Lessons in Murder Read Online Free PDF Page B

last year,” said Sybil.
    “Yes, I know. But of course, several people must have your number, so it wouldn’t be impossible to find it out. It’s on your personal information sheet, for example.”
    Sybil nodded. “I got the impression it wasn’t a stranger.”
    “Can I see the messages?”
    Sybil had written them on separate pieces of paper. Carol glanced at them, then asked her to read them aloud, as she had heard them. Sybil stumbled over the words of the second note, and looked up to meet Carol’s green eyes. Sybil felt herself redden. She shrugged. “That’s what he said.”
    “He? A whisper is basically sexless. Could it have been a woman?”
    “Perhaps . . . I don’t know. I just felt it was someone I knew—not a crank call—someone familiar.” It was an appalling thought, that someone she knew well could be secretly smirking at her fear.
    “Because the person called you Syb darling? Who would say that to you in ordinary conversation? Terry Clarke, for example?”
    Sybil smothered a yawn, then stretched. “Terry never uses the term darling,” she said with a faint smile.
    Her smile disappeared as Carol said: “How about randy little bitch?”
    Sybil met her gaze directly. “Terry has no reason at all to say that.” She looked out at the dawn which was flooding the air with light and the liquid caroling of magpies.
    “Has anyone else?”
    The cold question shocked Sybil back into the reality of the situation. The lazy early morning light had seduced her into feeling secure. Now she sat upright, frighteningly conscious of why Carol Ashton sat opposite her, relaxed, cool, and waiting to trap her.
     
    “Mrs. Dunstane?”
    Florrie Dunstane looked up to meet Carol’s friendly smile. The little, wispy, indeterminate woman smiled in return. “Yes, Inspector, can I help you?”
    “Sorry to disturb you, as I know how busy you must be, but I wonder if you’d mind answering a few questions?”
    Florrie Dunstane would be delighted. She followed the Inspector to the Principal’s office with a thrill of anticipation. It was easy for people to ignore the administrative staff in a school, but Florrie had been at Bellwhether High for eleven years, first in the old dilapidated school, and then in the luxury of the modern buildings. The school community was an important part of her life: she followed with keen interest every rumor, every stray piece of gossip and indiscreet word. She had her favorites, and Bill Pagett had been one of them. Her pebble eyes darted around the office, imprinting every detail for future regurgitation to Lionel, who waited patiently at home for her garrulous return.
    “Your husband’s an invalid,” said Carol softly.
    Florrie was impressed—this one had done her homework. Bourke watched with admiration asCarol’s easy manner encouraged Florrie Dunstane’s confidences to flow. Bill Pagett had been, she said, a “real charmer” with a smile and a word for the office staff every time he passed, always making a point of thanking them personally for anything they did for him, and often stopping for a joke or a comment about his colleagues or the students—not that it was gossip, of course.
    “Mr. Pagett was interested in people, was he?” prompted Carol.
    Florrie warmly agreed. She became expansive on the subject of the English staff. Did the police know that Alan Witcombe, the head of the English Department, was a religious nut who Bill had said would go bananas one day and kill someone? That Pete McIvor was in love with Antonia Waters from the Physical Education Department, but she threw him out and told Bill that he was just a boy trying to do a man’s job? That Lynne Simpson was, well, not to put too fine a point on it, practically a nymphomaniac? Carol looked suitably surprised, asking if this was a generally held opinion. Florrie thought not. Bill knew things other people didn’t.
    “Did Bill Pagett himself have a relationship with Lynne Simpson?” asked Bourke,