Maxwell's Mask by M.J. Trow

now, tragically, know – that Martita Winchcombe was dead.’
    â€˜And why should you assume she was?’ O’Connell asked.
    Maxwell looked at them both. He’d gone a long way to avoid what he knew he had to say next, but he had to say it all the same. ‘One of my lads was trying to burgle the place. He stumbled, quite literally, across the body.’
    â€˜One of your lads?’ O’Connell took him up on it, frowning. ‘Up at the school?’
    Maxwell nodded. ‘Year Ten,’ he said.
    O’Connell’s scowl turned to a grin as he glanced at Hall. ‘Knew it would be,’ he said.
    â€˜Ah,’ Maxwell smiled. ‘The Year Group from Hell. Have you ever got chalk under your fingernails, Sergeant?’
    â€˜If you mean, have I ever done any teaching, no thanks. But I was in Year Ten myself once. I remember…’ but the look from both the other men in the room made him shut up. ‘We’ll need a name, of course,’ he said.
    â€˜I was hoping…’
    â€˜Mr Maxwell, you know the score,’ Hall reminded him. Heads of Sixth Form might choose to turn a blind eye from time to time; detective chief inspectors didn’t have that luxury.
    â€˜Yes, of course,’ Maxwell sighed. ‘George Lemon. I can get you his address tomorrow. There was another lad involved, albeit only by hearsay – Anthony Wetta.’
    â€˜Oh, yeah,’ O’Connell grunted. ‘Comes from along line of gentlefolk up the East End way. Who says crime doesn’t run in the family?’
    â€˜I still don’t see your involvement.’ Henry Hall had tangled with Peter Maxwell before. He was the Saint, he was the Toff, he was Lord Peter Wimsey, he was the Four Just Men all rolled into one. Unfortunately, this bastard was real.
    â€˜George was traumatised by finding the old girl dead,’ Maxwell explained. ‘Reluctantly, he told me the gist. But George is not the brightest card in the pack. He couldn’t remember exactly where the house was. He’s not the sort to volunteer information to you gentlemen, despite the fact that at Leighford High we teach Citizenship and are constantly extolling the virtues of an honest, upright life, so I reasoned the only way to find her was to get him to take me to the place in question.’
    â€˜But he wasn’t with you when we arrived,’ O’Connell reasoned.
    â€˜Did a runner,’ Maxwell shrugged. ‘I told you – he was traumatised. I don’t know how I’d have reacted falling over a corpse at fourteen.’
    â€˜Did you know the deceased?’ O’Connell asked.
    â€˜Yes,’ Maxwell said.
    â€˜Yes?’ Henry Hall looked up. For a moment, Maxwell was sure he saw the devious bastard’s eyes flicker behind his rimless glasses, but it may have been the subdued lighting and the lateness of the hour.
    â€˜Perhaps “knew” is too strong a word,’ Maxwell said. ‘We’d met.’
    â€˜In what context?’ Hall wanted to know.
    â€˜At the theatre – the Arquebus. I’m working there on a show with some of our kids. I understand Miss Winchcombe was the Treasurer.’
    â€˜Was she now?’ O’Connell was scribbling away furiously.
    â€˜May I ask, Chief Inspector,’ Maxwell said, ‘whether Miss Winchcombe met her death by natural causes?’
    Â 
    â€˜She fell downstairs, Max.’ Jacquie was pouring coffee for them both, that grey, dull Thursday morning. ‘Isn’t that what Henry said?’
    â€˜Henry,’ he fished in the fridge for the milk, ‘wasn’t saying anything.’
    â€˜Oh, you know what he’s like,’ she said. ‘Tighter than a gnat’s chuff. You didn’t expect him to give anything away, surely?’
    â€˜No, I suppose not. Do we have any chocolate digestives, light o’ love – or are we in divorce discussions already?’
    â€˜Third