Cat Among the Pigeons

  On Saturday morning Miss Bulstrode was just finishing off her correspondence with Ann Shapland when the telephone rang. Ann answered it.

  “It’s the Emir Ibrahim, Miss Bulstrode. He’s arrived at Claridge’s and would like to take Shaista out tomorrow.”

  Miss Bulstrode took the receiver from her and had a brief conversation with the Emir’s equerry. Shaista would be ready anytime from eleven thirty onwards on Sunday morning, she said. The girl must be back at the school by eight p.m.

  She rang off and said:

  “I wish Orientals sometimes gave you a little more warning. It has been arranged for Shaista to go out with Giselle d’Aubray tomorrow. Now that will have to be cancelled. Have we finished all the letters?”

  “Yes, Miss Bulstrode.”

  “Good, then I can go off with a clear conscience. Type them and send them off, and then you, too, are free for the weekend. I shan’t want you until lunchtime on Monday.”

  “Thank you, Miss Bulstrode.”

  “Enjoy yourself, my dear.”

  “I’m going to,” said Ann.

  “Young man?”

  “Well—yes.” Ann coloured a little. “Nothing serious, though.”

  “Then there ought to be. If you’re going to marry, don’t leave it too late.”

  “Oh this is only an old friend. Nothing exciting.”

  “Excitement,” said Miss Bulstrode warningly, “isn’t always a good foundation for married life. Send Miss Chadwick to me, will you?”

  Miss Chadwick bustled in.

  “The Emir Ibrahim, Shaista’s uncle, is taking her out tomorrow Chaddy. If he comes himself, tell him she is making good progress.”

  “She’s not very bright,” said Miss Chadwick.

  “She’s immature intellectually,” agreed Miss Bulstrode. “But she has a remarkably mature mind in other ways. Sometimes, when you talk to her, she might be a woman of twenty-five. I suppose it’s because of the sophisticated life she’s led. Paris, Teheran, Cairo, Istanbul and all the rest of it. In this country we’re inclined to keep our children too young. We account it a merit when we say: ‘She’s still quite a child.’ It isn’t a merit. It’s a grave handicap in life.”

  “I don’t know that I quite agree with you there, dear,” said Miss Chadwick. “I’ll go now and tell Shaista about her uncle. You go away for your weekend and don’t worry about anything.”

  “Oh! I shan’t,” said Miss Bulstrode. “It’s a good opportunity, really, for leaving Eleanor Vansittart in charge and seeing how she shapes. With you and her in charge nothing’s likely to go wrong.”

  “I hope not, indeed. I’ll go and find Shaista.”

  Shaista looked surprised and not at all pleased to hear that her uncle had arrived in London.

  “He wants to take me out tomorrow?” she grumbled. “But Miss Chadwick, it is all arranged that I go out with Giselle d’Aubray and her mother.”

  “I’m afraid you’ll have to do that another time.”

  “But I would much rather go out with Giselle,” said Shaista crossly. “My uncle is not at all amusing. He eats and then he grunts and it is all very dull.”

  “You mustn’t talk like that. It is impolite,” said Miss Chadwick. “Your uncle is only in England for a week, I understand, and naturally he wants to see you.”

  “Perhaps he has arranged a new marriage for me,” said Shaista, her face brightening. “If so, that would be fun.”

  “If that is so, he will no doubt tell you so. But you are too young to get married yet awhile. You must first finish your education.”

  “Education is very boring,” said Shaista.

  II

  Sunday morning dawned bright and serene—Miss Shapland had departed soon after Miss Bulstrode on Saturday. Miss Johnson, Miss Rich and Miss Blake left on Sunday morning.

  Miss Vansittart, Miss Chadwick, Miss Rowan and Mademoiselle Blanche were left in charge.

  “I hope all the girls won’t talk too much,” said Miss Chadwick dubiously. “About poor Miss Springer I mean.”

  “Let us hope,” said Eleanor Vansittart, “that the whole affair will soon be forgotten.” She added: “If any parents talk to me about it, I shall discourage them. It will be best, I think, to take quite a firm line.”

  The girls went to church at 10 o’clock accompanied by Miss Vansittart and Miss Chadwick. Four girls who were Roman Catholics were escorted by Angèle Blanche to a rival religious establishment. Then, about half past eleven, the cars began to roll into the drive. Miss Vansittart, graceful, poised and dignified, stood in the hall. She greeted mothers smilingly, produced their offspring and adroitly turned aside any unwanted references to the recent tragedy.

  “Terrible,” she said, “yes, quite terrible, but, you do understand, we don’t talk about it here. All these young minds—such a pity for them to dwell on it.”

  Chaddy was also on the spot greeting old friends among the parents, discussing plans for the holidays and speaking affectionately of the various daughters.

  “I do think Aunt Isabel might have come and taken me out,” said Julia who with Jennifer was standing with her nose pressed against the window of one of the classrooms, watching the comings and goings on the drive outside.

  “Mummy’s going to take me out next weekend,” said Jennifer. “Daddy’s got some important people coming down this weekend so she couldn’t come today.”

  “There goes Shaista,” said Julia, “all togged up for London. Oo-ee! Just look at the heels on her shoes. I bet old Johnson doesn’t like those shoes.”

  A liveried chauffeur was opening the door of a large Cadillac. Shaista climbed in and was driven away.

  “You can come out with me next weekend, if you like,” said Jennifer. “I told Mummy I’d got a friend I wanted to bring.”

  “I’d love to,” said Julia. “Look at Vansittart doing her stuff.”

  “Terribly gracious, isn’t she?” said Jennifer.

  “I don’t know why,” said Julia, “but somehow it makes me want to laugh. It’s a sort of copy of Miss Bulstrode, isn’t it? Quite a good copy, but it’s rather like Joyce Grenfell or someone doing an imitation.”

  “There’s Pam’s mother,” said Jennifer. “She’s brought the little boys. How they can all get into that tiny Morris Minor I don’t know.”

  “They’re going to have a picnic,” said Julia. “Look at all the baskets.”

  “What are you going to do this afternoon?” asked Jennifer. “I don’t think I need write to Mummy this week, do you, if I’m going to see her next week?”

  “You are slack about writing letters, Jennifer.”

  “I never can think of anything to say,” said Jennifer.

  “I can,” said Julia, “I can think of lots to say.” She added mournfully, “But there isn’t really anyone much to write to at present.”

  “What about your mother?”

  “I told you she’s gone to Anatolia in a bus. You can’t write letters to people who go to Anatolia in buses. At least you can’t write to them all the time.”

  “Where do you write to when you do write?”

  “Oh, consulates here and there. She left me a list. Stamboul is the first and then Ankara and then some funny name.” She added, “I wonder why Bully wanted to get in touch with Mummy so badly? She seemed quite upset when I said where she’d gone.”

  “It can’t be about you,” said Jennifer. “You haven’t done anything awful, have you?”

  “Not that I know of,” said Julia. “Perhaps she wanted to tell her about Springer.”

  “Why should she?” said Jennifer. “I should think she’d be jolly glad that there’s at least one mother who doesn’t know about Springer.”

  “You mean mothers might think that their daughters were going to get murdered too?”

  “I don’t think my mother’s quite as bad as that,” said Jennifer. “But she did get in quite a flap about it.”

  “If you ask me,” said Julia, in a meditative manner, “I think the
re’s a lot that they haven’t told us about Springer.”

  “What sort of things?”

  “Well, funny things seem to be happening. Like your new tennis racquet.”

  “Oh, I meant to tell you,” said Jennifer, “I wrote and thanked Aunt Gina and this morning I got a letter from her saying she was very glad I’d got a new racquet but that she never sent it to me.”

  “I told you that racquet business was peculiar,” said Julia triumphantly, “and you had a burglary, too, at your home, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, but they didn’t take anything.”

  “That makes it even more interesting,” said Julia. “I think,” she added thoughtfully, “that we shall probably have a second murder soon.”

  “Oh really, Julia, why should we have a second murder?”

  “Well, there’s usually a second murder in books,” said Julia. “What I think is, Jennifer, that you’ll have to be frightfully careful that it isn’t you who gets murdered.”

  “Me?” said Jennifer, surprised. “Why should anyone murder me?”

  “Because somehow you’re mixed up in it all,” said Julia. She added thoughtfully, “We must try and get a bit more out of your mother next week, Jennifer. Perhaps somebody gave her some secret papers out in Ramat.”

  “What sort of secret papers?”

  “Oh, how should I know,” said Julia. “Plans or formulas for a new atomic bomb. That sort of thing.”

  Jennifer looked unconvinced.

  III

  Miss Vansittart and Miss Chadwick were in the Common Room when Miss Rowan entered and said:

  “Where is Shaista? I can’t find her anywhere. The Emir’s car has just arrived to call for her.”

  “What?” Chaddy looked up surprised. “There must be some mistake. The Emir’s car came for her about three-quarters of an hour ago. I saw her get into it and drive off myself. She was one of the first to go.”

  Eleanor Vansittart shrugged her shoulders. “I suppose a car must have been ordered twice over, or something,” she said.

  She went out herself and spoke to the chauffeur. “There must be some mistake,” she said. “The young lady has already left for London three-quarters of an hour ago.”

  The chauffeur seemed surprised. “I suppose there must be some mistake, if you say so, madam,” he said. “I was definitely given instructions to call at Meadowbank for the young lady.”

  “I suppose there’s bound to be a muddle sometimes,” said Miss Vansittart.

  The chauffeur seemed unperturbed and unsurprised. “Happens all the time,” he said. “Telephone messages taken, written down, forgotten. All that sort of thing. But we pride ourselves in our firm that we don’t make mistakes. Of course, if I may say so, you never know with these Oriental gentlemen. They’ve sometimes got quite a big entourage with them, and orders get given twice and even three times over. I expect that’s what must have happened in this instance.” He turned his large car with some adroitness and drove away.

  Miss Vansittart looked a little doubtful for a moment or two, but she decided there was nothing to worry about and began to look forward with satisfaction to a peaceful afternoon.

  After luncheon the few girls who remained wrote letters or wandered about the grounds. A certain amount of tennis was played and the swimming pool was well patronized. Miss Vansittart took her fountain pen and her writing pad to the shade of the cedar tree. When the telephone rang at half past four it was Miss Chadwick who answered it.

  “Meadowbank School?” The voice of a well-bred young Englishman spoke. “Oh, is Miss Bulstrode there?”

  “Miss Bulstrode’s not here today. This is Miss Chadwick speaking.”

  “Oh, it’s about one of your pupils. I am speaking from Claridge’s, the Emir Ibrahim’s suite.”

  “Oh yes? You mean about Shaista?”

  “Yes. The Emir is rather annoyed at not having got a message of any kind.”

  “A message? Why should he get a message?”

  “Well, to say that Shaista couldn’t come, or wasn’t coming.”

  “Wasn’t coming! Do you mean to say she hasn’t arrived?”

  “No, no, she’s certainly not arrived. Did she leave Meadowbank then?”

  “Yes. A car came for her this morning—oh, about half past eleven I should think, and she drove off.”

  “That’s extraordinary because there’s no sign of her here … I’d better ring up the firm that supplies the Emir’s cars.”

  “Oh dear,” said Miss Chadwick, “I do hope there hasn’t been an accident.”

  “Oh, don’t let’s assume the worst,” said the young man cheerfully. “I think you’d have heard, you know, if there’d been an accident. Or we would. I shouldn’t worry if I were you.”

  But Miss Chadwick did worry.

  “It seems to me very odd,” she said.

  “I suppose—” the young man hesitated.

  “Yes?” said Miss Chadwick.

  “Well, it’s not quite the sort of thing I want to suggest to the Emir, but just between you and me there’s no—er—well, no boyfriend hanging about, is there?”

  “Certainly not,” said Miss Chadwick with dignity.

  “No, no, well I didn’t think there would be, but, well one never knows with girls, does one? You’d be surprised at some of the things I’ve run into.”

  “I can assure you,” said Miss Chadwick with dignity, “that anything of that kind is quite impossible.”

  But was it impossible? Did one ever know with girls?

  She replaced the receiver and rather unwillingly went in search of Miss Vansittart. There was no reason to believe that Miss Vansittart would be any better able to deal with the situation than she herself but she felt the need of consulting with someone. Miss Vansittart said at once,

  “The second car?”

  They looked at each other.

  “Do you think,” said Chaddy slowly, “that we ought to report this to the police?”

  “Not to the police,” said Eleanor Vansittart in a shocked voice.

  “She did say, you know,” said Chaddy, “that somebody might try to kidnap her.”

  “Kidnap her? Nonsense!” said Miss Vansittart sharply.

  “You don’t think—” Miss Chadwick was persistent.

  “Miss Bulstrode left me in charge here,” said Eleanor Vansittart, “and I shall certainly not sanction anything of the kind. We don’t want anymore trouble here with the police.”

  Miss Chadwick looked at her without affection. She thought Miss Vansittart was being shortsighted and foolish. She went back into the house and put through a call to the Duchess of Welsham’s house. Unfortunately everyone was out.

  Fourteen

  MISS CHADWICK LIES AWAKE

  I

  Miss Chadwick was restless. She turned to and fro in her bed counting sheep, and employing other time-honoured methods of invoking sleep. In vain.

  At eight o’clock, when Shaista had not returned, and there had been no news of her, Miss Chadwick had taken matters into her own hands and rung up Inspector Kelsey. She was relieved to find that he did not take the matter too seriously. She could leave it all to him, he assured her. It would be an easy matter to check up on a possible accident. After that, he would get in touch with London. Everything would be done that was necessary. Perhaps the girl herself was playing truant. He advised Miss Chadwick to say as little as possible at the school. Let it be thought that Shaista was staying the night with her uncle at Claridge’s.

  “The last thing you want, or that Miss Bulstrode would want, is anymore publicity,” said Kelsey. “It’s most unlikely that the girl has been kidnapped. So don’t worry, Miss Chadwick. Leave it all to us.”

  But Miss Chadwick did worry.

  Lying in bed, sleepless, her mind went from possible kidnapping back to murder.

  Murder at Meadowbank. It was terrible! Unbelievable! Meadowbank. Miss Chadwick loved Meadowbank. She loved it, perhaps, even more than Miss Bulstrode did, though in a somew
hat different way. It had been such a risky, gallant enterprise. Following Miss Bulstrode faithfully into the hazardous undertaking, she had endured panic more than once. Supposing the whole thing should fail. They hadn’t really had much capital. If they did not succeed—if their backing was withdrawn—Miss Chadwick had an anxious mind and could always tabulate innumerable ifs. Miss Bulstrode had enjoyed the adventure, the hazard of it all, but Chaddy had not. Sometimes, in an agony of apprehension, she had pleaded for Meadowbank to be run on more conventional lines. It would be safer, she urged. But Miss Bulstrode had been uninterested in safety. She had her vision of what a school should be and she had pursued it unafraid. And she had been justified in her audacity. But oh, the relief to Chaddy when success was a fait accompli. When Meadowbank was established, safely established, as a great English institution. It was then that her love for Meadowbank had flowed most fully. Doubts, fears, anxieties, all slipped from her. Peace and prosperity had come. She basked in the prosperity of Meadowbank like a purring tabby cat.

  She had been quite upset when Miss Bulstrode had first begun to talk of retirement. Retire now—when everything was set fair? What madness! Miss Bulstrode talked of travel, of all the things in the world to see. Chaddy was unimpressed. Nothing, anywhere, could be half as good as Meadowbank! It had seemed to her that nothing could affect the well-being of Meadowbank—But now—Murder!

  Such an ugly violent word—coming in from the outside world like an ill-mannered storm wind. Murder—a word associated by Miss Chadwick only with delinquent boys with flick knives, or evil-minded doctors poisoning their wives. But murder here—at a school—and not any school—at Meadowbank. Incredible.