The story of Mr Curtis was all over Deepdean within a day of the beginning of the summer term. There were whispers up and down the corridors, and people turning and looking at us in Prayers. Daisy hated it. I could tell by the way she held her chin up and pressed her lips together. She does not like being pitied – it does not fit in with the myth of the glorious, perfect Daisy Wells. Of course, she was very good about it, thanking everyone prettily for their concern when they asked if she was all right, but I could feel her burning up with rage next to me. The Marys, her devoted followers, bought her the largest box of chocolate creams I have ever seen and left them on her bed. When Daisy found them (luckily, I was the only one with her), she hurled them quite across the dorm. Then she picked them up, and shared them with the rest of us later.
To try to distract everyone, Daisy became more herself than ever, throwing herself into everything and being a Jolly Good Sport to show how all right she was. But beneath it all, she was not all right, and neither was I.
I hate thinking about Fallingford, and what happened there, and the trial that is about to take place, but as the term drew to a close and the day of its beginning grew closer, the words began to go round and round in my head: The Trial, The Trial, The Trial. My mind began to wander in lessons. My hand made restless doodles in the margins of my exercise books and my heart always beat a little faster than normal. Daisy clowned about just the way she always does, exasperating the mistresses and delighting the shrimps and scoring five goals in the hockey match against St Simmonds, but inside she was just as restless and unhappy as I was, and that was why I was so happy that we were both being taken away by my father.
The week before, he had sent me a letter about it:
Dear Hazel,
I hope you are well, and studying diligently. As agreed, I will arrive to collect you and Miss Wells on the morning of Saturday 6 July. I would appreciate you both being ready for a prompt departure – we have a train to catch.
I know that this term has been difficult for you and your friend, and I hope that this change of scene will be good for you both. I have been in contact with Miss Wells’s parents, and they agree. It does seem to me that Miss Wells has a way of getting you into undesirable situations, and that you have a way of going along with her. I want you to try to influence her this holiday – you must be on your best behaviour. I don’t want any talk of crime. You have had far too much of that already. You will be discovering Europe, and enjoying yourselves – I want you to promise me that you will be a good, sensible girl, and show Daisy Wells how to be likewise.
Your loving
Father
I was a little cross when he said that I follow Daisy. That is not true – or at least, not always. Nor was I sure that Daisy would enjoy being a good, sensible girl – but for my father’s sake I decided that I would have to try. And he was right about us and crime, I thought. We had had far too much of that already. I didn’t want to think about death and murder again.
I felt very virtuous as I decided that.
My father emerged, and beckoned us over. I rushed to meet him, and Daisy followed behind.
‘Good morning, girls,’ he said, smiling, hands behind his back. Because of his schooling (he went to Eton), my father speaks perfect English.
I could tell that Daisy was surprised by this, although she did not show it. She only bobbed a curtsey and said, ‘Good morning, Mr Wong. Thank you for letting me come with Hazel.’
‘I could hardly have left you with your matron all summer,’ said my father, who has very firm ideas about justice. ‘Anyway, every child ought to be shown Europe at least once in their life. It expands the mind.’
He was not mentioning the other reason – The Trial – and I was glad.
‘Now, I have a chaperone for you,’ he went on.
I froze. I remembered what had happened in the Easter hols, with the governess Daisy’s parents had hired. Surely not again …
‘Not a governess,’ said my father, as though he had seen inside my mind. ‘Although I expect you to always be learning, I do not see why you cannot manage yourselves. However, I have obtained the services of a certain person you may recognize.’
He waved at the car impatiently, and out of the back popped Hetty’s frizzy red head, a new straw boater perched on it. She was beaming as she curtseyed. Daisy, remembering where she was, only smiled back regally, but inside I think she was dancing with glee. My heart was leaping about too. If we were to be looked after by Hetty, that would not be bad at all. Hetty is the maid who works for Daisy’s family at Fallingford, and she is a true brick – if she were not a grown-up, I am sure she would be an excellent Detective Society member.
‘Now,’ said my father, shooting a slightly dark look at Daisy, ‘I want both of you to behave yourselves. Allowing you this freedom is a very great honour, and I expect you to earn it. Miss Lessing’ – he meant Hetty – ‘will be your maid, and I expect you to be good and polite to her. Is that understood?’
‘Yes, Father,’ I said.
‘Now, into the car.’ He smiled again. ‘Trains will not wait, and we are catching the twelve fifty-five to Dover. Don’t look like that, Hazel. The crossing will be quick.’
I blushed. My father really is good at knowing what I am thinking, and I had been dreading the ferry to France. Merely thinking about the big ship I travelled on from Hong Kong still gives me a washing feeling in my stomach.
‘We’ll be in France before you know it,’ he added. ‘And then the real excitement will begin!’
That was when Father told us exactly what our holiday would be. Daisy beamed, and even I had to smile. It was quite true. My father does not do anything by halves, and so a holiday around Europe could never mean less to him than the Orient Express.
THE BEGINNING
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First published 2018
Text copyright © Robin Stevens, 2018
Cover, maps and illustrations copyright © Nina Tara, 2018
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Death in the Spotlight Page 24
