Well-Schooled in Murder - By Elizabeth George Page 0,31

did want to see where rich nits send their little buggers to learn how to say pater. La-di-da."

"I imagine it's a bit more Spartan on the inside, Havers," he replied. "These places usually are."

"Quite. Oh, yes."

Lynley parked in front of the main school building. Its front door stood open, acting as frame for the lovely picture of a grassy quad beyond it and more importantly, no doubt, for the statue that stood at the quad's centre. Even from a distance, Lynley recognised the regal profile of Henry Tudor, Earl of Richmond, later Henry VII and the putative founder of Bredgar Chambers.

Although it was nearly nine, no one appeared to be out on the grounds, an odd circumstance in a school claiming an enrollment of six hundred. But as they got out of the car, they heard the swelling notes of an organ, followed by the opening of "A Mighty Fortress Is Our God," sung by a well-practised congregation.

"Chapel," Lynley said in explanation.

"It's not even Sunday," Havers muttered.

"I'm sure an exposure to prayer won't corrupt our secular sensibilities, Sergeant. Come along. Try to look suitably devout, will you?"

"Right, Inspector. It's one of my better acts."

They followed the sounds of organ and singing through the school's main door, where they found themselves in a cobbled vestibule off which the chapel opened, taking up half the eastern quarter of the quad. They entered quietly. The singing continued.

Lynley saw that the chapel was typical of those found in independent schools throughout the country, with pews facing into the centre aisle after the fashion of King's College, Cambridge. He and Havers stood at the south end of the building, between two minor chapels set aside for other use.

On their left was the War Memorial Chapel, sombrely panelled in walnut upon which was carved the grim accounting of what Bred-gar Chambers had lost to two brutal world wars.

Above these names of boys fallen in battle scrolled the epigraph: Per mortes eorum vivimus.

Lynley read the words, dismissing the pitiful solace that was supposed to arise from such a simplistic resolution to loss. How could anyone shrug off death by concluding that if others benefi tted from it - no matter how violent or disgusting it had been - it perpetuated an intrinsic good? He had never been able to do so. Nor had he ever quite come to terms with his country's love affair with the nobility of such sacrificial offerings. He turned away.

The second chapel, however, had much the same theme. On their immediate right, this small chamber was equally dedicated to the passing of students. But Lynley saw that war had not caused their untimely deaths, for memorial plaques recorded the length of their short lives, and all of them had been far too young to be soldiers.

He entered. Candles flickered upon a linen-covered altar, surrounding a tender-faced stone angel atop it. Seeing this, he was struck all at once by a powerful image, one which he had not suffered in years. In it, once again he was that sixteen-year-old boy who knelt in the tiny Catholic chapel at Eton, tucked to the left of the main altar. He had prayed for his father there, comforted by the presence of four towering, gilded archangels that guarded each corner of the room. Although he himself was not a Catholic, somehow those fierce angels, the candles, the altar had made him feel as if he were closer to a god who might listen. So he prayed there daily.

And his prayer was granted. Indeed, how it was. The memory felt like a wound. He sought a distraction and found it in the largest memorial in the room.

He began to study it with unnecessary intensity.

Edward Hsu - beloved student - 1957-1975. Unlike the other memorials which named boys - and two girls - who were entirely faceless, this memorial had been fashioned in such a way to include a photograph of the dead boy, a handsome Chinese. The words beloved student held a fascination for Lynley, since they suggested that one of the boy's teachers was responsible for creating this fond tribute to him. Lynley thought immediately of John Corntel but pushed the thought aside. It wasn't possible. Corntel would not have been teaching here in 1975.

"You must be Scotland Yard."

Lynley swung round at the hushed voice. A black-gowned man stood at the smaller chapel door.

"Alan Lockwood," he said. "I'm Bredgar's Headmaster." He came forward and extended his hand.

Handshakes were the sort of detail Lynley always took note of.