Well-Schooled in Murder

by Elizabeth George

  “No,” Lynley interposed. “We’re not here on behalf of her parents.” He looked at Cecilia. “Chas Quilter’s disappeared from Bredgar Chambers.”

  Lynley saw her grip her wrapper. She said nothing. Mrs. Streader spoke quickly. “What do you want with Cecilia, Inspector? You can see she’s not well. She shouldn’t even be out of bed.”

  “I don’t know a Chas Quilter.” Cecilia spoke in a whisper.

  Even Mrs. Streader looked surprised by this response. She said, “Sissy.”

  Again Lynley interrupted. “Of course you know him. Rather well, I should guess. He has your picture in his room at the school. He has the stanza you copied from Matthew Arnold on his wall. Has he been here tonight, Cecilia?”

  Cecilia said nothing. Mrs. Streader opened her mouth to speak, but closed it again. Her eyes went from Cecilia to Lynley to Cecilia. Finally she said, “What’s this about, please?”

  Lynley shifted his gaze to the woman. “Murder.”

  “No!” Cecilia took a step towards them.

  “‘Ah, love, let us be true to one another,’” Lynley quoted. “That was the line you and Chas Quilter clung to, wasn’t it? It got you through these past few months.”

  She dropped her head. Her hair—so lovely in the photograph, so thin and lifeless now—swept forward momentarily to cover her face.

  “Has he been here?” Lynley asked.

  She shook her head. She was lying. He could feel it.

  “Do you know where he is? Do you know where he’s gone?”

  “I’ve not seen Chas Quilter in…I don’t know. Months. Ages.”

  Mrs. Streader extended a hand to the girl. “Sissy. Sit down. You must. You’re not strong.”

  Cecilia joined her on the couch. Lynley and St. James sat opposite them in the matching armchairs. A coffee table stood between them. On it were two glasses, one empty, one half-filled with a soft drink. Their presence was a revelation of the truth.

  “We need to find him, Cecilia,” Lynley said. “You must tell us how long it’s been since he left you. You must tell us where he is.”

  “I haven’t seen him,” she repeated. “I told you. I haven’t seen him. I don’t know anything about him.”

  “You’re protecting him. That’s understandable. You love him. But I can’t think you’d do that in the face of murder.”

  “You’re talking nonsense.”

  Lynley leaned forward. He placed the medical volume on the table between them, but he did not open it. “You and Chas were lovers during your lower sixth year, weren’t you?” he said. “You made love in the little chamber above the drying room in Calchus House. Late at night. On weekends. When no one was about. You tried to be careful. You tried to take precautions. But you didn’t always manage, did you? So you became pregnant. You could have had an abortion, but I don’t think that’s the sort of people you and Chas are. He wanted to do right by you. You wanted to do right by him, by the baby. So you pretended to transfer out of Bredgar Chambers to another school. Cowfrey Pitt said something about a girl transferring out at the end of summer term last year under questionable circumstances. You must have been that girl. And you did it to protect Chas Quilter. If anyone discovered that he’d made you pregnant, he’d be expelled from the school. His education would be in shambles, and the future you planned to have together would be in shambles as well. But I imagine your parents weren’t too pleased when you wouldn’t have an abortion and wouldn’t name the father, so you had to come here, to a foster home.”

  “Sissy, my dear…” Mrs. Streader reached for the girl, but Cecilia jerked away.

  “You don’t know anything,” she said to Lynley. “Even if you did, I’ve committed no crime. I’ve done nothing. Nor has Chas.”

  “A thirteen-year-old boy is dead, Cecilia. A woman is in hospital with a fractured skull. Several people’s lives are in ruins. How much more is going to go into the protection of Chas Quilter’s future?”

  “He’s done nothing. I’ve done nothing. We—”

  “That was almost the case,” Lynley agreed. “But you panicked Friday night—was that when you had the baby, Cecilia?—and you phoned the school. Again and again. You needed him, didn’t you? Because the future was in doubt. The plans were going awry.”

  “No!”

  “The happy ending you were looking for with Chas had been twisted by a circumstance you hadn’t considered. It was one thing to leave the school, to bear a pregnancy without him, even to have his baby and be willing to safeguard his reputation at the cost of your own. There was even a bit of nobility in that. But it was quite another thing when you saw the baby, wasn’t it? You weren’t prepared for Apert’s syndrome.” Lynley opened the medical volume. He turned the photograph of the baby towards Cecilia. “The concave skull. The misshapen eyes. The long forehead. The webbed fingers. The webbed toes. The possibility of mental—”

  “Stop it!” Cecilia shrieked.

  “The child would need years of plastic surgery even to look normal. And the greatest irony of this entire wretched mess is that the best plastic surgeon in the country is Chas Quilter’s own father.”

  “No!” Cecilia flung herself forward, grabbed the book, hurled it across the room.

  Lynley pressed her. “Was Chas backing out on your plans, Cecilia? When he found out about the baby, did he want to end his relationship with you?”

  “He’s not like that. You don’t even know him. He loves me. He loves me!”

  “I don’t see how that’s possible. He let you leave the school. He let you give up your education. He let you have this baby all alone—”

  “He was here. He came. He said he would and he did because he loves me. He loves me!” She began to cry.

  “He was here for the birth?”

  Cecilia rocked on the couch. She sobbed bitterly, a fist at her mouth, one hand cradling her elbow as if it were supporting a baby’s head. Mrs. Streader spoke.

  “He came up on Tuesday evening, Inspector.”

  “No!” Cecilia shrieked. Her hands dug into her hair.

  Mrs. Streader’s face was soft with compassion. “Sissy, I must tell them the truth.”

  “You can’t! You promised!”

  “While it was just you and Chas, yes. But if someone has died. If there’s been a murder—”

  “You can’t!”

  Lynley was waiting for Mrs. Streader to continue. As he did so, the words Tuesday evening sang in his brain. Matthew Whateley had been with the Bonnamys Tuesday evening. Jean Bonnamy had driven him back to the school quite late. The lights of a minibus had struck him as he waved goodbye. Jean Bonnamy had seen that bus. So whoever had been driving it had no doubt seen Matthew. This, then, had to be the boy to whom Matthew was referring in his note to Jean Bonnamy.

  “He came on Tuesday evening,” Mrs. Streader continued. “Sissy was already in hospital in Slough. He came to the hospital, but when we knew it would be hours before the baby came, we insisted he go back to the school. It was dangerous enough for him to be away without permission for even a short time. Considering how he’d managed it, it was even more dangerous for him not to return as soon as he could.”

  “How had he managed it?” Lynley asked, although he was certain what the answer would be.

  “He’d taken one of the minibuses.”

  Lynley saw how it had been done. Breaking into the porter’s office was a simple procedure. The keys were available on the wall. By Elaine Roly’s admission, Frank Orten had been with his daughter Tuesday night—was with her every Tuesday night—so he wouldn’t have been in the lodge to hear one of the minibuses drive by. It was a risk, but Chas had been desperate enough to take it. Enough in love. Enough burdened by guilt. Everything had gone perfectly until he returned the bus…only to be seen by Matthew Whateley. Of all persons to see him, no one could have been worse than Matthew, who had already demonstrated his willingness to take action when someone decided to live in defiance of the rules. The problem was that since Chas—the senior p
refect—was breaking the rules, Matthew Whateley had no one to turn to if he wanted to serve the cause of honour without breaking the code of silence by which all the pupils lived. He could hardly act on what he knew about Chas in the manner in which he had acted on what he knew about Clive Pritchard. So his only option would have been to tell the Headmaster. Chas faced expulsion because of Cecilia’s pregnancy. He faced expulsion because he’d taken the minibus. He faced expulsion because he’d protected Clive Pritchard. Any one of the charges against him might not be enough to seal his fate. All three of them acted in concert to doom him. His future rested in the hands of a thirteen-year-old boy who believed in rules, who believed in honour. The only way he could survive was to eliminate the threat. And on Friday night, he’d done it. Then on Saturday, he’d taken the minibus a second time. He’d dumped the body in Stoke Poges.

  “I imagine you were the one who phoned Chas repeatedly Friday night,” Lynley said to Cecilia. “You knew about the upper sixth social club. You knew where he would be. Why did you phone him?”

  Cecilia wept. “The baby.”

  “I should guess you needed someone to talk to,” St. James said to the girl. “In this kind of tragedy, it only helps if you can talk to someone you love.”

  “He was…I needed…”

  “You needed him. Of course. What could be more reasonable?”

  Lynley spoke. “Did he come to you on Saturday, Cecilia?”

  “Please. Don’t make me. Chas!”

  Lynley looked towards Mrs. Streader, but she shook her head and with a worried glance at Cecilia said, “I wasn’t here Saturday. I…Cecilia, tell them.”

  “Chas didn’t. He didn’t. He wouldn’t. I know him.”

  “If that’s the case,” Lynley said, “then you no longer need to protect him, do you? If he did nothing save come here to see you, Cecilia, what purpose does it serve to withhold the truth?”

  “He didn’t!”

  “What happened when he came? What time was it?”

  Tears blotched her skin. “He didn’t! You want me to tell you he killed that little boy. He didn’t. I know it. I know him.”

  “Prove it to me. Tell me the truth.”

  “You’ll twist it! I know! But you can’t twist this because there’s nothing there but what happened. He came here. He was here an hour. He left.”

  “Did you see the minibus?”

  “He left it on the road.”

  “Not in the churchyard?”

  “No!”

  “Did he talk about the churchyard?”

  “No. No! Chas didn’t kill Matthew. He couldn’t kill anyone.”

  “But you know the boy’s name. You know it. How?”

  She twisted away from them.

  “He’s been here. Today. Where did he go? Cecilia, for God’s sake, where did he go?” The girl said nothing. Urgently Lynley went on, searching for something that would convince her to part with the facts. “Don’t you see? If he’s done nothing, as you claim, then he himself may be in danger.”

  “You’re lying,” she spat at him.

  She spoke the truth. But that no longer mattered. The line that divided truth from fiction was obliterated by death.

  “Tell me where he is.”

  “I don’t know. I don’t know. He wouldn’t tell me. I told him I’d never betray him, but he wouldn’t tell. He knows you’re after him. He didn’t do anything, but he knows you think he did. And he laughs at you. He laughs. He said to tell you that he’ll lead you on a path of glory. That’s what he said. Those were his words. And then he left.”

  “When?”

  “An hour past. So follow his trail, if you want. Follow it.”

  Lynley got to his feet. Chas’ message was burning its way into his skull. He recognised the words. He had seen them when Deborah St. James had shown him Thomas Gray’s poem on Monday night.

  Lynley didn’t want to understand what Chas’ message to him meant. He didn’t want to reveal his sudden fear to the girl. She had already borne enough.

  But Cecilia seemed to read beyond the impassivity on his face. As he thanked her and walked with St. James to the door, she followed them. “What is it?” she asked. “What do you know? Tell me!”

  Lynley looked at Mrs. Streader. “Keep her here,” he said.

  He went out into the rain. St. James followed. The door closed behind them, cutting off Cecilia’s cries.

  From the boot of his car Lynley removed two torches, handing one to St. James. “Hurry,” he said and drew up the collar of his coat.

  The wind angled the rain into their faces as they rushed down the drive and crossed the country road to the lane leading to St. Giles’ Church. It was unlit, deserted, and the beams from their torches reflected upon great pools of water from the long afternoon of storm. Small wind-torn branches caught at their trousers, and mud oozed from verges that were still bare of spring growth.

  Lynley knew such a walk would be difficult for his friend. He knew he ought to help him lest he lose his footing. But as he glanced at St. James, the rain beating against his face, the other man shouted, “I’m all right. Go on!” and Lynley broke into a run, driven by that partial line of poetry and its implicit message, driven by the fear he had heard in Cecilia Feld’s voice, by the hopelessness he had seen that day on Chas Quilter’s face.

  The paths of glory lead but to the grave. And hadn’t that proved true for Chas? Senior prefect, member of the rugby first fifteen, the cricket first eleven, the tennis first six. Handsome, admired, intelligent. Guaranteed Cambridge. Guaranteed success. Guaranteed everything.

  The lych gate loomed in front of him, water streaming off it in sheets. Lynley ducked beneath it, and the beam from his light caught upon a sodden garment lying in a heap in a corner. Lynley picked it up. It was a Bredgar Chambers jacket, once blue but now quite black from the rain. He didn’t bother to look for the name tag that would be sewn onto the lining. Instead, he tossed the jacket to one side and plunged out from the shelter of the lych gate once again.

  “Chas!” he shouted. “Chas Quilter!”

  He ran towards the church in the distance, his feet pounding against the concrete path. He arced his torch from side to side, but it shone upon nothing except ghostly gravestones—slick with water—and grass beaten down by the rain.

  Under the second lych gate another garment lay, this a yellow pullover. Like the first, it had been flung into a corner, but one arm had caught upon a nail protruding from the lych gate wall. Eerily, like a spectre, this pointed towards the church. Lynley ran on.

  “Chas!” His cry seemed to die in a blast of wind that was howling from the west.

  He shot the beam of his light across the graves. He shot it towards the church. He played it on the windows. He continued to run.

  “Chas! Chas Quilter!”

  The wind had knocked a tree rose onto the path, and Lynley stumbled against it, his trousers catching upon its thorns. He shone the light down, ripped the material away from the bush, and righted himself. As he did so, the beam of his light flashed momentarily on a streak of white ahead. It seemed to be moving.

  “Chas!”

  He broke away from the path and dashed through the graves towards the figure he saw beneath a widespread yew tree near the southwest door of the church. White shirt. Dark trousers. It had to be Chas. It couldn’t be anyone else. Yet the figure up ahead was tall, too tall. And he was turning and turning and turning back and forth. As if taken by the wind, as if struck by the wind, as if dangling in the wind….

  “No!” Lynley flung himself the last twenty yards to the tree and grabbed onto the boy’s legs to support his body. “St. James!” he shouted. “For Christ’s sake! St. James!”

  He heard an answering shout. Someone was coming. He squinted against the rain, his heart pounding in his chest. But the figure that hurtled along the path and tore through the graveyard was not his friend. It was Cecilia.

  She screamed. She flew across the lawn. She clawed at Chas. She cla
wed at Lynley, tearing at his arms, biting his hands as she attempted to separate him from the boy.

  “Chas!” she screamed. “No! Chas! Don’t—”

  Her words were cut off as St. James reached them and grabbed her, pulling her away and dragging her back. She tried to beat at him, but he held her arms behind her and pressed her face into his chest.

  “Let her go!” Lynley shouted. “Grab the boy. Hold him. I’ll cut him down.”

  “Tommy!”

  “For the love of God, St. James. Do as I say!”

  “Tommy—”

  “We’ve no time!”

  “He’s dead.” St. James flashed the beam of his light upon Chas Quilter’s face, revealing the ghastly colour of the wet flesh, the exophthalmic eyes, the swollen, protruding tongue. He flashed the light away. “It’s over. He’s dead.”

  21

  Lynley met with Cecilia in her bedroom. Mrs. Streader sat next to the bed, one hand on the girl’s arm and the other wiping away her own tears. She murmured Cecilia’s name occasionally, but it seemed more to comfort herself than to comfort the girl, who was sedated and rapidly slipping towards sleep.

  Outside the bedroom, Lynley could hear St. James and Inspector Canerone talking. Someone coughed. Someone else cursed. A telephone jangled. It was answered on the second ring.

  Lynley’s heart felt sore. It seemed an additional cruelty to question Cecilia, but he did so anyway, giving ascendancy to the policeman within him and forcing into submission every impulse he had to assuage the girl’s pain.

  “Did you know Chas was coming to see you this evening?” Lynley asked her. She turned her head to him lethargically. “What did he talk to you about, Cecilia? Did he mention Matthew Whateley? Is that how you knew his name?”

  Cecilia’s eyelids drooped. Her tongue, looking swollen, passed over her lips. She spoke listlessly. “Chas…he said…Matthew saw the minibus. He was on the back lane to Erebus and Ion, and he saw. Tuesday night. So he knew.”

  “Matthew knew that Chas had taken the minibus?”

  “He knew.”

  “You spoke to Chas on the phone Friday night. Several times. Did he tell you he’d taken Matthew to the room in Calchus House?”