An Education in Death
R. A. Bentley
Copyright © 2020 R. A. Bentley
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First published in England 2020
Copyright © R. A. Bentley
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Chapter One
Mid November 1928
Eight-thirty of a Monday morning, and in the crowded staffroom at Thomas Thirkettle School the masters were busily marking essays, preparing lessons and discussing the minutiae of each other’s weekends when barely audible above the rumble of voices there came a diffident tap at the door.
‘Enter!’ called Ernest Crockford, who was nearest. ‘Hello, young Morley. Where’s Nixon? Ah! There you are. Had me worried for a minute. What mischief brings you here at this time of the morning?’
‘Can’t it wait, you two?’ grumbled George Burstow, their form master. ‘I’m still smoking my breakfast. Come and see me after assembly.’
The inseparable duo, universally portmanteaued as “Mornix,” refused to be discouraged. ‘We think it’s rather urgent, sir, or we wouldn’t have troubled you,’ said dark-haired Hugo St. John Morley, the taller and bolder of the two.
‘There’s a man hanging from a rugger goal, sir,’ explained the fair and angelic-looking Cyril Nixon. ‘We’re a bit worried about him.’
‘That’ll be Mr Willoughby, I expect,’ said Crockford dismissively. ‘Trying out some punishing new exercise for you no doubt.’
‘We think it probably is Mr Willoughby, sir,’ agreed Morley, ‘because he’s wearing his special jersey, but we don’t know for certain because he’s got a bag over his head.’
‘A bag over his head?’ frowned Arthur Noble, looking up from his work.
‘We think he’s probably dead, sir, actually,’ added Nixon.
‘Dead! Surely not?’
‘We think so, sir,’ said Morley. ‘He’s not moving and he’s sort of limp.’
‘Is this a rag, Mornix?’ growled Burstow. ‘Because if it is . . .’
They shook their heads in unison.
‘No, sir. Definitely not a rag, sir.’
‘Will you come and look, sir? Please.’
‘Oh, all right, but you’d better not be wasting my time. Coming, Crockford? I might want a witness to this.’
Noble joined them. ‘I could do with some fresh air,’ he said.
‘Aren’t you going to tell the Headmaster, sir?’ asked Nixon as they made their way out of the building. ‘I expect he’ll want to know.’
Burstow bent and peeled back an eyelid. ‘Do you see any green, young man? First produce your corpse.’
They found the presumed games master hanging by a rope from the goal’s crossbar. He did, indeed, have a bag over his head, actually a kitbag, but a strong clue to his identity was offered by his winter uniform of knitted gloves and stockings, disreputable old plus fours and mud-stained plimsolls. That and the distinctive jersey, of course, which was basically red but with a row of anthropomorphic rabbits, once white, performing a species of Greek dance. He was swinging slightly in the chill breeze.
‘All right, Mornix,’ sighed Burstow. ‘Sorry to have doubted you. You had best fetch the Head.’
‘Us, sir?’
‘Yes, you sir. Hurry now.’
They gazed for a while towards the scampering boys, then turned to the matter in hand.
‘What’s the drill then, chaps?’ said Burstow, winking heavily at the others. ‘Cut him down?’
‘Best not,’ advised Noble, raising his voice somewhat. ‘Not before the police arrive. They’ll have to be called, you know.’
‘Hmm, I suppose they will. Can we assume he really is dead?’ He gingerly lifted an arm and let it drop. ‘Don’t want egg on our faces, do we?’
‘Goodness, yes, dead as a doornail, I should think,’ said Noble. ‘Look at the way he’s hanging. If you could see his face, his tongue would be black and swollen and his eyeballs popping out.’
‘Murder, then,’ said Crockford, calmly relighting his pipe. ‘Has to be.’
‘Not necessarily,’ objected Burstow. ‘Might be suet pud.’
‘Yes, I suppose that’s possible,’ Crockford conceded. ‘It’d take some doing though, shinning up there by oneself.’
‘Not for Willoughby,’ said Burstow. ‘Strength of an ape. Morals of one, come to that. Mind you, I wouldn’t have put him down as a suicide — too much in love with himself, eh Noble? Worshipped the ground he walked on.’
‘I have to admit I scarcely knew the fellow,’ said Noble, who had only joined the school that term. I doubt if I’ve exchanged three words with him.’
‘Three words are about all you’d get from Willoughby,’ said Burstow. ‘He rather struggled with the concept of civilised discourse, you know.’
‘Not to mention politeness and consideration for others,’ added Crockford.
‘I take it you didn’t like him?’ smiled Noble. ‘Awkward blighter, was he?’
‘Oh no. Lovely fellow. Ornament to the school,’ protested Burstow, ostentatiously crossing his fingers. ‘I wonder who’ll be taking his classes now? Ten periods, is it? And two full afternoons.’
‘No good looking at me,’ said Crockford. ‘I’m allergic to mindless physical activity. Brings me out in hives.’
‘No? What about you, Noble? Might be a good move for a junior master. Can’t be difficult after all, running about and shouting and blowing a little whistle, and you’d get more pay. Temporarily anyway.’
‘What the devil!’ said a voice behind them. ‘So that’s where my bloody stockings went! And my trousers, And my jersey! I’ll scrag the little beggars!’
‘Well you should keep your door locked,’ said Burstow, grinning at the others. ‘You never know what an innocent child might find in that foetid lair of yours.’
‘French letter packets,’ nodded Crockford sagely, ‘and women’s knickers.’
‘Proper comedians, aren’t you?’ snarled Frank Willoughby. And what would you know about women’s knickers, Crockford? Shouldn’t think you’ve ever seen any.’
‘Oh, that’s cruel!’ said Burstow.
◆◆◆
‘They must think we’re daft,’ opined Morley as they made their way to assembly. ‘Good rag though, wasn’t it?’
‘They won’t blame us, will they?’ said Nixon doubtfully. ‘You’d get a six for that and be gated. Might even get expelled.’
‘We’re still gated from last time,’ Morley reminded him. ‘And where would we have got a tailor’s dummy? Anyway, I don’t mind the cosh.’
‘I know you don’t,’ said Nixon. ‘Hardiman says you’re a masochist.’
Morley thought it was probably true; though it was Emily Armitage he imagined beating him.
Chapter Two
Detective Chief Inspector Felix had pulled his car off the road where a s
light eminence commanded a view of the school. A handsome Tudor mansion, it was surrounded on three sides by a considerable acreage of emerald green playing fields and on the fourth by tennis courts and a walled garden. Behind them all lay a belt of brightly autumnal woodland giving an occasional glimpse of the River Thames sparkling in the morning sunshine, while in the foreground a noisy game of rugby football was in progress, the sound of juvenile voices floating up to them. It all looked very idyllic.
‘How the other half lives,’ muttered Detective Sergeant John Nash.
Detective Inspector Puttick nodded his agreement. ‘My thoughts exactly. All we had was a school yard.’
‘Us too,’ said Detective Sergeant Rattigan. ‘Football against the wall.’
‘They’re not necessarily any happier, you know,’ said Felix. ‘Some will be homesick, or bullied, or will chafe at the restrictions of boarding-school life. Easy to hate a less than sympathetic master under those circumstances. I can readily imagine a certain sort of boy leaving those letters and constructing the dummy, if not perhaps murdering the fellow.’
‘They’re not sending them home, then?’ said Rattigan. ‘I’d have thought they would.
‘Some have gone,’ said Puttick, ‘but most of the parents are abroad. They seem to specialise in the colonial service here.’
‘The boatshed is beyond those trees, I presume?’ said Felix, ‘or what’s left of it.’
‘Yes. When you’re ready I’ll take you down there.’
‘Was there any warning, sir,’ asked Rattigan, ‘before they torched it?’
‘Nothing in the letters, no. They’ve been arriving for weeks, each more threatening than the last. If it’s an adult I’d say he’s got a screw loose. Not that a boy mightn’t have, I suppose.’
‘All aimed at Willoughby?’ asked Felix.
‘Yes, he seems to have been their only target.’
‘What about the dummy?’
‘That was the Monday before last. They found it hanged from a rugger goal. Rather convincing at first sight apparently. They’ve kept it for you to look at.’
‘But Willoughby was stabbed to death?’ said Felix.
‘We think so. Not sure what with. He was pretty badly burned, you know. Your man Benyson should have him by now.’
‘He has. I telephoned him before we came down here.’
Packed into the Vauxhall the five officers drove the quarter mile into the village, passing the school’s main gate with its accompanying lodge as they did so. The short but attractive village high street terminated in a bridge over the river and hard by the bridge sat a public house, the Spotted Cow. Parking behind it they made their way along the well-used towpath.
‘That’s the woodland we could see from the other side,’ said Puttick, indicating the trees on their left. ‘It’s all part of the school grounds, right down to the river.’
‘Ah! The lock.’
‘Yes, it was the keeper, Jackman, who telephoned the fire brigade. A Mr Noble, one of the masters, happened to be passing, and he and Jackman went to see what they could do. It was they that found the body. They did rather well to get it out and both got a bit damaged doing it. Here we are. It badly caught those trees, as you see.’
The woodland was separated from the towpath by waist-high iron railings, and at a gap in them, some thirty yards upstream from the lock-gates, were a few blackened timbers and a considerable amount of ash— all that remained of the substantial boatshed. A racing four, salvaged from the flames, lay nearby but was clearly beyond repair. Two other small boats appeared largely unscathed.
‘Those are kept outside,’ explained Puttick. He turned to the constable on guard. ‘Morning, Trent. Anyone taking an interest at all?’
‘We’ve had a steady stream of locals along, sir,’ said Constable Trent, saluting. ‘All very shocked of course. No-one could cast any light on it. The shed had been here for years apparently – one old chap said seventy or more – and there’s never been any trouble or damage until now; though you do get boys in the woods sometimes, they said, throwing things in the water and generally making mischief.’
‘Boys from the school?’
‘I took that to be who they meant, sir, though it mightn’t have been.’
‘You’ve seen the Headmaster presumably?’ said Felix, surveying the wreckage. ‘Armitage, is it? What’s he like?’
‘He’s all right,’ shrugged Puttick. ‘Likes to cultivate an image, I reckon. Donnish but with a human side, if you know what I mean: book-lined study, cricket bat and fishing rod in the corner, shelf of sporting trophies, family photos on the desk. All a bit artificial to my mind, like a stage set. My guess is he’s a pretty shrewd operator. I pinched a prospectus from a heap on the hall table – it gives the fees – and with two-hundred and twenty boys I reckon he’s raking in about fifty thousand a year before costs. Not to say he doesn’t give value. The place seems clean enough and well-run. It’d be interesting to know what the masters think of it. Oh yes, and we found this.’ He lifted an upturned box to reveal a capsized Tilley lamp, very blackened. ‘Can’t say for sure that it started it, of course. It may simply have fallen off a shelf or something. Now if you don’t mind, sir, I must leave you to it. Got a few things to do.’
‘Yes, you get on, Puttick,’ said Felix, offering a hand. ‘And thanks for the tour. I expect you’ll be glad to be rid of this one, won’t you?’
Inspector Puttick shook his head. ‘Not really, sir. I’d have liked to have a go at it to be honest, but the Chief said to leave it to the experts. If you want any help, sir, I’ll be glad to oblige.’
‘Thanks, I’ll bear that in mind. Sorry, I was forgetting; you have no car. Can I give you a lift anywhere?’
‘No, it’s all right. The buses here are pretty frequent, and there’s one due now. Oh yes, I nearly forgot.’ He rooted in his pocket, producing a key. ‘Willoughby’s room. We’ve sealed it of course. We haven’t been in there beyond a cursory look round.’
‘Not a happy man,’ said Felix as they watched him hurry for his bus. ‘I shouldn’t be very pleased if someone pinched my case either. He seemed perfectly capable of dealing with it, not that one can always tell.’
‘Yes, intelligent fellow, I thought,’ said Rattigan.
They found Nash and Yardley talking to the constable.
‘Do you get much river traffic this far up?’ asked Yardley, looking out over the peaceful waters.
‘Not much commercial these days, sir, but it’s very popular with pleasure craft, in season. Getting a bit late now but I’ve seen a few go by, cabin launches mostly. One or two have pulled in for a gawp, and they sometimes tie up along here to visit the village. It’s a pretty little place as you’ll have noticed, and the Spotted Cow is very popular. I know that because I takes the missus there occasionally.’
‘Could it have been one of the people off the river that started the fire?’
‘Well it could, but I reckon whoever done it killed the unfortunate gentleman as well. He’d been threatened apparently, so it’s probably local.’
‘What’s up there,’ said Nash, peering into the woods. ‘Quite steep by the look of it.’
‘The school, sir. There’s steps up but they’re not paved or anything. Bit treacherous in the dark, I should think.’
‘Let’s explore,’ said Felix.
They emerged from the precipitous woodland to find themselves in front of the school buildings. Nash, as always, was lugging his camera and tripod and Yardley his fingerprinting equipment.
‘No-one about,’ said Rattigan, panting somewhat from the climb. ‘I suppose they’re at lessons.’
‘You chaps see if you can find where they’ve put the dummy,’ said Felix. ‘There’s bound to be someone you can ask. We’ll try for the Headmaster.’
◆◆◆
Dr Albert Armitage M.A. D.Litt.
Oxon, did indeed have an academic look about him. Perhaps in his mid-fifties, he was bespectacled and amiable of countenance with a high, shiny cranium, his only remaining hair a cluster of white curls over his ears. The family photographs on his desk were of an attractive woman, some fifteen years younger, and two rather pretty teenage girls, while the fishing-rod and cricket bat mentioned by Puttick shared an umbrella-stand with a shooting stick and the inevitable cane. Even after all these years it was the latter, Felix found, that drew the eye.
‘Were you much beaten, Chief Inspector?’ asked the Headmaster wryly.
‘No more than average, sir,’ chuckled Felix. ‘Is it so terribly obvious?’
‘It affords me much innocent amusement to see men at the height of their professions look into that corner with trepidation. However, you were saying?’
‘I was about to ask if all of the staff live in, sir.’
‘Not all of them, no. Those that do are mostly the bachelors of course; although my deputy Mr Wayland and his wife live at the lodge and I have an apartment of my own where I live with my wife and daughter. Do you want a list?’
‘If you would be so kind. Have any of your staff found reason not to be here since the murder?’
The Headmaster shook his head. ‘No-one has run away, Chief Inspector, if that’s what you mean; all were at assembly this morning. Will you want to see them today?’
‘Not formally, no. Tomorrow, if that’s all right. In the meantime, we’ll familiarise ourselves with the place. We’d particularly like to look at Mr Willoughby’s room if we may. Inspector Puttick has passed us the key. I take it no-one has attempted to go in there, a cleaner for example?’
‘Not to my knowledge. We do have a cleaner but she wouldn’t interfere with a police seal. Do you want to see it now? If so, I’ll get someone to show you up there; this house is a bit of a warren, I’m afraid.’
‘Thank you, sir, but I’ll need to send in my fingerprint chaps before we do that. However, if it’s convenient for you, we may as well take your own witness statement now. It might save troubling you for a while and maybe give us an idea of what to look for. It won’t take long.’
An Education in Death (The Inspector Felix Mysteries Book 9) Page 1
