Chapter Five
Patty persuaded Jack to spend the night with her and the family – his house would be cold, she said – but he found it hard to sleep and wished he had insisted on going home. First he was disturbed by Jennifer who refused to settle on the camp bed in her parents’ room; and when the house was quiet he thought of Kitty and the tall policeman and the people who had been Medburn’s victims. They’d be glad that Medburn was dead and would want to forget him. Jack had started the investigation with his intentions firm and starkly clear. He would save Kitty whatever the cost in reputation or inconvenience to other people. Now it seemed the thing was not so simple. If Kitty were innocent someone else must be guilty, and the unpleasantness which had surrounded Medburn during his life would continue long after he had been buried. Jack would need to discover Medburn’s secrets and would become as much an object of hatred as the headmaster had been. Yet as he lay in Jennifer’s small bed waiting for the morning a childish persistence and romanticism made him cling to his original purpose. He saw Kitty as Rapunzel, locked in a tower, and himself as the prince charged to rescue her. Then, as in the stories, they would live happily ever after.
He read until three and fell into a tense and fitful sleep. When he woke several hours later Andrew was practising the recorder and Jennifer was screaming that she must wear the pink jumper with the Care Bears on it, even if it meant disturbing Grandpa to fetch it. Patty brought him tea and told him to stay where he was, but he got up.
He preferred to be at work, where it was quieter.
‘But I need to talk to you,’ Patty said. She was burning toast. Upstairs on the landing Jim was cursing because Andrew was playing the recorder in the bathroom and he wanted to shave.
‘What were you doing in the village yesterday bothering everyone?’ she asked. ‘People are saying you’re mad.’
Jack pretended not to hear. ‘I have to go,’ he said. ‘ I’ll have to unlock the school to let them all in.’
‘But what do you want me to do?’ she asked.
Jack thought. ‘Talk to the vicar,’ he said. ‘He knew Medburn as well as anyone. He was always in the church. Will you do that?’
She nodded and scraped flakes of charcoal from the toast into the stainless steel sink.
‘Take care,’ she said, looking round with concern at his exhausted face. ‘When can I see you?’
‘This afternoon,’ he said. ‘I’ll be home this afternoon. You can talk to me then.’
It was the first severe frost of the autumn and in the street men were scraping ice off precious cars. Everywhere was as white as if snow had fallen and as he walked briskly along the pavement his breath came in clouds of steam. The fallen leaves which had collected water in the gutters had frozen, so they crunched as he crossed the road, and made his way into the village. He called to everyone he knew, hoping that one of them would have information about Medburn’s death, information which would lead to Kitty’s release. Outside the Northumberland Arms he paused to chat to the lollipop lady who was retrieving her sign from one of the pub’s out-houses. She stood on the edge of the pavement stamping white boots, blowing hot air into gloved hands and waiting for her first customer.
‘Back to work again today,’ he said. He hovered there, waiting for someone to approach him. ‘You could have stayed in bed yesterday.’
‘Aye,’ she said. ‘I could have done. But no one bothered to tell us and I stood here for an hour wondering what had happened to the bairns.’
They laughed together and he crossed the main road away from the pub and walked up the lane towards the school. The playground was empty. He had half expected the police to be there and it was a relief. He unlocked the doors and carried crates of milk into the kitchen, then went to his room. He filled his kettle at the sink in the boys’ toilet and plugged it in. While he was waiting for it to boil he lit a cigarette. It was the same ritual he followed every morning, yet it was not the same. Everything he did seemed sharper, more urgent, more exciting. He had expected to slip gently into retirement and eventually into death. The challenge of discovering who had killed Harold Medburn was new, and he was enjoying it.
He sat with his tea by the small window and watched the teachers arrive. Miss Hunt came first, driving a red Metro. She was wearing black boots and a black woollen cape and reminded him of the pictures of witches which had been pinned to the walls of the classrooms on Hallowe’en. Immediately afterwards Matthew Carpenter walked in through the gate from the lane. He was dressed in a green parka with the hood pulled over his head, so he looked like a teenager. The teachers shouted to each other. It was something meaningless about the weather, but Jack thought they would never have done that if Medburn had been there. Then each would have scuttled into their own classroom without a word, afraid of attracting attention or censure. Everyone, it seemed, felt a sense of release after Medburn’s death.
On his way to his classroom Matthew called into Jack’s room. ‘Will you be going to the post later for Miss Hunt?’ he asked. Jack nodded. ‘Could you take this letter for my mum? I wrote it on Sunday and forgot to post it.’
Jack nodded once more and wondered again that such a normal conversation was possible.
Children began to run into the playground, followed by scolding mothers with toddlers in pushchairs. The girls formed circles, sang ‘Brown girl in the ring’ and ‘In and out the dusty bluebells’ until they were red with exertion and the circles dissolved and reformed with new members. The boys fought and tried to slide on the frosty concrete. All the children were noisy and excitable.
Patty arrived in a rush, her shaggy hair looking as if it had never seen a brush, the trousers of her tracksuit splashed with paint. She kissed the children and walked away in the direction of the vicarage. As she went she passed Paul Wilcox. He stopped her and talked so intently that he did not notice his daughter climbing out of the buggy to play with the other children until his son tugged his sleeve and pointed out her naughtiness. Jack wondered what the man was saying, and waited. Angela Brayshaw came late, holding her daughter’s hand, but not late enough to avoid the other mothers, the stares, the whispers. They had all heard the rumours Jack had spread in the village the day before.
Paul Wilcox turned away from Patty and began to walk towards the school. At first, of course, Medburn’s death had come as a great relief to him. There would be no need now to admit to Hannah that he had been unfaithful. They could work out their family problems without that pressure. There would be no more of the frightening phone calls which summoned him to come to the school, just to discuss a question of Parents’ Association policy, and were an excuse for Medburn to scare him. He arrived on those afternoons at Medburn’s office white and shaking. Medburn would lecture him on morality and virtue, then ask for money. Every time he was summoned Wilcox swore to himself that this time he would not pay, and on each occasion the demand for payment came almost as a relief because it meant that the interview was over. He was sorry when Kitty was arrested – he had nothing against Medburn’s wife – but he had himself to think of first.
On the Saturday night, after the body had been discovered he had been calm. He and Hannah had drunk tea and discussed the murder.
‘What an extraordinary thing to have happened!’ Hannah said, her eyes big. ‘Whoever would want to kill a village headmaster?’
He had agreed with her. It was extraordinary, he said.
He had slept deeply and well. Then on the Sunday morning they learned that Kitty Medburn had been arrested and he thought the whole thing would be over.
He had begun to be troubled by the idea of the letters before he heard that Jack Robson had been going round the village asking questions, claiming that Kitty Medburn was innocent, insinuating that Angela Brayshaw was somehow involved. He should have thought before about the letters. He tried to persuade himself that they would have no significance for anyone else, but he could not forget them and by the time Mrs Irving, the cleaning lady, arrived on Monday afternoon he was tense and jumpy.