Cat Among the Pigeons (11 page)

“Yes. Yes, I suppose I do.”

“How long have you been at Meadowbank?”

“Just over a year and a half.”

“There's never been any trouble before?”

“At Meadowbank?” She sounded startled.

“Yes.”

“Oh no. Everything's been quite all right until this term.”

Kelsey pounced.

“What's been wrong this term? You don't mean the murder, do you? You mean something else—”

“I don't—” she stopped—“Yes, perhaps I do—but it's all very nebulous.”

“Go on.”

“Miss Bulstrode's not been happy lately,” said Eileen slowly. “That's one thing. You wouldn't know it. I don't think anybody else has even noticed it. But I have. And she's not the only one who's unhappy. But that isn't what you mean, is it? That's just people's feelings. The kind of things you get when you're cooped up together and think about one thing too much. You meant, was there anything that didn't seem right just this term. That's it, isn't it?”

“Yes,” said Kelsey, looking at her curiously, “yes, that's it. Well, what about it?”

“I think there
is
something wrong here,” said Eileen Rich slowly. “It's as though there were someone among us who didn't belong.” She looked at him, smiled, almost laughed and said, “Cat among the pigeons, that's the sort of feeling. We're the pigeons, all of us, and the cat's amongst us. But we can't
see
the cat.”

“That's very vague, Miss Rich.”

“Yes, isn't it? It sounds quite idiotic. I can hear that myself. What I really mean, I suppose, is that there has been something, some little thing that I've noticed but I don't know what I've noticed.”

“About anyone in particular?”

“No, I told you, that's just it. I don't know who it is. The only way I can sum it up is to say that there's
someone
here, who's—somehow—wrong! There's someone here—I don't know who—who makes me uncomfortable. Not when I'm looking at her but when she's looking at me because it's when she's looking at me that it shows, whatever it is. Oh, I'm getting more incoherent than ever. And anyway, it's only a feeling. It's not what you want. It isn't evidence.”

“No,” said Kelsey, “it isn't evidence. Not yet. But it's interesting, and if your feeling gets anymore definite, Miss Rich, I'd be glad to hear about it.”

She nodded. “Yes,” she said, “because it's serious, isn't it? I mean, someone's been killed—we don't know why—and the killer may be miles away, or, on the other hand, the killer may be here in the school. And if so that pistol or revolver or whatever it is, must be here too. That's not a very nice thought, is it?”

She went out with a slight nod. Sergeant Bond said,

“Crackers—or don't you think so?”

“No,” said Kelsey, “I don't think she's crackers. I think she's what's called a sensitive. You know, like the people who know when there's a cat in the room long before they see it. If she'd been born in an African tribe she might have been a witch doctor.”

“They go round smelling out evil, don't they?” said Sergeant Bond.

“That's right, Percy,” said Kelsey. “And that's exactly what I'm trying to do myself. Nobody's come across with any concrete facts so I've got to go about smelling out things. We'll have the French woman next.”

M
ademoiselle Angèle Blanche was thirty-five at a guess. No makeup, dark brown hair arranged neatly but unbecomingly. A severe coat and skirt.

It was Mademoiselle Blanche's first term at Meadowbank, she explained. She was not sure that she wished to remain for a further term.

“It is not nice to be in a school where murders take place,” she said disapprovingly.

Also, there did not seem to be burglar alarms anywhere in the house—that was dangerous.

“There's nothing of any great value, Mademoiselle Blanche, to attract burglars.”

Mademoiselle Blanche shrugged her shoulders.

“How does one know? These girls who come here, some of them have very rich fathers. They may have something with them of great value. A burglar knows about that, perhaps, and he comes here because he thinks this is an easy place to steal it.”

“If a girl had something of value with her it wouldn't be in the gymnasium.”

“How do you know?” said Mademoiselle. “They have lockers there, do they not, the girls?”

“Only to keep their sports kit in, and things of that kind.”

“Ah yes, that is what is supposed. But a girl could hide anything in the toe of a gym shoe, or wrapped up in an old pullover or in a scarf.”

“What sort of thing, Mademoiselle Blanche?”

But Mademoiselle Blanche had no idea what sort of thing.

“Even the most indulgent fathers don't give their daughters diamond necklaces to take to school,” the Inspector said.

Again Mademoiselle Blanche shrugged her shoulders.

“Perhaps it is something of a different kind of value—a scarab, say, or something that a collector would give a lot of money for. One of the girls has a father who is an archaeologist.”

Kelsey smiled. “I don't really think that's likely, you know, Mademoiselle Blanche.”

She shrugged her shoulders. “Oh well, I only make the suggestion.”

“Have you taught in any other English schools, Mademoiselle Blanche?”

“One in the north of England some time ago. Mostly I have taught in Switzerland and in France. Also in Germany. I think I will come to England to improve my English. I have a friend here. She went sick and she told me I could take her position here as Miss Bulstrode would be glad to find somebody quickly. So I came. But I do not like it very much. As I tell you, I do not think I shall stay.”

“Why don't you like it?” Kelsey persisted.

“I do not like places where there are shootings,” said Mademoiselle Blanche. “And the children, they are not respectful.”

“They are not quite children, are they?”

“Some of them behave like babies, some of them might be twenty-five. There are all kinds here. They have much freedom. I prefer an establishment with more routine.”

“Did you know Miss Springer well?”

“I knew her practically not at all. She had bad manners and I conversed with her as little as possible. She was all bones and freckles and a loud ugly voice. She was like caricatures of English-women. She was rude to me often and I did not like it.”

“What was she rude to you about?”

“She did not like me coming to her Sports Pavilion. That seems to be how she feels about it—or felt about it, I mean—that it was
her
Sports Pavilion! I go there one day because I am interested. I have not been in it before and it is a new building. It is very well arranged and planned and I am just looking round. Then Miss Springer she comes and says ‘What are you doing here? This is no business of yours to be in here.' She says that to me—
me,
a mistress in the school! What does she think I am, a pupil?”

“Yes, yes, very irritating, I'm sure,” said Kelsey, soothingly.

“The manners of a pig, that is what she had. And then she calls out ‘Do not go away with the key in your hand.' She upset me. When I pull the door open the key fell out and I pick it up. I forget to put it back, because she has offended me. And then she shouts after me as though she thinks I was meaning to steal it.
Her
key, I suppose, as well as
her
Sports Pavilion.”

“That seems a little odd, doesn't it?” said Kelsey. “That she
should feel like that about the gymnasium, I mean. As though it were her private property, as though she were afraid of people finding something she had hidden there.” He made the faint feeler tentatively, but Angèle Blanche merely laughed.

“Hide something there—what could you hide in a place like that? Do you think she hides her love letters there? I am sure she has never had a love letter written to her! The other mistresses, they are at least polite. Miss Chadwick, she is old-fashioned and she fusses. Miss Vansittart, she is very nice,
grande dame,
sympathetic. Miss Rich, she is a little crazy I think, but friendly. And the younger mistresses are quite pleasant.”

Angèle Blanche was dismissed after a few more unimportant questions.

“Touchy,” said Bond. “All the French are touchy.”

“All the same, it's interesting,” said Kelsey. “Miss Springer didn't like people prowling about
her
gymnasium—Sports Pavilion—I don't know what to call the thing. Now
why?
”

“Perhaps she thought the Frenchwoman was spying on her,” suggested Bond.

“Well, but
why
should she think so? I mean, ought it to have mattered to her that Angèle Blanche should spy on her unless there was something she was afraid of Angèle Blanche finding out?

“Who have we got left?” he added.

“The two junior mistresses, Miss Blake and Miss Rowan, and Miss Bulstrode's secretary.”

Miss Blake was young and earnest with a round good-natured face. She taught Botany and Physics. She had nothing much to say that could help. She had seen very little of Miss Springer and had no idea of what could have led to her death.

Miss Rowan, as befitted one who held a degree in psychology, had views to express. It was highly probable, she said, that Miss Springer had committed suicide.

Inspector Kelsey raised his eyebrows.

“Why should she? Was she unhappy in any way?”

“She was aggressive,” said Miss Rowan, leaning forward and peering eagerly through her thick lenses. “Very aggressive. I consider that significant. It was a defence mechanism, to conceal a feeling of inferiority.”

“Everything I've heard so far,” said Inspector Kelsey, “points to her being very sure of herself.”

“
Too
sure of herself,” said Miss Rowan darkly. “And several of the things she said bear out my assumption.”

“Such as?”

“She hinted at people being ‘not what they seemed.' She mentioned that at the last school where she was employed, she had ‘unmasked' someone. The Headmistress, however, had been prejudiced, and refused to listen to what she had found out. Several of the other mistresses, too, had been what she called ‘against her.'

“You see what that means, Inspector?” Miss Rowan nearly fell off her chair as she leaned forward excitedly. Strands of lank dark hair fell forward across her face. “The beginnings of a persecution complex.”

Inspector Kelsey said politely that Miss Rowan might be correct in her assumptions, but that he couldn't accept the theory of suicide, unless Miss Rowan could explain how Miss Springer had managed to shoot herself from a distance of at least four feet away, and had also been able to make the pistol disappear into thin air afterwards.

Miss Rowan retorted acidly that the police were well known to be prejudiced against psychology.

She then gave place to Ann Shapland.

“Well, Miss Shapland,” said Inspector Kelsey, eyeing her neat and businesslike appearance with favour, “what light can you throw upon this matter?”

“Absolutely none, I'm afraid. I've got my own sitting room, and I don't see much of the staff. The whole thing's unbelievable.”

“In what way unbelievable?”

“Well, first that Miss Springer should get shot at all. Say somebody broke into the gymnasium and she went out to see who it was. That's all right, I suppose, but who'd want to break into the gymnasium?”

“Boys, perhaps, some young locals who wanted to help themselves to equipment of some kind or another, or who did it for a lark.”

“If that's so, I can't help feeling that what Miss Springer would have said was: ‘Now then, what are you doing here? Be off with you,' and they'd have gone off.”

“Did it ever seem to you that Miss Springer adopted any particular attitude about the Sports Pavilion?”

Ann Shapland looked puzzled. “Attitude?”

“I mean did she regard it as her special province and dislike other people going there?”

“Not that I know of. Why should she? It was just part of the school buildings.”

“You didn't notice anything yourself? You didn't find that if you went there she resented your presence—anything of that kind?”

Ann Shapland shook her head. “I haven't been out there myself more than a couple of times. I haven't the time. I've gone out there once or twice with a message for one of the girls from Miss Bulstrode. That's all.”

“You didn't know that Miss Springer had objected to Mademoiselle Blanche being out there?”

“No, I didn't hear anything about that. Oh yes, I believe I did. Mademoiselle Blanche was rather cross about something one day, but then she is a little bit touchy, you know. There was something about her going into the drawing class one day and resenting something the drawing mistress said to her. Of course she hasn't really very much to do—Mademoiselle Blanche, I mean. She only teaches one subject—French, and she has a lot of time on her hands. I think—” she hesitated, “I think she is perhaps rather an inquisitive person.”

“Do you think it likely that when she went into the Sports Pavilion she was poking about in any of the lockers?”

“The girls' lockers? Well, I wouldn't put it past her. She might amuse herself that way.”

“Does Miss Springer herself have a locker out there?”

“Yes, of course.”

“If Mademoiselle Blanche was caught poking about in Miss Springer's locker, then I can imagine that Miss Springer
would
be annoyed?”

“She certainly would!”

“You don't know anything about Miss Springer's private life?”

“I don't think anyone did,” said Ann. “Did she have one, I wonder?”

“And there's nothing else—nothing connected with the Sports Pavilion, for instance, that you haven't told me?”

“Well—” Ann hesitated.

“Yes, Miss Shapland, let's have it.”

“It's nothing really,” said Ann slowly. “But one of the gardeners—not Briggs, the young one. I saw him come out of the Sports Pavilion one day, and he had no business to be in there at all. Of course it was probably just curiosity on his part—or perhaps an excuse to slack off a bit from work—he was supposed to be nailing down the wire on the tennis court. I don't suppose really there's anything in it.”

“Still, you remembered it,” Kelsey pointed out. “Now why?”

“I think—” she frowned. “Yes, because his manner was a little odd. Defiant. And—he sneered at all the money that was spent here on the girls.”

“That sort of attitude … I see.”

“I don't suppose there's really anything in it.”

“Probably not—but I'll make a note of it, all the same.”

“Round and round the mulberry bush,” said Bond when Ann Shapland had gone. “Same thing over and over again! For goodness' sake let's hope we get something out of the servants.”

But they got very little out of the servants.

“It's no use asking me anything, young man,” said Mrs. Gibbons, the cook. “For one thing I can't hear what you say, and for another I don't know a thing. I went to sleep last night and I slept unusually heavy. Never heard anything of all the excitement there was. Nobody woke me up and told me anything about it.” She sounded injured. “It wasn't until this morning I heard.”

Kelsey shouted a few questions and got a few answers that told him nothing.

Miss Springer had come new this term, and she wasn't as much liked as Miss Jones who'd held the post before her. Miss Shapland was new, too, but she was a nice young lady, Mademoiselle Blanche was like all the Frenchies—thought the other mistresses were against her and let the young ladies treat her something shocking in class. “Not a one for crying, though,” Mrs. Gibbons admitted. “Some schools I've been in the French mistresses used to cry something awful!”

Most of the domestic staff were dailies. There was only one other maid who slept in the house, and she proved equally uninformative, though able to hear what was said to her. She couldn't say, she was sure. She didn't know nothing. Miss Springer was a bit sharp in her manner. She didn't know nothing about the Sports Pavilion nor what was kept there, and she'd never seen nothing like a pistol nowhere.

This negative spate of information was interrupted by Miss Bulstrode. “One of the girls would like to speak to you, Inspector Kelsey,” she said.

Kelsey looked up sharply. “Indeed? She knows something?”

“As to that I'm rather doubtful,” said Miss Bulstrode, “but you had better talk to her yourself. She is one of our foreign girls. Princess Shaista—niece of the Emir Ibrahim. She is inclined to think, perhaps, that she is of rather more importance than she is. You understand?”

Kelsey nodded comprehendingly. Then Miss Bulstrode went out and a slight dark girl of middle height came in.

She looked at them, almond-eyed and demure.

“You are the police?”

“Yes,” said Kelsey smiling, “we are the police. Will you sit down and tell me what you know about Miss Springer?”

“Yes, I will tell you.”