Murder Is Bad Manners

by Robin Stevens

  Mr. MacLean’s Sunday sermon was exactly as dull as it usually is, all about friendship (I thought of Daisy, bitterly), good works, and the importance of beautifying the world. I listened to it and felt as though I had come into the wrong sermon by mistake and if I looked at the date I would see that it was five weeks ago, or years and years in the future.

  The One began to play the hymn, and Miss Lappet swayed as she stood up.

  “Drunk again,” whispered Kitty to Daisy, loud enough for me to overhear. “Hasn’t she been bad this week? Rumor has it that she’s in mourning for the deputy headmistress job. I heard from one of the Big Girls that she went to confront Miss Griffin about it on Monday evening. They had an appointment straight after club meetings, and Miss Griffin finally told her that she didn’t have a hope. Miss Lappet ran straight out of Miss Griffin’s office, apparently, and has been on the demon drink ever since.”

  “What?” I said, much too loudly. My heart had suddenly started pounding so hard that I could feel it through my pinafore.

  “Seeeng, girls!” snapped Mamzelle, without turning round.

  I could not believe what I had just heard. Miss Lappet had only been in Miss Griffin’s office for a few minutes. Her alibi had been wiped out, just like that, and now there was nothing to say that Miss Lappet had not been in the gym at the crucial time, pushing Miss Bell off the balcony.

  I slid a look at Daisy out of the corner of my eye and saw that she was very determinedly not looking back at me. But there was a worry line creasing the top of her nose, and I could tell—just as certainly as if she had said it—that Daisy had finally realized just how wrong she was.

  After the service we walked back up to the dorm behind Mrs. Strike, two by two. I was next to Lavinia—who was being her usual lumpish, moody self—and all at once I decided that I could not bear arguing with Daisy any longer. We had to solve the mystery together. As soon as we were back up at the dorm and safe in the noise of the common room, I ran up and seized her arm. “Daisy!” I cried. “I’m sorry, I’ve been behaving like a beast.”

  Daisy turned to look at me with a strange expression on her face. I could not make it out. “Hazel,” she said after a moment, “I refuse your apology.”

  I gaped at her.

  “Because,” Daisy continued, lifting her chin proudly, “I was wrong, and so it should be me apologizing.”

  “But Daisy—”

  “Hazel, will you let me talk? Whether or not Miss Tennyson did it, there are too many things going on that don’t fit my theory. You knew that, and you told me so, and you were right.”

  “I was thinking . . . ,” I said, bracing myself for Daisy to ignore me again. “What if someone did the murder with Miss Tennyson? She and Miss Lappet, or . . . or she and Miss Parker. And King Henry’s got to be involved somehow, I know it!”

  To my surprise, Daisy nodded. “It’s possible,” she said. “Oh, Hazel, I’ve been a terrible Detective Society president. I ought to have listened to you instead of rushing around like a fool. Why haven’t we heard about Miss Tennyson going to the police yet?”

  “I don’t know,” I said, beginning to worry all over again. “Do you think she’s made a run for it?”

  Daisy made a face. “I hope she’s run away,” she said, “because all the alternatives I can imagine are even worse.”

  * * *

  We spent the rest of the day swapping theories, and although most of them were utterly silly, it was wonderful to have Daisy finally listening to me for a change.

  “Perhaps Miss Tennyson’s in love with The One too,” I said. “And she found out he’d done it, and helped him cover up the crime.”

  “Or perhaps she’s The One’s long-lost sister!” said Daisy. It was after dinner, and she was sprawled on her bed with one foot, in its regulation white sock, waving in the air. I stared down at her. “All right, all right, I was only joking. What I mean to say is, perhaps King Henry is Miss Tennyson’s long-lost daughter. Ow! No need to hit me like that!”

  “You aren’t being serious,” I told her.

  “Well, neither are you,” said Daisy. “It’d be far more productive for you to do some secretarying and write up what’s happened today.”

  * * *

  So I did. Going over it like this has made me worried all over again. If Miss Tennyson didn’t go to the police—which seems more and more likely, since none of us have heard about it—why didn’t she? Has she simply run away, or has something else happened to her?

  I am trying not to think about what that something else could be.

  We know now that Miss Tennyson has not run away.

  On Monday morning Daisy and I walked down to school together, friends again, to discover that things had gone badly wrong at Deepdean.

  The first sign came at attendance: On Mondays it is usually Miss Tennyson who takes roll call, but today Mamzelle rushed in two minutes late, looking flustered, and read off our names at such a terrific pace that she forgot to roll her Rs. I felt sick with worry.

  We filed out of the room for prayers, Mamzelle pursing her lips in alarm and shooing us along with her hands flapping, and made it into the hall just as The One gave the organ its last few warning blares. When we passed Miss Lappet on the way to our seats I could smell the alcohol wafting off her.

  Miss Griffin made her entrance while we were still shuffling along our row, and she stood and waited for us, glaring sternly down over the lectern.

  At last, when we were settled and there was nothing to be heard but our breathing, Miss Griffin cleared her throat. She leaned her hands against the lectern and stared down at us, and then she began to speak. Miss Griffin’s morning lectures are like Miss Griffin herself: clean and rigorous and slightly frightening. They always make me feel sinkingly inadequate, as though I’m being spoken to by the voice of God. I know I will never be as good as Miss Griffin assumes we all are. She is so terribly good herself that she puts the rest of us to shame.

  At the end of the lecture came the weekly match scores (varsity hockey against St. Chator’s, 7–8; junior varsity netball against Dee Hill, 24–18), and then the general announcements—the Drama Club was performing King Lear, donations were being taken for the animal welfare society. Then a pause. We all looked up. Miss Griffin’s serene forehead was creased. “And I am sorry to have to announce, girls, that over the weekend Miss Tennyson suffered a terrible accident. She was taken to the hospital, but unfortunately there was nothing to be done. Girls, I am so sorry. Miss Tennyson is no longer with us.”

  There was a frozen silence, and then everyone began to talk at once. Miss Griffin opened her mouth, closed it again with a wince, signaled to The One at the organ, and marched off the stage. The One dropped his hands onto the keys with a smash and everyone had to shriek at one another to be heard through the din. A few of the shrimps were crying.

  I cannot have been thinking straight, because it took me a moment to realize what Miss Griffin really meant. No longer with us was just a very nice way of saying dead. And as soon as I realized that, I felt cold all over. Was it really true? An accident? It seemed simply too convenient.

  Daisy seized my arm. Her eyes were glittering. “Hazel, don’t you see?” she said. “Miss Tennyson’s been murdered. Just like you thought, someone helped her with Miss Bell’s murder, and now her accomplice has killed her.”

  “No!” I gasped.

  “Yes,” said Daisy. “It’s the only thing that makes sense.”

  “But Daisy, if someone killed Miss Tennyson, it’s our fault. If we hadn’t told Miss Tennyson to go to the police, then she’d be alive!”

  Daisy snorted. “Well, it’ll teach her to go about murdering people,” she said. “Is it our fault that she helped kill Miss Bell?”

  Strictly, of course, she was quite right, but I still felt vilely responsible. Daisy does not understand this sort of thing because it is not logical, but I knew perfectly well that we had caused Miss Tennyson’s death.

  “But what shall we do
?” I asked.

  Daisy looked at me as though I was crazy. “Do?” she asked. “The only thing we can do. Keep on until we catch Miss Tennyson’s accomplice and solve both murders, of course.”

  We were lucky that our conversation was lost in the roar of noise from the rest of the school. The teachers and prefects were trying to hush us up and shoo us out of the hall, but they could not possibly hush all of us. King Henry was not even trying. She was leaning against the back of a wooden bench, her face pale, and I was more certain than ever that she had something to do with the mystery.

  The whole school was in a panic. What had happened at our séance came back into everyone’s minds with a vengeance. No matter what Miss Griffin had said about accidents, everyone decided this was yet another murder.

  No one did any work all morning. In French, after struggling with us for ten minutes, Mamzelle threw up her hands, put a French composition on the board, took out a magazine—Weldon’s Ladies’ Journal—and left us to it.

  “I can’t believe that Miss Tennyson’s been murdered too,” said Kitty. “Just like Miss Bell. Two in two weeks!”

  “They’re both going to come back and haunt the school,” said Lavinia loudly, to frighten Beanie. “Just you wait.”

  Beanie burst into tears. “But I liked Miss Tennyson,” she wailed. “I don’t want her to be murdered.”

  “Girls,” shouted Mamzelle, her French accent back with a vengeance, “Mees Tennyson ’as not been murdered! Please go back to your compositions and let us have no more of zis!” Then she shook back her dyed red hair, turned to “The Fashion in Furs,” and ignored us again.

  The next lesson was math. As we went into the room, I stared at Miss Parker nervously. Was she displaying any signs of guilt? I couldn’t see any, exactly, but her cropped hair was sticking up like a brush so I knew she must be troubled.

  She shouted at us to sit down in her most sergeant-majorish voice, and then we went through math problems rigorously. None of us could pay attention. We made the most fearful mistakes, and that made Miss Parker scream at us even harder. At last, just before the end of the lesson, Beanie put her head in her hands and burst into tears—but Miss Parker didn’t tell her to be quiet. Indeed, she suddenly looked as though she was about to weep herself.

  “Miss Parker,” said Kitty, as Beanie sobbed, “what happened to Miss Tennyson?”

  “I’m sorry, Kitty,” said Miss Parker in a husky voice, “I don’t know.”

  I realized that I believed her. Miss Parker, for all her raging, was truly upset about Miss Tennyson’s death—and not just upset, but confused. She didn’t know what had happened any more than we did. And if that was true, it meant Miss Parker was not the murderer. But how was I going to prove it to Daisy?

  I looked over at Daisy. The small crease across the bridge of her nose had appeared again. I knew she was not upset about Miss Tennyson in the same way I was. Guilt slides straight off Daisy like butter; I don’t imagine she’s ever felt it properly. I could tell that she was planning something.

  “Put your things away, girls,” Miss Parker told us, still in the same lost voice. “You may go to bunbreak early today.”

  Immediately, Daisy leaned down to pick up her bag—and straightened up again with a very loud “OH!”

  Several people jumped. “What is it, Daisy?” asked Miss Parker.

  “I think I’ve found your earring, Miss Parker,” said Daisy. “It was lying on the floor, next to my bag. Look!”

  Miss Parker barely even glanced at it. “Not mine, Daisy,” she said without interest as she swept our exercise books into a stack. “Although it looks like one of the ones Mr.—” She stopped halfway through her sentence, “Oh, never mind. Off you go, girls!”

  As soon as we were out of the room, Daisy seized my arm. “She didn’t do it!” she said.

  “I know!” I said in great relief. “Thank goodness you proved it; I didn’t know how I would. And did you hear what Miss Parker said when you showed her the earring? Something about it looking like ‘one of the ones Mr.—’ I’ll bet she meant The One. He’s the only Mr. at Deepdean who might be giving out earrings.”

  Daisy clapped me on the back. “Watson,” she said, “your detective talents continue to amaze me. I may end up promoting you.”

  I nearly pointed out that since there was no one in the Society but the two of us, it was quite difficult to see how I could be promoted.

  “But for now—”

  The bell rang for bunbreak. Miss Parker came out of the classroom behind us and hurried away.

  “Oh, quick, follow her! She may not be a suspect anymore, but I have a hunch she may still be important!”

  Daisy and I followed Miss Parker at a breakneck pace, through the struggling, gossiping (and often weeping) crowds of girls thronging the corridors, all the way to The One’s office. Luckily for us, she did not look back once, not even after she had knocked on his door.

  “Come in!” called The One, and Miss Parker practically threw herself inside.

  Giving each other deeply significant looks, Daisy and I positioned ourselves one on either side of the steps, leaned as close to the closed office door as we could, and listened with all our might.

  Luckily for us, it wasn’t long before both of them began shouting. Miss Parker shouted first.

  “This has gone far enough!”

  There was a rumble from The One.

  “No, I won’t have it! This isn’t a game anymore! Amelia Tennyson is dead. Dead! Do you blame me for worrying about what’s happened to Joan?”

  “I certainly blame you for being a BLOODY MADWOMAN,” said The One, loud enough to be heard through the door.

  I flinched and gasped. Daisy giggled in excitement.

  “Why won’t you tell me where she is? You must know!” Miss Parker sounded desperate now.

  “Will you GET OUT OF MY OFFICE?” roared The One.

  Daisy and I dived away from the door, just as Miss Parker came slamming back out, red-faced and furious.

  “GET OUT OF MY WAY!” she shrieked at a group of innocent seventh-graders. She pushed past them blindly and hurried off toward the teachers’ common room.

  “Arguing again,” said one of the seventh-graders to her friends, rolling her eyes.

  “What do you know about it?” asked Daisy.

  The seventh-graders looked quite excited to be addressed by such a glamorous eighth-grader.

  “Miss Parker’s angry,” explained the ringleader, Kitty’s little sister, Binny. “It’s because Miss Hopkins is engaged to The One, and Miss Parker hates them both. You know why.”

  “They can’t be engaged!” gasped Daisy. I was thunderstruck. I’d guessed that The One and Miss Hopkins were in league, but I had never thought things might have gone so far between them.

  “Of course she is,” said Binny. “That’s why Miss Hopkins has been so pathetically happy. It happened last Friday. They’re keeping it secret so Miss Griffin doesn’t fire them. Isn’t Miss Hopkins lucky? He’s so dreamy.”

  Daisy’s face had gone as red as Miss Parker’s.

  “You’re an infernal liar, Binny Freebody,” she snapped. “Come on, Hazel, we’ve got bigger fish to fry.”

  “I am NOT!” Binny shrieked at us as we marched away. “IT’S TRUE! You’re just BITTER!”

  Of course Binny was quite right. Daisy hates to be outdone on knowledge of Deepdean goings-on. And missing something as important as an engagement! I could tell she was kicking herself about it.

  We found a safe space to talk by the pond at the edge of the north lawn. “I was wrong about Miss Parker blackmailing The One,” I said, to cheer Daisy up. “All she was asking him to do was tell her where Miss Bell was.”

  Daisy nodded. “When Miss Bell disappeared, Miss Parker thought that The One knew something about it. Of course, we know that Miss Bell didn’t run away with him, because she was dead, but the fact that Miss Parker doesn’t know means that we have to rule her out once and for all.”
r />   “What if Miss Hopkins and The One did do it together?” I asked. “If Miss Bell discovered their engagement—you know how Miss Griffin hates it when her teachers get married, she thinks they’ve betrayed her. She’d have fired them both on the spot. So perhaps they killed her to keep it a secret? After all, we’ve as good as heard Miss Parker say that the earring we found looks like some The One gave to Miss Hopkins—and aren’t you supposed to give jewelry to the person you’re in love with?”

  I said it without thinking, and then winced, remembering that my accusation of Miss Hopkins had caused our argument in the first place. But Miss Tennyson’s murder really must have done something to Daisy. She opened her mouth to shout at me, but then she closed it again and frowned thoughtfully.

  “No, you’re right,” she said at last. “We can’t discount Miss Hopkins anymore. I don’t want her to have done it, but we must follow the clues wherever they take us. The only question is, why would she and The One rope Miss Tennyson into it? He’s got a car, after all, and he’s strong enough to help Miss Hopkins move the body.”

  “Perhaps they wanted to use her as . . . as a scapegoat,” I suggested. “So if someone did discover there had been a murder, they could blame Miss Tennyson for it. But then they started to worry that she would tell someone the truth, so they decided to get rid of her.”

  “And run away to begin their new lives together!” said Daisy. “Not bad, Watson. Not bad at all! I’m more and more certain that we’re very close. Only a few real suspects left! We need to have a proper Detective Society meeting about it at lunchtime, though, just to make sure we’re doing everything we ought.”

  We gave each other the Detective Society handshake just as the bell rang, and I went off to lessons with the remaining suspects swimming about in my head.

  Either Miss Hopkins and The One had done it, or Miss Lappet had.

  And we had some new information to add to our suspect list too.