He left and went straight to the schoolhouse. It was an old–fashioned Victorian building of grey stone. He entered and wandered along a dingy corridor looking for a door marked head teacher, or headmistress or headmaster. He came to a door with a pane of frosted glass in it bearing the legend ‘Head Teacher’ in black painted letters. He knocked and a masculine voice said, “Come!”
Hamish detested people who said ‘Come.’
He opened the door and walked in. A small fussy man with gold-rimmed spectacles and thinning grey hair pasted across a freckled scalp was sitting behind a desk. He went on correcting papers.
Hamish felt his irritation growing. “Now that you’ve impressed me with your importance, perhaps you might be able to answer a few questions, Mr…?”
The man looked up. “Arkle,” he said. “I am a very busy man. I’ve just taken over here. If you think I was trying to impress you, then you are much mistaken.”
“Good. Now, Mr. Arkle, did you know Miss McAndrew?”
“We met at her leaving party. There was no need for me to see her before that. The school secretary explianed everything to me.”
“I’d like a word with the secretary after I’ve finished with you. Now, Miss McAndrew has been found brutally stabbed to death this morning.”
“Dear me. Dear, dear me. What a shock! How can I help you?”
That’s got your attention, you pompous git, thought Hamish. “I am trying to get someone to describe her to me,” he said. “What impression did you form of her?”
He frowned and placed the tips of his fingers together and peered wisely over them at Hamish. He always sees himself in a film, thought Hamish. “Hmm. Let me see,” Mr. Arkle said. “Woman of the old school of teaching. Stern disciplinarian. She produced good results. Not a sympathetic type. I can’t tell you much more than that.”
“May I be having a word with your secretary?”
“Yes, yes, of course.” He picked up the phone and dialled an extension. “Miss Mather? Could you step into my office? The police would like to interview you.” He put the phone down. “She will be along presently.”
“Where is her office?”
“Next door.”
And you couldn’t just have shouted for her, could you, you twerp, thought Hamish. He saw a shadow outside the frosted glass of the door and jerked it open. A pale wispy girl stood there. “Miss Mather?”
She looked up at him with wide frightened eyes. “We’ll just step outside,” said Hamish quickly. He had no desire to ask her questions with the head teacher listening and probably interrupting.
“Shall we go to my office?” she asked, casting a nervous glance at the head teacher’s door.
“It’s a grand day. Let’s take a wee walk outside.”
She followed him meekly out of the school and stood beside him on the grey asphalt of the playground.
“Now, Miss Mather, my name is Hamish. And you are?”
“Freda.”
“Why are you looking so frightened?”
“When a policeman calls, it’s almost always bad news. My mother…?”
“No, nothing about your family. The fact is that Miss McAndrew was found murdered this morning.”
She turned white and swayed. He caught her round the waist and led her to a bench at the edge of the playground. “Put your head between your knees. That’s a good girl. Now straighten up and take deep breaths.”
He waited until a little colour had come back to her face and then asked, “Did you work for her?”
“Ye-es. For…for the past five years.”
“Think carefully and tell me honestly, what was she like?”
“Oh, she was a fine woman and got good results for the school.”
“Forget she’s dead and tell me honestly what you really thought of her.”
A seagull landed on the ground at their feet, cocked its prehistoric head on one side, and, seeing no evidence of food, flew off with a contemptuous screech.
Freda bent her head. She was a drab-looking girclass="underline" hair of an indeterminate colour, neither fair nor brown, eyes of a washed-out blue, thin hunched figure.
“She was a bully,” said Freda. She gave a choked little sob. “She would give little parties at her home and make me act as waitress, pouring out tea, handing round cakes, and she never paid me for it.”
“If she was such a bully, I’m surprised people wanted to visit her.”
“Oh, she was nice as pie to everyone, except maybe me and one of the other teachers.”
“There are four teachers, aren’t there?”
“Yes, there’s Miss Maisie Hart, Mrs. Henrietta McNicol, Mr. Jamie Burns, and a newcomer, Mr. Matthew Eskdale.”
“And which one did she bully?”
“Mr. Burns. He’s quite old, you see, and he wants to hang on to get his pension.”
“You and Mr. Burns could find other jobs?”
“Mr. Burns is stubborn and swore she wasn’t going to drive him out. As for me, my mother is not in good health, and finding another job would mean moving to Strathbane. I like to stay close.”
“Did anyone ever threaten Miss McAndrew?”
“I don’t think anyone would dare.”
“What about the parents?”
“There was an incident last year at parents’ day. Mr. Joseph Cromarty, who runs the ironmonger’s shop in the main street: His son, Geordie, had not been chosen for the school play and he shouted at her and accused her of having a down on the boy.”
“And did she?”
“You’d need to ask the boy’s teacher, Mr. Burns. I don’t know about that.”
The dinner bell shrilled out from the school. Dinner was still in the middle of the day. Some children streamed out into the playground towards parents waiting at the gates. Other children carrying lunch boxes sat down on benches on the other side of the school yard. A harassed-looking elderly man came out and stood on the school steps.
“That’s Mr. Burns,” whispered Freda.
“Thanks for your time. I’ll just have a word with him. Would you give me your home address and telephone number?”
She gave them to him. He thanked her again and she scuttled off into the school, her head bent.
Poor wee soul, thought Hamish. One bullying boss replaced by another.
He rose and approached Mr. Burns. “I’ve just heard the news about Miss McAndrew,” said Mr. Burns. He had obviously once been a powerfully built man, but age had rounded his shoulders and turned muscle into fat. He had a thick shock of white hair and sagging jowls, his face marred by red broken veins.
“Who told you?” asked Hamish.
“Arkle.”
“Are you surprised? You don’t seem surprised.”
“I hated the auld biddy. Mind you, I would have thought everyone was too scared of her to murder her.”
“Someone obviously wasn’t. Do you know of anyone in particular who might have hated her enough?”
“Apart from me? No, not a clue. What a goings-on for a wee place like Braikie. First poor Miss Beattie murdered and now this.”
“Who told you Miss Beattie was murdered?” demanded Hamish sharply.
“Maisie Hart. She was late for school because she had a dental appointment and the nurse at the dentist’s told her.”
“And who,” demanded Hamish impatiently, “told the nurse?”
“She passed the post office on her way to the dentist’s and got chatting to the policeman on duty and he told her.”
“I suppose it’s all over the town,” said Hamish.
“Of course.”
If the cat’s out of the bag, I may as well go the whole hog, thought Hamish with a wild mix of metaphors.
“So did you know that Miss McAndrew was our poison-pen letter writer?”
He looked stunned. “Never! I mean, she was a bully, but she was all up front, if you know what I mean. Writing those letters was a poisonous, sneaky thing to do. Come to think about it, they started just around the time she retired.”