SILENTIUM POTENTIA’ on a scroll underneath.
As Lucy opened her door he stepped forward, shielding her from the rain with his brolly, before conjuring another one from behind his back and handing it to her.
His voice was stuffed with plums and cut crystal, the Scottish accent barely noticeable. ‘Detective Sergeant McVeigh? The headmaster sends his regards and asks if you and your colleague would accompany me to the Archers’ Gallery.’
‘Of course.’
The Dunk scurried around from his side of the car, plipping the locks, and squeezing in under Lucy’s borrowed umbrella. Mouth opening and closing, no sound coming out.
Not exactly his finest day.
Their escort turned and marched along the front of the building, taking a hard left through an open archway flanked by small turrets. It led through into a quadrangle that was probably big enough to hold a full-sized football pitch, enclosed on all four sides by more Scottish baronial buildings, tall windows looking out over the flagstone paths, grass, and an ancient oak tree. Its branches were heavy and twisted, the lower ones fluttering with black and red ribbons. That vampire’s castle made up the far corner, jagged and dark against the lowering skies. Looming.
A group of four teenagers — two boys and two girls, dressed in identical dark-grey suits, white shirts, burgundy ties, and black gowns — swept out of a door to the side. Black golf umbrellas clacked up and the kids bustled along one of the paths, like a tiny murder of crows. Making for a door on the opposite side.
The Dunk kept his voice down. ‘Jesus. Hogwarts, much?’
Lucy matched his whisper. ‘Good grief: it speaks!’
He pointed at their escort as they followed him out into the quad. ‘And what’s with the outfit? Fancy-dress time?’
‘The one gold epaulette means he’s an under-prefect. Two gold makes you a prefect. Single red means you’re a house leader. Blue: class monitor. And white’s for new students.’
They passed the twisted oak, rain clattering down on the shared brolly.
‘How come you know so much about St Nicholas College?’
Their escort cast a smile over his shoulder at them. ‘Not far to go now.’ Then took a right, onto an intersecting path, making for an older-looking, two-storey bit of the school — its sharp-pitched roof lined with gargoyles, water spewing out of their mouths. The windows here were little more than slits.
A heavy wooden door opened on a wide hallway with a sweeping stone staircase, the walls thick with coats of arms, each one picked out in carved wood or moulded plaster. They lined the staircase, too.
Their escort closed his brolly and slipped it into an elaborate brass holder by the door, then held his hand out. ‘If I may...?’ He relieved Lucy of her umbrella and put it next to his. Then took the stairs up, pointing at a crest on the way. ‘That was my great-grandfather’s. We’ve been coming here for six generations.’
The Dunk’s face went even pinker.
At the top of the stairs was a wide corridor with a vaulted ceiling. Big lancet windows sat at either end, vivid with stained glass. They glowed, casting multicoloured shapes across the flagstones, even though A: there was sod-all sign of any sunshine outside, and B: the buildings flanking this one were both a storey taller.
One side of the corridor had three ancient wooden doors leading off it, each bearing a small engraved nameplate: ‘MR WINCHESTER ~ FINANCIAL STATISTICS’, ‘MRS WELLS ~ STOCK MARKET ANALYSIS’, and ‘MS PESTON ~ INTERNATIONAL TAX LAW’.
The other wall held more rows of family crests, broken up by those thin deep windows overlooking the quadrangle.
Their escort held up a hand. ‘If you wouldn’t mind waiting here.’ Then he knocked lightly on the door to Ms Peston’s class, slipping inside only when the word ‘Enter!’ boomed out through the wood. A trio of children, each with two white epaulettes on their academic gowns, sat at individual, fancy-looking desks, behind swanky laptops with the school crest on them. They didn’t look around, just kept their eyes on whatever the teacher had projected on the far wall.
Soon as the door closed behind their escort, the Dunk sagged. ‘Bloody Norah. Did you hear him?’ Putting on an exaggerated posh accent for: ‘“We’ve been coming here for six generations.”’ A snort, and the Dunk was back to his normal voice again. ‘And where does he get off ordering us about?’ Stomping over to the nearest window and glaring out at the rain.
‘Yes, because you definitely put him in his place, didn’t you? With your trademark not-saying-anything-and-blushing-like-a-nervous-teenage-girl.’ Lucy gave him a slow round of applause. ‘Made quite the impression. I had goosebumps.’
‘That’s what hereditary privilege gets you. Everyone in the whole sodding world only exists for your convenience, because you’re better than them. You earned their obsequious kowtowing servitude just by dropping out of some stuck-up rich bint nine months after she shagged the footman. That’s not an “accident of birth”, no, that’s destiny! Here, why not have a seat in the House of Lords while you’re at it, you unqualified, unelected, toffee-nosed twat!’
‘Are you finished?’
‘Know what we should have? Hundred percent taxation on all inherited wealth over... a hundred grand. Then the buggers would have to spend it before they died — put it back into the economy, where it’ll do a bit of good, instead of these Swiss-bank trust-fund wankers’ pockets. They hoard money, they hoard power, they hoard privilege, and to hell with the rest of us!’
‘Bravo.’ It was a man’s voice, right behind them: warm, round, and rich as a mahogany sideboard, with more than a hint of a chuckle to it. ‘I see we have a maverick economic theorist in our midst.’
The Dunk’s mouth shut so fast you could hear his teeth clatter together. Then his face paled a couple of shades, before the blush resurfaced again.
Lucy turned. ‘Headmaster?’
The man beamed back at her. He was in the same dark-grey suit and burgundy tie as the pupils, but his academic robe was a deep shade of crimson, edged with gold. A wispy tuft of white hair clung on for dear life at the top of his head, while the rest was reduced to little more than fuzz. Piercing blue eyes, a hooked nose, and lots and lots of laughter lines. He stuck out a liver-spotted hand. ‘Arnold Price-Hamilton, at your service, Detective Sergeant McVeigh.’ He turned to the Dunk. ‘I don’t believe our head porter got your name, young man...?’
Nope. You’d have more luck getting a reply out of a doorstop.
‘This is Detective Constable Fraser. He’s your basic strong, silent type.’ As if. ‘We need to talk to one of your students, an Allegra Dean-Edwards?’
‘I see.’ The headmaster’s smile turned into a frown. ‘May I ask why you need to talk to Ms Dean-Edwards?’
The door to the classroom opened again, and out slithered their escort. Clicking it shut almost silently behind him. Then stood there, not saying a word, hands clasped in front of his crotch.
‘Allegra’s not in any trouble, if that’s what you’re worrying about. She bought a new coat for a homeless man, about five weeks ago; we’re hoping she might have seen something that could help with our inquiry. It’s a long shot, but we have to be thorough about these things.’
‘Hmmm...’ Then a nod. ‘Skye? Fetch Mr McCaskill for me, would you? We’ll be in my office.’
‘Yes, Headmaster.’ And off the young man trotted. Six generations of wealth and privilege, and he was still stuck running errands.