Finding Arcadia Read online

  A bad accident, perhaps. Another “accident”? But why come to her, with the police. This would be no accident. And Mr. Pratt himself acting so strangely, fearful of something. Of her.

  Teacher and officer seem to be waiting for the other to speak, so she intervenes. “And what has Mr. Pratt done?” she asks. “Evidently something serious enough to bring the police to school and me to this room.”

  Their averted gazes show that she is mistaken, at least partly. “Mr. Pratt is dead, Arcadia,” Constable Lestrange says at last.

  Outside, the sound of yells could be heard from the soccer field. The introduction of association football had been almost as controversial as admitting girls into the Priory School. Its popularity and the lowering tolerance for injuries in rugby overcame the naysayers. She continues to doubt the wisdom of a game in which the head is used to propel the ball around the field; when given the option, she chooses to play goalkeeper and use her hands.

  “When? How?” she asks matter-of-factly.

  If they are surprised by her lack of surprise they do not show it. The more interesting question is why they needed to tell her first, but that will become clear soon enough.

  “He was at home,” Constable Lestrange begins. “Yesterday afternoon, about five o’clock.”

  But the school clock struck five yesterday when she saw him. When he panicked. Surely that was no coincidence. Did she still have the receipt from the taxi? Would the driver remember her? The nurses at the hospital?

  “When did you last see Mr. Pratt?”

  She looks at Constable Lestrange. Is she a suspect? Cameras on the school perimeter should show her departure. She had signed out. That did not prove where she went, however. There was no point dissembling.

  “I saw him myself around five o’clock yesterday,” she says. “Just before I took a taxi to see Mother in hospital. He was very agitated about something. What happened to him?”

  Lestrange looks to Mr. Ormiston. “Mr. Pratt appears to have been murdered, Arcadia,” the Acting Headmaster says.

  Foul play. Yet it is still not clear why they had to speak with her.

  “How?” she asks.

  “He was found in the bath with his wrists slashed,” Constable Lestrange offers, earning a rebuking glare from Mr. Ormiston. The language is too direct for his liking. But she has seen worse. They both have.

  “And you’re sure that it was murder?”

  “Yes.” Constable Lestrange nods, though his voice does not sound especially confident. “Initially we thought it looked like suicide, but the detective is calling it a murder.”

  If she were a suspect the detective would have come for her himself. So why is Lestrange here?

  “I’m sorry to hear about Mr. Pratt,” she says, “but why don’t you ask me what you came here to ask?”

  The Constable shakes his head and smiles at the same time. It is unclear whether he finds her directness refreshing or intimidating. “Next to the bath there was a note in his handwriting.” He looks her carefully in the eye, preparing to evaluate her response to what comes next. “The note said: ‘Tell Arcadia that I’m sorry.’”

  Who leaves a note at their own murder? Admittedly, the former Headmaster, Milton, had left a note, but that was in the context of his supposed suicide. It tied up loose ends, it made sense—though, obviously, she cannot explain this to Constable Lestrange.

  “Was the note wet?” she asks.

  Lestrange is taken aback. “Well, no.”

  “So you think he wrote it before getting into the bath, at which point he was murdered?”

  Lestrange has come expecting to ask questions, but he is sharp enough to know that it might be worth answering some also. “Yes, that’s the current theory.”

  “And was the floor wet?”

  Lestrange hesitates. “Er, no,” he says again. His doubts about the detective’s theory are beginning to increase.

  “So a note written in advance, a death in a bath with wrists slashed, but you think it is murder rather than suicide. From the way you described the wounds I’m guessing that’s they are consistent with suicide, but you are missing the blade. Or you found one?”

  Despite the macabre context, Lestrange chuckles. “We did.”

  “And who is the suspect? Have you detained him?”

  “Her,” Lestrange corrects.

  Statistically unusual—men account for more than 95 percent of homicides. Likely some kind of relationship to Mr. Pratt, especially since it was within the home. So: “Wife or girlfriend?”

  “Foster-daughter, seventeen years old,” Lestrange says. “The weapon, a cut-throat razor”—another stare from Mr. Ormiston gets a shrug in response—“was found in her dresser. We picked her up this morning, but she swears she knows nothing about the murder. Says she was at her boyfriend’s last night.”

  “And was she?”

  “Yes, that’s where we picked her up. But she only went there about nine o’clock. Says she was home until then and that she left when the vic was in the bath. But the times don’t match up.”

  The timing certainly does not match up. But she needs more information. “And when was the body discovered?”

  “His wife came home about ten-thirty and found the body. She called 999 and I was the first on the scene. Inspector Bradstreet came soon after and is leading the investigation.”

  No great reason for confidence in that investigation, then. She bites her tongue and focuses on the crime scene: “Describe what you saw. Everything.” She closes her eyes to listen, but not before seeing Mr. Ormiston looking at her with a mix of curiosity and concern.

  Lestrange, for his part, has given up any pretence of confidentiality and prepares to tell her what he knows. “I arrived at the scene about 10:50pm. Mrs. Pratt was distressed. Said she had come home to find the door locked as usual but there was no response when she called out upon entering. After finding the body she was in shock and so I called the paramedics. I asked if she needed a drink but she said that she just needed to do something normal, something routine. I think she washed up the dinner dishes while I looked around.

  “The house was unremarkable. Nothing out of order, no sign of break-in. Their bathroom is big, connecting the master bedroom to the foster-daughter’s bedroom. Victim was in an oversize bath filled about three-quarters of the way. An empty glass was on a stool beside the bath—it smelled like he had been drinking some whisky. The note with your name was underneath the glass.”

  The water of the bath runs red. But no splashes on the floor. No struggle.

  “Are you sure it was whisky, Constable Lestrange?” she asks without opening her eyes.

  “It’s not really my brew, lass,” he replied. “But the bottle in the cupboard was Laphroaig. That stuff’s a bit too much for me, like drinking whisky with a mouthful of dirt. This smelled bitter, too. I’m more of a cider drinker myself.” He seems to realise that this is becoming unprofessional. “Anyway, he’s in a bath now full of blood but there’s no weapon. I get strict instructions from Inspector Bradstreet to touch nothing, but when he arrives—”

  “What time?”

  “About quarter-past-eleven. So when he arrives, I show him the drop of blood on the handle of the door to the foster-daughter’s bedroom.”

  “A drop, not a smear? Not a fingerprint?”

  “A drop,” he repeats. “There was another drop on the floor near the dresser. Inside it, shoved under some socks, we found the razor, covered in blood.”

  Like a trail of breadcrumbs. How convenient.

  She opens her eyes again. “You said the estimated time of death was five o’clock,” she says. “Was this Inspector Bradstreet’s deduction?”

  “Er, yes,” Lestrange replies slowly. “He did a course where you estimate the time of death based on the temperature of the body. Apparently it loses about one degree centigrade every hour. Even allowing for the bath, he said it was at least six hours since the victim had been killed.”

  Algor mortis is
not an exact science, though it can give a rough estimate of the time at which a body ceased to generate its own warmth, as warm-blooded reverts to room temperature. It can also be manipulated. But why?

  She is about to ask when Lestrange’s phone rings. “It’s Inspector Bradstreet,” he says, excusing himself as he steps outside the lounge.

  Left alone with his student, Mr. Ormiston takes a sip of his tea. “You said that Mr. Pratt seemed agitated, Arcadia. About what?”

  “I’m really not sure,” she replies. This is true, but she owes him of all people as much truth as she can share. “He seemed to think that I wanted him to get something for me. That I was threatening him. That if he didn’t get whatever it was, then I would reveal something about him.”

  “Why would he think that?”

  “I’ve got no idea. I had hardly seen him in weeks. Yet he seemed to think I was stalking him.”

  “What do you think he feared you might reveal?”

  “I don’t know. ‘It’s all lies’, he said.”

  “Though you think he was hiding something.”

  “I’m not sure,” she says. “But yes, his anxiety was closer to fear than outrage. And if he thought I was lying about something it would have made sense to make it a disciplinary matter and come to you.”

  Mr. Ormiston takes a sip of his tea. “This really is the last thing the school needs right now,” he muses, almost to himself. Though studies of the effects of caffeine on memory are inconclusive, the lightly-caffeinated beverage seems to provoke a recollection: “Come to think of it, Miss Bennett did say the other day that he was acting strangely. Asking for files that she had never heard of.”

  He takes another sip of his tea. “I’m sorry that this has to involve you also, Miss Greentree. You mentioned that you visited your mother yesterday. Is there any change in her condition?”

  She weighs up how much to tell him. Keep it simple. “She’s stable, breathing without assistance. It’s possible that she could just wake up if her brain is able to repair itself.” She does not add that each passing day makes that miracle less likely.

  The teacher nods, edging towards a topic he is unsure how to broach. “Mr. Roundhay says you haven’t been to see him in some time. If you think it would be helpful to talk to me, my door is always open to you.”

  “That’s very kind,” she replies. Having the school chaplain also serve as a counsellor runs the risk of confusing psychological and spiritual problems, but Mr. Roundhay is well-intentioned. Good intentions do not mean an efficient use of time, however, and after a few weeks of playing five-stages-of-grief with him, she emphasised that she was fine, invented some nightmares that had disappeared, and ended their sessions.

  Mr. Ormiston looks out the window, to where Constable Lestrange is still speaking on the phone. He turns back to her: “Arcadia, I know you think you’re strong enough to get through this by yourself. And there’s no question that you are strong. No sixteen-year-old should be expected to deal with what you have experienced. I’m not saying you have to pour your feelings out, beat your chest, and so on. Just getting on with life can be enough. But it’s vital that you’re at least honest with yourself about what you feel, how you feel. Getting on with life is more than just repeating to yourself ‘I am fine, I am fine’.”

  But I am fine, she almost says. And she almost believes it.

  The door opens and Lestrange re-enters. Saved. There is a new purpose to his step; he does not sit down. Some new information, presumably.

  “A development in the case?” she inquires. Murder is so much simpler than navigating Mr. Ormiston’s efforts to help her.

  “Indeed,” he replies. “That was Inspector Bradstreet. We’ve got a transcript of the foster-daughter’s text messages. They contain several messages to the boyfriend in which she says she wants to kill her foster-father. I need to get back to the station to help write up a report and the charge sheet.” He gulps down the remainder of his tea and prepares to leave.

  “Constable Lestrange, can you do me a favour?” she asks, getting to her feet also and writing a number on a scrap of paper.

  He hesitates, suspecting that her favour might get him in trouble. “What favour might that be, lass?”

  “Is there any way you can get me a copy of Mr. Pratt’s life insurance policy?”

  He pauses at the door of the staff lounge. “Why?”

  “Just curious,” she says. “Oh, and let me know if you find any empty bags of party ice at the Pratt household? Here’s my mobile number.” She hands him the scrap of paper.

  He holds it as if trying to ascertain its weight. He is also clearly weighing up asking for more information against the prospect of being yelled at by Inspector Bradstreet. “I’ll see what I can do.” He pockets the piece of paper and strides back across the quadrangle to his car.

  Mr. Ormiston has put away the teacups and turns back to her. “Well, Miss Greentree,” he says. “If you decide that you do want to talk to me, my door will always be open. Otherwise, now that you’ve given the police your instructions, perhaps you would be so good as to return to physical education? I think there’s still time for you to join the second half.”

  4

  CUCKOO

  The next day passes, classes running into one another while in the back of her mind she continues to turn over the circumstances of Mr. Pratt’s “murder”. Mother’s diary has been set aside for the time being and she contemplates abandoning school to visit the crime scene. Finding his home address would be simple; breaking and entering perhaps not.

  In any event, they have the field trip promised by Dr. Starr. This, it transpires, is an overnight stay at Marwell Zoo. Built on the estate of Marwell Hall, the zoo is a comparatively recent innovation that dates to the 1970s. Marwell Hall itself was first built in the fourteenth century and its storied guests are said to have included Henry VIII, a visitor when the Hall belonged to the Seymour family. Marwell is more famous in some quarters for its ghosts than for its animals.

  Dr. Starr has contrived to have their afternoon classes rescheduled, and so at 2pm the teacher and twelve students board a bus that drives through the rolling fields lining the M3 and deposits them at a large open parking lot. Waved on at the entrance, they pass anteaters and flamingos, children and old-age pensioners, before entering Marwell Hall itself, in which the drawing room has been prepared for them.

  “Come, come!” Dr. Starr calls as they mill about the room, looking at posters and exhibits mounted on the walls. A clap and he gestures for them to sit around the large table in the centre.

  “So welcome to Marwell Hall. The zoo that occupies the grounds outside contains more than a thousand animals from over two hundred species. They range from the very large to the very small. We are not here just to look at the creatures, however, but to study how they evolve. Building on our last unit on the genetic processes of reproduction, I have brought you here to see evolution at work.”

  As he speaks, he has risen from the table and is circling around it. He carries no notes, but his hands never stop moving.

  “You will recall,” he says, “our discussion of the discredited theories of the French naturalist Jean-Baptiste Lamarck. Like many others, before and after Darwin, he believed that organisms could pass on characteristics acquired during their lifetime to their offspring. This sounds attractive—it’s heart-warming to think that what we do in our lives gets transmitted to our children—but at the genetic level there is simply no basis for believing it. The Soviet Union under Stalin tried to farm using such theories in the middle of the twentieth century and the result was starvation.

  “In one experiment to test this theory, a biologist by the name of August Weismann started chopping the tails off mice. These mice then reproduced and so he chopped the tails off their infants. They too grew up and reproduced—still producing babies with tails—so off came their tails also. If it was possible to inherit acquired characteristics, the theory went, these mice should start producing babi
es with shorter tails or no tail at all. But after mutilating almost a thousand mice through half-a-dozen generations, not a single one was born with anything other than a normal tail.”

  Having one’s tail chopped off hardly sounds like an acquired characteristic, but she bites her tongue for the moment.

  “Like an animal ill-suited to its environment, Lamarckism died off and we are left with the modern theory of evolution: genetic variation and natural selection. Species don’t improve by one animal changing in the course of its life, but by having the dumb luck to be born with something that better enables it to survive.”

  He pauses longer than normal. Has he lost his train of thought? Or is he just finding it?

  “Normally, evolution leads animals to become stronger, faster, more adapted to their environment. Nature and predators typically pick off the weakest in a group. That has been the way for more than three billion years on this planet. Until now. Because humans are a unique predator in that we don’t just target the weakest—sometimes we actually target the strongest.

  “Take the elephant, for example. Their tusks evolved because they could be used for digging and fighting. Those with bigger tusks were more likely to survive, more likely to find a mate. Yet now they appear to be evolving to have smaller tusks. Why?”

  Still moving, he looks from student to student expectantly, coming to focus on her. Examine the ivories, the thought comes unbidden. A code stuck to the wall of her memory. Henry unknowingly saves her by raising his hand.

  “Yes?” says Starr, turning away from her.

  “Because of the ivory trade?” Henry offers.

  The answer earns a clap. “Exactly. Poachers looking for ivory tend to kill elephants with the largest tusks. The result is that now those elephants with smaller tusks are more likely to survive. So tusks appear to be shrinking, or disappearing altogether. In any population some elephants will be born with no tusks at all; poachers leave those ones alone completely. In eastern Zambia, in the space of twenty years the proportion of elephants with no tusks went from ten percent to forty percent.”