Death Goes to School

by Q. Patrick

  XII

  MADEMOISELLE FROM …?

  Just before Lucas made his dramatic entrance into the music-room, Sophonisba had been describing her visit to the Saltmarsh post office. It had been impossible to speak privately with McFee the night before, and this was her first opportunity to let him know exactly what had happened. Lucas’s discovery, however, made her forget the French mistress in her apprehensive curiosity about Harvey Nettleton.

  After the boy had gone, she tried to persuade McFee into explaining the implications of the newspaper photograph, but he answered evasively. His dark eyes were burning and he seemed absorbed in his own thoughts.

  “Things are really happening now,” he said, folding the sheet of newspaper and slipping it into his trouser pocket. “If we’re not careful, they’re going to happen—in the wrong way.”

  With this cryptic remark he took his departure, leaving Sophonisba a prey to uneasy suspicions. It seemed inconceivable that the English master should be directly involved in the death of Eric Moss, but it was obvious that he was holding something back—something that interested Stephen McFee immensely. An unpleasant conjecture began to form in Sophonisba’s mind—a conjecture that linked Nettleton’s mystery to that of Mlle. Santais. After all, she, too, had gone to the room on the night that Moss major…

  Sophonisba turned to the piano and began to play loudly, trying to drown her suspicions in a sea of crashing and often inaccurate chords.

  While Sophonisba was warring with her turbulent thoughts, McFee was engaged in far more practical business. He waited until the Fifth Form dictee was over, and then pushed his way into the class-room through the outgoing stream of boys. As he moved towards the teacher’s dais, he noticed St. John Lucas’s eager, bird-like gaze upon him, but he paid no attention. He approached Mlle. Santais.

  “May I speak to you a moment, mam’selle?”

  The French mistress spun round with unnecessary swiftness. She dropped the duster and her deep-sunk eyes regarded McFee coldly.

  “Please?” she asked in a flat, toneless voice.

  “I wondered if you were free for a few minutes.”

  “Free? Yes, I have no more class, not before lunch.” Mlle. Santais’s lips closed tightly over one another. “What is it you wish?”

  “It’s just that—” McFee glanced at the group of boys who were still dawdling around their desks. “It’s rather private. Would you come into the bootroom?”

  “But, certainly.” Mlle. Santais seemed to have recovered from her moment of nervousness. She folded her arms and led the way out into the corridor.

  A little farther down the passage a small room branched off which was used as a place to keep the boys’ extra shoes. McFee ushered the French mistress in and shut the door. Dozens of small heels were visible along the shelves, and the air smelt strongly of boot polish.

  Mlle. Santais paid no attention to McFee, but gazed out through the window, which was dark with spider-webs.

  “Mais qu’est ce qu’il me veut, cet homme-la?” she murmured to herself.

  Once in the room, McFee had shaken off his porter’s civility. His eyes, though calm, had a certain menace.

  “You speak very good French, don’t you, Mlle. Santais?”

  The French mistress looked a trifle surprised. “But, of course. It is my maternal language.”

  “And you come from Paris, too. Mr. Dodd always hires Parisians, doesn’t he?”

  “I believe yes,” answered Mlle. Santais icily. “But why do you question me? Who are you?”

  “Never mind who I am.” McFee swung round and glared at her with sudden ferocity. “Who is Miss Wilkinson?”

  A brief shadow flitted across Mlle. Santais’s eyes. “Weelkinson? Who then is this Weelkinson?”

  “You don’t know her, eh?” McFee slipped a large hand into his apron pocket and tossed her his detective’s badge. “You might as well come clean. You’re Miss Wilkinson yourself, aren’t you?”

  “No,” Mlle. Santais stared at the badge composedly and handed it back. “You deceive yourself.”

  “Then why aren’t you registered under the Aliens Act as a foreigner employed in this country? Why is it impossible to trace the fact that you were ever in France at all? Why do you call yourself Wilkinson when you go to the Saltmarsh post office every week to collect your mail from America?”

  The French mistress seemed completely taken aback by this rapid string of questions. Her pose of aloof condescension gave way to one of almost theatrical agitation. She stared at McFee like a hypnotized hare, and her long hands fell limply at her sides.

  “Oh, please, I can explain. I can explain everything. What are you going to do? Not—not take me to the police station?”

  “Not necessarily. You saw from my badge that I’m working for a private agency. If you answer all my questions, I might be willing not to tell the police.”

  Mlle. Santais broke into a torrent of words. The French accent had slipped from her voice, and all that was left was a slightly Gallic turn of phrase. She implored McFee to let her tell everything before he made any move. She swore she had done nothing wrong.

  “Very well, let’s hear the story.”

  “I—I am a Canadian. There is no need for me to register. I am a British subject. I have not broken the law.” The French mistress’s yellow cheeks were pale, her eyes which had been so expressionless, almost girlish in their pleading. “I was born in Montreal. My mother, she is French. A widow—very poor. I left home a year ago looking for a job. I came here to England, but I found that no one would take on a French teacher unless she was French herself. They all want the Parisian accent, though, mon Dieu, it is in Paris where they speak the worst French. I tried time and time again, but it was always the same story. My mother was ill. I had to get money quickly—I hadn’t even my passage back. Finally, I made up my mind. I decided that my only chance of work was to pretend to be French. I—I wrote to some distant relatives in Paris and they gave me references.” She looked down at the bare boards of the floor. “I used my mother’s name—Santais. Mr. Dodd gave me the job. But I didn’t get it on false pretenses, really I didn’t. I can speak good French—quite good enough to teach these boys. I have worked hard. I send almost all my salary back to my mother in Winnipeg. I…” Her voice trailed off.

  “Winnipeg?” echoed McFee casually. “I thought you said you were born in Montreal.”

  The French mistress flushed. “Yes, yes, I was born in Montreal. It was later that we moved to Winnipeg.”

  “I see.” McFee took out his pipe and began to stuff tobacco into the bowl. “And you didn’t like to tell your mother you were posing as French, so you had her send her letters to Miss Wilkinson, Saltmarsh Post Office. Is that what you’re going to tell me?”

  “Yes, yes. It’s the truth. I swear it’s the truth.” Mlle. Santais was crying softly. “But please don’t tell Mr. Dodd. I—I couldn’t bear the shame. I’ll tell him myself if you wish—but don’t you do it, please.”

  McFee gazed at her over the lighted match which he was holding to his pipe. “You have told me a very touching tale, Miss Wilkinson, and one which is easy to corroborate. I shall send a cable to the Canadian police this afternoon. You have no objection to giving me your mother’s address?”

  “No.”

  “Very well.” McFee rose and pushed a hand through his thick black hair. “If the Winnipeg police verify your story, I’m not going to speak to Mr. Dodd about you. In fact, as far as I’m concerned, you can go on pretending to be Mlle. Santais. But”—he took the pipe from his mouth and pointed it at her—“it’s probable that I shall need you for a little experiment. I’m sure you will be ready to help.”

  “Enchantee, monsieur.” The French mistress had also risen, and there was a hint of sarcasm in her voice. “There are no more questions?”

  “At the moment, no.” McFee picked up one of the dirty shoes that lay on the floor. “Remember what I told you and everything should be all right. But if you sp
eak to anyone about this”—he pushed the lid off a tin of boot-polish—“it’ll be too bad for you.”

  After the French mistress had gone, McFee chuckled. He seemed very pleased at the morning’s work. He took the sheet of the St. Paul Chronicle from his pocket and regarded it with satisfaction.

  “St. Paul—Winnipeg.”

  Pushing it back into his apron, he began to rub his old duster over a muddy shoe. As he worked, he whistled, and the tune that he whistled was:

  Mademoiselle from Armentieres, parlez-vous …

  XIII

  CROSSING THE LINE

  As the village clock struck seven next morning, the sun was already shining placidly upon the meadows and white lanes of Craiglea. The rooks had long left their nests in the elm trees and were stalking insects in the freshly mown hayfields. Mrs. Bernard-Moss could hear their greedy squawks as she strolled up the lane which led from the village to the school.

  She had often expressed a desire to get up in time for an English dawn, and this morning, it seemed, she had realized her wish. Her smart brown brogues were wet with dew, as though she had been up and about for some time. In her hand she held a bee-orchid—that rare, exotic flower which can only be found deep in the meadows.

  The early sunlight was reflected in the American lady’s amber eyes and played kindly with her porcelain complexion as she passed along the flowered hedgerows and paused every now and then to admire the scarlet poppies which nodded among the ripening wheat.

  Apart from the chattering birds and a few early meadow browns, she had the whole countryside to herself. She seemed to relish the solitude, for when a faint trundling sound echoed from the gravel behind her, her creamy forehead rippled into a frown. She turned and gazed anxiously down the lane. A tall, lean man was moving towards her, pushing a wheelbarrow. For a moment she hesitated, then, as though coming to a sudden decision she strolled back to meet him.

  “Good morning, Mr. McFee; you’re up early too.”

  McFee set down the barrow, which was loaded with a large sack of potatoes. “Quite a lot of us seem to be early risers this morning,” he said, glancing at his fellow-countrywoman under his lids. “I’ve just passed Mr. Nettleton. He was cycling down to the village.”

  “Mr. Nettleton?” Mrs. Bernard-Moss twirled the bee-orchid with what seemed to be almost studied indifference. “I didn’t see him.”

  “You didn’t?” McFee picked up the barrow and started forward. “Well, I’ve got to hurry. I’m supposed to get back before breakfast. Are you going up to the school, Mrs. Moss?”

  The American lady strolled along at his side. “I might as well. I found this exquisite flower. I thought there was just a chance of meeting Irving. If we don’t see him, perhaps you’d be kind enough to give it to him. It’s a bee-orchid and I believe they’re quite rare.”

  McFee did not reply, and for some moments they walked along the summer lane in silence.

  She followed him along the worn turf of the footpath and together they made their way through the sorrel and marguerites. Until that moment, for all the signs of civilization, they might have been in the sixteenth century. Now, however, the sight of the Great Western Railway lines brought them back to modern times. The track ran straight across the next field and then swung abruptly to the right. It was raised above the ground by a small embankment and bordered by a wire fence.

  Mrs. Bernard-Moss stared at the gleaming rails as though she resented their intrusion into the idyllic country scene. Then a more pleasant thought seemed to strike her, for her eyes took on a softer expression.

  “Railroad tracks always remind me of my husband,” she murmured, absently plucking a clover head and sucking the honey from the blooms. “He has to travel so much, but unfortunately it’s always on business, poor man. He’s never had time to go to Europe, though I know he’d love it here. I think he’d understand how I feel about it, too. He’d never laugh at me for getting up so early and wandering around in the meadows like a crazy person.”

  McFee shot her a swift glance. “You say your husband wouldn’t laugh at you. Why should anyone laugh?”

  “All the friends I had before I married would.” Myra Bernard-Moss waved an arm airily. “Up all night, sleep all day. You know how stage people are.”

  “Stage people?”

  “Oh, dear, now it’s out!” She flushed, and turned to the detective impulsively. “I shouldn’t have said that. I was on the stage for a time before my marriage. Of course it’s silly, but my husband has asked me not to speak about it. His set at home are rather stuffy and he has a certain reputation to keep up.” She laughed nervously. “We made a little compact not to mention my—questionable past. You won’t tell them at the school, please.”

  McFee’s smile was the model of discretion. “Why, no, Mrs. Moss. My job’s to find out, not to tell.”

  “Oh, thank you, thank you.”

  As they made their way along the footpath towards the next field, Mrs. Bernard-Moss became suddenly garrulous. She began to chat about America, about how pleasant it was to have a fellow American to talk to, and how unfortunate that circumstances prevented their having much conversation. With rather forced brightness she started to ask questions about McFee’s family—his wife and children.

  A hint of amusement flickered in the detective’s eyes, and with the curt remark that he was unmarried, he began to manipulate the barrow over a small rhine which divided their field from the one through which the railway lines passed.

  Directly in front of them at the end of the path, a little white gate in the wire-fence marked the level-crossing.

  As the two Americans stood there, both lost in their own thoughts, the great train swept round the bend. First the engine itself with its vivid green flanks and flashing wheels, then the stream of carriages—long and low like some enormous, mechanical caterpillar.

  Instinctively Mrs. Bernard-Moss clutched McFee’s strong arm. And as she did so, the noise of screaming brakes split the air. The whole train shuddered; the rattling carriages jerked to and fro; the wheels locked and yelled against the polished rails.

  “My God, it’s stopping! Something’s wrong!” McFee sprang towards the level-crossing. His sudden movement overturned the barrow and a hundredweight of potatoes spilled over the ground.

  As the engine ground to a stop immediately in front of them, a cascade of tiny sparks was visible beneath its wheels.

  With startled eyes, Mrs. Bernard-Moss watched McFee vault the gate and dash up the bank. Around her the meadow was strewn with potatoes. She gazed at them, as if fascinated, but her eyes were blank and expressionless. From the carriages in front, she was half-conscious of the curious buzz of voices. Dozens of heads were peering from the windows—heads of bowler-hatted businessmen, open-neck-shirted trippers, weathered country women. …

  “What’s happened?”… “Why are we stopping?”… “Is it an accident?”

  The same questions echoed again and again across the meadows, which but a moment before had been soundless save for the drone of bees and the distant clucking of hens.

  Mrs. Bernard-Moss stood motionless. In her hand she still held the fast-wilting bee-orchid. Her eyes had turned now from the potatoes at her feet and were gazing at McFee.

  Two men had leapt from the driver’s car and were talking eagerly with the detective. From the strained, unnatural gestures, the tense faces, it was obvious that something very serious had happened.

  “We tried to stop … of course … too late…”

  A fragment of their conversation floated towards Mrs. Bernard-Moss. Then the three men turned and began to run down the carriages towards the end of the train.

  The American lady’s cheeks were as white as the wraiths of smoke which still twirled slowly upward above the tree-tops. It was as though some instinct had warned her of what the men would find back there on the rails—some instinct which urged her to follow, but at the same time held her rooted to the spot.

  At length she seemed to slip ou
t of a dream. Stumbling through the scattered potatoes, she ran to the gate of the level-crossing, pushed it open and scrambled up the bank to the railway tracks. She hurried past the engine which was still panting stertorously, and made her way along the crowded coaches.

  The little group of men was clustered around a spot about twenty yards ahead. Their backs were to her and they were crouching forward tensely. As she pressed on, she was vaguely aware of hurrying footsteps behind her, but every nerve in her body was concentrated upon McFee, who was bending over something—something which lay across the rails.

  Mrs. Bernard-Moss’s face was like a death-mask. She stumbled and a shower of loose pebbles clanged across the tracks. The men in front tautened. Then McFee sprang up and spun round, his face haggard and white.

  “Keep back, Mrs. Moss!” he shouted. “Keep back! You can’t come here! For God’s sake, keep back!”

  She paused. Her eyes had rested upon a purple Craiglea cap, lying forlornly on the side of the embankment. A hand went to her throat. McFee moved towards her, and for an instant she caught a glimpse of a small, dark mound hunched across the tracks. The ground seemed to be moving beneath her feet.

  “Irving! … Oh, my God!”

  Myra Bernard-Moss swayed like a poplar in a breeze. The bee-orchid slipped from her fingers and twisted to the ground. She crushed it beneath her as she fell.

  When she regained consciousness, she was lying under the railway embankment. A strong arm circled her shoulders. Her amber eyes flickered open and stared dazedly into the face of—Harvey Nettleton.

  “Myra,” he whispered, “you must—you must be brave.”

  XIV

  THE PAINTED LADY

  A few hours later four men had gathered in the headmaster’s study. Outside, the sunlight was still bright. It shone through the dusty window-pane, throwing the faces of the little group into stark relief, Sir Wilfrid was seated at the desk, very much on the alert. Mr. Dodd had sunk into one of the leather chairs, while McFee stood against the wall next to the stocky figure of Saunders, Chief Inspector of Police from Saltmarsh.