Murder In School (Detective Inspector Skelgill Investigates Book 2), page 26
‘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.’
33. WASDALE HEAD
‘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.’
‘Could that have been Jacobson, Guv?’
‘If I were a betting man, I’d say odds on. And once he’d got control of Querrell’s alumni files, the Jacobs family would have become the Jacobsons. The Derwen are in turmoil as it stands. He’d be just the man they need – hails from Derwen stock, favours the old-school traditions, eyes and ears on the ground. They’d probably have welcomed him with open arms.’
‘He’s played a long hand, Guv. I wonder if he had his sights on the Head’s job?’
Skelgill nods. ‘We’re talking a serial killer, here. Causes the death of his brother. Makes an attempt to drown one rival and succeeds with another. Blasts a blackmailer. Abducts the boy with intent to murder him.’
‘It’s going to be some size of court action, Guv.’
Skelgill groans. ‘And I thought we were just investigating a bent Headmaster.’
DS Jones grins sympathetically. ‘What of him, Guv?’
Skelgill shrugs. ‘I think we’ll leave that one up to the Board of Trustees. I suspect he’s nearing the end of his shift in Cumbria. If they want to report him, we have a file ready.’
DS Jones nods. ‘So the Chief was right to be suspicious about Querrell’s death, Guv – but for the wrong reasons.’
‘I think we’ll find all the answers we need in here.’ Skelgill reaches out and taps the manila file that lies on the table. ‘But that’s tomorrow’s job.’
‘Inspector, it is tomorrow.’
The voice is that of Lord Copeland, and he has silently approached bearing a tray with two filled liqueur glasses and a small decanter. He smiles benignly at DS Jones, for she is unable to stifle a sudden yawn that comes upon her.
‘Since it is three a.m. I thought you might both appreciate a nightcap, Inspector. This is our secret family recipe sloe gin – guaranteed to give a good night’s sleep, of which I am sure you are in need.’
DS Jones, as the designated driver, begins to hold up protesting palms, but Lord Copeland continues.
‘We are fully booked, as we tend to be at this time of year. However, we keep a VIP suite – the Derwent Room. You are welcome to use it – perhaps to snatch a few hours’ sleep. It has a large double, and a very comfortable chaise longue. I shan’t press you – but if you decide to avail yourselves, here is the key.’
He places the small tray carefully on the table. A key with an ornate oak fob lies between the two glasses of ruby liqueur.
‘And now I bid you goodnight, officers – if and when you do leave, if you would kindly pull the main door closed behind you?’
He bows courteously and turns away, a satisfied smile creasing the corners of his mouth.
Skelgill leans forwards and casually hands a glass to DS Jones. She appears to be daydreaming, her eyes fixed upon the table, but then she reaches out and picks up the key. She lifts it to eye level, dangling the fob.
‘Look at this, Guv.’
Skelgill blinks several times, as if with the pendulous motion she is succeeding in hypnotising him. Then he realises what she is showing him: the wooden carving has the shape of a Celtic letter ‘d’.
‘Well, that explains a thing or two.’
‘He’s one of them?’
Skelgill shrugs, and then laughs, as DS Jones suddenly downs her drink in one.
‘Guv – you know in your text – the one where you said ‘Screw Smart’...?’
‘Yeah – cancel that.’
‘I did delete it, in case he saw it.’
‘How did you get away in the end?’
‘The operation got pulled. The Chief wasn’t happy with the evidence.’
Skelgill tastes the liqueur and smacks his lips approvingly. ‘Shame for Smart.’
DS Jones suddenly raises her hand to cover her mouth.
‘Oh, Guv – I’ve just thought.’
‘Aha?’
‘What will we do with Cleopatra?’
‘She can have the sofa-bed.’
***
Bruce Beckham, Murder In School (Detective Inspector Skelgill Investigates Book 2)
