Murder Has No Class (7 page)

For a moment or two flashes of lightning shot out from the mist, blurring the man’s image for a moment, then gradually he became clear once more. Holding up his hand, he tilted his head to one side and stuck out his tongue.

Incredibly childish, Meredith thought, but then she realized what he was trying to portray. “Yes,” she said, “I know you were hanged for the murder of your father. I read all about it in the newspaper. Well, let me tell you, I believe you got exactly what you deserved. Shooting your own father in cold blood. How despicable.”

The ghost shook his head, and waved his hands in front of his face.

Feeling a little braver now that it seemed he could not hurt her after all, Meredith leaned forward. “I do not aid and abet murderers,” she said, emphasizing each word. “It seems to me that justice was served, and served well. I do not know why you are unable to leave this world, but you must work that out for yourself. I can’t and I won’t help you.”

Again the ghost shook his head, then raised his fists. The mist grew darker, fiercer in color, while it seemed that flames circled the man’s head. Then gradually it faded and once more the fog curled inward, growing smaller until it vanished altogether.

Meredith held her breath until the last wisp of smoke had disappeared, then gave a decisive nod. That should be that. She had twice denied him. Surely now he would leave her alone.

She expressed as much to Felicity and Essie the following morning, while they enjoyed a cup of hot tea in the teacher’s lounge.

Essie clapped her hands in approval, though Felicity shook her head and muttered, “If you ask me, you are biting off more than you can chew. If you don’t take care, these apparitions that you profess to see will turn your brain. I should hate to see you committed to an asylum.”

Meredith felt a cold pang of fear. Although she would never admit it aloud, she had at times doubted her sanity when confronted by the visions. The fact that she had helped to solve two murders had given her some comfort. At least, if she were on the brink of madness, some good had come of it.

“Nonsense.” Essie stared at Felicity in dismay. “How could you say such a thing! You know very well that Meredith has more intelligence and common sense than you and I combined.”

Felicity laughed. “I don’t doubt that, Essie. I just fear that our dear friend can only take so much before she loses the ability to distinguish between reality and fantasy.”

“I’m still in the room,” Meredith pointed out mildly. “I wish you would not speak of me as if I’m not here.” She picked up her knitting bag and opened it. “In any case, I shall make every effort to hold onto my sanity, no matter how many ghosts I encounter.”

“Well, let’s hope you’ve seen the last of this one.” Felicity leaned back in her chair and crossed her feet. “Though he does seem convinced you can help him. Perhaps he is trying to atone for his sins, in the hope that it will allow him to enter whatever strange world these beings inhabit.”

Unsure if Felicity was having fun with her, Meredith clicked her needles in a frenzy of knitting. “I don’t see how he can atone for murdering his own father in cold blood.”

“Well, no doubt you will soon be telling me he has returned. I have a feeling you won’t be rid of him until you’ve agreed to help him.” Felicity laced her fingers together. “Whether this phantom is a figment of your imagination or a visitation from the other side, it seems to me that the matter can only be resolved when you have produced a logical conclusion to an unresolved issue.”

Felicity’s words remained with Meredith through much of the morning, in spite of her best efforts to ignore them. Perhaps, she thought, as she thankfully headed for the dining room at midday, there just might be some truth in her friend’s sentiments. Perhaps she had been too hasty in her refusals to help the ghost of Lord Stalham.

Deep in thought, she was about halfway through her meal of ham, pickles, and cheese when she noticed a great deal of whispering going on in the dining room. Not only at her table, but at the other tables as well.

When she focused on the students, however, they quickly turned the subject to that afternoon’s lecture on the celebrated artist, Monet, and Meredith was left with the feeling that whatever had stirred the interest of her pupils, it was something they didn’t wish to discuss with her.

Most likely they had been complaining among themselves about the village being off limits for the May Day festivities.

She’d certainly heard many murmurs of shock and dismay when she had made the announcement at assembly that morning.

Normally that would concern her, but today her thoughts were distracted by her preoccupation with the late Lord Stalham’s dilemma. So much so that instead of joining her friends in the teacher’s lounge, she returned to her office, with the intention of reading the full report on the murder trial.

When she opened the door to her office, however, the sight that met her eyes drove all thoughts of the ghost out of her mind.

Roger was seated behind her desk as usual, and he sprang to his feet as she entered, dislodging the young woman who had been seated on his lap.

Sophie Westchester fell to the floor, her skirts raised in a disgusting display of bare knees. “Ow!” The student glared up at Roger, then scrambled to her feet, her cheeks glowing as she met Meredith’s horrified stare. “I . . . we . . . I was just asking Rog . . . Mr. Platt . . .”

“Go to your room.” Meredith flung a hand at the door. “And stay there until I come and have a word with you.”

“Yes, Mrs. Llewellyn.” Bowing her head, Sophie rushed past her and out of the door.

Roger Platt’s face had grown as red as a ripe strawberry, and once more he seemed to be having a problem with his starched collar. Tugging at it, he avoided her gaze while he muttered, “I can explain.”

“I certainly hope you can.” Meredith beckoned to him to move out from her desk and marched behind it herself to sit down.

“Please begin your explanation, and I warn you, your employment here depends on what you have to say.”

“Well, I was working here on the housekeeping accounts”—he gestured at the papers strewn across his desk—“when Sophie . . . ah . . . I mean, Miss Westchester, walked in and sat on the edge of my desk.” He cleared his throat. “She said she wanted to ask me about the fund for the new art studio. She said some of the girls were discussing a new way to raise money for it.”

Meredith frowned. “How did that require her sitting on your lap?”

Roger coughed and tugged at his collar again. “I was showing her the ledger, m’m, and she leaned over to look at it and . . . sort of . . . fell.”

“And you expect me to believe that?”

“It’s what happened.” Roger put a hand over his heart. “I swear it on my dead mother’s grave.”

Meredith rolled her eyes. “You don’t know who your mother is, Roger. You grew up in an orphanage.”

“Yes, I know, but I had to have a mother somewhere, right?”

“For all you know, she could be alive and well.”

Roger nodded. “I certainly hope so, m’m.”

Realizing she had strayed from the issue, Meredith pinched her lips. “You do understand that Miss Westchester deliberately engineered this incident to suit her own purposes?”

“I suppose so, m’m.”

“And that it was up to you to prevent this sort of behavior?”

“I did my best, m’m.” Roger put on an injured expression. “I shot her off my lap.”

“Not until I opened the door.”

“Which was exactly the moment it all happened.” Roger looked hopeful. “Quite a coincidence, that.”

Meredith closed her eyes and passed a hand over her forehead. “You may leave, Mr. Platt. Take this ledger with you and finish working on it in the library. I will let you know when you may have my desk again.”

“Yes, m’m, Mrs. Llewellyn.” Bowing and touching his forehead with his fingers, Roger snatched up the ledger and fled from the room.

Sighing, Meredith took out the newspaper from the top drawer and opened it. The very next time Stuart Hamilton paid her a visit, she would be sure to get things straightened out with him. She’d had quite enough of Roger, Sophie Westchester, and their shenanigans. Roger Platt had to go, and she would demand that Hamilton either find her a new assistant, or she would find one herself.

Chapter 6

“I read the article in the newspaper,” Meredith announced, later that afternoon. “It was most interesting.”

Essie turned to her, her long skirts blowing around her ankles in the breeze. The warm sunshine had beckoned to her, and she had suggested a short walk in the grounds before returning to their final classes of the day. “Really? What did it say?”

Felicity, who had strode ahead of them as usual, slowed her pace to listen.

Meredith paused in front of a bench at the edge of the flower beds. “Why don’t we sit here for a moment. I will tell you what I read.”

Essie seated herself, while Felicity looked a little impatient. “I read some of it myself,” she said, dropping onto the bench, “until I got to the part where it said James Stalham protested his innocence throughout the trial. Then I gave up in disgust. After all, isn’t that what all criminals do? Insist they are innocent of the crime?”

Meredith leaned her back against the bench. It felt good to relax after the difficult confrontation she’d had with Sophie Westchester, who had been quite defiant until Meredith had threatened to have her removed from the school. At which point the student had mumbled a resentful apology and promised to stay away from Roger Platt—a promise Meredith had no doubt the student intended to break at the very next opportunity.

Dismissing the wayward girl from her mind, Meredith raised her chin. It was such a pretty day. Sunlight once more bathed the gray walls of the school, and glistened on the smooth lawns. Beyond where she sat she could see the dark green branches of the poplars swaying, as if they were dancing in the wind.

Above her head birds twittered and fluttered about among the leaves, and the fragrance of freshly cut grass reminded her that summer was not too far away. She was reluctant to spoil such a peaceful scene with talk of a murder, yet she was anxious to share what she had learned in the newspaper article.

“James Stalham did, indeed, protest his innocence.” She leaned down to pluck a blade of grass from the hem of her skirt.

“What is more,” she added, straightening her back again, “the defense attorney insists that James was innocent and that the judge misled the jury, by not allowing evidence.”

“He’s paid to say that.” Felicity sneezed, and hunted in her sleeve for a handkerchief. “That’s what defense attorneys do.”

Essie leaned forward, her forehead creased in a frown. “Did the article say what actually happened that night?”

“Yes. James Stalham told the court he was having a late nightcap in the parlor when he heard a shot. It came from the library, across the hall from him. He rushed in and found his father lying on the floor, with a gun lying next to him. He picked up the gun, put it on the table, and then rang for the constables.”

Essie gasped, a hand over her mouth. “How awful.”

“Did he say his father shot himself?” Felicity looked skeptical, as Meredith had expected.

“No,” she said. “James insisted that someone else shot Howard Stalham. The fact that the only fingerprints found on the gun belonged to James, helped convict him of the crime. The prosecutor maintained that if Howard Stalham had shot himself, his fingerprints would also have been on the gun. If someone else had shot him, the killer would have had to clean the gun, and would still have been in the room when James arrived.”

Essie looked confused. “I don’t understand all this talk of fingerprints. What does that mean?”

Felicity jumped in to answer. “Oh, come, Essie. Surely you’ve heard of it? It’s the latest technique the constabulary is using to catch criminals. Or rather, it’s actually Scotland Yard that is employing the method. They can actually tell the identity of someone by the prints on their fingers.”

Essie stared at the tips of her fingers. “You mean these little lines and swirls on them?”

“Well, of course that’s what I mean.” Felicity held out her own hands. “Every single person in the world has different patterns of those lines and swirls. See? Mine are different from yours.”

Essie shook her head. “I still don’t see how that can catch a criminal.”

“It’s obvious, Essie. Take this case of the Stalham murder. After James Stalham was arrested, the constables inked his fingers and then pressed them to a sheet of paper. That left prints that they matched to the pattern left on the gun.”

Essie gazed at Felicity in awe. “How on earth do you know all that?”

“Don’t let her overwhelm you with her superior knowledge,” Meredith said, with a quick frown at Felicity. “She read it in the newspaper. Just as I did. There was an article about it not too long ago. Apparently Scotland Yard has been officially using the method for at least two years.”