I tapped the end of the pen against my chin. What was it that Mr. Biltmore had said? “He will be furious.”
Of whom was he speaking?
Another item claimed my curiosity. In her essay about Selina, Nettie mentioned someone sending a carriage for the girl. Who was that?
I added “Person Unknown” to my list of suspects and then paused. I scratched off one name: Adèle. I knew that she could not and would not have hurt Selina. Mr. Waverly seemed to agree. But all the Senior girls had opportunity. So any one of them could have killed their classmate. While this seemed unlikely at best and outrageous at worst, I took to my heart Mr. Waverly’s motto, “I suspect everyone; I accuse no one.”
My list went as follows:
Rufina. Selina took her kite.
Rose. Selina stole her sash.
Nellie. Selina took her sweeties. (At this point I was tempted to put a line through all the girls’ names. If any one of them killed Selina, surely the others would know. Besides, how could they have subdued her? Furthermore, it would have been easier to take back the stolen articles than to kill a classmate!)
Cook. No motive I could discern, but admittedly I needed to know more about her.
Caje. Same as with Cook. But what had Mr. Biltmore meant when he called him out by name?
Emma. Selina had been cruel to her. But how cruel? And Emma was slight, albeit very strong.
The German teacher, Fräulein Hertzog. Why had she left so suddenly? Had it been because of Selina?
Parthena Jones. Something about the woman struck me as off. I could not say why, but it resonated through me the way a false note sounds when played on the pianoforte. Perhaps it was only her grief over her brother’s death, unresolved and fresh.
Signora Delgatto. She admitted that she was happy Selina was dead. Why? But I struck through her name. The woman was too feeble to climb the stairs.
Nan Miller. As much as I hated to add her, her actions of late had been very odd. What had transpired at her previous post? Why did Miss Jones say a child had died while under her care? Why was she not more forthcoming about her past?
Mrs. Thurston. Was it possible that some action had turned the superintendent against her favorite?
Person Unknown. The person who sent the carriage for Selina.
A rap on the door cut my work short. I hastily folded my list and slipped it into my pocket. “Good morning, Emma,” I said as the maid bustled in.
“Good day, miss. The mourning clothes are here. I’m to set out each girl’s things. In these boxes are the mourning shoes. Here’s yours.”
She withdrew from the pile a white dress made of cheap fabric. Pinned to it was a scrap of paper with my name.
As Emma distributed the mourning wear by setting it on each girl’s dresser, I tried to get a glimpse of her feet, but the task proved impossible without betraying my motives.
The morning bell sounded, and the girls began their slow struggle to rouse themselves. One by one they shed their nightclothes. When Rose’s chemise bunched up as she pulled it over her head, I choked back a gasp. Rust-colored stripes crisscrossed her shoulder blades and ran down her back, angry and egregious looking. These were far worse than the similar marks on Nettie’s back.
Either Miss Miller had lied to me about the use of caning as punishment, or she was unaware of this outrage. Was it possible that Fräulein Hertzog, the previous German teacher and Senior proctor, had doled out the lashes? And wouldn’t the recipient have cried out? How could it be that the other teachers knew nothing about the inflictions?
I wanted to say something to Rose but decided against it. An overreaction might make it impossible for me to get at the truth. The girls were slowly coming to trust me. When the time was right, I could ask my questions—and be assured that they would be answered honestly.
The girls stood in a line, faces solemn, looking like bleached-out birds on a tree limb. The cheap white dresses fit them poorly, and the slippers were all a bit loose on their feet, but the point was driven home: We were officially in mourning for the death of a young unmarried girl.
After our morning prayers, Mrs. Thurston announced that Selina’s body would arrive during the first class session.
“Once all is prepared, you will queue up and file by to pay your respects. Ladies, I remind you that this is a solemn occasion. None of you are to linger in the parlor or to gape at the important visitors who will, no doubt, be arriving to pay their respects. I expect you to wear your mourning shoes inside the school and to keep your voices low as befits a place of sorrow. The mirrors have all been draped. I had better not see any of you trying to glimpse your reflections in spoons and such, as this is a time to reflect on your immortal souls, not on earthly vanities. Dust to dust and ashes to ashes, none can escape death.”
With that cheerful start to the day, Mrs. Thurston sank back into her chair as gracefully as a milk bottle toppling over.
Miss Jones encouraged the girls to “eat up” and attacked her food with her fork as though she were digging a ditch.
At nine o’clock the sound of boots clomping through the foyer alerted us to bearers carrying Selina’s coffin. A few minutes later, Mrs. Thurston stepped into the classroom and bade us to queue up, with Rufina taking her spot at the front, since she was the Senior head girl. The child swayed on her feet, a greenish pallor replacing her usual healthy skin color. “Sit down.” I shoved a chair under her. “Put your head between your knees.”
“It’s the lilies, ma’am,” she managed. “Reminds me of when I lost my mum.”
Pots of hothouse flowers spilled out from the parlor and lined the hallway. The worth of the floral tributes must have been immense. The quantity and quality of the offerings proved that all of London Society marked this farewell to the Biltmores’ daughter—at least, in absentia. The smell of the blossoms approached a treacly crescendo that overwhelmed the senses, coating the nose and mouth. Every breath was a fight for survival, which, coupled with the cloying smell of decay, provoked my own stomach to roil. I instructed the girls to use their handkerchiefs to breathe through, and as expected, Rufina’s was missing, so I loaned her mine. She took to her feet unsteadily, so I linked arms with her. Thus acting as a pair, we set off, leading the others through the viewing area at a stately pace.
When we reached the shoulder of the coffin, Rufina and I stopped to “say good-bye.” We both pivoted slightly so as to be facing Selina Biltmore’s mortal remains.
What a shock!
Selina Biltmore had been no child—she was a full-grown woman!
Miss Miller had said Selina was just sixteen, but one glance affirmed that she had been quite mature for her age. Although death had distorted her facial features, it was clear that Selina Biltmore had been blessed with a noble profile. As for her figure, the contours of her shroud revealed that she tended toward corpulence. I lingered, trying to get a better sense of this young woman, but Rufina’s hand flew to her mouth and she made a retching noise. Fearful that she was going to be ill, I hurried us along.
No wonder she’d been so successful at bullying the others. Selina had been an adult in a world full of children.
* * *
After I prepared for the day’s lessons, I revisited my list of possible murder suspects and decided to start at the bottom of the building and work my way up.
“Lo and behold! Our scholar! Bet ye’ve coming sniffing around for somethin’ to eat, right?” A puff of flour blew up around Cook, enveloping her in a powdery white aura.
“Please, ma’am.” I settled on the kitchen stool. It was as good a pretext for my presence as any.
She slid a scone onto a plate, generously slathered it with clotted cream, and slopped a dollop of jam on the side. From the stove, she grabbed a kettle and poured water in her china teapot. The gold trim on the lid and graceful forget-me-nots painted on the body suggested a grand provenance—although the two large chips marred its beauty. The triangle knocked from the spout made pouring tea a challeng
e, but the chip from the pointed handle on the top of the lid was more of a cosmetic failing than a functional one.
“Your teapot is lovely.”
“Aye, it was a gift from my daughter. The toffs at the manor where she worked planned to toss it into the bin. Larissa asked for it. They took a half crown from her pay. They who was going to get shod of it! On account of a chip in the spout! My darling daughter knew how much I likes my tea,” she said in a gruff voice as she poured me a cup. “It’s all I’ve got left of her. That and a lock of her hair. Such a dear girl. I use that teapot every day and it makes me feel closer to my baby. Can’t visit her grave, you see. It’s too far. Feels like she’s far away, too.”
“Maybe,” I said. “But I would guess she’s close to you, nearer than you think.”
“I hope so.” Wiping the back of her hand across her eyes, Cook smeared more flour on her prominent forehead and bustled away from me.
“I am sorry for your loss.”
“Thank ye. Ain’t just my loss. The world lost an angel.”
“That’s a shame,” I said with sincerity. “I regret that I’ll never have the chance to meet her. No one thinks that way about Selina, do they?”
Cook’s laugh was more of a short bark of derision than a nod to real humor. “That one? She’s probably busy dancing with the demons!”
A neat segue, and I seized upon it. “Mr. Waverly has been questioning people regarding Selina’s death. Hard to believe, but they say the girl may have been murdered.”
Cook bustled around the kitchen, keeping her back to me. Finally, she said, “And what if she was? Whoever did it would have rid the world of one of Satan’s own. They ought to be thanking whoe’er done it, and that’s a fact.”
“You didn’t like Selina?”
“Weren’t nobody liked that one.” Slapping a large glob of dough onto the counter, Cook turned it over twice. “There was a mean streak in her, miss. I suspect her parents hoped Mrs. Thurston could cure her of it, discipline it out of her, but that’s rot, ain’t it? You cannot turn a cat into a dog, or a dog into a rat, and you cannot make a body something they ain’t. Besides, Maude Thurston ain’t nobody’s fool. She closes her door at night and lets the girls fend for themselves, don’t she?”
Cook worked the dough. She did not turn to face me, but her words rang loud and clear. “A bad seed. Fruit of a diseased tree. That girl caused a world of hurt and heartache in her short life—and she would have done more mischief if she could! Her father thought the sun rose and set on his precious child. She could do no wrong in his eyes. Well, he was a blind man.”
With that, she gave the dough a ringing slap.
“The world’s a better place without that she-demon.” Cook punched the dough so hard that it tore. “I’m telling you the God’s honest truth.”
Chapter 37
Miss Miller continued to evade me. I tried to catch her in the hallways, but she proved more elusive than the dream ghost of Helen Burns. Once she stuck her head in my classroom and borrowed Rufina to mind the Infants for “a while.” By the time I was on my feet and within whispering distance, she had turned tail and vanished. At the luncheon table, she sat stiffly and played with her food. All the while, she took elaborate pains to avoid my glance.
The girls changed from their mourning slippers into boots so we could go to Hyde Park. On our way out, we bumped into Miss Jones, coming from the parlor and carrying in her hands a fulsome hank of long chestnut hair. Selina’s hair.
“For the mourning jewelry,” said the tall teacher. “I have a braiding frame made from a man’s top hat, and a new pattern for a finished brooch that resembles a bow. It should look quite lovely, I think.”
She winced and touched her fingers to her temple.
“Sick headaches,” she said. “They attack me regularly and keep me up all night. I believe I shall be forced to take a bit of medicine and lie down. Would you ask Signora Delgatto to take over my class when you return from your plein air class? I fear I will be sound asleep. Probably right through dinner. It is an inescapable side effect of the drops.”
“Yes, of course. I shall do so when we return. Meanwhile, allow me to help you upstairs. Rufina? Lead the girls outside, please.”
I bore the teacher’s weight as best I could while Miss Jones and I climbed the stairs. Because she towered above me, her limbs put a heavy burden on mine. After she took to her bed, she directed me to look in her top drawer. There I found a dark brown glass bottle labeled LAUDANUM. There was also an eyedropper and a small jar of honey. As per her instructions, I added the tincture and a spoonful of honey to a glass of water. While she drank, I arranged her pillows and helped her remove her mourning slippers, noting the length of her feet—they certainly could have been the same size as the footprints leading down the stairs because hers were long and slender. As I tucked her slippers next to her boots, my fingers brushed against the leather. Soaking wet. She must have worn her boots outside!
My mind raced. Sometime in the night, Parthena might have left the building—and since the footsteps only went down the stairs and not up, she must not have returned until after I mopped up the powder.
“Please, could you see to the dead girl’s hair?”
At her direction, I started to wrap a hank of it in a clean linen square.
“There are two large pieces of hair there, am I correct?” she asked.
“I see but one.”
“Ah, then I dropped the other. I hate to ask but…”
“I shall go downstairs and retrieve it.” I retraced our steps to the landing, down the stairs, and through the hallway, but I did not see the missing locks of hair. There was only one other place to look. Opening the door quietly, I let myself into the parlor.
The snoring of the old midwife shook the ornaments on the shelves of the whatnot cabinet she leaned against. Each shudder included a snort at its end for punctuation. The slack-jawed look of the woman told me I need not worry about being seen. She was sound asleep, and from the stink of her, too drunk to care about my presence.
I walked around the coffin but did not find any hair on the floor. There was only one other place where the hank of hair could have fallen. I steeled my nerves for the examination I planned to conduct. Disregarding the unpleasant sensation of cold flesh, I gently tugged at the muslin wrapped around the dead girl’s head to keep her jaw in place. When the fabric was removed, it disclosed two bare spots, one on each temple. The denuded areas were huge! The hair had been completely shorn! Miss Jones had cut the hanks, and in the process robbed the corpse of its natural adornments. This shocked me. Although I knew little about the making of such a keepsake as a piece of funerary jewelry, logic suggested that any hair taken could be cut from the back of the scalp, thereby doing the least to disturb the appearance of the dead. Of course, one could argue that the theft would have gone unnoticed, except for my poking about. But even so. There seemed to be something wantonly cruel about this harvest.
With my eyes, I traced the length of Selina’s body. Again, her size astonished me. She probably weighed nearly as much as Edward. Although death had started its inexorable task of destruction, it was clear that the girl’s skin was smooth as porcelain, the shape of her countenance a perfect oval, her hair lush and dark as it fell in loose curls, and her mouth perfectly contoured.
The midwife sighed in her sleep. One lonesome eyetooth stuck out from the roof of her mouth, and a thin rivulet of drool hung from her loose lower lip. I needed to find the missing hair in a hurry and go.
I stooped down to look under the coffin, and finally I found the curls coiled in a shadow over by a large floral offering.
I tiptoed out of the parlor and took my prize back up to the Junior dormitory. Miss Jones opened one sleepy eye to watch as I tucked the second hank of hair next to its twin.
“Your kindness overwhelms me,” she said. A grimace of pain overtook her, but she managed to add, “Thank you, my friend. I will not forget this.”
S
he could barely keep herself awake when she bid me good-bye.
I climbed back down the stairs, thinking about what I had seen, and the rapidity with which Miss Jones had fallen asleep.
Was it possible that Miss Jones had dosed Selina? She had access to the Senior dormitory. She could easily have put a few drops of her laudanum in Selina’s evening tea. But what would have been her motivation?
Walking briskly through the foyer, I went down the front steps and a few yards along the sidewalk to where the girls were gathered around a dog, a small terrier, held on a leash by its owner, an elderly woman. Rufina succeeded in making the pup dance for a bit of bread. The girls turned to me expectantly.
“Oh bother!” I said as I reached into my pocket and discovered only one glove. “Rufina, pray continue to watch the others.”
Back inside Alderton House, I crossed the marble tiles of the entryway once more, being as silent as possible. My movements were quiet, as the dead seem to demand of us a certain reverence. Perhaps we feel compelled to rehearse the silence of the grave. I made no sound as I slipped into the parlor.
Signora Delgatto stood with her back to me, leaning slightly over the polished walnut coffin. I froze there in the doorway, so as not to startle the elderly woman, who cleared her throat, hawked, and spat. Her spittle landed on Selina Biltmore’s face with a splat.
“You no-good spawn of the devil.” Signora Delgatto spoke directly to the corpse.
I gasped. The music teacher turned to stare at me, her eyes twin pools of milky brown, the clouds within them obscuring any sense of the woman’s soul.
“Have you come to spy on me?”
“No, signora. I lost my glove. Is it on the floor? I cannot afford to replace it.” Such a simple lie, one that came easily to my lips.
“You will tell Mrs. Thurston what you saw?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Why would I?”
“Let me tell you about this, this demon.” She pointed at the body. “You have heard of Fräulein Hertzog? The teacher you replace? She was a long-suffering sojourner. A woman who had endured much, and who recognized the same in me. Such a friendship! So much in common! So rare to find another soul with whom you have such a connection. Fräulein Hertzog loved singing, but God in His glory denied her a voice. But oh, how she loved music. So one day when we were walking at the market, she bought a canary. She named him Figaro. What a singer he was! So glorious! He brought my friend much joy.”
Death of a Schoolgirl: The Jane Eyre Chronicles Page 23
