‘Do not mention that fact,’ she said. ‘Now, students, I am going to do some very curious things. Ready, Miss Cartwright?’
Before Miss Cartwright could reply, the Warden had slipped behind her and was holding her in a firm grip.
‘Do you mind struggling quite hard? I’ll try not to hurt you,’ went on Mrs Bradley. ‘Harder, Miss Cartwright. Try to get away.’
Miss Cartwright, inhibited at first by a mixture of chivalry and awe, was very soon fighting her hardest. Mrs Bradley released her, pushed the panting girl into an arm-chair in a dark corner, and waited for Miss Cornflake to return. She had to wait for two or three minutes, and once or twice glanced at her watch. When Miss Cornflake came back, key in hand, Mrs Bradley gripped her round the waist, imprisoning her arms. Then, holding her firmly, she said: ‘Now don’t be alarmed, Miss Cornflake. Repeat after me these words: “For heaven’s sake, Warden, don’t report me! It was only a rag. I shall be sent down for certain if you report me.” ’
The victim, standing perfectly still, said quietly: ‘I don’t understand all this. Have you all gone mad?’
Mrs Bradley began to haul her towards the window.
‘Open that window, Miss Menzies,’ she commanded. ‘I’m going to throw this student out’
At this Miss Cornflake began to struggle violently. Mrs Bradley exerted a good deal of strength to hold her. Then she let her go.
‘What is all this?’ demanded Miss Cornflake, panting.
‘Psychology tests,’ said Mrs Bradley unblushingly. ‘I am sorry to have inconvenienced you. I shall award your reactions a mark of Beta.’ She grinned ferociously, took up the gymnasium key, which Miss Cornflake had dropped in the struggle, and which had been picked up by Alice, and led her myrmidons away.
‘And now, Miss Cartwright, not a word of this to a soul,’ she said, when they were out on the drive once more. ‘I suppose, by the way, you wouldn’t care to confess to me that you were the Miss Morris in trousers whom I captured on bonfire night, and the snake-charmer who so much annoyed Miss Harbottle? Never mind, child. But, remember, these tests of mine must be secret, or I can learn nothing from them at all.’
‘I shouldn’t dream of saying anything, Warden,’ said Miss Cartwright, giving a half-glance at Laura.
‘Very well, child. And I shouldn’t smoke quite so much, if I were you. You make odd, gasping sounds, which displease my medical ear, when you become short of breath, as you did just now when we struggled.’
‘She took long enough to get the key, Warden,’ said Laura, as she and Mrs Bradley, having sent the other two off, walked briskly towards the gymnasium.
‘The inference is that she took it off a key-ring.’
‘Not to lose it, I suppose; although you’d hardly think she’d bother, just for an hour in the gym. Anyway, why not lend you the whole caboosh?’
‘She may have keys on the ring which she didn’t want us to see, including a key to the doors of the passage that runs from Hall to Hall,’ said Mrs Bradley. ‘And, of course, this key may be one she had cut for herself when she did borrow Miss Pettinsalt’s key one day.’
‘Shall you ask Miss Pettinsalt whether she lent it?’
‘Not at present, child. It isn’t necessary. Here we are. I don’t think I’ve been in here since I went all over the College when first I came.’
She opened the door, and they went in by a door which led into a short passage past the dressing-rooms and shower-baths.
‘Better put these on, Warden, not to spoil the floor,’ suggested Laura, handing Mrs Bradley a pair of rubber-soled shoes. ‘They’ll be pretty big for you, but I daresay you can slop about in them. I can go in in my stockings.’
Mrs Bradley changed her shoes, and Laura led the way to the space under the gallery where the movable apparatus was stored.
‘You’ll want a clean handkerchief, Warden. I brought one in case. See that skipping-rope? The one with my shoe-lace tied round it? I haven’t touched the handles. Those are Cornflake’s prints. Superimposed on a good many others, I expect, but an expert might do something with them. On the top of the wall-bars — here — they ought to be good. Nobody’s used the wall-bars since yesterday, except her, and they get cleaned on Saturday mornings. On the shower-tap, cleaned yesterday with metal-polish, hers again. I wouldn’t let Kitty or Alice touch the tap. Gave them their showers with the fire-bucket and we used the tap from the floor, and I took my shower the same way. We’ve done it before, and it’s more fun, actually, so they didn’t tumble to the true inwardness of the proceedings.’
Mrs Bradley put her hand in her skirt pocket and took out her small revolver.
‘Put it back, Warden. It makes me nervous,’ said Laura. ‘A rounders stick will do twice as well, and makes a lot less noise. Are you going to phone the police?’
‘Why should I?’ inquired Mrs Bradley. ‘However, I am going to send Miss Trevelyan and Miss Boorman to keep you company, and the three of you will keep out all intruders. Here are your shoes again, child. On no account is anybody, even Miss Pettinsalt herself, to come in until I have given permission.’
‘Atta-baby!’ murmured Laura, going off to select the three heaviest sticks she could find.
Chapter 11
THE EVE OF WATERLOO
« ^ »
‘I am quite infinitely obliged to you, Miss Menzies,’ said Mrs Bradley, when the inspector had brought his experts, and Miss Cornflake’s fingerprints, ‘for better, for worse,’ as Laura expressed it, were upon record. ‘Of course, we’ve nothing much to go on, except that a person in unlawful possession of one key may, as I suggested, be in unlawful possession of other keys. And, of course, there does seem something a little odd about her, as you say. And she’s very strong.’
‘ ‘Worst of it is, if she’s got anything to do with the Athelstan Horrors, she’s wise to you now,’ said Laura.
‘Yes. I intended that she should be, child. I now await her reactions.’
‘Golly! But she may take a stab at laying you out, don’t forget. If she did drown Cook, she’s dangerous.’
‘Don’t jump to conclusions, child. I haven’t mentioned Cook, and you must not. Now I should like to show my appreciation of your detective powers. What would you like me to do?’
‘Well,’ said Laura, after a moment’s thought. ‘I wish you’d keep the Deb — keep Miss Cloud out of old Kitty’s literature lesson on Friday afternoon. She wants her to take a poem by Wordsworth, but if she wasn’t coming in, Kitty would be able to read ’em a slab of the latest Tuppenny.’
‘And they would prefer that?’
‘Well, dash it, Warden, of course they would, poor kids. I mean, no one is a greater admirer of Willie Wordsworth than old Kitty. She actually told me this morning that she considers We Are Seven one of the funniest poems in the language. But when it comes to a few poor, innocent offspring, who don’t even want to be in school at all, I do call Wordsworth, as ladled out by old K. on a Friday afternoon, coming it a bit too thick, especially as the poem isn’t We Are Seven.’
‘“Well, child, I can hardly dictate to Miss Cloud which schools and classes she is to visit on Friday afternoon.’
‘No?’ said Laura with a cheeky and confident grin. “Thanks a lot, Warden. Old Kitty will remember you in her will for this, I shouldn’t wonder. I’ll tell her to go ahead, then.’
Strange to say, Deborah did not visit Kitty on Friday afternoon, and that unwilling applicant for professional honours spent a pleasant last hour with a strangely attentive class to whom she had delivered the following homily at the commencement of the period:
‘Now, look here, cads’ — a form of address which the class accepted at its B.B.C. value, and liked tremendously — ‘this is the very latest issue. I only got it at dinner-time, and I haven’t even looked at it yet, so no interruptions, or else I shall jolly well set you some sums or something, and read it all to myself. Now anybody who wants to open a desk, or shut one, or say anything, or fidget about, or drop things, or break a ruler, or any other dashed thing, just jolly well go ahead and do it, and then I’ll begin. All set? Righto. We’re off. Keep your poetry books open at page eleven, and, if anybody comes in, never mind who I mean, mind you’re reading that bally poem like billy-o. I’d better put mine ready, too…’