Goodbye, Ms. Chips

by Dorothy Cannell

  “That’s his granddaughter. She’s twelve and horribly full of herself.” Ariel rolled her eyes behind her glasses. “Most of the school thinks she needs taking down a peg. But what I want to know, Mrs. Sherlock, is if you’re here on official business.”

  “I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.”

  Taking her arm, I steered her away from the building. There was no one else about. In my day, St. Roberta’s had adhered to a strict respect for the Sabbath. Quiet activities such as reading and sedate strolls in the grounds were encouraged, but there were no green-and-yellow-uniformed strollers this afternoon. Had that activity been restricted until the Loverly Cup was returned? It seemed to me, given Mrs. Battle’s steel hand on the helm—secret life or no—highly likely. She was a woman who knew how to bring pressure to bear.

  “Ha!” Ariel peeked up at me. “Exactly as I thought!”

  “Meaning?”

  “That you’re not here because your doctor said your only hope of recovering from a rare, usually fatal, disease was a respite in a warmer climate.”

  “The weather here is glorious. I shall wallow in the sun and savor the balmy breeze.” The trick I’d learned with Ariel was not to succumb to her curiosity without putting up at least a parody of resistance. To do so was to allow her to walk all over me the way she did with her stepmother, Betty, and sometimes her father.

  “Oh, Ellie!” She succumbed to a giggle. “You’re so annoying. I suppose you think I’m going to beg to be told why you’re really here.”

  “Absolutely not. I know you to be far too strong-minded.” We were crossing the green counterpane lawn in the general direction of the Chaplain’s House. A butterfly drifted by like a scrap of multicolored silk blown off a sewing table in the Home Skills room.

  “Don’t you want to go round the back of the school and take a look at the playing fields?” she asked, in a voice that suggested she would have given her plaits a toss if she had still been wearing them loose. She knew full well from former discussions that sport of any kind was anathema to me.

  “I hate playing fields,” I said unnecessarily, and received a sharp look in return. “Whatever promises are made they will never be even.” Lengthening my stride, I asked quickly after her father and Betty.

  “Oh, they’re all right, I suppose. One of the few good things about being sent to this place is that they’re having to learn to fend for themselves without my constant supervision.”

  “Sent? I thought it was your idea. In fact, I distinctly remember explaining forcefully, as I snatched a copy of Millie at Mayhem Manor from your grasp, that real life at a real boarding school is not a series of one thrilling adventure after another. One of the great regrets of my life is giving you that book. I should have sent you a tome on the joys of staying at home catering to the whims of aging parents.” I expected her to state bitterly, as she had done in the past, that Betty wasn’t her mother, but either she had given up seeing herself in the bleak guise of pitiful stepchild, destined to kneel on stone floors slopping water around with a scrubbing brush, or she was thinking about how better to wheedle information out of me.

  “Well, I don’t have to tell you there has been mayhem this term; otherwise we both know you’d be at home with Ben and the children,” she responded smugly. “And I must say I’ve found the sense of restrained panic a nice change from algebra, which is not and never will be of the least interest to me. Who cares if A = B + C when we don’t have a clue who they are and what they have been up to when D wasn’t looking? Come on, Ellie; do tell what you know about the Loverly—”

  “Isn’t it truly a lovely day?” I paused to glance around and, as a reward for my appreciation of Mother Nature’s offering of gentian-blue skies and lambs’-wool clouds, narrowly missed stumbling over a rut in the otherwise rut-less lawn. Fortunately, there was a bench at hand, onto which I was able to topple in graceless fashion. It was within a few yards of the walled garden encircling the Chaplain’s House, which I was in no desperate hurry to enter. Sharing a dorm with a bunch of old girls might be interesting, but what if one or more of them had been a prefect and still horribly prissy or bossy and unable to suppress the urge to tell me to stay clear of the walls, raise my hand when asking to be excused, and—worst of all—not reach for the biggest, gooiest cake on the plate?

  “Ellie”—Ariel heaved a pained sigh—“kindly do not treat me like a child. You’re here to try and recover the Loverly Cup.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Why isn’t Mrs. Malloy with you?” The bottle-green skirt and mustard-yellow shirt suited Ariel’s coloring better than most. She sat down beside me with a bounce that gave no deference to the brass plate on the back of the bench, inscribed with the name of the donor and the information that she had been head girl in 1956–1957. Did she still reflect on those days of glory? I wondered. Did she still relish the memory of leading a crocodile of girls into the refectory for a midday dinner of shepherd’s pie and rice pudding?

  “Mrs. Malloy?” I echoed. “The timing wasn’t good for her. She’s entertaining her sister and the new husband for a few days.”

  Ariel was acquainted with the former Melody Tabby and Police Sergeant Walters. All the residents of the Yorkshire village of Milton Moor knew one another. It was located in the vicinity of the Brontë parsonage at Haworth in Yorkshire. Since moving there a year or so previously, after Tom and Betty won a ton of money in the lottery, Ariel’s enthusiasm for novels steeped in dark doings and tortured longings had become what she called, in her loftiest manner, her enduring passion. Her vocabulary, already advanced, came to include words such as visage or even physiognomy, to be tossed off when she felt a description of the paperboy required more dramatic impact.

  This was very trying for Tom and Betty, who were the sort who called a face a face and would have preferred to get their exercise taking an amble down to the pub rather than being forced to race for the dictionary every five minutes. For this I shouldered a good portion of the blame, having mentioned the first time I met Ariel—purely by way of finding something to say other than Isn’t it warm for March?—that I loved the sort of books where the butler descends the stairs with a fluttering candle held aloft and announces in a sepulchral voice to the waiting throng of jittery housemaids that her ladyship has succumbed to her nighttime cup of cocoa and consequently won’t be going riding in the morning.

  To that lapse of judgment I had later committed the indiscretion of letting slip to Ariel that I also was an avid enthusiast of boarding-school books for girls, as was Mrs. Malloy, when she could sneak one away from me and feign a sudden devotion to dusting the attic. That being said, I did not hold myself entirely responsible for Ariel’s decision that life at St. Roberta’s would be preferable to a good day school.

  “You’ve guessed it.” I leaned my head back to capture more shade from a copper beech that could have been a close relative of the one at Merlin’s Court. “Dorcas told Mrs. Battle that I’d done some amateur sleuthing and was sent to fetch me.”

  Ariel was not one to be easily won over when believing some callous personage had ruthlessly toyed with her sensibilities. She sat, arms folded, lips pursed, putting me forcibly in mind of my children when they decided they’d had just about enough of mothers for one day and would very much like to take away my teddy bear and send me to bed without my tea.

  “Mrs. Battle doesn’t object to your assisting me in the investigation.”

  “Oh, really!” Ariel didn’t yawn in my face; Betty—once the bane of Ariel’s existence, along with Tom when he took sleepy note of life around him—had instilled certain proprieties. She studied the copper beech as if counting its leaves and multiplying that sum by the number of tiles on the Chaplain House roof. “Can a mere girl of fourteen be of much help to an established private detective?”

  “Oh, come off it,” I said. “You know you’re a whiz at ferreting out the villain before the end of the book. It’s good to have Mrs. Battle’s seal of approval, b
ut I’d planned on our joining forces from the beginning.”

  “Thanks for forcing me to grovel.” Ariel kept her nose in the air, daring a blackbird to mistake her for the maid hanging out the clothes. “You’re desperate because Mrs. Malloy isn’t with you.”

  “She said the worst part of being stuck at home entertaining the newlyweds was not getting to confer with you about the case.”

  “Did she?” The pale face brightened to a pretty pink. Ariel held Mrs. M in high esteem. “Isn’t it rotten?”—forsaking her sense of injury—“I bet she felt horribly left out, seeing you drive off with Miss Critchley. You don’t suppose she’ll throttle her sister and brother-in-law in their sleep and come rushing after you?”

  “She’s already here—has been all day—inside my head, piping up with words of advice or criticism every five minutes.”

  Ariel sat very still, studying my physiognomy intently.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “You look sad.”

  “I feel sorry for Ms. Chips. The theft has to be hard on her.” I sat forward on the bench, forgetting my desire for shade. The image of Ms. Chips as I remembered her—striding across the playing fields, a sergeant major rallying the troops—refused to reduce in size to a broken nose.

  Ariel gave me one of her sharp looks. “You’re keeping something back, but I’ll get it out of you later. We’re friends, aren’t we, despite our different levels of maturity?” Her expression made clear which of us had the disadvantage there. “Did Miss Critchley tell you that Ms. Chips paid for the new gymnasium out of an inheritance she received from the man she was married to for only a few weeks—or days—when his parents put the nix on it because they discovered there was insanity in her family?”

  “It sounds like something from the Victorian era,” I said, “but none the less tragic. Mrs. Battle told me that Lady Loverly is in some way connected to the man’s family. I wonder if his name was Chips?”

  “I asked Carolyn Fisher-Jones about that—she’s her ladyship’s goddaughter—and she said that Ms. Chips reverted to her maiden name. It had struck me as interesting, Ellie, that a woman of her era didn’t go by Miss. Oh, I know she wasn’t born in the nineteenth century, but you know what I mean; it was one of those little anomalies that you kick around with your toes when algebra class goes on into next week.”

  “Miss Critchley was also surprised.”

  “But Chippy, as lots of the girls call her, wasn’t a Miss or a Mrs.; she was something in between, so I suppose when the term Ms. entered the vernacular it seemed exactly right for a woman torn from her bridegroom’s arms ere they could send thank-you cards for the toaster ovens and tea sets.” Ariel’s sigh was dramatic but, given her hidden softness, heartfelt.

  “It’s easy to condemn the man’s parents for interfering and him for failing to stand up to them, Ariel, but the times have to be taken into account. In those days, my mother told me, people were even afraid to admit having cancer in the family because of the perceived stigma.”

  “Do you think he left her the money out of guilt?”

  “Probably.”

  “Or because he continued to hold her enshrined in his heart as the only woman he ever loved?”

  “Real life doesn’t work that way, Ariel. Very likely he married again, was extremely happy, and had an armload of children.”

  “He didn’t. Well, I’m not sure about the marriage part, but Carolyn did say there weren’t any children. Lady Loverly thought, with there being no descendents, that she would figure prominently in the will. Again, I got that from Carolyn, who was also distantly related to him.”

  “Poor Aiden Loverly,” I mused, “done out of an additional inheritance. I didn’t take to him at all.” In response to Ariel’s surprised look, I explained about his coming within inches of running Gillian Parker down with his motorcycle.

  “He sounds loathsome, all right; even his good looks can’t make up for that. I pity the girl he marries; she’s in for a nasty shock when the scales fall from her eyes. I’m never going to take the risk of getting married.” She sat up straighter on the bench and scowled straight ahead at the Chaplain’s House. “Oh, I know, Ellie, you’re one of the lucky ones. Ben is a dear as well as heroically handsome. And Dad and Betty seem to be doing better in the romance department.”

  “That’s good.”

  “Not”—folding her hands primly—“that I wouldn’t prefer to think of them as being married in name only. There are certain behaviors that are okay—I see that now I’m older—but for other people, not one’s own parents.” Ariel conveyed the strength of this conviction with a shudder. “As for myself, I would prefer to become a nun.”

  “Don’t say that!” I tried not to smile. “You’re romanticizing that old legend. It’s similar to Ms. Chips’s story. You’re feeling sympathy for a ghost.”

  “Don’t pretend to be a spoilsport.” Ariel raised her chin. “It’s a thrilling story.”

  What either of us would have said next was cut off by a voice behind us. We turned to see two people crossing the lawn some yards away. If the man had not been shouting, we wouldn’t have been able to hear what he said.

  “You listen to me, woman, and listen good. Just let me bloody well get wind that that sister of yours has been within a mile of here, and I’ll have you out on your ear so fast you’ll be living with her in a cardboard box in Tingwell before the door slams on you.”

  “Ted”—the female voice came to us shrill with panic—“I told you I’d never—”

  “That’s the Mossops,” Ariel said, without turning her head, and we heard no more. Had they spied us sitting on the bench or was the conversation over? “He’s a surly customer. Want to bet she’s sorry she didn’t become a nun instead of marrying him? Carolyn says Mrs. Battle only keeps him on because Mrs. Mossop is worth her weight in gold.”

  When I looked around, there was no sight of the couple. “It sounds as though Carolyn is a prime source of information.”

  “She’s been at St. Roberta’s from junior school up.” Ariel stared at the sky. “Don’t be too shocked, Ellie, but since coming here and learning of the Gray Nun’s heroic path to glory, I have seriously been considering the possibility of entering the cloistered life.”

  “You might not like being a nun,” I cautioned. “You don’t get to sit around with a plate of baked beans on your lap reading one book after another. There’s a fly in the ointment called the rule of obedience. Forget poverty and chastity! You’d have to do what you were told for the rest of your, I hope, extremely”—I extended the word—“long life.”

  “Not if I get to be Mother Superior.” Ariel gave her head a toss, without dislodging the braided coronet. I thought about telling her taking the veil would necessitate having most of her hair cut off, but I wasn’t sure it was true in this day and age, with the modern garb. Clutching at straws, I said that the habit wasn’t nearly as romantic as it used to be.

  “Although I’m sure you won’t mind that,” I added mendaciously. “It’ll just be like wearing your school uniform forever, only not perhaps in colors that suit you so well. Navy or black, when shapeless, can drain the life out of anyone.”

  “But I’d get to carry a rosary.”

  “And spend long lovely hours in church. It’s a pity you didn’t like going on Sundays when I last saw you, but—”

  “That was only to let Dad and Betty know they can’t rule my life. But of course I haven’t made a final decision.”

  “Plenty of time.” Perhaps it was time I went into the Chaplain’s House and acquainted myself with its sofas and chairs.

  “Well, I haven’t completely made up my mind.” Ariel shifted to give me more than my share of the bench. “Maybe I’ll become a great novelist instead of a nun. What I think I’d like would be to write one truly magnificent book, like Emily Brontë did in Wuthering Heights and Harper Lee in To Kill a Mockingbird. Then when I’d got that out of the way I could spend my time thinking up stories without the b
other of having to write them down. Of course, I’d want to be independent while learning my craft; otherwise I’d have Dad and Betty on my back, telling me I should be working toward a proper career. I’ll be a waitress, eavesdropping for the sake of research while I pass the soup.”

  “There was a girl one year ahead of me who became a waitress.” I stared off into space, but Ariel’s antenna had shot up and she was eyeing me keenly.

  “Why the sad voice, Ellie? Did she die or something awful?”

  “No.”

  “What was her name?”

  “Philippa Boswell. Ariel, I should go in and meet the other residents of the Chaplain’s House before I am an old girl in every sense.”

  “Not so fast.” She drew me back as I made to get up. “And don’t try to fool me that you’re dying for a nap. We haven’t talked about how to start accumulating a list of suspects in the Case of the Mysterious Disappearance of the Loverly Cup.”

  “We will, but not till tomorrow. First I need to sift through what I’ve learned so far.” To my surprise, Ariel did not press me to say more. Instead, she tilted her head from one side to the other, sizing me up from both angles.

  “Ellie,” she finally said, with unaccustomed gentleness, “you can’t fool me. My eyes bore deep into your tortured soul. I know there’s a reason you aren’t embracing the opportunity to again be Ellie Haskell, private investigator.”

  “Of course I want to get at the truth.” I defended myself. “But I’m not much in the mood for digging into other people’s sorrows.”

  “At least this time there hasn’t been a murder.”

  I was vaguely relieved when she didn’t add the word yet. “No, but there’s Ms. Chips, likely to be denied her shining moment; Mr. Middleton, whose adored wife died in a traffic accident; and Gillian Parker, who struck me as deeply troubled about something.”

  “Carolyn’s very worried about her. That’s what led to our getting to know each other better—Carolyn and I, that is. She needed someone to talk to about Gillian, and I am blessed in being a sympathetic listener.”