Golden Rain

by Douglas Clark

  “He’s made up for it since, haven’t you, Chas?” said his sister, poking him in the ribs.

  “Look,” said the aggrieved young male. “You invited me to your school dance and I came. To my great surprise I saw your headmistress, whom I’d never met before, getting up for every dance. Not just for the waltzes and things, but for the disco numbers, too. Now that was something, you must admit. But she looked great, too.”

  “Not bad,” admitted Mary. “She dressed well.”

  “I was impressed by that alone,” said Charles. “But then she asked me to dance with her. And I got another surprise. Called me Mr Dudson and told me that while she did not disapprove of my friendship with Mel she did disapprove of my occupying so much of her time that her schoolwork was suffering, and she would be delighted if I could see my way clear not to spoil the academic prospects of one of the most charming and promising of her senior pupils.”

  “You never told me,” accused Melissa.

  “Didn’t want to give you a big head. But I promised to do what I could and just because I tried not to interfere with your work too much you all thought I’d deserted you for her.” He shook his head in mock sorrow. “It’s a hard life for decent chaps like me.”

  “Pull the other one,” said his sister, changing her position on the bean-bag.

  At that moment Mrs Parker entered with a shopping basket in one hand, and a large percolator in the other. “This was the best way I could think of to get this lot up here,” she said with a laugh. “Here you are. A basket full of cups and saucers and a bottle of milk. There’s a jug in there too, Mrs Craig-Deller, so don’t let them use it from the bottle, because that’s what they will do if you don’t watch them.”

  “Thank you, Mrs Parker.”

  While their hostess and her daughter sorted out the coffee, Charles asked: “I say, are you getting what you came for? I mean, all this chat about things—that isn’t the way the Yard works, is it?”

  “We’re doing well enough,” said Reed. “What you’ve got to appreciate is that we don’t know anything about Miss Holland, who was a very familiar figure to most of you. Now you all tell us she was well liked. We didn’t know that. It could have been that everybody hated her guts. So, if somebody killed her, that person will be the odd one out and not one of a vast crowd. My boss always says it’s easier to find a needle in a haystack than pick out one particular needle from a heap of needles as big as a haystack.”

  “I suppose so.”

  “Particularly if you’ve armed yourself with a magnet.”

  “Quite.”

  “Your coffee, Mr Reed,” said Melissa, handing it to him.

  “Thank you.” As she sat down again, he said: “You’re the school captain. Senior girl, in fact, so you must know something of what goes on. You’ve told us that all the girls liked Miss Holland, but what about the mistresses? Did they all like her?”

  Melissa and Mary exchanged glances.

  “Please tell me if you know something.”

  “Miss Lickfold.”

  “What about her?”

  “The Old Dutch beat her to it, didn’t she? Lickspit was senior mistress before the Old Dutch came, and expected to be appointed headmistress. She didn’t like it when she wasn’t.”

  “Had she good reason to be disappointed?”

  “Lickspit? None at all. She’s the world’s worst teacher. The original haemorrhoid.”

  “Melissa!” Her mother sounded scandalised.

  “You know she’s a pain in the neck, Mummy. You’ve always said she was, even when she taught you.”

  “Please don’t refer to her as you did.”

  “As a haemorrhoid?” asked Mary innocently. “It’s only the name of a serpent, after all. A hideous serpent whose bite was said to cause bleeding that could not be stopped . . . what’s the word? . . . Unstaunchable, that’s it.”

  “I’m like you,” Charles said to Reed. “I’m learning things, even from the young of the species.”

  “Let’s try and work this out, Miss Melissa,” said Reed. “Miss Lickfold resented Miss Holland being appointed over her. But now Miss Lickfold is, presumably, again in the running for the post—as senior assistant mistress.”

  “Not this time. The Old Dutch put her out to grass. She’s the new bursar, and Miss Bulmer is deputy headmistress.”

  “Ah!”

  “What does that mean?” asked Charles.

  “Work it out for yourself,” retorted Reed. “It makes Miss Bulmer’s motive as big as Miss Lickfold’s.”

  Charles stared for a moment. “By jove, so it does. One heartbeat from the presidency, so to speak. So now you’ve got two of the staff as suspects. I’m beginning to see how you chaps work.”

  Mrs Craig-Deller said: “I don’t think we should talk about suspects, Chas. I don’t like it.”

  “Suspects for what?” asked Melissa.

  “Be your age,” said Charles. “Why do you think half Scotland Yard is in Bramthorpe, with whizz-kid Masters marching on before? Because somebody’s been found parking on a double-yellow traffic warden?”

  “Oh!”

  “Hanky-panky, dearie,” said Mary. “The Old Dutch was as healthy as a row of prize cabbages and she wasn’t the sort to make a mistake over a heap of laburnum seeds, now was she?”

  “I suppose not.” Melissa turned to Reed. “It’s all rather dreadful, isn’t it?”

  “I’m afraid so, Miss.”

  “When Miss Bulmer told the school Miss Holland had died—and we all thought she’d died quite naturally of a heart attack or something—everybody was sad. Some even cried. I said so to Miss Bulmer, and she told me that from the platform she had seen a definite sense of shock on several girls’ faces.”

  The mood of the gathering had changed suddenly. It was quieter.

  “A lot of girls?” asked Berger.

  “Miss Bulmer didn’t say, exactly, but my impression was that she meant just two or three. Several. Yes. I remember now. She said several.”

  “So you speak for the whole school when you say she was liked and will be missed?”

  “I certainly think so.”

  “Thank you,” said Reed. “I don’t think we need take up any more of your time except . . .”

  “Except what?” asked Charles.

  “I was going to ask the young ladies if they had heard any rumours concerning Miss Holland.”

  “Rumours?” asked Mary. “What sort of rumours?”

  “Any sort,” replied Reed. “I’m not saying there were any. We haven’t heard any. But if there were . . . Well, sometimes there’s a basis of truth in rumours.”

  “What sort of rumour?” Mary asked again.

  “Any sort. That she was to lead the next Everest expedition or become a professor somewhere or even to enter a nunnery. As I say, I know of none. I’m simply asking if there were any.”

  “Not a breath,” replied Melissa. “No scandal, no rumours, no murky past, no hectic future.”

  “Thank you. That closes one door so that we don’t have to go haring off on some wild goose chase.” He got to his feet. “Thank you all, once again. You’ve been very helpful.”

  “Were they helpful?” asked Mrs Craig-Deller as she escorted them downstairs.

  “I think so, ma’am. At least we’re beginning to get a picture of Miss Holland. That always helps.”

  She smiled and showed them out.

  “Back to the boarding houses,” said Berger. “I wonder if we’ll get any joy there.”

  Reed pursed his lips. “It all depends what you mean by joy. Those two were sitting there showing enough thigh to make a man’s eyes pop out. If you call that joy, we got a lot of it.”

  “Nice, though, wasn’t it?” said Berger appreciatively. “Uninhibited, these public-school girls, these days. What I liked about it . . .”

  “I know what you liked about it.”

  “Listen. They weren’t doing it for effect or for our benefit or anything like that. It was natur
al—innocent if you like. I suppose they always sprawl about like that and think nothing of it.”

  “I wouldn’t know. Do we turn left here, or keep straight on?”

  “Left.”

  Berger, using the road map, guided Reed to a road parallel to the hill on which the main school building stood and more than a quarter of a mile behind it. Here stood the three boarding houses, separated by the playing fields from the College itself. They were big, square, red-brick edifices, flat sided, each side seemingly full of sash windows all the same size. A common wall topped by railings and backed by a hedge stood in front of them, but there were no dividing walls. They rose from an apron of brownish-yellow gravel which appeared to be seldom used.

  “There’ll be doors at the back of these places that the kids use to go to and from school,” said Berger.

  “That’s about the size of it.” Reed drew in opposite the high wrought-iron gate. “I’ll leave the car here. No point in scrunching over that lot.”

  “Hold hard. I’d better get this sorted. There’s one called Milne, and she’s in Camfield House, and the other is Gilbey, and she’s in Groombridge House. The only problem is, which is which?”

  “There’s only one way to find out.” Reed got out and locked his door. “We’re opposite the middle one, so we’ll go there. What’s the betting it’s not one of the ones we want?”

  He was wrong. Unreadable from the road was a small modern name-plate, white lettering sunk in brown metal, and measuring no more than six inches by two. It carried the one word “Groombridge”. Reed rang the bell.

  A young woman answered the door. She wore a twin-set and a tweed skirt in heather mixture. She had blonde, short-cut hair and was so athletically built that Reed immediately catalogued her mentally as the hockey mistress.

  “You’ll be the detectives,” she said before the two men could announce themselves. “Miss Freeman rang to tell us you would be coming. Miss Groombridge and Miss Camfield are both here with the two prefects you wish to see—Elizabeth Milne and Diana Gilbey.”

  “Thank you. May we come in?”

  “Yes, of course. Sorry. I’m the junior mistress in Groombridge. I was detailed to watch out for you.” She closed the door behind them. It was a large hall with a polished floor and a square of Turkey carpet. A wide staircase rose from one side. There were white doors opening off the hall and a glass-fronted wall case containing keys, each with a white, pear-shaped tag, hanging on numbered hooks.

  “Miss Groombridge’s study is here, on the right.”

  They were led into a room which surprised and pleased Reed. Apart from the big desk in the window it had an old suite, with two huge wing-backed chairs and a three-seater settee in a figured grey-blue velvet with vast cushions, an upright piano with brass candle-holders, a long-pile carpet in faded sweet-pea colours and a log fire burning in a grate which had vertical polished copper reflector-plates on both sides. The fireplace itself was old-fashioned white marble, with a deep fender also in copper, and a thick, wide mantelpiece with a pendulum clock and several little silver photograph frames. To Reed it was lovely, inviting, comfortable, cosy . . .

  And so was Miss Groombridge. Though unmarried and living and working her whole time in a female community, she must have come from a family with men in it—brothers as well as father. She knew how to treat these—to her—young men. She struck the right note: no heartiness, no coyness.

  “As the girls you wish to interview are pupils, Miss Camfield and I feel we have a duty to be present at your meeting.” She turned to the woman occupying one of the armchairs. “This is Miss Camfield. You have already met Miss Fryer. None of us knows much about police procedure, but we feel we must insist on being here.”

  Reed replied: “As you say, it is your duty to be here, and Sergeant Berger and I would not wish to speak to the two young ladies except in your presence.”

  “Excellent.”

  “Before the girls join us, I would like to assure you that neither they, nor any of you ladies, are under any form of suspicion.”

  “I should hope not. But it’s nice to hear you say it.”

  Miss Camfield asked: “What is the object of your visit, then? And why Elizabeth Milne and Diana Gilbey?”

  “Detective Superintendent Masters picked four names at random from the school list. He confined himself to prefects because he had no desire to involve junior girls in any way. He and Inspector Green are talking to various mistresses, the housekeeper and the school secretary. We are doing it simply to get background information. You will appreciate that four men who come new into a town like Bramthorpe, with no knowledge of the person whose death they have come to investigate, are at a loss to know where to start if there are no obvious material clues to help them. The one person we know to have been involved is Miss Holland herself. All we can do is to concentrate on her—her friends, colleagues and contacts. Was she liked? Hated? Mistrusted? Was her way of life such as to breed enemies? If she was universally liked, we know the field of those who wished her harm will be small. If she was disliked the field could be vast. We have to decide these matters as soon as possible. In a school such as this, we have a unique opportunity to assess the character of the late headmistress because there are hundreds of articulate people with whom she was in daily contact. Yourselves, the pupils and the non-academic staff. Each group will have viewed her from a different standpoint: professional colleague, mentor or employer. And as experience has taught us that very often the character of the victim of homicide has some bearing on the crime, we are anxious to learn all we can of Miss Holland’s character.”

  “Sergeant,” said Miss Groombridge, “that was an edifying explanation. But we’ve kept you standing all this time. Please sit down.”

  “Leave the sofa for the girls,” suggested Berger. “We don’t want them to be anything but comfortable. This is only a chat, after all. I’ll take the piano stool, and Sergeant Reed can have your desk chair.”

  “No sitting with the light playing on faces or anything of that sort?” asked Miss Fryer.

  “No, ma’am. And no notes, either.”

  “Good,” said Miss Groombridge. “Now, if there are no more questions, we can have the girls in.” She turned to Miss Fryer. “Margaret, call them, please, and bring the tea trolley, too. I’m sure the sergeants could do with a cup. I know I could.”

  It took a few minutes for everybody to get settled and served with tea and scones. Although Reed and Berger, fresh from coffee with Mrs Craig-Deller, had no need of the tea, by unspoken but mutual consent they did not refuse.

  Reed put his untouched cup of tea on the desk. “Miss Groombridge, I shall put my questions to the two prefects, and while it is their opinions we are seeking, we don’t want to exclude you three ladies. So, please, put in your penn’orth if you wish—any of you.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Miss Milne, was Miss Holland a kind person?”

  “Oh, yes. Very kind.”

  “You have had personal experience of little kindnesses from her?”

  “No . . o . . o. I don’t think so. Not exactly.” Elizabeth Milne wore spectacles. She was, in Reed’s view, no beauty, but she had glorious hair, so dark as to be nearly black. Shoulder length and exceedingly well cut, it shone in the light from the fire and the two reading lamps Miss Groombridge had switched on.

  “You base your opinion on kindnesses to other girls?”

  Elizabeth looked at Diana Gilbey, who shrugged. “No,” she replied.

  “Did she mark your work leniently, for instance?”

  “Never,” exclaimed Diana, who was a podgy, jolly-looking fair girl with a snub nose. “Not likely. She was down on us like a ton of bricks if we made a mistake or for untidy work.”

  “Lenient over punishments, perhaps?”

  “She never needed to give punishments. You could hear a pin drop in her periods—even before she got to the form room door.”

  “Strict disciplinarian, was she?”

&nb
sp; Again the two girls exchanged glances. “Well,” said Elizabeth, “she was and she wasn’t.”

  “Please explain.”

  “I don’t think I can. I’ve never thought about it, because the question never occurred to me.” She turned to Miss Groombridge. “There was no reason why it should. The good behaviour just happened because everybody knew that’s what the staff expected.”

  “Quite right, Elizabeth.” The housemistress turned to Reed. “Young people sometimes rebel against discipline, but they like it there, in the background, just the same. They then know exactly where they are. It provides guidelines. Excuses even.”

  “Excuses?”

  “If somebody is urging them to do something they know is wrong and don’t wish to do—something, say, as simple as staying out too late—they can always say they can’t do whatever it is and blame it on to their parents or headmistress or whoever has laid down the rules.”

  “I see.” Reed turned to the girls. “So can I take it then that Miss Holland engendered a feeling of kindness not by soppiness, but by imposing a strict, fair discipline which girls could appreciate because it was never unjust or unreasonable?”

  “That’s it. That’s just it,” said Diana. “She was reliable.”

  “Thank you. So would you say all the girls liked her? Most of them? Or just some of them?”

  “Everybody,” said both girls together.

  Reed smiled. “There seems to be no doubt about that. So, when the girls knew Miss Holland was dead, what was their reaction?”

  “I don’t understand?”

  “Did they spend their time wondering who the new headmistress would be? Did they cry? Were they sad? Were they shocked?”

  “It was terrible,” said Elizabeth quietly. “At first, that was. I was standing at the end of the form I’m responsible for—that’s the Upper Fourth—and I thought we were going to have a few fainting fits.”

  “Why?”

  “Some—one or two—went so white.”

  “Shock?”

  “I suppose so.”

  Reed turned to Miss Groombridge. “You were on the platform, ma’am? Did you see signs of shock?”

  “Not specifically shock, but every emotion from dismay to sadness.”