Lessons in Murder

by Claire McNab

  “Dear, dear, our Cassie’s barely the sunny side of incoherent. I detect a little judicial editing there,” said Edwina, dressed, as always, in a dazzlingly bright color. Today she wore orange. “She is in your English class, isn’t she, Lynne?”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Edwina’s face showed injured innocence. “Not a thing. After all, we’re only into week three of Term One, aren’t we? Even a crash-hot teacher like yourself couldn’t be expected to teach Cassie Turnbull the niceties of English grammar in that time.” She looked at Lynne’s desk. “Isn’t that the cardboard I extracted from the front office? What are you doing with it?”

  Lynne looked bored. “I just borrowed a few sheets.”

  “I need them all, Lynne. My Year Seven class is doing advertising in groups.”

  “How creative,” said Lynne.

  “Oh, stop bickering,” said Terry impatiently. “Has anyone seen Sybil?”

  “She’s probably hiding somewhere, recovering from the pointed questions the police have been asking,” said Lynne, languidly filing a fingernail.

  “Oh?” said Edwina with raised eyebrows, “and what about you, my dear Lynne? Surely they’ve asked you about the way Bill dumped you for something rather younger?”

  Lynne yawned. “You never do get your facts right, do you?” she said to Edwina.

  The day had been a trying one for Mrs. Farrell. The call to her home from Sir Richard at 6:30 AM had been unwelcome, and the series of anxious parents who had insisted on speaking to her, either by telephone or in person, had been very fatiguing, especially as most of them seemed irrationally concerned that a maniac was stalking the school and their precious son or daughter could be the next victim. Even more irritating were the activities of the media. She had shuddered at the excesses of the local Peninsula Post, but that was nothing compared to the media assault from wide distribution newspapers, radio and television stations. The Education Department had instructed her to make no public comment, but this seemed only to intensify the efforts of the reporters who jammed the switchboard and camped outside the school entrances.

  Bourke slid a sheet of paper in front of Carol. “We know Pagett died somewhere between eight-forty and about nine-ten, when the kids found him,” he said.

  “Here’s a list of the bell times,” he added, pointing to the page:

  8:35 AM warning bell

  8:40 AM short school assembly

  8:50 AM roll call

  9:00 AM Period 1

  9:40 AM Period 2

  10:40 AM Period 3

  11:00–11:15 AM recess

  “The bells are rung automatically by a timeclock, and I’ve checked it for accuracy,” he continued. “Several people saw Pagett before the school assembly started, but so far, no one after it. Although all teachers are supposed to attend assemblies, not all of them do, and Pagett never did, so he wasn’t seen from that point on.”

  “We know he didn’t have a roll call. Who else was free in that ten minutes?” asked Carol.

  “Here’s a list of people who don’t have to mark a class roll. Most of the teachers do have one, but the heads of departments are exempt, and, of the people we’re interested in, Sybil Quade and Pete McIvor both miss out—she has extra duties coordinating senior work, and he teaches remedial reading two lunchtimes a week.”

  “Do we know the names of the teachers who actually attended the assembly before roll call?”

  “I’m trying, but it’s not easy—and anyone could slip away without being noticed.”

  “Come on, Mark, we’ve got to do better than this.”

  “Leaning on you, are they?” he asked sympathetically.

  Carol sighed, thinking of the urgent telephone calls from the Commissioner of Police and from Sir Richard. “A bit,” she said.

  Sybil went to the last class of the day with a feeling of relief. It was a senior English class, and she wanted to sink into Shakespeare’s language and forget the present. She smiled wryly to herself as she faced the class. After all, Hamlet was about death and suspicion, murder and motives, but somehow the familiar words in their iambic patterns seemed comforting.

  Initially it was hard to keep the attention of the students—the events of the day before and the heat of the afternoon combined against her. But then began one of those lessons that sometimes spontaneously occur, where minds are caught and held. It was exhilarating and satisfying to be part of the comments, arguments, and insights bubbling in the class, and Sybil had no opportunity to think of anything else. When the final bell went she felt refreshed, smiling at the students as they hurried out of the room to the freedom of the hot summer afternoon.

  “Can I speak to you for a minute?”

  Sybil looked up at Evan’s anxious face. He towered over her, gangling in that awkward half-boy, half-man stage. “What is it?”

  “Catch you up,” called Evan in response to a curious look from a friend who had paused in the doorway. He waited until they were alone, and then said, “Look, I didn’t know who to ask. It’s about Mr. Pagett.”

  Sybil stared at him. “Mr. Pagett?” she repeated stupidly.

  Evan shifted nervously. “What I need to know is, well. . . I want to know if I should go to the police.”

  “What about?”

  “It’s not important, really, but it might look . . .” Evan paused, then said the rest in a rush. “The end of last week, after school, Mr. Pagett and I had a fight. It was about Hilary.”

  “Hilary Cosgrove?” asked Sybil, remembering that she hadn’t been in the class sitting in her usual seat next to Evan.

  Evan nodded miserably. “She’s been seeing Mr. Pagett outside school. At his place. I didn’t like it. I waited and caught him after lessons on Friday and asked him to stop seeing her, but he just laughed at me.”

  “Evan, why are you telling me this?”

  “Because I punched him and knocked him over. I didn’t mean to do it, but I lost my temper. And when I tried to say I was sorry, he yelled at me and said he’d make sure I failed my exams. Someone must have heard—the cleaners, someone. Do I go to the police and tell them, or do I wait and see if anyone else does?”

  “You don’t know anything about Mr. Pagett’s death, do you?”

  “No, of course not, but that’s why . . .” He shrugged, looking helpless.

  Sybil felt a hypocrite as she said, “Then I think it would look better if you told them first. If someone already knows, they’re going to find out anyway.”

  Evan ducked his head, embarrassed. “Thanks. Don’t say anything about Hilary to anyone, will you?”

  As Sybil watched him go she wondered if, under different circumstances, she would have taken the advice she had just given Evan, and told Carol Ashton the truth about seeing Bill. But what circumstances would let her willingly allow someone else to see her inner self? Her thoughts swung to Terry and the argument Carol Ashton had interrupted the day before. He wanted to possess her, to own her—not only physically, but mentally and emotionally. Terry had shouted at her, “I have every right to follow you, Syb. You know I love you. Tell me why you went to see Bill last night. I want to know.” Carol Ashton ringing the front doorbell had cut into her furious reply.

  She mechanically gathered her books together. “Greta Garbo was right,” she said to the empty room, “I want to be alone.”

  Chapter Four

  Sybil was sound asleep, dreaming that Carol Ashton’s green eyes were appraising her coldly as Sybil was arrested for murder. The strident ring of the phone shattered the dream. Disoriented, she groped in the dark until she found the receiver. “Hello?”

  Silence. She leaned to look at the clock. Ten past three. “Hello? Who’s there? Tony, is that you?”

  A whispered voice replied. “He woke up just as the drill went into his brain. He knew what was happening. I told him why he was dying.”

  She sat bolt upright, heart pounding. “Who is this? What are you saying?”

  A whispered chuc
kle. “Syb. Syb, darling. You’ll be next. A chain saw to cut off your pretty head. Don’t interrupt. Listen. You’re going to die and join Bill. You’d like that, wouldn’t you? To lie with Bill?” A click, and then the burr of a disconnected line.

  With a convulsive movement she turned on the light. Familiarity stared at her, somehow alien. Sybil looked at the phone, still in her hand, at the room, at the curtains moving lazily in the summer breeze.

  Carol Ashton answered the telephone after five rings. She didn’t sound sleepy or surprised. “Yes? Carol Ashton here.”

  “It’s Syb.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Sorry. It’s Sybil Quade . . . the school. . .”

  “Of course. I didn’t recognize your voice. What’s happened?”

  Carol listened without comment as Sybil repeated what she had heard. Then she said, “When you hang up, write down the whole message, fast. Will you do that?”

  “Yes.”

  “The person actually threatened to cut off your head with a chain saw? In so many words?”

  “Yes.”

  Carol assured her that it was probably a nuisance call, but she would arrange for a patrol car to search the house and surroundings. Was there anyone she could stay with for the rest of the night?

  “I don’t want to leave. I’ll be all right.”

  Sybil was writing down every word she could remember when the telephone rang again. She stared at it, and, after a moment of hesitation, picked up the receiver.

  “Syb? Spoken to Inspector Ashton yet?” The same whisper. Could it be a woman? Sybil said nothing. “I know you’re listening, Syb darling. Randy little bitch, you are. Deserve to lose your head. Is Carol Ashton coming round to comfort you, Syb? Maybe she’ll make love to you. Would you like that? Make love fast, Syb. You haven’t got long.”

  Sybil’s hands were shaking as she dialed. Carol Ashton’s line was engaged. Three times she tried until the cool voice answered. To herself, Sybil sounded almost casual. “Sorry to bother you again, but I’ve had another call from the same person.”

  “Write it down. Got a tape recorder? If you have, put it near the phone and try to record any other call you get.” Carol’s voice was reassuring. “Don’t be frightened. A patrol car will be there soon, and I’ll be about half an hour. Right? Ring someone to stay with you.”

  “What if the person I ask is the one making the calls?”

  Carol gave a low laugh. “Good point. I’ll see you soon.”

  Sybil dressed quickly. She felt somehow much better wearing clothes. She found herself looking for a weapon. Something to protect her, something to stop a chain saw. A vision of a poster for The Texas Chain Saw Massacre swam into her mind. She tried smoking again, and choked, as usual.

  The uniformed police officers were reassuring. They searched each room and checked the garage and surroundings. “All clear,” one of them said. “This has been the high point of our night. Shows what a boring job it is, eh?”

  He broke off as Carol Ashton appeared at the doorway wearing jeans, a dark blue shirt and sneakers. He conferred with her for a moment, then both officers left.

  “You’re quite safe now. Let’s get some coffee and go through the whole thing together.”

  They lounged opposite each other in comfortable chairs, Carol seeming younger and less severe in her casual clothes. She smiled across at Sybil. “They’re upsetting, but a telephone call can’t hurt you.”

  “I’ve got an unlisted number because of crank calls last year,” said Sybil.

  “Yes, I know. But of course, several people must have your number, so it wouldn’t be impossible to find it out. It’s on your personal information sheet, for example.”

  Sybil nodded. “I got the impression it wasn’t a stranger.”

  “Can I see the messages?”

  Sybil had written them on separate pieces of paper. Carol glanced at them, then asked her to read them aloud, as she had heard them. Sybil stumbled over the words of the second note, and looked up to meet Carol’s green eyes. Sybil felt herself redden. She shrugged. “That’s what he said.”

  “He? A whisper is basically sexless. Could it have been a woman?”

  “Perhaps . . . I don’t know. I just felt it was someone I knew—not a crank call—someone familiar.” It was an appalling thought, that someone she knew well could be secretly smirking at her fear.

  “Because the person called you Syb darling? Who would say that to you in ordinary conversation? Terry Clarke, for example?”

  Sybil smothered a yawn, then stretched. “Terry never uses the term darling,” she said with a faint smile.

  Her smile disappeared as Carol said: “How about randy little bitch?”

  Sybil met her gaze directly. “Terry has no reason at all to say that.” She looked out at the dawn which was flooding the air with light and the liquid caroling of magpies.

  “Has anyone else?”

  The cold question shocked Sybil back into the reality of the situation. The lazy early morning light had seduced her into feeling secure. Now she sat upright, frighteningly conscious of why Carol Ashton sat opposite her, relaxed, cool, and waiting to trap her.

  “Mrs. Dunstane?”

  Florrie Dunstane looked up to meet Carol’s friendly smile. The little, wispy, indeterminate woman smiled in return. “Yes, Inspector, can I help you?”

  “Sorry to disturb you, as I know how busy you must be, but I wonder if you’d mind answering a few questions?”

  Florrie Dunstane would be delighted. She followed the Inspector to the Principal’s office with a thrill of anticipation. It was easy for people to ignore the administrative staff in a school, but Florrie had been at Bellwhether High for eleven years, first in the old dilapidated school, and then in the luxury of the modern buildings. The school community was an important part of her life: she followed with keen interest every rumor, every stray piece of gossip and indiscreet word. She had her favorites, and Bill Pagett had been one of them. Her pebble eyes darted around the office, imprinting every detail for future regurgitation to Lionel, who waited patiently at home for her garrulous return.

  “Your husband’s an invalid,” said Carol softly.

  Florrie was impressed—this one had done her homework. Bourke watched with admiration as Carol’s easy manner encouraged Florrie Dunstane’s confidences to flow. Bill Pagett had been, she said, a “real charmer” with a smile and a word for the office staff every time he passed, always making a point of thanking them personally for anything they did for him, and often stopping for a joke or a comment about his colleagues or the students—not that it was gossip, of course.

  “Mr. Pagett was interested in people, was he?” prompted Carol.

  Florrie warmly agreed. She became expansive on the subject of the English staff. Did the police know that Alan Witcombe, the head of the English Department, was a religious nut who Bill had said would go bananas one day and kill someone? That Pete McIvor was in love with Antonia Waters from the Physical Education Department, but she threw him out and told Bill that he was just a boy trying to do a man’s job? That Lynne Simpson was, well, not to put too fine a point on it, practically a nymphomaniac? Carol looked suitably surprised, asking if this was a generally held opinion. Florrie thought not. Bill knew things other people didn’t.

  “Did Bill Pagett himself have a relationship with Lynne Simpson?” asked Bourke, catching Carol’s glance.

  Florrie smiled. “Bill always said Lynne was too much for one man to handle, if you know what I mean, but they were always good friends. Lynne used to tell Bill all the problems she was having with Bruce. You know she’s divorced? Well, Bill helped her through a really bad period, you know, giving her advice, fixing her up with a good divorce lawyer so she wouldn’t get cheated out of her rights. He was like that.” She sniffed and dabbed at her eyes. “I can hardly believe he’s gone.”

  Carol remembered how Lynne Simpson had waylaid her as she had walked with Mrs. Farrell to the staff meeting the morning
of the murder. Mrs. Farrell had reluctantly introduced Lynne to her, ushering them into a vacant office for privacy while she pursued some administrative point with her deputy. “Inspector, I must tell you something important,” Lynne had said, her hands clasped and her expression a nice mixture of regret and agitation. “This is in confidence, so please don’t mention my name. It might have nothing to do with what’s happened to Bill, but I think you should know Sybil Quade’s marriage broke up because of him.” Carol had asked a few pertinent questions, thanked her and watched her hurry off, wondering what had motivated her to volunteer the information.

  “How does Lynne Simpson get on with Sybil Quade?” she asked Florrie.

  Florrie showed no surprise at the question. “Wouldn’t say they were close friends, but everything’s all right. Actually, Lynne gets on with everyone, really, except Edwina Carter, but that’s because Edwina’s fat and Lynne’s so attractive.” Carol raised her eyebrows. “Jealousy,” Florrie explained. “Edwina’s nasty to Lynne, so she gives back what she gets.”

  “Did Bill Pagett mention anything about Sybil Quade’s marriage?”

  Yes, Bill had confided in her how regretful he was over the situation. He’d assured Florrie he hadn’t meant to break up the marriage, but it was hardly his fault that Sybil had fallen in love with him. What made it worse was that Tony Quade was one of Bill’s closest friends. It was difficult, but Bill hoped he’d been fair to everyone. Florrie thought that he had.

  “Did Tony Quade blame Bill Pagett for the failure of his marriage?” asked Carol.

  “Blame Bill? Of course not. Why, after Sybil and Tony split up, Tony went to stay at Bill’s place before he went back to England, and he wouldn’t have done that if he’d blamed him, would he?”