Murder In School (23 page)

‘Correct.’

‘Was Mr Querrell also a Trustee?’

‘No, Inspector – that could have
revealed our hand.’

‘Yet his death is significant?’

‘The loss of Querrell is profound,
Inspector.  He was our eyes and ears within the school.  Little
escaped his attention.  This meant we were able quickly to marshal resources
when there was a danger of being outflanked.  But his real importance lay
in his influence upon – how should I put it? – potential dissenters
among those
Derwen
serving as Trustees.  Querrell taught most of
them, you see, their fathers in some cases, and his father taught theirs before
him.  The Querrells have always been held in high regard at Oakthwaite
– and thus, when Edmund Querrell spoke, doubters followed.’

‘So he kept the modernisers in check?’

‘That is one way of phrasing it,
Inspector.’

‘But not any longer.’

He shakes his head and there is a note of
despair in his voice.  ‘His demise has shaken our order to its core.’

‘Was there anything about his behaviour
or circumstances that might explain what happened to him?’

‘Inspector – knowing Querrell so
well, suicide seems entirely improbable.  And there is the timing –
in two weeks we hold our termly Trustees’ meeting – at which there is
tabled a controversial motion concerning admissions policy.  Now there is
a high risk that the vote will go against the old families.’

Skelgill nods.  ‘If I may cut to the
chase, sir – do you or your colleagues suspect someone in particular of
having a hand in his death?’

The man sinks back, his shoulders slump
and he sighs audibly.  Slowly he shakes his head.  ‘I wish I were
able to help you in that regard, Inspector.  I am unable to point an
accusing finger at any of my ‘colleagues’, as you put it.  And, as regards
those members of staff for whom Querrell’s departure may not be unwelcome: without
him, we have no source of information.’

‘Except the boy.’

‘I beg your pardon, Inspector?’

The man’s response is plainly evasive, as
if he has anticipated this fact, but would prefer not to acknowledge it.

‘I take it he comes from one of the old
families?  I understand the Cholmondeleys are sixth generation.’

‘Well, Inspector – there are indeed
several pupils at the school who fall into this category.  But it is
strict convention to shield them until they come of age.  They are
innocents as regards the existence of the
Derwen
.’

‘But not everyone would know that.’

The man sighs, and nods pensively. 
‘It is possible, Inspector – I grant your deduction – a boy
identified with such heredity may be perceived as a distant threat.  But
such a fact should not be known outwith the
Derwen
.’

‘Surely it wouldn’t be difficult to
guess, sir?  Aren’t the old family names among those displayed on the
honours board?’

The man shrugs, and sighs again, as if he
is fatigued by futile speculation.  ‘You presuppose both knowledge of the
Derwen
,
and that the boy’s disappearance is connected to our order, Inspector.  It
seems highly improbable.’

‘You’d be surprised what daft theories
sometimes solve crimes, sir.’

The man holds up his hands and tilts back
his palms as if in an appeal to the celestial gods.  ‘Inspector, it is the
greatest wish of the
Derwen
that he is safely found.  Indeed, it is
the primary reason that am here facing you tonight, revealing information that
has never been disclosed in over a century.’

Skelgill nods, though whether this
statement convinces him is not clear, for his countenance remains taut and anxious.

‘And that’s why I’m here, sir – in
my own time, at one o’clock in the morning, miles from anywhere, meeting with –
if you don’t mind me saying so – someone whose job could be to put me off
the scent.’

‘Touché, Inspector – although I
trust you are not truly serious about my mission.’

‘I’ll keep an open mind, sir.’

‘That is good.  There is one thing,
however, that may provide further assistance.’

The man rises carefully to his feet and
reaches inside the folds of his long gown.  He produces a manila foolscap
envelope and holds it out to Skelgill.

‘Querrell was not a schoolmaster who set
great store by computers, Inspector.  His motto was ‘one copy, one lock,
one key’.  But in this instance we have a duplicate.’

Skelgill takes the envelope.  ‘What
is it, sir?’

‘The complete alumni for the past
century.  Querrell maintained a rolling one-hundred-year record.  There
are no addresses, I’m afraid, just name and year of leaving.  Nevertheless,
I hope it is of use.’

‘Thank you, sir.  It may well be.’

The man twists and reaches out a hand to
Skelgill.  As he does so, a motif embroidered in gold thread upon his sleeve
glints in the moonlight.  It is the same curious symbol that Skelgill has noticed
on the stone lintel of the bothy at Wastwater, and above the door of Querrell’s
humble gatehouse residence.

*

‘Jones – let me in, Jones.’ 
He raps insistently with his knuckles on the steel roof.

‘Guv – I’m here!’

Skelgill, having found his Sergeant’s car
locked, swings around to see DS Jones’s head and shoulders silhouetted in the silvery
light above the stone wall.  She brandishes an angular object, which she
tosses cautiously onto the road.  It lands with a metallic clang.

‘What’s that?’

‘A wheel brace, Guv.’

‘Are you allowed to have one of them on
duty?’

‘I’m definitely off duty, Guv.  Catch.’

Now she raises a bundle of material
– an unzipped sleeping bag that Skelgill duly intercepts – before
clambering nimbly over and dropping down at his side.

‘Were you changing a tyre or putting up a
tent?’

‘Guv – I felt like a sitting duck
in the car.  I was facing the wrong way and I couldn’t really hear much,
even with the windows down.  I figured if I waited in the field it would
be better – except it was freezing – but I keep the sleeping bag in
the boot in case of a breakdown.’

She unlocks the vehicle with her remote
and opens the trunk.  Skelgill tosses his bundle inside and slams the
lid.  His gaze follows DS Jones as she skirts the back of the car. 
She’s wearing ripped denim hotpants over black tights, with a skin-tight black
crop top that reveals her midriff.

‘You’re well organised, Jones – if not
exactly dressed for the occasion.’

‘That depends on the occasion,
Guv.’  Flashing an impish smile, she looks across the top of the car at
Skelgill then ducks inside.

Skelgill loads himself into the passenger
seat.  He pulls the door to, and is suddenly gripped by an involuntary
shiver.

‘You’re right, Jones – it is cold
– it’s crept up on me.  Clear sky – could be a ground frost
tonight.  Let’s get that heater on.’

DS Jones turns the ignition key.  ‘What
do you want to do, Guv?’

Skelgill is still shaking – perhaps
his physiology is disrupted by adrenalin following his somewhat unearthly encounter.
 However, he unzips his jacket and pulls out the large envelope.  He
taps it distractedly against his chest.

‘Maybe just drive a bit.’

DS Jones looks at him inquisitively,
perhaps trying to divine his intentions.  Then she puts the car into first
gear and moves away slowly, obliged now to concentrate upon the improbably
narrow thoroughfare.  Skelgill is still and silent, and even when they
reach the T-junction, where DS Jones balances the car against a slight incline,
he seems unaware of their location.

‘Keswick, Guv?’

‘Sorry?’  He looks across at her,
blinking as if he has just woken.

‘Will we head back to your car?’

‘Er... no, no – turn left. 
Try Grasmere.’

The picturesque village and its eponymous
lake lie ten miles to the south, and DS Jones accelerates purposefully along
the deserted road.  For the first few minutes Skelgill remains distracted,
although when he does speak his opening remark must strike DS Jones as coming
from left of field.

‘Did your English degree extend to the
Celtic alphabet?’

DS Jones keeps her eyes on the road,
squinting into the headlamps of an oncoming vehicle.  ‘Not that I recall,
Guv – why?’

‘I was just wondering about the letter ‘
d’.’

‘You could Google it, Guv.’

‘Suppose so.’

‘Actually – isn’t it similar to a Greek
delta – without the extra squiggle?’

‘Could it look like a six, backwards?’

‘Er... yeah – that would be right.’

Skelgill nods, seemingly satisfied with
this outcome.

‘Why, Guv?’

‘Well – to cut a long story short
– there’s a cabal that secretly controls the school through the Board of
Trustees.  They’re drawn from the old families that rescued it from going
bust in eighteen something or other.  I reckon they get first pick of the
university places, and thereafter capitalise on the old boys’ network. 
Meanwhile it sounds like Goodman is leading a charge for the new money –
and we probably know why.’

‘Wow.’  DS Jones’s eyes are
shining.  ‘But where does the ‘d’ come in?’

‘They call themselves the
Derwen
– it’s Celtic for oaks.  Think Derwentwater.  I’ve noticed a
d-shaped emblem elsewhere.  The guy had it on the sleeve of his cloak.’

‘And who was he, Guv?’

Skelgill shakes his head slowly. 
‘He kept his face hidden the whole time – it was the first thing he said
– he wanted to remain anonymous.  Seemed to think I’d recognise him
if I saw him.’

‘And you’ve no idea, Guv?’

‘If I had to guess, I’d say one of the
aristocracy.’

‘Are you kidding?’

‘Either that, or Snyder, or the Chief’s
other half, or Gandalf.’

‘That’s quite a range of possible
suspects, Guv.’

Skelgill claps his hands in a gesture of
hopeless frustration.  ‘I simply have no idea, Jones.  My first
impression was of Snyder – because of his height.  But the accent
wasn’t right – Snyder sounds like he could originally be from Eastern
Europe.  Then I considered it being Cholmondeley senior – who else would
be more motivated to break the oath of silence and let us in on the
secret?  But a parent – a parent would be frantic – he was
more concerned with losing control of the Board of Trustees.’

‘Stiff upper lip, Guv?’

Skelgill lets out an exasperated gasp. 
‘It’s possible, Jones – but hard to get your head round.’

‘What was he like?’

‘As I say, tall, posh accent, kept using
military expressions.’

‘So we can rule out Gandalf, Guv?’

Skelgill chuckles.  ‘Yeah I guess so
– though I did let him know I thought he could be a fraud.’

‘How did he react?’

‘Convincingly – I’d say he’s
genuine.’

‘What about the boy, then, Guv?’  DS
Jones’s voice takes on a note of concern.

Skelgill watches the moon as they crest a
ridge.  He shakes his head.  ‘Nothing about him directly.  But
he’s connected, I feel sure – though the guy refuted that.  And it
turns out that Querrell was right in the thick of it.’

‘In what way, Guv?’

‘He described him as their Grand Master.’

Despite her limited knowledge of the
bigger picture, DS Jones quickly joins the dots.  ‘So he’d be a target,
Guv?  Surely this is what prompted the Chief to get us involved in the
first place.’

Skelgill raises his hands as if to signal
‘not so fast’.

‘Let’s say it lends some explanation to
the lack of motive surrounding his death – whether by foul play or his
own hand.’

DS Jones ponders for a second.  ‘You
mean he might have fallen on his sword, Guv?’

Skelgill shrugs.  ‘We have to
consider that possibility.  Oakthwaite was his calling.  Probably all
he lived for.  If he felt he was failing his colleagues or ‘brothers’ or
whatever they call themselves.’

DS Jones seems agitated.  ‘But it
doesn’t change the situation, Guv – I mean about the boy.  Provided he’s
not had an accident – it means we’re still looking for somebody.’

‘Correct.  We are.’

‘Is that where we’re going now?’

‘What?’  Skelgill looks alarmed. 
‘No way – we’re going for supper.  I could eat a horse.’

DS Jones chuckles and shakes her head,
then casually but skilfully swerves around a badger that is dawdling in the
road ahead.

‘Nice one, Em.’

She flicks a surprised glance at Skelgill
as he uses her Christian name.  After a minute she says, ‘I keep a cuddly
badger on my pillow, Guv – had it since I was tiny – I’d never be
able to look at it again if I killed one.’