The Twist of a Knife

We reached her office – long and narrow, with papers piled high on her desk and certificates on the wall. The quiet room was next door. It had been modernised, carefully designed to soothe the more volatile children. Everything was soft: the sofas, the carpet, the beanbags, the stuffed toys and the lighting that faded from pink to mauve to green even as we stood there. One wall was covered with a mural showing an underwater scene and there were liquid lava lamps morphing away on low tables. Turning on the lights had also turned on music: the theme from the film of War Horse. Morpurgo’s fingerprints seemed to be all over the school.

‘This is where Major Alden worked,’ Helen said. ‘It was an office until I arrived, but we haven’t had a deputy head for years and I decided to adapt the room to its present use.’

‘Do you have a lot of difficult children here?’ Hawthorne asked.

‘We don’t consider any children to be difficult.’ Helen Winters replied in a way that suggested Hawthorne was once again straining her patience. ‘All young people need to calm down from time to time. Modern society can seem very stressful when you’re nine or ten years old. Children are under so much pressure these days. This room is a facility for everyone to use. I sometimes sit in here myself.’

Hawthorne had already turned his back on her. He was examining the door frame, which was unusually high. He opened the door and held it. I could see him working out how easy it would have been to balance the bust of Cicero above and for once I was sure we had both arrived at the same conclusion. There was no way one of the boys would have been able to set the trap on his own. They had to be working together. And the bust had a long way to fall. If the sharp edge of the plinth had been pointing in the right direction, it could easily have fractured Alden’s skull.

‘Have you seen enough?’ Helen asked.

Hawthorne nodded. ‘There must be people in the village who remember Major Alden,’ he said.

‘I don’t understand why it’s of such interest to you, Mr Hawthorne.’

‘I should have explained to you, Mrs Winters. A woman was murdered in London two days ago, a theatre critic by the name of Harriet Throsby. She was stabbed in her own home. I believe her death may be connected to what happened at this school. I know it was a long time ago, but murders cast long shadows. I’m just trying to shed a little light.’

If he was being deliberately provocative, it had an effect. ‘I never met Harriet Throsby,’ she said. ‘But I know who she was. She wrote a book about Moxham Heath and I don’t think any of it was very kind.’

‘She didn’t visit the school?’

‘Yes. I believe she did. But that was long before my time. I was living in Bath Spa when all this was happening. I only became aware of what had happened here when I became head teacher, and as I told you, I try not to let these awful memories intrude.’

‘But there must be someone in the village who was here when it happened.’

Helen Winters considered. She quite probably didn’t want to give Hawthorne a name, but at the same time it would be the fastest way to get rid of him. She made her decision. ‘I suppose you could talk to Rosemary Alden.’

‘Major Alden’s wife?’ I said.

‘His widow. She still lives in the village. She was allowed to stay on in the house she occupied with Philip Alden when he worked here.’

‘For twenty years? Isn’t that a bit unusual?’ Hawthorne immediately homed in on that one detail.

‘She had nowhere to go and, to be fair to them, the Longhursts were very generous. They set up a trust in Philip Alden’s name and bought Glebe Cottage so that she could continue living in it rent-free. It cost them a pretty penny, but I suppose it was the least they could do, given what had occurred.’

‘And where is it?’ Hawthorne asked.

‘Glebe Cottage? It’s just up the road from the Ginger Box. But I should caution you. She’s quite elderly and her health hasn’t been good. She had a stroke last year and she doesn’t go out very much any more. If she agrees to speak to you, you’ll have to be gentle.’

My eyes glazed over when I heard her telling Hawthorne that, but I said nothing.

She insisted on escorting us back to the main entrance. ‘You never had any contact with Stephen Longhurst?’ Hawthorne asked her as we made our way.

‘No. Neither of the boys returned to Moxham Heath. There was a rumour that Wayne joined the army, and as for Stephen, he went to America after he came out of prison.’ She stopped. ‘I did meet his brother, though.’

‘Martin Longhurst?’

‘Yes.’

‘He visited the school?’

‘It was all a bit strange. This was a couple of years ago. He said he was thinking of sending his children here …’