Murder Most Studious Read online

  By the time I head to Freya’s, my apartment is sparkling clean and I’ve planned my lessons through November. I knock on her door and she lets me into her apartment. She has certainly made it her own, with colorful tapestries on the wall and plants everywhere. There are lit candles placed around the room and I smell something delicious cooking. Samantha and Cat are already there. They both give me a hug as soon as I walk in.

  Freya has made a delicious curry with a side of rice. We all sit down at her table as she pours wine into our glasses. I take a big gulp and enjoy the warmth spreading to my limbs.

  “Alice, I’m so sorry that you had to go through this. If you don’t want to talk about it, we completely understand,” Cat says.

  “I’m okay talking about it. I feel better now. I think the shock has worn off from stumbling over a body. Now my nosy self wants to know what happened,” I say.

  “If I had to guess, I would say that someone pushed his awful arse off the bell tower,” Samantha says and raises her glass of wine. “A toast. To getting on with things and living.”

  We all clink our glasses together. I feel somewhat guilty toasting to someone’s death, but no one else seems bothered. In fact, Samantha looks more relaxed and happier than I’ve ever seen her. She’s glowing and smiling and talking. Professor Brigg must have been terrible to her.

  “So, other than all this unpleasantness,” Samantha says, waving her hand. “How was your first week with the girls?”

  “Fine. I know most of them are still on their best behavior, so I don’t expect it to last. There are a couple that I can tell might be trouble-makers because they’re already trying to push back at me, but I can handle it,” I say.

  I see the three of them giving each other meaningful looks and then Freya says, “Who do you think the trouble-makers are?”

  “I hate to conjecture about the girls with no actual proof,” I say.

  “Oh, go on. We all do it and we want to see if you’ve come to the right conclusions,” Samantha says.

  “Okay, well Heidi Covington seems like she’s pretty spoiled and always gets what she wants, including grades she didn’t earn. And Eleanor Thomas seems like she might be a bully.”

  “She’s good,” Cat says, laughing. “Nailed those right on the head.”

  “Also, watch out for Holly Brightly. She seems sweet, but she can be sly and conniving,” Freya says, looking over her wineglass at me.

  “Hmm. Yes, I could see that being true. I thought she was being too nice and helpful. So do you think I’ll do okay here?” I ask, laughing.

  “You’ll be grand,” Samantha says, clinking her glass to mine.

  “I don’t think it can get any worse than stumbling over a dead body at the start of your second week of classes,” Cat says, giggling.

  “True, that,” Freya says, topping up our glasses. We spend the next couple of hours drinking (too much) and laughing. I know I’m possibly going to be teaching class with a slight hangover tomorrow, but I also feel like I have three new friends. And it has been quite a rough day. But despite the harrowing nature of this morning, I go to bed, beginning to feel like I belong here.

  Chapter 4

  Thanks to the wine, I have no trouble falling asleep, but I do have trouble waking up. I groggily consider going for a run to wake up before I remember what happened yesterday morning. After a hot shower and coffee, I’m feeling better. I poke at my thoughts about what happened yesterday a bit and find I’m okay with having found a body. I’d never even met Professor Brigg, and he truly sounded awful, so I’m not feeling as emotional as I might otherwise. I plan to just move past this.

  Sometimes the best laid plans, however. Having a classroom full of teenage girls makes this impossible. In my first class of the day, I finish a lecture and give the girls a reading assignment. As soon as I ask if there are questions, hands shoot up.

  “Uh, yes, Eleanor. Do you have a question?” I ask.

  “Yes, Ms. Is it true that you’re the one that found Professor Brigg’s body?” she asks, her green eyes wide.

  “Do you all have your hands raised to ask about Professor Brigg?” I ask, looking around the room.

  All the girls nod assent. I sigh.

  “I’m not allowed to talk about what happened with anyone other than the police,” I begin.

  “The police! So it was foul play,” a girl at the back, her auburn hair in a long braid, says dramatically. The anxiety level in the room rises.

  “I didn’t say that. But someone died suddenly, and the police were called to investigate. That’s normal procedure. None of you need be concerned. Everyone is safe. If any of you are feeling worried or afraid, you can speak to Ms. Overly. She’s been trained to help you. English class is not really an appropriate place to discuss the professor’s death.” I say, just as the bell rings.

  I hope that I have sufficiently calmed the girls down, but they whisper together with furrowed brows as they leave the room, so I don’t think I succeeded. All of my following classes go the same way. They quietly listen, then attack me with questions. I’m exhausted by the time the last bell rings.

  “Hey,” Freya says, knocking on my open door. “Were your students as bonkers as mine?”

  “Ugh,” I say, laying my head on my desk. “I wasn’t sure I would survive all of their questions. Or if I answered them in a professional, responsible, caring way.”

  “I know. With my last two classes, I just told them they weren’t allowed to ask questions,” Freya says.

  “That’s probably what I should have done. I hope they move on to gossiping about something else soon.”

  “I doubt that will happen for a while. This school is quiet and properly English. The most exciting thing to happen was the time a snake got into the headmistress’s office. They gossiped about it for weeks.”

  “I’m not going to survive this,” I say, sighing.

  “Buck up. We’ll all have to take a hard line with the students about questions. They caught us off guard today, but tomorrow we’ll be ready.”

  “You’re right. I was completely caught off guard. I was ready to just move on from finding the body, but I guess that won’t be happening for a while. I want to be approachable to my students, but in this instance I should put my foot down.”

  “Drinks at my place later? To calm your nerves?” Freya offers.

  “No, thanks. I’m exhausted. I think I should try to get to bed earlier. I’ll see you tomorrow though.”

  I tell Freya goodbye and sit down at my desk to go over tomorrow’s lessons. I get an email and when I check it, it’s from the headmistress. She’s having a mandatory meeting tonight with all the teachers about how we should handle the students’ questions.

  I was really looking forward to going home, having a sandwich, and going to bed. But I appreciate the headmistress giving us some direction about how we should address Professor Brigg’s death with the students.

  We meet in the chapel at seven. I’m a couple of minutes early, but when I arrive, it looks like most of the teachers are already there. Freya waves me over to the pew she, Cat, and Samantha are sitting on. There are around 20 teachers, all sitting in the first four rows of the chapel. At exactly seven, Ms. Bowerton moves to the front of the room.

  “As all of you are aware, yesterday a colleague died on the school grounds. We still don’t know exactly what happened, but the police are investigating. As staff members of Ashbourne Ladies College, our job is to make sure the students receive a top education and that we take good care of them.”

  “Today, I heard from many of you about the chaos in your classrooms. I apologize for not addressing this yesterday. I should have foreseen the girls’ curiosity and fear. Of course they are afraid. A teacher died here on campus. And they can’t help asking questions about what happened.”

  “I believe the best thing for everyone is to get on with things. If a student wants to discuss what happened, please direct her to either myself or Ms. Overly. No discussing any
of this in class. I understand you want to comfort the girls, but we also have to remember that a police investigation is ongoing. I think this will make things easier for all of you in your classrooms. Now, does anyone have questions or suggestions?” Ms. Bowerton asks.

  No one asks any questions, so the headmistress dismisses us, but no one leaves. We all just sit in our pews talking about how our classes went today and what our students were saying. I stay quiet. I don’t really know any of the faculty other than Freya, Samantha, and Cat. Until Freya loudly reminds the staff, I’m the new English teacher and, more importantly, the person who found Brigg’s body.

  I don’t enjoy being the center of attention, so I try to quickly but kindly answer all of their questions so I can go home. I don’t want to be rude to any of my new co-workers, but I also don’t want to keep telling the story of tripping over the dead professor.

  I won’t hold it against Freya. I’m pretty sure she loves being the center of attention and would not understand why I cringe away from it. After another ten minutes, I truthfully tell everyone I’m tired and want to get to bed early. Then I slip outside, leaving everyone else to keep talking about Professor Brigg’s death.

  It’s dark and quiet as I walk along the path to my apartment. The students are all in their houses, not running around on the lawn, yelling and laughing. Goosebumps rise on my arms, but I’m unsure if it’s from the cool evening air or nerves. My mind is a cyclone after being peppered with questions by my colleagues.

  The police think Brigg committed suicide and that would be the simpler, neater answer to what happened on the tower. I would like that to be the answer, but my instincts are telling me that’s not the case. And if he didn’t jump off of the tower, then that means something else happened up there. Something dreadful.

  * * * * *

  The next day, the students don’t ask nearly as many questions. This is in large part because the headmistress sent out an email to all the students, cautioning them to be respectful and not gossip. And also advised them to speak to the counselor if they need to talk through what happened.

  But there are still instances when I get asked about what happened and I gently let them know the classroom is not the appropriate setting for discussing this. They are encouraged to either speak to Ms. Bowerton or to the counselor.

  It seems my colleagues are doing the same thing because after my first two classes, the questions stop. Classes are going well, and the day seems to take a turn for the better. Until Ms. Bowerton herself shows up at my classroom.

  “Ms. Stewart, I am so sorry to interrupt, but I need to steal you away for a few moments. Girls, continue with what you’re doing,” she says, and motions me to follow her into the hall.

  “Is everything okay?” I ask, worrying about my parents and brother back in the states.

  “Everything is fine, but the police have asked to speak with you again and I feel we should comply, even though it is inconvenient. They are waiting in my office for you. Don’t worry about your students. I’ll stay with them and make sure I keep them busy,” she says, giving me a kindly look and a pat on the arm.

  I walk to her office, worrying about why the police want to talk to me. I suppose they’re just following up to close the case, but my stomach still fills up with butterflies.

  When I arrive at the headmistress’s office, there are two police officers. The male officer is sitting in one of the chairs in front of Ms. Bowerton’s desk on his phone. He looks to be in his mid-forties and is tall and thin, dressed in slacks and a button-down shirt. The female officer is standing by Ms. Bowerton’s fireplace, looking at the painting of Ashbourne hanging above the mantel. She looks younger than the man, and her navy pantsuit looks expensive. Her dark hair is pulled back in a sleek bun.

  I rap on the door frame, and they turn toward me.

  “Alice Stewart?” the female officer asks, moving towards me and putting out her hand. “I’m Inspector Trumble, and this is Inspector Jeffers. We’re the detectives that have been assigned to the investigation. We’re just here to ask you a few questions.”

  I’m uncertain where I should sit. It seems inappropriate to sit behind the headmistress’s desk, but there doesn’t seem to be any other option. I take a seat and Inspector Trumble sits in the other seat across the desk.

  “Ms. Stewart, if you could just go over everything that happened on the morning of September 14,” Inspector Trumble says.

  I once again tell the story of leaving my apartment to go for a run and stumbling over Professor Brigg’s body in the fog, but this time they want more detailed answers.

  “Can you tell us what time you left your apartment and approximately what time you found the body?” Inspector Trumble asks.

  “Um, let’s see. I woke up at six, so I probably left around six-fifteen. And I’d been running for about twenty minutes, when I, uh, tripped over Professor Brigg. So that would be around six thirty-five.”

  “Do you normally run at this time of day?” she asks.

  “Not always, but I prefer to get a run in first thing, if I can.”

  Inspector Trumble continues to question me, while Inspector Jeffers sits writing things in his notebook. She asks me questions about how well I knew Brigg, if I knew if he had anyone that hated him, even what I wore that morning.

  After I answer all of their questions, I decide to ask one of my own.

  “Do all these questions mean the police no longer think Professor Brigg killed himself?” I ask.

  “We’re not at liberty to discuss details of the case with you, but I think it’s okay to let you know that yes, it’s looking more likely that this was foul play. Some things have come to light that are suspicious, and that’s why we’re investigating. Thank you for your time and cooperation, Ms. Stewart,” Inspector Trumble says, shaking my hand.

  Inspector Jeffers shakes my hand and nods at me. I wonder if he can’t speak or if he’s just the strong, silent type.

  I watch them walk down the hallway, and then I shakily sit down in the nearest chair. In the span of a couple of hours, I’ve gone from thinking I could move on from all of this drama to wondering if the police consider me a suspect.

  They asked a lot more questions and demanded more details this time. Maybe that’s what happens when they open a murder investigation. I don’t know. I don’t even watch police shows. And even if I did, I’m in a foreign country. Maybe investigations in the UK are handled completely differently than in the US.

  I take a few minutes to sit quietly until I stop shaking. Then I walk back to my classroom. By the time I arrive I’m much calmer, but I’m also relieved when I look at the clock and see there’s only five minutes left of my last class of the day.

  Ms. Bowerton waits around until all my students have left, then she walks towards me.

  “Did everything go okay? They didn’t tell me much about why they needed to talk to you again,” she says.

  “They asked a lot of questions. Apparently they no longer think Professor Brigg committed suicide, so they’ve opened an investigation,” I say.

  “Oh dear. That will be terrible for the school,” she says, frowning. “I was hoping it would all be over quickly.”

  “Me too,” I say, sighing.

  “You poor thing,” she says, patting my arm. “This has probably been so difficult for you. You’ve just arrived in a foreign country with a new job, and this unpleasantness happens. If you need anything at all, please let me know.”

  “Thank you, but I’m doing okay.”

  “Good. Glad to see you 're a sturdy type,” she says, laughing a little. “You’ll fit in well at Ashbourne. I’m sure you have things to do, so I’ll leave you to it.”

  I tell the headmistress goodbye, then sit down at my desk to gather my thoughts. I need to review what I’m doing in class tomorrow, but my thoughts are banging around in my head so fast that I can’t concentrate. I decide to just pack up and go home. Maybe after a cup of herbal tea, I’ll be able to concentrate.<
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  “Is everything okay?” Freda asks as soon as I close my classroom door behind me. “I saw Ms. Bowerton stop by your room.”

  “Yes, everything is fine. The police wanted to ask me some more questions,” I say, then lower my voice. “Apparently, they no longer think Professor Brigg committed suicide.”

  “I suspected that would happen. Like I told you before, he was not the kind of guy to end his own life. The scandal for the school, though. I hope they can figure out who did it quickly and get it all wrapped up, otherwise, the girls will be a mess for weeks.”

  “I hope so, too. I feel like I brought bad vibes with me, or something,” I say, laughing shakily.

  “Don’t think that,” Freya says, squeezing both my arms. “They’ll figure out who did it and then things will get back to normal.”

  “Thanks, Freya. That’s what I want to happen too,” I say.

  We walk back to our apartments together. Freya keeps up a steady-stream of silly stories about her students. I appreciate it because I’m not feeling chatty.

  Once I’m home, I close and lock my door. I make myself a cup of chamomile tea, kick off my shoes, and slump into an armchair. I’m sure I’ve been this tired before, like when I was writing my master’s thesis, or when my dad had bypass surgery. But right now, I feel so weary.

  I sip my tea, thinking about all the questions the police asked me. If I was a suspect, I’m pretty sure they would have to tell me that. Wouldn’t they? Or maybe not. I guess they wouldn’t want to show their hand in case the suspect skips town. The only reason I can see for them considering me as a suspect, other than finding the body, is that I’m the new girl. And American.

  I need to get a hold of myself. I do not understand what the police are thinking, but whether or not they think I did it, I can do something about it. I know I didn’t kill Professor Brigg, but someone did. Maybe I can figure out who.