Death of a Schoolgirl: The Jane Eyre Chronicles (31 page)

Miss Miller did not appear until midway through the reading hour. Her boots were raised on patens covered in mud, and a border of wet fabric dragged down her hem. Her bonnet sat askew on her head, as hair worked its way loose from her bun and her cheeks glowed pink with exertion.

“Where have you been? We must talk,” I whispered to her as she slipped into a chair next to mine. She bit into two pieces of bread with a thick slice of Stilton between them.

“Yes,” she managed around the food. “But not now.” Despite the mouthful of food, she engaged Mrs. Grover in conversation about the cost of the mourning clothes.

A glance at the mantel clock told me I needed to prioritize my questions. I culled Miss Miller from the group of students who were knitting hand towels.

“Does Mrs. Thurston administer canings?”

“Pardon?” Miss Miller’s surprise turned to shock. “Heavens, no. A rap on the wrist or knuckles, perhaps, but that is all.”

“Nellie has marks on her back. Stripes cut into her flesh.”

Her ruddy face turned scarlet. “Surely you are mistaken. I tell you, Miss Eyre, you tread on dangerous ground. Such an accusation is inflammatory!”

“I have seen the stripes with my own eyes!”

“I daresay you were overtired. Your eyes played a trick on you.”

Cutting our conversation short, Miss Miller led the girls in prayers and reading of psalms, taking care to position herself so that we could not talk privately. Inwardly, I fumed, but her evasion only served to strengthen my resolve. Given the closed environs of the school, she could not avoid me for long.

That evening, I took my time changing behind the modesty screen. Despite the news that Selina would be returning to Alderton House, the girls seemed to welcome sleep with
more ease than they had the night before. I attributed this to the wholesome influence of fresh air and physical exertion. Perhaps in sleep they would find their heart’s ease and leave behind the cares and worries that tied them to this place.

Perhaps Selina would leave them alone.

Unlike the girls, however, my own sleep was not restful. It took a long time for me to fall asleep. The lump running crosswise the length of my bed bothered me. Last night it was a petty disturbance, but tonight its shape jabbed me relentlessly. Yet there was naught I could do with the nuisance that wouldn’t disturb the girls. I knew from experience that they slept lightly. Remembering the tread of footsteps outside my door last night, I had an idea. The girls had mentioned that Selina kept bath powder in her dresser. Lighting a candle and finding the powder quickly, I crept out of my bed, moved silently to the landing, and there I dusted a bit of it on the floor. The scent of camellias rose up to greet me.

If someone really was walking about at night, there should be footprints in the morning.

Thus relieved that I had at least done something to help catch our killer, I settled onto my uncomfortable bed. My mind reviewed the events of the day—the images Mr. Douglas had described regarding Selina’s injuries; the sounds of her mother crying and her father’s angry accusations; the injuries among the children—Nettie’s wounds, Victoria’s bite marks; Mr. Waverly’s feigned ignorance of French. After tossing and turning, I eventually fell into a fitful sleep.

Jane!

I sat up in my bed. Moonlit squares brightened the wooden floor of the dormitory. Shadows moved silently. I tried to parse the darkness. Then out of the shadows, a form coalesced, though at first it seemed little more than a disturbance in the air, a blurring of certain outlines.

“Who or what are you?” I demanded.

It is I, your friend Helen.
In slow stages, she revealed herself to me, as she once was. I was certain now that I was dreaming! But what a pleasant dream it was, to see my old friend again, that winsome girl with long, dark curls. She smiled gently, familiarly, and my fears subsided. The soft scent of violets perfumed the air. They were Helen’s favorite flowers. She had often pressed them between the pages of her prayer book.
Do not be afraid,
the dream image said.
Listen carefully. There is pain here and great suffering. Explore each person’s Hades. Expect no safety. Be on your guard. As Virgil said, “A snake lurks in the grass.
”

“Helen, I am frightened. The girls! How can I protect them? They are vulnerable, and there is but one of me.”

You will find a way. I know you will. God bless you, my darling friend. I watch you from afar and send you my everlasting love.

Her form turned porous, the edges indistinct, and she dissolved before my eyes. And as she disappeared, I sank back into a dark and dreamless sleep.

Sometime later, I awoke with a start. My mind immediately returned to the image of my dear old childhood friend Helen Burns, who had succumbed to consumption when we were students together at Lowood. Perhaps these surroundings brought back vivid memories. Perhaps the soft snuffles and sighs of sleeping children took me back to that brief time when Helen walked this earth.

Tossing off the covers, I put my feet in my slippers. Once again, my muscles had grown stiff and moving caused me pain. Nevertheless, I went from bed to bed, checking on my charges. They slept with innocence, without concern for modesty or appearance, the way young animals do. At night we drop all those pretenses foisted upon us by civilization. We become who we really are.

One bed sat empty.

“Who were you?” I mused. “And why did you die?”

No answer came, so I checked on Adèle. Her pulse beat steadily and her breathing was regular. For a long while, I sat in my bed and kept watch. In the twilight between sleep and wakefulness, I imagined the touch of my husband’s searching hand and the pleasant weight of my baby in my arms. I was at Ferndean, and I was happy.

Once during the night I startled awake, thinking that I heard footsteps. Outside the window, rain began, steady and heavy drops splashing hard against the glass. Then came voices, low and urgent outside the dormitory door. At last, however, I could not keep my eyes open any longer, and sleep reclaimed me.

I dressed in the dark, well before Emma’s knock, lit a candle, and took a look at the landing. I found there two sets of footprints in the powder, in two different sizes. One set was large and wide, and led up to the garret where Emma slept, but did not come back down. Somehow during the course of the day, I would have to see the maid’s feet for comparison. The images seemed exceedingly large for a girl so small.

The second set of prints indicated feet that were long and narrow, and that set led downstairs. Using a towel, I carefully wiped the powder away.

There was nothing to do at this hour but to mull this information over.

Since it was so early, I hoped to write another letter to Edward, outlining my task and my thoughts. Such an endeavor might help me to organize my thinking and better prepare myself for the day. But words would not come easily, and I set down my pen feeling frustrated by the jumble within me…

Mr. Waverly’s questions about Nan Miller had proven particularly nettlesome. Although I had assured him that she could not be culpable, discrepancies niggled at me. These would need to be resolved. A list might help. Reluctantly, I
wrote down the names of all the Senior girls. Plus those of all the instructors and the household staff.

I tapped the end of the pen against my chin. What was it that Mr. Biltmore had said? “He will be furious.”

Of whom was he speaking?

Another item claimed my curiosity. In her essay about Selina, Nettie mentioned someone sending a carriage for the girl. Who was that?

I added “Person Unknown” to my list of suspects and then paused. I scratched off one name: Adèle. I knew that she could not and would not have hurt Selina. Mr. Waverly seemed to agree. But all the Senior girls had opportunity. So any one of them could have killed their classmate. While this seemed unlikely at best and outrageous at worst, I took to my heart Mr. Waverly’s motto, “I suspect everyone; I accuse no one.”

My list went as follows:

1. Rufina. Selina took her kite.
   
2. Rose. Selina stole her sash.
   
3. Nellie. Selina took her sweeties.
   

   (At this point I was tempted to put a line through all the girls’ names. If any one of them killed Selina, surely the others would know. Besides, how could they have subdued her? Furthermore, it would have been easier to take back the stolen articles than to kill a classmate!)
   

4. Cook. No motive I could discern, but admittedly I needed to know more about her.
   
5. Caje. Same as with Cook. But what had Mr. Biltmore meant when he called him out by name?
   
6. Emma. Selina had been cruel to her. But how cruel? And Emma was slight, albeit very strong.
   
7. The German teacher, Fräulein Hertzog. Why had she left so suddenly? Had it been because of Selina?
   
8. Parthena Jones. Something about the woman struck me as off. I could not say why, but it resonated through me
   the way a false note sounds when played on the pianoforte. Perhaps it was only her grief over her brother’s death, unresolved and fresh.
   
9. Signora Delgatto. She admitted that she was happy Selina was dead. Why? But I struck through her name. The woman was too feeble to climb the stairs.
   
10. Nan Miller. As much as I hated to add her, her actions of late had been very odd. What had transpired at her previous post? Why did Miss Jones say a child had died while under her care? Why was she not more forthcoming about her past?
    
11. Mrs. Thurston. Was it possible that some action had turned the superintendent against her favorite?
    
12. Person Unknown. The person who sent the carriage for Selina.
    

A rap on the door cut my work short. I hastily folded my list and slipped it into my pocket. “Good morning, Emma,” I said as the maid bustled in.

“Good day, miss. The mourning clothes are here. I’m to set out each girl’s things. In these boxes are the mourning shoes. Here’s yours.”

She withdrew from the pile a white dress made of cheap fabric. Pinned to it was a scrap of paper with my name.

As Emma distributed the mourning wear by setting it on each girl’s dresser, I tried to get a glimpse of her feet, but the task proved impossible without betraying my motives.

The morning bell sounded, and the girls began their slow struggle to rouse themselves. One by one they shed their nightclothes. When Rose’s chemise bunched up as she pulled it over her head, I choked back a gasp. Rust-colored stripes crisscrossed her shoulder blades and ran down her back, angry and egregious looking. These were far worse than the similar marks on Nettie’s back.

Either Miss Miller had lied to me about the use of caning
as punishment, or she was unaware of this outrage. Was it possible that Fräulein Hertzog, the previous German teacher and Senior proctor, had doled out the lashes? And wouldn’t the recipient have cried out? How could it be that the other teachers knew nothing about the inflictions?

I wanted to say something to Rose but decided against it. An overreaction might make it impossible for me to get at the truth. The girls were slowly coming to trust me. When the time was right, I could ask my questions—and be assured that they would be answered honestly.

The girls stood in a line, faces solemn, looking like bleached-out birds on a tree limb. The cheap white dresses fit them poorly, and the slippers were all a bit loose on their feet, but the point was driven home: We were officially in mourning for the death of a young unmarried girl.

After our morning prayers, Mrs. Thurston announced that Selina’s body would arrive during the first class session.

“Once all is prepared, you will queue up and file by to pay your respects. Ladies, I remind you that this is a solemn occasion. None of you are to linger in the parlor or to gape at the important visitors who will, no doubt, be arriving to pay their respects. I expect you to wear your mourning shoes inside the school and to keep your voices low as befits a place of sorrow. The mirrors have all been draped. I had better not see any of you trying to glimpse your reflections in spoons and such, as this is a time to reflect on your immortal souls, not on earthly vanities. Dust to dust and ashes to ashes, none can escape death.”

With that cheerful start to the day, Mrs. Thurston sank back into her chair as gracefully as a milk bottle toppling over.

Miss Jones encouraged the girls to “eat up” and attacked her food with her fork as though she were digging a ditch.

At nine o’clock the sound of boots clomping through the foyer alerted us to bearers carrying Selina’s coffin. A few minutes later, Mrs. Thurston stepped into the classroom and bade us to
queue up, with Rufina taking her spot at the front, since she was the Senior head girl. The child swayed on her feet, a greenish pallor replacing her usual healthy skin color. “Sit down.” I shoved a chair under her. “Put your head between your knees.”

“It’s the lilies, ma’am,” she managed. “Reminds me of when I lost my mum.”

Pots of hothouse flowers spilled out from the parlor and lined the hallway. The worth of the floral tributes must have been immense. The quantity and quality of the offerings proved that all of London Society marked this farewell to the Biltmores’ daughter—at least, in absentia. The smell of the blossoms approached a treacly crescendo that overwhelmed the senses, coating the nose and mouth. Every breath was a fight for survival, which, coupled with the cloying smell of decay, provoked my own stomach to roil. I instructed the girls to use their handkerchiefs to breathe through, and as expected, Rufina’s was missing, so I loaned her mine. She took to her feet unsteadily, so I linked arms with her. Thus acting as a pair, we set off, leading the others through the viewing area at a stately pace.