Death of a Schoolgirl: The Jane Eyre Chronicles (36 page)

After soft snoring and regular sighs settled over the dormitory,
I closed the window by the horse chestnut tree and locked it. Leaving the door open, I crossed the hall and slipped into the Infants’ room, where Miss Miller sat on a chair pulled up to a window, her arms crossed under her chin, as she stared out at the city. I touched her shoulder lightly and she turned.

“Miss Eyre, I knew you would come. Time to say good-bye, dear friend.”

“Miss Miller! Are you saying you are guilty of this crime? I cannot imagine it.”

In the pale moonlight, she wore what was almost but not quite a smile. But more importantly, tears stood in her eyes, which held no hope.

“I
am
guilty.”

“What? You killed Selina Biltmore? I cannot believe that! Why then would you insist that I come safeguard the Senior girls? It does not make sense.”

One of the Infants whimpered.

“Hush.” Miss Miller rose and patted the child’s back. I waited for her to come back and sit down. I perched on the edge of her mattress so I had a clear view of the Senior dormitory and its open door.

“Of course I did not kill Selina. However, I am guilty all the same. I told you that circumstances changed, remember? And those changes were why I quit teaching at the village school and came to London? That much is true. You had served in a similar capacity, or so you said. But you left and married your Mr. Rochester. My story did not have a happy ending.”

“Tell it to me,” I said. “You owe me that much. I came here at your behest.”

She sighed. “Like you, I taught in a small school, in Liverpool. And like you, I fell in love. The object of my affection was the Anglican minister Francis Gilbert. Somehow I let myself believe that he returned my affection, and so when a large group of Irish immigrants flooded our town, I took my
concerns to him. I worried, you see, because the children were clearly hungry.”

Pausing, she pinched the bridge of her nose. After a moment, she picked up her tale. “Reverend Gilbert wouldn’t hear of giving the Irish immigrants Anglican charity. In fact, he refused to allow me to distribute baskets of food to them, although the ladies of the church regularly made these up for just that purpose. I wanted to curry his favor, so I did as he ordered. You see? I closed my eyes to their suffering. I told myself that their own kind would help them. Once in a while I would leave a bit of my own leftover bread on the school steps so the children could eat a little something if they came to class early. But I never suspected that they took my meager offerings home to share. Or that they fed the youngest ones first. My imagination did not encompass the extent of their suffering. I lied to myself! But they were so hungry.

“One day after school, I discovered two of the Irish girls eating dirt and grass. Another time I found them eating a piece of paper that had been discarded, the wrapping of other students’ lunches. I spoke about all this to Reverend Gilbert, but he was adamant. If I chose to feed their bodies, I would condemn their souls to hellfire, he said. And I bowed to his wishes, because I thought that he would see my obedient nature and know what a good wife I would make!”

I fought the urge to condemn her but I wanted to cry out: “You know better!” This story paralleled the sort of religious claptrap that we had heard so often in our youth. How could she not have seen through it?

“Then one day I came to school early, as was my habit,” she said haltingly, “and found a hollow-eyed child slumped against the front door. Little Mary O’Brien was stone-cold dead. Mary loved school, but the two-mile walk that day had proved too much for her tired heart. Of course, I was not responsible. Not in the eyes of the law. But in the eyes of God? Ah, that is different.”

She turned to me and grasped both my hands in hers, which were as cold as if she had handled snow. “That is why I came and got you. I could not stand by this time. I knew I did not have the courage or the wit to safeguard these girls, but after your visit on Monday morning, I got to thinking…Jane Eyre does!”

I said nothing, lest I say too much. I always allowed Miss Miller a good heart, and now I questioned my assessment. She, who knew better and who had already seen suffering in the guise of religious conscience, had stood idly by while a child starved.

And then…I recalled what Mr. Carter had told me. About the hunger of the people farming Edward’s lands. Was I really without sin? Did I have the right to cast the first stone?

No. I was equally guilty. And so was Edward. We would have to rectify the situation—and soon.

I withdrew my hands from hers, and kept them knotted under the skirt of my wrapper so as not to give away my distress.

“Shortly afterward, I came here. And I discovered that thousands of Irish have also come to London because the potato crop has failed. You see, they rely too heavily on it. There was a blight in the last century and their problems continue. Their families are so large, and there’s no other work besides that in the field. So they come here, hoping to find jobs in the city.”

London was a stylish lady who beckoned you to come closer, and when seen from a distance, she looked remarkable. Only on closer inspection did you notice her diseased sores, her filth, and her soiled apparel.

“The abundance of food here fairly shocked me, so I slip out when I can and take food to the poor. As much as I can, as often as I can.”

“But Emma locks the front door. Cook has a room next to the door of the area. How do you manage?”

A faint smile played at her lips. “Cook is a good woman.
She likes her spirits, as does Mrs. Thurston. She left her keys out one day, and I took them to be duplicated. But I am confident she knows, and is, I believe, in sympathy with me. Certainly she never remarks on the food I slip into my pockets, and she often leaves out bread and cheese wrapped in paper.

“You must understand,” she pleaded, taking my hand in hers and leaning close to me. “I need to do penance! I must save my soul! You see, I was a fool to think a man like Reverend Gilbert could ever love a woman like me. If I hadn’t been so addled, if I had been more honest with myself, I would have followed my conscience. Instead, I listened to my desires—and I wanted him to love me. I wanted…a home and…a family.”

With that, she started sobbing.

Her story could well have been mine. I understood the power of love, and how, coupled with the desire to be admired as a woman, it could lead a person astray.

“Do you think God will forgive me?” she said. “I am not worthy!”

She sounded most earnest, but I could not find it in myself to give her absolution. Not when I thought about that poor dead child! “You must seek His forgiveness, not mine.”

“I cannot believe in a God who wants little children to go hungry, can you?” She grabbed my hand, capturing it again between both of hers.

“No. Of course not.”

“Tell me, Miss Eyre. Do you hate me?”

“No.” It wasn’t hate. It was confusion, and disappointment. This place seemed to bring out the worst in all of its inhabitants. I could not wait to quit it!

But first, I would finish what I’d set out to do: find a killer. “I do not hate you, and I do not believe you hurt Selina Biltmore. There was no reason for you to injure that girl, or was there?”

“No. I did not like her, but she did not bother me. I rather think that somehow I was beneath her notice. Probably because I am unattractive. She had a magpie nature that drew her to persons who were bright and shiny or interesting. The rest of us she ignored.”

“I have observed more caning marks. Do you know of this? Who might have administered such beatings?”

“Two girls?”

“Three, actually. I have it on good authority that Selina also bore the marks of a caning.”

“Mr. Douglas? He has his resources.”

“Yes.”

“I…I don’t know what to say. Except that I am appalled.”

She said nothing, turning her face back to the deep darkness of the night.

“Tell me about Fräulein Hertzog. Could the Fräulein have caned the girls?”

Miss Miller thought about this. “I suppose it is possible. But unlikely. I sometimes heard whimpers from that dormitory. That would be on my head, too, wouldn’t it? I have always been one who looked away rather than face what disturbs me. And that is why the prayer reads, ‘Forgive us, Lord, for what we have done and what we have left undone.’”

I had no patience for Miss Miller and her recitation of the Anglican prayer of confession. Not tonight. More important matters concerned me. “I know about the circumstances under which she left. Is it possible that she stayed nearby? That she exacted revenge on Selina? Could Fräulein Hertzog have climbed in through the window to avenge her loss?”

“It is possible, but not likely. She was devastated over the death of her bird, yes, but she planned to return to Germany. Stuttgart, I believe. Wait!” Miss Miller rummaged through her dresser and returned with a piece of paper. “These are her details. Perhaps Mr. Douglas can locate her.”

I took the paper and stood to leave. “Good night, Miss Miller.”

“Miss Eyre, again I ask—do you hate me?” She sighed. “I was foolish, I know, to ever imagine that such a man could love me!”

The shadows obscured the eyes of a woman who had been kind to me when I was a child. But her voice trembled with her sorrow, and this unfulfilled longing radiated from her person.

I understood her hunger for love. I had tried to reject my feelings for Mr. Rochester, admitting honestly that I had little to recommend me. There were my irregular looks. My lack of social or political connections. And certainly, at that time, I had no fortune to offer.

But despite my shortcomings, I still felt my passions deeply. I still loved. Indeed, I could not stop, no matter how hard I tried!

What a boon it was to my soul when Edward Rochester said, “I think you good, gifted, lovely; a fervent, a solemn passion is conceived in my heart.” When he claimed that he had found in me all that he had wanted and needed.

So, yes, I understood what it was like to want to be loved.

But I didn’t understand how she could let a child starve. Nor could I imagine loving a man who thought God would be pleased to see suffering foisted on the least among us.

She spoke softly. “There is nothing more you can do here. Take Adela and go home. Go now before she is in more danger.”

“What about the others? And the real killer?”

“I…I do not know what else to do for them. Let Mr. Waverly puzzle it out. I beg you. Please go, and take my love with you. You have been a true friend. If you stay, you might be tainted through our association. That would be more than I could bear. Go, just go.”

And I did.

I hoped to sleep, but thoughts of Miss Miller and her confession paced around and around in my head. There were three ways to enter the school: the area, the front door, and the Senior dormitory window by way of the horse chestnut tree. Given the apparent proclivity of Mrs. Thurston and Cook to like strong spirits, all three of the exits were accessible. In theory.

We had discarded the idea that the killer came from outside the school community. Perhaps we needed to revisit it. Was it possible that the murderer came from outside but had an accomplice here in the building? The accomplice could have dosed the girls and let the killer in. If there was an accomplice, who would it be? Why would anyone here have come to the aid of a murderer?

Mulling all this around, I finally fell asleep only to awaken with a start. There was a noise in the stairway. I strained to hear voices. Rising slowly from my bed, I slipped my arms into my wrapper and tied the sash.

Two people whispered on the other side of the door. I paused to listen. These were no ghostly apparitions.

After a few steadying breaths, I threw open the door.

Caje and Emma jumped apart, severing a loving embrace. In one outstretched hand, Emma held a lit candle, only a stub, and flickering, but casting enough light to illuminate their fearful faces.

“Miss, please. Don’t tell on us. I beg you!” Caje said.

“Mrs. Thurston will sack me for sure, miss.” Emma shivered, but she raised her chin defiantly. Over the shoulders of her thin night rail, she wore a tired quilt, a small rectangle sewn together from faded and patched materials.

Caje stood defiantly before me, fully dressed, except for shoes. He wore only much-darned socks on his feet. He stepped between Emma and me in a most protective manner. It was obvious that his had been the large footprints I’d seen in the powder I’d spread on the landing.

“I shall decide how to handle this later. After we talk. That is, if you are both honest with me.”

I decided to press my advantage. Perhaps they could help me figure out who killed Selina, if I could conjure up the right questions to ask. “Let’s go to your room, Emma. No need to wake everyone up.”

We climbed the dark stairs to a small room with a sloped ceiling and a narrow bed under a dormer that leaked cold air.

“I’ll tell you whatever you wish, miss. And it is my fault, it is. See, I love Emma. I do with all my heart. I’m saving up so we can marry,” Caje said, standing with his head bowed because of the low ceiling.