“And you didn’t care to argue with the rector? I can quite understand that.” Robert paused. “What did you dislike about her?”
“She offered up only one reference, and it was from an old friend of Mr. Harrington’s and concerned a position she had held three years previously. Unfortunately, I don’t have the original letter, because Mr. Harrington kept it. At the time, Miss Broomfield insisted that the reference from her last employer had been mislaid during her relocation. She promised she would hand it over when she found it.”
“That’s quite unusual.” Robert frowned.
“When there was no sign of a new reference being added to the file, I took the liberty of writing directly to the school mentioned in the letter. I received a reply from them this morning.” Dermot offered Robert a sheet of paper.
Dear Mr. Fletcher,
Thank you for your inquiry as to the disposition and character of Miss Martha Broomfield. We regret to inform you that she was discharged from her employment at this prestigious school after an investigation uncovered evidence of unnecessarily cruel discipline toward certain students in her care. If you seek to employ a teacher, we would certainly not recommend this person.
Yours sincerely,
Agatha Pemberton
Headmistress, Pengaron School, Cornwall
“Good Lord.” Robert looked up. “Lady Kurland was right.”
“She quite often is, sir.” Dermot took the letter back.
Robert heaved a sigh and stood up. “Then I suppose I should go down to the school and have a chat with Miss Broomfield.”
Dermot rose, as well. “I am driving into the village to see my brother. Would you like me to take you to the school?”
“That would be much appreciated. In fact, I need to speak to the good doctor myself. Mayhap you could come to the school with me first?”
“To act as your witness?”
Robert winced. “I hope it does not come to that, but from all accounts, Miss Broomfield might not take her dismissal very well.”
“She certainly has something of a temper,” Dermot, always the diplomat, said. “I am more than willing to accompany you to ensure you don’t get an inkpot lobbed at your head.”
Robert consulted his pocket watch. “The children should have left by now. I’m sure they at least will be delighted if the school closes early for the year.”
Dermot nodded and headed for the door. “I’ll get my hat, and I’ll meet you at the front door with the gig, sir.”
Within a quarter of an hour, they were on their way. Robert was more than happy to let Dermot drive as it gave him time to view his estate as he passed down the elm-lined drive. It was bitterly cold, and the sun had disappeared behind a wall of thick, sullen clouds. There was almost no one out in the village as they drove along the High Street.
He hoped Lucy and his aunt were already on their way back from their afternoon calls. He would hate for either of them to catch a chill. At least Lucy had responded with great enthusiasm to the arrival of his beloved aunt. He suspected Rose would be a great asset during the yuletide festivities.
Dr. Fletcher’s house stood on the opposite side of the duck pond to the schoolhouse. Both front windows at the Fletchers’ were already lit up, but the schoolhouse was in darkness. Robert glanced up at the teacher’s accommodation, but there was no light there, either.
“Shall we try the main school first, sir?” Dermot asked.
“Yes, I suppose we should start there.”
Dermot secured the horse and followed Robert up the path to the entrance of the school. Just as Robert opened the exterior door, someone came out and ran right into him. He fought to retain his balance.
“Let me go! Please! Let go!”
Robert stared down into the terrified face of one of Miss Broomfield’s students and gently set her to rights.
“It’s all right. I won’t hurt you. What’s wrong?” he asked.
The girl was shaking so hard, she could barely form words. “Miss Broomfield. I forgot my scarf and went back to get it, and she—”
“Sir Robert . . .”
Robert looked over the girl’s head at Dermot, who had gone ahead and now had returned, looking shaken.
“What is it?” Robert touched the girl’s shoulder. There was something familiar about her face, but he couldn’t remember her name. “Go to Dr. Fletcher’s house. Tell him I sent you, and stay there until I come.”
“Yes, sir.”
Robert went through the second door, which Dermot held open. It led into the large classroom. There wasn’t much light apart from that of the dying embers of the fire in the hearth and a single tallow candle burning on the teacher’s desk. Miss Broomfield was sitting upright in her chair at her desk and was facing the door, with all the rigidity of a formal portrait painting. Having seen death in all its macabre glory during his career in the cavalry, Robert already knew she wasn’t alive.
“Here’s some more light, sir.”
Dermot walked with him to the front of the room, their booted footsteps loud on the stone-flagged floor.
“Dear Lord . . . ,” Dermot breathed as he placed the second candle on the desk. Trickles of dried blood mixed with tracks of ink from the quill pen someone had driven into Miss Broomfield’s eye marred the left side of her face. “May God have mercy on her soul.”
Even as Dermot crossed himself and prayed, Robert studied the body with an impartial air gained from years of battlefield experience. He gently touched one of her hands, which lay palm down on the desk, and found it already growing cold.
“The quill pen is disturbing to see, but I doubt it killed her,” Robert said. “Will you fetch Dr. Fletcher? I’ll wait here for your return.”
Dermot immediately started for the door and then hesitated. “Are you sure, Sir Robert?”
“Go. You’ll be back with him before I manage to limp as far as the duck pond.”
Robert waited until the door slammed, and then set about finding more candles to light the macabre scene. It was still too dark to see whether there was any more blood on Miss Broomfield’s black clothing, but he couldn’t smell the familiar coppery tang on her.
If it weren’t for the quill pen stuck in her eye, she would’ve looked perfectly unaffected by her own death. Robert leaned closer to study the papers under her hands, which appeared to have writing on them.
He is guilty.
She deserves to kno—
The second sentence was unfinished, and a line of ink fell off the side of the page, marring the whiteness of the paper. Robert frowned. Was it some kind of bizarre confession? Had Miss Broomfield killed herself?
“And then stuck the pen in her own eye?” Robert asked the question aloud. “I doubt she had the ability or the desire to do that.”
“Sir Robert?”
He turned to see his old army friend Dr. Fletcher coming into the room, with Dermot behind him.
“Ah, thank you for coming so swiftly, Patrick. Miss Broomfield seems to have met with some kind of accident.”
“So I see.” Dr. Fletcher set a large lamp on the corner of the desk, his expression interested as he peered at the body. After his tenure as a surgeon in the army, it was remarkably hard to shock him. “I doubt the pen killed her outright, but you never know.” He continued his brief examination. “No sign that she was shot, and no evidence of a struggle. I suppose she could have died of natural causes and then accidentally stabbed herself in the eye in a fit of hysteria.”
“Unlikely,” Robert said.
“Agreed.”
“Then how do you wish to proceed?”
“Shall we take her over to my house?” Dr. Fletcher looked up. “Then I can examine the body more carefully.”
“I’ll carry her.” Dermot stepped forward and took off his cloak. “I doubt anyone will be out and about in this weather to wonder what I am doing.”
“We’ll vouch for your character if anyone inquires.” Dr. Fletcher slapped his brother on the shoulder. “I a
sked Penelope to unlock the side door so you can bring the body through there.”
After the Fletcher brothers left, Robert remained in the schoolroom. He gathered up the scattered papers on the desk and placed them in his coat pocket to reexamine at a later date. He’d already decided that he would have to tell Lucy some version of what had happened before she heard it from someone else and was displeased with him for keeping it from her.
He made his way to the back of the schoolhouse, where there was a study, a kitchen, and a narrow staircase up to Miss Broomfield’s private quarters. There was no sign of the back-door lock being forced. Robert had to assume that whoever killed the teacher walked in without fear and probably was known by Miss Broomfield.
He glanced up the staircase and laboriously ascended into a landscape of black-and-white shadows thrown by the settling dusk. The oak floorboards creaked as he gained the top landing and struck a light for a candle. From his brief perusal, he found no sign of any disturbance on the upper floor. Everything looked to be perfectly in order: the bed was made, the sitting room was tidy, and the curtains were open. He doubted Miss Broomfield had even returned to her living quarters that afternoon.
He made his way carefully down the stairs and retrieved his cane from where he’d propped it up against the back door. He’d make sure that word was sent out to all the families not to send their children to school on the following day, which would give him time to assess the situation and decide as the local magistrate what action should be taken.
It was completely dark outside the schoolhouse as he locked the exterior door and pocketed the key he’d taken from Miss Broomfield’s desk. The warm glow of light from the Fletchers’ house beckoned to him, and he set off, trying hard not to lose his footing as ice settled and crackled underfoot. He was glad to see that the horse had been taken to the stable behind the house. Despite his disinclination to ride, his instincts as an ex-cavalry man ran deep.
As he approached the front garden, the door was flung open, and Penelope Fletcher appeared and beckoned to him.
“Do hurry up and come in, Sir Robert.”
“Thank you.” He stomped his boots on the mat and removed his hat and gloves as he entered the warm hallway. “I do apologize for disrupting your evening in this unpleasant fashion.”
“It’s hardly your fault, is it?” She set off down the corridor toward the parlor, her blond head held high. “But typical of that irritating woman to create havoc.”
“You didn’t like Miss Broomfield?”
“She was an unpleasant individual who considered herself my social equal. I frequently had to put her in her place.”
“But she was hardly deserving of being killed just for that, was she?” Robert murmured.
“As I didn’t kill her, I can hardly answer the question, can I, sir?”
For the umpteenth time, Robert reminded himself how grateful he was that the former Miss Penelope Chingford had broken off their engagement and had married his friend instead. She had very little sense of humor, and a huge sense of her own importance.
“Where’s the girl?”
“Josephine? She’s here in the parlor. Dermot will take her back home to the Greenwells’ after he has taken you to Kurland Hall.”
“May I speak with her?”
“Of course. Dr. Fletcher is in his surgery, attending to the deceased.” Penelope visibly shuddered. She had yet to come to terms with the fact that her husband was the local physician and not a member of the aristocracy. “I’m sure he will come and find you when he is ready.”
Robert waited for Penelope to precede him into the parlor and closed the door behind them. Josephine sat on the couch, wrapped in a large shawl, her feet tucked under her skirts. Her lip trembled when she saw Robert, and Penelope rushed over to her.
“Good Lord. Don’t start crying again, dear! Where is your moral fiber? Sir Robert just wishes to ascertain that you are unhurt.”
Robert sat on the other end of the couch and rested his cane against the table as Josephine attempted to ease away from him. He rarely spoke to young females and was aware that his somewhat ferocious reputation might have preceded him.
“Sit up straight, young lady!” Penelope admonished the girl. “And answer Sir Robert’s questions.”
Inwardly Robert sighed. He was unlikely to get anything out of the girl with Penelope standing guard over her. “Perhaps I might impose on you for a cup of tea, Mrs. Fletcher?”
“Of course, Sir Robert.” Penelope turned toward him. “With your ill health, standing around in the cold would not be good for you. I shall fetch you one right now.”
“Thank you.”
With a firm nod, Penelope left the room, and Robert returned his attention to Josephine.
“Would you mind telling me what happened this afternoon?”
She gazed at him, her blue eyes brimming with tears. “I forgot my scarf, and it was so cold on the way home that I turned back to get it. I came into the cloakroom and noticed the door into the schoolroom was open, which was unusual, seeing as we normally try to keep the heat in. I called out to Miss Broomfield, begging her pardon for interrupting her, but she didn’t answer, so I found my scarf on the peg and was just turning to go when I thought she said something.”
Josephine took a huge shaky breath and dabbed at her eyes. Robert silently offered her his handkerchief.
“And?” he gently prompted her.
“I popped my head into the schoolroom and saw her sitting at her desk, and I knew something was wrong, but I kept walking up to her, and . . .” She shuddered and used the handkerchief to wipe away her tears and blow her nose. “And then I saw her eye, and I turned and ran.”
“Straight into me,” Robert added.
“Yes, but I didn’t know that, sir. I thought you were the man who’d done that to Miss Broomfield.”
“Perfectly understandable.” Robert tried to sound reassuring. “Did you notice anyone else hanging around the schoolhouse when you came back to retrieve your scarf?”
Josephine wrinkled her nose. “There might have been someone. . . . I thought I saw a man at the rear of the building, but I can’t be certain.”
“You wouldn’t recognize this person if you saw him again?”
Josephine shook her head. “To be honest, sir, I was so cold and so intent on getting my scarf that I wasn’t really paying attention.” She blew her nose again. “I’m sorry, sir.”
“There’s nothing to be sorry about. You have had a terrible shock. In truth, if you had not returned to the school, we might not have known what had befallen Miss Broomfield until tomorrow.”
“When all the little children were arriving at school.” Josephine shuddered. “That would have been horrible.”
“Indeed.” Robert contemplated his next question. “Do you have any idea why someone might have wanted to kill Miss Broomfield?”
Her tears started again and this time became an unstoppable flood.
Penelope reentered the room with a tray and gave Robert an irritated glare. “Perhaps you might consider leaving all other questions to a more suitable date, Sir Robert. Josephine seems a little overwrought.”
“It was certainly not my intention to upset her.” Robert declined to reclaim the handkerchief Josephine offered him. “As the local magistrate, I do have to get to the bottom of cases such as this.”
“I’m sure Josephine understands that, but perhaps you have said enough for one night?”
There was a lot more that Robert wished to say, but he sensed his opportunity had ended, and was not foolish enough either to offend his hostess or upset the child. He frantically searched his memory as to Josephine’s family but had only a vague sense that they lived in the hamlet of Lower Kurland, which was almost two miles away. He could quite understand why she’d gone back for her scarf if she was walking home.
“Do you live in Lower Kurland, Josephine?”
He received a nod in reply and looked inquiringly up at Penelope.
&n
bsp; “She resides with the Greenwell family in the old manor house.”
“Ah, that’s why she looks familiar. I’ll take her home after I’ve spoken to Dr. Fletcher.”
“There’s no need for you to do that, Sir Robert. Dermot can take her.”
“But her family will be worried, and she is technically in my employ at the school, so I am responsible for her well-being,” Robert said firmly. “It is no hardship.”
He sipped his tea and allowed the warmth of the fire to seep into his aching bones. There was a lot to accomplish. He needed to send a note to Lucy that would inform her of his whereabouts but not encourage her to venture out into the night to find him.
In truth, knowing his wife and her curiosity, he thought it might be better to address the message to aunt Rose....
The parlor door opened, and Dr. Fletcher looked in. “Sir Robert? Perhaps you might care to come with me.”
Chapter 4
“I think Robert will be delighted by his gift.” Aunt Rose took off her bonnet and walked over to the fire to warm her hands. “Mr. Hopewell will deliver the puppies to the stables on Christmas Eve, and Mr. Coleman will take care of them until you can present them to Robert.”
“I couldn’t decide which puppy was the nicest.” Lucy sighed as she unbuttoned her winter coat and unwound her long knitted scarf from around her throat. She sank down into one of the large wing chairs and held her hands out to the fire. The drawing room was well lit, and the thick red curtains were closed against the whistling draughts. “I do hope Robert won’t mind having two dogs to train.”
“They’ll keep each other company. What could be better? And let’s be honest, Lucy. Like most men, especially ex-military ones, my dear nephew is in his element when ordering things around. He’ll positively revel in it.” Rose patted down her hair. “What time is dinner this evening, my dear?”
Lucy checked the clock on the mantelpiece. “We keep country hours and usually dine at six. Will that suit you? I know you have already endured a very long day.”
Death Comes to the School Page 5