The Scandalous Sisterhood of Prickwillow Place

by Julie Berry

  “You’ve never had a shortage of willing men,” Smooth Kitty said.

  “Correct, but under Mother’s watch, there’s an absolute dearth of minutes.”

  Stout Alice was uninterested in Mary Jane’s chances for hasty marriage. “If I go home, all I shall hear from Grandmamma is how fat I am compared to Cousin Isabelle,” she said. “She should talk. It takes two maids to tie Grandmamma’s corsets, but that doesn’t stop her from goading me.”

  Dour Elinor stared at the black coals on the grate. “My mother will tell me all day long that a young lady should radiate sweetness and good cheer.” She spoke the words the way others might pronounce maggots and black rot.

  Smooth Kitty clucked a sympathetic tongue for poor Elinor.

  “I suppose they’ll find other schools for us eventually,” Pocked Louise said. “New mistresses, new nasty girls to make us miserable.”

  “We have all gotten along so beautifully here.” Dear Roberta sighed. “It’s something of a miracle, really. We aren’t simply boarding-school mates. We’re like a family.”

  “We’re better than family,” Disgraceful Mary Jane corrected. “Families are full of aunts and brothers and parents. We’re sisters.”

  “I always wished for a sister,” Dull Martha said.

  “Me, too,” said Dear Roberta.

  “Not me,” Dour Elinor confessed. “But I don’t mind your company.”

  Pocked Louise sat up. “None of us here has a sister at home, have we?” she said slowly. “I never realized that before. Not a single one of us.”

  “That’s why I hate to leave.” Dear Roberta had begun to cry. “We have our own sisterhood.”

  Elinor handed Roberta a black silk handkerchief.

  “You want to know what I say?” Smooth Kitty asked no one in particular. “I say we don’t tell these … ravens and what-do-you-call-ems … coroners. Let’s not tell anyone.”

  They stared at each other. Smoldering coal settled in the fireplace, sending up low sparks. Each girl was alone, for a moment, with her private amazement. Smooth Kitty counted her heartbeats as she waited for their responses.

  “But the bodies will smell,” Dull Martha said at length. “Sooner or later they’re bound to.”

  Disgraceful Mary Jane, whose green eyes had lit up wonderfully at Smooth Kitty’s suggestion, gave Dull Martha a little rub on the back. “No, darling, they won’t,” she said. “We’ll bury them. Right in the vegetable beds.”

  “They’ll make a lovely compost,” Pocked Louise added. “Perhaps not so much this season. But next season the marrows and squashes will burst with juicy goodness.” She scratched her nose thoughtfully. “We’ll just have to be careful this fall when we go digging for potatoes.”

  Smooth Kitty’s eyes darted from young lady to young lady, watching to see how well her idea had taken hold. She didn’t dare congratulate herself yet. She must be sure where they stood.

  “Never mind potatoes. There’ll be a scandal,” she said. “An investigation. Each one of us could be under a cloud of suspicion for the rest of our lives.”

  “A black spot,” Dour Elinor intoned. “A blemish upon our maiden purity.”

  “Oh, no, surely not,” Disgraceful Mary Jane replied. “Not for such a trifling thing as neglecting to mention the death of a headmistress and her nasty brother. No one could really be upset over that. It takes much more fun to leave a blemish upon one’s maiden purity.”

  “They’ll think one of us murdered them,” Pocked Louise warned.

  Smooth Kitty slipped an arm through Louise’s elbow. “What I’d like to know, love, is whether or not one of us actually did.”

  CHAPTER 2

  Evening breezes began to blow chill through the chintz curtains. The white roses in the dining room wallpaper, which in fact never did stay quite white, took on a reddish hue from the setting sun outside, as did Mrs. Plackett’s ever-pallid complexion. In fact, that rigid and upright lady (who, to be frank, had never been more rigid nor more upright than at this moment) looked positively mauve, as though reflecting the sunny warmth of a summer afternoon. The rosy sunset made even the mud of Farmer Butts’s vast acres of meadowland blaze with heavenly glory as far as the eye could see out the western picture window. His sheep radiated like bright angels. High above and far beyond the Butts farm, Ely Cathedral pressed its two great towers up into the violet sky. The dining room would be rosy for only a few minutes more, and then they’d need to light the lamps, so Stout Alice went down into the kitchen and returned with the kerosene and matches.

  “Let’s all sit in the parlor and make our plans,” Smooth Kitty said.

  “Let’s all sit in the parlor and drink Mrs. Plackett’s medicinal wine, and eat her tinned biscuits,” was Disgraceful Mary Jane’s reply.

  Smooth Kitty opened her mouth as if to reply, then paused. It hit her then, as it had hit all of them, that there was really and truly nothing barring them from the biscuits or the wine, nor from any other hidden treasure at Saint Etheldreda’s School.

  There was a general stampede to Mrs. Plackett’s bedroom where, it was well known, the former headmistress kept her medicinal wine and a supply of glasses hidden in a small cupboard next to her bed.

  “The bottles are all empty!” Pocked Louise cried. “Worse luck.”

  “But not the tins of biscuits,” Stout Alice sang from the back of the closet, from which she pulled two whole boxes full of Scottish shortbread, and one of Parkinson’s Butterscotch.

  “We can at least drink the fancy tea with these,” Smooth Kitty said. “Come on.”

  In no time Stout Alice had the kettle heating on the stove, while Pocked Louise lit the lamp. By this time more light was necessary, as both Dear Roberta and Dull Martha had tripped over Mr. Godding in the dining room. Dear Roberta, who, though not yet fully grown, was still the tallest of the bunch, toppled right down onto his body, which was now cool to the touch, and she required a sniff of Mrs. Plackett’s smelling salts and several extra biscuits before the threat of another faint was averted and her temperament restored to its usual calm sunniness.

  “Loosen your corset strings, girls,” sang Mary Jane. “Free from rules forever! Elinor, you’re rid of that horrid posture backboard. Mrs. Plackett can never strap it on you again.”

  “Let’s burn it,” said Louise, and before anyone could advise otherwise, she flung the brace Mrs. Plackett had insisted Dour Elinor wear, with her elbows looped through its rings, to make her perennially slouching posture straight, into the coal fireplace. Elinor, it must be said, sat erect and alert to watch it burn.

  “A toast,” Smooth Kitty cried, feeling almost giddy, “to self-government. Saint Etheldreda’s School for Young Ladies will be run by young ladies from this point forward. Hear, hear!” Great applause.

  “To independence!” added Pocked Louise. “No fussy old widows telling us when not to speak, and how to set the spoons when an earl’s niece comes to supper. And telling us to leave scientific experiments to the men.” Teacup toasts in support of Louise.

  “To freedom!” chimed in Disgraceful Mary Jane. “No curfews and evil eyes and lectures on morals and propriety.” Loud, if nervous, cheering.

  “To womankind,” proclaimed Stout Alice. “Each of us girls free to be what she wishes to be, without glum and crotchety Placketts trying to make us into what we’re not.” Tremendous excitement.

  “To sisterhood,” said Dear Roberta, “and standing by each other, no matter what.”

  This inspired three cheers, and then three more, followed by many butterscotches and biscuits. They were a merry party indeed.

  The west tower bells of Ely Cathedral tolled their rolling chorus for eight o’clock.

  The front doorbell rang. The girls froze and stared at each other.

  “We’re ruined!” Dear Roberta cried softly.

  “Sunday night callers?” Mary Jane whispered. “Rather late for high tea. Whoever could it be?”

  “Look at us, carousing with bodies strewn
about as though we live in a mausoleum,” hissed Stout Alice. “How shall that look?”

  “Interesting,” said Dour Elinor, but no one paid her any heed.

  “We shall be caught and blamed for their murders!” Dull Martha sobbed.

  “I feel weak…” Dear Roberta gasped. “Lightheaded…”

  Smooth Kitty sprang from her seat. “No, we shan’t be caught and blamed,” she whispered. “Not unless we behave stupidly. Roberta! Pull yourself together. Louise. Alice. Mary Jane. Get the bodies into Mrs. Plackett’s room. Wipe the blood off her brother’s face and hide him in the armoire. Tuck Mrs. Plackett into bed like she’s having a little rest. Just to be safe. We must all rally round and work together.”

  The bell rang again. Stout Alice dimmed the lamps in the parlor while the others each grabbed a cold, stiff arm or leg and helped hoist their corpse down the hall to the bedroom. Smooth Kitty swept biscuit crumbs off the cushions and walked slowly toward the front door.

  It was a long, narrow corridor; Mrs. Plackett’s was a long, rambling house, larger than she had any need for, which was one reason she had opened a school. Tonight, it seemed to Kitty, hundreds of doors to hundreds of rooms stretched between her and the ringing doorbell. She shook her head, and the illusion passed.

  She could see a silhouette through the sheer window curtain. It was a man, though it might as well have been a barrel with a head on top. She thought for a brief moment of her own father, and paused to steady her nerves. She opened the door to find the massive, stooped, but still imposing figure of Admiral Lockwood peering down at her through thick spectacles.

  Kitty took an involuntary step back. Admiral Paris Lockwood, once famous for his exploits in Her Majesty’s Navy, generally kept to his house in the village, surrounded by relics of his many travels, and, some believed, sacks of money. He had a fearful reputation as a tyrant in Ely. Fishermen claimed they could hear his bellows halfway to Saint Adelaide along the River Great Ouse.

  But his voice tonight was a low and gravelly whisper. “Connie?”

  Connie? Smooth Kitty had no time to marvel at what this could mean.

  “Mrs. Plackett has gone to bed,” she responded gravely.

  The old man shuffled his feet and squinted at Kitty. “That poorly, is she?” He clucked his tongue. “Poor thing. Bit strange, though. O-ho, I see! It’s all part of the game!”

  Kitty was at a loss. It was a rarity, for her, but it must be noted.

  Admiral Lockwood entered and began removing his coat. “Well, we can all still toast the young man’s birthday even if the hostess is unwell.” He winked. “Here, hold this.” He thrust a heavy bottle at her, which she took obediently.

  “The … young … man’s birthday?”

  “Her brother,” Admiral Lockwood explained. “Connie invited some friends over to surprise him. Must be I’m the first to come.”

  Kitty thought perhaps the ground had begun to buckle underneath her feet. That nasty Aldous Godding could be thought of in anyone’s estimation as a “young man” was the least of the shocks poor Kitty now faced.

  “Connie said we’re to wait in the parlor,” the admiral went on, heading down the hall. “It’s a surprise party she has in mind. Resting in bed must be part of the ruse.” He hung up his coat in the hallway and retrieved his gift from Kitty. “I’ll take that. It’s a fat bottle of the best Taylor’s Vintage Port. You won’t find that for sale anywhere in Ely, nor even Cambridge. My contribution to the party.”

  They reached the parlor, and Admiral Lockwood unwrapped and uncorked the bottle. A side-table tray was stocked with glasses, so he took a convenient seat between the table and the fire. He gave Smooth Kitty a shocking wink.

  “Tell your headmistress she can stop ‘resting’ now,” he said. “The party’s all arriving. Ah! Shortbread biscuits!”

  The doorbell rang. Smooth Kitty backed away like one trapped in a nightmare and slipped back down the corridor. The other girls popped their heads out of doorways like anxious rabbits.

  “What’s happening, Kitty?” Stout Alice whispered.

  “Birthday party for Mr. Godding!” was Kitty’s terse reply. Her schoolmates’ eyes widened with terror. The sight of it put some steel back in her spine. Yes, this was an unforeseen inconvenience, but she was not about to throw away her freedom, now that she’d glimpsed it, for fear of a handful of old people sipping birthday wine on a Sunday evening, be it ever so expensive. Fate had failed to reckon properly with the Saint Etheldreda girls.

  Kitty reached the door once more. There could be no mistaking this silhouette. Only one person in Ely had such a tall, stout frame and such a long, bald, peanut-shaped head. Feeling as reckless as a condemned criminal, she pulled open the door.

  “Good evening, Reverend Rumsey.” Smooth Kitty gave a little bow. “How can I help you?”

  The vicar at Saint Mary’s parish church crouched his great body down to Kitty’s level and whispered moistly in her ear. “I’ve brought fudge! I’m not too late for the surprise party, am I?”

  “That depends on your point of view.”

  “Eh? What was that you said?”

  Kitty dabbed her ear with her handkerchief and smiled for the vicar. “Not too late at all, Reverend. That was an inspiring sermon you offered today.”

  Reverend Rumsey beamed. “Ah, yes. ‘Nine Tips for Helping Youngsters Pilot Their Vessels Clear of Babylon’s Waters.’ Second Sunday in May sermon. It’s one of my more popular addresses.”

  “Understandably so. I especially appreciated the warnings about the evils of drink.” Kitty led the way to the parlor. “Please excuse Mrs. Plackett this evening. She’s unwell, but you and your fudge are more than welcome to join Admiral Lockwood in the parlor.”

  The two men greeted each other. Reverend Rumsey’s gaze went immediately to the bottle on the sideboard. He seated himself in the chair nearest to it.

  The doorbell rang.

  Kitty left the vicar smacking his fishy lips and gazing happily at the glass of port Admiral Lockwood had poured him. She met the other girls in the corridor, each looking frantic.

  “How are those bodies coming along?”

  “Mr. Godding is putting up a fight,” Stout Alice whispered.

  “Perhaps he knows his birthday party is gathering without him,” Kitty muttered.

  This time the shadow showed a man in a round hat, apparently checking his watch. Kitty took a deep breath and opened the door.

  “Good evening,” she said to the figure standing there, stamping his feet on the mat. “How nice to see you, Doctor Snelling.”

  “That’s not what people usually say,” the doctor said. “When I come around, people think of sickness, death, and medical bills. The apothecary is my only friend.” He pushed past her into the hallway and handed her his hat. “Here.”

  Kitty moved to block the stout, sweaty man from traveling farther in. “Death! What a thing to say. How may I assist you, Doctor?”

  Dr. Snelling waved impatiently at the hat. “By hanging that up and letting me pass. I’m here to see Mrs. Plackett, so we might as well get on with it.”

  A new terror faced Kitty now. “You mean, you’re here for the party, correct?”

  Dr. Snelling snapped his fingers. “Party! Yes. Forgotten clean about that. Mrs. Plackett did mention toasting her brother.” He examined his watch again impatiently. “Truth is, your headmistress asked me to stop by a bit before the party to examine her liver complaint. I’m running late, and odds are seven to one Mollie Bennion will deliver her baby before the night is over, or I’m no doctor. I’m giving three to one odds it’ll be a boy. I’m always glad to have a friendly word with Mr. Godding and wish him a convivial birthday, but tonight I’d better just see Mrs. Plackett, and be on my way. Where’s your housekeeper tonight?”

  “Miss Barnes has the Sabbath day off. I wasn’t aware Mrs. Plackett was unwell.” A bit of a falsehood, her conscience pointed out, but then, Mrs. Plackett never had seemed particularly unwell. She appeare
d to pass instantly from her normal irritable state to death.

  Dr. Snelling waited irritably. “Yes? Well? Are you going to lead me to her?”

  Kitty took her time responding. “She’s resting.” She handed Dr. Snelling his hat. “Resting in…” She thought to say, “in her bedroom,” but checked herself. “… in peace. Perhaps you can stop by again tom–” Again she caught herself. “Stop by again if she summons you in the future. I will be sure to tell her you kept your appointment faithfully.”

  Dr. Snelling peered down at Kitty through his gold-rimmed spectacles, sighed, and attempted a fatherly smile, failing utterly. He patted Kitty on the head, flattening her curls. “Now, my girl, I know you mean well to let your headmistress rest, but she is my patient, and she asked me specifically to inquire after her this evening, so I must be allowed to examine her. Never mind showing me in, I know the way.” And with that, he pushed resolutely past Kitty and disappeared into the darkness.

  Kitty ran along behind, trying to think of a new plan. She prided herself on plans. But now no plan presented itself, and so she must improvise. Improvisation made her feel cross. She passed the parlor, then the door leading down to the kitchen and larder, and just beyond them she saw Dr. Snelling enter the rear room that Mrs. Plackett had converted to a downstairs bedroom.

  Stout Alice met her in the hallway with a saucer and cup of tea, still steaming from their tea party only a few moments ago, though it felt like hours to Kitty.

  “Perhaps you’ll need this.” Alice offered Kitty the cup.

  Smooth Kitty’s eyes lit up. “You’re brilliant, Alice!” She grabbed the cup. “Come on!”

  Both girls entered the dead headmistress’s room. The sight of Mrs. Plackett’s dead form stretched out on the bed, with the covers pulled up to her ribs as if she were merely asleep, gave Kitty a start. Only one candle lit the room, and in its flickering glow Mrs. Plackett might indeed only be resting. The flame’s motion mimicked the movements of a sleeper’s breath. An oil portrait of the late Captain Martin Plackett, which Mrs. Plackett had been known to address in life as though it could answer her, frowned down upon the scene is if only he remained unconvinced by this charade.