Havers looked as if she were about to say more about Eton. But instead she went on with, “They’ve something called a sixth form social club here. The seniors belong. It’s in a building attached to Ion House—where Chas Quilter lives—and the students go there to do their drinking on weekends.”
“Which students?”
“It’s only for the upper sixth formers, but I got the impression that there’s some sort of initiation rite involved because Chas said that some students choose not to belong. He called it ‘not going through the steps for membership.’”
“He’s in the club?”
“I suppose that’s rather expected of him, isn’t it, since he’s senior prefect. Sort of shoring up the school’s great traditions.”
“The initiation rite is one of the traditions?”
“Apparently. I asked him how one became a member and he blushed and said that one did ‘all sorts of rot’ in front of one’s mates. At any rate, there appears to be some heavy drinking going on. The students are supposed to be limited to two drink chits a week, but since other students are in charge of handing out the chits and of keeping account of how many drinks are taken by a single individual, things have got out of hand. It sounds as if their Friday night parties get a bit wild.”
“Chas does nothing to control the wildness?”
“I don’t understand it, to tell you the truth. It’s his job, isn’t it? Why even be senior prefect if he’s not going to do it?”
“That’s easy enough to answer, Havers. Any prefectship looks good on a student’s academic record. I dare say universities don’t actually check to see what kind of prefect the student was. They just see that he was one and make assumptions about him from there.”
“But how did he get to be senior prefect in the first place? If he had no leadership skills to begin with, wouldn’t the Headmaster have known that?”
“Showing leadership skills when you’re not senior prefect is far easier than showing them when you are. It’s a pressured situation. People change under pressure. Perhaps that happened with Chas.”
“Or perhaps the Headmaster found Chas too attractive to hide him away,” Havers commented in her usual acerbic fashion. “I imagine they spend lots of time alone together, don’t you?” Lynley shot her a look. She defended herself with, “I’m not blind, Inspector. He’s a beautiful boy. Lockwood wouldn’t be the first to cave in to a pretty face.”
“Indeed. What else did you discover?”
“I spoke with Judith Laughland, the nurse in charge of the Sanatorium.”
“Ah. The San sister. Tell me about her.”
Havers had worked with him long enough to know his fondness for details, so she described the San sister first: perhaps thirty-five years old, brown hair, grey eyes, a large birthmark on her neck beneath her right ear which she kept attempting to hide by swinging her hair forward to cover it and finally by raising up the collar of her blouse and holding it together. She smiled a great deal and unconsciously groomed herself as she spoke, patting her hair, playing with the buttons of her blouse, smoothing her hand down her leg to make sure her stockings fit well.
Lynley focused on these last points of interest. “As if she were preening? For whom? Were you with Chas?”
“I got the impression it’s how she would act round any male, sir, not only Chas, because while we were there, one other of the older boys came in, complaining of a sore throat, and she laughed about it and teased him and said something like, ‘Just can’t stay away from me, can you?’ and when she popped a thermometer into his mouth, she touched his hair and patted his cheek.”
“Your conclusion?”
Havers looked thoughtful. “Not that she would get herself involved with any of the boys—she must be nearly twenty years older than they are, after all—but I think she needs their flattery and admiration.”
“Married?”
“The boys called her Mrs. Laughland, but she’s not wearing a wedding ring. Divorced is my guess. She’s been here three years, and I’ll wager that she arrived right after the divorce. So she’s got herself concerned with starting a new life, and she needs a bit of reassurance that she can still attract men. You know the sort of thing.”
This would not be the first time they had come into contact with those by-products of separation and dissolution. Both of them had witnessed the initial loneliness, the panic caused by the thought of spending the rest of one’s life without a partner, the rising fear and the need to cover it with a facade of gaiety, the subsequent rush into activity and involvement. These reactions to loss were not solely appended to the world of women.
“What about the off-games chits?” Lynley asked the sergeant.
“They’re kept in her desk drawer. But it isn’t locked. And the San’s not policed.”
“Could Matthew have got to them?”
“As far as I could tell. Especially if she were distracted at the moment. If an upper sixth boy were in the room when Matthew popped by to nick the chit, I dare say she’d be distracted well enough if her behaviour today is any indication.”
“Did you broach that with her?”
“I asked her how the system worked. Apparently, when a student is feeling unwell and unable to join the games in the afternoon, he goes to the San where Judith Laughland examines him—takes his temperature or whatever else is required—and if he’s really ill, she gives him the off-games chit. If he needs to be admitted into the San, she sends the off-games chit with another student to give to the master in charge of the games or to put it into his pigeonhole. Otherwise, the sick student himself takes the chit and gives it to the master and goes on to his dormitory where he goes to bed.”
“Does she keep a record of who is requesting to be let off games?”
Havers nodded. “Matthew hadn’t got one on Friday, sir. There was no record of it. But he’d got one on two other occasions earlier in the year. It seems to me that he could have saved the last chit he got—it was about three weeks ago—and just bided his time, waiting for a chance to run off. Which reminds me. Harry Morant. Chas and I ran into him doing a bit of a scarper in the sculpture garden a few minutes ago.”
“Did you speak to him?”
“As much as I could. No eye contact. Monosyllabic responses.”
“And?”
“Matthew and he were in the Model Railway Society. That’s how they’d become mates in the first place.”
“Close friend?”
“That was hard to tell. But I did get the impression that Harry admired Matthew a great deal.” She hesitated, frowned, appeared to be searching for the right words.
“Sergeant?”
“I think he knows why Matthew ran off. And wishes like hell he could join him.”
Lynley raised an eyebrow. “That changes things a bit.”
“Why?”
“It takes away any issue of class. If Harry was unhappy, and Matthew was unhappy, and Smythe-Andrews was unhappy…” His eyes lifted to Henry VII, so sure of himself, so completely confident that he could change the course of a country’s history.
“Sir?”
“I think it’s time we kept our engagement with the Headmaster.”
Like the chapel, Alan Lockwood’s study faced the east, and like the chapel, it contained elements designed to impress. A wide bay window, its side panels open to the cold, allowed enough space to accommodate a large satinwood conference table, six velvet-covered chairs, and a rococo silver candelabrum that shone against the highly polished wood. Directly across from this, a fireplace decorated with blue and white delft tiles held not the expected electric fire but the luxury of a real one. Above this hung what appeared to be a Holbein portrait of an unidentifiable Renaissance youth, and near it on the wall hung a second portrait—extremely unflattering—of Henry VII. Glass-fronted bookshelves took up two walls of the room and a third held photographs that spanned the school’s recent history. A richly hued blue and gold Wilton carpet covered the floor, and as Lynley and Hav
ers entered the room, Alan Lockwood crossed this carpet from his desk to greet them. He had removed his gown, which now hung on the back of the door. He looked strangely unfinished without it.
“Everyone’s been cooperative, I take it?” he asked, motioning them to the conference table and choosing for himself a seat that would put his back to the window and allow the strong light behind him to obscure his face. He seemed oblivious of the low temperature in that part of the room, and he made no effort to close the windows.
“Extremely,” Lynley replied. “Your senior prefect especially. Thank you for the loan of him.”
Lockwood smiled with genuine warmth. “Chas. Superb boy, isn’t he? One of a kind. Unanimously liked by one and all.”
“Respected?”
“Not only by students but also by staff. It was the easiest choice I’ve ever had to make for senior prefect. Chas was nominated by every one of his teachers at the end of last year.”
“He seems a nice boy.”
“A bit of an overachiever, but after the disaster that his older brother made of his time here, I think Chas is bent upon rescuing the family name. That would be like him, making amends for everything Preston did.”
“Black sheep of the family?”
Lockwood reached towards his neck but dropped his hand before it made contact with his skin. “A rotter, I’m afraid. Disgrace and disappointment. He was expelled early last year for stealing. He had the option to withdraw from the school—after all, his father is Sir Francis Quilter and one must make allowances for that. But he refused to withdraw and insisted that the charges against him be proved.” Lockwood adjusted his tie, sounding regretful as he continued. “Preston was a kleptomaniac, Inspector. It wasn’t at all difficult to prove the charges. At any rate, once he left us, he went off to Scotland to stay with relations. Now I understand he’s taken to harvesting peat. So the family hopes—and pride, I expect—rest on Chas’ shoulders.”
“That’s a hefty burden.”
“Not for a boy of his talents. Chas will be a surgeon like his father. As would have Preston had he been able to keep his hands off other boys’ belongings. He was my most trying expulsion from Bredgar Chambers. There have been others, of course. But that one was the worst.”
“And you’ve been here—?”
“This is my fourth year.”
“Before that?”
Lockwood opened his mouth, then closed it. His eyes narrowed in speculation at the smooth change Lynley had effected in the direction of the questions. “I was in the state school system. May I ask what that has to do with your investigation, Inspector?”
Lynley shrugged. “I like to get to know the people I’m working with,” he replied. But he knew even as he spoke that Lockwood neither trusted nor accepted the bland answer. How could he, with Sergeant Havers sitting stoically at the table, writing down his every word?
“I see. Now you have that information, perhaps you’ll allow me to ask for some in return.”
“If I can give it to you, I’ll certainly do so.”
“Fine. You’ve been here all morning. You’ve spoken to students. You’ve seen the school. I understand your sergeant has been to the San to question Mrs. Laughland. Is there any reason, in all this time, why no one has initiated the process of striking out on the roads to look for the driver who picked up a small boy and murdered him?”
“A fair question,” Lynley conceded affably. At her end of the table, Sergeant Havers continued to write. Together they played the roles of concession and contradiction, an orchestrated game to keep the suspect just slightly off balance. They had operated in this manner hundreds of times in the last eighteen months of their partnership. At this point, they did it without thinking. “The problem as I see it is that Bredgar Chambers is in a rather secluded area. So I question how likely it was that a thirteen-year-old boy would have been successful in getting a ride at all.”
“He had to have got a ride, Inspector. You’re not suggesting he walked all the way to Stoke Poges, are you?”
“I’m merely suggesting that there’s a possibility that Matthew didn’t attempt to hitchhike anywhere. That, in fact, he had his ride arranged. That he knew his driver. If that’s the case, I should imagine we’d be spending our time more profitably here than in any other place.”
Lockwood’s face mottled. “Are you implying that someone from the school…You know as well as I that the death of that child, while indeed unfortunate, has nothing to do with this school directly.”
“I’m afraid I haven’t been able to reach that conclusion.”
“He ran off, Inspector. He cleverly arranged it to look as if he was in two places at once. Then he ran off to be with his chums in London. It’s unfortunate that it happened. But it did. He broke the school rules, and nothing can be done about that fact now. It’s not the school’s fault, and I have no intention of assuming blame.”
“The staff have their cars here. And there are school vehicles, aren’t there, for transporting students?”
“The staff?” Lockwood exploded. “One of the boy’s teachers?”
Lynley was unruffled. “Not necessarily,” he replied and waited for the Headmaster to read his meaning. When he saw that Lockwood had done so, he went on as if in the need to clarify his statement. “You’ve groundsmen here, nonteaching staff—matrons and porters and kitchen workers—not to mention the spouses of all the faculty who live on the campus. There are the pupils themselves…”
“You’re mad,” Lockwood said numbly. “The child’s body was found on Sunday night. He’d been missing since Friday. It only stands to reason that he walked a hell of a long way before he got a ride in the first place.”
“Perhaps. However, he was wearing his school uniform when he left. That certainly indicates he wasn’t frightened that he might be recognised and returned to the school.”
“He might have stuck to the fields and the ditches—and to the forest—until he was well away. This boy was nobody’s fool. He was here on a scholarship. We’re not talking about a child with no brains, Inspector.”
“That scholarship interests me. When exactly did Matthew come to the attention of the school?”
Lockwood pushed back from the table, went to his desk, and returned with a file which he riffled through for a moment before he replied. “His parents reserved a place for him when he was eight months old.” The Headmaster looked up, as if he expected some conclusion from Lynley that would further blacken the reputation of the school. “That’s how it’s usually done in independent schools, Inspector. But you already know that. Eton, wasn’t it?”
Lynley ignored the question. “And the scholarship?”
“All prospective third form pupils get information about the scholarships we offer. This particular scholarship goes to a child who shows academic promise as well as financial need.”
“How is the pupil selected?”
“He applies through a member of the Board of Governors. I make the final selection based upon the recommendation of the board.”
“I see. Who put Matthew Whateley’s name forward?”
Lockwood hesitated. “Inspector, some things are privileged—”
Lynley lifted a hand. “Not in a murder investigation, I’m afraid.”
They were at impasse for a moment. At her end of the table, Sergeant Havers stopped writing and looked up, pencil poised.
The Headmaster’s eyes locked with Lynley’s, held for ten seconds, finally dropped. “Giles Byrne put up Matthew’s name for the scholarship,” Lockwood said. “You’ve heard of him, no doubt.”
He had. Giles Byrne, the brilliant analyst of the political, social, and economic ills of the country. He of the rapier tongue and acid wit. A graduate of the London School of Economics with a BBC radio programme on which he regularly tore apart anyone who submitted to an interview. This was interesting news. But far more interesting was the connection Lynley made when he heard the name.
“Byrne. So the prefect of Erebus
House—Brian Byrne…”
“Yes. He’s Giles Byrne’s son.”
8
Emilia Bond had never cared for the days on which she had to give instruction to her upper sixth chemistry pupils immediately after lunch. In her two years at Bredgar Chambers, she had often argued with the Headmaster about rearranging her schedule so that the upper sixth pupils could meet with her at one time or another in the morning. After lunch, she would patiently explain, they can’t concentrate well. Their bodies are concerned with digestion. There is insufficient flow of blood to the brain. How can they devote themselves to formulae and experiments when a basic biological function of the body makes it impossible for them to do so?
The Headmaster always listened with a clearly specious effort at sympathy, always declared that he would look into it, and always left things exactly as they were. It was exasperating. As was his insincere, paternal smile. It barely hid the fact that he disapproved of her presence at Bredgar Chambers altogether. At twenty-five years old, she was the only female teacher on the staff, and the Headmaster generally acted as if he expected her presence to be a corrupting influence on the boys with whom she dealt. No matter to him that there were ninety lower and upper sixth girls on the campus to act as considerable distractions in their own right. The fact that Emilia was a member of staff seemed to make her a more dangerous breed of female.
It was hardly a credible idea. Emilia knew quite well that she was unlikely to become the object of any eighteen-year-old’s fantasy. She was attractive enough in a wholesome, dairy-product sort of way, perhaps a bit too full-bodied for her height, but not at all fat. She got far too much exercise for fat to be a problem, although she knew that the moment she stopped playing tennis, hiking, swimming, golfing, running, and riding her bicycle, her body would respond to the lack of attention by swelling up like a suckling pig’s. Yet that same exercise which saved her body wreaked havoc on the rest of her personal appearance. She was very fair. Constant exposure to the sun had produced a heavy splattering of freckles across her nose. Constant exposure to the wind, while whipping natural colour into her cheeks, necessitated a hairstyle which was childlike and, to her way of thinking, less than absolutely flattering—very short and wispy, and so blond that it was very nearly white. Indeed, it was unlikely that any boy at the school ever looked upon her in any way other than with fraternal affection. For it was her curse to be the universal big sister, always there with a bit of advice and a friendly pat on the shoulder. She hated that role even as she continued to play it with everyone.