Sherlock Holmes and the Case of the Sword Princess (10 page)

“The cook,” explained Amity.
 

“He doesn’t know how to cook,” added Gloria, giggling as she set down her needlepoint, her notebook unopened.

“We had a very nice ham on Sunday,” corrected Candice, her carrot-red hair bobbing, offsetting her copper-colored eyes beautifully.
 
Candice looked to be the healthiest of the girls.
 
“I’m nine years old you know!”

“Oh, that ham was
so good!”
added blonde Susan, tiny for an eight-year-old.

“Even the rolls tasted like bread instead of sawdust,” Gloria added. Gloria was the prettiest child Mirabella had ever seen, with brunette hair, dark eyes, dimples, and a smile that would warm the sun.

“That’s because Candy made them,” stated Susan matter-of-factly.

“Is it true?” asked Mirabella of the girls.
 
“Did Candice make the rolls?”

Amity nodded.
 
“The only way we ever have anything good is when Candice helps in the kitchen.”

“But I have to have special permission,” Candice explained.
 
“Miss Bickers says there is lots of big equipment in the kitchen and she has to be sure it is safe before I can help.”

Mirabella raised her eyebrows.
 
Miss Bickers didn’t strike her as the over-protective type.
 
“Hmmm . . . and what else do you know about Miss Bickers, Candice?”

Candice blushed, as if she knew a great secret.
 
“Her first name is Minerva.”

“How did you know that, Candice?”

“I overheard Mr. McVittie calling her by her first name.”
 
Candice giggled, joined in by all the little girls.

How strange.
 
It would be very odd for a fellow employee to call the headmistress by her first name.

“Today, class, we are going to study finger printing.”
 
Mirabella cleared her throat.
 
Now that the apples had been eaten, Mirabella began the class, placing a brown wooden box on the desk and opening it.
 
“The authorities dismiss finger printing, treating it as an art form.
 
But I foresee that there will be enormous implications for the identification of criminals.”

Susan began waving her hand wildly.
 
Despite resembling a Dresden doll, she was obviously athletic, and in addition, Mirabella knew for a fact that the little girl had a lovely singing voice.
 

“Yes Susan?”

“What is a criminal?”

“That’s the
bad guy,
Sukey,
”
answered Gloria, rolling her eyes.

“Quite right,” agreed Mirabella.
 
“Please come to the table and bring your notebooks.”

Gloria reluctantly set down her needlepoint and joined the other girls.

First the young girls went over their arithmetic.
 
“You are doing very well class.
 
Miss Bickers is doing a good job.”

“And now for a very special treat.
 
Everyone has a unique fingerprint,” Mirabella continued.
 
“No two are alike, even among identical twins.
 
There are twelve distinct classifications.
 
Your assignment will be to fingerprint your friends, label them, and classify them, until we have each of the twelve categories represented.”

Mirabella removed from the wooden box the ink, a blotter, a roller, a rag, a small bottle of turpentine, a piece of wood, and a record book.
 
She rolled a thin layer of ink on the wood piece and blotted it, wiping her hands on the rag.
 
“I am now blotting the ink, class, to insure that there is not so much ink as to saturate the skin.
 
A very small amount of ink is needed.
 
If we smudge the ink, we won’t be able to see the detail in the fingerprint.”

“Hold the other person’s thumb,
you
must apply the pressure, don’t allow your subject to do it.”
 
She then took Susan’s little thumb firmly in her hand, rolling the thumb slowly on the black ink.
 
“Go slowly but with no pauses to insure an even print.”

“Roll towards Susan for the thumbprint, starting with the point of most resistance.”
 
Susan’s thumb was then placed on the record book, rolling towards Susan from the point of most to least resistance.

“Sukey’s looks like little loops!”
 
Amity exclaimed, looking at Susan’s thumbprint.

“No, it’s whirly-whirls!” Susan stated.

“It’s both,” replied Mirabella.
 
“You see these curves?
 
Do you see where the ridge ends?”

“But this one splits into other ridges,” Susan considered.

“Excellent observation!” Mirabella approved.
 
“These are two of the important distinctions which make each fingerprint unique:
 
where the ridges end—and where they split into other ridges.”

“Like a road,” Candice stated.

“Or a tree with branches!” Susan interjected.
 
“With little swirly birds singing on them.”

“Oh, no!
 
A smudge!” Gloria exclaimed, her eye attuned to every deviation.

“The utmost detail must be seen.
 
Move at a steady pace with an even amount of pressure to get the least amount of smudges.
 
Now, Amity, you take Candice’s thumbprint.”

“I’ll mess it up!” exclaimed Amity.

“Then we’ll do it again,” replied Mirabella.
 
“This is just for practice.
 
It’s the only way to learn.
 
I’ll tell you a secret:
 
most of the policemen at Scotland Yard don’t know how to do this.”

“No!”
 
the girls all replied in unison and astonishment.

“It is true,” replied Mirabella.
 
“You will know something Scotland Yard does not know.”

“We know more than the coppers?” Gloria demanded.

“We should tell them,” Amity suggested.
 
“So then they will know.”

“Someone far pushier than you has that well in hand,” Mirabella murmured.

Amity took Candice’s thumbprint with great care, and it was a passably good representation in Mirabella’s mind.

“Mine looks like an arch—like over the train tunnels,” Candice stated when her fingerprint had been taken.

“Excellent, Candice!” Mirabella stated.
 
“Only a very small percentage of the population has fingerprints with that shape.”

“It’s an elaborate pattern,” Gloria considered, tapping her dimpled cheek.
 
“Much like a knitting pattern.”

“I don’t want to use a blanket with that pattern,” giggled Susan.
 
“I might get lost in the bed.”

“It is too hard!
 
How will we get someone to do that for us?” Candice asked almost breathlessly, her copper brown eyes disturbed.

“Ah, that is where the detective work comes in.
 
I will leave my box with you, and you must guard it and treat it like a magical box.
 
Surely you can lure someone in here with one of Amity’s fairy stories,” Mirabella smiled, holding her finger to her lips.
 
“Shhh!
 
It’s all
very
secret.”

“Do we have to sneak out from our beds at night and go into the streets?” Candice asked with a shudder.

“Amity and me lived in the streets for a while—until they found us after the fire—and I never want to go back there,” Susan exclaimed in a lilting, though strained, musical voice, waving her arms and looking almost ferocious in spite of her blonde hair and blue eyes.
 

“Most assuredly, you must not, under
any circumstances
venture out at night—or without an adult chaperone!” admonished Mirabella.
 
“And anyone who would tell you to do so is
not
to be trusted!”

“It was very scary,” agreed Amity, nodding wildly, suddenly looking to be the oldest and wisest in the room.
 
“Even I knew they would find me and Sukey and I was still frightened.
 
You can’t sleep out in the light where people can see you—and it is
so cold
.
 
And sometimes you are wet.
 
And
always
you are hungry.”

“I’ll bet that’s where Sukey learned to run so fast!” considered Gloria, covering her mouth with her hands.

“
No one
can run as fast as Sukey,” Amity agreed proudly.

“I remember being hungry,” Candice nodded sadly, her expression suddenly distant.
 
“When I feel scared of being hungry now, I cook or plant.”

“I do not like
any
place outside
Lady Graham’s
,” agreed Sukey, her expressive eyes frightened.
 

“I never want to leave,” Candice chimed in.
 
“They used to work us
very
hard at the other place, the work is easy
here
, and there is never anyone who would hurt you.”

“Before they found out how important Candice’s father was and went and got her,” confided Susan.
 
“At
the workhouse
.”

“Oh,
no
!” exclaimed Mirabella, clutching her chest staring at the beautiful little girl before her.
 
“You can’t mean it!”
 
Everyone shuddered, Mirabella most of all.
 
At least
Lady Graham’s
was an orphanage rather than a workhouse, which, from Miss Bickers’ description was nothing more than a prison where children were worked until they died.
 

Utterly inexcusable.

 
Mirabella heard the bells of Westminster Abbey ringing in the background.
 
Whatsoever you do to the least of them, you do unto me.
 

“My papa was a
police constable,”
repeated Candice, her rosy lips forming an awed whisper, obviously very proud of her parentage which had saved her life.
 

“They don’t care what we do here,” explained tiny Susan in a whisper, her large blue-grey eyes appearing even larger against her pale white skin.
 
“No one cares—except Miss Bella.”

“It
is
very boring here,” confided Gloria, sighing, fingering her beautifully embroidered apron.
 
All of the girls wore simple brown shift cotton dresses with white aprons and white caps with the exception of Gloria whose apron was outlined in lovely flowers. “I wish there was more to do.
 
We get the smallest allotment of knitting yarn and almost no embroidery thread.
 
If I had more, I would decorate
everyone’s
apron.”
 
She kicked her serviceable brown boots against the table, revealing white knee socks.

“But your classes must take up a great deal of time,” considered Mirabella.
 
“And don’t you have homework?”

The girls laughed.
 

“I don’t like homework,” chimed in Candice, her carrot-red hair bobbing.
 
“I like to work in the garden and the kitchen.
 
I only come here for the apple.
 
I want to plant the seeds in the garden.”
 
Gingerly she unfolded her handkerchief containing all the apple seeds, displaying them proudly before refolding the cloth.

“Oh, your tomatoes were so good last year!” Amity exclaimed rubbing her stomach, even as Candice beamed.

“Is your library sufficient?” pressed Mirabella, attempting to return the subject to their scholastics.

“What’s a . . .
library
?” asked Susan, glancing up.
 

“What’s
sufficient
?” asked Candice.

“A library is a room with books,” answered Mirabella.
 
All the girls looked at her blankly.

Oh, this was
very
bad.
 
She swallowed hard.
 
“And sheet music.
 
A library would have sheet music also.”

Susan’s jaw dropped.
 
“
Music
?
 
I want to go to the library!
 
Where is it?”

“
Oh,
dear,
” murmured Mirabella.
 
“Tell me, girls, how long do your classes last every day?”

“From eight o’clock to ten o’clock,” replied Amity.
 
“And then we have homework.
 
We all do ours, but lots of girls don’t because Miss Bickers doesn’t grade it anyway.”

“I don’t think she knows the answers herself,” Gloria giggled, kicking her legs back and forth in the chair which was too high off the ground for her.

“Then what do you do?” asked Mirabella.

“Well, we have to wash and press our clothes and clean our rooms,” answered Amity.

“And then it’s time for lunch!” exclaimed Susan happily.

“In the afternoon, we clean the big rooms, and if we finish we get to sew or garden or play games, whatever we like to do,” explained Candice.

“You girls do all the cleaning here?” Mirabella asked, startled.

“Yes,” they all nodded in unison.
 

Perhaps they were being trained for domestic help after all.
 
Cooking.
 
Cleaning.
 
Sewing.
 
They weren’t being overworked, she supposed, but these girls were far too bright to ignore their education.

“Is it difficult?” asked Mirabella.

“No, I run down the halls while I’m doing it, and I mop really fast, so I do that,” replied Susan.
 

“And she sings while she mops,” Amity added with a giggle.
 

“I mostly do the sewing.
 
And all of the girls here have to help with the sewing and mopping and cleaning, so it’s not so bad.
 
Although I am the best seamstress,” answered Gloria proudly.
 
“And Candice helps with the cooking when they let her in the kitchen.”