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

ma’am,’ said William.
    Some little time later they arrived at Wakeley Court. The Bentley drew up in front of the building, which was a handsome one of red brick built in the Gothic revival style, but tastefully so, with a minimum of turrets and decorative tracery. There was a portico running along the front, under which was an arch leading through to the Quad, and the whole building was surrounded by well-kept lawns, although the lake could not be seen from this side. The school was only two or three miles from the sea, and when she stepped out of the car Angela detected a whiff of salt in the air, which she had not noticed on her previous visit.
    The place was silent, seemingly deserted, but not for long: William was just unloading the bags when a bell rang loudly, and within seconds the whole place was a sea of girls swarming in every direction, shrieking and giggling, dropping things, jostling one another and waving books about. The noise was deafening, and William looked slightly nervous.
    ‘Angela!’ came a voice, and they turned to see Barbara running towards them in company with another girl. ‘You’re here at last,’ she said. ‘Splendid. I’ve just been telling the girls you were coming. You can meet them later.’
    ‘Of course,’ said Angela. ‘But first I must go and do my duty to the headmistress. She has invited me to have tea with her and some of the teachers.’
    ‘Be sure and put a word in for me with Miss Finch,’ said Barbara. ‘She was pretty scathing about my History essay earlier. You might tell her I’m a misunderstood genius. Come on, Flo. We’d better go or we’ll be late.’
    She dashed off, followed by the other girl, leaving Angela to find her own way to the headmistress’s room. Miss Bell greeted her with the utmost politeness, and after an exchange of pleasantries escorted her along to the staff common-room, where they were to have tea and Angela was to meet the teachers.
    ‘This is Miss Finch, our Classics and History mistress,’ said Miss Bell, introducing a small, dark woman with shrewd eyes and a brisk manner, who looked Angela over with some appearance of misgiving, although whether she had taken a personal dislike to the visitor or whether that was her usual manner was impossible to say. ‘She is my deputy.’
    ‘I’m very pleased to meet you,’ said Angela.
    ‘You are the godmother of Barbara Wells,’ said Miss Finch, and it came out like a snap. ‘Bright child, but needs taking in hand. I’ve seen it before with motherless girls. They can grow up to be quite a handful if not kept in check.’
    ‘Oh yes?’ murmured Angela politely.
    Miss Bell interjected diplomatically.
    ‘I must say that Barbara has improved tremendously since our little—er—chat two weeks ago,’ she said.
    Miss Finch nodded, and Miss Bell steered Angela across to another teacher, a small, shrivelled-looking elderly man who sported a splendid, bushy moustache that appeared to have emerged accidentally from his nose and spread across half his face.
    ‘This is Mr. Penkridge, our Music master,’ she said. ‘Mr. Penkridge, this is Mrs. Marchmont, who has been so generous as to establish the Mathematics scholarship which I mentioned to you the other day.’
    Mr. Penkridge gave a little bow and beamed.
    ‘N-hem! Enchanted, madam,’ he said. ‘I am delighted to hear of your interest in expanding the knowledge of our young minds here. It is only a pity that we did not meet earlier, or I might have persuaded you to extend your philanthropy in the direction of our Music students too.’
    ‘Now, Mr. Penkridge,’ said Miss Bell, with some slight embarrassment. ‘It will not do to test the generosity of our patrons.’ She turned to Angela. ‘Mr. Penkridge’s enthusiasm occasionally runs away with him, but I assure you that he has nothing but his pupils’ best interests at heart.’
    ‘Oh, yes,’ said Mr. Penkridge happily. ‘Miss Bell will tell you of my firm belief that Music is