Wicked! (122 page)

The police were very reassuring. Lads often ran away after a family row. At least he’d left a note; he’d probably be home in the morning.

But Paris did not come home. As the days crawled by, Ian and Patience sank into blacker despair. Patience wouldn’t leave the house in case he returned. Dora kept bunking off classes and at night, combing the woods with Northcliffe and Cadbury.

‘Where’s Pawis?’ cried Dulcie over and over again.

Ian couldn’t concentrate on anything. How could he have shouted at Paris on that last evening? Taking a wireless into the bursar’s office, he listened to every bulletin until Alex grew very sharp with him.

‘It’s only a foster child, after all.’

Pleading for help, Dora rang all her media contacts, who wanted to know if Paris was having woman trouble.

‘Are you his girlfriend, Dora?’

‘No, but I’d like to be. He’s so beautiful, I’m sure he’s been kidnapped.’

‘We just want him home and safe,’ Ian and Patience told the press.

‘He might go to Feral or Emlyn,’ suggested Dora. ‘If he’d known where Theo was, he’d have gone to him.’

‘We’ve checked Theo Graham,’ said Chief Inspector Gablecross, ‘but there’s no sign.’

‘And he can’t go to Hengist,’ sobbed Dora, ‘because he’s in prison.’

Sally felt desperately guilty. She never should have slept with Paris. They hadn’t again, but he’d been so adorable, popping in most days, holding her in his arms and sending her praise postcards. Calling on the Old Coach House, Sally found Patience mucking out the horses, her mobile in the breast pocket of her tweed coat. Her face was utterly devastated by tears, her eyes huge purple craters.

‘Oh Sally, we tried so hard not to crowd him; now we realize how desperately we love him. It’s all our fault. Paris’s last words to us were that he was going to find his real parents. Ian thought he was just trying to hurt us. We should have stayed in, but Poppet was holding some awful parenting workshop, and we felt we should go to gain brownie points.’

Patience collapsed sobbing on a hay bale.

Over at Wilmington, Janna had been equally devastated, not least by Hengist’s arrest. Jubilee Cottage was on the market, the ‘For Sale’ sign creaking desolate in the east wind. As a hair shirt and to pay the mortgage, she was filling in for a head of English on maternity leave in the next county, which meant an hour’s drive there and back every day, leaving poor bewildered Partner alone in the house, ripping up carpets, scrabbling at doors and biting the ankles of estate agents, who showed fewer and fewer people over the house.

Patience had called to tell her Paris had bolted.

‘He so admired you, Janna. He might easily turn up.’

‘Oh God, I probably won’t be here, I’m working miles away and such long hours.’

‘Poor Paris was devastated about Theo and Hengist. Alex is being such a brute turfing Sally out in November. She’s just been here. Paris found out Ian and Artie were under threat too, poor boy. He must have felt all his security crumbling.’

As Janna switched off the telephone, she wondered if she ought to stay home, just in case Paris did turn up.

He loved me once, Atthis, long ago.

In need of comfort and the comfort of comforting, Janna rang Sally and thought she’d got the wrong number when the call was answered by a deep, lilting, utterly unforgettable voice that set her heart crashing.

‘Emlyn. I must have misdialled. I wanted Sally.’

‘I’ve just driven down to see her.’

There was an interminable pause.

Oh Christ, she’d craved the sound of that voice for the longest four months of her life, now she couldn’t think of anything to say.

‘How’s the Welsh Rugby Union?’

‘Fine.’

There was another long pause.

‘Emlyn, I wrote to Sally about Hengist. How is she?’

‘Not great.’

He was making no effort. He was still angry with her.

‘Sally didn’t write back and she’s usually so punctilious. Is she OK?’ Janna was so frantic to see Emlyn, she added, ‘Shall I pop round?’

‘I wouldn’t. That bastard Randal told her Hengist was having an affaire with Ruth.’

‘Oh no!’

‘Randal was trying to pull Sally; then he told her about Hengist and you. Paris, caught off guard, confirmed it.’

Janna gave a wail of anguish.

‘I can’t bear it, poor Sally. Oh my God, I’m sorry. But it was over months ago.’

‘Was it?’ said Emlyn bleakly.

‘Truly, truly, when I found out about him and Ruth, when you marked my stupid suicide note. Oh, please tell Sally she’s the only person he’s ever loved.’

‘I’m sure she’ll find it a great comfort,’ said Emlyn acidly. ‘I’ve gotta go.’

‘Please, please don’t.’

But he’d hung up.

Sobbing wildly, Janna drove over to Bagley and parked in the hedgerow at the bottom of the drive.

After an hour, listening to the screech owls and watching the moon rise through the mist, she heard the familiar racket of Emlyn’s Renault, careering and bumping down the drive. She prayed he’d turn left towards Wilmington, but she only caught a glimpse of his thick blond hair before, with a screech of tyres, he hurtled right towards Wales.

Patience and Ian sank deeper and deeper into despair. They had never known there were a hundred hours between each tick of the clock, and no sleep in the night, as a day became a week. There was no trace anywhere of Paris.

The police, by the increasing gravity of their demeanour, clearly felt something must have happened to him and suggested Ian and Patience appealed to the public for information at a press conference. This was absolutely packed out – the Arctic Prince being an on-going story.

The Cartwrights tried to be very stiff-upper-lipped, but they looked dreadful, hollow-eyed, trembling, their clothes falling off them and when Patience had to speak, she broke down.

‘Honking away like a red-nosed reindeer,’ shuddered Cosmo who was watching with Painswick and Jessica on the portable in the general office. ‘Not much incentive to return.’

‘We love him so much,’ brayed Patience, her blotched face collapsing. ‘We just want him to come home and know he’s safe.’

‘For God’s sake, pull yourself together, woman,’ hissed Ian.

‘We were fostering him, but we wanted to adopt him,’ struggled on Patience, ‘if he’d have liked it, that is, but we never told him, we were so frightened of being pushy. We all miss him, particularly our little granddaughter Dulcie and Northcliffe our dog, who just sit waiting by the front door. Paris is such a super chap.’

‘Cringe-making,’ drawled Cosmo.

‘Oh, shut up,’ said Jessica and Painswick, who were both in tears.

After Ian and Patience, Nadine was interviewed and very indiscreetly confessed that she blamed herself: ‘The placement was too middle class and Mr and Mrs Cartwright were too elderly to foster a teenage boy.’

126

When Hengist resigned so suddenly, Jupiter Belvedon, as chairman, had telephoned the rest of the governors and suggested they invite David Hawkley to attend the next meeting, to advise them on steadying the ship. This was agreed to be an excellent idea, particularly since Lord Hawkley was leaving Fleetley, and as he’d been touring schools with the Great and the Good looking for a Head of the Year for the Teaching Awards, he would have many fresh ideas.

It was also agreed that as the Queen’s visit was so imminent, it would be better to have a holding meeting beforehand to discuss logistics and mull over possible candidates to take over as head, then schedule a second meeting shortly after Her Majesty’s visit, when they could have a jolly post-mortem and probably confirm a shortlist for the new head.

The only person deeply displeased by this development was Alex, who wanted the matter sewn up. Gathering allies, he suggested that a previous winner of Head of the Year at the Teaching Awards, Rod Hyde of St Jimmy’s, should be invited to join the meeting as an impartial adviser, as well as Joan Johnson, the favoured candidate for deputy head; also that to discuss arrangements for the Queen’s visit Randal should be brought in at half-time.

As none of these three would be able to vote for anything, Jupiter and the board agreed.

The governors had all loved Hengist and were very upset by his departure. Meetings in his day had been held in London over an excellent dinner at Boodle’s, or at Bagley after a luscious lunch laid on by Sally with plenty to drink. Alex intended to scrap both these procedures. They were expensive, and people couldn’t think straight if they were drunk.

Poppet, however, didn’t want her hospitality to compare unfavourably with Sally’s, and before the meeting, which was held at three o’clock on the fourth Friday in October, laid on a light buffet and soft drinks.

As a result, General Broadstairs, the Lord Lieutenant, who’d been up since five cub hunting and was absolutely starving, helped himself to most of Poppet’s quiche, imagining it was a first course, which left cheese and cress sandwiches, plain yoghurts and figs for everyone else.

Jupiter retreated to a corner with David Hawkley:

‘Any more thoughts on joining us on Education?’

‘I’m sixty-five,’ said David firmly, ‘much too old for politics and about to retire.’

‘Can you resist a chance to play God with the education of this country’s children? Greek and Latin in every primary school?’

They were distracted by Poppet, bringing in and insisting on breastfeeding nineteen-month-old Gandhi.

‘At least the lucky little sod’s got a drink,’ grumbled Jupiter as, hungry, resentful and very sober, the governors filed into the boardroom next door.

Here they were further distressed to find a less faded square on the magenta damask walls, between the portraits of General Bagley and Sabine Bottomley. This, at the last meeting, had been inhabited by Jonathan Belvedon’s lovely, smiling portrait of Hengist, with his hand on Elaine’s head and Sally’s photograph on the bookshelf behind him.

‘Beautiful picture. Hope it’s been given to Sally,’ chuntered the Lord Lieutenant.

Alex smiled thinly. Having learnt Jonathan’s portraits went for over two hundred thousand pounds on the open market, a discreet sale could buy a lot more IT equipment.

Outside in the park, leaves were drifting downwards in free-fall. Jupiter sat at one end of the long polished table, with David Hawkley on his left and the Bishop on his right. Alex sat at the other end flanked by Joan and Rod Hyde, rigid with disapproval to be among the governing body of an independent school.

Miss Painswick, a box of Kleenex beside her, was taking the minutes and tearfully assuring Ruth Walton there was no news yet of Paris.

The Bishop kicked off with prayers, including one for Paris’s safe return, then, when everyone was seated, added: ‘I’d like to express the governors’ universal regret at the departure of Hengist Brett-Taylor. We’ve all enjoyed Hengist’s friendship and marvellous hospitality and felt privileged to be part of an exciting adventure in turning Bagley into a great school. The lapse that toppled him was regrettable, but understandable.’

‘Hear, hear,’ said everyone but Alex and Rod and Joan.

The first item on the agenda was the appointment of a new head.

‘I’d like to stick my neck out,’ said Joan bravely, ‘and say that Alex has been virtually running the school for the past three years.’

Jupiter gave her a glare which said, ‘You’re a new girl so shut up,’ and announced that it was essential to look at outside candidates.

‘We always have. Several were being considered when it was rumoured that Hengist was taking over Fleetley on Lord Hawkley’s retirement’ – he smiled at David – ‘and I think we should follow these through. Not that I don’t think Alex is doing an excellent job.’

‘Then appoint him as head,’ urged Rod Hyde. ‘Schools should not be allowed to drift. A strong hand on the tiller.’

‘I suggest we need more time before making a decision,’ said the Lord Lieutenant, thinking what a damned attractive woman Ruth Walton was and the more meetings the better.

Ruth, in turn, was thinking that David Hawkley was utterly divine: strong, macho, brilliant and so gravely good-looking. Taking off her suit jacket, she breathed in deeply.

Alex then said he didn’t wish to speak ill of the departed, but he did feel Bagley should be run more economically. So much of the land wasn’t being utilized; so many bursaries had been offered to foreign pupils, particularly if the mother was, er, good-looking.

‘And talking of good-looking women,’ butted in the Lord Lieutenant, ‘what about Sally Brett-Taylor, to whom we’re all devoted? She should be allowed to stay in Head House till she finds somewhere suitable to live.’

‘Hear, hear,’ said all the governors, except Alex and his allies.

‘Surely she could be lent one of the cottages off the campus,’ suggested Rod Hyde, ‘then Alex and Poppet, whom I see as the ideal couple to run Bagley Hall, could take over Head House immediately. It’s hard even for acting heads to be constantly reminded of unfortunate past regimes. It divides loyalties.’

‘I agree with Rod,’ said Joan. ‘Head House is a symbol of authority. The school needs strong management at once, particularly during the Queen’s visit.’