Authors: Marjorie Eccles
Untimely Graves (17 page)
‘Thanks, Ted. I’ll pop along and see her now,’ Abigail said, looking at her watch, standing up as the sound of a trolley was heard in the corridor. ‘Mustn’t get told off for tiring you out. Look after yourself. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.’
‘Fat chance of that in here. More to the point, you look after yourself, love. And remember, if you can’t be good, at least enjoy it.’
When Abigail called to see Eileen Totterbridge on her way out,
she found her bed empty, and when she asked to see her, the ward sister informed her that she had just been taken home.
she found her bed empty, and when she asked to see her, the ward sister informed her that she had just been taken home.
After leaving Abigail, Vera Bysouth had pushed the heavily laden shopping trolley over to the van which she’d parked, as she always did, right over at the far side of the car-park. It was so far away from the entrance there were nearly always plenty of empty spaces, so the van was less likely to get damaged: if she went home with so much as another scratch on the already battered paintwork, he’d know, and he’d kill her.
She faced with dull acceptance that one day it might come to that. She’d been used as a punchbag so often, she took it as a matter of course now: she’d had more black eyes than she could count, she’d been hit and kicked in the stomach when she was pregnant, lost the child and could never have any more … once, he’d hit her on the side of the head with such force that she’d staggered right across the kitchen and fallen unconscious. The fact that he’d happened to have a heavy iron frying pan in his hand at the time had made it worse; she had terrible headaches now. and she’d been deaf in that ear ever since.
But all that was nothing to what he’d do if she talked. Somehow, she hadn’t been able to make that woman detective understand. She’d spoken as if it was simple, just to leave him. Given her a number to ring if she decided the time had come when she’d had enough. A safe house where she could stay. Vera smiled bitterly. She knew all about safe houses. She’d tried that several times, but he always found her.
But things
were
a bit better now, since they’d gone to live at the farm. Jared was roughly kind to her, and Reuben never hit her when he was around. And there were times, in between … also, the farm was a nicer home than any they’d had before in their married lives. Jared’s wife had always kept it beautiful before she died, and Vera took great pride in maintaining the tradition.
were
a bit better now, since they’d gone to live at the farm. Jared was roughly kind to her, and Reuben never hit her when he was around. And there were times, in between … also, the farm was a nicer home than any they’d had before in their married lives. Jared’s wife had always kept it beautiful before she died, and Vera took great pride in maintaining the tradition.
Yet she knew she had a duty to tell what she’d seen. She crossed her arms over the steering wheel and for a moment laid her head down on them. How wonderful it would be just to let go – for an hour or two. For ever.
Then she heard the parish church clock chime. Its lovely
musical cadences sounded right across the town, and she realised with horror that it was two o’clock. Switching on the ignition, she prayed there would be no traffic snarl-up on the bypass.
musical cadences sounded right across the town, and she realised with horror that it was two o’clock. Switching on the ignition, she prayed there would be no traffic snarl-up on the bypass.
It was felt by the board of governors, said the Headmaster, carefully using the passive voice to distance himself from personal responsibility for the decision, that the position of Bursar of Lavenstock College should be nationally advertised, in the spirit of fair and open competition, you understand. Mustn’t be accused of nepotism. Of course, your application, after all your years of experience here, will be extremely favourably considered, there is every prospect you will be successful. But have you never thought of moving on to a higher post in university administration? No? Well, one mustn’t stagnate, however happy one is … A sherry, my dear Riach, before you go?
John Riach walked back to his office, concentrating on keeping his shoulders back, a swing in his stride, just in case he should meet anyone. He prayed that he wouldn’t encounter even one of the boys before reaching the safety of his own set of rooms, a small, private dominion, high above the quadrangle, to which he invited no one. Small, but quite adequate for one. Furnished with taste, even a little restrained luxury, it offered the warm, deep comfort of privacy, soft sofas and cushioned chairs, glowing lamps, music, and thick carpets. He thought he might need to throw himself down on the Indian rug and howl like a dog.
His mood was not improved when he saw Hannah in the distance, heading towards the house he’d just left, with Sam Leadbetter beside her, his hand proprietorially under her elbow. For a moment, he almost regretted the tentative suggestion he had put forward to the Head in the social skirmishing before they had come down to the nitty-gritty of their meeting. A nice gesture, wouldn’t it be, Headmaster? To let Mrs Wetherby, a sitting tenant, have first refusal to buy the house? The school’s policy now being not to provide houses for staff?
He didn’t think he could bear it if Hannah did buy the house, and Sam Leadbetter, not he, moved in with her.
Daphne said nice things about the newly decorated room, though Cleo thought they might have been said more in the spirit of encouragement than actual admiration, given Daphne’s own tastes. She’d even kindly refrained from pointing out that the work hadn’t really been bottomed, though it was obvious to anybody. The
trompe l’oeil
window, however, received the Atkins seal of approval.
trompe l’oeil
window, however, received the Atkins seal of approval.
They’d eaten takeaway pizza, and a salad Cleo had successfully made. George had brought along a bottle of red wine, and Daphne one of her famous lemon tarts as dessert, and now they were drinking coffee in the front room.
Daphne said, ‘You don’t want to sit in here when you’re on your own with the curtains not pulled, Cleo. Anybody can see in.’
‘But I love to be able to see the lights.’ Beyond the darkened window they twinkled and spread like the Milky Way, a band of stars stretching down and across the town, lighting the night sky and fading into the distance.
‘Those curtains of Phoebe’s have passed their sell-by date,’ Daphne announced, ignoring this. ‘I’ll make you a present of the fabric for some new ones, some new cushion covers, and make them up for you.’
It was no use arguing with her. ‘Well, thanks, but haven’t you enough to do?’
‘Rubbish. I can finish them in a couple of evenings.
Who
did you say did the decorating for you?’
Who
did you say did the decorating for you?’
‘I didn’t, but his name’s Tone. Well, Tony, actually. Tony Gilchrist.’
Daphne put her cup down very precisely on the saucer. ‘
Tony Gilchrist?
’
Tony Gilchrist?
’
‘Don’t say you know him?’
‘Not to say know, not someone like that!’ Daphne pressed her lips together.
‘Oh come on, you can’t leave me in suspense! What do you
mean,
someone like that?’
Though of course, Cleo knew very well what Daphne meant.
mean,
someone like that?’
Though of course, Cleo knew very well what Daphne meant.
Her mother peeled the foil very carefully from one of the chocolate mints on the coffee table. She put it into her mouth and ate it slowly. ‘I’m surprised he’s had anything to do with you, knowing who you are,’ she said. ‘And if you’ve any sense, you’ll have nothing more to do with
him.
’
him.
’
‘Not until I know a good reason why.’
Cleo looked to George for support, but George was evidently determined to let Daphne get on with it. Daphne smoothed her skirt. She looked as smart this evening as she did when visiting classy friends, as if this venture of Cleo’s into normality should be encouraged. Or perhaps she just needed to cheer herself up after the traumas of the last few days. Her outfit was new, consisting of a long, straight black skirt, a cream silk T-shirt and a silk jacket in post office red.
What could she have meant about Tone? A sort of sinking feeling, beginning around Cleo’s midriff, warned her that her mother might have a point. She’d always known there was something about Tone that didn’t ring true, however much she liked him. And then it came to her, that conversation which she’d buried, consciously or not, until now.
He’d turned up at MO again, and she’d spoken to him about the murder of the Bursar as they’d walked home together. ‘Yes, well, it’s easy enough to get into his office via that corridor from the porter’s lodge,’ he’d said absently.
A little, humming silence ensued while Cleo digested this. Eventually, it got through to him. He realised what he’d said, but the silence went on.
‘Tone?’ she’d said, at last. ‘Tone? How do you know about that?’
After a moment, he recovered himself. ‘Once did a bit of work there, didn’t I?’ He grinned. ‘When I was going through me window-cleaning period, like. After I left school. We was carrying some ladders and they let us through that way, didn’t they?’
It sounded implausible. You could have cut his accent with a knife.
George said suddenly, ‘Daph, Cleo should know about this, it’s not fair to keep it from her.’
‘How well
do
you know him, Cleo?’ There was more than a hint of apprehension in Daphne’s question.
do
you know him, Cleo?’ There was more than a hint of apprehension in Daphne’s question.
‘Oh, it’s nothing like
that!’
Cleo said impatiently. ‘He’s a friend, that’s all, just somebody I work with! He’s only eighteen!’ Then she heard herself say suddenly, quite beyond her own volition, ‘What’s the school motto, Mum?’
that!’
Cleo said impatiently. ‘He’s a friend, that’s all, just somebody I work with! He’s only eighteen!’ Then she heard herself say suddenly, quite beyond her own volition, ‘What’s the school motto, Mum?’
She had no idea why the question had come to her, or from what unsuspected depths. Unless it had arisen from intuitive suspicions she’d had for a while which were now crystallising into certainty But it encompassed a lot that had puzzled her: Tone’s sudden stillness when she’d told him that her mother worked for the Bursar at the school; that curious variation in his accent. She’d known all along he’d either been deliberately putting on the Black Country, or deliberately suppressing the middle-class one. That the standard of his education was much higher than he liked to pretend. As when he’d used that Latin quotation …
‘The school motto?’ Daphne repeated, momentarily diverted.
‘Is it
Semper sursum?
’
Semper sursum?
’
‘Why, yes, it is. Ever upwards. Ever on high. Or something like that.’ Daphne stared, then bit her lip. ‘You know, don’t you?’
‘Know what?’
‘You know Tony Gilchrist was a pupil at Lavenstock College.’
‘It seems I might have guessed.’
‘He was a scholarship boy. Very bright, really, until he was sacked – expelled.’
‘Oh!’ Cleo was stumped, momentarily lost for words.
Daphne rolled the gold foil she was playing with into a tiny, hard pellet, and took another mint. She
never
ate more than one chocolate.
never
ate more than one chocolate.
‘It’s hard for boys like him,’ she said, struggling to be fair. ‘Coming from that sort of background. I’m not sure it does them any favours in the long run, either, they end up being neither one thing nor another. Their parents haven’t got the wherewithal to back them up, not like the other boys’ parents have, and the result is they feel different, fishes out of water. Some of them do manage to integrate and lose their rough edges … and since most of them are very bright, they go on to university. But some get a chip on their shoulder, and can’t rid themselves. Like Tony Gilchrist.’
George decided it was time to join in. ‘Those Gilchrists are bad news, Glory. Live in the council flats behind here. He has two brothers who’ve done time – one’s still in, if my memory serves me.’
‘Yes, well,’ Daphne said, ‘that didn’t help him very much when it all happened.’
Despite the feeling that her insides were being stirred with a stick, Cleo managed to ask, ‘What was he supposed to have
done,
then?’
done,
then?’
Daphne picked up another mint, but this time put it back.
‘Come on, out with it, Daph.’
George sounded impatient, and Daphne looked pleadingly at him. ‘You tell her.’
He shook his head. ‘It’ll come better from you, love.’
‘Well, the truth is, Cleo,’ she began reluctantly, ‘he took the Bursar’s car for a joyride and smashed it up. It was a write-off.’
‘Is that all?’
‘All? Good heavens, don’t you think it’s enough?’
‘Yes, of course, it’s awful. But it’s not –’ She broke off. She didn’t really know what it wasn’t, only what it was. Youthful high spirits? Done for a dare?
‘It wasn’t like that,’ Daphne said, reading her thoughts. ‘He really hated Charles Wetherby. Everybody knew he’d done it on purpose.’
‘You are joking, aren’t you? Nobody totals a car on
purpose
. He might have written himself off, as well!’
purpose
. He might have written himself off, as well!’
‘He very nearly did, Cleo. He was lucky to be alive.’
Yes, he’d been left with physical scars that would be with him for the rest of his life. And an attitude. Which probably included a lifelong hatred of the Bursar, too … How deep would such hatred go? ‘What are you saying? Your police pals surely aren’t suspecting him of shooting that man, Dad? That’s
bloody
unfair!’
bloody
unfair!’
‘Cleo.’
‘It is, Mum, it’s –’
It was at this point that the telephone rang.
After supper, Mayo sat with his curtains undrawn, too, the
lamps reflected in the darkened windows, the trees in the garden darker shapes against a sky that was never quite black, that always held something of the light from the urban sprawl below. Under Moses’s opportunistic gaze, he had eaten the last, thank God, of those solitary, oven-ready meals. Salmon –
en croûte
this time, admittedly very tasty. But the cat was unlucky – Mayo was hungry and besides, he’d forgotten to shut Moses out of the sitting-room that morning and had arrived home to find a subdued Bert huddled on the topmost perch in his cage, several feathers on the floor and the cat looking smug. ‘Hard luck!’ he told him as he rinsed his plate and didn’t forget to put it in the dishwasher. ‘It’s Whiskas tonight, mate, and thank your lucky stars for that.’
lamps reflected in the darkened windows, the trees in the garden darker shapes against a sky that was never quite black, that always held something of the light from the urban sprawl below. Under Moses’s opportunistic gaze, he had eaten the last, thank God, of those solitary, oven-ready meals. Salmon –
en croûte
this time, admittedly very tasty. But the cat was unlucky – Mayo was hungry and besides, he’d forgotten to shut Moses out of the sitting-room that morning and had arrived home to find a subdued Bert huddled on the topmost perch in his cage, several feathers on the floor and the cat looking smug. ‘Hard luck!’ he told him as he rinsed his plate and didn’t forget to put it in the dishwasher. ‘It’s Whiskas tonight, mate, and thank your lucky stars for that.’
Alex was due home the next day and life would return to normal, or what passed for normal during a murder enquiry. But whenever he
was
available, she’d be here, providing, apart from other more obvious home comforts, opportunities for intelligent, objective discussion with someone not directly involved in the case. This talking things over with someone who knew where he was coming from had turned into a habit that Mayo – and perhaps Alex, who missed the police more than she’d ever admit – was finding addictive, too.
was
available, she’d be here, providing, apart from other more obvious home comforts, opportunities for intelligent, objective discussion with someone not directly involved in the case. This talking things over with someone who knew where he was coming from had turned into a habit that Mayo – and perhaps Alex, who missed the police more than she’d ever admit – was finding addictive, too.
Tonight, however, he’d have to do without her. He sipped his Laphroaig in the post-Elgar, melancholic silence the composer invariably induced in him – that majestic music, grandly Edwardian, but triste, which, however, had chimed in with his pensive mood tonight.
The cat settled, heavily forgiving, on his right foot, as he switched to Radio 3 for more music. Schoenberg. Atonal music that well repaid the close attention it needed. But after a while he turned it off. John Riach’s face kept coming between him and his concentration. John Riach as he’d talked to him in the Bursar’s office that morning: a man permanently on the defensive, Mayo guessed, a buttoned-up individual who rarely gave direct answers to questions but nevertheless had provided more interesting information than anyone else who’d been interviewed so far.
Why? Mayo had asked himself, meaning what was he being so uptight about? And then had seen why, as soon as Hannah Wetherby’s name was mentioned. He watched Riach even more
closely after that. Apart from carrying some sort of torch for Wetherby’s wife, it was evident that Riach had also disliked the man himself pretty conclusively, perhaps for the same reason. Every defensive answer he gave provided more proof of this.
closely after that. Apart from carrying some sort of torch for Wetherby’s wife, it was evident that Riach had also disliked the man himself pretty conclusively, perhaps for the same reason. Every defensive answer he gave provided more proof of this.
He sat stiffly upright on the straight office chair that had replaced Wetherby’s large, status-symbol, intended-to-impress one, sticking firmly with Hannah Wetherby’s statement that they had been having a sandwich together from twelve fifteen to one. To specific questions regarding Wetherby, he gave scrupulously fair answers, while managing to convey that the deceased Bursar’s reputation as an excellent administrator hadn’t been entirely unconnected with having Riach as his deputy. And that still rankled, Mayo could see, despite the fact that he was presumably now all set to take Wetherby’s place.
Mayo decided to press this advantage. ‘Tell me, what sort of man was Wetherby?’
Riach examined his well-kept fingernails. ‘He wasn’t always popular. He didn’t go out of his way to make himself so. He was a stickler for rules and regulations and that doesn’t always go down very well with young people, as you can imagine.’
‘Did he have much to do with the boys, then?’
‘Not really, but there were occasions …’ He seemed about to expand but what followed sounded unconnected. ‘He was also inclined to take too much on himself.’
‘In what way?’
After a momentary hesitation, he said, ‘There’s some controversy about a new entrance to the school.’
Mayo decided that he didn’t need to mention he already knew about that, since Riach looked poised to tell him anyway, and he might learn something new. Then he thought of something else. ‘He was writing a report on that when he died.’
Riach’s face was a mask, his thin nostrils drawn together. He said carefully, not quite able to hide some smouldering resentment, despite his flat, unemotional tone, ‘So I understand.’
‘You know that the top sheet of this report was stuffed into his mouth?’
‘Someone with a macabre sense of humour, obviously.’
Rules you out, then, old chum, Mayo thought, guessing there wasn’t much humour there, macabre or otherwise. He studied the other man, and wondered. He saw distaste, dislike, and
looked for fear, but didn’t find it. He said, ‘How exactly did this new entrance concern the Bursar?’
looked for fear, but didn’t find it. He said, ‘How exactly did this new entrance concern the Bursar?’
Riach seemed to relax a little. ‘We don’t have strictly defined limits in so far as duties go. Geoffrey Conyngham is school Secretary and Chief Administrator, and he’d agreed to let Charles deal with the negotiations for buying the property in order to resite the main entrance to the school on Kelsey Road. If you’ll bear with me a moment, I’ll show you.’ He crossed to a cupboard and took out a large, rolled-up plan of the school grounds which he spread out across his desk, weighting it at the top corners with a paperweight and a puncher. He held the third, and Mayo the fourth corner. ‘He’d completed the purchase of three of the four houses, there. There was just one more he thought we needed. This is the one, here, number 16, belonging to Miss Dorrie Lockett. And when I say
this
is the proposed entrance, or would be if Miss Lockett would agree to sell, you’ll see what I mean.’
this
is the proposed entrance, or would be if Miss Lockett would agree to sell, you’ll see what I mean.’
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