The Scandalous Sisterhood of Prickwillow Place (7 page)

“Fitting for some,” Mary Jane grumbled. “Though why someone who was married twice should be sainted for remaining a maiden is more than I can figure out.
I
think she must have had revolting breath, and that’s the real explanation for her virtue.” She buttoned her gardening frock. “I thought one usually hired experts with stooping shoulders and strong backs to dig graves. Not young ladies studying French literature and social dancing.”

It was slow going, rousing Dull Martha and Dear Roberta from their sleep, and Martha required explanations and re-explanations of what had transpired the prior evening, as she had convinced herself in her fitful sleep that it was all a terrible dream. The revelation that it was not a dream brought new tears afresh, and hinted hysterics from Dear Roberta. All in all it took another three quarters of an hour to get all the girls ready to begin their funereal task.

Dour Elinor and Pocked Louise had shown remarkable fortitude in sharing their bedroom with dead Mrs. Plackett without complaint. Louise was much too scientific and rational to be affected by a corpse in her room, whereas, truth be told, Elinor rather liked the experience. It held for her an aesthetic appeal akin to that which connoisseurs appreciate in an exquisite cheese. “Death is ever near,” she was often wont to say, and it now brought her great satisfaction having Mrs. Plackett join their dormitory as a specimen of dying proof.

All the girls but Stout Alice joined the grave-digging party, as she was still bravely occupied in Mrs. Plackett’s bed, maintaining illusions for Miss Fringle. The rest tiptoed down the stairs in their stocking feet and out the kitchen door, slipping on their Wellingtons as they stepped outside. Dear Roberta rubbed her bare arms and shivered. The morning was gray and damp, with a mist rising off the fields and baptizing the grasses with water droplets. No houses or buildings nearby could be seen, except the mighty cathedral’s towers, rising through the
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leecy fog as though surrounded by heavenly clouds of glory.

The girls caught a rabbit unawares in the vegetable garden, chewing dandelions. It stared at them as if in a dream, then bolted for the cover of nearby bushes. Mr. Shambles, the school’s resident rooster, stalked his way toward them through the damp grass and paused to crow indignantly.

“Quiet, Mr. Shambles!” Pocked Louise whispered. “The sun’s not up yet, and neither are the neighbors, so keep still!”

Mr. Shambles, not the least perturbed, pecked a fat slug and ate it.

The girls found their shovels in the shed, one for each of them, as Mrs. Plackett had been a great believer in the wholesome virtues of gardening for young ladies. They selected an out-of-the-way corner behind the kitchen, near a stand of shrubs, and stood in a loose rectangle enclosing an area Smooth Kitty reckoned ought to accommodate two corpses, side by side.

It seemed a solemn occasion to Dear Roberta. The pearl-gray dawn air felt thick with significance. “Oughtn’t someone to say some words?” she asked.

“Yes,” Disgraceful Mary Jane replied. “How about these: ‘Let’s get this over with quickly.’” She plunged her shovel blade into the ground and wrenched away the first load of heavy red clay.

They rallied round and followed Mary Jane’s example. After some confusion about where to throw the dirt, they soon made excellent progress, though Smooth Kitty couldn’t help worrying that the scrape of the shovels against the soil sounded much louder, really, than it ought to, and mightn’t they be heard? Dear Roberta’s shovel sliced a fat worm in half, and she cried a little for the poor creature, until Dour Elinor pointed out that dead human beings were the purpose of this hole, and oughtn’t she to grieve more for them than for worms? At which Dear Roberta realized that their dead headmistress and her dead brother would be laid to rest in the immediate vicinity of many worms, which would make breakfast, luncheon, tea, and supper off their moldering
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lesh for weeks to come, without so much as the satin lining of a coffin to protect them, and she declared that she’d lost her appetite forever.

“Never mind your appetite,” Disgraceful Mary Jane said. “Dig quickly and dig deeply, for pity’s sake.”

Soil in springtime is stubborn and claylike soil all the more so. After the first layer of sod had been spaded off, they found deeper levels to be rough going, with gnarled roots from a pear tree some feet away snarling up the operation, and the sheer weight and composition of the soil vexing their work. Despite the cool foggy morning air, Smooth Kitty found perspiration running down her face and sides, but she ignored this stoically and urged the other girls to do the same. They could bathe soon enough.

“Can you imagine what Mrs. Plackett would say if she could see us now?” asked Smooth Kitty.

“‘Put your backs into it, you lazy girls,’” mimicked Disgraceful Mary Jane.

“‘But mind your dresses,’” Kitty said.

“‘And stand up straight,’” Dour Elinor added for good measure.

“She did like to see us gardening,” offered Dear Roberta.

“Correct.” Mary Jane heaved an unruly load of soil. “She liked us to weed and plant her
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lowerbeds. It saved her the trouble of hiring someone.”

“Here’s what she can’t say to us afterwards,” said Kitty. “‘Only half a slice of toast per girl.’ From now on, ladies, she can’t starve us anymore.”

The digging progressed at a discouraging pace. Their hands blistered, yet still the hole seemed far too shallow.

So engrossed were they in their task that they barely noticed when Mr. Shambles
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lapped up off the ground in alarm. A lanky lump of curly brown fur shot past where he’d stood pecking a moment before.

“Good morning, Brutus,” Dull Martha said, stopping to scratch the panting Bingley terrier under his bearded chin. “Did you catch any rats today?”

“Oh, no!” Pocked Louise moaned. “Where Brutus is, Henry Butts cannot be far behind.”

And sure enough, a young man in thick leather boots and a wide straw hat strolled into the gardens a moment later. He paused at the sight of them all, stumbled back, and
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lushed violet in the cheeks. Pocked Louise and Dear Roberta hid their shovels behind their backs. Dour Elinor rolled her eyes and went on digging. Brutus joined in the fun and sent a spray of soil
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lying out from his paws. Dull Martha’s glasses somehow fell from her nose and landed in her dress pocket, out of sight.

“I’ll handle this,” Disgraceful Mary Jane whispered, and curtseyed sweetly. She gestured to Elinor to halt her digging. “Good morning, Mr. Butts. What brings you out so early on this lovely May morning?”

“I … uh … morning … I … message…” Poor Henry eyed the onlooking females like a cornered mouse might eye a bevy of cats.

Disgraceful Mary Jane laid her slim white hand on his shoulder. “My, but you are a hard worker. Up before dawn to pitch straw for the cows?”

“Hay.” This topic of conversation drew nearer to Henry’s expertise. “Milking’s first thing.”

“How charmingly rustic.” Mary Jane
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lashed a dimpled smile at Henry, a caliber of weapon that had brought much stronger men to their knees. “What brings you all this way over to see us this morning?”

Dull Martha watched Mary Jane perform with something almost like envy. Mary Jane had a knack for saying “to see us” in a way that clearly implied “to see me.” These powers were the reason, Martha felt, Mary Jane was certain to die a duchess.

Henry Butts swallowed several times until he was ready to give his answer. “I needed to tell you. Last night. Someone. In your garden.”

Kitty, Mary Jane, Louise, and Elinor exchanged sly smiles. “Indeed,” Smooth Kitty said. “What were you doing in our gardens last night?”

Henry shook his head adamantly. “Not me,” he said. “I’m not talking about me. Someone else.”

Disgraceful Mary Jane tapped Henry playfully on his shirt buttons. “But in order to know about it, you must have been in our gardens as well.”

His violet cheeks went straight to fuchsia. “It was B-Brutus,” he said. “Chasing coneys. I didn’t want his barking to disturb you young ladies.” Henry looked about him for help, and his eyes fell upon less intimidating faces. “Good morning, Miss Roberta, Miss Martha,” he said, nodding and doffing his hat. He suddenly realized he hadn’t removed it as soon as he met the ladies, and thrust the offending headgear behind his back to hide its shame.

There they stood, six young ladies with shovels behind their backs, and one young man with a hat behind his.

They looked at one another.

Henry looked at Brutus, still digging at a furious rate, for which Pocked Louise inwardly blessed him. She wondered if treats and table scraps might induce him to excavate the entire grave.

“What are you doing?” Henry asked.

Several voices responded in chorus.

“Doing?”

“Doing,” Henry insisted, “with the shovels.”

“Oh, these,” Mary Jane answered.

Quick-thinking Kitty supplied an answer. “Digging,” she said.

“Yes, but why?”

Once more the answers tumbled out in a simultaneous heap.

“Exercise,” said Disgraceful Mary Jane.

“Worms,” said Dour Elinor.

“Soil research,” said Pocked Louise.

“Gardening,” said Dear Roberta.

“Kitty said to,” said Dull Martha.

The girls exchanged nervous glances. Henry’s brow furrowed in deep concentration.

“Exactly.” Smooth Kitty nodded.

Henry Butts blinked. “Exactly what?”

“Exactly as I said,” she replied. “We’re planting a tree.”

Henry scratched his scalp. “Did you say that?”

“Naturally.” Smooth Kitty found Henry Butts to be easy prey. He didn’t even require Disgraceful Mary Jane’s charms to manipulate.

“Fall’s a better time to plant a tree,” Henry Butts pointed out.

“I knew we should have consulted with you, Henry.” Disgraceful Mary Jane beamed at him.

“Nevertheless, we are planting a tree now.” Smooth Kitty laid the matter to rest. “We are planting a cherry tree.”

This galvanized Henry Butts into excited action. “Then you’ll want manure,” he cried. “I’ll be back in a few minutes with a heaping load.” And, whistling to Brutus, he turned and bolted off down the brambly stretch of Prickwillow Road that connected Saint Etheldreda’s with the Butts Farm.

“Isn’t that thoughtful of him to fetch us manure?” Dull Martha said wistfully. “He’s a generous person.”

“Oh, yes.” Disgraceful Mary Jane sneered. “So generous he’s going to bring us boatloads of smelly manure for our very own.”

“In which we will bury Mrs. Plackett and Mr. Godding,” Pocked Louise pointed out.

The girls froze.

Disgraceful Mary Jane was the first to snort.

Dear Roberta tried hard not to laugh but even she couldn’t help it.

“Farewell, Old Stinky Face,” Smooth Kitty declared. “If you hadn’t been such a sourpuss to us, we would have said no to Butts Farm manure as your eternal rest. Come, girls. We must finish quickly.”

They heaved into the work once more with grim determination.

“Do you suppose Henry really did see someone here last night?” Dear Roberta inquired.

Disgraceful Mary Jane laughed lightly. “Certainly he did. His own shadow.”

Dull Martha pushed her hair out of her eyes, which left a muddy smudge across her forehead. “If he only saw himself, why would he bother to come and tell us?”

“Maybe,” Pocked Louise said, “he saw us last night and thought we were the intruders.”

“That makes sense.” Smooth Kitty nodded.

“But we heard the cooing sound the first time well before then,” Dour Elinor pointed out.

Mary Jane, who was stronger than she looked, heaved a heavy rock loose from the claybed. It released its hold on the soil with a loud
schlock
. “I’m certain it was him,” she declared. “He spies on us all a good deal more than you realize. I’ve even seen him point his mother’s opera glasses our way.” She wrestled the melon-sized stone out of the hole, which was finally beginning to look like a grave. “Who else could it have been?”

Dour Elinor’s spade sliced through a shaft of pear tree roots. “The murderer.”

CHAPTER 6

The grave was nearly dug when Henry Butts returned with his wheelbarrow heaped with pungent manure.

“We are truly in your debt, Henry.” Smooth Kitty curtseyed for his benefit. “I wonder if we might trouble you for one more favor?”

Henry fumbled his hat off his head, leaving his sandy hair sticking every which way. “What can I do for you, Miss Katherine?”

Kitty slipped her arm through his and steered him toward his home. Farming, she noted, does no harm to one’s muscles. “You know dear Miss Fringle, of course? The choir mistress?”

Henry nodded.

“She visited us last evening and twisted her ankle. She passed the night at the school with us because she was in no state to walk home. I wonder if you’d be willing to drive her home in your handsome little cart.”

“Of course.” Henry looked relieved once again to have something to do other than visit with the young ladies. “Let me go wash and hitch up your pony, and I’ll be right back.”

Henry and Brutus bolted off through the leafy path toward the farm, and the young ladies put their shovels away for the moment.

“Time to wake Alice up, before Miss Fringle rouses and begins asking her questions,” Smooth Kitty said.

They left their muddy boots at the door, hurried softly indoors, and washed their hands in the kitchen. Kitty went upstairs and slipped into Mrs. Plackett’s bedroom, prepared to whisper Stout Alice into wakefulness, and found to her surprise that Alice and Miss Fringle were deep in conversation.

“Oh! Excuse me, I didn’t mean to intrude,” Kitty stammered.

“Not at all, young lady,” Miss Fringle said generously. “Your headmistress and I were just having a bit of a chitchat about poor Julius and his uncle, Mr. Godding.”

“I see,” Kitty said slowly. And she did see. Stout Alice lay with her back turned slightly toward Miss Fringle, and her face pointed toward the doorway where Kitty stood. Alice appeared to be working hard not to laugh. Miss Fringle looked like another creature altogether with her gray hair rumpled on the pillow, and her spectacles missing.