OK, then, thought Tamsin.

  ‘How was your last meeting with your husband, Cressida?’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Was it happy?’

  It was Jennifer Stiles, the head’s PA, who’d tipped off Tamsin that, ‘It wasn’t exactly the happiest of marriages.’ Tamsin had asked for more, but Jennifer refused to explain further. ‘I don’t think you’ll find many who disagree, though,’ she’d said.

  ‘I don’t know what you mean by happy,’ said Cressida. ‘He was concerned about the review team weekend, an issue had come up and he wanted my opinion about it.’

  ‘What was the issue?’

  ‘He didn’t say what the issue was. He was like that.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Jamie couldn’t always speak of his concerns – he bottled them up, held them in, unpresented. I see a lot of people like that in the surgery: people who want only a degree of healing. They want relief without the deeper healing of fundamental change in their lives. They want me to mend the outcomes of their poor habits – but not to change their habits. Do you get the picture?’ The abbot wond
ered if he was one of these despised patients – and they were despised, he could see. ‘It could be frustrating with Jamie because while he wouldn’t tell you anything, keeping it all locked up, he’d still be in a mood and demand support . . . and get angry if it wasn’t there. He didn’t want my opinion – he just wanted my sympathy.’

  Why does anyone ever get married? wondered Tamsin. And it looks as though Jennifer wasn’t wrong; Cressida was hardly in pieces over his loss.

  ‘So he was in a mood and not revealing why,’ said Tamsin, reminded of most of the men she knew. ‘And then?’

  ‘Oh, he went into his study, I think – I was working. And then he came out a few minutes later, saying he had to go out.’

  ‘Did he say why – or where?’

  ‘No – and I was too busy to care, to be honest. It’s possible I wasn’t listening too closely.’

  Tamsin did not want to like Cressida – she’d been publicly humiliated by her in the common room, which usually meant revenge somewhere down the line. But she found admiration growing for this headmaster’s wife . . . matter-of-fact and distant, nothing hysterical about her and quite unmoved by the childish self-importance of her husband Jamie King. Not that she was taking sides . . .

  ‘And so he left, without saying where he was going.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you never saw him again?’

  ‘No,’ said Cressida. ‘And the world is now a very different place, believe me.’ She smiled painfully, like sunshine in the rain, as her eyes watered a little. Peter hoped Tamsin would leave it there. But Tamsin never left it there.

  ‘Do you think your husband was the suicidal type, Cressida?’

  ‘Who is the suicidal type?’ She laughed dismissively. ‘Men never let anyone know what’s coming, that’s why it’s such a shock. Women tend to give more clues, more cries for help along the way. But men, only rarely . . . they just go out and do the violent deed. And it does tend to be violent. Men don’t do drugs and sleeping pills. I see it all the time.’

  ‘In a professional capacity?’

  ‘Of course. They’re with you in the surgery one week, friendly enough and then next week . . . they’ve got up one morning, tidied the greenhouse, thrown a rope over a beam in the garage and hanged themselves. Men like the angry, violent exit – leaving a devastated family behind.’

  ‘Do you think Jamie killed himself, Cressida?’

  There was a pause.

  ‘What does it matter what I think?’

  ‘I think it matters a great deal,’ said Peter.

  ‘It won’t bring him back – so how does it count at all?’

  ‘I suppose we’re just trying to find out what happened – so we can lay the matter to rest.’

  ‘Do you think I’ll be happy when the murderer is found? I won’t be – because really, so bloody what?’ The abbot chose not to reply. It was the first interview; she must be allowed to rule. They could press harder another time. ‘He was certainly anxious yesterday,’ she added, to break the silence. ‘Something had come up that he couldn’t solve – but that was hardly new. Things come and go in any community.’

  Unfortunately Wonder stays, thought Tasmin.

  But Cressida was still speaking: ‘I just don’t see anyone wishing to kill him. No . . .’ She broke off, as if remembering. ‘I mean, he always said you had to be aware of the “pissed-off and the passed-over” in the school – that was his phrase. They were the teachers whose careers had run into the sand and were going nowhere – yet still in their mid-forties, so facing twenty years of disillusionment ahead, waiting for their pension. But it was their sulking he didn’t like – I don’t think he imagined they’d kill him.’

  She said it deadpan, it wasn’t a joke. And then she spoke again.

  ‘I’d take poison. I wouldn’t jump.’

  Jennifer left her bike

  in the gravel car park off the A259, by the blackberry bushes they had picked from as children. One in the mouth, one in the bag and they’d been good days. Well, better days at least . . . days of innocence before her father’s suffering began.

  She walked in the late evening light down the track, which led over the railway line to Tide Mills and the sea. And really, what a day! Who would have thought it – the police saying that they thought Jamie had been murdered? Jamie’s death was quite appalling, because she had probably loved him. He’d been a man who knew what he wanted, not frightened to take decisions, a strong man who liked her, depended on her, until . . . well, she’d now do all she could, of course – which was why she was here, walking this familiar path in the fading light. They came here as a family, all those years ago. A picnic at Tide Mills was something Dad could manage – and they’d all had to look after Dad.

  He liked to tell them the history of the place, it was what dads did . . . they hid their feelings in stories. So Jennifer knew how in 1770 a flour mill, driven by tidal power, had opened halfway between Stormhaven and Newhaven – and was called Tide Mills. And how the mill was a success, with a village growing around it to house the workers.

  But there was trouble in 1795. Her dad was particularly keen on this particular yarn. It was a little more gruesome than the rest and he liked to frighten his girls. ‘Britain was at war with France – that’s who we used to fight, the Frenchies. And to guard against invasion, militia groups were stationed along the south coast of England, ready for the fight. But some of the militia at Blatchington – that’s the north side of Stormhaven – they weren’t happy, were they? Not happy at all. They weren’t being given enough food and, in the end, they were so hungry they mutinied!’

  ‘What’s that mean?’

  ‘They disobeyed their commanders, charged down into Stormhaven, seized food from shopkeepers at gunpoint – and then proceeded on to Tide Mills where there was flour. Well, two of them were charged with stealing flour from the sloop, Lucy, moored there – and another was charged with stealing rum and flour from the mill.’

  ‘But they were hungry!’

  ‘Yes, but that wasn’t so clever though, was it? Because along came the troops from Brighton and . . .’ At this point, he’d try to grab the girls with his hands, and they’d run away screaming. ‘They got caught! The five ringleaders were hanged by the neck and the others were transported – sent to Australia where hard labour awaited them.’

  But quieter times followed, for the history books at least. The mill closed in 1883, though the village – still known as Tide Mills – continued to be occupied by tenants, now having to make their living elsewhere. Eventually, in 1937, most residents had to leave when their homes were declared unfit for human habitation. It had become a bleak and neglected outpost – and no shops for a good distance in either direction. The remaining tenants were evicted in 1940 as the area was needed for defensive purposes . . . the Canadians were lodged there, in case of invasion from a different enemy now, the Germans.

  The troubled history of Tide Mills . . . yet Jennifer loved this place. These haunted ruins were her childhood and, in a way, her home. Never closed down or cordoned off, they remained a place of play for generations of children; and she knew where to go, the place where they always went. They called it the ‘Secret House’, hidden from view, with the concrete bench where, as children, they could sit, talk and imagine . . . and be free from their parents for a while. Just for a while, they could look after no one but themselves.

  There was a chill in the air as Jennifer walked, a night chill – July could still be cold. She now left the track and made for the derelict flint cottages. She stepped through the absent door and into the stone skeleton of the old miller’s home, the ‘Secret House’. They’d both be back by the eleven o’clock curfew, the two of them, no one need know; it was harmless enough, after all. But what was the meeting about?

  And the person following Jennifer – they had been since she arrived – was happy to take her lead. They didn’t have memories here, didn’t know this place at all really . . . not in the way Jen
nifer did.

  But then Jennifer thought she was meeting someone else entirely.

  PC Wilson’s shopping

  lay on the bed – and he’d done a pretty good job. Peter was not used to so many new items so close together. He tried to avoid shops. Yet here on his bed were toothpaste, dental floss, toothbrush, deodorant, razors, shaving cream, pyjamas – flowery – a red dressing gown, blue slippers . . . and a full set of running gear. And it really was very full – including a headband, which suggested Wilson was either a runner himself or married to one. Perhaps they ran with the Stormhaven Striders, the local running club? Peter wasn’t sure about the dark running glasses – what would he be doing with those? Dark running glasses were worn by the shifty, by those insecure in their identity, this is what Peter felt – by those hiding from the world.

  ‘But the glasses aside, a very good job, Wilson,’ said Peter to himself. The size nine Adidas shoes were a pleasing cobalt blue, the colour of wisdom, while the ample supply of fruit and nut chocolate and a pack of digestive biscuits were the icing on the cake. Chocolate still felt like a treat to Peter. Whole years had gone by in the desert without it, the heat making storage difficult. The monk in charge of requisitions, Brother Titus, did sometimes smuggle the brown gold into the monastery, taking it quickly to the fridge in the scullery. But it never lasted long there, this was his experience. Word got round, as it does in a community, discreet visits were made to confirm the sweet rumours and then came the tasting. In the end, Brother Titus gave up. Unless he could find a private fridge – and where would he find that? – what was the point?