by Clara Benson
‘Idiot,’ said Isabel Chambers, who was almost Barbara’s equal for mischief as a general rule. ‘Of course she doesn’t.’
‘Well, then, what about your father?’ said Barbara. ‘He’s the King, isn’t he?’
‘He’s a Grand Duke, not a King,’ put in Florrie Evans, before Irina had a chance to reply. ‘He still rules the country, though, isn’t that right?’
‘Yes,’ said Irina hesitantly, with a glance at Florrie.
‘But does he wear a crown?’ persisted Barbara. ‘Isn’t it a bit heavy? I should have thought it would leave a nasty red mark around his head after a few hours.’
Irina looked taken aback and Florrie giggled.
‘You’ve shocked her,’ she said. ‘I’ll bet nobody has ever dared ask her that before.’
Florrie was the other new girl to whom Barbara had taken a fancy. She was a dark-haired girl whose usually serious expression belied a lively sense of humour. She was in the Fifth with Irina, but since Barbara did some of her lessons with that form there was no barrier to their becoming firm friends.
‘Crowns are worn only on ceremonial occasions,’ said Irina at last in her careful, halting English. ‘My father prefers to dress in the manner of an ordinary man most of the time. During the formal occasions he wears velvet robes trimmed with ermine and mink, but that is not very often.’
‘Does he gallop through the streets of the city on a white horse, swiping at peasants with his sword as he passes?’ inquired Barbara.
Florrie giggled again.
‘Please?’ said Irina in astonishment. She looked around at the amused faces of the group, and her brow cleared.
‘Oh, I understand—you are teasing me,’ she said.
‘Only a little bit,’ said Barbara. ‘That’s what we do in England. We like to make fun of each other. You may laugh at me now if you like,’ she said generously. ‘Look what Miss Finch has written on my essay.’
Florrie grabbed the exercise-book before Irina could move and examined the comment in Miss Finch’s neat handwriting underneath Barbara’s opus.
‘“Perhaps if you were to listen more carefully during lessons, you would be aware that Eleanor of Aquitaine was married to the second King Henry, not the eighth,”’ she read, ‘“although this misapprehension may go some way towards explaining your apparent belief that Thomas à Becket and Thomas More were one and the same person.”’
Barbara accepted her rallying with good humour.
‘Miss Finch is a stiff one,’ said Isabel. ‘Does anyone ever get a good mark from her?’
‘I do, sometimes,’ said Violet, and had an exercise-book thrown at her head for her trouble.
‘I’ve got a question for you,’ said Barbara, after a pause. ‘If you were stranded in the jungle and certain to die without help, which of the teachers should you prefer to have with you?’
‘Miss Devlin,’ said Melisande Bartlett-Hendry, another member of the group. ‘She’s the strongest and could build a shelter. Did you see her lifting that vaulting-horse all by herself the other day? I’m pretty certain that if we met any cannibals she could fight them all off with her bare hands.’
‘As a matter of fact, I think Miss Finch would be good in a tight spot,’ said Violet. ‘Yes, she’s sharp-tongued, but there’s no nonsense about her. She’d know what to do.’
‘Definitely not Miss Fazackerley,’ said Isabel.
‘Ugh, no,’ agreed Barbara. ‘I’m glad I don’t have her for Maths any more. She’s such a lump.’
Everyone agreed that Miss Fazackerley was indeed a lump.
Just then, Mr. Welland, the English master—he of the Byronic locks and soulful eyes—walked past, ignoring everyone as he went by. Several of the girls sighed.
‘Dear, sweet Augustus, how distant you are,’ said Melisande sentimentally in the direction of the departing master’s back. ‘Do you know, I dropped my handkerchief in the passage the other day, and he picked it up for me. I shall treasure it forever.’
‘You cat!’ said Rosabelle Masefield, the last member of the group. ‘I’m horribly jealous. When he read out The Lady of Shalott the other day I couldn’t help but picture him as Sir Lancelot, riding through the school in his armour. He has such a courtly look about him.’
‘Pfft!’ said Barbara. ‘I happen to know he lives with his mother in the village, in that flat above the post-office. I’ll bet she makes him wear a flannel vest even in summer.’
This last supposition was roundly rejected as impossible for a man of such noble appearance.
‘Miss Bell hardly lets him even talk to us,’ complained Rosabelle.
‘I don’t know why,’ said Barbara. ‘He never shows the slightest bit of interest in the girls. You two would be better off sighing for old Penkridge, even if he is about ninety-eight.’
The girls all giggled. Mr. Welland strolled on, and whether or not his broad, clear brow in sunlight glow’d, it was certainly untroubled by any awareness of the attention it had excited.
‘What about Mam’selle, then?’ said Isabel, returning to the original question.
They all thought about it.
‘I love Mam’selle,’ said Barbara, ‘but she’d be no use in the jungle. Not for our purposes, at any rate. She’s far too smart to do any of the hard work herself. She’d find a way of getting us to do it while she sat there, smiling approvingly and making encouraging noises.’
At that moment, Lydia Chambers, the head girl, turned up.
‘Where did you get those apples?’ she said. ‘Barbara, have you been taking food from the kitchen again?’
‘Can’t you let it go this once?’ said Isabel, who was Lydia’s younger sister and took as much advantage as possible of the fact. ‘That stew we had for lunch was simply vile. It must be Cook’s day off.’
‘Either that or the butcher’s was closed and they had to round up some stray dogs to put in it,’ said Barbara. ‘I’m sure I found a nose in mine.’
There were howls of disgust followed by giggling.
‘That’s enough,’ said Lydia sharply. ‘Any more of that and I’ll have to report you to Miss Finch.’
‘Sorry, Lydia,’ said Barbara, not sounding sorry at all. ‘Have an apple?’
Lydia hesitated and glanced about her.
‘Oh, well,’ she said. ‘They do look rather nice, and the stew was pretty awful. Don’t tell anyone, though.’ She took an apple and passed on.
Barbara stretched herself out on the grass.
‘I wish something exciting would happen,’ she said. ‘Things have been awfully dull lately. If I hadn’t promised to be good we might go up on the roof. But I suppose it’s better not to risk it.’
‘I don’t like it up there anyway,’ said Melisande. ‘Last time I got so terribly dusty on my way through the attic that it simply wasn’t worth it in the end for the tongue-lashing I had off Matron afterwards. She says it’s dangerous up there.’
‘And it’s so dark,’ added Rosabelle. ‘I’m sure it’s haunted. I know the servants don’t like going in the attic. Bessie told me the kitchen-maids hear sounds coming from upstairs sometimes, and they’re all convinced there’s a ghost.’
‘Nonsense,’ said Barbara. ‘It’s probably me they heard. I’ll bet if you asked Bessie again she’d tell you they haven’t heard a thing since I stopped going up. It’s a pity,’ she went on wistfully. ‘It’s the perfect sort of day for sitting on the roof and enjoying the view. But I did promise. Besides, I think they locked the door to the outside after I was caught the last time.’
‘It serves you right for chucking eggs at people,’ said Florrie.
‘You know exactly who was responsible for that,’ said Barbara. ‘And you ought to be thankful that I didn’t squeak on any of you.’
‘Oh, we are,’ Florrie assured her with all the complacency of one who had escaped her proper deserts.
The group fell silent, munching, until a man walked past, pushing a wheelbarrow. He had an unprepossessing, taciturn air a
bout him.
‘Who’s that?’ said Melisande.
‘I don’t know,’ said Isabel. ‘The new gardener, I suppose. He’s a bit grumpy-looking, don’t you think?’
‘He is rather,’ said Violet. ‘I spoke to him the other day and I could hardly get a reply out of him. He’s not as friendly as old Mr. Hill was, at any rate.’
‘Perhaps he’s a foreign spy, come to kidnap Irina,’ said Barbara.
Irina looked up.
‘Why do you say that?’ she said quickly.
‘I don’t know,’ said Barbara. ‘It just came into my head. He looks the sort.’
‘Know many foreign spies, do you?’ said Florrie impatiently.
‘Of course not,’ said Barbara.
‘Well, then,’ said Florrie. ‘Better keep your mouth shut, don’t you think?’
‘There’s no need to jump down my throat,’ said Barbara.
‘Yes there is—you’re scaring Irina,’ said Florrie, and Barbara now saw that Irina was indeed wearing a frightened expression. ‘You oughtn’t to joke about that kind of thing.’
‘Sorry, Irina,’ said Barbara. ‘I didn’t mean to put the wind up you.’
The bell rang for lessons and the girls all jumped up. Irina hurried off and Florrie ran to catch up with her.
‘What was all that about?’ said Barbara, as she watched them go. ‘Is she really worried about being kidnapped?’
But nobody seemed inclined to answer, so she shrugged, gathered up her things, and headed off to her lesson.
SIX
While Barbara and her friends were talking on the grass, Angela was on her way to Wakeley Court to fulfil her engagement with Miss Bell, who had promised to show her around the place, introduce her to the teachers, and point out Violet Smedley, the likely (or certain) beneficiary of Angela’s generosity. Mrs. Marchmont was to be accommodated in one of the well-appointed rooms the school used for guests, and was to be given every attention. Angela had resigned herself to doing whatever Miss Bell wanted, since that seemed the easiest course, and had also accepted the headmistress’s invitation to remain at the school for the weekend, for true to her resolution she had promised to take Barbara out. In fulfilment of her agreement with Henry Jameson, Angela also intended to speak to some of the girls—especially the Princess, whom Barbara had mentioned casually in her latest letter as a new friend—and try to get a sense of what, if anything, was going on at Wakeley Court.
The journey from London was rapid, but after King’s Lynn the roads became narrower and the countryside more attractive, and so the Bentley slowed down and proceeded at a stately pace, for the day was a pleasant one.
‘By the way, William,’ said Angela to her driver. ‘While we are at the school I should like you to keep an eye out for suspicious goings-on among the servants.’
William was by now well used to unusual requests of this sort from his employer, and showed no surprise other than a brief flicker of his eyebrows.
‘Certainly, ma’am,’ he said. ‘What sort of thing am I to look for?’
‘I don’t know, exactly,’ said Angela. ‘I can’t give you the whole story—as a matter of fact, strictly speaking I oughtn’t to be telling you this at all, so understand that none of it must go any further. Let us just say, however, that there is an important person at Wakeley Court whose life may be in danger.’
‘I see,’ said William. ‘Do you mean one of the pupils?’
‘Yes,’ said Angela. ‘She is a princess from one of those excitable countries that like to amuse themselves by assassinating their rulers every so often, and I gather there is a threat to her life at present. Someone is already stationed here to protect her, and I have promised to nose about a bit myself, but of course you are much better placed than I to find things out from the servants. Listen to the gossip and see what you can pick up. Perhaps they have seen somebody suspicious hanging about the place, for example. I leave it to you.’
‘I’ll do my best, ma’am,’ said William.
Some little time later they arrived at Wakeley Court. The Bentley drew up in front of the building, which was a handsome one of red brick built in the Gothic revival style, but tastefully so, with a minimum of turrets and decorative tracery. There was a portico running along the front, under which was an arch leading through to the Quad, and the whole building was surrounded by well-kept lawns, although the lake could not be seen from this side. The school was only two or three miles from the sea, and when she stepped out of the car Angela detected a whiff of salt in the air, which she had not noticed on her previous visit.
The place was silent, seemingly deserted, but not for long: William was just unloading the bags when a bell rang loudly, and within seconds the whole place was a sea of girls swarming in every direction, shrieking and giggling, dropping things, jostling one another and waving books about. The noise was deafening, and William looked slightly nervous.
‘Angela!’ came a voice, and they turned to see Barbara running towards them in company with another girl. ‘You’re here at last,’ she said. ‘Splendid. I’ve just been telling the girls you were coming. You can meet them later.’
‘Of course,’ said Angela. ‘But first I must go and do my duty to the headmistress. She has invited me to have tea with her and some of the teachers.’
‘Be sure and put a word in for me with Miss Finch,’ said Barbara. ‘She was pretty scathing about my History essay earlier. You might tell her I’m a misunderstood genius. Come on, Flo. We’d better go or we’ll be late.’
She dashed off, followed by the other girl, leaving Angela to find her own way to the headmistress’s room. Miss Bell greeted her with the utmost politeness, and after an exchange of pleasantries escorted her along to the staff common-room, where they were to have tea and Angela was to meet the teachers.
‘This is Miss Finch, our Classics and History mistress,’ said Miss Bell, introducing a small, dark woman with shrewd eyes and a brisk manner, who looked Angela over with some appearance of misgiving, although whether she had taken a personal dislike to the visitor or whether that was her usual manner was impossible to say. ‘She is my deputy.’
‘I’m very pleased to meet you,’ said Angela.
‘You are the godmother of Barbara Wells,’ said Miss Finch, and it came out like a snap. ‘Bright child, but needs taking in hand. I’ve seen it before with motherless girls. They can grow up to be quite a handful if not kept in check.’
‘Oh yes?’ murmured Angela politely.
Miss Bell interjected diplomatically.
‘I must say that Barbara has improved tremendously since our little—er—chat two weeks ago,’ she said.
Miss Finch nodded, and Miss Bell steered Angela across to another teacher, a small, shrivelled-looking elderly man who sported a splendid, bushy moustache that appeared to have emerged accidentally from his nose and spread across half his face.
‘This is Mr. Penkridge, our Music master,’ she said. ‘Mr. Penkridge, this is Mrs. Marchmont, who has been so generous as to establish the Mathematics scholarship which I mentioned to you the other day.’
Mr. Penkridge gave a little bow and beamed.
‘N-hem! Enchanted, madam,’ he said. ‘I am delighted to hear of your interest in expanding the knowledge of our young minds here. It is only a pity that we did not meet earlier, or I might have persuaded you to extend your philanthropy in the direction of our Music students too.’
‘Now, Mr. Penkridge,’ said Miss Bell, with some slight embarrassment. ‘It will not do to test the generosity of our patrons.’ She turned to Angela. ‘Mr. Penkridge’s enthusiasm occasionally runs away with him, but I assure you that he has nothing but his pupils’ best interests at heart.’
‘Oh, yes,’ said Mr. Penkridge happily. ‘Miss Bell will tell you of my firm belief that Music is quite the most important of all subjects. I always say, Mrs. Marchmont, that a life lived without music is a life tragically wasted. One could not say the same of Geography or French, don’t you agree? Th
e other teachers laugh at me for my conviction. It is quite a little joke between us. N-hem! And so you are Barbara’s godmother?’ His smile faltered, but only briefly. ‘I don’t know whether she has mentioned it to you, but we have been studying Baroque choral music this term, and I may say truthfully of her voice that I have never before encountered one of such volume or penetration.’ He paused to reflect briefly. ‘No, in all my years of teaching Music I have never heard anything to equal it. Her enthusiasm is quite heartening.’
Having heard Barbara sing once or twice, Angela forbore to put him in an awkward position by questioning him more closely on the subject of her god-daughter’s musical abilities, and they moved on to the next teacher. Miss Devlin taught Games and Geography, and greeted Angela with a hearty handshake. A strongly-built woman, as one might expect, she had a surprisingly high, soft voice and a marked speech impediment, which when set against her appearance had an unfortunately comical effect. She said what was proper and then retreated behind her tea-cup.
‘This is Mlle. Delacroix,’ said Miss Bell, next.
Mam’selle was tall and elegant, and dressed with impeccable Parisian taste, which must have taken some skill and effort on a teacher’s salary, thought Angela. The French mistress had a pleasant and humorous manner, and the two ladies hit it off immediately, each perhaps sensing a kindred spirit in the other.
‘I like your Barbara,’ said Mam’selle. ‘Her French is quite dreadful but she is very funny and so I forgive her much.’ She glanced over at Miss Bell, who was talking to Miss Finch at that moment, and lowered her voice. ‘She likes Barbara too, but she will never say it, as it does not do to show favouritism. That is why she did not expel her.’
‘Miss Bell seems a very capable woman,’ Angela said cautiously.
‘Oh, she is,’ agreed Mam’selle. ‘And as you have found out, she is particularly good at persuading people to part with their money for the good of the school.’
‘That’s true enough,’ said Angela with feeling, and they both laughed.
The next teacher was Mr. Welland.