Well-Schooled in Murder by Elizabeth George Page A

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 Bredgar 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 benefitted 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. Lockwood’s was firm. His eyes darted to Sergeant Havers, but if he was surprised that Lynley’s partner was a woman, he was careful not to show it. Lynley made the introductions.
    Havers, he saw, had flopped into a small pew at the rear of the chapel where she was awaiting direction. Without bothering to camouflage what she was doing, she made a concerted study of Bredgar Chambers’ Headmaster.
    Lynley himself recognised the details that his sergeant would memorise and deem worthy of later comment. Lockwood appeared to be in his mid-forties, and although his height was average, he positioned his body on a subtle angle so that he seemed not to stand but to tower. His elaborate clothing served to emphasise the sense of domination he wished to project, for his academic gown was edged in crimson and he carried a mortarboard under his arm. His suit was impeccably cut, his shirt pristinely white, his tie perfectly knotted. Everything about him suggested a man who gave orders without expecting to be questioned. Yet the entire effect—including