sensuously while rocking gently in Pooley’s favourite chair. He watched with interest as his host flicked through his copious notes, highlighting parts with the help of two different coloured markers and putting large question marks in the margin.
‘What did you say?’ Pooley looked up.
‘I said it was a fifteen-cigarette problem.’
‘Oh, stop being an idiot, Robert.’
‘Well, I’m bored. Come on. Let’s see you put the tips of your fingers together and run through all the evidence.’
Pooley smiled. ‘In the manner of whom?’
‘Umm. Holmes? No. You’re not a drug-addict. Poirot? No. Too Belgian. Lord Peter Wimsey? Too languid. I can’t play this game, Ellis. I hardly ever read crime novels.’ He paused for a moment, clearly in deep thought. ‘Ah! I have it!’
‘Who is it?’
‘Miss Marple.’
Pooley threw a cushion which caught Amiss unawares and spilled his drink over his sweater. ‘Serves you right,’ said Pooley. ‘The trouble with you is not just that your humour is infantile — but you bring your associates down with you to nursery level.’
‘Well, it’s one form of egalitarianism. All right, I’ll be sensible for a while.’
‘Good.’ Pooley got up and embarked on his customary walk up and down his Persian rug. ‘Right. I’m putting together what I’ve had from my mate in Central as well as what you’ve picked up during the last week from Ned and Jenn. Interrupt if anything germane comes to mind that I haven’t mentioned. Now let’s start with what we definitely know.
‘The Knightsbridge School of English has been in existence for twelve years. Ned Nurse set it up by himself when he inherited the house from an aunt. Up to then he’d been employed at a series of schools round Tottenham Court Road. They were all much alike, usually a few rooms above a shop. Clientele attracted by fly-sheets in the street. The students were generally over-crowded and badly taught but in no position to argue. They were usually desperate to acquire very cheaply the basic English necessary to survive.’
‘Tarts and waiters, in fact.’
‘Exactly.’
‘Poor sods.’
‘And that’s how Ned felt about them too.’
‘Yes. I didn’t tell you that he described to me a horrid experience he’d had a year or two before his aunt died. He’d gone to work one morning to find the place closed down. No information, just a locked door. He told the students to come back the next day and tried to find out what had happened. Turned out the school’s owners had done a midnight flit with the term’s fees. Ned had to break the news to a hundred or so students and he said it broke his heart. Lots of them were in tears.’
‘Right. So when he decided to set up his own school it wasn’t to make money: he wanted to perform a public service.’
‘More or less. And also earn a reasonable income for doing the only thing he could do. Clearly he’d been exploited too. My guess is that what Jenn described as “proper” schools wouldn’t have looked at the poor old devil. He’s intelligent, and I think he’s possibly not a bad teacher, but he’s too batty and messy-looking to put in front of discerning punters.’
‘This is where it gets hazy,’ said Pooley. ‘We know how and why he started up on his own, but we don’t know what happened then.’
‘My strong guess, and I’ve nothing to go on beyond the odd throwaway remark, is that for several years he made just enough to cover his overheads, pay one other full-time teacher and some part-timers, and scrape a living himself. “Of course before dear Rich we didn’t have so many, dear boy, not so many.” I interpreted this as meaning that Rich has been responsible for student overcrowding in the prefabs. Not that Ned would have intended to give that impression. As you’ll have gathered, he’s so passionately loyal that he wouldn’t allow himself to see the truth if it reflected in any way on dear Rich.’
‘He didn’t just mean that
‘What did you say?’ Pooley looked up.
‘I said it was a fifteen-cigarette problem.’
‘Oh, stop being an idiot, Robert.’
‘Well, I’m bored. Come on. Let’s see you put the tips of your fingers together and run through all the evidence.’
Pooley smiled. ‘In the manner of whom?’
‘Umm. Holmes? No. You’re not a drug-addict. Poirot? No. Too Belgian. Lord Peter Wimsey? Too languid. I can’t play this game, Ellis. I hardly ever read crime novels.’ He paused for a moment, clearly in deep thought. ‘Ah! I have it!’
‘Who is it?’
‘Miss Marple.’
Pooley threw a cushion which caught Amiss unawares and spilled his drink over his sweater. ‘Serves you right,’ said Pooley. ‘The trouble with you is not just that your humour is infantile — but you bring your associates down with you to nursery level.’
‘Well, it’s one form of egalitarianism. All right, I’ll be sensible for a while.’
‘Good.’ Pooley got up and embarked on his customary walk up and down his Persian rug. ‘Right. I’m putting together what I’ve had from my mate in Central as well as what you’ve picked up during the last week from Ned and Jenn. Interrupt if anything germane comes to mind that I haven’t mentioned. Now let’s start with what we definitely know.
‘The Knightsbridge School of English has been in existence for twelve years. Ned Nurse set it up by himself when he inherited the house from an aunt. Up to then he’d been employed at a series of schools round Tottenham Court Road. They were all much alike, usually a few rooms above a shop. Clientele attracted by fly-sheets in the street. The students were generally over-crowded and badly taught but in no position to argue. They were usually desperate to acquire very cheaply the basic English necessary to survive.’
‘Tarts and waiters, in fact.’
‘Exactly.’
‘Poor sods.’
‘And that’s how Ned felt about them too.’
‘Yes. I didn’t tell you that he described to me a horrid experience he’d had a year or two before his aunt died. He’d gone to work one morning to find the place closed down. No information, just a locked door. He told the students to come back the next day and tried to find out what had happened. Turned out the school’s owners had done a midnight flit with the term’s fees. Ned had to break the news to a hundred or so students and he said it broke his heart. Lots of them were in tears.’
‘Right. So when he decided to set up his own school it wasn’t to make money: he wanted to perform a public service.’
‘More or less. And also earn a reasonable income for doing the only thing he could do. Clearly he’d been exploited too. My guess is that what Jenn described as “proper” schools wouldn’t have looked at the poor old devil. He’s intelligent, and I think he’s possibly not a bad teacher, but he’s too batty and messy-looking to put in front of discerning punters.’
‘This is where it gets hazy,’ said Pooley. ‘We know how and why he started up on his own, but we don’t know what happened then.’
‘My strong guess, and I’ve nothing to go on beyond the odd throwaway remark, is that for several years he made just enough to cover his overheads, pay one other full-time teacher and some part-timers, and scrape a living himself. “Of course before dear Rich we didn’t have so many, dear boy, not so many.” I interpreted this as meaning that Rich has been responsible for student overcrowding in the prefabs. Not that Ned would have intended to give that impression. As you’ll have gathered, he’s so passionately loyal that he wouldn’t allow himself to see the truth if it reflected in any way on dear Rich.’
‘He didn’t just mean that
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