The Corpse of St James's

by Jeanne M. Dams

  And if there was a hint of resignation mixed with the affection in his voice, I decided to ignore it.

  Alan made his rather depressing call to Carstairs, and I settled down, with ill grace, for more waiting. Fortunately, this time the wait was a matter of hours rather than days. Bert called back before bedtime with the name, address and phone number of the school whose pupils Anthony Jarvis had shown around the palace. ‘And they weren’t exactly children. Sixth-formers from St Cuthbert’s College.’

  I remembered that ‘college’, in the English sense, means what an American would call ‘high school’, and that ‘sixth-formers’ were between sixteen and nineteen, in their last year or two of school before going on to university, if they did well in their examinations and could afford it.

  I thanked Bert and passed the information on to Alan. ‘Now what?’

  He considered. ‘In view of the fact that the Met almost certainly have this information already, I think what you want to do is move as quickly as possible. You have a much better chance of getting information from Mr Jarvis if you can find him before the police do. The headmaster would probably have his address and phone number, but a schoolmaster keeps early hours, as a rule, so I wouldn’t try to phone him tonight.’

  ‘I suppose he lives at the school. At least, it is a boarding school, isn’t it?’

  ‘I don’t know, my dear. St Cuthbert’s College is new to me, and at any rate schools have changed so much since my day, I have no idea what they’re up to.’

  The changes had, I perceived, not been for the better, at least not in Alan’s eyes. I decided the subject was not a happy one, and moved on. ‘Well, I want to talk to him. Or better yet, see him. He might be able to tell me some things about this Jarvis person, and people talk more freely in person. Do you think, if we got an early start in the morning . . .?’

  He sighed. ‘You realize, Dorothy, that while I’ll be glad to drive you anywhere you want to go, at any time you choose, I can’t take any part in your activities. I’ve been quite definitely warned off.’

  I echoed his sigh. ‘I think it’s utterly foolish. You’re retired. Why on earth can’t you contribute your experience and knowledge when you want to . . .? No, I know.’ I held up my hand. ‘We’ve been over this often enough. Territorial wars. I think it’s idiotic, but I do grasp the idea. But I’ll certainly talk it all over with you afterwards. They can’t stop that. If I can remember.’ I frowned. My memory was growing unreliable at times. I could remember what Alan had worn to our wedding, and what he had given me for every birthday we’d spent together, but not where I’d put the book I was reading five minutes ago, nor last Sunday’s sermon that had so impressed me at the time.

  ‘I’ve come up with a solution for that little problem.’ Looking remarkably like Emmy when she’s just lapped up a saucer of cream, he pulled a pen out of his pocket and handed it to me.

  ‘Take notes? Wouldn’t that be a little obvious? Or even rude? Anyway, I’ve never been any good at shorthand.’

  He went to another pocket and pulled out a flimsy wire contraption. He attached it somehow to the pen and then said, ‘Put it up to your ear.’

  Reluctantly, I did just that . . . and to my astonishment heard myself saying, ‘But I’ll certainly talk it all over with you afterwards. They can’t stop that. If I can remember.’

  When he stopped laughing at my reaction, Alan said, ‘Spy stuff, love. I was going to get you an ordinary pocket recorder, but they don’t seem to make the cassette sort any more. I found this online and it seemed just the thing. It even writes, so you can take it out and use it, and nobody will be the wiser.’

  ‘Dorothy Martin, GSA. I love it!’

  ‘GSA? Girl Scouts of America? I never knew—’

  ‘Geriatric Spy Association. I just founded it, as president and sole member. Now, teach me how to use the gadget, and first thing tomorrow we’re off to school.’

  TWENTY-FOUR

  ‘Where we will no doubt find out,’ I said as we left Sherebury the next day, ‘that Anthony Jarvis is a respectable member of society trying to drum some aesthetic sensibilities into adolescents. Poor guy!’

  My spirits were high, probably because the weather was glorious. Some poet said of June, ‘Then, if ever, come perfect days’, and this day deserved the adjective. The English countryside, which can be beautiful even in the pouring rain, was outdoing itself. Roses cascaded over every cottage, lupines flaunted themselves in every garden, birds trilled in every copse.

  ‘I keep expecting a couple of bluebirds to fly up with a ribbon garland to drape over the car.’

  ‘You’ve been watching too many Disney films,’ said Alan, but he said it cheerfully.

  St Cuthbert’s was situated on a hill near Hove, but inland. We couldn’t see the Channel from the road, but as Alan drove towards the college I looked back, and there it was, glittering in the sunshine. ‘Nice view the kids have,’ I commented.

  ‘Nice in June. I imagine it gets a trifle bleak in January, and somewhat cold.’

  ‘Yes, well, English schoolboys are supposed to suffer, aren’t they? Builds character and all that. But I thought you said this school was new?’ I pointed to the magnificent building towering above us. ‘I’m no architectural expert, but that’s surely seventeenth century, at the latest.’

  ‘Probably built as a manor house, fallen to the fate of so many of them, thanks to death duties. At least it’s being used and maintained. As for character building, I believe this college admits girls as well. Parents will protest mightily if their daughters suffer discomfort.’

  I shivered. ‘And with the winds from the sea, winters are probably bitter here.’

  ‘Ah, well, perhaps the sleeping quarters are of modern construction.’

  I was silent. Alan knew what I thought of modern British construction. Some of it was brilliant, even I would admit, but post-war buildings in general were all too apt to be poorly designed and cheaply made. I’ve had my issues with Prince Charles from time to time, but on the subject of architecture I think he’s dead right.

  Alan pulled the car up on the gravel sweep at the front door. ‘Do you think you’re allowed to park here?’ I asked doubtfully.

  ‘I’m not parking. I’m letting you off. I’ll go and find a car park. Phone me when you want to leave.’

  Oh. I had completely forgotten that I was on my own this time. For a fleeting moment I wished I had Watson with me, but I banished the thought. A school was an unlikely place for a dog, even in England. And if I had to talk to an art teacher . . . I shuddered at the havoc an active dog could wreak in a room full of easels and canvases and paint.

  ‘You have your pen at the ready, I trust?’ Alan knew why I was hesitating. He can usually diagnose my moods.

  ‘Yes, and my feet are getting colder by the moment, as you very well know. However. Onward and upward.’

  Alan leaned over for a kiss, and I struggled out of the car’s embrace, straightened my skirt, and climbed the four curved steps to the front door.

  The door stood hospitably open, and the brilliant June sun showed me a panelled hall with a black-and-white tiled floor and a graceful staircase rising to a diamond-paned landing window. On either side of the hall doors stood open. A discreet brass plate over the nearest one read ‘Enquiries’.

  Well, I had some of those, all right! I tapped on the door frame and walked in.

  The receptionist, or secretary, or whatever she was, a trim woman of about fifty, looked up with a brightly welcoming smile. ‘Good morning. Lovely morning, isn’t it? Were you wanting to visit one of the students?’

  ‘It is a lovely morning, certainly. Actually, I was wanting to see your headmaster, if he’s free.’

  Her smile dimmed a fraction. ‘Was there some sort of problem?’

  Why, I wondered irrelevantly, do the English couch this sort of question in the past tense? It’s catching, too. ‘No, I only wanted . . . I only want to ask him how to find someone who has a . . . well, a r
ather tangential tie to the school. The college, I mean.’

  ‘Perhaps I could help you, if you’d tell me who . . .’

  ‘It’s a Mr Jarvis, Anthony Jarvis.’

  ‘Oh.’ Now the smile was gone completely. ‘Well. Um. Was it his address you were wanting?’

  ‘That and some other information. I’d really like to speak to the headmaster. I’m perfectly willing to wait.’ To reinforce the point, I sat down and planted my handbag firmly on my lap. The chair was one of those squashy leather affairs that are almost impossible to get out of, but I’d deal with that when the time came. I made myself quite comfortable and conveyed, I hope, the idea that I was prepared to sit there until Doomsday.

  The receptionist gave up. ‘Oh, I see. Well, Mr Davidson is teaching his seminar just now, but he’ll be finished soon. If you really want to wait . . .’

  A young man poked his head in the door and started to say something, then checked himself. ‘Oh, sorry, I didn’t know you had a visitor.’

  ‘Oh, Colin, good. This is Mrs . . .’

  ‘Martin,’ I supplied. ‘Dorothy Martin.’

  ‘Mrs Martin, and she wants to see Mr Davidson. Could you show her to the seminar room, please? Their session should be nearly over.’

  Colin nodded politely. ‘Sure. I think he stayed behind to talk to Allison, but he shouldn’t be long. Follow me.’

  The room to which he led me had plainly been one of the drawing rooms of the manor house. It was still beautiful, with diamond-paned windows, panelling in some light wood, elaborately carved plaster mouldings, and a lovely fireplace framed in pale green marble. No doubt the floors had once been covered with priceless rugs where there was now a sensible carpet, but the room retained its charm, even with modern chairs arranged around a central table.

  A man stood near the table talking, with expansive gestures, to a short, dark-haired, remarkably pretty girl, who was nodding her emphatic agreement. She carried a small book whose title read, in two lines of large letters:

  ΠΛΑΤΩ

  ΠΟΛΙΤΕΙΑ

  Well, my Greek is limited to the alphabet, which one could hardly help learning in the American college town where I spent much of my life. It didn’t take too much brain-wracking to figure out that the first word was ‘Plato’, and I didn’t really need to try to decipher the other one. This child was reading one of Plato’s works in the original. My respect for St Cuthbert’s shot up.

  ‘. . . and I do take your point, but I still think he was a dangerous man. A fascist, really, with his espousal of censorship, and his insistence on keeping the citizens firmly within their respective classes.’

  Teacher and student were approaching the door. ‘I beg you to keep an open mind until you have finished the dialogues. Socrates may yet redeem himself, my dear.’

  He gave her a friendly pat on the shoulder as she left the room, and then turned to me. ‘Were you looking for me, or one of the students?’

  ‘For you, sir, if you are the headmaster. My name is Dorothy Martin. I was a teacher before I retired, and I’d like to talk to you for a few minutes, if you have the time.’

  ‘Roger Davidson.’ He extended a hand, and I was relieved to note that his grip, while firm, was not bone-crushing. ‘Do I detect a transatlantic accent?’

  ‘I’ve lived in England for some years, but yes, I lived most of my life in America, and I suppose I’ll never lose the accent entirely.’

  ‘Shall we go to my office? I usually have a cup of coffee at this time of day; may I offer you some? Or tea, if you prefer?’

  I chose tea as the safer option. One never knows about English coffee, which ranges from superb to execrable, but given the national predilections, English tea is almost always well made.

  While we awaited our tea, we made polite conversation. I commented on how impressed I was with his school. ‘I gather the students learn Greek,’ I said with some awe. ‘I didn’t know anyone still taught Greek outside the universities. ‘

  ‘It has certainly disappeared from many curricula,’ said Mr Davidson, ‘but I regard the Republic as one of the essential texts, and there are no really accurate translations, in my opinion. My seminar isn’t required, but many of the more able students seem to enjoy it.’

  ‘The young lady I saw certainly had some strong opinions about the book! I confess I’ve read only bits of it, years ago and in English, and have retained almost nothing.’

  ‘And yet – ah, here is our tea. Milk? Sugar?’

  When my tea was poured into a delicate cup and prepared to my liking, we settled back into comfortable leather chairs, I got out my notebook and pen and pressed the small button on the pen that would, I hoped, start it recording. We sipped our tea and chatted about Plato for a few minutes more, and then Mr Davidson tilted his head to one side and looked interrogative.

  ‘Yes, you want to know why I’m here. I do apologize for taking up your time, but I’m hoping you can help me. I’m very interested in educational methods in this country, especially as regards extra-curricular activities. I’m trying to find a man named Anthony Jarvis, who I’m told escorted at least one group from St Cuthbert’s when they toured Buckingham Palace some months ago. Would you have his address, by chance?’

  I noted his expression carefully. There was, just for an instant, a sort of silent sigh and a look of wariness. Then he was all courtesy. ‘I believe my secretary, Mrs Stevens, would have that information, although you do realize that Mr Jarvis is not in any way connected with the college. I know very little about him, though I believe he was an art teacher at one time.’ Mr Davidson put down his teacup, straightened his tie and looked at his watch.

  Aha, I thought to myself. You know a little more about him than you want to tell me. And you’re uneasy about something. How interesting. I picked up my empty teacup, peered into it, and put it down with an expression, of, I hoped, regret.

  The man was a gentleman. He wanted to get rid of me, but he couldn’t ignore so obvious a cue. He lifted the teapot with an enquiring look.

  ‘Oh, yes, please! Thank you so much. You know, I’m wondering, Mr Davidson. When I was teaching, we did educational visits outside the school – we called them field trips – but they were always escorted by the teachers themselves, with parents to help when the groups were big ones, and of course help from the experts at the museums or wherever. Is it the usual thing here in England to hire someone as a tour guide?’

  ‘Not perhaps usual, though we here at St Cuthbert’s do try to make such excursions as valuable to our students, educationally, as we can. When a recognized expert in the field volunteers to accompany our visits, we are of course quite keen on the idea.’

  ‘Oh, then Mr Jarvis volunteered?’

  ‘If I recall correctly, that was the case. Our art master, Mr Peretti, might remember more about the exact arrangements.’ Mr Davidson looked again at his watch, more obviously this time. ‘I’m sure Mrs Stevens will be able to help you with the contact information you need.’

  I can be persistent, and even rude when necessary, but I thought I’d better not ignore this second, pointed signal. Mr Davidson wasn’t going to tell me any more right now, and I did want to talk to the art teacher.

  I stood. Mr Davidson stood. We uttered oh-so-polite insincerities. He showed me how to find the art studio on the top floor – ‘Right up at the top of the house, in the old day nursery. It has the best light, you see’ – and enquired solicitously as to whether I would prefer to use the lift. I said the stairs were fine and complimented him on their beauty. I left his office.

  I thought about two things as I negotiated the several flights up to the studio. One was that Mr Davidson had never asked me the obvious question, which was why I wanted to know so much about Anthony Jarvis.

  The other was the ever-so-slight sigh of relief he’d uttered just a split second too soon, before the office door had quite closed behind me.

  Once I got to the top floor, the strong smell of paint told me I was indeed in th
e right place. At the head of the stairs an open door led into a large room, skylights furnishing the north light so essential for artists. Easels were scattered across the room, facing a still-life arrangement on a table; a challenging one with grapes and apples and a Venetian glass half-full of red wine, sitting on a draped piece of elaborate brocade. The students were hard at work, their faces intent. No one paid me the slightest attention.

  I moved into the room, as quietly as I could, and studied the nearest painting. It was more than half-finished, and was surprisingly good. The girl had managed to convey the transparency of the glass and wine and the translucency of the grapes, and was working with fierce concentration on the mottled skin of the apple. Not quite a literal treatment of the subject, her work combined Impressionist leanings with a strongly individual style.

  The man in the middle of the room, who had been strolling about, commenting here, praising there, looked up and saw me.

  ‘May I help you?’ He made his way to me, carefully avoiding the easels and stools. The students barely looked up.

  ‘Mr Peretti?’

  ‘Yes. And you are . . .?’

  ‘My name is Martin, Dorothy Martin. Is there a place where we could talk for a moment?’

  He shrugged. ‘This lot’s set for the next hour. We could pop into my office next door, I suppose.’

  His office, in what must once have been a bedroom – the ‘night nursery’, perhaps – looked exactly the way I had imagined an artist’s environment. He removed a stack of miscellaneous objects from a chair and motioned for me to sit. He perched on the edge of the desk, to the imminent danger of a pile of books and papers.

  ‘I suppose you want to talk about dear Kevin’s unrecognized artistic ability. Or Maggie’s. Or Rashid’s. No, not Rashid’s. You’re not likely to have a grandson named Rashid. Though one never knows, these days.’

  ‘I’m not here about any of your students, Mr Peretti. I know no one who attends this school. Though I must say, from what I just saw, that I think at least one of them is exceptionally talented. That girl near the door . . .’