Chapter 9

Frank’s appointment with Ralph Gabriel Baron, headmaster of Chillingworth School, was for two-thirty, the same time Stuart was meeting Ann Fenner. He’d tried to see Baron in the morning, but the woman who spoke to him on the phone was adamant: this was the time offered, take it or leave it, and although she didn’t use that phrase, the meaning was clear.

After the sickening crimes committed by Philip Nicholson, headmaster of Blackfriars, Frank and the rest of the team, especially Laurel and Dorothy, were jumpy about investigating a case involving a school. However, David hadn’t disappeared from the school so Frank hoped the answer didn’t lie there. He knew from Carol, Peter was a pupil at the school, but was the frightened boy also a pupil? or was he a figment of David’s imagination?

As he turned onto the B1128 from Westleton, the rain stopped and strong spring sunshine lit up the bare branches of the trees. At Yoxford he turned onto the A12. Near Farnham, before the River Alde passed under a bridge on its circuitous way to Aldeburgh, he turned left, and a few miles from the main road turned left again. An inconspicuous school sign, placed low on a brick wall, indicated the way. The driveway was narrow and twisted between clumps of trees, mainly oak, which grew close to the road, obscuring the view ahead. He thought he could see the green growths of emerging bluebells; they’d be a wonderful sight in May.

The trees thinned, revealing a small manor house set back from a gravelled rectangle; several cars and a school minibus were parked on it. Frank slowed down and stopped on a grass verge so he could get a clear view of the house; he opened a window to let in fresh air. A blackbird leant back as it pulled a worm from the ground. With raucous cries, a second blackbird dive-bombed the first, and a frantic fight started. He smiled and hoped the worm escaped.

It was a handsome Jacobean house, built in red brick, three stories high with Dutch pediments, their stepped brickwork rising above the roof. Three tall chimneys flanked each side of the central pediment, with more chimneys at the ends of the house. The windows, with stone surrounds, were tall, their panes of glass glittering in the sun. The house looked in good repair. How do they manage to maintain a house this size to such a high standard, he wondered? The pupil numbers were small; he must find out what the fees were. He parked near the main entrance, an imposing door with two roundel windows above, and looked at his watch: ten past two, he’d given himself twenty minutes of snooping time.

The main door was kept open by a cast-iron doorstop. He stepped into an empty hall, marble-floored, wooden panelled, with doors on either side, one signed Headmaster’s Office. He wasn’t seeing him here; the interview was to take place in Baron’s private rooms. Ahead was a corridor leading to a flight of stairs. There was a mixture of smells: lavender furniture polish and traces of whatever they’d eaten for lunch; he sniffed as he tried to guess; not the usual smell of school dinners, but something savoury and vaguely peppery. Goulash? It seemed unusually quiet for a school; he knew there weren’t many children, but where was the bustling secretary? the child on its way to the headmaster’s office? the officious caretaker?

Frank was about to chance his arm and open one of the doors when the clatter of footsteps on the stairs held him back. A slim young man, about twenty-five, with floppy blond hair, wearing a paint-spattered smock, strode into the hall.

‘Hello. Can I help you?’ he said.

Frank introduced himself and his business. ‘I’m meeting Mr Baron in his private rooms. I’m a little bit early, but I don’t want to put anyone out.’

‘I’m Gordon Stant, I teach art and music.’

This is a bonus, he thought. ‘Did you teach David Pemberton?’

‘Who?’

He explained.

‘No. I started here last September. How awful. His parents must be distraught.’

Pity. ‘Did you meet the previous art master?’

‘No, when I came for an interview he’d already left.’

‘When was that?’

He frowned and pulled a face. ‘Er, last June. I say, I don’t think I should be answering all these questions. Shall I take you to Mr Baron?’

Frank smiled at him. ‘Don’t worry, just passing the time of day.’ There were many paintings and original prints as well as copies of famous paintings by artists such as Van Gogh and Renoir on the walls of the hall. He’d pointed to them. ‘Someone likes works of art. They certainly brighten things up. Is this your influence?’

‘No. It’s Mr Baron’s; he believes in the civilising effects of art on the boys … of course I approve,’ the schoolmaster replied.

Frank glanced at his wristwatch ‘I’m still early. Perhaps you’d give me a quick tour. It’s a lovely example of a small Stuart manor house, one of my favourite periods. When was it built?’

Gordon Stant’s face relaxed. ‘About 1700; it is fine, one of the reasons I took the job, the chance to work in such a lovely building. How much time have you got?’

‘Plenty,’ he said. ‘I presume the rooms have been modified for school use?’

‘Actually, because the number of pupils is small, a lot of the original features have been kept.’ He opened a door to the right. ‘These rooms were originally the servants working quarters: the kitchen, pantry, buttery, servant’s hall and service room. The kitchen’s been kept and the servants’ hall is the boys’ dining room.’

‘I thought servants were confined to the basement?’

‘There is a basement, there’s a staircase to it from the servants’ hall.’

The room they’d entered was a classroom, with ten desks, a blackboard and easel, complete with chalk and eraser in the easel’s groove. Light flooded in from the mullioned windows showing a linoleum floor, several cupboards and two bookcases filled with brightly backed books. There was a door opposite.

‘Where does that go?’

‘This was the buttery, there was a beer cellar below.’

Frank tried the handle; locked.

‘I say, you can’t go where you like! No one goes down there, I’m told the steps are unsafe. We can’t risk a child falling down and breaking its neck.’

‘Sorry, just my natural curiosity.’

‘Perhaps I’d better take you—’

He did an ignore. ‘So where are the rest of the classrooms?—’

Stant turned and led him back into the man hall. ‘On the left. This is the Great Hall,’ he opened a door, ‘it’s used as a gym and also for assembly. The former parlour and drawing room are the other classrooms.’

‘Where are all the children?’ Had they been spirited away by someone playing a flute?

‘It’s Wednesday afternoon,’ Stant said.

Frank raised his eyebrows. Yes, he knew that.

‘Games afternoon. Gary Salmon, the sports master, has them on the field. They do exercises and go for a run.’

‘Brave man. Are the pupils mostly biddable? Or will some of them hide in the bushes?’

Stant laughed. ‘I wouldn’t blame them, I hated games. They don’t play team games, it’s a case of them letting off steam and keeping fit. Also, they’re too frightened of Mr Salmon to misbehave. Goodness, he frightens me.’

Does he now? Perhaps David was also frightened of Mr Salmon. Too frightened to go back to school?

Stant grimaced. ‘I say, I shouldn’t have said that! I think I’d better take you up to Mr Baron’s room.’ He reddened. ‘You won’t mention that, you know … about Mr Salmon, will you?’ he muttered.

‘I never heard you, Mr Stant. I suppose you have other duties, keeping watch over the flock at night?’

Stant pointed him towards the corridor and staircase. ‘I supervise prep sometimes, but the kids mostly play games, if they’re not messing round. You probably know they have difficulties in one way or another?’

He nodded. ‘But you don’t have to do dormitory duty?’

Stant shook his head. ‘That was another reason I took the job, most of the teaching staff sleep out, and our lodgings are paid for. There isn’t enough room to house all of us in the main house.’ He started to climb the stairs. ‘Please follow me.’

The wide stairs, the banisters polished by schoolboys’ hands to a smooth patina, led to the first floor and a long corridor above the east terrace.

He stopped and looked out of a window; a well-kept lawn gently sloped down to fields, and in the distance a track-suited, tall, muscular man was performing keep fit movements and in front of him, boys wearing shorts and singlets were mimicking him. ‘Mr Salmon?’

Stunt grimaced and nodded. ‘This way.’ He turned right along the corridor. ‘The dormitories are on the north side of this floor; the south side is used for offices and Mr Baron’s room, the sanatorium and matron’s office and the rooms of the resident staff.’

‘And they are?’

‘I’m sure Mr Baron can answer all your other questions.’ Stant was looking uncomfortable.

The wall of the corridor opposite the windows was panelled in oak, stained black by time, or inadequate cleaning, or both. No paintings or portraits were present, unlike the rooms and corridors of the main part of the school.

‘Why did Mr Baron want to see me in his private quarters not in his office?’

The man shrugged his shoulders. ‘Not sure. Wednesday afternoon is his free time. Probably wanted to stay in his private room; if he appears in the main school he’ll get waylaid with some problem or other.’

The narrow corridor opened into an octagonal space with windows set in to four of the walls looking out over the school grounds to woods beyond. A circular metal staircase twisted up from a recess in the fifth wall. The master knocked gently on a door set between two panelled walls. The door swung open.

‘Good afternoon, Mr Diamond. Please come in. Thank you, Mr Stant.’ He nodded to the master, who turned abruptly on his heels but not before Frank had seen the look of devotion in his eyes.

The first impression of the man was of energy and power. Mr Baron was tall and slim. He moved silently, leading Frank to the centre of a large room. From previous case notes Frank knew he was forty-five; he looked younger.

‘Please take a seat, Mr Diamond.’ He pointed to a leather armchair, one of a pair, matched by a three-seater sofa; the furniture was grouped round a hearth in which logs burned in a cast-iron grate; a beautiful rug lay before the fire. The rest of the room was elegantly furnished and included a baby grand piano under an oriole window. Was the furniture supplied by the school? If it was his own, teaching salaries must be looking up. He’d better get Laurel to rethink her choice of career.

He sank into the armchair. The soft leather was comfortable and a faint smell of a floral polish scented the air.

‘Can I offer you some refreshment? Tea? Or would you prefer something stronger?’ Ralph Baron indicated an oak dresser with silver trays on which stood decanters wearing matching silver labels: whisky, rum, brandy and gin.

Frank could have murdered a pint of Adnams but he didn’t think that would be on offer. ‘Tea would be fine.’

As Ralph Baron moved to the table and picked up a telephone, Frank studied him. David’s drawing of him was accurate, apart from not showing the expensive watch he was wearing – a Rolex Oyster?

He turned to Frank. ‘How do you like your tea? Lemon or milk?’

God’s teeth. He wasn’t too keen on tea and certainly not the pale lemon stuff with a floral perfume. ‘Assam, if you have it, please, milk and no sugar.’

Baron turned back to the phone. ‘A pot of Assam and my usual, Mrs Weston. Perhaps a few scones?’ He listened and smiled. ‘Thank you.’

Frank scanned the room again during this brief phone conversation. The walls were covered in paintings: some of the oils looked like old masters, the majority were watercolours. They made the room look more like an art gallery than a personal space.

‘I see you’re admiring my collection, Mr Diamond.’

More clocking it than admiring. ‘You’ve certainly been busy, Mr Baron.’

‘Do you like art? Are you a collector?’ The tone of the voice suggested he didn’t think Frank would say yes.

Frank didn’t feel in the mood for an in-depth discussion on matters artistic, but he wanted to make a connection to Ralph Gabriel Baron. He needed to be able to talk to the staff and pupils and upsetting the headmaster wouldn’t help. He liked the art produced between 1830 and 1920, anything before or after he found too religious or to abstruse. Time to flannel. ‘It’s something I’ve always been interested in, but so far I haven’t had the time or the spare money to indulge in buying works of art. You have some beautiful paintings.’

Baron’s eyes lit up, and his full lips parted in a smile.

So far so good.

‘Do have a look round while we wait for the tea.’ He rose from his chair, moving with an athlete’s grace, and walked to a row of watercolours on the far wall.

Frank followed him. He hoped he wasn’t in for a grilling or even worse a long, boring lecture on different water colour techniques. He noticed not only did Baron sport an expensive watch, but his shoes looked handmade.

‘If you had the chance what kind of work would you collect, Mr Diamond?’

‘Probably modern art, abstract,’ he lied. There wasn’t any in the room, so he hoped he was on safe ground. ‘I’m looking forward to going to Andy Warhol’s exhibition at the Tate.’ He wasn’t but Laurel had mentioned it recently.

Baron’s lips twisted and turned down at the corners. ‘Oh, dear. Not for me. Anything after 1900 I’m afraid I’m not interested in. Although …’

Frank looked at him quizzically. ‘Yes?’

Baron’s face darkened. ‘Nothing. Nothing. Do look at some of these watercolours.’ He pointed to several, saying the name of the artist, and telling Frank why the paintings were so special.

Samuel Prout, Edward Lear, David Cox. Frank knew some of these names and he sealed them in his memory for checking later for desirability and value. Baron’s face was lit up with desire and ownership, his hands caressing the frames of each picture.

There was a knock on the door and a middle-aged woman wearing a green overall entered carrying a laden tray which she placed on a table. Her face was stern, unsmiling.

‘Thank you, Mrs Weston,’ Baron said.

The woman nodded, giving Frank an appraising glance, her dark eyes cold and hostile.

Frank wondered if his tea might be poisoned.

‘Anything else, Mr Baron?’ she asked. Frank wasn’t sure of the accent.

‘No, thank you, Mrs Weston.’ She left and Baron poured the tea which they drank at the table.

‘I can’t quite place Mrs Weston’s accent. Is she foreign?’ Frank asked.

Baron looked up from buttering his scone, his eyebrows raised. ‘Very astute, Mr Diamond. You have a good ear, especially as she only spoke four words. I’m not sure which middle-European country she originated from; she’s a widow, married an Englishman after the war and she stayed here.’

‘Does she live nearby?’

Baron frowned. ‘She lives in, she’s the school cook.’ He bit into the scone, chewed furiously, then swallowed. ‘Mr Diamond, I think we ought to get on with whatever you came about. I have several things I need to do this afternoon.’

The change in his attitude was sudden. Why? A question about an employee? He hadn’t liked Frank’s interest in Mrs Weston. Did Mrs Weston know David? Was that it?

‘Certainly, I’m grateful you could spare me the time today. As you know the Pembertons have—’

‘Yes, yes, I know all about that. The police, and later the detectives the Pembertons hired, came to the school. Haven’t you read their notes?’

Getting shirty. Why? ‘Yes, but I must try to find David. You told Mr Pemberton you’d give your permission for me and my partners to talk to the staff and pupils who knew David. You did agree to that?’ He risked a mouthful of tea. It was well flavoured and strong. Baron wiped a non-existent crumb from his full lips with a linen napkin.

‘I did.’ He sounded as though he wished he hadn’t.

‘Excellent. We’ll be as discreet and as quick as we can.’ Perhaps a little white lie might help. ‘I’m sure we won’t uncover anything new, but I have to try for the Pembertons’ sake.’ He shrugged his shoulders apologetically, trying a winning smile.

Baron’s shoulders relaxed and his face lightened. ‘Good.’ He pushed the plate towards Frank. ‘Scone?’

He declined. ‘Excellent tea, congratulations to Mrs Weston.’

The frown came back. What was it about that woman that made Baron nervous? How was he going to find out about Peter and the frightened boy? He couldn’t show the drawings to anyone. He wasn’t supposed to have them. He could ask about Peter, but the name of the other boy was unknown. This was not a time for questions, Baron would be the last person he interviewed.

‘Would it be convenient to come in tomorrow and talk to a few of the staff?’

Baron shot up from his chair as though the starter’s gun had gone off. ‘No. We’ve two lots of prospective parents visiting tomorrow, and we’re too busy on Friday. You can come on Monday.’ He walked to the door and opened it, signalling the interview was over.

Damn. Baron would have time to possibly influence anyone who might have information. But why would he do that? ‘Very well, thank you. Would you be able to arrange rooms for us to talk to the staff and pupils?’

Baron nodded. ‘I must insist a member of staff is present when you talk to any pupil.’

Double damn. ‘Of course. I’d be grateful if I could have a list of all the staff and pupils who were at the school when David was.’

Baron smiled. ‘You’ll find several of them have left, both staff and pupils.’

‘I expect that’s normal in a school?’

Baron smiled again. ‘Yes, that’s normal.’ He waved his hand, ushering Frank from the room.

As they walked down the corridor which overlooked the playing field a door opened and the woman in the nurse’s uniform came towards them; it was the woman David had drawn. She didn’t look any more pleasant in the flesh.

‘Good afternoon, Headmaster.’ She had a slight accent also.

Baron nodded and was about to walk past her, but Frank stopped. ‘Ah,’ he turned to Baron, ‘your school matron, I presume,’ He shot her a smile and stuck out his hand. ‘Frank Diamond.’

Baron juddered to a halt. ‘Nurse Gammell, this is Mr Diamond. He’s a private detective who will be coming back to the school next week to ask the staff and pupils about David Pemberton.’

Nurse Gammell’s face remained expressionless. ‘I look forward to talking to you then, Mr Diamond.’

Frank didn’t believe her.