Murder In School (Detective Inspector Skelgill Investigates Book 2), page 4
Skelgill shows no indication that the name has any significance to him. ‘How did Hodgson get on with Querrell?’
‘Alright, he reckons. He says Querrell was a bit of a loner, but didn’t look down his nose on the ancillary staff like some of the masters do.’
Now Skelgill’s features involuntarily flicker with the recollection of DS Jones’s remark.
DS Leyton continues, ‘Called him cantankerous, though. And that’s me missing out the two expletives, Guv. Says he took the hump whenever the school brought in new equipment or started chopping down trees to make room for car parking spaces.’
‘What about Hodgson himself, think he was hiding anything?’
‘Not especially, Guv.’ DS Leyton pauses, and jolts mildly, as though he’s just received a small electric shock. ‘One thing he did say, though – just as I was leaving.’
‘Go on.’
‘Well – you know how I was supposed to ask about Querrell having any relatives – to fit in with our excuse for investigating?’
‘Aha.’
‘Well – I nearly forgot. But I think I pulled it off – like as a casual afterthought, Guv.’
Skelgill raises his eyebrows reproachfully.
‘He said as far as he knows Querrell had no living relatives – but only because that’s the story that does the rounds.’
‘So – what’s the big deal?’
‘Well – he said a few weeks ago he got a surprise – could have sworn Querrell had an identical twin.’
‘What made him say that?’
‘One evening he’d seen Querrell going into the school, then a few minutes later he went down to mark out some lines on the athletics track, and there was Querrell walking up the field from the direction of the lake. He couldn’t figure out how he could have been in the two places almost at once.’
‘But both sightings were Querrell?
‘So he says, Guv.’
‘Maybe he mistook the person going into the school for Querrell. You know how bad eyewitness testimony can be. More likely Hodgson had his lunch in the Blacksmith’s Arms.’
DS Leyton nods ruefully.
‘Thing is, Guv – I put in a call to the station to get him checked out. The reason he stopped being a gamekeeper was because he had his shotgun licence revoked. He put the wind up a couple of walkers who’d strayed off a public footpath. Claimed he thought they were poachers.’
‘No excuse.’
‘He only got a caution but it was enough for the Chief at the time. What do you reckon, Guv?’
Skelgill screws up his face and shakes his head. ‘I don’t reckon the Chief is going to be reaching for the cigars just yet.’
DS Leyton looks slightly crestfallen. Skelgill reaches across and pats him on the shoulder. ‘Come on, Leyton – cheer up. Let’s go see what else we can turn up. And, remember – we act like we’re daft local coppers.’
‘I’ll give it my best shot, Guv.’
9. DR SNYDER
‘So, I’m sure you’ll understand, Inspector, we don’t indulge in what you might call parochial advertising. In this era of the global village, Oakthwaite positions itself firmly on the international stage. And indeed we attract applicants from all four corners of the earth.’
Skelgill nods politely, despite the somewhat oblique reply to his observation that the school keeps the surrounding community at arm’s length. Dr Snyder, a tall stooping long-headed man in his mid-forties, is reminiscent of a character from a gothic horror movie, with jet-black swept-back hair, contrasting pale skin, dark sunken eyes wide set astride an aquiline nose, prominent jaw and brows – overall a caricature underscored by the fact of him wearing his academic gown, an elaborate hooded affair of charcoal and deep purple. He sits watchfully still, and when he speaks, which he does slowly, he embellishes his words with paddling gestures of large hands that articulate at the wrist.
‘Certainly, sir – and there’s no law against that. On this occasion, the school and Mr Querrell being something of unknown quantities – it means we have no real alternative but to begin here in order to establish whether there are any surviving relatives.’
Dr Snyder blinks slowly, perhaps in lieu of a nod of acceptance. He says, ‘Well I’m sure you are aware that as far as we know Mr Querrell was the last of his line.’
‘So I gather, sir. And do you have any reason to doubt that?’
Dr Snyder flaps his flipper-like palms. ‘I have seen no evidence to the contrary. The school’s historical personnel records were destroyed in a fire in the early nineties, so there is no file on him, either as a master, or earlier as a pupil.’
‘How long had you known Mr Querrell?’
‘This is just my second year at Oakthwaite.’
Dr Snyder rubs his nose between his two forefingers. He shows no sign that he will elaborate, so Skelgill asks, ‘Where were you before that, sir?’
‘At an international school... in Singapore.’
‘Is that why you came – because of your experience abroad?’
‘It probably did no harm to my curriculum vitae, Inspector.
‘And is that your remit here, sir – the foreign students?’
Dr Snyder sits back and folds his arms, as though he’s bored with the direction the questions are taking. ‘My role is largely administrative. Admissions, examinations, timetables, university entrance, IT policy, discipline. I take the occasional class in the event of illness. The usual stuff of the Deputy Head.’
‘It sounds like Mr Goodman gets off lightly.’
‘Oh, I think you’ll find he’s kept adequately busy, Inspector. What with corporate strategy and our gamut of outward facing matters.’
‘So, like the Head’s, your acquaintance with Mr Querrell has been relatively short-lived.’
Dr Snyder seems to approve of this statement. He leans forward and places his large hands flat on the desktop, extending their long fingers as though he is in the habit of playing piano. ‘Quite, Inspector. I honestly hardly knew the man. He kept very much to himself.’
‘Presumably you had some interaction with him over routine work matters? As you said, timetables and so on.’
Dr Snyder shrugs languidly. He casts a glance across the two detectives. ‘Rather curiously, gentlemen, Querrell operated in his own little anachronistic bubble. He managed our programme of outdoor activities – something that has evidently been running like clockwork in the same way for many years, decades I believe. And by tradition he looked after the first-form for team sports – that’s the eleven-year-olds, our intake group – nothing much required in the way of technical expertise.’
‘But he reported to you?’
‘I think, Inspector, if you had asked Querrell, he would have asserted he reported to nobody.’
Again Dr Snyder leaves any further explanation hanging in the ether. He bridges his chin on the back of his intertwined fingers.
Skelgill says, ‘Sir, you say his activities ran like clockwork. So there was nothing troubling in his job that might have prompted him to take his own life?’
Dr Snyder shakes his head. ‘Apparently not, Inspector.’
Skelgill persists, ‘Is it possible he owed money?’
‘I doubt very much he had any debts. He spent most of his time here at the school, and there’s little to lavish one’s salary upon in the tuck shop.’
‘These days there’s online gambling, that sort of thing?’
‘I have no reason to suspect that, Inspector. It would have been entirely out of character. Besides, our security settings prevent access to undesirable websites. Though of course you’re welcome to examine his computer.’
‘Well, that might be helpful, sir.’
‘I shouldn’t hold your breath, Inspector. It was a devil of a job even to induce him to reply to an email. If you wanted an immediate response it was better to send a small boy with a handwritten note. He preferred what he referred to as the foolproof methods.’
Skelgill raises his eyebrows empathetically. ‘If nothing else, sir, we might find some contact details of friends who could assist us.’
‘I’m sure your fellow officers would have looked last week.’ Ostentatiously he consults his wristwatch. ‘However, I could meet you down at the gatehouse in exactly one hour. I have an appointment imminently.’
‘That’s fine, sir – we have another of your colleagues scheduled to see next.’
Dr Snyder rises, perhaps with a triumphant glint in the shadows of his hooded eyes. His willingness to provide access to Querrell’s computer could be interpreted as an unexpected demonstration of openness. He takes long loping strides to the door, and holds it sufficiently ajar for Skelgill and DS Leyton to exit. Just as they are doing so, Skelgill pauses and points to his temple as though he’s just remembered something.
‘Oh, one other thing, Dr Snyder.’
‘Aha?’
‘The Sergeant in our licensing section asked me to double-check a point concerning the recent shotgun re-certification – to save a trip out here from Penrith, you understand?’
‘Certainly, Inspector.’ Dr Snyder’s sombre features darken once again.
‘There’s a box on our computer form for nominated key-holders – in the event of an emergency. We just have you listed at the moment – but there’s a query marked against it. I think the visiting officer may have omitted to note down whether there is anyone else.’
‘Well, Inspector, I can confirm that I am the sole key-holder.’ He jangles a pocket concealed somewhere beneath the extensive folds of his academic gown. ‘The key and others of similar importance are kept on or very near my person at all times.’
‘Excellent, sir. That sounds very sensible. I’ll report that back and there’ll be no need to trouble you further about it.’
10. DR JACOBSON
‘Guv – how come they’re all called ‘doctor’?’
‘Leyton – shush – he’s coming.’
‘Well it gives me the willies – I feel like I’m inside a mental institution.’
‘Maybe you should be, Leyton.’
‘Guv, an ordinary bloke could get a complex around here. All these posh folk with qualifications coming out of their ears.’
‘Forget it, Leyton. Until they invent a PhD in nicking villains you’ve got nothing to worry about.’
‘Fair point, Guv.’
There’s a prolonged scrabbling noise beyond the varnished wooden door at which they’ve been waiting. It bears an unevenly polished brass plaque with the words ‘Dr G W Jacobson, Head of History, Housemaster – Blencathra.’ Suddenly it swings open and a small red-haired boy in Oakthwaite uniform tumbles down the two internal steps, apologising and bowing subserviently. He scuttles away, leaving them facing an empty carpeted hallway. Then a piebald dog appears – it looks like a large Staffie – and silently rushes them.
‘Blimey, Guv – it’s a Pit Bull!’
DS Leyton backs away, but Skelgill stands his ground, and in a moment the hound is rolling over in front of him on the top step, seemingly wanting its stomach tickled.
‘Hello, girl.’ Skelgill stoops and obliges. ‘She’s friendly, Leyton.’
But DS Leyton keeps his distance, eyeing the dog suspiciously.
‘Ah, gentlemen – you’ve met Cleopatra, I see.’
The detectives look up. In the light cast at the far end of the corridor stands a small crooked man wearing a decorative waistcoat and matching bow tie over a white shirt, his lower half clad in what look like striped pyjama trousers finished off with carpet slippers.
‘Come in, come in – this way please.’
Skelgill stands upright and Cleopatra – evidently not yet satisfied with the level of attention she has received – launches herself at the unsuspecting DS Leyton and catches him full in the groin, producing a pained gasp.
Grinning unsympathetically, Dr Jacobson calls out over his shoulder, ‘She obviously likes you – the boys call her the Canine Cannonball – that’s her sign of affection.’
DS Leyton makes to reply, but powers of speech have temporarily deserted him. Wheezily, he follows Skelgill through into a parlour-like room of floral patterns, where tea things and cakes are laid out on a low table amidst two easy chairs and a settee. Behind upon a dresser there’s a crystal sherry decanter and half a dozen inverted glasses arranged on a round silver tray, and various bottles of the commoner spirits.
‘Be seated, gentlemen, won’t you?’ Dr Jacobson makes a sweeping gesture of the arm, as a seventeenth century cavalier might have extravagantly doffed his plumed hat. ‘Please accept my apologies that I can’t offer you much in the way of refreshment – I wasn’t expecting you until the call was put through from reception just a few minutes ago.’
‘Must have been an oversight, sir – but if it’s inconvenient we can come back another time.’ Skelgill affects to rise.
‘No, no – not at all. Do stay. I’m free right the way through until prep. There isn’t a full timetable at the moment because of the examinations. And this is far more exciting. Fancy them letting me loose on you. Have a fruit scone, please.’
‘Don’t mind if I do, sir.’
Skelgill takes the proffered tea plate and helps himself to a scone. He makes their introductions and purpose of visit known whilst spooning liberal dollops of strawberry jam and clotted cream for himself and DS Leyton.
Dr Jacobson assumes responsibility for the teapot, quipping, ‘I’ll be Mother, ha-ha.’
In his mid fifties, he has a somewhat clownish appearance as a consequence of a bald pate partly ringed by a crescent of mousy hair that sticks up in prominent tufts above the ears, as though he’s just been roused from slumber. His round face bears a fixed simper and his small pale blue eyes exude a natural sparkle. It’s hard to judge whether he is on edge, or if his continual restless movements and fidgeting are the norm.
Skelgill makes a little cough and says, ‘Dr Jacobson, as you’ll have guessed we’d like to talk to you about Mr Querrell.’
‘A dreadful tragedy – we’re all devastated – the boys especially. They’re still in mourning for him.’
‘Oh?’ Skelgill sounds a little surprised.
‘Querrell was a living legend. Taught many of their paters, of course. Must have marched half the serving British Establishment up and down the hills of northern England in his time.’
‘Apologies if I’ve misjudged the mood, Dr Jacobson, but I rather got the impression that he won’t be missed in certain quarters?’
Skelgill glances at DS Leyton; otherwise occupied with his scone, he nods enthusiastically in confirmation.
‘Gentlemen, you know how it is.’
The detectives look like they don’t. But Dr Jacobson, unlike his more senior colleagues, needs no encouragement in order to elaborate.
‘There can be a competitive jealousy among schoolmasters. Deep in our hearts we all yearn to be popular: most of all to be respected by the boys. And when that respect stems not from fear – of the rod, or detention, or an everlasting – but from admiration, well that is a very precious commodity, indeed.’
‘And that was Mr Querrell?’
‘Quite right, Inspector. I marvel at his secret, because he was as much a disciplinarian as anybody in the school – with the exception of Snyder, naturally – but the boys would always go that extra mile for him. He’d have the timidest first-formers tackling like tigers within three weeks of the start of Michaelmas term.’
At this point DS Leyton, who has been looking a little agitated, swallows and asks, ‘Excuse me, sir – what exactly is an everlasting?’
‘Ah, Sergeant – one of our peculiar anachronisms. It must make us sound like Hogwarts. It’s simply a cunning variation on the old punishment of giving out lines. Almost impossible to finish in under an hour. Funnily enough, Querrell was credited with devising it, though he always denied it.’
Skelgill shows signs of being irked that DS Leyton has wandered off track. He places his cup and saucer crudely on the coffee table, attracting the attention of Dr Jacobson. He says, ‘The thing is, sir, we’re at a bit of a loss regarding Mr Querrell – life history, interests, out-of-school acquaintances, that kind of thing.’
Dr Jacobson shakes his head and inhales in the manner of one who is about to disappoint. ‘I quite understand. Although the short answer is there weren’t any. At most he took the occasional spin on that infernal old motorcycle of his.’ He reaches for the teapot. ‘A top up, Inspector? And have another scone, please – I have no more tutorials this afternoon, so everything must go, as they say. You too, Sergeant, tuck in.’
Skelgill obliges, gesturing to DS Leyton that he should follow suit. Plate replenished, he turns to Dr Jacobson and says, ‘I understand, sir, that you’ve been here a good many years?’
Dr Jacobson feeds a last morsel of cake to his dog and absently wipes his fingers upon his flannel trousers. ‘Not by Querrell’s standards, of course. He must have come as a pupil in the late ‘fifties, then returned to teach from nineteen seventy onward. I arrived in ninety-one. A mere whipper-snapper.’
‘But Mr Querrell’s death makes you the longest-serving master, by some distance?’
‘Well, I suppose it does; now you mention it. We’ve had a bit of a reshuffle of the old pack in the past couple of years, what with the last Head and his Deputy stepping down at the same time.’
‘And Mr Goodman – he made further changes?’
‘You know, Inspector – new broom and all that? Every regime likes to get its hands upon the levers of power.’
‘That’s more along the lines of what I meant when I said perhaps Mr Querrell wasn’t going to be missed.’
‘Well – I understand what you suggest, Inspector. Not mentioning any names, of course. But let’s say the modernisers would see his passing as the removal of one small obstacle to progress.’
Skelgill pats the dog, which has moved to beg beside him now that its master has no food left. He says, ‘Though it’s hard to see how he could have got in the way – it sounds like he was sidelined long ago.’
