Murder In School (28 page)

Dr Snyder, DS Jones and Skelgill – the
latter holding the lead attached to Cleopatra, whom he released from her tether
inside the boathouse – spectate as the convoy disappears.  It is Dr
Snyder who speaks first.

‘What is this about
Jacobs
,
Inspector?’

Skelgill does not respond immediately,
his thoughts seemingly elsewhere. ‘This will all become clear in due course,
sir.’  He is still panting, slowly recovering from his exertions.  ‘Funnily
enough it was your certificates that tipped me off.’

‘I can assure you mine are all genuine,
Inspector – certificates and name.’

‘I don’t doubt it, sir.’

The quartet stands in silence for a
moment.  Even the dog seems a little subdued, shell-shocked by the events
of a few explosive minutes.  Then Skelgill says, in a neutral tone of
voice, ‘What were you doing down here, sir?’

Dr Snyder rubs his large hands
together.  ‘I’m rather a night owl, Inspector.  I needed to go out to
my car – I had left a box of ring binders in the boot.  It was the
sound of the dog that attracted me.  I imagined it had somehow escaped
from Dr Jacobson’s quarters.’

‘So you came to investigate.’

‘It all happened very quickly.  I
found the dog and realised the boat was gone.  As I came out to look a
figure burst from the water’s edge and sprinted past me into the
darkness.  I could hear splashing sounds out on the lake, coming closer,
so I waited on the landing stage.  Then just before you reached the shore
a commotion started up beyond the bushes as your colleagues apprehended Dr
Jacobson.’

‘Luckily they didn’t pounce on you by
mistake, sir.’

‘That would have been unfortunate. 
Your Sergeant doesn’t look like a chap to be trifled with.’

‘I guess we would have sorted things
out.’

‘But you got your man, Inspector.’

In the gloom, Skelgill seems to shrug. 
He sighs with obvious relief.  ‘We got the boy.’

‘Quite, Inspector – upon which note,
if you have no objection, I shall go and report the good news to the Headmaster.’

‘Sure.’  Skelgill watches as he takes
his leave, then calls after him, ‘Dr Snyder?’

The tall figure halts in the gloom; with
his long dangling arms and cadaverous head it could be a scene from a Mary
Shelley adaptation.

‘Do you by any chance know of the
whereabouts of the ribbon from Mr Querrell’s typewriter?’

Dr Snyder coughs.  He clasps his
hands and his gaunt silhouette takes on an air of discomfiture.  ‘Er,
actually – yes, Inspector.  I thought it might be prudent to place
it in safe keeping.’

‘Excellent, sir – we’ll know where
to find it.  And please tell Mr Goodman the police will catch up with him
in due course.’

‘I shall convey that verbatim,
Inspector.’

Dr Snyder bows deferentially and with
great strides lopes away into the darkness.

As soon as he is out of earshot, DS Jones
whispers in a low voice, ‘What’s the score with him, Guv?’

Skelgill begins to lead the dog towards the
landing stage.  Without turning his head, he says, ‘He’ll make a good
witness.  I think he’s an insider.’

‘How do you mean, Guv?’

‘I reckon he’s a plant – one of the
Derwen
– or at least connected.  I think his CV was concocted
and they managed to get him to the front of the queue for the Deputy Head’s job.’

DS Jones now follows Skelgill, who
continues right to the end of the creaky pontoon and lowers himself down,
dangling his legs over the end.  DS Jones takes a seat beside him, and then
the dog casually inveigles itself between the pair of them.

‘What was that about the certificates,
Guv?’

Skelgill rubs his hands together as if to
warm them – indeed he must be getting cold as the adrenalin in his
bloodstream ebbs and the chill of the night air begins to penetrate his soaking
clothes.

‘I’d been looking at Snyder’s qualifications,
displayed on his wall – a little later I noticed Jacobson had the same
kind of thing – but there was something not right about them.  Then
when your list came through – with the name Jacobs on it – alarm
bells started to ring.  I can’t be certain, but I reckon he’s added the
extra letters – simple bit of forgery – Jacobs becomes Jacobson. 
Very clever – except it makes the name look off-centre.’

‘But
two
Jacobs, Guv – what
about that?’

‘I’m not sure, Jones.’

‘They were in brackets, Guv.’

Skelgill is silent.  He shakes his
head.

‘How about the boy, then, Guv – where
do you think he hid him?’

‘Can’t be far from here.  A
professor pal of mine told me about a tunnel that led from the old castle down
to the lake.  I’ve searched – there are signs in the landform.  I’m
sure we’ll find the exit now we know what to look for.  And I’ll bet
there’s a hidden entrance in the school cellars.  I reckon Querrell knew
about it as well.’

‘So how do you think he abducted him,
Guv?’

‘What’s the best cover in the world if
you want to hang around somewhere and not attract attention to yourself?’

‘Er, dunno, Guv.  Invisibility cloak?’

Skelgill ostentatiously pats the dog,
which has obediently flattened itself, to lie with its snout between its
extended front paws.

‘Hint.’

‘Oh – a dog.’

‘Correct.  On Saturday it was
pouring with rain.  None of the boys wanted to take this little lady for a
walk.  That suited him.  The Skiddaw Challenge course runs right past
this spot.  Jacobson was Cholmondeley’s housemaster.  He probably
ordered the kid over – maybe dragged him into the tunnel.  I noticed
traces of the dog down here – the obvious signs in the grass, you
know?  Then this morning he made a point of telling me the opposite. 
Plus he was acting like he was disabled – hobbling with a stick.  He
looked perfectly fit when I interviewed him in his rooms.’

‘But why abduct the Chief’s boy in the first
place, Guv?  Surely it was asking for trouble – he must have
expected that all hell would break loose.’

‘The boy must know something – presumably
connected with Querrell.  He’d overheard an argument while he was waiting
outside Jacobson’s quarters.  Or maybe Jacobson just
thought
he
knew something.  It probably didn’t help that we interviewed him.  I
imagine Jacobson found out and assumed we were onto him.’

‘Thank God he didn’t drown him
straightaway, Guv.’

Skelgill remains quiet for a few moments,
perhaps counting his blessings.  Several times in the past ten days he has
sailed perilously close to the wind.  ‘I know, Jones.  I’ve been
asking myself why he didn’t try at the weekend.  Maybe, as you say, he was
expecting a big hue and cry – intended to wait until it died down.  He
didn’t bargain for Cholmondeley not being missed until Monday.  Then of
course we had officers on site.  Until I stood them down this afternoon.’

‘Was that deliberate, Guv?’

‘Once I started to put two and two
together, I figured maybe the fox would venture out if we called the hunt
away.’

‘You did well to suspect Jacobson, Guv.’

Skelgill rubs his fingers through his
damp hair.  ‘All through this business he’s given me the feeling of
something not being quite right.  A bit too accommodating.  Quick to
cast aspersions.  Keen to hear how we were getting on.  Trouble is,
we’ve had this red herring of Goodman and the billionaires – despite
there being something in that – which Jacobson took pains to point out.’

‘I did wonder how come you were so
confident about this stakeout, Guv.’  Perhaps Skelgill’s success frees her
to admit to her erstwhile trepidation.

‘To be honest Jones, your list of names
was probably the trigger – even if I didn’t know it at the time. 
There I was, staring at the word ‘Jacobs’, and right in front of my eyes this
little kid fell into the Cocker.’

‘Really, Guv?’

Skelgill nods ruefully.  ‘Yeah
– it was just by the bank – but he still could have drowned. 
Even then I can’t say the penny dropped.  I was acting on autopilot when I
went back to Hodgson’s flat.  But the hidden press cutting –
suddenly there was a connection.  Once I felt sure Hodgson was part of the
bigger picture, I got some sense of what it actually might be.  That was probably
the key piece of the jigsaw.  Then lots of others started to fall into
place.’

‘And the
Derwen
, Guv – where
exactly do they fit into all this?’

‘Pass.’

They sit in silence for a while; perhaps
contemplating that there is yet much to be understood about this case.  DS
Jones absently plays her torch beam over the calm surface of the lake.

‘What about your boat, Guv?  I don’t
see it.’

Skelgill laughs ironically.  ‘Trying
calling my mobile – and listen carefully.’

‘It might drift down the Derwent, Guv.’

Skelgill shakes his head.  ‘Don’t
worry, I thought of that.  I dropped the anchor when I jumped out.  She’ll
come to rest soon enough.  The underwater search crew can bring her back
for me in the morning.  I reckon we’ve saved them a job.’

Without warning he reaches across and
closes his fingers around DS Jones’s wrist.

‘What’s that?’

‘What, Guv?’

‘Out there – move the beam back to
the left.  About there.’

DS Jones, guided by Skelgill, does as
requested.  After a few trial attempts, Skelgill holds her arm
still.  The spotlight hovers on a point about thirty feet from the
shoreline.

‘There, look.’

‘It’s just a bubble, Guv.’

‘It’s a bubble
float
.’

‘A what...?’

‘I noticed the rig was gone from
Querrell’s rod – and who else would fish here?’

Skelgill slides off the landing stage
into the water.  The dog leaps to attention and DS Jones has to scrabble
for the leash to prevent the canine from following her new best friend. 
Meanwhile Skelgill has struck out for the almost-invisible item of tackle.

‘Keep the beam on it!’  He yells
this as he lifts his head to breathe.

DS Jones complies as best she can –
Skelgill’s waves are already reaching the point where the transparent plastic
float bobbles.  But he seems to know where he is going.  As he reaches
the pool of torchlight he stretches out and grabs something.  Then,
treading water, he appears to tug at what must be a line.  After a few
moments of spluttering and splashing, he suddenly flips over and dives from
sight.  Twenty seconds later he surfaces like a seal, taking a great gasp
of air and holding what looks like a black cylinder in one hand.  Then,
hampered by his prize, he rather awkwardly paddles back to the pontoon. 
Here he passes up a small metal flask to DS Jones.  The dog bounces
around, grateful for Skelgill’s return, and now licks him prodigiously as he hauls
himself onto the landing stage.

‘Feels warm in there now.  You
should try it.’

‘You’re crazy, Guv.’  DS Jones
shakes the flask – it rattles.  ‘What is this?’

‘Let’s see.’

Skelgill twists off the cup and then
unscrews the sealing cap.  Out from the flask he tips into his palm a
small shiny padlock key.

He nods several times.  ‘I reckon
I’ve just worked out how Querrell met his fate.’

‘Guv?’

‘He was hiding this key. Maybe he was
worried about it being stolen from his cottage – or even from his
person.  The float would act like an invisible marker buoy.  He
couldn’t swim.  So he used his boat.  Crept out at night. 
Perhaps he’d even been lying awake thinking about it – he had no socks
on.  Except he was followed.  All you’d have to do was tip him out. 
Then dress it up to look like suicide.’

‘And Jacobson’s a good swimmer.’

‘Despite his protestations.’ 
Skelgill points a confirmatory finger skywards.  ‘You know – he’s
got a display of swimming trophies in his study.  I assumed they were
prizes Blencathra House had won.  I bet they’re his.  Now I recall, he
tried to distract me when he noticed I was looking at them.’

‘What do you think the key is for, Guv?’

 ‘I’ve got a pretty good idea.’ 
Skelgill nods slowly.  ‘Did you manage to come in your car, or do I need
to hotwire the Head’s Merc?’

‘Unfortunately mine, Guv – nothing
so exotic.’

‘It’ll do – at least we know the
heater works.’

DS Jones reaches across and takes a grip
of Skelgill’s shirt.  ‘You’re going to take some drying out, Guv.’

‘We’ve got a forty-minute drive –
I’ll hang my kecks out of the window.’

DS Jones chuckles.  ‘What about the
dog, Guv?’

‘I guess she comes, too.’

‘This little beauty had better fit.’

Skelgill is shivering.  Despite its
quick-drying properties, his outdoor clothing is still damp.  DS Jones patiently
holds the flashlight until he eventually manages to fiddle the key into the
lock.

‘Yes.’

His triumphant tone tells of success,
even before the padlock snaps open.  He slips it off the hasp, and pulls
the door of the bothy towards them.  DS Jones leans forward to illuminate
the interior.  The walls are of bare stone, with pew-like bench seats around
two-and-a-half sides.  There are a couple of low tables, an old bureau and,
at one end, a log burning stove and stack of neatly chopped firewood.

‘Look, Guv – oil lamps.’

Hanging from beams are two traditional
hurricane lanterns.  Skelgill lifts them down and gives each a shake to
test for paraffin.  There’s a box of matches on top of the stove, and in a
short time a homely glow suffuses the little cabin.

‘Guv – this could be what we’re
looking for.’

Using her torch, DS Jones has been
examining the bureau.  She has folded down the lid to reveal a stack of
papers of various kinds held in a manila cover.  The first item is a press
cutting from
The Westmorland Gazette
.

Skelgill is investigating the stove,
perhaps with a view to getting it going and warming up the place.

‘Guv – listen to this, from
nineteen seventy-three.  Twin Tragedy At Top Lakeland School.’

At the first two familiar words Skelgill’s
ears prick up.  He freezes in a kneeling pose with his fingers wrapped
around a batch of kindling.  DS Jones continues to read aloud.

‘Disaster struck during Oakthwaite School’s
annual Bassenthwaite Challenge, when a promising swimmer drowned.  A P
Jacobs, aged fourteen, was disputing the lead with his younger twin brother, G
W Jacobs, when he got into trouble.  Westmorland Police believe that the unfortunate
pupil struck some underwater obstacle, such as part of a tree washed into
Bassenthwaite Lake following the recent storms.  Both brothers had achieved
representative swimming honours at county level.  Oakthwaite staff were
unavailable for comment, although it is understood that the surviving twin, G W
Jacobs, has been withdrawn from the school.’

Skelgill, holding his breath, now exhales
audibly.

‘Two boys called Jacobs.’

‘Looks like you were dead right about the
name change, Guv.’

‘Well – he didn’t deny it.’

‘And the brackets – that could indicate
pupils who left before their final year.’

Skelgill nods slowly.  DS Jones carefully
turns over the newspaper clipping, to reveal another beneath it.  This one
is from the
Eastern Daily Press
.  A small article has been outlined
in blue biro.  Again she reads.

‘Fakenham Preparatory School have
announced the immediate departure of a schoolmaster following an incident in
which another member of staff narrowly escaped drowning.  The accident
occurred during an outward-bound weekend on the Norfolk Broads.  Dr D W
Jacobs, the master supervising the trip, was apparently unable to assist his
colleague, Deputy Head Graham Parker, who had fallen overboard.  A police
investigation revealed that the life-jacket worn by Mr Parker was defective,
and had failed to inflate.  The school declined to make any further
comment.’

‘What year was that?’ 

DS Jones squints at the small print in
the light of her torch. ‘Nineteen ninety, Guv.’

‘Jacobson joined Oakthwaite in ninety-one.’

‘Guv.’

‘Aha?’

DS Jones holds up the sheet of
newsprint.  ‘Do you think Querrell was blackmailing him?’

Skelgill turns his attention to the stove,
and begins to feed kindling into the grate.  He shakes his head.

‘I think Hodgson was blackmailing him.’

He strikes a match and holds it in place
until a splinter takes light.  Then carefully he adds more pieces, and soon
flames begin to percolate up through the little lattice that he has built. 
After watching for a few moments he delicately slides one of the thinner logs
into position, so that the burgeoning fire licks around it.

‘Hodgson was sent to find Querrell on the
morning they realised he was missing.  He looked first in the
gatehouse.  I reckon he caught Jacobson in the act of destroying
evidence.  The computer had been wiped, and there were paper ashes in the
grate.  But not everything was completely incinerated – such as the
photocopy I found in Hodgson’s flat.’

‘That wouldn’t be sufficient, though,
would it, Guv?  It doesn’t tell you much.’

‘It worked for Hodgson.  He didn’t have
to know the story.  He finds Jacobson burning a pile of papers –
he’d be cute enough to work out there was something to hide.  And no need to
tell Jacobson exactly what he’d salvaged from the ashes.  He must have
thought he’d struck gold.’

‘So there was a clear motive for murder,
Guv.’

Skelgill adds another log, and peers
critically into the stove.  ‘They agreed to meet at the gatehouse. 
It was common knowledge that Hodgson liked a drink.  Jacobson took a
bottle of whisky – I noticed the one on his dresser had been
replaced.  He gets Hodgson blind drunk. 
Bang
.’

‘But how did Jacobson get the gun, Guv?’

‘I think we’ll find he’s got keys to every
lock in the school.  Remember, after Querrell, he was by far the longest
serving master.  He’s had well over twenty years to look for opportunities
to make copies.’

The fire is now crackling reassuringly,
and Skelgill lowers himself into the most adjacent pew.  Just then there
is the barking of the dog – still inside DS Jones’s car – followed
by a polite knock on the wooden door.  The pale face of a tall man peers
through the opening.

‘Inspector Skelgill.’

‘Correct.’

Although Skelgill answers, the man in
fact was making an introduction.

‘We’ve met before, of course.  I’m
Copeland – from the inn.’  He steps inside and holds out a hand.  Skelgill
remains seated.  Then he turns to address DS Jones.  ‘Sergeant Jones. 
Very pleased to meet you.’

‘How can we help you, sir?’ 
Skelgill sounds a little nonplussed.  This man knows their names.

‘I saw the smoke, Inspector.’  He studies
Skelgill’s still-damp attire.  ‘It appears that you have been somewhat tested. 
Rather than try to keep warm in here, may I suggest that when you have finished
you come over to us?  There’s a log fire in the snug, and we have a night
porter.  He does an excellent line in hot steak sandwiches, cocoa...
something stronger – be our guests.’

Skelgill turns to DS Jones.  She has
her lips slightly parted, and an unfamiliar look of mild awe in her eyes. 
‘Okay with you, Sergeant?’

‘Er – sure, that would be great.’

‘That’s settled then, Inspector.  I
shall leave the front door on the latch – just ring the bell at reception
when you are ready.’

And with that the man nods discreetly and
backs out, closing the door carefully behind him.  Skelgill and DS Jones exchange
glances, as if each is waiting for the other to speak first.

After a moment, DS Jones says, in hushed
tones, ‘Guv – you know who that was?’

‘Copeland, he said.’

DS Jones nods in an exaggerated manner. 
‘Guv –
Lord
Copeland.  He’s the biggest landowner in Cumbria. 
Top of the local rich list.’

Skelgill shrugs his shoulders. 
‘People are all the same to me.’

DS Jones shakes her head in
exasperation.  ‘And how did he get our names?’

‘He must know the Chief.  She could
have phoned ahead of us.’

‘Strange though, Guv.’

Skelgill grins.  ‘Still – gift
horse and all that.  Let’s take these papers down the road.  And we’d
better feed blooming Cleopatra.’

‘Guv?’

‘Aha?’

‘
Cleopatra
?’

‘That’s what she’s called. 
Jacobson’s a history teacher.  Daft name for a dog, I know.’

‘It’s not that, Guv – I studied the
Ancient Egyptians for A-level.  You know how Cleopatra came to power?’

‘Poison?’

‘Drowning, Guv.  Her brother the
pharaoh drowned in the Nile.’

*

‘Decent ale this, Jones.’

‘It’s alright for some, Guv.’

‘Yeah, well – one of us has to keep
our wits about us.’

‘I could murder a glass of Chardonnay.’

‘Let your hair down – we can kip in
the bothy – it’ll be cosy in there now.  You can have the sleeping
bag.’

‘Ha-ha, Guv – oh, look – here
comes the food.’

Skelgill sits back in anticipation while
DS Jones gathers together the haul of paperwork rescued from Querrell’s climbing
hut.  Cleopatra has been obediently lying at their feet beneath the low
table, but now the scent of grilled steak proves irresistible, and she springs
to attention.  Fortunately she has been catered for, and the avuncular
night porter makes a great fuss of presenting an expensive-looking selection of
meaty offcuts.  They congratulate him for his sterling efforts, and spend
the next few minutes eating in contented silence.  DS Jones finishes half
of her portion, and slides the remainder to Skelgill, who raises an approving
eyebrow as he tucks into the last of his own sandwiches.

‘Guv – it's quite a pattern –
now we know the history of Dr Jacobson.  These drowning-related incidents.’

‘His favoured M.O.’

‘But his own brother, Guv?  And aged
fourteen.’  DS Jones shakes her head disbelievingly.

Skelgill seems preoccupied with his
second helping.

DS Jones frowns pensively.  Then she
reaches for her attaché case and retrieves the Oakthwaite leavers list. 
Adeptly she works her way through the pages, folding a corner here and there. 
When she finishes, she looks questioningly at Skelgill.

‘Guv – his male line could be
Derwen
.’

‘How come?’

‘Look at this.’  She holds out the stapled
papers and flicks through to the pages she has marked.  ‘Our Jacobs left
in nineteen seventy-three.  Then there was one in nineteen fifty-one, and
the last before the list ends left Oakthwaite in nineteen twenty.’

‘We don’t know they’re all the same
family.’

‘Still, Guv – it’s not a common
name.  And the time intervals are about right.’

Skelgill nods, pursing his lips. 
‘So what are you suggesting – he committed good old-fashioned fratricide?’

DS Jones opens her palms in exhortation. 
‘He was the younger twin, Guv.  Wouldn’t the family place on the
Derwen’s
council have gone to his brother?’

‘That assumes he knew about it.  The
guy I met at Castlerigg said they don’t tell the next generation until they
come of age.’

‘It’s by no means unlikely, though, Guv. 
And what about that school in Norfolk – the Deputy Head – what if
that were all about ambition?  Say he wanted his job.’

Skelgill has a twinkle in his eye. 
He is clearly impressed by the deductions his Sergeant has made.  ‘Okay
– so take it a step further – say he wanted Querrell’s job.’

‘Exactly, Guv.’

‘I mean among the
Derwen
. 
What if he were after the position of Grand Master?  There’s a motive for
murder.  At the rate Querrell was going, he was likely to outlive him.’

But now DS Jones bites her lower
lip.  ‘Thing is, though, Guv – wouldn’t the others have been wise to
him?’

Skelgill is undeterred by this
possibility.  He shakes his head.  ‘Not necessarily.  I think had
they known, they would have acted.  Snyder is obviously in the dark
– whatever his connection.  And Querrell might only have
suspected
that Dr Jacobson was Jacobs the schoolboy – even if he’d known him as a
young teacher.  Maybe he recognised him – maybe not.  People
can change a lot between their early teens and adulthood.  I was a right
ugly little squirt.’

‘Now you’re fishing for compliments,
Guv.’

Skelgill affects diffidence, and declines
to reply.

‘That might have been what the argument
was about, Guv.’

Skelgill nods.  ‘Perhaps Jacobson was
pushing Querrell to stand aside.  If Querrell refused to cooperate –
told Jacobson he’d expose him as a fraud – he wouldn’t have appreciated
the danger he was in.’

‘The boy may have overheard Jacobson
threaten Querrell, Guv.’

Skelgill nods.

‘Guv, it would explain why Querrell
decided to hide the original materials and the key.’

‘Pity he didn’t get chance to tell
anyone.  It might have saved Hodgson’s bacon.’

DS Jones sighs.  ‘At least he had
the presence of mind to do it.’

Skelgill puts his hands behind his head
and stretches his back, a pensive glaze clouding his eyes.  ‘Just think –
with those cuttings destroyed and Querrell gone, Jacobson could have laundered
his past.  The boy Jacobs left over forty years ago.  He’s history
– his name’s off the radar.  And the school has no records – Snyder
told us the archives were destroyed in a fire in the early nineties.’