In the Fifth at Malory Towers (16 page)

Moira hesitated. “Yes. But I’m not sure about it, so I can’t say.”

“Go and get Darrell, and Sally, too,” said Miss Potts, thinking she could probably get more out of them. “This has got to be stopped. Once a person of this sort gets away with a thing like this there’s no knowing what they’ll do next.”

Sally and Darrell came. They read the note. Darrell looked sick. “Horrible,” she said.

“Who has written them?” demanded Miss Potts.

All three girls looked away. “Well?” said Miss Potts, impatiently. “This is not a thing to be backward about, is it? Don’t you agree that it must be stopped?”

“Oh
yes
,” said Darrell.

“Well then — if you have any idea who has written them, tell me,” said Miss Potts. “I can then go and tackle them at once.”

“Well — you see — it might be one of quite a number of people,” said Darrell.

“A
number
of people?” said Miss Potts, disbelievingly. “Are you trying to tell me that there are a
number
of people who hate Moira enough to write her notes like this?”

There was a silence. Miss Potts clicked in exasperation. “Has Moira so many enemies? And why? I have had no complaints of her as head-girl. Why do you think so many people hate Moira?”

This was very awkward and most embarrassing. Darrell and Sally didn’t know what in the world to say. Moira came to their rescue. She was pale, and looked strained.

“
I’ll
tell you who it might be, Miss Potts!” she said. “It might be Gwen. It might be Maureen. It might even be Alicia.”

“NO!” said both Sally and Darrell together.

Moira went on. “It might be Catherine. It might be — it might be Bridget.”

“
Bridget
— do you mean your sister in the fourth?” asked Miss Potts, amazed.

Moira nodded, looking miserable. She wouldn’t look at Sally or Darrell. Miss Potts turned to them. “What do you think of all this?” she demanded.

“Well — it
could
be any of those except Alicia,” said Darrell. “Alicia
does
feel angry with Moira because of something that happened at a rehearsal — but Alicia’s not underhanded. If she wanted to tell Moira all those things she’d say them out loud, probably in front of everyone, too! It’s certainly not Alicia.”

“I agree with you,” said Miss Potts. “We ran certainly rule out Alicia. That still leaves four people that Moira thinks detest her enough to write these notes. Moira — it’s rather dreadful to feel you have four people around you that might regard you with such bitter feelings, isn’t it? What can you have been doing to arouse them?”

Moira said nothing. She knew perfectly well why all four had cause to hate her. She had sneered at Gwen and Maureen unmercifully, and had humiliated them too, on the stage at last week’s rehearsal. She had called Catherine a doormat and sneered too at her, for her annoying self-sacrificing ways, and had shoved her to one side, in spite of all the hundreds of things Catherine had done for her.

As for Bridget — well, there never had been any love lost between the sisters. Bridget hated her, she was sure of it. And hadn’t Bridget threatened her not so long ago? What had she said, “I warn you, Moira, you’ll be sorry for this. I
warn
you!”

Well — it might be Catherine, it might be Gwen or Maureen, and it might be Bridget. It probably
wasn’t
Alicia — because these letters came from a coward, and nobody could call Alicia that!

Who
did
write those beastly letters? And how could they ever find out?

ALL sorts of things happened that week. At the next rehearsal there was another flare-up between Alicia and Moira — a really bad one that ended in Alicia resigning from the show! Betty promptly resigned, too, as co-producer.

It was a terrible blow to Sally and Darrell. “We can’t do without you, Alicia,” wailed Darrell. “We’ll never, never get a demon king like you — and all your wonderful juggling and conjuring and leaping about, too. You’ll ruin the whole thing if you resign.”

“
If
I resign! I have resigned!” said Alicia, looking calm and unruffled, but inwardly seething with anger, disappointment and misery at seeing Darrell so upset. I’m sorry it affects you too — but I’m not working with Moira any more. And nothing in the world will make me go back into the pantomime now — no, not even if Moira herself resigned and came and apologized.”

Darrell knew that Moira would never do that. She was as unbending as Alicia was obstinate.

“Talk about the immovable meeting the irresistible!” she groaned. “Oh, Alicia — for
my
sake, withdraw your resignation. Why, it’s only three weeks now till the pantomime is presented. I can’t rewrite it, and cut out your parts — you come in so often.”

“Darrell, I’m honestly sorry,” said Alicia, looking harassed now. “But you know I never go back on my word. It’s my pride now that’s in the way. Nothing in the world would make me knuckle under to Moira — and that’s what I should be doing if I withdrew my resignation.”

Darrell stared hopelessly at Alicia. Defiant, obstinate, strong-willed Alicia — nobody could do anything with her once she had made up her mind. She turned away, amazed and furious to find sudden tears in her eyes. But she was so bitterly disappointed. Her lovely pantomime — and such a wonderful demon king — and all that juggling and conjuring out of it now. No one but Alicia could do that.

Sally went with Darrell, trying to comfort her. She, too, was bitterly disappointed, and sighed when she thought of all the rewriting there would be to do — and another demon king to find and train in such a short time. But Darrell felt it most. It was her first big job, the first time she had tried her hand at writing something worthwhile — and now it was spoilt.

Moira was obstinate too. She would not talk about the matter at all. Nor would she resign. “All I can say is, I’m sorry it’s happened, but it was Alicia who blew up and resigned, not me,” she said. And not one word more would she say about it.

It was Mam’zelle who created the next excitement. She sat down at her desk in Miss Potts” room one day, and announced her intention of turning it out.

“About time, too,” said Miss Potts, dryly. “You’ll probably find the year before last’s exam papers there, I should think. I never saw such a collection of rubbish in anyone’s desk in my life.”

“Ha, Miss Potts! You wish to be funny?” said Mam’zelle, huffily.

“No,” said Miss Potts. “Merely truthful.”

Mam’zelle snorted, and took hold of about a hundred loose papers in her desk. She lifted them out and they immediately fell apart and slithered all over the floor. One booklet floated to Miss Potts' feet. She looked at it with interest, for there was a very brightly coloured picture on the cover, showing a conjurer doing tricks. “New tricks. Old tricks. Tricks to play on your enemies. Tricks to play on your friends,” she read out loud. She glanced at Mam’zelle in astonishment. “Since when did you think of taking up tricks to play?” she inquired.

“I do not think of it,” said Mam’zelle, depositing another hundred papers on the floor. “
Tiens
! Here is the programme of the play the third-formers gave six years ago!”

“What did I tell you?” said Miss Potts. “You’ll probably find the Speeches made at the Opening of the First Term at Malory Towers if you look a little further into your desk.”

“Do not tizz me,” said Mam’zelle. “I do not like being tizzed.”

“I’m not teasing,” said Miss Potts. “I’m quite serious. I say —
where
did you get these trick and conjuring lists from? Look at this one — I’m sure it’s got in it all the tricks that Alicia and Betty ever played on you!”

Mam’zelle took the booklets. She was soon completely absorbed in them. She chuckled. She laughed. She said “
Tiens
!” and “Oh
, là là
!” a dozen times. Miss Potts went on with her work. She was used to Mam’zelle’s little ways.

Mam’zelle had never read anything so enthralling in all her life as these booklets that described tricks of all sorts and kinds. She was completely lost in them. She read of machines that could apparently saw people’s fingers in half without hurting them — cigarettes with glowing ends that were not really alight — ink spots and jam-clots that could be placed on table-cloths to deceive annoyed mothers or teachers into thinking they were real.

The booklets blandly described these and a hundred others. Mam’zelle was absolutely fascinated. She came to one trick that made her laugh out loud. “Ah, now listen, Miss Potts,” she began.

“No, Mam’zelle,” said Miss Potts, sternly. “I’ve twenty-three
disgraceful
maths papers to mark that the first form have had the nerve to give in today — and I do NOT want to listen to your recital of childish tricks.”

Mam’zelle sighed and went back to the booklets. She read over again the thing that had so intrigued her. There were two photographs with the description of the trick. One showed a smiling man with ordinary teeth — the other showed the same man — with trick teeth! He looked horrible.

Mam’zelle read the description over again. “These trick teeth are cleverly made of celluloid, and are shaped to fit neatly over the wearer’s own teeth — but project forwards and downwards, and so alter the expression of the wearer’s face considerably as soon as he smiles, giving a really terrifying and exceedingly strange appearance.”

Mam’zelle studied the photographs. She tried to imagine herself wearing teeth like that — and suddenly flashing them at the girls with a smile. Ha! They had dared her to do a trick on them! Mam’zelle had a very very good mind to write for this teeth trick. Perhaps she would wear them at a lacrosse match out in the field — or maybe take the girls for a walk, and keep showing her trick teeth.

Mam’zelle shook with laughter. Ha — so many “treeks” had those bad girls played on her, it was time their poor old Mam’zelle played a “treek” on them too. How they would be astonished! How they would stare. How they would laugh afterwards.

Mam’zelle scuffled about among her untidy papers and found her writing-pad. In her slanting French handwriting she wrote for the “teeth trick” and sent a cheque with the letter. She was delighted. She would not tell even Miss Potts.

“No. I will not tell her. I will suddenly smile at her — like this,” said Mam’zelle to herself — and did a sudden fierce grin — “and I shall look so strange that she will start back in fright at my horrible teeth.”

Mam’zelle finished the letter and then casually looked through the other trick booklets before throwing them away. And it was then she came across the note. It was written in capitals, very carefully. It was not a nice note. It was headed:

TO FELICITY,

Y
OU THINK YOU’RE SO GOOD AT GAMES, DON’T YOU?
W
ELL, IT’S ONLY BECAUSE
D
ARRELL FAVOURS YOU THAT YOU’RE EVER PUT INTO ANY GAMES.
E
VERYONE KNOWS THAT!

It was not signed at all. “Here is a nasty little note,” said Mam’zelle in disgust, and tossed it to Miss Potts. Miss Potts recognized the printed letters at once — they were exactly the same as those on the anonymous letters sent to Moira.

“Where did you get this?” she asked, sharply.

“I found it in this trick booklet,” said Mam’zelle, startled.

“Whose is the booklet? Where did you get it?” demanded Miss Potts.

“I took it from that bad little June’s desk,” said Mam’zelle.

“Very interesting,” said Miss Potts. She got up and went to the door. She sent a girl to find Moira, Sally and Darrell. They came, looking surprised.

“I think I’ve found the writer of those notes,” said Miss Potts. “But before I tackle her I want to know if she’s any reason to dislike you, Moira. It’s June, in the first form.”

“
June
!” exclaimed everyone, amazed.

Moira looked at Miss Potts. “Yes — I suppose she’d think she had cause to dislike me,” she said. “I ticked her off because she was cheeky about not being put into the Wellsbrough match. Told her she had no team-spirit. I also made her apologize to me for daring to say in front of me that Darrell had put Felicity into the match out of favouritism, because she was her sister.”

Miss Potts nodded. “Thank you. It is June then, I’m afraid. I’ll see her now. Send her to me, will you. I’m rather afraid this is a matter for Miss Grayling. We are not pleased with June and it wouldn’t take much to have her sent away from here. This is a particularly loathsome act of hers — to send out anonymous letters.”

June came, looking defiant but scared. She had not been told why she was wanted.

“June, I have called you here on a very very serious matter,” said Miss Potts. “I find that you have been writing detestable anonymous letters. Don’t attempt to deny it. You will only make things worse. Your only hope is to confess honestly. Why did you do it?”

June had no idea how Miss Potts knew all this. She went white, but still looked bold. “I suppose you mean the ones to Moira?” she said. “Yes, I did write them — and she deserved them. Everyone hates her.”

“That’s beside the point,” said Miss Potts. “The point we have to keep to is that there is a girl in this school, a girl in the first form, who is guilty of something for which in later years she could be sent to prison — a thing that as a rule rarely begins until a girl is much much older than you, because it is only depraved and cowardly characters who attempt this underhand, stab-in-the-dark kind of thing.”

She paused. Her eyes bored like gimlets into the petrified June.

“We call this kind of thing ‘poison-pen’ writing, when the writers are grown up,” she went on, “and they are held in universal loathing and hatred, considered the lowest of the low. Did you know that?”

“No,” gasped June.

“I would not talk to you in this serious manner if there were not also other things I dislike very much in you,” said Miss Potts, still in the same hard, driving voice. “Your disobedience, your defiance, your aggressiveness, your total lack of respect for anyone. You may think it is admirable and brave and grand. It isn’t. It is the sign of a strong character gone wrong — and on top of all that you have shown yourself a coward — because only a coward ever writes anonymous letters.”