“Sorry, Caroline, it’s not for me to say. I’d like to tell you, but I’d be breaking a confidence.”
“Oh, I see, grown-up conspiracies, eh? Anything to protect the kiddiewinks,” the girl retorted, smiling.
Lindsay laughed in spite of herself. “Not quite. It’s just that it’s not right for me to pass on what I’ve been told in confidence.” A little white lie, she thought, and that’s not going to fool Caroline.
“I see. So you’re not actually dashing to the phone to tell the world’s press about murder most foul, then?” Caroline said mischievously. They had reached Pamela Overton’s quarters, so Lindsay managed to avoid giving an answer by vanishing through the door indicated and into the study with only a word of thanks. Caroline shrugged expressively at the closed door then took herself off. Lindsay turned on a side-light and sat down at a desk which was fanatically tidy. All that adorned its surface was a telephone, a blotter, and a large pad of scribbling paper. Lindsay pulled the paper toward her and roughed out two introductions. “A brutal murderer stalked a top girls’ boarding school last night (Saturday). A star cello player was found savagely murdered as she prepared to give a concert before a glittering audience of the rich and famous,” read the first, destined for the tabloids. The other, for the heavies, was, “Internationally celebrated cellist Lorna Smith-Couper was found dead last night at a girls’ public school. Her body was discovered by staff at Derbyshire House Girls’ School, just before she was due to perform in a gala concert.” Then she jotted down a series of points in order of priority; “How found? When? Why there? Overton quote. No police quote yet.”
Within minutes she was on to her first news-desk and dictating her copy to one of those remarkably speedy typists who perform the inimitable and thankless task of taking down the ephemeral prose of journalists out on the road all over the world. It was well after ten when she finished. A good night’s work, she thought, but tomorrow would be a lot tougher. She’d have to file copy again with more detail to all the dailies, and act as a liaison for Pamela Overton, her staff, and the girls. And some time within the next few hours, she would somehow have to develop the roll of film in her camera. Someone would pay a good price for what were almost certainly the last photographs of the murder victim. She would, of course, have to crop Margaret Macdonald right out of the frame. No one wanted a photograph of an unknown music teacher.
She sat smoking at Pamela Overton’s desk, using the waste-paper bin as an ashtray. She was strangely reluctant to return to the center of events where a good journalist should be. The police would be here by now, and she would have to get a quote from the officer leading the investigation. But that could wait. The police would be too busy at present to be bothered with her questions. She was jotting down a few notes to herself about her course of action in the morning when there was a knock at the door. Before she could answer, it opened and Cordelia came in.
“I hoped I’d find you here,” said Cordelia. “Paddy reckoned Pamela Overton would have sent you here to do your stuff. I’m not interrupting you, am I?”
“No, I’d just finished phoning copy over. It’s debatable how much any of the newspapers will be able to use at this time of night. But the radio news will give it plenty of air-time, and I’m afraid that by tomorrow morning we’ll have the whole pack of journos on the doorstep. And how Pamela Overton imagines I’m going to cope with that lot, I do not know,” Lindsay replied wearily.
“Paddy says the boss will probably ask you to stay for a couple more days.”
“Not beyond Monday, I’m afraid. I’ve got a dayshift on Tuesday on the Scottish Daily Clarion, and I can’t afford to let them down since they are my major source of income at the moment. Still, tomorrow will be the worst, the fuss should have died down by Monday, especially if they make a quick arrest.”
Cordelia sat down on the window seat and looked out into the darkness. She spoke quietly. “The police are here now. Going into their routines. They’ve got a batch of coppers on the door of the hall. Taking down the names and addresses of all the audience, and then letting them go off. They’ve pulled Paddy and Margaret Macdonald and Pamela Overton off to one side and a very efficient-looking Inspector is questioning them one by one. They’ll be tied up for a while yet, I suspect. Another bunch of plain-clothes men are questioning girls and staff. Anyone who’s got anything interesting to contribute will no doubt be winnowed out and sent through to the Inspector. Pamela Overton still hasn’t turned a hair. But then you probably guessed all that anyway.”
Lindsay said nothing. She went over to the window and gave Cordelia a cigarette. She noted with a clinical eye that the hand that took it was shaking. Cordelia slowly smoked the cigarette. When it was burned halfway down, she gave a nervous laugh and said, “It’s not always like this, you know. Most of the time it’s pretty civilized. We don’t go around killing old girls on a regular basis, no matter how obnoxious.”
“I didn’t for one moment think you did.”
There was another pause. Then Cordelia said,
“Lindsay—I’ve got to ask a favor. Or, rather, ask your advice.”
“Ask away.”
“You know when we were sitting together before the concert and I went off to the loo?” Lindsay nodded. “Well, I didn’t only go to the loo. You probably noticed I was gone for quite a while. You see, I thought that just before the concert might be the best time to tackle Lorna. You know, I thought she’d have her mind on what she was about to do and might just be a little less vindictive than usual.
“I know one is supposed to leave all that wheeling and dealing to the lawyers, but I simply thought that a few words, woman to woman, appealing to the old better nature and all that, might do the trick and we could come to a civilized agreement that would avoid going to court.”
Cordelia nervously stubbed out her cigarette. She ground it so fiercely that it broke and shreds of tobacco scattered in all directions. She went on, her voice rising. “I ducked down the stairs, through the ground floor, down to the back stairs beyond this flat. I knew she was in Music 2 and I knew I could get there without being seen. I went up and knocked on the door. There was no reply, so I tried the door handle. It was locked. There was nothing else I could do but come back. I swear that’s all. I didn’t hear a sound. I didn’t call out to her or anything.”
A sudden coldness gripped Lindsay’s chest. With icy clarity she realized that she could be listening to a murderer laying down her first line of defense. But surely not Cordelia? Lindsay broke the silence that followed Cordelia’s outburst, forcing herself to speak calmly and quietly. “You’re going to have to tell the police. I think you knew that really.”
“But nobody saw me. I’m sure of that.”
“You can’t be certain. At the very least, there must be other people in the gallery who saw you leave and return later. And remember, you tried the door. There’s an outside chance that your prints are still on the handle, though that’s been handled enough since to make that unlikely. Also, it is material evidence. At the time you say you knocked, it was all quiet in there. So presumably she was dead by then, or there would either have been music or some response from Lorna. You can’t withhold evidence like that, Cordelia.”
She put her hand on the other woman’s shoulder. Cordelia gripped it tightly. “I’m afraid,” she said. “I’m afraid they’ll think I did it.”
Lindsay replied quickly, trying to convince herself as much as Cordelia. “Don’t be silly. How on earth could you have got into the room, killed Lorna, and got back to your seat, having locked the door behind you, replaced the key, and not shown the slightest sign of upheaval? At the very least you’d have been out of breath and I’d have noticed that. Besides, whoever killed her must have had the weapon ready, and you couldn’t hide anything in that dress,” she ended, realizing even as she spoke that the garrote could easily have been hidden in the music room in advance. But she desperately didn’t want to consider seriously the proposition that a woman
she’d fallen for could have murdered someone. So she wanted to offer what reassurance she could. When the police made any move toward Cordelia, that was the time to worry. Not before.
“Look, it’s okay. Don’t worry. Nobody could think for a moment that it was you. You’ve hardly got a motive, after all. Oh, I know dead women don’t sue. But the case was by no means a foregone conclusion, and surely she would have come out of it at least as badly as you. At worst, it would have given the book a lot of publicity.” Lindsay squeezed down on the seat beside Cordelia, who rested her head on Lindsay’s shoulder.
She sighed and said, “You’re right. I suppose I’ll have to face them. Sorry, I’m not normally such a wimp. Oh God, I really don’t want to go through with this. I wish I could just climb into bed and pull the covers over my head. Just sleep long enough for it all to go away.”
“That’s not really on, though, is it?”
“No. Instead, I’ve got to go and tell all to some tedious plod who will doubtless trip me up and proceed to arrest me for murder on the spot. Will you come with me?”
Lindsay nodded. “Of course. They’ll not let me stick around while they take your statement, though, particularly with me being the resident hack.”
Cordelia chuckled softly. “Oh no, they wouldn’t want witnesses when they start pulling out my fingernails to get a confession.” They both laughed, and the tension evaporated. Lindsay felt slightly hysterical with a mixture of jubilation that her doubts about Cordelia had vanished, and shock reaction to the events of the past few hours. She got to her feet and Cordelia followed her out of the room.
On the way upstairs, Lindsay asked Cordelia, “Do you know if there’s a darkroom in the school?”
“Yes. Some of the seniors do photography as a hobby. There’s a little darkroom in the science block, over at the back of the tennis courts. Why?”
“I took a couple of candid camera shots of Lorna this morning when she was out walking. I was up the hill. I wanted to take a look at them to see if they were at all saleable. Mercenary to the last, you see.”
“No, just professional.”
“Not a professionalism to be proud of, particularly. However, it does keep the emotions at bay.”
By then they had reached the doors of the hall. Most of the girls had left, but there was still a handful of staff members and a few of the girls Lindsay recognized as ushers and program sellers. When they entered, Chris Jackson looked up and beckoned them over. They sat down on either side of her, a little way off from the nearest schoolgirls.
“How is it progressing?” asked Lindsay.
“Quite quickly, considering. They’ve finished with the head and Paddy, but Margaret’s still in there. A lesser copper is interviewing the others—a ‘preliminary chat,’ he says. They’ll be back tomorrow for more, I gather. At least they’ve got the decency to see everyone here instead of dragging us all down to the nick. The young copper’s got Caroline Barrington in there just now. I know who I feel sorry for, and it’s not Caroline.” Chris’s nervous chatter suddenly ground to a halt.
“I want to have a word with one of the boys in blue,” said Cordelia, trying to appear nonchalant but failing. “How long is she likely to be?”
Just then, Caroline bounced into the hall, calling out, “Next please for the Spanish Inquisition.”
“That girl is impossible,” said Chris, exasperated. “Why don’t you go in now? That way, you and Lindsay can get off back across to Longnor at the first opportunity. Paddy asked me to say she’d see you over there. She’s gone back to try to get the girls into some sort of order. Most of them seem to be behaving remarkably well, but one or two are going right off their trolleys.” Cordelia nodded and went off, Lindsay calling, “Good luck,” softly after her. Cordelia disappeared through the swing doors with a nervous smile.
“Quite an upset,” Lindsay remarked, realizing as she did so the banality of her words.
“Horrific, Lindsay, absolutely horrific. As soon as word of this gets out, there will be a mass exodus of girls from the school. If James Cartwright doesn’t close us down, this certainly will,” said Chris Jackson sadly.
“It certainly closed Lorna Smith-Couper down,” said Lindsay drily.
“Oh, don’t think I’m being callous. But I never knew the woman, so it would be hypocritical of me to pretend I’m heartbroken about her death. What worries me is that no one seems to be able to work out quite how it was done. I mean, from what I can gather—though we probably shouldn’t be gossiping about it—there’s no question of it being an outsider. It had to be someone who knew the layout of the building. I hope to God they clear it up quickly. I mean, no responsible parent would leave their child at a school with a homicidal maniac on the loose, now would they?”
Lindsay changed the subject as diplomatically as possible and managed to get Chris chatting casually for a while about other topics. They were interrupted by Caroline, who breezed up to them, excusing herself perfunctorily. “I was wondering, Miss Jackson, could we beetle off back to Longnor now? The coppers have seen all the girls from the Houses; it’s only main building girls who are left. And Miss Callaghan said we shouldn’t come back on our own. I suppose it’s in case we get bumped off en route. So can you or Miss Gordon take us across?”
Chris looked a question at Lindsay, who nodded, “Of course I’ll go back with you. If you don’t mind waiting a few minutes till Miss Brown is finished with the police, then we’ll all go together.”
“Fine, that’s that solved at least,” said Chris, “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ll just go and check there are no girls hanging about in the music department. Thanks, Lindsay.”
She strode off, leaving Lindsay once more with the effervescent Caroline. Nothing, not even murder, seemed to take the bounce out of her. “How did you get on with the police?” Lindsay asked quickly, hoping to avoid diving deep into dialectical dialogue.
“Oh, they were okay. I was surprised. I expected them to be a lot heavier. They asked all the questions you’d expect. About who was where and when, and if I’d been down to Music 2. I told them I’d only been as far as the storeroom for more programs and that I didn’t see a sausage. Mind you, I told them they’d probably find no shortage of people with axes to grind about Lorna Smith-Couper, judging by the stories you hear. That woman left a trail of human wreckage in her wake. Not entirely surprising that someone finally did her in, really,” she said, barely pausing for breath.
“What makes you say that?” asked Lindsay, more to pass the time than from any strong curiosity. But before Caroline could elaborate any further, the double doors swung open and Cordelia appeared, looking drained but relieved. There was nothing in Lindsay’s world at that moment except concern for Cordelia. She immediately rose and went to her. “Okay?”
Cordelia nodded. “Tell you later,” she said, as Caroline found her way to their sides.
“Can we go now,” she asked. “Only, we’re all dying for a coffee.”
Lindsay nodded and briefly explained the situation to Cordelia as Caroline shouted, “Okay, anyone for Longnor, Axe, Goyt, Wildboarclough. Come now or face the psychopath alone.”
Half a dozen girls peeled off from the group and followed Lindsay and Cordelia out into the back drive and down the well-lit path through the woods to the houses. As they left the main building behind, Lindsay glanced back at the window of the room where Lorna had been killed. A light still burned at the window as the police scene-of-crimes officers worked on. Something was nagging at the back of her mind, but she dismissed at once any idea that the killer could have come through the window. Only a chimpanzee could have made that climb without being instantly visible from the hall or the music corridor. She turned back, and followed the file of chattering girls, headed by Cordelia and Caroline who were already deep in animated conversation.
7
Having seen their charges safely stowed, Lindsay and Cordelia escaped to Paddy’s sitting-room. Lindsay headed straight for the gas fire and
warmed her hands, while Cordelia made for the cocktail cabinet.
“I don’t suppose Paddy would mind if we fixed ourselves a drink,” she said. “I could certainly use one.” She tried the door. “Damn! It’s locked.”
Lindsay stood up. “She keeps it locked when she’s not here. I noticed her unlocking it last night. I suppose there’s always the chance that it might get raided by some adolescent alcoholic. I’ve got an Islay malt upstairs in my bag if you fancy that.”
“If that’s some kind of whisky, yes please, I feel the need for some calming alcohol. Say, a couple of bottles for starters!”
Lindsay smiled to herself as she went to collect the drink. When she returned, she found Cordelia crouched by the fire, shivering. She immediately went over to her and put an arm round her shoulders.
“Silly, really. I can’t stop shivering. Must be reaction. Be an angel and fix me a drink, would you? Water in it, please, about the same amount as whisky.”
Lindsay went through to the kitchen and poured out the two drinks, mentally scoring another plus point to Cordelia for drinking her whisky properly—in other words, as Lindsay preferred it. Cordelia followed her and took her tumbler gratefully. She gulped down a large slug of whisky and water, shuddered convulsively as the fire in the peaty spirit hit her, then relaxed.