by Jill McGown
‘Who came in?’ Lloyd asked.
‘I don’t know. I couldn’t see.’
‘How long were you with Mrs Hamlyn?’
‘I don’t know – just a couple of minutes.’
‘What was the point of running away?’ asked the sergeant.
‘I just ran. I wanted to get rid of the pen, because if I didn’t have it she couldn’t prove anything. I went back to the house, and waited for about half an hour, to make sure she hadn’t followed me, or told anyone. Then I put it with the other stuff. I was going to get rid of it all.’
‘I thought you said it wasn’t really stealing?’ said the sergeant. ‘That you intended giving it back?’
‘I did,’ said Matthew. ‘But I didn’t intend getting caught. I could say she was mistaken – if I got rid of the stuff, no one would be able to prove anything. But then I couldn’t, with the police all over the place. I didn’t think you’d find it.’
‘You were unlucky, Matthew,’ said Sergeant Hill. ‘We were looking for a murder weapon. You look everywhere.’
‘I didn’t think anyone knew about the loft,’ said Matthew. ‘You can’t really see the hatch.’
‘A piece of the black bin-liner was sticking out,’ she said. ‘You panicked a little. You were careless,’ she said.
Matthew almost smiled. The pathologist had said that that was how people got caught.
Treadwell frowned. ‘Is this amusing you?’ he asked.
‘No, sir,’ said Matthew.
‘Did you deliberately cause Mrs—?’ He stopped. ‘A member of staff to come under suspicion?’
‘Yes, sir. Well, I didn’t mean it to happen – not at first. But people suspected her, and – well, then I did do it deliberately.’ He looked from one disapproving face to another, to another. ‘I didn’t think!’ he said. ‘It was just a bit of fun.’ He dropped his eyes. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I realised that it wasn’t right, making people think that she was stealing. That’s why I took the pen.’
‘Who are we talking about?’ asked Lloyd.
‘Mrs Knight,’ said Matthew. ‘But she wasn’t at the ball, so I thought that if I took the pen people would stop thinking it was her.’
Lloyd sat back. ‘So it was really a laudable act, was it?’ he asked.
‘No, sir.’ Matthew was having trouble gauging the chief inspector, and decided that trying to convince him of his concern for Mrs Knight was probably not the most sensible course. ‘I thought it would be fun to confuse them, now that they were convinced it was Mrs Knight,’ he said. ‘I was going to tell you all this.’
‘Oh?’ The sergeant, disbelieving.
‘I was, honestly! But then . . .’ He aimed his remarks at the chief inspector. ‘I spoke to the doctor who was here,’ he said. ‘About pathology. Forensic science. That’s what I’d really like to do,’ he said. ‘And I thought if I told you I’d taken the stuff I might not be able to.’
Lloyd nodded. ‘Well, that remains to be seen,’ he said. ‘But why?’ he asked. ‘Why were you going to tell us?’
‘Because it must have been Mr Newby who came into the Barn,’ Matthew said. ‘His car was parked in there.’
‘You could have told us about the car without admitting to the thefts,’ said the sergeant, still suspicious.
‘I know. But . . .’ Matthew paused. ‘I know something. I saw something when I was – well, another time. Another time that I took things.’
Chief Inspector Lloyd looked at him, his eyes slightly narrowed, as though he was trying to read print too small for his eyesight.
‘Matthew,’ he said, ‘you have admitted stealing various items over the last eighteen months.’
‘It wasn’t really stealing,’ Matthew said again.
‘I am going to ask you to come to the police station to make a statement. As Mr Treadwell is in loco parentis, he will accompany you, and will be present during the interview. You can be legally represented if you wish.’
Matthew looked at Treadwell, who seemed as though he might be going to be sick.
‘We will contact your parents as soon as possible,’ Lloyd went on.
Matthew thought Treadwell was going to faint.
Sam left the art room, feeling hungry. He knew what he wanted; he knew if he gave himself over to it, it would come. But he had to give it time, let it come to him, and he needed something now, something to tide him over. Caroline had said she wasn’t ready for that kind of commitment. Thank God for that. He wasn’t looking for Caroline’s commitment; he couldn’t understand how something so trivial as the gratification of sexual appetite could ever assume such dimensions. It would be like having to commit yourself to a plate of chips before you ate it.
Sam would eventually be ready for his commitment; he would work at it, coaxing the colour and light out of his brushes and on to the canvas until it released him, if it ever did. It was wonderful, and dreadful, and no woman could ever produce the feeling of exhilaration he had when he worked, the triumph, the sheer joy that he would experience on its completion. Or the terrible anticlimax of its being over.
In the meantime, Caroline would suffice. Right now, however, food would have to fill the gap being created by the images that danced out of reach; he wandered over to the canteen, but lunch wasn’t being served for another hour. He used one of the slot machines, and bought himself a bar of chocolate.
He walked back along the lane, where the images grew suddenly sharper, as he bit into the chocolate. He stopped by the art room, then carried on. He must let the thought germinate, let it come in its own time. He walked slowly, lost in thoughts which were interrupted by the sight of Lloyd and his sergeant getting into a car with Treadwell and young Matthew Cawston.
He watched it drive away, saw Mrs Treadwell look anxiously after it, and quickened his step to reach her before she went back into the house. Matthew, she said, had been stealing.
Stealing may have been their excuse to take him away, but that wasn’t why Matthew had been bundled off to the police station. Good old British bobbies. They could always be relied upon to go off at half-cock, firing his bullets for him, and incidentally sharpening the image in his mind; he could see it, he could almost touch it.
It was agony, forcing himself to go back to the flat. Thank God Newby wasn’t there. He paced the room, feeling his way cautiously into the image; this was just the start. He had to hold back, had to wait, had to let it take its own time. His only desire was to seize a pencil, sketch his thoughts, but he mustn’t. He mustn’t force the hard, clear image on to paper, or it would stay like that, like a photograph. When it was committed to paper, it would be pliant, yielding to his pen over and over, until every detail, every line, every curve was perfect. And when it exploded on to the canvas, if he did it right, people who could see past their prejudices would cry for his slot machine, and they wouldn’t know why.
He swore when he heard the knock at the door, and didn’t open it. But the knocking continued, and he strode over angrily, expecting another visit from the constabulary.
A large, handsome man in a flash suit stood at the door, by no stretch of the imagination a policeman.
‘Yes?’
‘Where the hell is the headmaster?’ the man demanded to know. ‘I’ve tried the school, and his house. The man’s nowhere to be found.’
‘He’s with the police,’ said Sam. ‘At the police station, I presume.’ He smiled. ‘We’ve had some trouble here,’ he said.
‘Trouble?’ The man snorted. ‘I’ll say you’ve had trouble! And you’re going to have worse trouble, believe you me! Where’s his deputy? I want to speak to him.’
Sam grinned. ‘I doubt if that will be possible,’ he said. ‘Unless you’ve got an Indian guide.’
‘What?’
‘Suicide,’ said Sam, never a man to waste words.
The man opened his mouth, then closed it.
‘He was married to Friday night’s corpse,’ said Sam helpfully. ‘He’s today’s.’
&
nbsp; ‘Now, look!’ Sam’s visitor was going an interesting shade. ‘I want an explanation of what’s been going on at this school!’
They’d be coming by the coach load by tomorrow morning, thought Sam. ‘You’re a parent, are you?’ he asked.
‘My name is Cawston.’
‘Matthew’s father?’ asked Sam.
‘You know Matthew?’
‘Matthew is our head boy,’ said Sam. ‘But, even if he wasn’t, I would know him. We don’t have that many boys here. And do you wonder?’
‘I want to know what the hell’s going on!’ Cawston roared.
Sam opened the door wider. ‘Come in,’ he said. ‘I’ll tell you all about it.’
*
Treadwell stared at the boy, who sat at the table in the interview room, brazening it out. Opposite him sat Chief Superintendent Allison and Chief Inspector Lloyd; the ranks bothered Treadwell a little. Beside him sat the solicitor, hastily called, wearing a Sunday sweater over his shirt and tie, to indicate just how much he was going to cost. Treadwell hadn’t been able to reach Cawston senior yet; he had taken the decision for him, knowing that whatever he did it would be wrong.
‘Do you know why you’re here, Matthew?’ asked the chief superintendent.
‘I stole some things,’ said Matthew.
‘What Matthew means is that he took some things without permission,’ said the solicitor. ‘There was no intention permanently to deprive the owners of these articles.’
Matthew Cawston was far and away the brightest boy Treadwell had ever had through his hands; a brilliant career in almost any field he cared to name was virtually a foregone conclusion, and Treadwell had announced that the thief would be expelled. Announcements at assembly weren’t legally binding, of course, and he doubted if he really would have carried out his threat in any event, whoever the culprit. The items stolen were so ridiculous, so haphazard, that financial gain could never have been the motive. He had been prepared to have a heart-to-heart with whoever it was, find out what it was all about. Even get them help if it seemed warranted. But Matthew? It simply didn’t seem possible.
Matthew was his flagship; when Treadwell would casually suggest that ‘one of the boys’ show the parents of prospective pupils round the school, it was Matthew whom he detailed to do the showing-round. Clever, but not a swot; strong and athletic, but not a show-off. A tasteful, well-designed, colour-supplement advertisement for the school. A thief.
Perhaps he stole because he was bored, because everything came too easily to him, and he needed the excitement. Perhaps because his overbearing father and his volatile mother had failed him in some way. Or perhaps because underneath all the effortless academic achievement he was just a bad lot.
But, whatever his reasons, if only he had owned up sooner, it might well have been possible to drop the whole thing. To give the boy some sleepless nights, and then tell him that he was being given a second chance. It might even have been possible to keep the alarming Mr Cawston senior out of it, to tell the police that the school did not wish to go any further in the matter of the thefts, and quietly set the whole thing to rest. Why he stole was a question for the psychologists, and didn’t really concern Treadwell.
But the sergeant’s obsession with the thefts had made any glossing-over impossible. Damn the woman. And the chief inspector, and the chief superintendent. Treadwell would have thought he would have had more sense than to worry about the thefts when two people had died. And it was just the thefts, wasn’t it? He cleared his throat.
Matthew looked at him briefly, before his eyes flicked back to the police.
‘Don’t you want to know what I saw?’ he asked.
‘All in good time, Matthew,’ said the chief inspector.
Sergeant Hill came in then, putting a sheet of paper down in front of Lloyd. Allison read it over Lloyd’s shoulder, and left the room. Treadwell was beginning to feel panicky.
‘Did you steal a golf-club, Matthew?’ asked Lloyd.
‘What’s your interest in this particular item, Chief Inspector?’ asked the solicitor.
The sergeant glanced at Lloyd, and then she answered the solicitor’s question. ‘Matthew has told us that he took all the items which have gone missing in the last eighteen months,’ she said. ‘One of them is still unaccounted for. An old golf-club – a niblick, it’s called. We would like to know what Matthew did with it.’
Matthew shook his head. ‘I didn’t steal a golf-club.’
Lloyd took a slow breath. ‘The thing is, Matthew,’ he said, ‘it looks rather as though that club was used to murder Mrs Hamlyn.’
Treadwell thought he was going to die. The statement hadn’t taken him by surprise; it had taken no one by surprise. They all knew that they weren’t there about some thefts which barely amounted to ten pounds’ worth of stuff. But he’d said it now. He’d used the word.
‘I didn’t take a golf-club,’ Matthew repeated, still shaking his head. ‘I didn’t. But I saw something – why won’t you let me tell you what I saw? I saw Mr Newby with—’
‘You don’t have to say anything at this juncture,’ warned his solicitor.
‘But I want to! I was going to, anyway! I thought that’s why I was here.’
‘Tell us now, Matthew,’ Lloyd said. ‘I’m listening.’ But there was no gentle encouragement about his tone this time. This time he meant business, and Matthew obviously knew that.
And he told them, with the odd glance over to where Treadwell sat, about a scene he’d witnessed in the Hamlyns’ bedroom between Newby and Mrs Hamlyn. Treadwell listened, his head swimming, hardly daring to breathe.
Lloyd listened, but he didn’t comment, didn’t ask questions. ‘Think about it, Matthew,’ he said, and he and the sergeant left. After about five minutes, she came back.
‘Right, Matthew,’ she said brightly. ‘Let’s get this statement down on paper.’
The sergeant went through every single item, asking where he’d taken it from, what he’d done with it, checking his answers off on the list she had made of the items she had recovered; Treadwell sat watching, still half-hoping that it was all some sort of nightmare.
He would have sold his soul for a drink.
Caroline pulled a tissue from the box, wiped her eyes and nose, and tried to smile. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said.
‘Don’t be silly,’ said Philip.
‘You must think I do this all the time.’
He looked shamefaced. ‘I can’t have helped,’ he said.
‘It only bothered me to start with,’ she said, then felt the pain herself as he went crimson. ‘Oh, no,’ she said, taking his hand. ‘I didn’t mean to upset you. Please, forget it. It doesn’t matter.’
‘It does,’ he mumbled, like one of the boys being told off. ‘Even Sam knew.’
She sighed. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘He said as much.’ He’d said much more than that.
He looked up, appalled. ‘He spoke to you about it?’
She felt out of her depth. ‘Well – yes,’ she said. ‘You know what he’s like! He was trying to put me off – he doesn’t think you have any right to fancy me.’
‘He’s right.’ His head dropped again in an agony of embarrassment.
‘He isn’t!’ She held his hand tightly. ‘It’s just another injury, Philip. Like your leg and your back, except it isn’t physical.’
He nodded miserably. ‘I know,’ he said. ‘You’re right.’
‘I’m always right,’ she said, smiling.
‘You’re wrong about one thing,’ he said, with a shy duck of his head. ‘I don’t fancy you.’
‘No?’
‘Diana Hamlyn told me,’ he said. ‘The first day I got here. She said I was in love with you. She was right.’
She smiled again.
‘But I’d be no good to you,’ he said again. ‘A physical and emotional wreck is something I don’t imagine you need right now.’
‘You’re not a wreck!’ she shouted. ‘And I think for a start that you sh
ould find somewhere else to live. I know Sam – he’ll encourage you to think like that.’
Philip looked up. ‘I’m hardly a threat to Sam,’ he said.
She shook her head. ‘You haven’t got Sam figured at all, have you?’ she said. ‘Has he told you he’s not queer yet?’
Philip’s eyes widened. ‘Yes, as it happens,’ he said. ‘He told me this morning.’ He looked disbelieving. ‘You’re not saying he is?’
She shook her head. ‘No,’ she said. ‘He makes do with women. But he doesn’t like them. And he doesn’t want to lose you to the opposition.’
Philip shook his head.
‘Oh – you believe macho Sam’s stories, do you? Philip – you’ve got more sex appeal in your left earlobe than he’s got in his whole body. I should think Diana Hamlyn’s the only woman who ever looked at him twice!’
‘You did.’
‘No. I didn’t – I . . .’ She couldn’t explain. And now she was scared again, scared that she would lose Philip.
‘You said you didn’t discourage him,’ he persisted.
‘No, because I thought he could . . .’ She looked at him. How could he possibly think he was less attractive than Sam, who would have carried on regardless if she’d dropped dead? She shivered, as she always did when she thought of it, and stood up to try to mask the involuntary movement.
Philip was on his feet, too. ‘Well, he can,’ he said. ‘Which is more than I can do, as he pointed out to me only today.’
Caroline closed her eyes. Philip would have shown more consideration for an inflatable doll than Sam had shown for her. ‘Is it that important?’ she asked.
He nodded. ‘It is if you can’t do it,’ he said.
‘I don’t believe you can’t do it,’ she said. ‘But even if you can’t, you’d still be a better bargain than Sam.’
‘I have to go.’
‘No – Philip.’ She caught his arm. ‘Stay, please. I don’t expect anything from you. Just stay with me. I’m scared.’
