*
Reed and Berger had taken a taxi. Masters was driving the Rover.
“Would you mind telling me what we’re about?” asked Green.
“I thought you’d like to meet Sir Thomas Kenny.”
“Why him? You saw him last night.”
“Tonight we are to meet his son and daughter-in-law.”
Green sat silent for a minute or two. Then he said: “I’m growing more like the sergeants every day. I’m getting to the stage where I’m beginning to think that everything you do must have some reasonable purpose behind it. So I’ll accept that you’ve manufactured this meeting for a good reason. But I don’t know what it is. Are you going to tell me?”
“Yes. At least, I want to tell you my idea, and then you can laugh, scoff, sneer or even agree that it has possibilities.”
“I’m listening.”
Masters spoke as he drove. When he had finished, Green said: “All I’m saying at the moment is that it fits where it touches.”
“No outright condemnation?”
“No. But I’d want some more datum points before I’d go solid on it.”
“But you agree it is worth following up?”
“You’ll have to see Miss Bulmer, the hockey mistress, and probably Miss Freeman again.”
“Agreed. And the kitchen.”
“That above all. So cut this chat short, George, and let’s get over there pronto.”
Sir Thomas himself let them in. “Norman and Barbara are here and are wondering why you wish to see them.”
“You told them it was just general background I was after, Sir Thomas?”
“Yes. This is Mr Green, isn’t it? I saw you in the courtroom, Chief Inspector.”
The two shook hands. “Masters did a good job this morning, getting Gilchrist to give an open verdict, don’t you think?”
“He’s got the gift of the gab,” admitted Green. “But he did well enough.”
“Were we right to ask for you?”
“If you mean have we turned up anything to justify our intervention, it is a bit early to say for sure, but the signs are that you were right.”
“I’m pleased to hear it. Come in and meet my family.”
Norman Kenny was not in the least like his father. He was a biggish man, and at forty was running slightly to fat. He was also balding. His wife, Barbara, was a small, sharp-featured woman, with expensively coiffured hair and rimless glasses with a silver chain attached to the ear pieces. She wore long, dangling amethyst earrings so that every movement of her head created a disturbance. Her nose was slightly hooked and her lips thin. Masters put her down as a shrew, and had serious doubts as to whether Sir Thomas would like her very much.
Norman was dull. He had none of the sparkle of his father and was even hesitant in his speech. When he was introduced to the two detectives, he sounded grumpy. Masters wondered about it. Was it just a mannerism, or had he adopted this after years of marriage to Barbara?
“Mr Masters and Mr Green believe they already have reasons to suggest that Mabel did not die a natural death.”
“Really!” said Barbara. “I personally think it best to let sleeping dogs lie.”
“Gr-r-umph,” said Norman. “Muck-raking. Could cause a lot of grief.”
“To whom?” asked Masters blandly. “Have you anybody particularly in mind?”
“Father, for one.”
“Sir Thomas was responsible for having us brought here.”
“That was a mistake,” said Barbara dogmatically. “If he had consulted us first, we’d have dissuaded him.”
“Rubbish,” growled Sir Thomas. “Since when has anybody dissuaded me from doing anything I’d set my mind on?”
“Nevertheless, Father, I think you will regret it,” said his daughter-in-law.”
“May I ask you why you say that, ma’am?” asked Masters.
“Certainly. The local police, I understand, were satisfied. They know Bramthorpe and its people. Why not let them do their job? Your arrival has started all sorts of rumours, all of them, no doubt, false. They succeeded only in upsetting a community which is as law-abiding as anywhere in the country. That can do nothing but harm. And to what purpose? It may well be that you will find nothing and so all the stir will have been pointless.”
“There’s a lot in what you say,” said Green, surprisingly. “It’s an argument we hear often in our business. Usually from people who scream loudest once the lid has blown. What I mean is, ma’am, what would you say if another prominent citizen were to die tonight in similar circumstances, and another next week? Wouldn’t you say the police should have done something at the outset?”
“A specious argument. This is not the East End of London.”
“I think we’ll all have a drink,” said Sir Thomas. “Norman, do the honours.” He turned to Masters. “I should have told you that Norman is managing director of my group. I’m the chairman, Barbara’s father was a baker—in a big way, of course. His goods were packaged and sold all over the south. He made lemonade, too. I can remember his dandelion and burdock, years ago, and American ice-cream soda. In bottles with glass marbles at the top for stoppers.”
Masters was watching Barbara Kenny. He got the impression she didn’t altogether like hearing her father referred to as a baker.
“Penny monsters?” asked Green. “I always went for cherryade. It tasted the same as the others, but I liked the colour.”
Norman handed his wife a glass of sherry and to the men he gave whisky. “What,” he grumped to Masters, “did you want to see us about?”
“It’s delicate,” replied Masters, including Sir Thomas in the reply.
“In what way?”
“I was proceeding on the assumption that your engagement to Miss Holland was a secret known only to the three of you here in this room. Miss Holland’s mother had not been told, nor does Mrs Gibson know. Yet some of the schoolgirls do.”
Sir Thomas put his glass down.
“You’re sure?”
Masters grimaced. “I’d like to track down the leak.”
Sir Thomas looked across at his son and daughter-in-law. “Did you discuss it in front of Rachel?”
“Of course not, Father.”
“Could she have overheard you chatting about it?”
“Gr-r-umph,” began Norman. “You did carry on a bit about it, Barbara.”
“Carry on?” asked Kenny, quietly.
His daughter-in-law was not abashed. “I said what I thought, Father. I thought it was most unsuitable for you to marry a schoolteacher.”
Sir Thomas did not lose his temper. He remained dangerously calm, but his son’s wife failed to notice the pitfall.
“You thought? And why did you think that?”
“Forget it, Father,” urged his son.
“Why did you think Miss Holland unsuitable?”
“A man in your position—marrying a schoolteacher. It’s ridiculous.”
“You needn’t say any more, Barbara. You’re such a bloody snob—no, purse-proud is nearer the mark—that you think a few thousand quid made out of aerated drinks and swiss rolls full of ersatz cream somehow makes you better than a woman like Mabel Holland. Why, she’d eat you, woman, socially and in every other way. You just couldn’t bear the thought of any woman in my life, sharing the silly title which you covet but can never have, or inheriting what I shall have to leave because you think it is rightly yours. I knew this, when I told you the news. But you are so stupid you have to rave about it in front of Rachel. Now I don’t know what part, if any, your indiscretion played in Mabel’s death, but if it had any part—any at all—I shall make it my business to see you regret it.”
His son stood up. “You’re making too much of this, Father.”
“Am I? And what did you think of my fiancée?”
“I reckoned you could do as you liked. Marry if you wanted to. Marry Miss Holland if you wanted to. She was a fine woman, I thought. And damn good-looking, too.”
“Did you tell your wife so?”
“Of course I did.”
“And she came back at you. And Rachel overheard. All right, Norman. I know what’s what. You’ll excuse me if I don’t see you out.”
It was an awkward time of silence as Norman and Barbara left the room. When they had gone, Sir Thomas apologised to Masters and Green.
“I never liked her,” he said. “She hooked Norman. God knows how. Before I knew how things were, Rachel was on the way. She’d made sure of that. And then she has the effrontery to suggest Mabel wasn’t good enough to have in the family just because we’ve got a bob or two more than most folks. It makes you despair for the future of the human race, Mr Masters.”
Masters nodded. “Even so, sir, I think you should be magnanimous. Your son obviously admired Miss Holland, so there’s no need to be at loggerheads with him over this. He obviously took your side in their domestic row. And there are the children. You’re fond of them, I take it?”
“Rachel and Tommy? I should just think I am.”
“There you are then,” said Green. “Don’t make a break that would stop your seeing the kids.”
“You’re right.” Sir Thomas finished his whisky. “Have another.”
Whilst he was refilling the glasses, Masters asked him: “Do your grandchildren come round to see you, Sir Thomas? On their own, I mean. Informal visits, without their parents, at any old time?”
“Often. When I’m least expecting them. Why?”
“It occurred to me that Rachel might have called in when you were entertaining Miss Holland here.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Could she have done without your knowing?”
“Easily.” He handed them their glasses. “They just come to the side door and bowl in. Straight into the kitchen usually, to see my cook. I haven’t a housekeeper. A cook and a housemaid. One elderly, the other young. They make fools of the kids.”
“Then from the kitchen into the house—into any or all of the rooms—looking for you?”
“That’s about the size of it.”
“I don’t suppose you keep them informed of your social engagements?”
“No.”
“So Rachel or Tommy could have called here when you were entertaining Miss Holland?”
“I suppose so.”
“Or several times,” said Green. “It wouldn’t take long for a young girl to put two and two together and make five, being romantic at her age.”
“You’re making excuses for my family, and telling me I’ve been an old fool,” said Kenny.
“No, sir. Just seeing how it might have happened that the news broke.”
Kenny sat down.
“Is it relevant? That somebody knew, I mean?”
“It could be, sir.”
“How?”
“I can’t tell you. Should it turn out to be so, then of course you will be told.”
“Thank you.”
“To change the subject entirely,” said Masters, “let’s talk about members of the Board of Governors.”
“What about them?”
“Each has a key to the school.”
“True.”
“I’ll have to go round to find out if one has gone missing.”
“Good heavens! Is that a possibility?”
“It’s certainly a possibility we can’t overlook, so we shall need a list of board members and, while we’re here, we might as well start with you, Sir Thomas. Is the key still on your ring?”
“No. It never has been. I don’t like carrying a load of old scrap iron around with me. I only use it about half a ‘dozen times a year.”
“I see. But you’ve still got it? Sorry to ask, but we have to be thorough.”
Kenny got to his feet. “It’s out here. It has its own ring with a white leather flap . . .” He led them into the hall to the tiny table which held the phone. He pulled open the shallow drawer. “There you are. All present and correct.”
Masters glanced at Green and then turned back towards the drawing room with Sir Thomas. “I think that is all we came to see you about, sir. We’ll just finish our whisky . . .”
Green followed a few feet behind, and emptied his glass with every evidence of satisfaction, to judge by the noise.
*
Mrs Gibson opened the door of the School House.
“Sergeant Berger, ma’am. I was here last night with Chief Inspector Green. Tonight I’ve brought Sergeant Reed with me. May we come in?”
“Well . . . I don’t really know. There’s Miss Bulmer here to go through Miss Holland’s desk, to sort out all the school papers.”
“We shan’t disturb her.”
“But what is it you want? I told you everything last night.”
“Actually, Mrs Gibson, we’d just like to wait in the house. You see, we are to meet Mr Masters and Mr Green here. Mr Green told Mr Masters he ought to come and have a word with you. Well, those two had to pop over to see Sir Thomas for a few minutes and said they would drop in here to see you and pick us up on the way back.”
“In that case you’d best come in.”
As they were entering, a woman came out of the study and asked: “Who is it, Mrs Gibson?”
“The police, Miss Bulmer.”
Reed, who was leading, introduced himself to the deputy headmistress, and nodded: “It is very convenient finding you here, Miss Bulmer.”
“May I ask why?”
“I heard Superintendent Masters say only at dinner tonight that he must call on you at the first possible moment. A courtesy call, you understand, ma’am. He said it wasn’t right for the police to be visiting the school without making their number with the person in charge.”
“I see.”
“Mr Masters will be along here shortly, to talk to Mrs Gibson. Perhaps you could see your way clear to wait until he arrives?”
“Of course I can do that. But why does he wish to see Mrs Gibson? If she is under suspicion and he intends to question her, I had better call the school solicitor.”
Reed smiled. “Call him by all means, Miss. But the Chief isn’t coming to interrogate Mrs Gibson. Only to meet her. I dare say he’ll ask one or two little questions, but not because he suspects her of anything.”
“In that case, perhaps we should sit down. In Mrs Gibson’s sitting room if she will allow us. There’s a fire in there.”
When they were sitting down, Berger offered Miss Bulmer a cigarette.
“Do you know, I think I will. I smoke very little, but these last two or three days have been exceedingly trying.”
“Cheer up,” said Reed. “You’ve got a holiday coming.”
“So I have. I’d quite forgotten that. Not that I shall get much of a holiday, I suspect. Not with things as they are.”
“There’ll be the funeral, too,” said Mrs Gibson.
“Quite. I’ve asked Mrs Holland if we can wait until Monday for that so that the girls will all be away and those mistressees who are staying in Bramthorpe will be free to attend.”
“Has Mrs Holland agreed?”
“Oh, yes. And the coroner.”
“Good. Sergeant Berger and I visited one of your boarding houses today. Very nice they are, too. We met Miss Groombridge and . . .”
“I have had a full report, Sergeant. I understand you were tending to press quite hard questions about Miss Lickfold.”
“Not really, ma’am. But we do have to consider a motive when we can. It helps.”
“Naturally.”
“It seems that Miss Lickfold might have had a motive. Resentment, probably.”
“No,” said Mrs Gibson firmly. “Not her, the poor old thing. She was always sweetness and light itself with Miss Holland. I’ve seen and heard her, here in this house.”
“There’s no need to worry then, is there?” asked Reed.
“There is,” said Miss Bulmer. “There is every reason to worry. I heard Mr Masters speak in court this morning. I admit I was impressed—at the time. But sin
ce then I have wondered whether he and you are not assuming there has been foul play when there has not.”
“The Chief would be happier than anybody if he could prove there hasn’t been, Miss Bulmer.”
“But by then the damage will have been done. Probably has already been done. All the suspicion, mistrust, questioning and publicity. It will leave a scar in Bramthorpe.”
“Does that mean you think there should be no investigation?”
“Not unless there is definite suspicion.”
“How do you get suspicion without investigation?”
“In this case, investigation by the local police did not find any cause for suspicion. Mere whimsy brought you here.”
“Wait a minute, Miss Bulmer,” said Berger. “If you, as a schoolmistress, suspect—and I say suspect because you may have no definite proof—that there’s something of which you don’t approve going on among your girls, do you just close your eyes and hope it will go away, or do you investigate the trouble?”
“Naturally I investigate. It is my duty to do so. But if I look into the matter and find I am mistaken, I don’t expect somebody else to say I am wrong and then to undertake a further and far bigger investigation.”
“Even if you are not the only one to have noted the trouble? Even if one or two other people have had their suspicions aroused and take a different view?”
“Give me an example of what you mean, because I cannot envisage such an eventuality.”
“Right,” said Berger, “I don’t suppose theft is rife in Bramthorpe College . . .”
“It isn’t, but we have had instances over the years.”
“Suppose you begin to suspect that Mary Poppins is light-fingered. You do something about it. Perhaps you leave small sums of money about where she could easily pick them up, unseen. But she doesn’t. You try it half a dozen times and the money stays safe and sound where you put it. What conclusion do you draw?”
“That I was mistaken. That Mary Poppins is honest.”
“Quite. But you happen to mention to your colleagues in the staff room that you have had your suspicions about her, but have now proved beyond all doubt that Mary Poppins is honest. But one of your colleagues says, ‘Wait a moment, Miss Bulmer. I haven’t mentioned this to anybody because I didn’t want to start a furore, but I have every reason to suspect that Mary Poppins stole my best fountain pen last week.’ And then another colleague says, ‘Funny you should say that, because I’ve kept quiet about having my watch stolen a fortnight ago, but I’m pretty sure Mary Poppins took it.’” Reed looked at Miss Bulmer. “Where money is concerned Mary Poppins is honest. But she’s a magpie or jackdaw or whatever where items like pens and watches are concerned. You proved her honest. If you hadn’t mentioned your test in the presence of two other mistresses who had been robbed, little Miss Mary P. would have been given an absolutely clean bill of health.”
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