Chatting with first one girl and then the other, Lucy glowed with affection. She clearly adored children—how unfair that she had none to call her own. I resolved then and there to name Lucy godmother to my son. If Providence hadn’t provided her a child to love, I would. For I could see that she was a woman full of love, a woman who would have made an excellent, doting mother. Imagining her as a part of my son’s life gave me a sudden sense of satisfaction.
“Girls, attention, please.” I clapped my hands to bring them nigh and begin our drawing lesson. Holding up a sketch pad, I introduced various pencil strokes: thick, thin, hard pressure, soft, and shading. Next I pointed out a robin hopping along the ground, and in preparation for drawing the bird, I asked what sorts of shapes comprised his silhouette.
“That one’s round as a globe,” said Victoria. “Looks like he could roll downhill without any trouble.”
Rufina snorted. “Sort of like our Mrs. Thurston.”
This brought a fit of giggles.
I instructed them to sketch a robin and to include the bird’s surroundings. Once given their assignment, nine heads bowed over the sketchbooks and started to work in earnest. Moving from student to student, I offered suggestions and corrections.
So engrossed was I in my teaching that I startled when Bruce Douglas set a hand on my shoulder and leaned in to say, “Ladies, may I interrupt? I need to speak with your instructor.”
“How do things fare with the girls?” Lucy raised her eyebrows at me once I was seated next to her on the bench.
“They are so thankful for my presence that I feel at sixes and sevens for carrying through with this charade. Worse luck, I have learned little of value. Here is a list of all the instructors’ names, which I gleaned from a schedule that Miss Miller gave me.”
“I shall get men to investigate these women as soon as possible. Perhaps we can turn over a stone and find a missed grain of information that will be helpful.” Mr. Douglas pocketed the list.
“Beyond that, what I have seen and heard only serves to confuse me! Most importantly, Selina was sneaking out. She had a beau, or so one of the girls told me. They called him her ‘special friend.’”
“That bears further scrutiny.” Mr. Douglas stroked his chin. “Did she supply a name?”
“Nothing proper. Only a nickname.”
“That wouldn’t do us much good. Try to find out, please.”
“I will. It appears that Selina was Mrs. Thurston’s favorite, yet the girl was cruel to everyone. It makes no sense.”
“I am sorry, but I fear I must add to your confusion,” Mr. Douglas said. “As I told you before, Marcus Piper, the medical examiner, and I have known each other for years, and he often consults with me when he is puzzled by what he finds. However, for the first time in our long friendship, he has refused to talk to me.”
“You mean he refused to discuss Selina Biltmore’s death,” Lucy said.
“No, Sister.” Mr. Douglas shook his head. “He refused to talk to me at all. I arrived at his office, his assistant announced me, and Piper ran out the back door. Fortunately, by slipping a few coins to his second-in-command, I have still been able to advance our cause. I now know how the girl was killed.”
“I was present when Mr. Waverly examined the fabric and noticed a blood smear on the pillow slip,” I said. “I assume that was used as a weapon?”
“Yes. They found a feather inside the girl’s mouth. She also had a small broken bone here.” He touched his throat.
“What does that signify?” I said.
“Pressure was applied to her face. The killer must have been someone strong enough to subdue the girl. The injuries to Selina Biltmore’s body came as a result of her struggle to survive. The murderer might sport a bruise or a scratch from the encounter.”
I had been sitting forward, watching the girls as they drew their cheery robins. Now the import of Mr. Douglas’s words struck me hard, and I sank back onto the park bench. My sketch pad was open, and I began to draw the same assignment that I had given the girls. The motion of the pencil against paper worked to help me stay calm.
“Have you learned anything else?” Lucy asked me. “Observed anything that might be a fingerpost pointing toward a suspected killer? Although it is intriguing that Selina was sneaking out, do we still believe she was murdered by someone inside the school?”
I thought about that. “I find it hard to believe that someone entered the building off the street, came upstairs to the dormitory, and left without arousing anyone.”
“I concur,” Mr. Douglas said. “It would be one thing to dose a group of schoolgirls, but quite another to also dose the servants.”
“Mr. Waverly visited again today—the third time in two days!—and spent more than an hour interviewing Miss Miller. He also spoke to Mrs. Thurston, but that was a short session.”
Mr. Douglas shook his head. “Waverly is paying too much attention to your friend Miss Miller. If she was the killer, why would she have involved you? Your presence only complicates the situation.”
I decided not to share Miss Jones’s accusation that Nan Miller had been involved at one time in the death of another student. Until I spoke to Miss Miller directly and confirmed this gossip, there was no reason to cast aspersions.
I added a second robin to the first in my drawing.
“And there is another question that nags at me,” Mr. Douglas said. “This does not fit the profile of those cases to which Waverly is usually assigned.”
“What do you mean?” his sister asked.
“Until I know why a senior Bow Street Runner is investigating the death of a schoolgirl, there is a huge gap in our knowledge. This ignorance makes it nearly impossible to figure out the identity of the killer,” Mr. Douglas said. “What else have you seen or heard?”
“Not much. Nothing that seems important. I have tried to pay close attention to every detail, but I have no idea what I should be looking for!” With that, I gripped my pencil rather too hard in frustration and broke off a portion of the lead.
Mr. Douglas leaned forward, clasping one gloved hand in the other and resting his elbows on his knees. “Are you familiar with the concept of ratiocination? It suggests that we look for discrepancies in word and behavior. Lies and coincidences. Most importantly, watch for an aberration or abnormality that might point to the criminal. Finally, think about who wanted this girl dead and why. Also consider the timing. Why was it important that she be murdered now?”
“You are asking me to solve a puzzle with most of the pieces missing.”
Mr. Douglas smiled. “Welcome to the world of detective work. Rarely does one even know what that missing piece might be. Or how we shall turn it up. So, we watch, we ask questions, we look for discrepancies, and we try to piece together a tapestry from bits of fabric and thread.”
“You cannot share anything useful, dear Brother? No tricks you have mastered?” Lucy gave him a light tap on the shoulder.
“Only this—in most crimes, we see three variables, three conditions that must be satisfied. Opportunity. Motivation. And method. Think on those and you’ll quickly understand why they matter.”
“Is it possible that the killer suffocated the wrong girl? How close is Adèle’s bed to Selina’s?” asked Lucy. “I have never ventured up to the dormitories.”
“The beds are right beside each other. So yes, perhaps the killer got the wrong girl. Perhaps Adèle was the intended victim all along. In fact, I might have proof of such.” I reached into my pockets and withdrew the new set of threats that my little friend had given me. I also handed over the original note, so that we could compare the handwriting.
“This looks like a match to me,” Mr. Douglas said. “But I am hardly an expert.”
“All these threats make me wonder if I should simply take Adèle and leave. But I worry about the other girls!”
“These messages are outrageous,” Lucy said after reading them.
Mr. Douglas frowned and stared off at the
girls. “I wonder if Adèle is the only one who was threatened. Perhaps you can find out.”
As we talked, my fingers moved restlessly along with my emotions, and the two birds were fleshed out by my efforts. Mr. Douglas glanced over at my work.
“Mrs. Rochester, you are most talented. I wonder, have you any ability when it comes to capturing the image of a person? If so, could you sketch your assailant from the coaching inn? I have not forgotten about your stolen jewelry. If I take Glebe a sketch, perhaps it will spur action. The lost items have been added to the list of stolen property that the Bow Street Runners keep on hand.”
I thanked him and assured him I’d make a drawing of my assailant that night and bring it along tomorrow. I was glad he’d brought up the subject of my loss. The jewels were secondary to the problem at the school, but I was pleased that he remembered my plight.
I then shared what I had learned about Selina from my students. “She was not well liked. It seems that she could be quite cruel, and would set out specifically to cause the younger girls distress—indeed, took pleasure in it. In fact, she took from them objects that they loved.” I explained about the drawer full of purloined possessions. “In each case, Selina seemed to know exactly what each child treasured, whatever small trinket made that particular girl feel loved.”
I mentioned that Victoria sported bites on her wrist, and Lucy whispered, “Oh my stars. What a despicable child you are describing!”
“Universally disliked? That does make pinning down a killer rather difficult.” Mr. Douglas sighed. He then smiled indulgently as Rose got up to shake a blade of grass off her skirt. Despite the fact that all the girls wore the same uniforms, Rose managed to look as if her pinafore had been sewn by a designer in Paris. Her hair glinted with a shine and softness the others lacked. There was a radiance about her, a natural loveliness. I wondered what her life would be like. Would that beauty be an asset or a curse?
“Selina seems to have displayed a callous disregard for others. When I asked Emma, the maid of all work, what Selina was like, the poor girl turned pale and shook with fear.”
In front of us, Rufina coaxed Nettie and Adèle and most of the Junior girls into a game of blindman’s bluff using Nettie’s handkerchief as a blindfold. I should have demanded that they sit down and finish their lesson. But I enjoyed watching them cavort, and it was a pleasant distraction from our dark discussion. Fresh air has a healthy effect on the young and old alike. The sweet scent of oak leaves perfumed the air, as did the rich, dark fragrance of decaying grass blades.
Perhaps by letting the girls run and play now, they would sleep more soundly tonight, free of fears that Selina would return to haunt them.
Mr. Douglas said, “In summary, we have the death of an unlikable girl who made a lot of enemies. We have the best of the Bow Street Runners on the case. Someone has advised the medical examiner to keep the details to himself. We know that a pillow was used as a weapon. We do not know if the killer attacked the right person—or whether the killer might strike again. Someone has been issuing threats, to Adèle at least.”
“There is more.” I told them about the marks on Nettie’s back and about Adèle’s ignorance of the beating. “Of course, the scars have long since healed, and the caning might have nothing to do with Selina’s death.”
“But it might,” said Lucy. “It surely might.”
I suddenly realized the time. “Girls, tell Mrs. Brayton and Mr. Douglas good-bye. We need to get back to school.”
The initial shyness returned to all except Adèle. She threw her arms around first Lucy and then Mr. Douglas. In babbling French she praised them, told them she adored them, and prayed she would see them again soon.
A spot of worry niggled at me. How would I explain it when we saw them here again tomorrow?
As if reading my mind, Lucy came to the rescue. “Mr. Douglas and I shall be here every afternoon this week. Rags needs his outdoor exercise. So we shall hope to see you again on the morrow.”
“Nicely done.” I leaned close and embraced her, pressing my letter to Edward into her hands.
“Ah, improvisation. It’s a critical skill, isn’t it? Too bad they don’t teach it at girls’ schools.” She smiled at me, then turned to Adèle. “Au revoir, ma petite.”
“Trust your instincts,” Mr. Douglas said to me in Hindostanee. “My man awaits your signal for help.”
“I understand.”
With Rags yapping and racing to keep up, Lucy and her brother headed for home. The girls and I started back toward Alderton House, but we hadn’t gone far when some instinct encouraged me to stop and turn around. Lucy and Mr. Douglas were poised on a grassy hummock, watching my charges and me as we ambled back toward Alderton House. My “sister” waved to me, a subtle gesture that spoke volumes. Even from this distance, I could read the affection in her eyes.
A thrill coursed through me. Whatever happened in this adventure, I was not alone. I had a true friend, one with considerable resources—including a worldly, wise brother.
I took Nettie and Adèle by the hands. “Come along, girls,” I said.
I had a murderer to catch.
Chapter 32
We walked through the front door and nearly bumped into Mrs. Thurston, her squat form an ugly gargoyle in the midst of the elegant entry.
“Miss Eyre? Where have you been? What were you doing with my students?” she snapped.
“Practicing our plein air drawing work, which is—”
“Varens.” The superintendent interrupted me by snapping her fingers at Adèle. “Come with me. Mr. Waverly is here, and he has a few questions for you.”
Adèle shrank behind me, her fingers gripping mine so hard that she hurt me.
“Is something wrong, Mrs. Thurston?” I asked, as I turned and put my arm around Adèle’s shoulder in a protective manner.
“Wrong? A girl is dead! Under my roof. And Varens found the body! The Bow Street Runner is here to investigate. That is what is wrong—so hand Varens over!”
Terrorized by the woman’s ugly countenance and shrill voice, Adèle began babbling in French. I interrupted her and responded in her native tongue, reminding her to keep speaking French, and to speak no English to anyone until I told her to do so. The other girls caught wind of Mrs. Thurston’s predatory behavior. They clustered together and moved away, almost as one creature, trying to slink off.
I gave them instructions. “Ladies? Hang your cloaks up. Wait for me in the first classroom upstairs. Finish working on your sketches. Help one another, if necessary. Rufina? Take charge, please.”
Mrs. Thurston might be the titular head of this institution, but her overwrought actions showed her to be a weak leader. I did not mind that I had superseded her. In fact, a frisson of pleasure rippled through me. The girls responded immediately to my request, moving with alacrity and purpose.
My triumph proved short-lived, as Mrs. Thurston called after us. “Varens? Speak English!”
I bent over and whispered in Adèle’s ear in French. “Do not. Absolutely do not. If you love me, Adèle, you will do as I say.”
“Oui, m-mademoiselle,” the child stuttered.
“You have frightened her beyond all sensibility.” I stared coldly at Mrs. Thurston. “She’s terrified and unable to access this second language. If Mr. Waverly insists on meeting with her regardless, I am able to translate.”
“So, you insist on putting yourself in the midst of this? You simply must meddle? She speaks too quickly for me to follow, so be off with you. Take the girl into my office,” Mrs. Thurston said. “Go. Get out of my sight.”
Adèle held on to me so tightly that I stumbled over her feet. “I am frightened,” she managed. “Does he plan to send me to the guillotine? That’s where all the French peasants belong. Am I a peasant?”
“Of course not, ma petite.” I hugged her slender shoulders.
I tapped on the office door and Mr. Waverly bid us enter. He cocked an eyebrow at my appearance. “The new teacher,
right? Your eye is looking better. Leave me with the girl.” His voice was gruff. After adjusting his glasses upward so that they perched on his forehead, he tucked his fingers inside his vest pockets and rocked back on his heels. This unusual posture gave him a bit of a swagger.
I was not intimidated by him. “Sir? She is French. Her English is inadequate. Mrs. Thurston suggested that I volunteer to translate for you.” I lowered my eyes and stared obsequiously at the carpeting as I told this small fib. I also held my breath.
“Translate? She does not speak the King’s good tongue?”
“No, sir. Not well.”
With that, Adèle started chattering like a squirrel in French. She told me she was frightened, she said she wanted to go home, she asked why his nose was so crooked, and finally I said, “Ferme la bouche, ma chère.”
She did as she was told and closed her mouth. However, her blathering had done the trick. Waverly leaned back against the fireplace and stared hard at both of us. “All right then. Sit down. Both of you.”
I “translated” this command.
“Miss Varens, is it true that you and Selina quarreled the day before she died?” he asked.
Adèle told me in French, “She took my ribbon. The one that mon bon ami gave me when he sent me away. She would not give it back. I asked and asked and asked for it. I was so angry”—and here she stomped her foot—“so I told her she was mean and cruel and that I hated her.”
I translated. “Adèle resents the fact you question her relationship with Miss Biltmore. They were dear friends. Yes, Miss Biltmore borrowed Adèle’s ribbon, but that is all. The girls often share personal items.”
Mr. Waverly stroked his chin and considered all this. Taking his glasses off to polish them, he said, “Indeed. Is it true that Miss Biltmore refused to wake up in the mornings? And that Miss Varens was responsible for getting Miss Biltmore out of bed?”
I translated his questions.
“That lazy, no-good cow,” Adèle said. “Selina would sneak out at night. She climbed down the tree. God only knows who she was meeting. Then she would be too tired to wake up. We would both be late but only I would be punished. It made me so angry.”
Death of a Schoolgirl: The Jane Eyre Chronicles Page 20