V. McDermid - Report for Murder

Bidding was slow for the first few lots, all newish first editions by moderately successful writers. But it soon became brisk as the quality began to improve. An autographed first edition of T.S. Eliot’s Essays Ancient and Modern fetched a very healthy price, and a second edition of Virginia Woolf’s Orlando with a dedication by the author climbed swiftly and was bought for an outrageous amount by the doting mother of one of Paddy’s fifth-formers. Paddy whispered in Lindsay’s ear, ‘That woman will try anything to get her Marjory to pass A level English.’ Lindsay bid for a couple of items, but the things she really wanted were beyond her means. After all, she reasoned, it was crazy to spend more than she would earn this weekend on one book. Her resolution vanished, however, when it came to lot 68.

Cordelia grinned broadly and said, ‘Ladies and gentlemen, what can I say? A unique opportunity to purchase an autographed first edition of a priceless contemporary novel. The One-Day Summer , the first novel of Booker prize nominee, yours truly. A great chance to acquire this rarity. Who’ll start me at a fiver?’

Lindsay thrust her arm into the air. ‘Five pounds I am bid. Do I hear six? Yes, six. Seven over there. Ten from the gentleman in the tweed hat. Eleven pounds, madam. Eleven once, eleven twice … twelve, thank you, sir. Do I hear thirteen? Yes, Thirteen once, thirteen twice, sold for thirteen pounds - unlucky for some - to Lindsay Gordon. A purchase you’ll never regret, I may say.’

An embarrassed Lindsay made her way over to the desk where the fourth-formers were collecting the money and wrapping the purchases. She didn’t feel much like facing Paddy’s sardonic grin right away, so she slipped down to the end of the hall by the stage and crossed through the heavy velvet curtains to the deserted backstage area where all the music rooms were situated. As she rounded the corner of the corridor, she saw Lorna Smith-Couper coming up a side corridor. The cellist did not notice Lindsay, because she was turning her head back to talk to someone coming round the corner of the corridor behind her. Without thinking, Lindsay slid through a half-open door and found herself behind the heavy backdrop of the stage. She could hear every word of the conversation in the corridor. Lorna Smith-Couper was speaking angrily.

‘I don’t know how you could have the nerve to put such a proposition to me. I may be many things, but shabby I’m not - and to let this place down now would be shabby in the extreme. You think money can buy anything. That’s astonishing for a man your age.’

The reply was muffled. But Lorna’s retort came over loud and clear. ‘I don’t care if your life depends on it, never mind your pathetic little business. I intend to play tonight and no amount of money is going to change my mind. Now, take yourself out of here before I have you removed. Don’t think you’ve heard the last of this, I’m sure the world will be delighted to hear how you conduct your business affairs.’

The man stormed off furiously down the corridor, past Lindsay’s hiding place. She leaned against the wall, exasperated with the melodramatic excesses that the weekend seemed to be producing. All Lindsay wanted to do was to get inside the skin of this school to write a decent piece. But every time she thought she was making some headway, some absurdly histrionic confrontation spoiled her perspective. Either that or, as happened even as the thought came into her head, Cordelia Brown appeared out of nowhere and reduced her to a twitchy adolescent.

Cordelia had just finished the auctioneering and had decided to slip out through the backstage area and down the back stairs behind the music rooms. ‘Hey,’ she said when she saw Lindsay, ‘the only reason I came through this way was to avoid you journos. But here I am, caught again.’

‘Sorry, it’s my nose for a scoop. I just can’t help it. But I wasn’t actually looking for you, honestly. Simply poking around,’ said Lindsay contritely.

‘Don’t apologise. I was only joking. You must never take me seriously; I’m incorrigibly frivolous. Lots of people hate me for it. Don’t you be one, please.’ Cordelia smiled anxiously, yet with a certain assurance. She was sharp enough to see the effect she had on Lindsay, but was trying not to exploit it; she never found it easy to guard her tongue, however. ‘By the way,’ she went on, ‘what on earth possessed you to spend all that money on my book? I’d have given you a copy if you’d asked.’

Lindsay mumbled, ‘Oh, I don’t have the book - though I’ve read it of course. It seemed to be for a good cause at the time.’

‘Oh-oh, the young socialist changes her tune!’ A glance at Lindsay’s face was enough to make her add, ‘Sorry, Lindsay, I don’t mean to be cheap. Look, hand it over and I’ll stick a few words in it if you want.’

Lindsay gave the book to Cordelia who fished a fountain pen out of her shoulder bag. Above the scrawled signature on the flyleaf, she scribbled something. Then she closed the book, embarrassed in her turn, said, ‘See you at dinner,’ and vanished down the side corridor where Lorna and the man had come from. Lindsay opened the book, curious. There she read, ‘To Lindsay. Who couldn’t wait. With love.’ A slow smile broke across her face.

Twenty minutes later, she had changed into what she called her ‘function frock’ for the evening’s activities and was again firmly embedded in Paddy’s armchair, clutching a lethal-tasting cocktail called Bikini Atoll, the ingredients of which she dared not ask. Paddy had relaxed completely since the previous evening. After all, she had argued to herself, the day had gone off well: much money had been raised and no one had so much as mentioned the word dope. Now she was gently teasing Lindsay about Cordelia before an early dinner. The meal had been put forward to six because of the evening’s concert, and Cordelia bounced into Paddy’s room with only ten minutes to spare. She looked breathtaking in a shiny silk dress which revealed her shoulders. She was carrying a shawl in a fine dark blue wool which matched her dress perfectly.

‘Hardly right-on, is it, my dears?’ she said as she swanned across the room. ‘But I thought I’d better do something to bolster the superstar image.’

‘We’d better go straight across; you’ve missed out on the cocktail phase, I’m afraid. We’ve been invited by my House prefects to sit with them tonight, so we’ll be spared the pain of eating with dear Lorna,’ said Paddy.

‘Terrific,’ said Cordelia. ‘I’ve managed to avoid her so far. If it weren’t for the fact that she plays a heavenly cello, I’d give this concert a miss and make for the local pub for a bit of peace. Oh, by the way, Paddy, how is the Cartwright girl?’

As they walked through the trees, Paddy said that Sarah was feeling somewhat embarrassed after her earlier outburst. She had decided to go to bed early. ‘I popped up earlier with some tea and I’ll take a look later on,’ said Paddy. ‘She’s very overwrought. I worry about that girl. She keeps too much locked up inside herself. If she’d let go more often, she’d be much happier. Everything she does is so controlled. Even her sport. She always seems to calculate her every move. Even Chris says that she lacks spontaneity and goes too hard for perfection. I think her father is probably very demanding, too.’

The subject of Sarah was dropped as soon as they entered the main building by the kitchen door. Cordelia remarked how little it had changed in the thirteen years since she had left. She and Paddy were deep in the old-pals-together routine by the time they arrived at the dining hall; it was only the presence of the Longnor House prefects and their friends which changed the subject. On sitting down to eat, Lindsay was immediately collared by the irrepressible Caroline who demanded, ‘Do you mostly work for magazines like New Left , then?’