Sins Out of School
Read Sins Out of School Online
Authors: Jeanne M. Dams
Table of Contents
The Dorothy Martin Mysteries
THE BODY IN THE TRANSEPT
TROUBLE IN THE TOWN HALL
HOLY TERROR IN THE HEBRIDES
MALICE IN MINIATURE
THE VICTIM IN VICTORIA STATION
KILLING CASSIDY
TO PERISH IN PENZANCE
SINS OUT OF SCHOOL
WINTER OF DISCONTENT
A DARK AND STORMY NIGHT
THE EVIL THAT MEN DO
THE CORPSE OF ST JAMES'S
MURDER AT THE CASTLE
A Dorothy Martin Mystery
Jeanne M. Dams
This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author's and publisher's rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
First published in the United States of America in 2003
by Walker Publishing Company, Inc.
This eBook first published in 2013 by Severn House Digital
an imprint of Severn House Publishers Ltd.
Copyright © 2003 by Jeanne M. Dams
The right of Jeanne M. Dams to be identified as the Author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.
ISBN-13: 978-1-4483-0099-0 (ePub)
Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.
This eBook produced by
Palimpsest Book Production Limited,
Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland.
1N
OW,
let's see.” I sat at the kitchen table with my shopping list in front of me, talking half to myself, half to my husband, who was finishing his second cup of coffee. “I've ordered the turkey, but I'll have to pick it up at the last minute. It's too big to fit in the fridge. Thank goodness the care package came from Hillsburg last week. I don't know where I would have found the fresh cranberries, or the cans of fried onions. So. Celery, yams, green beans, pumpkin ⦠and I'd better get some more onions for the stuffing ⦔
The phone rang. Alan put down his coffee cup and reached for it. “Alan Nesbitt here.”
I continued thinking out loud. “Oh, and little boiling onions to cream ⦔
Alan handed the phone across the table. “Sorry, love, but it sounds urgent.”
I made a face and put down my pen. “Yes?” I said curtly into the receiver.
“Dorothy, thank God you're there! Are you all right?”
“I'm fine,” I said. What else would I be, for heaven's sake? “Who's speaking, please?”
“Oh, sorry, sorry! It's Catherine, Catherine Woodley, and I'm in a bit of a stew. Are you sure you're feeling well?”
“Catherine, what
is
the matter? Of course I'm well.”
“There's no âof course' about it, my dear. Half the town is down with the flu, and that's why I rang. One of my teachers simply failed to turn up this morning, and I've gone through the entire list of supply teachers. Do you suppose you could possibly fill in for an hour or two while I try to find someone?”
“What,
now?
My dear woman, it's three days before Thanksgiving!”
“Thanksgiving?” There was a silence at the other end of the phone for a moment before Catherine said doubtfully, “Oh, yes, the American holiday.”
“Yes, indeed, and I'm having ten people for dinner, and I'm up to my ears in grocery shopping and cleaning andâ”
“Dorothy, I'm up to my ears in nine-year-olds! I'm desperate, truly, or I wouldn't have bothered you. It's not even legal for you to teach, you're not officially qualified, but we can pretend you're an aide, and I don't know what else to do!”
She ended on something very close to a wail. I rolled my eyes at Alan and sighed. “Very well. I have slacks on, though. Don't your teachers usually wear skirts?”
“At this moment I'd welcome you in a bathrobe. Yes, Jeremy, just a momentâoh, well, thenâlook, Dorothy, I must go. Ten minutes?”
“Twenty,” I said into nothingness. She had hung up.
“Catherine Woodley,” I said to my husband. “There's a crisis at St. Stephen's. She wants me to fill in for an hour or two.”
“I gathered you had once again been roped into something. What about the supply teachers?”
“The flu epidemic's used them all up. Look, could you drive me over? I don't think it's at all easy to find a place to park there.”
It's never easy to find a place to park anywhere in Sherebury. A beautiful little town, called a city only by virtue of its cathedral, Sherebury was laid out in the eleventh and twelfth centuries, and somehow the town planners (if there were any) failed to take the automobile into consideration. World War II bombs created instant parking lots in many English cities and towns, but Sherebury was largely spared, so parking is always an adventure. Usually I walk or take one of the efficient little minibuses, but this was an emergency. I made a quick trip to the bathroom, not sure when I'd get another chance, and put on the first hat that fell to hand as Alan got the car out of our diminutive garage.
I'd known Catherine Woodley for three years or so. She was head teacher at St. Stephen's, the local primary school, and we'd met at a cocktail party. When I was introduced as an American and a retired teacher, our common interests had led us into conversation. I'd learned a lot about the English educational system, though I'd gone home somewhat more confused than before.
I had, since, figured out a few things. One was that the system had been undergoing constant change for the past generation or so, and expatriate Americans weren't the only ones who were confused. Simply put, however, it seemed that there were essentially two strata of English schools. Wealthy and/or influential parents sent their children to prep schools and then to “public schools,” in their sense of the term. We would think of them as private schools. They were usually boarding schools and were often, though nowadays not always, segregated by sex. The rest of the school-age population went to state-run schools, which were inexpensive, though not entirely free. They might or might not also be affiliated with a church (depending on the history of their development). These most closely resembled public schools in our use of the term, although even in schools with no church affiliation the students were required to participate in a “Collective Act of Worship” every day. As an American, accustomed to rigid separation of church and state, I found this startling.
There was also a handful of entirely private schools run by “nonconformist” (neither Church of England nor Roman Catholic) religious groups. These had no state support and were patronized almost entirely by members of the churches in question. Even these small schools, though, however nonconformist in any sense, were required to conform to the standards of the national curriculum.
I had never actually been inside St. Stephen's. I knew it was, despite its name, not associated anymore with any church. I had only the vaguest idea of what Catherine's job actually was, though I knew that “head teacher” was more or less equivalent to our “principal.”
I was about to learn a great deal more about the system and how it worked. Or didn't.
I had no time at first to talk to Catherine, whose tiny office when I walked in was a scene of chaos just barely under control. The phone was ringing, two children stood in front of the desk looking scared, and a woman waited impatiently in one corner while a man stood arguing with Catherine.
She detached herself, greeted me with a harried smile, and said, “My dear, you
are
a lifesaver. I'll come along in a bit and see how you're getting on, but just nowâwell, you can see, can't you? Ravati,” she said, snaring a little passing girl, “can you show Mrs. Martin to Mrs. Doyle's room, please? And take her coat and hat and hang them up? Thank you, dear.” She had turned to deal with the next crisis before I had time to decide whether the thanks were directed to me or the child.
Ravati escorted me to the classroom, flashed a shy, bright smile, and disappeared around a corner, leaving me to my fate.
The room was about half the size of my last classroom in America. True, there were fewer children, only about twenty, but the room was still crowded. There were no desks, only a few scarred worktables and chairs scattered about. The dim light fixtures suspended from the ceiling did little to disperse the gloom of a late-November day, and the skimpy windows didn't help, either. There was only one small chalkboard, chipped at the corners, and no bulletin boards at all. Children's work was taped to the walls. A bookcase built of bricks and planks held a collection of well-worn books and one world globe.
At my entrance the children, who had been behaving about as one would expect with no teacher present, became quiet and sat down on the floor. They left little space, but I took a deep breath and threaded between them to the front of the room.
“Good morning.” There were a few giggles at my accent, but the response of “Good morning” was polite enough.
“My name is Mrs. Martin, and I am, as you can tell, American. Mrs. Doyle is ill today, and since there are no proper teachers to take her place, you'll have to make do with me. I'm a retired teacher, though, so we should get along all right.” More discreet giggles, which I ignored. “Now, who can tell me what you do first thing in the morning?”