Death in Dulwich

by Alice Castle

  Eventually, she decided that tackling the archives would be preferable to worrying about the murder. It didn’t take long to work out that the shelves were groaning with a vaguely chronological selection of school publications, dating back to its earliest days. These would be easy enough to sort and prune. The boxes, though, were altogether more of a mystery. She pulled out the nearest one, extracted a wodge of documents, and settled down to read.

  Outside, a PC took up position by the playing field fence and prepared for a very long shift, guarding what looked like, to his expert eye, an old metal shack. His colleagues were already joshing him over the police radio but, as far as he was concerned, it could be worse. It was another beautiful spring day and the deep green of the playing fields was studded with yelling figures playing rugby. All right, it wasn’t Twickenham, where he spent every weekend when he wasn’t working overtime on some case or other. But some of these schoolkids had promise. Knowing Wyatt’s, they could be the England squad of the future. Yeah, could be a lot worse.

  ***

  ‘All right, all right, let’s come to order now,’ said the Bursar in ringing tones. Immediately the hubbub in the staff canteen died away and all eyes turned to Tom Seasons, standing before them in his customary rumpled white shirt, sleeves pushed up over his mighty forearms. His legs were planted stockily apart and he effortlessly dominated the room. Beth, who’d arrived just in time, recognised the stance – Henry VIII, as painted by Holbein.

  Beth surreptitiously wiped a cobweb or two off her jeans. She scanned the room for a friendly face, and was relieved to spot Janice at the back. She raised her hand and got a tiny wave in return. Joining this enormous place was just like starting back at school again herself. There was the same pressure to get to grips with a whole bunch of arcane rules in no time at all, and, above all, to fit in and make friends.

  ‘Now, I’m not proposing to keep many of you from your delicious lunches,’ said the Bursar, with a flash of heavy charm. ‘The junior school staff are not involved in this – the police have established that no-one came through the gates separating the two schools at the times in, erm, question.’ There was an audible sigh of relief from a cluster of teachers to Beth’s right, but Seasons was carrying on.

  ‘As far as the senior school goes, I only need to trouble those of you who were in school for any period of time on Monday before 1 o’clock. I’d also like to see our Middle School head, Alison Lincoln; our admissions guru, Susannah Baggs; and Janice, of course. I think that’s about it. Oh, no, our new archivist as well, please. Beth Haldane.’

  Beth, sensing the curious glances all around her, followed Janice and a handful of others she hadn’t met before over to where Seasons was standing. It was a surprisingly small group.

  ‘It was a Field Day on Monday,’ said Janice in a low voice, seeing Beth looking back at the much larger contingent of teachers who were now busily getting on with their lunches, laughing and joking in obvious relief at escaping whatever the Bursar was planning. It seemed a little unfair.

  ‘A Field Day?’ said Beth blankly.

  ‘Yes, remember, I mentioned it when you first came to Reception on Monday? No? Well, you wouldn’t, I suppose, under the circumstances. It’s a Wyatt’s thing,’ explained Janice. ‘Instead of having various trips for different classes and subjects throughout the term, we have one day when most of the years go on organised days out. It just happened to fall on Monday. A lot of the heads of department were out supervising. The sixth form wasn’t included, of course. Too close to exams. So, they were in school as normal.’

  That was probably why Beth remembered so many strapping teenagers from Monday morning. There had certainly seemed to her to be enough kids around to constitute an entire schoolful, but then she wasn’t yet used to the hustle and bustle of a busy secondary. It also occurred to her that, if you were a responsible murderer and were planning to stab someone on school property, you might choose a day when quite a lot of the pupils would be out of the way. Fewer children to terrify – and fewer potential witnesses, too.

  Beth looked around at the little group of her peers with interest. All seemed, unless she was mistaken, a tad nervous. No-one had ‘killer’ written on their forehead. Damn it. It wasn’t going to be easy to prove her innocence.

  Tom Seasons took over again, shepherding everyone away from the now busy and noisy main hall off into a side room. Judging from the formal starched linen tablecloth at the large oval table and the framed oils on the wall, it was used for entertaining visiting speakers and VIPs.

  ‘Let’s settle ourselves down here and just chew over this business a little bit,’ he said, making it sound like an invitation to a pleasant chat rather than discussion of the brutal demise of one of their colleagues. There was a lot of hubbub as the staff settled themselves around the table, covering the snowy and perfectly laundered cloth with their folders, bags, and water bottles.

  Seasons whisked some large linen napkins off silver trays in the middle of the table, revealing serried ranks of beautifully triangular sandwiches, like the ones Janice and Beth had tucked into yesterday. ‘I arranged for these to be available so we won’t starve to death,’ he said, then rushed on as he realised it was not a fortunate phrase. ‘And do help yourselves to coffee, tea, juices and water from the sideboard,’ he said, gesturing to the heavy mahogany buffet at one side of the room.

  There was an immediate scraping of chairs as people got to their feet and fetched themselves cups of this and that, and loaded small plates with sandwiches. Seasons waited, his leg jiggling restlessly, though his heavy features remained fixed in an understanding smile. He accepted a white coffee from Janice but declined the sandwiches. As soon as everyone had served themselves, he was on his feet again, this time bending forwards over the table, his two meaty palms flat on the smoothness of the tablecloth.

  The door to the main hall was shut, but the sound of voices was still vaguely audible and contrasted with the quiet in this room. Seasons looked around the table and Beth had to resist the urge to shrink from his gaze.

  ‘Now, as you know, the police are still finishing off their questioning, and I just thought there were some areas we could usefully go over. Wyatt’s, of course, is determined to co-operate fully with the investigation, and we must all offer every possible assistance to the police.’

  Was it Beth’s imagination, or was there a large ‘but’ looming somewhere?

  Seasons carried on seamlessly. Despite his bruiser’s build, he was an accomplished speaker, the veteran of many a parents’ evening. ‘The continuing success of Wyatt’s, like any of the top-ranking schools, rests on its reputation. As you all know, we aim to combine academic achievement with a welcoming atmosphere…’

  Here, Beth thought, he’d come to the sticking point. Sure enough, his voice changed timbre and he faltered.

  ‘I, I, well. I don’t have to tell you that this current situation, and the attendant publicity, is distracting to our pupils. It doesn’t, frankly, give off a welcoming impression at all – quite the reverse – and, of course, it is deeply worrying to Wyatt’s families.’ Seasons looked down as though searching for some notes, and seemed to gather inspiration from the immaculate tablecloth. When he looked up again, he was as poised as though speaking to his usual audience of rapt parents.

  ‘All of us here, as representatives and as leaders, in our various ways at the school, have a duty to ensure that this… unpleasantness… is dealt with as quickly, as sympathetically, and as calmly as possible. I shall be relying on you all. I would also like to ask anyone who has any information that may be pertinent to the investigation to come straight to me. You all know where you can contact me, and my door is always open.’

  ‘Unpleasantness?’ Beth had said the word out loud, as though in heavy inverted commas, before she could stop herself. Was she the only one here who understood that murder was more than a slight inconvenience to the running of the school? What about the fact that a man had died? Was she alone in fe
eling some fleeting sorrow for Dr Jenkins’ passing, though she hardly knew him and hadn’t much liked him? She looked around the table, but encountered only surprise. If anyone was sad, or scared, or guilty, they were hiding it well. And if they disagreed with the Bursar, they certainly weren’t saying.

  Beth strove to make herself clear. ‘Erm, I mean, shouldn’t we really speak to the police, rather than to you, Mr Seasons? If we do have any information?’

  ‘I think it would be appropriate if we could discuss any developments at a school level first,’ said the Bursar. There was now no effort to conceal his aggression. ‘Those who have been at the school a little longer will understand the importance of what I am saying here. There is a Wyatt’s way of doing things, and I think in these circumstances that it is very important that we keep the ball in play. We have a history to preserve, and I should think that you, in your job, would most definitely be sympathetic to that,’ he added fiercely to Beth.

  She flushed, as suddenly all eyes turned to her. It just added to her sense of unease at the direction things were taking.

  It was all very well to try and keep things in-house; she understood the school’s need to keep a lid on wild speculations and accusations that could damage its reputation and, heaven forfend, make it less desirable in parents’ eyes. But this was murder. To describe it simply as ‘unpleasantness’ was a wilful attempt to whitewash the situation. And the Bursar, for all his forcefulness, was no policeman. Was it even safe to suggest keeping things quiet? There was a killer out there somewhere.

  While Beth was mulling, one of the teachers succeeded in catching Seasons’ eye. She was young, in her twenties, Beth guessed, and wearing an impeccable black suit and heels. She could have been a lawyer or a banker. Instead, she was teaching the children of many lawyers and bankers to become new lawyers and bankers.

  ‘Ah, Miss Godfrey. Louise, for the benefit of our new girl, is head of Modern Languages,’ he added, with another nod in Beth’s direction.

  ‘I took my Lower and Middle School French groups to Madame Tussaud’s, with the History Department and the Geography Department,’ said Louise Godfrey, with a tiny grimace. It sounded as though the trip had covered as many topics as possible. There was not much that was francophone, historical, or of geographical interest about Madame Tussaud’s these days, filled as it was with effigies of footballers and reality TV stars. But no doubt the teachers had done their best to make enough connections between France, the Revolution, the guillotine, and wax modelling to make the visit worthy of its educational remit – and the substantial extra charge that would find its way onto the parents’ termly accounts.

  Miss Godfrey continued, ‘I had to come back to school early to sort out a double-booking with the French A2 oral exam timetable. My colleagues in the French department and, of course, some of the history and geography teachers, stayed with the children on the trip, but the other department heads came back with me, for various reasons of their own,’ she said, nodding at two colleagues on the other side of the table.

  ‘What time did you make it back to school?’ asked Seasons.

  ‘We were back here at 1pm. I immediately went to the Languages Centre to make some calls about the exams. I’m not sure what you two did?’ she said, asking the others, but Seasons cut in to forestall them.

  ‘If you weren’t back until 1, it’s not relevant to us and we need detain you no further. We’re looking strictly at the period between 9 and 12. Any teachers who returned to the school after, say, 12.30, may go.’

  Louise Godfrey got up and, with a beaming and rather tactless smile, and left the table along with the Geography and History heads, looking equally relieved. And then there were six, thought Beth.

  ‘Anyone else able to excuse themselves?’ said Seasons, looking round the table with a businesslike air, though he was actually asking them if they could provide an alibi for murder, Beth reminded herself.

  The rest of the teachers looked at each other uneasily, then a sharp-faced woman in her thirties piped up. ‘Jane and I were here at the time in question… But we were together all the time. Our classes were out on the Field Trip but they were being supervised by the others. We were catching up on marking in the staffroom. Does that mean we are free to leave?’

  Another woman across the table suddenly brightened up and nodded vigorously. ‘I can confirm that,’ she said, leaning forward eagerly.

  ‘You may go,’ said Seasons. The noise their chairs made as they scraped them back in double-quick time said it all about their eagerness to be gone.

  Then Alison Lincoln, the Middle School head, cleared her throat loudly. She was a sensible-looking, grey-haired woman, who must be nearing retirement age. Her fringe was cut straight across her forehead, an inch above her eyebrows, which gave her the look of a medieval knight. Beth wondered how her hair stayed under such magnificent control, as her own fringe flopped forward and she brushed it away for the millionth time that day.

  ‘If you recall, Bursar,’ the Middle School head said when she had got everyone’s attention, ‘I had a meeting with Susannah here to discuss admissions. We have several children on the waiting list at the moment and a place has just opened up. We were discussing the right candidate. It can take ages, and it did this time.’ She nodded to Susannah Baggs – a comfortable-looking woman in her 40s – who smiled her agreement. ‘On this occasion, it was a very hard decision to make. We had several suitable children and only enough remaining in the bursary kitty to support one of them. Of course, we had to consider so many factors—’

  The Bursar broke in. ‘Yes, yes, we know how difficult it can be to select the right pupil. It can make such a difference to families.’ He and Susannah Baggs both took a moment to look pious.

  Beth felt her irritation rising at their smugness, but knew that what they were saying was all too true. Getting a bursary place at Wyatt’s could be a turning point for families. The school, thanks to its founder’s late-onset social conscience and enormous fortune, sponsored a number of exceptionally bright pupils throughout their whole school career, right down to supplying uniforms, lunches, and money for Field Trips like the one they were discussing now. It virtually guaranteed that the chosen child would go on to university and a solid career, often as the first from their family to do so. Any place at Wyatt’s was hotly coveted, but bursaries were gold dust with diamonds on top. Beth herself was hoping against hope that Ben might, just might, be in the running himself next year.

  The Bursar inclined his head and half-closed his eyes, seemingly rendered speechless for a moment by the thought of the school’s – and by extension his own – generosity. He was stretching Beth’s patience. While she knew the school was often a force for good, she also knew that Wyatt’s, and other schools like it, owed their charitable status – with all the tax advantages this bestowed – to these acts of generosity. Sitting in this plush dining room, set in the extensive grounds of this magnificent institution, it was a stretch to believe that all Wyatt’s actions were designed to benefit the less well off in the community.

  Beth was glad when Alison Lincoln continued in her slightly grating, high pitched voice. ‘We weren’t together for the whole period; our meeting started just after nine, but we didn’t stop until probably 12.45.’

  ‘It was 12.55, I remember because I was starving,’ said the rounded Susannah Baggs with a little giggle. The rest of the staff smiled politely.

  ‘Well, I think that lets you out anyway. You are free to leave,’ said Seasons. Once again, the speed with which Susannah Baggs and Alison Lincoln left the room said everything about how happy they were to be officially not guilty.

  The rest of the group round the table looked at each other nervously. Three teachers and two members of the administration staff had now left. Beth, Janice, and the Bursar were still sitting at the table, along with three increasingly jittery-looking teachers. It looked as though every one of them was firmly in the frame.

  The tense silence was broken by a
middle-aged woman dressed in a vast woolly sweater dress that failed to constrain her ample bosom. ‘Bursar, am I right in thinking you are conducting your own investigation to this, er, death?’ she said shrilly. ‘Are we all going to be asked by you where we were and why at the time of the murder? Because if that’s the case, then I’m not sure if I really want to…’

  Having started vehemently, the woman’s sentence petered out and she finished by wordlessly shaking her head, which did huge damage to her gravity-defying bun of greying hair. Perhaps she’d stopped herself as she was a little too close to registering a direct criticism of the Bursar. His face certainly took on an even ruddier tone, while her bun seemed to wilt deferentially. She put up a practised hand to prop it up and out of the way, and was soon busy skewering the edifice with a plentiful supply of emergency hairpins from her handbag, her protest forgotten.

  Beth turned to Janice, at her side, and raised her eyebrows.

  ‘Dr Joyce, Head of English,’ Janice whispered obligingly.

  ‘Clearly, the police will be conducting an enquiry and the whole school, and the Bursar’s office, will be doing everything in its power to support that enquiry. Whatever you may feel as individual teachers,’ Seasons paused here to shoot a look of dislike at the Head of English, ‘it will be helpful if we make sure that the enquiry is streamlined and concentrates on the matter in hand without any unnecessary distractions and speculations, which could be damaging to the school and could delay resolution of this most unfortunate matter.’

  Aha, Beth was starting to understand. Wyatt’s, via the Bursar, applied its super-efficient take on life to everything. Why should murder be any different? Instead of having this ‘unfortunate matter’ straggling around like an unruly teacher’s bun, Seasons was planning to package the whole thing up for the police, like a glossily produced prospectus, which would enable them to snap the handcuffs on the miscreant as quickly as possible, with the least inconvenience and damage to the school’s reputation. Then they could all get on with the important business in life, churning out confident and supremely well-qualified fodder for the finest universities, and thus keep this quiet corner of the world turning very nicely thank you.