Death of an Old Goat by Robert Barnard

Author:Robert Barnard
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Scribner

CHAPTER XI

THE DRUMMONDALE SCHOOL

INSPECTOR ROYLE drove through the gates of the Drummondale School, and through the extensive grounds and playing-fields towards the main school building, a solid Edwardian affair over which John Betjeman had also once cast an eye of over-Catholic appreciation. Clearly, if the New South Wales upper-middle-classes believed in locking up their daughters, they were content with a very open prison for their sons. The gates were wide, the grounds unpatrolled, the general atmosphere was relaxed, not to say soporific. Over on the playing fields a few flannelled fools were putting in a spot of practice, immaculate in their flannels and probably in their foolishness. Otherwise there was little noise to be heard except for an uproar from a distant class-room — no doubt one of the teachers newly recruited from England. They were said to raise the tone, but they did very little for the discipline.

Inspector Royle took all this in approvingly. Here he was on home ground. The Methodist Ladies never came through his hands (to use a not inappropriate metaphor) during term time because they were never allowed outside the walls to get up to anything. But the Drummondale School he had visited frequently in connection with petty pilfering from shops, stolen cars and such like. And then there had been that incendiary lad last year. In most cases it had been discovered that everyone — especially the boys’ parents — had been anxious to avoid a prosecution, and Royle counted these as among his most rewarding cases. The general feeling of well-being increased as he got out of the car in front of the moderately imposing front entrance: a passing secretary recognized him immediately, paid due attention to his status and appeared blushingly conscious of the handsome figure he made in his uniform; she ushered him straight in to Mr Doncaster, who she said had been expecting him, and had kept himself as free from engagements as possible. This is something like, thought Royle. This is showing respect for the law.

Mr Doncaster had two very effective manners which had secured and advanced his position in the shifting, volatile world of the Australian private school. One was his parent-pleasing manner, the other was his teacher-to-teacher manner. He could, like an experienced cocktail-mixer, occasionally produce a subtly different blend of the two, and this he now did for Inspector Royle. The latter sank into a very easy easy-chair, feeling at home, respected, and at peace with the world; except, of course, for the damned investigation. He felt more like bemoaning his lot than asking questions, and he let Doncaster talk on as his eye roamed the study with a renewed interest which came from the fact that this was the first time he had been there on a case in which Doncaster could be considered in the light of a suspect. It was a gentleman-scholar’s room: photographs of cricket teams, school groups, a smart army photograph with a rather artificially grim expression. On the wall a

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