Well-Schooled in Murder by Elizabeth George Page B

the man’s handshake—seemed cultivated somehow, as if Lockwood had done research in the area of “headmaster grooming” and had sculptured himself to fit an image not quite in keeping with his character.
    At the back of the chapel, Havers reached into the side pocket of her green wool jacket and pulled out her notebook, flipping it open. She smiled with perfect insincerity.
    Lockwood turned back to Lynley. “A bad business, this is,” he said soberly. “I can’t tell you how relieved I am to have Scotland Yard take it on. You’ll want to talk to the boy’s teachers, no doubt, to John Corntel again, to Cowfrey Pitt—he’s our third form hockey master. Perhaps to Judith Laughland, our San sister. And the children. Harry Morant as well. He’s the boy Matthew was supposed to be visiting this past weekend. I should think Morant would know Matthew the best. They were rather special chums, as I gather.”
    “I’d like to start in Matthew’s dormitory,” Lynley said.
    Lockwood adjusted the collar of his shirt. It rode high on his neck, which was puckered with a rash from shaving. “His room. Yes. That makes proper sense.”
    “Alan?” a woman murmured hesitantly from just outside the small chapel. “The service’s just ending. Do you want—”
    Lockwood excused himself and disappeared in the direction of the main chapel. After a moment, they heard his voice—strangely distorted without a microphone—dismissing the students to their classes. There was a general shuffling of feet but no talking as the students began filing out to start the school day.
    Lockwood returned. With him was a woman, simply dressed in a serviceable skirt, blouse, and jacket. She was scrubbed and clean-looking, with pretty features and attractively styled iron-grey hair.
    “My wife, Kathleen.” Lockwood picked a speck of lint from her shoulder, and before she had time to respond to the introduction, he continued speaking, with a quick examination of his watch to illustrate his point. “I’ve an appointment with a parent in just a quarter-hour. Kathleen will give you over to Chas Quilter. He’s our senior prefect this year. Son of Sir Francis Quilter. You’ve no doubt heard of him.”
    “Sorry. No.”
    Kathleen Lockwood smiled. It was lovely, but tired-looking, drawing energy from her face. “Dr. Quilter,” she explained. “He’s a plastic surgeon. In London.”
    “Ah.” With, no doubt, a Harley Street address and the better secrets of two dozen or more society women under his scalpel.
    “Yes,” Alan Lockwood said, in agreement with nothing in particular. “I’ve spoken to Chas. He’ll make himself available for as long as you need him. Kathleen will take you to him now. He’s just gone into the vestry with the rest of the choir. When he’s shown you round the school, perhaps you and I—and the sergeant, of course—can have a chat. Later in the day.”
    Lynley saw no need to establish dominance over the Headmaster at this juncture. If it was important to the man to seem in control of the investigation, he was more than willing to let him harbour that illusion.
    “Certainly,” he replied. “You’re being more than helpful.”
    “Whatever we can do.” Lockwood gave his wife momentary attention. “You’ll see to the hors d’oeuvres this afternoon, Kate. Make certain they’re better than the last lot you served, will you?” With that, Lockwood lifted a hand—farewell or blessing, it was hard to tell—and was gone.
    In her husband’s absence, Kathleen Lockwood murmured, “I had no real chance to speak to the poor boy’s parents yesterday. They were here in the afternoon when we thought Matthew had run off. Then they left. And once we’d had the word that the boy’s body had been found…” She rubbed her knuckles along the line of her jaw, her eyes cast down. “Let me take you to Chas. Please come this way. It’s just through the chapel.”
    She led them to the main aisle from which the chapel’s