Murder Most Studious

by L. M. Thornburg

  “No, I’m fine. I just got a little turned around after using the restroom. The salon is that way, right?” I ask, pointing down the hall.

  “Yes, miss, then take a right,” she says, then curtsies.

  “Thank you,” I say as I hurry past her, cheeks burning. I hope she doesn’t mention this to Mrs. Brigg. I left everything the way I found it, so she shouldn’t be able to tell I was in the office. Surely visitors get turned around all the time in this giant house.

  When I walk back into the salon, the three women are laughing uproariously about something. That seems like a good sign.

  “There you are,” Mrs. Brigg says when she sees me. “Don’t feel bad if you got a little lost. Everyone does here.”

  “Just a little turned around. Your maid was very helpful directing me back.”

  “Yes, Clare is quite on top of things. I don’t know what I would do without her most days,” Mrs. Brigg says.

  We finish our tea and stay a little longer until it seems appropriate to leave. Mrs. Brigg seems so grateful that we came by. I feel terrible.

  “I hope you found something helpful,” Freya says as soon as we’re in the car.

  “Maybe. I’m not sure. I feel bad about all of this, guys. Mrs. Brigg seems so lonely. I feel like I took advantage of her. And I shouldn’t have involved the two of you,” I say.

  “You don’t need to feel guilty. I offered to help you and it’s not like you stole from Mrs. Brigg, you’re just trying to prove you didn’t kill her husband,” Freya says.

  “Yes, it’s fine,” Cat says. “Even if we were visiting her to do a little spying, it was still nice to stop by and see Mrs. Brigg. And it was a lovely tea.”

  “Plus, she literally spent the entire time talking bad about people. So don’t feel bad,” Freya says.

  “Thanks guys. I hope it turns out to be worth it. Did Mrs. Brigg say anything interesting while I was snooping?”

  “I don’t know if this will be helpful, but she mentioned that Brigg has always had a chip on his shoulder because she has more money than him,” Freya says.

  “She said he was constantly scheming to make more money, but most of his ideas didn’t work. It seemed to have been a tremendous strain on their marriage,” Cat says.

  “That’s something I’ll never understand,” Freya says. “If you marry someone wealthy, then why wouldn’t you just enjoy it?”

  “Exactly,” Cat says. “I think some people just like being miserable.”

  “That could be helpful. I’ll keep digging a little. I hope this outing will prove to have been more than just for fun.”

  * * * * *

  Later, when I’m in my apartment alone, I upload the photos I took from my phone to my computer, so that the bank statements are easier to read. I have no idea what I’m looking for, but I scroll through all the pages, trying to find anything unusual.

  Most of the entries seem to be normal: debits for shopping, restaurants, etc. The only credits I see are what I assume was Professor Brigg’s salary and a check for $1000 that shows up every month, except for the last two months. It doesn’t have a name on it, though, just a bank. Weird. One of Brigg’s money-making schemes?

  After visiting the Briggs’ house, I’m not shocked by the large total balance. If Mrs. Brigg is an heiress, then I’m sure, along with her checking account, she has quite a few other assets. It makes little sense that she would kill Brigg for money. It would make sense if he killed her for money. Maybe he tried to shove her off the tower, but ended up falling himself?

  I don’t know what the $1000 that comes in every month is. And why did it stop? I suppose it could be any number of things, but it seems strange. I’m probably just grasping at straws because it’s the only thing that looks even remotely like a clue on the bank statements.

  I bring up the adoption papers and try to figure out what they mean. It looks like a couple living in Manchester, England, adopted a baby girl. I don’t recognize their names. The baby’s name isn’t listed nor are the baby’s biological parents. Did Brigg find out he had a child he didn’t know about and was trying to track her down? Or did Mrs. Brigg give a baby away for adoption and want to reconnect?

  Lastly, I look at the ripped paper. It has the words your, know, me, around written in sloppy handwriting. It’s impossible to tell how much of the original paper is missing or what it might have said. I spend a few minutes playing around with the words, trying to decipher what the note might have said, but then I have to give up.

  I don’t know if I’ve stumbled onto anything important or not. I feel like I’ve found some clues, but they’re not adding up to anything that makes sense. Now that the only plan I had is finished and I haven’t found anything that positively points to Mrs. Brigg being the killer, I feel exhausted and somewhat defeated. I decide to just go to bed. Maybe taking a few days off from trying to solve these murders will give me some new insight.

  Chapter 15

  I spend the next few days focusing on my classes and pushing any thought of the murders out of my head as soon as they appear. This is going well until Friday afternoon when I get a phone call from the detectives asking me to come to the station at my earliest convenience to answer some more questions. I can’t imagine what questions they could possibly need to ask me that they haven’t already.

  I’ve never been in trouble with the police before. I’ve never even been pulled over for speeding. I don’t know how their investigations work, especially here in the UK, but asking me to come to the police station seems more official than when they just dropped by to question me. Does this mean I’m their only suspect or is this normal procedure? I try to keep myself from jumping to conclusions, but this doesn’t seem like a positive step for me.

  After my last class, I walk back to my apartment, trying to decide what to do. I really don’t want to go to the police station. The idea terrifies me. I should comply with the police and do what they’re asking, though. Or things might get worse. They could show up at the school and force me to go to the station. I shudder, imagining being handcuffed in front of one of my classes. I decide to just get it over with and go right now before I talk myself out of going.

  I spend the drive in to Carlisle imagining every reason the police might want to question me again. By the time the cab driver drops me off, I’m a nervous mess. The police station is a newer brick building with lots of windows. It doesn’t look too scary, but my heart is still racing as I walk up the sidewalk to the front door.

  My hands are shaking so much that I have trouble opening the door. I walk inside and give the front desk clerk my name and tell him that Inspector Trumble requested I come in. He points to some chairs and asks me to sit until they call me back. I nervously flip through the paltry magazine offerings while I wait to be questioned by the police again.

  After I’ve been waiting for what seems like hours, but turns out to only have been twenty minutes, the desk clerk takes me through a door and down a hallway to a room with a table and three chairs.

  “Inspector Trumble and Inspector Jeffers will be with you shortly. Go ahead and have a seat. Can I bring you a cup of tea or some water?” he asks.

  “No, thank you,” I say, sitting down on one of the hard, metal chairs. He closes the door and I’m alone in the room. The walls are bare and painted an ugly beige color, the chairs are uncomfortable, and the room smells like mothballs. I’m sure the police don’t want to make the people they’re questioning too comfortable, but this seems unnecessarily sparse.

  Eventually, Inspector Trumble and Inspector Jeffers come in and sit down across from me.

  “Thank you for coming in so quickly,” Inspector Trumble says. “We’re taking your willingness to cooperate into consideration.”

  “I don’t understand how you can think I had anything to do with either man’s death. I didn’t know Professor Brigg at all, and I barely knew Frank. I’m sure there are plenty of people that had history with them that would be much more likely suspects,” I s
ay.

  “Yes, well, we are trying to be thorough. No stone unturned. We just keep coming back to you being the one to find both bodies,” Inspector Trumble says.

  “I don’t know what to tell you, except, apparently, I have terrible luck,” I say.

  “Exceptionally bad luck, it seems,” Inspector Jeffers says.

  “Whatever the reason, we would not be doing our duty if we didn’t have you come in and answer some more questions,” Inspector Trumble says.

  “I want to help, but I don’t know what I might tell you that I haven’t already,” I say.

  “We’ll see. Maybe you’ll remember something new,” Inspector Trumble says.

  I spend the next two hours answering questions I’ve already answered. Several times. If they think I’m guilty, then who knows how long this could go on. I just try to be patient and honest. I know I didn’t do anything wrong, but I still worry that I’ll say something that will make me seem guilty.

  After a while, they seem disappointed, which I take as a good sign. They let me leave, but once again caution me from traveling anywhere too far away. I can’t believe they still think I had anything to with the murders.

  I’m angry and upset and make a spur-of-the-moment decision to stop by a pub that I noticed because of its name a few blocks from the police station. Normally, I would never go to a pub before five o’clock, or alone, but I just want to stop panicking.

  Inside, the Librarian looks like a traditional British pub, except for the rows of bookshelves covering the back wall. According to a sign on the wall, the books are free for all patrons as long as they stay in the pub. I wonder if anyone actually reads the books while they’re here.

  I order a porter and sit at a table towards the back. The only other patrons are two older gentlemen sitting at the bar, loudly discussing the state of the country.

  I sip my beer, hoping my heart will stop racing soon. I can’t stop thinking about the police considering me a suspect in the murders. My imagination takes off, seeing handcuffs and prison in my future. What happens to an American arrested for murder in Britain?

  In order to stop this tailspin, I turn to the bookshelf beside me and methodically read the title of each book. There are every genre represented on the shelves in no sort of order that I can see. After a few minutes of this (and half of my beer), my heart is no longer racing. I like The Librarian. It’s very charming. It’s somewhere I wouldn’t mind coming back to under better circumstances. Maybe the next time Malcolm visits.

  I’m just finishing my beer when the conversation at the bar catches my attention.

  “My daughter went to Ashbourne for a few years and she’s been right shocked by what's been happening there.” One of the gentlemen says.

  “Someone turning up dead once a week. It’s a travesty,” agrees his companion.

  “The police need to find the killer before the whole school closes down.”

  I quickly grab my purse and hurry out before I have to hear any more about the exact thing I was trying to escape from. Which I now realize is impossible.

  I grab a cab back to Ashbourne and settle in to the backseat, exhausted. It’s been a roller coaster of a day and I wish I could just go straight to bed, but I know if I did I wouldn’t be able to sleep. I can’t stop myself from the worry cycling through my mind.

  As soon as I’m home, I hop in the shower to wash the feeling of incrimination off of me. Then I call Malcolm and tell him everything. He’s so supportive, offering to drive down again, but I tell him I’ll be okay. I know he’s busy and he can’t just drop everything every time something upsetting happens.

  After I hang up with Malcolm, I make a sandwich and turn on Netflix. I try to concentrate on the movie, but my mind is going over and over the questions the police asked. I know that all of my answers have been the same every time they’ve questioned me because I’ve been telling the truth, but I can’t help but over-analyze everything I said. It’s like after you’ve taken a test and you’re trying to remember if you got all the answers correct. Did I fail the test?

  I don’t know what I’m going to do. It seems like the police haven’t figured anything out. And I feel like I’ve hit a wall and have learned nothing new with my own investigative efforts. I give up watching the movie completely and get out my notebook.

  The main clues I have are the bank statement and the adoption papers. I only have two subjects: Mrs. Brigg and the mystery student. I haven’t learned anything conclusive about Mrs. Brigg, and I still have no idea who the student is. I feel like the student I overheard will be impossible to find now. I should have gone after her that night, just to make sure she was okay, but Freya made that impossible.

  I spend some time going thinking through everything that’s happened, trying to come up with at least one more person who makes even the tiniest amount of sense as the murderer. I can’t seem to make anyone else fit into the puzzle. I need more information.

  Maybe I should look into the adoption more. It could be something. I don’t really want to dig into a stranger’s business, especially with something as personal as adoption. But I could try to find out more about the adoptive parents and the baby girl online. Maybe that would lead somewhere.

  Before I go to bed, I check my email and see that Ms. Bowerton has invited me to have tea with her tomorrow to chat about how my classes are going. I send her a reply telling her that sounds lovely and then head to bed, hoping I’ll sleep.

  * * * * *

  I keep myself busy with lesson planning until it’s time to have tea with Ms. Bowerton. I have no idea what to expect from this meeting. I asked Freya about it and she said Ms. Bowerton has never asked her to have tea alone. I’m trying not to assume this is necessarily a bad thing. Maybe Ms. Bowerton thinks I’ve done a stellar job of teaching and wants to commend me. But I have my doubts.

  I change my clothes four times before settling on a casual linen dress and flats. Whatever this is about, Ms. Bowerton is my boss, so I don’t think I should dress too informally, but I also don’t want to look ridiculous.

  She’s asked me to meet her at her apartment, which is actually in the same building as mine, on the bottom floor. I didn’t know she even lived on campus, and I’ve never seen her around our apartments. I suppose she feels she’s needs to keep a proper distance between herself and the rest of the staff.

  I’m a couple of minutes early when I knock on her door. When she answers, I’m surprised to see she’s wearing jeans and a sweater. I’ve only ever seen her wearing suits and heels. Her apartment is huge. It’s easily three times the size of mine. All of her decor is traditional. Lots of antiques and oil paintings. I wonder if it came with the apartment or if she picked it out herself.

  “Thank you for coming to tea, Alice. I know it was short notice, but I wanted to check in and see how things are with you,” Ms. Bowerton says, leading me to a table set for tea.

  “Thank you for inviting me,” I say as she pours us both tea. I help myself to a scone with clotted cream and wait for her to give me a sign of where this conversation is heading.

  “I feel you’ve had a bit of a rocky start to the year with both of the tragedies that have befallen our school and your unfortunate luck with finding both of the bodies. Your classes seem to be going just fine, though. Please let me know if you need my help with anything. I’m always available to assist staff members,” she says.

  “Thank you. I’m doing okay. I would be doing better if the police would stop questioning me, though,” I say with a nervous laugh.

  “Oh? They’ve talked to you again? I didn’t know they’d been back on campus,” she says with a frown.

  “They haven’t been. They asked me to come to the police station yesterday. I don’t know why they want to keep talking to me. I don’t know anything about what happened to Professor Brigg or to Frank,” I say.

  “They think you know something or they suspect you, I would imagine.”

  “They haven’t said that I’m a suspect,
but they said it’s suspicious that I found both of the bodies. It just seems to me like they don’t have any idea who did it.”

  “Hmm. Quite. Well, maybe some time off to deal with all of this would be a good idea,” Ms. Bowerton says briskly.

  “Oh, no. I’m fine,” I say quickly. “I know you’re worried about the police being around the students but I don’t think they will need to come back.”

  “Yes, I hope not,” she says with a tight smile.

  I don’t reply, and the silence is uncomfortable while we sip our tea.

  “I recently happened across an article at the library about you taking the head mistress job here. Apparently you were scandalously young,” I say, changing the subject. “What did you do before that?”

  “I was a professor at another school. History,” she says. “It’s odd that you found that article. Were you researching something?”

  “I’m just trying to learn a little background about the school. I feel like all the staff has been here a while and knows everything about each other, so I’m trying to catch up.”

  “Until this year, I would say there’s not a lot to know. Usually not a hint of scandal surrounds us, but now we seem to be drowning in it. I hope nothing else happens, otherwise I fear parents will begin pulling their students out. I’ve spent the last few weeks fielding numerous phone calls from concerned parents.”

  “I can imagine it’s been tricky. It would be good to put all of this nasty business behind us,” I say.

  “Yes, one does so hope to.”

  We chat a little more about this and that, then I’m dismissed. I’m still not entirely sure what that was all about. Perhaps she wanted to remind me that my job is in a perilous position? She certainly doesn’t need to that. It’s almost all I can think about. She intimidates me and I don’t want to lose my job, but it is her job to protect the students and the school. So I guess I can’t blame her for needing me to steer clear of the police.