Lessons in Murder (2 page)

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Lunchtime at Bellwhether High was green and grey uniforms, ball games, sandwiches, chatter, clumps of kids, overflowing rubbish bins, the sound of surf in the distance. Summer had scorched the grass and faded the cloudless sky pale blue. The eucalyptus gums hung their grey-green leaves in the breathless heat but the air was alive with a buzz of gossip, innuendo and speculation as, by some strange osmosis, every student of Bellwhether High seemed to know exactly what had happened.

Mrs. Farrell was in the main office announcing strategies to the office staff for dealing with the media assault that had already lit up every line on the switchboard when Sir Richard Pagett strode into the room. His famous face was strained, but his equally famous charm was intact. “Mrs. Farrell. Phyllis, isn’t it? We met when William first came to the school.”

Mrs. Farrell murmured appropriate words of condolence as she ushered Sir Richard to the deputy principal’s office. “The police are using my room for interviews,” she explained.

“Is Carol Ashton here?”

“Yes. Do you wish to see her?”

“Not at the moment.”

Sir Richard was slightly below average height, but he radiated such confidence and power that he seemed much taller. His head of thick white hair, crisp voice and electric smile were instantly recognizable to every citizen in the state, as befitted the product of a massive public relations system. Rumors of corruption had dogged his final years as one of the state’s longest serving Premiers, but he had finally retired with honors and fulsome praise two years previously. He was still constantly in the public eye, not only because of his string of racehorses and his spectacular betting plunges but, less fortunately, because of allegations made to several royal commissions about his involvement in organized crime.

All this was in Mrs. Farrell’s thoughts as Sir Richard leaned forward in the chair to say, “Phyllis, I know you realize what a dreadful shock this has been. William was my youngest son. For this to happen is almost beyond belief. That is why I’m sure you understand if I ask you to do something for me.”

Although instantly wary, Mrs. Farrell maintained an expression of sympathetic interest as he continued, “I know you will fully cooperate with Inspector Ashton, that goes without saying, but I want to ask you to do a little more.” He took a card from his wallet and placed it firmly in her hand. “Here is my personal telephone number. Of course, it’s unlisted, and I would ask that you keep it confidential. I want you to call me, day or night, if you learn anything at all about my son. Normally I’d never listen to common gossip, but in this situation any detail, any information at all, is of importance to me.”

“Surely if I tell Inspector Ashton . . .”

“Of course. But quite apart from the information you will be giving her, there may be little details, speculation, suspicions or thoughts that you might have—things that are too flimsy to be called facts—anything that could conceivably relate to my son—I’d like to hear it.”

Leaving, he paused at the doorway of the office. “And, Phyllis—I know I can rely on your complete discretion.”

When Sybil opened the door of the English staff room she was immediately the focus of attention. The familiar faces seemed disconcertingly strange, as if she were seeing them for the first time. Terry stared at her with his usual black, intense gaze, his powerful, compact form giving an impression of energy barely under control. Lynne was smoothing her cap of glossy dark hair; her deep pink dress was immaculate, her makeup perfect, her expression an appropriate one of brave grief. Edwin’s large body filled her chair, her pretty face losing definition at her jawline and flowing into the generous curves of her body. In contrast, Alan Witcombe, head of the English Department, sat prim and angular, his mouth tight as he ran a hand over his thinning hair. The only person who moved was Pete. His soft, open face concerned, he led Sybil to the central table, sat her down with a cup of coffee, and then leaned against a filing cabinet, nervously smoothing his new mustache.

“Syb, you look absolutely dreadful,” said Lynne, flashing her gold bangles in an expansive gesture. “And what have you done to your face?”

“Just a stupid accident—I hit myself with the edge of a cupboard door in the kitchen.”

“Oh?” said Lynne, obviously unconvinced. “Looks like someone slapped you.”

“You’ve been watching too many soap operas,” said Terry sourly.

Lynne ignored him. “I gather, Syb, Inspector Carol Ashton lives up to her tough reputation. You look positively green.”

“What happened?” said Terry, seizing the opportunity to put his arm around Sybil’s shoulders.

She shrugged him off. “Nothing much,” she said, “I just threw up when she told me about Bill, about how . . .”

“Not in the principal’s office! Not on Farrell’s green pile carpet?” asked Edwina in surprised delight, hoisting herself from her chair.

Sybil shook her head. “No, I made it to the washroom.” She sank down at her desk, wishing everyone would go away.

“What made you vomit?” asked Lynne with lively interest.

“Leave her alone!” snapped Terry.

“Sybil doesn’t have the monopoly on shock,” said Lynne, irritated, “I feel Bill’s death deeply. After all, Bill and I were
friends,
which is more than Sybil can say.”

Terry was furious. “What’s that supposed to mean?” he asked, striding across to Lynne who was checking her reflection in a mirror placed rakishly on an overflowing bookcase.

Lynne swung around with equal anger. “Look, Terry, don’t try and push me around. Everyone knows there was no love lost between Sybil and Bill. It’s natural the police would be interested. That’s their job, poking and prying into other people’s business.”

“You just do it for a hobby, Lynne, do you?” asked Edwina.

“Honestly, Edwina, you can be a perfect bitch,” Lynne drawled, shaking a bottle of purple-red nail polish with languid vigor. “Frankly, I can’t wait to have my interview with the famous Inspector Carol Ashton. With a bit of luck, we’ll all be on television. After all, not only do we have the Inspector the media love to love, we also have Bill’s father.
He’s
famous enough in his own right.”

The bell rang to signal the start of afternoon lessons. When no one moved, Alan, always conscious of his position as head of the English Department, roused them with admonitions. “Come on, everyone. You know what the kids will be like after what’s happened. Control, we must keep control. Please go to class promptly.”

“I have a free period,” said Sybil.

The others left with various shades of reluctance, except for Terry. He stood behind Sybil’s chair, his hands resting on her shoulders. He said, “Why did you go to see Bill last night?”

“How do you know I saw Bill?”

Terry’s hands tightened. “It doesn’t matter how I know. What did you tell that woman?”

Sybil sighed with weariness. “I took your advice. I said I didn’t see Bill last night.”

“Tell me about it so I can help you. That Inspector won’t let it rest, you know. She’ll keep asking questions. She’ll ferret away until she gets something. She likes success. She won’t care about you.”

“Leave me alone!” said Sybil with a savagery that surprised them both.

“Tony isn’t back, is he?”

Sybil swung around, astonished. “Tony? You know he’s in England. What makes you think he’s here?”

The phone rang. Exclaiming impatiently, Terry snatched it up. “What? Oh, all right. As soon as I can. Look, I said I’d come, okay?” He slammed the receiver down. “The Gestapo want me for my interview,” he said to Sybil. He took her hands. “Don’t worry, Syb. I won’t say anything about last night.”

You always want me to owe you something, thought Sybil as she watched him leave.

Bellwhether High was a showpiece school, often used by the Education Department to impress overseas educational experts and sundry dignitaries. It was set in a large expanse of landscaped grounds close to the spectacular sandstone cliffs and beaches of the Peninsula area north of Sydney. At times this was a disadvantage, because when the surf was up, the attendance was often down. The school itself was made up of a series of courtyards, each bounded by two stories of classrooms. Concrete causeways connected the upper stories of each separate block, covered walkways the lower. At the northern end of the site was the administration block, bearing on its face huge letters proclaiming Bellwhether High School, strategically placed so that it could be easily read by those travelling on the major coast highway.

Cynics said the unaccustomed luxury of this government school was related to the fact that it was located in a marginal seat and electors had to be bought or bribed. True or not, a state government election had coincided with Bellwhether’s official opening by Sir Richard Pagett shortly before he retired. Much mileage had been given to the fact that Sir Richard’s youngest son, Bill, was joining the Industrial Arts staff—proof positive that the state government supported public education. The electorate dutifully returned the appropriate member of Sir Richard’s party and Bellwhether High faded from the news until the Monday when Bill Pagett died.

Mrs. Farrell stood uneasily in Workroom 2 with Carol Ashton and Jim Madigan, the head of the Industrial Arts Department. The body had been removed, but the chalk outline was an uncomfortable reminder of the near panic she had felt when she found Bill Pagett slumped on the floor.

“Really, Inspector, do you need me here?” she asked.

“It would be a help.”

There was no answer to that. Mrs. Farrell waited grimly as Carol Ashton questioned Jim Madigan. “Are these sliding doors to the room kept locked when there’s no class in here?”

Madigan shot a look at Mrs. Farrell. “Well. . .”

“They certainly should be,” said Mrs. Farrell tartly. “Those are my instructions, but I’m afraid they are not always followed, even though tools and the like are easily stolen.”

The Inspector indicated the preparation room that served as a connection between Workrooms 1 and 2. “In a similar way I imagine the preparation room doors are supposed to be kept locked?”

“In a similar way no doubt they are not,” said Mrs. Farrell with irritation. Madigan looked glum.

“So someone could enter this workroom at any time, either through these sliding glass doors that the students use, or through the preparation room from Workroom 1?”

“Obviously, yes,” said Mrs. Farrell, thinking of the last Industrial Arts inventory. Madigan had the grace to look embarrassed, but she was sure he took the continual loss of valuable equipment far less seriously than she did.

Madigan cleared his throat. “I’ve heard a Black and Decker drill . . .” he began, trailing off into a red-faced silence.

Mrs. Farrell glared at him. The man was a fool, but she had never had much time for his department anyway and, as for Bill Pagett, she had paid him very little attention until the anonymous letters had started arriving. Even then, Bill Pagett had never known about them, so her acquaintance with him had been essentially superficial. She had already decided to ignore the subject of the letters. No one else knew about them, and she had enough problems without adding to the list. Besides, she had destroyed the nasty things.

Her thoughts were broken by Carol Ashton’s clear voice. “Mrs. Farrell?”

“Sorry. Yes?”

“Both you and Mr. Madigan saw the drill by the body’s head. Could any of the students have touched it?”

Mrs. Farrell permitted herself a wintry smile. “I imagine you’ve met Cassie Turnbull, who discovered the body. She’s well known to me, unfortunately, because of her aversion to discipline of any kind. However, having been brought up on a steady diet of television crime, I doubt very much if she would allow anyone to touch anything. In fact, she surprised me by the way she took charge of the class when she realized what had happened. It showed leadership I had, frankly, not suspected before.”

Mrs. Farrell winced when Carol Ashton showed a Polaroid photograph of Bill Pagett’s head with his half-open dead eye staring at the point of the drill. She agreed with Madigan that the position of the drill corresponded with her memory.

“You can see it was pointed at his eye,” said Madigan, looking sick. “Are you telling us someone drilled into his head, then arranged it that way?”

“Yes,” said Carol Ashton.

Even before Carol Ashton had reached the top of the drive she could hear angry voices. She turned and looked back towards the sea, listening closely. The air was still, hot and clear, and the white breakers rolled with delightful precision to the shore. The heated words were indistinct, so after a moment she went up the stone steps and rang the bell. The voices stopped.

“Mrs. Quade. Sorry to interrupt you at home, but our interview was cut short, and I’d like to get your statement completed so it can be typed and signed.” Carol was inside with practiced ease, nodding pleasantly to Terry, who stood behind Sybil.

Terry’s face was too carefully blank. “I’ll stay,” he said to Sybil. She shook her head. He hesitated. “I’ll ring you later, okay?” Ignoring Carol, he lingered reluctantly on the steps, then slowly walked down the drive, looking back.

Carol refused a drink, accepted a seat, opened a notebook. The room was flooded with light and air, the house set so high that the wide glass doors opened to a stunning view of headlands, sea and sky. “You said your husband was still in England?” she said mildly, her eyes on the line of the horizon where the two blues met.

“Tony? I think so, yes. We don’t keep in contact.”

“You haven’t heard from him?”

“No. Why?”

Carol knew the value of silence. She smiled pleasantly, and watched Sybil closely. You’re a knockout, she thought, enjoying the long line of thigh revealed by the white canvas pants. A large ginger cat stalked into the room, inspected Carol imperiously, and amused her by swishing his tail dismissively and stalking out again.

Sybil ran her fingers through her short curly red hair. “Why are you asking me about Tony? What has it got to do with . . . what’s happened?”