Murder In School by Bruce Beckham Read Free Book Online

slippers.
    ‘Come in, come in – this way
please.’
    Skelgill stands upright and Cleopatra
– evidently not yet satisfied with the level of attention she has
received – launches herself at the unsuspecting DS Leyton and catches him
full in the groin, producing a pained gasp.
    Grinning unsympathetically, Dr Jacobson
calls out over his shoulder, ‘She obviously likes you – the boys call her
the Canine Cannonball – that’s her sign of affection.’
    DS Leyton makes to reply, but powers of
speech have temporarily deserted him.  Wheezily, he follows Skelgill
through into a parlour-like room of floral patterns, where tea things and cakes
are laid out on a low table amidst two easy chairs and a settee.  Behind
upon a dresser there’s a crystal sherry decanter and half a dozen inverted
glasses arranged on a round silver tray, and various bottles of the commoner
spirits.
    ‘Be seated, gentlemen, won’t you?’ 
Dr Jacobson makes a sweeping gesture of the arm, as a seventeenth century cavalier
might have extravagantly doffed his plumed hat.  ‘Please accept my
apologies that I can’t offer you much in the way of refreshment – I
wasn’t expecting you until the call was put through from reception just a few
minutes ago.’
    ‘Must have been an oversight, sir –
but if it’s inconvenient we can come back another time.’  Skelgill affects
to rise.
    ‘No, no – not at all.  Do
stay.  I’m free right the way through until prep.  There isn’t a full
timetable at the moment because of the examinations.  And this is far more
exciting.  Fancy them letting me loose on you.  Have a fruit scone,
please.’
    ‘Don’t mind if I do, sir.’
    Skelgill takes the proffered tea plate
and helps himself to a scone.  He makes their introductions and purpose of
visit known whilst spooning liberal dollops of strawberry jam and clotted cream
for himself and DS Leyton.
    Dr Jacobson assumes responsibility for
the teapot, quipping, ‘I’ll be Mother, ha-ha.’
    In his mid fifties, he has a somewhat
clownish appearance as a consequence of a bald pate partly ringed by a crescent
of mousy hair that sticks up in prominent tufts above the ears, as though he’s
just been roused from slumber.  His round face bears a fixed simper and
his small pale blue eyes exude a natural sparkle.  It’s hard to judge
whether he is on edge, or if his continual restless movements and fidgeting are
the norm.
    Skelgill makes a little cough and says,
‘Dr Jacobson, as you’ll have guessed we’d like to talk to you about Mr
Querrell.’
    ‘A dreadful tragedy – we’re all devastated
– the boys especially.  They’re still in mourning for him.’
    ‘Oh?’  Skelgill sounds a little
surprised.
    ‘Querrell was a living legend. 
Taught many of their paters, of course.  Must have marched half the
serving British Establishment up and down the hills of northern England in his
time.’
    ‘Apologies if I’ve misjudged the mood, Dr
Jacobson, but I rather got the impression that he won’t be missed in certain
quarters?’
    Skelgill glances at DS Leyton; otherwise
occupied with his scone, he nods enthusiastically in confirmation.
    ‘Gentlemen, you know how it is.’
    The detectives look like they
don’t.  But Dr Jacobson, unlike his more senior colleagues, needs no
encouragement in order to elaborate.
    ‘There can be a competitive jealousy
among schoolmasters.  Deep in our hearts we all yearn to be popular: most
of all to be respected by the boys.  And when that respect stems not from
fear – of the rod, or detention, or an everlasting – but from
admiration, well that is a very precious commodity, indeed.’
    ‘And that was Mr Querrell?’
    ‘Quite right, Inspector.  I marvel
at his secret, because he was as much a disciplinarian as anybody in the school
– with the exception of Snyder, naturally – but the boys would
always go that extra mile for him.  He’d have the timidest first-formers
tackling like tigers within three