Murder In School (6 page)

‘No worries, sir.  We’ll be getting
along right now.  We’re on quite a tight schedule.  Thanks for your
help, so far.’

Dr Jacobson momentarily glances back at
Skelgill, and takes a small breath as if he is about to speak.  Then he
obviously thinks the better of it and continues into the hallway.  Cleopatra
is now sniffing under the front door, a low growl rumbling in her throat.

‘Come away, girl – there we
go.  Good girl – now pipe down.’  Dr Jacobson opens a side door
and bundles the dog into what must be his study.  Skelgill is afforded a
brief glimpse of a disorderly desk, a computer screen adorned with yellow
butterfly-like
Post-it
notes, and an ornately papered wall hung with certificates.

Dr Jacobson pulls open the front door to
reveal the stern personage of Dr Snyder – no longer wearing his gown, but
still looking rather like he has just returned from a wake, his dark suit
draped loosely over his long sparse frame.

‘Your internal telephone is off the hook,
Jacobson.’  His gaze flickers disapprovingly over the detectives as they
sidle past Dr Jacobson and step down into the school corridor beside him. 
‘There’s a matter about which I must speak with you.’

Dr Jacobson bows his head, and makes a
motion with his left hand as if he’s about to touch his absent forelock.  ‘Why
certainly, Dr Snyder.  I can’t think what happened to the telephone. 
I’m perfectly free – do come in, please.’

Dr Snyder turns to Skelgill.  ‘I
shall meet you gentlemen as arranged.’  He nods unsmilingly, and ponderously
mounts the steps into Dr Jacobson’s quarters.  The detectives’ last view
is of the latter’s face as he carefully closes the door: an expression of
resignation, and perhaps not intended for them.

‘No love lost there, Leyton.’

‘It’s a doggy dog world, Guv.’

The lodge of Oakthwaite School bears
scant resemblance to the grand edifice that is the educational establishment
itself.  Constructed from rough-hewn grey stone with a steeply sloping
slate roof and overhanging eaves, it is little more than a one-up one-down
cottage, and surely could not have been intended for permanent living.  Neither
is it an object of which the school makes a feature, and indeed is largely –
perhaps intentionally – sheltered from the entrance by a small stand of
ornamental conifers, nestling within the greater woodland fringe of the land
itself.  However, it has a side window that gives on to the driveway, and is
undoubtedly a convenient lookout for anyone who would wish to observe whatever
comings and goings take place.

Skelgill and DS Leyton arrive on foot
– the former having opined that one never knows what one might miss in
the car, the latter having complained at regular intervals about the
unnecessary quarter-mile walk, and his superior’s brisk and somewhat challenging
pace.  There is no sign of life – no car outside, for instance
– but the simple white-painted front door is ajar.  Skelgill pushes
it open.

‘Hello.  Anyone home?’

‘Inspector, come in.’  The voice
belongs to Dr Snyder; its tone is perhaps less hostile than they have
encountered thus far.

A cramped vestibule leads into the room
that occupies almost the entire ground floor. There’s a faint musty hint of
damp, and the shimmering light that slants in through the surrounding trees
unevenly pierces the gloom.  A bespectacled Dr Snyder sits on a stool to
the right of the entrance, at a narrow computer desk crammed into the darkest
corner; there’s no sign of a printer.  He swivels around, planting his
large feet one after the other.

‘Blimey.’  DS Leyton can’t contain
his surprise.

‘Yes, Sergeant – he was something
of an ascetic.’  Dr Snyder incorrectly interprets DS Leyton’s reaction,
though the room, which has a far exit door, is indeed coarsely furnished. 
The floor is stone flagged; a worn upright armchair rests upon a threadbare rug
before an open hearth – the grey ashes in the grate perhaps accentuating
the air of austerity; a precipitous open flight of stairs – more of a
ladder, really – climbs against the distempered left-hand wall into the
attic bedroom above; beneath it there is a modest kitchenette – a sink
and a butane gas ring; an old-fashioned typewriter is set proud upon an oak
writing desk before the window that looks out over the driveway.

‘How could you live here?’  DS
Leyton’s tone still verges on the incredulous.  ‘I mean – there’s no
telly.’

‘I don’t think television numbered among
Querrell’s interests.’  Dr Snyder flaps a long hand at the wall to his
left.  It is lined floor-to-ceiling with bookcases, crammed with mostly
old-looking books.  ‘As for facilities, there is a toilet through there –
a more recent extension.’  He indicates in the direction of the far door. 
‘Otherwise, the school provided for all his requirements.  The staff take
their meals in the refectory, and we have a laundry, drying room, showers
– remember we cater for four hundred boarders.  Even during the long
vacation we retain a skeleton staff for maintenance purposes, and we run a
programme of summer schools.  The majority of our more junior masters have
a study bedroom in one of the house wings.’

Now Dr Snyder rises and gestures at the
computer screen.  ‘I have opened the email system for you.  I think
everything else is pretty standard.’

He looks at Skelgill, who in turn nods to
DS Leyton.  ‘I’m not a great one for technology myself, sir –
Sergeant Leyton will have a go.’

DS Leyton glances down at his feet and
shuffles towards the computer.  ‘I’m not much better – our kids run
rings round me.’

Dr Snyder removes his reading glasses takes
half a pace backwards, but seems intent on watching as DS Leyton settles down
with a grunt and gets to grips with the mouse.  Skelgill is drawn towards
a traditional split-cane fishing rod that stands in one corner; the line is
threaded though there’s no hook or tackle attached.  Then he wanders over
towards the window, and experimentally taps out a random word or two on the
typewriter; the keys are well oiled, and return satisfyingly into place.  He
drifts back to examine the wall of books, and begins taking down individual
volumes and examining the flyleaf of each.

‘Seems like they’re all textbooks.’

‘I believe, Inspector, that Querrell’s
motto was why read fiction when there are so many facts to know?’  He says
this rather disdainfully, and without taking his eyes away from DS Leyton’s
progress on the computer screen.

Skelgill nods to himself, pursing his
lips as he peruses one dusty tome after another.  After a minute he says,
‘I had the idea that maybe one or two of these would be gifts – from
relatives.  You know how people write their message inside the cover?’

‘I think you’ll be disappointed,
Inspector, though I admire your detective skills.’

Skelgill raises an eyebrow – Dr Snyder’s
compliment was negated by its dismissive quality.

‘Whoa!’  Suddenly Skelgill cries out,
his intonation suggestive of an imminent physical threat.

Dr Snyder turns to see him about to be
engulfed by a landslide of books: perhaps one has been so tightly jammed in
that, in trying to extract it, Skelgill has pulled the entire vertical section
of bookcase towards himself.  Now he stands fighting against its weight as
individual books begin to spill onto the flagstones.

‘Hold on, Inspector.’

Dr Snyder strides across in his
undulating gait and joins with Skelgill in wrestling the bookcase back against
the uneven wall surface.  Together they manage to right it, and press and
pat the books back into some semblance of regimented order to further restore
its balance.  Skelgill kneels and collects those scattered on the floor,
and hands them up to Dr Snyder for replacement.

‘Better watch that, sir – a bit of
a hazard for anyone coming in here on their own.’

Dr Snyder grimaces.  ‘I shall
instruct a tradesman to secure it.  The cottage will be locked in the
meantime.’

‘Good idea, sir.’

Skelgill straightens his jacket and
shakes his arms.  Shadowed by Dr Snyder he moves across to DS Leyton, who
has perhaps surprisingly stuck to his task on the computer during the temporary
crisis.

‘What do you reckon, Sergeant?’

DS Leyton shakes his head casually.  ‘Not
a lot on here that I can see.  The emails are all connected with the
school – mostly received; hardly any sent.  And the saved documents
are just standard forms and itineraries for outward-bound courses – that
sort of thing.’

Dr Snyder rubs his pterodactyl-like hands
as if he’s just devoured a small prey item.  ‘As I intimated, gentlemen,
Querrell never really emerged from the Palaeolithic when it came to new technology. 
If you are satisfied, I shall lock up – the Headmaster will be collecting
me outside in a minute or two: he’s catching the 16:05 to Euston and I shall be
bringing his car back from Penrith.’

Skelgill checks his wristwatch. 
‘Certainly, sir – time presses for us, too.’

He glances across at the typewriter
sitting before the window.  ‘If you don’t mind, sir – could I
possibly just nip into the toilet? – I think I had one cup of tea too
many with Dr Jacobson.’

With a hand movement Dr Snyder again
indicates in the direction of the rear door.  Skelgill nods and quicksteps
across the room, as if to emphasise his pressing need.  Meanwhile DS
Leyton succeeds in closing down the computer, then stands to wait with Dr
Snyder in a moment or two of uncomfortable silence until his partner reappears.

‘Ready, Inspector?’

‘All systems go, sir.  Though there
is just one other thing.’  Skelgill reaches out and takes up a small book
that is lying flat on top of a shelf of others.  ‘I noticed this earlier
– would you mind if I borrowed it for a day or two?’

Dr Snyder frowns and then squints at the
book.  But he’s no longer wearing his reading glasses.  Skelgill has
offered no explanation and Dr Snyder seems reluctant to ask why he wants
it.  Just then there is the sharp honk of a car horn, and Dr Snyder seems
momentarily discomfited by the need to make a decision.

‘Oh – fine, Inspector – if
you must.’

‘Thank you, sir – I’ll drop it
straight back.’  Skelgill turns to leave.

Now for a second Dr Snyder seems distracted,
and he delays for a moment to cast a last glance around the room before
following the detectives through the vestibule, ducking stiffly to avoid the
low lintel.  He pulls the outer door shut and extracts a bunch of keys
from his jacket pocket.  Just across on the slick tarmac of the driveway a
large gleaming silver Mercedes sits idling, the drip of condensation from its
tailpipe revealing it has not long been running.  The driver shows no
inclination to wind down a window or come out to meet them.  With the
dappled woodland light reflecting off the tinted glass, it is impossible to
tell if it is indeed the Head, and what attention he pays to them.

‘Goodbye Gentleman, enjoy the stroll back
up – the grounds are very pleasant at this time of year.’

Dr Snyder stalks silently away and circles
the car in predatory fashion, disappearing like an octopus into a crevice as he
folds his gangly limbs into the passenger side, before a soft clunk of the door
announces the vehicle’s departure.  As the car passes from sight out of
the gateway – turning in the correct direction for the road to Penrith
– Skelgill raps a beat with his knuckles against the book and says,
‘Well?  What did you get?’

‘Interesting Guv – and nice one
with the bookshelf, by the way – though he must have wondered why I
didn’t come and help you.’

‘I think we pulled it off, Leyton –
daft coppers is our forte, remember.  So?’

‘History cleared.  Recent items
wiped.  Trash emptied.  Cookies removed.’

Skelgill folds his arms and glowers at DS
Leyton.  ‘What are the odds of that being a normal thing on a computer
– even the computer of someone who doesn’t use it much?’

DS Leyton makes a bookmaker’s tic-tac signal
and says, ‘Century, Guv?’

‘That's a hundred to one against, I take
it?’

DS Leyton nods,  ‘Snyder didn’t want
us to see something, Guv.’

Skelgill spins on his heel and sets off
walking in the direction of the school, leaving DS Leyton to stumble after him
in order to catch up.

‘Not necessarily Snyder.  Not
necessarily
us
.’

‘Suppose so, Guv.  But, what with
him getting there first – and he was watching me like a hawk until you
pulled the bookcase stunt.’

‘You could be right, Leyton – but
it’s not the only possible explanation.’

DS Leyton shakes his head, as if to say,
‘Here we go again, let’s make life difficult for ourselves’.  Between
breaths he gasps, ‘And what was that business with the book, Guv – is
there a name in it?’

 ‘Use your loaf.  I took it to
unsettle him – he doesn’t know why I want it.  Plus it gives me an
excuse to come back.’

‘Good thinking, Guv.’

Skelgill shrugs.  Then he holds up
the small tome and scrutinises the worn dustcover.  ‘Mind you, it’s a
first edition
Wainwright
– they’re like hen’s teeth, these
things.  I shall enjoy reading it.’

‘You’re not half-inching it, Guv?’

‘Leyton – behave.’

DS Leyton waggles his head from side to
side, and the pair walks on in silence for a couple of minutes.  Then
Skelgill says, ‘Over there – through the gap in the trees.’  He
points with the corner of the
Wainwright
.  ‘Reckon that’s Goodman’s
house?’

DS Leyton squints in the direction
indicated.  There are glimpses of a substantial sandstone property,
mirroring the fabric of the school itself.

‘Look at the place, Guv.  What with
that and the Merc, he’s onto a good number.  My headmaster lived in a
council flat and drove a maggoty Lada Riva.’

‘Your education didn’t cost twenty-five
grand a year, Leyton.’

‘Just as well, Guv – twenty-five
quid would have been daylight robbery.’