Spotted Hemlock

chapter three

Posted as Missing

‘… and if I may judge by the absence of beard, it is a female.’

Ibid.

« ^ »

Over one thing, Miss McKay was in full agreement with Miss Considine.

‘Unless the girl was suffering from hallucinations or a hangover, a ghostly rider on a grey horse spells Highpepper Hall. That being so, I do not feel inclined to make trouble. I’ve made a nuisance of myself there already, and not for the first time, either. We must keep watch and apprehend the gentleman if he appears again. Then, when we get his name, we can take appropriate action,’ she declared.

The appropriate action had to be taken sooner than she expected and for a more serious reason than the trampling of brussels sprouts by a ghostly horseman. The head of another of the hostels came to her immediately she had concluded her discussion with Miss Considine to inform her that one of the students was missing.

‘Missing?’ Miss McKay drew a jotter towards her. ‘Since when, Miss Paterson?’

‘Well,’ replied Miss Paterson, ‘that’s just the difficulty. You know that I spent this last week at the Autumn Show of root vegetables on Monday and Tuesday, and went on to that exhibition of new farming machinery?’

‘Yes, of course. Oh, dear! You don’t mean she’s been missing for several days? What does your head student say?’

‘She’s still in quarantine, poor girl—suspected mumps. She knows nothing about it, and I can’t get much sense out of the rest of them. It seems that the missing student went to her room to put in an extra study period on Saturday night as (so she seems to have told the others) she wasn’t satisfied with the marks she got for her last essay and practical test, and on Sunday, of course, what with my preparations for my journey and the fact that Sunday is a free day, so that the students don’t even come in to meals unless they like— they even take turns to give each other breakfast in bed—it didn’t dawn on me that anybody could be missing. I mean, I wasn’t told.’

‘No, I quite see that.’

‘Then, you see, I had a very early breakfast on Monday, to give myself time to get to the first day of the Autumn Show in good time, so that I still didn’t realise…’

‘Quite so. No blame attaches to you in the matter at all. I think one of your students should have had sufficient common sense to report to me, though.’

‘They said they didn’t like to run the girl into trouble. They do not seem to have taken a serious view of her absence. Thought it was a case of Cat’s Away, Mice Will Play, apparently. She is very well-off, of course, compared with some of my students, keeps sherry and biscuits in her room— that sort of thing. They just thought she’d decided to be A.W.O.L., that’s all.’

‘A man,’ said Miss McKay briskly. ‘That’s the answer. Well, she’ll have to be traced and found. Our ghostly friend, of course. I suppose, when Miss Good saw him, he was reconnoitring,’ she added, to Miss Considine.

Miss Considine said that she doubted it.

‘Why dress up in such a noticeable way if he wanted to elope with the girl?’ she asked. ‘Besides, why a horse? Surely a car would have been much more sensible.’

‘Not as romantic. Young Lochinvar stuff, without a doubt.’

‘It doesn’t seem practical, all the same,’ said Miss Paterson, who thereupon took herself off.

‘Romanticism never is practical. That’s the beauty of it, from their point of view. And you do realise, don’t you, Miss Considine, that if it hadn’t been for your little Miss Good and her absurd engagement ring, nobody would have known that this horseman had ever existed? To that extent, I’m grateful to her,’ declared Miss McKay.

Miss Considine respected and liked her Principal, but she was not prepared to allow this remark to pass unchallenged.

‘Oh?’ she said. ‘What about my brussels sprouts? I should have known, all right, that he existed.’

‘Well, yes,’ agreed the fair-minded Miss McKay. ‘I’d better telephone Highpepper and ask which of their students is missing. Oh, dear! How tiresome these children can be! And just when we’ve got these wretched thefts on our hands! I suppose there’s no connection?’

‘Miss Paterson would not care to hear you suggest it.’

‘Well, more of her students have missed money and valuables than people in other hostels.’

‘But she says this missing girl is rich. Are you suggesting we are harbouring a kleptomaniac?’

‘No. Everything that gets lost is an article of intrinsic worth—watches, a ring, a bracelet, jewelled earrings, money. I wish to goodness the little idiots would leave their boyfriends’ presents at home instead of flaunting them here.’

‘But where would be the fun in that? Rivalry is the spice of life when you’re young. Oh, here’s Miss Paterson back again.’

It was not the custom at Calladale for lecturers to knock formally on the door when they wished to consult their Principal, Miss McKay regarding this as an unnecessary waste of time. Miss Paterson, therefore, came striding in, and announced, with an air of triumph:

‘There’s no need to telephone Highpepper, unless you wish.’

‘Not Highpepper? Why, where else would one of our students find a man romantic and foolish enough to run off with her?’ demanded Miss McKay.

‘I didn’t mean that. I meant that if a Highpepper youth is involved, the students in my hostel will be certain to know who he is. You could then attack from that angle.’

‘Something in that.’ But Miss McKay was not wholly convinced. She decided to telephone Highpepper, only to learn that none of the student body was unaccounted for.

‘Staff?’ demanded Miss McKay, resolved to leave no stone unturned.

‘Come, come,’ said Mr Sellaclough, soothingly. ‘All the same, if you’ll hold on, I’ll send round. Well, it will take some time. Suppose I ring you back?’

Miss McKay agreed to this, thanked him and added that, naturally, she was rather worried. This was not the attitude she took at the high table that evening at supper, to which Carey had been invited.

‘It isn’t a Highpepper thing,’ she announced to the table at large. ‘There is nobody there unaccounted for. It means, in my experience, that the girl is in a pet, or is feeling worried about her work, and has slipped off home. I haven’t telephoned her people because it is up to them to let me know she is there. Of course, if they haven’t telephoned by noon tomorrow I shall have to contact them. If nothing is known of her there, I shall get in touch with the police, but that should hardly be necessary. It would be such a boring thing for the college if anything got into the papers. You remember the case of that Miss Diggins we had?’

Murmurs from the senior members of the staff could be taken as agreement that they did remember the case of Miss Diggins.

‘The little silly who ran off to her married sister because she couldn’t face her preliminary “Perennials” viva,’ translated Miss Considine helpfully.

‘That’s the girl.’

‘Yes, that was scarcely very sinister,’ said Miss Paterson. ‘So you think she has just run home? Yet I shouldn’t have thought it, you know. She certainly wasn’t the type to worry about her work, although I will admit that, so far this term, it hasn’t come up to standard. Still, I believe it to be quite good. Oh, it will all turn out to have a perfectly ordinary explanation, I’m sure. It’s quite a mistake to panic.’

‘I wouldn’t care to state that it will turn out to have an ordinary explanation,’ said Carey. ‘I don’t know much about the psychology of girls, but, taking into consideration all the facts, I should call this whole business rather odd. Of course, there may be no connection between the three things, but— what have we experienced already this term? First, there was that outbreak of hooliganism, about which we still know nothing. Then we have the headless ghost seen by Miss Good. Now—a missing student who isn’t being run off with by one of the lads at Highpepper, and who has been gone longer than seems reasonable. If you don’t want to call in the police, why don’t you call in my aunt? She’s the soul of discretion, and will sort it all out in no time.’

‘But Dame Beatrice could not possibly be interested,’ protested Miss McKay.

‘Why not? Look here, you call her in. I’ll guarantee she’ll come like a shot unless she’s tied up with some conference or lecture programme or something.’

‘I could hardly hope…’

‘Would you like me to call her?’

‘Well…’

‘She’ll do a lot for a favourite nephew.’ He liked and respected Miss McKay. ‘I can understand that you don’t want the police butting in until we know there’s real cause. After all, the girl’s of age. There’s nothing to stop her going off with a man, which is what I, personally, would rather bet she’s done. What kind of girl is she?’

Miss McKay repeated what she had been told by the various lecturers and then added:

‘You’ve only had her in your pig-keeping classes for a week or two, I know, but I should be interested to hear what you made of her.’

Carey wrinkled his brow.

‘She seemed rather a self-contained sort of girl, I thought, and rather more mature in her outlook than some of them. She was quiet and worked well—seemed to take her training very seriously indeed. I got the impression that she was trying to learn all she could as quickly as she could. In fact, I used to wonder whether she hadn’t a stronger motive than some of them for taking the course at all.’

‘I don’t think her people were very keen. She was acting partly in opposition to them, I believe. I’m glad to hear on all sides that she was such a keen student, except that it makes her absence from the college all the more unaccountable. If you really think Dame Beatrice would come…’

‘I’ll telephone her at once. No, come to think of it, I’ve a free afternoon tomorrow because of that film show you’re putting on in the lecture hall. I’ll go over and see her, and bring her back with me, unless, as I say, she’s dated up.’

His aunt, as usual, was delighted to see him, invited him to dinner and to stay the night, and promised to go back with him to Calladale in the morning. Carey telephoned Jenny to let her know where he was, and settled down to enjoy his evening.

After dinner he gave the elderly, quick-eyed and beaky-mouthed Dame Beatrice, psychiatrist and consulting psychologist to the Home Office, an account of the several happenings at Calladale since he had joined the staff there. She listened without interruption until he had finished.

‘Well?’ he said, after a lengthy silence had succeeded his remarks. Dame Beatrice shook her head.

‘I think we may discount the original work of destruction,’ she said. ‘It was almost certainly carried out by a gang of louts. In putting matters to rights, the students, you say, came across alien matter in the form of rhubarb crowns and the decomposed carcasses of rats. These, you believe, may have represented a long-term (so to speak) bit of ragging on the part of some men-students from Highpepper. There follows the appearance of this ghostly figure on horseback seen only by Miss Good…’

‘But testified to by the dumb mouths of Miss Gonsidine’s brussels sprouts, don’t forget…’

‘… coupled with the disappearance of Miss Palliser.’

‘We don’t know that it was coupled with it, you know. There’s a considerable time-lag between Saturday and Thursday. Besides, if anybody wanted to spirit the girl away, it was surely a damn’ silly way to do it?’

‘I don’t see that. A motor-car or motor-cycle would have been noisy.’

‘Do you suppose the girl was a consenting party to being carried away?’

‘It seems that she must have been. Consider the facts: here are these students in study-bedrooms in a comparatively modern building, twenty or so, at least, of them, I suppose. It is not likely that one of the girls could have been carried off at just before midnight against her will.’

‘No, but there was only one horseman, according to Miss Good.’

‘You mean there was only one horse.’

She drove with Carey to the College early next morning and was introduced to Miss McKay, who professed that she was very glad to see her.

‘Mr Lestrange has told you of our problem, of course,’ she said.

‘He has told me all he knows, but that really amounts to very little. I had better speak to the other lecturers. Have you any reason to think that this girl has run away with a young man? I gather that that is your opinion.’

‘It seems that I may need to revise it. It was my opinion, but I have telephoned Highpepper Hall, and, so far as they know, none of their students is missing. It was the first thing I thought of, naturally. Some of our girls take themselves very seriously and are apt to do foolish things in consequence. If you get nothing helpful from the lecturers, I must ring up the mother. I can’t take the responsibility of keeping her in the dark if the stupid child really is missing. It will all turn out to be some sort of an emotional upset, no doubt. You know what these adolescents are!’

Dame Beatrice ascertained from Miss Paterson, a weather-beaten, grey-eyed Scot, that the girl, so far as she knew, was in no trouble. She hesitated and then mentioned the thefts.

‘But you could talk to the students,’ she said. ‘Naturally, they get to know things about one another that never come to our ears. The girl was well-off, I am sure. There couldn’t have been any temptation to steal.’

Dame Beatrice did talk to the students and at first it seemed as though she was going to draw blank. Then she met a girl who knew the missing student from schooldays.

‘Norah got married in the holidays. I’m not supposed to tell anybody, but… well, I think she may have gone to her husband. She told me the other week that she’d had a letter from him. The only thing is, I should have thought she’d have asked for an Absence. After all, she didn’t need to say it was her husband. A white lie wouldn’t be out of place under the circumstances.’

‘Do her parents know about the marriage?’

‘No. She’s turned twenty-one and didn’t need their consent. She wouldn’t tell them in case they refused to go on paying her fees here, I suppose, although I think perhaps she pays her own.’

‘Her husband could not afford the fees?’

‘No, he isn’t earning. He’s an art student.’

‘I see. Thank you very much for being so helpful. I will find out privately whether she is with him. At which art school does he study, and what is his name?’

‘His name is Coles and he’s at Belmont College of Art in London. I say, you won’t tell Miss McKay, unless it’s impossible not to, will you?’

‘No, I will not, and Miss McKay is not, unless I mistake her, the person to press for information which I may appear to be reluctant to give.’

‘Thanks ever so much, Dame Beatrice. I wouldn’t want Norah to know I’d ratted on her.’

Dame Beatrice went back to the Principal and told her that she had what might prove to be a clue to the whereabouts of the missing student and that the search must be carried on in London.

‘I suppose the little idiot isn’t going to have a baby?’ said Miss McKay. Dame Beatrice replied that this, no doubt, was a possibility, and was so obviously unprepared to say more that Miss McKay, wise in her generation, forbore to ask any more questions, merely adding that all she wanted was to make sure that the girl was safe.

George, Dame Beatrice’s respectable and reliable chauffeur, drove her the ninety-odd miles to London immediately after lunch. She reached her Kensington house in time for tea and sent her secretary, Laura Gavin, to look up the address of the Belmont College of Art. It turned out to be in the neighbourhood of New Cross, and, as it was likely to have concluded its daily session by five o’clock, a visit to it had to be postponed until the following morning. Dame Beatrice had left her telephone number with Miss McKay in case the missing student should turn up again at Calladale, but by ten o’clock next morning no call had come through from the college, so she sent for the car and drove out to New Cross, having previously arranged for an appointment with the head of the art school.

She explained her business and the young husband appeared on a summons from his principal. Dame Beatrice wasted no time on preliminaries. She said:

‘Mr Coles, I represent the Principal of Calladale, where your wife is a student. She has absented herself from college without leaving a message, and you will understand that we are anxious to know that she is safe.’

Her quick black eyes had not left the boy’s face whilst she had been speaking, and it was clear to her, before she had concluded her remarks, that the lad was not prepared to give her much information.

‘I’ve no idea where Norah is,’ he said. ‘I—I should think she must have gone home.’

‘Did you write her a letter to say that you were not in your usual health, or convey any other information which might have caused her anxiety?’

‘No, I didn’t. I’m perfectly fit. Always am. I don’t understand this at all. Who said I had sent her a letter?’

‘Her friend, Miss Elspeth Bellman.’

Coles shook his head.

‘Something wrong somewhere. I should think Norah had a letter from home about somebody there, and Elsie Bellman got it all mixed up. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll telephone. That’s where Norah must be, at her home.’

He went out. Dame Beatrice looked up as the head of the Art School, who had left them alone for the interview, came back to the room.

‘Any satisfaction?’ he asked. ‘I saw Coles come out. He doesn’t look particularly worried.’

‘I do not think he is. He is under the impression that the girl has gone to her own home. Perhaps a member of the family is ill. He has gone to telephone the household.’

‘You speak as though your own is a different opinion.’

‘Do I? I do not hold an opinion. If the girl has gone home it must have been on a matter of some urgency, or surely she would have left a message or sent a telegram. I am extremely sorry to take up your time like this, but you will appreciate that the Principal of Calladale is anxious.’

‘Quite.’ He glanced at the clock on the wall. ‘I’m teaching next period, but, until then, my time is my own. I’ve cleared up my correspondence and there’s nothing else outstanding. Yes, I can imagine that the Principal would be feeling rather worried. Thank heaven, I’m only responsible for day students.’

Coles returned after about twelve minutes, during which Dame Beatrice and her companion had discussed the difficulties and responsibilities of being in loco parentis to boarders. Coles’ expression had changed. He looked anxious and uncertain.

‘She isn’t at home. I don’t know what to think now. Could she have lost her memory and wandered off somewhere? I can’t imagine it. She wasn’t worried about anything, so far as I know. It’s worry that brings about amnesia, isn’t it?’

‘Not necessarily. If she’d received a bad knock on the head it could lead to amnesia. But are you sure there was nothing about which she might have worried?’

‘She didn’t like keeping our marriage from her mother, but, until I can earn, there’s nothing else for it, and she knows that. She’s dead keen on this agricultural college. We’re going to begin a smallholding as soon as we’ve saved enough money. Norah has a job waiting for her at the end of her course—next June, that will be—and I’m hoping to do more pottery, and perhaps sell a picture or two and do some private work—interior decorating, you know. We’re prepared to live very economically to get the money together, and I think my uncle will help with a loan. My people don’t know I’m married, but they like Norah. She can come and stay during the vacations. Her mother thinks we’re engaged. If we can keep the marriage quiet until June, everything should be all right, so I don’t see any real reason for Norah to worry. What do you suggest I should do? I’m afraid I feel rather at a loss.’

‘I shall return to college and consult Miss McKay. It seems to me that our only course will be to call in the police.’

‘Oh, surely that shouldn’t be necessary. There can’t really be anything wrong. If I hear anything of her, I’ll ring up Calladale at once, of course.’

‘And if all is well when I get back, I will let you know.’

But when she got back to the college there was still no news of the missing girl. Miss McKay called in the police. A lean, alert, fatherly, middle-aged officer asked questions and became reassuring. His reasoning was that Miss Palliser (as she was still known to the college authorities) had probably upset herself about something and had gone off in what he described as ‘a state.’ There would be little difficulty, he anticipated, in locating her.