“Mr. Bumbleton, should he get wind of the situation, is sure to be seriously displeased. He might urge the other members of the board to insist upon my resignation, unless”—her lips tightened—“I can see my way to pacifying him, which is unlikely, given that he is the sort of man who believes he rules the world. He has a granddaughter here, but I am not unduly concerned that she will go to him with the story. Naturally I did not suggest to the girls that they keep the matter secret from their parents and family members. That would have been unconscionable. But I do believe they understand the difference between discretion and disloyalty.” Meeting her eyes, I was convinced they did.
“Mrs. Battle.” I had given up crossing my ankles and keeping my elbows off the arms of my chair. “Who informed you that the Loverly Cup was gone?”
She picked up her teacup. “I received the news from Mrs. Mossop, one of our cleaners. It’s her job to keep the glass front of the trophy cabinet shining and to dust inside every few weeks. It was last Monday at about two in the afternoon when she glanced at the case in passing and saw the empty space. She stumbled into my office in tears.”
“Does she have her own key?”
“I have the only two, a spare kept here in my flat and the other in the top drawer of my office desk. Mrs. Mossop asks me for one when needed and has never failed to return it promptly. She’s a dithery woman in many ways, but conscientious; there is no possibility of her having taken the cup. I had to send for her husband, who is the general handyman, to take her home, such was the state she was in! She had been cleaning inside the case at half past one or thereabouts.”
“Might she have left the door unlocked or even open?”
“She assured me she did not.” Mrs. Battle stared me full in the face. “I will not allow that poor, befuddled woman to be blamed.” A lesser mortal might have pounded her fist, but her vehemence came across just as fiercely, and I experienced my first flicker of liking for old Battle-ax.
“When did you announce the theft to the school?” I helped myself to the remaining biscuit because it looked in desperate need of human contact.
“The following day—which was Tuesday—I summoned students and staff to the assembly hall before the start of morning classes. After informing them of what had happened, I issued a forceful appeal for the guilty party to bring the Loverly Cup to my office before final bell that afternoon.”
“Without result.”
“Regrettably, no one came forward.” Mrs. Battle reached for the biscuit that wasn’t there. “A search of classroom desks and dormitories was not considered; as you will know, St. Roberta’s has always adhered to the honor system. Added to which, some of the parents would undoubtedly object if word were to leak out in future.”
“I’m sure.” Mustn’t ruffle the little darlings’ feathers.
“I did send for Carolyn Fisher-Jones and her friend, Matron’s great-niece Gillian Parker, not because I suspected them but because the situation affected them more closely than the other students—Carolyn being Lady Loverly’s goddaughter and Gillian a frequent visitor with her at her ladyship’s home. I told them I did not expect them to withhold the information from her but not to dramatize it.”
“Weren’t you worried that Lady Loverly might say something to Mr. Bumbleton or the other members of the Board of Governors?”
“Her ladyship cannot tolerate Mr. Bumbleton or his cronies, as she terms them. She resigned from the board for that reason.”
“How did the two girls react when you talked with them?”
“Carolyn was clearly saddened but calm. A very steady girl.”
“Gillian?”
“An entirely different type. The early reports, when she joined us at the beginning of the year, were that she was decidedly reserved. She was not a good mixer but wandered around on her own, until Carolyn befriended her. I was pleased about that—in contrast to Ms. Chips, who surprisingly voiced a concern about clinging vines.”
That seemed to me rather hard. “Is Ms. Chips often at the school?”
“Fairly frequently. She comes over to assist when we need a substitute for dorm duty. In fact she is filling in this evening. Being the sensible woman she is, she doesn’t make unnecessary visits, but we are always glad to see her.” Mrs. Battle’s voice revealed an unexpected hint of warmth. “Marilyn has always given much and asked little. It is distressing to think that she may not be able fully to enjoy the presentation of the new gymnasium. Gillian, who takes piano lessons from Mr. Middleton, is to play for the occasion, a selection of pieces by Beethoven. And she will accompany a classmate of hers, Elizabeth Anderson, who has been chosen to sing the school song.”
“That sounds wonderful.”
“Mr. Middleton believes Gillian has a great future ahead of her. One must hope she finally settles in at St. Roberta’s. It’s not unusual for some of the new girls to suffer from homesickness. She did seem to gain her footing as the term went on. It may have helped that she was invited to the Hall by Lady Loverly. She and Carolyn were there last weekend. Matron must appreciate the kindness.”
“Do you think Gillian may have taken the cup?” It had to be asked.
Mrs. Battle got to her feet. “The thought did cross my mind; she was a bundle of nerves when I talked to her and Carolyn about it. She had that badly frightened look that sometimes results from guilt. I hoped it wasn’t her; it would be such a blow for Matron, who’s been delighted to be able to provide her with the opportunity to attend St. Roberta’s. The Board of Governors sometimes waives the fees for girls with a family member on the staff. And in Gillian’s case there is the added factor of being musically gifted. No, Ellie”—Mrs. Battle began to pace—“I very much hope for her sake and Matron’s that Gillian isn’t the one. And I don’t believe it would be in character; she’s far too timid—afraid of her own shadow, poor girl. It is a great blessing that Mr. Middleton’s sister takes a kindly interest in her. Lady Loverly has been very good by having her to stay with Carolyn, but I think Gillian may have found life at the Hall intimidating.”
“It sounds rather grand.”
“If I didn’t believe St. Roberta’s might prove the making of her, I would suggest to Matron that she be sent home.”
“Mrs. Battle, did you expect the Loverly Cup to be speedily returned?”
“I was hopeful, strongly so, but as that day passed and then the next, I began to fear that if some action was not taken we would be destined never to discover who pulled this stunt, as was the case with the dreadful depiction of Mr. Bumbleton on the refectory wall. The good thing there was that a fresh coat of paint took care of all but the affront to his dignity. The Loverly Cup is a different matter. A Hester Bateman piece: one of a kind, so I understand. We can find a substitute, I imagine. Indeed, we will have to do so if necessary, but I very much hope it will not be the case. Lady Loverly has long been a great friend of the school, and she’s already suffered enough disappointments in her life; her husband was a constant worry until his death from a lifetime of drink.”
“Is her ladyship likely to turn nasty if the cup isn’t returned?”
Mrs. Battle smiled thinly. “She is one of those people who like to think of themselves as larger-than-life characters, but she has a practical side. Makes wonderful apple pies for the summer fete. Used to darn her husband’s socks. I doubt she’ll drag a dagger off the wall and threaten to kill herself after withdrawing all financial contributions.” Mrs. Battle continued to pace, something she did rather well, given her fantastic figure. Had she been wearing a veil over her face she’d have had men leaping through windows in droves. “Whatever Lady Loverly’s reaction, Ellie, the story is bound to leak out further once she knows of it, one likely source being her grandson.”
“Aiden Loverly?”
“You’ve heard of him?” She did not pause for an answer. “Miss Critchley has certainly done a good job of bringing you on board with who’s who in Swan-Upping. A highly capable woman—not entirely her fault that we didn�
��t do well this lacrosse season.”
“I’m sure of that.”
“We lost our best players; they were all in last year’s sixth form. It takes time to rebuild. I barely know young Mr. Loverly, but according to some he has a malicious tongue and an undue sense of his own importance—although it must be admitted he seems to be making a success of his art business. It wouldn’t be surprising if he resented his grandmother’s financial gifts to the school, seeing them as cutting into his inheritance. His father, now deceased, was an only son and so is he, making him her ladyship’s primary heir, one assumes. I must confess I wince at the thought of his holding forth at the White Dog about what a great comeuppance it is to St. Roberta’s to be made to look such poor losers at lacrosse.” Mrs. Battle’s eyes narrowed, and I found myself in total sympathy with her. At all costs Aiden Loverly must be prevented from gloating, whether or not he turned out to be responsible for the situation.
“Does he visit his grandmother frequently?”
“In spurts, from what I hear. At the Hall last weekend and back again this one, according to Mrs. Rushbridge, who teaches our Home Skills class. Whether he’d be as devoted if his grandmother were a woman in reduced circumstances living in a cottage is another matter.” Sarcasm dripped from every word. “Her ladyship said as much to me; she’s no fool. And I do believe she’d try to prevent his stirring up the current situation. It’s not only the school’s reputation I’m thinking about, Ellie. Ms. Chips is also in the forefront of my mind. We owe her a great debt, not only for her years of devoted and productive service but because of her enormous generosity in providing the new gymnasium.”
“Dorcas—Miss Critchley—told me that Ms. Chips came into an inheritance.” I dangled the sentence hopefully.
“From her former husband.”
“She was married?” I cupped my chin before it could hit the floor.
“Years ago, when she was very young, just down from university, and only briefly. His family disliked the match and persuaded him into a divorce before the ink was dry on the wedding register.”
“Why?” Shades of the Gray Nun, only in her case the evil parents had stopped the marriage at the altar.
“Her mother and grandmother had both suffered from severe mental illness. Tragically, in those days there was a tendency to think, in terms of insanity in the family, that any children would be at risk from birth on.” Mrs. Battle actually looked misty-eyed, and I further warmed to her. “The young man, some relation to the Loverly family and the Fisher-Joneses, caved in, but it would seem he felt sufficient remorse to remember Ms. Chips substantially in his will, when he died a couple of years ago.”
I had to ask the question. “Mrs. Battle, have you seen any recent signs that Ms. Chips may have been having a bout with depression as a result of the disappointing lacrosse season?”
“None at all. Matron said something to me on the subject, and I told her we all have our up days and down. The thing is not to obsess about it.”
“The Loverly Cup must be recovered before the celebration of the new gymnasium,” I said, with grim determination.
“I feel sure, Ellie, you will put your heart and brains into sorting out this unpleasant business.” Mrs. Battle paid me this compliment without flourish or fuss; indeed, her manner conveyed that I should not take it as permission to run in the hallways, shout at the top of my lungs, or otherwise comport myself in a manner unbefitting the decorum expected of a St. Roberta’s old girl.
“I’ll get started promptly.” My teacup was empty, the hope of a further biscuit nonexistent. It was clear my immediate future would not be a picnic in any sense of the word. “Have the staff been informed of my reason for being here?”
“I have spoken with them and you are free to question any of them, including Mr. and Mrs. Mossop and the other janitorial help. As for the girls, I thought it best not to get them stirred up by telling them a private investigator has been brought in, which is not to say you may not confide in some of them if you think it would be helpful.”
“I’ll have to consider my avenues of inquiry,” I said, in my best professional manner, having received a mental elbow in the ribs from Mrs. Malloy.
“I understand, but I do rely on your discretion. In the interest of preventing too big a stir, I think it wise not to mention your real reason for being here to the old girls currently staying at the Chaplain’s House. I hope you won’t mind making up an excuse?” A note of embarrassment entered her voice, understandably so, given that prevarication of any sort violated St. Roberta’s honor code. Before I could respond, she was temporarily saved by the bell—or, rather, the ringing of the telephone on the desk.
While she was speaking into the receiver, I racked my brains to come up with a plausible reason for seeking retreat at the Chaplain’s House. I absolutely refused to tempt fate by making up something dreadful such as a death in the family. Perhaps I could say I was hiding out after having cosmetic surgery, but that would require punching myself in the face to provide the necessary puffiness and bruising—and that seemed to be asking a bit much even of one determined on giving back to St. Roberta’s. Besides, the automatic suspicion would be that Ben had hit me. I was contemplating the sad thought that one or more of the other women might have sought sanctuary from an abusive spouse or partner when Mrs. Battle put the phone down.
“That was Miss Critchley, Ellie. She regrets she has been detained but is sending Ariel Hopkins to escort you to the Chaplain’s House. I understand you are related to her.”
“She’s my husband’s cousin’s daughter.”
“A new girl this year: intelligent and, more importantly, dogged. A terrier after the bone of life. Young Ariel will go far, whatever her chosen course.” A shrewd gleam showed in Mrs. Battle’s dark eyes. “Perhaps she can be your inside source, Ellie, in the quest for the elusive truth that threatens St. Roberta’s.” The doorbell rang. “Ah, that will be her now.” Mrs. Battle headed down the hall, but the voice that responded to hers did not come from Ariel or any other schoolgirl. It was a deep rumble with snorting overtones.
“How nice to see you, Mr. Bumbleton. But unfortunately this is not a convenient time.”
“You break my heart, Mrs. Battle. But this is important.”
Did he want to borrow a book?
“A serious matter.”
“I am not alone. A meeting with one of our old girls.” Mrs. Battle returned in a sweep of movement that splendidly registered condescension. So might God look if interrupted by St. Peter in bumbling search of the golden gate’s admission forms. “Ellie”—she inclined her head in my direction—“may I present William Bumbleton, member of our Board of Governors and head of the building firm that just completed our new gymnasium.”
A fleshy hand engulfed mine. He was a stout red-faced man with thinning hair, combed carefully over a balding pate, and pale watery eyes that took in my appearance before dismissing me as an object of interest. It was on Mrs. Battle that those eyes lingered. Was he about to confront her with his awareness that the Loverly Cup had gone astray?
“Mr. Bumbleton and his firm are also responsible for the revitalization of Cygnet’s Way,” said Mrs. Battle, as if proffering a half-filled cup of lukewarm tea.
“Miss Critchley mentioned that.” I beamed enthusiastically.
“We pride ourselves on the quality of our structures.” His moist-looking lips puffed into a gloat and his stomach expanded in time with the accordion wheezing of his breath. “The Cygnet homes are roomy enough for families, cozy enough for two.”
“Delightful, no doubt.” Mrs. Battle did not wave him to a chair, but someone had to depart and I decided it should be me, a sentiment heightened when Mr. Bumbleton informed the room at large that he was a busy man and could only spare a limited amount of time to discuss a distressing report he had just received from China.
6
After suggesting to Mrs. Battle that I wait for Ariel downstairs at the entrance to the staff flats, I grateful
ly accepted her nod of dismissal. Mr. Bumbleton’s words of regret at my departure rang with insincerity. All was becoming clear, I thought: it was a case straight from one of my boarding-school storybooks. The headmistress’s secret life had been uncovered. She was being blackmailed by a stone-hearted villain who’d discovered that she had been handing over state secrets to China. Her code name was Sly Sally and she had disposed of the Loverly Cup because hidden in its false bottom was a list of her counterpart agents. What Mr. Bumbleton would require in return for his silence I did not ponder deeply. I was too busy picturing myself being received at Buckingham Palace by a trumpeting of the Guards before being presented with a medal by Her Majesty, along with a gift card to Marks & Spencer, honoring my service to the nation. Mrs. Malloy, of course, would be horribly jealous and say some very cutting things about people hogging the limelight and how she could have solved the case sitting home watching the telly and eating a bag of crisps.
“Hello, Ellie,” said Ariel Hopkins.
I hadn’t realized I’d exited the outside door but there I was, back on terra firma and looking into the face of reason.
“Hello, Ariel,” I responded, in the same matter-of-fact manner. She was not a girl who went in for starry-eyed smiles or exclamations of delight on meeting. Hugs and kisses smacked to her of sloppy sentiment, only to be permitted in the most extreme circumstances. As I did not expect to expire in the next fifteen minutes or embark on my first solo mission to the moon, this wasn’t one of them. The last time I’d seen her, she had worn her sandy hair in two stiff plaits; now it was woven into a tight coronet jammed on top of her head. The result, coupled with her round spectacles and prim mouth, was a governessy look.
“Just what are you up to?” she demanded, as if catching me nipping out the nursery window in my underwear.
“I was talking to Mrs. Battle until Mr. Bumbleton of the Board of Governors showed up, wanting to talk to her—about China, of all things.”
Goodbye, Ms. Chips Page 8
