Inspector Lynley (03): Well-Schooled in Murder by George Elizabeth

Author:George, Elizabeth [George, Elizabeth]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Crime, Detective, Detective Series, Fiction, Murder, Novel, Thriller
ISBN: 9780553904864
Publisher: Random House
Published: 2008-10-14T22:00:00+00:00

Colonel Andrew Bonnamy and his daughter lived less than a mile from the village of Cissbury, in one of a cluster of five cottages partially hidden from the passing lane by a privet hedge in need of trimming. Like the other structures, the Bonnamy cottage was small, half-timbered, with wattle-and-daub infilling that was whitewashed but showing signs of age. Cracks etched its surface like geological faults, threading upwards from the foundation and creeping towards the roof. Chestnut trees shadowed this, tall and angular with branches that dipped down to scrape against the tiles.

When Lynley and Havers pulled into the narrow drive to one side of the cottage, they saw a woman descending a slope that led to an orchard beyond it. She was wearing a faded denim skirt, a navy windcheater zipped to her throat, and heavy workshoes. In one hand she dragged a rubbish sack behind her while the other held secateurs and a rake. As she approached them, they saw that her face was stained with disregarded dirt. They saw also that she had been weeping recently, for her tears had left tracks against her skin. She appeared to be about forty years old.

Seeing Lynley and Havers, she dropped the rubbish sack by a stack of firewood and came towards them, rake and secateurs still in hand. She had not, Lynley noted, worn gloves for her gardening, so her hands were grimy. Dirt made black crescents under her nails.

Lynley produced his warrant card and introduced himself and Havers. “You’re Jean Bonnamy?” he asked. “We’ve come to talk to you and your father about Matthew Whateley.”

She nodded. Her throat worked furiously but failed to prevent a sound from escaping. It was like a whimper. “I phoned the school this morning to leave a message that I would be late to pick him up today. They put me through to Mr. Lockwood. He told me. Matt always came to us on Tuesdays. To see my father. And I suppose to see me as well, although I’d not really considered that at all. Until today.” She looked down at the tools she was carrying. Clods of earth and broken twigs were embedded on the prongs of the rake. “So sudden. Unexpected. I can’t bear the thought that he died so young.”

Immediately Lynley understood the nature of the information Alan Lockwood had given Jean Bonnamy. “Matthew Whateley was mudered.”

Her head came up sharply. She tried and failed to repeat the word, managing at last to say only, “When?”

“Probably Friday or Saturday. We won’t know for certain until we have the autopsy results.”

Dazed, she leaned the rake against the trunk of a chestnut, dropped the secateurs next to it, and reached out herself for the solid reassurance of the tree. “Mr. Lockwood didn’t…” Her voice became importunate, tinged with anger. “Why didn’t he tell me?”

The question was moot, with a dozen different explanations. Rather than explore them with the woman, Lynley merely asked, “What did he tell you?”

“Virtually nothing. That Matthew was dead. That the school was waiting for details.

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