Schooled in Death

By Wendy Milton

When the body of Horace Radcliffe, headmaster of Eldersley College, is discovered on the morning of 23rd May, 1975, police are puzzled by the corpse's appearance. Clearly the headmaster has been murdered, but why did the murderer put a flower behind his ear and decorate his face with lipstick?

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: PawPrint Publishing
• Release date: Apr 15, 2019
• ISBN: 9780648248736

Wendy Milton

Wendy has written twelve exciting adventures for eight to twelve year-olds, including a five-book series: Angel of Fire, Sophie's Return, Nemesis, Spooks, and Finding Cathcart, and a two-book series: The Boy Who Disappeared and Rafferty's Rules. Stand-alone titles include The Enchanted Urn, A Stitch in Time, Missing Uncle Izzy and Taking Stock. Wendy has also published an adult 'whodunnit', Schooled in Death. Set in the 1970s in the Southern Highlands of NSW, the story revolves around the bizarre murder of the headmaster of an exclusive girls' school.

Book preview

ONE

Slowly, almost reverently, she shook the lipstick from its silver casing. Taking a deep breath she began, steadying herself as she leaned forward, a frown of concentration on her face. Her hair fell slightly forward, but she brushed it back. She didn’t rush. She paid particular attention to the Cupid’s bow, and then stood back to examine her handiwork. The flower she had brought didn’t quite match the pink of the lipstick, but no matter.

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At 7.40 a.m. on Monday, 23rd May, 1975, two girls were seated on the wooden bench on the verandah of Edwards House, regarding with mild curiosity the plump figure of the bursar as she descended the steps of the headmaster’s cottage. Why was Miss Hancock clinging to the railing? Why was her bosom quivering like a blancmange? The sun was reflecting off her glasses as she turned this way and that until, with a little shriek, she turned and hauled herself back up the steps into the office, daunted by the indif­ference of the autumn morning.

It didn’t occur to Mary Grimes and Josie St John to ask if she needed help. Miss Hancock must have been at least fifty, and the thought of strong emotion attaching itself to anyone so old was disgusting.

‘Do you think Radish tried it on with her?’ said Mary, squinting over the border of hydrangeas surrounding the verandah and trying to penetrate the darkness of the doorway across the sunlit yard. Josie giggled at the prospect of Miss Hancock being groped by Mr Radcliffe. ‘Maybe she walked in on him while he was . . . you know.’

‘And then went back for another look?’ asked the incredulous Mary.

The girls dissolved into laughter, and were still laughing when Mildred Obermeyer, better known as Matron, came to remind them that they had very little time to shower and get ready for breakfast.

So it was that they missed the police car that sped up the drive and screeched to a halt in a cloud of gravel and dust at the bottom of the steps that were the scene of Miss Hancock’s agitation. They were unable to describe for their friends the relative heights and builds of the young policemen who took the steps two at a time and disappeared into the office. Even worse, they were confined to their bedrooms, and later to the hall when the ambulance arrived to convey their headmaster to the morgue.

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Miss Hancock was gabbling almost incoherently into the moist receiver, clutching it like a lifeline. ‘Oh, Mrs Graham!’ were the only intelligible words Constables Lockyer and Fraser heard as they passed her office and entered the study, the door to which was ajar. There were no signs of a struggle. At his desk, leaning back in his chair (an ornately carved, gothic affair) was Horace Radcliffe. The headmaster’s eyes were open, staring with surprise and disbelief at a person or persons unknown. He’d been dead for some time.

It wasn’t the ghastly pallor of the headmaster’s face that surprised them, for they’d seen death before. It was what had ­happened to the headmaster after death. His tie was fastened around his head at a rakish angle, and behind his left ear was a wilted ­hibiscus. As if in protest at this indignity, the headmaster’s lips were pulled back from his teeth, giving his mouth the appearance of a snarl. Around his mouth was a lavishly drawn smile in bright-pink lipstick, its exaggerated curves extending onto his cheeks and the points of the Cupid’s bow peaking to his nostrils. It looked for all the world, said Constable Fraser, like an end-of-term prank.

TWO

At his last public appearance, a late-summer day five weeks earlier, death had been the last thing on the headmaster’s mind. Open Day at Eldersley was something of a social event for a school that played host to the daughters of the rich and famous. Horace Radcliffe was resplendent in full military regalia, including brown leather gloves, swagger stick and colourful decorations. The officer’s cap that concealed his thinning hair was extremely flattering. He surveyed with satisfaction the setting for his speech and nodded and smiled paternalistically, extending his right hand to those fathers whose social pedigree or bank balance warranted such familiarity.

Around him there was much activity, the culmination of weeks of planning. On the verandahs around the quadrangle, chairs were arranged for parents and VIPs (very important parents), who were arriving in larger numbers than expected. Extra chairs were being fetched from the hall. The larger than expected turnout was a satisfying indication for the headmaster of his popularity and influence.

On the dais were chairs for Gilbert Fairweather, executive director of the firm that managed the school, the headmaster, the mayor, the lady mayoress and the archdeacon. A microphone promised speeches, and a bouquet of flowers for the lady mayoress was wilting in a nearby classroom, like the spirits of the nervous child nominated to present it. Two divisions of the Girls’ Service Training Unit (GSTU) were waiting to give a demonstration of ­precision marching.

As the official party moved to the dais, a hush fell. The headmaster, swagger stick tucked beneath his left armpit, took the microphone. His voice was rich and melodic.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, visiting dignitaries, members of staff, girls . . . the school is the place!’ He paused. ‘It is the place where the care previously administered in the home now rests. It is the place where the responsibility for guiding and counselling youth now lies. It is the place where the traditions of loyalty to a group, to a community, to one’s country and one’s race, are upheld. It is the place, the only place, that will shape the future of Australia.’

The tenet of the headmaster’s speech was that society was going to the dogs. He cited drugs, free love and reduced standards in schools, including the move away from prescriptive teaching. He cited social service payments to the indolent, attempts at rehabilitation in a justice system that favoured the criminal over the victim, and grants of public money to half-witted attempts at artistic expression. He cited condemnation of military service as ignoble and unnecessary, and a government prepared to scorn those cherished traditions such as the national anthem, the flag and the honours system, that were responsible for Australia’s ­existence.

Why, he asked, were traditional social values declining? The question was rhetorical. They were being sacrificed, he said, on the altar of materialism, fanned by the flames of technology. Labour-saving devices had created a dangerous amount of leisure for society’s traditional homemakers, women, who were abandoning their kitchens and plunging headlong into the workforce, leaving the guidance and care of their offspring to social welfare ­agencies. The government, instead of tackling the need to reduce the desire for material goods, was encouraging this trend by setting up state-controlled kindergartens. Why could not social welfare payments be made to mothers who stayed at home to bring up their ­children? If it were up to him, it would be illegal for mothers of young ­children to go to work at all! The executive director glanced nervously at the sea of female faces.

The trend was fuelled, the headmaster went on, by cheap birth-control methods that made it possible for women to delay reproduction. What happened when children did intrude? Working mums, anxious to earn the extra income needed to maintain their automated homes, turned to welfare agencies and preschools to avoid the inconvenience of rearing them. This, he warned, would have dire effects on a generation growing up starved of a normal family atmosphere and of the maternal influence in early life.

Having despatched the traditional homemakers, the head­master turned his attention to the church. It was, he said, no longer providing effective pastoral care for individuals in a world that had become cynical of religion. It was little more than a social welfare agency for groups in the community, or for groups in someone else’s community (here there was a small ripple of laughter). The executive director shifted uncomfortably in his chair, glancing at the archdeacon’s face, which had heightened in colour.

The school was the place, the headmaster repeated. The school would pick up where women, the family and the church had left off. The school would arrest social decay by producing great ­leaders of men. The school would uphold family values, discipline, censorship. The school would not jettison prescriptive teaching. The school would guide children – guard them from those dark, totalitarian ideologies that promised them a society in which the world’s wealth was shared on a more equitable basis. The school would thwart totalitarianism’s stated aim of overrunning the world by military action and by stealth through the ranks of the naïve, the less educated and the less intelligent.

At a signal from the headmaster, the GSTU erupted onto the quadrangle to the strains of the Colonel Bogey March, slouch hats tilted at identical angles. They marched proudly, eyes to the front, shoulders back, heads erect. Even those parents whose feathers had been ruffled by the headmaster’s anti-feminist views were sufficiently appeased by his talk of old-world values, discipline, capitalism and elitism. The embodiment of these values was their daughters’ military display. The key to securing them was money.

THREE

Detective Sergeant Haines was dozing when the phone rang. He rolled over and looked at the clock. God, it was nearly eight-thirty. Why did he have that last whisky? His mouth was dry and he was still wearing yesterday’s shirt, underpants and socks. He’d had the foresight to remove his trousers, which were hanging over the back of the chair. He hauled himself out of bed and snatched at the receiver.

‘Haines. No, I was just doing my morning exercises. Where? Jesus Christ, Fraser! You should have rung me earlier. Ah . . . I was probably in the shower. Give me twenty minutes. Don’t let them touch anything.’ In the bathroom he drank deeply from the tap, cleaned his teeth and examined his reflection. His eyes were bloodshot. He threw water over his face and torso, and wiped himself hurriedly with the towel. The floor was awash. Then he changed his socks and underpants, and put on his last clean shirt. Within minutes he was in his car, heading towards Eldersley College.

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As Edward Haines was walking towards his car, Amy Graham was replacing the telephone receiver and enjoying the silence into which the waves of Miss Hancock’s hysteria were receding. The headmaster of Eldersley was dead? Lipstick? Flower? She thought of the many public figures compromised by death, but imme­diately dismissed the thought that Horace Radcliffe could have been leading anything other than the puritanical, passionless life he appeared to lead. She hadn’t liked the man, but the very reasons she disliked him made it impossible for him to have been involved in anything indelicate.

She recovered her car keys from the dresser and drove towards the college that had employed her all those years ago. As the grounds came into view, she could see Mr O’Flaherty leaning on his broom, watched closely by his Jack Russell, Ira. Mr O’Flaherty assumed the responsibility of Eldersley’s ambassador-cum-outdoor-receptionist, doffing his cap to parents and passing the time of day with staff. Although his official role was to maintain the buildings and grounds, it was the social aspects of the job that appealed to him. This view was not shared by Ira, who was always glad when his master stopped hanging about on street corners and got down to the serious business of rooting around in gardens, emptying ­rubbish bins, destroying pigeon nests and, if they were very lucky, despatching the odd rat.

Amy greeted Mr O’Flaherty, who seemed oblivious to the events unfolding at the top of the long driveway. In front of the head­master’s cottage, three police cars and an ambulance were blocking further entry. She could see men moving about inside the cottage. Girls were being directed towards the hall, though they would rather have stayed to find out what was going on. A rumour was spreading that the headmaster’s cottage had been broken into and that Miss Hancock had been raped, a rumour fuelled no doubt by the ­testimony of Mary Grimes and Josie St John who’d decided, ­belatedly, that their early-morning observations might have been useful.

Amy approached one of the constables and asked for Detective Sergeant Haines.

‘He’s around, ma’am. Just arrived.’

‘I’d be grateful if you could let him know that Amy Graham is here. I’ll be on the verandah.’

‘He’s pretty busy right now, ma’am, but I’ll see what I can do.’

When Haines got the message, he wished he’d had a shave and a proper shower. He extricated himself from the scene inside the headmaster’s study, smoothed his hair and crossed the yard to where Amy Graham was standing. He walked self-consciously, aware that she was observing him. Twenty years earlier, minus his paunch, he’d crossed a dance floor and swept her into his arms for a jazz waltz. She didn’t look any different now, he thought, though the signs of age were there in the form of lines around her inquisitive eyes. She was still slim, shapely and delicate, like a piece of fine china.

‘’Morning, Amy. How’s things?’

‘Not very well, apparently. Laetitia rang me. Was it a heart attack?’

‘Not sure. If it was, someone mucked around with the body afterwards. Have to be an autopsy. What was he like, this bloke? Hadn’t been headmaster long, had he?’

‘About eighteen months. I suppose you’re aware that there have been changes?’

‘I was told the Church had handed over the college to some company. Has it been sold?’

Amy gave a wry smile. ‘Sold out, some would say. It wasn’t ­making money. It’s been leased to a company called Pastoral Enterprises – a family company, I believe. The Church still owns the buildings and grounds, but Mr Fairweather of Pastoral Enterprises runs the school as a business. He’s a sort of . . . educational entrepreneur.’ Amy dropped her voice confidentially at the word ‘entrepreneur’, giving the impression that it was something ­shameful.

Haines, who prided himself on being a no-nonsense sort of bloke, didn’t have time for games. ‘And Radcliffe was his man?’

‘Yes. Mr Fairweather appointed him.’

‘Does this mean there were a few disappointed hopes amongst the locals?’

‘More than a few,’ Amy acknowledged. ‘I can think of two who would gladly have taken the helm when Mrs Bridges retired, and undoubtedly there were other staff who nursed aspirations. ­Ambition is a common cause of dissent, don’t you agree, Edward?’

Haines experienced a brief thrill as she spoke his name. ‘He was having trouble with the staff? Is that what you’re telling me?’

‘I’m not quite sure whether he was having trouble with them or they were having trouble with him,’ Amy replied. ‘I do know that he was directing his attention towards certain staff. He made it clear at the last board meeting that he wasn’t satisfied with the calibre of some of them . . . Yes, calibre was the word he used,’ she assured Haines in response to his quizzical look. ‘He even hinted that he was conducting some sort of investigation. Nothing specific, of course.’

‘No names?’

‘Definitely not. Do you think he was . . .?’

‘No one can be certain of that yet, Amy. Scientific squad will have to decide. All I can say is that I wouldn’t have chosen to be found like that. He was conservative?’

‘Oh goodness, yes. I’m certain he expected everyone to take him very seriously.’

‘And what was your opinion of him?’

She hesitated. ‘He was a little . . . inflexible,’ she said carefully. ‘Would it be possible for me to see the body?’

Haines shrugged. ‘If you must. He’s certainly inflexible now.’ He turned, and Amy Graham followed him back across the yard, up the steps and into the coolness of the headmaster’s office, where the government medical officer, a tall, broad-shouldered man in his late fifties, had just completed his examination. Mervyn ­Jamieson looked up as Haines and Amy walked in. Amy had the distinct feeling that he disapproved of her being there. ‘I’ll try not to be in your way, Mr . . .?’ Haines was left with no choice but to make the introduction.

‘Not a problem, I assure you, Mrs Graham,’ Jamieson responded gallantly.

‘You’re not local, Dr Jamieson?

‘No. Quite a coincidence really, me being on the scene. I was at the hospital . . . sudden infant death syndrome. They called you in late last night, I believe?’ This last was directed at Haines, who nodded. ‘Very sad. So when the sergeant here rang the hospital, I was just about to head off. As chance would have it, I was ­chatting to the nurse who took the call. I’m stationed in Goulburn normally. Yes, the headmaster was very lucky to have caught me.’

Haines snorted, and Amy, smiling politely, detached herself and stood by the window. Nothing in the office seemed out of place. She turned her attention to the corpse, which reminded her of a vandalised waxwork. She studied it for some time before becoming aware that Haines was addressing her. ‘I’m sorry. Did you say something?’

‘I just wanted to make sure you were all right.’

‘Perfectly, thank you. I was just wondering why . . . well . . .’ She glanced apologetically at Jamieson. ‘It’s his hands. Have you noticed how the fingers of his right hand are different from the ­fingers of his left? It’s probably nothing, but to see one hand so firmly clenched and the other so open and . . . well, relaxed. It seems strange.’

Jamieson flashed her a practised smile, taking the opportunity to observe her more closely. Up-market. Expensively dressed but not ostentatious. Must have been a stunner in her day, and still easy on the eyes, particularly in this light. ‘No offence, Mrs Graham. The fingers of his right hand appear to have been released from rigor. Needless to say, this information is confidential.’ This remark was directed at Haines.

‘Mrs Graham’s discretion can be relied on,’ said Haines. And you can pull your head in, he thought, peeved at Jamieson’s tone and the fact that he’d not previously mentioned the corpse’s hands. ‘Have you been able to estimate a time of death?’ he asked abruptly.

‘I’d say somewhere between Friday night and Sunday morning. I’ll do a complete post-mortem when I get him back to Goulburn. Tomorrow morning, first thing. Interested?’

‘Just send me the report.’

‘As you wish. Delighted to have met you, Mrs Graham.’

‘Oh . . . yes. Goodbye, Dr Jamieson.’

A photographer’s white light illuminated the corpse upon which Amy’s attention was riveted, displacing the dim, scholarly atmosphere. She moved closer to the desk, peering at Horace Radcliffe’s waxen visage. They were impatient for her to leave.

‘Just a couple of minutes, please?’ As Haines left the study, she removed a handkerchief from her handbag and waved it briefly in the direction of the hapless photographer. ‘May I? A tiny sample of the lipstick?’ It was done. She smiled sweetly at the photographer, held a finger to her lips and hurried after Haines.

FOUR

Matron surveyed the scene in front of the headmaster’s cottage from her room on the upper storey of Edwards House. The ­boarders had been sent to the hall and would remain there for the next hour at least, or until lessons were resumed. Staff had been rostered to supervise them. The remaining staff members were on the ground floor, exchanging versions of events.

She saw Mrs Graham descend the steps and pick her way through the throng of vehicles. Would she be able to tell them anything? Miss Hancock was reaching her use-by date as a source of information. But if Amy Graham suspected anything, she’d ­probably keep it to herself; the woman was infuriatingly ­circumspect.

Matron turned from the window and glanced complacently at her reflection in the dressing table mirror. She straightened her shoulders, tugged gently at the peaks of her white blouse and brushed a speck of lint from her navy skirt. She examined her rear view and reflected with satisfaction that no seams or bulges were apparent. Her hair, pulled tightly into a vintage french roll, had ceased to struggle. She glanced around the austere little room, as she did habitually before leaving it. Nothing was out of place. The only concessions to vanity – a hairbrush, comb and a lipstick – were neatly aligned on the dressing table.

Amy Graham and Haines entered Edwards House just as Matron’s legs, in their support hose and sensible shoes, appeared around the bend in the stairs.

Amy’s hand fell lightly on Haines’s arm. ‘Mildred, this is ­Detective Sergeant Haines. Sergeant, this is Mildred Obermeyer who looks after the boarders and the administration of the residential block. I’m sure she won’t mind if you call her Matron. Most people do.’ Matron nodded her assent, shook Haines’s hand, and the usual greetings were exchanged. ‘Sergeant Haines would like to talk to the staff,’ Amy continued. ‘In fact, I believe he’ll want to interview staff over the next few days. Perhaps,’ she added, turning to Haines for confirmation, ‘he’ll also want to talk to you about the boarders? I’ll leave that to you to discuss.’

The three continued into the staffroom, where a dishevelled, puffy-eyed Miss Hancock roused herself from her isolation and misery with: ‘Oh, Mrs Graham . . .’ The attention of Matron and the staff focused on Haines, whom Amy briefly and efficiently introduced. Leaving the sergeant to those who would ­undoubtedly find themselves under his scrutiny, Amy beckoned to Miss Hancock and steered her in the direction of the kitchen where, she knew, a large black kettle