Authors: Julie Parsons
‘And what kind of things were being said, Dr Watson?’ His lemonade, he found, was delicious. ‘Mm, this is lovely. Is it homemade?’
‘Of course. Isobel wouldn’t dream of having the other stuff in the house. Full of artificial colouring, preservatives. Carcinogens, the lot of them.’ He seemed suddenly
confused. McLoughlin waited. Dr Watson shifted awkwardly. ‘What were we talking about?’
‘Gossip,’ McLoughlin prompted, ‘about Ben Roxby’s death.’
‘Oh, yes, that.’ Dr Watson straightened up. ‘Absolute nonsense. Some silly talk about another woman. I knew him well. His marriage was first class. Annabel’s a wonderful
girl. From a very good family. And he has two smashing sons. Young Josh starts here next term and Sam will follow the year after.’
‘So if Roxby was planning on sending his sons here he wasn’t put off by his own experiences as a pupil?’
Dr Watson raised his eyebrows. ‘Not sure what you mean by that.’
‘Well, the bullying business. Mark Porter. It ended badly, didn’t it?’ McLoughlin drank some lemonade.
Dr Watson slapped his leg violently. ‘Bloody horse-flies. Eat one alive out here in the summer.’ His gaze drifted over McLoughlin’s head. ‘You were saying?’
‘Mark Porter, the bullying. Ben Roxby was involved, wasn’t he?’
Dr Watson rubbed one leg against the other. McLoughlin was reminded of a rangy old gelding scratching himself against a fence post.
‘Not sure what you’re getting at, Inspector McLoughlin. Not sure what that has to do with Ben’s death.’
It was very quiet in the garden. Very still. The scent from a climbing rose hung in the warm air.
‘Well, Roxby’s death on its own, perhaps nothing. But there have been two more deaths of your former pupils. And, from what I can gather, they were friends.’ McLoughlin waited
for Dr Watson to respond, but he said nothing. ‘Marina Spencer died a few weeks ago. Suspected suicide. And Rosie Webb, the day before yesterday. All former pupils of this school. And all
involved in that same set of incidents. Am I right?’
A pigeon cooed softly. McLoughlin spotted the bird high in the branches of a huge beech tree. Still Dr Watson said nothing.
‘Now,’ McLoughlin leaned forward, ‘it was quite a scandal, wasn’t it? Not what you’d expect in a school like this. The bullying was so bad that Mark tried to hang
himself. Or, at least, that’s what I heard. Fortunately he survived. And his tormentors, well, they were punished. Marina Spencer was expelled. The others, including Roxby, were disciplined.
What was it? Detention on Saturdays? Privileges suspended for a while? Was that it? Not allowed to visit the tuck shop? Gated for the rest of the term?’
The pigeon had been joined by another. They were calling from tree to tree. McLoughlin waited.
Dr Watson’s hands plucked at the faded linen of his shorts. ‘It was all so unfortunate.’ His voice had a whining quality, like that of a tired toddler. ‘So unfortunate.
But sometimes in a school, in a community of individuals, you’ll get a bad apple. The person who infects the others with a sense of maliciousness, nastiness, bad manners. And then, well, all
hell breaks loose. It doesn’t happen often. And, of course, since then we’ve been much more careful about the type of child we enrol.’
‘And you are referring to whom?’ McLoughlin was anxious to get the pronoun right.
‘Well, I’m reluctant to speak ill of the dead, but Marina Spencer was a very disruptive and destructive influence in the school. She really had to go.’ Dr Watson got up. He
swayed gently as he moved towards the table. He refilled his glass from the jug, then waved it in McLoughlin’s direction. ‘Sure I can’t tempt you to a dhrop of the hard
shtuff?’ His attempt at a Dublin accent was grating and foolish.
McLoughlin shook his head. ‘Just to get things clear, Dr Watson. Just to clarify the issue. The whole thing happened, as I understand it, after James de Paor died. Am I right?’
Dr Watson sat down again. He nodded and drank.
‘That must have been dreadful for the children. Dominic in particular.’
Dr Watson nodded again.
‘To die like that, a silly accident. To leave such devastation behind you.’ McLoughlin’s voice was calm, neutral.
‘Yes, poor James. But it was typical of him in a way. He was always reckless.’ Dr Watson scratched his leg vigorously again.
‘You knew him, did you?’
‘Yes, for many years. Long before he had children. I knew him when his name was Power. Before he decided to embrace all things Gaelic. I went to school with his older brothers.’
‘I didn’t know.’
‘Lovely family. That marvellous house in the mountains. They didn’t take it seriously when James started learning Irish. Then he changed his name. And when he became a barrister he
began to defend those IRA men in the Special Criminal Court. Fortunately his father died before that happened.’
‘And did you – do you know his first wife?’
‘Helena,’ Dr Watson said, with the emphasis on the first syllable. ‘Ah, there now, there’s a puzzle.’ His brow furrowed. ‘A beautiful woman. A brilliant
woman. A barrister like James. But something happened when she had her children. I believe they call it puerperal psychosis. It’s an extreme form of post-natal depression, so my wife tells
me. She was pretty bad when she had Dominic, and there was a second child, a little girl. She died. A cot death, they say. After that things went from bad to worse.’ Dr Watson gulped his
drink.
‘So the atmosphere in the school that term. Those bereaved children. It must have been difficult.’
Dr Watson stared hard at McLoughlin. ‘Inspector, the people who send their children to this school come from tough stock. They are the descendants of empire builders. They are not easily
brought down. They know how to suffer in silence, to move on, to prevail.’ His voice was getting louder. ‘That was one of the things that was very irksome about Marina Spencer. There
was an hysterical quality to her makeup. You know, she reminded me of Diana Spencer. A coincidence that they had the same name, no doubt, but Diana was like Marina. All that pointless emotion, that
ridiculous self-examination. Marina didn’t know how lucky she was. Through her tenuous relationship with James Power she had been privileged to come here.’ He drained his glass.
‘No, she had to go. She would have gone anyway. Once Helena had successfully contested the legality of the so-called marriage between James and Marina’s mother, the money was going to
run out.’
‘But to expel her? And only her. Why not the others?’
Dr Watson got up and filled his glass again. He wobbled on his feet, and the hand holding the jug was shaking.
‘Isobel!’ he shouted. ‘A refill – we need a refill. Chop, chop.’ His face was now a deep red.
McLoughlin stood too. He picked up his jacket.
Watson faced him. ‘I’ll tell you why I got rid of Marina. The girl had no hinterland. She was on her own. The others had the institution of the family to protect them. They had
wealth and position. Even Mark, with his physical deformities. His family owns half of Georgian Dublin. They came to Ireland with Cromwell. Marina had none of that.’
His wife opened the back door. She hurried across the lawn. ‘Tony, that’s enough.’ She turned to McLoughlin. ‘I think you’d better go.’ Her voice was sharp.
She took Dr Watson’s arm and helped him towards the house. ‘It’s all right, darling. It’s the heat. You know you should be wearing your hat.’
Dr Watson tried to push her away, but her grip was firm. His legs were trembling. He looked old and shaky.
‘The girl was a thief. Remember, Isobel, the money that went missing? And we found it under her mattress. She was a slut too!’ He was shouting now. ‘You know that, Isobel. You
caught her in the cellar with Roxby. Disgusting behaviour. Disgusting.’
‘Ssh, Tony, inside now. It’s time for your nap. We’ve nothing further to say.’ She propelled her husband inside. The door closed. Wasps were circling the jug of
Pimm’s. One had fallen in and was lying on its back, legs in the air. The buzzing stopped. A happy death, he thought.
He walked out of the garden and towards the school. And saw a window open on the ground floor. He glanced around, then pulled himself up and over the sill. No doubt about it, he needed to lose
that bit of weight, he thought, as he landed awkwardly, almost collapsing in a heap on the floor. He stood up. He was in the new building. A long corridor with classrooms opening off it. He began
to walk towards the old house. The transition was abrupt. Behind him there were walls painted magnolia, scuffed lino tiles and fluorescent lighting. Ahead was a large square entrance hall, panelled
with mahogany, floored with marble diamonds of black and white, lit from a glass dome high above. The staircase curved elegantly away from him, the limestone steps seeming unsupported from below.
He climbed them slowly. First floor, formal drawing room and library. Second floor, bedrooms with dark red embossed wallpaper and nineteenth-century furniture. Third floor, and the rooms were
smaller with lower ceilings. He looked inside one. It was crammed with narrow beds. Next door was a bathroom, tiled in white with an old-fashioned free-standing bath, a row of washbasins and series
of cubicles, each with a toilet, cistern high on the wall and a long chain. There was a smell of Jeyes Fluid.
He stepped back on to the landing and leaned on the banister. The drop to the floor was dramatic. He bent and checked the wooden rods, running his hand down them. One was slightly different from
the others. The wood was newer, not original. It had been stained to match the rest, but the job was poor. He slipped his hand around it. Mark Porter had tied the rope to the railing, then put the
noose over his head. He had climbed on to the banister. McLoughlin stood up. Above him was the vaulted glass dome. Below, the black and white diamonds shimmered. Mark Porter had balanced on the
banister, then launched himself head first, down, down, down. The noose had tightened and jerked him upwards. He was lucky his neck had not been broken. The wood had given way. He fell. He was
lucky he hadn’t landed on his head and smashed his skull. He hadn’t landed on his torso either and suffered internal injuries. He had landed with his legs beneath him. He was winded, he
was shocked, he had a broken bone. But he was alive.
McLoughlin walked slowly down the stairs and into the hall. The heavy front door was bolted on the inside. He seized the metal handle and gave it a tug, then clicked open the new Yale lock and
went out into the afternoon sunshine. He walked across the dusty gravel to his car, and heard a voice calling his name. Isobel Watson was hurrying from the cottage.
‘Mr McLoughlin, a word, please.’ Her face was twisted with anxiety. She stopped, chest heaving. She held out her left hand.
‘My husband, don’t pay too much attention to him. He’s not well. He has Parkinson’s disease. He doesn’t have many of the symptoms yet, but he’s been
diagnosed. He’s going to retire soon and he can’t bear it. The school has been his life.’ There was a supplicating tone in her voice that made McLoughlin feel like cringing.
He smiled in what he hoped was a sympathetic manner. ‘Sure, of course. I can imagine something like that must be very frightening.’
‘It is. He’s inclined to drink more than is good for a man of his age. He never used to so it has a powerful effect on him. And he says things that maybe he
shouldn’t.’
McLoughlin nodded. ‘Of course. I understand.’
She smiled, a tight mechanical grimace. ‘You asked him about Marina and the bullying. I know he sounded cruel. He didn’t mean it like that.’
‘No?’ McLoughlin couldn’t keep the scepticism from his voice. ‘What was it he said about Marina and Ben Roxby? Disgusting? Was that the term he used?’
Isobel Watson flushed. ‘I found them in the cellar. Marina was – well, I won’t go into details but it wasn’t what we could consider suitable behaviour. We have to be very
careful in a school like this. We didn’t always take both boys and girls. I was never sure it was a good idea, but Tony . . . Well, the Protestant population of Ireland is very small. He felt
it would be a good way to encourage relationships. So many of our boys had married, well . . .’
‘Catholics.’
‘Well, yes, I suppose so. I know that sounds bigoted, but the Ne Temere decree has had a terrible effect on us. Too many Protestants are diffident about their faith, happy to let their
Roman Catholic partner take charge. And once the child is baptized, the rest follows. First communion, confirmation, marriage. That’s it, really. Tony thought we should do what we could. So
we opened the school to girls. But we have to be careful. Things can get out of hand. Marina was very pretty, very well developed for her age. It had to be stopped.’
‘I take it you didn’t think she was suitable for a boy like Ben. Am I right?’
She shrugged. ‘Personally I didn’t care. But Tony takes his role
in loco parentis
very seriously. Look,’ she shifted uneasily, ‘if you want to know more about what
happened I would go and see Dominic Power. Have you met him?’
He shook his head. ‘Power? You mean Dominic de Paor, don’t you?’
‘We called him Power. That’s what was on his birth certificate.’ Her expression was stern. ‘I don’t know why I’m saying this, but I always thought there was
something going on between Dominic and Marina. I couldn’t put my finger on it. But when they came back to school after James had died Marina was different. Her behaviour was different.’
She took a small handkerchief from the sleeve of her blouse and touched it to her lips.
McLoughlin waited. Then he said, ‘Your husband called her a thief. That’s a pretty nasty thing to say about someone.’
‘Unfortunately he was right. Money went missing. Small items of jewellery. I suppose we were careless. The boarders were allowed to keep a lot of personal belongings in their rooms. Marina
was tempted. She didn’t have as much as they had. We should have protected her. But we didn’t.’ She avoided his gaze. McLoughlin felt sudden sympathy for this woman. She
didn’t have her husband’s carapace of certainty.
‘And all this happened after James de Paor died?’
‘Yes, I’d always thought Marina was a tough girl. Able to stand up for herself. Not easily intimidated. But, well, I noticed little things. I remember seeing her and Dominic one day.
She was playing tennis and he was watching. Marina was good. I used to take the girls for games. Tennis, hockey, lacrosse. I don’t any longer. Too old for that now. But I had high hopes for
Marina. I thought she had the makings of a first-class player. Plenty of natural talent. Plenty of nerve. That’s why I was so struck by what happened.’ She dabbed her lips again. The
handkerchief had a pretty lace trim.