Lessons in Murder

by Claire McNab

  “Does Edwina know about Sybil’s anonymous calls? I asked her not to tell anyone, and as far as I’m aware, she hasn’t.”

  Bourke shrugged. “Search me. I don’t know who Sybil whispers her little secrets to, although I’d volunteer to listen if she gave me the chance.”

  “Why do you think the calls, if they do exist, are being made at all?”

  “It might appeal to the kind of person who gets a charge out of drilling a hole in someone’s head,” said Bourke, “or, for that matter, someone who just likes to cause trouble and settle old scores with a few whispered threats.” He flicked a forefinger at a printed Bellwhether High staff list. “Probably someone here. Pity Telecom are so inefficient, or we’d be able to trace the calls. What do you think our chances are of having the phones tapped? A voice print would be nice.”

  Carol shook her head. “I don’t think there’ll be any more . . . the person isn’t a fool, and would know it might be getting dangerous. Besides, we’d have a hell of a time getting a court order—things are very sensitive after the last scandal about illegal phone tapping.”

  “Even with Sir Richard’s influence?”

  “Especially with Sir Richard’s influence. You’ve obviously forgotten the royal commission’s considering transcripts of an illegal tap on his phone.”

  Bourke looked impatient. “So what about Sybil Quade? She’s still got a tape recorder on the line.”

  “Yes, but I doubt if anything of use will come from it. And if she is the person making the calls, she’ll just turn it off before she dials.” She handed him the lab report. “Have you read this? I want more details on the stuff they vacuumed up from the floor and desk. I want to know exactly what was there.”

  “How much detail?” said Bourke, still irritated. “Do you want the Latin name of a leaf that blew in from the playground?”

  “I do.”

  The phone interrupted them. She left Bourke to answer it, and pulled the curtain back to gaze out at the deserted playgrounds. The pulse of the school was determined by bells: students and teachers alike ebbed and flowed at their strident commands. Now all was peaceful, the noise and movement of lunchtime replaced by a muted hum from classrooms. A dog inspected the overflowing dustbins, one or two students dawdled along on some message, and Mrs. Farrell sailed by on her afternoon inspection of her domain.

  “Just amazing,” said Bourke, slamming down the phone. “You’ll just never guess what the science guys have found.” He shook his head. “Amazing,” he repeated.

  “Are you going to tell me, or do I use my psychic powers?”

  “Sorry. It’s a power drill they tested from Sybil Quade’s garage. The drill bit showed positive for blood and tissue.”

  “But the murder weapon was definitely the Black and Decker by the body.”

  “Oh, it’s not human. The analysis shows fragments of lamb bone and tissue. Looks like she made a practice run to see how easy it would be to drill into human bone.”

  Carol said nothing, her vivid imagination casting up an image of Sybil, her red head bent in concentration as she experimented with a power drill and a leg of lamb.

  Bourke broke into her thoughts. “And there were a couple of her fingerprints on the body of the drill. I’m dying to see how she explains this away.”

  “So am I,” said Carol.

  Mrs. Farrell answered the phone to Sir Richard’s warm tones, surprised by the speed with which he had replied to her earlier message. “Phyllis? You have something for me?”

  “I don’t know, Sir Richard. It’s really only gossip. So hard to decide if there’s any substance to it, and I don’t want to distress you with rumors . . .”

  “Anything about my son that could help solve his murder is important to me. Of course I realize that rumors may have no foundation, but there may be a grain of truth, something that will help me, and, of course, the police. Please tell me all you know, however trivial.”

  Never having been deeply interested in others’ personal lives and petty scandals, Mrs. Farrell found the gathering of gossip distasteful, but surprisingly easy. In a businesslike tone she itemized the details for Sir Richard; he listened silently. In essence, there were three main points: first, it was said Bill Pagett had a regrettable tendency to form short-term relationships with senior girls in the school—and if Mrs. Farrell had known about this, she added, she would, of course, have acted to stop it immediately. She didn’t repeat the words of one anonymous letter: ‘Pagett’s going through Bellwhether’s senior girls like a hot knife through butter.’ Second, he was credited with breaking up the marriage of one of his colleagues on the English staff. Her name was Sybil Quade. Mrs. Farrell had not, of course, spoken to her personally. Third, he had recently had a violent confrontation with the head of the English Department, Alan Witcombe.

  “What exactly was the argument about?” asked Sir Richard.

  Mrs. Farrell sighed to herself. “I must tell you, Sir Richard, that it gives me no pleasure to discuss the private concerns of any staff member. Suffice it to say that Mr. Witcombe and your son were diametrically opposed on moral and religious grounds.”

  Sir Richard wanted more details, and with distaste Mrs. Farrell gave a judicious selection, terminating the call with promises to contact him if anything else came up.

  Half an hour later, Sir Richard was back on the phone. Mrs. Farrell was impressed by the evidence of his influence on the usually obdurate Education Department and irritated by his aggrieved tone. “Phyllis, I’m sorry to find you haven’t been absolutely frank with me. I can’t believe you didn’t know that Alan Witcombe was removed from his last school because of a scandal.”

  “It’s rather an exaggeration to call it a scandal, Sir Richard. The Education Department decided it would be better for all concerned if Mr. Witcombe took another appointment. It was merely some type of minor interpersonal conflict, and surely not relevant to the present situation.”

  “Not relevant? That he physically threatened not only several students, but parents also?”

  Mrs. Farrell felt an unaccustomed desire to raise her voice, but resisted to say in a neutral tone, “To be precise, Mr. Witcombe stated the students should be horsewhipped after he found them in what, to him, was a highly compromising situation outside a school dance.”

  “I’m extremely surprised, Phyllis, that you have failed to see how important this is. The man is obviously some sort of religious extremist and his argument with Bill was based on his fanatical ideas about religion and morals. Does Inspector Ashton know about this?”

  Mrs. Farrell said that the Departmental records had been given to the police, and yes, she would check with the Inspector immediately to make sure Alan Witcombe’s past indiscretions had been noted. She pursed her lips as she carefully replaced the receiver after Sir Richard’s cold farewell. Just how cooperative did the Education Department expect her to be?

  “Syb.”

  Sybil looked up from the school library catalog at Lynne’s urgent tone. Although Lynne managed to inject drama into every situation, this time she looked genuinely disturbed. “Syb, you’ve only got a junior class. Can they look after themselves for a minute? It’s rather urgent I talk to you, privately.”

  The junior students showed fluctuating enthusiasm for the library research assignment Sybil had set them, but the librarian volunteered to keep an eye on their endeavors, so she followed Lynne into the empty senior studies room.

  Shutting the door, Lynne said, “Have you heard from Tony?”

  Sybil stiffened. “Why would I?” she asked.

  “You know he’s in Australia, don’t you?”

  “The police told me. How do you know?”

  Lynne flung herself down in a chair. “Syb, you’re not going to like this.” She looked up at Sybil’s blank face. “Bill told me Tony was coming back. The fact is, Tony was supposed to be staying at Bill’s place from Sunday onwards. He was flying up from Melbourne.”

  Sybil stared at her. Had Tony been
there while she and Bill had screamed at each other? Suddenly she felt physically sick as she struggled to concentrate on Lynne, who was still speaking.

  “But Tony turned up at my place late Sunday night. Told me he and Bill had just had a violent row—about you, Syb.”

  Sybil thought of the whispered threats on the phone. She said firmly, “I haven’t seen Tony or heard from him. Where is he now?”

  “That’s why I had to speak to you. I don’t know what to do. Tony stayed Sunday night with me. No one else knows—Bruce had the kids for the weekend so we were alone. He’s still got them, actually. I couldn’t face having them around when it might be dangerous. Anyway, early on Monday Tony said he was going to have it out with Bill. I haven’t seen him since. Thought he might have been in touch with you.”

  Sybil shook her head as Lynne stared intensely at her. Lynne said urgently: “Because you see what it means, don’t you Syb? Tony could be the one who killed Bill.”

  “I don’t believe it.”

  “Syb! I don’t want to believe it either! But look at the facts: Tony quarrels with Bill, leaves me early on Monday, the day Bill is murdered, and disappears. Where is he? Why hasn’t he contacted someone?”

  “Have you told the police?”

  “Not yet. I was hoping . . . well, I thought you should know first, anyway.” Lynne stood, looking indecisive, then she said in a rush, “Syb, be careful, won’t you? Of Tony, I mean. If he did kill Bill, then you were the reason.”

  “I’m sorry to keep you back after school,” said Carol to Terry Clarke, who sat, arms folded, glaring at her. “It’s about your movements on Monday morning.”

  “Look, I’ve answered all these questions for this guy,” he said, jerking his head to indicate Bourke, “so why do I have to go through them again?”

  “In your statement you say that you left the school immediately after roll call on Monday to deliver your car to a garage for servicing.”

  “So?”

  “Someone claims to have seen you near the administration block at the time you say you were outside the school grounds.”

  Terry settled back in the chair, frowning. “Someone’s mistaken, or lying.”

  His eyes swung to meet Bourke’s question: “Why didn’t you drop your car off earlier? Coming here first meant you had to double back, since you passed the service station on the way to school.”

  Terry was offhand. “I was late. I didn’t have time. Farrell raises hell if you don’t sign the attendance book before school. She actually rules it off and stands there, daring anyone who’s late to front her.” He looked back at Carol. “Okay? Satisfied?” His frown deepened at her noncommittal expression. “Look, Inspector, I didn’t kill Pagett and I don’t know who did. Anyone who says they saw me is wrong. Now, can I go?”

  Carol played with a pen. “It’s been suggested to us that you were jealous of Mr. Pagett’s relationship with Sybil Quade.”

  Terry laughed scornfully. “Jesus! You’d listen to anyone, wouldn’t you?”

  “That’s our job,” said Bourke.

  Terry unfolded his arms and leaned across the desk. Carol resisted the impulse to move back, and met him eye to eye.

  “Look,” he said, “I get the impression you’re trying to pin this on Syb. Don’t waste your time. As far as Pagett’s concerned, she feels the same as I do—wouldn’t spit on the bastard if he was dying of thirst in a desert—but wouldn’t murder him, either. Pagett wouldn’t be worth doing time for.”

  After he had stalked out, Bourke said, “That one would bash you to death. He wouldn’t bother using a drill. You know he does weights every afternoon?”

  “Yes, and he belongs to a rifle club, but Bill Pagett wasn’t shot.”

  Bourke turned his hands palms up. “I bow to your superior logic,” he said, “so tell me why Clarke finds it necessary to have Sybil spitting in a desert.”

  Carol laughed at his words, then grew thoughtful. “Terry Clarke seems keen to protect Mrs. Quade, but maybe he’s just trying to make sure we don’t overlook her,” she said.

  “Subtle,” said Bourke, “and for my money, too refined for him to even think of. If you ask me, I think it’s Terry and our Syb in it together.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “Well, it makes sense. Sybil’s the brain who sets it up, and Terry’s the brawn who carries it out.”

  “Terry Clarke has an M.A. in English Lit from Sydney University,” said Carol, “so I think you’d better consider the possibility that along with the brawn he has the brains.”

  She smiled at his expression. “I’ve arranged for a female police officer to accompany you to interview Hilary Cosgrove,” she said. “I’ll see Mrs. Quade.”

  “Swap you,” said Bourke. “You take the kid and I’ll take the delectable Syb. No? Ah, well, she’d probably fool me, anyway.” He shuffled through papers on the desk. “Look, before I go, have a look at this.” He handed her one of his neat pages. “You asked me to find out if anyone had special medical expertise to help them drill the hole in Pagett’s head. That’s all I’ve got.”

  He left Carol frowning at the page. Terry Clarke’s interest in martial arts might give him some detailed knowledge of anatomy; Edwina’s father had been a dentist (Bourke had written “far-fetched, but after all, concentrating on the head!”); both Pete McIvor and Sybil had advanced first aid qualifications; but for Lynne Simpson and Alan Witcombe he could find nothing of interest. He was still waiting for information on Tony Quade from England.

  Carol sat thinking long after the last sounds of activity had faded and the school became strangely quiet. She rested her chin on her linked fingers and stared unseeingly out the door and down the silent corridor.

  Lynne Simpson had made a dramatic entrance just before Terry Clarke had arrived, breathless with her news of Tony Quade and full of insincere apologies for keeping the information to herself for three days. “One’s loyalty to one’s friends,” she said soulfully, “that’s the only explanation I can give.”

  Carol resisted the tart remark that rose to her tongue and listened with flattering attention to Lynne’s story. “I’ve told Syb,” Lynne concluded, “though I suppose you’ll say I shouldn’t have. Anyway, I’m sure she’s seen Tony, though she says she hasn’t.”

  Neat knife job, thought Carol, I wonder if she has a grudge against Sybil as well as Edwina? As Lynne turned to go, Carol remarked, “We’ve been told you and Bill Pagett were rather more than friends at one time.” To Lynne’s look of inquiry, she added, “But that he lost interest, and switched to someone younger.”

  Lynne’s lips had twitched. “Oh, dear,” she had said, “I do hope Edwina isn’t leading you up the garden path. She has such an active imagination.”

  Carol’s thoughts now strayed to Tony Quade. She had a photograph of him, but it was difficult to read character into the regular features that gazed out at her. She found herself actively hoping that Sybil’s husband was guilty. Even so, Sybil would have to endure probing questions and the curious gaze of strangers into her personal affairs, but at least she would not be charged, and consigned to the cold brutality of a women’s prison. Her gaze dropped to the photocopy of Sybil’s note. Who had sent it, and why? Had the power drill been planted to incriminate her too? She gave herself a mental shake. She was acting as though she was on Sybil’s side, and, of course, she wasn’t. “My only interest is the truth,” she said mockingly to the silent office.

  She checked a file and dialed a number. “Mrs. Quade? It’s Carol Ashton here. I hope this isn’t inconvenient, but I wonder if I could call by and see you, now? In about twenty minutes, then.”

  Carol didn’t get up immediately, re-reading the short note and picturing Sybil’s face as she wrote it. It was undated, and the angular writing hurried urgently across the paper:

  Bill,

  I won’t say anything to Tony about what happened, so you don’t have to make up any convincing lies. I don’t ever want to think about it again.<
br />
  Sybil

  She packed her briefcase slowly, uncomfortably aware of how much she was looking forward to seeing Sybil again. Straight women, she thought bitterly. You know where that leads—and it isn’t worth it.

  As Carol walked up the steps, Sybil, who had changed to shorts and a brief top, opened the door. Smiling, she said, “Your call just caught me—I was going for a swim.” She added impulsively, “Have you got a costume with you in the car? Do you want to come with me?”

  “I’m sorry—no. I’ll only keep you a short time.”

  Carol watched Sybil take the photocopy and read it. The animation in her face was suddenly stilled. She didn’t look up immediately, but reread the words. She’s not going to tell the truth, thought Carol.

  Sybil handed the photocopy back. “It’s nothing, really. Bill and I had some stupid disagreement over something. I can’t even remember what it was, now. Anyway, I wrote him a note because Tony hated it if we didn’t get along—his best friend and his wife—and I didn’t want Bill to mention it.”

  “Rather an intense note for a friendly disagreement,” said Carol.

  “Perhaps I express myself badly.”

  Carol smiled at her. “Somehow I doubt that. You can’t be any more explicit?”

  “No.” Sybil was self-possessed. She raised her eyebrows. “I do hope, Inspector, you haven’t been pinning too much on this note. It really was of no importance.”

  “You haven’t asked me how I came to have it, Mrs. Quade.”

  Sybil looked surprised. “Why, I imagine you found it at Bill’s place. It’s the sort of thing he’d do—keep a stupid little letter like that.”

  “We didn’t find it there. Someone posted it to me, anonymously.”

  Carol watched Sybil’s face tighten.

  “Who would do that?” Sybil said.