The Daughters of Gentlemen (6 page)

A
t eight the following morning Frances returned to Chepstow Place, painfully aware that, as yet, she had no suspects, very little idea of what the pamphlets had contained, and no clues at all as to why inappropriate reading matter had been put in the girls’ desks. She had no grand plan in mind but there were pupils to whom she had not yet spoken and she supposed that she should interview everyone, including Mr Fiske’s fellow governors, before she admitted defeat.

She was met at the door not by the housemaid, but by Miss Bell, who was clutching a handkerchief and looked flustered. ‘Miss Doughty,’ she said, ‘I am so sorry, we are all at sixes and sevens today. Please come in, Mrs Venn would like to see you at once. She has something very particular to impart.’

Miss Bell was unusually silent on the reason for her agitation, which suggested to Frances that the headmistress had reserved for herself the pleasure of revealing the information. After showing Frances up to the study, Miss Bell hovered for a moment on the landing as if unsure which way to turn, then, with a sudden little lurch of decision, hurried downstairs.

As Mrs Venn greeted her visitor there was a smile playing around her lips, but it was not the kind of smile Frances cared to see. Dignity was obviously required and she braced herself.

‘Good morning Miss Doughty,’ said Mrs Venn genially. ‘You will be pleased to know, as I am, that your work here is complete. We have discovered the culprit. It was the housemaid, Matilda Springett.’

‘Oh,’ said Frances, ‘has she confessed?’

Mrs Venn looked less happy for a moment, then she recovered her air of superiority. ‘As good as. She has run away. Her bed was not slept in last night and she has not appeared for duty this morning. Clearly the result of a guilty conscience.’

‘Only yesterday,’ Frances reminded her, ‘you told me that Matilda has been employed by you since the school opened. If you had any reason to complain of her you did not mention it to me. You obviously regarded her as trustworthy.’

Mrs Venn did not like to be reminded of her earlier statement. ‘I did, until now,’ she said firmly.

The two women looked at each other for a few moments. ‘I expect you have many other duties, as do I,’ said Mrs Venn, rising as if to conduct Frances from the room.

Frances smiled, because while Mrs Venn had assumed that her investigation was ended, she felt suddenly sure that it had only just begun. To Mr Venn’s astonishment, therefore, Frances did not follow her to the door, but remained where she was. The headmistress was understandably unused to her direct orders being resisted, and Frances was in the mood to challenge her.

‘I
do
have one pressing duty,’ said Frances, ‘and that is to complete my investigations to my own satisfaction. And now I would like to see Matilda’s room. If she has run away she may be in some trouble and there could be some indication there as to where she is.’

Mrs Venn paused, and appeared to be struggling with the good sense of this suggestion. ‘Very well,’ she said at last. ‘Follow me.’

Matilda’s room was on the second storey, small and plainly furnished with a bedstead and washstand and a wooden clothes chest. A small box was underneath the bed. The ashes in the tiny fireplace were as cold as the room. Mrs Venn stood by the doorway, her expression stern and watchful as Frances examined the contents of the chest. She found a plain gown suitable for Sunday best, shoes, a shawl and underlinen, but no coat or bonnet, which suggested that Matilda had gone out wearing her servants’ gown, coat and boots. The apron was folded on the bed and Frances searched the pockets but found nothing. The note she had seen earlier, whatever it was, had gone. She lifted the small box onto the bed and sat beside it. It was unlocked, and, throwing the lid back, Frances found inside a small purse which contained a few copper coins, a nosegay of dried flowers, a letter from Davey assuring Matilda that she would always be his Valentine, and a cheap brooch. Frances felt uncomfortable about rummaging through another person’s possessions but knew that there were times, as in a court of law, when delicacy would not assist justice. In the bottom of the box was a pair of old leather slippers, the soles worn into holes. Frances was wondering if these were a keepsake, as they seemed to have no other use, when she noticed something stuffed into the toe of one slipper – a handkerchief. She pulled it out and, as it opened, a cascade of coins fell out onto the bed. They were gold sovereigns. She looked up at Mrs Venn, who was as astonished as she.

‘And what are Matilda’s wages?’ asked Frances. She picked up the coins and counted them, then piled them neatly on the lid of the box.

Mrs Venn stared at the unexpected hoard. ‘£20 a year, due quarterly. But the money is not paid at that time. Neither servants nor staff are permitted to keep anything of value in their rooms. Wages are placed to the individual’s account in my strongbox and small amounts handed out weekly.’

‘There is £20 here. Do you know where Matilda might have obtained such a sum?’

Mrs Venn sat down on the bed, her face creased with thought. ‘She may have saved it over a number of years, I suppose, but why keep it in her room – why not with me, where it would be safer?’

Frances examined the coins and shook her head. ‘These are recently minted. They were not saved over a long period of time.’

‘Perhaps she saved the money in a smaller denomination and then changed it?’ Mrs Venn suggested.

‘But again, why hide the savings in her room?’ asked Frances. ‘There was no reason to keep it from you. Or was there?’

Consternation and even a little fear was in the headmistress’s expression as she shook her head. ‘No, none at all.’

‘So this cannot have been come by honestly. Indeed, it may have been payment for putting the pamphlets in the desks, although it does seem excessive for such a trivial commission. Which suggests that either the matter is not trivial or there have been others. What do you have to say to that?’

‘I am sorry but I really don’t know what to say,’ said Mrs Venn unhappily.

‘So we have two difficulties now,’ declared Frances, ‘and the conundrum is far from solved. If Matilda has indeed run away, why would she leave so large a sum of money behind? And if, as we now suspect, it was she who placed the pamphlets in the desks, it was not for any reason of her own but for payment, and so the real culprit is as mysterious as before.’

Frances had pressed her advantage and now had some leisure to feel sympathy for the headmistress, who had clearly received a shock. ‘Mrs Venn, I wish you to be perfectly frank with me. Nothing must be hidden. Matilda may be in danger and I can see that you are concerned for her welfare. Tell me first of all – does she have family or friends who might have seen her?’

Mrs Venn looked relieved. ‘You are not going to inform the police?’

‘I will speak to her family first. There may be some simple explanation. If not, then the police must be told.’

‘She may have gone to her mother,’ suggested Mrs Venn. ‘That is my hope.’ She turned to look closely at Frances and for the first time her expression suggested a measure of confidence. ‘I would go there myself, but —,’ she paused and looked uncomfortable. ‘There is something you should know. May I be assured of your complete discretion?’

‘Of course.’

‘Matilda’s family live in Salem Gardens, near Moscow Road. Her mother is a widow and supports herself by taking in lodgers, which is why Matilda has a room here. She has a brother, I believe, and there is a young man, a friend of his called Davey who wishes to marry her. Also —,’ there was the faintest flush of embarrassment on her cheeks, ‘There is a child living with them.’

‘A child?’ said Frances.

Mrs Venn nodded. ‘There is no easy way to say this. Matilda has a child. A little girl about seven years of age. Her mother cares for her.’

‘And – forgive me if this is an indelicate question, but I need to know all the truth – is her sweetheart the child’s father?’

‘No, she has only known him a year or two. It is the old story, I am afraid. Matilda was very young and trusting, and a man who lodged at her mother’s house promised her marriage. When he realised her unhappy position he abandoned her. The world, Miss Doughty,’ said the headmistress with a sigh, ‘is full of such scoundrels, as it is of innocent girls who suffer the blame while the men go free to ruin others.’

‘If Matilda has a child and a sweetheart and £20 in gold,’ said Frances, ‘it is very hard to understand why she should run away.’ She rose. ‘I will go and speak to her mother. Could you supply me with a letter on the school’s notepaper so that I may introduce myself?’

‘I will do that at once,’ said Mrs Venn. She took charge of the sovereigns and they returned to her study, where she locked the coins in her strongbox and penned the required letter. ‘Miss Doughty,’ she said, ‘I would be very obliged to you if you were to remember at all times the importance of the school’s reputation. We rely absolutely on the confidence and trust which our patrons place in us. They send us their best of treasures – their beloved daughters – and they must know that I will care for the girls as if they were my very own. One tiny suggestion of the smallest stain upon the school’s record would be a disaster of the greatest magnitude. I have already told you more than most people know.’

The unanswered questions trembled upon Frances’ lips, but she did not ask them. If she had simply scored a victory over the headmistress, that would have left them still at defiance, but she now had the opportunity to earn the lady’s trust and respect, and with that would come the confidences she needed.