Death of a Teacher (13 page)

O
n Thursday evening when the phone rang, Alison MacDonald was at her parents’ home in Norbridge. It had been a shattering week. But she had kept things going as smoothly as possible at school.

Until yesterday.

At two o’clock the school secretary had come bustling into the classroom. She had told Alison in a loud voice that Dodsworth House had been on the phone. They had announced that the scholarship exams would be taken on the second Saturday in May, the week after the Bank Holiday. Chaos had broken out. Faye Armistead’s son had leapt up and punched the air. Then he punched the boy next to him who was Jonty McFadden’s best mate, so a brawl had threatened to begin. Several of the girls had begun to scream and whimper and generally fuss. It had taken Alison a while to calm them all down.

On Thursday morning, there had been a queue of grim-faced parents at the school office by 8.45, demanding to know how Miss MacDonald was going to tutor their children for the Dodsworth exams.

Alison had been backed into the corner of the foyer by sour-faced people with questions, marshalled by Faye Armistead. How many scholarships were there? How was St Mungo’s planning to cram the children in time?

Faye had yapped, ‘You must be prepared to hold special classes. I know this murder is dreadful, but Miss Hodgson would want us to get the children into Dodsworth House. We must put it behind us. We’ve got just over a week. Dodsworth will be putting out mock exams and an examination schedule. Now
anyone
can apply it will be much more competitive.’

Alison had looked at the aggressive, jabbering faces in front of her. She said nothing until the questioning died down.

‘First,’ she’d said slowly and clearly, ‘Dodsworth House is a private school. What they do is up to them. Secondly, St Mungo’s is a Church of England 
state school. It is not my role to tutor your children for the private Dodsworth scholarships. If you wish to pay private tutors you will find a list on the Internet.’

‘That’s outrageous!’

‘Mrs Armistead, your children have all been educated to Year Six level and St Mungo’s passed its last Ofsted inspection with flying colours.’

‘Yes,’ Faye Armistead had snapped, ‘but that was when Mrs Findley was taking Year Six.’

‘And now I’m taking Year Six, and we still meet those standards. If you want your children to sit for private scholarships with extra tuition, then it’s up to you to pay for it. I will do everything I can to make sure the children are equipped and not unduly stressed by this. I suggest you do the same.’

Faye Armistead stared at her, her rose pink shiny mouth opening and closing.

Alison turned away and began walking towards her classroom when someone plucked at her shoulder. It was Judith Dixon.

‘What sort of chance do you think Becky has?’

‘Mrs Dixon, I can’t really say. Your granddaughter is very bright in class, but I don’t know what the competition will be like. For all the children’s sakes, don’t make a big deal of it.’

At break time, Mr Findley had asked to see Alison. ‘Mrs Rudder is ill today so I’m very pushed. We’re expecting another supply teacher next week. But that isn’t what I wanted to say. I heard how you dealt with the Dodsworth scholarship people. That must have been very difficult. I know Sheila always found that type of parent very trying. Well done.’

Alison had smiled, relieved. Now, by Thursday night, she was exhausted, but she couldn’t relax. Her mobile rang in her handbag. It will be Mark, she thought. I must tell him I’m definitely going to be in Pelliter, painting a mural, on Saturday morning.

But instead of Mark, it was a return call from Ro Watson. Alison swallowed her surprise and said, ‘Thanks so much for calling back, Mrs Watson. But I’d rather not discuss this on the phone.’ She was in a restless mood and wanted to escape from her mother’s constant fussing and ill-disguised attempts to gossip about the murder. ‘Can I meet you, to talk about this? Tonight? Where do you live? I could come to you.’

Ro Watson paused. She and Ben rarely had visitors.

‘I’m a long way from you. I’m at Burnside near Tarnfield….’

‘That’s fine. I know where it is. I can be over there in half an hour.’

It suited Alison’s mood to be up and doing. She went out to her car and set off in the direction of Burnside. 

Liz Rudder was still in bed at Thursday lunchtime. Another day off school would do her good and show just how much she was needed! She had made herself a nice boiled egg, popped it on a tray, taken it upstairs, and eaten it. She was about to snuggle down again and watch a weepy film on TV when Callie McFadden called her.

Callie reported that Alison MacDonald had coped well with the angry parents wanting to know about the Dodsworth exams, and it seemed that she had Ray Findley’s backing.

Liz felt distinctly cross. Alison McDonald coping had never been in her plan. Liz had definitely wanted a Year Six teacher who would be under her thumb, and who would go to pieces without Liz Rudder’s guiding hand. Perhaps the young woman hadn’t been a very good choice for the new teaching post after all. But at the time she had seemed the best candidate. She was available, she was local, and her experience was limited so she would be malleable. Liz’s luck had been in on the day of the interview. Mr Findley had been dealing with some domestic crisis as usual, so Liz had stood in for him. Alison MacDonald had certainly been keen and presentable so she had been given the job without too much discussion about the other more experienced candidates. Once the decision was made, Liz had made it clear to everyone that Alison was really an also-ran.

‘We had such weak applicants. I don’t think she’ll cope, poor girl. And we have to keep an eye on all this painting paraphernalia. It’s going to be a real nuisance.’

Liz had expected that within months Alison would be begging for support, in Liz’s pocket like the rest of the staff, but the younger woman was showing more resilience.

But, Liz hoped, not for long. This was turning out to be a tough week for teachers at St Mungo’s, and the news about the Dodsworth scholarships meant Alison would be under more pressure than ever. Liz had only been doing her duty by suggesting that Faye Armistead go up to school, on the rampage. If Miss MacDonald was rattled as a result, well, that was what happened with younger staff who overreached themselves, wasn’t it? They had to learn from experience.

Liz had taught Year Five for the last fifteen years, and it suited her very well. She knew that before Sheila’s timely breakdown, the head had been thinking of a shake-up. The last thing Liz wanted was change. All she needed was to tread water until she reached that final full pension in a few years’ time. Fortunately Sheila’s collapse had derailed him. But now, Liz worried that Ray Findley might be back on form. Say he started having bright ideas again? Like giving his stalwart deputy head the top class next year? Liz Rudder shuddered under the bedclothes. She had to pick her way along a delicate path. She 
needed a Year Six teacher who was just capable enough, so that Liz herself didn’t have to take the troublesome eleven-year-olds. But at the same time, that teacher mustn’t get above herself and threaten Liz’s new status. A keen but inexperienced teacher like Alison had seemed perfect. Until now.

And if Ray Findley was getting back on his feet, it didn’t bode well. Say he and Alison MacDonald joined forces?

But maybe something else could take Mr Findley’s mind off reorganizing St Mungo’s. Liz smiled. Callie was just the person to help with that. She had a hold over Ray Findley, and Liz knew all about it. Of course, Callie might need a little encouragement to use that hold to Liz’s advantage, but that shouldn’t be difficult. Liz opened the drawer of her bedside table and smiled. In it was a rather ugly-looking hammer. Callie might need to be reminded that Liz had found it under the smashed classroom window. Despite what Liz Rudder had said to anyone else, she was convinced that Jonty had broken the window. And no one was more aware than Liz Rudder that Jonty McFadden was a very nasty piece of work indeed, and that his mother would go to any lengths to protect him.

Ro Watson stood in the porch of her cottage in Burnside and looked up the hill towards the main road. The lane wound down towards her, lined by silver birch and elder. She saw the car bounce slowly down the bumpy track. Alison came to a halt and parked.

‘Thanks for this,’ she said as she approached. ‘It’s good for me to get out. My mum is lovely, but she’s hovering over me all the time at the moment.’ She was wearing jeans, a T-shirt and a hooded jacket. But her hair was loose, rippling over her shoulders. She’s really very pretty, Ro thought.

‘Come in. I can’t offer you a drink if you’re driving, but how about a coffee? This is my son Ben, on the computer, but we can go downstairs.’

Alison smiled at the faired-haired boy looking closely at his computer screen, and followed Ro down the stairs to the kitchen, with its big windows and a view over the river.

‘What a beautiful house!’ she said.

‘One of the benefits of living in Cumbria.’

‘You must get loads of visitors. This would be a great room for a party.’

‘We don’t actually.’

‘That’s a shame. It’s fantastic. My boyfriend and I want to get a house in Manchester. It’s a great city, but I’ll miss all this.’ Alison looked out at the valley, where the darkness was dusting the opposite fell.

Ro handed Alison a mug of coffee and a piece of home-made cake. She said, ‘It’s not that I want to be a domestic goddess or anything. I just don’t get out much.’ 

Alison laughed, with a warmth that encouraged Ro to go on. ‘I want to apologize for my colleague on Sunday. I don’t know why Jed was so
aggressive
. That’s not community police tactics.’

‘That’s OK. I don’t have to deal with him again. Look, Mrs Watson, you asked us to email you if we had anything to say about the broken window.’ Alison stopped, awkwardly.

‘It was done by a hammer, wasn’t it?’

‘Yes! How did you know?’

‘You told us on Sunday. I don’t think you realized what you said. We didn’t find the hammer, so no one knew. There were some children there, weren’t there. And a parent?’

‘Yes, Mrs Spencer and Molly and Becky. But they didn’t see what came through the window.’

Ah, Suzy Spencer! That was interesting, Ro thought. So her old friend could corroborate anything Alison said.

‘So what happened to the hammer, Alison?’

The young teacher sat there, trying not to face the obvious facts. Ro could see the confusion in her face.

‘I think,’ Alison said painfully, ‘that it’s been removed. I’ve looked and I can’t find it anywhere, not under the desks or in with the art stuff.’ She
swallowed
. ‘I think Mrs Rudder has taken it away. That’s the conclusion I’ve come to.’

‘Yes,’ said Ro. ‘So have I.’

Alison seemed to breathe a sigh of relief. At last, here was someone who understood what she was up against. ‘And I’m sure I recognized the boy responsible for the vandalism,’ Alison said. ‘He’s in my class. I didn’t tell the police because Mrs Rudder was adamant. When she started to quiz me I lost my nerve. She can be very forceful, in a quiet way.’

‘So what made you decide to tell me now?’

‘You were good with the children and I felt I could trust you. If it had been that other policeman, the man, I wouldn’t have said anything.’

‘Why do you think this boy did it?’

‘I think it must have been premeditated; there was something odd about it. I felt that he was aiming at the girl who was drawing – Becky Dixon.’

‘Why?’

‘Because the boy really resents her. It’s taken me a while to work it out, but he’s been aggressive and unpleasant about everything to do with Becky Dixon. She’s an unusual child, very clever, being brought up by her
grandparents
.’

Ro thought straight away of the man with the grey hair and suntanned arms who had been at the school. 

‘Is that Phil Dixon? Late fifties or early sixties? Thick grey hair. Tall?’

Alison nodded. ‘The boy who threw the hammer is called Jonty McFadden. What complicates things is that Jonty’s mother is a TA – a teaching assistant – and she … well …’

‘Well what?’

‘I think she encourages him. And Mrs Rudder knows and lets them get away with it. There’s a horrible atmosphere at St Mungo’s now. Mr Findley’s the only teacher who cares about all the children. The other staff just suck up to the ones who are tough, or rich.’

‘Is that Mrs Rudder’s approach?’

‘Absolutely. And there’s something else I want to tell you, Ro. Something quite different.’

‘Go ahead.’ Ro was aware that Alison was suddenly opening up after weeks of confusion. Her eyes were bright and there were two red spots on her pale cheeks.

‘The day the man died at St Trallen’s, I was working late. I was at the school, on my own. A youngish chap in smart clothes came to the school
playground
at about four thirty. I wonder if it could have been the same man who was found dead at the chapel. But to be honest I couldn’t identify him. I only saw him for a moment.’

‘What did he look like?’

‘He was tall with very thick dark hair and tinted glasses. He reminded me of someone. There was something odd about the way he moved. I don’t know …’

‘Well, the dead man had dark hair,’ Ro said, ‘but there were no glasses. And, as you probably heard, he’d been stabbed around the eyes.’

‘Yes, I know. Horrible.’ Alison drained the last drop of coffee from her mug. She glanced at her watch. It was nearly nine o’clock. She should go home. But it seemed easier to sit in Ro’s kitchen and carry on talking now the floodgates were open.

‘Maybe you should talk to the crime squad about it …’ Ro said, but Alison shook her head. ‘No way.’ Ro knew she was thinking about Jed and his
boorishness
at the weekend.