Питер Робинсон - Seven Years

Once inside the cavernous reception hall, I noticed the odd pair or group of girls moving quietly about the place, carrying books. Footsteps and voices echoed in the grand space. The ceiling was ornate, decorated with Renaissance-style angels radiating outwards from a glittering chandelier, and the wainscoted walls were dotted with large portraits of old families, and perhaps even past headmasters.

“Can I help you, sir?”

I must have looked lost, though I was more struck by wonder at the grandeur of the school, because a young woman had approached me. Her tone was helpful and friendly, rather than accusatory. My harmless appearance was working in my favor. “I wonder if I might have a word with your headmaster?” I said.

She smiled. “I’m afraid Miss Morwyn is busy at the moment. We’ve had a bit of a flu epidemic here, and several of the regular teachers are off sick. I’m sure Ms. Langham, her deputy, will be able to help you out. What is it you’re inquiring about?”

“Nothing specific,” I said. “I’m just looking for some information and background.”

“Very well. If you’ll just wait here a moment.”

And she clip-clopped off down the broad passage lined with administrative offices. In moments she was back to tell me that Ms. Langham would see me now, though she could spare only fifteen minutes as she had a class to teach at eleven o’clock. I said that would be fine and followed the young woman down the corridor. After a brief knock, she ushered me into a nondescript office, furnished with the usual practicalities of teaching, which these days, of course, included a computer as well as the requisite filing cabinets and bookcases. The room was tidy enough, and it looked out on the playing fields at the back of the school.

Ms. Langham stood up to greet me. She was about my height, which isn’t very tall, and slim, with auburn hair loosely tied at the back of her neck, where it fanned out over her shoulders. Her oval face was lightly freckled and her eyes a watchful and intelligent pale blue. A touch of lipstick would have done wonders for her rather thin lips. Her clothes were as conservative as one would expect in such a place as Linford — not tweedy, but a dark skirt over a high-necked blouse. I would have guessed her age to be mid-forties, at the most. She was no conventional beauty, but I have to confess that I found her immediately attractive. She smiled, sat down again and bade me sit opposite her. “Well, Mr....?”

“Aitcheson,” I told her. “Donald Aitcheson.”

“Well, Mr. Aitcheson, what can we do for you today?”

She sounded more like the girl behind the counter at Starbucks than a teacher. I felt like asking for a double espresso and a blueberry muffin, but instead I said, “I was wondering if you might be able to tell me a little about the school, its history, reputation, staff, standards, courses of study and so on.”

“Of course.” She paused. “This is quite unusual, however. We don’t generally have people calling at the school for a chat about our standards and reputation. But seeing as you’re here... Do you mind my asking why you wish to know?”

“I’m looking for a suitable institution to send my son, and I was wondering if Linford might fit the bill.”

She stared at me, looking puzzled, for a moment before answering. “Well, Mr. Aitcheson,” she said finally, “much as I hate to disappoint you, I’m afraid Linford definitely won’t fit the bill. Not in the least.”

“Why not?”

She tilted her head and narrowed her eyes. “I would have thought you might have done at least the modicum of research before you came all the way out here, I must say. We’re easily Googled.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Linford Hall is a girls ’ boarding school, Mr. Aitcheson. We don’t have any boys here.”

Then who the hell is Barnes? I almost said out loud. My mind was already spinning in search of alternative explanations. Perhaps we were in a D.H. Lawrence scenario. Barnes as Mellors, the gamekeeper, or something like that. It was a possibility. Surely they must have a few men about the place, if only on a daily basis, to help with the heavy lifting and so forth. Not to mention maintaining the extensive grounds. But would a “Mellors” character be likely to know about Browning and send a teacher a book with the inscription that so intrigued me? I doubted it. I tried not to let my disappointment show

“Naturally, we employ several men in various capacities,” Ms. Langham went on, as if reading my thoughts, “but we most definitely do not accept male pupils.”

“I see,” I said. “Of course not. My mistake.”

She smiled, but it wasn’t in her eyes. “So sorry to disappoint. Now, if—”

“I can’t imagine why my friend never mentioned this,” I said, rallying.

“Friend?”

“The friend who told me about this place. I must have got it mixed up with somewhere else.” I smiled.

“You have no daughters, then, I assume?”

“None.” I didn’t have any sons, either, but I wasn’t going to tell Ms. Langham that.

“Then I’m afraid I can’t help you.”

“I also have a book I’d like to return to you, a biography of Mary Shelley, with your school stamp. As I happened to passing this way, I just thought I’d drop in and... well...”

Ms. Langham continued to stare suspiciously at me. I much preferred not being noticed.

I took a deep breath. “She mentioned a Miss Scott, my friend did. When she asked me to return the misplaced library book. Apparently it belonged to a Miss Scott.”

Ms. Langham frowned. “Miss Scott?”

“Yes. I think Scott was the name.”

“I’m afraid Miss Scott is no longer with us,” she said through tightening lips. “Look, what’s your game? What’s this all about? Why are you really here? Are you a reporter? Is that it? A private detective? One of the parents? We’ve dealt with the problem.”

“Ms. Langham! I don’t see why you should leap to such conclusions merely because I asked about Miss Scott. Why assume I’m a reporter? Did she leave under a cloud or something? Was there a scandal?”

“All I can tell you is that Miss Scott is no longer employed at this establishment. And now, if you’ll—”

“Where is she?”

“I really have no idea, and even if I did I wouldn’t tell you. Now I think it’s time you left before I call the police. As you can imagine, we have to take special care to keep an eye open for any suspicious looking males hanging around the premises.”

At that, I jumped out of my chair and held out my hand, palm towards her. “There’s no need for that. I was just... I mean, I was simply...” I put my hand to my forehead and groaned. “Would you at least tell me when she left?”

Her hand hovered over the telephone. “I don’t see as it’s any of your business, but she left our employ shortly after the beginning of term. Late September. About a month ago. Caused us more than a little trouble finding a replacement at such short notice, if truth be told.”

“Was it a sudden departure?”

She touched the handset and lifted it slightly from its rest. “Mr. Aitcheson, you really must leave now.”

“All right,” I said, sitting down again and opening my briefcase. “All right. Please don’t do anything rash. I’m not a reporter or a detective. Just give me one minute, and I’ll show you why I’m here, if you’re interested. One minute. Please.”

I could see her thinking it over. Finally, her curiosity got the better of her. She let the phone drop back in its cradle. “Very well,” she said, in the stern tone of a deputy headmistress. “Please illuminate me.”

I decided on the spur of the moment to leave Mary Shelley out of it and put my cards on the table. I showed her the edition of Browning with the inscription. She read it, turned a little pale, I thought, then handed the book back to me and said. “There’s a decent pub in the village. The George and Dragon. Meet me there at half past twelve.” Then she walked over and opened the door. “Now I really must go.”