by Kris Langman
“Have a seat.” Nick helpfully pushed yesterday’s Daily Mail and what looked like the remains of a ham and mustard sandwich off a vinyl-covered barstool. Anne hoped the crusty brown stuff in the middle of the seat came from curry rather than cat. It looked dry, at least. She sat down gingerly.
“Das Rheingold?” She asked in astonishment as a booming Alberich started chasing the Rhinemaidens around a stereo in the corner.
“Sure. Old Richard W is great first thing in the morning. I tell you, that Wagner has some bitchen leitmotifs.” Nick hopped off his stool and rummaged in a half-height fridge under a sink piled high with dirty pots. “I’ve got eggs, or I can do you a bacon sarnie.” He looked questioningly at Anne.
“No thanks. I’m not really hungry,” Anne lied as her stomach growled. She smiled at Nick to show that she appreciated his offer, but there was just no way she was going to eat here. She was no great shakes as a housekeeper herself, but this place looked like Salmonella Central. She glanced around the room. “Do you have a phone I could use? I appreciate your hospitality, and all your help last night, but I feel like I’m intruding. I’ll call a cab.”
* * * *
Anne selected a piece of bread from the basket and nibbled on it. It was a bit dry. She washed it down with a sip of Cherry Coke. The professor had recommended the pub because of its patio overlooking the river. A weak sun shone on the picnic tables, lighting the flowerbox full of red geraniums which was hanging over the entrance to the pub. Anne looked enviously at a cozy table by the fire which she could see through the diamond-paned window. Despite the chill in the air the professor had insisted on eating outside so that he could smoke. Anne tucked her hands into the pockets of her parka and shivered as a cold breeze tickled her neck.
“So, how long have you known John Davidson?” she asked.
“Hmm, let me think,” said Professor Kenneth Moore, lecturer in English History at Wyndham Preparatory School for Boys. “About twenty years I’d say. Though of course I haven’t seen much of him since he left the school, which was about fifteen years ago.” He picked up a napkin and dabbed at a splodge of mustard which had spattered his tweed suit.
Anne picked unenthusiastically at her chicken pot pie. Nerves were killing her appetite. She couldn’t shake the feeling that back in London Dr. Davidson was plotting something. After leaving Nick’s place she’d impulsively hopped a train down to Kent, partly just to put some distance between herself and the doctor, but also with the vague hope of digging up some dirt she could use against him. Professor Moore was her first stop. He’d been friendly when she’d visited Wyndham Prep in the company of Lady Soames, and more importantly he seemed willing to gossip about former colleagues.
“Twenty years. That’s a long time. Were you friends when you were both working at the school?”
“Friends? Hardly. Davidson has always been an aloof sort of fellow. He wasn’t close to any of the faculty. The only person he ever spent much time with was Jimmy Soames. In fact, there was some talk about that. Davidson seemed to target the boy. Many of the teachers felt he spent too much time with Jimmy. Oh, the boy had problems, but no fifteen year old boy needs two hours of counseling each day.”
“What do you think they talked about?”
Kenneth drained his Guinness and waved the empty glass in the direction of a passing waitress who took it away to the bar for a refill.
“I don’t know,” he finally replied, gazing down at the reeds lining the river bank. “I’m sure they went into Jimmy’s drinking problem. Even at that age he spent most days in a state of heavy picklement.”
Anne nodded encouragingly. “Didn’t Jimmy have friends his own age he could talk to?”
“Hmm,” Kenneth frowned, “Let me think. This was fifteen years ago, you know. Fortunately, remembering names comes easily to a history teacher like myself.” He burped in a self-satisfied way. “There was one chap. What was his name. Foxes and chocolate.”
“What?” asked Anne, startled.
Kenneth waved away her surprise. “Mnemonics. Attaching vivid pictures to someone’s name to aid the memory. Now let me see. Foxes, hounds, fox hunt. That was it. Hunt. And the chocolate referred to a brand name. Godiva, no. Hershey. Thorntons. That’s it. The boy’s surname was Hunt-Thornton. He and Jimmy Soames were roommates. Not a fact I would normally remember, but it sticks in my mind due to that nasty business I mentioned when you were down here last. You know, the murder of that little boy. Both Jimmy and this Hunt-Thornton were questioned at length by the police.”
Anne mentally added the name Hunt-Thornton to her list of people to talk to. The waitress came by and she ordered dessert just to prolong the meal. She decided on chocolate gateau. Kenneth waved away the dessert menu, but held up his pint glass again. Her next question was a bit trickier. She waited until Kenneth was deep into his third pint.
“Was Dr. Davidson kept very busy by the school? I mean, did a lot of the students go to him for counseling?”
“Well, they didn’t go willingly if that’s what you mean. The only time boys went to see Davidson was when they were in trouble. A teacher, or sometimes their House Master, would order them to go as a form of punishment. Most of the time it was the usual teenage stuff – drugs, drinking, graffiti, fighting. Don’t know whether any of the boys were actually helped by Davidson. Just the opposite, I’d imagine.”
“Why? Wasn’t he good at his job?”
“Well,” Kenneth glanced around as if spies were hiding behind the geraniums, “this is just between you and me, you understand.”
Anne nodded solemnly.
“From what I heard Davidson was terrible. Absolutely awful at his job. He may be a good psychiatrist, I’m in no position to judge his competency in that area, but I can tell you that he had no talent at all for relating to the boys. There are two ways of going about that.” He paused to swallow the last of his pint. “One is the method I and most of the younger teachers employ, which is to befriend the boys, relate to them on their level. The other is the Gordonstoun approach, where the teacher is the classic authoritarian figure whose role is to beat the boys into submission. Davidson didn’t take to either of these roles. His main method of approach seemed to be to avoid the boys whenever possible.”
“Kind of hard to be a school counselor if you avoid those you’re supposed to counsel.”
“Exactly. Which is why Davidson didn’t last long at Wyndham.”
“I thought he was employed there for five years.”
“He was. That isn’t long by Wyndham’s standards. Most of the staff stay there for decades. It’s a nice, peaceful setting, and the pay is good.”
They were getting off track here. Kenneth looked ready to launch into an endless discussion of the school and its fascinating (to him) internal politics. Anne trawled her brain for a way to steer the conversation back to more productive waters.
“So, were there any kids who got sent to Dr. Davidson a lot?”
“Davidson again. Why are you so interested in the man, if I may ask?”
Oops. Anne started to change the subject, when Kenneth interrupted.
“Hughie Kildare.”
“Pardon?” asked Anne.
“Hughie Kildare. He spent the most time in Davidson’s office. After Jimmy of course. Hughie was quite the troublemaker. A bit of a con artist. He straightened out though. Works at Wyndham now. In the Admissions office.”
Chapter Seventeen
Anne’s room in The White Horse Inn had a musty sort of charm. Its four-poster bed had cabbage roses running amok over its canopy and bedspread. The room’s mullioned windows were set into yellowed plaster which dropped flakes onto the rough wooden floorboards. The inn was centuries old, with dark beams leaning into one another at unnatural angles and a fireplace down in the lobby which was tall enough to stand in.
Anne dumped her parka on the bed and sat down at a wobbly desk which sported an inkstained blotter and an ancient rotary phone. She opened drawers until she unearth
ed a tattered phone directory for the county of Kent. Three Hunt-Thorntons were listed, one of them in Fairhill, the closest town to Wyndham Prep. She’d try that one first. She noted down the number and flipped over to the K’s. Kent had a whole page of Kildares. No Hugh or Hughie. Not that it really mattered. She could track down Hughie easily enough just by going over to the school’s Admissions office. She checked her watch. 4:00 p.m. Mr. Hunt-Thornton was probably at work, but she’d try calling anyway.
Anne picked up the phone to dial, then hesitated. What on earth was she going to say? No plausible reason for asking questions about someone’s old school roommate came to mind. After sitting there stuck in indecision for a full ten minutes, she finally decided to go with the truth. She dialed.
“Yes?”
Anne jumped. She’d been expecting an answering machine. “May I speak with Mr. Hunt-Thornton please?”
“Speaking.”
“Oh. Hi.” Anne could feel her cheeks flush with embarrassment. She stood up and began to pace the room. “Um, my name is Anne Lambert. You don’t know me, and this is going to sound odd, but I’d like to ask you about someone who I believe was an old school friend of yours. Jimmy Soames.”
The silence stretched out so long that Anne wondered if she’d lost the connection. “Hello?” she asked.
“Sorry. You just took me by surprise. I haven’t heard the name Jimmy Soames for quite some time. Well, strictly speaking that’s not true. I did read about his death in the local paper. It was on the front page. Any news about the Soames family merits a headline around here. How do you know Jimmy?”
“I met him in London. He was visiting my neighbor, Dr. John Davidson.”
A quick intake of breath hissed across the phone line. “I see.”
That was all. Just those two words, but something caused Anne to prick up her ears. “Do you know the doctor?” she asked.
“Yes, I do. Well, I did. He was the school counselor at Wyndham Prep. Look, I don’t mean to be rude, but what is this all about?”
Anne took a deep breath and got to the point. “When you were at school together, did Jimmy confess something to you?”
“How do you know about that?” His tone not so much offended as wary.
“Well, to be honest, it’s sort of a guess. A conclusion I came to from various things people have told me.”
“This is all ancient history. And it’s not something I want to get into with a complete stranger.”
“I know. I understand that. Really. It’s just that I’m having some trouble with Dr. Davidson. So, that’s why I’m calling. I was hoping you could help.”
“I see. No, actually I don’t see. What kind of trouble? Is he harassing you?”
“Not exactly.” Anne rubbed her left eye, which was starting to twitch. “I believe he may have committed a crime. I think he’s dangerous, only I can’t seem to convince anyone else of that.”
A long silence again. Finally Hunt-Thornton spoke, reluctance in his voice. “Jimmy said he had strangled a ten year old boy. A student at Wyndham Prep. He told me this one day over lunch in the school cafeteria. Just blurted it out. I think he’d wanted to tell someone for a long time, and he just couldn’t hold it in any longer. I could tell something was eating at him. He was never a model of restraint, but for weeks before that he’d been drinking heavily, taking sleeping pills but not sleeping, wandering around looking not all there. I don’t know if I really believed him about the boy. Jimmy had never been the aggressive, violent type. Anyway, it was too much for me to handle. I was only fifteen at the time. I told him to go talk to Davidson.”
“Do you think he told the doctor what he told you?”
“At first I thought that he had. Jimmy started seeing Davidson for two-hour sessions every day. I thought for sure it would come up, but then I changed my mind.”
“Why?”
“Because Davidson never went to the police. The investigation into the boy’s murder went on for months. The police were at the school every day. Surely if Jimmy had made a confession the doctor would have told the police. Jimmy would have been arrested and the investigation halted. But that never happened. As far as I know the case is still open.”
“Didn’t it ever occur to you that maybe there was a reason why Dr. Davidson never went to the police?” Anne asked.
“Reason? Such as?”
“Blackmail. Think about it. His patient is an unstable, easily manipulated teenager who has just confessed to murder. The parents of this teenager are extremely wealthy and very high up in the social hierarchy. The boy is terrified of going to jail. The parents want to preserve their place in society.”
“Wait a minute. You’re making it sound like his parents knew about the murder.”
“I think they did, or at least I think Lady Soames did.”
“Well, if I were you I wouldn’t go around telling people that. The Soames family is very powerful. You could get into a lot of trouble making an accusation like that. Look, I’m sorry, but I have to go. Good luck with . . . well, just good luck.”
Anne set the phone down, jarred by the abrupt end to the conversation. She now had confirmation of her theory that Jimmy Soames had confessed to murder, but she had a feeling that Mr. Hunt-Thornton was not going to back her up if she went public with it. And Jimmy confessing to murder was not the same as Jimmy committing murder. He may have fabricated the whole thing in order to appear tough in front of his schoolmate.
She sighed in frustration. She needed something better than this. Otherwise she would be stuck in a permanent state of fear, always looking behind her, afraid to go back to her own flat. She pulled her parka on again, grabbed her purse, and headed out to find Hughie Kildare.
* * * *
Hughie Kildare was ravishing a lollypop. His tongue slithered around the sugary orange undulations, darting in and out like a hummingbird in heat. Finally satisfied, he tucked the candy into his right cheek and answered her question.
“Did I go to see the doc? You bet luv. I was his number one patient. My House Master used to send me to see him at least once a week. Got into scrapes when I was younger. You know how it is.” He attempted a man-of-the-world wink, which fell flat. Possibly because he barely came up to Anne’s chin and weighed about as much as the average ten year old. He pulled a toothless plastic comb out of his shirt pocket and scraped his hair back into a greasy pompadour, which promptly split in the middle and began to curl on the ends, making him look like the Grinch on a bad hair day.
Anne regarded him thoughtfully. Now that she had found Hughie she wasn’t really sure what to do with him. She decided on exploratory surgery rather than the direct approach. “What did you think of him?”
“Of the doc? We got along okay. A lot of people here didn’t like him, but him and me were like two peas in a pod, if you know what I mean.”
Anne raised an eyebrow.
“We were both crooks.” Hughie chuckled delightedly at her surprised expression. “Oh, I don’t mean in the legal sense. No, we were both too smart for that. I just mean that we shared a certain outlook on life. We both liked money, and were willing to bend the rules to get it. My specialty was lifting things. You know, stealing. It’s amazing what kinds of things kids will leave lying around in their dorm rooms. Cash, drugs, Daddy’s credit cards. I had a way with locks too. An uncle of mine, he was a locksmith and he taught me a few things. Wasn’t a lock on campus that I couldn’t pick. I was always breaking into the school offices. Having a peek in the personnel files, the student records, you name it.”
A thought occurred to Anne. “Did you ever break into Dr. Davidson’s office?”
Hughie flashed a nasty, knowing grin at her. “Want to see his files do you?”
“Yes,” said Anne bluntly. “Of course, they might have been destroyed. The ones I’m interested in are from fifteen years ago.”
“Nah, they never destroy that stuff. Keep it forever.” Hughie tucked the comb back in his pocket and leaned toward her. “I
can get you whatever you want. Files, computer records, session tapes.”
“Session tapes?” asked Anne. It sounded like something the school band would make.
“You know. Session tapes. Recordings of the doc’s sessions with his patients. He never taped me, cause I knew about the tape machine in his desk. Found it one day while snooping. But he used to tape the other kids. Not all of them. Just his favorites.” He paused and looked at Anne slyly. “I bet some of those tapes are worth a good bit. To the right people.”
Anne sighed. She didn’t know if Dr. Davidson was inclined toward stealing, but he and Hughie certainly seemed to have blackmail in common. “How much?” she asked.
“For you they’re going cheap. Just a hundred quid. And a date Friday night. It’s darts night at The Bull and all my buddies are going to be there. Last week Ian had a blond on his arm, but she was trashy compared to you.” Hughie gave her his best Sean Connery smirk.
“A hundred and ten pounds and we’ll skip the darts.”
Hughie looked disappointed but not terribly surprised. “It’s a deal. Meet me back here at 7:00pm. All the teachers and office staff are gone by then. There’s a few guards and cleaning ladies to watch out for, but I can work around that.”
It was cold in the supply room. Anne shivered as she watched Hughie work. They were deep in the basement of the school’s Administration building, along with a watchful troop of rodents. Every few minutes Anne would catch one out of the corner of her eye, dodging from box to box like tiny commandos surrounding a village. She assured herself that they were just mice, not rats. Whether she believed herself was doubtful.
