V. McDermid - Report for Murder

‘You should, really,’ Lindsay reproached her. ‘Now, am I going to see this monument to the privileged society or not?’

They walked back to the Land Rover, relaxed together, catching up on the four months since they had last seen each other. On the short drive from Buxton to Axe Edge, where Derbyshire House dominated a fold of moorland, Paddy gave Lindsay a more detailed account of the weekend plans.

‘We decided to start off the fund-raising with a bang. We’ve done the usual things, like writing to all the old girls asking for contributions, but we know we’ll need a bit of extra push. After all, most of our old girls are the wives and mothers brigade who don’t exactly have wads of spare cash at their disposal. And we’ve got less than six months to raise the money.’

‘But surely you must have known the lease was coming up for renewal?’

‘Oh, we did, and we budgeted for it. But then James Cartwright, a local builder and developer, put in a bid for the lease that was £50,000 more than we were going to have to pay. He wants to build time-share holiday flats with a leisure complex. It’s an ideal site for him, right in the smartest part of Buxton. And one of the few decent sites where he’d still be able to get planning permission. The agents obviously had to look favourably on an offer as good as that. So our headmistress, Pamela Overton, got the governors mobilised and we came up with a deal. If we can raise the cash to match that £50,000 in six months, we get the lease, even if Cartwright ups his offer.’

Lindsay smiled wryly. ‘Amazing what influence can do.’

Although Paddy was watching the road, Lindsay’s tone of voice was not lost on her. ‘It’s been bloody hard to get this far,’ she complained mildly. ‘The situation’s complicated by the fact that Cartwright’s daughter is one of our sixth-formers. And in my house, too. Anyway, we’re all going flat out to get the money, and that’s what the weekend’s all about.’

‘Which is where I come in, yes?’

‘You’re our bid to get into the right section of the public consciousness. You’re going to tell them all about our wonderful enterprise, how we’re getting in gear, and some benevolent millionaire is going to come along and write us a cheque. Okay?’

Lindsay grinned broadly. ‘Okay, yah!’ she teased. ‘So what exactly is going to happen? So far you seem to have avoided supplying me with any actual information.’

‘Tomorrow morning we’re having a craft fair, which will carry over into the afternoon. All the girls have contributed their own work as well as begging and scrounging from friends and relations.

Then, in the afternoon, the sixth form are presenting a new one-act play written especially for them by Cordelia Brown. She’s an old girl of my vintage. Finally, there will be an auction of modern autographed first editions, which Cordelia and I and one or two other people have put together. We’ve got almost a hundred books.’

‘Cordelia Brown? The chat-show queen?’

‘Don’t be snide, Lindsay. You know damn well she’s a good writer. I’d have thought she’d have been right up your street.’

‘I like her novels. I don’t know why she does all that telly crap, though. You’d hardly believe the same person writes the books and the telly series. Still, it must keep the wolf from the door.’

‘You can discuss the matter with her yourself. She’s arriving later this evening. Try not to be too abrasive, darling.’

Lindsay laughed. ‘Whatever you say, Paddy. So the book auction rounds the day off, does it?’

‘Far from it. The high point is in the evening - a concert given by our most celebrated old girl, Lorna Smith-Couper.’

Lindsay nodded. ‘The cellist. I’ve never seen her perform, but I’ve got a couple of her recordings.’

‘More than I have. I’ve never come across her, as far as I know. She had left before I came to the school - I didn’t get here till the fifth form. And it’s not my music, after all. Give me Dizzy Gillespie any time.’

‘All that jazz still the only thing you’ll admit is music, then? You’ll not be able to help me, in that case. I’d love to get an interview with Lorna Smith-Couper. I’ve heard she’s one of the most awkward people to get anything out of, but maybe the good cause together with the old school ties will make her more approachable.’

Paddy turned the Land Rover into a sweeping drive. She stopped inside the heavy iron gates, leaned across Lindsay and pointed. ‘See that folly on the hill over there? It’s called Solomon’s Temple. If you look straight left of it you can just see a corner of the stupid green acres that all this fuss is about.’ There was an edge in her voice and they drove on in silence. Ahead of them stood Derbyshire House, an elegant mansion like a miniature Chatsworth. They swung round a corner of the house and dropped down into a thick coppice of birch, sycamore and rowan trees. After a hundred yards, they emerged in a large clearing where six modern stone blocks surrounded a well-tended lawn.

‘The houses,’ said Paddy. ‘About half of the girls sleep in the main building and the more senior ones sleep here,’ she pointed as she spoke, ‘in Axe, Goyt, Wildboarclough and my house, Longnor. The two smaller ones, Burbage and Grin Low, are for teachers and other staff.’

‘My God,’ said Lindsay, ‘the only thing this verdant near my school was the bloody garden of remembrance behind the local crematorium.’

‘Very funny. Come on, Lindsay, do stop waving your origins around like a red flag and have a drink. I can feel this is going to be a good weekend.’

Paddy and Lindsay were stretched out in Paddy’s comfortable sitting-room. It was furnished by the school in tasteful if old-fashioned style, but Paddy had stamped her own character on it. One wall was completely lined with books and the others were covered with elegant photographs of stage productions and a selection of old film posters. The chairs were upholstered in leather and, in spite of their shabbiness, they were deep and welcoming. By the window was a large desk strewn with piles of papers and exercise books and in the corner near the door was a cocktail cabinet, the only piece of furniture that Paddy had carted around with her everywhere for the last ten years.

Lindsay nursed her glass and drawled, ‘So what’s this one called?’

‘Deep Purple.’

‘Great hobby, making cocktails. Of course, I’d never have your flair for it. What’s in this, then?’

‘One measure Cointreau, three of vodka, blue food-colouring, a large slug of grenadine, a measure of soda water and a lot of ice. Good, isn’t it?’

‘Dynamite. And it goes down a treat. This is certainly the life. What time’s dinner? And should I change?’

‘Three quarters of an hour. Don’t bother changing, you’re fine as you are. Tomorrow will be a bit more formal, though; best bib and tucker all round. We’ll have to go over to the staffroom shortly, so I can introduce you to the workers.’

Lindsay smiled. ‘What are they like?’ she asked, slightly apprehensive.

‘Like any collection of female teachers. There are the super-intelligent, witty ones; the boring old farts; the Tory party brigade and the statutory radical - that’s me, by the way. And a few who are just ordinary, unobjectionable women.’

‘My God, it must be bad if you’re their idea of a radical. What does that mean? You occasionally disagree with Margaret Thatcher and you put tomato sauce on your bacon and eggs? So am I going to like any of this bunch of fossils?’

‘You’ll like Chris Jackson, the PE mistress. She comes from your neck of the woods, and apart from being a physical fitness freak is obsessed with two things - wine-making and cars. You can imagine what we have in common, and it isn’t overhead camshafts.’