“No,” said Inspector Kelsey. “In this case I should say the less publicity the better. The inquest will be adjourned and we’ll let it get about that we think it was a local affair. Young thugs—or juvenile delinquents, as we have to call them nowadays—out with guns amongst them, trigger happy. It’s usually flick knives, but some of these boys do get hold of guns. Miss Springer surprised them. They shot her. That’s what I should like to let it go at—then we can get to work quiet-like. Not more than can be helped in the Press. But of course, Meadowbank’s famous. It’s news. And murder at Meadowbank will be hot news.”
“I think I can help you there,” said Miss Bulstrode crisply, “I am not without influence in high places.” She smiled and reeled off a few names. These included the Home Secretary, two Press barons, a bishop and the Minister of Education. “I’ll do what I can.” She looked at Adam. “You agree?”
Adam spoke quickly.
“Yes, indeed. We always like things nice and quiet.”
“Are you continuing to be my gardener?” inquired Miss Bulstrode.
“If you don’t object. It puts me right where I want to be. And I can keep an eye on things.”
This time Miss Bulstrode’s eyebrows did rise.
“I hope you’re not expecting anymore murders?”
“No, no.”
“I’m glad of that. I doubt if any school could survive two murders in one term.”
She turned to Kelsey.
“Have you people finished with the Sports Pavilion? It’s awkward if we can’t use it.”
“We’ve finished with it. Clean as a whistle—from our point of view, I mean. For whatever reason the murder was committed—there’s nothing there now to help us. It’s just a Sports Pavilion with the usual equipment.”
“Nothing in the girls’ lockers?”
Inspector Kelsey smiled.
“Well—this and that—copy of a book—French—called Candide—with—er—illustrations. Expensive book.”
“Ah,” said Miss Bulstrode. “So that’s where she keeps it! Giselle d’Aubray, I suppose?”
Kelsey’s respect for Miss Bulstrode rose.
“You don’t miss much, M’am,” he said.
“She won’t come to harm with Candide,” said Miss Bulstrode. “It’s a classic. Some forms of pornography I do confiscate. Now I come back to my first question. You have relieved my mind about the publicity connected with the school. Can the school help you in any way? Can I help you?”
“I don’t think so, at the moment. The only thing I can ask is, has anything caused you uneasiness this term? Any incident? Or any person?”
Miss Bulstrode was silent for a moment or two. Then she said slowly:
“The answer, literally, is: I don’t know.”
Adam said quickly:
“You’ve got a feeling that something’s wrong?”
“Yes—just that. It’s not definite. I can’t put my finger on any person, or any incident—unless—”
She was silent for a moment, then she said:
“I feel—I felt at the time—that I’d missed something that I ought not to have missed. Let me explain.”
She recited briefly the little incident of Mrs. Upjohn and the distressing and unexpected arrival of Lady Veronica.
Adam was interested.
“Let me get this clear, Miss Bulstrode. Mrs. Upjohn, looking out of the window, this front window that gives on the drive, recognized someone. There’s nothing in that. You have over a hundred pupils and nothing is more likely than for Mrs. Upjohn to see some parent or relation that she knew. But you are definitely of the opinion that she was astonished to recognize that person—in fact, that it was someone whom she would not have expected to see at Meadowbank?”
“Yes, that was exactly the impression I got.”
“And then through the window looking in the opposite direction you saw one of the pupils’ mothers, in a state of intoxication, and that completely distracted your mind from what Mrs. Upjohn was saying?”
Miss Bulstrode nodded.
“She was talking for some minutes?”
“Yes.”
“And when your attention did return to her, she was speaking of espionage, of Intelligence work she had done in the war before she married?”
“Yes.”
“It might tie up,” said Adam thoughtfully. “Someone she had known in her war days. A parent or relation of one of your pupils, or it could have been a member of your teaching staff.”
“Hardly a member of my staff,” objected Miss Bulstrode.
“It’s possible.”
“We’d better get in touch with Mrs. Upjohn,” said Kelsey. “As soon as possible. You have her address, Miss Bulstrode?”
“Of course. But I believe she is abroad at the moment. Wait—I will find out.”
She pressed her desk buzzer twice, then went impatiently to the door and called to a girl who was passing.
“Find Julia Upjohn for me, will you, Paula?”
“Yes, Miss Bulstrode.”
“I’d better go before the girl comes,” Adam said. “It wouldn’t be natural for me to assist in the inquiries the Inspector is making. Ostensibly he’s called me in here to get the lowdown on me. Having satisfied himself that he’s got nothing on me for the moment, he now tells me to take myself off.”
“Take yourself off and remember I’ve got my eye on you!” growled Kelsey with a grin.
“By the way,” said Adam, addressing Miss Bulstrode as he paused by the door, “will it be all right with you if I slightly abuse my position here? If I get, shall we say, a little too friendly with some members of your staff?”
“With which members of my staff?”
“Well—Mademoiselle Blanche, for instance.”
“Mademoiselle Blanche? You think that she—?”
“I think she’s rather bored here.”
“Ah!” Miss Bulstrode looked rather grim. “Perhaps you’re right. Anyone else?”
“I shall have a good try all round,” said Adam cheerfully. “If you should find that some of your girls are being rather silly, and slipping off to assignations in the garden, please believe that my intentions are strictly sleuthial—if there is such a word.”
“You think the girls are likely to know something?”
“Everybody always knows something,” said Adam, “even if it’s something they don’t know they know.”
“You may be right.”
There was a knock on the door, and Miss Bulstrode called—“Come in.”
Julia Upjohn appeared, very much out of breath.
“Come in, Julia.”
Inspector Kelsey growled.
“You can go now, Goodman. Take yourself off and get on with your work.”
“I’ve told you I don’t know a thing about anything,” said Adam sulkily. He went out, muttering “Blooming Gestapo.”
“I’m sorry I’m so out of breath, Miss Bulstrode,” apologized Julia. “I’ve run all the way from the tennis courts.”
“That’s quite all right. I just wanted to ask you your mother’s address—that is, where can I get in touch with her?”
“Oh! You’ll have to write to Aunt Isabel. Mother’s abroad.”
“I have your aunt’s address. But I need to get in touch with your mother personally.”
“I don’t see how you can,” said Julia, frowning. “Mother’s gone to Anatolia on a bus.”
“On a bus?” said Miss Bulstrode, taken aback.
Julia nodded vigorously.
“She likes that sort of thing,” she explained. “And of course it’s frightfully cheap. A bit uncomfortable, but Mummy doesn’t mind that. Roughly, I should think she’d fetch up in Van in about three weeks or so.”
“I see—yes. Tell me, Julia, did your mother ever mention to you seeing someone here whom she’d known in her war service days?”
“No, Miss Bulstrode, I don’t think so. No, I’m sure she didn’t.”
“Your mother did Intel
ligence work, didn’t she?”
“Oh, yes. Mummy seems to have loved it. Not that it sounds really exciting to me. She never blew up anything. Or got caught by the Gestapo. Or had her toenails pulled out. Or anything like that. She worked in Switzerland, I think—or was it Portugal?”
Julia added apologetically: “One gets rather bored with all that old war stuff; and I’m afraid I don’t always listen properly.”
“Well, thank you, Julia. That’s all.”
“Really!” said Miss Bulstrode, when Julia had departed. “Gone to Anatolia on a bus! The child said it exactly as though she were saying her mother had taken a 73 bus to Marshall and Snelgrove’s.”
II
Jennifer walked away from the tennis courts rather moodily, swishing her racquet. The amount of double faults she had served this morning depressed her. Not, of course, that you could get a hard serve with this racquet, anyway. But she seemed to have lost control of her service lately. Her backhand, however, had definitely improved. Springer’s coaching had been helpful. In many ways it was a pity that Springer was dead.
Jennifer took tennis very seriously. It was one of the things she thought about.
“Excuse me—”
Jennifer looked up, startled. A well-dressed woman with golden hair, carrying a long flat parcel, was standing a few feet away from her on the path. Jennifer wondered why on earth she hadn’t seen the woman coming along towards her before. It did not occur to her that the woman might have been hidden behind a tree or in the rhododendron bushes and just stepped out of them. Such an idea would not have occurred to Jennifer, since why should a woman hide behind rhododendron bushes and suddenly step out of them?
Speaking with a slightly American accent the woman said, “I wonder if you could tell me where I could find a girl called”—she consulted a piece of paper—“Jennifer Sutcliffe.”
Jennifer was surprised.
“I’m Jennifer Sutcliffe.”
“Why! How ridiculous! That is a coincidence. That in a big school like this I should be looking for one girl and I should happen upon the girl herself to ask. And they say things like that don’t happen.”
“I suppose they do happen sometimes,” said Jennifer, uninterested.
“I was coming down to lunch today with some friends down here,” went on the woman, “and at a cocktail party yesterday I happened to mention I was coming, and your aunt—or was it your godmother?—I’ve got such a terrible memory. She told me her name and I’ve forgotten that too. But anyway, she said could I possibly call here and leave a new tennis racquet for you. She said you had been asking for one.”
Jennifer’s face lit up. It seemed like a miracle, nothing less.
“It must have been my godmother, Mrs. Campbell. I call her Aunt Gina. It wouldn’t have been Aunt Rosamond. She never gives me anything but a mingy ten shillings at Christmas.”
“Yes, I remember now. That was the name. Campbell.”
The parcel was held out. Jennifer took it eagerly. It was quite loosely wrapped. Jennifer uttered an exclamation of pleasure as the racquet emerged from its coverings.
“Oh, it’s smashing!” she exclaimed. “A really good one. I’ve been longing for a new racquet—you can’t play decently if you haven’t got a decent racquet.”
“Why I guess that’s so.”
“Thank you very much for bringing it,” said Jennifer gratefully.
“It was really no trouble. Only I confess I felt a little shy. Schools always make me feel shy. So many girls. Oh, by the way, I was asked to bring back your old racquet with me.”
She picked up the racquet Jennifer had dropped.
“Your aunt—no—godmother—said she would have it restrung. It needs it badly, doesn’t it?”
“I don’t think that it’s really worthwhile,” said Jennifer, but without paying much attention.
She was still experimenting with the swing and balance of her new treasure.
“But an extra racquet is always useful,” said her new friend. “Oh dear,” she glanced at her watch. “It is much later than I thought. I must run.”
“Have you—do you want a taxi? I could telephone—”
“No, thank you, dear. My car is right by the gate. I left it there so that I shouldn’t have to turn in a narrow space. Good-bye. So pleased to have met you. I hope you enjoy the racquet.”
She literally ran along the path towards the gate. Jennifer called after her once more. “Thank you very much.”
Then, gloating, she went in search of Julia.
“Look,” she flourished the racquet dramatically.
“I say! Where did you get that?”
“My godmother sent it to me. Aunt Gina. She’s not my aunt, but I call her that. She’s frightfully rich. I expect Mummy told her about me grumbling about my racquet. It is smashing, isn’t it? I must remember to write and thank her.”
“I should hope so!” said Julia virtuously.
“Well, you know how one does forget things sometimes. Even things you really mean to do. Look, Shaista,” she added as the latter girl came towards them. “I’ve got a new racquet. Isn’t it a beauty?”
“It must have been very expensive,” said Shaista, scanning it respectfully. “I wish I could play tennis well.”
“You always run into the ball.”
“I never seem to know where the ball is going to come,” said Shaista vaguely. “Before I go home, I must have some really good shorts made in London. Or a tennis dress like the American champion Ruth Allen wears. I think that is very smart. Perhaps I will have both,” she smiled in pleasurable anticipation.
“Shaista never thinks of anything except things to wear,” said Julia scornfully as the two friends passed on. “Do you think we shall ever be like that?”
“I suppose so,” said Jennifer gloomily. “It will be an awful bore.”
They entered the Sports Pavilion, now officially vacated by the police, and Jennifer put her racquet carefully into her press.
“Isn’t it lovely?” she said, stroking it affectionately.
“What have you done with the old one?”
“Oh, she took it.”
“Who?”
“The woman who brought this. She’d met Aunt Gina at a cocktail party, and Aunt Gina asked her to bring me this as she was coming down here today, and Aunt Gina said to bring up my old one and she’d have it restrung.”
“Oh, I see … ” But Julia was frowning.
“What did Bully want with you?” asked Jennifer.
“Bully? Oh, nothing really. Just Mummy’s address. But she hasn’t got one because she’s on a bus. In Turkey somewhere. Jennifer—look here. Your racquet didn’t need restringing.”
“Oh, it did, Julia. It was like a sponge.”
“I know. But it’s my racquet really. I mean, we exchanged. It was my racquet that needed restringing. Yours, the one I’ve got now, was restrung. You said yourself your mother had had it restrung before you went abroad.”
“Yes, that’s true.” Jennifer looked a little startled. “Oh well, I suppose this woman—whoever she was—I ought to have asked her name, but I was so entranced—just saw that it needed restringing.”
“But you said that she said that it was your Aunt Gina who had said it needed restringing. And your Aunt Gina couldn’t have thought it needed restringing if it didn’t.”
“Oh, well—” Jennifer looked impatient. “I suppose—I suppose—”
“You suppose what?”
“Perhaps Aunt Gina just thought that if I wanted a new racquet, it was because the old one wanted restringing. Anyway what does it matter?”
“I suppose it doesn’t matter,” said Julia slowly. “But I do think it’s odd, Jennifer. It’s like—like new lamps for old. Aladdin, you know.”
Jennifer giggled.
“Fancy rubbing my old racquet—your old racquet, I mean, and having a genie appear! If you rubbed a lamp and a genie did appear, what would you ask him for, Julia?”
“Lots
of things,” breathed Julia ecstatically. “A tape recorder, and an Alsatian—or perhaps a Great Dane, and a hundred thousand pounds, and a black satin party frock, and oh! lots of other things … What would you?”
“I don’t really know,” said Jennifer. “Now I’ve got this smashing new racquet, I don’t really want anything else.”
Thirteen
CATASTROPHE
I
The third weekend after the opening of term followed the usual plan. It was the first weekend on which parents were allowed to take pupils out. As a result Meadowbank was left almost deserted.
On this particular Sunday there would only be twenty girls left at the school itself for the midday meal. Some of the staff had weekend leave, returning late Sunday night or early Monday morning. On this particular occasion Miss Bulstrode herself was proposing to be absent for the weekend. This was unusual since it was not her habit to leave the school during term time. But she had her reasons. She was going to stay with the Duchess of Welsham at Welsington Abbey. The duchess had made a special point of it and had added that Henry Banks would be there. Henry Banks was the Chairman of the Governors. He was an important industrialist and he had been one of the original backers of the school. The invitation was therefore almost in the nature of a command. Not that Miss Bulstrode would have allowed herself to be commanded if she had not wished to do so. But as it happened, she welcomed the invitation gladly. She was by no means indifferent to duchesses and the Duchess of Welsham was an influential duchess, whose own daughters had been sent to Meadowbank. She was also particularly glad to have the opportunity of talking to Henry Banks on the subject of the school’s future and also to put forward her own account of the recent tragic occurrence.
Owing to the influential connections at Meadowbank the murder of Miss Springer had been played down very tactfully in the Press. It had become a sad fatality rather than a mysterious murder. The impression was given, though not said, that possibly some young thugs had broken into the Sports Pavilion and that Miss Springer’s death had been more accident than design. It was reported vaguely that several young men had been asked to come to the police station and “assist the police.” Miss Bulstrode herself was anxious to mitigate any unpleasant impression that might have been given to these two influential patrons of the school. She knew that they wanted to discuss the veiled hint that she had thrown out of her coming retirement. Both the duchess and Henry Banks were anxious to persuade her to remain on. Now was the time, Miss Bulstrode felt, to push the claims of Eleanor Vansittart, to point out what a splendid person she was, and how well fitted to carry on the traditions of Meadowbank.