Well-Schooled in Murder - By Elizabeth George Page 0,55
let's be-bop over to..." The other boy froze when he saw Havers and Lynley. But he recovered quickly, saluted, and said, "Oh ho! Here be the coppers, I'd guess. Nabbed you at last have they, Bri?" He rolled onto the balls of his feet.
"Clive Pritchard," Brian said by way of introduction. "Calchus House's finest specimen."
Clive grinned. His left eye was slightly lower than his right, and its lid drooped lazily. In conjunction with the grin, this had the effect of making him look a little bit drunk. "You know it, lad." He gave no further notice to the police. Instead, he said, "We've ten minutes to get to the field, laddie, and you've not even changed. What's happening to you? I've a fiver riding that we'll smash Mopsus and Ion, and all the while you're sitting here having a natter with the cops."
Clive himself was dressed not in the school's uniform, but in a blue tracksuit and jersey striped in yellow and white. Both were extremely tight-fitting, serving to emphasise a build that was not muscular but wiry. He looked like a fencer and moved quickly, with a fencer's agility.
"I don't know that I..." Brian looked at Lynley questioningly. "We've enough information for now," Lynley replied. "You're free to go."
As Sergeant Havers stood and moved towards the door, Brian walked to his cupboard, opened it, and pulled out a tracksuit, gym shoes, and a blue and white jersey which he selected from three that were hanging on hooks.
We're in yellow today, unless you're planning to join the Ion boys' team. I know you and Quilter are each other's dolly-bird, but let's have a bit of house loyalty, shall we."
Stupidly, Brian looked down at the garments in his hands. His brow creased. He stood motionless. With an impatient grunt, Clive took the jersey from him, pulled the yellow and white one from the cupboard, and handed it over. "Can't be with Quilter this afternoon, lovey pie.
Come on. Bring your gear. Change in the sports hall. We've a field of pretty boys waiting to be coshed. And hardly time to see to them all. I'm living hell with a hockey stick. Have I told you that? Mopsus and Ion are the sinners and they're about to meet their retribution. Pritchard-style."
Clive mimed the action of smacking Brian's shins.
Brian winced, then smiled. "Let's do it," he said and allowed Clive to dance him from the room.
Lynley watched them go. He did not overlook the fact that neither boy met his eyes as they left.
Chapter 9
"Let's look at what we have," Lynley said. In response, Sergeant Havers lit acigarette and settled comfortably into her chair, a Schweppes tonic water in front of her.
They were in the public bar of the Sword and Garter, a cramped little pub in the village of Cissbury, three quarters of a mile along a narrow country road from Bredgar Chambers. The Sword and Garter had already proved itself to be an inspired choice for their conversation prior to heading back to London. Considering its proximity to the school, Lynley had shown the publican Matthew Whateley's photograph - not really expecting any recognition from the man.
So it was with some surprise that he saw the publican nod his shaggy head, that he heard him say, "Aye. Matt Whateley," without the least hesitation."You know the boy?"
"I do. He visits regular with Colonel Bonnamy and his daughter. They live just a mile or so beyond the village.""His daughter?"
"Jeannie. She's in here - sometimes twice a week - with Matt. They stop now and then when she drives him back to the school.""They're relatives of the boy?"
"No." The publican pushed the Schweppes across the bar and followed it with a glass in which rested two pieces of ice. He opened a cupboard, rooted around for a bit, and came up with a battle-worn metal teapot into which he dropped three sad-looking tea bags. "It was all part of the Bredgar Brigade. That's what I call them. Do-gooders. Matt's one of them, but not as bad as the usual lot." He disappeared through a door to the left of the bar and returned a moment later with a steaming kettle. He poured hot water into the teapot, dunked the tea bags five times, and removed them. "Milk?" he asked Lynley.
"Thank you, no. What sort of do-gooders?"
"School calls them Bredgar Volunteers. I call them do-gooders. They visit the housebound, do work in the village,