Death of a Schoolgirl: The Jane Eyre Chronicles

by Joanna Campbell Slan

  “Miss Biltmore was also responsible for getting Adèle out of bed. Adèle hates getting up in the morning.”

  “Indeed?” He tilted his head and adjusted his spectacles. “Could you ask Miss Varens if she smothered Miss Biltmore with a pillow?”

  My mouth dropped open. He could not suspect Adèle! But she understood him.

  Adèle stomped her foot so hard that all the whatnots on the étagère jumped and did a St. Vitus dance. She began to say things in French that I could not and would not translate. All of them, I am sure, were learned at her mother’s knee. None of them suitable for polite company.

  No matter how emotional she was, she could never hurt another living soul. She would cry for hours when we happened upon a dead baby rabbit in the forest or a baby bird that had fallen from its nest. Surely anyone could see how honest and guileless she was.

  “Non! Non!” Adèle shouted. As she wound down, she said she would have liked to strangle Selina many times. Yes, she would. But she would never actually do such a thing. If she did, that would be committing a mortal sin, and therefore, she would never go to heaven. So, of course, she didn’t kill that stupid cow. How could he accuse her so unjustly? With the suddenness of a summer storm, she burst into torrents of tears.

  “But you wanted to kill her. Are you sure you did not do it?” Speaking perfect French, Mr. Waverly asked this directly of Adèle.

  Before I could intervene, Adèle said, “Mais non! I am not a bad girl. I would never do that.” Adèle faced him, stomped her foot, and spoke in a manner that brooked no questions. “Jamais. Never. Do you understand me?”

  “Parfaitement,” said Waverly. “Perfectly.”

  “You!” I pointed a finger at him. “You speak French!”

  “And you, miss, you are a sneak and a liar!” he retorted.

  “How dare you? Of course I would protect this child from you. Is this how the much vaunted Bow Street Runners work? They throw their weight around and frighten little girls? How proud you must be of your position!”

  He burst out laughing. “I say, for a tiny house wren, you attack like a trained falcon. Run along, Miss Varens. I need to talk to your ‘interpreter.’”

  My body stiffened with anger. I leaned over, hugged Adèle, smelled the sunlight on her hair, and kissed her. “Go to the classroom with your friends, darling. You are fine. You did just fine.”

  She cast Mr. Waverly an imperious look over her shoulder. “Humph,” she grunted, and she stomped out of the room.

  “I bet she ruins a lot of shoe leather.” Waverly watched her go. “All that stomping breaks down the soles.”

  When I turned to see if he was serious, he shrugged. “My father was a cobbler. Sit down, Miss Eyre. We need to talk.”

  I stepped backward and bumped into a chair overloaded with papers. I scooped them aside unceremoniously and sat down.

  “I say, I was quite taken in.” He packed his briarwood pipe full of tobacco and propped his feet up on Mrs. Thurston’s tea table. “I have to admit, I thought you a regular green girl, but you gulled me. You do realize I have a serious job to do, do you not? Your interference won’t make it easier. Nor will I find the killer faster if you manipulate my witnesses. Until then, you and she both are in danger.”

  My anger drained away. Chagrin replaced it. Seeing the situation from his point of view discouraged me. “I owe you an apology, sir. I only meant to protect her.”

  He nodded. “So I heard. I understand your desire to be protective. However, you may have protected her but put the other girls at risk.”

  “You do believe her, do you not? Adèle is the tenderest of souls. She is incredibly gentle and loving.”

  “She also possesses a formidable temper. Miss Varens had many reasons to want to see Miss Biltmore dead. At least, that is what I have been told, and what I need to explore.”

  He suspects her! Truly he does! My heart fluttered uncomfortably in my chest. Involuntarily, I squeezed my fist to my mouth. Edward had faith in me. I could not fail him or Adèle. “She has a schoolgirl’s temper. Not to mention her volatile French blood. A sudden response. A quick flare-up. It is over as fast as it arrives. I have never seen her unleash it on other people. She may stomp and pout, but she will not raise a fist in anger. Furthermore, she feels genuine regret when she speaks out of turn or hurts someone’s feelings, so tenderhearted is that child.” I ended my discourse with an appeal. “Does that sound like a killer to you?”

  “Not at all. But your meddling might have cost me the killer.”

  The stem of the pipe pointed at me accusingly. The lump of tobacco showed red against the blackened bowl.

  “What do you mean?”

  “If you had not have interfered, it was possible that Miss Varens might have told me something useful. Something that would lead me to the killer. Now I have nothing. From her at least.”

  It is possible to wallow in guilt and yet to still feel virtuous. Protecting Adèle was my priority. Solving a murder was his. We both wanted to safeguard the girls in this school. Our goal was the same; our methodology differed. Mr. Douglas had said Waverly was the best of the Runners, their most experienced man. Whereas I was an amateur, he knew what he was doing.

  “Surely you have something? An inkling of whom to suspect?” I couldn’t believe he didn’t, and I knew him to be a trickster.

  He lit his pipe and took a deep draw on the stem, closing his eyes and shaking his head. “I have nothing. No forced entry. No motive. No particular suspect. Just a method. And a dead girl. Perhaps also an entire school community at risk.”

  “You do not suspect the girls, do you?”

  He opened one eye and surveyed me thoughtfully. “I suspect everyone. That is the nature of my job. I accuse no one. I keep an open mind and observe. I consider the evidence and try to concoct a likely story from it. I ask questions and listen carefully. Once in a great while, a discrepancy points me in a certain direction. When the killer lets down his guard, I redouble my efforts. God willing, I am successful.”

  “What did you hope to learn from Adèle?”

  He closed his eyes again and steepled his fingers over his chest. Leaning back in the chair, he appeared to be a man in repose. However, I imagined that I could see the gears in his mind shifting, testing the speed, and shifting again. The whole time, he chewed on the stem of his pipe, causing it to travel from one side of his mouth to the other.

  “That is my business and not yours.”

  I sighed and waited to be dismissed. He let the silence between us stretch on and on before he spoke.

  “I need to know what manner of girl Miss Biltmore was. I need to know what sort of passions she inflamed. My aim was to eliminate Adela Varens as a suspect. You see, Miss Varens had cause, opportunity, and means. But finding her hair ribbon under the pillow struck me as a bit too neat. If Miss Varens had wanted her ribbon so badly, bad enough to kill for it, why would she then leave it behind? You see my dilemma? All the stars align to make me suspect your little friend. However, as she just illustrated so aptly, she wanted that ribbon. It held meaning for her. So I repeat, why kill Miss Biltmore and forget to take the ribbon?”

  I nodded slowly. “The scenario is flawed as it stands. I can come to only one conclusion: The murderer wanted Adèle to look guilty.”

  “And in doing so made a mistake.” A sparse curl of smoke rose from the bowl of the pipe. It smelled of cherries.

  “Yes.”

  “The murderer knew about the girl and the ribbon.”

  “Yes.”

  “So the murderer is someone in the school community.”

  “Most likely.”

  He opened his eyes. “You are quite intelligent for a woman. Your command of the facts and the inferences one can make is most impressive. Too bad many of the constables I work with are not as bright. I was not entirely honest with you earlier. I do have my suspicions.” Leaning forward to stare at me, his eyes were gray, devoid of liveliness, full of remorse and sadness. They bro
ught to mind the color of a tombstone after the rain soaks it. “Tell me. How well do you know Nan Miller, Miss Eyre? Or should I call you Mrs. Rochester?”

  Chapter 33

  I sputtered for a moment, then managed, “How did you know my married name?”

  Mr. Waverly puffed on his pipe. “It is my job to know with whom I am dealing. I wouldn’t be effective if I didn’t have a keen memory for faces, names, and descriptions. Every day, I read the incoming reports, as well as the Hue and Cry and Police Gazette. You mentioned that you gave your report to Glebe regarding your robbery, and I recalled a guard’s report mentioning a woman named Mrs. Rochester. He noted that she had received a black eye in a scuffle with a thief at a coaching inn. The chances of there having been two such incidents involving two women with the same sort of injury, within the same week, seemed unlikely. For future reference, ma’am, most ladies simply hand over their purse. Few dare to fight their attacker. So I inferred that you were Mrs. Rochester from your injury—and one other event. The name ‘Jane Eyre’ was written in pencil and appeared last on Mrs. Thurston’s list of teachers. Hence, I could deduce that you are a new addition, which would be in concert with your being a traveler who was robbed.”

  His logic was impeccable, and I enjoyed hearing him explain how one deduced fact led to another. The method of thinking was simple and elegant at the same time.

  A slow puff of smoke preceded his next question. “What inspired you to take a mail coach here? They cost more than a regular coach, and they offer fewer comforts. I suspect something inspired you to come to London in a hurry. Am I right?”

  “Adèle is my husband Mr. Rochester’s ward. When her most recent letter arrived, it became clear that she is deeply unhappy here.”

  “Why did your husband not check on the girl himself?”

  “His surgeon advised him not to travel.”

  “So he sent you? A mere slip of a girl?”

  “Mrs. Brayton had encouraged me to visit. My husband plans to join me.”

  “I see. I am acquainted with her brother, Mr. Douglas. Quite the military hero. And tell me again how you knew Miss Miller?”

  I told Mr. Waverly about Lowood, and how Miss Miller started as my superior and eventually became my colleague.

  “After I left Lowood, we wrote each other once or twice, and I regret to say, we fell out of touch. Our meeting here was by chance. When I arrived to find the school in uproar over Selina Biltmore’s death, I had thought to withdraw Adèle immediately, but Miss Miller convinced me I could do more good here. She said that you had strongly urged them to add a chaperone in the Senior dormitory, so she invited me to substitute for their missing German teacher, and as you know, the opportunity suited me. It is for just a short time. I thought it would give me a chance to observe the inner workings of this school, and to ascertain whether it was a good fit for Adèle. The ruse would only work if I claimed my maiden name.”

  “So Mrs. Thurston does not know you are married?”

  “The situation is complicated. Mrs. Thurston made a rash assumption about who I was. I had originally intended to tell her my real identity, but she did not give us the chance.” I paused. “Surely you have noticed that she adheres firmly to her opinions without listening carefully to what others say? And without gathering facts?”

  He laughed. “Well put.”

  “I decided to use her rash behavior to my benefit. Besides, the position is vacant only temporarily. You yourself convinced Miss Miller that the Seniors needed a chaperone and that the post should be filled quickly. Given our history, Miss Miller knew she could trust me.”

  He said nothing, and that caused me a bit of unease.

  “I am here only for a few days. Mrs. Thurston does not need to know I am a married woman. You and I would both agree the girls are safer with me being here.” I was acutely conscious that my rationale sounded a bit like a plea.

  Mr. Waverly sat there, seeming totally disinterested, his posture relaxed and his face slack, as if he were ready to drift off. My impulse was to continue pleading with him, begging him to let me stay. How odd it seemed: Only hours earlier I was determined to leave Alderton House. Now I was just as determined to stay the course.

  Suddenly the man snapped to attention. “I have made my decision.”

  Rather than woolgathering, he had been considering all his options.

  “I shall keep your confidence, Mrs. Rochester, for one reason only. It suits my purpose. I agree that you do a good turn by staying here.”

  “Thank you.” I paused. “Sir.”

  I hoped that I had convinced him. But I worried that I had actually made the situation worse. Panic seized me; my mouth went dry. I spotted a carafe and glass on one end of Mrs. Thurston’s desk, so I stepped nearer and poured myself a drink.

  Unfortunately, the liquid was pure spirits.

  I coughed and choked and coughed some more. I thought I’d never catch my breath.

  Mr. Waverly watched me with amusement. “Bit strong for you, eh?”

  My embarrassing interlude gave me the chance to think about his focus on Miss Miller. What did I know of her? The gaping hole in my knowledge of Nan Miller’s recent past did not escape me. What had Miss Jones meant when she said that another student had died under Miss Miller’s care? What had happened?

  I hoped to tread safely around the circumference of my ignorance, but the deep crevasse worried me. Once I fell in, I might not be able to climb back out.

  “I am not in the habit of drinking strong spirits,” I managed with difficulty.

  “I see.” He slapped his knees and laughed again. “I say, you are a pip! Indulge me. Have you any suspicions of Miss Miller? Or any of the other instructors?”

  “No, sir.” I sat there, intent on allowing my hands to lie loosely in my lap rather than wringing them, which would be a sure display of my nervousness. “Each one seems capable. I have seen no untoward behavior. The only surly person in the bunch is Mrs. Thurston, and I rather doubt that she would ruin the reputation of her school by committing murder. Besides, from all that I have heard, Selina Biltmore was a particular favorite of hers.”

  “Hmmm. You have not heard of any disappointments that Mrs. Thurston might have had with the dead girl?”

  “None, sir.” I had no idea what he was on about.

  “Invitations rescinded? Agreements made and broken? Any quarrels between them?”

  My confusion must have shown on my face. “Are you suggesting that they had an argument, and that it led to—”

  “No, madam. I’m not suggesting anything at all. Nothing at all. I’m merely—”

  But his commentary was cut short. From outside the room came the sound of fists beating on the front door.

  Chapter 34

  Emma answered the relentless pounding on the front door, but her timid welcome was cut short as a howl of anger reverberated through the building.

  “Where is Mrs. Thurston? Get her! Bring her to me!”

  “Sir, calm yourself!” came Mrs. Thurston’s plea from farther down the hall.

  “You fool! You stupid, careless fool! How could you let this happen? You…you imbecile!” the man bellowed.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Biltmore, please accept my—” But before Mrs. Thurston could tender her sympathy, a woman’s keening interrupted.

  “They won’t let me see her!” the woman sobbed. “I want to hold her—but they turned us away.”

  My gut twisted into a knot as Selina’s parents poured out their misery. What if I lost my Ned? My dear, sweet son? I fought to hold tight to my senses, but my body tasted the bitter herb of grief. A teeth-rattling chill swept through me.

  Waverly shook his head and sighed. A deep frown creased his forehead as his whole face closed down. Behind his spectacles, his eyes grew narrow and flinty.

  “You are excused, Mrs. Rochester. Or Miss Eyre. As you prefer. We are done here. For now.”

  I slipped out of the superintendent’s office and ran up the stairs, stopping
briefly at the first landing, trying not to call attention to myself. Waverly had come out of Mrs. Thurston’s office to introduce himself to the Biltmores.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Biltmore, may I tender my deepest condolences? I am here at your service,” he said before bowing deeply. “I am sorry to bother you, but we have much to discuss.”

  “This has ruined everything! He will be furious!” yelled Mr. Biltmore. “And you, you are complicit as well. Bringing her here was your idea.”

  This last salvo was directed at his wife, who continued to cry only harder.

  “Really, sir,” Mrs. Thurston said.

  “Do you have any idea what has happened here? Tell her, Waverly!”

  “This matter demands privacy,” said Waverly. “Come. We can talk behind closed doors.”

  Waverly escorted Mr. and Mrs. Biltmore into Mrs. Thurston’s office. The superintendent brought up the rear, sniveling loudly into a soiled handkerchief.

  “Where is Caje? Where is he?” Mr. Biltmore asked. “I shall tear him apart with my bare hands! He was supposed to watch after her!”

  Then the door closed with a bang.

  The exchange struck me as exceedingly odd, but this was not the time to stop and ponder it.

  “Laboro, laboras, laborat.” Miss Jones droned her way through the forms of the Latin verb.

  The students’ heads cocked with attentiveness as they tried to make sense of the shouts from the ground floor. But they turned as one when they heard my footsteps, and their faces cheered at the sight of me, although they wore a sense of confusion like a heavy blanket tossed over their small frames.

  Miss Jones continued her recitation in a voice as steady and measured as a clock hand. Evidently she had powers of concentration that exceeded mine, because she continued on about Latin verb formations as if nothing amiss or unusual had happened in the hallway one story below.

  But she must have heard the commotion! Or the upset it caused!