In the Hall with the Knife

by Diana Peterfreund

  “What’s missing?” asked Mustard.

  “His personal laptop, for one,” said Mrs. White. “And the lockbox with all the petty cash. Several thousand dollars, easily.” She shook her head.

  “A thief?” asked Finn.

  “A looter!” exclaimed Scarlett.

  Orchid lifted her head. A looter?

  “After a disaster like this, there are always looters,” said Mrs. White. “And with the campus nearly empty for the holidays, and the evacuation order in place, it might be reasonable for a thief to expect that Tudor House was abandoned, too. I think Boddy was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  The rushing sound that had been filling Orchid’s head ever since she’d discovered the body began to fade, just the tiniest bit.

  Mrs. White’s eyes went glassy, but no tears fell. “We had an agreement, he and I. We would sleep downstairs, by the doors and the stairs, so we could hear anything. But I was so tired last night—the storm had kept me up the previous evening. I must have been more deeply asleep than I thought. If some looter broke into the house, he might have woken the headmaster when he was in his room, robbing him.”

  If nothing else, it would explain why no one else had been harmed. Orchid couldn’t imagine any other reason.

  “And he chased the thief into the conservatory?” Scarlett asked.

  “And faced him alone,” said Mrs. White. “And lost his life for it.” She seemed to waver on her feet.

  Orchid and Scarlett jumped up to help the old woman.

  “Really, Mrs. White,” said Scarlett, “it wasn’t your fault.”

  And maybe—just maybe, it wasn’t Orchid’s, either. She’d never felt quite so warmly toward Scarlett in her whole life.

  But Mrs. White merely put a hand over her eyes and sobbed.

  “Come sit down in the study,” said Orchid, her mind reeling. Together, she and Scarlett helped their proctor into the study, where she’d spent the previous evening. She sat on the couch she must have slept on last night. A pile of blankets and sheets were neatly stacked to one side.

  Orchid thought of her own unmade bed, upstairs. Even with all this disaster, Mrs. White had still found a way to take care of her house. Her precious Tudor House that she’d watched over all these years.

  “Can we get you anything?” Scarlett asked. “Tea?”

  “Since when do you know how to boil water, dear?” Mrs. White asked her. At least she hadn’t damaged her sense of humor.

  Scarlett’s lips pursed. “Your stove is tricky.”

  “Not that tricky,” said Orchid. You just had to know how to strike a match.

  “Orchid,” Scarlett declared. “Go put the kettle on.”

  Figured. The second anyone gave Scarlett half a chance, she would put herself in charge.

  Karlee and Kayla appeared at the door.

  “Kayla and I want to know if there’s anything we can do,” Karlee said, wringing her hands. “Like, maybe we can give Mrs. White her room back?”

  “And sleep where?” Scarlett asked.

  Karlee blinked. “Oh, you don’t think we’ll be spending another night in this house, do you? The police are coming now.”

  That remained to be seen. Orchid unfolded a quilt and tucked it around Mrs. White’s knees.

  “And . . . the body, in the conservatory,” Karlee went on, looking a bit pale. “That’s right under our room. If I look out the window, I can see into it.”

  “Or we could,” chimed in Kayla, “if it weren’t for the snow.”

  They could move to her room, but Orchid didn’t imagine they would feel any more comfortable being up the stairs and down the hall from a dead body than they would be directly above it. And if there was even a slight possibility that her own fears were true, they’d be even less safe.

  On the flip side, there was safety in numbers. Maybe she should pack her room full of guests.

  Like a human shield.

  Orchid fluffed a lacy pillow and set it behind Mrs. White on the sofa. “They have a point, ma’am. You might be more comfortable in your own room.”

  “No,” she said firmly. “Headmaster Boddy wanted staff to—to—” She buried her face in her hands. “To protect you children.”

  That hadn’t turned out too well for him, had it? Orchid wrapped her arms around herself and shivered. It was getting colder in here every minute. “Are the guys putting another tarp over the window?”

  “They’re arguing about the best way to do it,” Karlee replied.

  Scarlett pushed past them both. “I’ll take care of it.”

  Orchid raised her hands and stepped back. “You want to be the boss?”

  “Of course.” Scarlett gave her an incredulous look. She and the other girls left to supervise the tarp hanging.

  Alone with Mrs. White, Orchid finished tucking the woman in. “Don’t blame yourself, Mrs. White. I don’t think the looter would have known anyone was here. He won’t be back. We’re all safe now.” How much she wished she could believe it!

  “Safe?” Mrs. White echoed. “We’re never really safe. I have lived in this house since I was your age, and now . . .” She shook her head.

  Orchid understood exactly what she meant. Tudor House was now a murder house, and nothing would ever be the same again. She’d thought Blackbrook was her sanctuary, but even here she’d been discovered. She’d felt at home in Tudor House, but even here there was tragedy and violence.

  Nowhere was really safe. Orchid should have realized that a long time ago.

  “Let me heat you up some soup,” she insisted. She had to keep busy, or she might jump out of her skin.

  Outside in the hall, Scarlett was barking orders at the boys struggling with the tarp. Orchid left the scene as soon as possible, before Scarlett could boss her around, too. In the kitchen, she found the remains of yesterday’s soup in the cooler. She pulled out the container and the broken glasses slipped off her nose. She folded them up and stuck them in the pocket of her sweater. They were turning into too much of a hassle to deal with, anyway. Orchid poured some soup in a pot to heat on the gas stove. At least they still had the gas for heating and cooking. Once the window was covered again, the house would warm up.

  She was lighting the pilot when a rap on the window made her heart leap into her throat.

  Vaughn stood at the window. There was ice crusted on his skin and head, and his down coat hung heavy with water.

  She rushed to the kitchen door. It stuck, and shards of ice shattered all around her when she was finally able to yank it open.

  “What happened!” she cried. “Where’s Rusty? Were you able to contact the police?”

  He was slow to respond and she wondered for a second if he had hypothermia.

  “Rusty,” he said, blinking. “We got separated.”

  “Did you fall off the boat?”

  “The boat sank. Scraped over some kind of debris in the floodwaters . . .”

  She pulled him inside. “Take off that coat. You’re going to freeze. Come sit by the oven.” The soup for Mrs. White could wait. Vaughn needed it now.

  “So it’s bad out there?” She turned the burners all the way up and set a kettle on for good measure.

  “Like the end of the world.” Vaughn took off his boots. One of his socks had a hole in the toe and the other was missing its heel. His sweater had seen better days, too. “The flood is starting to recede in places, but all land beneath the water is ruined. Downed trees and dead animals.”

  “That sounds terrible. Do you think Rusty is okay?”

  “Last I saw him, he’d made it to the far side of the ravine.” He sat with his back against the side of the oven, while Orchid found an old fleece blanket and gave it to him to wrap around his body.

  “That’s good. It means he’ll get to the police. Someone will come and get us.”

  “I wouldn’t hold your breath. It’s a disaster out there.”

  “But they’ve got to prioritize us!” Orchid insisted. “With the headmas
ter being dead? Isn’t that enough of an emergency?”

  Vaughn said nothing. Maybe he was frozen solid. She stopped pestering him. When the broth steamed, she ladled some into a mug and handed it to him.

  “Drink up.”

  He obeyed.

  Dread began to rise within her again. Somehow, she’d convinced herself that it would be all right once the police came, but even Rusty sounded skeptical that they’d be able to make it here anytime soon. And if they couldn’t count on rescue from the authorities . . .

  She put her hands on the edge of the counter and closed her eyes. It wasn’t so bad. Like Mrs. White had said, it was probably a looter—a robbery gone wrong. And if so, the killer was long gone and unlikely to return. They had heat, and water, and a roof over their heads. She checked the pantry. “At least we’ve got plenty of provisions.”

  Vaughn snorted. “Right. We won’t have to resort to cannibalism, like the Donner party.”

  “Huh?” Her eyes narrowed. “Cannibals?”

  “Yes, remember? From history class? They got snowed in for months and had to eat their dead?” He stared out the window. “Sometimes I wonder if I could do that. If I had to.”

  Orchid vaguely recalled that story from class. Strange, Vaughn had seemed so much more charming last night, by firelight. When he hadn’t been discussing eating people.

  After half the mug was gone, she thought he’d probably been sufficiently warmed to hear more updates. “After you left, Finn and Mustard took a look at the body. They identified the knife, and they saw cuts and scrapes on his hands—the hands holding the dagger. Definitely not a suicide.”

  Vaughn just stared at her, unblinking. “What do you mean by that?”

  “We think the headmaster might have been murdered,” said a voice by the door. Orchid looked up to see Scarlett standing there with Finn. “We came by to see if you were heating the kettle by the light of a candle.”

  “Vaughn said the boat sunk,” she explained to them. “He and Rusty were separated. And just look at him! He’s nearly frozen through.”

  “I’m not so bad now,” he said. “There are dozens of rabbits and foxes and deer floating around out there who are way worse off than me.”

  “Gross,” said Scarlett. “I think we’ve all had enough of corpses for one day.”

  “Is Rusty okay?” Finn asked.

  Vaughn lifted one shoulder. “He made it to the other side of the ravine. I’m sure he’s in the village by now.”

  Or dead of hypothermia, Orchid thought.

  “You said you think the headmaster was murdered?” Vaughn asked. He peered at each of them in turn, his gaze intent but unreadable.

  “Yes,” said Scarlett. “Probably a looter. There’s cash and Boddy’s computer missing from his room. We think someone came in here last night trying to rob the house, had a run-in with Headmaster Boddy, and escaped.”

  Vaughn nodded thoughtfully. “Would a looter just steal from Boddy and leave?”

  Orchid caught her breath. “What do you mean?”

  Vaughn shrugged. “Blackbrook kids have nice stuff. I imagine a thief would think there’s plenty to take.”

  “Well,” said Scarlett, “we think maybe he didn’t know anyone was here and was just getting started when the headmaster surprised him, and after he killed him, he just grabbed what he could and ran.”

  Vaughn took another long sip of his soup, as if considering this scenario. “A looter, huh? I don’t know.”

  “What do you mean, you don’t know?” Scarlett put her hands on her hips.

  “Well, it’s just this, Scarlett.” He stood, and the blanket unfurled over his shoulders like Dracula’s cape. “I’ve been out there, and I know how bad it is, even this morning, when the tide’s gone down some. I don’t think it’s possible that anyone got in here last night, and even if they did, there’s no way they got out.”

  It didn’t matter how close she stood to the stove, Orchid felt cold all over.

  Vaughn went on. “So I don’t think it was a looter who murdered Boddy. But this I know: whoever killed him is still here.”

  13

  Scarlett

  Scarlett looked down at the list she’d been surreptitiously keeping in her notebook as they all sat in the dining room, eating a mostly silent lunch of “whatever they thought might spoil first.” According to Karlee, Mrs. White was still asleep on the couch in the study. Scarlett figured this was a good thing. The poor woman had to be close to hysterics, between the way her precious home had been turned into an emergency shelter, the destruction of the window, and the whole murder-in-the-conservatory thing.

  It was probably best that she wasn’t the one in charge right now.

  As far as Scarlett could tell, within the realm of possibility, Headmaster Boddy’s death could be attributed to one of four factors:

  1. Some kind of terrible knife accident

  2. Suicide

  3. A stranger/thief/looter

  4. A person and/or people in this house

  Was she missing anything? She’d been considering the issue ever since they’d found the body, and she thought she had the bases covered. The rest was merely a matter of probability.

  Number one: An accident. Unlikely. Like, vanishingly so. Scarlett was sure in all the infinite multiverses that there had been or would be people who accidentally, in the middle of the night, sliced up their hands with an antique military knife, then followed up by accidentally plunging it into their own chests . . . But come on.

  Number two: Suicide. As much as she hated to admit it—since this had been her theory to begin with—suicide was looking pretty unlikely, too. Even if the scientist headmaster had for some reason chosen this dramatic and messy method, she doubted he would have slashed the backs of his hands first. No, he’d been fending off an attack.

  See? She could admit when she was wrong.

  And why would he have wanted to do such a thing, anyway? Scarlett had never been able to make that part make sense. Blackbrook certainly had flood insurance. No one on the school’s advisory board would be able to lay this disaster on the headmaster’s doorstep. Besides, that wasn’t the man she had known. As a member of student council and the head of the Campus Beautification Committee, Scarlett had worked with him on many school projects. She’d taken his chemistry class freshman year. They’d always gotten along famously. He’d been brilliant and kind, strict, but fair, willing to listen to student input and inspire student excellence.

  And now he was gone. Scarlett blinked, but no tears came. What a relief it might be, just once, to be able to cry. The others had done it. She’d watched Orchid downstairs in the hall after she’d discovered the headmaster, symmetrical tracks of tears running over her porcelain skin. Karlee and Kayla had done it. Mrs. White had all but broken down in the study after Mustard described the murder weapon.

  But Scarlett had never been a crier. She’d been a fixer. If there were problems, there was no point crying over them when you could solve them. And if the police weren’t coming, then someone else would have to solve this particular problem. She took a deep breath. Onward.

  Number three: A looter. A stranger. A person who had broken in to Tudor, killed Headmaster Boddy, and absconded with his money and computer. When the idea had been put forth, it made the most sense of all. Of course there would be looters in this disaster, and of course they would target a mansion like Tudor House. Maybe it was all as Mrs. White had surmised. Boddy just got caught up in a robbery gone terribly wrong. But that didn’t make them safe now.

  First of all, there was a chance the thief would return. Scarlett had tens of thousands of dollars of computer equipment in her bedroom at this moment, not to mention jewelry. This thief had proved himself willing to kill to get what he wanted.

  Or she! Scarlett didn’t want to be sexist. Women were totally capable of robbing houses, murdering headmasters, and coming back for more. And that’s assuming the thief really did leave the scene of the crime.

 
As much as Scarlett hated to admit that Vaughn Green was right about anything, he had a point about how hard it would be for the thief to escape. And the looter, whoever he or she was, would have had to escape by boat, if they escaped at all. Otherwise . . . they were still here.

  On the campus, at the very least, and possibly even hidden somewhere in the house right now.

  This was a big house. Scarlett had lived here all year, and she had yet to venture into the attic. And as far as she knew, no one had checked the locked-up rooms belonging to the other girls who called Tudor House home. Faith and Cadence and Nisha and Atherton had all gone home before the storm hit, and last night, Mrs. White had not wanted to open their rooms for the newcomers without permission. But now, all bets had to be off. They needed to find out if anything had been stolen. They needed to find out if anyone else was in the house.

  It was enough to make her never want to go upstairs again. To never be alone again in Tudor House, period.

  Number four: Someone here did it. Scarlett sneaked a glance at the people sitting around her. This thought had been the constant drumbeat in her head, ever since Orchid had found the body in the conservatory. That someone here, in this room, was a murderer.

  Now she looked at Orchid, who was only toying with her soup. Scarlett never had learned what Orchid had been to the headmaster’s office about, back before the storm. She turned to Peacock, who was also scribbling in a little bright blue notebook. Nor had she gotten the story on what Peacock had been fighting with the headmaster about. Finn would be no help with the latter, of course, but she could probably deploy him for the former . . .

  She turned to Finn. While the rest of them had raided the kitchen, he’d been restless as anything, wandering the halls between the conservatory and the lounge, as if retracing Boddy’s final steps would somehow help him solve the equation of the man’s death.

  He glanced at her sheet of possibilities, then up at her, his brow furrowed.

  Seriously? he mouthed at her.