The Murder Room by P. D. James

sending girls abroad now—this generation of rich kids skis at Klosters every winter and they’ve been travelling since childhood. The world is a dangerous place and it’s likely to become more dangerous. Parents will become increasingly anxious to have their daughters finished in England. And what do we mean by being finished? The concept is out of date, almost risible to the young. It’s no use offering the usual regimen of cooking, flower arranging, childcare, deportment, with a little culture thrown in. They can get most of that, if they want it, free from local authority evening classes. And we need to be seen as discriminating. No more automatic entrance just because Daddy can pay the fees. No more morons; they aren’t teachable and they don’t want to learn. They pull down and irritate the rest. No more psychological misfits—this isn’t an expensive psychiatric unit. And no more delinquents. Shoplifting from Harrods or Harvey Nicks is no different from stealing from Woolworth’s, even if Mummy has an account and Daddy can pay off the police.”
    Lady Swathling had sighed. “There was a time when one could rely on people from a certain background to behave in a certain way.”
    â€œCould one? I hadn’t noticed it.” She had gone on inexorably: “Above all we need to give value for money. At the end of the year or eighteen-month course the students should have something to show for their efforts. We have to justify our fees—God knows they’re high enough. First of all they need to be computer-literate. Secretarial and administrative skills will always have value. Then we need to ensure they’re fluent in one foreign language. If they already are, we teach them a second. Cooking should be included; it’s popular, useful and socially fashionable, and it should be taught to cordon bleu standards. The other subjects—social skills, childcare, deportment—are matters of choice. There will be no problem with the Arts. We have access to private collections and London is on our doorstep. I thought we might arrange exchanges with schools in Paris, Madrid and Rome.”
    Lady Swathling had said, “Can we afford it?”
    â€œIt will be a struggle for the first two years, but after that the reforms will begin to pay. When a girl says, ‘I had a year at Swathling’s,’ that should mean something, and something marketable. Once we achieve the prestige, the numbers will follow.”
    And they had followed. Swathling’s became what Caroline Dupayne had planned it to be. Lady Swathling, who never forgot an injury, also never forgot a benefit. Caroline Dupayne had become at first joint Principal and then partner. Lady Swathling knew that the school would flourish without her, but not without her colleague. There was still the final acknowledgement of her debt of gratitude. She could bequeath both house and school to Caroline. She herself had no children and no close relatives; there would be no one to challenge the will. And now that Caroline was a widow—Raymond Pratt had smashed himself into a tree in his Mercedes in 1998—no husband to grab his share. She hadn’t yet spoken to Caroline. There was, after all, no hurry. They were doing very well as they were. And she enjoyed the knowledge that, in this one thing at least, she held the power.
    They went methodically through the business of the morning. Lady Swathling said, “You’re happy about this new girl, Marcia Collinson?”
    â€œPerfectly. Her mother’s a fool, but she isn’t. She tried for Oxford but didn’t make it. There’s no point in her going to a crammer, she already has four top-grade A levels. She’ll try again next year in the hope that persistence will be rewarded. Apparently it’s Oxford or nowhere, which is hardly rational given the competition. She’d have a better chance, of course, if she came from the