The Trouble at Wakeley Court (An Angela Marchmont Mystery Book 8) by Clara Benson

Masefield, the last member of the group. ‘I’m horribly jealous. When he read out The Lady of Shalott the other day I couldn’t help but picture him as Sir Lancelot, riding through the school in his armour. He has such a courtly look about him.’
    ‘Pfft!’ said Barbara. ‘I happen to know he lives with his mother in the village, in that flat above the post-office. I’ll bet she makes him wear a flannel vest even in summer.’
    This last supposition was roundly rejected as impossible for a man of such noble appearance.
    ‘Miss Bell hardly lets him even talk to us,’ complained Rosabelle.
    ‘I don’t know why,’ said Barbara. ‘He never shows the slightest bit of interest in the girls. You two would be better off sighing for old Penkridge, even if he is about ninety-eight.’
    The girls all giggled. Mr. Welland strolled on, and whether or not his broad, clear brow in sunlight glow’d, it was certainly untroubled by any awareness of the attention it had excited.
    ‘What about Mam’selle, then?’ said Isabel, returning to the original question.
    They all thought about it.
    ‘I love Mam’selle,’ said Barbara, ‘but she’d be no use in the jungle. Not for our purposes, at any rate. She’s far too smart to do any of the hard work herself. She’d find a way of getting us to do it while she sat there, smiling approvingly and making encouraging noises.’
    At that moment, Lydia Chambers, the head girl, turned up.
    ‘Where did you get those apples?’ she said. ‘Barbara, have you been taking food from the kitchen again?’
    ‘Can’t you let it go this once?’ said Isabel, who was Lydia’s younger sister and took as much advantage as possible of the fact. ‘That stew we had for lunch was simply vile. It must be Cook’s day off.’
    ‘Either that or the butcher’s was closed and they had to round up some stray dogs to put in it,’ said Barbara. ‘I’m sure I found a nose in mine.’
    There were howls of disgust followed by giggling.
    ‘That’s enough,’ said Lydia sharply. ‘Any more of that and I’ll have to report you to Miss Finch.’
    ‘Sorry, Lydia,’ said Barbara, not sounding sorry at all. ‘Have an apple?’
    Lydia hesitated and glanced about her.
    ‘Oh, well,’ she said. ‘They do look rather nice, and the stew was pretty awful. Don’t tell anyone, though.’ She took an apple and passed on.
    Barbara stretched herself out on the grass.
    ‘I wish something exciting would happen,’ she said. ‘Things have been awfully dull lately. If I hadn’t promised to be good we might go up on the roof. But I suppose it’s better not to risk it.’
    ‘I don’t like it up there anyway,’ said Melisande. ‘Last time I got so terribly dusty on my way through the attic that it simply wasn’t worth it in the end for the tongue-lashing I had off Matron afterwards. She says it’s dangerous up there.’
    ‘And it’s so dark,’ added Rosabelle. ‘I’m sure it’s haunted. I know the servants don’t like going in the attic. Bessie told me the kitchen-maids hear sounds coming from upstairs sometimes, and they’re all convinced there’s a ghost.’
    ‘Nonsense,’ said Barbara. ‘It’s probably me they heard. I’ll bet if you asked Bessie again she’d tell you they haven’t heard a thing since I stopped going up. It’s a pity,’ she went on wistfully. ‘It’s the perfect sort of day for sitting on the roof and enjoying the view. But I did promise. Besides, I think they locked the door to the outside after I was caught the last time.’
    ‘It serves you right for chucking eggs at people,’ said Florrie.
    ‘You know exactly who was responsible for that,’ said Barbara. ‘And you ought to be thankful that I didn’t squeak on any of you.’
    ‘Oh, we are,’ Florrie assured her with all the complacency of one who had escaped her proper deserts.
    The group fell silent, munching, until a man walked past, pushing a wheelbarrow. He had an unprepossessing, taciturn air about