“But,” I said, “why wasn’t Miss Bell moved on Monday evening?”
“The murderer had to decide what to do with the body. Perhaps they planned to keep it in school, and then realized they couldn’t?”
“But nobody found it yesterday!” I said. “It can’t have been that bad a hiding place.”
“Indeed,” said Daisy. “Actually, I’ve been thinking about that. It ought to be the next part of our mission: The Hunt for the Hiding Place of Miss Bell’s Body. That sounds just like a treasure hunt, doesn’t it? Like hide-and-seek, but with a body.”
“Oh no,” I said. I knew perfectly well that looking for a body would be nothing like playing a game. “Daisy, I—”
At this point we were interrupted by Beanie scurrying up to us. “Hello,” she said eagerly, skipping along beside Daisy. “What’s up?”
“Er,” I said. “We were—”
“We were just discussing Miss Bell,” Daisy finished smoothly.
“Ooh!” said Beanie, wrapping her red and blue school scarf around her hands and nearly dropping her school bag. “Exciting. D’you really think she’s been kidnapped by the East—Oh sorry, Hazel.”
Beanie is one of the only people at Deepdean who would have thought to apologize for that.
“I heard she’d resigned,” I said, to thank her.
“No!” said Beanie, who in her own kindhearted way is as much of a gossip as Kitty. “But Miss Griffin was going to announce her as the new deputy headmistress! Unless she was too upset by The One jilting her to care . . .”
“Hmm,” I said. “Perhaps.”
“Oh, I do hate it when people quarrel,” said Beanie unhappily. “I almost wish she had been kidnapped by a gang—or would that be worse?”
“Much worse,” said Daisy, hitching her bag up onto her shoulder and elbowing Beanie to cheer her up. Beanie is so like a little dog that not even Daisy, who doesn’t usually bother much about other people’s feelings, can bear seeing her disappointed. “I heard they go about stabbing knives into gang members who are disloyal, and then they leave horrible messages for the family in their loved one’s blood.”
Beanie’s good-natured brown eyes widened in fascinated horror.
“Stabbing and that sort of thing is absolutely rife in Russia, my uncle says,” Daisy continued.
“Wells!” said Virginia Overton, who was walking past and heard Daisy. “That’s a fearful lie! Don’t you believe her, Martineau.”
“I didn’t,” said Beanie quickly. “I’m perfectly all right.”
Virginia sniffed. “I hope so,” she said. “I’ve got my eye on you, Wells.”
We finished the walk up to the dorm talking about Beanie’s pony, Boggles, whom she had left at home and missed passionately. Daisy, in turn, began to tell a story about her pony, Gladstone, who was a genius and had once jumped a six-foot hedge. They chattered away, and I stared up through the empty tree branches at the tall houses and the darkening sky, and worried and worried about the murder.
Was it really the murderer who had smashed those windows? And if so, was it while they were removing Miss Bell’s body from the school? Where had it been hidden in the meantime . . . ? And, most important of all, who was the murderer? We had established alibis for Mamzelle, Mr. MacLean, and Miss Hopkins, but Miss Lappet, Miss Parker, Miss Tennyson, and The One still had no alibis at all, and they had all been near the gym at the right time. Which of them had done it?
Part Four
We Have Our Suspicions, and an Argument
In prayers on Thursday morning, after a stern notice about the value of the windows in the New Wing corridor and the importance of owning up to mistakes, as an honorable Deepdean girl ought, Miss Griffin finally broke the news that we had all been waiting for.
“As you may have noticed,” she said from the lectern, “Miss Bell has not been in attendance this week. Unfortunately, I must now inform you that she has resigned her post. Until a suitable replacement can be found, the other teachers will be giving your science lessons. I ask you all to be mindful of the additional work that they will be doing, and I hope this will put an end to the rather irresponsible gossip that I have been hearing lately regarding Miss Bell’s absence.” She stared severely down at us over her little gold-rimmed reading glasses, and several girls looked away. For a moment even I felt rather guilty.
Then everyone woke up to what she had said, and up and down the rows, girls began nudging one another in excitement. The “irresponsible gossip” had not been stopped at all. King Henry looked around, her face pale with fury. I wondered if her foot was still hurting. Her glare made the nudging die down for a bit, but it started up again as soon as she looked away.
“Are you sure we ought to still be investigating?” I asked Daisy as we filed out of prayers.
“Don’t be stupid, Hazel!” she hissed back at me. “You know the Bell hasn’t really resigned. She’s still just as dead as she ever was, and we’re the only ones who know the truth. Think of her family, Hazel. If we don’t find out what really happened, no one ever will.”
It was awful of Daisy, bringing up Miss Bell’s family like that—and just like her too. She knew it would make me worry, and of course it did. I imagined Miss Bell’s mother. She was probably widowed, living alone in a single cold room, just as poor as Miss Bell had been.
This was very upsetting. I much preferred assuming that teachers had no lives at all; that if I went into Deepdean during the holidays I would find them all wandering about in the corridors, giving lessons in empty rooms. But once I had imagined Miss Bell’s tragic mother, I could not make her vanish.
And of course, Daisy knew it.
As we marched along the marble chessboard of the Library corridor in our neat gray two-by-two rows, both Daisy and I were quiet. I was thinking about Miss Bell’s mother and getting more and more upset. Daisy was probably thinking about the murder, and fashionable hats, and who cheated on the math test, all at once, as though she were really three people instead of one.
Two rows behind us, Kitty whispered something to Beanie just as we passed Miss Parker, who was on duty outside the teachers’ common room, and who began bellowing at them as though they had been caught spitting on the Bible.
Our row faltered to a stop, and the girls directly behind us began to bunch up and crane over one another in excitement as Miss Parker tore her hands through her hair and howled in red-faced fury. Of course, we are all used to Miss Parker’s rages, but this was something quite different. Shouting about disgraces to the school, she gave Kitty and Beanie detention twice and then forgot what she had already said and gave them another one for good measure.
We all stayed very quiet and still so as not to attract her attention, the way you would with a tiger in the zoo. But all the same she caught Lavinia goggling at her and howled, “ALL of you others, MOVE OFF! Hurry up or I’ll have the lot of you, I’ll—”
At this point, though, Miss Griffin came through the packed corridor and put a calming hand on Miss Parker’s shoulder. Miss Griffin has an eerie way of knowing where she is needed, and being there.
Miss Parker gasped at the touch, and all the fight went out of her. Even her hair sagged.
“Come along, Miss Parker,” said Miss Griffin cheerfully, as though they were both at a garden party and late for the tea. “Move along, girls, otherwise you’ll be late for your lessons.” And that was that. If Miss Griffin tells you to do something, you had better do it. Everyone drifted away, quickly but reluctantly, and the corridor was soon back to normal again. But Daisy, walking in very proper silence next to me, turned her head and widened her eyes at me in a way that I knew meant, Suspicious behavior from Parker again.
Miss Parker was not the only one of our prime suspects to be behaving suspiciously. Our second lesson on Thursdays is English with Miss Tennyson, who wanted the deputy headmistress job but was beaten to it by Miss Bell. Miss Tennyson, as I have said, is a fearful sap, and terribly nervous. Her large, soppy eyes well up like
a squeezed sponge at everything from poetry to animals, and because we are doing the great poets this term, we had to endure a weeping fit from Miss Tennyson nearly every lesson.
That day, she had Daisy read out Gray’s “Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard.” From the shape her mouth made, I knew Daisy found it utter nonsense, but she read it well, as she always does, in a clear, calm voice that did not betray what she was thinking.
But as she read I noticed—as did Daisy, though she did not show it—that Miss Tennyson was being more than usually weepy.
“Each in his narrow cell for ever laid,” read Daisy in appropriately funereal tones. Miss Tennyson turned pale. In fact, every reference to graves or dead people (there are lots in Gray’s “Elegy,” in case you have not been forced to read it yet yourself) had Miss Tennyson twitching like a science experiment. When Daisy reached the lines,
Can storied urn or animated bust
Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath?
Miss Tennyson began shaking so hard I thought she might fall off her chair, and after the last line she sat in silence for so long that we all started looking at one another in real concern.
“Are you all right, Miss Tennyson?” asked Beanie nervously at last.
“Perfectly, Beanie dear,” said Miss Tennyson, dabbing at her cheeks with her handkerchief. “I thought Daisy’s reading was so lovely that I wanted to give us all time to contemplate it.”
I could tell it was an excuse, and a weak one. Not even Miss Tennyson cared about poetry that much.
That was when Daisy pounced. “Miss Tennyson,” she said, putting up her hand, “may I ask you something?”
“Is it about Gray’s ‘Elegy’?” asked Miss Tennyson.
“No,” said Daisy. “It’s about Miss Bell.”
Miss Tennyson dropped the book of poems she was holding. It clattered onto the desk and the eighth grade all stared from her to Daisy and back again.
“I need to ask Miss Bell something, but now that she’s resigned I don’t know where to write to her. I don’t suppose you know where she’s gone to, do you?”
“Why would you think that I would have any idea where Miss Bell has gone?” asked Miss Tennyson, so quietly it was almost a whisper. She had turned as pale as one of Gray’s poetical gravestones.
“Oh, I don’t know,” Daisy said breezily. “I thought she might have said where she was going. It was only a hope.”
Miss Tennyson turned red, a specklish flush that broke out all down her neck and into her high-collared blouse. “Daisy Wells!” she said. “This has nothing to do with poetry. I’ll thank you to keep on topic for the rest of the lesson. Otherwise . . . otherwise you will be doing extra composition for me in detention.”
We all gaped at her. We had never heard Miss Tennyson make that kind of threat before. Even last term when Lavinia said King Lear was idiotic, Miss Tennyson had only sighed and looked wounded. This threat was quite out of character, and it had come because Daisy had mentioned Miss Bell.
Miss Tennyson did not want to talk about Miss Bell, and a poem about graves was making her upset. She had just moved to the very top of our suspect list.
In the afternoon we had phys ed, which meant I had to stand shivering on the athletic field while Daisy and the rest of the sporty girls galloped around and screamed at one another. That day my ankle gave me an excuse to play defense (although I was not allowed to skip phys ed altogether—that would not be the Deepdean way), so at least I could shiver in peace while the ball was hammered to and fro in front of me.
Unfortunately, being on defense meant being next to Lavinia. If it is possible, she is even worse at phys ed than I am, which makes her terribly sulky. Miss Hopkins has given up on her entirely, so Lavinia just lumps about near goal, glaring at everyone.
It was a very English afternoon. The air was full of water droplets that clung to our faces and weighed down our clothes, and the grass had turned into a particularly slimy sort of mud. I wrapped my arms around myself and shivered. It was the sort of weather Daisy loves. She rocketed about the pitch, skirt flapping, and winged the ball at goal so hard that we had to dive out of the way to save ourselves. Miss Hopkins cheered and waved her hockey stick in encouragement. She was still in an astonishingly happy mood.
I was trying to observe her when Lavinia began to speak to me. “Daisy’s annoyingly brilliant, isn’t she?” she said as she watched Daisy tackle Clementine.
“Daisy’s not annoying!” I said. “She’s just Daisy.”
“Well, you would say that,” said Lavinia. “You’re practically her slave.”
“I am not!” I said furiously. “Daisy’s my best friend.”
“Huh,” said Lavinia. “Some friend. She uses you—haven’t you noticed? And she only took an interest in you because you’re an Oriental. Her uncle is a spy—that’s why foreigners interest her.”
Now, if it is bad form to show your emotions in England, it is even more so in Hong Kong, so I know I should feel most terribly guilty about what happened next. Unfortunately, I do not feel guilty at all.
The ball was coming down the field again, with Daisy pounding along after it while Kitty whacked at her stick and tried to trip her up. I watched the ball jump and roll over tufts of muddy grass toward us. Lavinia had not noticed it. Daisy gave the ball one more whack and it arced up in the air and landed just next to Lavinia’s right foot.
That was enough for me. I launched myself at Lavinia, whirling my hockey stick, and crashed into her as hard as I could. For the second time in a week, I fell down in a tangle of legs and arms and athletic underwear. “Oh!” I shrieked, sounding as horrified as I could manage.
Then I scrambled up, making sure that my stick dug into Lavinia’s middle and my knee squashed into her thigh. My shoe scratched down her leg, leaving it streaky with mud. Lavinia kicked back, hard, on my ankle, and I toppled over again.
“Beast!” panted Lavinia, and scratched me.
The game had stopped, and Miss Hopkins was running over to us. It turned out that her cheerfulness only stretched so far. “HAZEL, NOT AGAIN!” she bellowed.
“I was trying to get the ball,” I said. “I tripped.”
Lavinia dragged herself to her feet and pulled me up with her. “We both tripped,” she said, breathing hard. “It wasn’t Hazel’s fault.” That’s the good thing about Lavinia. She can be foully mean, and she’s vicious in a fight, but at least she doesn’t hold grudges afterward.
“I can see perfectly well that that’s a lie,” said Miss Hopkins, sighing. “Hazel, in this country we do not fight. We are civilized. This is the second time you have knocked over a classmate this week. Go and get changed back into your school things, and if I ever catch you doing something like this again I shall send you to Miss Griffin. Lavinia, play on. Hazel, go!”
It was not really a punishment, or at least not one as bad as Miss Hopkins would usually have given out, but it still stung. Cheeks burning, I turned and marched off toward the pavilion. I felt swollen up with anger. I couldn’t see why Lavinia wasn’t being punished as well. She had fought back, after all. And she had been so horrid about Daisy! It was not true that Daisy was only friends with me because I was from Hong Kong. She was not like that at all, I told myself. But all the same, there was a bit of me that was worried. Could it really be true?
I changed back into my school things, my heart rocketing around inside my chest like a dynamo. My ankle was aching again, but I ignored it. I had hardly finished pulling my socks on, though, when the door of the changing room banged open. I crouched down, thinking that it might be Miss Hopkins. But the person who stuck their head through a row of pinafores and grinned at me was not Miss Hopkins at all—it was Daisy.
Her golden hair was stiff with mud and there was mud on one of her cheeks too. As she burrowed through the clothes and wiggled her way out onto the bench opposite me, she left quite a lot of mud behind her. But she didn’t seem to mind.
“Psst, Watson!” said Daisy. “I�
�ve come to join you, even though you were rude to Miss Hopkins. I thought this would be a good opportunity to hold a Detective Society meeting.”
There was Daisy, adoring Miss Hopkins again. I decided to ignore it. “What did you do to get out of phys ed?” I asked.
“I told Hopkins I had the curse and she let me go.” Daisy said this without a blush, as though it was the easiest thing in the world. Perhaps it was—for her.
“Daisy,” I said. “Do you know what Lavinia said to me?”
“No,” said Daisy. “What awful lies has she been telling this time?”
“She said . . . that you were only friends with me because I come from Hong Kong.”
There was a pause. “What utter nonsense,” said Daisy. “As you know perfectly well, I’m only friends with you because you were so persistent about it that I couldn’t refuse.”
“Daisy!” I said.
“All right. That’s nonsense. I’m friends with you because you are the cleverest person in this whole school.”
I blushed. It was one of the nicest things she had ever said to me.
“Apart, of course, from me.”
Daisy couldn’t bear not having the last word. “Well, now that we’ve cleared that up, can we get on to the real business? We won’t have another opportunity like this all day. Ready, Watson?”
“Ready,” I said, pulling my casebook out of my bag and trying to put my mind to Detective Society business.
“Excellent,” said Daisy. “Now, we’ve already made some really important discoveries, but before we go any further we need to talk about suspects. We’re agreed that we’ve narrowed our suspect list down to four: Miss Parker, Miss Tennyson, Miss Lappet, and The One. The others all have good alibis; and although in books they might have done it by constructing a dastardly long-range missile out of a trombone, three plant pots, and the gym vaulting horse, in real life that sort of thing does seem beyond the bounds of possibility.”
Murder Is Bad Manners Page 6