Death at St. Asprey’s School (12 page)

“I don't know anything about it,” said Parker huffily. “You may remember you suggested that I should give up coaching the cricket team three years ago, when Sime came.”

“We can't go into all that now,” retorted Sconer. “The thing is, must we scratch the match against St. Carrier's?”

“No!” said Stanley. “Let's play it out.”

“Very well. The boys must be told not to talk to the other team at tea-time. Well, I think that's all.”

“I was thinking about the play,” said Mayring. “Do you think I ought to play Duke Theseus?”

“I think…” began Sconer, then seemed to repent of the
guessable retort he was about to make. “Do as you think best, Mayring,” he said.

When they dispersed Carolus walked away quickly, unwilling to hear any more that night. Though all of them had seen the dead body, the blood, the distended eyes, he seemed to be the only one to whom this meant the horror of a stolen life. He could never take murder lightly, believing that the murderer usurped the attributes of God, but nor was he influenced by sentimental or emotional considerations. The murder of a man like Sime, clearly a cad and perhaps a crook, was no less murder than the killing of an innocent child, though it might move one less to indignation and pity. The people with whom he had been tonight seemed far more concerned with their school and its reputation than with the dreadful thing that had been done.

He slept fitfully and came down to breakfast without his usual sense of renewed energy. He felt himself watched by the small boys at his table and guessed they were nerving themselves to ask questions. He decided to forestall this.

“Why did you and Lipscomb sneak away from the cricket field yesterday afternoon?” he asked Chavanne.

“We didn't really sneak away,” said Chavanne.

“Did you ask permission?”

“I was going to ask Mr. Mayring only he was bowling to that ass Whitlock.”

“You haven't told me why you came.”

“It was only to see Mr. Sime, sir. He said we might come and look in at his window. Only when we got near we found the curtains were drawn across and Mr. Sime said if the curtains were drawn we were never to disturb him.”

“You didn't look in?”

“No honestly we didn't, did we, Lipscomb? We could see the curtains were across before we got there so we turned back and scooted like billy-o.”

“I see. I don't suppose you know what time this was?”

“Oh yes, I do. I know exactly what time it was. I know to the very second what time it was. I know…”

“All right Don't keep on about it.”

“It's an extraordinary thing how I know though, sir.”

“How do you know and what time was it?”

“I know absolutely exactly because we got up to cricket at two o'clock and Mr. Mayring said he'd bowl to me and Lipscomb at the nets because we're playing St. Carrier's Away on Saturday and we ought to have some practice because they've got a beastly fast bowler…”

“Yes. Yes. The time?”

“Well Mr. Mayring said he'd give us twenty minutes each and start with Lipscomb because he's easily our best bat only he can't bowl and Mr. Mayring said he was going to give him some jolly fast leg breaks and Lipscomb said not
too
fast. Mr. Mayring looked at his watch and by the time he started bowling to Lipscomb it was ten past two so he went on till half past and then I went in. Mr. Mayring's a jolly good bowler. I think he's easily the best bowler in Gloucestershire…”

“How long did he bowl to you?”

“He timed it exactly and gave me the same as Lipscomb. Twenty minutes. It didn't seem long while I was batting. That ass Whitlock was waiting to go in after me only Mr. Mayring told him to hang on a couple of minutes. Then he started bowling to him. So me and Lipscomb did a bunk to see Mr. Sime, so Iknow exactly what time it was—five to three. Must have been, mustn't it, sir? Does that tell you what time Mr. Sime was murdered?”

“Eat your breakfast and don't talk nonsense.”

“Bet he was murdered, though. Bet I know who did it.”

“Bet you don't. Bet
I
do,” said Lipscomb.

“That's quite enough thanks,” said Carolus.

“Bet it was old Spancock,” said Chavanne.

“What did you say?”

“The Rector, sir. I know he was here that afternoon because I saw his rotten old car. Only he didn't leave it in the drive in front of the house where the parents leave their cars but in the lane by the cricket field. I saw it there when we went up to the cricket field at two o'clock. But it wasn't there when we scooted down to see Mr. Sime.”

“Who do the police suspect, sir?” asked Lipscomb excitedly but Carolus was saved giving pompous and meaningless reproofs by the end of breakfast.

The morning passed uneventfully. Whatever the police may have been doing in Sime's room or elsewhere, the boys were kept to routine and efforts were made to prevent them from seeing or hearing anything unusual. In the break Mayring announced his forthcoming production of scenes from
A Midsummer Night's Dream
to one or two senior boys and within minutes the news had travelled to the lowest reaches of the first form where piping voices said—“Are you going to act, Miss Westerly?”

After lunch, having with great tact arranged with Parker to accept a bottle of whisky in return for taking Carolus's duty on the cricket field and at tea, Carolus drove away, conscious of Matron's observation from the lattice of her bower.

A few moments later he reached the churchyard and passing through the lych-gate stood quite still on the flagstone path which ran to the church doors.

There were three yew trees in the churchyard, fine old specimens of the tree which in past centuries was planted in burial-places because as an evergreen it symbolized immortality. These trees engaged Carolus's attention and when he had looked into the church and found it empty he
began to search among the lower branches of one of them as though he were birds-nesting. He spent some fifteen minutes in this way, then went on to the next tree. After a few minutes he found what he was looking for. A branch had been recently hacked off.

Carolus examined this carefully and as he did so was aware that someone was approaching from behind him. Turning, he saw the Rector.

“Hullo. Snooping again?” said Mr. Spancock cheerily. “You seem to find the church interesting.”

“I do. It has a fine tower,” said Carolus. “Who looks after the churchyard?”

“Oh, Skippett,” said the Rector.

“I beg your pardon?”

“The sexton. Skippett. One of my parishioners. Wife works at the school.”

Carolus remembered the little woman he had met on the first day.

“Oh yes. Does he look after things pretty well?”

“Yes. Yes. Splendid. Conscientious. Thorough.”

“He lives in the village, I suppose?”

“Number 8, Council Cottages.”

“Thank you.”

“Terrible about Sime,” said the Rector and Carolus saw that he was watching him keenly.

“Yes,” he replied without comment.

“Accident?”

“No, murder.”

“Impossible. Can't be. Unbelievable.”

“You knew him well?”

“Casually. Not well. Seemed a nice chap.”

“When did you see him last, Mr. Spancock?”

“I? See Sime? No idea.”

“Had you been to the school yesterday afternoon before
you were kind enough to come over to the church with me?”

“The school? Hardly. Called on Mrs. Kneller. Blind, you know. Why?”

“Your car was noticed in the lane by the cricket field.”

The Rector smiled.

“Ah yes. Always leave it there when I call on Mrs. Kneller.”

“You didn't see Sime?”

“Sime? No.”

“I thought perhaps as he was laid up you might have been in to see him.”

“Intended to. Should have another day. Wish I had. But no. Mrs. Kneller only.”

“Thank you very much.”

“Not at all. Delighted. Any information. Shall we see you in church on Sunday?”

“I'm a Catholic,” Carolus explained.

“Ah. Romanish Persuasion. Let's hope all these little distinctions will be obliterated soon, eh?” beamed the Rector.

Carolus took his leave.

No. 8 Council Cottages turned out to be one of a dozen small and offensively pink villas among the grey Cotswold homes of Pyedown-Abdale. All their doors were painted dark green and there was nothing to distinguish one from another except the chromium digits above their chromium letter-boxes.

Mrs. Skippett opened the door.

“You gave me quite a turn,” she observed accusingly to Carolus. Since during his previous conversation with her, she had been given the creeps, the shivers and the shudders, he realized that her reaction to his appearance was a comparatively mild one. “I told you what it would be with that Matron and now you see what's happened. You better come in and not stand gossiping on the doorstep or what will people think? They want something to talk about round here.”

Carolus came in to a small sitting-room furnished with the shoddy varnished ply-wood furniture of the day, and
hung with nylon curtains while the ornaments, vases, and ash-trays were of plastics in pastel colours. The ugly Euclydean mass-produced carpet, the chairs covered in shining nylons, and process-printed pictures, gave him in turn those symptoms from which Mrs. Skippett suffered, the creeps if not the shudders. Nor did he fail to notice the grey corpse-like face of the television set.

“I'm trying to find out who killed Sime,” he began, but got no farther.

“It
is
a problem isn't it? From what I know about it any of them might have done it because there wasn't one of them hadn't their knife into him one way or another till it quite gave you the shakes to hear the way they carried on. That Matron, now, she couldn't bear the man and as for Mrs. Sconer,
well.
Still, there it is, it's done now and you can't say fairer than that.”

“There was something I wanted to ask your husband,” said Carolus.

“Oh,
him.
Well, he'll be in in a minute and you can ask him what you like. He'll tell you if he can. He's not like these people from round here who're afraid to open their mouths. We don't come from these parts otherwise you might find us like what they are, never so much as stopping for a few words if they meet you in the street and as for enjoying a chat, not them. I always say there's no need for them to be like so many oysters, but no, they won't have it, and Mrs. Horlick who works up at the school's just the same. Anyone might be a waxen image, but there you are. My husband's the opposite. If he knows anything he'll tell you. I often say to him, you can't keep anything to yourself, I say. It was just the same when my auntie was alive.”

“He's likely to be in soon?”

“Oh yes. He won't be long. He works in his own time
you see, but I usually know when to expect him. Well, so they've done for that Sime properly this time. D'you know who I think it was?” Mrs. Skippett went on chattily. “I think it was that Duckmore. I've always thought there was something funny about him. The way he looks at you and that. It gives me the jumps when I see him. Here's my husband coming now.”

Mr. Skippett was not much taller than his wife and almost as garrulous. He had a narrow bald head and wore gold-rimmed spectacles.

“He wants to ask you about the murder,” was Mrs. Skippett's greeting, introduction and explanation in one.

“Oh, does he?” said Mr. Skippett with a gold-toothed smile as he shook hands with Carolus. “I can't say I know much about it, to tell the truth. Only what the wife has told me. I never go up to the school if I can help it. Too much tittle tattle up there.”

“What I wanted to ask you is nothing directly to do with the school …” began Carolus.

“That's a good thing because its right outside my knowledge, what they get up to. I did hear about them putting that rat in the Matron's bed and wondered wherever they got it from. A rat's not a thing you can lay your hand on just when you want it. But when it comes to them murdering one another with bows and arrows, well, I said to the wife, we might be back with Robin Hood.”

“You look after the churchyard, don't you, Mr. Skippett?”

“Have done for a good many years. The Rector before this one, Mr. Tomhurst, asked me if I would and I didn't like to say no.”

“You remember the Saturday afternoon on which Sime was found at the foot of the tower staircase?”

“I remember it all right, but that's not to say I was up
there that afternoon. I went up on the Sunday, twice, as I always do.”

“But you wouldn't have spent much time in the churchyard on Sunday.”

“No, but I was up there all Monday. I always spend Monday there. Where it is, they throw their cigarette ends away before going into church and empty packets and I don't know what. You wouldn't think people going to church would leave a lot of litter like that but you'd be surprised.”

“So you tidied up the churchyard that Monday. Did you notice anything unusual?”

Mr. Skippett thought hard and looked disappointed.

“I can't say I did.” he said. “Not to say out of the ordinary. There's always a bit to tidy up.”

“You didn't find some little branches of yew stripped from a bigger branch?”

Mr. Skippett brightened up.

“It's funny you should say that, because that's just what I did find. Quite a lot of them, there were, pushed into the hedge down in the far corner. I thought at the time, that's funny, but I'd quite forgotten it until you mentioned it. Yes, there was quite a lot of them. I said to myself someone must have wanted the stick for something and cleaned them off.”

“I told you he'd be able to tell you,” put in Mrs. Skippett proudly. “He's quite a one for noticing things and doesn't mind who he tells about it.”