Georgiana and the Wolf

By DJ Clawson

Introduction: This is the seventh story in the "A Bit of Advice" series. You'll probably find it more interesting if you go catch up with the others, but this story is rare in that it stands somewhat alone if you're attempting to just read about a daughter of the Bingleys, though you may find her a bit odd.

Chapters posted twice weekly.

Chapter 3

Inspector Robert Audley was an early riser. He supposed it was the militarism in his blood. His father was a kind man, but he was a soldier, and rose early for exercise when breakfast was not yet ready, and his son followed in his habit. In fact, Robert Audley nearly terrified a passing maid by appearing fully-dressed so early in the morning as he descended the steps to the tavern below, where last night's drunks were still being tossed out.

"Oh, Inspector Audley! My apologies, your breakfast is not ready yet!"

"That is fine," he was quick to assure. "I only require some directions, if you would. And perhaps something for the road."

An hour later he was down the road some miles, his legs well-stretched as he passed houses filled with the sounds of people waking. On the other side of the road was the forest, its trees tall and foreboding, even on this beautiful sunny day.

He found the site easily enough, but only because it was marked by a small wooden cross, barely more than two planks of wood nailed together and then quickly shoved into the ground. No one left flowers for Simon Roux at the site of his death – or, at least, the dumping of his body – but they did feel some Christian compulsion to mark it while he awaited burial.

As Audley suspected, there was no other evidence. It was days ago now and even the morning dew – especially from a forest – would allow any blood stains to sink into the soil. There was only an indentation where his body had fallen – or where he had been dropped. The inspector knelt before it, and ran his hands across the mark in the dirt. Such a strong indentation meant Roux either fell or was tossed awkwardly on the ground, but he had been found, by the mortician's description, lying on his back quite neatly. Thrown, he decided. And then rearranged so the wound was visible. He was told the outlying area had been searched, but he stepped towards the woods anyway. There were human front prints everywhere, obviously from the initial crowd of would-be investigators, but no obvious paths from any direction.

Was the body carried to the woods or from it? Simon Roux had no business being in the woods, unless he was hunting, and he would need permission from the marquis' huntsman for that. Audley made another note in his book. But hunting at night? And some gear would have been found on him, or would still be at the murder site – or it was cleaned up?

This was not the time to go wandering. He stopped on a rock in a particularly pretty area and had some hard cheese and wine. By now it was a more reasonable hour, and he had an appointment to keep.

The Robinson School for Women was no shanty operation, nor a grand university. It was, at least from the exterior, a quiet place for the rich and titled of England to send their daughters for additional education, and its white paneling and multiple-winged single structure spoke of a subtle, tasteful British elegance, especially after all of the houses and shacks he had passed on the way. The seminary was like a nunnery without the religion, though he was sure there was a chapel. His own presence was obviously an intrusion, but that was what his presence usually was, so he climbed the front steps and was received by a very strict-looking door-woman. "Inspector Audley. I am here to speak with two of the students concerning the death of Simon Roux," he said in English.

Of course, she was already offended. "There is no one here that would be involved in such a matter, Inspector."

"I have questions related to it that they may be able to answer. Now, I must speak with the Head. Am I to be admitted?"

She hesitantly opened the door further, allowing him to enter. She offered to take his hat before realizing he was not wearing one and escorted him down a plain, undecorated hallway to the office.

There was nothing exceptional about the office of the Headmaster, who rose to greet him with irritated eyes. "I am Mr. Stafford, the Headmaster of this school." His accent was clipped, obviously aristocratic stock of the stuffiest kind.

"Inspector Robert Audley," he said with a bow. "Excuse my appearance. I've been walking for some time." For his coat and pants were still wet from the morning dew. "I will take no more of your time than is necessary. I am here to speak to Lady Littlefield and her companion, Miss Bingley, concerning the murder of Simon Roux."

"Yes, yes, that was why you were called in, no?" Reseated, the headmaster picked his pipe back up from its resting stand. "I can assure you, the ladies here would have nothing to do with someone of the likes of Monsieur Roux."

"So you know him?"

The headmaster was startled. He said something he shouldn't have said. "...Yes, of him. Sir, it is my business as protector of these girls to see that I know the name of every wandering ruffian who occupies these lands and comes within a day's travel of our grounds. For safety reasons, you understand." When Audley was silent, he realized he was forced to go on. "The monsieur had a reputation of being ... flirtatious with the women in town. So you can see how that would be a concern to someone like me."

"Indeed, I can."

"I never met the man, no. But as I said, I knew of him. But you wish to speak to my students?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

Audley couldn't bring himself to be surprised by the question. Of course the headmaster would be distrustful of someone who went about asking questions, some of which would no doubt be improper and speak of unladylike things. Like murder. "I met both of them last night, at the marquis' manor. I understand Lady Littlefield is engaged to the marquis."

"She is." Comprehension finally dawned on Headmaster Stafford. "You can't be taking this werewolf nonsense seriously?"

"Of course not," he said. "That said, I cannot rule out that the incident had something to do with the marquis, or was intended to look like it did, and they know the marquis on a level I do not. So I wish to question them both." He added, "I am an officer of the law and have full authority to question whomever I wish. If you have a problem with it, you may send a letter to the general inspector in Paris, but know that the sooner I find the person who killed Simon Roux, the sooner we will all be safer. Surely you cannot disagree with that."

"No," the Headmaster said with a swallow. "I cannot."

Inspector Audley was ushered into an empty classroom, and given a seat at the desk. He opened his notebook, inked his pen, and looked over his notes until Lady Littlefield entered, now wearing a simple white dress. "Inspector Audley."

"Lady Littlefield," he bowed. "You may leave us now," he said quite plainly to Stafford.

"I cannot allow – "

"If you think propriety will be an issue, you are welcome to go outside and look in through the window. However, I must be allowed to speak to her ladyship in privacy, for the sake of this investigation." He used his voice of authority again, and this seemed to scare Stafford off, so he closed the door to them. Audley immediately changed his attitude, smiling warmly at the woman – barely more than a girl – in front of him. "Please be seated, Lady Littlefield. I apologize for removing you from class."

"It is fine," she said, taking a seat in the chair placed opposite him, with only the desk separating them. But it was clear it was not fine. She was nervous in her mannerisms, playing with the trim of lace in her gown, but he did not yet detect a level of nervousness beyond what he would expect of an English lady who had never been questioned about a murder before.

"I will try to compensate by taking up as little of your time as possible, so we will come right to the point – did you know Simon Roux?"

"No, I did not."

"Had you heard of him?"

"Yes."

"How had you heard of him?"

"Some of the other girls met him once on the road – I don't know the story – and he spoke to them. They were quite frightened by the experience. Apparently he made some rude suggestions."

Now he was getting somewhere, perhaps. "The names of these women?"

"Miss Ashley and Miss Stevenson."

He wrote the names down. "Do you know anything else about it?"

"No. I did not take an interest in it."

"All right. Now we must turn to the marquis."

"Oh! He is not implicated, is he?" She seemed genuinely concerned. For what or who, he could not determine.

"I do not think he killed Monsieur Roux," he said. It was an honest answer. "However, I do not think he is entirely unconnected to the incident, if unintentionally. Someone may be trying to harm him by spreading false rumors. Do you know of anyone who would want to harm him?"

She put her hand over her mouth and shook head violently: No.

That, of course, meant a very solid Yes.

"I will repeat myself," he said, more kindly than he was inclined to be, only because she did seem terrified. "Do you know of anyone who would want, even indirectly, to harm the marquis?"

"No," she whimpered.

"You are aware that lying to an inspector is in of itself a punishable crime?" Not that he could do it to an English lady of her stature – her family would buy her way out of it. But she didn't have to know that. Instead, he softened his tone. "My lady, I am only trying to help. Someone murdered Simon Roux and I think he did it to hurt the marquis. Surely you don't want any harm to come to your fiancé?"

"No, of course not."

There was more here. He had barely scratched the surface, but a very tender surface it was. His heart went out to her. "Very well. We will speak again, another time, perhaps. If I have other questions. Thank you for your time, Lady Littlefield." He rose to indicate she was free to go, and she curtseyed and scurried out of the room. He was glad to have done it before she burst into tears.

Answered no to all questions implicating something is wrong with the marquis, he scribbled into his notebook. Meant to say yes every time.

He did not wait very long for his second interview. Miss Bingley, similarly attired, curtseyed and politely kept her eyes down. In her hands was some kind of charm on a chain, maybe a locket, and she played with it incessantly as he began his interview, "First of all, a small matter." He decided to switch tactics with this lady and start softly. "How did you come to join Lady Littlefield on her visits to the marquis?"

"Oh," she said with a soft but pleasing sort of tone. "It is quite simple. We share a room in the dormitory, and we have been friends since the first day of classes. When she was first invited, she did not know this man or much about him, and she wanted someone to come with her, so I offered. And I have been every time since."

"So she is still uncomfortable in her visits to the marquis?"

"Perhaps."

What kind of answer was that? "What do you know of the marquis?"

"Oh, surely you know more than I." She, at least, could speak to him in more than monosyllables, but she was not so invested in the marquis. "You've been investigating him."

"But you have known him longer. My acquaintance with him is not more than a day."

"But you have an acquaintance, where I have never spoken two words to him," she said. "So I cannot presume to know more of him than you."

What? "Then, from afar – what is your judgment of him?"

"The bible teaches us not to judge each other before we have sat in judgment ourselves," she said demurely.

So far, she had not answered a single question. She had a different tactic of evading him – a much more effective one. He switched topics. "Did you know Simon Roux?"

"I met him once."

He raised his pen. "Can you describe that occasion?"

"No."

He raised his eyes. "What?"

"I cannot. Or, I have been forbidden by the good headmaster, who is only interested in the best interests of his students and their good standing in society, to not speak of Mr. Roux or any encounters I might have had with him." Her voice was still meek, but there was a more assertive undertone to it now. She continued without giving him a chance to speak, "Your English accent is impeccable. Did you study in England?"

"My father was an English soldier. He came over after the Revolution for a minor engagement and stayed," he answered quickly, thrown off by the question. "Miss Bingley, I am far more interested in Monsieur Roux."

"He is dead and I believe he is going to stay so. Am I not allowed a simple question?"

He had dropped his pen. Ink dribbled over his previous notes. He rushed to pick it back up as discreetly as possible. She was not being shy – she was being coy. "Tell me about Simon Roux."

"The headmaster – "

"I don't care. Do you?"

She smiled. He had never seen her smile, except falsely or to be polite – he realized that now, now that she was smiling for real, because it amused her. "No, I do not. You have caught me."

"Then answer the question. What transpired between you and Mr. Roux?"

She rolled her eyes, though it was hard to see with her eyes lowered. She had stopped playing with the locket. "It is more what didn't happen, Inspector. To be plain, I was walking down the road when two of my schoolmates were being accosted by Monsieur Roux."

"Accosted?"

"He was on a horse, carried a gun, and was making his intentions clear enough. He was not merely flirting. Must I supply the details?" she said. "So I shouted for him to leave them at once. He was, of course, more amused at the conquest of three women instead of two, and he was the man with the gun and the horse. What were we to do?"

"What did you do, Miss Bingley?"

She raised her eyes – green, almost like emeralds – straight at his. "I told him to leave again and said if he didn't, I would make him. He refused, and so I made him."

"Made him?"

Nothing about her was coy now. "He charged. I hit his horse in the eye with a rock. It was spooked and he ran." She continued, "You can see how the headmaster would be interested in this story not being in general circulation. It would imply that he was allowing his students to wander the dangerous roads at night unattended, and that two of them were nearly violated by a rogue on a horse. That would not speak well for his skills as a headmaster and for the school as a whole."

"Of course," he said, stupefied. "You threw a rock at the horse?"

"You can't hit it straight on. To really spook it, you have to hit it on the side. I was lucky and got the eye." Once again, she did not let him ask his next question. "Sadly, that ends my association with Mr. Roux, so I can't tell you any more than that, nor can anyone from this school. He stayed far away from the ladies of Mrs. Robinson's after that for some reason."

"Do you know who killed him?"

She did not break her gaze. "I heard it was a wolf."

"Surely you don't believe that nonsense about werewolves?"

"I didn't say werewolf, Inspector. I said wolf. No, I do not believe a man turns into a wolf at a certain time of the month and kills whoever crosses his path. That is silly superstition. But if he was clawed to death, then logic would dictate it was an animal, and we have no bears or mountain lions in these woods."

He was still crafting his response when there was a knock on the door. "Enter." It was the door-woman. "Is something wrong?"

"The constable has sent a messenger," she said. "There has been another murder."

To Be Continued...