Faintley Speaking

‘Yes, of course. I say, some time or other, tell me a bit about Miss Faintley. The luggage clerk at the station… well, at the left luggage office… mentioned her when I picked up the stock.’

‘Faintley? You’d better ask Batt. She knew her better than anyone, except perhaps Franks. What did the porter say?… Naturally, we’ve all discussed the murder ad nauseam, and the thing is a complete mystery. According to the papers, robbery wasn’t the motive, but nobody can think of another. But come on. The lines will be leading in. I wish we could troop into school in a civilized sort of way, but Rankin won’t have it. Says the boys would create hell. In spite of a soft voice and respectable manners, he’s very much one of the old brigade and a bit of a martinet.’

‘ “The great thing for boys is discipline, sonny, discipline,’ ” quoted Laura under her breath. Miss Cardillon laughed and they went their ways. Four classes had games lessons that afternoon, so Laura was in a fine strategic position to inveigle Miss Batt into talking about Miss Faintley.

‘Yes, I shall miss her,’ said Miss Batt. ‘I do all the P.T. for the girls, but she used to help with the games. I’m jolly glad you’re able to step into the breach.’

‘What was she like?’ asked Laura. They were changing into shirts and shorts in the staff cloakroom, for Miss Golightly had arranged that the physical training staff should have a free half hour before they went on to the games field, where they were to spend the rest of the afternoon.

‘Like? Oh, I don’t know. Quiet and not exactly exciting. A good enough teacher, I suppose. Didn’t get on very well with the boys. She wasn’t much good at coaching hockey or tennis, either, but she volunteered to help in the games lessons because then she had only the girls. I don’t really know an awful lot about her, apart from that. I mean, we didn’t meet out of school.’

‘Did she quarrel with people much?’

‘You’re thinking about the murder. I keep on thinking about it, too. We all do, as I say. It’s a real mystery. I mean, one knows about these cosh gangs and awful people, but it doesn’t seem to have been that sort of thing at all. Not that the papers tell you much. If you ask me, the police haven’t a clue, but, of course, they won’t tell that to the reporters. As to quarrelling – no. She kept herself to herself, as they say.’

‘I suppose’ – Laura hesitated, but there seemed no necessity for finesse — ‘I suppose she wasn’t mixed up with a man?’

‘A man?’ Miss Batt looked up with a hockey boot still in her hand. ‘Good heavens, no!’

‘Not even somebody on the staff here?’

‘Well, you’ve met them all. Rankin, Trench and Tomalin are stodgily, respectably married, Taylor and Roberts share a flat and a housekeeper and care about nothing but making film-strips, Bannister is a complete woman-hater and lives for the holidays, when he goes off on his own and climbs down into potholes, and Fennison, my opposite number, is crazy about a girl called Penny Stretton who’s been steadily refusing him (or so he tells us) for the past three years, so he’s taken to table tennis and intends to win an open championship. Besides, if you’d only known Faintley…! She wasn’t any Cleopatra, I can tell you!’

She resumed her occupation of putting on her hockey boots.

‘Yes,’ said Laura, ‘it doesn’t sound like a crime passionel. Well, what are the alternatives?’

‘You tell me, while I recline on the sofa thing in the staff-room and put on a fag. We’ve all talked our hindlegs off about it. It just seems to be one of those things. A maniac, as likely as not. I don’t see any other explanation.’

‘Did she usually go on holiday alone?’

‘Was she alone, then? Nothing was said about that. I thought she barged about with an aunt? I know she lived with one, because she was always grousing about the aunt being extravagant with coal and electric light. Have one of these horrible fags. We’ve got plenty of time. I always give the kids ten minutes to get changed and serve themselves out with the hockey sticks and coloured bands. They make hell, but Miss Golightly can’t hear ’em!’

Laura enjoyed the rest of the afternoon. She was a good games player herself and a first-class coach. As soon as time was called, she went off to change, and, by good luck, ran into Miss Franks. Miss Franks was the art mistress. Her main emotional outlet was her bitter, unceasing warfare with Mrs Moles, the needlework teacher, for each thought that the other’s subject should be the inferior one. Miss Franks objected strongly to being commanded to improvise embroidery patterns on squared paper for the benefit of Mrs Moles’ decorative stitchery classes, and Mrs Moles considered all pure art, as opposed to applied art (i.e., embroidery and stencilling), to be a waste of time, materials, and effort.

‘I say,’ said Laura, ‘how did you and Miss Faintley correlate your subjects? As I’m taking her place I wondered whether you could give me a wrinkle or two about blackboard drawings and classroom posters and so forth.’

Miss Franks, who was a small, dark, volatile Jewess, shrugged and smiled.

‘I didn’t help Faintley,’ she said. ‘She was old-fashioned. I know what you want, though, and if you will let me send back Trumper if I have the feeling I cannot bear him any longer in my lesson, I will do the drawings for you myself.’

‘It’s a bargain. Thanks a lot. As for Trumper, I propose to deal with that youth in a manner which will stay with him for the rest of his days. He’s a prize toad, and no fate is too black for him. Send him back every time, and I’ll guarantee to make his life hell.’

‘Thank you very much. Would you like some drawings put up ready for to-morrow?’

During the ensuing forty minutes it turned out that although Miss Franks had never openly quarrelled with Miss Faintley, the budding friendship between them had withered and died.

‘Of course I am not Communist,’ said Miss Franks, ‘but who can expect I should be Nazi? Besides, she was wanting me to lend her money. Well, I am quite willing to be obliging, but to lend money to somebody older than yourself and higher up the scale of salaries, does it make sense?’

‘How much?’ asked Laura bluntly. Miss Franks looked at her appraisingly and decided to trust her.

‘Four hundred pounds,’ she said softly. ‘Four hundred beautiful pounds. I had not got it, and, even if I had —’