“What else did it say?”
“According to the school grapevine? That he was her entire world and she hated being parted from him, but they both had to be brave until the time was right. Mr. Bumbleton marched in to see Mrs. Battle and handed her the note, along with the information that the sighting had taken place fifteen minutes earlier, putting it at two o’clock when Philippa was supposedly in the San with her headache. But Matron could not verify that fact because she had been giving a talk on nursing to the lower fourth Home Skills class. There was no one else in the San to say that Philippa hadn’t got off the bed and exited by the arched door. She could have known that Matron would be gone for half an hour from having heard about her planned talk. It was all very damning.”
“But you knew she hadn’t left the San.” Ariel adjusted her specs for a better look at my face.
“That’s it exactly! I’d finished my book and, needing to while away the time, I was crouched at the window the whole time Matron was gone, leaving Philippa alone. A year her junior, I admired her tremendously, so much so I began weaving a story about her. One in which she followed in Tatiana’s ballet steps and went to New York, where she was discovered huddled in a dingy doorway by an incredibly handsome young Russian composer who immediately sensed her genius, along with falling madly in love with her. It was a beguiling way of spending the time, but having learned to keep an eye on the time when in the mending room, I glanced frequently at my watch and afterward remembered doing so at two o’clock.”
“You didn’t speak up in Philippa’s defense for fear of getting into trouble, because you were the one who wasn’t where she was supposed to be.”
“I was too much of a coward.”
“What happened to her?”
“The most brutal punishment … .”
“She was expelled?”
“Equally dreadful! Mrs. Battle informed her she would not be made head girl, as had been planned, at the start of the following school year.”
“Is that all?” Ariel scoffed. “Who’d want the job?”
“If you’d read the boarding-school books—”
“The ones you didn’t send me?”
“—you’d know”—I pressed on—“that becoming head girl is the highest aspiration, the giddy dream of all who proudly wear the school uniform.”
“That cuts me out. I’d much rather wear a pair of old jeans and a sloppy sweatshirt. And I can’t imagine, Ellie, that you ever yearned to walk around like you had a book on your head while still managing to look down your nose at anyone who so much as thought of sliding down the banisters.”
“Of course not!” I closed my eyes against the sun. “My giddy dream was to find the jeweled chalice the Gray Nun is said to have hidden when fleeing Henry the Eighth’s soldiers, led by her former bridegroom. And if that couldn’t be achieved, my second choice was to come in second from the bottom in algebra, which I disliked as much as you do. But Philippa would have made a wonderful head girl. She was both incredibly popular and thoroughly nice.”
“Who got the place in her stead?”
“Her closest friend Sally Brodstock—my friend Susan’s sister. But I wasn’t there during her reign. I left, as did Philippa, at the end of that fateful year. I heard from Susan that Philippa was working as a waitress in a greasy-spoon restaurant in a grim part of town.” I could not contain the anguish in my voice.”
“London?”
“Or another big city.”
“And all these years”—Ariel spoke sternly—“you’ve blamed yourself for ruining her life, picturing her serving up egg and chips to unshaven men who spit on the floor and want to talk about how they’ll never understand why their wives left them.”
“Any heart must have gone out of her.”
“Did it never occur to you, my noodle friend”—Ariel patted my hand—“that waitressing was a stopgap job for Philippa before embarking on a career? A lot of school-leavers take time out these days before getting down to the grind. The more I think about it, the more I like the idea of being a waitress while I’m working on my novel. I’d learn a lot about human nature while staying humble.”
“You’re right. I expect I have dramatized the situation. That’s what guilt does to me. Philippa is probably married by now and has forgotten all about that business with Brian Roberts.”
“Who has?” A startling voice inquired from behind our bench. Wrenching my neck, I turned to see Dorcas, looking—if her breeze-tussled red hair was any indication—as if she had done the run from the school in three seconds flat.
“A girl named Philippa Boswell,” Ariel replied for me, as she got to her feet.
“Dr. Roberts was her boyfriend when she was in the upper fifth and he was a first-year medical student,” I added.
“Won’t you please sit down, Miss Critchley?”
“No, thank you, Ariel. Have to re-energize after being cooped up in the car for so long.” Dorcas executed half a dozen jumping jacks before jogging at speed on the spot. Within five seconds, I was winded watching her. Ariel sank back down beside me.
“Miss Critchley, aren’t you supposed to warm up first?” she inquired worriedly. “Isn’t leaping right in bad for the heart?” She didn’t add for a woman of your age, but I read her mind.
“Would be if I had high blood pressure like Chippy. Arrived half an hour ago and was just telling me Dr. Roberts gave her some new tablets that do a better job of stopping her dizzy spells when she abruptly changes position. Thinks the world of that man. Must say he seems a pleasant chap!”
The afternoon was still warm, verging on hot, but Dorcas maintained her even breathing while I, starting to puff, told Ariel about meeting the doctor at the Middletons’ house and that Gillian had also been present.
“I’ve never seen Dr. Roberts. Is he still handsome?” she asked.
I was about to say that I’d only glimpsed the young Brian Roberts in passing, and from the opposite side of the side of the road at that, but that I had thought him attractive on meeting him at the Middletons. But Dorcas, still dancing on the spot as if about to embark on an Olympic race, answered ahead of me.
“Good-looking in a rugged, manly sort of way. Nice eyes, though never in the same league as Aiden Loverly. Old adage—handsome is as handsome does—fits that young man to a T. Surprised to hear Chippy speak up for him just now. Said whatever else he may be, unlike his grandfather, he has stayed away from the drink and is devoted to his grandmother. And works very hard at his art and antiques business.”
Ariel resettled her glasses on her nose, the better to give this some thought. “Then maybe he isn’t so bad after all. Everyone says Ms. Chips is always strictly fair.”
“She’s here for her dorm duty already?” I patted the bench but Dorcas kept to her feet.
“Was returning from the Chaplain’s House after depositing your luggage”—gesturing toward the building with stone and Virginia creeper walls—“when I spotted Chippy stepping out of a taxi in the parking lot. Told me she’d been to the Hall. Wanted a word with the housekeeper, either to see if the woman’s headache was better or leave a note for her. Turned out both she and her ladyship were lying down. Found Aiden Loverly on the point of leaving. He blamed the headache on there having been an upset earlier. His grandmother unable to find a brooch, one her husband bought on their honeymoon. Not in the jewelry case where it should be, and she couldn’t remember when she’d seen it last. Not too worked up about it, said she’d probably left it pinned on a dress or jacket. Reasonable woman, from what I’ve heard. It was the housekeeper who went into a state, which led to her being incapacitated.”
I absorbed the implications. “Given this new tidbit of information, Aiden could have been accusing Gillian of stealing the brooch, rather than—or in addition to—the Loverly Cup. Remember, she was at the Hall last weekend with Carolyn.”
“That shouldn’t make her a scapegoat.” Ariel flared up. “Maybe the housekeeper took the brooch and was consumed by guilt o
r panic when Lady Loverly realized it was missing. Or the culprit could have been another member of the household help. For that matter, Carolyn could have taken it, although that’s stupid.”
“It was Carolyn whom Chippy had come to see,” Dorcas went on. “Didn’t get anything out of her. Said the girl clammed up but wasn’t rude, that’s not her way—”
“Which suggests she may suspect someone she doesn’t want to believe involved.” I felt my heart sink. There had been something about Gillian in addition to her musical gift that had really touched me.
“Invited Chippy to my flat for a cup of tea. Informed me Matie had told her about the Loverly Cup, thought it best coming from her rather than another member of the staff. Surprised me by saying felt sorrier for whoever took it than anyone else.”
I glanced sideways at Ariel, knowing she would understand that this conversation was not to go beyond the bench.
“Spoke about the ceremonial opening of the new gymnasium without a quiver in her voice.” Dorcas produced the handkerchief to dab at her eyes. “Said Mrs. Battle will find a replacement for the cup if necessary and in every way handle the situation with grace and honesty. Has her dress picked out but says she won’t attempt to make a speech, though Matron said she should. But for all her brave assurances, bound to be the most frightful blight if the Loverly Cup isn’t recovered.” Choking up completely, Dorcas disappeared behind the handkerchief, unable to continue.
Ariel, head lowered, sat fiercely polishing her spectacles. “We’ll get it back, won’t we, Ellie?” Her voice was gruff.
“At least we’ll give our all.” I was about to ask Dorcas where she had put my luggage, when the Chaplain’s House door opened and an imperious voice called out, “Who are you, police conducting a stakeout? You’ve been sitting there forever.”
“Oh, cripes!” Ariel giggled in my ear. “Who’s that? The Ogre’s mother in Jack the Giant Killer?”
“Shush!” I mouthed back, thinking she might well be right. The voice emanated from a tall, massively built woman. “I’m Ellie Haskell, a new resident.” I offered this tidbit in the hope that she wouldn’t reel me in with a mighty arm and swallow me whole.
“Friend of mine.” Dorcas clapped me on the shoulder, causing my already trembling knees to buckle.
“Same here!” Ariel continued giggling.
“How nice and chummy! If you haven’t decided by now whether or not to put your money together and buy that bench, you should make up your minds.”
“We’re enjoying the sunshine,” I offered apologetically.
“Sunstroke’s more like it. Are you bringing your entourage in with you? If so, don’t expect much by way of dinner. We’re having pizza and it’s a small one.”
“No, just myself!” Feeling as though I were being ripped from their protective arms, I told Dorcas and Ariel that I would see them later—if not that evening, certainly tomorrow.
“Make sure she doesn’t serve you for pudding,” Ariel warned me in a whisper.
“Rubbish!” Dorcas took her arm. “Ellie’s going to have a thumping good time chatting about the old days.”
Deciding no good would come of delaying the evil moment, I gave them a final wave and opened the iron gate in the low brick wall surrounding the house. My feet kindly took charge, marching me down the path dividing the rectangular lawn with its flower-bed borders—mainly filled with marigolds of the same vivid yellow as the school shirts. To my left was a tree, scraggly and almost leafless, bending low to the ground as if an arthritic back prevented it from straightening up to the height of its youth. Poor thing, I thought. Did it tremble in fear of an ax falling the next time a scrap of firewood was needed? Was there a lingering hope of seeing yet another spring, or would a few more days of blue skies and sunshine be enough? Perhaps the sweet possibility that a bird—an unassuming sparrow, perchance—would ignore sturdier trees to perch upon its weary boughs and chirp a final lullaby?
“There’s no point standing staring. It won’t grow any taller and neither will you.” There was now something horribly familiar about the voice. It couldn’t belong … ? I turned toward the door, knowing there was no escaping the brutal truth. I was looking into eyes of the nemesis of my schooldays at St. Roberta’s.
“Oh, God! It’s Ellie Simons!” Rosemary Martin growled. “Well, come on in. You can’t expect me to keep this door open forever.”
8
“What ill wind blew you in?” Rosemary demanded, as I stepped over the threshold.
“Thanks for the warm welcome.” I smiled, attempting to appear amused. In contrast to my schoolmate’s scowl, the hall in which we stood could not have been more welcoming or charming. The walls were whitewashed pine, the doors and banisters my favorite sage green, and to further lift my spirits fragrant yellow roses brimmed a vase in a niche to my left. I remembered that Ruth Middleton had told me to expect such architectural embellishments. The coat cupboard and the mirror above it looked as though they had been rescued from a thrift shop and lovingly restored. Such old-world touches complemented the oak stair tread that would creak with every step.
“I meant”—she spoke slowly, to enable my dim brain to absorb the words—“what are you escaping from at home that necessitates your visit?”
“Oh, this and that,” I replied vaguely, hoping she would take this as a desire not to discuss the matter further because I found it upsetting. I still had to think up a reason for my presence, none having yet popped into my head.
“There is a home, I suppose?”
“Yes, fortunately. I haven’t been reduced to living on the streets.” My laugh sounded hollow, my breathing too loud.
“Still living with Mummy and Daddy?”
“Husband and three children.”
“My God!” she continued, looking down at me from her superior height. “I would have bet on it when we were in school that you’d never marry. But I have to say your looks have improved. You’ve lost the fat and that goggle-eyed look.”
I was temped to say it was harder to lose a Roman nose, and her eyes were still too close together. But enjoying myself wasn’t part of the mission; I consoled myself with remarking cheerfully that she hadn’t changed a bit, which was in the main true. The same old bully. She had been a powerfully built girl, towering above everyone else. The hair was different. At school she had worn it in thick plaits; now it was cut in a bob—a stylish one, I had to admit—and the color was the same: a rich polished brown.
“I appreciated Dorcas—Miss Critchley—bringing my luggage along while I was catching up with Ariel on how her family is doing.” It would not have done to say I had been with Mrs. Battle.
“Lucky you! Your own personal porter, no less!” she said with a mocking laugh. “I didn’t see her. I’ve been out most of the day, stuck visiting an acquaintance who’s fallen on hard times and is now living in Tingwell, a scurvy town crammed with shops that have to be bolted down at night and wretched houses all exactly the same. I hear Lady Loverly’s grandson has an art shop there. Imagine a member of that family being reduced to living among the lowlifes. He must have got on the old girl’s wrong side. With his purported looks and charm, it must have been something serious. Who could he have killed, do you think?”
“No idea. I passed through Tingwell on the way here. It did look depressing.”
“Unless one is into drugs. Dealers on every other corner apparently.” Rosemary hunched a massive shoulder. “As for your luggage, there wouldn’t have been a problem even if there was no one around to let Miss Crutchley in. The door is never locked.”
“Critchley,” I corrected, only to be ignored.
“And as you’ll see for yourself, there’s nothing worth stealing.”
“Where will I be sleeping?” I asked, as she led me into a good-sized sitting room decorated in the same soft colors as the hall. The sage green was repeated, along with yellow and rose on the chintz curtains and sofa. Several armchairs in buttery twill provided further cushiony seating.
Striped pink and cream lampshades adorned brass table lamps, and two more niches displayed prints of botanicals on gold-leafed easels. A bookcase, drinks table, and bureau gleamed with age-old patinas, but the coffee table was sensibly modern with a top that wouldn’t react nastily to spills and would look even more sensible with the appearance of a teapot and plate of buttered crumpets.
“Don’t look so petrified.” Rosemary sank into a chair and stretched out surprisingly shapely legs. “You aren’t back to sleeping in a dorm. There are four bedrooms—not counting the ones in the attic—so we’re all able to have rooms.”
“All?” I echoed. “How many are we?”
“I’ve been here for nearly two weeks and Tosca came a couple of days later; she’s having a lie-down—calls it meditating, but whenever I go up to get her she’s sacked out, not sitting cross-legged with her fingers steepled while she chants or hums or whatever they do … . And now there’s you,” Rosemary continued, looking none too thrilled. “You get one of the two rooms at the left of the stairs. And there’s someone else expected either today or tomorrow.” She reached out a hand for the filled glass on the table by her chair. “I haven’t bothered finding out who she is. Last names change.” She looked up at me while sipping her drink. “It still boggles my mind to think you found a husband.”
Mission Loverly Cup be damned! I wasn’t taking any more of this. “Were you born this rude,” I asked sweetly, “or is it an acquired skill?”
“Oh, my! Haven’t you come into your own!” She showed no sign of discomfiture. “Help yourself to a gin and tonic if you fancy one.” She waved at the table, on which stood several bottles and an assortment of glasses. It was an invitation not to be refused if I were to get through the rest of the afternoon and evening without grinding my teeth down to the gums.
“What about you?” I lifted the lid of the ice bucket and dropped a solitary cube in my glass.
Goodbye, Ms. Chips Page 11
