Murder Most Studious

by L. M. Thornburg

  “I do too. I’m not ready for the night to end,” I say, hoping he doesn’t think I’m being too forward.

  “Me, either,” he says, taking my hand. “I know we only met a few days ago and I am not a one-night stand kind of guy at all. I would like to keep seeing you even long-distance.”

  “I would like that too,” I say, smiling up at him. “I would invite you back to the apartment I’m staying at, but it might be more trouble than it’s worth.”

  “If you’re okay with it, my apartment isn’t too far. I can call us a car, or…”

  “That sounds great, and I’m good with walking,” I say, wanting a little more time to calm my nerves about before we get to Malcolm’s place. I’m experiencing a flurry of emotions: nervousness, uncertainty, but mostly excitement.

  Malcolm’s place is nice, but exactly what you would expect for a bachelor. A little sparse, although he has some nice art on the walls. I sit on the couch while he goes to pour us glasses of wine. I send Freya a quick text letting her know I’m fine, but not to wait up for me. She sends me a lot of excited emojis back.

  Malcolm comes back in and hands me a glass of red wine. I take a large sip and look at him. I’m suddenly so shy that I can hardly stand it. He is gorgeous and I desperately want him to kiss me, but at this moment my heart is beating so fast, I’m afraid he can hear it.

  Malcolm moves closer to me. He sets his wine down and then takes my glass from me and sets it beside his on the table. And then he kisses me. Slowly. My body responds and I let it. I will not let myself think about anything except how this feels. And it feels good.

  I end up staying the entire night and waking to Malcolm smiling beside me.

  “Good morning,” he says. “Care for some coffee and breakfast?”

  “That would be amazing,” I say, stretching. “I like your bed.”

  “I like you in my bed.”

  I can’t stop myself from giggling.

  “I can’t send you back to England without a proper breakfast. Up you get,” Malcolm says, pulling me from the bed. I follow him to the kitchen and sit at the table.

  “I hope sausage and porridge are okay. And cappuccinos,” he says, putting a cup in front of me.

  “That sounds great. Can I help you with anything?” I ask.

  “No, I woke up earlier and started everything. I’m almost done,” he says. “What time is your train?”

  “Not until 1:15. So I don’t need to rush.”

  “Good. I was hoping you wouldn’t have to leave too early.” He brings over a jar of honey and a bowl of almonds, a plate of sausage, and then two bowls full of porridge.

  “So porridge is like oatmeal?” I ask.

  “I think so. You can add honey and nuts if you like. My mam made porridge for our family every morning and I still like to eat it a few days a week.”

  “It’s yummy and warm, so I can see why. Tell me about what you were like as a boy.”

  “I was a mostly good boy. I enjoyed reading, but I also loved being outdoors. I grew up on a farm in the countryside, so my brothers and I had lots of space to roam. It was pretty idyllic.”

  “It sounds lovely. My brother and I grew up in a small town, not on a farm, but it was still pretty nice. I also loved reading, which is mostly why I became an English teacher.”

  “So you enjoy teaching?”

  “Yes. I’m sure no one loves every part of their job, but most of the time teaching is great. We actually had a tragedy happen at school a few weeks ago, which is part of the reason we all wanted to get away for the weekend,” I say. I hadn’t planned on telling Malcolm about Brigg. I hadn’t even thought about all of that until just now, when he asked me about teaching.

  I end up telling him the whole awful story. He seems concerned about how I’m dealing with everything and I appreciate it. It’s nice to have someone care about my well-being. Especially someone I just spent the night with.

  After we finish breakfast, Malcolm walks me back to the apartment. I don’t want to go back to school, to my job. I want to stay here with Malcolm. I feel like throwing a big toddler tantrum about it. But I’m an adult, so I don’t have a choice. We promise to call each other and we share a long lingering kiss goodbye, then I’m watching him walk off down the sidewalk.

  I take a few minutes to compose myself before going up to the apartment. I know I’ll be barraged with questions, and right now, I just want to enjoy the last lingering effects of Malcolm’s kiss.

  Chapter 9

  The teasing and the questions start immediately. I tell them as little as they let me get away with, and then we have to get packed up to leave. I’m sure they will insist on more details on the train ride home. We stop into a Tesco on our way to the station to grab sandwiches and drinks. Once we’re on the train, I try to sidestep another round of questions by asking them what they did last night.

  “Did you guys have a good time last night?” I ask, unwrapping my egg and cress sandwich.

  “It was exhausting,” Samantha says. “I think I’m too old to be going to clubs.”

  “It was… a lot,” Cat says.

  “We may have stayed out too late and had too much to drink, but you have to admit the fight was exciting,” Freya says, laughing.

  “There was a fight?” I ask.

  “Right in front of us,” Cat says with a look of horror.

  “It wasn’t a big deal. Just a couple of blokes knocking each other around a bit. The bouncer kicked them out before it went too far,” Freya says.

  “That was enough excitement for me. I prefer establishments without threat of a bar fight breaking out,” Samantha says.

  “I don’t think I would have enjoyed that either,” I say, laughing. “That sounds a little stressful.”

  “Not all of us met the man of our dreams on this trip,” Freya says, wiggling her eyebrows at me.

  “I’m sure he’s not perfect, but he seems pretty close. I haven’t felt this way about anyone in a long time. I just wish he was closer,” I say.

  “Long-distance relationships are tough,” Samantha says. “I dated a guy for three years, then he moved to Tokyo for his job and we broke up after a month. We couldn’t handle it.”

  “Don’t tell her that!” Cat says. “You can make it work. If you’re meant to be together, then it will work out. You just need to keep yourself busy.”

  “We have Fall Family Weekend coming up and tons to do for it. So you will be busy,” Samantha says.

  “We’ll keep you busy and we’ll give you lots of tea and sympathy,” Freya says.

  “Thanks, guys. It’s not the ideal situation, but I’ll try not to whine about it too much. And you’re right about staying busy. Did you see the email Ms. Bowerton sent out about FFW?” I ask.

  “I saw it,” Samantha says.

  “Me too,” Cat agrees.

  “You all checked your work email this weekend?” Freya asks with a loud sigh. “Fine. What was it about?”

  We spend the rest of the trip discussing all the tasks Ms. Bowerton has assigned us to get ready for the big fall weekend that’s two weeks away. By the time the train pulls into our station, we each have a lengthy to-do list.

  * * * * *

  We get back mid-afternoon with plenty of time to get ready for class the next day. I putter around my apartment unpacking and straightening up, then I look over my class plans for tomorrow. I check my email and there’s another one from Ms. Bowerton. The school is hosting a last-minute memorial for Professor Brigg at the school chapel tomorrow afternoon. We’re all required to be there.

  I sigh. I don’t feel ready to get back to all that business. Although, if there is going to be a memorial, maybe that means all of it is coming to an end. It would be nice to move on from Brigg’s death, although I still don’t think he killed himself.

  I walk to the dining hall with Cat and Freya.

  “Where’s Samantha?” I ask.

  “She didn’t feel like going,” Cat says. “She’s a little ups
et about having to attend the memorial.”

  “Of course she is. That would be hard,” I say.

  “She’ll be okay. She’s tough, but she didn’t want to hear all the chatter about it at the dining hall,” Cat says.

  “Because, of course, that’s the only thing people will talk about,” Freya says.

  Sunday night dinners are always a salad bar along with deli meats and cheeses put out to make our own sandwiches. We help ourselves, then move to a table. Freya is right. As I walk through the room, I can hear bits and pieces of what people are saying and it seems to be about the memorial.

  I hate that Samantha’s upset about the memorial, but I get it. Memorials are about celebrating the life of someone that died and if the someone that died was terrible to you, you wouldn’t necessarily want to celebrate their life.

  We walk back to our apartments, discussing the memorial. No one really wants to go, but the headmistress said it was mandatory, so we have to. I just want to put all of this behind me. I feel like my entire time in England has been tainted. I want all of this to be over. I want to have a normal life without worrying that I might be a murder suspect just because I stumbled over a body.* * * * *

  The memorial is somber, of course, but also impersonal. It’s as if everything being said about Brigg came from a compliment generator. I try to be attentive, but it’s difficult. Instead, I look around, attempting to see if any of the students seem overly upset, trying to remember something about the student I overheard talking, but I don’t notice anyone in particular.

  I see a few teary-eyed students, but even more seem to be completely checked out, oblivious to this being a memorial. But whether that’s because they’re teenage girls or because they’re not sad that one of their professors died, I can’t tell. Eventually I give up trying to learn anything from the students and just watch the adults.

  Mrs. Brigg seems to be the perfect grieving widow. She’s dressed all in black, including a hat with a veil. She constantly blots her eyes with a tissue. It’s very dramatic, but I can’t tell if she’s actually this upset or if she’s acting.

  I don’t notice anyone else doing anything odd. Everyone is sitting quietly, appearing to listen to the vicar. After the service, the students are released back to their regularly scheduled activities. The staff, if not directly involved in the students’ activities, are required to go to a tea to express our condolences to Mrs. Brigg.

  Samantha doesn’t say a single word as the four of us walk to the dining hall. I’m sure she’s experiencing an array of emotions. It would be difficult to have to attend a memorial for someone’s life that you despised.

  Despite being the person who found his body, I’m probably the person the least emotionally affected by Brigg’s death at the school. I never spoke to him a single time, so my only opinion of him has been formed by what everyone else has told me.

  We don’t go into the large dining hall, but a room off to the side that I’ve never been in. A hall reserved for private functions, I assume. I don’t know who has taken the time to plan this tea at the last minute; I assume Ms. Bowerton, but it is very nice.

  There are lots of tiny sandwiches, scones with clotted cream, and different bite-size sweets. And of course, large pots of tea. We move through the line, helping ourselves to tea and treats. Then I follow Freya, Samantha, and Cat to the far side of the room.

  I know this is a somber event, but the tension in the room is uncomfortable. I don’t think Ms. Bowerton should have made this mandatory because it seems like many people do not want to be here. Of course, maybe she was worried that if she didn’t make the staff go, no one would attend at all.

  The four of us nibble on our food, and Cat makes the occasional comment about whatever she’s just tasted. I notice most people in the room are doing the same. Mrs. Brigg is standing beside Ms. Bowerton, who is rather awkwardly patting her arm.

  I feel the tiniest bit of guilt. Or maybe it’s not guilt, but a sense of responsibility. No matter what type of man Brigg was, it seems rude to not give our condolences to his widow.

  “Should we go say something to Mrs. Brigg?” I ask.

  Freya looks up, surprised. “Why would we do that?”

  “I thought that was why we’re at this tea,” I say.

  “I’m not going to,” Samantha says. “I know she had nothing to do with what her husband did to me, but I don’t think I can fake being kind to her.”

  “Me either,” Cat says.

  “She can be slightly unhinged,” Freya says. “I don’t want to take the chance that she goes mental on us. That would be worse than just saying nothing.”

  “Well, okay. You guys obviously understand the situation better than I do,” I say, surprised by their attitudes.

  We continue to stand around awkwardly until we hear loud voices across the room. Mrs. Brigg seems to be yelling at the woman that has come up to talk to her. I don’t know all the staff yet, but I’m pretty sure she’s a teacher because I see her around a lot. She’s wearing a somber navy dress and her long, curly red hair is pulled back into a ponytail. She’s also carrying a jacket and a bright blue and white scarf with some sort of pattern that I can’t see from where I’m standing.

  The woman seems afraid of Mrs. Brigg, but then she raises her head and says something directly to Mrs. Brigg’s face. And as the entire room stands watching, Mrs. Brigg slaps the woman across the face and storms out. The woman, her green eyes wide, stands there holding her face, shocked.

  “See. That could have been one of us,” Freya says.

  “What in the world was that about? She’s a teacher, right?” I ask.

  “That’s Dottie Green. She’s in the math department,” Samantha says.

  “I’ve heard rumors that she and Brigg had something going on,” Freya says.

  “I don’t think that’s true. He probably just wanted something to be going on,” Cat says.

  “So Mrs. Brigg heard the rumor, and that’s what the slap was about?” I ask.

  “Probably. Maybe. Who knows? This whole sordid mess needs to be put to rest, but Mrs. Brigg slapping a teacher isn’t going to help things,” Freya says.

  People clear out pretty quickly after this. As we walk outside, I look around for Mrs. Brigg, but I don’t see her anywhere. She must have jumped into her car and driven away, probably with a screech of tires.

  “I’m glad that’s over. I’m going to pour myself a glass of wine and watch something stupid,” Samantha says once we reach our building.

  Cat squeezes her arm. “I hope all of this is over. Let me know if you want some company.”

  Freya and I tell them goodbye and then walk up the staircase to our hallway.

  “I really hope Samantha can move past all of this now. It’s been a nasty business for her. It completely changed her,” Freya says. “I miss the old Samantha, who was so full of spark and cheer.”

  “I hope we can all move on. Brigg seems like the worst type of human.”

  “He was trash. I’m sure Ms. Bowerton made all of this mandatory because no one would have come otherwise.”

  “I thought that might be the case,” I say. “It didn’t seem like many people were that upset at the memorial or even paying attention.”

  “It’s more likely to have relieved a lot of people. Not only was he a pervert, he also could turn to threatening people to get what he wanted,” Freya says, stopping by my door. “Now that the memorial is over, I hope we can get on with things. We need to get started on decorations for Fall Family Weekend. I’ll plan a work night for later this week.”

  “That sounds good,” I say. “I’ll see you later.”

  I let myself into my apartment and slump onto the couch. I’m surprised at how exhausted I am from the events of today. It ended up being fairly dramatic. I think I might just stay in the rest of the day, too.

  I run myself a bath and settle in with a book and a cup of herbal tea. By the time I get out, my skin is pink, but I’m much more relaxed. I m
ake a sandwich for dinner and have a video chat with Malcolm. I’m so glad we have this technology. It makes long-distance dating a little easier.

  We’re trying to find a weekend that works for both of us to see each other again. He has some family stuff going on and I have fall weekend to get ready for. On the bright side, if all we can do is video chat, that should make getting to know each other a little easier.

  Chapter 10

  The next week goes by quickly. I run, teach, and in the evenings, work on stuff for Fall Family Weekend. One night I even sit down and do some brainstorming about ideas for a novel. I’m thinking about maybe something historical set in Scotland. That’s something I’m interested in and I would require more trips to Scotland, which would mean seeing Malcolm more.

  Also this week, the staff mostly stopped talking about what happened to Brigg. It seems the entire school wants to move on from all of it. Finally, my life here is taking on a normal rhythm.

  My classes have just started reading through Frankenstein. I thought it would be fun to discuss this classic around Halloween. Some of the girls may roll their eyes about it behind my back, but I know there are a few that will find it fun.

  It’s nice to focus on teaching again, rather than death and murder. I still have the occasional nightmare about finding Brigg’s body, but mostly I’m sleeping well again. It’s Friday and Freya has invited Cat, Samantha, and me to her place. It’s supposed to be a work night, but she asked each of us to bring a bottle of wine, so I’m guessing she’s not expecting us to do that much work.

  * * * * *

  “Oh good. You brought red,” Freya says, as soon as she opens her door. She takes the bottle from me and puts it next to two bottles of white wine. “I made lots of yummy treats to go along with the wine.”

  I sit down at the table where Samantha and Cat have poster boards and markers in front of them, but they are eating and drinking wine, not making posters.

  “Alice! It’s so good to see you,” Samantha gushes.