‘And no Demonstration lessons. These seemed to be her particular terror, and so I arranged that the junior lecturer should do them.’
‘There was never any question of dismissing Miss Murchan for incompetence, I suppose?’
‘Oh, no, nothing of the kind. I don’t choose lecturers who have to be dismissed for incompetence the next moment. Miss Murchan was learned and talented. She had an Arts degree as well as her Science qualifications, you know. She lectured here in English.’
‘Having taught Biology at the school. Very interesting. Thank you,’ said Mrs Bradley.
‘There is that very close affinity of dates between the release of that child’s grandfather from a mental hospital and Miss Murchan’s disappearance. It seems to me that a fruitful field of investigation lies there, but that is a task for the police, I suppose,’ went on the Principal. ‘And, of course, she did change her occupation, there is no doubt, because of the death of the child. I think we are justified in making the connexion. But, dear me! It is rather a terrifying discovery that the College has been visited by a madman!’
Mrs Bradley ignored this remark, and asked casually:
‘How much do you know about the students before they come up for interview?’
Miss du Mugne seemed surprised at this abrupt change of subject, but answered briskly: ‘A good deal. We need to be careful in our choice. Most of the students come up with a school record, of course, and that simplifies matters considerably. Then we have to consider the financial circumstances of the parents a little, although we keep that side of our inquiries from the students as far as we can. But some of these girls’ families are very poor, and even if the girls borrow the money for their fees from their County Authority, they can’t manage at all comfortably up here. Were you thinking of anybody in particular?’
‘Yes. I was thinking of the One-Year Students.’
‘Ah, well, there, of course, the financial difficulty is different. Sometimes it does not exist. The One-Year Students, for the most part, are self-supporting, and pay their fees out of their savings. Some are given grants by the local education authority, and some…’
‘I was not thinking about their finances, but of their characters,’ Mrs Bradley observed. ‘The young students who come straight from school bring records with them, you said. How do you select the One-Years?’
‘Quite frankly, we don’t. We accept the first forty who apply.’
‘Oh? You make no choice at all?’
‘Often we don’t have the full forty apply.’
‘I see. So that if I wanted to know something of the antecedents of any particular One-Year Student, you could not help me?’
‘Well, actually, yes, a good deal. We correspond with such students before they present themselves for interview.’
‘Well, I want to know everything you can tell me about Miss Cornflake of Columba.’
The Principal smiled and rang the bell for the secretary. But Miss Cornflake’s dossier was of the briefest.
‘Except that she came here from a Church of England Senior Girls’ School in Betchdale, and proposes to return there when she has obtained her Certificate, there seems to be nothing about her in our records,’ said Miss Rosewell, tidying the file, ‘except for her home address, which is Two, Elm Villas, Betchdale.’
‘I am sorry it is so unsatisfactory for you,’ said Miss du Mugne, looking, however, rather pleased, Mrs Bradley thought.
‘On the contrary, it is just what I wanted,’ she replied. She looked at her watch. ‘Very many thanks for your patience, and a happy Christmas if I do not see you again before next term.’
Betchdale was only thirty miles by car from the College, and George made the distance in an hour over a bumpy moorland road and through the long, tram-lined streets of the outer town.
Arrived at the market-place, Mrs Bradley went into a small café, ordered coffee (whilst George had some beer at the public house next door but three) and, upon leaving, inquired for Elm Villas. She was interested but not surprised to learn that they had been pulled down some eight years previous to her visit, and the space used for a garage.
‘I expect you knew old Mrs Banham,’ went on the proprietress of the café. ‘A dear soul, she was. Gone to live on the Madderdale Road now, with her nephew’s family. I don’t know the number, but it’s about ten houses past Roote’s, the little general shop on the Turlfield Corner. Anybody would show you, and everybody knows Mrs Banham.’
Resolved to pursue the mirage of Miss Cornflake’s private address, Mrs Bradley was driven out to the Madderdale Road, and by inquiring at the little general shop on the Turlfield Corner, she soon found the house that she sought.
All inquiry for anyone named Cornflake, Paynter-Tree, Tree, or even Flack, proved useless, however, as she had guessed it would. The slender chance remained that the people who kept the garage might be able to supply some information.
The garage seemed at first to be in sole possession of a youth of about seventeen who was cleaning a car. George made the inquiries this time.
‘Don’t know. Boss in the office,’ said the youth. The boss was searching a ledger. George waited patiently for nearly ten minutes.
‘Name of Cornflake?’ he said, when George was able to state his business. ‘Sure!’ He began to laugh. ‘Fellow as worked for me for a week or two about five or six months ago. I still get his sister’s letters sent here sometimes, although not so many lately.’
‘And I suppose you have to re-direct them,’ said George.
‘Re-direct ’em? Ah. But what’s it to do with you?’
‘Cousin of mine,’ George replied. ‘Family trying to find him. Come in for a bit of money when his Grandpa died, but he cut his stick along with quarrelling with ’em back home, and they don’t know where to catch up with him, that’s all. We heard he’d worked in this town, so I thought I’d ask, on the off-chance, and it seems as if I’ve struck oil. Mind if I have that address, mate? The sister’s address, I mean.’
‘Well, I can’t see it can hurt to give it to you, like,’ said the proprietor of the garage.
He tore a piece of paper from the bottom of an invoice slip, looked up in a small, shiny note-book the reference he required, and wrote out the address in a neat and business-like hand.
‘Shouldn’t like the young fellow to miss what’s coming to him,’ he observed as he handed George the paper, ‘although he served me not so good. Told me he’d got a job near Bradford, and hopped it, all in a morning.’
‘ ’T’ain’t a lot, between you and me,’ said George. ‘Matter of sixty-five quid. Still, it means a lot to a young fellow starting out in life, I reckon, and he’d ought to have it. It’s his. There’s five of ’em, and they all share alike — three girls and the two young chaps. Well, thanks for the help. So long, mate.’
‘You’re welcome,’ replied the garage proprietor, opening the ledger again. George walked round the corner and into the street where he had left the car and Mrs Bradley in it.
‘I fancy the address may interest you, madam,’ he said. ‘I haven’t looked at the paper since he gave it to me, but I couldn’t help seeing what he was writing down.’
The address was that of the local post office of the College.
‘Webbed like a fish, and his fins like arms,’ said Mrs Bradley, with a grimace and a satisfied chuckle. ‘This grows interesting, George. What was one of Cartaret’s young ladies doing as a garage hand, I wonder?’
‘The old chap certainly hadn’t rumbled he was employing a young woman, madam, anyhow.’
‘No. That’s interesting, too. Probably confused the unusual with the impossible, a practice against which we are continually being warned by classic writers. Well, George, there is nothing more now, once I have been to the school. We shall have to ask the way again, I’m afraid.’