Lindsay flicked quickly through the memo. It had come from a staff reporter who had spotted the story in a local paper and noted the bare bones on a memo to the news-desk, suggesting it be followed up. The story was about a woman who had given birth to twins after surgeons had told her she would never have a child.
“Wait a minute, Duncan,” Lindsay moaned. “I’m not here to do this sort of crappy feature. Woman’s touch, my arse. What this needs is a dollop of heavy-handed sentimentality and you bloody well know that’s not my line.”
“Don’t come the crap with me, lassie,” he returned. “It’s a real human interest story, that. I thought you’d be over the moon. The story of a woman who’s fulfilled her destiny in spite of the setbacks. It’s all there. Blocked fallopian tubes, thirteen miscarriages, doctors say she’ll die if she gives birth—Christ, this woman’s a heroine!”
“This woman’s a head-case, more like.”
“A head-case? Lindsay, you’ve got a heart like a stone. Can you not see how this woman’s triumphed against all the odds?”
“By putting her life at risk? You’d think after thirteen miscarriages she’d have realized there’s more to life than babies. There are plenty of kids up for adoption who need love and affection, you know.”
“It’s a good story, Lindsay.” There was finality in Duncan’s tone.
“Sure. Look, Duncan, I’ve been busy being a real reporter for the last three days, in case you hadn’t noticed. You know, murder, heavy-duty stuff. I’m good at the serious stories. You should take advantage of that and use me on them. If you’ve got to run this sexist garbage, get someone who’ll make a better job of it. What about James? He’s a big softie.”
Duncan put his head in his hands in mock sorrow. “Why do I employ the only reporter in Glasgow who thinks she knows better than me how to do my job? I give the girl the chance to be a superstar with her name in lights and what do I get? She wants me to go and set fire to an orphanage so she can be a real reporter. All right, Lindsay, you win. Away down to the Sheriff Court. There’s a fatal accident inquiry on that guy that came off the crane at the shipyard. You cover that. After all, I don’t really want a feature about how male doctors conspire with husbands to convince women that motherhood is their finest achievement. Sometimes I wonder why I give you shifts.”
They exchanged smiles and Lindsay set off. By five she was back in the office, writing her copy. Just before she left, at seven, Duncan called her over to the newsdesk. “Right then, kid,” he said. “Now, you’ve got the rest of this week off as far as I’m concerned. Not that I’m paying you, mind. But one favor deserves another. You come up with anything good on the murder and I want first bite of the cherry. A cracking good exclusive, right? I know we’re not usually interested in anything highbrow and south of the border, but she was at least born in Scotland and the scandals of the upper classes always sell papers. Is that a deal?” He fixed his bloodshot blue eyes on her and scowled.
“It’s a deal,” said Lindsay resignedly, “I don’t mind cutting my financial throat for you, Duncan; you’re such a charming bastard to work for.”
“I’ll make it worth your while, Lindsay. Don’t worry about that. Now on your bike and get working. You’ve had a nice restful day to set yourself up. The next time I hear your voice, I want it to be saying, ‘It’s a belter, Duncan.’”
Lindsay chuckled to herself as she ran down the three flights of stairs to the back door. Cordelia was waiting for her there, and she again experienced that tight feeling in the chest on seeing her. She was glad to feel it, because it meant that this was more than just simple lust. Their eyes met and Lindsay could see that Cordelia was just as pleased to see her. They walked to the car arm in arm, Lindsay for once not giving a damn who might see and what they might think. It gave her immense satisfaction to stow Cordelia’s bag in the boot beside her own.
“What kind of day have you had?” asked Cordelia.
“Busy,” Lindsay replied, revving up the powerful engine. “I’ve only just had time to read the evening paper report of the remand hearing. Did you see it?”
“No, but I heard something on the radio at your place,” Cordelia answered. “After that flat recital of Paddy’s remand in custody without bail, I need something to lift my mood. Did you make any progress? For God’s sake, say yes!”
“Well, I’m a bit further forward than I was this morning,” said Lindsay, pulling out on to the urban motorway that cuts a broad concrete swathe through the heart of Glasgow. Cordelia scribbled down notes of what Lindsay told her she’d learned.
“I have a lousy memory,” she explained. “I bought a notebook this morning, just for this business, and copied out what we jotted down last night. And now, do you want to know what I unearthed?” Cordelia continued without waiting for Lindsay’s nod. “I picked up a fair bit of gossip, most of it general rather than specific to Lorna’s death. The more we discover, the less I like her. There was one little gem I picked up, however.
“A lesbian friend of mine, Fran, plays the violin for the Manchester Philharmonic. She told me Lorna once said something to her that might just be relevant. She says she particularly remembered it because, for once, Lorna wasn’t trying to score points or stage a put-down but was actually sounding human. It was along the lines of, ‘I tried it your way once and I must say I found it all indescribably sordid. But then I was still at school and didn’t know any better. Though the other person involved certainly should have known better.’ That’s all. Fran tried to get more out of her, but she clammed up. As if she regretted saying what she had and was determined to say no more. But I thought . . .”
“That a teacher might just fit the frame?” asked Lindsay. Cordelia nodded. “And the strong possibility for that would be Margaret Macdonald, wouldn’t it? It would certainly explain that scene between them in the garden on Saturday morning.” Lindsay went on. “They presumably had a lot of close contact, given Lorna’s talent. I don’t know who else is still at the school who was teaching when Lorna was a pupil, but her music teacher’s got to have been close to her. We’ll have to see what Margaret Macdonald has to say about this. I hope to goodness we can rule that piece of information out as irrelevant. Now, did your researches produce any other results?”
“Lorna’s current lover. He’s a television producer for Capital TV, Andrew Christie. But they’ve only been together for a couple of months, so I don’t know how much use he’d be to us. Still, I think we ought to see him anyway. If he can fit us in tomorrow night, we can shoot up to London and stay over at my place.”
Lindsay agreed to this, and they both fell silent. As the car sped on through the night to Derbyshire, Lindsay put a cassette of Cosi fan tutte on the stereo and Cordelia sank back in the seat. It was shortly after eleven when they pulled into the forecourt of a small hotel where Cordelia had booked them a room. As they collected their bags, Cordelia said, “I thought it might be better for everyone if we didn’t actually stay at the school. Pamela Overton is insisting on paying our bill, much to my humiliation, but who can argue with a woman like that? We can phone her from here and tell her we’ve arrived and that everything is under control.”
“You really think you can make her believe that?” said Lindsay with a grin. “Tell her we’ll be up in the morning. I want to see the music room again. I didn’t really take it in on Saturday night. Lorna’s body distracted me.”
They took their luggage up to a large, rather spartan room at the top of the three-story Victorian building, then went out in search of food. Eventually they found a fish and chip shop on the market place that was still open and returned to the car with fish and chips, Cordelia muttering all the while about cholesterol and calories. By midnight, they were in bed together, staving off their misgivings about what lay ahead.
10
Lindsay woke on Thursday morning to the sound of Cordelia pulling the curtains open. “Look at this view!” she exclaimed. All Lindsay could see was a square of gray sky.
/> “Do I have to?” she groaned crossly. “What time is it?”
“Half-past seven. I’m going for a run.” Already she was dressed in the familiar training shoes and tracksuit. It occurred to Lindsay in her jaundiced frame of mind that Cordelia was certainly fit enough to have sprinted to the music department, garroted Lorna, and sprinted back again without even being out of breath. Cordelia added, “I’ll be about half an hour. You can have a lie-in if you want.”
Lindsay groaned again. “Some lie-in! I may as well get up. I’m awake now. I’ll take a walk and see if I can pick up the papers.”
“See you later.” And she was off, running down the wide staircase.
Lindsay struggled out of bed, wondering if she could stand the pace and promising herself once again that the fitness program should start soon. She walked over to the window to see the view and was impressed in spite of her drowsiness. The room looked out over a couple of football pitches to a broad sweep of mature woodland, and beyond that to distant hills folding into each other. Even in the gray morning light it was spectacular. She dressed hurriedly and went off in search of a newsagent, planning the interview with Margaret Macdonald as she walked.
It was shortly after nine when they arrived at Derbyshire House, and they went straight to Pamela Overton’s study. The headmistress was dictating letters to her secretary but as soon as she saw them, she stopped and dismissed her. In the four days since Lorna Smith-Couper had died, Pamela Overton had aged visibly. Her face was gray and pale, and there were dark circles beneath her eyes. But her manner was as decisive as ever.
She greeted them in her usual formal manner, and faced them across her desk. “No one here can believe in Miss Callaghan’s guilt. Her arrest is frankly incredible. And it hasn’t stopped the rot, I’m afraid. Already we have lost twenty-one girls and I feel sure others will follow.” She sighed deeply. “But I should not burden you with my problems. That will get us nowhere. How can I help you?”
Lindsay spoke first. “I think Cordelia mentioned that we would like to see the room where it happened. I want to get the scene completely clear in my mind, and it might suggest some possibilities. I take it the police have finished with it now?”
“There will be no problem there,” said Miss Overton. “Their forensic people finished their work there on Monday. The room has, of course, been cleaned and put in order now that they have done with it, but we are not yet using it as a classroom. It’s been locked up to avoid any ghoulishness, but I have the key here. You also want to question some people, don’t you?”
“Yes, we do,” Cordelia replied. “But we’d like to keep it on an informal basis as far as possible, especially where the girls are concerned. It’s mainly a matter of details at the moment. We’d also like to talk to Miss Macdonald, since no one knows the business of the music department better than her. Can you tell us when she’s free today? Also, we’d like a letter from you that we can use as an introduction to people outside the school, saying that we’re inquiring into matters on your behalf and asking for co-operation. And finally . . . we’d like to use Paddy Callaghan’s rooms as our base within the school.”
Pamela Overton moved over to the wall where the timetables were displayed. She studied them for a moment, then told them Margaret Macdonald had one free period later in the morning and another in the afternoon. “If she’s not in her department, try her rooms in Grin Low House,” she explained. She returned to her desk, took a sheet of headed notepaper from a drawer, and wrote a few lines. She handed it to Cordelia, who read,
To whom it may concern; Cordelia Brown and Lindsay Gordon are making inquiries on my behalf regarding the death of Lorna Smith-Couper. I would be grateful if you would give them the fullest co-operation, Yours faithfully, Pamela Overton.
Then Miss Overton gave Lindsay a handful of keys taken from another drawer. “The single key is for the music room, the bunch is Miss Callaghan’s.”
Cordelia nodded. “Thank you.”
“One more thing,” Lindsay chipped in. “What can you tell us about James Cartwright? This isn’t a large community; you must know a fair bit about him. We have virtually no background, I’m afraid,” she apologized.
The headmistress thought for a moment, a flicker of distaste appearing momentarily in her eyes. Finally, she said, “He is a very successful builder. He started off in a small way, as a one-man business working locally. He did general work, but began to specialize in buying old properties, doing them up and converting them into flats and selling them at a handsome profit. In the property boom of the seventies, he made some very shrewd deals and amassed a considerable amount of money. He expanded to employ a fairly large workforce and now takes on work throughout the Peak area. He is generally thought of as having done very well.
“He still keeps a close contact with the day-to-day running of the business—it’s not unusual to see him up some scaffolding with a hard hat and a bricklayer’s trowel. He is well liked locally, though some find him ostentatious. However, I must say there have been fewer signs of that lately. His wife left him and Sarah about nine years ago. I believe she left him for an American civil engineer, though I know little about the circumstances. Mr. Cartwright has done his best to give Sarah a decent life—and not simply by spending money. He tries to spend time with her, though the pressures of his business don’t allow him much free time. She in her turn worships him. He is ruthless, but not, I think, insensitive. Will that do?”
Lindsay smiled and said, “Admirably. Thank you. We won’t take up any more of your time now.”
As they moved toward the door, Miss Overton spoke again. “I will be here at all times to answer any questions. I know you may well be reluctant to discuss your progress with me, but I ask that if you think you have reached a solution you tell me before you communicate with the police.” It was a command rather than a request.
“Of course, if that is possible,” said Cordelia. Then they managed to leave. They walked down the corridor to the back stairs, Cordelia muttering, “She terrifies me. If I didn’t have the evidence of my own eyes that she didn’t budge from the hall, I’d swear she was the only person cool enough to get away with murder under everyone’s nose.”
Lindsay grinned, then said thoughtfully, “Yet whoever it was must have done just that. There were so many people flitting around it must have been an extremely dodgy exercise. It’s hard to believe anyone could have got away with it completely unseen. Oh, and by the way, you’ve just fallen into the oldest trap. You said you have the evidence of your eyes that she didn’t budge from the hall. But don’t forget that you were out of the hall yourself during the crucial period. All you can say is that she was there when you left and there when you returned. For all you know, she could have slipped out, just like you did.”
“Except that, by my own admission of where I was, we would have bumped smack into each other on the doorstep.”
“Unless one of you was actually in there committing murder.” Lindsay stopped on the stairs. “Now what am I saying? Oh God, I’m sorry, Cordelia. It’s just my love of perversity . . . Look, I know it wasn’t you. And I know it wasn’t Pamela Overton, because I do have the evidence of my own eyes to go on there. Forgive my crassness.”
Cordelia stood a couple of steps above her, smiling “Nothing to forgive. I don’t expect two nights of passion to convince you that I’m above suspicion.”
They were suddenly grinning at each other like schoolkids who have just discovered that they are best friends. Together they ran up the few remaining stairs. Only the sight of the music room door sobered them into rather frightened adults again. Cordelia put the key in the lock, then paused. “Ready?”
Lindsay nodded. Cordelia turned the key and opened the door. It swung open silently to reveal a completely ordinary music classroom. It smelled faintly of a mixture of polish, chalk, and resin. In one corner was a neat stack of music stands. On open shelves along one wall were piles of sheet music. Glass-fronted cupboards beneath the shelv
es revealed boxes of strings, reeds, percussion instruments, and piles of blank manuscript paper. There were about twenty chairs scattered around. At the far end of the room was a baby grand piano, the teacher’s desk on a raised dais in front of the blackboard, and a walk-in cupboard whose open door revealed neatly ordered string instruments in racks; violins, violas, cellos, even a mandolin and two guitars.
The two women walked in and closed the door behind them. Cordelia wandered round slowly, uncertain of what she was looking for. After a moment, she joined Lindsay, who was examining the windows. Below was a drop of about eighteen feet to the ground. There was no down-pipe within ten feet. The three windows were ordinary casements with pivotting catches. Lindsay took a Swiss Army knife from her handbag and selected the thinnest blade. She fiddled idly with one of the catches. It rose smoothly and fell back, allowing the window to swing open.
“Perfectly smooth. Not in the least stiff,” she remarked. “Pity the murderer couldn’t have got in that way. And a ladder’s out of the question. It would have to be smack bang in the middle of the drive, which would have been more than slightly noticeable.” She turned back to the room. “Lorna was sitting over there in front of the dais, facing the door, back to the windows. There was a music stand in front of her, overturned. Sheet music all over the floor. Her cello under her. Not a pretty sight.” She pushed the window shut smartly and the latch promptly fell back into place. “Have you seen enough? It rather gives me the creeps, being here. I can still remember all too vividly how Lorna looked.”
Cordelia gave her hand a squeeze and nodded. “Yes, I’ve seen quite enough. Let’s go over to Paddy’s room. We’ve got nearly an hour to kill before we can see Margaret Macdonald, and we can use the phone in Paddy’s room to see if we can set up a meeting with Andrew Christie.”