Well-Schooled in Murder (57 page)

Lynley felt his reaction to her words like a reflex working on his muscles. He got to his feet. The light on the bedside table struck the right side of Mrs. Streader’s lined face. The rest of her was in shadow. But from what he could read of her expression, Lynley knew that the woman had no idea of the import behind what she had just said.

“Here by four?” he repeated.

“He said he’d hitchhiked. And he must have. He was soaked. Why? Is it important?”

Lynley didn’t reply. Instead, he left the room. He sought St. James, finding him in the sitting room with Inspector Canerone and a uniformed constable.

“There’s no doubt it’s a suicide,” Canerone said when he saw Lynley. “The boy came prepared.” He handed Lynley the ill-made noose. It had been fashioned from two Bredgar Chambers ties that were knotted together, one blue with thin yellow stripes, the other of an identical pattern but with the colours reversed: yellow with thin blue stripes.

Lynley held them like a snake in his two hands. Yellow on blue. Blue on yellow. It went beyond Matthew. He himself had seen the confusion over colours played out right before his own eyes, but until this moment he’d been distracted by allusions to relationships. He’d been delving for meaning beneath idle talk about hockey rather than recognising a horrible truth. He spoke to St. James. “We need to get back to the school.” And to Canerone, “Can your men handle the details here?”

“Of course.”

Lynley rolled the ties into a coil which he shoved into his pocket. He said nothing more. Instead, he began assimilating information, dwelling upon the single reality that remained once suspects’ motives were discarded and their opportunities were examined. With a nod to Canerone, he left the room.

When they were in the car heading back to West Sussex, St. James broke into Lynley’s thoughts. “What is it, Tommy? You’re not thinking it’s not a suicide, are you?”

“No. Chas Quilter took his own life. As far as he could see, it was either kill himself or tell the truth. There was nothing else for it. Death seemed the better alternative to him.” Lightly, Lynley struck the steering wheel with his fist. “It says it right on the wall of that miserable chapel. I read it. Damn it all, I
read
it, St. James.”

“What?”

“
Per mortes eorum vivimus
. Through their deaths we live. The school’s blasted memorial to its old boys who died in war. And he bought into it, damn him. He bought into that and into everything else—the code of silence, the demands of honour, the loyalty to his mates. So he killed himself. St. James, he hanged himself rather than tell the truth. Through
his
death, others live. Cecilia said it best. ‘He’ll protect.’ But it works both ways, doesn’t it? You don’t protect a friend who won’t protect you.”

“Are you saying Chas Quilter didn’t kill Matthew Whateley?”

“He didn’t kill Matthew. But Chas is the reason why Matthew died.”

Sergeant Havers met them in the school’s main entrance hall. She was just leaving the chapel as Lynley and St. James came in the front door. Her clothes were dishevelled, her hair was rumpled, her face looked exceedingly tired.

“Nkata phoned in again from Exeter,” she announced.

“Any news?”

“He says that nothing checks out. If there was a Eurasian baby born there thirteen years ago whose adoption was orchestrated by Giles Byrne, no one has heard of it. Everyone said the exact same thing when Nkata explained the situation to them. An adoption of the sort Giles Byrne has described would be a strictly private affair, usually managed by the mother, a solicitor, and the adoptive parents. No one else. That’s it. Byrne’s story is bunk. But we’ve a bit of luck connected to that, because the Board of Governors have been meeting in Lockwood’s council room all evening. They’re still at it right now. Giles Byrne’s with them.”

Lynley was not surprised by the news from Constable Nkata. It was yet another puzzle piece clicking into place. “How’s Jean Bonnamy?”

Havers kicked her shoe against an uneven stone in the floor. “They think she’ll make it.”

“Still unconscious?”

“Yes and no. She came out of it briefly, before they took her into surgery.”

“Was she able to speak?”

“Enough.”

“And?”

“She managed to give Horsham CID a description. I was there when they took it. She couldn’t see her attacker very well because of the light, but she saw enough. It wasn’t Chas Quilter, sir. Nothing matched up. Not the height. Not the weight. Not the body type. Not the hair. No spectacles either, and I can’t guess he’d try to attack someone blind. So we’ve lost our man again.”

Lynley shook his head. “We’ve found him, Sergeant. I’ve no doubt there’ll be a volume of forensic evidence to hold him.”

“Are we ready for an arrest, then?”

“Not quite. There’s one more question that I’d like to have answered. Giles Byrne’s the man to do so.”

The meeting of the Board of Governors was concluding as Lynley and St. James entered the administrative corridor. The door to the council room stood open, allowing a yellow haze of stale cigarette smoke to permeate the fresher hallway air. Through this came the sounds of congenial farewells being given, followed by an exodus of eight men and one woman who, talking among themselves, passed Lynley and St. James with little more than a curious nod before going out into the night. Obviously, Lynley thought, the Headmaster had managed to soothe any anxieties the governors had expressed about the disappearance and death of Matthew Whateley.

Alan Lockwood was still in the council room. Seated at the broad walnut table, he was talking with Giles Byrne and pinching the knot of his tie. Coffee cups, carafes of water, and ashtrays surrounded them, and as Lynley and St. James entered the room, Giles Byrne lit a cigarette and leaned back in his chair. Next to him, Alan Lockwood looked hastily at the window that was open a mere three inches onto the cloister. But, perhaps with a view towards politics, he made no move to open it further.

“As to the pending arrest,” Lockwood was saying.

Byrne lifted a lazy hand to stop him. “I believe our good Inspector himself can best address that, Alan. If you’d care to ask him about it.” He sucked on his cigarette and held the smoke for some seconds in his lungs.

Lockwood’s head swivelled towards the door. He shot up from the table when he saw Lynley and St. James. “Well?” The single word was a demand for both information and performance. It also had the ring of apocryphal authority, no doubt produced for the benefit of the man who had been largely responsible for Lockwood’s employment at the school.

Ignoring it momentarily, Lynley introduced them to St. James. He went on to say, “Matthew Whateley used to visit a woman in Cissbury called Jean Bonnamy. She was attacked late this afternoon.”

“What does that have to do with—”

“She’s given the police a description, Mr. Lockwood. There’s not much doubt that her assailant came from this school.”

“Pritchard’s been watched every second. There’s no way he could have left Calchus House and got into Cissbury. It’s an impossibility.”

“It wasn’t Clive Pritchard. He’s been tangentially involved in everything. There’s no getting round that. But Clive was never the prime mover in what’s happened at Bredgar Chambers over the past week. He’s not clever enough for that. He was merely an unwitting pawn.”

“A pawn?”

Lynley advanced into the room. St. James walked to the window where he watched the exchange. “It’s all been a bit like a game of chess. I didn’t see that at first. But tonight I recognised the similarities. Most especially, I saw how the minor players have been sacrificed from the first to protect the king. Just as one does with pawns and then, of necessity, with rooks and bishops. Only now, the king’s dead. I imagine that was the one eventuality that our killer never expected.” Lynley joined them at the table. He pushed a coffee cup and a carafe of water to one side. Lockwood was forced to resume his seat.

“What is all this?” he demanded. “Mr. Byrne and I have business to attend to, Inspector. If you’ve come to play games—”

“Chas Quilter’s dead, Mr. Lockwood,” Lynley interposed. “He hanged himself in Stoke Poges this evening.”

The Headmaster’s lips formed the boy’s name soundlessly. Giles Byrne spoke.

“How ghastly. Alan, I shall leave you to deal with this. Perhaps a phone call in the morning…?”

“Please stay, Mr. Byrne,” Lynley said.

“This obviously has nothing to do with me.”

“I’m afraid that’s not the case,” Lynley said as the man was rising. “It has everything to do with you. It has to do with a pathetic need for love, a need for a tie to another human being. And that, I’m afraid, is entirely bound up in you.”

“What are you trying to tell me?”

“That Matthew Whateley’s dead. That Chas Quilter’s dead. That Jean Bonnamy’s in hospital with a fractured skull. All because you can’t face a relationship with another human being unless that person promises you perfection.”

“That’s outrageous.”

“You cut your son off when he was thirteen years old, didn’t you? Because he snivelled, you said. Because he wasn’t enough of a man.”

Giles Byrne mashed his cigarette into the ashtray. “And I killed Matthew Whateley for the same reason?” he snarled. “Is that where you’re heading? Because if it is, you had better know that I’m not about to listen to this without a solicitor present. And when your game is played out, Inspector, I hope you’ve some alternative career to turn to because you’ll be through with policework. Am I making myself clear? You’re not dealing with some puling adolescent now. I advise you to know what you’re about before you go any further.”

Alan Lockwood spoke unctuously. “I hardly think the Inspector means to suggest—”

“I know what he means to suggest. I know what he’s been sniffing at. I know how their minds work. I’ve seen it often enough to realise when…” A movement at the door caused Byrne’s angry words to falter.

The man’s son stood there, Sergeant Havers behind him. “Hello, Father,” Brian said. “How nice of you to let me know you’d be here this evening.”

“What’s the meaning of this?” Giles Byrne asked Lynley.

Sergeant Havers shut the door. With her hand on his arm, she guided Brian Byrne to the table. He sat, not next to his father but opposite him. At the head of the table, Lockwood loosened his tie. His eyes darted from Byrne to his son. Neither spoke. Someone passed in the cloisters outside the room, but no one looked towards the windows.

“Sergeant,” Lynley said.

As she had done earlier for Clive Pritchard, Havers went through the procedure of cautioning the boy. While she did so—the words rising automatically from years of having said them—she thumbed through her notebook. When she finished the caution prescribed by the Judge’s Rules, the boy’s father spoke. His lips scarcely moved.

“I want a solicitor here. Now.”

“We’re not here to question you,” Lynley said. “That’s not your decision. It’s Brian’s.”

“He wants one,” Byrne barked. “
Now
.”

Lynley said only, “Brian?”

The boy shrugged, indifferent.

“Give me a phone,” Byrne said. “Lockwood, a
phone
.”

The Headmaster began to move. Lynley stopped him. “Do you want a solicitor present, Brian? It’s your decision to make. Not your father’s. Or mine. Or anyone else’s. Do you want a solicitor?”

The boy looked at his father, then his eyes slid away. “No,” he said.

“For Christ’s sake!” his father exploded, one hand slamming onto the table.

“No.” Brian was firm.

“You’re doing this to punish—”

“
No
,” Brian said.

Byrne twisted towards Lynley. “You’ve orchestrated this. You
knew
he’d refuse. If you think for a moment that a court of law is going to uphold this sort of procedure, you’re mad.”

“Do you want a solicitor, Brian?” Lynley repeated evenly.

“I’ve said. No.”

“This is murder, you blasted little ninny!” Byrne shouted. “Have some sense just once in your miserable life!”