Death at St. Asprey’s School (7 page)

“Now you come to mention it, no,” said Parker.

“My God! Do you really think…” began Mayring.

“It's only five days,” Duckmore almost pleaded. “It's too early to say.”

“If I thought…” Mayring struck the palm of his hand with his fist and turning to Carolus said—“You know my puppy was killed?”

“I heard so, yes.”

“I'd murder the swine who did it.”

“I shouldn't talk like that, if I were you,” Carolus told him.

They were all silenced again by the sound of knocking,
gentle this time and on the door of the neighbouring room. They waited without speaking to see if they could gather who it was. This was easy, for Sime had a penetrating voice.

“Hullo, Mollie,” they heard him say, but before she had answered the door was closed again.

“Good thing Stanley isn't here,” said Mayring. “And by the way, Stella Ferris went across to the window to talk to him this afternoon. Yes, right in front of Bill. You should have seen his face.”

Nobody answered but it seemed that both Parker and Duckmore were thinking it over. At last Parker rose slowly from the wicker armchair and Carolus was relieved that the gathering broke up.

He wanted to do what he had done in every case he had investigated—visit the local pub. He had rarely failed to learn something of interest there. Sometimes the publican himself was informative, sometimes he employed a chatty barmaid, sometimes he heard odd facts or opinions from the customers. In any case, short of receiving confidences which he did not yet expect, he had heard all he expected from the Men and wanted a breather. So much intrigue and suspicion was oppressive.

The Windmill Inn was nearly a mile away but as it was the only licensed premises in a radius of more than four miles it was sure to be ‘the local' for those members of the staff who like to visit a pub. It was now twenty to six so Carolus decided to walk the distance. This would give him some exercise and bring him to the Windmill promptly at opening time.

He waited till he was some way from the school before learning the way from a postman. This reminded him of Sime's letter and hearing that there was a letter-box in the village he posted it. When he reached the Windmill Inn he
found no one on the customer's side of the counter but the landlord stood behind it.

Mr. Pocket was a sprightly little man with an Arnold Bennett quiff of hair and a clipped bristly reddish moustache.

“Hullo! Where have you sprung from?” he asked Carolus.

“I walked across.”

“Thought I didn't hear a car pull up.” he seemed to realize what Carolus had said and asked—“Across from where?”

“St. Asprey's.”

This seemed a big relief to him.

“Oh, you're the New Man come to take Sime's place till he can get about again. Arrive this morning, did you?”

A question-asker, thought Carolus and knew that he was on easy ground. Mr. Pocket might answer questions by asking others but he was bursting with information. Carolus ordered a Scotch and soda.

“How do you like it up there?” asked Mr. Pocket.

“Seems a bit disturbed.”

“A
bit?
It must be a shambles after this last go-round. Not that you can be surprised. That Sime's a nasty piece of work. But what are they all scared of? That's what I want to know.”

“Are they scared?”

“Scared stiff. When you get grown men come in here trembling like an ash-bin…”

Carolus saw the potential start of a new corruption of the language but let it go.

“Really?”

“Face white as chalk and hands jumping like jack-in-the-boxes, then ordering a double brandy, you know something's wrong.”

“You mean Duckmore?”

“Yes, but the others are not much better. There's old Parker enjoyed his pint here ever since I've been here, hardly ever comes now. Makes you think, doesn't it?”

“Is young Mayring a customer of yours?”

“Oh, yes, he comes over sometimes when he's touched Sconer for a sub. On about his dog being killed most of the time. The one I don't like is Stanley. I can't say why but there it is. You talked to him?”

“A little. He seems all right.”

“He may seem all right but from what the rest of them say he's not much. Too thick with the old woman and the matron. And what about Horlick?”

“That's the gardener, isn't it?”

“
He's
a character. You wait till you meet him.
And
his wife.”

“I haven't seen either of them yet. Only Mrs. Skippett.”

“She's a good sort. Very good to my wife when she was ill. She lives across the way. Yes, you
have
got a bright lot over there. I shouldn't be surprised if something was to happen one of these days.”

“Really?”

“Not a little bit, I shouldn't be. What with Sime and that. No one seems to know where they are. I was only saying to the wife. I tell you who does come in, though; that's this fellow they've got as cook. Bit of a mystery, that is. What's
he
doing, cooking? He's not the type, is he? I wouldn't be surprised if there was something behind it. He never says much when he comes in and only drinks mild-and-bitter. I can't make him out. Seems to think the world of his wife, though. I will say that. Terrible misfortune, losing your sight. Have you met her yet?”

“No. I only arrived this morning.”

“So you said. Well, I wish you luck. I shouldn't like it, with all that Talk.”

Carolus invited him to have a drink but he refused.

“I've only just had my tea,” he explained. “I wonder some of the boys' parents don't get to hear what's going on. I shouldn't like one of my kids to be mixed up in that. Would you? It can't be healthy, really, when you come to think of it. I thought it was larking at first. There was a lot of that last term when they had a girl there called Sally O'Maverick. She was all for a laugh. They say the old woman got rid of her. She had the looks, you see. Real little beauty, she was. Irish, too. I was sorry to see her go. The men were all mad about her. Even old Parker came out of his shell when she was here. But there you are. The old woman and the matron between them cooked her goose.”

“There's a very nice-looking assistant there now.”

“Yes, but it's not the same thing. She's got money and thinks a lot of herself. She's never been in here—I've only seen her the once, when I went to church. That Sally was over here two or three times a week and didn't mind joining in a sing-song. Till all of a sudden she stopped coming and at the end of the term I heard she'd gone. There was talk about that, too. Some said she was in the family way. But I wouldn't believe it. She wasn't the sort. Didn't mind a laugh and that but she knew what she was doing.”

“No idea where she went?”

“I did hear she was in Cheltenham, only that may be no more than a tale. But this we've had lately's very different to her sort of larking. That rat in Matron's bed I wouldn't have put past Sally, but not the rest of it. Animals being killed and that. You couldn't have wanted a kinder-hearted girl. As for pushing anyone down a flight of stone stairs…”

“You think Sime was pushed, then?”

Mr. Pocket stared at Carolus.

“Well, it stands to reason, doesn't it?” he asked.

“I don't see why.”

“He
says
he was pushed.”

Carolus decided to let the point go. He was surprised to find out how much the publican knew.

“Do you go up to the school?” he asked.

“I can't get out much,” said Mr. Pocket. “My wife's away, staying with her sister. But I like to know what's going on.”

Like Matron, thought Carolus and had another drink.

That night Carolus was himself witness to one of those nocturnal incidents which had disturbed the peace of St. Asprey's.

He had learned by now the lay-out of the whole place with its architectural anomalies. The main part of the big house was occupied on its ground floor with class-rooms, the big school-room, dining-room and wash-rooms; on its first floor were the main dormitories and Matron's room, while the third floor, formerly the servants' sleeping quarters, now provided small bedrooms in which some of the senior boys slept three to a room.

On one side of this central block was the ‘private part' of the establishment—drawing-room and headmaster's study on the ground floor; bedrooms for the Sconers, Parker, Mollie Westerly and the spare room, occupied by Carolus on the first floor. There was no second floor.

On the other side of the main block was a bungalow in
which were bedrooms for the staff and the staff common-room.

On the ground floor were ways through to all three parts of the building. One could start in Mrs. Sconer's drawing-room, pass through the private hall to the central block and through this to the staff bungalow without going out of doors. One could also pass from the private part of the boys' dormitories on the first floor.

That Parker had his room in the private part of the house was another privilege that had come with long service. He had made it into something of a bed-sitting-room.

When Carolus returned from the Windmill that evening and was making for his room. Parker opened his door.

“Like a nightcap?” he asked.

Carolus accepted and found that Parker had whisky and a siphon. Parker was a long way from being drunk but he could not have been described as cold sober.

“Been down to the Windmill?” he asked.

Carolus said—“Yes. Strolled across.”

“I used to go most evenings,” said Parker. “But I find the walk back rather too much for me these days and beer doesn't agree with me as it did.”

“How's the rheumatism?” asked Carolus.

Parker looked surprised.

“Oh that! Quite gone, thanks. I don't suppose it was rheumatism. Or just a twinge. Yes, as I was saying I find that just one nip of Scotch at bed-time suits me. This is my twenty-first year with Sconer, you know.”

“So I've heard. It's a long time.”

“Big part of a life, really. I've seen the school grow from almost nothing. We had eight boys when I first came.”

“And now you're sixty-eight.”

“Yes. We've worked hard, mind you. Sconer's the best of men to work for. Mrs. Sconer is not such a dragon as some
people think. Matron's the trouble there. I'm afraid she's a mischief-maker.”

“Pity. I've been hearing tonight about a very attractive member of the staff you had last term—Sally O'Maverick.”

Parker looked up.

“What did you hear about her?”

“Nothing really, except that she was very popular and that her dismissal was due to Matron.”

“I suppose Pocket told you that? You shouldn't listen to a lot of talk. If it comes to that, Mollie Westerly is thought by most people to be far more attractive.”

“She's certainly not the sort of person I expected to meet on a school staff.”

“Not at all. She's more … more dignified than Sally O'Maverick was.” Parker's voice dropped. “Her room's next door,” he explained. “She went to bed about half an hour ago. The walls are thin here and I shouldn't like her to think we were talking about her.”

“You always have a mistress for the junior boys?”

“Yes. Sconer believes in that. They have more patience with the little ones. We've had a lot since the school opened.”

They fell silent for a while. Then Carolus, whose hearing was remarkably sharp, pulled a piece of paper towards him and wrote on it—“Someone is listening at the door.” Parker read this, nodded and went on in an even voice—“A lot of masters, too. They come and go. I shouldn't like to think how many.”

Listening, Carolus heard from the passage a series of faint taps but they were not on the door of Parker's room. They seemed to waken no response and continued, gentle but persistent.

“Someone's knocking on Mollie Westerly's door,” whispered Parker.

The two men continued to sit still and listen. Presently they heard the door of the next room opened and there was a sound of whispering. ‘All right, wait a minute', they heard Mollie say impatiently. There was another silent pause, a louder whisper of ‘Thank you!' and the door was shut.

With surprising energy Parker crossed the room and threw open the door.

“What on earth are
you
doing here?” Carolus heard him ask. Then, “Come in and explain yourself.”

It was Duckmore. He was wearing a dressing-gown and bedroom slippers and seemed to be trembling. He kept his closed hand in front of him as though it held treasure.

“I couldn't sleep,” he said. “Mollie told me about the sleeping tablets she brought back from Beirut. I came to ask her for one.”

He opened his hand and showed a tiny yellow pill.

“You came right over from the bungalow for that?” asked Parker.

Duckmore's hand was unsteady.

“Yes. They're wonderful. I've had them before. Just one gives you a beautiful long deep sleep, and they seem to work at once—within a few minutes. Can I have a little water to take it with?”

Parker, seemingly perfectly calm, poured some water into a tumbler.

“It's difficult to believe,” he said. “Such a tiny little pill. Thank God I don't need anything like that. You'd better get back to bed before it begins to act.”

“It's the strain,” said Duckmore with a note of hysteria in his voice.

He left them, moving a little uncertainly to the door. They heard his footsteps in the passage as he shuffled away. “Nervous type, poor Duckmore,” said Parker. “He seems
to feel the disturbances here more than anyone. I can't think why. He has private money—quite a lot. I believe. If he's worried about life at St. Asprey's all he has to do is to leave.”