Murder Has No Class (16 page)

“I fail to see what is so highly amusing,” he said, though now his voice, contrary to his words, was tinged with humor.

“I’m sorry.” Meredith gasped for breath and struggled for composure. “It was just . . . you’re right, of course. The matter is quite serious. I shall be certain to call an emergency assembly tomorrow morning to address the situation. Rest assured, Mr. Hamilton—”

“Stuart.”

“—Stuart,” she amended, the name seeming to stick to her tongue, “rest assured that nothing like this will ever”—she gulped down a latent giggle—“happen again. Not while I’m in charge, anyway.”

Hamilton sat back and laced his fingers across his chest. “Which brings me to the point. Might I enquire why it was necessary for two of your tutors to accompany you on whatever errand you were engaged in this afternoon, thus leaving Miss Montrose to manage on her own?”

Meredith took a deep breath. How she hated having to make up these pesky excuses. To tell him the truth, however, would jeopardize any chance of her solving the murder and ridding herself of a very unwelcome ghost. “It wasn’t exactly an errand. More an invitation, if you will.”

Stuart raised a sardonic eyebrow. “Indeed? One that none of you could refuse, I take it?”

“Precisely.” She gave him her warmest smile. “A dear friend is in trouble, and needed our help.” As close to the truth as she dare go, she decided.

For a long moment he stared at her beneath lowered brows, then slowly let out his breath. “Very well. I will accept that the situation was unavoidable. I trust that in the future, however, you will make certain Miss Montrose is not left in such a vulnerable position again.”

That stung, for some reason. Sylvia Montrose had been Stuart’s choice to fill the vacancy left by Kathleen Duncan, Meredith’s closest friend and fellow tutor, who had died from a blow to the head some months earlier.

As with Roger Platt, Stuart had insisted that he select the person for the job, giving Meredith not one say in the matter. In both cases, Meredith had vigorously protested. Neither of Stuart’s choices had seemed particularly qualified for the role, and in Sylvia’s case Meredith had taken an instant dislike to the woman.

She had convinced herself that it was because of Sylvia’s way of finding fault with everything and everyone, but deep down she had a suspicion it might have to do more with the fact that Sylvia was younger and prettier, and seemed to be a special pet of Stuart Hamilton’s.

“I believe,” she said, choosing her words carefully, “that Miss Montrose is quite capable of learning how to take charge in a volatile situation, just as the rest of us had to do. One never knows when one will be subjected to rebellious behavior at Bellehaven. It could happen anywhere—in the classroom, in the living quarters, or out on the tennis court—and one can’t always rely on additional help.”

“Nevertheless, considering there are four tutors in this establishment, it seems feasible to expect at least one other person able to lend a hand. After all, in such cases, surely two figures of authority would present a more forceful deterrent to unacceptable behavior?”

“That isn’t always possible. When we are taking classes we can’t be forever running back and forth at someone’s beck and call. It is therefore imperative that one learn to assess an unfortunate situation and act on a viable decision instead of crying for help at the slightest sign of discord. Miss Montrose should be every bit as accountable as the rest of us, and I refuse to make an exception in her case.”

As always, whenever she so much as hinted that he gave preferable treatment to Sylvia, Hamilton’s eyebrows drew together. “All that comes with experience,” he said shortly. “Miss Montrose hasn’t been here long enough to gain that kind of authority.”

Meredith thinned her lips. “I think she has been here quite long enough.” The words were out before she had considered them. Dismayed at her rashness, she waited for Stuart’s reply.

Instead of responding, however, he got to his feet and tugged down the hem of his coat. “I can see you are exhausted by your engagement this afternoon, whatever that was. I shall leave you now to recover.” He spun around and strode to the door.

Just as she was beginning to breathe easier, he turned, one hand on the doorjamb. “Just as a warning,” he said quietly. “I do not appreciate being opposed without just cause. Nor do I appreciate being left in the dark about certain activities of my headmistress. I shall let it go for now, but I think you should know that my tolerance is wearing thin. Good day to you, Meredith.”

Before she could answer him, the door had closed behind him.

Only then did she realize that he had failed to mention the matter of interest that had brought him to the school that afternoon.

Uttering a guttural sound in her throat, she picked up a ledger and flung it at the door. The resulting thud helped calm her temper, and she rose to retrieve the fallen book.

As she did so, a familiar sight brought her to a halt. Staring into the corner of the room, she said loudly, “What do you want now?”

The pink mist swirled around itself, spinning gradually into a frothy cloud, until eventually the figure of James Stalham appeared in the middle.

It took Meredith a moment or two to realize that the mist had not turned red this time. Eying the apparition warily, she announced, “I have just visited the Stalham estate.”

James nodded.

“I now believe that you did not kill your father.”

For a moment the mist turned red at the edges, and she hurried to reassure him. “I am doing my best to find out what really happened that night.” She hesitated, as he continued to stare at her, then added, “I think perhaps Pauline Suchier might have shot your father.”

James violently shook his head.

Frustrated, she stared at him. “You disagree? How could you know for certain that Miss Suchier was not responsible for your father’s death? You said yourself at the trial that she was the subject of an argument between you and Lord Stalham.”

This time, while shaking his head again, James raised his hands and waved them as if dismissing someone.

Meredith narrowed her eyes. “Do you know something, perhaps, that didn’t come out at the trial?”

This time she was rewarded with a nod. “So please, tell me what it is.”

James began mouthing words, and she stopped him with a raised hand. “I can’t read your lips.” She sighed in frustration. “I don’t know why I can’t when I can read everyone else’s, but I can’t, so you will have to find another way to tell me what you know.”

James responded by flattening his palm as if he were pressing against a wall.

Meredith frowned. “I don’t understand. What are you doing? Opening a door?”

James shook his head, and pushed his palm farther away from him. When Meredith failed to react, he kept bringing up his hand and pushing it out until finally she cried out, “I don’t understand what you are doing!”

At that moment a loud rapping on the door made her jump out of her skin. “Meredith?” It was Felicity’s voice and she sounded concerned. “Are you all right?” The door opened, and her friend peered in. “What are you doing in here? Talking to yourself?”

Meredith glanced over at the corner, but as she’d expected, the mist had vanished. “Not exactly,” she said carefully.

Felicity’s expression changed. “You were talking to the ghost.”

“Shhh!” Meredith put a finger against her lips. “Someone might hear you.”

“There’s nobody here to hear me.” Felicity came all the way into the room. “What did the dratted thing do this time?”

Meredith sighed. “James didn’t do anything. At least, he tried to tell me something, but I couldn’t understand what it was.”

Felicity made a face. “That’s a shame. He could be telling you who killed his father, and you could be finished with all this sleuthing.”

“Oh, if only that were so.” Meredith’s stomach growled again, reminding her that she hadn’t eaten anything since midday. “I think we should go to the kitchen and find out what Mrs. Wilkins has left for us.”

“Good idea. I’m so hungry I could eat a cow.” Felicity held up her hand as Meredith started for the door. “But first, I’d like to know what Hamilton had to say. That’s if you’re at liberty to tell me.”

Meredith didn’t like the gleam in her friend’s eyes. “Why wouldn’t I be? Anything that Mr. Hamilton says to me I most certainly can pass along to you. I assume the students told you what happened in the dining room this evening?”

“I heard there was a food fight, and things got a little noisy. Until Hamilton arrived and ordered everyone to their rooms.”

“Yes, well, that’s what he told me.” Meredith walked to the door. “He was also extremely displeased that the three of us had left Sylvia Montrose alone to handle things. He said she wasn’t prepared for such an awesome responsibility.”

She hadn’t been able to keep the resentment out of her voice and Felicity grunted in disgust. “Is that man so obtuse he can’t see past his nose? If you ask me, he knows he made a mistake in hiring her, as well as that disgusting Roger Platt, and simply refuses to acknowledge his misjudgment. He really is quite insufferable. Then again, I haven’t yet met a man who isn’t intolerable.”

Meredith was inclined to agree that there was some truth to Felicity’s observations about Stuart’s defense of his choices, but her complaining stomach wouldn’t allow her to dwell on it now. “Where is Essie? She needs to put some food in her stomach, too, or she won’t be able to sleep tonight.”

Felicity stepped out into the hallway. “She went down to the kitchen while I came looking for you. She was faint from hunger and I thought it best to send her along.”

“Very considerate of you.” Meredith closed the door to her office. “Now let’s join her, before we both collapse.”

Chapter 13

“We have to call off the protest,” Grace said, as she pulled a plate out of the steaming water in the kitchen sink and handed it to Olivia. “Now that all the students are in detention all weekend, they can’t possibly go to the village. Everyone will be watching to make sure nobody leaves the rooms.”

Olivia smacked the plate down on the draining board so hard Grace was sure it would break. “I’m not going to give up the plan. We have to think of a way to get them out of the school without anyone seeing them.”

“How are you going to do that?”

“I don’t know. But I’ll think of something.”

Grace frowned as she dug into the dishwater again. Swirling her fingers around to find the knives and forks, she wished with all her heart that Olivia would, at the very least, postpone the protest. She couldn’t see what difference it made if they waited another week. Though come to think of it, without the May Day celebrations it would be a lot harder to escape the eagle eye of P.C. Shipham. The detestable village constable had a nasty habit of turning up at the worst possible moment.

She dragged a handful of cutlery out of the water and dropped it onto the draining board. Either way, she thought gloomily, they were heading for trouble and she was going to be right in the middle of it. As usual.

“I’ve got it!” Olivia shouted, making Grace jump so hard she dropped a saucer. It sunk back into the water, luckily without shattering.

“What exactly have you got?” Mrs. Wilkins asked from the doorway.

Grace uttered a squeak of dismay and Olivia shook her head at her. “I’ve got the plate she nearly dropped,” she said, holding it up. “Look, it’s all in one piece.”

The cook advanced into the kitchen, a frown creasing her face. “Just as well,” she muttered, as she headed for the pantry. “What with all the plates that got smashed, we’ll be lucky to have enough for breakfast tomorrow. I can’t imagine what got into those girls tonight. Something must have set them off.”

Grace and Olivia exchanged glances. Just before Stuart Hamilton had roared his commands, Grace had heard the girls chanting. There was not a single doubt in her mind that the brawl had started because of the proposed protest. Whenever the subject of women’s rights came up, emotions tended to get stirred up. Some of the students thought that the suffragettes were disgracing the image of women, and were violently opposed to the protests. Invariably that caused some fierce arguments on both sides.

Grace stared at her friend and mouthed, “Now what?”

Olivia raised a closed fist in the air. “We still go,” she mouthed back.

Mrs. Wilkins emerged from the pantry carrying a tray of sandwiches. “You two, get back up to the dining room and clean up that mess up there. It all has to be spick- and-span before any of us get to bed tonight.”

“What about the washing up?” Grace asked, pointing a finger at the stack of dirty dishes.

“Put them all in the sink to soak.” The cook laid the tray on the table. “By the time you get back they’ll be clean and you can leave them to drain on the draining board. You can put them away in the morning.”