‘Oh, just get out of my servants’ hall, you jumped-up housemaid,’ she said, and she stalked off in the direction of her room.
I shrugged, and went back to the kitchen to fetch the coffee.
I delivered the coffee tray to the library, where Lady Hardcastle and Miss Titmus had made themselves comfortable in two of the armchairs. They had arranged three of them around a low table, upon which I placed the tray.
‘Sit down and join us,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘You don’t mind, Helen?’
‘I never mind, Emily; I’ve told you that. You’re always welcome to sit with us, Armstrong.’
‘Thank you,’ I said, and sat down.
‘The reason I double checked,’ said Lady Hardcastle, ‘is that I’ve had some news from our inspector friend in Bristol, and I rather need to ask you some questions. About your schooldays.’
‘Oh,’ said Miss Titmus. ‘I see. Well . . . No, go ahead. You probably should know.’
I raised an eyebrow enquiringly, but Lady Hardcastle signalled that now was not the time.
‘You see, dear,’ she said, ‘we’ve been working on the assumption that all the dreadful things that have happened this past week were somehow connected to Fishy’s motor racing team. The sabotage of one of his motor cars, the attack on his rival, Viktor.’
Miss Titmus nodded. Her customary shy smile had vanished to be replaced by a look of . . . sadness? Regret?
‘That is to say,’ continued Lady Hardcastle, ‘that I assumed that. Florence, on the other hand, was inclined to look in another direction. Where I was insistent that all the clues we needed were to be found in newspaper stories about motor racing and in the minutes of board meetings, Flo kept on asking about your schooldays.’
Miss Titmus nodded again.
‘And so when I said I was going to ask Inspector Sunderland to look into the affairs of the motor racing team, Flo pleaded that I also ask about Evanshaw’s School for Girls. It seems her instincts were better than mine, as usual. Obviously, I can’t rule out business intrigue, but I think the events of the past week are probably part of a much more human story.’
Miss Titmus simply sat, her hands folded in her lap, staring at the floor.
‘The inspector found a newspaper report from June 1883.’
‘Emily, don’t,’ said Miss Titmus. ‘I can’t bear it. I’ve never been able to bear it. Please don’t.’
‘I’m sorry, dear, but I believe that somehow the events of that summer are tied up with the events of this summer, and I really do need to hear your side of the story.’
‘The newspaper story was broadly correct,’ said Miss Titmus.
I didn’t want to break the spell by galumphing in with idiotic questions, but this obliqueness was beginning to become a little wearing. I raised an enquiring eyebrow once more.
‘Forgive me, dear,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘This must be terribly frustrating. You remember when we first saw the photograph of the cricket team? There was a rather beautiful girl with dark hair. We asked who she was.’
‘Katy Something-or-other,’ I said.
‘Burkinshaw. We asked for details, and Lavinia said it was a story for another day. It’s another day now, I’m afraid. You see, the newspaper story that Inspector Sunderland found was a report of a tragedy at Evanshaw’s School for Girls. A young lady, just sixteen years old and soon to leave for Switzerland to complete her education, was found hanged in the folly in the grounds of the school one evening. It was Katy Burkinshaw.’
A tear ran down Miss Titmus’s cheek.
‘Poor Katy,’ she said quietly. ‘It was my fault. I should have stopped her. I should have seen what was going to happen.’
‘You can’t stop someone when they’ve made their mind up, dear,’ said Lady Hardcastle kindly. ‘Once someone has reached that level of despair . . .’
‘Not Katy,’ said Miss Titmus, with some surprise. ‘I meant Roz. I should have stopped Roz.’
Lady Hardcastle and I both goggled. ‘Roz killed her?’ we said together.
It was Miss Titmus’s turn to goggle. ‘What? No! No, good heavens. Well, not like that. In a way, though. You know Roz. She’s a . . . She’s—’
‘She’s a bully,’ I said.
‘She is,’ she said. ‘Always has been. She’s reduced me to tears more times than I can count.’
‘Why on earth do you still knock about with her?’ asked Lady Hardcastle.
‘She’s my friend,’ said Miss Titmus. ‘I love her like a sister. She’s as fragile and insecure as the next girl, deep down. That’s why she’s so spiky. Her wretched marriage is no help. She needs her friends.’
‘What happened at school?’ said Lady Hardcastle.
‘You saw that photograph. Katy was a beauty. Roz was always pretty, but Katy had a radiance about her. Something inside shone out. Roz was horribly jealous. She did everything she could to undermine and belittle Katy. All the time, ragging her, getting her into trouble. Katy pretended not to care. But it got worse when she fell for a boy from the village. We weren’t allowed to go to the village on our own, but we often sneaked over the wall. Katy met a boy. She made the mistake of telling us she’d kissed him. That did it for Roz. Her attacks increased, getting nastier and more spiteful. Still Katy seemed unfazed, but when Roz threatened to tell Mrs Evanshaw that Katy and the boy had been seen in . . . amorous congress, she couldn’t cope any longer. She begged, she pleaded. But then Roz knew she had her. She kept up the taunting until . . . Until . . .’
‘Until Katy hanged herself in the old folly at sunset,’ said Lady Hardcastle quietly. ‘I think we might have been a bit reckless in telling Inspector Foister to release Roz Beddows.’
After all that, I thought my news from below stairs would be a little anticlimactic – so much so that I very nearly didn’t bother to say anything. A light lunch was laid out in the dining room, to which the two ladies helped themselves before returning to the library to look at more of Miss Titmus’s collection of extraordinary photographs.
The conversation drifted amiably on for quite some time before Lady Hardcastle casually asked if all was well in the dungeons. It was only then that I thought it worth my while telling the story of Evan’s dressing down. I was somewhat taken aback when she insisted that I should track Evan down without delay and get his side of the story.