Death of an Old Girl Read online

  DEATH OF AN OLD GIRL

  Pollard & Toye Investigations

  Book One

  Elizabeth Lemarchand

  Table of Contents

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  ALSO IN THE POLLARD & TOYE INVESTIGATIONS SERIES

  One

  ‘Festival, the Society’s Annual Reunion, shall be held at Meldon on the Saturday after the end of the summer term. The Sixth Form shall be invited to attend.’

  Extract from the Constitution of the Old Meldonian Society

  ‘Patches of mist will clear rapidly, and the day will be fine and warm throughout the region. Further outlook: the fine spell is expected to continue, at least over the weekend,’ a voice announced impressively. ‘Just a quick run through of some of today’s programmes,’ it went on, becoming brisk and persuasive. ‘Nine-ten, A Look Round the Larder. Nine-fif—’ Thank heaven for that, thought Helen Renshaw, flicking off her transistor, and switching on the electric kettle. She went over to the open window of her bedroom in the headmistress’s flat, a sturdy figure in well-cut pyjamas. The sun was still low in the eastern sky suffused with gold, and down in the park the elongated shadows of trees lay in echelon on the grass. She was long-sighted, and just where the straight drive reached vanishing point between the pillars of the gates she could see Eccles, the head gardener, outside the Lodge, prospecting the morning in his shirt sleeves.

  Returning to bed with her early morning tea, she reflected that everything, including the weather, seemed to be lined up for a successful day… With the possible exception of Beatrice Baynes and her little clique, of course, who never missed an opportunity of engaging in a rearguard action, however futile… Really, it was incredible how the years slipped by. This would be her twelfth Festival. Seven years, wasn’t it, since Olga Feather, her outraged predecessor, had taken final umbrage and ceased to attend?

  Helen closed her eyes, projected herself ten days into the future, and began to walk down to Zermatt from the Gorner Grat.

  Jock Eccles finished a hearty breakfast of porridge and kippers and went out of the lodge, carrying a wooden board, about two feet by three. It bore in black lettering on a white ground the legend OUR VISITORS ARE ASKED TO PARK IN FRONT OF NEW HOUSE. He hung it with meticulous care on a nail in one of the pillars, stepping back to survey it before making a minute final adjustment.

  ‘Did ye see yon Baynes wumman?’ he asked his wife on returning to the kitchen.

  ‘Aye,’ she told him from the sink. ‘Keekin’ frae the stairheid windae noo.’

  He gave a short, satisfied bark, and set out once more.

  The sun was rapidly gaining power and his heavy boots sent up puffs of dust from the drive. Ahead of him rose the early Georgian façade of Old House, with its mellow rose-red brickwork, beautifully proportioned windows and fine portico. Jock glowered at the fresh white paint: yet another example of the Governors’ spendthrift policy towards the buildings, while they grudged every penny spent on the grounds, cut down manpower and set a gormless Gardens Committee over him, to interfere with an experienced man’s ideas… About a hundred yards short of the School he took the righthand fork of the drive.

  Considering the piecemeal character of the original house, Meldon had a surprisingly satisfactory unity. New House had been built on in the eighteen-nineties, to keep pace with the rapid increase in numbers. In contrast with the hideous yellow pitchpine inside, its exterior had been kept in harmony with Old House, as had that of New Wing, a further extension running out eastwards. On the opposite, or west side of the Quad, School Wing consisted entirely of classrooms, laboratories and other teaching accommodation. The latest addition, enclosing the Quad on the north side, was the new Assembly Hall, a well-designed functional building, with a stage and greenrooms. A further short drive led from the car park outside New House to the Sanatorium.

  Jock Eccles went on through the car park, casting a resentful glance at the display of white and chromium visible through the windows of the kitchen on the ground floor of New House. Turning to the left through an archway, he entered the Quad close to the Hall, the doors of which were standing open. Bert Heyward, the resident caretaker, had already arranged the seating for the Annual General Meeting of the Old Meldonian Society. On the stage half-a-dozen chairs, a table and a carafe of water awaited the committee. At the sides were magnificent arrangements of gladioli in two enormous copper buckets. Jock stood in the doorway, eyeing them complacently. Suddenly his face darkened, and a crimson flush mounted slowly to the bald crown of his head, which was encircled by strands of ginger hair. Giving his boots a perfunctory rub on the mat, he advanced towards the stage and started counting the spikes.

  ‘Thirty-eight, an’ I cut but thirty,’ he muttered angrily. ‘You thievin’ bitch of a hooskeeper…’

  He stumped out angrily to go and inspect his ravaged flower-beds. Rounding School Wing in the direction of the gardens he encountered two Sixth Formers returning from an early morning swim. They were in irrepressible spirits and greeted him hilariously. He scowled at them, jabbing with his forefinger.

  ‘I saw ye baith the nicht in yon car parkt b’ the gates. Wi’ yer brithers, nae doot.’

  They uttered delighted shrieks.

  ‘Our grandfathers, you mean, Jocky.’

  ‘All signed-for-and-correct. Pre — Festival — exeat — with friends-approved-by-parents.’

  ‘Shamless hussies, the pair o’ ye,’ he growled, and continued his way.

  ‘Bet he’d’ve liked to be in on the party,’ panted one to the other, as they cantered across the Quad.

  ‘He’s yours … hairy ginger chest and all,’ replied the other, dodging an amicable kick.

  The rattle of crockery and clash of cutlery floated out of the kitchen windows. Jean Forrest, the domestic bursar, a competent spectacled figure in a white overall, dissected cold chickens and ham with expertise, oblivious of the babble around her. A baker’s van drew up outside and began to disgorge a consignment of dinner rolls.

  ‘Check them before he goes, Mrs Heyward,’ called Jean Forrest. ‘Remember two years ago?’

  An overpowering smell of cold viands hung in the air…

  Members of the teaching staff began to arrive in their cars. They appropriated the shadiest pitches in the parking-ground, and vanished on their various concerns. Joyce Kitson, the School secretary, sorted and distributed the morning’s mail. Just before nine o’clock Helen Renshaw came down from her flat and went into her office on the left of the front door, looking distinguished in a beautifully-tailored frock of sage-green wild silk, with a matching short coat and an antique necklace of garnets. A few minutes later the domestic bursar looked in on Joyce Kitson.

  ‘Four more last-minute acceptances, I’m afraid,’ said the latter. ‘And no cancellations.’

  ‘Let ’em all come,’ replied Jean Forrest robustly. ‘I can take anything on a fine Festival.’

  ‘When are you hoping to get away?’

  ‘Friday, with luck, if all the women turn up to clean next week. What about you?’

  ‘Friday, too, I hope. Most of the teaching staff’ll be off tomorrow. Nice to have real school holidays!’

  ‘Not to mention Burnham Scale.’

  They exchanged commiserating glances…

&nb
sp; ‘All the other letters can wait till Monday morning,’ said Helen Renshaw. ‘Sign the ones we’ve done p.p., Joyce. I shall be out to lunch and tea tomorrow, by the way. Margaret West wants to get off quickly after breakfast. And do take a day off yourself. It’s been a gruelling end of term.’

  ‘I’ll try. I’m rather at the can’t-stop stage.’ Joyce Kitson turned her head towards the door and listened. ‘I think that is Margaret West. Shall I see?’

  ‘Yes, do. And if it is, perhaps you could get coffee sent in right away, while we run through the agenda.’

  Helen Renshaw eyed the President of the Old Meldonian Society with satisfaction: intelligent, mature and easy to look at, she thought. Margaret West had been what she called a Late Feather, at Meldon herself late enough in Olga Feather’s over-long period of office to realise that the school had been hopelessly static and out-of-date. She had supported Helen’s drastic reforms from the start, rallying her own contemporaries and even the more enlightened members of earlier generations. Now the wife of a successful barrister, her own two daughters were in the School.

  ‘It all seems pretty plain sailing,’ she said, looking up from the agenda. ‘Unless there’s anything in your review of the year likely to spark off the Old Brigade, H.M.?’

  ‘Nothing deliberate, at any rate,’ Helen replied, ‘but I’m certainly going to mention the art department’s successes, especially Miss Cartmell’s travelling scholarship, and that might do it. She’s Beatrice Baynes’s bête noire at the moment.’

  ‘Why? What’s the poor girl done?’

  ‘Nothing, beyond being a modern young woman and a highly successful teacher on present-day lines. Don’t miss the exhibition of work in the studio, by the way.’

  ‘I won’t. She’s certainly done something to Sarah and Kate. But I can quite see the new regime’s a bit startling after Miss Leeke’s. We used to call her the Drip, poor dear. In my day, you know, we were still drawing watering-cans and rakes, and admiring The Monarch of the Glen.’

  ‘De mortuis,’ said Helen, ‘but it was a deliverance. I could never have winkled her out: she’d been here man and boy for thirty-five years, and was only fifty-six. She and Beatrice were great buddies, of course. They sketched together, and Beatrice haunted the studio.’

  ‘You were lucky to get anyone as good as the Cartmell girl at such short notice. Just a week before the autumn term started, wasn’t it, two years ago?’

  ‘Yes. It was entirely thanks to the Chairman. He’d met Clive Torrance, who runs the Domani Gallery. Ann Cartmell had just been at a summer school he was involved in, and he knew she was out of a job. She’d come to grief in her first school: a touch secondary modern, quite the wrong place for her. She’s the sensitive, idealistic type, a bit immature in some ways. Incidentally, Clive Torrance has gone on taking a keen interest in the art here, and I suspect Ann of having a secret passion for him.’

  ‘Let’s hope he won’t marry her, anyway, as she’s so good at her job. It’s something to have a chairman like Sir Piers, isn’t it?’

  ‘I don’t believe I could have survived my first few years with anyone else.’

  ‘Have you ever regretted taking us on, H.M.?’

  ‘The Old Brigade brought me pretty close to walking out once or twice, early on. Beatrice Baynes is the only real nuisance now, though. It’s still a thorn in the flesh having her just across the road. She snoops continually, and her endless letters of complaint get beyond a joke at times.’

  ‘Complaints about the girls, I suppose? Noise, and mufti for the Sixth, and so on?’

  ‘Not only the girls. She’s so vindictive about the young staff. And everything that happens goes over to Applebys by way of Madge Thornton, of course.’

  ‘She’s B.B.’s godchild, isn’t she?’

  ‘Yes. Not a bad sort, really, but the dreariest teacher of music, and completely under B.B.’s thumb. She’s just back from her mother’s funeral, poor woman. I told her she needn’t reappear this term, but she seemed to want to.’

  ‘B.B. should have seen a psychiatrist years ago,’ said Margaret West emphatically. ‘Ought we to start moving over to the A.G.M.? There seems to be a pretty good noise outside.’

  An amorphous crowd drifted slowly across the Quad towards the Hall. Small groups formed and re-formed round Helen Renshaw, the staff and the O.M.S. committee. A few solitary figures looked about anxiously for contemporaries. Young things of recent vintage, with up-to-the-minute outfits and hair-dos, reunited noisily with each other and with the Sixth. Recently-joined members of staff with no O.M. contacts clung together, ill at ease and faintly resentful. The seats in the Hall filled up slowly, people constantly getting up to greet new arrivals, and changing their places. Finally, Margaret West rapped on the platform table and opened the meeting by reading a greetings telegram from Olga Feather.

  ‘My thoughts are with you today, and with Meldon’s great traditions,’ it said equivocally.

  Polite applause, protracted by a group in the front row, followed the reading of this missive, and Margaret West called on the secretary to read the minutes of the last meeting.

  Helen Renshaw, seated on her left, allowed her attention to wander. A good cross-section of the generations, she thought … extraordinary how the Baynes set in front managed to convey disapproval by the way they sat … and their hats — simply not true! By an association of ideas she looked about for Ann Cartmell, and was pleased to see her sitting between two of last year’s leavers… Margaret was managing very well, keeping people to the point without sergeant-majoring… She tried to fix with her eye a group of very young O.Ms who were showing signs of incipient hilarity…

  Shortly after twelve the routine business came to its end. ‘And now,’ said the President, ‘we come to the really interesting part of our A.G.M.: Miss Renshaw’s review of the past year in Meldon.’

  Helen was a good speaker, fluent, coherent and amusing. An uneventful, but very satisfactory year, she told them. She paid tribute to those who had left, congratulated individual O.Ms on their achievements… The Governors were considering an extension of New Wing, owing to the rising demand for places… The audience laughed heartily at her account of the disorganisation caused by the ’flu epidemic of the spring term, and applauded an impressive list of academic successes.

  ‘And I want to mention here an outstanding academic success by a member of the staff,’ she said. ‘As many of you already know, Miss Cartmell, our art specialist, has been awarded a scholarship to the Anglo-American Summer School for Art Teachers, which is being held in New England during the holidays, and she is flying out next Thursday to take it up. We are very grateful,’ she went on, when the burst of clapping had died down, ‘to Miss Cartmell, for all her enthusiasm and hard work in the art department, and I am sure you will be interested in the exhibition of work in the studio. It includes paintings which we are entering — not without some modest hopes — for the Commonwealth Schools Art Competition this autumn. Still on the subject of art,’ she went on, ‘I want to tell you that we have opened a fund to buy really good reproductions of a wide range of pictures for all parts of the School. The present girls have been very enterprising in raising money, and there have been some generous gifts from parents. If any O.M. would care to contribute, we should of course be most grateful.’

  Aware of the slight drawing-together of the group in the front row, she passed on smoothly to achievements in the athletic sphere, and finally sat down amid loud applause.

  ‘I think this fund is a great scheme.’ The speaker, a young woman in her late twenties, had been one of Helen’s first head-girls. ‘I’ve always thought our pictures pretty substandard, to say the least of it. The ones already bought for the library are in a different street. I’d like to propose, Madam Chairman, that the Society makes a generous donation to the fund.’

  ‘I’d like to second that,’ said several voices at once.

  As the secretary scribbled hastily, Beatrice Baynes rose to her feet, and stoo
d half-turned towards the body of the Hall, a beringed hand gripping the back of her chair. She was expensively and unbecomingly dressed in a navy-blue edge-to-edge coat, and a matching toque with a Queen Mary feather which contrived to underline her small stature. Her naturally red face, innocent of all cosmetics, was deeply flushed with heat and anger. She darted militant glances first at the meeting and then at the platform.

  ‘I wish to say, Madam Chairman, that some of us object strongly to the Society’s funds being used to buy pictures in the choice of which we are apparently to have no say whatever.’

  There was an uncomfortable pause.

  ‘You mean, Miss Baynes,’ asked Margaret West courteously, ‘that you would prefer the Society to buy pictures of its own choosing for the School?’

  ‘Who’s going to choose them?’ demanded a ragged chorus.

  ‘A properly-constituted sub-committee, elected for the purpose,’ snapped Beatrice Baynes, on her feet once more.

  ‘At this moment,’ Margaret West said, ‘there is a proposition before the meeting that a donation —’ ‘a generous donation,’ interpolated a voice — ‘thank you, Daphne Moorhead — a generous donation be made by the Society to the fund for buying pictures for the School. Do you wish to move an amendment, Miss Baynes?’

  ‘Certainly I do. I propose that a sub-committee is set up to buy suitable pictures, up to an agreed sum.’

  ‘Thank you, Miss Baynes. Does the amendment find a seconder? Thank you, Mrs Elkinshaw. Those in favour? Those against? The amendment is defeated by a large majority. I now put the original proposition to the meeting, that a generous donation is made by the Society to the fund. Those in favour? Those against? Carried by a large majority. One moment, please. We now have to decide the amount of our donation. May I have —’

  Beatrice Baynes interrupted brusquely.

  ‘Before any such decision is made, I absolutely insist on registering a protest on behalf of senior members of the Society about the deplorable modern trend in Meldon’s art. It is an absolute negation of the life work of Miss Leeke. I have seen these so-called paintings which are to represent our school at this competition. All of them are crude and grotesque, and one of them actually represents an unclothed figure —’