School for Murder

by Robert Barnard

  ‘You are being intolerably insulting. I’d like to know what your interest in this is, and McWhirter’s.’

  ‘Iain Ogilvie McWhirter, like the good Scot he is, wants to protect the capital he’s already invested. He doesn’t see any way of doing that as long as you and Mrs C. remain here. I’m like the rest: I want to preserve my job. At the moment it looks as if the end of term will see us all thrown on the job market. Not a happy prospect. You know what the outlook is for unemployed teachers at the moment.’

  ‘I don’t see why you care,’ whined the headmaster. ‘Not at your age.’

  ‘It’s precisely because of my age that I can be quite sure there won’t be any other job coming my way if I lose this one. Well, now, you’ve had our offer—McWhirter’s and mine. This offer does not go up. It goes down.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ said Mr Crumwallis, the note of fear back in his voice as if he understood already perfectly well.

  ‘This is a business deal—right? Or as you would say, a commercial transaction. Just like the deal you made when you bought the school. Strict commercial principles operate—the market economy. Every time that phone rings the future of this school looks more and more shaky. Every parent who withdraws his boy is going to increase our difficulties, and make it less likely we’ll get other boys to take their places. We’re willing to try it. But every hour you hang on makes it more risky. That’s why every hour the offer will go down.’

  ‘I take this most unkindly, Coffin. Most unkindly. You seem to have no sense of gratitude. It was I, you remember, who offered you a position here.’

  ‘At a salary less than I was earning twenty years ago in the State system. Gratitude had nothing to do with it, as Mae West didn’t say. Right—now give me your answer: yes or no?’

  ‘No. Certainly not . . . I have no intention of . . . this is pure blackmail . . . Taking advantage of a temporary situation . . . A piece of rank treachery—’

  Mr Crumwallis jumped a foot when the telephone rang. Septimus Coffin, with a little bow of the head, retired and left him to it.

  • • •

  The bell for lunch was going when Mike Pumfrey and Sergeant Fenniway finished the main part of their initial interviews. Only Muggeridge was still unseen. Pumfrey sat back in his chair and his thin face, with its alert blue eyes and the bristly little moustache, assumed the look of a frustrated ferret.

  ‘Well, here’s the picture, for what it’s worth,’ he said. ‘Percival Makepeace drove to the Church of St Athelwold the Martyr at Little Tunbury on the Mere. To inspect their incomparable rood screen—or woood screen, as he called it. I wondered what the hell he meant, and I’m still not sure. Twies to visit it once a year, at the vewy least. Well, well. Saw nobody. Surprise, surprise. Drove back to a late dinner. No alibi. Septimus Coffin went home at four-fifteen. Read the paper, ate, listened to music, watched the television with his sister. A sort of alibi for the whole time.’

  ‘But that’s pretty much a wife’s alibi, isn’t it?’ said Sergeant Fenniway. ‘Not a great deal of use. And his sister is sixty-eight. Old people go to sleep in front of the television.’

  ‘Don’t we all? Yes, it’s a pretty shaky alibi when you come down to it. Next, Corbett Farraday was home, at afternoon tea with his mama (who sounds a formidable body, not to say a right old battleaxe). Then he went walking in Stanhope Wood, looking for a root of something Latin and nasty-sounding, which might be interesting when we know what Frome died of, except that if it was Corbett Farraday he would hardly flourish the matter so gaily in our faces, naive as he certainly seemed to be. Penelope Warlock and Glenda Grower were both at home, marking. The first rang the second at nine-fifteen—not long before Hilary Frome died. In effect, no alibi. Iain Ogilvie McWhirter—’

  ‘There’s a character. Like a dried vegetable, or something. I bet his lessons sparkle.’

  ‘Quite. A machine for teaching, and—like all British industrial plants—a pretty much obsolete one at that. Part owner of the school, though, you notice. Which doesn’t alter the fact that he has no alibi. At home working on his Dictionary of Gaelic on Historical Principles, and struggling with The Times Literary Supplement crossword. Wife away on a visit to her mother. Only child, a daughter at Oxford. But why someone like that would want to endanger his own property by killing off one of the boys is beyond me.’

  ‘Tedder and Miss Gilberd have the best alibis,’ said Fenniway.

  ‘From seven forty-five onwards, yes. Unbreakable, I imagine. But if something was slipped into the sherry, if Crumwallis was overheard talking to Frome, it could have been earlier. For the period around six to seven-thirty Tedder had no alibi at all, and Miss Gillberd only her ancient mother.’

  ‘That leaves Muggeridge. There’s something odd there, sir, but we’ve no more than a whiff of what it was. And, talking to these teachers, I can’t for the life of me see what motive any of them can have. Quite apart from anything else, the most likely immediate consequence for them is that they lose their jobs.’

  ‘No small thing, these days. And yet, they hated him. Crumwallis, apparently, excepted. Crumwallis—I would bet—was sexually attracted, whether he understood that himself, or not. Otherwise they hated him, though there are degrees of honesty as to how far they admit it.’

  ‘Still,’ said Fenniway, ‘if schoolteachers went around killing off the kids they hate—’

  ‘I probably wouldn’t be here myself. I was a little demon, I can tell you. One of them called me Hitler, do you know that? And that was fifteen years before I grew this moustache.’ Pumfrey fingered that little bunch of bristles in fond reflection. ‘And yet, you know, there’s surely more than just hatred for a disruptive influence in class. The thing between him and the staff got pretty personal at times. In due course we might look closer at that episode with the Gilberd: she admits after much blushing and prevarication that he accused her in the High Street delicatessen of baby-snatching—did it openly, in a loud voice. Now Gilberd seemed eminently sane—I know the type so well from my schooldays, and that type always kept me perfectly well under control. But there might be other, more dangerous examples of his getting personal, and with people who are not so well balanced. The type of teacher you get in a school like this is often enough a screwball, an outsider, or so I should guess. The type that can’t get a job in the State system, or has lost one. Makepeace, for example—what’s under that timid exterior? Then there’s Miss Grower. According to Tedder, she was apparently accused of lesbian advances by a girl at her old school.’

  ‘But she’s hardly blackmailable over that, sir. It’s apparently well known.’

  ‘Certainly. But there could have been other episodes, involving local girls. And Frome could easily have heard, if they were around his own age . . . It’s all so nebulous. On the surface I agree: the teachers are not likely. A boy would have better opportunities—of doing that nasty trick with the razor blade, for example. I suppose I’m reluctant to go into the school side before I have to because I’m not very good with kids.’

  ‘Aren’t you, sir?’

  ‘No. With my own kids, yes. The funny thing is, all other kids kind of merge into one grey mass: one boy in a school uniform is the mirror image of the next boy in school uniform. My kids have plenty of friends, and I can’t tell one from another, or remember their names. My wife is always going on to me about it. Ah well, we’ve got one more card before we come to the boys. Could you go along and get this Muggeridge character?’

  On the way to the Staff Common room Fenniway had a word with the constable who was taking up Pickerage’s lunch, so it was well into lunch break by the time Bill was called. He had begun to wonder whether they might not have forgotten him entirely.

  Bill had heard the news that morning when he arrived at school. He had simply said, ‘Oh Gawd’, but he had certainly looked aghast. Since then his heart had not been in the horse vaulting or the running on the spot. But as it never really was, the boys had not noticed the difference. They did not
ice that, contrary to his usual custom, he showered at the end of the morning’s gym classes; but since he put on the same grubby and sweaty old clothes he had come in, that was practically a wasted gesture. Still, a shower perks you up. When he was fetched from the Common Room his walk had a touch of spring, and he came into Pumfrey’s presence a shade more jauntily than would have been the case if he had been interviewed earlier.

  ‘Ah, Mr Muggeridge,’ said Pumfrey in a businesslike tone. ‘You’re the only teacher now that I haven’t seen.’

  ‘Had classes all morning,’ said Bill. ‘You can’t leave the little blighters alone in the gym. Not with all that equipment. Ruddy little vandals, the lot of them.’

  ‘Yes, I can see that. I suppose you’ve got a lot of valuable stuff there. Now, I gather you had to cry off taking your team to the Swimming Championships at Sturford last night.’

  ‘Well, not to say cry off,’ said Bill, settling down cosily with a grievance, like a feminist about to discourse on rape. ‘Don’t see it’s my bloody job anyway, not evening work like that. They just assume I’ll go, and he doesn’t hand out a penny extra, not old Crumwallis. All bloody unpaid overtime, this job. If we had a union worth anything they’d look into it.’

  ‘But it was assumed you’d do it,’ said Pumfrey, cutting into his whinge, or his tactical ramblings, whichever they were. ‘However, you said you couldn’t go. Why was that?’

  ‘Had to stay at home to mind the kids,’ said Bill promptly. ‘You know how it is. The Missus had to go out.’

  ‘The Missus’ was about as inappropriate a soubriquet for Onyx Muggeridge as could be imagined, and Mike Pumfrey, who had heard a few scraps about her already, registered this.

  ‘Ah—your wife had to go out, so you had to stay home with the children?’

  ‘Yes, like I said. We’ve got four. All nippers.’

  ‘I see. You couldn’t have got a baby-sitter?’

  ‘Why the hell should we? All costs bleeding money, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, of course. But, now: were you at home with the children all evening? From the time you left school here?’

  ‘Yes. We had a bit of a fry-up. Then the Missus went out, and I stayed home with the kids. I tell you, they’re nippers. Can’t leave them—they get up to anything.’

  ‘And yet, we’re told that you were seen around the grounds of Burleigh yesterday evening.’

  ‘Seen? ’Course I wasn’t. I was home.’

  The first beads of sweat appeared on Bill Muggeridge’s forehead.

  ‘Are you sure? You were seen by one of the boarders.’

  ‘Bloody little liar. Or else he was mistaken. That was probably it. It was nearly dark.’

  ‘When was it nearly dark, Mr Muggeridge?’

  Pumfrey reflected comfortably that it was an indication of Bill Muggeridge’s general dimness that he had not even had to set a trap for him. He had made the most ancient blunder in the business quite off his own bat. He stumbled on.

  ‘I mean, it was probably too dark for him to see. It’s easy to mistake people if it’s half light.’

  ‘Come off it, Muggeridge. You’ve just landed yourself in it. Why don’t you come clean and tell the truth?’

  ‘What do you mean? I am telling the truth. Look—I’ve just remembered, I did take a walk—just to get a breath of fresh air.’ Muggeridge once again assumed that aggrieved air, which was easy enough for him, because he felt aggrieved much of the time. ‘I needed it. Cooped up in the house like that—stinks of babies the whole time. I’d rather live near a fish factory than that. Chap’s got to get out, if he’s used to fresh air. Went for a walk around the school, about half past seven or so. My house is just across the way here.’

  ‘I know where your house is, Muggeridge.’ Mike Pumfrey leant sharply forward, and caught Bill’s shifty eye. ‘We heard you from your bedroom window, when we called round last night. You called your wife a tart, which is your business and hers, but you also said that if you’d known where she’d gone you would have caught her at it. And that could very well be our business as well as yours. Come along, Muggeridge, let’s have a bit of detail.’

  ‘You crappy sods!’ fumed Muggeridge. ‘Going round at dead of night, eavesdropping on people’s conversations. Like damned Peeping Toms. Bet you get a cheap thrill out of that sort of thing, don’t you? You’d arrest anyone else who did it. That your idea of detective work?’

  ‘Perhaps when you’ve got over your pet, you’ll give us some answers.’

  Bill considered. Considering, for Bill, took time. He looked like a particularly lethargic Newfoundland dog, trying to decide whether to obey an order.

  ‘Oh well,’ he said, going as always for the muddly middle way, and hoping to struggle along it to safety. ‘I suppose it’s no skin off my nose. I was looking for my wife.’

  ‘Quite,’ said Pumfrey. ‘We gathered that.’

  He sat back in his chair, with an air of waiting, and expecting something more to the point.

  ‘Well, she’d got a date with someone. She’d ringed off the date on the calendar in the kitchen. Always does that, nasty little bitch. It’s her way of telling me, and saying “What are you going to do about it?” I followed her. But the trouble is, it’s not something I’m trained at, and I’m heavy. I had to keep well behind her, and then I lost her. She came into the school grounds, I’m pretty sure she crossed the headmaster’s lawn, but after that I lost her.’

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘I went back home. Wasted effort.’

  ‘I see, just like that, eh? Hardly worth missing the swimming for. You say she always ringed that calendar, is that right? Presumably this has happened before, then?’

  ‘Ever open door,’ muttered Bill, dredging up one of the more attractive phrases from his footballing past.

  ‘And did you always do the Indian scout job?’ asked Pumfrey very quietly. ‘Or this time were you more worried than before?’

  ‘Well—she came into the school grounds. I thought it might be with a boy. I wouldn’t put it past her, mucky little bint. And that would be serious. It’s not much of a job, but these days I wouldn’t want to get the push.’

  ‘You thought it might be with a boy. Which boy?’

  ‘How would I know? Any boy.’

  Pumfrey looked at him with contempt. Really, Muggeridge was one of the worst and most transparent liars he had ever encountered. Which might be a powerful argument for his essential innocence. Pumfrey didn’t have the impression that the killer of Hilary Frome was both clumsy and stupid.

  ‘You give me the gripes,’ he said dispassionately. ‘I don’t like to be taken for an idiot. Do I have to spell it out for you? You must have decided to follow her before she went into the school grounds, because otherwise you wouldn’t have opted out of the swimming. You obviously did so because you suspected she was going with one of the boys. You must have seen her with one of them. Which one was it?’

  Bill Muggeridge swallowed. This sort of inquisition hadn’t happened to him since his schooldays, since he had been the playground bully whose only fear in life was a particularly sharp-eyed and sharp-tongued headmaster. He felt at bay, like a very dim minister facing a hostile House. Unlike the minister, he finally decided to tell the truth.

  ‘Hilary Frome,’ he said.

  ‘Aaah—’ said Mike Pumfrey, and he leaned forward again, playing with his pen. It was a sign, generally, that the inquisition was just starting. It was a sign that, today, was to be proved false.

  The scream came from quite a way away, but it penetrated easily the thick walls of the study. All three men jumped in their seats, and Mike Pumfrey and Fenniway were on their feet in a second and through the door. As they reached the hallway, another scream resounded through the school—a woman’s voice? Or could it be a boy’s? It came through the door leading to the boarders’ annexe. The policemen were first through, but following close on their heels came others—the headmaster from his sitting-room, teachers from their common
room. A third scream told them where to go.

  The door to the dining hall stood open. No one was sitting down. Mrs Crumwallis and Mrs Garfitt had run from the serving table and were standing over a boy. Both seemed helpless, and Mrs Garfitt was working up to hysterics. Crouched over the end of the table, a boy was heaving up blood—a hideous red pool, soaking into the bare boards of the floor. His face, between heaves, was piteous and terrified.

  ‘Fenniway—ambulance, quick,’ said Pumfrey. ‘At once. The rest of you, keep away from him.’

  And Pumfrey went forward, hardly knowing what to do. He sat the boy on a seat and looked down his throat. There was, at the back, a deep gash.

  The headmaster stood, helpless and horrified, by the door. He seemed to be contemplating the magnitude of his own fall. Two days ago—one day ago—he had been in charge of his destiny. A man of power. A man admired, respected, whose word was heeded. Now . . . He looked around pathetically. What he saw was Septimus Coffin.

  ‘The offer,’ said the gentleman, ‘has gone down by five thousand pounds.’

  ‘Done,’ said Edward Crumwallis. And then he amended it with a feeble trace of his old Manner: ‘I accept your offer.’

  CHAPTER 12

  TAKEOVER

  Septimus Coffin enjoyed the subsequent afternoon more keenly than he had enjoyed any day in his life since he retired. He was, naturally, properly concerned about the injured boy: phoned the hospital, indeed, several times to ascertain that he was out of danger, and could expect nothing worse than a period of extreme discomfort. But, for the rest, he savoured most intensely the joys of taking over high command, of initiating action, of doing things that, during a lifetime of subordination, he had known headmasters ought to do, but had seldom witnessed them doing.

  The race, in the world of education, is seldom to the best-equipped. Headmasters, professors, principals of colleges are seldom appointed because they have qualities that would make them good headmasters, professors or principals of colleges. They are appointed on the basis of quite arbitrary criteria laid down by educational administrators at one level of the bureaucracy or another—failed teachers, often enough, these administrators, and tender towards their kind; or pen-pushers who, because they could not themselves in a month of Sundays recognize what might make for a successful leader, demanded instead all sorts of paper evidence that had no bearing on the case one way or the other.