7. Keys and Locks

The school entrances come under consideration

7. Keys and Locks

“Maybe you can help me here, gentlemen, but is the door on Bloxham Street ever accidentally left unlocked overnight?” asked DI Sheila McFyffe, sitting on a spare chair in the headmaster’s office while the caretaker set on another and the DS Dave Wright stood uncomfortably behind his boss there being no more chairs in the room..

“It shouldn’t be,” said Mr Lincoln, glancing suspiciously at caretaker Eric Foster, and went on to add “the key is always hanging pon the key board in the secretary’s office, and if it’s there the door almost certainly is locked.”

“Almost?” queried Sheila.

“Well, the person who takes the key in order to unlock that door will surely replace it when he’s finished with it and has relocked the door,” replied the Headmaster, seeing that his words didn’t mean much if his assumed order of events isn’t followed to the letter.

“So you would agree that nobody could enter the school from the Bloxham Street door without actually forcing the door?” she asked, smiling.

“I suppose they could… but then, Mr Foster here checks that all the keys are on the board before he goes home at night, don’t you, Eric.

“Usually,” nodded the caretaker, “though once or twice I have to go home to check on the misses. She can have a bad turn from time to time, and I nip off home to make sure she‘s okay.”

“I know of that,” nodded the headmaster, “his poor Jenny can have quite bad episodes. It’s a trial for the poor man, and that’s a fact.”

“She won’t be so long in the world,” added Mr Foster, wiping an imaginary tear from one eye, “it’s her heart, you know, the poor dear.”

“Very sad,” nodded Mr Lincoln.

“I’m very sorry to learn this,” murmured Sheila, making sure she sounded as sincere as a woman ignorant of the caretaker’s home circumstances and ailing wife could be expected to.

“The big question,” said Dave, “is whether that door is ever left unlocked at night when everyone’s gone home? Or, conversely if it is locked might someone, a third party, let’s say, someone with evil intent, enters the school and hide somewhere, say in the boy’s toilets?”

“Or the girls’” added Sheila, “let’s not be sexist about this!”

“Look, I suppose that might always happen in any building with or without toilets,” offered Mr Lincoln, “now, officers, if there isn’t anything else, I’m a busy man, and so is Mr Foster. The secretary might fill you in on the subject of the availability of keys.”

“There is one more question,” smiled Sheila.

“Quickly, then,” growled the headmaster.

“Did either of you take a knife or some other bladed implement and plunge it into Mr Daniels’ chest?” she asked without so much as a flicker of humour crossing her face.

“Of course not!” protested both men at once, in a strange sort of unison.

“Then, gentlemen, we’ll leave you for the time being, but in cases like this there are always questions that must be answered, sometimes quite late in the day. Come on Sergeant, there are other witnesses for us to see and interrogate.

When they were clear of the school and Sheila was driving back to the police station. she asked “What did you make of it, sergeant?”

“Well, they were a bit vague about the door from Bloxham Street,” he replied, “there doesn’t seem to be any fool-proof system, if you see what I mean.”

“That I do. And from the uncomfortable way Mr Foster spoke about his lady wife I’d say Mr Foster nips off home quite often. We’ll have to get his address confirmed and his story checked out.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“First thing tomorrow, then. Do you think either of those men were the sort to stick knives into the Danielses of this world.?”

He shook his head. “Mr Lincoln, he with the polished and uncluttered desk, seems to be much too busy to do anything like that. I mean, he said he was busy man, but what was he doing that made him busy enough to as good as tell us to go? I couldn’t spot as much as a drop of split ink on that desk of his.”

She smiled at him. “It’s a common enough excuse from men in top jobs,” she said, “even our superintendent might resort to that ploy if she wants to avoid a question.”

“Or if she’s guilty,” he grinned.

“Sergeant, how dared you suggest that Superintendent Foyle is up to that sort of nefarious trickery!” she laughed.

Once back at the police station and gratefully out of what was becoming a cold end to the day they were accosted by desk sergeant Stowelli.

“You’ve got a very persistent visitor, ma‘am” he said, “I told her that you might not be back until tomorrow, but she’s in the main office away from anything important or private, in the book corner, with a cup of tea and the look on her face like my wife gets when she’s decided not to give up.”

“Has she got a name?” asked.

“Ah yes,” said Stowelli, “and you might not like it, seeing as who’s dead. She said she’s Mrs Daniels, and she’s got a bloke and a kid with her…”

“Oh no,” sighed Sheila, “what state is she in? I mean, has she had one over the eight?”

The sergeant shook his head. “Nothing like that, fortunately. But she does seem agitated.”

“And the bloke with her? Does he have a name?” asked Dave.

“He does that. It’s the Reverend Stoker of Saint Paulinus Church and he’s not the nicest clergyman in the kingdom. Far from it. He’s been in the cells two or three times. Got a temper on him when he’s had a few jars too many and not even the Bishop is too happy coming to apologise for him.”

“Oh Lordy,” sighed Sheila and she made her way to the book corner of the main office, and there was Mrs Daniels with her son, and browsing one of the books was a clergyman.

“You wanted to speak to me, Mrs Daniels,” she said.

The deceased man’s wife looked up and smiled.

“I found this in Joe’s spare jeans pocket,” she said, and held up a shiny key that looked as if it might have been made yesterday, “and it’s nowt to do with our house.”

“It looks very much like a school key, so I advised her to bring it here today,” boomed the Reverend in a clerical voice, “before you thought she had something to do with her husband’s demise, because she didn’t. She was with me. Or rather, I was with her, enjoying a few little drinks and praying to our Lord for a way out of hell…”

© Peter Rogerson 09.01.24

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