‘Of course.’ Matron nodded. ‘You’ll see everything is in perfect order. Shall I get it now?’

‘If you would, thank you.’

She stood up, then paused and turned back. ‘I hope the wrong diagnosis won’t be seen as a blot against my name. He was long gone by the time I found him the next morning.’

‘It won’t. As you say, the paramedics came to the same conclusion.’

‘Good.’

Jazz watched Matron leave the room. It was obvious, even if she was brusque, that she cared for the boys, especially the more vulnerable ones.

It was also obvious she’d hated Charlie Cavendish . . .

Matron returned and handed Jazz a sheet of paper.

‘That’s the sheet for last Friday. As I told your detective, I wasn’t present in the house that night. Mr Daneman had Mr Frederiks’s key. Very remiss of Mr Frederiks to leave him alone. And, I might add, unusual. From what I’ve seen in the past few months, apart from the determined way he’s ignored Cavendish’s behaviour, he’s a dedicated housemaster.’

‘He didn’t tell you where he was?’

‘No. And I would never pry. But it must have been an emergency for him to leave the house.’

‘Well, he won’t tell me.’ Jazz folded the sheet and tucked it in her pocket to study later. ‘Could you let me know whether Rory will be fit enough to see me this afternoon?’ She handed Matron a card with her number on it.

‘I doubt he will. Last thing the poor chap needs is to be interviewed by a police officer, if you don’t mind me saying so.’

‘I want to see him as soon as possible.’ Jazz stood up. ‘One last thing: you told Detective Sergeant Roland you were back in your room at about eleven last Friday night?’ she asked as they walked towards the door.

‘Yes, I was.’

‘You didn’t see or hear anything odd in the following hour?’

‘No. I went straight to bed.’

‘What time did you find Charlie the next morning?’

‘I always walk along the sixth-form corridor, knocking on the boys’ doors at six forty-five. Breakfast is at seven thirty. When I noticed Charlie was missing, I went to knock him up again. When he didn’t reply, I went into his study and found him.’ They’d reached the front entrance. She gave Jazz a brief smile. ‘Will that be all?’

‘For now, yes. Thank you for your help.’

Matron gave her a quick nod, turned and walked up the stairs.

Jenny Colman knocked on Robert Jones’s door with his three o’clock cup of tea.

‘Come,’ said the voice, and Jenny opened the door.

Robert Jones was slumped at his desk, tie askew, misery etched on his face.

‘Oh, Mr Jones, what is it?’

He shook his head as she put the tray on the desk.

‘Nothing, Jenny, I’m just a little weary, and I’ve got a headache, that’s all.’

‘Can I get you an aspirin or . . . whoops!’ She chuckled as she realised what she had said. ‘Sorry, Mr Jones. Bit inappropriate under the circumstances.’