Who Killed Miss Finch?: A quirky whodunnit with a heart (An Edward Crisp Mystery Book 1) Read online

  WHO KILLED MISS FINCH?

  AN EDWARD CRISP MYSTERY

  PETER BOON

  First published August 2020 by Meadowcroft Publishing

  © Peter Boon

  www.peterboonauthor.com

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No parts of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner without written permission of the copyright owner except for the use of quotations in a book review.

  Cover design by [email protected] and Book Cover Zone

  For Graeme - the wind beneath my wings.

  Contents

  WHO KILLED MISS FINCH?

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  41

  42

  EDWARD’S NEXT MYSTERY

  CHALK GAP BODY IDENTIFIED

  Acknowledgments

  KEEP IN TOUCH!

  1

  Eastbourne, just a few miles from our village, is officially the sunniest place in the UK. Whoever made this assessment hadn’t met our Head Teacher, Miss Finch, who lived there.

  This thought occurred to me at the back of the school hall as I watched my colleagues – experienced professionals - scuttle about in terror as Miss Finch summoned them. I wanted a word with our Deputy Head but it wasn’t a good time to interrupt.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen… get over here now!’ Finch bellowed from the height of the stage, which allowed her to tower over everyone in the room despite her tiny five foot stature. A deliberate choice for certain. She also didn’t seem to care that the rudeness of her barked command cancelled out the politeness of the term used to address them.

  A spotlight shone on her in the dim hall, as if she was the only glimpse of light in the darkness - when in fact the opposite was true.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ she repeated. ‘In less than 24 hours, I am meant to be on this stage telling all the inhabitants of your simple tiny village how the new Chalk Gap Academy will shape the future of all of its young people.’

  She pushed her glasses down her nose and peered down. The movement made me conscious of my own glasses and I nudged them up onto my face.

  From my viewpoint out of sight at the back of the room, the set-up for tomorrow’s launch day didn’t seem to be going well. And yes, I said launch day. I know, it sounds more like a Black Friday sale than a school reopening. The academy chain who took us over has corporate terms for everything.

  ‘Although its predecessor hardly did any favours for the current generation. If you cannot get a simple technical run-through of my speech right, no wonder you seem to have trouble running a school.’

  ‘Anne, I don’t think that’s -’ our Deputy Head and one of my two housemates, Kat Parker, said.

  ‘It is Miss Finch!’ she boomed. ‘Miss Parker, you must address me as Miss Finch.’

  Even though Kat had her back to me, I could imagine her rolling her eyes. There were no children around, so it should have been perfectly normal to use first names. But she didn’t allow it in front of junior colleagues, and she was definitely Miss Finch through and through. She probably came out of her mother’s womb as Miss Finch, giving feedback on how the birthing experience requires improvement.

  ‘Miss Finch,’ Kat said as she let out a sigh. ‘I don’t think that’s very fair -’

  ‘You don’t think, Miss Parker? You don’t think?’ I could tell she was enjoying this pantomime at Kat’s expense. ‘That’s the trouble – you don’t think. Surely if you had any thoughts worth having, you’d be the one up on this stage, not me.’

  I saw Kat’s head bow. That one would sting - she’d applied for the Head Teacher’s job herself and not even made it to interview. But Miss Finch had moved her attention to our caretaker, Carol Fletcher, who was operating the stage lighting from a desk in the centre of the hall.

  ‘For crying out loud, Mrs Fletcher, will you please keep the spotlight on me while I address the group?’

  The spotlight vibrated suddenly from left to right, plunging her in and out of the light, as if it was shaking its head in defiance.

  ‘Unless you want to join Mr Fletcher at home to enjoy your retirement together?’ The spotlight became perfectly still. Carol’s husband Brian was our Head of Maths and had been at the school for over 30 years – until Miss Finch arrived. Within two weeks we received an email from Dylan, Miss Finch’s PA, that Brian and the school had mutually agreed his early retirement.

  Dylan Spence was one of the few silver linings from the new academy. As I thought about him, I noticed him turn round and blow a theatrical kiss at Carol to cheer her up. The spotlight wobbled again as I saw her shoulders shake from laughter, but luckily Miss Finch was engaged elsewhere.

  ‘Miss Finch,’ Kat started pointedly. ‘We’re all giving up time in our summer break to help the school. You don’t need to threaten anyone.’ This was why I admired Kat. She stayed quiet after her own humiliation but wouldn’t allow Finch to embarrass anyone else.

  ‘Oh, don’t I?’ Miss Finch replied in mock innocence. ‘Okay then, Miss Parker. I give in. You can clearly do better than me. Mrs Fletcher, put the spotlight on Miss Parker please.’

  The spotlight swayed once more in obvious uncertainty at this unusual command. Finch spoke again with deliberate emphasis on each word. ‘I said – put the spotlight on Miss Parker. Now.’

  I watched helplessly as the light moved from Miss Finch to my friend. ‘There we go, Miss Parker. You have all the attention you want. The floor is yours. Let’s see how you do.’

  Kat stared up at Finch. She shook her head and stepped out of the spotlight. As the light shone back on our Head Teacher and she continued with her monologue, I heard a voice behind me.

  ‘Miss Finch would make a perfect murder victim.’

  I turned round to see Noah Oxley. Noah is my student library assistant and fellow fan of murder mystery novels.

  ‘Ssshhh!’ I hissed in panicked tones as I waved him outside. ‘Come and speak to me out here.’

  I couldn’t let Miss Finch see him; to say she didn’t ‘get’ Noah was an understatement. Most people find him very endearing. In fact, the school has gained high praise locally for the way he’s at the heart of our activities. It gives lots of anxious parents hope that their own child’s needs will be very well looked after.

  But Finch didn’t agree. As soon as she saw him help at an open evening, she immediately insisted ‘that boy’ be put out of sight, and had tried to keep him there ever since. I’d even heard she’d tried to stop him continuing on with us to do his A Levels in September. Rather than hold any grudge against Finch for this
treatment, he’d cast her as a hated potential murder victim.

  ‘Think about it, sir – it’s a great murder mystery plot. Who killed the hated Head Teacher? Everyone is a suspect. Everyone has a motive. Only Edward Crisp, school librarian, and Noah Oakley, his brilliant teenage assistant, can solve the case.’

  ‘Firstly, it’s still Mr Crisp to you. And don’t say things like that.’ I looked back through the doorway and changed to a whisper. ‘She wouldn’t be thrilled if she heard you killing her off.’

  ‘Oh, come on, sir, this is fate. We both love murder mysteries and now we’ll get to solve our own real life one.’

  It’s true, I’ve loved murder mysteries as long as I can remember. The Famous Five and the Secret Seven were my first love – groups of kids all banding together to solve a crime and right a wrong. As I got a little older, I moved on to Agatha Christie’s Hercule Poirot and Miss Marple; I became obsessed with them.

  Since Noah started helping me in the library, it’s the main thing we have in common. I think the logical structure and order of murder mysteries appeals to us both. Good and evil, right and wrong, innocent and guilty. It helps us find our place in the world.

  But for Noah, I worry it goes even further. I think he believes we’ve been brought together like Poirot and Hastings, Holmes and Watson - a crime-solving duo who will put the world to rights.

  ‘You said it yourself, Noah. This is real life. No one will murder Miss Finch, and we will not have a mystery to solve.’

  Imagine my surprise the next day when everything he said came true.

  2

  I never thought that conversation with Noah would lead to me writing this – a first-person account of a genuine murder mystery. And don’t worry, this isn’t one where it turns out the narrator did it.

  I just wanted to have an accurate record of everything that happened. And my doctor keeps telling me to keep a mood diary – I guess this is close enough. That means you – the imaginary ‘you’ as I doubt anyone will ever see this, or any of my work – can be my reader.

  Before I get back to the story, I should say a little about where we live. Chalk Gap is a tiny seaside village in East Sussex, just outside of Eastbourne. We are just past the famous Beachy Head, nestled between two beautiful chalk cliffs of our own.

  Yes, a tiny seaside village. If you’re playing along with Noah’s theory then, I suppose it is the kind of place you might expect to find a murder mystery – a kind of Miss Marple meets Broadchurch.

  Otherwise, we are just a typical coastal town. I won’t say everyone knows absolutely everyone, because real life isn’t like that, but you get the idea. I’ve lived here all of my adult life, as have most people in Chalk Gap.

  My family owns the one pub we have here, the Chalk Inn. It overlooks the beach on the West Chalk side of the village square where the two cliffs drop to meet the seafront and the foot of our high street. My Dad always says, ‘if you hit water you’ve gone too far,’ and then waits for the laugh that never comes.

  With the scene set a little, I’ll go back to Noah and his prediction of Miss Finch’s murder. It’s hard to describe Noah Oxley when you haven’t met him. The first thing you’ll notice is the way he speaks, which has one setting: loud, fast and over-excited.

  Then you’ll notice his appearance: unkempt, unbrushed hair, along with unmatched, odd looking clothes that don’t quite fit. He might proudly tell you that his mum lets him shop for himself.

  Next you smell him – he hasn’t quite grasped the difference between antiperspirant and body spray, and this often means you are greeted with a heady mix of sweat and African musk if he stands too close to you (which he often does).

  But he has a brilliant mind, is a great student librarian and someone I get on very well with. I tried to remember this as I hustled him into the library, out of the way of Miss Finch.

  ‘Sir, I came to help!’ he said proudly as I looked over my shoulder in terror. ‘Mrs Fletcher was in my mum’s café this morning and she told me you were getting ready for tomorrow. I had to finish helping Mum first, but then she dropped me off so I could get here ASAP.’

  Like me, Carol would be very stressed today. I’d already seen what she had to endure just operating the lighting deck. Poor woman. She probably just wanted to eat her breakfast in peace and wouldn’t be prepared for a full interrogation from Noah.

  Unlike me, she didn’t have Noah in the middle of her room as Miss Finch approached. He was excitedly talking about all the things he could help with when I heard the all too familiar clip clop of her shoes coming closer. They sounded heavier and angrier than usual, if that was possible. Though it might have been the shiny flooring in her ridiculously expensive new school building.

  Miss Finch was five feet tall at the very most, but whoever said ‘good things come in small packages’ hadn’t met her. She was always immaculately dressed with some sense of style for a lady in her fifties – short elfin hair and bright, colour co-ordinated outfits with a suit, shoes and earrings that always matched. This was accompanied by a false, business-like smile which seemed as carefully chosen as her clothes - the difference being it would disappear at a moment’s notice.

  So you can see why I didn’t want to be on the wrong side of her by having Noah in the library against her explicit instructions. I quickly persuaded him to hide at the last minute, which is no minor feat for a sixteen-year-old with Asperger’s.

  Miss Finch marched in and surveyed the room with narrowed, suspicious eyes.

  ‘That boy, Mr Crisp. Is he here?’

  She spoke slowly and menacingly. The fake smile wasn’t even there.

  ‘Which boy, Miss Finch? Noah? No, I haven’t seen him. I don’t think he’s due in today, is he?’

  I garbled the words out as quickly as I could, forgetting to breathe as I said them. I am no good at lying or last-minute situations; my heart felt like it would explode through my chest.

  ‘He’s here, in my school building, he’s here, I know he is! So where is he? I was clear that there should be no student helpers today. And especially not that boy! He will ruin everything.’

  I looked at Miss Finch as her anger erupted. Her face was bright red and her voice had become a high-pitch squeal. Now this was unusual. I knew that she had strong views on Noah’s presence at the launch event, so I expected her to check he wasn’t around. But her particular brand of malice was usually calm, cold and carefully delivered, like a poisonous snake biting its victim. This was different. Miss Finch was rattled, and I didn’t know why.

  Not knowing what to say, I allowed a silence to pass as she seemed to realise that she had shown a rare moment of weakness. As she regained her composure, I saw the familiar false smile appear on her face. She was about to get her power back.

  ‘Mr Crisp, you’ve been the librarian here for nine years, haven’t you?’

  She didn’t wait for me to answer as she glanced around the new school library, the library I’d had sleepless nights over for weeks. Any sudden change of circumstance is agony for me, and I’d put my heart and soul into getting the new library layout right. I knew I’d done a good job, but Miss Finch had other ideas.

  ‘Then I know I need not tell you the standard that the new library needs to be at for tomorrow’s launch day. A librarian who doesn’t have his library up to scratch for such an important public event wouldn’t be in employment for another nine days, let alone nine years. I trust this is a work in progress.’

  With that parting shot delivered, she marched out.

  3

  I was trying to work out exactly what just happened with Miss Finch when Noah reappeared out of the stock cupboard. It worried me he’d heard what she’d said and would be upset, but I didn’t have time to ask him as another visitor joined us.

  ‘Are you two weirdos plotting your next murder?’

  ‘You know you can’t speak to me like that, Gracie. And please don’t speak to Noah like that either.’

  Gracie is the daughter of Tim
Hunt, our Chair of Governors, who my mum always referred to as ‘that flash b word in the Mercedes.’ That’s not me censoring Mum, she actually says ‘b word.’ Tim was the driving force behind the academy takeover and seems to run our school from the passenger seat. Which is probably why Gracie spoke to me in the way she did without caring.

  ‘Ooh and don’t speak to Noah like that either,’ she mimicked as she scrolled through her phone, not even bothering to look at me as she insulted me. ‘You mean the same Noah who you just told Miss Finch isn’t here?’

  ‘I was here, I was just hiding in the cupboard,’ Noah said, somewhat unhelpfully.

  ‘My dad saw you arrive anyway,’ she announced, rolling her eyes. ‘Mr Crisp, you know he isn’t supposed to be here.’

  So that was it – the reason Miss Finch was so unusually flustered a few minutes before. Tim must have spotted Noah and tackled her about it. She would not have appreciated being made to look stupid in front of the Chair of Governors. He probably shared the same Draconian views about Noah that Miss Finch did. His daughter certainly did.

  ‘You know it’s because they think you’re a weirdo, don’t you?’ This time she directed her comment at Noah, though she still barely bothered to look at him. ‘They think you will be a serial killer.’

  ‘That’s enough, Gracie -’ I tried to interrupt.

  ‘They don’t want everyone coming to the launch day tomorrow and thinking we’re some kind of charity for freaks.’

  ‘Gracie, I said -’

  ‘Everyone in Chalk Gap thinks it anyway,’ she said as she typed on her phone. I saw her screen shine at me with the sharp blue and white light of her social media page. She raised her eyes from her device to focus on Noah with a smirk. ‘Someone even told me that your mum serves up your victims in her burgers at the café.’

  ‘Enough, Gracie -’

  ‘It’s alright Sir, I told them not to say that… If they don’t want to end up as his next victim.’