Report for Murder, Page 5

  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 out-burst. 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?”

  Lindsay shook her head. “No, I usually write for newspapers, actually. There’s not a vast amount of cash in writing for magazines—especially the heavy weeklies. So I do most of my work for the nationals.”

  “Do you write the things you want to write and then try to sell them? Is that how it works?”

  “Sometimes. Mostly, I put an idea for a story to them and if they like it, either I write it or a staff journalist works on it. But I also work on a casual basis doing shifts on a few of the popular dailies in Glasgow, where I live now.”

  Caroline looked horrified. “You mean you work for the gutter press? But you’re supposed to be a socialist and a feminist. How can you possibly do that?”

  Lindsay sighed and swallowed the mouthful of food she’d managed to get into her mouth between answers. “It seems to me that since the popular press governs the opinions of a large part of the population, there’s a greater need for responsible journalism there than there is in the so-called ‘quality’ press. I reckon that if people like me cop out then it’s certainly not going to get any better; in fact, it’s bound to get worse. Does that answer your question?”

  Cordelia, who had been listening to the conversation with a sardonic smile on her face, butted in. “It sounds awfully like someone trying to justify herself, not a valid argument at all.”

  A look of fury came into Lindsay’s eyes. “Maybe so,” she retorted. “But I think you can only change things from inside. I know the people I work with, and they know me well enough to take me seriously when I have a go at them about writing sexist rubbish about attractive blonde divorcees. What I say might not make them change overnight but I think that, like water dripping on a stone, it’s gradually wearing them down.”

  Caroline couldn’t be repressed for long. “But I thought the journalists’ union has a rule against sexism? Why don’t you get the union to stop them writing all that rubbish about women?”

  “Some people try to do that. But it’s a long process, and I’ve always thought that persuasion and education are better ways to eradicate sexism and, come to that, racism, than hitting people over the head with the rule book.”

  Cordelia looked sceptical. “Come on now, Lindsay! If the education and persuasion bit were any use, do you think we’d still have topless women parading in daily newspapers? I know enough journos to say that I think you’re all adept at kidding yourselves and producing exactly what the editor wants. You’re all too concerned about getting your byline in the paper to have too many scruples about the real significance of what you are writing. Be honest with yourself, if not with the rest of us.”

  Her remarks had the salutory effect of injecting a little reality into Lindsay’s attraction toward her and she scowled and said, “Given how little you know about the work I do and my involvement in the union’s equality program, I think that’s a pretty high-handed statement.” Then, realizing how petulant she sounded, she went on, “Agreed, newspapers are appallingly sexist. Virginia Woolf said ages ago that you only had to pick one up to realize that we live in a patriarchal society. And the situation hasn’t changed much. But I’m not a revolutionary. I’m a pragmatist.”

  “Ho, ho, ho,” said Cordelia hollowly. “Another excuse for inaction.”

  But Caroline unexpectedly sprang to Lindsay’s defense. “Surely you’re entitled to do things the way you think is best? I mean, everybody gets compromises thrust upon them. Even you. Your books are really strong on feminism. But that television series you did didn’t have many really right-on women. I don’t mean to be rude, but I was . . .”

  Whatever she was was cut off by Paddy interjecting sharply, “Caroline, enough! Miss Brown and Miss Gordon didn’t come here to listen to your version of revolutionary Marxism.”

  Caroline grinned and said, “Okay, Miss Callaghan, I’ll shut up.”

  The conversational gap was quickly filled by the other girls at the table with chatter about the day’s events and the coming concert.

  As they finished their pudding, Pamela Overton came over to their table. “Miss Callaghan,” she said, “I wonder if I might ask for your help? Miss Macdonald and the music staff are extremely busy making sure that everything is organized for the girls’ performances in the first half of the concert. I wonder if, since you seem to know Miss Smith-Couper, you could help her take her cello and bits and pieces over to Music 2 so that she can warm up during the first half?”

  Paddy swallowed her dismay and forced a smile. “Of course, Miss Overton.”

  “Fine. We’ll see you in my flat for coffee, then. Perhaps Miss Gordon and Miss Brown would care to join us?” With that, she was gone.

  Caroline sighed, “She’s the only person I know who can make a question sound like a royal comm
and.”

  “That’s enough, Caroline,” said Paddy sharply. The three women excused themselves from the table and walked through the deserted corridors to Miss Overton’s flat, Paddy muttering crossly all the way. Fortunately, Lorna was in her room changing, so coffee was served in a fairly relaxed atmosphere. Miss Overton reported on the success of the day and revealed that, by the end of the evening, she hoped they would have raised over £6,000. Lindsay was impressed, and said so. Before anything more could be said, Lorna appeared and announced she was ready to go over to the music room. Paddy immediately rose and grimly followed her out of the room, as Pamela Overton apologetically revealed that she too would have to leave, to welcome her special guests. Lindsay and Cordelia trailed in her wake and made their welcome escape up to the gallery, where they settled in among the sixth form and those of the music students who were not directly involved in the concert.

  Cordelia said, “That woman makes me feel like a fifteen-year-old scruff-box, I’m so glad she wasn’t head when I was here; if she had been, I’d have developed a permanent inferiority complex.”

  Lindsay laughed and settled down to enjoy the concert. In the hall below she saw Margaret Macdonald scuttling through the side door to the music rooms. Members of the chamber orchestra were taking their places and tuning up their instruments. Caroline and several other seniors were showing people to their seats and selling programs which, Paddy had told Lindsay, had been donated by a local firm of printers. Caroline also slipped through the curtains, returning five minutes later with a huge pile of programs. Cordelia leaned over and said to Lindsay, “I’m going to the loo, keep my seat,” and off she went. Lindsay absently studied the audience below, and noticed a girl with a shining head of flaming red hair go up to Caroline, who pointed to the door beside the stage. The redhead nodded and vanished backstage. About eight minutes later, she re-emerged with Paddy. They left the hall together. “One damn thing after another,” thought Lindsay, “I wonder what’s keeping Cordelia?”

  The lights went down and the chamber orchestra launched into a creditable rendering of Rossini’s string serenade No.3. Halfway through it, Cordelia slipped wordlessly into her seat, Lindsay surfaced from the music and smiled a greeting.

  Then the senior choir came on stage and performed a selection of English song throughout the ages, with some beautifully judged solo work conducted by Margaret Macdonald. The first half closed with a joyous performance of Eine Kleine Nachtmusik and the audience applauded loudly before heading for the refreshments. Lindsay and Cordelia remained in their seats.

  Cordelia leaned over the edge of the balcony. Suddenly she sat upright and said, “Hey, Lindsay, there’s something going on down there.” Lindsay followed her pointing finger and saw Margaret Macdonald rushing up the hall, looking agitated. The velvet curtains were still swinging with the speed of her passage. She headed straight for Pamela Overton and whispered in her ear. The headmistress immediately rose to her feet and the two women hurried off backstage.

  “Well, well! I wonder what that’s all about? Something more serious than sneaking a cigarette in the loos, by the look of it.” As Cordelia spoke, the bell rang signaling the end of the interval, and the audience began to return to the hall. Meanwhile, Miss Macdonald came scuttling back through the hall, gathering Chris Jackson and another mistress on her way.

  “Curiouser and curiouser,” mused Cordelia. At that moment, Pamela Overton emerged on to the stage. So strong was her presence that, as she stepped toward the microphone, a hush fell on the hall. Then she spoke.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, I am deeply sorry to have to tell you that Lorna Smith-Couper will be unable to perform this evening as there has been an accident. I must ask you all to be patient with us and to remain in your seats for the time being. I regret to inform you that we must wait for the police.” She left the stage abruptly and at once the shocked silence gave way to a rumble of conversation.

  Lindsay looked at Cordelia, who had gone pale. When she met Lindsay’s eye, she pulled herself together and said, “Looks like someone couldn’t stand any more of the unlovely Lorna.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Come on, Lindsay, you’re the journalist. What sort of ‘accident’ means you have to stay put till the police get here? Don’t you ever read any Agatha Christie?”

  Lindsay could not think of anything to say. Around them, the girls chattered excitedly. Then Paddy came down the gallery to the two women. Her skin looked gray and old, and she was breathing rapidly and shallowly. She put her head close to theirs and spoke softly.

  “You’d better get backstage and see Pamela Overton, Lindsay. We’ve got a real scoop for you. Murder in the music room. Someone has garroted Lorna with what looks very like a cello string. Pamela reckons we should keep an eye on our journalist. You’ve been summoned.”

  Lindsay was already on her feet as Cordelia exclaimed, “What?”

  “You heard,” said Paddy, collapsing into Lindsay’s seat, head in hands. “No reason to worry now, Cordelia. Dead women don’t sue.”

  6

  Lindsay hurried on down the hall, aware that eyes were following her. She pushed through the swathes of velvet that curtained the door into the music department. Uncertain, she listened carefully and heard a number of voices coming from the corridor where she had seen Lorna quarreling with the unknown man earlier. She turned into the corridor and was faced with a door saying “Music Storeroom.” The passage turned left, then right, so she followed it round and found Pamela Overton and another mistress standing by a door marked “Music 2.” Beyond them was a flight of stairs.

  Even in this crisis, Pamela Overton was as collected as before. “Ah, Miss Gordon,” she said quietly. “I am afraid I have to ask another favor of you. I was not entirely truthful when I said there had been an accident. It looks as if Lorna has been attacked and killed. I don’t quite know how the press operates in these matters, but it seemed to me that, as you are already with us, it might be simpler for us to channel all press dealings through you. In that way we might minimize the upheaval. Does that seem possible?”

  Lindsay nodded, momentarily dumbstruck by the woman’s poise. But her professional instinct took over almost immediately and she glanced at her watch. “I’ll have to get a move on if I’m going to do anything tonight,” she muttered. “Can I see . . . where it happened?”

  Miss Overton thought for a moment, then nodded. She walked to the door and, with a handkerchief round her fingers, delicately opened it, saying, “I fear I may be too late in precautions like this, since others have already opened the door. By the way, it was locked from the inside. The key was on the table by the blackboard. There was some delay while Miss Macdonald searched for the spare key.”

  Lindsay crossed the threshold and stood just inside the room. What she saw made her retch, but after a brief struggle she regained control. It was her first murder victim, and it was not a pleasant sight. She realized how wise she’d been to avoid it in the past when she’d reported on violent death. Then, there had always been someone else to take over that aspect of the job. But this time it was up to her, so she forced herself to look, and to record mentally the details of the scene. There had been nothing peaceful about Lorna Smith-Couper’s end. She had been sitting on a chair facing the door, presumably playing her cello. Now she was slumped over her instrument on the floor, her face engorged and purple, her tongue sticking grotesquely out of her mouth like some obscene gargoyle. Round her neck, pulled so tight that it was almost invisible amidst the swollen and bruised flesh, was a wicked garrote. It did indeed seem to be a cello string, with a noose at one end and a simple horn duffel-coat toggle tied on to the other end to enable the assassin to tighten the noose without tearing the flesh on his—or her—fingers.

  Lindsay dragged her eyes from this horror and forced herself to look around with something approaching professional detachment. She noticed that all the windows were shut, but none of the casements appeared to be locked. Then she tu
rned, revolted and overcome, and went back to the corridor. “Where can I find a quiet telephone?” she demanded.

  “You’d be best to use the one in my study,” said Miss Overton. “Ask one of the girls to show you the way. I must stay here till the police arrive. Is there anything else you need?”

  “To be perfectly blunt, I need a comment from you, Miss Overton,” Lindsay replied awkwardly.

  “Very well. You may say that I am profoundly shocked by this outrage and deeply distressed by the death of Miss Smith-Couper. She was a very distinguished woman who reflected great credit on her school. We can only pray that the police will quickly catch the person responsible.” With that, Miss Overton turned away. Lindsay sensed her disgust at the situation in which she found herself and understood it very well.

  She walked back down the corridor toward the hall. Just before she re-emerged into the public gaze, she paused and took out her notebook. She leaned on the window ledge to scribble down the headmistress’s words before her memory of them became inaccurate. For reasons which she didn’t understand at all, she was more determined than usual to be completely precise in quoting the headmistress. Then she stared briefly out into the night. The last thing she had expected was to find herself caught up in a murder and part of her resented the personal inconvenience. She was also aware of her own callous selfishness as she thought to herself, “Well, this is really going to screw up any chance I might have had with Cordelia.”

  Then Lindsay pulled herself together, gave herself a mental ticking-off for her self-indulgence, reminded herself that as sole reporter on the spot she stood to make a bob or two, and resolutely shoved the vision of the dead musician to the back of her mind. There would be time later to examine her personal feelings. She glanced up at the gallery, but Cordelia and Paddy were no longer there. Lindsay looked around her for a face she recognized and spotted Caroline halfway up the hail. She went over to her and asked to be shown the way to Miss Overton’s study. Caroline nodded and set off at a healthy pace. Halfway down the stairs, she turned and said conversationally, “I say, not wishing to talk out of turn and all that, but what has happened to the Smith-Couper person? I mean, everyone staff-wise is running around in circles like a bunch of chickens with their heads cut off. What’s all the fuss in aid of? And why are the police coming?”