Murder In School (3 page)

‘He bought it, Guv.  Nice one. 
I’d never have thought of that.  For a moment there you had me filling my
pants.’

‘It sounded like you were, Leyton.’

‘It was the chair, Guv.  I was
boiling in that office.  Brushes with authority always bring me out in a
sweat.’

Skelgill munches into his third bacon
roll of the morning and shakes his head.  ‘Leyton, you crack me up. 
And of course he didn’t buy it.’

‘What do you mean, Guv?’  DS Leyton
sounds nonplussed.

‘What he bought was that if we need to
invent a reason to poke about, we would – I just gave him one that saved
him losing face.’

DS Leyton looks bewildered, and consoles
himself by tucking into his overdue breakfast.  They both chew in
thoughtful silence for a few moments, until DS Leyton remarks, ‘Decent rolls
these, Guv.’

Skelgill nods.  ‘We’d better not make
a habit of parking here – the Chief comes this way to work.  We’d be
sitting ducks.’

‘She can’t get too shirty yet, Guv
– we’ve only just started on this one.’

‘Maybe – but there’s not much
window of opportunity – unless we can quickly find some grounds for
suspicion Goodman will turf us out on our ear.’

‘It’d be nice to know what the Chief’s
got up her sleeve, Guv.  It’s not right sending us out in the dark like
this.’

Skelgill nods resignedly.  ‘She can’t
chance it going public.’

‘If it were a murder, Guv, I don’t see
how she could have any inkling.’

‘If it were a murder, it was a bloody
clever one.’

‘What else then, Guv?’

‘Search me.  Some bigger picture
that the school doesn’t want us to see?’

DS Leyton nods reflectively, but doesn’t
offer any suggestion.

Skelgill continues, ‘At first I wondered
if it were the school calling us in on the QT – via the Chief.  She
must be acquainted with this Goodman character – you know how all the
local bigwigs and the county set knock about together.  But Goodman’s
reaction seems to dispel that theory.  We’re definitely undesirables in
his book.’

‘What about her son, Guv – she
might have heard something from him?  It would explain why she can’t risk
getting involved.’

‘I expect the social networks have been
buzzing – did you notice that honours board in the entrance hall? 
It lists the families and the number of generations they’ve sent to Oakthwaite. 
It included the name Querrell. That’s why I figured I was on safe ground
hinting an heir had come forward.’

Leyton crams the remainder of his bacon
roll into his mouth and gives a wide-eyed nod of affirmation.  It doesn’t
look very convincing.  He washes down his food with the remnants of his
beaker of tea.  ‘So, Guv – what have we got?  The perfect
murder?  Or Querrell driven to suicide by forces unknown?  Or nothing
sinister whatsoever?’

‘Or something else.’

DS Leyton sighs quietly.  This is a
familiar situation: if DI Skelgill gets the merest hint of some irregularity,
an errant piece of the jigsaw that doesn’t fit – that might have found
its way in by accident from another puzzle altogether – he’ll refuse to
be drawn towards what might seem the obvious, convenient and perfectly adequate
conclusion.  Instead he’ll pursue any number of unpromising leads, explore
blind avenues, and concoct improbable theories, giving the impression that the
investigation is going nowhere fast, and everywhere else slowly.  Then,
suddenly, early one morning, he’ll come back from a fishing trip on
Bassenthwaite Lake and move in for the kill with all the devastating speed and
single-minded ruthlessness of the pike.

Another of Skelgill’s traits –
techniques
,
even – is one for which DS Leyton plays a natural if sometimes unwitting
foil.  As in the case of their interview with Mr Goodman, the Head of
Oakthwaite, as Skelgill will happily admit after a few pints of local ale, he
likes his opponent to think he’s stupider than he really is.

Now Skelgill uncharacteristically
collects together the debris of their second breakfast, and to DS Leyton’s
obvious surprise climbs out of the car and heads for the litter bin at the far
end of the layby.  En route, it appears that his mobile phone rings, for
Skelgill extracts it from his pocket, peers at the screen for a moment, and
then puts it to his ear, lingering beside the waste depository.  Leyton
can see what’s going on, but can’t hear the conversation.

‘Jones.’

‘Guv?’

‘Why are you whispering?’

‘Hold on a sec.’  There’s a pause
and, after a couple of moments, Skelgill hears the sound of a door closing. 
‘Guv – it’s a kind of stakeout.’

‘Where are you?’

‘In a bar in Carlisle.  In the
Ladies’ – now.’

‘A drug deal about to go down?’

‘Supposedly, according to...’

‘Smart?  You’re not with DI Smart?’

‘Fraid so, Guv.’  Jones must sense
Skelgill’s irritation.  ‘Look, Guv – he’s okay – I can handle
him.’

‘So what are you two – playing the
courting couple, smooching in the corner?’

‘Look, Guv – you know how these
things work.  Don’t let Alec get under your skin.’

‘Alec?’

‘Give us a break, Guv – it’s just
another job.’

‘Yeah, but...’

Skelgill’s voice tails off.  Perhaps
the significance of her words sinks in.

‘Guv – I’d better get back. 
Can I call you later?’

‘I need your help – PDQ.’

‘The school?’

‘Yeah.  I’ve got a list of masters
and staff as long as my arm.  The Head’s put up a few for interviews, but they’ll
be his stooges.  I want someone who’s been there a long time and might
know something about the guy, Querrell.  If your family mole could suggest
a name?’

‘Sure, Guv – I’ll text her right
now.  I called her this morning to say we may need a favour.’

Skelgill allows himself a small grin. 
She’s ahead of the game as ever.  ‘Great – just drop me the details
as soon as you get them.  I’ll be at Oakthwaite from about one.’

‘Will do.’

‘Send my regards to Smart.’

‘Naturally, Guv.’

Skelgill walks back to the car, shaking
his head.  As he does so, a shapely blonde woman in a close-fitting
miniskirt alights revealingly from a small scarlet convertible that has pulled
up between the burger van and the unmarked police car.  Evidently consumed
in thought, Skelgill doesn’t seem to notice her passing.  He clambers back
in beside Leyton, who quips, ‘Guv – get an eyeful of that.’

‘What?’

‘The skirt – she slipped right
under your nose.  Not like you to be so unobservant, Guv.’

‘Behave, Leyton.’

‘Behave?’

‘For a change, eh?’

‘Blimey, Guv – a fortnight with
Fast-track and you’ve come over all PC.’

‘That’s what you’ll be Sergeant, if you
don’t watch your lip.  Leave DS Jones out of it.’

DS Leyton shrugs resignedly. 
There’s no accounting for DS Skelgill’s capricious mores.  And he knows
better than to ask about the telephone call his superior has just taken. 
Instead he grins good naturedly, and says, ‘DC, Guv.’

‘What?’

‘DC – not PC.  If I were
demoted, they wouldn’t want me as an advert for uniform, would they?’

Skelgill is forced to chuckle. 
There is something Chaplinesque about the clumsy, self-deprecating but stoic DS
Leyton.  It’s an endearing combination.

  ‘Well, pull out the stops and see
if you can find the way to Oakthwaite without getting lost.  But, first,
drop me off at my car in Keswick.’

‘Hold your horses, Guv.  Why am I
going back to the school?’

‘To interview the groundsman who found
the boat.’

‘Is he on our list?’  DS Leyton
sounds surprised.  ‘I thought it was just teachers.’

‘Have you got the list?’

‘But you’ve got it, Guv.’

Skelgill nods.  ‘So it would be easy
for you to make a mistake?’

‘But, Guv...’  Then Skelgill’s
intention dawns on DS Leyton and a philosophical expression washes across his features. 
‘Ah... a mistake.’

 ‘Just get the exact detail of what
happened, and anything he noticed out of the ordinary.  I’ll catch up with
you in time for the one o’clock appointment.’

‘Right, Guv.’

‘And remember to park less
conspicuously.’

DS Leyton grimaces.  ‘I bet Mr Goodman
wouldn’t tell the Chief where to stick her Seven Series Beamer.’

‘Not many would, Leyton.’

Skelgill noses his car into a tight space
in the busy supermarket parking lot.  He squeezes out sideways and heads
for the store, sniffing the air and casting about for views of his beloved
fells.  But, while the rain has abated – temporarily, at least
– the cloud base clings stubbornly to its early morning level, thwarting
his ambitions.  A couple of minutes later he strides from the automatic
doors clutching a carrier bag, gripping its evidently weighty contents through
the flimsy plastic material.

Instead of returning to his car he makes
a left and walks briskly in the direction of Keswick’s unimaginatively named Main
Street.  Despite the gloomy weather the grey stone nineteenth century thoroughfare
is thronged with a colourful cagoule-clad procession of trippers and walkers
– the former distinguished from the latter by their ill-fitting
waterproofs and inappropriate footwear.  Still, they mingle amicably, bearing
the phlegmatic demeanour of English holidaymakers who today can neither see nor
explore the hills they have come to admire.

Skelgill prefers the less-touristy
Penrith for shopping: his staples being fishing tackle and outdoor
equipment.  But Keswick, though its main drag is ornamented with a rather
disappointing necklace of retail fare, nonetheless hosts the odd specialist gem
that might ordinarily challenge his bank balance.  Today, however, he
merely pauses for thought at the occasional intriguingly stocked window, before
finally succumbing to a different impulse: the enticing aroma of hot sausage
rolls that emanates from a bustling baker’s.

Munching on the move, he ducks into a
narrow paved ginnel and follows its course with the gentle trickle of rainwater
it carries in the direction of Derwentwater.  In just a short distance he draws
to a halt beside a rather Heath Robinson assemblage of angular modern buildings,
and turns into a doorway beneath large white lettering that proclaims this is
Keswick
Library
.

The female receptionist stares at him
quizzically.  Skelgill raises a Bond-like eyebrow, perhaps mistaking her
interest – for there is a prominent flake of pastry attached to the tip
of his nose.

He leans forward and in hushed tones
asks, ‘Is Professor Hartley in today?’

The woman can’t help brushing her own
nose, as if it will cause Skelgill to mirror her and remove the offending
morsel.  But he stands unmoving and holds her gaze.  After a moment
she nods and mouths, ‘History section.’  She points to an archway that
leads into another room.

Skelgill affects a suave bow and sets off
gingerly in the direction indicated, though his wet soles squeak a protest with
each step across the parquet surface, raising disapproving glances from several
elderly readers.

As he enters he spies his quarry, the
sole occupant of the area, a bespectacled man in his mid-sixties, notable for
his shock of white hair, poring over a yellowing tome that looks to have been
retrieved from some dusty archive.

‘Jim.’

The man glances up, surprised for a
moment, seeming severe as he squints over the half-moon reading glasses. 
Then his expression softens into a smile as he recognises Skelgill.

‘Ah, Daniel.’  He lowers his voice, ‘Let
me guess – you’ve been eating pastries.’

‘What?’ Skelgill whispers.  He looks
down at his jacket for the evidence.

‘Told you I’d have made a good
detective.’  Professor Hartley taps his nose.

‘Oh.’  Skelgill gets it and wipes
away the crumb, and with it the fleeting realisation that it was present during
his interaction a few moments earlier.  He reaches out and offers the
supermarket bag to the older man.  ‘Lagavulin – for that case of
flies you tied for me.’

‘Daniel, they were a gift.  I enjoy
doing them.’

‘Jim, they’re worth five times what this
Scotch cost – and they’ve already paid for it in trout alone.  A
dozen two-pound Brownies.’

‘Ah – excellent, lad.  Glad to
hear that.  Whereabouts?’

‘Just below Little Crossthwaite, where
the Derwent flows into Bass Lake.’

‘I know it.  Beautiful spot.’

‘Come with me some time.’

‘That would be an honour – though
the hours you keep send a shiver down my spine.’

Skelgill grins.  ‘A policeman’s
lot.’

‘On which note – there must be
something I can do: for you to have run me to ground in my lair here.’

‘I did want to pick your brains. 
It’s about Oakthwaite School.’

‘Be my guest.’

The Professor indicates a chair opposite,
but as he does so the shadow of the librarian darkens the doorway beyond, her posture
communicating a hint of disapproval.

‘We’re making too much racket,
Daniel.  Shall we retreat for a cappuccino?  Let me just tidy this
lot up.  I’m giving a talk to the Borrowdale History Society next month:
The
Flight of Mary, Queen of Scots
.  She came this way, you know, when she
was driven from Scotland?’

‘She got around a bit, I know that.’

‘She was an extraordinary girl –
she would have been a media sensation if she’d lived four hundred years later. 
Not least because she was six foot two in her party shoes.’

Skelgill watches as he neatly stacks and
files his meticulous notes and coloured pens: no sign of any new technology. 
Jim Hartley, now retired, was for many years Professor of Medieval History over
at Durham University, some eighty miles due east across the Pennines.  A
native of Keswick, and an ardent angler, he’d kept on a house in the small
Lakeland town, and had come to know the spotty teenage Daniel Skelgill when the
latter had attended one of his ‘summer schools’ on fly-casting.  He’d
identified Skelgill’s natural talent at once, and ‘young Daniel’ became
something of a protégé in the absence of children of his own.

They make their way through to the little
cafeteria attached to the library.  As the Professor takes his seat he
says, ‘Oakthwaite – now there’s a curious coincidence, Daniel.’

‘Oh?’

‘Yes.  I came across a reference to
the place only this morning.  Not the school, you understand?  There
has been a stronghold on the site since the Dark Ages – probably
earlier.’

‘What – like a castle?’

‘Yes.  Perhaps some kind of broch
originally, but certainly a substantial fortress in late medieval times.’

‘What became of it?’

‘It may be that Mary proved its undoing. 
In 1568, aged just twenty-five, she’d escaped from confinement in Loch Leven
Castle, and rallied an army that was on its way to take up position at
Dumbarton Castle.  Their defences would have been impregnable.  But they
were intercepted and routed at the Battle of Langside, south of Glasgow, by
forces under the Earl of Moray – her half-brother, no less.’

‘Sounds like my family.’

The Professor grins.  ‘Then she fled
south, misguidedly hoping Elizabeth would help her.  From Dundrennan Abbey
she was smuggled across the Solway disguised as a fisherwoman, and rumour has
it she was given refuge at Oakthwaite.  She was a staunch Roman Catholic, naturally,
and this part of Cumberland was a clandestine stronghold.  It may be that
in time the local lords suffered for providing assistance to the pretender.’

‘So the castle at Oakthwaite was
destroyed?’

‘If it wasn’t one catastrophic event,
certainly the barony was strangled into decline over the course of a couple of
generations, the estate with it.  I expect half the farms in the vicinity
have pieces of the castle stone in their walls.  The foundations will
still be intact, though, somewhere beneath the school.  There would have
been extensive vaults, wells, dungeons, and a crypt under the chapel. 
I’ve read of a tunnel that led away to safety in case the priest ever needed to
evade capture.  But of course it’s never been excavated: the school was
built before they thought of
Time Team
.’

‘Quite a history, buried away.’

‘But it’s the present you’re interested
in, Daniel.  I should cut to the chase rather than try out my lecture on
you.’

Skelgill grins ruefully.  ‘That
depends where history ends and the present begins.’

‘Ever the philosopher, Daniel.’

‘I doubt that’s the term my Sergeant
would use for me, Jim.’

‘I’m sure you’re secretly admired.’

Skelgill’s cheeks colour a little. 
He retreats to the invitation to discuss the present.  ‘Do you know much
about the school today?’

The Professor shakes his head apologetically. 
‘I’m afraid not Daniel.  It wasn’t ever my remit – admissions
– so I didn’t have any direct association.  Of course, we had a few
Oakthwaite freshers coming up each year into our faculty.  Always well
presented, diligent, solid performers.  The ones that just missed out on
Oxbridge, I imagine.’

‘Did you ever visit the place?’

‘Sadly, no.  What I’ve assimilated down
the years is from local hearsay – folk who’ve worked there.  I’ve
always had the impression that they operate in a rather cult-like manner. 
Most of the masters live on site, I believe, and they like to keep their own company. 
I suppose when you have several hundred charges to occupy round-the-clock
during term times, you must run a pretty tight ship.  Being a closed
community facilitates that.’

‘Ever heard of a family named
Querrell?  The last one spent his life there, man and boy.’

The Professor stirs the residue of milky
froth and chocolate flakes into the last dregs of his coffee.  ‘It rings a
very faint bell, Daniel.  Of course, it’s an unusual name.  Was there
one at Bosworth, now?  I’d have to look that up.  Querrell’s your
man?’

‘Was.  Drowned last week in what
appears to be a suicide.’

‘Appears?’

Skelgill nods slowly.

‘I’ll put my thinking cap on.  You
know how these things can come back to you when you’re least expecting it.’

‘That’s my system, too.  At least,
it’s my excuse to go fishing.’

‘Quite reasonable, Daniel.  Complex
problems can’t be solved by rational thought.’

‘Just as well, in my case.  However,
if it’s any help he was born in nineteen forty-six.  Christian names
Edmund Donald.’

‘So the parents had a classical
education.  And a sense of humour.’

‘Come again?’

‘Querrell, Edmund Donald: initials QED. 
Quod erat demonstrandum.
  That which is proven.’

Skelgill grins sheepishly.  ‘Over my
head, Jim.  My Latin starts and finishes at
Esox lucius
.’

‘And no better place to begin and end.’

Skelgill smiles.  ‘I’d better let
you get back to finding out something about Mary.’

As they rise the Professor asks, ‘How’s
your mother keeping these days?’

‘Ah – slowing down at bit. 
But still cycles over Honister every morning.’

‘I wish I could decline to such heights,
Daniel.  And I read about your latest fell-running exploits in
The
Westmorland Gazette
.  Like mother, like son.’

‘What – mad as hatters?’