Murder In School (5 page)

‘Guv – how come they’re all called
‘doctor’?’

‘Leyton – shush – he’s coming.’

‘Well it gives me the willies – I
feel like I’m inside a mental institution.’

‘Maybe you should be, Leyton.’

‘Guv, an ordinary bloke could get a
complex around here.  All these posh folk with qualifications coming out
of their ears.’

‘Forget it, Leyton.  Until they
invent a PhD in nicking villains you’ve got nothing to worry about.’

‘Fair point, Guv.’

There’s a prolonged scrabbling noise
beyond the varnished wooden door at which they’ve been waiting.  It bears an
unevenly polished brass plaque with the words
‘Dr G W Jacobson, Head of
History, Housemaster – Blencathra.’
  Suddenly it swings open and
a small red-haired boy in Oakthwaite uniform tumbles down the two internal
steps, apologising and bowing subserviently.  He scuttles away, leaving
them facing an empty carpeted hallway.  Then a piebald dog appears –
it looks like a large Staffie – and silently rushes them.

‘Blimey, Guv – it’s a Pit Bull!’

DS Leyton backs away, but Skelgill stands
his ground, and in a moment the hound is rolling over in front of him on the
top step, seemingly wanting its stomach tickled.

‘Hello, girl.’  Skelgill stoops and
obliges.  ‘She’s friendly, Leyton.’

But DS Leyton keeps his distance, eyeing
the dog suspiciously.

‘Ah, gentlemen – you’ve met
Cleopatra, I see.’

The detectives look up.  In the
light cast at the far end of the corridor stands a small crooked man wearing a decorative
waistcoat and matching bow tie over a white shirt, his lower half clad in what
look like striped pyjama trousers finished off with carpet slippers.

‘Come in, come in – this way
please.’

Skelgill stands upright and Cleopatra
– evidently not yet satisfied with the level of attention she has
received – launches herself at the unsuspecting DS Leyton and catches him
full in the groin, producing a pained gasp.

Grinning unsympathetically, Dr Jacobson
calls out over his shoulder, ‘She obviously likes you – the boys call her
the
Canine Cannonball
– that’s her sign of affection.’

DS Leyton makes to reply, but powers of
speech have temporarily deserted him.  Wheezily, he follows Skelgill
through into a parlour-like room of floral patterns, where tea things and cakes
are laid out on a low table amidst two easy chairs and a settee.  Behind
upon a dresser there’s a crystal sherry decanter and half a dozen inverted
glasses arranged on a round silver tray, and various bottles of the commoner
spirits.

‘Be seated, gentlemen, won’t you?’ 
Dr Jacobson makes a sweeping gesture of the arm, as a seventeenth century cavalier
might have extravagantly doffed his plumed hat.  ‘Please accept my
apologies that I can’t offer you much in the way of refreshment – I
wasn’t expecting you until the call was put through from reception just a few
minutes ago.’

‘Must have been an oversight, sir –
but if it’s inconvenient we can come back another time.’  Skelgill affects
to rise.

‘No, no – not at all.  Do
stay.  I’m free right the way through until prep.  There isn’t a full
timetable at the moment because of the examinations.  And this is far more
exciting.  Fancy them letting me loose on you.  Have a fruit scone,
please.’

‘Don’t mind if I do, sir.’

Skelgill takes the proffered tea plate
and helps himself to a scone.  He makes their introductions and purpose of
visit known whilst spooning liberal dollops of strawberry jam and clotted cream
for himself and DS Leyton.

Dr Jacobson assumes responsibility for
the teapot, quipping, ‘I’ll be Mother, ha-ha.’

In his mid fifties, he has a somewhat
clownish appearance as a consequence of a bald pate partly ringed by a crescent
of mousy hair that sticks up in prominent tufts above the ears, as though he’s
just been roused from slumber.  His round face bears a fixed simper and
his small pale blue eyes exude a natural sparkle.  It’s hard to judge
whether he is on edge, or if his continual restless movements and fidgeting are
the norm.

Skelgill makes a little cough and says,
‘Dr Jacobson, as you’ll have guessed we’d like to talk to you about Mr
Querrell.’

‘A dreadful tragedy – we’re all devastated
– the boys especially.  They’re still in mourning for him.’

‘Oh?’  Skelgill sounds a little
surprised.

‘Querrell was a living legend. 
Taught many of their paters, of course.  Must have marched half the
serving British Establishment up and down the hills of northern England in his
time.’

‘Apologies if I’ve misjudged the mood, Dr
Jacobson, but I rather got the impression that he won’t be missed in certain
quarters?’

Skelgill glances at DS Leyton; otherwise
occupied with his scone, he nods enthusiastically in confirmation.

‘Gentlemen, you know how it is.’

The detectives look like they
don’t.  But Dr Jacobson, unlike his more senior colleagues, needs no
encouragement in order to elaborate.

‘There can be a competitive jealousy
among schoolmasters.  Deep in our hearts we all yearn to be popular: most
of all to be respected by the boys.  And when that respect stems not from
fear – of the rod, or detention, or an everlasting – but from
admiration, well that is a very precious commodity, indeed.’

‘And that was Mr Querrell?’

‘Quite right, Inspector.  I marvel
at his secret, because he was as much a disciplinarian as anybody in the school
– with the exception of Snyder, naturally – but the boys would
always go that extra mile for him.  He’d have the timidest first-formers
tackling like tigers within three weeks of the start of Michaelmas term.’

At this point DS Leyton, who has been
looking a little agitated, swallows and asks, ‘Excuse me, sir – what
exactly is an
everlasting?
’

‘Ah, Sergeant – one of our peculiar
anachronisms.  It must make us sound like Hogwarts.  It’s simply a
cunning variation on the old punishment of giving out lines.  Almost
impossible to finish in under an hour.  Funnily enough, Querrell was
credited with devising it, though he always denied it.’

Skelgill shows signs of being irked that DS
Leyton has wandered off track.  He places his cup and saucer crudely on
the coffee table, attracting the attention of Dr Jacobson.  He says, ‘The
thing is, sir, we’re at a bit of a loss regarding Mr Querrell – life
history, interests, out-of-school acquaintances, that kind of thing.’

Dr Jacobson shakes his head and inhales
in the manner of one who is about to disappoint.  ‘I quite understand. 
Although the short answer is there weren’t any.  At most he took the
occasional spin on that infernal old motorcycle of his.’  He reaches for
the teapot.  ‘A top up, Inspector?  And have another scone, please
– I have no more tutorials this afternoon, so everything must go, as they
say.  You too, Sergeant, tuck in.’

Skelgill obliges, gesturing to DS Leyton
that he should follow suit.  Plate replenished, he turns to Dr Jacobson
and says, ‘I understand, sir, that you’ve been here a good many years?’

Dr Jacobson feeds a last morsel of cake
to his dog and absently wipes his fingers upon his flannel trousers.  ‘Not
by Querrell’s standards, of course.  He must have come as a pupil in the
late ‘fifties, then returned to teach from nineteen seventy onward.  I
arrived in ninety-one.  A mere whipper-snapper.’

‘But Mr Querrell’s death makes you the
longest-serving master, by some distance?’

‘Well, I suppose it does; now you mention
it.  We’ve had a bit of a reshuffle of the old pack in the past couple of
years, what with the last Head and his Deputy stepping down at the same time.’

‘And Mr Goodman – he made further
changes?’

‘You know, Inspector – new broom
and all that?  Every regime likes to get its hands upon the levers of
power.’

‘That’s more along the lines of what I
meant when I said perhaps Mr Querrell wasn’t going to be missed.’

‘Well – I understand what you
suggest, Inspector.  Not mentioning any names, of course.  But let’s
say the
modernisers
would see his passing as the removal of one small obstacle
to progress.’

Skelgill pats the dog, which has moved to
beg beside him now that its master has no food left.  He says, ‘Though
it’s hard to see how he could have got in the way – it sounds like he was
sidelined long ago.’

‘Well, you’re quite right in that regard,
Inspector.’  Dr Jacobson leans forward conspiratorially.  ‘To be frank
we’ve been carrying Querrell for years.  He originally taught Classics, but
it has withered on the vine in the majority of public schools.  And his
extra-curricular duties could easily have been shared among the other staff. 
I’d even suggested to him that Greig – he’s head of sport – should take
over his more arduous Duke of Edinburgh trips – he wasn’t getting any
younger, you see – but Querrell wouldn’t hear a word of it.’

Skelgill nods sympathetically.  ‘I’d
probably feel the same, in his shoes.’

Dr Jacobson agrees, ‘Of course, Inspector
– turkeys don’t generally vote for Christmas.  But I was rather
surprised the new Head didn’t retire him when he arrived.  I assume he
decided that only so many feathers could be ruffled in one fell swoop. 
There were one or two casualties who struck me as more valuable to the
school.  However, what with these tribunals they have these days –
perhaps if it looks like you’ll go down kicking and screaming it might be
easier simply to let nature take its course.’

Skelgill raises his eyebrows.  ‘You
might say it did, sir.’

Dr Jacobson is suddenly flustered,
sitting back and flapping his hands with dismay.  ‘My apologies, Inspector
– such an unfortunate turn of phrase.’

Skelgill grins ruefully.  ‘Do you
think there was any pressure lately on Mr Querrell – to leave the
school?’

Now Dr Jacobson ducks as though a
schoolboy has just flung a paper dart in his direction.  He purses his
lips and holds open his palms.  He rather looks like he’s trying to tell
them something but is worried about eavesdroppers.  Then he says, ‘I really
couldn’t say if there were anything through the official channels – you’d
have to ask Goodman or Snyder.  I suppose since we’re heading towards the
end of Trinity – that’s our summer term – if they were thinking
about changes, now would be the time.’

‘What about Mr Querrell?  How had he
seemed lately?’

‘Not so different from usual, Inspector
– perhaps a tad more grouchy.  But I simply put that down to
advancing age and its accompanying recalcitrance.  He was our very own
Victor
Meldrew
, so you could never read too much into his black moods.’

‘Where would he have gone – if he’d
left the school, that is?’

Dr Jacobson absently scratches the tufts
of hair above his ears.  ‘That’s the sixty-four thousand dollar question,
Inspector.  It’s not like he had a home town or favourite holiday location
to retire to.  He spent his whole time here.  And, of course, there
are no relatives – at least not that we know of.  That
would
be a tabloid sensation if some long-lost offspring turned up.’

‘It was more in the way of a cousin that
we had in mind, sir.’

‘Then you may well have an imposter on
your hands.  My understanding is that the last three generations of
Querrells have been only-children.  You can see their names on our honours
board.’

Skelgill nods.  ‘Yes, I’ve noticed
that – you have some long-standing family associations.’

‘We’re very strong on tradition. 
Fathers like to know their sons are in safe hands.  The boy who left just
as you arrived – Cholmondeley – he’s sixth generation Oakthwaite,
all Blencathra House.’

‘Of which you’re housemaster?’

‘That’s correct.  The other three
are Helvellyn, Scafell and Skiddaw.’

Skelgill grins.  ‘Yours is the only one
under three thousand feet, sir.’

‘I see you know your mountains,
Inspector.’

‘I guess Scafell and Sca Fell would be
too confusing?’

‘I believe that was the thinking behind
it, quite so.’

‘Was Querrell a housemaster?’

Dr Jacobson shakes his head and
grimaces.  ‘Oh no, Inspector.  He thought the house system was
divisive.  Never would admit what house he’d been in when he boarded here
– claimed he didn’t want to be accused of favouritism.’

‘Yet he was all for competition?’

‘Perfectly happy for us to knock seven
bells out of other schools, especially Sedbergh, naturally.’

Skelgill nods, but there is an insistent
rapping on the outer door.  The dog bounds away, barking fiercely. 
Dr Jacobson pulls a reluctant face, but then with surprising alacrity springs to
his feet.

‘Apologies, Inspector, Cleopatra informs
me that I have an unwelcome visitor.  Unfortunately one I cannot ignore. 
Uncanny how she can detect the presence of certain people.’