11
On my way down the main staircase to the reception hall, I consoled myself that getting much more out of Matron concerning Gillian might have been like trying to yank out her teeth with a pair of pliers, gaining her cooperation only after hitting her over the head with a hammer. And you’re supposedly here to solve a crime, not commit one, Mrs. Malloy informed me snidely.
It was a crying shame she wasn’t present to take command of the investigation, but I was remarkably on point in thinking about dentistry, because who should I see as I came down the last step, but Mrs. Rushbridge entering through the outside door?
“Hello!” I greeted her like a long-lost friend. “How did your appointment go?”
She stopped like a car screeching to a halt at a red light. “Mrs. Haskell!” A spiral skid brought her around to face me. “I’m feeling no pain at the moment. The dentist gave me something to numb the area, but he said there’s an abscess affecting two teeth and they’ll have to come out. He’ll take care of that tomorrow. Luckily I don’t take classes on Tuesdays, but I’m on dorm duty in the evening.”
“Will Mrs. Battle find someone to relieve you?”
“Oh, yes! Or I could ask Mrs. Frenton myself. She’s a sweet young woman with time on her hands since the divorce. Such a shame; but someone else—really fine this time—will come along. Such a beautiful face and figure. I can’t help thinking it would be nice if she and Dr. Roberts were to fall for each other. He’s the school doctor, so they’re bound to meet every now and then. My dentist’s assistant put the idea in my head. She said she’d seen the two of them talking together after church one Sunday, and wouldn’t they make a lovely couple.”
“Really?” I tried to sound pleased while thinking about Philippa.
“Mrs. Perkins has been with the dentist for years. She’s a nice person and would have a lovely smile if she wasn’t missing her front teeth. Not what you’d expect from a person in her job, but it does say a lot about the dentist being an equal-opportunity employer. Even so, as I said to Mrs. Brown in the waiting room, you’d have thought he’d have talked the woman into having that gap fixed.”
“Mrs. Brown?”
“Lady Loverly’s housekeeper. Just minutes before her name was called she was saying that perhaps Mrs. Perkins had seen too much on the job and was afraid of the injections and the sound of the drill. To which I replied that surely in such cases the patient could be given a general anesthetic, although it wasn’t something I’d want after hearing from a nurse friend of mine some of the revelations people make when they’re going under or coming out—from what she said, you might just as well leave your tell-all diary lying round for someone to read. And it was really very odd.” Mrs. Rushbridge stared at me as if looking for answers. “Mrs. Brown turned the most awful color. I thought she was going to faint, but she got up, very slowly, and left.”
“Do you know her well enough to bring it up the next time you see her?”
The members of the Board of Governors scowled down from their portraits. No doubt they thought it cheek that I, a woman who had never banged a gavel in her life, was getting to ask the pertinent questions while they couldn’t so much as twiddle their thumbs.
“Not really. Mrs. Brown’s a reserved woman. Devoted to her ladyship, from what Elizabeth Anderson, the redheaded girl you may have noticed in this morning’s class, told me. Last year Elizabeth visited the Hall quite frequently with Carolyn Fisher-Jones. But that stopped and I wondered why. They’re both such nice girls.”
Could the reason have something to do with Aiden Loverly? Had he been as rude to Elizabeth as he had been to Gillian?
“Mrs. Mossop might be someone I could ask. She knows Mrs. Brown quite well.” Mrs. Rushbridge brightened and sobered between one breath and the next. “Admittedly, her husband’s a good worker, but that’s never been the be-all and end-all, has it?”
“I suppose not.”
“He doesn’t allow her a thought of her own. She’s got a homeless sister she’s not permitted to see. Apparently she’s been living on the streets in the worst part of Tingwell.” Mrs. Rushbridge lowered her voice. “Drink, that’s the poor soul’s problem. From what’s said, that is, you’d think to hear Mr. Mossop talk he’d never touched a drop in his life, when the truth is he keeps a bottle of whisky in his shed.”
Clearly Mrs. Rushbridge’s tooth problems weren’t making speech unbearable, so I didn’t feel bad in seizing the moment to ask if she had any thoughts on the disappearance of the Loverly Cup.
“So distressing.” She now looked in pain. “I keep hoping it was an accident … that whoever took it out of the display case just wanted to look at it and—hearing someone coming—panicked and made off without putting it back. A number of the girls—a dozen or more, I gather—complained to their teachers of having stomach upsets after lunch last Monday, the day it was taken, and were sent to Matron. I had a couple in my class. If anyone of that group passed the assembly hall and saw the cabinet door open … .” She paused significantly.
“Mrs. Battle told me Mrs. Mossop insisted she had relocked it after cleaning inside.”
“We all get confused at times, don’t we? Not that I’m saying she did forget … but I do remember going to my window early that afternoon and seeing her standing talking to someone on the lawn and looking—from the way she was gesticulating—extremely worked up.”
“Could you see who the other person was?
“Mrs. Mossop was in front, but I assumed it was her husband.”
I said that life at St. Roberta’s did not lack interest.
“True enough! Ah, here she comes now.”
“Mrs. Mossop?”
“No, dear, Mrs. Frenton. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll go ask her about taking my dorm duty and inquire about her new puppy. A girl that stunning should have been an actress, don’t you think?” Mrs. Rushbridge sped away to corner a young woman at the other end of the entrance hall.
From where I remained, some yards distant, it was evident the blond beauty might have caused even the bad-tempered Mr. Mossop to set aside his pruning shears and fantasize about being fifty again. And this puts the wind up his wife. I was considering Mrs. Battle’s reaction to having a femme fatale on staff when her office door opened and out she came.
“Ellie, I was on the phone to Matron and she told me she’d just been talking to you, so I thought I’d try to catch you on your way out. Do come in.” She waved me forward. “I have Mr. Middleton’s sister with me. She drove him here for his afternoon classes and would like a word if you have time.”
“Of course.” I followed her into the office, where Ruth Middleton stood looking every bit as comfortably reassuring as she had yesterday. “Hello.” I smiled at her. “How nice to see you again.”
“And you. I’d planned on going down to the Chaplain’s House to see you, but Mrs. Battle said you had taken over the Home Skills class for Mrs. Rushbridge and might still be on the premises.”
“I’ve told Miss Middleton the real reason for your presence, so there’s no reason for you to feel awkward when conversing.” The Battle-ax’s hooded eyes took in every feature of my face. “I trust you are making some progress in the investigation?” She might have been asking me if I thought there was any likelihood of my passing the advanced physics exam. I strove to look hopeful yet modest while mentally donning my school uniform.
“These things take time.” This sounded pitifully lame to my own ears, but before I could hang my head in shame, Ruth Middleton spoke cheerfully.
“I wondered, Ellie, if you’d like to go out for lunch before I come back to collect my brother when his classes are done, which should be”—she glanced at her watch—“in just over an hour.”
“I’d love to.” My smile must have got into Mrs. Battle’s eyes, causing her to blink before adjusting the small clock on her immaculately tidy desk.
“By the way, Ellie, I regret ending our interview abruptly yesterday. Mr. Bumbleton had come to inform me that
he’d spoken by phone to his granddaughter, China, and she had informed him that one of the girls had taken a tumble on the Dribbly Drop, which because of its hazardous steps is forbidden territory. I suppose we must be grateful that China would seem not to have mentioned the Loverly Cup.” She inclined her head, and taking this as dismissal I looked inquiringly at Ruth.
Moments later she and I headed outside in the direction of the parking area. Her elderly blue car had plush-covered seats that looked comfy enough for a nap, and after my broken night, the temptation was one to which I might easily have succumbed. Having fastened my seat belt, I waited until Ruth had taken off down the drive before speaking.
“Do you think from what you know of her that Lady Loverly will be very upset about the cup?”
“Somehow I don’t think so. It’s Marilyn’s feelings that worry me more. Of all the sports programs, lacrosse meant the most to her, and she’ll hate to see it tarnished in any way. If something like this had to happen, any other year would have been better.”
“Because of the new gymnasium?”
“It means so much to her. On its own account and because the money came from the man she loved.” Ruth drove with a placid competence that would in my judgment characterize most of her activities. “Lady Loverly is a splendid woman, but not the sort to look closely into any unpleasantness. I suppose that’s the only way she survived marriage to her alcoholic husband and—shortly after his death—the loss of her son, who’d rarely come home to visit.”
“Aiden’s father?”
“That’s right. And, like Aiden, an only child.”
“How sad for her ladyship.”
“With so little family, it’s hardly surprising she’s learned to turn a blind eye to those closest to her. I’ve done it myself.” Ruth turned on her turn indicator. “Every time Clive goes up Ms. Chips’s apple tree to bring Harpsichord down, I pretend I’m not petrified he’s going to fall. At his age it could be serious, I won’t let myself think fatal.” We were now out on the main road, passing the Dribbly Drop leading to the convent ruins and Lilypad Lane. To their rear was the Chaplain’s House. Would Phil be on her own or had Rosemary and Tosca returned? The hands of my watch pointed to five minutes past one.
“Do you always drive your brother to work?” I asked Ruth.
“He hasn’t been able to get behind the wheel since Anya was killed.” She glanced at me, her expression sad. “That may seem odd, with him not being present when she was knocked down—he was fetched to the scene—but that’s how it took him. He’s an incredibly sensitive man. I suppose it’s the musician in him.” Her face sobered. Was she thinking of Gillian as well as her brother?
Ruth hesitated, giving Mrs. Malloy the opportunity to get back inside my head: Spit it out for goodness’ sake! You’re here to investigate, Mrs. H, not to win a popularity contest.
“Ask me whatever you like,” continued Ruth comfortably. “If I don’t want to answer I’ll say so. I imagine whatever it is has to do with the Loverly Cup, and Mrs. Battle did give you the go-ahead to talk to me.”
“Do you think Gillian might have taken it to sell in order to raise the money to get home?”
“I’ll have to think about that.” Ruth sounded surprised but not the least outraged.
“This morning she asked me if I had ever thought of running away when I was at St. Roberta’s, and the first thought that popped into my head was that any child that unhappy would write or phone their parents and ask to come home, but—”
“Taking action would create a fait accompli. Even if her parents thought it best to send her back, the school wouldn’t likely agree.” Ruth nodded. “Yes, I do see Gillian thinking along those lines, and she has been particularly unhappy this past week. Clive has mentioned it to me.”
“One of the old girls staying at the Chaplain’s House tried to get herself expelled by stealing several pairs of knickers from a London store. At that age everything seems so desperate, doesn’t it?”
“And the most bizarre actions seem reasonable. Even so, I just can’t picture Gillian going through with it. She’s not the sort to upset her cat, let alone the rest of her family, and I can’t believe she’d risk her musical future.” Ruth overtook a car and cut a broad swath around a motorcycle that brought Aiden Loverly back to mind. I still wanted him as the Cup Culprit. I wondered if his poor grandmother knew about the gambling.
“Another thought,” I said, “is that whoever took the cup did so to upset Ms. Chips.”
“The idea has crossed my mind; Clive’s too, for that matter. Who would care more deeply than she about the ensuing embarrassment to St. Roberta’s? Not even Mrs. Battle, in our opinion.” Ruth drew up outside a whitewashed and timber teashop with ye olde lettering above the door. “I thought we’d eat here if you’re agreeable. They do a marvelous Welsh rarebit along with a variety of other things, including fish-and-chips.”
“That sounds wonderful.”
“I often stop here after dropping Clyde off. It makes a nice change from poached eggs at home.”
A bell jangled at our entry. Most of the small tables were taken, but we found one to ourselves by the window and within moments of settling ourselves were approached by a motherly looking waitress who took our orders with the promise that she would be back in a jiffy with a pot of tea.
“You’re being so nice, just as you were yesterday,” I told Ruth. “I hope I didn’t upset you with my talk of Gillian.”
“Don’t worry. We have to consider the possibility that the cup was taken by someone very unhappy at school or by an otherwise disgruntled party. Someone, perhaps as you suggest, with a grudge against Marilyn.” She smiled up at the waitress, who had returned not only with our tea but also with two plates of Welsh rarebit. “Which might seem to put Clive right in the mix.”
I stared at her over the bud vase on the table.
“Clive and Marilyn being such good friends, some people may have expected that Chippy would use part of her inheritance to endow music scholarships for girls such as Gillian. That would certainly have pleased Clive enormously, but he understood. What others may not know is she told him that she had taken care of that in her will. The cost of the new gymnasium was enormous and she had to keep enough to live on; it would be unreasonable to expect her to give everything away during her lifetime. How’s the Welsh rarebit?”
“Delicious.”
“Our waitress is new here, but I know I’ve seen her somewhere else. Any room left for a pudding?”
“That coffee and walnut cake in the glass case looks delectable.”
“Take my word from experience, it is. Let’s each have a slice.”
“We could share,” I offered, while pouring more tea into our cups.
“No, let’s be greedy. Life is short. I used to hope that Clive and Marilyn would get together.” Her smile was a little wistful. “But they are both the one-love one-lifetime kind. As for myself, I’ve been reasonably content to stay single. Moving in with Clive seemed a sacrifice at the time, but I enjoy our life together. And we do have Harpsichord to provide excitement.”
We had started talking about the peccadilloes of cats when the motherly waitress returned. She declared the coffee and walnut cake was an excellent choice and was about to head off to fetch it when Ruth stopped her.
“Your face is so familiar.”
“I was thinking the same about you.” The woman cocked her head. “I’ve only been here a few days after taking a break from work for a couple of years. Before that, I used be a barmaid at the White Dog. That’s the pub on the corner of—”
“I know it.” Ruth included me in her pleased expression. “My brother and his wife used to take me there for a meal when I’d come to stay with them for the weekend. But I haven’t been back since I moved to the area eight—no, it must be nine years ago.”
“Nice living near family. Get on well with your sister-in-law, do you?” The woman sounded as if she had a problem one.
“Sadly, she die
d.”
“Ooh, dear!” This with that look of pleasurable expectancy even nice people get when getting to hear about someone else’s tragedy. “What was it, cancer? Or the heart? There never seems to be any getting round those two, does there? Doctors aren’t gods, although most of them think they are. You wouldn’t believe what they put my old mother through when she went into hospital the last time. She told them it couldn’t be hemorrhoids because she’d had them removed.”
“It was an accident.” Ruth’s restless stirring in her seat suggested she wished she’d not embarked on discovering where she and the waitress had previously connected.
“Car?”
“A hit-and-run. She was out for an evening walk.”
The speculative eyes widened. “I remember … . She was a musician, a violinist; that’s right, isn’t it? It was the talk of Lower and Upper Swan-Upping and an especially big topic at the White Dog. Everyone kept saying how for ages they’d expected to hear that Sir Henry Loverly had been knocked down, staggering across the parking area after closing. Many a time left to himself, he wouldn’t have reached the road. But well ahead of time, on nights no one was willing to drive him home, someone—probably Mr. Lemming that managed the place—would ring over to the Hall and ask her ladyship or the grandson—after he reached driving age and happened to be there—to come and fetch the old guzzler.”
“At least we know it wasn’t Sir Henry who killed from behind the wheel.”
“There is that!” It wasn’t clear from the waitress’s voice if she felt a silver lining, however thin, rather spoiled things. She went and fetched our cake, which clearly Ruth no longer wanted. Looking at her watch, she said she still had ample time before returning to the school to pick up her brother, but I said I was ready to leave if she was. We were on our way out when we saw Ms. Chips deep in conversation with a woman seated across from her at the table nearest the door, a woman in her middle to late sixties, with a plain large-featured face and coarse graying hair scraped back into a bun.
“Hello, Marilyn.” Ruth took a smiling step toward them. “And how are you, Mrs. Brown? Recovered from your migraine, I hope?”
Goodbye, Ms. Chips Page 17
