Before settling down to either of the letters, for the second time that day she took the Ledger from the bottom drawer and studied it closely. On present calculations it seemed probable that only about nine of the former twenty pupils could be expected to return when the new term began after Easter. Once again she ran down the list of names. The last to be crossed off was Horton, Edith, whose insufferably stupid mother had written only today announcing ‘other plans’ for her only daughter. A few months ago the news would have been only too welcome, and the school dunce easily replaced. Without Edith only nine other names were left, including Sara Waybourne. There was a bottle of cognac in the cupboard behind the desk. She unlocked it and half filled a glass. The thread of fiery spirit touched off a train of clear factual thinking. She sat down at the desk again and made a few notes in the impersonal copperplate hand that gave away nothing of the background character and iron will of the woman who held the pen. It was nearly three o’clock when at last the letters were stamped and sealed and the Headmistress dragged her weary body upstairs.
The following day passed without incident. There was a note in the post from Constable Bumpher saying that he had nothing fresh to report, but one of the Russell Street men would like to see Mrs Appleyard some time next week when convenient. There were one or two points concerning matters of school discipline prior to the day of the Picnic which some of the parents had suggested should be elucidated. . . . The weather was mild and fine and Mr Whitehead had requested a long-deferred day off, which he passed in reading the Horticultural News with his boots off. Tom went about his duties with his raging jaws tied up in a strip of Minnie’s flannel petticoat, and Sara Waybourne, on special instructions from Mademoiselle, spent most of the day in bed. Otherwise, all was as usual.
Saturday was usually a day taken up with small domesticities and household tasks. The boarders did their mending, wrote their letters home – their correspondence rigorously censored at Headquarters with the aid of a spirit lamp on the desk – played croquet or lawn tennis in fine weather or wandered aimlessly about the grounds. Tom was making heavy weather of a chat with Miss Buck beside the dahlia bed when the arrival of Hussey’s cab at the front door set him free. There was no luggage to be taken off, however – only a seedy-looking young man of about his own age carrying a small seedy-looking bag who asked the driver to wait out of sight of the front windows until further instructions. Insignificant as he was in appearance, Tom at once recognized Miss Lumley’s cocky little squirt of a brother. It was the first time for several months that Reg Lumley had paid his sister a visit at the College. Why in the name of Heaven had he chosen today? thought the Headmistress, watching him pulling on a pair of gloves and smoothing down a shabby overcoat preparatory to ringing the doorbell. Mrs Appleyard, who secretly prided herself on being able to get rid of an unwelcome visitor within three minutes – if necessary with all graciousness – had recognized Reg at the very first handshake as a sticker and stayer. In short, like his sister Dora, a fool and a bore. However, here he was, or rather his not very clean card with his business address in the township of Warragul. ‘You may show Mr Lumley in, Alice, and tell him I am very much occupied.’
Reg Lumley, dank, pompous and half-baked, was a clerk in a Gippsland store, holding Views and Opinions on every subject under the sun from Female Education to the incompetence of the local Fire Brigade. Which of them, thought the headmistress, drumming impatient fingers on the desk, was he going to bring out today? And what could have brought him all the way from Warragul without warning? ‘Good morning, Mr Lumley. I wish you had thought to write and tell us you intended calling today. I happen to be extremely busy this afternoon and so is your sister. Put your hat down on that chair if it’s worrying you – and your umbrella.’
Reg, who had lain awake half the preceding night picturing himself delivering his ultimatum from a vertical position of authority, reluctantly seated himself on a chair with his umbrella between his knees. ‘I may say I had no intention of calling today, Ma’am, until I received a telegram from my sister Dora late yesterday afternoon. It upset me considerably.’
‘Indeed? May I ask why?’
‘Because it confirmed my own opinion that Appleyard College is no longer a suitable place for my sister to be employed.’
‘I am not concerned with matters of purely personal opinion. Have you any reason for this extraordinary statement?’
‘Yes, I have. A number of reasons. In fact –’ he was fumbling in his shiny pockets, ‘I have a letter here – in case you were not in, you know. Shall I read it to you?’
‘Thank you, no.’ She looked up at the clock over her shoulder. ‘If you can tell me what you have to say as briefly as possible.’
‘Well, to begin with, it’s all this publicity concerning the College. In my opinion, there has been far too much publicity ever since this – er these – er unfortunate occurrences at the Hanging Rock.’
The Headmistress said acidly: ‘I don’t recall your sister being mentioned at any time in the Press . . .?’
‘Well, perhaps not my sister . . . but you know how people talk. You can’t open a paper nowadays without reading something about all this business. It’s not right, in my view, that a respectable young woman like Dora should be connected in any way whatsoever with crime and all that sort of thing.’ (If young Lumley’s heart could have been exposed to view like the poet’s it would have had graven upon it RESPECTABILITY. Publicity was hardly ever respectable in Reg’s opinion, unless you were somebody frightfully important like Lord Kitchener.)
‘Be careful how you express yourself, Mr Lumley. Not crime. Mystery if you like. A very different matter.’
‘All right then – Mystery. And I don’t like it, Mrs Appleyard. And nor does my sister.’
‘My solicitors are confident there will be a solution shortly, whatever you and your friends in Warragul may choose to think. Is that all you have to say?’
‘Only that Dora has told me she wishes to terminate her employment with you, as from today, Saturday, March the twenty-first. In point of fact I have a cab outside waiting to take her away; and if you will kindly tell her her brother is here, and have her pack her bags, the heavy luggage can be sent on later.’
At this juncture, as he later remarked to his sister in the train, the young man had noticed a strange mottled colour creeping up Mrs Appleyard’s neck under the net collar. Her eyes, which he had never looked at before one way or the other, had gone round like a couple of marbles and appeared to be jumping out of her head. The next minute the old girl had let fly. ‘Phew, Dora, I wish you’d heard her! Luckily I had complete control of the situation and didn’t attempt to answer back.’
An impartial witness might have observed that the visitor himself had gone a curious shade of waxen green, and was visibly trembling.
‘Your sister is a pink-eyed imbecile, Mr Lumley. I should have given her notice before Easter, even without your interference. Fortunately, you have saved me the trouble. You understand, of course, that by her extraordinary behaviour she forfeits her salary for such a breach of contract?’
‘I’m not so sure about that. However, that can be adjusted later. And by the way, I understand she would like a written reference.’