Murder In School (15 page)

‘Dr Snyder, thanks for making time to see
us again.  You’ll appreciate we have to be meticulous about this
investigation given there was a firearm involved.’

Dr Snyder nods somewhat reluctantly. 
‘Inspector, I believed I had provided all the required information to your Sergeant.’

Skelgill casts about the academic’s
study, as if there is plenty yet that he would like to know.  There are
few clues to be had, however, in the starkly furnished apartment.  Apart
from a precise geometric array of certificates testifying to Dr Snyder’s
qualifications, and – rather ominously – hung horizontally, an
old-fashioned varnished cane curving above an oak mantelpiece, much of the
remaining wall space is given over to ranks of unprepossessing grey filing
cabinets marked with neatly typed labels too small to read at a distance.

Skelgill returns his gaze to the Deputy
Headmaster.  ‘Since you spoke with DS Leyton, has any alternative idea
occurred to you as to how Mr Hodgson got hold of the shotgun?’

‘Unless he had a spare key, Inspector, I
can only imagine he took advantage of my absence from my study and temporarily
removed mine.’

‘How would he have come by a spare key?’

‘Well, of course, he was already employed
here when I arrived – my predecessor supervised the important keys. 
I have no means of knowing how strict his regime was.  For instance he may
have put them in Hodgson’s possession long enough for a copy to be made. 
It would take forty minutes to drive into Keswick and back.  Given his
gamekeeping background, ostensibly he was a person to be trusted with guns.’

‘But you didn’t see it that way, sir?’

‘I wasn’t prejudiced against the man,
Inspector.  But risk assessment is part of my responsibility –
limiting access to certain keys seems a sensible precaution to take.’

Skelgill folds his arms and stares evenly
at Dr Snyder.  ‘But not quite a sufficient precaution as it’s turned out,
sir.’

Dr Snyder appears piqued.  ‘I rather
suspect, Inspector, that had the shotgun not been available, Hodgson would have
found some other equally effective method to solve his problems.’

Skelgill now responds as if through
gritted teeth.  ‘Well let’s just say, sir – if I may use the word
lucky
in relation to this unfortunate event – we were all lucky that Mr Hodgson
didn’t decide first to take out his problems on the school population.’

He allows the import of this statement to
reverberate about the room.  Dr Snyder has no answer and, if it is
possible, his cadaverous demeanour seems to take on a more haunted
expression.  He makes as if to speak but his mouth is dry and he reaches
with his long hands to pour water from a decanter on his desk.

‘You can see, sir, why our colleagues can
be a bit jumpy when we know there are firearms around.’

Dr Snyder swallows rather uncomfortably. 
‘Yes, Inspector.’

‘Was Mr Querrell involved with the
shooting club?’

‘No, he was a conscientious objector
– wouldn’t have anything to do with guns.’

‘How did he get on with Mr Hodgson?’

‘I believe they kept their distance from
one another – although I imagine they crossed swords on occasion.’ 
Dr Snyder seems to have regained his composure.  ‘Querrell would have
required pitches prepared for his first form teams – and some of his
outdoor activities took place in the school grounds.  A case of obstinacy
meets belligerence, Inspector.’

Skelgill sits back in his seat and rearranges
his jacket.  He says, ‘Investigations suggest Mr Hodgson’s private life
was troubled – marriage, drink, finances.  Does that strike any
chords?’

Dr Snyder folds his fingers around the
glass, as if to stabilise its contents.  ‘Nothing that reached my ears,
Inspector.  The boys probably were the butt end of any ill temper that
spilled over into his work – you know how teenagers can be rather
irritating.  Our Director of Sport might be able to cast more light on
this subject than I am able.’

‘Mr Greig?’

‘That’s correct.’

‘We had a brief chat earlier in the week.
 Sergeant Leyton and I got a little lost and found our way to your new
cricket pavilion.’

Dr Snyder nods slowly, but doesn’t offer
a comment.

‘He was telling us the building was paid
for by a parent?’

Dr Snyder takes another gulp of
water.  ‘Yes – we’re fortunate from time to time to have pupils
whose parents are in a position to create a significant legacy.’

Skelgill nods and leans forward
inquiringly.  ‘How does that come about, sir?  I mean, do you launch
an appeal?’

Dr Snyder is already shaking his head, an
expression of unconcealed distaste gathering about his haggard features. 
‘Oh, no Inspector – that wouldn’t do.  To hold out the begging bowl
would send entirely the wrong message to parents.’

‘In what way, sir?’

‘Well, there are those who might be
concerned if the school appeared unable to fund its investment programme. 
And on the other hand you have to bear in mind that many of our parents are
stretched paying school fees as it is.’

Skelgill grimaces, as though he finds
this hard to believe.

‘So it’s just a case of waiting to see
who comes along with their chequebook?’

‘That is my understanding of what has happened
in the past, Inspector.

Skelgill appears to stifle a yawn. 
Then he points a finger towards the certificates on the wall behind Dr
Snyder.  ‘What subject do you teach, sir?’

‘My qualifications are in English
Literature.  I specialise in Shakespeare.’

Skelgill purses his lips.  ‘They
make excellent spinning rods.’

Dr Snyder’s blank expression suggests he fails
to recognise this statement as a joke.  DS Leyton, who has been
assiduously taking notes, glances up from his scribbling with an amused twinkle
in his eye.

Skelgill now reaches into his
jacket.  He produces the first edition
Wainwright
borrowed from
Querrell’s library and lays it on the desk between them.  ‘Not exactly
literary fiction, sir – but as good as it gets in my book.’

‘Ah – I shall replace it later.’

Dr Snyder begins to reach forward to draw
it towards him, but Skelgill is quicker and places a palm flat on the
book.  ‘It’s okay, sir – we’re going to take another look around Mr
Querrell’s cottage – if you can furnish us with the key, that is.’

Dr Snyder doesn’t reply, but ponderously
unlocks a drawer to one side of where he sits, perhaps over-emphasising his newly
improved security measures.  He locates the required item and slides it
across the surface of the desk beneath the tips of his long pale fingers, their
nails perhaps surprisingly bitten down.  ‘This was Mr Querrell’s personal
key.  I am not aware that another exists.’

Skelgill scoops up the hand-made iron
mortise key and weights it in his palm as he rises to his feet.  DS Leyton
snaps his notebook shut and follows suit.

As they move towards the door Skelgill
turns and says, in a casual tone, ‘Was English your subject in Singapore, sir?’

Dr Snyder hesitates for just a split
second, as if he is carefully checking over the content of his intended reply. 
‘I have only ever taught English, Inspector.’

Skelgill nods.  ‘I’m surprised they
didn’t fly you out this week to the convention – given your experience over
there.’

Dr Snyder’s already-guarded body language
hints at further retrenchment.  ‘As I believe I mentioned previously,
Inspector, the Headmaster handles all of our external affairs.’

Skelgill shrugs sympathetically. 
‘Seems a shame – you could have popped into your old place – SIS
wasn’t it?’

Now the academic seems to recoil
involuntarily, a tremor in his ungainly frame belying his stern
countenance.  In a rather strained tone of voice he declares, ‘Maybe I
shall have that opportunity in future, Inspector.’

‘Let’s hope so, sir.’  Skelgill nods
to DS Leyton to indicate he should exit, and then crosses the threshold
himself.  ‘Well – thank you for your time – we’ll return the
key before close of play.’

He backs out, closing the heavy oak door
behind him.  He turns to find the inquisitive gaze of DS Leyton trained
upon him.

‘
SIS
,Guv?’

‘Singapore International School.’

Skelgill sets off briskly along the
corridor, forcing DS Leyton to break into a jog in order to keep up.

‘Since when did you become an expert on
Singapore, Guv?’

‘Leyton – you’d be amazed what I
know.’

DS Leyton shakes his head and pulls a
stoical face.  ‘Is that where you were, Guv?’

‘Leyton – would the Chief pay for
me and Jones to fly business class to the Far East and stay in a five-star
hotel drinking
Singapore Slings
?’

‘Well... no, obviously not, Guv.’

‘There you are, then.’

Despite his forced retreat, DS Leyton
does not appear convinced.  He says, ‘Well – you certainly touched a
raw nerve, Guv – why might that be?’

‘I suspect there are one or two white
lies on his CV.’

‘Significant, Guv?’

‘That is something I wish I did know.’ 
Skelgill vigorously rubs the top of his head with one hand.  ‘Then again,
I wish I could get a cup of tea – those bacon rolls don’t half give me a
thirst.’

DS Leyton nods in agreement.  ‘Fat
chance of being offered one by Snyder – he was itching for us to leave
from the second we arrived.’

‘Follow me.’  Skelgill suddenly
veers to the right, away from the main doors, which they are approaching, and enters
the long corridor that leads into the opposite wing of the school.  The
walls are bare and heavily coated with generations of cream gloss paint. 
At intervals classroom doors provide limited illumination through their
windowed upper panels.

‘Where are we going, Guv?  I thought
the refectory was at the back?’

‘Let’s try Jacobson – he was good
for a brew last time – and a gossip – who knows?’

DS Leyton shrugs in acceptance and
shambles along in the wake of his superior.  At this moment, a shrill bell
marks the end of a period.  Almost immediately classes break up and a seething
tide of boys of different sizes, their dark uniforms in varying degrees of
disarray, begins to flow around them.  The detectives attract curious
stares which, when returned, become expressions of respectful deference. 
To a man, the boys move politely aside to facilitate their elders’
progress.  Skelgill might reflect on this paradoxical arrangement, when
many of these courteous young gentlemen are already multi-millionaires.

Skelgill accurately leads the pair to Dr
Jacobson’s quarters.  As he raises his knuckles to announce their arrival,
in an action replay of their last visit, before they can summon Dr Jacobson by
the normal means, the diminutive Cholmondeley emerges from the doorway and
darts off along the corridor.

‘Leyton – there’s that
Chumley
kid again.  Go after him.’

‘What for, Guv?’

‘Off the record – see if there’s
any rumours going about.  Querrell was his sports coach.’

‘What shall I ask?’

‘Leyton – you’ve got kids –
use your loaf.’

‘But, Guv – who shall I say we
are?’

‘Tell him we’re inspectors.’

‘But I’m a Sergeant, Guv.’

‘Not police, thicko.’  Skelgill
raises his hands in a gesture of frustration.  ‘Then tell him
your
colleague’s
an inspector.’

‘Blimey, Guv.’

‘Here.’  Skelgill digs the key that
Dr Snyder has given him out of his pocket.  ‘I’ll meet you at the
gatehouse.  On your bike!’

Cholmondeley, thanks to his distinctive
ginger crown, is still just visible, bobbing in the sea of mainly dark heads, and
DS Leyton launches his ample bulk in pursuit.  Thankfully, the mass of pupils
into which the boy has merged collectively senses the Sergeant’s gathering
momentum and parts in well-drilled fashion.

Skelgill momentarily looks as though he
would like to give DS Leyton a parting boot in the backside, but he returns his
attention to the door, which the boy had pulled to, and instead readies himself
for the capricious Cleopatra.

‘No dog today, sir?’

‘Alas, Inspector – Cleopatra is taking
exercise with one of my pupils.  She is a popular alternative to an
everlasting – provided the weather is fair, of course.’

Skelgill raises his head in acknowledgement
– it would be a no brainer for him, whatever the weather.  Though
not a dog owner, the extra impetus a canine provides in driving its owner out
of doors has not escaped him as a reason to have one.  In his case irregular
working hours militate against such an arrangement, never mind the difficulty of
finding a breed that would gladly run for hours over the fells, alternating
with long sedentary spells spent sitting obediently in a boat – although
the irrepressible Border Collie would probably fit the bill.

‘What breed is she, sir?’

‘She is in fact a cross – between a
Staffordshire and a Boxer.  She is actually very soft at heart – despite
her rather intimidating appearance.’

‘Yes, sir – it’s something we often
find – appearances can be deceptive.’

‘I don’t doubt it, Inspector.’

Skelgill nods and takes a sip of the tea
with which, as he anticipated, Dr Jacobson has willingly furnished him. 
Indeed, his welcome is as effusive as that earlier in the week, although on
this occasion the somewhat eccentric academic is more conventionally attired in
pinstriped suit trousers and a plain white shirt; however the dickie-bow and carpet
slippers are still in evidence.

Now Dr Jacobson coughs rather
affectedly.  ‘They call them a Bullboxer, Inspector, but I can’t say it’s
a name that trips off the tongue.’

Skelgill tilts his head in
agreement.  ‘Lady I know keeps a Labradoodle.’

‘Well at least that has a certain phonic
ring to it.’  He grins in a leering manner.  ‘But then there is the
Cockapoo.  Rather vulgar, don’t you think?’

‘Perhaps Cockadoodle might sound a bit
better, Sir.’

‘Quite, Inspector.’

‘What will happen to the gun dogs that Mr
Hodgson looked after, sir?’

‘Oh, Inspector – I believe the
janitor’s brother-in-law is a gamekeeper over at Greystoke – he has
apparently taken them under his wing for the time being.’

There’s a
ping
sound from what
must be the kitchen, and Dr Jacobson points a finger into the air and springs
urgently from his armchair.  ‘That will be the scones, Inspector –
always better warm, don’t you agree?  I shan’t be a moment.’

‘Certainly, sir.’

Dr Jacobson scuttles away, leaving
Skelgill alone in the parlour.  He takes a casual stroll about the room,
as a tourist might when visiting a stately home.  There are various
artworks and ornaments, of a somewhat chintzy nature, but it is upon the
collection of drinks displayed on the dresser that he homes in.

‘Can I offer you a little sherry,
Inspector?’

Dr Jacobson’s silent carpet-slippered
return seems to take Skelgill by surprise, and he needs two hands to replace
the whisky bottle he’s been examining.

‘Oh, no thank you, sir.’

Skelgill edges between one of the armchairs
and the settee in order to regain his seat; while Dr Jacobson lays out upon the
coffee table the various items from the tray he bears.

‘Or perhaps something stronger?’

‘Naturally I can’t drink on duty,
sir.  I have a friend who is a bit of a whisky buff.’

‘Ah, I see.  I’m afraid that is just
a common-or-garden blend, Inspector.’

Skelgill resumes his position on the sofa
and accepts a side-plate and scone from Dr Jacobson.  ‘I’m more of a real
ale man, myself, sir.’

‘And some very good local ones, I
believe?’

‘Not that I have much spare time for it,
sir.’

‘A policeman’s lot is a busy one, to coin
a phrase.’

‘That’s marginally better than the
original, sir.’

‘Well, Inspector – another day,
another death – the excitement is getting too much.’

Skelgill begins to frown disapprovingly,
but there’s a mischievous glint in the eyes of his protagonist, and he’s forced
to grin in sympathy.  He says, ‘It is a bit of an odd one – I mean,
we don’t get a peep out of this place the last ten or fifteen years – and
all of a sudden two suicides in a week.’

‘Let’s hope they are not like London
buses, Inspector.’

Skelgill shakes his head ruefully to
indicate he understands the allusion.  ‘I was wondering if you could tell
me anything about Mr Hodgson, sir – we’ve done a bit of digging into his
background and it doesn’t look too clever.’

Dr Jacobson flicks at the tufts of hair
above his ears and pulls a face of distaste.  ‘A thoroughly unpleasant character,
Inspector – I’m not at all surprised to hear that.’

‘Did you know him very well?’

Dr Jacobson suddenly looks alarmed. 
‘Heavens, no, Inspector – I’m simply passing on the word around the
common room.  I rather suspect he was one person who wouldn’t have shied
away from a drink whilst on duty.’

Skelgill nods.  ‘That corresponds to
our findings.  But it’s still a bit of a leap from there to blowing your
brains out with a shotgun – well, a four-ten, at least.’

‘They’re all the same to me, Inspector, I
must confess.’

Skelgill lets this comment pass and
continues with his theme.  ‘The thing is, sir, my Sergeant interviewed Mr
Hodgson on Monday.  Apparently he showed no sign of distress that would
lead us to anticipate subsequent events.’

Dr Jacobson absently rotates his bow-tie
in alternate directions, as though he is computing something.  Then he
says, ‘But isn’t that normally the way, Inspector?  One reads the same
thing in the papers.  And look at old Querrell – he was right as
rain on the day he drowned himself.’

Skelgill’s ears prick up at this remark. 
‘What makes you say that, sir?’

Dr Jacobson ostentatiously throws his
hands in the direction of Skelgill.  ‘He sat right where you are,
Inspector.  He called round to rope me into his infernal Skiddaw
Challenge.’

‘Sounds like something up my street, sir
– a bit of fell running, I take it?’

‘Quite right, Inspector.  It’s an
end-of-term tradition – in fact it takes place tomorrow – in Querrell’s
memory for the first time, I suppose.’

‘How does it work, sir?’

‘It’s a hill race for the first form
– a test of their manhood, as Querrell would put it.  To demonstrate
to the rest of the school that he was handing them over into their second year
battle-hardened and ready for anything.’

‘And these are eleven-year-olds?’

‘By now, generally past their twelfth birthdays
– several their thirteenth – some boys drop back a year before they
start at Oakthwaite – their parents believe it gives their offspring a
developmental advantage over their peers.’

Skelgill nods.  ‘That’s one way of
looking at it, I suppose.  And I take it, sir, this challenge involves
scaling Skiddaw and getting back?’

‘That’s right, Inspector.  There’s a
well-trodden circuit up from the school beneath Carl Side and home via Little
Knott, if my memory serves me correctly.’

Skelgill tilts his head and looks up to
the ceiling, as if he’s assessing the viability of the route upon a map in his
mind’s eye.  ‘Presumably someone has to wait up at High Man to make sure
there’s no cheating?’

‘Indeed, Inspector – and Querrell
would post marshals at one or two other points to circumvent short cuts. 
Canny little devils, even at that age.’

‘So he was trying to enlist you as a
marshal?’

Dr Jacobson winces theatrically, as
though the proposed assignment had been one of a much more distasteful
nature.  ‘But there you are, Inspector – it bears out my point.’

‘Sir?’

‘That people who commit suicide often do
it on the spur of the moment.  Querrell was otherwise planning well
ahead.  I shouldn’t be surprised if it turns out that both he and Hodgson departed
on something of a whim.  Have another scone, Inspector.’

Skelgill duly obliges, and helps himself
to liberal dollops of cream and jam.  ‘Well, it’s certainly looking that
way, sir.  Obviously with there having been a firearm involved in this
last incident we’re obliged to take a thorough look at things.’

‘I quite understand, Inspector – in
the meantime I don’t suppose you have had any success in establishing whether
in Querrell’s case there are any surviving relatives?’

Something about the offhand tone of Dr
Jacobson’s question seems to put Skelgill on the defensive.  He says, ‘We
may be getting closer, sir – these things can take a long time to check
out – we’re at the mercy of other authorities – they insist on all
the formalities tied up with red tape.’

‘Indeed, Inspector – and, of
course, the modern fad for reports and appraisals and performance tables was
another thing that old Querrell railed at.  Drove him to distraction at
times.’

Skelgill nods thoughtfully.  ‘Do you
think he took things a little out of proportion?’

‘Undoubtedly, Inspector.  For
instance, only a couple of weeks ago he was fuming over the idea to rename the
school as a college.  Although I have to agree with him on that one, it is
a hare-brained idea.’

‘Whose idea would it be, sir?’

‘I rather suspect it is something the new
bod they have recruited to do
marketing
has cooked up.’  He
emphasises the word marketing by crooking his index fingers into mid-air
quotation marks, and rocking his head from side to side in oriental fashion. 
‘But these pronouncements officially emanate from the two-man policy committee comprising
the Head and Snyder.’

‘So it wasn’t up for debate?’

The academic widens his eyes in an
exaggerated manner.  ‘Certainly not, Inspector – the Head dismantled
the old consensual regime the minute he arrived.’

‘Had he worked with Dr Snyder before
– I mean, since they joined at about the same time?’

Dr Jacobson purses his lips and looks
rather vacantly at the ceiling.  ‘Not that I am aware of, Inspector
– Snyder came in afterwards as part of an open recruitment process.’

Skelgill pauses for a moment before
asking casually, ‘Is that a job Mr Querrell would have applied for?’

‘I shouldn’t have thought he would have
considered himself remotely in the running, Inspector.’

‘No?’

‘Apart from his age, he would have divined
the Head’s intentions to have his own man.’

‘In what respect, sir?’

‘Someone whose loyalties lie with him,
rather than with the school and its traditions and its teaching fraternity. 
In Snyder he has an effective gatekeeper.’

‘I see, sir.’

Dr Jacobson seems content to elaborate. 
‘In any event, Querrell would have been wholly unsuitable.  His formative
years at Oakthwaite occupied another era altogether – I believe we still
had an empire and ration cards.  One has to move with the times.’

‘So do you generally support the new
policies, sir?’

Dr Jacobson makes one of his erratic
ducking movements, as though Skelgill’s gentle medium-pace has suddenly come at
him like a wayward full toss.  ‘Inspector, idioms such as one’s bread
being buttered spring to mind – in these straitened times one has to
tread a line between the ideal and the commercial.  But we should take
care not to dilute our USP.’

Skelgill glances quizzically at the
academic.  ‘
USP
, sir?’

Dr Jacobson reaches to the heavens in
affected horror.  ‘Good Lord, Inspector – they’ve got me doing it! 
I should wash out my mouth with soap.  Confounded marketing jargon.  Apparently
it means unique selling proposition.’

‘Ah, I see.  And what exactly is
it?’

Dr Jacobson picks up his cup and saucer
and settles back in his armchair.  ‘Let me regale you with a short
anecdote, Inspector.  I was speaking with a parent during the drinks
reception prior to the Michaelmas prize giving – a Chinese who owns a
mall the size of a medium-sized English town in the city of Chengdu – he
had travelled over by private jet to see his son accept an award, and fly him
back for the vacation.  He told me he had visited schools across Europe to
find a suitable institution for the boy.  And do you know why he settled
on Oakthwaite?’

Skelgill opens his palms to indicate he
has no idea.  But Dr Jacobson remains silent and inclines his head towards
him, imploring him to make an educated guess as he might do a reluctant pupil.

‘Exam league tables... English
language... Lakeland scenery?’

Dr Jacobson shakes his head gleefully at
each of Skelgill’s apparently incorrect guesses.  He carefully balances
his tea on the arm of the chair and leans forwards, elbows on his knees, hands
together in a praying attitude.  ‘Manners.’

Skelgill reacts momentarily as if this is
a rebuke, then he realises it must be the solution to the question. 
‘Manners?’