Death of a Schoolgirl: The Jane Eyre Chronicles (27 page)

More importantly, what didn’t I know about Nan Miller’s past that I needed to know?

As so often happens, the girls sensed a conversation that was not fit for their ears. Nettie, Rose, Rufina, and Adèle all turned their attention to us. I lifted my teacup with both hands to control the tremor, and after a fortifying sip, I changed the subject and addressed the listeners directly. “Girls, I am planning
for us to take our sketching class out of doors, where we can study birdlife. How does that sound?”

“Hurrah!” cheered Rufina. “Can we go to Hyde Park?”

“That is exactly what I had in mind. You will have to help me with the Juniors, however. Can you do that?”

“I have a little brother at home,” lisped Nettie. “When Mama lets me, I help with him. The Juniors will not be any trouble, miss.”

The girls wriggled with enthusiasm.

“How lucky you are to have a reason to take the girls outside. I so enjoy doing plein air watercolors, but since my duties here keep me indoors, I rarely get the chance.” Miss Jones pouted.

“Mademoiselle and I loved to watch the birds at Thornfield. The antics of crows in the farmers’ fields amused us greatly. John—he’s our manservant—he kept a rookery in one of the towers. Such noisy birds. And so smart!” Adèle babbled happily to her friends.

“My, but you have a lot of patience with her. Was she as flighty then as she is in the classroom?” Miss Parthena cast a glance at Adèle.

“On occasion,” I said, as a spike of loyalty to my student caused a burn in my cheeks.

“That is the French for you. A nation of pompous fools lacking self-control. Oh, they prance about, shouting for brotherhood and equality, but since they fall on their knees to worship the Pope—who is nothing more than a doddering old man wearing a red gown—one finds it hard to believe they understand God’s basic command to love Him first. Much less following His secondary edict that we should love one another. And all this talk about equality? So a cat can not only look at a queen, it can aspire to be one? What nonsense. We are born into a class and cannot rise above it. And beyond the limitations society imposes on us because of our low birth, women
like us are forced to bear the burden of men’s shameful impulses. If we are not gifted with beauty or youthful charms, then we have nothing to barter.”

“Yes, well…” I could not formulate a proper response. Miss Jones’s opinions were as oversized as the rest of her.

Fortunately, the remainder of the conversation did not require my participation. She prattled on regardless of my attention, while I let my mind wander back to the strange events at the school, until one of Miss Jones’s comments nearly knocked me off my chair.

She lowered her voice a half an octave, presumably out of deference to the presence of the girls. “I count myself fortunate to be a teacher at a school rather than a governess. So often, a governess is naught but a plaything for the master of the house or his sons. They use and discard young women like they were pieces of blotting paper. Quite disgusting.”

How I longed to set Parthena Jones straight!

That afternoon, we set off for the park, the nine students—five Junior and four Senior girls—and I. When I spotted Lucy Brayton, her brother Bruce Douglas, and the merry little Rags sitting on the bench at Hyde Park, I waved in greeting. Rags jumped to his feet and barked happily, his tiny body shivering with joy as he displayed a fashionable set of apparel that outshone mine. His navy blue patent leather collar particularly proved adorable, and the students flocked around him.

Lucy had met Adèle and the other girls once before, when she’d invited the classmates to her house for tea when Adèle first came to London. But it had been a while, so the students were a little shy around her at first.

Lucy formally introduced her brother. Mr. Douglas endeared the girls by offering his hand and bidding each of them a solemn, “How do you do?” Rose stared at him with unabashed admiration. When it came her turn to say, “Hello,” she presented Mr. Douglas with a winsome smile and sank into a deep curtsy.

Give her a few years, and she will be a society darling,
I decided.

Too quickly, the meeting became a contest, a jousting match. Half the girls were clearly in awe of Lucy and her fine clothes. The compliments flew thick and heavy.

The other half of the girls doted on Rags, who responded with cheerful snuffles and licks.

All the girls cast covert glances at Mr. Douglas, painfully conscious of him and shy all at once. This signified their awakening womanhood, when the presence of a man caused contradictory emotions.

Lucy gave the girls her complete attention, and very quickly, the younger children felt at ease, admiring her parasol and stroking the silk flounces on her dress. Victoria wiggled herself into a spot right next to Lucy. Rose sniffed the air. “What is that lovely smell? Gardenias? My mama likes them, too. I like lilacs more.”

“Do you?” Lucy asked. “We shall have to wait until next spring for them. That seems very far away, doesn’t it?”

Nettie buried her face in Rags’s coat. Rose managed a spot next to Mr. Douglas’s knee.

Chatting with first one girl and then the other, Lucy glowed with affection. She clearly adored children—how unfair that she had none to call her own. I resolved then and there to name Lucy godmother to my son. If Providence hadn’t provided her a child to love, I would. For I could see that she was a woman full of love, a woman who would have made an excellent, doting mother. Imagining her as a part of my son’s life gave me a sudden sense of satisfaction.

“Girls, attention, please.” I clapped my hands to bring them nigh and begin our drawing lesson. Holding up a sketch pad, I introduced various pencil strokes: thick, thin, hard pressure, soft, and shading. Next I pointed out a robin hopping along the ground, and in preparation for drawing the bird, I asked what sorts of shapes comprised his silhouette.

“That one’s round as a globe,” said Victoria. “Looks like he could roll downhill without any trouble.”

Rufina snorted. “Sort of like our Mrs. Thurston.”

This brought a fit of giggles.

I instructed them to sketch a robin and to include the bird’s surroundings. Once given their assignment, nine heads bowed over the sketchbooks and started to work in earnest. Moving from student to student, I offered suggestions and corrections.

So engrossed was I in my teaching that I startled when Bruce Douglas set a hand on my shoulder and leaned in to say, “Ladies, may I interrupt? I need to speak with your instructor.”

“How do things fare with the girls?” Lucy raised her eyebrows at me once I was seated next to her on the bench.

“They are so thankful for my presence that I feel at sixes and sevens for carrying through with this charade. Worse luck, I have learned little of value. Here is a list of all the instructors’ names, which I gleaned from a schedule that Miss Miller gave me.”

“I shall get men to investigate these women as soon as possible. Perhaps we can turn over a stone and find a missed grain of information that will be helpful.” Mr. Douglas pocketed the list.

“Beyond that, what I have seen and heard only serves to confuse me! Most importantly, Selina was sneaking out. She had a beau, or so one of the girls told me. They called him her ‘special friend.’”

“That bears further scrutiny.” Mr. Douglas stroked his chin. “Did she supply a name?”

“Nothing proper. Only a nickname.”

“That wouldn’t do us much good. Try to find out, please.”

“I will. It appears that Selina was Mrs. Thurston’s favorite, yet the girl was cruel to everyone. It makes no sense.”

“I am sorry, but I fear I must add to your confusion,” Mr. Douglas said. “As I told you before, Marcus Piper, the medical examiner, and I have known each other for years, and he often
consults with me when he is puzzled by what he finds. However, for the first time in our long friendship, he has refused to talk to me.”

“You mean he refused to discuss Selina Biltmore’s death,” Lucy said.

“No, Sister.” Mr. Douglas shook his head. “He refused to talk to me at all. I arrived at his office, his assistant announced me, and Piper ran out the back door. Fortunately, by slipping a few coins to his second-in-command, I have still been able to advance our cause. I now know how the girl was killed.”

“I was present when Mr. Waverly examined the fabric and noticed a blood smear on the pillow slip,” I said. “I assume that was used as a weapon?”

“Yes. They found a feather inside the girl’s mouth. She also had a small broken bone here.” He touched his throat.

“What does that signify?” I said.

“Pressure was applied to her face. The killer must have been someone strong enough to subdue the girl. The injuries to Selina Biltmore’s body came as a result of her struggle to survive. The murderer might sport a bruise or a scratch from the encounter.”

I had been sitting forward, watching the girls as they drew their cheery robins. Now the import of Mr. Douglas’s words struck me hard, and I sank back onto the park bench. My sketch pad was open, and I began to draw the same assignment that I had given the girls. The motion of the pencil against paper worked to help me stay calm.

“Have you learned anything else?” Lucy asked me. “Observed anything that might be a fingerpost pointing toward a suspected killer? Although it is intriguing that Selina was sneaking out, do we still believe she was murdered by someone inside the school?”

I thought about that. “I find it hard to believe that someone entered the building off the street, came upstairs to the dormitory, and left without arousing anyone.”

“I concur,” Mr. Douglas said. “It would be one thing to dose a group of schoolgirls, but quite another to also dose the servants.”

“Mr. Waverly visited again today—the third time in two days!—and spent more than an hour interviewing Miss Miller. He also spoke to Mrs. Thurston, but that was a short session.”

Mr. Douglas shook his head. “Waverly is paying too much attention to your friend Miss Miller. If she was the killer, why would she have involved you? Your presence only complicates the situation.”

I decided not to share Miss Jones’s accusation that Nan Miller had been involved at one time in the death of another student. Until I spoke to Miss Miller directly and confirmed this gossip, there was no reason to cast aspersions.

I added a second robin to the first in my drawing.

“And there is another question that nags at me,” Mr. Douglas said. “This does not fit the profile of those cases to which Waverly is usually assigned.”

“What do you mean?” his sister asked.

“Until I know why a senior Bow Street Runner is investigating the death of a schoolgirl, there is a huge gap in our knowledge. This ignorance makes it nearly impossible to figure out the identity of the killer,” Mr. Douglas said. “What else have you seen or heard?”

“Not much. Nothing that seems important. I have tried to pay close attention to every detail, but I have no idea what I should be looking for!” With that, I gripped my pencil rather too hard in frustration and broke off a portion of the lead.

Mr. Douglas leaned forward, clasping one gloved hand in the other and resting his elbows on his knees. “Are you familiar with the concept of ratiocination? It suggests that we look for discrepancies in word and behavior. Lies and coincidences. Most importantly, watch for an aberration or abnormality that
might point to the criminal. Finally, think about who wanted this girl dead and why. Also consider the timing. Why was it important that she be murdered now?”

“You are asking me to solve a puzzle with most of the pieces missing.”

Mr. Douglas smiled. “Welcome to the world of detective work. Rarely does one even know what that missing piece might be. Or how we shall turn it up. So, we watch, we ask questions, we look for discrepancies, and we try to piece together a tapestry from bits of fabric and thread.”

“You cannot share anything useful, dear Brother? No tricks you have mastered?” Lucy gave him a light tap on the shoulder.

“Only this—in most crimes, we see three variables, three conditions that must be satisfied. Opportunity. Motivation. And method. Think on those and you’ll quickly understand why they matter.”

“Is it possible that the killer suffocated the wrong girl? How close is Adèle’s bed to Selina’s?” asked Lucy. “I have never ventured up to the dormitories.”

“The beds are right beside each other. So yes, perhaps the killer got the wrong girl. Perhaps Adèle was the intended victim all along. In fact, I might have proof of such.” I reached into my pockets and withdrew the new set of threats that my little friend had given me. I also handed over the original note, so that we could compare the handwriting.

“This looks like a match to me,” Mr. Douglas said. “But I am hardly an expert.”

“All these threats make me wonder if I should simply take Adèle and leave. But I worry about the other girls!”

“These messages are outrageous,” Lucy said after reading them.

Mr. Douglas frowned and stared off at the girls. “I wonder if Adèle is the only one who was threatened. Perhaps you can find out.”

As we talked, my fingers moved restlessly along with my emotions, and the two birds were fleshed out by my efforts. Mr. Douglas glanced over at my work.