‘Call me Barbara,’ Miss Christopher said, once Miss Shanks had gone. ‘If you’re staying. If you’ve decided to.’
‘Ssssh,’ said Miss Barclay softly. ‘Help yourself to a chocolate truffle, Miss Gilver. They’re very good.’ She nodded at a petits-fours plate on the low table between us, as she poured a cup of coffee for me.
‘Or are you trying us on appro?’ Miss Christopher went on. ‘Any other jobs in the offing? You are from Lambourne, aren’t you?’
‘Barbara!’ said Miss Barclay. ‘Don’t pay any attention, Miss Gilver.’ She gave me a smile. I returned it, but I did not miss the tight grip she had on the bon-bon dish as she proffered it to me, nor the sharp look she gave her colleague as she turned back to her. ‘Don’t quiz the poor woman after her long day,’ she said. ‘I’m sure Miss Shanks has seen to everything.’
‘Excuse me, I’m sure,’ said Miss Christopher. ‘Naturally nosy. And I can plead overwork too, fraying my manners.’
‘You must indeed be run ragged,’ I said, taking a sweet. ‘Double duties and all that.’
Neither woman answered; Miss Barclay stood, straightened her rather severe coat and skirt (St Columba’s, it appeared, did not dress for dinner) and set off to offer the chocolates around the other armchairs in the room. Barbara Christopher busied herself with sugar and cream. My eyes followed the departing sweets and I looked at the three mistresses to whom Miss Barclay was taking them. Right by the fire was a stout woman wedged into a clubbish armchair and knitting very fast; beside her, half-reclining on a red shot-silk chaise, was a black-haired, beak-nosed creature with handkerchief-points to her frock who had to be the art mistress and beside her (hence almost escaping notice) was a poor beige slip of a thing who did not benefit from her proximity to such glamour and who blinked and shrank away as Miss Barclay approached her. Or so I thought until I looked again, whereupon I became convinced it was me the poor dear was blinking at, I who had driven her backwards into her cushions with my very presence.
‘Who are those three?’ I asked Miss Christopher. She wiped her hands – very stubby, very brown little hands, which made me think of a mole’s paddles with dirt ground into them – down her frock and made a great display out of swallowing a mouthful of truffle.
‘Housekeeper – she always sits in here with us on account of… Well, she always does. Miss Lovage, the art mistress.’ I was right then. ‘And,’ she went on, ‘the English mistress, Miss Lipscott.’
I made a disgusting noise caused by gasping mid-sip which put Miss Christopher’s rough manners into deep shade and had to be banged on the back with one of those little mole hands until I finally managed to stop coughing.
‘Miss Lipscott?’ I said, staring over at the woman, ‘I thought she was missing.’
‘No,’ said Miss Christopher. ‘Why on earth would you think that?’
‘And so Miss Shanks sent for a replacement,’ I said.
‘No,’ said Miss Christopher again. ‘We need a new French mistress. It’s Mademoiselle Beauclerc who’s disappeared.’ She jumped and looked over her shoulder. When she spoke again it was in a low voice. ‘I don’t mean disappeared, of course. I mean gone.’
‘Beauclerc,’ I said, light dawning. ‘Miss Pretty-vicar.’
‘Those terrible girls,’ said Miss Christopher, looking rather rattled. Across the room, Miss Lipscott was standing up and brushing down her frock, although as far as I could tell she had not eaten a morsel, ‘It’s Stella R-I,’ Miss Christopher was saying. ‘She’s the ringleader, but such a feather in our cap to have her here.’
I cleared my throat with one final splutter.
‘Are you all right, Miss Gilver?’ said Miss Barclay, passing with the plate of petits fours. ‘Coffee down the wrong way? Miss Fielding had a marvellous remedy for a frog in the throat. Something to do with opening the oesophagus. Quite yogic.’
From the corner of my eye I could see Fleur – except that how could that faded woman be pretty little Fleur? – lean in close to the headmistress and whisper something. Miss Shanks whispered something back. Fleur looked over at me, whispered again and then slipped out of the room, whereupon Miss Shanks spun to face me like a top which had just been given a good flick with a whip. Her round little pudding of a face was as long as it ever could be, with mouth dropped open and eyebrows arched high. Then, with a jolt, she came back to life and bustled over.
‘Mrs Gilver?’ she said in tones of numb dismay.
‘Yes?’ I said, trying for an innocent air, even though Fleur had evidently shot my cover to smithereens.
‘You’re a widow?’ said Miss Shanks.
‘No, no, not so far,’ I said, smiling. ‘My husband is alive and well and… very modern.’
‘But I couldn’t possibly allow a married woman to teach in one of my classrooms,’ Miss Shanks said. It flashed across my mind to ask her why. Presumably all of the girls had mothers who were married women and, universities notwithstanding, were mostly bound to end up married women themselves one day. Perhaps seeing one in the wild at a tender age could be part of the education St Columba’s offered them. But Miss Christopher was gawping at me enough already. ‘The agency certainly didn’t mention anything about it,’ said Miss Shanks. I gave it up as a bad job then and turned to extrication.
‘Gilver and Osborne?’ I said. ‘Why would they?’
‘Who are they?’ said Miss Shanks. ‘It was Lambourne Scholastic and Domestic we approached.’
‘Who?’ I said, eyes wide.
‘There seems to have been some considerable misunderstanding,’ said Miss Christopher. She had drawn her set of chins right down into her neck with disapproval.
‘I agree there must have been,’ I said. ‘I’m with Gilver and Osborne.’ Here I fished out one of our cards from my coat pocket, where I always keep a supply, and blessed their vague wording. Miss Shanks read it with her lips moving. ‘We were very much hoping to be engaged to help you with this rather pressing staff shortage you’ve come in for.’ I swept along, feeling the wind of good fortune under me. ‘Five, isn’t it? Four in the academic subjects – French, Latin, science and history – and also music and PE. What rotten luck.’
‘How did you…?’ said Miss Shanks. ‘I asked Lambourne for a French mistress only. Who told you…?’ Miss Barclay had rejoined us, bringing the dashing art mistress with her. I noticed that what I had taken to be a glint of sheen on her dark head was actually a white streak, which only added to her allure.
‘I should have to ask one of the secretarial staff,’ I said, thinking of how Pallister, my butler, would not even go as far as to set my business letters out separately from my social correspondence on the breakfast table, ‘but I rather think it was a parent.’