by Linda Coles
When Frederick Browning received the news at school that one of his staff, Sylvia Marsh, had been found dead, he’d assumed, naturally, that she’d been caught up in the previous day’s dreadful events. But when the police officer told him that that had not, in fact, been the case—that she had been found by the river with no evidence of a gunshot wound, and that suicide was suspected—he instinctively knew what had driven her to her death.
Blackmail.
He also wondered if Gerald knew. After all, why would the police think to inform him? With no other next of kin, the school had been all the family Sylvia had had.
And they’d let her down.
He’d just shown the officer out and was still standing, stunned, in the entranceway when Darlene came up behind him, startling him.
“Heavens!” he exclaimed, whirling to face her. “You made me jump.”
“Sorry Mr. Browning. So sorry. Only, I wondered if everything is all right. Was it to do with yesterday’s events?” She meant the police officer’s visit, of course.
The headmaster wondered for a moment what he should tell her. She’d find out soon enough, the entire school would, but he needed a bit of time to think before he told everyone. He evaded her question entirely and asked her to bring a pot of tea to his study. She looked at him quizzically, but had left it there and gone off to make his tea while Browning made his way back to his desk to think.
A moment or two later, she knocked, entered and left the tea tray with him, deciding not to revisit her earlier question.
Once alone, Frederick Browning ran through his options. He picked up a biscuit and nibbled on it; it was something to do with his fingers as his brain worked through what had happened.
Sylvia was dead. Had the students, his students, been the cause of her distress to such an extent that she’d taken her own life? A schoolboy prank gone much too far? Surely, he reasoned, if her actions had been the result of her relationship with Gerald Baker, he’d have seen something more of it when the man himself had visited just two mornings ago. He picked up another biscuit and chewed mindlessly. If this came out, the school would carry the shame forever and he’d likely lose his job over it. He couldn’t allow that to happen.
“Damn those boys! Why hadn’t they all gone home for the holidays, like their friends?” he moaned. Few boys went home in reality, he knew; their parents chose to send them to boarding school for a reason.
His thoughts turned anxiously to Gerald now: he knew about the blackmail, and he had the power to create havoc for him.
“But does he have proof?” Browning asked himself out loud. “Because it doesn’t sound like she left a note. The officer had said ‘possible suicide,’ which meant it wasn’t a certainty.” He poured tea and sipped at it, washing biscuit crumbs from his mouth. He picked up another and chewed, his cup still in the other hand, eyes focused somewhere in the distance, thinking.
“The boys will keep quiet,” he said decisively. “They have to. I can make sure that happens. I’ll talk to them soon.” As often happened, his oak-panelled walls were his only sounding board. When he was satisfied with his plan, he called Darlene to send the boys through. They’d be at lunch anyway, and no one would be any the wiser.
Fifteen minutes later, seven uneasy-looking boys sat waiting to see their headmaster. Darlene regarded them curiously. Usually the headmaster informed her of what these sorts of meetings were about, but today was different. She’d followed her instructions, of course, and refrained from asking. Perhaps it had something to do with the policeman’s visit?
At last, the headmaster opened his study door and called them through. Sitting back at his desk, with the seven boys lined up in front of him, he took a moment to study each boy’s face before he spoke. Did they know why he’d called them in? Did he even have the right boys? He certainly hoped so; there was only one crack at this to get it right.
When he was satisfied that they’d withered under his gaze for long enough, he spoke. “So, whose idea was it to blackmail her?”
Seven heads simultaneously dropped an inch or two. He had the right boys, all right.
“I’ll ask again. Whose idea was it?”
Nothing. He admired their solidarity. “Let me put it this way. You’re all caught up in this equally. If you are the instigator, you’re in no more trouble than the others, but out of idle curiosity, I want to know who it was.” He looked directly at Alistair, and asked, “Why, Mr. Crowley? What was your motivation?”
More silence.
“I gather you all wanted better grades out of your plan, am I correct?”
Seven heads stayed bowed; a couple nodded ever so slightly.
Alistair found his tongue. “What will happen to us, sir?”
At least he’d raised his head and looked directly at his accuser when he spoke, Browning noted. A confident individual today. Smart in general. Yet he’d got mixed up in something stupid that had now turned deadly.
“It depends. I’ve given this a lot of thought. You don’t know the half of it yet, but you will do soon enough. And that troubles me. The fallout from your stupidity reaches much farther than you anticipated, I’m sure. So, here’s the deal.”
Seven heads dared to turn to their neighbours, each boy anxiously wondering what their headmaster was going to do. The signals were confusing, no doubt.
“You’ll get your grades.”
Seven startled faces shot rapid looks at their friends, as if to say, ‘Come again?’
“But on one condition. You never instigated this plot, never spent a moment thinking about it, never sent any anonymous letters, nothing. Do I make myself clear?”
Seven voices said, “Yes sir,” in unison.
“I don’t care who asks, or how hard they try: it was nothing to do with you or anyone else at this school. Got it? It never happened. It was a rumour.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Now, before you all disappear, I have some other news for you. And this, boys, is your punishment. No doubt it will stay with you for the rest of your miserable lives.”
The boys flicked questioning looks at one another.
Finally, Alistair dared to speak. “But I thought—”
The headmaster stood, knocking his chair backwards as he barked the words out. “Sylvia Marsh is dead. She killed herself. And it’s on you!” There wasn’t another sound in the room until he finally thundered, “Dismissed!”
Seven stricken boys filed out of the room, each deep in thought. They’d killed Sylvia Marsh.
She was dead.
And it was their fault.
And they were to keep quiet.
Chapter Sixty-Seven
The news on everyone’s lips was about the previous day’s carnage. Everyone had their own story, their own version of what had happened, victims they knew. There was so much gossip, fact and extended truth in the air it was hard to know what to believe and what to ignore. The press had swooped in, everyone from the local papers to national TV, and they did their job like vultures on road kill. Headlines screamed the news around the world, and England’s first mass shooting became the topic of conversation across many languages. The town of Hungerford had just become famous for all the wrong reasons.
At Gerald’s office, his small team gathered in the lunch room and chatted in hushed tones about their own experiences. Many of them had been in the office, at work. Some had stepped out on an errand or for lunch, and luckily none of them had been caught in the crossfire, or taken a direct hit, as the gunman had fired away indiscriminately. For this, they were thankful. Gerald let them have their time; it was important they were allowed to express their feelings, as he had done himself with Sandra, his wife, the previous night. They’d sat up talking, something they rarely did any more, until late in the evening. It was a kind of therapy.
But Sylvia was on his mind now. He wanted to speak to her, to make sure she was all right and not too upset by the shootings. But she’d be at work now, and even though it was the summer
holidays, there were still boarding pupils to look after, summer education and sporting programmes to oversee. Sylvia would have been safe, he suspected, confined to the school as she was during working hours. But that didn’t stop him wanting desperately to reach out to her, to hold her and soothe her. There was only Gerald to love her and protect her like no one else would, and he knew she would need him today.
He drained his coffee mug, rinsed it at the sink and left the other staff members to rehash the events of the last twenty-four hours. He’d call the school and see if he could be put through. It was about lunchtime anyway; she should be free to talk.
Back at his desk, he made the call and spoke to the office secretary, who told him Sylvia hadn’t been in to work since she’d left on Tuesday evening. She’d called in sick with a migraine and was staying indoors. Gerald frowned uneasily; that was most unlike her. Before he rang off, the secretary had asked him to give Sylvia her regards if he did speak to her, to wish her a speedy recovery; migraines could be quite debilitating. Gerald assured her he would and hung up. He glanced at his watch. There wasn’t time to get over to her cottage and be back before his next appointment, but the urgency inside of him pulled hard. He pressed the intercom button and waited for his own secretary to answer.
“Can you reschedule my afternoon appointment for me, please, or see if Trevor can take it? I have to go out unexpectedly.”
She said she’d handle it, and Gerald grabbed his car keys and set out to his car. He knew he’d never get any more work done today; there was too much disruption, and the thought of Sylvia being ill and all alone at home wasn’t conducive either.
The car was stifling inside; the midday sun was directly overhead. He wound both front windows down to let the meagre breeze in. It’d cool down when he got moving. His steering wheel was almost too hot to hold as he pulled his door to and set off, through the town centre and on to Sylvia’s cottage a couple of villages away. He wondered if he should stop and pick something up for her—some flowers, maybe, or a tin of soup—but decided against it. If she was hungry, he was sure he could make her something to eat with what she had in already.
He ploughed on. The car was cool, now, as he approached the boundary of Kintbury, and he turned into her street and pulled up outside her cottage. He sat for a moment, looking up at the front windows. All the curtains were open.
“Strange,” he said out loud. “Maybe she’s feeling better.”
He got out and headed up the front path, half expecting to see her opening the front door, but she didn’t. He glanced across at the driveway and noticed her car wasn’t there either. It didn’t add up. The school secretary had said she’d not been in, yet it didn’t look like she was home either. He knocked on the front door anyway. And waited. And knocked again. Nothing. He formed a shield with both hands and used it to look through the lounge window, but even through the net curtains, he could see nobody was home.
A voice called out to him and he turned to see where it was coming from.
“Are you looking for someone?” an elderly man called. He was peering over the hedge between his place and Sylvia’s.
“I’m looking for Sylvia. But it looks like I’ve missed her,” Gerald said, smiling.
“Haven’t seen her today,” the old man said. “In fact, now I think of it, last I saw her was yesterday morning. Yes, that’s it. Looked like she was off for a picnic with someone—carrying a blanket and basket, she was.”
“Really?” Gerald asked. It didn’t sound like she had a migraine, then, if the old man was correct. Those usually required a dark room and a lie down. A picnic in the sunshine was the exact opposite. “Are you sure? Maybe that was Saturday morning?”
“No, I’m sure, all right. Did it Saturday, too. Yesterday, I called out good morning to her, but she mustn’t have heard me. Carried on by without a word. Distracted over something. I remember thinking it wasn’t like her. Definitely yesterday morning.”
“Thanks, then,” Gerald said, and went back to his car. He was stumped. The old man was adamant he’d seen her yesterday, but he was also right about something else.
It wasn’t like Sylvia at all.
Now he needed to find her even more.
Chapter Sixty-Eight
Gerald was dumbfounded, then horrified. Until it hit him: perhaps she’d been a victim of the shooting. His blood ran cold in his veins. Could she have been murdered? He stamped on the accelerator. There was only one place she could be if she’d somehow got caught up in the rampage: the hospital. She had no next of kin, so if she’d been injured, heaven forbid, she and the hospital staff would have had no way of letting him know.
“Yes, that’s it!” he said triumphantly. “I’m on my way, my love.” He was almost smiling with relief now. Injured, he could cope with.
At the hospital, he parked in the visitor’s area and raced inside to the reception area.
“Hello,” he said breathlessly to the young woman at Information. “Sylvia Marsh—what ward is she on, please?”
“One moment, and I’ll take a look for you,” the woman said. “When was she admitted?”
“Yesterday, I think.”
The woman typed Sylvia’s name into her computer but came up blank. She looked gravely up at Gerald and gently asked, “Was she a victim of the shooting?”
“Well, that’s it. I’m really not sure, but she’s missing. You don’t think. . .” He trailed off, unable to ask the next obvious question. He’d been so sure she’d be here, sat up in bed with an injured leg or something fixable. Now it appeared she wasn’t.
The woman picked her phone up and made a call. Gerald heard her ask about Sylvia Marsh—was she on their list? She lowered her voice and asked, “The list of the known deceased?” After a pause, she looked up, shook her head at Gerald and smiled a little. Sylvia’s name wasn’t on that list. “Do you know if she’s actually in this hospital?” she asked him. “She may have been sent on to another.”
“Thanks. I really don’t know where she is. I’ll try them. I’ll phone them,” he said, dazed. He’d felt so sure. He slowly walked away from the woman and was headed back to his car when another thought hit him.
She’d had a blanket, a picnic basket. But they hadn’t arranged to meet. . .
“Oh god, no!” he exclaimed out loud and turned on his heels back towards the woman he’d been talking to. She was now busy talking to another man and Gerald stood behind him, willing him to finish what he needed so he could ask her another question. He moved from one foot to the other, in an agony of frustration, and when the man finally moved on, he dashed forward and blurted out his request.
“Maybe she wasn’t a shooting victim. Was anyone else brought in recently, a woman, shoulder-length brown hair, thirty-five, pretty? I expect she had her purse with her, all her things. Please, can you ask again?” He sounded like the desperate man he was, his voice frantic now, his eyes pleading.
The clerk obligingly made the call and asked the question. Her face told him all he needed to know as she looked back at him. An anguished cry burst from Gerald’s chest before she’d even hung up, and he clenched his fists across his eyes. The woman stood and rounded her desk. He didn’t feel her put her hand on his shoulder to try and comfort him. She waited patiently, as she had done with all the others over the last twenty-four hours, and then she asked him softly, “Are you next of kin for Sylvia Marsh?”
“Kind of,” he said. “She doesn’t have any family. I’m a close friend,” he said, his voice hoarse with tears.
“Please, take a seat, and I’ll get somebody to come and see you,” she said, pointing to a chair not far away.
Gerald sat down to wait.
Chapter Sixty-Nine
Thursday 20th August 1987
I don’t know what to do with myself. My love has gone. Forever. I’d hoped she was a walking injured, sat up in a hospital bed waiting for me to find her. I’d hoped that’s why I couldn’t find her. But it wasn’t to be. Taken, gone forever. Th
e hospital mentioned suicide, but surely not. She—we—had so much to live for. I’d have put a stop to the blackmail; the headmaster would have seen sense. And we would have been together, like I’d promised her. But not now. She’s gone. I don’t think I will ever be happy again. There’s nothing left for me. I may as well join her.
Chapter Seventy
Even at 7 AM, it was hot as hell. Chrissy had idled on the patio long enough, sipping coffee and eating toast putting off the inevitable, trying to justify not going for a run this morning staying here for another mug of caffeine. The jet lag seemed to be lingering longer than it normally did, but then perhaps she hadn’t noticed it so much on other journeys over. This time, she had a purpose to attend to, whereas every other time, she’d lounged about, relaxing and drinking in her ‘me time’ with no agenda ahead, nowhere to be, no one to monitor. There wasn’t much of that on this trip.
“Come on, lazy bones, get your arse into gear,” she said to herself, standing and taking her mug into the kitchen. “Work to be done.” She slipped out of her shorty pyjamas and into her running kit, pulled her pink cap down to keep the low morning glare out, and she was almost ready.
“Do I fancy music?” she asked herself.
Apparently, she did, because she found herself flicking through playlists to find something to suit her mood. She stopped at Gin Wigmore and hit play. Her earphones filled with the woman’s gravelly voice, and she headed out onto the pavement and quickly got into her stride. Chrissy hated listening in order; everything had to be on shuffle. She found comfort in the unexpected at times, and since a playlist order was not a matter of life or death, this was a simple one to allow. And a little serendipity could amuse.
The first song out was ‘Black sheep.’ Chrissy smiled; she’d always been the black sheep of the family, even in her childhood. Julie was the good girl. Chrissy sang along with the first couple of lines as she set off towards the boardwalk at a steady jog. She passed two homeless men lying in the shade of a couple of nearby trees, their worldly belongings by their side in shopping trolleys. There didn’t appear to be much more than a tarp and a few odd clothes, and she wondered about their stories. How had they got to be sleeping rough? Bad luck or chosen lifestyle? She’d never know.
