Well-Schooled in Murder (Inspector Lynley)
When thirteen-year-old Matthew Whately goes missing from Bredgar Chambers, a prestigious public school in the heart of West Sussex, aristocratic Inspector Thomas Lynley receives a call for help from the lad's housemaster, who also happens to be an old school chum. Thus, the inspector, his partner, Detective Sergeant Barbara Havers, and forensic scientist Simon Allcourt-St. James find themselves once again outside their jurisdiction and deeply involved in the search for a child—and then, tragically, for a child killer. Questioning prefects, teachers, and pupils closest to the dead boy, Lynley and Havers sense that something extraordinarily evil is going on behind Bredgar Chambers's cloistered walls. But as they begin to unlock the secrets of this closed society, the investigation into Matthew's death leads them perilously close to their own emotional wounds—and blinds them to the signs of another murder in the making....
From the Paperback edition.
inhaled like whistling in reverse. He remained in that posture for nearly a minute. Near him, Sergeant Havers looked towards Lynley. He directed his head at the chair next to him. She took it. “A pupil,” Lockwood murmured at last. “A pupil.” An inadvertent underlying note of relief rang past the Headmaster’s statement. Lynley understood. Lockwood had made his own quick assumptions about how the tape could complete another part of the puzzle of murder. If a pupil were responsible for Matthew
smudged and cloudy as Lynley had first seen it. St. James went to examine it, pushing up on the sash that served as its front panel. “It looks like a two-metre cupboard,” he said, studying everything from the white tiles of its base to the vent in its side. “Two metres tall. One metre in width.” He leaned closer to the traces of the deposit which smudged the glass. “I should think…” He removed a penknife from his pocket and scraped it against the glass. A residue of white powder dropped into his
They were entirely different from the posturing nudes among which they rested. Both were marble, and as Lynley studied them, he was reminded of Michelangelo’s belief that the object being created from stone was simply imprisoned within the rock itself, that the duty of the artist was to act as liberator. He remembered seeing such a sculpture in Florence, an unfinished piece in which the head and torso of a man seemed to writhe to free itself from the marble. These two pieces before him were much
expanse of open field beyond it. Lynley reached for his spectacles, put them on, and pulled several neatly folded plastic bags out of his pocket. He donned latex gloves, although even as he did so, he realised the uselessness of such precaution. By now the clothes had so many contaminants upon them after a period on the rubbish heap followed by a night in the wheelbarrow, that it was ridiculous to assume that any usable evidence might be gleaned from them once they were turned over to a forensic
his rooms. Beyond that, he reflected upon Corntel’s desire to leave Emilia uninvolved in the situation. This wasn’t the nineteenth century, after all, with Emilia Bond a woman whose virtue needed protecting at the cost of a man’s professional future. Neither was likely to face permanent perdition for spending a few discreet hours in the other’s company. There was something else here, something beyond the woman’s presence in Corntel’s rooms. Lynley could sense that probability unmistakably, like a