“Ah, yes, the last early meeting was held at some time near the end of June, I believe.”
“That’s right. I remember it because it was in the next week as they found a man teacher had been murdered. I was ever so upset, because my two children goes to that school—the Primary it is—and I didn’t want them to get to know about it, but, of course, they did. You can’t keep other kids from talking, and bad news soons gets round.”
“And Mr Perse was in school that evening? I wonder how long he stayed? I have to make a report, you see. Which day of the week would it have been?”
“Same as today—a Friday.”
“Oh, yes. Have you any idea how long he stayed?”
“I couldn’t say, I’m sure. Four times I looked in to see whether I could do the room out, that’s all I know. I got fed up with it in the end, and I sets to and cleans all round him. That got him out of it. Wished I’d thought of it sooner.”
“At what time do you finish work?”
“It all depends. We’re paid by the hour for two hours and we don’t reckon to stay longer nor that. On a good day we can get all round the school in an hour and a half. Mr Robbins don’t care, so long as the work gets done, but he’s a rare one for seeing as it
“And you do not remember at what time you finished work on that Friday in June when Mr Perse stayed late?”
“I couldn’t really say, not to ten minutes or so. I clocks on at half-past four, which is to say I puts my head in at the hall door—Mr Robbins always does the hall and the stage hisself—and then I ups to here and hangs up my hat and coat in the lobby next door and gets my overall on and fetches my things and starts in on the lobby before I comes in here. Well, I suppose I must have popped my head in on Mr Perse about every quarter of an hour, but that’s as near as I can tell you. I does my three classrooms and after I done each one I pops my head in here, this being one of the worst jobs, so I likes to get it over and done with. You can make up a bit of time in the classrooms if you happen to get a bit pushed, but there’d soon be a to-do if
“Yes, I see. Thank you very much. This will materially help my report. I hope I have not taken up too much of your time?”
“Oh, that’s all right. I’m glad the Board of Governors is waking up and taking a bit of interest. I can easy make the time up in the classrooms. As long as I gets the wastepaper baskets emptied and the chairs stood down (which the boys is supposed to stand them up on the desks to make the sweeping more easy), the rest can go.”
Dame Beatrice drove to the Town Hall and asked the caretaker at what time the early meetings of Mr Perse’s subcommittee took place. His answer checked with Julian’s own account and the caretaker, because of what he had read about Spey’s death, was able to recall that Julian had been present at the meeting on the Friday under review, that he had been in good time for it, and that it had gone on until half-past nine. If the caretaker felt any curiosity about being questioned thus, he did not betray it. He remembered Dame Beatrice perfectly well from her previous visit to the Town Hall, had decided that she was eccentric but harmless, and he answered her questions civilly and with good humour.
The public house opposite the Town Hall—Dame Beatrice arrived there so soon after opening time that there were only two customers in the saloon lounge—was able, with the help of a blonde who wore an enormous white chrysanthemum as a buttonhole, to confirm that after Council meetings some of the members reckoned to drop in for a snack and a drink. Yes, Councillor Perse was a regular. No, she could not speak to any particular day. Oh, wait a minute, though. Yes, that would be right. Quarter to ten it was, because Councillor Perse, always quite a one, had told her the Council ought to be able to get the licensing hours extended when they were kept so long at the meetings. Would she care to take a little of something? No, ta. No offence, but she did not reckon to take something so early on. Yes, it was terrible, all the things you read in the papers. Everybody was talking about that man what hanged himself out of remorse. The barmaid reckoned as how he must have been listening to Billy Graham, or something of that, and had his crimes brought home to him good and proper. A schoolmaster, too! You hardly knew who was what nowadays, did you? And to think of all them poor little kids being taught by a dirty murderer.
“Of course,” said Laura, “even if Julian stayed in the pub until closing time, which is what you think the barmaid indicated, I suppose it doesn’t really let him out, but you think it’s enough to go on, and Gavin agrees.”
“Oh, yes,” said her husband, from the depths of a long armchair. “We’ve never really worried about young Perse. We’ve tackled his landlady, of course, as he’d run this second pageant during which Gordon was killed, but his habits appear to be regular and he has never given any trouble or kept late hours or come back unpleasantly boozed, and he always pays his rent on the dot and “eats normal”—her expression, not mine.”
“He sounds too good to be true,” said Laura critically.
“Oh, I don’t think so. Typically respectable young schoolmaster and Borough Councillor, wouldn’t you say? Well, Squire’s Acre is next on the list. We must make Giles Faudrey confess that he
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
The Batty-Faudrey Angle
“The narrow avenues…were barricadoed, and little breast works were thrown up at convenient places. Furthermore the barricadoes were well defended, but the defenders were unprepared for a surprise attack at that time…”
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If it hadn’t been for the fact that two swords from the Squire’s Acre collection must have been used, should we ever have thought Giles Faudrey might be the murderer?” asked Laura. “I mean, the head having been thrown into
