“I packed up Selina Biltmore’s belongings,” I said as I set the portmanteau on the floor of Mrs. Thurston’s office. I went there immediately after checking out the footsteps on the stairs. It turned out to be a Junior girl, Patience, who’d come to fetch the history lesson she’d left in her dresser.
Without glancing up from her desk, the superintendent said, “Good. Tell Caje to fetch it and take it in by the coffin. They’re coming to take her down to Brighton for the funeral later. Odd. I’d have thought there would be visitors to pay their respects, but none came.” Raising a teacup to her lips, she slurped a mouthful, then paused, dog-eared the page she was reading, and finally acknowledged my presence. “That reminds me. After classes today, your services will no longer be required and you will need to find other lodgings.”
My heart plummeted—and she watched for my reaction. As much as I wanted all this to be over, I was sure that Waverly hadn’t found the killer. Nan Miller might be guilty of sins of omission, but she hadn’t murdered Selina Biltmore. Solving this crime from outside of the school community would be much, much more complicated, if not impossible. Especially now that I’d begun to hatch a plan to expose the killer.
The stack of loose papers that I’d found in Selina’s dresser was filled with nasty observations she had made concerning her schoolmates. As I’d looked them over, a plot began to form. After all, it was Adèle’s letter that brought me here—why shouldn’t another set of communications send me packing? As I folded Selina’s expensive undergarments, I wondered, what if she had written a diary? She clearly knew how to pick at other people’s sore spots. Did I really need to find such a journal? Couldn’t I prevaricate? Wouldn’t it be enough to let the school population think that a diary existed and that I had it in my possession?
“Fräulein Schoeppenkoetter sent a courier with a message. Her coach arrives at the Bull and Mouth at eight this evening.” The old woman spoke in a gentle voice. “Have you anywhere to go?”
“Yes,” I said without moving.
She went back to her reading but watched me out of the corner of her eye.
Looking up, she added, “Of course, Mrs. Brayton would give you a reference.”
“Yes.”
“Is there anything else, Miss Eyre?”
“No.”
I took my leave of Mrs. Thurston, and as I closed her door behind me, I heard her sigh. Miss Miller had been right: The superintendent was not all bad.
Hurrying down the hallway, my mind raced along with my steps. My time would be cut short! I had to see Lucy and Mr. Douglas right away. They could carry out the important second step of my plan—securing the blessing of Mr. Waverly. I needed a viable excuse for visiting them. But what? What could I say?
I would have to climb out the Senior dormitory window. And do it quickly while my girls were at breakfast and then at their first class. There was no help for it. If anyone knew of my exit, this entire scheme would wither on the vine. I’d also have to avoid the Robin Redbreast as he made his rounds.
I had never climbed a tree. Looking out over the branch of the horse chestnut tree, the task daunted me. But I was undeterred. I could do it. At least gravity would “assist” me, since my immediate task was to climb down and not up. After sliding up the window sash, I leaned my torso half in and half out.
Do not look down, I warned myself. But of course, I did, and my! The ground was at least thirty feet away! How small and thin the grass looked!
You can do this, Jane. Take it one step at a time.
Stretching forward as far as I could go, I grabbed for the closest branch. My fingers grasped a small protrusion, only enough to use as a grip. I pulled myself out onto the limb and rested there on my stomach, sprawled across the largish branch and hanging onto a smaller one slightly over my head. With effort, I turned so that my boots rested against the trunk. That left me staring into the dormitory with my feet wedged uncomfortably in the crux of the tree. Below me was a tangle of branches. My foot searched blindly for the limb I knew was beneath me, but my skirt inhibited my movement. Where was it?
I could see another branch below me that might serve as a step downward. Turning myself toward the trunk, I reached my right hand to grab a thin offshoot before stepping down with one foot, and then the other.
My heart raced from both exertion and fear. Where to next? If I could transverse my path to the other side of the tree, I would be less visible. Unfortunately, in my thin white mourning dress, my form was easily distinguished from the gray tree trunk.
Feeling my way along with one foot, I touched another branch to my right. Testing it, there seemed to be no problem of it bearing up under me. To reposition myself, I would be forced to grab a limb above my head and swing myself over.
Which I did. For a tantalizing beat of my heart, my feet dangled in the air without support, and my palms cried out to let go, but I held on. Huffing and puffing, I rested on this new perch. Below me two branches formed a V.
Feeling rather pleased with my abilities, I quickly dropped down into the new landing spot. From there it was another easy step, a branch to my right that dipped closer still to the ground.
But that new spot could only be gained by a leap forward. Could I do it?
I had to. I closed my eyes and pushed off.
Only to be yanked back midflight.
My skirt had caught in the branches above me and hauled me backward!
My left hand slipped and lost its purchase on the new branch. To my horror, I hung there, swaying back and forth, my skirt over my head. Unable to see. Fully aware that my undergarments were exposed.
Slowly my fingers on the right hand lost all feeling. Added to this came the slow rrrrrrrr-rrrrr-rrrr of ripping fabric. The waistband of my skirt pressed hard against my ribs, cutting off my air. I couldn’t see. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t hold on much longer. I wiggled and wiggled, rocking myself left and right, hoping the fabric would finally give way.
Rrrrrr-rrrr. How much longer would the cheap fabric take to rip? And when it finished, would I be free? How would I explain lying on the ground in my chemise? I redoubled my efforts to grip the tree, but my fingers burned. I reached up with my other hand, but the fabric occluded my vision.
I was growing light-headed. And my fingers cramped with pain.
A voice called up to me: “Just let go!”
I did.
I fell.