by Vera Morris
Stuart took out his pipe and matches. ‘Would you mind if I light up, Ann? Helps me to think.’
She relaxed. ‘No . Stuart. I love the smell of tobacco. My late husband smoked a pipe, although .’
Although what? A widow. ‘I tell you what, why don’t you tell me everything you want to tell me, and I’ll ask questions if I’m not sure what you mean. That’d be better than me giving you the third degree, wouldn’t it?’ He chuckled, tamping some rough-cut into his pipe and lighting up, leaning back in his chair as though ready to
hear a good story.
She smiled at him. ‘You’re very good at relaxing people, aren’t you? A woman feels safe in your company, Stuart.’
He wasn’t sure if that was what he wanted to hear. A touch of danger always spiced up any relationship. He nodded sagely and puffed on his pipe.
She took another sip of tea, then placed the cup firmly on the saucer. ‘I’ll start at the beginning, shall I?’
‘Always a good place to start.’
‘I came to the Pemberton’s six years ago. When my husband died I needed to get a job: for the money and to stop me going mad …’ She reddened.
Again the hesitation, as though she wanted to say more but was embarrassed or afraid. It was always useful to talk about matters not related to the case before you started in earnest. It helped you to learn the pattern of voice. ‘What did your husband die of? Was it an accident?’
She looked down, avoiding his eyes. ‘No, he died of lung cancer. It’s a death I wouldn’t wish on anyone.’
So that was why she was embarrassed, her husband had smoked a pipe. He clenched his teeth against the stem of his. If Mabel set the date for their marriage he’d seriously think of giving it up, but if she didn’t … a man had to have a few pleasures, even if they weren’t good for him. He smiled at her. ‘Tell me, what it was like when you first started your job at the Pembertons?’
She swallowed and nervously licked her lips. ‘I was lucky to get the position: I’d not worked for several years, but my last job was in a big hotel, I was in charge of the housekeeping: the laundry, bedlinen, dining-room linen, flowers, and supervising the chambermaids. My old manager was still around and gave me a good reference. I wanted to be with a family, we didn’t have children and I liked the idea of helping to look after a young boy. I didn’t realise how different David was to other children.’
‘Didn’t the Pembertons tell you about him when you went for an interview?’
Ann Fenner shook her head. ‘I saw him very briefly; I thought he was a lovely boy, but shy. I didn’t realise Mrs Pemberton didn’t want me to have much to do with David. My job was to run the house, cook meals and supervise the other people who work for them.’
‘They are?’
‘A cleaner comes in three times a week, a gardener, and a woman occasionally cooks when I have my time off. I have one-and-a-half days off a week. The whole day varies according to what entertaining the Pembertons are doing. Since David disappeared they haven’t had people round very often, so usually I get Sundays off.’
‘What are they like to work for?’
‘They pay well and they’re generous with the housekeeping, there’s no scrimping on the quality of the food, although Mr Pemberton checks the accounts thoroughly, as you’d expect he would.’ She pulled at her right cheek. ‘Even when David was here, it wasn’t a happy household. Perhaps it’s me, I’ve not been much fun since Bill died; I shouldn’t expect other people to cheer me up.’
‘Tell me about David. What was he like when you first went there?’
She smiled. ‘You’ve seen his photo?’ Stuart nodded.
‘Then you’ll know what a handsome chap he was … is. Whenever I met him in the house I’d say, ‘Hello, Master David.’ That’s how Mrs Pemberton wanted me to address him. I felt like the servant woman in David Copperfield. I realised he was different; he didn’t talk very much. Sometimes Mrs Pemberton would lose her temper with him and poor Mr Pemberton would look so upset. I never heard him shout at David.’
From the different tones of her voice: cold for Mrs Pemberton and warm for her husband, Stuart detected a difference in feeling to each of them. ‘Did David ever speak to you?’
‘Not at first. It started because of my cooking. Sorry to blow my own trumpet, but I’m a good cook and I introduced meals I thought would appeal to a young boy, especially extra nice puddings.’
Stuart wanted to ask what these were, and how good was her apple pie. He restrained himself. ‘What happened?’
‘I was in the kitchen looking through my cookery books to find a recipe for plums; the Victoria tree in the kitchen garden had produced a glut and I wanted something different to plums and custard.’
Stuart Elderkin thought of Doreen’s plum pie. ‘Plum pie’s nice,’ he ventured.
Anne laughed. ‘I’d found a recipe for plum and almond tart; I think the flavours of plum and almond are harmonious, and I was so absorbed reading the recipe I didn’t hear him come into the kitchen, until his hand, finger, pointing at the recipe, came into view.
‘“Are you going to make that?” he asked.
‘I jumped and my hand went to my throat. “Master David, you’ve given me a fright.” He giggled. I realised he must be able to read at least some of the recipe and he’d spoken a short, clear sentence. I decided not to comment and acted as though this was normal.’
‘Clever woman,’ Stuart commented.
Ann Fenner blushed and smiled. ‘“I don’t like you calling me, Master David, it’s silly,” he said.
‘“What do want me to call you?”
‘“Just David.”
‘I nodded and pointed to the book. “Do you think you’ll like this recipe? I noticed you left some of your plums and custard.”
‘He moved closer and studied the recipe closely, tracing each line with his finger. “What’s shortcrust pastry?”
‘I explained.
‘“I’d like you to make this. It sounds good.”
‘He could read, slowly, but he seemed to understand most of the words and he’d said more words in one minute than I’d heard in the five months I’d been there. I was so excited I wanted to rush out and tell his parents, but something stopped me. Why was he talking to me when he wouldn’t talk to his parents? How would they feel if I told them he’d freely talked, almost chattered, to me? Did David want me to tell them? Would he feel betrayed if I did? I didn’t know what to do.
‘“I shall make it tomorrow,” I said.
‘He smiled at me and I smiled back. It was so natural, a child looking forward to a nice pudding. I had difficulty holding the tears back.
‘“Can I come and see you again?”
‘My heart swelled with joy. “Any time, David and we can look at more recipes.”
‘“Thank you. I’ll come when they are out, or they’re busy and they think I’m in my room.”
‘The joy died. This wasn’t right and if they found out David was secretly visiting me I might lose my job, but I couldn’t tell him that.
‘“Is this a secret between us, David? You don’t want me to tell your parents you’ve been talking to me?” I was hoping he’d shake his head and say it didn’t matter.
‘Instead he beamed at me. “Yes, our secret. I like secrets. If you tell her she won’t let me come and see you. She doesn’t like anyone doing anything for me, she likes to do it all herself.” The tone of his voice showed he didn’t like that.
‘“Very well, come and see me when you can, you’ll always be welcome.” I knew it was wrong and dangerous, but I couldn’t betray him and I suppose I was flattered he’d trusted me. He smiled once more, turned away and went out of the kitchen without saying another word. I almost believed I dreamt the episode it was so weird hearing him talk in such a mature manner, and hearing the cold tone of his voice as he spoke about his mother. I must admit from that moment my feeling towards Mrs Pemberton changed and what I learned later made me dislike her more.’
>
Stuart blew out his cheeks. This was really interesting: a boy who could talk but chose not to and who seemed to dislike his mother. ‘What you’ve told me, Ann, is very helpful, it shows us another side to David’s character. I think we need another pot of tea, or …’ He looked at his watch. ‘The Crown will be open. Shall we go there, have a beer and perhaps some fish and chips?’
‘I thought you didn’t drink on duty?’
‘This isn’t a duty, it’s a pleasure, and I’d like to hear about David’s behaviour before he ran away and also you can tell me what Mrs Pemberton did to make you dislike her. What do you say?’ This was a profitable afternoon: new slants on David and hopefully some dirt on Mrs P, not to mention agreeable company, a pint and some good grub.
Ann Fenner looked torn. Did she think she’d said too much already?
‘Are you sure? Haven’t you got to get back to the office?’
‘Why go back when I’ve got good company, and the prospect of a pint of Adnams?’
She laughed and smiled up at him. ‘If I didn’t know better I’d think you were flirting with me, Stuart Elderkin.’
‘Perhaps I am. There’s no law against it, is there?’
‘Not yet, but they may make one soon.’
Stuart got up, paid at the till, and took their coats and his trilby from a hat stand. He passed her coat to her. He opened the café door and she preceded him, a girlish bounce to her step. Remember you’re a detective, he thought, and an engaged man.
Chapter 9
Frank’s appointment with Ralph Gabriel Baron, headmaster of Chillingworth School, was for two-thirty, the same time Stuart was meeting Ann Fenner. He’d tried to see Baron in the morning, but the woman who spoke to him on the phone was adamant: this was the time offered, take it or leave it, and although she didn’t use that phrase, the meaning was clear.
After the sickening crimes committed by Philip Nicholson, headmaster of Blackfriars, Frank and the rest of the team, especially Laurel and Dorothy, were jumpy about investigating a case involving a school. However, David hadn’t disappeared from the school so Frank hoped the answer didn’t lie there. He knew from Carol, Peter was a pupil at the school, but was the frightened boy also a pupil? or was he a figment of David’s imagination?
As he turned onto the B1128 from Westleton, the rain stopped and strong spring sunshine lit up the bare branches of the trees. At Yoxford he turned onto the A12. Near Farnham, before the River Alde passed under a bridge on its circuitous way to Aldeburgh, he turned left, and a few miles from the main road turned left again. An inconspicuous school sign, placed low on a brick wall, indicated the way. The driveway was narrow and twisted between clumps of trees, mainly oak, which grew close to the road, obscuring the view ahead. He thought he could see the green growths of emerging bluebells; they’d be a wonderful sight in May.
The trees thinned, revealing a small manor house set back from a gravelled rectangle; several cars and a school minibus were parked on it. Frank slowed down and stopped on a grass verge so he could get a clear view of the house; he opened a window to let in fresh air. A blackbird leant back as it pulled a worm from the ground. With raucous cries, a second blackbird dive-bombed the first, and a frantic fight started. He smiled and hoped the worm escaped.
It was a handsome Jacobean house, built in red brick, three stories high with Dutch pediments, their stepped brickwork rising above the roof. Three tall chimneys flanked each side of the central pediment, with more chimneys at the ends of the house. The windows, with stone surrounds, were tall, their panes of glass glittering in the sun. The house looked in good repair. How do they manage to maintain a house this size to such a high standard, he wondered? The pupil numbers were small; he must find out what the fees were. He parked near the main entrance, an imposing door with two roundel windows above, and looked at his watch: ten past two, he’d given himself twenty minutes of snooping time.
The main door was kept open by a cast-iron doorstop. He stepped into an empty hall, marble-floored, wooden panelled, with doors on either side, one signed Headmaster’s Office. He wasn’t seeing him here; the interview was to take place in Baron’s private rooms. Ahead was a corridor leading to a flight of stairs. There was a mixture of smells: lavender furniture polish and traces of whatever they’d eaten for lunch; he sniffed as he tried to guess; not the usual smell of school dinners, but something savoury and vaguely peppery. Goulash? It seemed unusually quiet for a school; he knew there weren’t many children, but where was the bustling secretary? the child on its way to the headmaster’s office? the officious caretaker?
Frank was about to chance his arm and open one of the doors when the clatter of footsteps on the stairs held him back. A slim young man, about twenty-five, with floppy blond hair, wearing a paint-spattered smock, strode into the hall.
‘Hello. Can I help you?’ he said.
Frank introduced himself and his business. ‘I’m meeting Mr Baron in his private rooms. I’m a little bit early, but I don’t want to put anyone out.’
‘I’m Gordon Stant, I teach art and music.’
This is a bonus, he thought. ‘Did you teach David Pemberton?’
‘Who?’
He explained.
‘No. I started here last September. How awful. His parents must be distraught.’
Pity. ‘Did you meet the previous art master?’
‘No, when I came for an interview he’d already left.’
‘When was that?’
He frowned and pulled a face. ‘Er, last June. I say, I don’t think I should be answering all these questions. Shall I take you to Mr Baron?’
Frank smiled at him. ‘Don’t worry, just passing the time of day.’ There were many paintings and original prints as well as copies of famous paintings by artists such as Van Gogh and Renoir on the walls of the hall. He’d pointed to them. ‘Someone likes works of art. They certainly brighten things up. Is this your influence?’
‘No. It’s Mr Baron’s; he believes in the civilising effects of art on the boys … of course I approve,’ the schoolmaster replied.
Frank glanced at his wristwatch ‘I’m still early. Perhaps you’d give me a quick tour. It’s a lovely example of a small Stuart manor house, one of my favourite periods. When was it built?’
Gordon Stant’s face relaxed. ‘About 1700; it is fine, one of the reasons I took the job, the chance to work in such a lovely building. How much time have you got?’
‘Plenty,’ he said. ‘I presume the rooms have been modified for school use?’
‘Actually, because the number of pupils is small, a lot of the original features have been kept.’ He opened a door to the right. ‘These rooms were originally the servants working quarters: the kitchen, pantry, buttery, servant’s hall and service room. The kitchen’s been kept and the servants’ hall is the boys’ dining room.’
‘I thought servants were confined to the basement?’
‘There is a basement, there’s a staircase to it from the servants’ hall.’
The room they’d entered was a classroom, with ten desks, a blackboard and easel, complete with chalk and eraser in the easel’s groove. Light flooded in from the mullioned windows showing a linoleum floor, several cupboards and two bookcases filled with brightly backed books. There was a door opposite.
‘Where does that go?’
‘This was the buttery, there was a beer cellar below.’
Frank tried the handle; locked.
‘I say, you can’t go where you like! No one goes down there, I’m told the steps are unsafe. We can’t risk a child falling down and breaking its neck.’
‘Sorry, just my natural curiosity.’
‘Perhaps I’d better take you—’
He did an ignore. ‘So where are the rest of the classrooms?—’
Stant turned and led him back into the man hall. ‘On the left. This is the Great Hall,’ he opened a door, ‘it’s used as a gym and also for assembly. The former parlour and drawing room are the other classro
oms.’
‘Where are all the children?’ Had they been spirited away by someone playing a flute?
‘It’s Wednesday afternoon,’ Stant said.
Frank raised his eyebrows. Yes, he knew that.
‘Games afternoon. Gary Salmon, the sports master, has them on the field. They do exercises and go for a run.’
‘Brave man. Are the pupils mostly biddable? Or will some of them hide in the bushes?’
Stant laughed. ‘I wouldn’t blame them, I hated games. They don’t play team games, it’s a case of them letting off steam and keeping fit. Also, they’re too frightened of Mr Salmon to misbehave. Goodness, he frightens me.’
Does he now? Perhaps David was also frightened of Mr Salmon. Too frightened to go back to school?
Stant grimaced. ‘I say, I shouldn’t have said that! I think I’d better take you up to Mr Baron’s room.’ He reddened. ‘You won’t mention that, you know … about Mr Salmon, will you?’ he muttered.
‘I never heard you, Mr Stant. I suppose you have other duties, keeping watch over the flock at night?’
Stant pointed him towards the corridor and staircase. ‘I supervise prep sometimes, but the kids mostly play games, if they’re not messing round. You probably know they have difficulties in one way or another?’
He nodded. ‘But you don’t have to do dormitory duty?’
Stant shook his head. ‘That was another reason I took the job, most of the teaching staff sleep out, and our lodgings are paid for. There isn’t enough room to house all of us in the main house.’ He started to climb the stairs. ‘Please follow me.’
The wide stairs, the banisters polished by schoolboys’ hands to a smooth patina, led to the first floor and a long corridor above the east terrace.
He stopped and looked out of a window; a well-kept lawn gently sloped down to fields, and in the distance a track-suited, tall, muscular man was performing keep fit movements and in front of him, boys wearing shorts and singlets were mimicking him. ‘Mr Salmon?’
