Death in Dulwich

by Alice Castle

  Beth, who often rearranged her sock drawer in moments of stress and knew she spent way too much time bleaching the kitchen sink when she could be working, completely saw where Seasons was coming from. His restless, forceful personality meant he wanted to nail down everything he could, so that the out-of-control element (the murder!) was minimised, sanitized and, with any luck, completely eradicated. Judging from the murmurs now starting up around her, she wasn’t sure if her colleagues were too happy with the idea. It was one thing talking to the police, because there was no choice. But did anyone want the Bursar poking about in their secrets? Seasons, either oblivious to the unease around the table or deliberately ignoring it, was off again.

  ‘What I’m proposing is that each of us here finds the time in what, I know, are busy schedules, especially at this time of year when the students are approaching important exams next term, to pop to my office, simply to discuss movements on the day in question. Once we have a run-down of everyone’s timetables, I am sure the police will be able to go on their way.’

  ‘Hang on a minute, Mr Seasons,’ said one of the three remaining teachers – an intense-looking young man whose conventional suit had been teamed with a loud electric blue shirt. It was a small rebellion but, at Wyatt’s, it counted for a lot. ‘Are you seriously asking us to come to you with our alibis? Do you suspect that one of us is the murderer? One of the people at this table?’ The last vestiges of what had been a nasty teenage case of acne glowed with indignation on his cheeks.

  ‘I agree with Henderson,’ piped up another man, slightly older than the last speaker, though still absurdly young for his dark tweed jacket. ‘Yes, I was here on the day in question but I was right over in the Maths department, close to Henderson in Physics. As you all know, it’s a long tramp over to the archives place from the science block.’

  ‘With respect, Radley, even mathematicians can take a stroll occasionally, same goes for Physics, too, Henderson,’ said Seasons drily. Beth noted that, as usual, the phrase ‘with respect’ now actually meant ‘with no respect at all’.

  ‘Now, I’m sure you will all find this idea a little… intrusive,’ the Bursar continued, seated with his legs spread expansively, one leg still jiggling a little with nervous energy. He leaned forward suddenly, and both Henderson and Radley looked startled. ‘But listen, guys, you’d have to speak to the police anyway. We all have to. None of us is exempt. Look on it as an opportunity to talk over your statement. We spend enough time prepping the students for exams, don’t we, everyone? This is the same thing. It’ll just help you to gather your thoughts, present your movements in a coherent fashion, and save everyone some time.’

  Beth wondered if she was the only one doubting the Bursar’s suddenly matey tone – and also questioning what they would really get out of this exercise. The students, it was true, were being groomed to win places at the great universities. But her colleagues? What was their likely prize? Were they supposed to be aiming for a place in a maximum-security cell, to protect the school, or would they be drilled on how to slide out of a conviction? Were they being encouraged to smooth themselves away from the truth, or to confess in as likeable a style as possible?

  The Bursar himself, after all, was one of the few at the table who had a seriously good motive for getting rid of Jenkins. Together with Beth herself, of course. Ignoring the doubters, Seasons was wrapping up the meeting and getting to his feet.

  ‘I suggest we start with you, Dr Joyce,’ he said, bowing in the English head’s direction. ‘Would you be free to just get this out of the way now?’ He didn’t wait for assent or even acknowledgement, but started to stride away, before calling over his shoulder, ‘I’ll email a list to everyone of when I’ll expect you over. Thanks, guys.’

  Dr Joyce straggled to her feet, and picked up a couple of folders, a large bag, and a very long woolly scarf, which she wound round her neck several times despite the mildness of the day. Meekly, she trailed behind the Bursar, all trace of her brief feisty moment gone. Beth noticed that her bun had been completely squashed by the scarf wrapping and, as she walked, spools of salt and pepper locks started a leisurely descent down her back.

  The group of teachers seemed far smaller once the Bursar’s dynamic presence was removed. Everyone started to collect together phones and folders, and a few chairs scraped back as people got up to go. Beth, who had a horror of public speaking, realised she would have to commit the unpardonable English sin of drawing attention to herself.

  ‘Um, I’m new here, but I was just wondering if this was normal practice?’ she ventured in a wavering voice, addressing the table as a whole.

  There was a moment of startled silence and then Radley, the Maths head, spoke up witheringly. ‘Well, we’ve not had that many murders on the premises, so this is pretty much uncharted territory for us all.’

  Beth flushed, but noticed how much braver he was when the Bursar wasn’t there. The number two dog in the pack, to the Bursar’s alpha male – in his own estimation, anyway.

  Kind Janice took pity on Beth and said to the teachers, still packing up and signaling their impatience to leave, ‘Poor Beth was the one who found Dr Jenkins on her very first day here. This has been the most awful shock, as you can imagine.’

  There was immediately a murmur of sympathy from the table and Beth was grateful for a few supportive smiles, even one from Radley who seemed to be thinking better of his sarcasm.

  ‘I think we’re all a bit on edge, and the fact that the Bursar wants to micro-manage everything isn’t helping,’ he admitted.

  ‘Will you all go along with the Bursar’s idea, though? I mean, you’ll tell him your whereabouts and so on?’

  Everyone looked at her in surprise. It didn’t seem to have occurred to anyone that they had an option not to cooperate. ‘Well, I’ve certainly got no reason not to help,’ said Radley defensively, and there was a murmur of agreement.

  ‘Yes, how would that even look?’ piped up Henderson, who was struggling to stuff a banana, two apples, and an extra sandwich into his slender briefcase.

  ‘Well, erm, it’s Mr Henderson, isn’t it?’ started Beth.

  ‘Geoff,’ the scrawny teacher said a little reluctantly, ‘and I think we should give the Bursar all the help we can. Quickest way to get everything sorted.’ Having at last shut the flap of his briefcase, he nodded at the table in general and loped off to the door, tripping over his feet slightly on the way.

  It was the signal for the other teachers to remember their duties and soon the exodus was complete, leaving only Beth and Janice at the table. Her plan to get the Wyatt’s teachers to question Seasons had fallen rather flat. Janice gave Beth a sympathetic smile.

  ‘Do you agree, as well?’ Beth said, but she knew the answer before Janice even spoke.

  ‘Of course. Anything that gets this mess dealt with. Come on, Beth, you must see. It’s terrible for Wyatt’s.’

  Beth did agree. It was terrible for the school. But it had been even worse for Dr Jenkins.

  Chapter Six

  Once she was back in the archives office – she was determined she was going to call it that, no matter how many times other people might refer to it slightingly as a shed – she pondered it all again. Maybe independent action wasn’t the Wyatt’s way. But that didn’t mean that she, too, had to fall in with the Bursar’s plans. As far as she could see, he was still the one amongst them who had the strongest motive in any case. What if he was just asking people to tell him their alibis so that he could work out one of his own? That would be incredibly ingenious, and there was something about its undoubted efficiency as a plan which struck Beth as peculiarly appropriate to Wyatt’s.

  Now, as well as a room stacked with goodness-knew-what in a billion boxes, she also had quite a cast of characters who were possibly in the murder frame. While so far only one – the Bursar – had a motive, this lunchtime’s little gathering had shown that there were four other people among the staff on the school premises at the crucial time, who had
all known Jenkins, and might very well have reasons of their own for wanting the man dead. She checked her laptop for the Bursar’s email and saw that her own appointment to tell him her (lack of) alibi was this afternoon at 2.30. Well, she thought, looking about her as she sat in lonely splendour. She could make that meeting with no problems at all. Since the demise of Jenkins, her time in the archives was all her own.

  The email list was just what she needed, as it detailed the names and departments of everyone who’d been round the table at lunch. She felt she was beginning to get people sorted out – Sam Radley, the defensive Maths head; Geoff Henderson, the skinny and nervous Physics teacher; and Dr Regina Joyce from the English department, for example. Susannah Baggs, in charge of Admissions, and Alison Lincoln, the Head of Middle School, were now both off the hook.

  She opened up a new document on her laptop and tapped in the heading, Suspects. As well as Dr Joyce, the English teacher, Radley the Maths head and Henderson from Physics, there was the Bursar, the Headmaster himself, and Janice. She added in grounds staff? Catering people? Friends/enemies of Jenkins?

  Sighing, she decided that the more she looked into it, the more people sprung up as possible murderers. She needed to start eliminating people, and quickly, or her investigation would go under before she had even begun. The fact that the Bursar was working on his own version, too, made her even more determined to carry on. There was something about his bullish, rugger-bugger persona that made her suspicious. He was clearly an intelligent man – was that touch of boorishness just an act? She also strongly believed that he had a credible motive. So far, in her investigation, he was streets ahead of the competition. The trouble was that there was so much competition. How on earth could she find out which of the catering staff and groundsmen were on duty, and whether they had a realistic reason to polish off Jenkins, for example?

  She was tussling with this thought – oblivious to the sea of unopened boxes all around her – when the phone rang. It was Inspector York.

  ‘Just wondering if I can fix a time to visit you at your home this evening. A few questions I need to get cleared up. I was thinking around 6pm?’

  Beth thought fast. That was after Ben’s supper, if she managed to get organised for once and have it on the table as early as possible, but it was before the bedtime rigmarole kicked in. It wasn’t convenient, but it wasn’t impossible either. ‘That’s fine,’ she said. ‘I was just wondering…’

  ‘Yes?’ York asked.

  ‘Have you thought about all the groundsmen? The gardeners? The caterers? Could it just have been one of them?’

  ‘That would be very convenient for Wyatt’s, wouldn’t it? Just a hired hand, no-one who really counts in their eyes. But the fact that it was what they call a Field Day on Monday makes that virtually impossible. The catering staff were around early in the morning, but left just before 9 after making a lunch of sandwiches for the reduced school population expected that day. Two of the caterers were signed back in by the porter at 12.15 when they returned to serve – but the body had already been discovered by then. As you know.’

  There was a pause, then York rushed on. ‘Apparently, the pupils remaining on site see Field Day sandwiches as a huge treat, a bit of a picnic. Meanwhile, the entire grounds team was occupied with a revamp of the tennis courts right over at the far end of the playing fields. No-one left the group; they stuck together all morning. It was supposed to be an all-day job, so there was no-one on the main school premises at the crucial time. The porter was in his lodge, which we can see from the CCTV images—’

  ‘CCTV? I’d forgotten the school has that. Surely that must show everything that went on that day… even the killing?’

  ‘Well, it would,’ said York drily, ‘if the network extended over the entire school premises. But it seems that some areas are not considered worth scrutinising. Coverage becomes patchy away from the main school buildings, and by the time you get to the vicinity of the archives office, I’m afraid there isn’t a camera in sight.’

  ‘Not even on the perimeter fence? I would have thought that would be worth keeping a watch on. Even if they don’t care about the archives, they should be worried about burglars coming across the playing fields into the school?’

  ‘You’d think. But no, the area is camera-free.’ York’s heavy silence indicated what he felt about the arrangement. ‘So, we have hours of pictures of the main part of the school, and just the odd angle from the parts we actually need on this occasion.’

  ‘Oh. Oh dear,’ said Beth.

  ‘Yes. Not your problem, though. See you at 6.’ York snapped back into businesslike mode.

  ‘See you later,’ agreed Beth.

  As she put the phone down, she caught sight of her watch. Nearly 2.30. She’d almost missed her appointment for her second encounter with the Bursar that day. She collected her bag, locked the office carefully, and sprinted for the main building. She flashed a quick smile at Janice in Reception as she passed, and arrived at Seasons’ office on the dot.

  ‘Ah, Beth,’ said Tom Seasons as she stuck her head round the door. She’d taken a few deep breaths outside to compensate for her scurrying and hoped she didn’t look too rosy-cheeked. ‘Sit down, sit down,’ he added genially.

  She settled herself opposite him and admired, as ever, the school’s effortless plushness. Seasons’ desk was a substantial chunk of mahogany. Framed pictures of his smiling blond family were much in evidence, while a large sash window looked onto the immaculate lawn, like a silken scarf in emerald green, fronting the school.

  Seasons frowned at his Mac for a few moments, tapping away importantly, before hitting the off button with a flourish and turning to Beth. She felt that she’d been treated to a marvellous performance of the busy man generously finding time for an underling. But, she reminded herself, it was he who had called her here. She was actually finding time for him. She smiled neutrally and brushed her fringe away, her keen grey eyes locking briefly with Seasons.

  ‘Now then, Beth, let’s just get this done as quickly as possible and we can all get on with more important things, can’t we?’ he blustered.

  ‘More important?’ said Beth, surprised, before she could stop herself. She’d already seen, from the Bursar’s cold treatment of Dr Joyce, the English head, how much he hated having his actions questioned. But, on the other hand, she really couldn’t see how putting a few hundred years’ worth of school play programmes into chronological order could be seen as more important than establishing who had killed a colleague. Much as she loved her job, of course.

  She was quite relieved when the Bursar didn’t acknowledge her interruption at all, but just swept inexorably along in what must be, by now, quite a well-practised routine. He would have seen at least a couple of the others on his list already.

  ‘So, all we need to establish is your whereabouts in the school between 8.30 and 11.30…’

  ‘11.30?’ said Beth. She hated to interrupt, yet again, but unless the Bursar had better information than her, he’d arbitrarily narrowed the time down by half an hour. ‘I found Dr Jenkins at just a few minutes after 12. And I was with him at 9 or a little after, and he was fine then…’

  Again, the Bursar acted as though Beth had not spoken, merely smiled and said, ‘So. Your whereabouts?’

  Beth collected herself and recited mechanically. ‘I arrived at the school at about 8.40, went to Reception, collected my swipe card, went to the archives office, met Dr Jenkins on the way, he took me to the door of the office and then left at a few minutes past 9. I stayed in the office, working, until just after 12 when I left to find a loo and some lunch, and stumbled across… Dr Jenkins… dead… at maybe five past 12, round by the bins.’

  Seasons appeared to wince, though Beth wasn’t sure if it was her mention of death or of the bins. Neither was really very Wyatt’s. But she couldn’t help that. Now, having trotted out her story, she reached down for her bag.

  ‘Now, Beth, we’re not quite finished yet. There’s no r
ush, is there? I’m asking everyone this, and I’m appealing with them to be as frank as possible,’ said Seasons, fixing her with unwavering blue eyes and leaning forwards a little, his hands lightly clasped on the desk. She wondered if his leg was jumping away under the desk as it usually did. He reminded her of a rather unconvincing politician, able to control parts of his act, but not all of it all the time. Though heaven knew, there were enough of them in positions of power. Phony sincerity seemed to win hearts, minds, and votes more often than seemed possible.

  Seasons put on a particularly grave expression. ‘Why do you think Jenkins was killed?’

  ‘Why do I…? I have no idea. I hardly knew the man. Who on earth would have a reason to kill him?’ Beth couldn’t resist asking this very pointed question, staring hard at the Bursar as she did so. ‘I certainly don’t know why someone could have felt so strongly about him. I would have thought you would know that a lot better than me.’

  For a moment, the Bursar’s eyes narrowed with pure anger. It was a bit like the look he had suddenly flashed at the hapless English head, Dr Joyce. But seconds later, his features had morphed back into a bland smile.

  ‘I’m asking everyone, Beth, it’s nothing personal at all,’ said Seasons at his most urbane.

  Beth got to her feet. ‘Murder is personal, in my view,’ she said, and left the room. It was a great exit line, and she was rather proud of herself.

  The feeling lasted all of a minute, until she was passing Reception again. What was Janice doing, lying across the countertop like that, her face hidden by her hair? And where was that drip-drip sound coming from? Beth looked closer. Something was gently streaming from the beautiful burnished counter onto the pale velvet carpet, where a rich red lake gathered. She had a horrible moment of déjà vu. It was like the bins all over again. She opened her mouth, and began to scream.