Different Class (52 page)

‘I wondered if I might have a word with your son.’

Now she was looking confused. She said: ‘Why? What’s he done now?’

I explained that Gloria’s son had been helping me with my computer skills. ‘Outside his
other
duties, of course.’

Gloria looked no less confused. ‘What duties? You mean at the
school
?’

And now, I suddenly realized that Gloria had no idea where her son worked, or what he did. Had he never told her? Was he ashamed of his menial role?

I said: ‘We met at the Scholar. I happened to mention the challenges of being a veteran Master, faced with the march of Progress in all its electronic forms. He offered to give me a helping hand in embracing information technology.’

Gloria seemed to relax at that. She had always had a sharp tongue, but now
everything
about her was sharp; her nose; her chin; her voice, and, of course, those dark and still-expressive eyes.

‘Oh, yes, the Scholar,’ she said. ‘He sometimes goes there after work. All hours they keep him at that bloody hospital.’

I made no comment at that, but filed away the information for later. I knew my co-conspirator enjoyed reinventing himself online, but lying to his mother seemed to be a different category of reinvention. Once more, I reminded myself that I knew very little about him, except for what he has told me – which may or may not be the truth—

‘Anyway, he’s out,’ she said. ‘What did you want him for, anyway?’

I said: ‘It’s not important. Unless—’ I paused for a moment. ‘I heard that you’d been caring for Margery Scoones up until her death.’

Gloria gave me a sharp look. ‘Caring? Well, you could call it that. Mostly it was watching TV and listening to her talk rubbish. Cleaning up, if she let me. Though with them bloody boxes everywhere, all over the house—’

‘One of those boxes came from – a very dear friend of mine,’ I said. ‘He left the contents to Mr Scoones – with a letter, I believe. I wondered if you’d come across that letter, maybe by accident.’

I was watching her carefully, on the alert for signs of unease. She held my gaze – looking, if anything, more aggressive than ever.

‘What if I did?’ she said at last.

I said: ‘Eric Scoones was very upset. He accidentally burnt the box while he was burning Margery’s things. I was hoping perhaps the letter had escaped. The last words of an old friend – I hoped perhaps you’d put it away. Put it in a safe place.’

Gloria’s gaze did not flicker. ‘No. I didn’t tidy anything.’

‘If only you knew where it was,’ I said, ‘Eric and I would be grateful. Certainly there’d be a reward. Probably a substantial one.’

‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I’ve not seen it.’

A long career in finding out young miscreants has made me adept at eliciting confessions. Unlike the lawmen of the real world, in which a suspect is deemed to be innocent until proven otherwise, we of St Oswald’s always begin an interrogation with an apparent assumption of guilt, with which we confront the suspect in the hope that he will confess. As in certain martial arts, I find the resulting battle of wills is generally won or lost within the first few seconds of engagement, although I myself have been known to break a schoolboy’s defences with a single, piercing glance.

It’s a game of bluff, of course; but I am rather good at it. And although my last adversary had proved herself to be tough as nails, I left the house certain of two things. One: that letter to Eric contained something that I needed to know, and two: for all her assurances, Gloria Winter was lying.

2

November 4th, 2005

Your brother was late. It was 9.05. I’d almost given up on him. Some people just aren’t reliable; or maybe they’re inconsiderate. In any case, Mousey, it was rude; and if I’d not already decided to put him down, I think that would have clinched it.

He’d parked his car next to Goldie’s. He got out and looked around. I could sense his caution; like a rat sensing danger, but hungry for the food in the trap. Just how hungry
was
he? I thought. And just how far would Goldie go?

Your brother was wearing a knitted cap and his dark-blue parka.
He must be older than I am
, I thought,
but still he looks younger and fitter
. Still, I didn’t think he’d fight back. He never did in the old days.

He said: ‘Did you bring the money?’

I nodded. Harrington just stared at him with a look of hatred. Of course, I knew he’d be furious. A menial – an
inferior
– holding us to ransom like that over something that happened so long ago. And what did he have on us?

Still, Mousey, who cared? They’d both be dead by nine fifteen.

3

November 4th, 2005

By the time I got to the end of Dog Lane, it was already a quarter to nine. The porch light was on in front of my house, and I could see a figure in a blue overcoat standing by the front door. Relief made me reckless.

‘Mr Winter!’ I called. ‘I’m so—’

He turned; and in the glow of the lamp, I saw a familiar profile.
Not
Mr Winter, as I’d supposed, but the neat, sharp features of Dr Devine, now suffused with triumph.

‘I knew it!’ he said, as I approached. ‘I knew you couldn’t have moved those boards without the aid of an accomplice. What are you up to now, eh? And how did you talk him into it?’

I sighed and took out the front-door key. ‘Not now, please, Devine,’ I said. ‘I’ve had a very tiring day. I’ve been helping Eric sort out some of poor Margery’s things.’

The nose twitched. ‘Ah, yes,’ said Devine. ‘I expect the fellow’s upset.’

I thought his voice was rather cold – for reasons that have more to do with ambition than personality, Dr Devine and Eric Scoones have never been the best of friends. Now, his lack of sympathy for a grieving colleague reminded me of why I disliked the man.

I opened the door, and he followed me, unasked, into the front hall. That, I thought, was bordering on rude, and rudeness, whatever his other faults, was not Devine’s
modus operandi
– but for the moment, I refrained from comment. He was not in the habit of making calls, and I guessed he had a reason, which he would doubtless divulge, given time.

The central heating hadn’t come on, and the house smelt vaguely damp. I took off my coat, lit the fire, turned – then saw Devine, still by the door, holding a piece of paper.

‘This was in your letterbox,’ he said. ‘It looks like a note of some kind.’

I took the note, which was written on the back of a folded envelope. ‘Of course it’s a note,’ I said crossly. ‘And don’t even
try
to pretend you haven’t already looked at it. I don’t know why you’re suddenly so interested in my comings and goings. Or is this all just a very dull form of German trick-or-treating?’

‘Straitley, read the note,’ said Devine.

I unfolded the envelope. The note was only a few lines long; the writing small and even.

Dear Mr Straitley
,

I’m sorry I wasn’t able to speak with you this evening. I’m setting off on a trip tonight, and I was hoping to talk to you first. You’ve always been polite to me – which is more than I can say for anyone else on the staff. In fact, working with you has almost made my time at St Oswald’s seem worthwhile.

I’ll be at the canal bridge at 9.00. Be there if you want to know more. But do remember what Sophocles said: ‘What a terrible thing is wisdom, when it brings no profit to the wise.’ If, on reflection, you’d rather not know, I’ll completely understand.

Sincerely
,

B. B. Winter

I looked at Devine. ‘What time is it?’

He checked his watch. ‘It’s ten to nine. But you’re not really planning to go, are you? And on the basis of what, exactly? A note on the back of an envelope, in the middle of the night?’

‘Hardly the middle of the night,’ I protested.

Dr Devine just looked at me.

‘It’s complicated,’ I told him.

Once more Devine just looked at me. I recognized an ancient St Oswald’s Master’s technique I often used with the Lower School.

‘And
personal
,’ I added, with a hint of censure.

Devine gave an expressive sniff. ‘Oh, don’t be so dramatic,’ he said. ‘How can you possibly think I don’t know how you’ve been spending the past few weeks? I mean, you’re hardly subtle. First that ridiculous garden gnome, and then all the hints about Harry Clarke, not to mention the Honours Boards, and creeping around after the Head. What did you think you were doing, eh? You might as well have been carrying a sign saying:
Rebellion in Progress
.’

I said: ‘Bob Strange has cameras hidden all over the School, you know.’

‘Of course I know,’ said Dr Devine. ‘I’m Health & Safety Officer.’

For a moment I was robbed of speech. ‘You
knew
?’ I said.

He had the grace to look embarrassed. ‘I saw Jimmy checking the cables,’ he said. ‘Of course I asked Bob about it.’ He gave another sniff, and I sensed that he was torn between his loyalty to the management and his personal sense of propriety.

‘Bob explained,’ Devine went on. ‘He said it was because of last year. Said having cameras in School might have averted a tragedy. Told me if I let people know, I might be in breach of contract. The bastard. As if I would—’

I was impressed. In thirty-four years, I have never heard Dr Devine refer to a senior colleague in such unbridled terms. I thought back to the first day of term, and the altercation I’d overheard between them.
Roy Straitley knows
—

Roy Straitley knows what?
Knows what he owes to St Oswald’s? Knows how the management has failed in its duty towards the staff? Knows how the likes of Bob Strange will always manage to serve themselves?

‘What I’m saying is,’ said Devine, ‘you’ve been keeping tabs on the Head. And if there
is
a rebellion, I want to be part of it.’

I have to say, I was impressed. In all my years at St Oswald’s, I’d never seen Devine like this. It occurred to me that for thirty-four years I actually might have misjudged the man, and for a moment I almost considered filling him in on Winter’s research. Then I remembered his lack of support, both for Harry, during the trial, and now, for poor, grieving Eric, and decided I was better alone. Besides, I thought, I had nothing to lose. Dr Devine still had a career. And what was the point in risking that, on a simple intuition?

‘Dr Devine. I have to go,’ I said, reaching for my coat. Ten minutes’ walk along the canal – ten minutes’
run
– and I could be there in time.

The tumblers were falling faster now. Harry’s letter to Eric. Gloria’s denial of ever having seen it – even with the promise of a significant reward. Winter’s mysterious double life. Harrington’s expression when I saw him in the Scholar. And Eric saying:
How well do we really know our friends? How do we know what they’re hiding?

‘You’re not going there alone,’ said Devine. ‘Not after what happened last year.’

I shrugged. I suppose he had a point – last year’s Bonfire Night brought, not only gunpowder, treason and plot, but also the murder of Colin Knight, a near-fatal stabbing, and, of course, that ill-timed heart attack, smugly described by my doctor as ‘your body’s last warning to lay off the pies, the pasties, the cheese and the Gauloises’.

I said: ‘Oh, lightning never strikes in the same place twice, Devine.’

He huffed. ‘Statistically incorrect. In fact,
this
kind of lightning is likely to strike whenever a silly old fool sticks his neck out above the parapet.’

I ignored him and opened the door. I supposed the man was right, but I had no time to argue the point. I had no idea how long Winter would wait for me on the canal bridge. But whatever he knew,
I
wanted to hear, regardless of those tumblers dropping relentlessly in my head.

A firework rose from Malbry Park like flowers from a magician’s hat; a green chrysanthemum; then a blue. A second later, I heard the sound; that faint, percussive popping. What did Winter have to say? Why had he suggested the bridge? And what did he mean, quoting Sophocles when he
knew
I was desperate for answers?