Cherringham--A Lesson in Murder

by Neil Richards

  Where Tahir was about to be surprised.

  12. Hannah and Tahir

  Sarah knocked at the door to Sophie and Hannah’s room. No taunting picture was stuck on the door today.

  It took a few minutes before the door was opened by a sleepy-eyed Hannah.

  “Huh?” she said.

  “Sorry, Hannah. I was hoping to talk to Sophie again.”

  “Um. She’s at the library. Some project …”

  Hannah drifted away from the door, leaving it open.

  “Oh. I wanted to tell her what happened to Ms. Braithwaite.”

  And suddenly the sleepy Hannah stopped, and turned around.“What? What happened?”

  Hannah — wide awake now.

  “Last night, it seems …”

  Sarah wondered whether she should even be telling the young girl the dark news.

  “Ms. Braithwaite jumped in front of a train.”

  Hannah’s eyes went wide, lips tight. For a moment she didn’t say anything. Then:

  “God.” She shook her head.

  “I felt Sophie should know … since she was looking after the Minnows for her, and—”

  And then Hannah took a step forward.

  “Do they … do you know that it was suicide?”

  “It looks like it. Jumped in front of an oncoming train.”

  Then, with an edge to her voice. “Are you sure?”

  Sarah decided to take a chance.

  “Hannah, do you know something about all this? Do you think what happened to Ms. Braithwaite … could it involve Sophie?”

  Hannah seemed frozen, unsure whether to say nothing … or maybe say … everything.

  “If you know something, Hannah — if you are Sophie’s friend — you should tell me.”

  Then a slow nod. Hannah accepting the logic of it. The girl went to the door and closed it.

  “I — I don’t know if I should tell you. But all of this, I don’t really know what it means. Can you understand? And Sophie won’t either. But I’m scared for her.”

  The girl sat down on her bed. Sarah pulled a desk chair close, facing her.

  “Maybe if you tell me what you do know … it can help.”

  Hannah looked at Sarah. Took a breath.

  “Things got bad … scary. Each thing that happened, was worse than the one before.”

  Sarah not at all sure what Hannah meant.

  “And now, this thing about the train, Ms. Braithwaite? It all … makes sense …”

  And Sarah waited to hear just what that ‘sense’ could be.

  *

  “Rise and shine,” Jack said, just opening the door to the ramshackle caretaker’s cottage.

  Not much to look at outside, and inside it looked as though Tahir was simply letting food, dishes, clothes … build up into piles.

  Jack shut the door behind him.

  A few steps into an equally dingy bedroom.

  Tahir coming out of the shower, a towel wrapped around him.

  “Bloody hell, you again. What the—”

  “Hang on, Tahir. Felt we didn’t exactly have closure yesterday. Things … not exactly adding up?”

  “This is my place and it’s my day off, so if you don’t mind just get your yank ‘ass’ out of it!”

  Oh, Jack thought, I could have some fun with Tahir.

  Back in the day he never let any punk talk to him like that. Sometimes they needed a little … reminder to respect the NYPD shield.

  But here, Jack was just an independent citizen.

  Not even one from this country.

  “Got something you might want to know, Tahir. Thought it might inspire you to tell me more. About your life here. What you know. What you don’t.”

  That tease made Tahir hold his tongue.

  Then: “What is it? What do you think I want to know?”

  “Why not get dressed and we’ll talk out in your, um, living room. It’s something — trust me — that you’ll want to hear …”

  And Jack walked out to the small living room and removed an empty pizza box from a tattered easy chair while he waited for Tahir …

  … who not only had been given time to dress …but also — more importantly — time to think … time to worry.

  *

  “Hannah — if you know something about any of this … maybe now you should tell me.”

  The girl seemed tortured by the decision.

  But then, in a move that made Sarah think of her own Chloe when they had their big talk last night about important things, Hannah took a big breath … and just blurted it out.

  “Sophie was Ms. Braithwaite’s new special girl.”

  “Special. In what way, special?” said Sarah gently, already knowing the answer.

  Hannah shook her head, looked away for a moment, and then turned back to Sarah.

  The door now opened, it couldn’t be closed.

  “Ms. Braithwaite always had a favourite. Could be a big deal; help you get into the best Uni … really helpful.”

  Sarah felt it was best to not say anything.

  “But there were rumours. A lot of us felt … that it might involve more than simply being her favourite.”

  Hannah kept her eyes on Sarah.

  As if asking her to finish the idea …

  Because it was just too hard.

  “You’re saying that the relationship was more than being a helper?”

  A nod. “That’s what people said. Not me. But people got jealous. Said … said … bad things.”

  Then Sarah made the last connecting dot.

  “But this time, someone got hurt?”

  Another quick nod, and Sarah thought that Hannah was about to break down, start crying.

  Had to be hard holding this all in, with all these things happening in the school, and Braithwaite jumping—

  She stopped herself.

  Jumping in front of a train.

  “Hannah, who got hurt? Can you tell me?”

  Only now Hannah shook her head. “Talk to Sophie — okay?”

  A deep breath.

  Sarah nodded. Then she reached out and patted Hannah’s hands, folded together tightly as if they’d go flying away if they weren’t being held like that.

  “I will. And thank you. I know this has been hard. I’ll go find Sophie now …”

  And Sarah stood up and walked out of the dorm.

  A few doors now open, the girls all coming back from the games, still time to enjoy the free day.

  Soon they’d all know about the accident.

  And would Cherringham Hall ever be the same?

  *

  Tahir walked out to his dark, disorderly living room with the steps of someone who knew something bad was about to happen.

  “Have a seat,” Jack said.

  The thing is — Jack knew — when people had secrets, even if you didn’t know what they were, you could use that.

  That — and their free-floating guilt.

  Tahir plopped down on his couch. Bare feet, black T-shirt tight. Frayed jeans. His day off about to be ruined.

  “What is it?” he finally said. “This thing that I want to know?”

  A bit of the old bite in Tahir’s tone.

  “Bad news, Tahir. Emily Braithwaite apparently killed herself last night. Jumped right in front of a fast-moving train. Imagine that? Killed herself.”

  Then Jack added for especial emphasis. “Apparently …”

  He thought that the young caretaker instantly turned a shade whiter.

  “Now, I thought of you. Taking care of this place. Seeing things that you weren’t supposed to tell anyone. Thought: why maybe there were things about Ms. Braithwaite you knew.”

  Tahir rubbed his cheek.

  Jack had given the young man some valuable thinking time, and now his brain was probably in overdrive. If Tahir knew something that could come back and bite him, he was probably weighing sharing that.

  Unless — it was worse than a bite.

  Jack waited.


  Then: “So do you? Maybe have something to tell me? That you didn’t before? About the dead teacher, about—”

  Tahir raised a hand.

  “All right. Enough.” Then, his voice low, resigned. “Enough. See, I’m only human, right?”

  “Don’t get you, Tahir.”

  “I mean, I hate this bloody place, so pompous, so much money. Spoiled brats they are. But I’m only human. All those girls.”

  Jack could guess what came next.

  “You became … friendly with one?”

  A nod. “We started just chatting, when she was outside, you know, in the grounds. She was nice. Different from the other girls. Not one of them stuck-up English brats.”

  “She came here? To your cottage?”

  “Once maybe. Twice. But sometimes we’d meet in an empty room, late. She found it exciting. She was one of them that likes that kind of ‘kick’.”

  Tahir stopped.

  After a moment, Jack said: “So — doesn’t seem so strange. Things happen. Not the first time …”

  Jack was seeing the connection now — the girl, the tyres, the rats, maybe even Braithwaite’s terrible death …

  Tahir tilted his head, near wincing as he told Jack …

  “Then we got caught. One night, right as we … we got caught.”

  Another pause and Tahir moved from his slouch on the big chair and leaned forward. “And it was that nosey bitch Emily Braithwaite that caught us. Threatened to get me fired.”

  “But she didn’t?”

  Tahir shook his head.

  “No. Because you see, it wasn’t me she wanted to punish. It was the girl. Didn’t understand it then. Maybe still don’t.”

  The room felt so quiet; the rain spatters against the windows muted.

  “She punished the girl. You see, that’s what she wanted to do.”

  When secrets start getting revealed, Jack thought, you never know where they’ll take you …

  Jack didn’t need to ask who the girl was.

  He had another question for the angry, haunted caretaker.

  “And you think that what happened, with you, the girl, getting caught, has something to do with what happened to the school … the rats, to Braithwaite’s car?”

  Tahir smiled ruefully.

  “Don’t think, Mr. Brennan. Know. I know it does.”

  Jack nodded, smiled back.

  “So whose idea was it?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The rats. The tyres. The food poisoning,” said Jack. “Was it your idea?”

  Jack waited a second. He smiled again at Tahir.

  “Your idea — or Freya’s?”

  He watched as Tahir’s jaw dropped. Literally, his mouth just opened like a fish out of water suddenly deprived of air.

  Gotcha, thought Jack.

  13. A Pool of Light

  Sarah entered the library.

  An owl-eyed student, focusing on a computer screen, manned the check-out desk. She looked up to Sarah, then back down to the screen.

  Except for this lone student working the desk, the place seemed empty.

  The mammoth library would be the envy of many a university, with towering stacks of books with thick wooden columns leading up to the three-storey high-vaulted ceiling.

  A perfect place to hide on a rainy Sunday.

  After all — who needed libraries anymore?

  She began walking past shelves filled with oversized books … The Peloponnesian Wars, collected histories of Herodotus, bigger books with maps of the ancient world … and even sombre-looking books with titles in Latin.

  They must keep the contemporary fiction way up in the stratospheric shelves on the third floor.

  All the dark and serous stuff here.

  She began seeing small study cubicles with lamps, chair, electric sockets. A place to sit quietly; study, write, read.

  Islands in this sea of books, now all dark though.

  But she kept walking. Maybe Sophie had only told her roommate she was off to the library.

  She could be anywhere. She might have already heard about what happened.

  More quiet steps, and then she heard faint taps in the distance.

  Fingers hitting a keyboard. Such a recognisable sound, and one that seemed out of place in this austere building.

  But there was someone here.

  And Sarah kept walking slowly, the taps getting louder, until nearly at the far end of the library, she saw another one of the cubicles, but in this one, the small desk light was on.

  And huddled in front of a laptop, making those keystrokes, Sarah saw a girl.

  A few more steps, and with the glow of light on her face, she could see it was Sophie.

  She would be surprised to see Sarah, maybe shocked … scared.

  But the bigger question: how would she react to the news that Sarah was bringing?

  And on one more step, an ancient floorboard below the dark maroon rug, made a creak, and Sophie quickly turned away from her screen to look at Sarah.

  Sarah smiled.

  Gently … she told herself.

  “Sophie,” she said, closing the distance between them; the library to themselves.

  No one to hear them.

  *

  Sarah had started by standing beside Sophie.

  But then — after being told what had happened — the girl started crying.

  Sarah crouched down so she was at the same level. Could put an arm on the girl’s shoulders.

  Just like I’d want someone to do with my daughter.

  Sophie rubbing at her eyes … as if that might stem the tears.

  Until Sarah let time do its work — that, and the quiet whispered words, so generic yet somehow so soothing — ‘it’s okay. It’s all right. Go on …’

  The important thing just to be there.

  Until finally the sobbing stopped, the library once again turning so quiet.

  And Sarah could release the girl, pull over a chair from a nearby cubicle, and, sitting close to Sophie, could begin to talk.

  “We need to understand,” Sarah said. “I need to understand. About you. Ms. Braithwaite. Especially now.”

  The girl’s still wet eyes on her.

  “You get that, don’t you? After the accident, we need to understand it all?”

  Sophie seemed to be thinking about Sarah’s words, weighing them.

  Then in a voice as hushed as anything as Sarah had ever heard in her life, Sophie said: “Yes. I know.”

  Another smile from Sarah, a nod.

  And she thought … now begins the hard part.

  *

  Sophie had closed her laptop as if that might help her concentrate … help her remember what she was about to say.

  She didn’t look at Sarah as she spoke.

  “Something happened between Ms. Braithwaite and Freya. A lot of us knew that. I didn’t know what that was. But suddenly Freya was out, and she didn’t like it.”

  Now a turn to Sarah.

  “Ms. Braithwaite could be so helpful getting into the very best schools. No, more than that. She was indispensable. But now Freya was out.”

  Sarah waited.

  “And suddenly, Ms. Braithwaite was all smiles for me.”

  Now — looking away again, as if embarrassed.

  “She liked me. And I knew that … that could be so important. I’d wanted it so much — all of last year.”

  Sarah felt as if she didn’t have to ask any questions at all. No, this had been pent up in this young girl who had kept her thoughts secret.

  The words would flow out on their own.

  And at this moment, Sarah again thought of her own Chloe, how much she loved her.

  Then, as if she had steeled herself, Sophie continued.

  “When things started to change … I knew how angry Freya was.”

  “I saw the picture she put on your door.”

  Sophie nodded. “But more than being angry at me, she was angry at Emily. Whatever had happened bet
ween her and Emily, Freya had been punished. Exiled.”

  Sophie turned in her chair.

  “I didn’t tell a soul about Emily and me. Our new … friendship.”

  Lower lip began quivering.

  So difficult.

  “But Freya had guessed, she’d figured it out. She’d been there. She’d been the ‘one’.”

  “And do you think Freya has been doing all these things? The food? The car tyres? The rats?”

  A nod.

  “I mean, not alone. Someone must have been helping her. But it had to be her. And worse, Emily had to know as well.”

  “And yet … she kept quiet.”

  “Yes. Up to now. Up to last night, she had.” Sophie said. “But where did she go yesterday in London? Was that about to change? Freya must have worried about that.”

  “Sophie — I want you to know that what you’ve told me … we’ll only use what we have to. To find out what really happened.”

  Sophie nodded, and managed a small smile.

  “I know you will. I can tell.”

  And Sarah stood up in the mammoth library, so empty and chilly, with only this small island of light doing so little to dispel the gloom of books and darkness …

  … and secrets.

  *

  In the car on the way back to Cherringham, neither of them said very much. Usually at the end of an investigation Sarah felt almost euphoric. But this case had been too raw to feel pleasure at reaching a conclusion.

  “You know Jack, if you want to go back tomorrow morning, speak to Gavin and let him know what we’ve found — I’m happy for you to do it without me.”

  She turned and looked directly at Jack, his eyes on the road.

  “Sure,” he said. “If you’d rather.”

  “Thanks.”

  She looked out of the window. The rain, never-ending, swept past the car.

  In the background all she could hear was the thrum, thrum of the windscreen wipers.

  “All that money their parents spend,” said Jack. “But none of it makes growing up any easier.”

  “It helps if teachers don’t tear into the kids’ hearts.”

  “Yep, that’s surely true. The poor woman’s dead — but I can’t forgive the pain she left behind.”

  “We still don’t really know why she killed herself,” said Sarah.

  “True,” said Jack. “In fact, there’re a few loose ends.”

  “Mr. Weiss?”