The Murdered Schoolgirl: A Classic Crime Novel. John Russell Fearn
“I haven’t been here so long myself,” Joan sighed. “I’m not very struck on it, either. The nearest boys’ college is fifteen miles away and the cinemas all have ancient films. Buried alive, I call it.”
“Boys don’t interest me,” Frances said quietly. “If I have any male company at all I like intelligent men—full of brains.”
Joan raised her eyebrows. “Hmm.… Anyway, it’s time we had some tea. We can either have what we’ve collected for ourselves—no easy job in these rationing days—or else we can take what the dining-hall provides. It isn’t compulsory, like dinner. What’s your fancy?”
“Chicken and champagne,” Frances shrugged. “Otherwise I’ll share whatever you’ve got. I’ve had no time yet to do any shopping of my own.”
“Tiny does ours,” Joan smiled. “Food is about the only thing she lives for.”
“And a thin time I’m having!” Beryl objected, putting the kettle on. “Still, maybe I’ll keep body and soul together somehow—”
Joan laughed, but Frances Hasleigh did not even smile. Instead she turned and looked thoughtfully out of the window. Joan Dawson frowned. This new girl seemed to have precious little to say, and she was decidedly unemotional considering her surroundings were strange to her. There was rather an odd expression on her face, too, as though she were under some kind of strain. Pretty enough, however, with her clear grey eyes, fair hair, and straight features. Yet, somehow, there was something very mature about her. She had neither the poise nor the figure of a girl of sixteen—
“Where did you go to school before?” Beryl asked.
“Elmington High School,” Frances answered absently. “You probably never heard of it.”
“No, I never have,” Joan said. “Not that it matters—”
Frances looked from one girl to the other. “We three are more or less compelled to live together, so maybe I’d better make one or two things clear now. You won’t find me very good company. I talk very little and avoid contacts as much as possible. I do not like frothy young men, but I do like brainy ones. If you don’t pester me with silly questions, I shan’t pester you, and if you find I have odd habits and do odd things, that will be my own affair, for which I’ll take full responsibility. That understood?”
Joan frowned. “Yes, of course, but we aren’t the ones who can cause you much trouble. Don’t do anything to upset Miss Black or Tanny. They’re mustard—especially Black Maria.”
Frances said nothing. She had retired into that strange shell of reserve again. She resumed gazing through the window until a prod in the back reminded her that tea was ready.
“You’re a queer one,” Beryl remarked, taking her chair. “I never heard a new girl get things off her chest so quickly. Here, try the salmon-paste—or have a teacake?”
“Teacake,” Frances said absently. “And a drink of tea.”
Joan and Beryl exchanged glances, then presently it seemed to become too much for the sharper girl.
“Look here, Frances, if there is any sort of trouble you’re in, we’ll be only too glad to help out—if we can. We don’t mind you wrapping yourself up in yourself, but don’t do it too much, will you? It gets on one’s nerves a bit, and I’m a pretty nervy customer at the best of times.”
“I just want to think—and hard; and I can’t do it if you two insist on pestering me. Just leave me alone!”
“What’s to think about?” Joan asked, mystified. “In this place everything is done for you. We don’t think; we just obey—or Heaven help us!”
Frances ate silently for a while, then: “If I wanted to ask a pretty brainy man about the exact position of the star Sirius, whom would I approach?”
Joan set her teacup down and Beryl nearly choked over her sandwich.
“Why do you want to know that?” Beryl asked blankly. “Who cares, anyway?”
“I do!” Frances retorted irritably. “I’m simply asking a straightforward question. I happen to be interested in astronomy, you see—”
“The only stars I like are on the films,” Beryl said pensively. “Tyrone Power, and Errol Flynn, and—”
“Will one of you please answer my question?” Frances insisted sharply.
“You’re not a teacher, you know!” Joan said indignantly. “Answering your question, I should think Mr. Lever would be your best bet. Young—about twenty-four, waiting to be called up, and positively bulging with brains. You say you like that sort, so there it is.”
“How do I find him?” Frances asked quickly.
“You don’t! He’s only visible in the classroom when taking science. The rest of the time he is over on the staff side of the building. Very strict regulations, you know. Too many attractive young ladies about for any looseness.”
“Yes, I should think he ought to be able to answer my question very easily,” Frances nodded. “Thanks for telling me—albeit belatedly. Now to something else. How often is one allowed to leave the school? In the evening, I mean.”
“You can go to Lexham, the nearest town, once a week if you get a permit from Miss Black,” Joan answered. “Otherwise our activities are limited to Langhorn—the village. When you go to Lexham you have to be in here by ten-thirty. With Langhorn the limit is eight-thirty. Langhorn has a cinema, anyway, and that’s something.”
Frances gave a rather tired smile. “You were right, Joan, when you said things were slow around here. I like a bit of bright life now and again, so if at any time you wake up in the dorm and find a bolster doing service in bed for me, don’t be surprised.”
“Do as you wish, of course,” Joan shrugged. “But if you are ever caught breaking bounds, it may mean expulsion. You know that, don’t you?”
“I know. But I have my own reasons for being a roamer ”
“Not all the girls will be as loyal to you as we will,” Beryl pointed out. “We have our sneaks and tittle-tattlers.”
“I’ll risk it,” Frances said calmly.
Joan shrugged again and went on with her tea. It was no use trying to argue with this odd girl. So quiet and innocent, yet obviously knowing her way about, it was hard to read her. Certainly she did not behave with the usual self-conscious shyness of a new girl: she was entirely self-possessed.
“We’re going up into the solarium after tea,” Beryl said, looking longingly at the remaining cake. “Coming? Give you a chance to meet the others.”
“Depends what you do there,” Frances replied.
“Anything you want,” Joan shrugged. “Either lie in the evening sun and think out your future, or else have a bit of exercise with the medicine ball, dumb-bells, parallel-bars, or— Well, you can please yourself.”
Frances thought it out, then nodded—so some fifteen minutes later found them up in the solarium where several girls had already congregated. Some were writing letters; some were practising their own variations on physical culture; still others were sitting about and talking. But practically all of them paused in sudden interest at the sight of the new girl in the Sixth.
It certainly put ideas into the mind of Vera Randal, the head girl of the Sixth Form, to which position she had climbed mainly by literal force of arms. Tall and massively built, she came ambling forward as she saw Joan pointing out the various virtues of the big place.
“Who’s the little stranger?” she asked Joan.
Joan turned sharply and looked up at the big, domineering face with its thrush-like speckling of freckles.
“I’m Frances Hasleigh,”