Goodbye, Ms. Chips

by Dorothy Cannell

  “Former members of the Board of Governors. And”—I lowered my voice—“I’m sure all of them would strongly disapprove of your posing as my Aunt Petal.” I hurried us over to the office door, ignoring her mumblings that she could own to the name without blushing like a geranium.

  “Don’t you dare talk about how good I was to you, Mrs. H, when you was a nipper, and how it’s now your turn to tuck me into bed at night with a cup of cocoa and a bedtime story.” She stood breathing down my neck as I knocked on the door.

  “Come in,” instructed Mrs. Battle.

  We entered to find her seated at her desk, where the pencils and notepads had the look of being on their best behavior, along with the telephone, which would only ring when given permission to do so. As for the potted plant under the window, it exhibited such good posture I straightened my spine and watched Mrs. Malloy do likewise. Whether Mrs. Battle noticed our efforts to conduct ourselves appropriately was questionable. It seemed to me there were added lines on her face today and the hooded eyes were those of a sorrowful eagle.

  “I do hope we’re not interrupting.” Reverting to a schoolgirl state, my voice started with a wobble and ended with a squeak. “I know this must be a dreadful day for you.”

  “But for Marilyn’s kindness in taking over Mrs. Rushbridge’s dorm duty, it would never have happened.” She roused herself to beckon us forward. “I told the authorities, when they raised the question of her being out and about so early, that it did not surprise me to think she would have woken and relished the idea of a stroll.” She stared unseeingly into space. “Do you have something to report, Ellie, on the whereabouts of the Loverly Cup? And this will be … ?”

  “My investigating partner, Mrs. Malloy. She arrived late last night.” I couldn’t bring myself to tell her I had located the missing trophy.

  “Pleased to meet you, ma’am.” My cohort stood to attention on her high heels. “I was able to set aside me other obligations to make meself available.” The impression conveyed was that this included deposing an errant monarch and establishing a new state church.

  “That is good news.” Mrs. Battle stirred in her chair, but I sensed she was adrift somewhere else, perhaps conjugating Greek verbs or whatever else is required of those seeking to find some remove from sorrow.

  “Mrs. H was doing her best forging on alone, but like she often says, she can’t be the brain as well as the brawn of our operation,” said Mrs. Malloy.

  No such concession had ever passed my lips.

  “If your presence will help speed matters up, I will be most grateful. I have devoted my life to education, but I never had the ability or the desire to win hearts.” The dark eyes misted. “What were you saying?” I felt the urge to race around the desk and give her a hug, but rightly or wrongly I resisted.

  “May Mrs. Malloy have your permission to stay at the Chaplain’s House?”

  “Certainly.”

  “I’m posing as Mrs. H’s Aunt Petal,” supplied Mrs. Malloy. “A silly name, you might say—”

  “Not at all. My late husband used to call me his dewdrop.” Would Mrs. Battle regret this astonishing revelation? Perhaps she already had; she signaled dismissal with an inclination of the head.

  I closed the door upon exiting and allowed my shoulders to slump.

  “Dead bodies stuffed in trunks or the butcher’s freezer is bad enough, but things like that woman’s sorrowful face is just too hard to bear. Still, it’s nice to know she had a private life once upon a time.” Mrs. Malloy pursed her butterfly lips. “You don’t think she and your nice Mr. Middleton could make a go of it?”

  “I wouldn’t think so, although perhaps if he were to learn the identity of the hit-and-run driver who killed his wife, it might provide closure, as they say, and let him live his life to the fullest again.”

  We were interrupted by a march of bottle-green skirts and mustard-yellow shirts descending the staircase. It was an orderly stampede, no jostling or raised voices. The teacher at the rear looked capable of herding a pride of lions across Africa without incident. She nodded in passing, and when the reception hall had returned to its former empty calm, Mrs. Malloy and I decided to take a look at the new gymnasium.

  It proved to be magnificent: the vaulted ceilings imposing, the floor a gleaming golden sea of parquet. Ms. Chips and the Bumbleton firm of builders had done St. Roberta’s proud. Even so, I refrained from climbing the rib stalls or taking a flying leap over the horse. The trophy case to the left of the entrance drew me to stand gazing through its glass doors at the assortment of prize memorabilia. An empty space on the second shelf called sharp attention to the vanished Loverly Cup, and to my surprise I experienced a spurt of outrage and sympathy for all the girls who had earned the right to see it proudly displayed during previous seasons; for Ms. Chips, who had led them to victory while undoubtedly demanding good sportsmanship; and not least for Dorcas, who, while feeling keenly the disappointment of defeat, believed even more strongly in according one’s opponents their moment of triumph.

  In the hall outside the gymnasium, Mrs. Malloy and I came upon Matron, and I made the introductions.

  “Your partner, you say.” Her smile was taut and her hands clenched. “Forgive me if I have trouble focusing. As you must realize, Ellie, this has been one of the most dreadful days of my life. I am in shock. My beloved Marilyn! How will I go on without her? We were in my office, chatting about past times, late into the night. I think she may have had some sort of premonition because she suddenly, quite out of the blue, began telling me that she had just made a new will, leaving her remaining capital to St. Roberta’s for scholarships for gifted students. Recommendations to come from their teachers and to be agreed upon by a majority vote of the staff, with no input necessary or desired from the Board of Governors. That won’t please Mr. Bumbleton, but it didn’t bother Marilyn. She had her own sense of what was right. I must take comfort from our last time together. Indeed, it was well into morning before she left for the last time to check on the girls in the dorm. Forgive me if I’m rambling. Mrs. Battle was in a fog when I spoke to her a half hour ago. I’m not sure she was aware what she was saying from one sentence to the next.”

  “Yes.” Only from behind a veil of fog would Mrs. Battle have revealed that her late husband called her his dewdrop. Poor Matron. I was shocked by her pallor and trembling hands.

  “What you need is a good cry in bed with a hot-water bottle,” said Mrs. Malloy at her most cozy.

  Matron’s response was cold, her lips frozen with grief. “I have the girls’ distress to deal with. You’d think some had lost their mothers; there’d have been no sense in going on with classes. Dr. Roberts has been in several times, prescribing sedatives where needed, and will be back this evening. Philippa Boswell has been here most of the day, mopping up tears and lending an ear. A frustrated nurse, I’d say, but nice with it.”

  “She always was,” I agreed.

  “Dr. Roberts didn’t spare her more than a word or two in greeting, although I seem to remember that they were once boyfriend and girlfriend. He couldn’t have been kinder to me, knowing as he did of my long and close friendship with Marilyn.” Matron squeezed her eyes shut for a moment before continuing. “On a different subject, there is something I need to discuss with you, Ellie. Perhaps I would have brought it up if we hadn’t been interrupted yesterday morning.”

  “We”—Mrs. Malloy emphasized the pronoun—“are here to listen.” I was relieved she didn’t add Matey. As it was, she was ignored.

  “Gillian had a run-in a couple of days ago with a girl in her class named Deirdre, who’d taken it upon herself to go checking under mattresses—”

  “We know.” I looked at Mrs. Malloy.

  “Who told you?”

  “Carolyn Fisher-Jones.”

  “At lunch today,” added Mrs. Malloy, in a display of how forthcoming she and I were prepared to be.

  “She’s a pleasant enough girl, but I’m not sure she’s the right friend fo
r my great-niece. Encouraging Gillian to see herself as hard done by defeats the efforts of others to help her move beyond her initial homesickness. Someone more bracing, such as your relative, Ariel Hopkins, Ellie, might be a help rather than a hindrance.” Matron’s lips tightened. “I have to admit I’ve reached the point of wondering if I should have put myself out to help Gillian be admitted to St. Roberta’s. It’s not that I expected an abundance of appreciation, but I certainly didn’t count on her making difficulties. Perhaps I should just throw up my hands and concede it would be better all round if she doesn’t come back at the start of the new school year. On the other hand”—she drew in a breath and her eyes hardened—“I’m concerned that someone may be intent on making Gillian look unstable.”

  “Meaning?” My eyebrows shot up in unison with Mrs. Malloy’s.

  “That business of her security blanket. I admit I lost my temper with her over such childishness, but the point is she told me she always hid it under the mattress on the side that’s against the wall and that she walked into the dorm to see this girl Deirdre pull it out from the near side. The reason she flared up and told me this is because I said if she had to have a silly scrap of baby shawl, she could at least have made it more difficult for someone else to get at. It was Carolyn, walking in on our conversation”—Matron bristled with irritation—“who suggested that someone who already knew about the binky—to use Gillian’s name for the thing—had moved it where Deirdre was more likely to find it in her dorm search for the Loverly Cup.”

  “As—from what I saw and heard from her in the Home Skills class—she inevitably would,” I said. “But what was to be achieved other than making Gillian a laughingstock? What has you so worried, Matron?”

  “My fear,” she said, looking suddenly old and tired, “is that the next thing to be discovered under Gillian’s mattress will be the Loverly Cup.”

  I was worried too. I knew, of course, that the Loverly Cup wasn’t under Gillian’s bed—but was the place where I had actually found it any better?

  14

  Mrs. Malloy and I were leaving the school building when I told her of my grand plan.

  “We’ll pay Lady Loverly a visit this evening and see if we can find out if she shares her grandson’s suspicions of Gillian’s honesty.”

  “Sorry if I startled you!”

  Turning around, I saw the red-haired girl with the snub nose and freckles from the Home Skills class.

  “I spotted you from down the hall, Mrs. Haskell, and wanted to catch up with you and this lady to tell you how much I enjoyed your talk on decorating.”

  “That is kind of you.”

  “I’m Elizabeth Anderson.”

  “How nice to meet you properly. This is my friend, Mrs. Malloy, who is also staying at the Chaplain’s House for a little while.”

  “Oh, what fun!” The flash of an engaging smile. “Were you in the same class when you were girls here?”

  Nice to know I didn’t look my age. The summary piling on of superfluous decades does so much for the female ego.

  “Some friendships are made to last.” Mrs. Malloy swirled out her skirts. If she didn’t take that smirk off her face, our friendship would be in the duck pond.

  Elizabeth continued to beam at me. “Thank you again, Mrs. Haskell, for the helpful tips on making a home look nice. It was a lot more fun than sitting through a lesson on how to overhaul the Hoover or having to stick pieces of colored glass on cardboard boxes trying to make them look like jeweled containers.”

  “The class was fun for me too.”

  “It’s awful to think how quickly things can change. It’s so hard to believe about Ms. Chips, I mean. Everyone’s wondering what caused her to fall. It seems wrong somehow for an athletic person—one who stayed fit—to die that way. Pamela Erickson from my class said she’d heard Ms. Chips had high blood pressure, so maybe she turned dizzy at the top of the Dribbly Drop. I could see that happening if she’d been running. But why would she run?”

  “That’s a good question.” Mrs. Malloy was wearing her wise-owl face.

  “She was the best kind of teacher.” Elizabeth’s pleasant face puckered. “The kind you can really like while respecting them at the same time. That’s why so many of the girls want to do something special for her as a goodbye present. Flowers just don’t seem right, so”—she opened her right hand to reveal a lacrosse ball—“we thought we’d get people to sign these and perhaps add a line or two.”

  “I think that’s a wonderful idea,” I said.

  “Meaningful.” Mrs. Malloy nodded. “In my case what I’d like is to have me funeral sermon done by a bingo caller. No missing what he’d say at the back of the church. A friend of mine had a bag of the markers tossed at her wedding instead of confetti. Everyone loves a nice bit of sentiment.”

  “We think Ms. Chips would like our idea. Will you take this with you back to the Chaplain’s House”—Elizabeth handed me the lacrosse ball—“and have anyone who wants to sign it?”

  “Of course.” I put the ball in my handbag.

  Elizabeth abruptly changed the subject. “Ariel Hopkins told me she’s related to you, Mrs. Haskell. I like her; she’s really interesting. We met in the corridor just now and she wants to talk to me in the common room, but I wanted to catch up with you first. But you will understand that I don’t want to keep her waiting. Nice meeting you, Mrs. Malloy. ’Bye!”

  Elizabeth was gone with a wave, and Mrs. Malloy and I proceeded to the Chaplain’s House.

  “I bet she’s a really nice girl.” I smoothed back my hair, which was getting tugged by the breeze.

  “A change from some.”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m thinking of that Deirdre, Mrs. H, as has been mentioned. Sounds to me like a nasty girl in a boarding-school story, the one out to make life miserable for the main character. But at the end she gets her comeuppance when it’s discovered she’s been cheating on her exams or—”

  “In this case, stolen the Loverly Cup?”

  “Well, I’ve got to say as I wouldn’t sob in me hanky if it turned out that way. Something along the lines of Deirdre’s parents being world-famous pianists and expecting her to follow in their footsteps, only she can’t so much as ping a triangle and then along comes Gillian, who Mr. Middleton thinks is a prodigy and who becomes best friends with Carolyn Fisher-Jones to boot, that used to be Deirdre’s best chum. Gillian gets blamed for the theft and turfed out of St. Roberta’s by way of revenge. That’s the plan.”

  “It’s classic.” I was genuinely impressed.

  “And up to us to spoil it.”

  “Yes.”

  “What’s got into your craw, Mrs. H? You sound all huffy and puffy! Missing the hubby and the kids, that’s what it is.”

  “Didn’t you see the sun move behind that cloud?” I said, in a feeble attempt at humor. “Can’t you tell an omen when it’s right above your head? I’ve got prickles down my spine, beads of sweat on my brow, and a thudding heartbeat. All that’s missing is a howling dog and a hovering of ravens in a tree that’s about to be struck by lightning. We’re moving to some awful climax, as sure as I broke Ms. Chips’s nose all those years ago.”

  “Now I understand.” Mrs. Malloy’s high heels tip-tapped up the path to the Chaplain’s House. “You’ve got the willies, Mrs. H, at the thought of foisting your company on Lady Loverly when she’s in mourning for her friend. The better families always do their mourning up proud, that’s one thing you have to say for them. My suggestion is not to phone up and risk being told no. Just show up this evening and stick your foot in the door like a man selling brushes.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” I conceded, as she pushed open the front door. “I remember her as a woman wearing formidable hats.”

  “There now.” Mrs. Malloy might have been speaking to one of my children. “You’ll have Ms. Critchley at your side but not sucking up air the way I do on account of me powerful personality. No, don’t argue with me. I’m not one to step aside
often. But we can’t all three of us go like we’re the circus come to town. And Ms. Critchley didn’t come out for lunch and should get out of that school for a bit of a break. That woman’s one of life’s abiding comforts and as fond of you as I am—except, that is, when you forget as how I likes two sugars in me tea along of a ginger nut on the saucer. You get her on the phone.”

  It was a moment to break down and weep, only to be nixed by our almost colliding with Mrs. Mossop when we entered the hall. Seen up close, she was a small elderly woman with a pug face, wearing an overall of no particular color and the expression of one braced to get trodden upon unless she stood stockstill and stopped breathing. The timid eyes darted to Mrs. Malloy’s oversized handbag in expectation of having it chucked at her for daring to remain upright instead of getting down on her knees.

  “Hello.” Mrs. Malloy and I spoke one on top of the other.

  Stepping backward, she apologetically informed us that she was Mrs. Mossop. “And I’ll not be staying underfoot. Off back to the school I am. Always get in and out quick when doing the Chaplain’s House. Half an hour with the mop and duster is all. No need dragging out the Hoover when there’s a perfectly good carpet sweeper and you ladies are here for peace and quiet.”

  “It’s nice to meet you.” I was afraid of scaring her up the stairs. “I understand your husband works in the grounds.”

  “That’s him. Groundskeeper and odd-jobs man.”

  “I’ve had several hubbies,” observed Mrs. Malloy chattily.

  “Married forty-seven years to Mossop. He’s got his ways, but don’t we all? A man can’t be blamed for not wanting trouble on his doorstep. This business of the retired teacher, Ms. Chips, getting herself killed has him all worked up. I keep hoping he won’t go speaking out of turn.” Mrs. Mossop’s left eye began to twitch. “Saying to others what he’s been saying to me—that like as not the woman’d been drinking. And her not being a one for it, from what I’ve heard. Got a terrible down on drink has Mossop. Any other time he’d have said them steps was put there to kill people. One of the girls took a fall on them just the other day. But like I’ve said, he’s upset. Everyone is. She was a nice lady. You’ll excuse me talking. I don’t as a rule. Mossop doesn’t like it, he always thinks I’m hiding something if I rattle on, but it’s my nerves, you see; they’ve been all on edge.”