‘Who is the second victim?’ she asked, changing tack.
‘A retired teacher living in Berrow.’
‘A colleague of my father’s?’
‘Not as far as we can tell. She taught at St Christopher’s, retiring when the school closed down in the nineties.’
‘What’s her name? I was at St Christopher’s.’
‘We’ll come on to that in a minute, if that’s all right.’
‘There must be some connection though, surely.’
‘That’s one of the lines of enquiry we’re pursuing,’ replied Dixon.
‘What are the others?’
Dixon admired her persistence, but it was time to shut down the jousting. ‘I find that these meetings work best when I ask the questions.’
Mrs Woodard drew breath, but thought better of it.
‘Tell me about your mother,’ Dixon said.
‘She died three years ago.’ Mrs Woodard softened at the memory. ‘Alzheimer’s. Late onset, mercifully, and Dad kept her at home until near the end. It wasn’t easy, mark you. She’d wander off, given half the chance, and they’d find her down on the beach in her nightdress.’
‘When did they marry?’
‘1961. Then I came along in 1963.’
‘And your father taught at St Joseph’s throughout his career?’
‘He did.’
‘Even towards the end when it became co-educational, or had he retired by then?’
Mrs Woodard turned an alarming shade of crimson, visible even under her make-up. ‘Oh, I see where this is going.’ She turned to her husband, her mouth pinched in fury. ‘I told you. My father teaches at a boys’ boarding school, is murdered, and suddenly he’s being suspected of interfering with the pupils.’
‘We’re just trying to establish a motive,’ said Dixon. His smile was beginning to feel strained, and probably looked it too.
‘And I suppose this other teacher is suspected of interfering with the girls at St Christopher’s?’ She sneered. ‘You people.’
‘This isn’t getting us anywhere, is it,’ Dixon said. ‘Either you want to help us find who killed your father, or you don’t. It’s that simple.’
‘How dare you—’
‘For heaven’s sake, Cynthia,’ said her husband, placing his hand on her arm. ‘Just tell him what he needs to know.’
‘How do I know what went on? I was just a child.’
‘Where were you living?’ asked Dixon.
‘We had a flat in Grove Road when the school was based there. It occupied most of the buildings on the right, as you walk up to the beach. Then it moved to Rectory Road and we had a house in the grounds. Dad was deputy head by then.’
‘And you said you went to St Christopher’s?’
‘I was there from 1974 to 1979. Then I went to St Joseph’s when it went co-ed.’
‘What about your mother, did she work?’
‘She taught French.’ Mrs Woodard shrugged. ‘She was French, so it made sense.’
‘Was there any infidelity in the marriage that you’re aware of?’
Dixon watched Mrs Woodard bridling at the question and was waiting for the indignation, but it never came. Just sadness. ‘My mother had an affair, or so I found out years later. It was with a young science teacher. He was only there for a couple of years and then moved on, or was moved on, when it became public knowledge. I think he went to Allhallows, but that’s closed down now as well.’
‘Do you remember his name?’
‘Newsom.’
Dixon braced himself. ‘Let’s go back to the difficult question then. Were any allegations ever made about your father’s conduct arising from his time at St Joseph’s?’
‘No. Absolutely not. In fact, I don’t recall any allegations of a sexual nature – that’s what you mean, isn’t it – ever being made against any of the teaching staff there.’
‘What about St Christopher’s?’
‘The same.’ Mrs Woodard pursed her lips. ‘I guess that makes us lucky, compared to what you read about these days.’
‘Would your sister say the same thing?’
