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Like Jean Brodie, Mary Alton was in her prime. At a guess I would have put her in her late forties — the hair swept up and restrained in a silvery net showed a trace of grey and revealed the high cheek bones of her attractive face.
“Good morning. How are you getting on?” She sat down opposite me. “I understand the Board of Governors are concerned that some of us are thinking of leaving? I wonder who that might be? It could be Christine Thompson, I suppose, or maybe Daryll Wilford is thinking of going back into mixed education. I’ve never thought him happy in a largely all-female environment, though I do understand why he left.”
The words came out in a torrent and I didn’t try and stop her, or correct her, though I did wonder which of the staff had got hold of the wrong end of the stick. Sometimes it’s like playing Chinese whispers and often works to my advantage.
Her comment about Wilford intrigued me, but before I could ask her to explain, she was off again.
“Still, it’s very gratifying that the Board takes our welfare to heart. I doubt any of us would hand in our resignations because of a fellow’s death. Not now. It is over a year ago when all is said and done. I only wish they could find a replacement for Em Rimmer. It’s all well and good me teaching both Textiles and Food Tech, but it does place quite a burden on my shoulders. Would you have any news of that?”
“I’m sorry, I don’t. The Board hasn’t taken me into their confidence on staff numbers. They just want to know that you have all you need and that things have settled down after the events of last year. It must have come as an awful shock to you all to hear of her death. Were you and Miss Rimmer close friends?”
“Certainly not.” She recoiled, then quickly leaned forward again. “Oh, don’t get me wrong, we got on all right, and better than she did with some others, probably, but we weren’t bosom buddies.”
“So, you were aware that other teachers —”
“Had problems with her? Oh, yes, but like I said, I got on fine with all my colleagues and, I’m happy to say, I still do.”
Her lips curved in what she no doubt thought was a winning smile. I wasn’t so sure that everything had been sweetness and light between her and the dead woman, but, so far, no one had suggested anything to the contrary. Nor did I know of any motive for Mary Alton to kill her.
“Was Emily good at her job?”
“Well, I could have wished she’d been firmer with form 2A. Now I’ve got them in 4th year, they have a tendency to run amok.”
A picture of gymslip-clad girls throwing flour bombs at a cowering teacher flashed into my head. Suppressing a smile – there had been a couple of teachers that I could cheerfully have bombed in my own day – I asked if she’d heard about the pilfering.
“Heavens, no. This is news to me. What did she take?”
“An assortment of things, apparently.”
“Well, I did occasionally notice that odds and ends, cotton reels, scissors, and such were missing from the Textiles stores. I put it down to the girls and, if what you tell me is true, it seems I owe them an apology.”
The items she listed seemed small beer besides watches and mobile phones, unless Emily really had been a kleptomaniac, unable to keep her hands off anything. It didn’t seem likely—Mrs Parr would have known and informed me if that were the case.
I backtracked on our conversation and returned to her earlier concerns.
“Mrs Alton, do you know why the post of teacher of Food Technology has not yet been filled?”
She inspected her finger nails before she launched into her reply. “I’ve always assumed that the Board was trying to save money. I said that I would be happy to take on extra classes. At the time, my husband was under threat of redundancy and the onus of being main breadwinner looked like it might fall on my shoulders, so the extra money would come in very useful. I thought it would only be for a few weeks, a month at most, but it’s just dragged on and on. I told Mrs Parr earlier in the summer term, that I’d have to cut back. It’s not as if the Board is paying me double wages. I receive more than I was getting when I taught only Textiles, but it’s not as if I’m being paid Emily’s full wage on top of my own.”
Surprised at her frankness, I made sympathetic noises while she sat back, arms crossed over her chest, looking disgruntled.
“I’m sure you are doing sterling work and I’ll mention it in my report.”
“Thank you. I —”
She broke off as the door opened to admit the curly-haired French teacher Joanna Sutcliffe.
“Hello, Mary,” she said. “We don’t often see you in here.”
“That’s because I never have the time. I don’t get a long enough break to sit drinking coffee, but I did want to speak to Miss Long. Anyway, I really should be going. I’m taking the First year through basic seams and then the Fifth are menu planning. No rest for the wicked.” She got to her feet and looked straight at me. “You won’t forget, will you?”
“I shan’t.”
Seemingly satisfied, she went out and I jotted a note on my pad. Mary had told me precious little beside her genuine gripes and I wondered again why Emily Rimmer’s job was still open.
“Silly woman,” said Miss Sutcliffe, plonking herself down in the chair her colleague had just vacated. “If she couldn’t cope with the extra work, why ask for it?”
That seemed a harsh judgement and I took a good look at the woman sitting opposite. The French teacher appeared to be in her late twenties with a slim figure and bright blue eyes. The hands clasped around her coffee mug were pale, the nails well-manicured and painted.
“Perhaps she thought it would only be for a short time. It does seem strange that the post is still vacant.”
She lifted her shoulders in an elegant shrug.
“It’s not the first time the Board has dragged their feet over things, and I daresay it won’t be the last. Still, the Foreign Languages department is well catered for, so I suppose I shouldn’t grumble.”
She put down her mug and sat back, crossing one leg over the other, giving me a glimpse of suspenders and the top of her stocking. Well, she was a braver woman than me; in mid-November I wore a pair of tights under my trousers. Stockings and suspenders were left to...ahem...special occasions, and special, centrally-heated occasions at that.
“Which languages do you teach?”
“French and Italian. I also speak some Spanish, as do a lot of the girls.”
“Oh?”
“It’s all those holidays at daddy’s timeshare villa in Marbella or Fuengirola. They spend more time there than they do here. It’s a wonder that Spanish isn’t their first language.”
She had a point, but I brushed aside the distraction.
“Is this a good place to work?”
“Well, I can’t speak for others, but I’m happy enough here.”
“Mrs Parr is very well thought of.”
“Yes, we all like her. She’s a good Head.”
I made a pretence of writing this down, then tried to lead her towards my main interest in Crofterton Girls’ College.
“Do you you get on all right with your colleagues?”
“Ah! I wondered when we’d get on to that. From what they’ve told me, you seem uncommonly interested in Emily Rimmer.” She shook her head, as if in disapproval, and looked away.
“I prefer the word ‘naturally’ in this case. Of course I’m interested. She was murdered and the killer never found. Quite frankly, I find it a bit odd in those circumstances that the majority of staff are still here.”
She brushed a strand of reddish hair off her forehead. “You’ve obviously never been a teacher. As I’ve just said, this is a good place to work, the remuneration is excellent, and the Head is very supportive. It would take more than a murder to give that up.”
“I’m sure the Board will be delighted to hear that.”
“Besides, the atmosphere here is so much better without her around.”
Now we were getting to it. “I understand that she pilfered stuff.”
“Oh, yes. I think we all either knew or suspected that, but...”
Her painted lips came together in a snap. I said nothing and waited.
“Rimmer liked to collect things. As well as other people’s possessions, she gathered their secrets.”
“Oh? Such as?”
She wriggled. “All sorts of things. We all have secrets, things that we might not want the world to know about. It might not be a crime, or anything major, but we all have things we are uncomfortable admitting to.”
“And Emily liked to find out what they were?”
Miss Sutcliffe’s eyes lost their focus for a moment, as though she were remembering something.
“Yes,” she said, eventually, “and she had a particular look about her when she did. It was as if, having discovered the secret, she now hugged it to herself. Do you know what I mean?”
I nodded, though it did raise a disturbing thought.
“Yes. To what end, would you suppose?”
“Oh, well, that would depend on the nature of the secret, but if it was serious enough, I wouldn’t even put blackmail beyond Emily Rimmer.”
* * *
After these inflammatory remarks Joanna Sutcliffe got up and went out. Left to my own devices, I pondered what she and Mary Alton had told me. I had no reason to doubt them, yet if they were correct, and the dead woman had been stealing from and blackmailing her colleagues, why had this not been reported to the Headmistress? Why was Emily Rimmer still working at Crofterton Girls' College at the time of her murder?
“Ah, Miss Long, there you are.” Mrs Parr poked her head around the door. “Would you step into my office, please?”
Just the person I wanted to speak to, but now she’d phrased it like that, cold sweat prickled on my skin and I swear I heard my knees knocking together as I followed her out.
“Sit down.”
Inside her office I did as I was told, feeling like an obedient but naughty schoolgirl. She looked across her desk at me and frowned.
“I suppose it is too early to ask if you have solved this regrettable matter,” she said.
“It is, but I have made progress.”
Her face didn’t lose its look of displeasure. “Always good to hear. However, I have spoken to Peter Hamilton and warned him that my staff are unhappy.”
“Are they?”
It wasn’t the impression I’d received. The teachers I’d interviewed had been at pains to point out that the murder of Emily Rimmer, whilst not leaving them exactly delirious, had at least lightened the atmosphere.
“I have received a complaint.”
Only one? Then I obviously wasn’t trying hard enough. “About me? How have I offended? And whom?”
She glanced down and fiddled with a pen, rolling it between thumb and forefinger. “I’d rather not say. I managed to calm the situation by explaining that I was as subservient to the Board's wishes as they were.”
“You said you couldn’t interfere. I see.”
My estimation of the Head plummeted. She hadn’t seemed the type to pass the buck.
“Not at all.” The pen hit the desk with a clatter. “I said I’d have a word with you, but that my hands were tied. Which they are.” To her credit, she laughed. “I think you need a softer tread.”
She made me sound like a car tyre. “I’ll try, Mrs Parr, but if I tread too softly, I could be here until Easter and still not know who killed your Food Technology teacher. It is inevitable that feathers will get ruffled, and feelings hurt.”
“Yes, that’s what Mr Hamilton said.”
“I appreciate that you may feel it your duty to support, and protect your staff, but you make my job harder – and keep me here longer – by not answering my questions. Frankly, I’m surprised to hear that someone has grumbled, after only two days, about my presence here. That person may have something to hide so, you see, I do need to know who it is.”
She stood up and turned her back on me, looking out of the window, down onto the car park and entrance. I watched the tense upright figure, her hands clenched into fists at her side, and waited while she made her decision, hoping she wouldn’t fail me.
Could she go against the Board of Governors? Not forgetting the Assistant Chief Commissioner, of course. How much autonomy did she have as Headmistress? I chewed my lip at the thought that she might ask me to leave and my involvement in the case be over before it had barely begun. How would I explain that to Jerry? How could I tell him that Mrs Parr had expelled me and that I’d been sent down?
She didn’t.
“You are right.” She moved away from the window and resumed her seat. “Forgive me. Stupidly, I thought you would make little impact on the regime we have here, but I should have realised that the death of Emily Rimmer hangs over all of us like the sword of Damocles.”
That seemed an overly dramatic way of stating it, but I could see her point and the dilemma in which she found herself. Like Jerry she was forced into having this case cleared up at whatever cost to their own feelings. Or her desire for the smooth running of the college. Or a quiet life.
“I had hoped that we had put it behind us and moved on. There was so much disruption last year. We were constantly playing catch-up after the police insisted the school stay closed for nearly a week longer than planned. Would you believe I had parents ringing me up demanding their daughters be allowed to return because they were having to take time off work to look after them?”
Oh, I could easily credit it. Given the little amount of time some people were prepared to spend with their offspring, I often wondered why they had bothered having them at all.
“And now,” she continued, “the disturbance begins again. Well, what you’ve started you must finish.”
Me? Why did I always get the blame? I hadn’t started anything, but she was right that I would see the end of it. And on my own terms.
“I think that would be best for all concerned.”
“Yes, I’m sure you’re right.” Her shoulders sagged in defeat, but she still hadn’t given me the name. Never mind, I’d come back to that.
“I’ve been told by several people that Miss Rimmer pilfered things from the students. Did you know of this?”
“Certainly not. No one said anything to me or I would have looked into it. Perhaps it was just that the girls mislaid things. They don’t take care of their possessions at that age, you know.”
I pursed my lips, unconvinced. It was highly unlikely that things had been lost or mislaid when Mrs Cross claimed to have seen Emily actually take them.
“It has also been suggested that Miss Rimmer might have been blackmailing her colleagues.”
“Nonsense!” Her cheeks reddened. “If any of these accusations held a sliver of truth, I would have heard about it before now. This is not an ivory tower, Miss Long. My office door is always open to staff and pupils alike.”
She might like to think so, but again I had my doubts. Unless everyone I’d spoken to so far had been lying—unlikely in itself—a lot had gone off at this school that the Headmistress knew nothing about. Not that I was going to tell her that; I was growing tactful in my old age. Nor did I bother pointing out that theft and blackmail are both good motives for murder and I was surprised that a woman of Mrs Parr’s intelligence couldn’t see that.
“I’m sure that’s the case. I’m only passing on what I was told as I feel you ought to know.”
“Yes, well, thank you.”
She appeared mollified, but I wondered whether the Headmistress herself might be covering up the goings-on at her school. The ultimate responsibility for what happened there rested with her; it would be her head that would roll should the Board of Governors be apprised of serious wrongdoing on the premises. Not that murder wasn’t about as serious as it got but, if Emily Rimmer had been guilty of the crimes others now accused her of, then she had certainly paid a heavy price.
And why had no one mentioned this to the police at the time? Was I looking at a wholesale cover-up? A cover-up orchestrated by the woman sitting at the opposite me at the other side of the desk? A ridiculous thought—and yet...
Just how far would the Headmistress go in protecting the name and reputation of her school?
* * *
Furious, I stormed out of the room, nearly slamming the door behind me. What was the woman playing at? One minute she backed me up, the next she refused to let me do the job I was there to do. Talk about mercurial!
I went back into the Staff Room and took some deep breaths to calm down. Antagonising the Head would not help. I desperately needed her on my side which meant that, for the moment, I could not push her, and the name of the teacher who had complained remained a mystery.
It was time to get out of there.
“Oh good, you’re still here. I was hoping to catch you.”
I’d only returned to the Staff Room to pick up my coat, and now Mrs Thompson stood between me and freedom.
“I was on my way home, but if I can help at all...”
“Well, I wanted to talk to you.”
“About?” I asked as she came to an abrupt halt.
“I just didn’t want you getting the wrong impression, Miss Long. Emily Rimmer was a difficult woman to deal with...”
Once again her words petered out, and she looked down at her feet, twisting her hands together.
“Why don’t we sit down,” I said. “Can I get you a drink?”
“No, no thank you.” She lowered herself into a chair, so I sat opposite.
“What is it that’s worrying you, Miss Thompson? I assure you of my discretion.”
Though being discreet merely meant not getting my pad out. I hoped I’d be able to remember what she said, because something was bothering Christine Thompson. She looked as if she might burst into tears at any moment. Knowing my luck it would have nothing to do with the investigation, I thought, but I was wrong.
“Well, your questions yesterday set me thinking about last year. It was such a horrible time, a confused time, and I’ve been trying to remember.”
Hell’s teeth! Would she never get to the point? “Remember what? Something about Emily?”
“Yes, yes.” She leant forward in eagerness. “There was something different about Emily, just before we broke up for the holidays. She appeared smug about something. Self-satisfied, you know?”
“Uh huh. Do you know why?”
Miss Thompson scratched the bridge of her nose and looked decidedly uncomfortable. “Well, not exactly. I really don’t care to speak ill of the dead, but Emily liked to collect secrets and, when I saw her, she had her arms crossed over her chest as if hugging something to herself.” She demonstrated the action, hugging herself and giving her upper body a little shake. “I asked what she was so pleased about.”
“And what did she say?”
“Only that it was ‘the best possible news’, and then she laughed and went out.”
“The best possible news,” I repeated, wondering what Emily had meant by it.
“Yes. I’ve no idea what she was referring to, but I thought you’d like to know.”
My acquaintance with the victim being exactly zero, her meaning remained as enigmatic as the woman herself, but I would add it to the list of things I was discovering about her and hope to make sense of it all before too much longer. Because until I did, and could work out what she’d been up to, her killer would remain at large.
“Thank you, Miss Thompson, that’s very interesting. Emily seems to have been a strange character.”
She smoothed a hand down her skirts, as though still uneasy. “Oh, she was, she was, but I don’t want you thinking that no one had a good word to say about her.”
Why not? It appeared to be the case, I thought.
“Well, she does not appear to have been popular,” I pointed out, “and most people I’ve spoken to say the college is a happier place without her. Don’t you agree?”
“Emily was a tortured soul, Miss Long. We cannot know what drove her and none of us is perfect when all is said and done. Now that she is gone, I think we should all be a little more forgiving of her, and her faults.”
Faults, or crimes? I changed the subject. “Well, everyone has an alibi for the time of Emily’s death.”
“Everyone?”
“Yes. Mrs Liversedge was visiting her mother, Mrs Dixon was at home with her children, Mr Wilford at the library, Miss Sutcliffe at the theatre and Miss Sproston at a garden party with her sister. As for yourself, Miss Thompson, you said you were on holiday, yes?”
“What?” She looked puzzled, yet it had been a simple enough question. “Oh! Oh. Yes that’s right, I was. I didn’t get home until late on the Saturday.”
By which time Emily Rimmer was in the freezer.
“Wasn’t that a bit late? You only had a day before college reopened and you were back at work.”
She shook her head. “Not really. I live alone and I’m very organized, so I left everything ready for my return. Besides, a friend had invited me to go with her and I wasn’t going to turn that down. She has a villa in the hills above Nice, and I’d always wanted to go to the south of France. I had a few small savings tucked away and the thought of all that sunshine was most appealing, as was the thought of the lovely local cuisine. I keep things simple at home and rarely cook myself more than an omelette, unless I’m really hungry.”
Ah, but some of us can cook omelettes better than the French I thought, as Miss Thompson left, still looking baffled. Instead of concentrating on why that should be so, or about what she’d said, my thoughts returned to the night I’d met Val and Jacques.
I remembered picking up the glass of red wine the barman had poured for me and taking a gulp. It was hardly one of the grands crus M. Rosigny dealt in, but it warmed the hollow of my stomach, which rumbled in appreciation, and put a little fire back into my veins.
“I’ve run out of petrol just outside town.”
I’d explained my predicament to the barman who pulled a face and said I wouldn’t get any more at that time of night. It would have to wait until tomorrow.
“Is there a hotel?”
There was, though by the sound of it he didn’t think much of it. Still, with these concerns taken care of, I turned my attention to the next urgent consideration.
“Do you have a menu?” I asked.
The man beside me laughed as if I’d said something funny.
“I only want something like an omelette.”
The barman shrugged and called across the room. “Is the kitchen still open?”
“Non, le service est terminé.”
“Jacques, elle a faim – she’s hungry,” said the barman. “She’s only asking for an omelette.”
I don’t know what possessed me to say, “I don’t mind making it,” – perhaps it was that I didn’t like the thought of disturbing the chef — if that’s who he was — though it was more likely that I was starving. Besides, if he was dragged away from his precious football he might take it out on me by serving up eggs so leathery I could sole my shoes with them. I shuddered at the thought and the man addressed as Jacques looked up for the first time, and stepped away from the game.
“Huh? Les Anglais can’t cook omelettes.” His nose quivered.
“Nonsense!” The wine must have gone straight to my head. “Show me the eggs, show me the pan.”
He crossed the space between us with easy strides of his long legs and clamped a hand around my wrist. “Viens! Come!”
My feet barely touched the wooden floorboards as he yanked me through the curtain to the accompaniment of more suggestive comments and the laughter of his mates.
“Behave yourselves or go home,” he said to them, sharply.
The back room held a spotless kitchen and a door revealing a glimpse of a set of stairs to the floor above.
Jacques placed a heavy frying pan on top of the electric cooker, handed me a box of eggs, pointed out the basins, bowls and the cutlery, and then went and closed the door. He smiled and, reassured that he wasn’t about to drag me upstairs, I washed and dried my hands.
“What’s your name?” he asked, taking butter out of a tall fridge and placing it in front of me.
“Verity.” I cracked two eggs into the bowl.
“Well, Mam’selle Verity, use them all.”
“All six? I’m not that hungry.”
“No, but you are feeding me and Valentino as well as yourself.”
I gulped, but nodded. If he wanted to put me to the test, I was willing.
“Is that his name? Valentino?” It seemed apposite, the dark hair and eyes gave him more than a passing resemblance to the old silent movie heartthrob.
“It’s what we call him.”
I nodded and put the remainder of the eggs into the bowl, leaving out two of the whites.
“Why have you done that?”
Unable to think of the French for sloppy, I said that otherwise the mixture would be too wet.
“Like you were,” he said, and roared with laughter. “Mon Dieu, but you looked like a drowned rat.”
I grinned ruefully back at him. “I suppose I must have done.”
He seemed much more human when he laughed, the dour, brooding face lighting up, and showing a likeness to the barman. Perhaps they were brothers, although if so, this man was the elder.
I took a fork and lightly mixed the eggs, moistened the pan with butter and, as soon as it was good and hot, emptied the contents of the bowl in one long frothy stream. Aware that the Frenchman was watching my every move, I concentrated on cooking, using a spatula to quickly lift the part of the omelette that had set on contact, allowing the remainder of the eggs to run underneath. In less than a minute, I slid it out onto a plate, switched off the stove and put the pan down.
I snapped out of the memory. Had Emily Rimmer been hit on the back of the head and knocked out with a frying pan? The pathology report had mentioned a contusion on the back of the head such as might be inflicted by a heavy round object.
“Would it be enough to kill her?” I muttered to myself.
I opened my bag and took out pad and pen.
Miss Thompson’s information about Rimmer hugging herself and saying, ‘the best possible news’, whilst interesting in itself, did nothing to help. What had she been talking about? I didn’t altogether buy the idea that Emily was a tortured soul. No one else seemed to think so and I thought it more likely that the English teacher was a kindly one.
And what was I to make of her motives for telling me that Rimmer collected secrets and appeared smug and pleased with herself? Was Miss Thompson hinting that she knew the identity of the murderer?
More to the point, why hadn’t she named them?