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:
(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!)
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.
When we reached the shoulder of the coffin, Rufina and I stopped to “say good-bye.” We both pivoted slightly so as to be facing Selina Biltmore’s mortal remains.
What a shock!
Selina Biltmore had been no child—she was a full-grown woman!
Miss Miller had said Selina was just sixteen, but one glance affirmed that she had been quite mature for her age. Although death had distorted her facial features, it was clear that Selina Biltmore had been blessed with a noble profile. As for her figure, the contours of her shroud revealed that she tended toward corpulence. I lingered, trying to get a better sense of this young woman, but Rufina’s hand flew to her mouth and she made a retching noise. Fearful that she was going to be ill, I hurried us along.
No wonder she’d been so successful at bullying the others. Selina had been an adult in a world full of children.
After I prepared for the day’s lessons, I revisited my list of possible murder suspects and decided to start at the bottom of the building and work my way up.
“Lo and behold! Our scholar! Bet ye’ve coming sniffing around for somethin’ to eat, right?” A puff of flour blew up around Cook, enveloping her in a powdery white aura.
“Please, ma’am.” I settled on the kitchen stool. It was as good a pretext for my presence as any.
She slid a scone onto a plate, generously slathered it with clotted cream, and slopped a dollop of jam on the side. From the stove, she grabbed a kettle and poured water in her china teapot. The gold trim on the lid and graceful forget-me-nots painted on the body suggested a grand provenance—although the two large chips marred its beauty. The triangle knocked from the spout made pouring tea a challenge, but the chip from the pointed handle on the top of the lid was more of a cosmetic failing than a functional one.
“Your teapot is lovely.”
“Aye, it was a gift from my daughter. The toffs at the manor where she worked planned to toss it into the bin. Larissa asked for it. They took a half crown from her pay. They who was going to get shod of it! On account of a chip in the spout! My darling daughter knew how much I likes my tea,” she said in a gruff voice as she poured me a cup. “It’s all I’ve got left of her. That and a lock of her hair. Such a dear girl. I use that teapot every day and it makes me feel closer to my baby. Can’t visit her grave, you see. It’s too far. Feels like she’s far away, too.”
“Maybe,” I said. “But I would guess she’s close to you, nearer than you think.”
“I hope so.” Wiping the back of her hand across her eyes, Cook smeared more flour on her prominent forehead and bustled away from me.
“I am sorry for your loss.”
“Thank ye. Ain’t just my loss. The world lost an angel.”
“That’s a shame,” I said with sincerity. “I regret that I’ll never have the chance to meet her. No one thinks that way about Selina, do they?”
Cook’s laugh was more of a short bark of derision than a nod to real humor. “That one? She’s probably busy dancing with the demons!”
A neat segue, and I seized upon it. “Mr. Waverly has been questioning people regarding Selina’s death. Hard to believe, but they say the girl may have been murdered.”
Cook bustled around the kitchen, keeping her back to me. Finally, she said, “And what if she was? Whoever did it would have rid the world of one of Satan’s own. They ought to be thanking whoe’er done it, and that’s a fact.”
“You didn’t like Selina?”
“Weren’t nobody liked that one.” Slapping a large glob of dough onto the counter, Cook turned it over twice. “There was a mean streak in her, miss. I suspect her parents hoped Mrs. Thurston could cure her of it, discipline it out of her, but that’s rot, ain’t it? You cannot turn a cat into a dog, or a dog into a rat, and you cannot make a body something they ain’t. Besides, Maude Thurston ain’t nobody’s fool. She closes her door at night and lets the girls fend for themselves, don’t she?”
Cook worked the dough. She did not turn to face me, but her words rang loud and clear. “A bad seed. Fruit of a diseased tree. That girl caused a world of hurt and heartache in her short life—and she would have done more mischief if she could! Her father thought the sun rose and set on his precious child. She could do no wrong in his eyes. Well, he was a blind man.”
With that, she gave the dough a ringing slap.
“The world’s a better place without that she-demon.” Cook punched the dough so hard that it tore. “I’m telling you the God’s honest truth.”