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Mindful of her trek to the Abbey, Isabella rose early. A loose flannel skirt and a tan sweater would make it easy to move, and thick tights would keep her warm. As she prepared her artist’s satchel, she considered how she would begin the portrait. Loose sketches of Edward Malvaise, standing in various poses. The youth might have a preference, but a good composition would have him on the riverbank, scull and oars beside him. Perhaps he could hold an oar? In went her pencil roll, eraser pouch, and a pen knife to sharpen the pencils.
She added her travel clock. The chapel hour would fly by. Setting an alarm would prevent her from such deep absorption that she wouldn’t lose all track of time. Her watch would do for the hours between her allotted time with Edward Malvaise.
The canvas would have to be prepped.
Her sketchbook went into Madoc’s old satchel. She had Saturday’s drawings, of the Rowing Shed, sculls, and oars as well as a few sketches for the watercolors she planned. Flick had mentioned an illustrative map of the garden. She needed to begin that. Memory would serve for a sketch but not a draft, and eventually she would need an exact map of plantings. And the route in the maze.
Dean Filmer mentioned bringing some boys to discuss her process.
The day and her satchel had filled before she started.
Mr. Nelson and Mr. Elwen were before her in the lounge. Both looked blurred, as if they’d made inroads last evening. Mr. Sandhurst came behind her, with a cheery hello and a springing step that belied his extra decades.
Sibby brought a teapot for the men then stopped beside Isabella’s table.
“You’re early in.” Isabella commented. The maid had said she worked afternoons and evenings while Nuala had morning and the noon luncheon time.
“When Mrs. Pollard isn’t here, Nuala needs extra help. Once the day is started, I’ll take off home and have a nap. You’re to breakfast earlier than we expected. We were going to bring tea upstairs in a half-hour.”
“I suppose only fishermen rise at such an early hour.” She nodded at the three men at the window table. Mr. Nelson was announcing his plan for the day.
“A lady like you, yes.”
“I have an early start at the Abbey. Dean Filmer has graciously offered the chapel hour to work on the portrait. Every day. I do work for my living, Sibby.”
“Not the same work, is it?” The maid’s gaze skittered to the men, now discussing the best spots along the riverbank. She lowered her voice, scarcely above a whisper. “I did want to say, Mrs. Tarrant. You were right. Exactly right.” Her sudden smile brightened her freckled face, giving it prettiness.
Isabella had to think quicky before she remembered their conversation after dinner. “He walked you home?” She used no names. Sibby didn’t need teasing.
“And came in for a cuppa. We talked past the tea getting cold in our cups, even with a top up.”
“I’m happy for you. Will he walk you home this evening?”
“He asked to do so every evening.” Her pale green eyes glowed. “He said he’d like to have tea and talk for hours.”
“That’s wonderful.”
They shared pleased smiles, then Sibby straightened. “What’s for you this morning?”
“Eggs, toast, and tea, please. I must walk to the Abbey.”
“You’ll have more than that. Mrs. Eccles comes in when Mrs. Pollard is away, Mondays and Tuesdays. She’s started the ham and bacon. These men want a good start to their day, and adding a bit more for you is no bother.”
“Can the ham and some cheese go into a bun for a sandwich at lunchtime?”
“I’ll wrap it so you can keep it in your bag. Would you like an apple? Last autumn’s crop. And I’ll tell Mrs. Eccles to plan for you every Monday and Tuesday. When Mrs. Halsey comes on Wednesday, I’ll let her know, too. Will Miss Sherborne be early up, do you think?”
“Our directions are different this morning. She’s off to the local camera shop to use their—.” Isabella stopped as Flick entered. She wore an elongated persimmon dress that displayed her slender figure. The color set off her dark hair dramatically. “But here is she.”
“Good morning, Miss Sherborne.” Sibby drew out the chair across from Isabella. “Tea? The full breakfast, or just toast? I remember you’re partial to Mrs. Halsey’s marmalade.”
“I am. Eggs, too, however they’re offered this morning.” She placed a courier envelope beside her place setting and looked a question at Isabella.
“I didn’t expect to see you so early,” she said promptly.
“I intend to march over to that camera shop as soon as possible. Before he opens.”
“With full armor?”
Flick grinned. “The best method of attack when you’re imposing.” She tilted her head at the door through which Sibby had gone. “Well?”
“With Mrs. Pollard gone, apparently Nuala needs assistance. Sibby was updating me on improvements in the prospect for love.”
Her dark brows rose at Isabella’s obscure comment. Then she glanced at the three fishermen, all silent and staring out the window—and likely listening in case they heard anything of yesterday’s horror from the two chief witnesses to the scene. “Was prospecting occurring?”
“A certain blockage needed to be dug out.”
Sibby returned with Flick’s tea, coming to the table at the end of their obscure conversation. “You’ll remember, Mrs. Tarrant, what I told you last night to tell—?” She nodded rather than add her own obvious comment.
Isabella nodded. “Of course. I’ll mention it as soon as I have opportunity. Do you think I can have some of Mrs. Halsey’s famous marmalade?” Sibby would not have discussed any of her worries about Nuala with Constable Amsley. After she’d bridged the awkwardness between her and the constable, the young woman wouldn’t want to send his mind spinning away from the two of them.
Once Flick had the tea to her liking, she tapped the courier envelope. “I brought the prints down. I’d rather not make photo prints of the whole roll. Will you help me sort out the worst? I won’t enlarge those.”
“I’m on a bit of a tight schedule, Flick. I have to be at the Prior’s House by eight o’clock.”
“Then we’ll start now.”
She was surprised at the tiny size of the prints, several to a single sheet, rather erratically aligned. It was difficult to see them properly, but by the end of breakfast and a second cup of tea, they had the photos down to twenty for enlargement.
Flick slid everything back into the envelope and wrapped the red string about the button. “The detective inspector will receive everything, of course. Negatives and these prints as well as the enlargements. I didn’t want to waste our local photographer’s time and photographic paper with unnecessary work. I doubt anyone will think to reimburse him for the use of his equipment and developing fluids and special paper. That’s the primary reason that I want to reach his shop before the business day starts.”
“You’ll need reimbursed as well, for that roll of film and the time you’ve expended.”
She shrugged. “I’m not pressed for cash right now. Not like Chauncey,” she murmured, so low that Isabella wasn’t certain she was supposed to hear or respond to that addition. Flick set down her teacup with a clatter. “If you see that brother of mine while you’re at the Abbey, tell him that he and I need to talk. Privately. That wasn’t possible last evening.”
“I doubt I shall see him. I won’t be anywhere near the teaching hall or the Masters’ Lodgings. Do you still want that illustration of the garden? Will you want the maze?”
“Certainly. When do you leave this afternoon?”
“After the boys have a scheduled hour of free time, which is after five o’clock, I believe. I will do the sketch of the garden for that hour.”
“We can work out the drawing of the maze then. And after that hour, which I will spend with my brother, we’ll drive back. A nice slow drive after you’ve no doubt been standing most of the day.” She glanced at her wristwatch. “This afternoon, then,” and she hurried out of the room.
Isabella followed more slowly, with a half-hour to walk the mile to the Abbey grounds, more than enough time. She donned her overcoat, scarf, and gloves for her brisk walk. When she came downstairs, Mr. Pollard pointed to her sandwich and apple on the bar. She stowed them in her satchel and set off.
No traffic passed her until a milk-truck trundled past. The driver whistled, but she ignored him. She wondered about Madoc. Missing him was a dull ache in her breast. What is he doing? Where is his cargo ship now? Eventually, she reached the Abbey wall, but she kept to the macadam for walking. Frosty dew slicked the grassy verge.
As she entered the Abbey gate, the church bell began tolling the hour. Two black-robed masters already waited at the front of the church; one stood by the side door. Lights shone through the ground-floor windows of the manor, but the curtains remained closed in the upper floors. The double-door of the front had a wreath of yew tied with black ribbons. For George Webberly? She wondered who had commissioned that memorial? The dean or his grieving wife? The school would have to observe the passing of its Latin master, even if his death were a scandalous murder.
Isabella had crossed the forecourt when the boys began to clatter out of their dormitory. Talking and laughing, they headed for the church, becoming subdued as they encountered the masters who hurried them inside. She veered away from the boys.
She spotted Chauncey Sherborne talking with an older master. He looked right at her, seemed surprised when he identified her, then deliberately avoided her gaze. What is he expecting?
Dean Filmer sailed from the manor by the side door. He wore full regalia: black robe with flying sleeves, a colored stole that flapped from his speed, and a beribboned beret. He held a scrolled sheaf of papers and saluted her but didn’t pause. She wondered if he would read a homily for George Webberly in chapel.
Dodges stood in the open door. Isabella almost waved at him. She did smile and nod. Stiffly correct, he merely bent his head before closing the manor’s side door.
The Prior’s House had a single mourning wreath.
The door opened before she knocked, and the uniformed figure of Gilchrist blocked the threshold. He wordlessly stepped back. Remembering his sickly pale look of yesterday, Isabella looked closely today, for he stood in the pool of light cast by the overhead fixture. He remained pale, and a distant gaze contemplated something far beyond physical walls and windows.
He walked before her and unlocked the door to her assigned room. Then he handed her a key from his fob pocket. “For safekeeping, ma’am. In these early stages, we need not concern ourselves with mischief. Once your work has started—.”
“Certain boys are tricksters?” He didn’t respond, so she added, “Precautions are always wise.”
After he left, she started positioning the easel for the best light through the tall windows, clear glass here on the lane-side of the building.
Gilchrist hadn’t confirmed that the boys were mischief-makers, and she couldn’t help wondering if an adult was responsible. And for what? Petty vandalism? Willful destruction of property was her only concern.
George Webberly had complained of petty tricks. When he hadn’t charmed her, he had tried to gain her sympathy. Modeling herself on Flick, Isabella had given him short shrift. She knew what a teacher did in his work. Her father had been a don before his death. Webberly hadn’t impressed her, either as a teacher or as a man. Poor man, she measured him against Madoc. Of course he fell short.
Trivial tricks like missing chalk, a window of his rooms opened so that loose papers blew around, those were minor irritants to a day. Marked translations disappearing. Charted plans ripped to shreds. Those were more than simple tricks. Whoever had replaced his typed test questions must have known Latin, and Webberly blamed Westbrook Neville, who had taught that subject as well as belle lettres. Yet Chauncey pointed out a flaw, for multiple masters had more than the rudiments of Latin.
Had the trickster begun with petty tricks that escalated to serious damage ... and then to murder?
The door opened, and she hurriedly straightened from kneeling beside her paints box.
Gilchrist appeared. “The dean, ma’am. He thought it best, from today forward, to admit you through the side door that opens at the Cloister Walk. That would be at the end of this hall. Do you need anything for your morning session?”
“A pitcher of water and two glasses would be very nice.”
“Very good, ma’am.”
He gave the impression of bowing.
The canvas tried to overbalance as she maneuvered it to the easel. Light footsteps hurried across and took the weight of it from her.
“Where to, ma’am? The easel?”
“Yes, please. Gently. Up a little. There. Thank you.”
Edward Malvaise set it gingerly on the easel ledge then stepped back. “A bit large for you, ma’am.”
“Perhaps. I’ll find a stool. Or a sturdy chair. My husband built this easel, for large canvases like this one. Good morning to you. Are you unhappy to miss chapel?” When he looked quizzical, she added, “The dean will likely talk about George Webberly’s death.”
“As a lesson to us. No real information. You can give me that.” He grinned openly. “Didn’t you find the body?”
“I believe whoever comes from Scotland Yard will frown upon my telling all and sundry.”
“Maybe I can charm it out of you. Or offer to lift more heavy things.” He didn’t look abashed, merely cheerful.
Isabella happily took this Edward Malvaise over the stiff youth from Saturday. He seemed helpful and friendly. She wondered if his father had never been so. Escaping an hour sitting silent on a hard pew had won her a little grace, and Sunday’s murder had given her more.
They were sitting on a cushioned bench underneath the tall windows, discussing potential poses when Gilchrist returned. The butler set his tray on a table near the door, poured two glasses from a glass pitcher, then left, all wordlessly.
“You’ve managed to win over Gilchrist, I see.”
“How? I find him rather rigid.”
“He didn’t freeze you with a stare, and he brought that pretty quickly. I saw him leave, remember? You did ask for water?”
“Yes.” Gossip about Gilchrist was as out-of-bounds as the murder. “Now. We could have the river in the background. We could put the scull in the water.”
“The only place you can see the scull from the riverbank would be the dock at the Rowing Shed. The dock is low enough. All along the riverbank it’s steep.”
“I can always take artistic license.”
“Is that like poetic license? Changing things from reality?”
“Would that bother you?”
“I imagine that I’ll stare at this portrait every day of my life. Unless it’s bad.” He grinned again, that easy smile that sparkled in his eyes. “Then I’ll demand the portrait be consigned to the attics as soon as Lady Malvaise leaves us.”
“I don’t think it will be bad.”
“I reserve judgement.” The grin edged into a smirk, but the twinkle belied any ridicule. “I like the idea of standing with the oars.”
“Not rowing?”
“I might prefer that, but I do not believe Lady Malvaise intends that kind of portrait. Active, you know. She wants to see me,” he added, the words lacking vanity. “She wanted to see my brothers. They died in the war, you know.”
“Yes. So. Standing. Oars. The scull in the water at the dock.” She wondered that he called his grandmother Lady Malvaise. Recalling the woman’s strict behavior at Christmastide, Isabella supposed she rarely unbent even for her family.
“Another scull on the dock.”
“That would add color.” She quickly sketched loose lines to show the extra scull.
The hourly bell tolled before she had a standing pose that pleased her. Yet they’d accomplished good work, and she had hopes for the forenoon hour. A distant train whistle echoed the nine o’clock bells as the train for London drew into Upper Wellsford’s station.
As he shrugged into his jacket, Isabella drew out the key Gilchrist had bestowed from an inner pocket of the satchel. She dropped in her travel clock then followed Edward into the hall. He watched her lock the door.
“The dean’s request,” she explained.
“Wise. I know my friends and their pranks. What will you do now? I didn’t think, when the dean outlined his schedule, but you’ve hours with nothing to do.”
“Not so! I have the canvas to prep and the background to paint. I need more detailed sketches of the sculls and oars. That sounds strange to say. I’ve a friend in London who wants any watercolors and another friend who wants two illustrations of the garden, for a magazine. What do you have next?”
“Maths. If I’m late, old Bellamy will roar. I’ll blame you,” he added without embarrassment. “You are the adult. You should have released me before the hour.”
She sighed audibly.
“If I run, I won’t be late.”
“No, don’t explain, Mr. Malvaise. I remember the lives of school boys. My father taught at one. The boys against the teachers or masters, as you say here. And I will happily take the blame as long as you do not take advantage. I should have stopped before the hour. I brought my travel clock, but I neglected to set it.”
“I will not take too much advantage.” He held open the side door, and they descended to the Cloister Walk. Boys jogged or scurried past. “You know your way from here? You have only to follow the road. It dead-ends at the Shed.”
“Not a picturesque walk.”
“I wouldn’t think you’d want to go through the woods. Not after yesterday. I’ve been good, not asking anything, haven’t I? Will you answer one question? Was his head all pulpy from the bludgeoning?”
“No! Good Lord! What kind of gossip have you heard? Besides, I tried not to see the details.”
“Did you faint? Did Miss Sherborne faint?”
“We did not. She took photos. She’s a professional photographer.”
“I doubt she takes photos of dead bodies.”
A passing youth bumped Edward’s shoulder. The youth walked backwards to say, “Better move it, Counter. Old Bellamy spent the morning roaring at the fourth form.”
Edward gave that curious shrug and head-tilt that youths had perfected to mean sorry, but, then he ran to catch his friend.
Isabella already had questions for the forenoon hour. How did Edward come to be called Counter? What had he heard about George Webberly’s death? Who was the trickster who had pestered Mr. Webberly? A master or a school boy?
The boys would know. Male or female, that age always knew.
