Maxwell’s Match by M. J. Trow

yes,’ Maxwell nodded. ‘The paparazzi.’
    ‘Have they been around, yet?’
    ‘I haven’t seen them. I expect George Sheffield has gun emplacements on the gates and searchlights on the cricket pavvy. Private schools are always paranoid about their reputations.’
    There was a silence between them, one that even at either end of a phone call they were comfortable with. ‘There’s one more thing, Jacquie,’ he said, reaching a page in the Grimond’s glossy where lads were enthusiastically climbing wall bars. ‘How up are you on the gay porn scene?’
    ‘Not my favourite bedtime reading,’ she told him. ‘Why?’
    ‘There was a mag I caught a brief sight of in Bill Pardoe’s office … oops, study.’
    ‘What was it?’
    ‘Well, that’s just it,’ Maxwell said. ‘I didn’t see the title. It was open at a page with what appeared to be two naked lads wrestling.’
    ‘Colour?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Did you see any text?’
    ‘Don’t think so.’ He frowned, trying to remember. ‘Is it important?’
    ‘Not necessarily. But lack of text implies foreign import. It’ll be Dutch or Swedish. I’ll have a discreet word with our Dirty Squad, if you like.’
    ‘Thanks, darling,’ he said. ‘I appreciate it. You take care, now. I’ll call you tomorrow.’
    ‘Why?’ she asked, wide-eyed, ‘when my name’s Jacquie?’
    Maxwell’s groan said it all, but he was already dialling another number. ‘Sylv?’ The matron’s voice had sounded odd.
    ‘Jesus, Max. Do you know what time it is?’ She’d rolled over, peering from under the duvet, trying to sound coherent and to focus on her bedside clock at the same time.
    ‘Damn,’ he snapped his fingers. ‘It’s probably quarter-past-twelve there. I keep forgetting the time zone thing. It’s only half-past-three here. Soz.’
    ‘You utter shit,’ she yawned. ‘What’s the matter? I do have eighty Heaf tests to sort out in the morning.’
    ‘I know, sweetheart,’ he cooed. ‘I’m out of order, I know that, but I really need to talk to your Mr Graham.’
    ‘He’s not exactly mine, Max,’ she scolded him. ‘He’s probably asleep.’
    ‘Ah, not coping, eh?’
    ‘Would you?’ Sylvia Matthews was not at her best in the wee-wee hours of the morning. ‘I tell you, talking to Tony has opened my eyes about Leighford High School, and no mistake.’
    ‘That be mutiny, Nurse Matthews,’ he rasped out his best Robert Newton. ‘“Them’s that die’ll be the lucky ones.” Wake him up, will you, Sylv? It’s important.’
    He waited while she tutted off into the middle distance. There was the rattle of a door and a thud, followed by a ‘bugger’ as the school nurse collided with something on her landing. Maxwell heard muffled voices and lighter feet dancing on the stairs.
    ‘Hello?’ A male voice had picked up.
    ‘Tony?’
    ‘Max? What’s up?’
    ‘You haven’t heard … from Grimond’s, I mean?’
    ‘No. Should I? What’s the problem?’
    ‘Look, Tony. Sit down, will you?’
    ‘Max,’ he could almost hear the frown in the man’s voice. ‘I’m standing in the bedroom of my landlady wearing not a great deal and although she is a perfect lady, I cannot vouch for the propriety of the situation. What’s happened?’
    ‘There isn’t an easy way of doing this, Tony. It’s Bill Pardoe.’
    ‘Bill? What about him?’
    ‘He’s dead.’
    For a moment, so was the line. ‘Oh, my God.’ Tony Graham was sitting down now, as Maxwell had suggested, perched on Sylvia’s bed in the lamplight.
    ‘I’m sorry. I thought Dr Sheffield would have been in touch.’
    ‘Er … um … yes. Yes, so would I. What was it? Heart?’
    ‘He jumped, Tony. From the roof of Tennyson.’
    ‘Oh, Christ.’
    ‘Look, I know this is a shock for you. I don’t know yet how everybody’s coping. Will you be coming back?’
    ‘I suppose I’ll have to. Somebody will have to run Tennyson. What about you?’
    ‘I’m seeing Sheffield tomorrow. I’d like to stay