Death Comes to the School

by Catherine Lloyd

  He held up the last sheet of paper and squinted at the script. “It is hard to say when they contain so few words, but I will give you the benefit of the doubt. Are you suggesting that it was Miss Broomfield who wrote those unpleasant letters to you and Mrs. Jenkins?”

  “Yes.” She searched his face, her expression grave. “It might also explain why she died.”

  “You believe Nicholas Jenkins killed Miss Broomfield, then?”

  “No! Of course not.”

  “Then you killed her, or was it me, defending your honor?” Robert placed the papers on her desk.

  “What if we weren’t the only people she wrote to?” Lucy asked. “Someone killed her and then stabbed her in the eye with a quill pen. Doesn’t that suggest that they wanted to make a point?”

  “Sly, insidious letters might be hurtful, but they are scarcely worth killing someone over, are they?” Robert reasoned. “If you’d done the right thing and shown me that letter, and I’d found out it had come from Miss Broomfield, I would’ve gone down to the school and had a few words with her—maybe threatened her within the rights of the law—but I certainly wouldn’t have killed her.”

  “But what if she wrote other letters that weren’t so easy to ignore?”

  “There is always that possibility,” Robert said, conceding the point. “Perhaps we need to ask if anyone else received a letter from her.”

  “As if anyone is likely to come forward now, knowing that Miss Broomfield is dead and they would be the prime suspect in her murder,” Lucy said gloomily.

  “Unfortunately, you have a point.” He sighed. “Perhaps we should attempt to keep the matter of the letters separate from Miss Broomfield’s death until we are certain she was the culprit.”

  “That sounds far more practical.” Lucy nodded. “In truth, I cannot understand why she would have taken Mrs. Jenkins and me in such dislike after such a short acquaintance. I doubt either of us had done her any harm.”

  “From all reports, Miss Broomfield seemed to be the kind of woman who disliked everyone. She even managed to annoy Dermot, which is quite a feat. Have you found anything else that confirms your suspicions?”

  “Not really.” She grimaced and made a sweeping gesture encompassing all the other pieces of paper on the floor. “These items are all from her desk and are mostly concerned with checklists and notes for her classwork.”

  “As you might expect. I doubt she would keep copies of her offensive scribblings in her desk.”

  “Which begs the question of why you found her writing one there.” Lucy frowned. “Miss Broomfield insisted that Josephine and Rebecca leave early that last day. Maybe she was writing a letter and intended to pass it over to the person who ended up killing her.”

  “It’s a possibility,” Robert agreed. “Or maybe she was just busy writing and wasn’t expecting anyone to come and call on her. At this point, we simply don’t know.”

  “Several people saw a man loitering around the school that day, and Mr. Hall at the smithy says he repaired a bridle for a gentleman who went for a walk around the village while he waited for the ring to be fixed,” Lucy said.

  “It might be the same man who stayed at the Queen’s Head last week,” Robert said. “Dermot and I were just speaking to Mr. Jarvis about that very matter. The gentleman’s name was Mr. John Clapper. Mr. Jarvis thought he was visiting family in the area and was on his way back to London when his horse’s bridle broke.”

  “Clapper?” Lucy considered the name. “I don’t know any family in the vicinity with that name, although we could ask my father. He does hold the parish records.”

  “With all due respect, George Culpepper, the curate, is far more familiar with the local population than your father will ever be.”

  “That is true. I will ask him if he knows any Clappers next time I am at the rectory.” Lucy went to rise, and Robert took her hand to help her up. “I do have one more thing to show you.” She went over to her desk and picked up a flat velvet case. “I found this hidden in Miss Broomfield’s bedroom.”

  “Hidden?” Robert opened the lid and blinked as the diamonds and rubies inside caught the sunlight. “Good Lord.”

  “I know.” Lucy stood beside him, and they both stared down at the jewels. “I wonder why she was hiding them.”

  “Possibly to keep them safe,” Robert said.

  “Or to conceal them from their rightful owner,” Lucy suggested.

  Robert frowned at her. “I know you disliked Miss Broomfield, but you seem awfully keen to ascribe some very serious crimes to a dead woman who can’t defend herself.”

  “I am not saying she did steal them. I am just speculating as to why she might have kept them hidden away.”

  Robert retrieved his spectacles, put them on, and examined the clasp of the necklace more carefully. “There is probably a maker’s mark on here somewhere. There are very few jewelers who would be capable of producing a set of this high quality. I suspect that with a little investigation, we could find out who made them and to whom they were originally sold. I’ll set Dermot on it this afternoon.”

  “That would certainly be helpful.” Lucy nodded. “In the meantime, could you keep the jewels in your strongbox?”

  “Certainly. What else did you find in the school? A hidden passage and a treasure trove?”

  Lucy shuddered. “God forbid.” She pointed at the table. “There is another box, which is locked. Goodness knows what we will find inside that one.”

  Robert frowned. “If Miss Broomfield had the means to conceal the jewelry securely, then why didn’t she do so?”

  “That’s an interesting point.” Lucy hid a yawn behind her hand as she walked over to the door. “I am due to meet with Anna and Aunt Rose in less than an hour, so I fear my investigation into the locked box will have to wait.”

  “Then perhaps you should rest for a while before they arrive?” Robert suggested.

  “Actually, I am feeling quite rested.”

  Robert couldn’t decide if he was delighted to see Lucy so animated or alarmed about the reasons behind it. Surely, if she kept her promise and did not exert herself too much, he would have nothing to complain about. And at least it gave them something to talk about other than the state of her health.

  “There is one more thing. . . .” Lucy hesitated by the door.

  “What is it?”

  “Rebecca told me that the children are going to be terribly disappointed if they don’t get the opportunity to sing at the carol service.”

  “So?”

  She smiled up at him, her brown gaze so sweet, he was immediately suspicious. “I said that if you gave your permission, she and Josephine could use the schoolroom to continue to rehearse.”

  “That sounds . . . perfectly acceptable.”

  “Thank you.” Her smile was a thing of beauty. “I will let the girls know.” She blew him a kiss and whisked herself out of the room.

  He had a sense that he had been bamboozled, but couldn’t decide quite how. It was not an unfamiliar feeling in his long and sometimes contentious relationship with his wife, but he was almost glad to have her matching swords with him again. All he could do was continue to keep an eye on her and hope for the best.

  * * *

  “Paper is expensive.” Lucy looked up from writing her umpteenth invitation. She was seated in the drawing room with Anna, Sophia, and Rose while they laboriously wrote out the invitations to the Christmas ball. It was not a particularly arduous task, merely a necessary one.

  “What’s that, my dear?” Aunt Rose inquired.

  “I was just thinking out loud.” Lucy put down her pen. “If you have to write a letter and don’t order your stationery from town, like we do, where do you get the paper?”

  “You can purchase it by the sheet in the village store,” Anna said. “But you are correct. It certainly isn’t cheap. And even if you can afford to buy the paper, a lot of our parishioners do not have the ability to write well enough to compose a letter.”
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br />   “And it isn’t cheap to send a letter, either,” Sophia piped up. “Unless you can get it franked by a peer.”

  “I’d forgotten that,” Lucy said. “Father often wrote letters for people and paid to send them out with our own mail at the rectory.”

  “Mr. Culpepper continues to do so,” Anna said. “He has also started a class in the evenings to teach some of the local men how to read and write.”

  “What an excellent notion.” Lucy stretched out her cramped fingers. “Does our father not object to George filling his house with common laborers?”

  Anna smiled. “The class is held in the school in the evening twice a month. Your delightful husband gave his permission.”

  “Is it?” Lucy shook her head. “I had no idea. I wonder what Miss Broomfield thought of that!”

  “She was vociferously and vehemently against the idea.” Anna’s smile disappeared. “I know that one should not speak ill of the dead, but she made her feelings on the subject very clear both to Father and me.”

  “So Father didn’t like her very much, either,” Lucy commented.

  “I don’t believe he did, my dear.” Rose folded another sheet and wrote the address on the outside before folding the edges into a neat packet. “The rector has some very forward notions about the education of man. I believe that in retrospect he regretted his decision to support Miss Broomfield’s employment at the school.”

  It was more likely that her father regretted the attention being directed at him for his poor judgment. He was certainly unlikely to apologize to his family. Lucy felt no need to explain that to Rose, who, like Anna, always saw the best in everyone.

  If Mr. Culpepper had been using the school for his meetings, and Miss Broomfield had objected to them, it meant that not just the village children had been exposed to her unpleasant behavior. Had someone who gained access to the school taken the opportunity to search the teacher’s apartments and maybe discovered she was worth robbing, after all?

  Lucy didn’t like to think of anyone she knew behaving in such a way, but she had learned to her cost that people were sometimes prepared to do anything to protect themselves and their secrets. Or had the teacher sat upstairs, listening to the men talking, and gleaned more secrets to use against her neighbors? It would seem possible.

  She had a sense that Robert would remind her not to get ahead of herself, but it was hard not to speculate when they knew so little.

  “Did Miss Broomfield ever mention her family to you, Anna?” Lucy asked as she took up her pen again.

  “No. As I mentioned before, she barely tolerated my presence or spoke a word to me. She thought I was silly and frivolous.” Anna shuddered. “I don’t think she had any family in this area. She often complained that there was nothing of worth in Kurland St. Mary.”

  “Apart from a well-paying position and accompanying accommodation,” Lucy huffed. “One might think that with her spotty past, she would’ve been grateful for the opportunity.”

  “I think she believed we were all beneath her—even Father, who is the son of an earl. She did mention having lived in London at some point, but that’s all I remember.” Anna looked over as the clock on the mantelpiece chimed the hour. “Mr. Culpepper is coming to collect me soon, Lucy. We have some church business to attend to in Lower Kurland.”

  “Then I will take the opportunity to speak with him.” Lucy counted the number of invitations. “Thank you all for your help. We will have these finished by tomorrow.”

  “Thank goodness.” Sophia groaned. “I’d forgotten how boring it is. Andrew’s secretary does all these things for me now.”

  “I could have asked Mr. Fletcher,” Lucy acknowledged, “but he is writing all the invitations for the village party, and I didn’t think it was fair to burden him with these, as well.”

  “Between the four of us, we have managed quite nicely,” Rose said. “And shared an enjoyable afternoon.”

  “That is true,” Sophia agreed. “I am quite willing to return tomorrow and resume my duties. Andrew is bringing the children over to ride, so I will have plenty of time on my hands while they are all tearing around the countryside. It was very kind of Robert to offer them his horses.”

  Foley came in and bowed to Lucy. “Mr. Culpepper is here for Miss Anna, my lady.”

  “Thank you, Foley. Will you ask him to come in for a moment?”

  “If you wish, my lady. Shall I make some more tea?”

  “That would be most welcome.” Lucy made sure her inkwell was stoppered and went to sit by the fire.

  George Culpepper came in and made an awkward bow to the assembled ladies before turning to Lucy. He was a slight young man with a kind face and a shock of reddish brown hair that he had never quite tamed.

  “You wished to speak to me, Lady Kurland?”

  “Indeed.” Lucy waved him to the chair opposite hers. “I wanted to reassure you that despite Miss Broomfield’s death, your work at the school can continue without pause.”

  “That’s excellent news, my lady.” He sat down. “I was rather worried that with the building being closed, my students would not be able to study.”

  “How many men do you tutor at the moment, Mr. Culpepper?” Lucy asked.

  “It varies depending on the time of year and the weather. A lot of the men come from the surrounding areas, and if the roads aren’t passable, then they can’t come. But generally, there are at least six of them.”

  “Do you use the supplies at the school? Their ink, paper, and books?”

  “Yes, my lady. Is there a problem?” Mr. Culpepper twisted his hands together. “Sir Robert and the rector said that I might do so.”

  “Where does the school get those items from?”

  “I believe some are ordered by Sir Robert and the rector, and others are donated by local families. I use the children’s slates to teach basic penmanship, and then move on to writing on scrap paper that I collect from the villages.” He hesitated. “Am I doing something wrong? Did Miss Broomfield complain about me again?”

  “I understand that she was unwilling for the school premises to be used for such a venture,” Lucy said.

  “I pray for her soul, but she certainly wasn’t a great believer in the notion of education for the masses, I can tell you that.” He sat forward, his expression eager. “There is nothing quite as remarkable as watching a man learn to read a newspaper or form his letters. He then becomes the arbiter of his own fate.”

  “Indeed.” Lucy considered her next question. “Did Miss Broomfield ever interact with any of your students, or did she keep to herself?”

  Mr. Culpepper made a wry face. “She occasionally came down to berate us for being too loud and coarse, but otherwise she kept to herself.”

  “Did she know all the men who were present?”

  “Most of them had children who attended the school, but not all of them. The men who had children tried to be respectful toward her, but some of the younger ones were less likely to heed her words and occasionally mocked her—not that I allowed such behavior in her presence, my lady—but behind her back.”

  “Do you have a list of the names of the men who attend your classes?”

  “I can certainly write one out for you, but with all due respect, I also wonder why you would need that information.” He lowered his voice. “Does this have anything to do with Miss Broomfield’s demise?”

  Lucy didn’t fault him at all for defending his students. In truth, she admired his tenacity and his desire to protect the men he was educating.

  “It is more of a precautionary measure to ensure that everyone who had access to the schoolroom has been accounted for. I promise you that the only person who will see the information will be Sir Robert, and you can be certain that he will use it wisely.”

  “I’m sure he will. I will get that list to you by the end of today.” Mr. Culpepper sat back. “Is there anything else I can assist you with, my lady?”

  “Do you know of a family called Clapper in the vil
lages?” Lucy asked.

  “Clapper?” Mr. Culpepper considered. “I don’t believe so, but I can inquire, if you wish.”

  “There was a gentleman of that name staying at the inn the other night who said he was visiting family in Kurland St. Mary.” Lucy smiled at the curate. “I couldn’t think who it might be. If you do come across the name, I would appreciate the information.”

  “As you wish, my lady. I can also check the parish records, if that would help. Are you concerned that this man was up to no good? I would much rather it was some random visitor to our village who attacked and murdered Miss Broomfield than one of our own, wouldn’t you?”

  “Absolutely.” Mr. Culpepper made as if to rise, and Lucy held up her finger. “There is one more item I believe we need to discuss. Miss Dorothea Chingford.”

  “Ah, yes.” A slight blush rose on the youthful curate’s smooth cheeks. “Do you think Dr. Fletcher and his estimable wife would be willing to entertain my suit?”

  “I don’t see why not. You are a man of upstanding character, with a secure position and an excellent standing in your local community. You may tell the Fletchers that you have the blessing of Sir Robert and myself. I think Dorothea is a very lucky young woman.”

  “Thank you, my lady.” Mr. Culpepper smiled fully for the first time. “The rector has also agreed to stand as a character reference for me.”

  “Then what is stopping you?” Lucy couldn’t help but ask.

  “It’s Mrs. Fletcher, my lady. She keeps telling Dorothea that she could do much better for herself.”

  “Mrs. Fletcher’s acerbic disposition means that she is never satisfied with anything. I would discount her opinion and go ahead, anyway.” Lucy resolved to have a word with her contrary friend at the earliest opportunity. “Why not settle things with Dr. Fletcher and then propose to Dorothea during the Christmas ball?”

  Mr. Culpepper’s face got even redder as he contemplated that idea. “I . . . will do that!” He shot up out of his chair. “I will go and see Dr. Fletcher immediately!”

  Lucy rose, as well. “May I make a suggestion? Mrs. Fletcher will be attending me here in approximately an hour. Perhaps you might prefer to wait until then.”