Death Comes to the School

by Catherine Lloyd

  * * *

  “So Margaret Greenwell said her mother received an anonymous letter yesterday?” Robert asked.

  He was sitting with Lucy in his study, by the fire, after they had shared their evening meal with both the Stanfords and the twins. It had been a remarkably entertaining evening, and his wife had enjoyed it immensely. It had been good to see her happy and laughing again.

  “Yes. And Mrs. Greenwell confirmed that she had indeed received a letter that suggested her daughter had behaved inappropriately.” Lucy sighed. “I wish I could get my hands on the original. Judging from Margaret’s reaction, I suspect it was rather more pointed than that, don’t you?”

  “Probably.” Robert frowned. “And then Margaret suggested that Anna was the letter writer and had been in cahoots with Miss Broomfield all along?”

  “Exactly.” Lucy sat forward, her hands clasped together on her lap. “Margaret is the first person to suggest that Miss Broomfield wrote those letters.”

  “Apart from us.”

  “Obviously, but we have gathered the information to make that conjecture. But don’t you think it is strange that Margaret arrived at that conclusion on her own? She also said Rebecca and Josephine had received letters, too.”

  “It certainly is odd that she made that assumption.”

  “Maybe she knows exactly who wrote the letters.” Robert studied her face. “You think Margaret Greenwell wrote them?”

  “Why not?”

  “Because . . . why would she? And do you really think she killed Miss Broomfield?”

  “What if Miss Broomfield discovered something about Margaret—maybe something Josephine innocently mentioned at school—and Miss Broomfield attempted to blackmail Margaret?”

  “But—”

  Lucy carried on speaking over him. “If Miss Broomfield successfully blackmailed someone before, why wouldn’t she try it again?”

  “I’m sorry, my dear, but I cannot see Margaret Greenwell as a murderer.”

  “Why not? Miss Broomfield was killed with a hat pin. Anyone could’ve done it.”

  “Because you haven’t got a single shred of evidence to make this case,” Robert pointed out. “This is pure supposition.”

  “But what if I found some evidence?”

  “Then I would have to believe you. In the meantime, perhaps we should focus on identifying Miss Broomfield’s family and locating Mr. Clapper, who might or might not have come to Kurland St. Mary to meet with her.”

  “You still believe it was Mr. Clapper who killed her?” Lucy asked.

  “I would certainly prefer it to be him. I like Mr. Greenwell and would hate to have to haul one of his children off to the county court sessions.”

  “Oh. I didn’t think of that.” His wife contemplated her joined hands before looking up at him again. “I promise I will conduct my inquiries with the utmost of delicacy.”

  “And you will promise not to do anything reckless. Agreed?”

  She sighed. “If I must.”

  “You must for the sake of my sanity.” Robert reached over to squeeze her hand. “Despite everything, I am rather fond of you.”

  “Then I will endeavor to keep in your good graces.”

  “There’s one thing you’ve forgotten,” Robert said as he rose to help himself to a glass of brandy.

  “What is that?”

  “Seeing as Mrs. Greenwell received her letter only yesterday, we can no longer safely assume that Miss Broomfield is our letter writer.”

  “Which is why I think it has to be Margaret,” Lucy said firmly. “Or maybe Miss Broomfield paid someone to deliver the letters before she died. It is so confusing. And the Greenwells aren’t the only family that has recently returned to the village. What about our new verger? What about Mrs. Jarvis at the Queen’s Head?”

  “Now you are becoming ridiculous.” He had no intention of discussing Mrs. Jarvis with his wife. She might decide to question the loquacious landlady, and goodness knows what Mrs. Jarvis would say. He returned to his seat. “Why is it that the simplest matter becomes a tangled mess whenever we are involved?”

  “We haven’t had any peculiar deaths in our village for three years,” Lucy pointed out. “This is an exception.”

  “And we still can’t completely discount the notion that this was just a random act of violence and will never be solved.” Robert sipped his brandy.

  “I detest not knowing what really happened.”

  “I know you do, which is why I also know that you will pursue this matter until it is solved to your satisfaction.”

  Lucy sat up straight. “You make it sound as if I am the only person who cares about such things, when you are just as invested.”

  “I’m the local magistrate. I have to be involved. It is my duty to bring the guilty to justice.”

  “And as your wife, I am merely supporting your efforts.”

  He raised his glass to her. “Which just goes to show that I am a very lucky man indeed.”

  * * *

  Lucy rose quietly from the bed, lit a candle, and went down the creaking oak staircase. She’d been unable to sleep. Her mind was too busy circling around the extraordinary events of the day. If Miss Broomfield hadn’t written the letters, who had? She knew it couldn’t have been Anna, which left exactly whom?

  Was Mr. Clapper responsible for the delivery of the letters? Had Miss Broomfield’s blackmail scheme encompassed a wider area than just Kurland St. Mary? It might make sense that Miss Broomfield had set the diamond and ruby necklace aside to pay off her accomplice. But if Mr. Clapper had known about the jewelry and killed Miss Broomfield, why hadn’t he stolen the rest of it when he had the opportunity?

  And there was Margaret Greenwell, a young woman with a fiery temper and an obvious disdain for those around her. She either knew more about the matter than she was letting on or had jumped to some remarkable conclusions. But as Lucy had pointed out to Robert, the Greenwells weren’t the only newcomers in the village. Lucy paused to set the candle on the desk in her sitting room. The fire had died, and she stirred the embers and added a couple of lumps of coal.

  It was time to acknowledge the fear lurking in her heart. What about Mrs. Jarvis? She had apparently known Robert in his youth. Had she come to the village deliberately? She certainly had access at the inn to the best gossip in the county. But what possible reason could she have for wanting to kill Miss Broomfield or for sending out vile letters to her fellow villagers?

  There was no connection between the two events, and she was probably being silly at the thought that at some time in his past, Robert had . . . dallied with Mrs. Jarvis. Did she want Mrs. Jarvis to be guilty of something because she could not countenance the idea of another woman having once been important to Robert?

  But he hadn’t acknowledged that he’d known the woman earlier. . . .

  Lucy sighed and wrapped her shawl more tightly around herself, her gaze falling on the box of books she had brought back from Miss Broomfield’s abode. She moved the candle closer and picked up the well-worn black leather Bible and flipped through the pages. Miss Broomfield had underlined several passages and had written notes in the margins in her neat script.

  It didn’t take Lucy long to realize that the version of the Bible Miss Broomfield preferred wasn’t the familiar King James one, but something called the Douay-Rheims Bible. She would have to ask her father what that implied. She suspected it might be the Roman Catholic version.

  It was too dark to read exactly what the teacher had written. Lucy suspected she would find no comfort in Miss Broomfield’s particular brand of religion. It was probably why the teacher had attended the services at the Kurland St. Mary church only reluctantly. Her father’s genial brand of Anglicanism would hardly have interested Miss Broomfield.

  There were a couple of bookmarks placed within the pages. One was leather and depicted the St. Peter’s Basilica of Rome in embossed gold. The second was from the Shrine of Our Lady of Walsingham. Both decidedly popish sites.
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  “Walsingham . . .” Lucy murmured. “Isn’t that in Norfolk, where Miss Broomfield’s family might be from?”

  She placed the Bible back in the box and on impulse picked up the bound copy of Ackermann’s. Inside there were about three full volumes of the monthly periodical. Considering what she knew about the teacher, it seemed a remarkably frivolous thing for Miss Broomfield to have kept.

  Lucy sat down by the fire and leafed through the illustrations, fashion plates, and articles. One of the pages was turned down at the corner, so she paused to investigate the engraved hand-colored image of what appeared to be a large country house. Holding the book close to the light, she squinted to read the small print at the bottom of the illustration.

  “Hillcott Hall in the county of Norfolk.” Lucy frowned as she tried to remember where she had heard that name before. “The jewelers in London,” she whispered. “The diamond and ruby set was made for the Hillcott family.”

  Chapter 13

  Robert surveyed the gathering of the hunt in front of Greenwell Manor and tried not to look intimidated either by the variety of barely controlled mounts or the baying pack of dogs being marshaled by the hound master. It was a typically cold December morning, and the ground was icy underfoot. Perfect hunting weather unless you were a farmer, a fox, or a coward like him.

  He knew his refusal to continue the tradition of holding the Christmas hunt at Kurland Hall had offended and puzzled his neighbors. But he had no obligation to explain his position to anyone except his wife, and she at least fully supported his stance. He glanced down at her as their carriage drew up at the side door of the house. She often reminded him of a little brown sparrow. She’d been quiet at breakfast, her thoughts far away—something that worried him almost as much as the idea that he should get on a horse and lead the charge across the barren countryside.

  She also hadn’t slept in their bed all night. There’d been no time to ask if all was well as they hurried to make themselves presentable to represent the Kurland family at the traditional hunt meet. Andrew was bringing his children, and Dermot had already set off with the Harrington twins to join the ranks of the riders. Robert would have to make an effort to find the boys, to ensure that they were safely mounted and were well aware of the dangers of misbehaving in such company.

  That meant moving through the sea of horses without betraying his crippling anxiety for all to see. Most of his peers thought his injuries were the reason he couldn’t ride to hounds. They would’ve been incredulous if he’d tried to explain that after five years the fear was so much worse. He still had nightmares about being trapped and almost suffocated under his horse in the French mud at Waterloo—and about coming so close to losing his leg completely....

  “Robert?”

  He jerked his attention back to his wife, who had one hand on his arm and was patiently waiting for him to unlock the carriage door.

  “I do apologize. I was woolgathering.” He found a smile somewhere. “May I help you descend?”

  As it turned out, he was lucky enough to spot the twins on the outskirts of the teeming scarlet-coated crowd and had a stern word with them about not cramming his horses or showing themselves to disadvantage. With Andrew and Dermot guiding the group, he knew they were in safe hands. There was no sign of the rector, who, as the current master of the hunt, had many responsibilities to fulfill before he could lead the riders out. His father-in-law was an accomplished horseman and would completely forget his sons existed the moment the horn blew.

  After making the effort to greet his neighbors, who all made a point of telling him how much they were looking forward to the ball later that week, Robert escaped to the front steps of the mansion, where Mr. and Mrs. Greenwell stood welcoming their guests. Footmen were distributing cups of warmed punch and cider to anyone who wanted one, and Robert gladly accepted a glass.

  “Good morning, Sir Robert!” Mr. Greenwell called out to him. “I was just speaking to your delightful wife. I believe she has gone inside to find Mrs. Stanford and Mrs. Jenkins.”

  Robert shook Mr. Greenwell’s hand. “Good morning, sir. You seem to have attracted a good crowd. Are you riding yourself today?”

  “I intend to, as do my daughters. And later this morning my good lady will drive out in her carriage and bring sustenance for all of us—depending on our luck, of course!” His gaze swept over Robert and lingered on his cane. “You don’t care to ride to hounds?”

  Robert tapped his left boot with the tip of his cane. “Unfortunately, my leg is too badly damaged to risk taking another fall.”

  “That is a shame. I hear you were quite a sight in your hussar uniform, leading a battle charge.”

  “Whoever told you that?”

  Mr. Greenwell bowed. “One of my second cousins had the honor of serving under you during the war. He said you were an exemplary officer and always led from the front.”

  “Hardly.” Robert was never comfortable discussing his wartime antics. “What was your cousin’s name?”

  “Blake. Grenville Blake.” Mr. Greenwell lowered his voice. “His sister was Josephine’s mother.”

  “Ah.”

  “Morning, Mr. Greenwell.” The rector strode up the steps and nodded to Robert. “All ready for the off, then?”

  “If you are, Mr. Harrington.” Mr. Greenwell relinquished his tankard of ale to one of the servants. “Let me just inform my wife.”

  Mr. Harrington’s gaze swept the assembled company. “Quite a gathering today, eh, Robert? Don’t you wish you were joining us?”

  “I can’t say that I do, sir.”

  The rector chuckled and prodded Robert in the ribs with his riding crop. “Always with the dry wit. You hide your regrets very well, sir, very well indeed. A credit to your family and your upbringing. Lucy did very well for herself by marrying you, very well indeed. Now I must be off.”

  He nodded and stomped down the steps toward the groom holding his horse, shouting to everyone to form some kind of orderly line. Nicholas Jenkins acknowledged Robert as he rode by on a very flashy hunter that Robert would have coveted greatly when he was younger. Mr. Greenwell strode past Robert, his hat tucked under his arm as he tried to pull on his gloves.

  “Good hunting,” Robert called out to him.

  “Thank you, sir.”

  A second later the horn blared, and the entire cavalcade took off, hounds baying, the hard riders at the front, and most of the ladies and the children at the rear. The twins’ faces, full of excitement, flashed by, making Robert remember when he had once lived to hunt and had driven his parents mad by demanding better mounts. He’d thought nothing of falling or breaking a bone or two. The thrill of the chase—the pulse-pounding excitement of pursuit—had made his heart sing.

  But not anymore.

  He slowly ascended the steps, his left leg dragging and throbbing with the new searing pain he was becoming accustomed to. His place was with the ladies who chose not to hunt and with the elderly, who had better things to do with their remaining days than risk life and limb in the saddle.

  Today, for some reason, watching the hunt stream out in all its loud, raucous glory bothered him far more deeply than usual.

  * * *

  After enjoying the lavish breakfast Mrs. Greenwell had provided for the hunt, Lucy settled herself in the drawing room with Sophia. It was a pleasant room with a southerly aspect and a large fireplace that produced a great deal of much-welcome heat. In Lucy’s opinion, the furnishing and draperies needed updating, but she was certain that Mrs. Greenwell would get around to that at some point.

  The Greenwell girls had gone out with their father, so there was a lack of pettiness in the air, and the general conversation was warm and lively. Penelope had opted not to attend the hunt, although Dr. Fletcher was there in case anyone needed medical attention. There was usually a fair sprinkling of injuries, especially when the weather was so foul and the ground underfoot treacherous even for the most spirited of horses and experienced of riders.


  Not being considered quite gentry, Dr. Fletcher was ensconced in the kitchen, and Robert had gone directly to speak to him. Despite his best efforts, Lucy knew such gatherings were difficult for her husband, and she tried not to bother him too much about minor matters. She still hadn’t told him what she’d discovered the previous night. Would a letter to Hillcott Hall provide more information about Miss Broomfield, or would it be better to pursue the professor in Cambridge?

  “Lucy, are you feeling quite the thing? You are very quiet.”

  She shook herself out of her reverie and turned to Sophia with a smile. “I do apologize. I didn’t sleep very well last night.”

  “Andrew said that the letters to his clerk went off this morning and that he expects an answer within a day or so.”

  “That is very good of him.”

  “Why do you want to talk to this Mr. Clapper?”

  “We think he might have some connection with Miss Broomfield. We haven’t been able to locate any members of her family yet to advise them of her demise.”

  “How sad,” Sophia sighed. “From all I have heard, she wasn’t the most pleasant of women, but to die alone and be forgotten? I would not wish that on my worst enemy.”

  “Perhaps Mr. Clapper will be able to shed some light on this matter,” Lucy said. “Otherwise I fear that you may be right. It is so unusual for a woman of her class to be cast . . . adrift like this. Even if a family goes into debt and loses everything, there is usually someone willing to take in a female relative.”

  “And work them to death.” Sophia shuddered. “Remember how Penelope and her sister narrowly avoided such a fate? But maybe Miss Broomfield wanted to be left alone. She certainly made no effort to make friends, did she?”

  “But striking out on your own . . . I consider myself a strong, independent, intelligent woman, Sophia, but I don’t know if I could’ve done what Miss Broomfield apparently did.”