Murder In School (Detective Inspector Skelgill Investigates Book 2), page 21
‘A voting majority?’
‘In effect, yes, Inspector.’
‘Who appoints new Trustees when positions become vacant?’
‘The Board itself, of course.’
Skelgill nods.
‘The Headmaster, naturally, has a seat on the Board. Our last Head – he was one of us, so to speak. And so was his Deputy, whom we anticipated would succeed him.’
‘But they left together.’
‘An unfortunate coincidence – their respective infirmities were entirely unconnected.’
‘And Mr Goodman...?’
‘At the time it was a wholly necessary practical expedient. Given the benefit of hindsight, I confess it was a regrettable decision. But without its two most senior staff Oakthwaite could not have functioned. An appointment had to be made. Perhaps the selection committee could have been more rigorous. Impeccable credentials on paper – including an OBE, no less – do not always tell the full story.’
‘And Dr Snyder?’
‘Dr Snyder was Mr Goodman’s choice. He insisted he needed a strong lieutenant, a disciplinarian, an organiser, to allow him to operate freely in his strategic role.’
‘And Mr Goodman is the problem?’
The man flaps his large pale hands as if to suggest this is not entirely the position. ‘It would be accurate to say that Mr Goodman’s policies have not found universal favour.’
‘But he has some support?’
‘You see, Inspector, not all Trustees are from the old families. And even those that are – the younger generation – they can on occasion fail to consider the traditional perspective, or to appreciate the importance of the bloodline. For some, money is the new god.’
‘Also worshipped by Mr Goodman?’
The man coughs and takes a few seconds to compose a reply.
‘Though a proportion of Mr Goodman’s day-to-day initiatives have given cause for concern, strategically there was not a problem – while Querrell was alive.’
‘Querrell?’
‘You sound surprised, Inspector.’
Skelgill does not answer immediately – perhaps he senses the risk of closing off a vital line of detail. Cautiously, he says, ‘I had the impression Mr Querrell was in the process of being pensioned off.’
The stranger seems reluctant to respond, and wrings his hands as though he is wrestling with a difficult decision. Beneath the hood there’s a faceless void, and he could be uttering a silent prayer, for all Skelgill can discern. Then he sits to attention, and pulls back his shoulders.
‘Querrell was Grand Master.’ The phrase rings out into the night like an announcement at a formal dinner.
‘Grand Master? Of what, sir?’
‘Of the Derwen, Inspector – the Ancient Oaks. The brotherhood of the founding families. Each has one hereditary position.’
‘So – this is a kind of... secret society?’
‘It is certainly not advertised, Inspector.’
‘Who would have known of Querrell’s role?’
‘Only the Derwen.’
‘Can you be certain of that?’
The man waves his hands dismissively. ‘Naturally, Inspector, one cannot sustain a brotherhood such as this for more than a century and a quarter without rumours and speculation. But all Derwen are bound to silence.’
‘I take it the remaining Trustees are unaware of the organisation?’
‘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.’
Skelgill makes a scoffing noise. ‘Watch what you say at the station about badgers and pillows.’
The interior of the car is warm, and perhaps the heat combined with the late hour lulls them into a relaxed silence. Only when they pass the Grasmere sign does Skelgill jerk into life.
‘There – take the right turn – carry on over the river and past the Co-op.’
DS Jones obliges, and soon they are cruising slowly along the narrow and winding village street.
‘Get a shift on – this is like the opposite of driving with Leyton.’
‘Guv – it’s a twenty limit.’
‘If we get stopped I’ll deal with it.’
No sooner has DS Jones begun to speed up, than Skelgill suddenly announces, ‘There – turn left.’
‘Guv – it’s a no entry.’
Despite her protest, with a squeal of tyres, she does his bidding.
‘Now – into the car park and drive round the back of the building.’
They have arrived at one of Grasmere’s larger though still relatively modest hotels. Skelgill’s directions bring them to the service entrance, where a white emergency exit hangs partially ajar, and a sliver of yellow light stripes the gravel.
‘Back in three minutes. In the meantime, read this.’ He slaps the envelope into her hands and hops out of the car. Then, without formalities, he disappears into the building.
Almost as good as his word, he reappears shortly bearing a tray of provisions and steaming drinks, while a young woman, her blonde hair piled beneath a chef’s toque, peers smiling around the door. She waves him farewell, making – gauging by Skelgill’s reaction – some saucy remark that is inaudible to DS Jones. Her eyes linger upon his driver, although it’s doubtful her vision can penetrate the darkened interior.
‘You’re obviously well connected, Guv.’ DS Jones sounds perhaps a little piqued as Skelgill backs carefully into the passenger side of the vehicle.
‘Jones, didn’t I ever tell you – on my patch you’re never more than ten minutes from the nearest bacon roll.’ He turns and grins contentedly. ‘Didn’t you notice the resemblance? That was my cousin. Big noses run in our family?’
