Golden Rain

by Douglas Clark

“Five girlies’ names then.”

  “The school captain is also captain of one of the houses.”

  “O.K. Four names to begin with. Is there a school list in here?”

  “Yes.”

  “Right. Let’s see it then.”

  After the sergeants had left with their information, Masters said: “Now Miss Freeman, those questions.”

  “Anything I can do to help.”

  “Thank you. Please sit down. There are chairs for us all.”

  Miss Freeman settled herself opposite Masters who had taken Miss Holland’s chair.

  “First off, this study is at the opposite end of the school from the School House . . .”

  Miss Freeman didn’t let him finish. “Oh, yes. I often said to Miss Holland it was a sabbath day’s journey from one to the other.”

  “How often did you have to make that journey?”

  “Quite often.”

  “More specifically, please. Twice a day? Once a month?”

  “Oh, nothing like that. Perhaps once or twice a week.”

  “For what purposes?”

  “For anything that cropped up.”

  “Isn’t this a house phone hanging on the panelling behind the desk?”

  “Oh, yes. But it doesn’t go to the house. Only to my office and the staff room.”

  “How would the headmistress get in touch with the three boarding houses?”

  “They are too far away for an internal system. Right over on the other side of the school grounds. She had to make an ordinary local call on the GPO phone. But Miss Holland wasn’t one to be always phoning up people. She said that if things were properly organised they would run themselves without a lot of interference from her.”

  “Are you saying,” asked Green, “that she didn’t poke her nose in but she knew what was going on?”

  “I always said she had a sixth sense because she could always forestall trouble. But all she did, really, was talk to people and listen to what they had to say—both mistresses and girls. There was the business of the tapioca pudding for instance.”

  “What was that?” asked Masters. “Don’t tell me the good old standby of all school cooks has come under fire.”

  “Just that. Miss Holland would stop girls—boarders—and ask them what they’d had for lunch and whether they’d enjoyed it and eaten it up. It didn’t take her long to discover that tapioca was not a favourite and that girls didn’t eat it. So Miss Holland just strolled over to the houses and let the cooks and house mistresses know—in a nice sort of way so as not to upset them. She told them that she herself had not been able to stand tapioca and suggested that as it wasn’t eaten up they should stop making it. One cook told her it was cheap and they wouldn’t be able to afford a substitute. Miss Holland said there was no food as dear as that which wasn’t eaten.”

  “True,” said Green. “What did she suggest as fill-belly in its place?”

  “We had an old area of ground that was just left to grow wild. Not a big patch, but it was beyond the trees and difficult to get the mowers in. Miss Holland told the groundsman she wanted it cultivating and quick. She suggested potatoes for an immediate crop. She got them, too. So the houses hadn’t to buy them. That was the first year. Now they get all their carrots and onions and lettuce for virtually nothing. Miss Holland wouldn’t have exotic things like raspberries grown there, because she said it wouldn’t benefit the kitchens with the girls away so long in the summer. But the standard of meals is much higher. She also introduced contract buying. At one time the houses bought things separately. Now they all join together to get bulk prices. It makes quite a difference over the year. Then she cut out broad beans because they weren’t popular. She did it in a roundabout way by talking about acquired tastes and how she thought nobody really liked broad beans until they were grown up.”

  “People got the hint?”

  “Yes.”

  “And she cut costs?”

  “Not to save money. She wouldn’t have that. Oh, no! To improve things. She got very cross when she discovered one house had saved a lot of money on catering one term. She said the school was not in business to make a profit out of the girls’ food fees.”

  “A very creditable viewpoint. Now, Miss Freeman, tell me why, when Miss Holland was so well organised, you needed to go through to the School House once or twice a week.”

  “Miss Holland was not in school on Tuesday and Thursday afternoons . . .”

  “Games days?”

  “Yes. But I was. I worked until five, Mondays to Fridays. So if there were callers or phone calls that I couldn’t deal with, I would have to consult her. Mostly I had no need to disturb her. I could usually deal with things myself, or wait until the next day to speak to her. But there are always some things that can’t wait, aren’t there?”

  “Of course. And you couldn’t phone her without using the outside phone, so you just popped through to see her.”

  “Yes.”

  “Thank you. Now, tell me, what happened when you went through to the School House? Did you knock at the door and wait for it to be answered?”

  “No. I’d tap and walk in. Usually I’d see Mrs Gibson, but often I had to find Miss Holland.”

  “In other words, you were free to come and go?”

  “Completely. I’d describe it like being friendly neighbours. You know, where you can pop in the back door and if there’s nobody there you coo-ee to draw their attention. That sort of footing.”

  “That puts it very nicely, Miss Freeman. But it suggests that the house door was always unlocked.”

  “It was. I never went there when it wasn’t.”

  “Never?”

  “Never.”

  “Not even when you were here in the evenings?”

  “I was never in school after normal hours . . . not in the office.”

  “What exactly does that mean, please?”

  “I always come to watch the school play at Christmas. That is always performed on three evenings. And then just before the end of the summer term there’s the parents’ tennis match. That is in the evening and I come to watch.”

  “Nothing else?”

  “Lots of things, but nothing I come to.”

  “What?”

  “Play rehearsals, orchestra rehearsals, debates and, of course, board meetings. Oh, yes, there’s a dance, too, in the hall, at the end of every term.”

  “Where were the board meetings held?”

  “In the library. I showed it to you. Just at the top of the steps outside my office. It’s between my room and the junior cloakroom.”

  “You weren’t needed at the meetings?”

  “Oh, no. The secretary, Mr Hussey—he’s a solicitor—did the minutes. I was never involved in anything so high-powered, except to make sure the caretakers had arranged the room properly—pushed the tables together and set the chairs round. Oh, yes. And to make sure somebody had dusted in there.”

  “But weren’t you needed to take in coffee or to let them in?”

  “Nothing like that. The dining-room staff prepared a trolley just before they left. Mrs Gibson usually carried a jug of coffee and one of hot milk through when it was needed.”

  “I see. She was always present on meeting days?”

  “Not always. I have known Miss Holland to ask two of the senior boarders to stand in for Mrs Gibson. I think they used the dining-room kitchen on those occasions.”

  “I see.”

  “And as for letting them in . . . Well, that was easy. They came to my door, obviously, and each board member had a key . . .”

  “They what?” asked Green.

  “. . . to the door near my office. Had a key. A Yale. The main gates were left open so that they could park on the concrete. But with the gates open, Miss Holland wouldn’t leave the door unlocked, so she gave each one a key. They let themselves in. It wouldn’t have been right if she had had to go and answer the door a dozen times herself.”

  “But so many keys . . . It was
unsafe.”

  “How could it be? Leaving the door unlocked so that anybody could get in was unsafe. Leaving it locked so that only authorised people could get in was much safer.”

  Green grunted, but said nothing. Masters sat quiet for a moment and then asked: “Who bore a grudge against Miss Holland?”

  Miss Freeman stared in amazement. “A grudge? Why, nobody. Miss Holland was not the sort of person anybody could bear a grudge about. She was just . . . well, just too fair to cause resentment.”

  “She’s dead,” Green reminded her.

  “But surely . . .”

  “Surely what, love?”

  “You’re suggesting somebody hated her so much . . .”

  “You think she committed suicide?”

  “Never.”

  “Died by accident, then?”

  Miss Freeman had no reply. Green went on, after a pause. “If it was neither suicide nor accident, it was murder.”

  “Oh! Yes, I suppose it would be. That’s why you’re here, of course. . . .”

  “That’s right, love. Now, when those two senior girlies came to make coffee when Mrs Gibson was away, how did they get into the school?”

  “Miss Holland lent them a key, of course. But I always made sure I got it back next day.”

  “Whose key? Hers?”

  “No, mine. It was a nuisance because I always had to ring next morning.”

  Masters asked: “Every member of staff had a key?”

  “Not to this door. To the top one. The fourth one up. That’s the staff entrance.”

  “Thank you, Miss Freeman. Now, before we go we’d like to look at the school list. And I think there’s a punishment book.”

  “How did you know that?”

  “We know lots, love,” said Green.

  “The punishment book won’t tell you anything. Miss Holland never gave punishments.”

  “Quite. Most things we look at will tell us nothing, but we have to look, just to make sure.”

  “Very well, but I don’t like this. I shall have to tell Miss Bulmer.”

  “You do that, love,” said Green. “You’d be failing in your duty if you didn’t, just as we’d be failing in ours if we didn’t look at everything.”

  Masters took the school list. He glanced down the names. He looked up and said: “I’ve met the Chairman of the Governors.”

  “Sir Thomas?”

  “Yes. I see there’s a Rachel Kenny here. Is that the granddaughter he told me about?”

  “Yes. A nice little girl. A bit naughty, perhaps.”

  “Like all kids. Are there any other children or grandchildren or nieces of governors here, now?”

  “Not this year. There were two last year. They both went to Cambridge this term.”

  “Excellent. Thank you, Miss Freeman. Now the punishment book please.”

  It was a small, hard-backed ledger. The label on the front said it had been started nearly three years earlier, but there were no more than half a dozen pages filled. Masters glanced through it and then handed it to Green who, after he had finished with it, gave it back to Miss Freeman.

  “I told you that wouldn’t help you.”

  “So you did.”

  “Now,” said Masters, “we ought to look into the school business affairs. Just a glance to see there’s nothing seriously wrong. I’m sure there isn’t, Miss Freeman, but it would be nice to make sure we can say there was no business reason for Miss Holland to take her own life.”

  “She wouldn’t do that.”

  “I’m certain you’re right. But it will be nice to prove everything was in apple-pie order. So, Miss Freeman, we’d better know who the school bursar is—I understand a new one has recently been appointed.”

  “That is Miss Lickfold.”

  “Lickfold? Right. Where does she live?”

  Miss Freeman told them. Masters’ final request was for Miss Freeman to call them a taxi.

  *

  When they left the school in the Rover, Reed said: “Back to the nick, mate. I want a street map of this dump, otherwise we’re never going to find these addresses.”

  Masters had told them to interview four girls. Melissa Craig-Deller, school captain and a day girl. Mary Dudson, also a day girl, and two boarders, Elizabeth Milne and Diana Gilbey.

  They decided to start at the top with Melissa.

  “Double-barrelled name,” said Berger as they drew up outside the house, “and double-fronted residence. What our friend Greeny would call a nice pad, don’t you think?”

  “All gables, white paint and good curtains. Daddy must have a bit of money. I reckon the Chief would do better than us at this place.”

  “He sent us.”

  “So he did. Come on.”

  It was Mrs Craig-Deller who answered the door and invited them in as soon as she learned their identities and before they had stated their business. Both men were impressed. She was young—Reed guessed less than forty—jolly, and personable. She led them into a chintzy sitting room with a good deal of exquisite glass dotted about—paperweights, candlesticks and vases.

  “It’s your daughter, Miss Melissa, we have come to speak to, ma’am.”

  “I guessed it was. I’ll get her for you. She’s up in the playroom with two friends—Mary Dudson and her brother Charles. Mary and Melissa are great friends.” She smiled. “So are Charles and Melissa. Young love, you know. He’s down from university on some sort of reading week which I confess I regard as a complete skive as they’ve not been up more than about three weeks this term. However . . .”

  “We would like to see Miss Dudson, too.”

  “You’ve struck lucky then. But may I ask why, specifically? I realise you must be here to make inquiries into Miss Holland’s death . . .”

  “Quite right, ma’am. No specific reason really. We are, in effect, just asking general questions. Our Chief, Superintendent Masters, works that way. He likes to get the background picture. There’s no reason why you shouldn’t be present when we talk to the young ladies.”

  “Thank you. I was going to suggest that. Now, just give me a minute. I’ll have to toil right upstairs to warn them. They won’t hear a shout—not above the noise of pop music.”

  Berger said: “Would it be easier if we went up there? What I mean is, ma’am, we don’t want a formal meeting. We shan’t be taking anything down in writing. It’s just a chat we want.”

  She smiled. “If you don’t mind squatting on a bean-bag, it would be a good idea. I tell you what, I’ll ask Mrs Parker—she’s my daily—to make us some coffee.”

  “If it’s not too much trouble . . .”

  “It will add to your informal atmosphere. I’d rather not subject the young to too serious a session with the police myself. And that lot up there would drink coffee till the cows came home. They have this horrible habit of referring to it as ‘a coffee’. Have ‘a coffee’! Why the indefinite article the whole time I don’t know. It probably has something to do with those ghastly mugs they drink it from. I suppose one could call those indefinite articles, couldn’t one?”

  Reed grinned. “You ought to meet our Chief, ma’am. He’d like your style.”

  She blushed slightly. “Am I running on a bit? I expect I’m a bit nervous at meeting real detectives for the first time in my life.”

  “We’re quite harmless, ma’am.”

  “Are you? Really? My husband heard last night that Superintendent Masters had arrived and he told me he is far from harmless. William said he was a scourge.”

  “So he is—of criminals, ma’am. But a more ordinary decent bloke would be hard to find. And he’s got a smashing wife.”

  “I see. Come along, then.”

  She left them standing at the foot of the close-carpeted stairs while she arranged for coffee to be sent up, then she went ahead of them. The playroom was an attic room with sloping ceilings and only five-foot walls. The three occupants looked round as the three visitors entered. Melissa, curled up on what was obviously a sing
le divan covered in a travelling rug, sat up and reached to turn off the record player which was belting out a million decibels of pop.

  “Mummy?”

  “I’ve brought two detectives from Scotland Yard to see you.”

  As the sergeants moved into the room, the three young people all got silently to their feet.

  “I’m Sergeant Reed and this is Sergeant Berger. Please sit down again. All we want is to chat to you for a few minutes.”

  “It’s about Miss Holland, isn’t it?” asked Melissa.

  “Poor old Dutch,” said Mary Dudson.

  “You are genuinely sorry about her death?” asked Berger as they all looked round to see where best to sit. It was a bit of a problem. The divan took Melissa and her mother. Two armchairs—obviously discarded from other rooms in the house—were offered to the sergeants by Charles Dudson, while he and his sister prepared to squat, apparently quite happily, on a giant cushion. The room was almost completely papered—ceilings and all—with large, colourful posters. There were heaps of books, a table with all sorts of oddments on it—from tennis rackets to coloured chalks—and several large record-carriers looking like squared-up briefcases.

  “Sorry? I should just think we are. Everyone is. Lord knows who we’ll get in her place. Nobody half as good, that’s for sure.”

  “Good?” asked Reed.

  “They mean decent,” said Charles Dudson, in a man-to-man tone. “Understanding, I suppose. At least I thought so. And not stuffy.”

  “You knew her, too, sir?”

  “And how!” said his sister. “He fell for her in a big way, didn’t he, Mel? After last year’s Christmas dance. We didn’t get anything out of him for days except Miss Holland this and Miss Holland that. It nearly drove Mummy up the wall.”

  “Rubbish,” said Charles loftily. “I just appreciated what a fine woman she was.”

  “With a smasher like Mel around? You went all soulful for at least a week. Daddy had to tell you about it. I heard him. On Christmas Eve. He said he didn’t mind you falling for an older woman but he was damned if he was going to have her as the spectre at the family feast.”

  Mrs Craig-Deller laughed, and Melissa said: “That’s right, Chas. I couldn’t get a word out of you. I didn’t even get a kiss under the mistletoe.”