Well-Schooled in Murder
Read Well-Schooled in Murder Online
Authors: Elizabeth George
Tags: #Mystery, #Thriller, #Suspense, #Adult
CONTENTS
For Arthur, who wanted to write.
TIMSHEL
I have shot mine arrow o’er the house,
And hurt my brother.
H
AMLET
A
UTHOR’S
N
OTE
Although there are many independent schools in England, Bredgar Chambers is the product of my imagination and should not be confused with any existing educational institution.
I am, however, extremely grateful to a number of schools, headmasters, staff members, and students who played a large part in allowing me to gather information that provided such useful background material for my book. I must particularly thank Christopher and Kate Evans of Dauntsey’s School in Somerset and Christopher Robbins of the same; Robin Macnaghten of Sherborne School for boys in Dorset; Richard and Caroline Schoon Tracy of Allhallows School in Devon, as well as John Stubbs and Andy Penman whose classes I spoke to; Simon and Kate Watson of Hurstpierpoint College in Sussex; Richard Poulton of Christ’s Hospital in West Sussex; Miss Marshall of Eton College in Berkshire; and most of all the students who opened their lives to me with such engaging candour: Bertrand, Jeremy, Jane, Matt, Ben, Chas, and Bruce. My time spent with all these people in England enriched my understanding of the independent school system more than any other sort of research I might have done.
In the United States, I thank Fred VonLohmann for generously carrying out the initial stages of research for me at Stanford University; Blair Maffris, Michael Stephany, Hiro Mori, Art Brown, and Lynn Harding for fielding questions on a variety of topics; and Santa Barbara criminalists Stephen Cooper and Phil Pelzel who kindly opened their laboratory to me.
Most especially I am grateful to my husband Ira Toibin who has borne all things well, and to Deborah Schneider who has been my Gibraltar.
1
The rear garden of the cottage in Hammersmith’s Lower Mall was set up to accommodate artistic endeavours. Three slabs of knotty pine stretched across six battered sawhorses to function as work stations, and they held at least a dozen stone sculptures in varying stages of completion. A dented metal cabinet near the garden wall contained the artist’s tools: drills, chisels, rifflers, files, gouges, emery, and a collection of sandpaper with differing degrees of abrasion. A colour-splodged painter’s dropcloth—smelling strongly of turps—made a dispirited lump underneath a partially broken chaise.
It was a garden completely without distractions. Walled in against the curiosity of neighbours, it was thus also protected from those insistent and largely mechanical noises of river traffic, of the Great West Road, of Hammersmith Bridge. Indeed, the high walls of the garden were so expertly constructed, the cottage’s position on the Lower Mall so well-chosen, that only an occasional waterfowl in flight overhead broke into the superb stillness that the site afforded.
Such protection was not without one disadvantage. Since cleansing river breezes never found their way through the walls, a patina of stone dust covered everything from the small oblong of dying lawn, to the crimson wallflowers that bordered it, to the square of flagstones that served as a terrace, to the cottage windowsills and the building’s pitched roof. Even the artist himself wore fine grey powder like a second skin.
But this pervasive grime did not bother Kevin Whateley. Over the years, he had become quite used to it. Even if he had not been accustomed to operating perfectly well in a cloud of grit, he would not have noticed it while he laboured in the garden. This was his haven, a place of creative ecstasy in which convenience and cleanliness were not required. Mere discomfort meant nothing to Kevin once he gave himself over to the call of his art.
He was doing so now, taking his latest piece through the final stage of buffing. He was particularly fond of this current effort, a reclining nude rendered in marble, her head raised on a pillow, her torso twisted so that her right leg was drawn up over her left, her hip and thigh an unbroken crescent that ended with her knee. He ran his hand down her arm, round her buttocks, and along her thigh, testing for rough spots, nodding with satisfaction at the feeling of stone like cold silk beneath his fingers.
“You do look a bit daft, Kev. Don’t believe I ever once saw you smiling like that over me.”
Kevin chuckled, straightened, and looked at his wife who had come to stand in the cottage doorway. She was drying her hands on a faded tea towel, laughter drawing deeply at the wrinkles round her eyes. “Then come right ’ere and give it a try, girl. You just weren’t paying attention last time.”
Patsy Whateley waved him off with, “You’re crazy, you are, Kev,” but her husband saw the pleased flush appear on her cheeks.
“Crazy, am I?” he asked. “Not what I recall you saying this morning. That
was
you, wasn’ it, sneaking up on a bloke at six
A.M.
?”
“Kev!”
She laughed outright, and Kevin smiled at her, studying her dear, familiar features, admitting the fact that although for some time she had been surreptitiously colouring her hair to preserve a semblance of youth, her face and figure were decidedly middle-aged, the one lined and no longer firm at jaw and chin, the other filled out in places where once he had found the most delicious curves.
“You’re thinking, aren’t you, Kev? I can see it on your face. What?”
“Dirty thoughts, girl. Enough to make you blush.”
“It’s these pieces you’re working on, i’n it? Looking at naked ladies on a Sunday morning! It’s indecent and that’s all there is to it.”
“What I feel for you’s indecent and that’s a fact, luv. Step over here. Don’t mess me about. I know what you’re really like, don’t I?”
“He’s gone mad,” Patsy declared to the heavens.
“Mad the way you like.” He crossed the garden to the cottage door, took his wife into his arms, and kissed her soundly.
“Lord, Kevin, you taste all of sand!” Patsy protested when at last he released her. A streak of grey powder tinted the side of her head. Another smeared against her left breast. She brushed at her clothing, muttering with exasperation, but when she looked up and her husband grinned, her face softened and she murmured, “Half crazy. Always was, you know.”
He winked and went back to his work. She continued to watch from the doorway.
From the metal cabinet, Kevin brought out the powdered pumice that he used to condition the marble prior to signing his name to a finished piece. Mixing this with water, he smeared it liberally onto his reclining nude and worked it against the stone. He gave his attention to legs and stomach, breasts and feet, taking the greatest care with the delicate work upon the face.
He heard his wife move restlessly in the doorway. She was, he saw, looking behind her into the kitchen at the red tin clock that hung above the stove.
“Half-ten,” she said reflectively.
It was a statement she intended to sound self-directed, but it didn’t deceive Kevin with its pretence of detachment. “Now, Pats,” he soothed her, “you’re just making a fuss over nothing. I can see it dead clear. Leave off, can’t you? The boy’ll ring home as soon as he can.”
“Half-ten,” she repeated, regardless. “Matt said they’d be back by Eucharist, Kev. Eucharist surely would’ve ended at ten. It’s half-past now. Why’s he not rung us?”
“He’s busy, no doubt. Unpacking. There’s schoolwork to be faced. Tales to be told about the weekend’s fun. Then lunch with the rest of the boys. So he’s forgotten to ring his mum for the moment. But he’ll do it by one. Wait and see. Not to worry, luv.”
Kevin knew that telling his wife not to worry about their son was as useful as asking the Thames to stop rising and falling every day with the tide just a few steps away from their own front door. He’d been offering her variations of that admonition for the last twelve and a half years. But it rarely did the slightest bit of good. Patsy
would
worry herself over every detail of Matthew’s life: over whether his clothing was correctly matched; over who was cutting his hair and seeing to his teeth; over the polish on his shoes and the length of his trousers; over his choice of friends and the hobbies he pursued. She studied each one of his letters from school until she had it memorised, and if she didn’t hear from him once a week, she worked herself into a state of the jitters that nothing could quell save Matthew himself. He usually did so, which made his failure to telephone after his weekend adventure in the Cotswolds all the harder to understand. This was something that Kevin would not admit to his wife, however.
