Murder Has No Class by Rebecca Kent Page A

sentiments. Perhaps she had been too hasty in her refusals to help the ghost of Lord Stalham.
    Deep in thought, she was about halfway through her meal of ham, pickles, and cheese when she noticed a great deal of whispering going on in the dining room. Not only at her table, but at the other tables as well.
    When she focused on the students, however, they quickly turned the subject to that afternoon’s lecture on the celebrated artist, Monet, and Meredith was left with the feeling that whatever had stirred the interest of her pupils, it was something they didn’t wish to discuss with her.
    Most likely they had been complaining among themselves about the village being off limits for the May Day festivities.
    She’d certainly heard many murmurs of shock and dismay when she had made the announcement at assembly that morning.
    Normally that would concern her, but today her thoughts were distracted by her preoccupation with the late Lord Stalham’s dilemma. So much so that instead of joining her friends in the teacher’s lounge, she returned to her office, with the intention of reading the full report on the murder trial.
    When she opened the door to her office, however, the sight that met her eyes drove all thoughts of the ghost out of her mind.
    Roger was seated behind her desk as usual, and he sprang to his feet as she entered, dislodging the young woman who had been seated on his lap.
    Sophie Westchester fell to the floor, her skirts raised in a disgusting display of bare knees. “Ow!” The student glared up at Roger, then scrambled to her feet, her cheeks glowing as she met Meredith’s horrified stare. “I . . . we . . . I was just asking Rog . . . Mr. Platt . . .”
    “Go to your room.” Meredith flung a hand at the door. “And stay there until I come and have a word with you.”
    “Yes, Mrs. Llewellyn.” Bowing her head, Sophie rushed past her and out of the door.
    Roger Platt’s face had grown as red as a ripe strawberry, and once more he seemed to be having a problem with his starched collar. Tugging at it, he avoided her gaze while he muttered, “I can explain.”
    “I certainly hope you can.” Meredith beckoned to him to move out from her desk and marched behind it herself to sit down.
    “Please begin your explanation, and I warn you, your employment here depends on what you have to say.”
    “Well, I was working here on the housekeeping accounts”—he gestured at the papers strewn across his desk—“when Sophie . . . ah . . . I mean, Miss Westchester, walked in and sat on the edge of my desk.” He cleared his throat. “She said she wanted to ask me about the fund for the new art studio. She said some of the girls were discussing a new way to raise money for it.”
    Meredith frowned. “How did that require her sitting on your lap?”
    Roger coughed and tugged at his collar again. “I was showing her the ledger, m’m, and she leaned over to look at it and . . . sort of . . . fell.”
    “And you expect me to believe that?”
    “It’s what happened.” Roger put a hand over his heart. “I swear it on my dead mother’s grave.”
    Meredith rolled her eyes. “You don’t know who your mother is, Roger. You grew up in an orphanage.”
    “Yes, I know, but I had to have a mother somewhere, right?”
    “For all you know, she could be alive and well.”
    Roger nodded. “I certainly hope so, m’m.”
    Realizing she had strayed from the issue, Meredith pinched her lips. “You do understand that Miss Westchester deliberately engineered this incident to suit her own purposes?”
    “I suppose so, m’m.”
    “And that it was up to you to prevent this sort of behavior?”
    “I did my best, m’m.” Roger put on an injured expression. “I shot her off my lap.”
    “Not until I opened the door.”
    “Which was exactly the moment it all happened.” Roger looked hopeful. “Quite a coincidence, that.”
    Meredith closed her eyes and passed a hand over her forehead. “You may leave, Mr. Platt.