by Rebecca Kent
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Praise for High Marks for Murder
“Wonderful storytelling . . . A superb ghost story.”
—Emily Brightwell
“An enjoyable mystery set in England’s dynamic Edwardian period that is sure to please . . . The characters are intriguing, each with a hint of a tragic past.”
—The Romance Readers Connection
“Very well done and definitely for those who like their mysteries on the lighter side.”—ReviewingTheEvidence.com
“School headmistress Meredith Llewellyn is bright and intuitive and the paranormal atmosphere adds an interesting touch.” —Romantic Times
“Very atmospheric [with] a gothic feel . . . Readers will give high marks to Ms. Kent for an interesting, creative whodunit.” —Genre Go Round Reviews
“A great cozy writer.” —Gumshoe Review
Titles by Kate Kingsbury writing as Rebecca Kent
HIGH MARKS FOR MURDER
FINISHED OFF
MURDER HAS NO CLASS
Titles by Kate Kingsbury
Manor House Mysteries
A BICYCLE BUILT FOR MURDER
DEATH IS IN THE AIR
FOR WHOM DEATH TOLLS
DIG DEEP FOR MURDER
PAINT BY MURDER
BERRIED ALIVE
FIRE WHEN READY
WEDDING ROWS
AN UNMENTIONABLE MURDER
Pennyfoot Hotel Mysteries
ROOM WITH A CLUE
DO NOT DISTURB
SERVICE FOR TWO
EAT, DRINK, AND BE BURIED
CHECK-OUT TIME
GROUNDS FOR MURDER
PAY THE PIPER
CHIVALRY IS DEAD
RING FOR TOMB SERVICE
DEATH WITH RESERVATIONS
DYING ROOM ONLY
MAID TO MURDER
Holiday Pennyfoot Hotel Mysteries
NO CLUE AT THE INN
SLAY BELLS
SHROUDS OF HOLLY
RINGING IN MURDER
DECKED WITH FOLLY
THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
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Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
MURDER HAS NO CLASS
A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with the author
PRINTING HISTORY
Berkley Prime Crime mass-market edition / January 2010
Copyright © 2010 by Doreen Roberts Hight.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions. For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
eISBN : 978-1-101-17134-9
BERKLEY® PRIME CRIME
Berkley Prime Crime Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
BERKLEY® PRIME CRIME and the PRIME CRIME logo are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA)
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To Bill, for always believing in me, no matter what I do.
Acknowledgments
Sadly, this is the final book in the series. I enjoyed writing about the adventures of Meredith, Felicity, and Essie, and I shall miss them. I do want to thank the people who helped me bring to life the students and staff of the Bellehaven Finishing School for Young Ladies.
My astute editor, Sandra Harding, whose eagle eye and shrewd comments saved me from making too many blunders.
My energetic agent, Paige Wheeler, whose enthusiasm and support keep me motivated and busy.
Berkley’s brilliant art department, who are so good at transforming my words into a charming, intricate scene on the cover.
My loyal fans, for all the wonderful e-mails and letters. Thank you so much for taking the time to write to me. You make my day.
My husband, Bill. For all that you do and all that you are.
Chapter 1
Meredith Llewellyn stepped briskly across the courtyard, her brow furrowed and her lips compressed. If there was one thing she hated, it was starting out the day with a confrontation. There were times when her responsibilities as headmistress of the Bellehaven Finishing School could become quite irksome.
Usually she enjoyed her morning walk in the grounds before classes began. Early spring was her favorite time of the year, when daffodils poked green shoots through the dark earth and the heady scent of lavender was just a delightful promise away.
The flower gardens lining the lawns of the Bellehaven Finishing School for Young Ladies had begun to stir once more. Birds trilled among the thickening leaves of the poplars, and sunshine brightened the gray walls of the ancient school building. That was the beauty of spring, full of hope and promise.
Not that Meredith spent much time on wishful thinking. Just a few short years into the new century, already the world was changing at an alarming rate. New inventions seemed to pop up everywhere and it had become quite a challenge to keep pace with everything going on.
At Bellehaven however, the emphasis was more on teaching young women how to take their proper place in their future lives.
Meredith loved teaching fine arts to her students, adored her fellow tutors—well, two of them, at least. The third, Sylvia Montrose, could be somewhat of a problem at times, but Meredith was adept at turning awkward situations into something a little less hazardous.
She reached the steps leading to the front doors of the school and hurried up them. All said,
she reminded herself, life was good for the most part, and if she had a couple of thorns in her side to contend with, well, that was a small price to pay.
It was one of those thorns, however, that had spoiled her morning stroll, and she couldn’t help feeling just a little resentful. The sooner she dealt with the source of her irritation, the better.
A babble of voices greeted her as she entered the lobby, and at the sight of her, the group of students quickly dispersed. Any minute now the bell would ring for the first class, and Meredith had established a strict policy for punctuality. Discipline had to be maintained at all costs—not an easy task with fifty spirited and often rebellious young ladies taking up occupancy in the hallowed halls of Bellehaven.
Frowning now, Meredith marched down the corridor to her office. She was not looking forward to the impending meeting with her assistant, Roger Platt. The young man had a roguish eye for the girls, and an unfortunate penchant for stirring up trouble.
More than once Meredith had come close to dismissing the unrepentant assistant. She had complained, often with a certain amount of vehemence to Stuart Hamilton, who had hired the rascal. Upon each occasion the disturbingly handsome owner of Bellehaven had persuaded her to give the assistant another chance and, much to her chagrin, she had capitulated, albeit with a certain amount of resentment.
Yes, Meredith thought, as she twisted the handle of the door and threw it open, Roger Platt was a definite thorn in her side, and only slightly more so than the annoying Stuart Hamilton.
The young man in question lifted his head as Meredith entered the room, then sprang to his feet, managing to knock over the ink bottle, which mercifully, was still capped. “Good m-morning, Mrs. Llewellyn.” He righted the bottle, began to sit down again, corrected himself and lunged out from behind her desk. “You’ll be needing your desk, I assume. I’ll take these accounts to the library and—”
Meredith halted him with a shake of her head. “No need, I’m on my way to the classroom. I just stopped by to ask you about an incident in the art studio last night.”
Roger’s face turned dark red. Using his thumb, he carefully removed a lock of dark brown hair from over his eye. “Art s-studio?”
“Yes, Mr. Platt. It has come to my attention that you and one of my students were seen leaving there at an indecent hour, and I should like an explanation.”
The young man looked right and then left, as if seeking an escape. Finding none, he stared down at his feet, then switched his gaze to the window. “I was—ah—helping the young lady look for a lost sketch book.”
“A lost sketch book.” She was happy to see Roger wince at the heavy skepticism in her voice.
“Ah . . . yes. I was on my way out when Sophie . . . I mean . . . Miss Westchester, caught up with me in the corridor and requested my help.”
“Miss Westchester couldn’t look for a sketch book by herself?”
Roger poked a finger inside his starched shirt collar as if it had become too tight. “She . . . ah . . . was afraid to go in there in the dark. I fetched an oil lamp and held it for her while she looked for the book.”
Meredith narrowed her eyes and reminded herself that as a lady and a representative of authority it was imperative to hold her temper. “May I ask what you were doing in the building at that late hour? Your duties are supposed to be completed by seven o’clock.”
Roger nodded, his gaze flicking across her face, presumably to gauge her reaction to his tale. “I had trouble balancing the ledgers and had stayed late to finish them.” He tried a wobbly smile. “I thought that’s what you would want me to do.”
Aware that she was losing this particular battle only intensified Meredith’s frustration. She was certain that Roger Platt had been engaging in indiscreet behavior with Sophie Westchester, who was no angel herself.
Meredith was just as convinced that Roger knew that she knew, and was congratulating himself on having evaded a reprimand. Nevertheless, she could hardly accuse the young man of lying without some kind of evidence.
Eying him with as much menace as possible, she leaned forward to emphasize her unspoken warning. “I assume the lady in question will confirm your story?”
To her annoyance, Roger smiled with a little more enthusiasm. “I’m quite sure she will, Mrs. Llewellyn.”
About to inform him of the consequences should he be lying, she opened her mouth to speak. At that moment, however, something in the corner of the room caught her attention. Over by the filing cabinet she could see something glowing.
For a shocked moment she thought something was on fire as the misty patch of light deepened to a bright red, then flickered and faded to a pale pink. Just as she was about to point it out to Roger, it gradually dwindled away, leaving only the dark shadows in the corner of the room.
Shaken, Meredith stared at the empty space for several moments, until Roger’s sharp voice jerked her back.
“Is something wrong?” He turned his head to follow her gaze, his face registering confusion.
“No, of course not.” She backed away, one hand reaching for the door. “I thought I saw a mouse, that’s all. I’ll have to ask the maintenance man to set a trap. Reggie Tupper is very good at trapping mice.”
“A cat,” Roger announced, sounding insufferably smug.
“I beg your pardon?”
“A cat, that’s what you need. That’s what will get rid of them. We had three cats in the orphanage where I grew up. Overrun with mice there, we were.”
“Oh, dear.” Meredith’s hand touched the door and she grabbed the edge of it for support. “Yes, well, carry on, Mr. Platt. I will need all those accounts reconciled by this afternoon.”
“Yes, m’m.” Roger nodded and smiled, his brown eyes simmering with relief.
Meredith stepped out into the hallway and snapped the door shut with a little more force than she’d intended. Taking a deep breath, she focused on recovering her composure.
Her mind playing tricks, that’s all it was. Just because she’d been visited by a couple of ghosts in the past, it didn’t mean—it couldn’t mean—yet another apparition was hovering nearby, waiting to seek her help. It had been five months since the last encounter. She had just about convinced herself that her strange and unpredictable ability to see and communicate with departed beings was no longer in demand.
Giving herself a mental shake, she hurried down the hallway to her classroom. There was no time to worry about it now. She had twelve young ladies to instruct in the art of clay sculpture and she simply could not waste her precious time on what could well be a figment of her imagination.
Grace Parker picked up a fork and examined it with a critical eye. “This one’s got egg on it,” she announced. “You didn’t wash it properly.”
Standing at the sink, Olivia Bunting grunted. “Just go ahead and polish it. No one will ever notice.”
“Mrs. Wilkins will notice.”
“No, she won’t. We’ll have it out on the tables in the dining room before she gets back.”
Grace spat on the fork and rubbed it with a corner of her apron. “Where is she, anyhow?”
“She’s upstairs in Mona Fingle’s office, going over the weekly menus.” Olivia lifted a pile of silverware out of the soapy water and dumped it on the draining board. “I don’t know why she bothers. What the heck does Mona know about cooking, anyway?”
“Well, she is the housekeeper, after all. It’s her job to decide what to put on the menus.”
“Yeah, but Wilky’s the cook, and she knows what the girls like to eat.”
Grace examined the fork once more, then smeared silver polish over the egg-stained prongs. “And all we are is the housemaids, so we have to mind our own blinking business, don’t we.”
Olivia spun around, one dripping hand tucking stray dark hairs under her cap. “Gawd, hark at you. We’re not just housemaids, we’re suffragettes, so there.”
Grace laid the fork on the tray next to its gleaming companions and picked up another o
ne from the pile waiting to be polished. “Fat lot of good that does us. We get into trouble every time we get anywhere near them suffragettes. Look what happened when we went to that protest with Christabel Pankhurst. You almost got thrown into prison and I had to come and rescue you.”
Olivia grinned. “Yeah, that was a lot of fun.”
“Fun?” Grace shook the fork at her. “It wouldn’t have been so much fun if you’d been shoved in prison.”
Turning back to the sink, Olivia shrugged. “Well, I didn’t get shoved into prison, so there’s no need to get all stirred up about it, is there.”
Grace sighed. Sometimes she wondered why she paid attention to Olivia and her wild ideas. So far they’d been lucky, and although they had come close to being sacked by Mona, Mrs. Wilkins had come to their rescue and saved their jobs. Though they’d given up far too many of their precious days off as punishment for their escapades.
“Anyhow,” Olivia said, her voice muffled by the clinking of silverware in the sink, “this time I’ve got a better idea.”
Grace felt a pang of dismay. “Not again. After the last time I told you I wasn’t going on any more protests.”
Olivia dropped the last pile of wet silverware on the draining board, and wiped her hands on her apron. “The reason we got into trouble before was because we were with the WSPU. There was a lot of suffragettes there so they got a lot of attention from the bobbies.”
“I thought that was the idea.”
Olivia shook her head, dislodging her hair once more. She shoved it back with an impatient hand. “Well, I know that, but what if we organized our own protest, on a much smaller scale? We’d still be doing our part for the women’s movement, and if we do it in the village instead of in Witcheston, there’ll only be one bobby to stop us.”
