Murder In School (Detective Inspector Skelgill Investigates Book 2), page 13
‘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.
22. DR JACOBSON
‘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?’
‘Indeed, Inspector. As he was shown around the school he was so impressed with the conduct of our boys that it made up his mind.’
‘Really?’
‘I don’t doubt your other suggestions formed part of the edifice – but comportment was the keystone.
Skelgill looks a little relieved that his answers have received some recognition. ‘And that’s the USP?’
Dr Jacobson holds up a finger, rather like an umpire giving the batsman out – in Skelgill’s case as a bowler an act liable to prompt a Pavlovian celebration. ‘And that is what is at stake, Inspector.’
‘In what way, sir?’
‘Breeding, Inspector. One can’t teach it. Our indigenous boys are born with it. The little brats arrive here as if miraculously fully formed in this regard. The finished article requiring only the odd rough edge filed here and splintered bottom sanded there.’
Dr Jacobson makes a caressing motion with both hands, and Skelgill looks a little embarrassed by this simile. ‘And the Chinese don’t?’
‘Nor the Russians nor the Mexicans nor the Germans nor the rest.’
Skelgill’s expression is perhaps unintentionally disapproving, for now Dr Jacobson seems to backtrack a little. ‘Don’t get me wrong, Inspector – I harbour no xenophobic grudge – and most of these non-nationals hail from authoritarian backgrounds – all I’m saying is that the more we dilute our native population with little Johnny foreigner, the more we diminish the very reason that persuaded his parents to send him here.’
Skelgill nods. ‘So you might say it’s good business in the short term, but not necessarily the best thing in the long run.’
‘Quite, Inspector.’
‘And is this a policy that Mr Querrell particularly objected to?’
Dr Jacobson makes a so-so hand signal, his cup rattling in its saucer as the movement is transmitted through his sparse frame. ‘We’ve always had a small overseas contingent – typically from the traditional colonies. But there is so much new money in the world. Are you au fait with Dickens’ Great Expectations, Inspector?’
Skelgill looks like he’s thinking about it, which is evidently sufficient for Dr Jacobson to assume the answer is no. He says, ‘Inspector, down through the centuries successful merchants have yearned most for one thing: that their sons may be Gentlemen.’
Skelgill seems relieved that he is not about to be quizzed further upon a subject that was never one of his strengths. ‘I certainly can’t argue with your assessment, sir – based on what I’ve seen of the school myself. Though that little ginger-haired lad seems to be full of beans.’
Dr Jacobson’s pale eyes narrow, as though he feels in singling out a specific pupil Skelgill has breached a convention. ‘Ah yes, Inspector – Cholmondeley. A Blencathra boy. He can be a bit lively at times – but these first-formers settle down once they’ve had a couple of good thrashings.’
