Finished Off (A Bellehaven House Mystery Book 2) (17 page)

"Good. And please refrain from your questionable reading material until your work is done."

He had the grace to look sheepish. "Yes, m'm. Sorry, m'm." Gathering up two of the ledgers, he rushed past her and out the door.

Sighing, she took her seat behind the desk. Papers and notebooks lay scattered all over the surface, covering up the inkwell and blotter. With a frown, she began tidying them up, placing them in a neat pile on one side of the desk.

Coming across a page torn from a notebook, she glanced at it before throwing it into the wastebasket. Doodles covered the whole page. Peering at them, she saw that they were sketches of young women, all clothed in their undergarments.

Clicking her tongue, Meredith dropped the offending page into the basket. It was really too bad that Mr. Platt wasted what appeared to be a halfway decent artistic talent on such scandalous scribbling. She really would have to take a sterner hand to that young man.

Having tidied the desk to her satisfaction, she rose and walked over to the file cabinet. A small safe sat on top of it, and she quickly dialed the code to open it.

Two stacks of pound notes lay inside, and she pulled them out, then closed the door of the safe and spun the dial. Arriving back at her desk, she pulled off the rubber bands, then began to count the notes.

She had barely begun when a chill drifted across the back of her neck. Pausing, she stared at the crumpled notes in her hand. Surely not.

True, Kathleen's ghost had appeared in other places, such as the flower gardens and even once in her classroom, but then Kathleen was well acquainted with the school. Emma was not. So far, apart from that brief glimpse at the orphanage, she had only appeared in Meredith's room. She couldn't possibly have found her way to the office.

Slowly, Meredith lifted her head. She could see nothing but the pale green walls of the office, the cream gauze curtains at the window, the dark green carpet. No shadowy figure hovered in front of the bookcase or drifted around the chairs.

Relaxing her shoulders, Meredith decided she had imagined that cold draft. Having lost count of the notes, she began counting them again.

Once more a breath of frigid air brushed her neck. At the same time, she felt icy fingers touch her hand. Startled, she jerked her chin up, and stared straight into the face of Emma Lewis.

With a sharp cry, Meredith pushed her chair back so hard she crashed into the wall. It was the first time she'd come that close to the ghost. It was not a comfortable experience.

Her sudden movement must have frightened the child, as the vision had vanished, leaving not even a whisper of mist in its place.

Angry at her lack of composure, Meredith looked around the room. "Emma? I'm sorry. You startled me, that's all. I need to speak with you. Please, come back."

Only the suddenly loud ticking of her clock answered her. Frustrated, Meredith once more began counting the pound notes from the beginning.

She had almost finished when she became aware of the tingling all the way down her arms where her skin had risen in tiny bumps. The room had grown uncommonly cold. Bracing herself, she slowly raised her head.

The misty cloud hovered just a few feet away, Emma's face only vaguely visible in the center. One ghostly hand pointed straight at the desk.

Frowning, Meredith swept her gaze over the desk's surface. She could see nothing on it but the papers and notebooks, three ledgers, the inkstand with the inkwell and penholder, the blotter, and the pound notes she still held in her hand.

She looked back at Emma, who seemed to be fading into the mist. "No, wait! I don't understand. What is it you are trying to tell me?"

Emma's finger pointed straight at her.

Meredith looked down at her bodice. She wore no brooch today, no pendant. Just a white shirtwaist with her blue serge skirt. "I'm sorry, I—"

She broke off as the ghostly finger once more jabbed at her, lower this time. Looking down at her hands, Meredith said slowly, "The money? Are you pointing at the money? Why would you need money?" She looked up, alarmed to see Emma had almost disappeared.

With a pang of dismay, Meredith realized her worst
fears had materialized. The fragile thread of communication between them was gradually growing weaker. Either Emma's strength was failing, or she was losing her own tenuous powers.

She raised her hand in appeal. "Wait! You must help me. Is it the money? We raised it at the summer fete. It's for a new art studio. I'm taking it to the bank tomorrow . . ." She caught her breath as the mist glowed for an instant, and Emma's face looked out at her, her blue eyes wide and beseeching.

"The bank." Meredith peered intently at the hazy figure. "This has something to do with the bank."

The cloud vanished so suddenly she blinked. The room grew warm again. Emma had gone.

Looking down at the money in her hands, Meredith tried hard to concentrate. What could any of this possibly have to do with the bank? George Lewis was no longer there. Unless it had something to do with his embezzling.

That must be it. She had thought all along that the fire had something to do with George's embezzling. This was what Emma was trying to tell her. But how did that help her? She still knew no more than she had before. She needed more information.

Her gaze fell on the folded newspaper she'd laid on the corner of her desk earlier. With a tinge of excitement she reached for it.

Of course. She should have thought of it before. She needed to read the reports on the fire to see if there was anything there that might help her.

The old newspapers and magazines were kept in the coal shed, used to light the fireplace fires. They had been piling up all summer, and only recently had the fires been lit to warm the rooms. There might be a slim chance that the newspaper with news of the Lewis fire was still there.

Without wasting another moment, Meredith thrust the money back into the safe and hurried from the room.

On her way down the corridor she came face to face
with Sylvia Montrose. Hoping to avoid a delay, she gave her a brief nod and would have passed her by had Sylvia not stepped in front of her, barring her path.

"Oh, there you are, Meredith. I was just on my way to see you."

Inwardly cursing the interruption to her plans, Meredith forced a smile. "I hope it's not anything untoward?"

"Well, I suppose that depends." Sylvia's lisp seemed more pronounced, and she appeared to be quite agitated.

Meredith's heart sank. "On what?"

"On whether or not you consider a gross misrepresentation of facts to be a transgression."

Meredith frowned. "I'm afraid I don't understand."

"I'm talking about Felicity Cross. What, pray, is she thinking when she instructs her students to refuse to curtsy to French notables? Is she attempting to spark another Hundred Years' War?"

Meredith bit her lip. "I hardly think Miss Cross has any such ambitions. I really can't comment on her remarks without hearing the entire conversation. I will, however, have a word with her, if that will satisfy you?"

Sylvia gave her a look full of suspicion. "I hope you will sternly rebuke her. I should hate to be obliged to speak to Mr. Hamilton about this."

"I can assure you, I will get to the bottom of the matter." With great difficulty Meredith refrained from adding a derisive comment about Sylvia's passion for protocol. "You can safely leave the matter with me."

"I certainly hope so." She gave Meredith a sly look. "I know how fond you are of Miss Cross. I hope it won't prejudice your judgment of her behavior."

"Most emphatically not."
Not that it's any of your business
, she added inwardly. The woman really was an insufferable prig. It was no wonder Felicity hated her so.

"Well, good. Then I shall refrain from complaining to Mr. Hamilton for the time being." Her tone suggested she would take great pleasure in tattling to Hamilton at the slightest opportunity.

Meredith pulled a face at Sylvia's retreating back, then continued on her way to the coal shed.

Inside the shed the smell of coal dust threatened to choke her, and she carried a stack of newspapers outside, where she could breathe in the cool autumn air.

Seated on the stone border that separated the courtyard from the gardens, she quickly sorted through the copies of the
Witcheston Post
. Since the account had been on the front page, it didn't take her long to find the one she wanted.

There it was, the picture of the Lewis house, flames leaping into the night sky. The story of the family who had lost their lives followed underneath, and Meredith eagerly scanned the lines.

She had read the story earlier, when it had first come out, although she remembered few of the details. Here was the account of the little girl found trapped in a tree outside her blazing window. Of course she remembered now.

Skimming through the story, however, brought no significant information to light. Most of the report contained what she already knew, the details garishly exaggerated by the overly enthusiastic reporter.

Vastly disappointed, Meredith returned the rest of the newspapers to the shed. She was so tired of hitting a brick wall. If only she knew for certain that she was on the right track, these setbacks would be easier to bear. Even Emma and her desperate signals had failed to assure her of that.

Yet somehow she could not let go of the conviction that the answers lay out there, and if she searched diligently enough, she would eventually find them. That, and the vision of a child's tears, was all that kept her going.

Chapter 13

Returning to the main building, Meredith headed
straight for the teacher's lounge. As she had expected, Felicity and Essie were already there, and a sulky-faced Sylvia sat in the corner. Judging by the distress on Essie's face and the flush of Felicity's cheeks, words must have been exchanged between the latter and Sylvia Montrose.

A tense silence hung in the room as Meredith entered, and Essie implored her with her eyes to settle whatever dispute had arisen.

Felicity refused to look up, pretending an interest in her book, betrayed by the fact that she hadn't yet turned the first page.

Meredith sat in her favorite chair and laid the newspaper on the table in front of her. "It has turned rather chilly, don't you think?" she said, fixing Felicity with a meaningful look.

Felicity, her gaze focused on her book, didn't answer her.

"I think Meredith is addressing you, Felicity," Essie said, giving her a nudge that nearly sent the book flying off Felicity's lap.

Felicity looked up, resentment burning in her eyes. "Oh, there you are, Meredith. I was wondering what had kept you."

"Is something wrong?"

"Nothing at all." Felicity threw a burning glance in Sylvia's direction. "Not unless you take into account Miss Montrose's objections to my teaching methods, none of which are any of her business, by the way."

Sylvia's chin shot up. "I beg to differ, Miss Cross. It is indeed my business when your methods are in direct conflict to the good manners I am attempting to instill in these young ladies. I work hard to accomplish my objectives, and at every turn your outlandish tutelage sets me back. I'm beginning to think you are deliberately sabotaging my efforts for some obscure reason."

Felicity's scowl grew darker with every word of Sylvia's speech. "Outlandish? How dare you, madam! I'll have you know my methods have been approved by renowned professors of both Oxford and Cambridge."

Sylvia sniffed. "Women, I presume."

Felicity's mouth tightened. "You have something against women teachers, Miss Montrose? How odd, since I was under the impression you are one yourself. Or perhaps I was mistaken?"

Sylvia soared to her feet, her cheeks flaming. "I do not have to take such insubordination from a troublemaker whose behavior is a distinct detriment to the well-being and future of Bellehaven pupils. Mr. Hamilton shall hear of this, I promise you." With that, she swept across the room and out of the door.

Meredith groaned. "Felicity, you are incorrigible. Now I'll be forced to defend you against Stuart Hamilton's caustic comments."

The fire in Felicity's eyes slowly faded. "Bosh, Meredith. You know you enjoy sparring with Hamilton. You even go so far as to encourage it at times."

Meredith felt her cheeks grow warm. "I do not enjoy
sparring with anyone, Felicity. Especially you. Is it true you urged your students not to pay homage to French nobility?"

Felicity shrugged. "It's of no consequence. You know as well as I do that French titles have been coming and going since the Revolution. There are few nobles left in France, and they are highly unlikely to make the acquaintance of our little darlings."

"Even so, it might have been wiser to refrain from such a highly prejudiced dictum."

"I suppose you're right. The students were getting restless and I needed something a little preposterous to get their attention." She grinned. "I must say, they heartily approved of the edict."

"Of course they would."

"I do hope you won't be in trouble with Mr. Hamilton," Essie said, her face creased in concern. "I should hate to see you lose your position over something so trivial."

"Oh, I'm not in the least worried." Felicity sent Meredith a sly look. "I'm quite sure Meredith will placate the ogre. She has quite a knack of smoothing his ruffled feathers and restoring his good humor. I really think he has taken a fancy to you, Meredith."

"Stuff and nonsense. Mr. Hamilton is and always has been interested only in business matters. He is dedicated to the smooth running of this school, and that is the only reason for his visits. So you can put aside any notion of personal interest." Her cheeks hot, Meredith sought a distraction. "I found this newspaper. It has the account of the Lewis house fire."

Her smile fading, Felicity took the newspaper from her. "I remember the day this story came out. I sat reading it at the railway station while I waited for the new batch of supplies to arrive on the London train. If you remember, I spent most of the day there before the stationmaster told me there had been a derailment and there would be no trains from London until the next day." She shook her head.
"Such a waste of time. I don't know why it took so long for the message to reach him."