Well-Schooled in Murder (15 page)

Pitt smiled. “The cat has claws, I see.” He brushed his fingers on his gown and selected another slice of toast and a piece of bacon. His eyes lingered hungrily upon the eggs. Corntel saw this and, in spite of his natural dislike of the German master, he felt touched by a momentary, unwanted pity. He knew that Pitt would never come into the masters’ common room when breakfast was first being served, when his meal would be hot. It was a matter of pride. To come into the masters’ common room for hot food would be an open admission that life in the private quarters of Galatea House was too unpleasant for Pitt to take his breakfast there. And Pitt would not admit to that any more than he would admit to the fact that his wife was in bed at the moment, soundly sleeping off her regular Sunday evening’s binge.

Whatever pity Corntel felt for the other man died, however, as Pitt continued to speak. “I suppose this really screws it up for you, doesn’t it, John? You have my complete sympathy, of course, but after all, didn’t you think to check with the Morant family to see that all six boys actually were with them for the weekend? That’s fairly standard procedure. At least it is for me.”

“I didn’t think—”

“What about checking the Sanatorium? A boy gets sick and you don’t even think to pop by and put your hand on his forehead? Or”—Pitt smiled—“was your hand somewhere else at the time?”

Quick fury damaged Corntel’s forced calm. “You know very well that I had no word from the San. But
you
did, didn’t you? What did you do when you found Matthew Whateley’s off-games chit sitting in your pigeonhole last Friday? You were running that hockey game in the afternoon, weren’t you? Did you dash over to see what was wrong with him, Cowfrey? Or did you just go on your way, satisfied that the chit was what it seemed?”

Pitt was deliberately unperturbed. “Don’t tell me you feel a need to push that off on to me.” His eyes—grey-green and reptilian—slid away from Corntel’s to make a quick assessment of who was in the room. There was no one, but in spite of this, his voice lowered confidentially. “We both know who was responsible for Matthew, don’t we, John? You can point out to the police that I saw an off-games chit and did nothing to verify its validity. Please feel free to do so, in fact. But I’m not so sure there’s a crime involved in that. Are you?”

“Are you even
suggesting—
”

Pitt’s face broke into a smile as he looked beyond Corntel’s left shoulder. “Headmaster. Good morning,” he said.

Corntel turned to see Alan Lockwood watching their exchange from the doorway. He took their measure from head to toe before he crossed the room, his gown flowing round him.

“Do something about your appearance, Mr. Pitt,” Lockwood said and consulted a schedule which he pulled from his jacket pocket. “You’ve a lesson in a half-hour. That should give you time to clean yourself up. You look like a tramp, or weren’t you even aware of that? We’ve the police on campus. The Board of Governors may show up before the morning’s over, and I have enough on my mind already without having to worry about my teachers’ lack of interest in their personal grooming. Do something about it. Now. Is that clear?”

Pitt’s features hardened. “Perfectly,” he replied.

Alan Lockwood nodded and walked away.

“Little bum-boy,” Pitt murmured. “What a show of Headmaster our Alan puts on. What a lovely show of power. What a man. What a god. But just scratch the surface and you’ll see who’s in control. Little Matt Whateley proved that.”

“What are you talking about, Cowfrey?” Corntel’s anger was fading, giving place to irritation. Yet he saw that again he had foolishly played into Pitt’s hands.

“Talking about?” Pitt repeated with factitious surprise. “My, you
are
out of touch, aren’t you, Johnny? What’s been keeping you so busy that you’ve even lost sight of the latest school gossip? Hmm? Is there something I should know about your personal life? Or perhaps I ought to guess?”

Anger returned. Corntel walked away.

7

Lynley decided to meet with Matthew Whateley’s three roommates in the dormitory they had shared. When Chas Quilter delivered them to the room, each boy went immediately to his own cubicle, like an animal scurrying for safety. They seemed to take care not to look at one another, but two of them cast their eyes quickly upon the senior prefect, who followed them into the room and stood, as he had before, by the door.

Seeing the contrast between Chas and these boys, Lynley realised that he had forgotten how great are the changes that occur between the ages of thirteen and eighteen. Chas was developed, fully formed, a man, while the boys still possessed all the softness of childhood—round cheeks, silky skin, indefinite jaws. There was a wariness to them as they perched each one upon the edge of his bed, and Lynley wagered that it had more to do with the presence of the senior prefect than it did with the police. Chas’ physical presence alone would probably be more than enough to intimidate a boy five years younger than he. His position of importance at the school did not help matters.

“Sergeant,” Lynley said to Havers, who had automatically opened her notebook in preparation for the interview, “will you take stock of the school for me? Interior and exterior.” He saw her mouth begin to open with the automatic reference to police procedure and Judge’s Rules, and stopped her by saying, “Have Chas show you everything, if you will.”

Havers was quick enough to understand, wise enough to keep the comprehension from showing upon her face. She nodded and escorted the senior prefect from the room, leaving Lynley alone with Wedge, Arlens, and Smythe-Andrews. He took stock of them. They were nice-looking boys, neatly dressed in grey trousers, crisp white shirts, yellow pullovers, and blue and yellow striped ties. Of the three, Wedge seemed the most self-possessed. Once the senior prefect was gone, he looked up from his examination of the faded linoleum floor. Backed by his collection of rock and roll posters, he appeared confident and ready to engage in conversation. The other two seemed less so. Arlens was giving his full attention to the bathing beauty arched into the surf while Smythe-Andrews squirmed restlessly on his bed, poking at the heel of his shoe with the stub of a pencil.

“Matthew Whateley appears to have run away from the school,” Lynley said, going to sit on the end of Matthew’s bed. He leaned towards them, his arms on his legs, his hands clasped loosely in front of him, a model of relaxation. “Have you any idea why?”

The boys exchanged furtive looks.

“What was he like?” Lynley queried. “Wedge?”

“Nice bloke,” Wedge responded, fastening his gaze on Lynley’s face as if this act might serve as verification of complete truth. “Decent bloke, Matt was.”

“So you know he’s dead.”

“Whole school knows he’s dead, sir.”

“How did you find out?”

“Heard about it this morning at breakfast, sir.”

“From whom?”

Wedge picked at his palm. “Don’t know. It just came down the side of the table. Matt’s dead. Whateley’s dead. Some boy from Erebus House is dead. Don’t know who started it.”

“Were you surprised?”

“I thought it was a joke.”

Lynley looked at the other two boys. “And you?” he asked them. “Did you think it was a joke?”

They took their lead from Wedge, both of them nodding solemnly. Wedge spoke again.

“One doesn’t expect that sort of thing.”

“But Matthew had been missing since Friday. Something had to have happened to him. It couldn’t have come as a complete surprise.”

Arlens bit at the nail of his index finger. “He was to go with Harry Morant for the weekend, sir. With some boys from Calchus House—that’s where Harry has his digs. We thought Matt had gone with them to the Cotswolds. He had an exeat. Everyone knew…” Arlens hesitated, as if he’d said too much, dropped his head, went back to chewing his nail again.

“Everyone knew what?” Lynley asked.

Wedge took the initiative. He spoke with surprising patience. “Everyone knew that Harry Morant was taking five boys home for the weekend. Harry made a big thing of it to everyone. Like it was something special and only the select would be invited. Harry’s like that.” Wedge concluded sagaciously, “Makes him feel important.”

Lynley watched Smythe-Andrews repeatedly stab at his shoe. His face was sullen.

“All the other boys going on the weekend were from Calchus House? How did Matthew come to know them that well?”

None of the boys replied at first. But none of them were successful in hiding the fact that there was a simple and direct answer to the question which all of them knew and were reluctant to give. Lynley thought about his interview with Matthew’s parents, thought about their persistent assertions of their son’s contentment at Bredgar Chambers.

“Was Matthew happy here?” He noticed the momentary cessation of Smythe-Andrews’ pencil.

“Who’s really happy here?” the boy replied. “We’re here because our parents sent us. Matt was no different.”

“But he was, wasn’t he?” Lynley asked. Again, they didn’t reply, but this time he saw Arlens and Wedge regard one another briefly. “Just look at what he hung on his walls.”

“He was a decent chap.” This from Wedge, like a protest.

“Who ran away?”

“Kept to himself,” Arlens said.

“He was different,” Lynley countered.

The boys didn’t respond. Their determined reserve was its own affirmation. Matthew Whateley had indeed been different, but Lynley guessed that the difference had gone far beyond the pictures on his walls. It sprang from his background, from the neighbourhood in which he had spent his childhood, from his accent, from his values, from his choice of friends. The boy had been out of place in this environment, and all of them knew it.

He gave his attention to Arlens. “What do you mean when you say he kept to himself?”

“Just that…well, he ignored traditions.”

“What sort of traditions?”

“Things that we do. You know. Just things. School things.”

“School things?”

Wedge looked exasperated, frowned at Arlens. “Stupid stuff, sir. Like everyone carves his name in the bell tower. It’s supposed to be locked, but the lock’s been broken for ages, and everyone—the boys, not the girls—climbs up and carves his name somewhere on the wall inside. And has a smoke there as well, if he wants.”

Wedge’s information seemed to loosen Arlens’ tongue. “And hunting for magic mushrooms,” he added with a smile.

“There are drugs in the school?”

Arlens shrugged, subdued perhaps by his own inadvertent admission. Lynley interpreted the shrug as negation and went on.

“But you’ve said magic mushrooms.”

Wedge again took the initiative. “It’s a lark. Going out at night with a torch and a blanket over one’s head and picking magic mushrooms. We never eat any. I don’t think anyone actually eats them. But blokes like to have them about. That was the sort of thing Matt wasn’t interested in.”

“Was he above it all?”

“He just wasn’t interested.”

“He was interested in the Model Railway Society,” Arlens offered.

The other boys rolled their eyes at this. Obviously, an interest in model railways was a little childish in the eyes of this lot.

“And in doing his lessons,” Wedge put in. “He was serious about that. About school.”

“And about his trains,” Arlens reaffirmed.

“Did you ever meet his parents?” Lynley asked.

A shuffling of feet, a fidgeting on the beds, quite telling at that particular question.

“There was a parents’ day, wasn’t there? Did you meet them?”

Smythe-Andrews spoke, but he did not look up from his shoe as he did so. “Matt’s mum used to work in a pub. His dad carves tombstones outside of London. And Matt didn’t hide that from anyone the way some boys might. He didn’t care. It’s like he wanted people to know.”

Hearing the words, seeing the boys’ reactions, Lynley wondered if schools had changed at all. He wondered if, in fact, their society had changed. In this age of enlightenment, they all gave lip service to the end of class barriers, but how honest were those declarations of equality in a culture that had for generations judged a man’s worth by his accent, by his chance of birth, by the age of his money, by the clubs he belonged to and the people who called him
friend
? What had Matthew Whateley’s parents been thinking of in sending their son to a school like Bredgar Chambers, even on a scholarship?