The Scandalous Sisterhood of Prickwillow Place (22 page)

“May those Usher girls contract the plague,” Disgraceful Mary Jane muttered. “With a wife like her, it’s no wonder Reverend Rumsey drinks.”

“He
what
?” Dull Martha was shocked.

“Nothing.”

Reverend Rumsey swooped over to greet the party from Saint Etheldreda’s. His cheeks and nose were as bright as strawberries themselves, and he beamed at the sight of them.

“Dear Mrs. Plackett, how good of you to join us this evening.” He pumped Stout Alice’s hand up and down. “How fine your pupils look tonight, all dressed for spring!” His eyes passed quickly over Pocked Louise and Dour Elinor in their somber grays. “It’s wonderful to see young people gather for the wholesome entertainment we have in store for them tonight.”

“Thank you, Reverend.” Stout Alice responded in character. “It is good to see you. What a lovely event you have organized for us.”

“Not I, not I.” Reverend Rumsey shook his head solemnly. “It’s Patricia who has organized it all.”
Patricia
. Alice made a mental note. “She’s so wonderfully efficient. An extraordinary woman. I couldn’t ask for a more
capable
helpmeet and companion.”

Disgraceful Mary Jane developed a fit of cough. Smooth Kitty slid her foot so as to give Mary Jane an unobserved kick.

Out of the corner of her eye Stout Alice saw Miss Fringle come limping into the parish hall. “Indeed,” she said. “
Patricia’s
talents are legend.”

Disgraceful Mary Jane found this conversation dull in the extreme. She searched for a sign of Constable Quill, who hadn’t come indoors. He was probably still talking with the men, who had remained outside to smoke. The only man she saw coming in just now was Dr. Snelling.
Eugh.

“Mrs. Plackett, I wonder if I might impose on your kindness?” Reverend Rumsey’s anxious face began to sweat. “As part of the program, I’d like to acknowledge the generosity of parishioners like you who have made bequests to Saint Mary’s in their wills.”

A thunderbolt went through Smooth Kitty from the crown of her well-coiffed head to the soles of her suede slippers. The church! Why did no one think of the church? She glanced quickly at the other girls. Pocked Louise knew exactly what Kitty was thinking. She reached for her notebook, concealed in her handbag. Kitty’s eyes
f
lew wide open in alarm. She shook her head at Louise.
Not here!

Mrs. Rumsey joined her husband at that moment. “Your table is ready,” she told the girls.

Reverend Rumsey persisted. “May I, then, Mrs. Plackett? I want to recognize your generosity. It stimulates similar generosity in others, without which Saint Mary’s might struggle.”

A tall older gentleman was just coming into the room, aided by his valet. He began to wave at Alice. With a gulp, she recognized Admiral Paris Lockwood. She wrenched her gaze back onto Reverend Rumsey’s expectant face.

“I … I’d rather not be singled out,” she said. “It feels … prideful to me, somehow.” She searched for a more convincing reason, and found one in her catechism. “Did not Christ say that when we give, our left hand ought not to know what the right hand is doing?”

Mrs. Rumsey’s mouth straightened into a hard line. No one, it seemed, should dare quote scripture to her husband, the vicar. Smooth Kitty had to cover her own mouth with her hand.

But Reverend Rumsey seized at the chance to use scripture to make his point. “Your modesty does you credit. Don’t forget what Christ said about the widow casting her mites into the treasury. He acknowledged publicly the widows who give their all to the church. Please consider it. This event is our largest parish gala until Advent season.”

“Excuse me,” Mrs. Rumsey said, with a look of distaste. “I must greet other guests.”

“And I, too.” He kissed Stout Alice’s hand. “We’ll speak later on in the evening.”

Stout Alice worked hard not to shake off her hand, or wipe it on her skirts. They sat at their table, and she let out a slow breath. “This night can’t end soon enough for me.”

“We’ve learned something, though,” said Pocked Louise. “The church was a beneficiary of your old will, Headmistress, dear.”

“Ugh, don’t call me that.”

“Surely you are not suggesting that the Rumseys are…” Dear Roberta lowered her voice to a whisper. “Suspects?”

“If they were,” Kitty whispered, “they wouldn’t bring up the will.”

“Not the vicar!” Roberta gasped.

“‘Give their
all
to the church?’” repeated Pocked Louise. “We can’t ignore that.”

The hall was filling rapidly now. A woman began to play violin on the platform, but this, it was understood, was background music, not yet the evening’s entertainment.

“Here come those girls from the Queen’s School,” said Pocked Louise. “I hate how they look down their noses at us. As if they’re so superior, just because their school is bigger, and in the city. And because they have libraries, and laboratories, and real Latin instructors…”

“And because their papas are rich, and can pay such high tuition and send them new dresses every month,” added Stout Alice.

Smooth Kitty studied the Queen’s School girls’ dresses, which were undoubtedly fine. “Why haven’t they brought the boys from the school?”

“Rugby,” said Pocked Louise. “Wednesday night. I think I should enjoy that sport.”

Dull Martha gasped. “Such a rough and muddy game, Louise! I’ll never understand you.”

Miss Fringle hobbled over to them. She had always used a cane, but Smooth Kitty felt certain she’d begun to exaggerate her limp when her gaze fell upon the Saint Etheldreda party.

“Well, Constance,” she hailed Stout Alice, “I’m surprised I haven’t seen you these last few days. I received your note, but I should have thought you’d pay a personal call, after one of your own students sprained my ankle.”

Alice looked to Kitty for help. What could she say?

“I suppose I must not be critical. After all, you’ve had distressing events of your own this week. I’m surprised to see you out socially tonight, to be frank. Is there any word from Aldous? Has he reached Julius in India by now?”

Alice looked once more to Kitty, who shook her head slightly.

“No,” she said. “No word. I … assume he is still sailing at this point.”

“If his ship hasn’t sunk,” said Miss Fringle.

This idea of a sunken ship appealed greatly to Stout Alice—it would dispose of one of their corpses tidily—but Disgraceful Mary Jane decided it was time to change the subject. “Miss Fringle,” she said, “who are all those young men who have just come in the door?”

The choir mistress peered over her spectacles at a group in long black coats. “Those will be students from the theological college.”

“Ah.” Mary Jane was clearly less interested now. “Future parsons.”

“Listen to that awful violin squeak,” Miss Fringle exclaimed. “Why they allowed Beatrice Nimby on tonight’s program, I’ll never know. I’ll speak to Patricia Rumsey about it.” She favored Alice with a smile. “Your song will be a high point of the program. I congratulate myself on choosing a perfect tune for your voice. Light, airy, cheerful, but with an important message for young people.” She peered at the young ladies, as if to ascertain whether any of them were under the delusion that fine feathers did, in fact, make fine birds, then hobbled away.

“Whew.” Stout Alice sighed. “Another person fooled. Thanks again, Elinor.”

Elinor nodded. “Not at all.”

Dull Martha hadn’t ceased watching for Henry Butts from the moment they sat down, though whether her plan was to seek him out or to avoid him, she couldn’t say. He entered the room, and her courage splashed into her stomach. She decided avoiding him would be the best policy. He took a step toward the table where the Saint Etheldreda girls sat, paused, turned around, paused, then turned back again. Martha felt dizzy trying to interpret his maneuvers and finally determined to
f
lee the next time his back was turned. This she did, and collided headlong with Dr. Snelling, who was on his way to the refreshments.

“I say!” The doctor glared at her, and brushed his waistcoat and jacket vigorously, as if they might now be speckled with young lady crumbs.

“I’m sorry, Doctor Snelling,” Martha cried. “Forgive me. I can be so clumsy at times.”

He peered at her through his spectacles while she adjusted her own. “I remember you—you’re the one who nearly knocked over Miss Fringle, aren’t you?”

She hung her head in shame. “I am.”

Dr. Snelling held out an elbow for Martha’s benefit. “Well, then, I’d better pour you a glass of punch,” he said. “Letitia Fringle hasn’t enjoyed herself more in years. She’s had me to her house twice a day all week, tending her ankle, which isn’t out of sorts at all, by this point.”

To her surprise, Martha smiled. Dr. Snelling was making a joke! She, who found almost all men frightening, and particularly the cross ones, placed her hand on the doctor’s arm and allowed herself to be led toward the impressive punch.

Smooth Kitty felt restive tonight, anxious, a curious mixture of anticipation and worry. Under ordinary circumstances she would have welcomed an evening out such as this, for a chance to mingle with other young people her age and, truth be told, take a peek at the younger gentlemen. But tonight was too soon after the deaths for her to feel relaxed. Especially not with Constable Quill in the room, striding purposely toward them.

“Look sharp, girls,” she whispered. “Here comes Mary Jane’s beau.”

Disgraceful Mary Jane tutted. “Not yet, he isn’t, not yet,” she corrected Kitty. “Only give me this evening, and that’ll be mended.”

From the corner of her eye, Kitty caught sight of Amanda Barnes, dressed in an apron and standing near the kitchen. Kitty felt an ache of pity and shame in the pit of her stomach. She’d rather not encounter Barnes tonight. Not after their recent unpleasantness.

“Mrs. Plackett. Ladies. Good evening.” Constable Quill stood at attention, then bowed once Alice acknowledged him. “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, ma’am.”

“Yes. Likewise.” Alice spoke in exactly the wan voice Mrs. Plackett would have used for meeting an unwelcome policeman. Kitty suppressed a smile.

“I trust your students have apprised you of the purpose of my earlier visit to your home?”

Stout Alice groaned inwardly. There was that perspiration again. What to do?

“They did.” She fixed Constable Quill with her sternest, most Placketty look. “I’m sorry, Constable. Are we here tonight for business, or for pleasure?”

Disgraceful Mary Jane stood quickly. “Who will escort me to the refreshment table for some punch?” Her eyes were on the constable, and for once Stout Alice didn’t object to her
f
lirting.

Constable Quill ignored Mary Jane—he was a man of steel nerves, apparently—and tipped the brim of his tall copper’s hat deferentially. “Indeed, ma’am, I am sorry to trouble you. We are, as you say, here for pleasure. Only I just wanted to make a small inquiry, you understand, just a very tri
f
ling matter.” He pulled his notebook and pencil from his pocket. “You did say, didn’t you…” He surveyed the other girls until his gaze rested upon Smooth Kitty. “That’s right. You’re the head girl. You were the one who said that on Sunday afternoon Mr. Godding had departed for India, by way of London?”

Mary Jane sat down.
This
tiresome business again.

For an instant, Smooth Kitty wished that Stout Alice actually was Mrs. Plackett, and that she could surrender her responsibility for this whole affair to the resident adult in charge.

“Yes. It was I who told you that.”

Constable Quill’s eyes twinkled and his dimples deepened. Curse him. Mary Jane was practically panting. The policeman turned back to Stout Alice.

“And, ma’am, did Mr. Godding travel to London by train?”

Alice glanced at Kitty for guidance, but the ‘head girl’ was too agitated to advise her. So be it. She would answer this bobby if she must, but he’d receive only minimal civility from her.

“Naturally he did.”

The constable’s pencil scribbled across the page. “Do you know which train he took?”

Around the room, music and people and strawberry punch swirled into a twinkling red blur, but this odious constable remained immovable as Gibraltar, and unwelcome as the Plague.

“I’m not in the habit of memorizing the train schedules.”

Pocked Louise nodded slightly.
Good job, Alice
.

Constable Quill smiled. “Of course not. Only, the reason I ask is that Charlie Neff, the ticketmaster down at the station, has a mind like a trap. Famous for it—he remembers every person who got on or off the trains in Ely, if they’re someone he knows.”

Smooth Kitty had the sense the walls of the parish hall were crumbling before her eyes.

Stout Alice remembered to speak. “And?”

“He worked all day in the booth this Sunday, and he’s quite certain that Mr. Godding never got on the train.”

CHAPTER 18

“Your headmistress is looking well tonight.”

Dull Martha nearly choked on a gulp of punch. It was fizzy, and she hadn’t expected the tingles now burning her nose. Dr. Snelling drank his down without difficulty. Men were accustomed to strong drinks. A startling thought occurred to Martha. Could this punch contain liquor? Surely the beverage at a parish social wouldn’t. Would it?

She sipped from her cup again. She expected the fizz this time, and found it wasn’t altogether unpleasant. It made her want to giggle. Dr. Snelling downed another half-glassful.

“That can happen with patients,” he said. “They rebound. Needs of the moment give them … how d’you say…” He quenched his parched memory with a swig of punch. “Vim. Vigor. A new lease on life. Maybe it’s this business with her grandson. No. Nephew, isn’t it?”

“Julius,” Martha offered.

Dr. Snelling waved this information away.

“I’ve seen patients at death’s door rally when a youngster in the family caught a tri
f
ling cold. Feeling needed is remarkable tonic. Course, there are other powerful reasons to live, too. Like burning through all your dough.”