We walked through the front door and nearly bumped into Mrs. Thurston, her squat form an ugly gargoyle in the midst of the elegant entry.
“Miss Eyre? Where have you been? What were you doing with my students?” she snapped.
“Practicing our plein air drawing work, which is—”
“Varens.” The superintendent interrupted me by snapping her fingers at Adèle. “Come with me. Mr. Waverly is here, and he has a few questions for you.”
Adèle shrank behind me, her fingers gripping mine so hard that she hurt me.
“Is something wrong, Mrs. Thurston?” I asked, as I turned and put my arm around Adèle’s shoulder in a protective manner.
“Wrong? A girl is dead! Under my roof. And Varens found the body! The Bow Street Runner is here to investigate. That is what is wrong—so hand Varens over!”
Terrorized by the woman’s ugly countenance and shrill voice, Adèle began babbling in French. I interrupted her and responded in her native tongue, reminding her to keep speaking French, and to speak no English to anyone until I told her to do so. The other girls caught wind of Mrs. Thurston’s predatory behavior. They clustered together and moved away, almost as one creature, trying to slink off.
I gave them instructions. “Ladies? Hang your cloaks up. Wait for me in the first classroom upstairs. Finish working on your sketches. Help one another, if necessary. Rufina? Take charge, please.”
Mrs. Thurston might be the titular head of this institution, but her overwrought actions showed her to be a weak leader. I did not mind that I had superseded her. In fact, a frisson of pleasure rippled through me. The girls responded immediately to my request, moving with alacrity and purpose.
My triumph proved short-lived, as Mrs. Thurston called after us. “Varens? Speak English!”
I bent over and whispered in Adèle’s ear in French. “Do not. Absolutely do not. If you love me, Adèle, you will do as I say.”
“Oui, m-mademoiselle,” the child stuttered.
“You have frightened her beyond all sensibility.” I stared coldly at Mrs. Thurston. “She’s terrified and unable to access this second language. If Mr. Waverly insists on meeting with her regardless, I am able to translate.”
“So, you insist on putting yourself in the midst of this? You simply must meddle? She speaks too quickly for me to follow, so be off with you. Take the girl into my office,” Mrs. Thurston said. “Go. Get out of my sight.”
Adèle held on to me so tightly that I stumbled over her feet. “I am frightened,” she managed. “Does he plan to send me to the guillotine? That’s where all the French peasants belong. Am I a peasant?”
“Of course not, ma petite.” I hugged her slender shoulders.
I tapped on the office door and Mr. Waverly bid us enter. He cocked an eyebrow at my appearance. “The new teacher, right? Your eye is looking better. Leave me with the girl.” His voice was gruff. After adjusting his glasses upward so that they perched on his forehead, he tucked his fingers inside his vest pockets and rocked back on his heels. This unusual posture gave him a bit of a swagger.
I was not intimidated by him. “Sir? She is French. Her English is inadequate. Mrs. Thurston suggested that I volunteer to translate for you.” I lowered my eyes and stared obsequiously at the carpeting as I told this small fib. I also held my breath.
“Translate? She does not speak the King’s good tongue?”
“No, sir. Not well.”
With that, Adèle started chattering like a squirrel in French. She told me she was frightened, she said she wanted to go home, she asked why his nose was so crooked, and finally I said, “Ferme la bouche, ma chère.”
She did as she was told and closed her mouth. However, her blathering had done the trick. Waverly leaned back against the fireplace and stared hard at both of us. “All right then. Sit down. Both of you.”
I “translated” this command.
“Miss Varens, is it true that you and Selina quarreled the day before she died?” he asked.
Adèle told me in French, “She took my ribbon. The one that mon bon ami gave me when he sent me away. She would not give it back. I asked and asked and asked for it. I was so angry”—and here she stomped her foot—“so I told her she was mean and cruel and that I hated her.”
I translated. “Adèle resents the fact you question her relationship with Miss Biltmore. They were dear friends. Yes, Miss Biltmore borrowed Adèle’s ribbon, but that is all. The girls often share personal items.”
Mr. Waverly stroked his chin and considered all this. Taking his glasses off to polish them, he said, “Indeed. Is it true that Miss Biltmore refused to wake up in the mornings? And that Miss Varens was responsible for getting Miss Biltmore out of bed?”
I translated his questions.
“That lazy, no-good cow,” Adèle said. “Selina would sneak out at night. She climbed down the tree. God only knows who she was meeting. Then she would be too tired to wake up. We would both be late but only I would be punished. It made me so angry.”
“Miss Biltmore was also responsible for getting Adèle out of bed. Adèle hates getting up in the morning.”
“Indeed?” He tilted his head and adjusted his spectacles. “Could you ask Miss Varens if she smothered Miss Biltmore with a pillow?”
My mouth dropped open. He could not suspect Adèle! But she understood him.
Adèle stomped her foot so hard that all the whatnots on the étagère jumped and did a St. Vitus dance. She began to say things in French that I could not and would not translate. All of them, I am sure, were learned at her mother’s knee. None of them suitable for polite company.
No matter how emotional she was, she could never hurt another living soul. She would cry for hours when we happened upon a dead baby rabbit in the forest or a baby bird that had fallen from its nest. Surely anyone could see how honest and guileless she was.
“Non! Non!” Adèle shouted. As she wound down, she said she would have liked to strangle Selina many times. Yes, she would. But she would never actually do such a thing. If she did, that would be committing a mortal sin, and therefore, she would never go to heaven. So, of course, she didn’t kill that stupid cow. How could he accuse her so unjustly? With the suddenness of a summer storm, she burst into torrents of tears.
“But you wanted to kill her. Are you sure you did not do it?” Speaking perfect French, Mr. Waverly asked this directly of Adèle.
Before I could intervene, Adèle said, “Mais non! I am not a bad girl. I would never do that.” Adèle faced him, stomped her foot, and spoke in a manner that brooked no questions. “Jamais. Never. Do you understand me?”
“Parfaitement,” said Waverly. “Perfectly.”
“You!” I pointed a finger at him. “You speak French!”
“And you, miss, you are a sneak and a liar!” he retorted.
“How dare you? Of course I would protect this child from you. Is this how the much vaunted Bow Street Runners work? They throw their weight around and frighten little girls? How proud you must be of your position!”
He burst out laughing. “I say, for a tiny house wren, you attack like a trained falcon. Run along, Miss Varens. I need to talk to your ‘interpreter.’”
My body stiffened with anger. I leaned over, hugged Adèle, smelled the sunlight on her hair, and kissed her. “Go to the classroom with your friends, darling. You are fine. You did just fine.”
She cast Mr. Waverly an imperious look over her shoulder. “Humph,” she grunted, and she stomped out of the room.
“I bet she ruins a lot of shoe leather.” Waverly watched her go. “All that stomping breaks down the soles.”
When I turned to see if he was serious, he shrugged. “My father was a cobbler. Sit down, Miss Eyre. We need to talk.”
I stepped backward and bumped into a chair overloaded with papers. I scooped them aside unceremoniously and sat down.
“I say, I was quite taken in.” He packed his briarwood pipe full of tobacco and propped his feet up on Mrs. Thurston’s tea table. “I have to admit, I thought you a regular green girl, but you gulled me. You do realize I have a serious job to do, do you not? Your interference won’t make it easier. Nor will I find the killer faster if you manipulate my witnesses. Until then, you and she both are in danger.”
My anger drained away. Chagrin replaced it. Seeing the situation from his point of view discouraged me. “I owe you an apology, sir. I only meant to protect her.”
He nodded. “So I heard. I understand your desire to be protective. However, you may have protected her but put the other girls at risk.”
“You do believe her, do you not? Adèle is the tenderest of souls. She is incredibly gentle and loving.”
“She also possesses a formidable temper. Miss Varens had many reasons to want to see Miss Biltmore dead. At least, that is what I have been told, and what I need to explore.”
He suspects her! Truly he does! My heart fluttered uncomfortably in my chest. Involuntarily, I squeezed my fist to my mouth. Edward had faith in me. I could not fail him or Adèle. “She has a schoolgirl’s temper. Not to mention her volatile French blood. A sudden response. A quick flare-up. It is over as fast as it arrives. I have never seen her unleash it on other people. She may stomp and pout, but she will not raise a fist in anger. Furthermore, she feels genuine regret when she speaks out of turn or hurts someone’s feelings, so tenderhearted is that child.” I ended my discourse with an appeal. “Does that sound like a killer to you?”
“Not at all. But your meddling might have cost me the killer.”
The stem of the pipe pointed at me accusingly. The lump of tobacco showed red against the blackened bowl.
“What do you mean?”
“If you had not have interfered, it was possible that Miss Varens might have told me something useful. Something that would lead me to the killer. Now I have nothing. From her at least.”
It is possible to wallow in guilt and yet to still feel virtuous. Protecting Adèle was my priority. Solving a murder was his. We both wanted to safeguard the girls in this school. Our goal was the same; our methodology differed. Mr. Douglas had said Waverly was the best of the Runners, their most experienced man. Whereas I was an amateur, he knew what he was doing.
“Surely you have something? An inkling of whom to suspect?” I couldn’t believe he didn’t, and I knew him to be a trickster.
He lit his pipe and took a deep draw on the stem, closing his eyes and shaking his head. “I have nothing. No forced entry. No motive. No particular suspect. Just a method. And a dead girl. Perhaps also an entire school community at risk.”
“You do not suspect the girls, do you?”
He opened one eye and surveyed me thoughtfully. “I suspect everyone. That is the nature of my job. I accuse no one. I keep an open mind and observe. I consider the evidence and try to concoct a likely story from it. I ask questions and listen carefully. Once in a great while, a discrepancy points me in a certain direction. When the killer lets down his guard, I redouble my efforts. God willing, I am successful.”
“What did you hope to learn from Adèle?”
He closed his eyes again and steepled his fingers over his chest. Leaning back in the chair, he appeared to be a man in repose. However, I imagined that I could see the gears in his mind shifting, testing the speed, and shifting again. The whole time, he chewed on the stem of his pipe, causing it to travel from one side of his mouth to the other.
“That is my business and not yours.”
I sighed and waited to be dismissed. He let the silence between us stretch on and on before he spoke.
“I need to know what manner of girl Miss Biltmore was. I need to know what sort of passions she inflamed. My aim was to eliminate Adela Varens as a suspect. You see, Miss Varens had cause, opportunity, and means. But finding her hair ribbon under the pillow struck me as a bit too neat. If Miss Varens had wanted her ribbon so badly, bad enough to kill for it, why would she then leave it behind? You see my dilemma? All the stars align to make me suspect your little friend. However, as she just illustrated so aptly, she wanted that ribbon. It held meaning for her. So I repeat, why kill Miss Biltmore and forget to take the ribbon?”
I nodded slowly. “The scenario is flawed as it stands. I can come to only one conclusion: The murderer wanted Adèle to look guilty.”
“And in doing so made a mistake.” A sparse curl of smoke rose from the bowl of the pipe. It smelled of cherries.
“Yes.”
“The murderer knew about the girl and the ribbon.”
“Yes.”
“So the murderer is someone in the school community.”
“Most likely.”
He opened his eyes. “You are quite intelligent for a woman. Your command of the facts and the inferences one can make is most impressive. Too bad many of the constables I work with are not as bright. I was not entirely honest with you earlier. I do have my suspicions.” Leaning forward to stare at me, his eyes were gray, devoid of liveliness, full of remorse and sadness. They brought to mind the color of a tombstone after the rain soaks it. “Tell me. How well do you know Nan Miller, Miss Eyre? Or should I call you Mrs. Rochester?”