Well-Schooled in Murder (19 page)

Lynley pulled the chair from beneath the desk and gestured Brian into it. He himself remained standing, leaning one shoulder against the wall near the window. The only view it provided was of a bit of lawn, of an alder just beginning to leaf, and of the side door of Calchus House.

“How does one get into the sixth form social club?” Lynley asked.

The question obviously took the boy by surprise. His eyes—an indefinite shade somewhere between blue and grey—darkened as the pupils enlarged in reaction. He didn’t immediately respond.

“The initiation?” Lynley prompted.

Brian’s mouth twitched. “What does that have to do—”

“With Matthew Whateley’s death?” Lynley asked and smiled. “Nothing at all, as far as I know. I’m merely curious. Wondering whether schools have changed much since I was at Eton.”

“Mr. Corntel went to Eton.”

“We were there together.”

“You were mates?” Brian’s eyes flashed to Chas’ pictures.

“Fairly close ones at the time, although we’d lost track of one another through the years. These aren’t the best circumstances under which to renew a friendship, are they?”

“Rotten to have to renew it at all,” Brian said. “Good friends should stay good friends.”

“Chas is that to you?”

“My best friend,” he said frankly. “We’re going up to Cambridge together in October. If we’re accepted. Chas will be. His marks are good and he’ll do well on his A-levels next term.”

“And you?”

Brian lifted a hand, wiggled it back and forth. “Not a certainty. I’ve plenty of brains, but I don’t always use them as well as I could.” It sounded like an adult’s evaluation of him, something that would be written home to a parent.

“Your father could help you get into Cambridge, I assume.”

“If I wanted his help. I don’t.”

“I see.” That was admirable enough, a determination to make it on his own without the considerable influence that a man of Giles Byrne’s reputation could wield. “And the initiation to the social club?”

Brian grimaced. “Four pints of bitter and”—his face flushed hotly—“getting sauced, sir.”

The expression was unfamiliar to Lynley. He asked for elucidation, and Brian continued, giving an awkward laugh.

“You know. Putting hot sauce—or deep-heating rub—on your…
you
know.” Warily, his eyes went to Havers.

“Ah. I see. That’s getting sauced? Rather uncomfortable, I’d think. Are you a member of the club? You’ve gone through the initiation?”

“Sort of. I mean, I went through the initiation but I got sick. Still, I’m in.” He frowned, as if realising what he had just done in admitting to the fact of an initiation at all. “Did the Headmaster ask you to suss this out, sir?”

Lynley smiled. “No. I was curious.”

“It’s just that we’re not supposed to do that sort of thing. But you know how schools are. Especially here. There’s not much else to do.”

“What does the social club do when it gets together?”

“Parties. On Friday nights usually.”

“All the upper sixth pupils belong?”

“No. Just people who want to.”

“What happens to the rest of the upper sixth?”

“They’re losers, aren’t they? They keep to themselves. Don’t have mates. You know.”

“Was there a party this past Friday night?”

“There’s a party every Friday night. This one was smaller than usual, though. Lots of the upper sixth were gone for the weekend. Lower sixth and fifth as well. There was a hockey tournament in the North.”

“You didn’t want to go?”

“Too much prep. And an exam this morning that I was cramming for as well.”

“Lord. I remember how that is. Did that upper sixth party Friday night keep you from seeing to the younger boys here in Erebus House?” Even as he asked the question, Lynley hated himself for the ease with which he had drawn the boy to this point. There had been nothing clever about it, just an admission of similar background and experience to form a loose bond, then each question drawing him further and further out of the protective shell everyone wore—guilty or innocent—when questioned by the police.

“I was back by eleven.” Brian became guarded with this response. “I didn’t check on them. I just went to bed.”

“When you left the sixth form club, were there other seniors there?”

“A few.”

“Had they been there all along? Had anyone left the party at all during the evening?”

Brian was no fool. His face told Lynley that even if he had not done so before, he saw the direction the questions were taking. He hesitated before saying, “Clive Pritchard was in and out. He’s a bloke from Calchus House.”

“A prefect?”

Brian looked wryly amused. “Not prefect material, if you know what I mean.”

“And Chas? Was he at this party?”

“He was there.”

“All along?”

A moment for thought, for recollection, for a decision about truth or deception. “Yes. All along.” The spasm that jerked his lip betrayed him.

“Are you sure about that? Was Chas there every moment? Was he there when you left?”

“He was there. Yes. Where else would he be?”

“I don’t know. I’m just trying to get at the truth of what happened here on Friday when Matthew Whateley disappeared.”

Brian’s eyes clouded. “Are you thinking Chas had something to do with that? Why?”

“If Matthew ran off, he had to have some reason for doing so, didn’t he?”

“And you see
Chas
as the reason? Sorry, sir, but that’s rot.”

“It may be, which is why I’m asking whether Chas was in the social club for the entire evening. If he was there, he could hardly have been seeing to Matthew Whateley.”

“He was. He was there. I saw him every moment. I never took my eyes off him. He was with me most of the time anyway. And when he wasn’t…” Brian stopped talking abruptly. His right fist closed. His lips whitened as he pressed them together.

“So he left,” Lynley said.

“He didn’t! It’s just that there were some phone calls for him. Maybe three. I don’t remember. Someone came and got him and he went to the front of Ion House where the phone is and took the calls there. But he was never gone long enough to
do
anything.”

“How long was he gone?”

“I don’t know. Five minutes, ten minutes. No more than that. What could he have done in that time? Nothing. And what difference does it make? None of the calls came before nine o’clock and everyone knows that Matthew Whateley ran off in the afternoon.”

Lynley saw the fine edge of the boy’s control, and used it by asking, “Why did Matthew run off? What happened to him here? You and I both know that behind closed doors things go on in a school that the Headmaster and the staff either don’t know about or turn a blind eye to. What happened?”

“Nothing. He just didn’t fit in. He was different. Everyone could tell. Everyone knew it. He never got the picture that one’s mates are important—more important, the most important…For him, it was lessons and prep and getting ready for university and nothing else. Nothing.”

“So you knew him.”

“I know all the boys in Erebus. That’s my job, isn’t it?”

“And save for last Friday, you do your job well?”

His face closed. “I
do
.”

“Your father pushed Matthew for the governors’ scholarship. Did you know that?”

“Yes.”

“How did you feel about it?”

“Why should I have felt anything? He promotes a student every year for the scholarship. This year, his protégé won. So what?”

“Perhaps that made it difficult for you to smooth Matthew’s way into the life of the school. He was from a different background than most of the boys, after all. It would have taken some effort on your part to see that he felt at home here.”

“What you really mean is that I was jealous of Matthew because of my father’s interest in him, so I didn’t lift a finger to make it any easier for him to fit in. In fact, I made him so miserable from the first that he finally couldn’t stand it and ran off and got himself killed in the process?” Brian shook his head. “If I put the heat on every boy that my father took an interest in, I’d be spending all of my time at it. He’s looking for another Eddie Hsu, Inspector. He won’t rest until he finds one.”

“Eddie Hsu?”

“An old Bredgardian that my father tutored.” Brian smiled, an expression of bitter pleasure. “Until he killed himself, that is. In 1975. Just before his A-levels. Haven’t you seen my father’s memorial to Eddie in the chapel? It’s hard to miss. ‘Edward Hsu…beloved student.’ My father’s been looking for his replacement ever since. He has a real Midas touch, does Dad. Except that everything he touches dies on contact.”

A sharp knock sounded on the door. “Byrne! Let’s do it! Hey! Let’s go!”

Lynley didn’t recognise the voice. He nodded at Brian who said, “Join the party, Clive.”

“Hey, let’s be-bop over to…” The other boy froze when he saw Havers and Lynley. But he recovered quickly, saluted, and said, “Oh ho! Here be the coppers, I’d guess. Nabbed you at last have they, Bri?” He rolled onto the balls of his feet.

“Clive Pritchard,” Brian said by way of introduction. “Calchus House’s finest specimen.”

Clive grinned. His left eye was slightly lower than his right, and its lid drooped lazily. In conjunction with the grin, this had the effect of making him look a little bit drunk. “You know it, lad.” He gave no further notice to the police. Instead, he said, “We’ve ten minutes to get to the field, laddie, and you’ve not even changed. What’s happening to you? I’ve a fiver riding that we’ll smash Mopsus and Ion, and all the while you’re sitting here having a natter with the cops.”

Clive himself was dressed not in the school’s uniform, but in a blue tracksuit and jersey striped in yellow and white. Both were extremely tight-fitting, serving to emphasise a build that was not muscular but wiry. He looked like a fencer and moved quickly, with a fencer’s agility.

“I don’t know that I…” Brian looked at Lynley questioningly.

“We’ve enough information for now,” Lynley replied. “You’re free to go.”

As Sergeant Havers stood and moved towards the door, Brian walked to his cupboard, opened it, and pulled out a tracksuit, gym shoes, and a blue and white jersey which he selected from three that were hanging on hooks.

Clive stepped forward. “Not that one, Bri. Criminy, you’re getting thick, aren’t you? We’re in yellow today, unless you’re planning to join the Ion boys’ team. I know you and Quilter are each other’s dolly-bird, but let’s have a bit of house loyalty, shall we.”

Stupidly, Brian looked down at the garments in his hands. His brow creased. He stood motionless. With an impatient grunt, Clive took the jersey from him, pulled the yellow and white one from the cupboard, and handed it over. “
Can’t
be with Quilter this afternoon, lovey pie. Come on. Bring your gear. Change in the sports hall. We’ve a field of pretty boys waiting to be coshed. And hardly time to see to them all. I’m living hell with a hockey stick. Have I told you that? Mopsus and Ion are the sinners and they’re about to meet their retribution. Pritchard-style.” Clive mimed the action of smacking Brian’s shins.

Brian winced, then smiled. “Let’s do it,” he said and allowed Clive to dance him from the room.

Lynley watched them go. He did not overlook the fact that neither boy met his eyes as they left.

9

“Let’s look at what we have,” Lynley said.

In response, Sergeant Havers lit a cigarette and settled comfortably into her chair, a Schweppes tonic water in front of her.

They were in the public bar of the Sword and Garter, a cramped little pub in the village of Cissbury, three quarters of a mile along a narrow country road from Bredgar Chambers. The Sword and Garter had already proved itself to be an inspired choice for their conversation prior to heading back to London. Considering its proximity to the school, Lynley had shown the publican Matthew Whateley’s photograph—not really expecting any recognition from the man. So it was with some surprise that he saw the publican nod his shaggy head, that he heard him say, “Aye. Matt Whateley,” without the least hesitation.