PART 33
"Like that has anything to do with anything!" proclaimed Lionel, throwing up his hands.
"And I say it could be very important," countered Leona.
It was half past five and in the Half Moon Pub Lionel and Leona were getting on each other's nerves. . .again.
Vartan and Weiss entered the pub and made their way to the table and sat down. Weiss couldn't resist baiting the couple while Vartan was opening the Wellman file.
"Are you sure you two aren't married?" he asked, trying hard not to smile.
Leona glared at him. "I cannot even dignify that ridiculous question with an answer."
"Who could stand to live with the likes of her twenty-four hours a day?" mumbled Lionel under his breath.
Weiss could not leave it alone. "You sound exactly like my Aunt Gertrude and Uncle Herbert, always sniping at each other. They've been happily married for forty years."
Vartan discreetly cleared his throat and shot Weiss a look. Chastised, Weiss rubbed his hands together and said, "Guess we should get down to business now. Right, boss?"
Even though Vartan was the team leader, he hated when Weiss called him that. "Leona, bring us up to date on Rousseau."
In her undercover job as the soprano's personal maid, Leona was privy to all kinds of information and gossip. "She has accepted a dinner invitation from the Prince of Wales for Tuesday evening. She's very excited because Wellman will be out of town and it will be just her and the Prince." With a flash of irritation, Leona thought about her 'employer' and how she left clothes and cosmetics scattered everywhere in her flat and how hateful she could be toward the other servants.
"I should have plenty of time to search the flat while she's at dinner," added Leona.
Vartan listened thoughtfully and nodded. Next, he looked to Lionel, who had secured a position as a valet. "What about Wellman?"
Lionel sighed heavily. "That has to be the most fastidious man on earth. I tell you, five women could get dressed in the time it takes Wellman to get ready for one appointment. He's going to Brussels for a few days to meet a buyer and wants me to accompany him. Since he's so organized it should be easy enough to determine if he's keeping a second set of books."
"Excellent work, both of you," said Vartan, closing the file. "Leona, you can debrief again after the dinner party. Good luck, Lionel, on the continent. Is there anything else we need to discuss?" The others shook their heads and started to get up.
Darkness had descended on the city and the fog was growing thicker. "Come along, Leona. I'll walk you to your flat," offered Lionel.
Leona gathered her cloak around her shoulders and picked up her purse. "Thank you, but I'm perfectly capable of getting home by myself."
Offended, Lionel said, "Fine! Why should I care if some boogeyman grabs you?"
The two headed for the door, still arguing. "Weiss, stay a moment," said Vartan as he looked after the departing couple.
Vartan motioned for him to sit down again. "The Big Man wants a meeting," he said, letting the full implication settle on Weiss.
Weiss whistled softly. "You don't say."
"He's concerned that the Yard isn't moving swiftly enough on this matter," said Vartan. "He's putting pressure on Bristow to get to the bottom of it."
Weiss nodded. "And Bristow's leaning on you and you're leaning on me . . .yeah, I get the picture. So. when and where?"
"Noon tomorrow at the Wise Virgins Pub."
Weiss laughed out loud. "The Wise Virgins?! I doubt there are any virgins in that part of London."
"Quite right," agreed Vartan.
The girls were back in class and Miss Glanzman was making her way toward Headmaster Wolfe's office. She was to report on the interviews and give her recommendation for the position of Professor of Romance Languages. It was really no contest and she felt certain that she could persuade Wolfe to hire Michel Samuelle.
Once in his office, Miss Glanzman waited patiently while Wolfe flipped through the files and her notes. Finally, Wolfe looked over the top of his reading glasses and said, "So you are proposing that I hire this Frenchman?"
"Yes, he is the most qualified and comes with the highest recommendations," she said confidently. She was sometimes a little disconcerted by Wolfe's piercing stare, but today she did not waver.
As if tiring of the subject, Wolfe said, "Very well. Draw up the necessary paperwork and send him a telegram."
Miss Glanzman smiled. "Thank you, Headmaster. I'm sure you won't regret this decision."
PART 34
Upon leaving Headmaster Wolfe's office, Miss Glanzman felt a certain levity of spirit. She wished that there was someone with whom she could share her good news, but most of the teachers were in class at this hour.
As she went down the corridor, she decided to make a pass through the library. Students left unsupervised in there had been known to spend their time gossiping or – gasp! – writing love letters to boys in their villages. In a sunny window seat near the back, she found Nikita with a Latin book in her lap.
"Ah, Nikita. I see you are preparing for Miss Emerson's exam."
Nikita looked up sharply. She had been so absorbed that she had not seen or heard Miss Glanzman's approach.
"Uh, yes ma'am. The test is tomorrow. Those, uh, declensions and cases can be rather cumbersome," she stammered. If the truth were known, Nikita was not studying Latin at all, but was secreting Michel's poetry book inside the school text. She was annoyed that Miss Glanzman had interrupted some pleasant musings about her handsome French suitor, namely how his lips felt as they lightly kissed her hand.
"Excellent! Latin was always one of my favorite subjects," gushed Miss Glanzman.
"Is that right?" answered Nikita. She could easily imagine the assistant headmistress as a studious scholar.
"Oh, yes! But I digress. You might be interested to know that within the month we will have a new Professor of Romance Languages!"
Hardly knowing what response was expected of her, Nikita simply said, "Really?" She noted that Miss Glanzman was in an exceptionally good mood this morning and had been since their return from London. Could it have anything to do with that Scotland Yard man?
"I know we're all quite fond of Dr. Desbiens and certainly he has been an integral part of Sanibelle for many years. However, he really is looking forward to his retirement. We would not want to deny him the pleasure of his golden years, now would we?"
"Oh no, nothing of the sort. It's just that he's such a nice man and he makes class so stimulating," replied Nikita, a frown coming over her face. She wondered why she had been chosen to receive this stunning news and, more importantly, when Miss Glanzman would return to her office. Surely she has some paperwork or something administrative to do, thought Nikita with exasperation.
They both looked around as the French doors opened and Miss Roddy and her class came into the library, talking and laughing. "Well, Nikita, I will not detain you any longer. Carry on with your studying!"
Miss Glanzman turned and called out pleasantly, "Miss Roddy! Could I have a word with you?"
Nikita watched as the two women entered into conversation. No doubt they were discussing the new professor, judging from the animated expression on Miss Glanzman's face.
Perhaps the Scotland Yard man knows Romance Languages and is going to be our new teacher! Nikita suppressed a giggle at the thought.
She looked down at the book of poetry and suddenly realized something – she had not given Michel the actual address of the school. How will we continue our relationship?
She fretted for a moment, then relaxed.
I'm sure he's quite clever and resourceful. He will find me.
PART 35
The Big Man loitered across the street from The Wise Virgins Pub. This was a rather down-at-heels area of London and no one paid him any attention as he hung about in the doorway of a raucous boarding house.
Five minutes ago, he had observed Inspector Vartan arriving, followed a few minutes later by his associate, Inspector Weiss. The Big Man was impressed with Vartan. He was relatively new to the Yard and this was only his second major case. However, he had already proven to be a competent and talented leader.
Definitely a young man whose star is on the rise, thought the Big Man.
A light rain began to fall and the Big Man tugged his wool cap lower on his forehead. He knew that the situation was about to get more complicated. Best to get on with it, he thought and stepped into the street.
Several weeks had passed since the Sanibelle girls' visit to London, but Nikita had had no communication from Michel.
It was late one evening and she and Carla were finishing their essays for the next day's class. Yawning widely Carla said, "I'm sure he's busy with his work. What did you say he did?"
Looking up from her essay Nikita replied, "I don't actually know. We never got around to discussing that." She sat there with a strange look on her face.
Carla rolled her eyes. "Oh, I can just imagine!"
Nikita did not reply; she was lost in thought. Carla was suddenly worried for her friend.
"Do not worry, Nikita. He will write, I'm sure of it."
Nikita looked up. "What if he doesn't? What if I made a fool of myself?"
The next morning Miss Glanzman was reading a letter from her sister when a courier arrived with a telegram. Eagerly she tore it open and scanned the contents.
"This is excellent news!" she said aloud, even though she was alone in the office. Clutching the telegram, she left her office and made her way down to Walter's greenhouse.
She found him with a magnifying glass in one hand and a pair of tweezers in the other. She hesitated a moment, then asked, "Walter, what are you doing?"
The grizzled old man barely looked up. "Ah, Miss G. A bit of cross-pollination. I tell you, when I start something, I can't rest until I complete it."
Walter was the only person on the planet who could get away with abbreviating Miss Glanzman's name.
"There! All done! Now, what can I do for you this fine morning?" he asked, pleased with his horticultural experiment.
"I need you to prepare a room in the Tower. Our new language teacher will be arriving next week from Paris!"
The Tower was an ancient stone remnant from Roman times. The interior had been converted to house visiting faculty and overnight guests to Sanibelle.
"In the Tower, you say? Then I reckon he's a bachelor. Are you sure you want to turn a Frenchman loose among all these lively young ladies?" he laughed.
Miss Glanzman was shocked at his suggestion. "Walter! I assure you that Mr. Samuelle is first and foremost a professional educator. There will be no unseemly behaviour, even if our young ladies are high-spirited."
Walter remained unconvinced, but simply said, "Whatever you say, Miss G. I'll head over there right now."
PART 36
On Friday morning Carla flung open the bedroom windows. A light breeze fluttered the gauzy curtains as she leaned over the sill and inhaled the clean autumn air.
"Do you know what today is?" she called over her shoulder to Nikita.
Nikita was busy arranging her hair. "Let me think," she said, pausing for effect. "It's Friday and we have a geography test with Mr. Chandler."
Carla wrinkled her nose as she turned around. "Oh, that! Have you forgotten that the county fair starts tonight and that Seymour and Jason are coming?"
"How could I have let such a momentous occasion slip my mind?" laughed Nikita.
Carla put her hands on her hips. "Exactly! Mmm, I can't wait to sample the homemade pies."
"Speaking of food, let's go down to breakfast. I need a full stomach to face one of Chandler's exams. Not to mention the man himself. Ever since Nikita had rebuffed Chandler's suggestion about "helping" him in his research at the British Museum, he had steered clear of her. However, on occasion she noticed him ogling her from a distance. His frank appraisal positively made her skin crawl.
Upon reaching the refectory, they found the Brazilian Babes already digging into their oatmeal, eggs, jam, and scones. When Carla mentioned the fair, Fern piped up, "Ah, we were just discussing that. We are most anxious to taste your local delicacies."
"I heard Walter say that there might be a fortune teller there," said Bel excitedly.
"We can inquire if we are going to pass Mr. Chandler's class this term," added Lorena amid the laughter.
Gadenia leaned forward and whispered, "Do you suppose Miss Glanzman might let us out early today?" as they saw her take her place at the teachers' table in the front of the hall.
"I think she could be persuaded," said Nikita. "She's been like a new person since we came back from London."
"Yes, she has been less hard on us," agreed Isabelita. "She's probably relieved that her sister's new baby arrived safely. I understand that it was a precious little girl!"
"Perhaps," said Nikita with a secret smile.
The day wore on in the most annoying and tiresome fashion. The girls slogged their way through Mr. Chandler's geography exam, then mathematics, English literature, and sewing class where Isabelita repeatedly jabbed her finger and muttered some colorful Portuguese words under her breath. Even lunch was uninspiring – lukewarm mutton stew.
But by mid afternoon Miss Glanzman announced that classes were finished for the day and that the young ladies were free to rest until time to go to the fair.
Whoops of unladylike laughter greeted this statement, but no one seemed inclined to reprimand the students. Walter saw the girls dispersing from up in the Tower where he was tidying up a room for the new teacher. He whistled a little ditty as he went about sweeping and washing windows.
He always enjoyed the fair and mingling with the locals. It was an occasion to talk gardening and blacksmithing with the folks from the neighboring estates. He might even find some new-fangled tools to buy.
Seymour and Jason arrived in time for a light tea. Shortly afterwards everyone began piling into wagons lined with fresh hay. Walter and his apprentice, Sparks, would drive the short distance to the fairgrounds.
"Let's shake a leg there, Sparks! We don't have all night to get there!" urged Walter as he climbed into the driver's seat. "I really wonder sometimes what goes on in that noggin of his."
Nikita and Carla exchanged a look and tried to stifle their laughter. They wondered, too. Sparks was a tall, thin man with a hooked nose who often wore a ragged black top hat. Sometimes he was seen jumping up in the air for no apparent reason.
"Well, we're on our way," proclaimed Walter when everyone was settled. He cracked the whip and the horses trotted off.
In no time the group from Sanibelle reached the fairgrounds. Miss Glanzman and Miss Roddy were seen heading to a display of bonnets and needlework while the Brazilian Babes dragged Carla and Nikita toward the tent of the gypsy fortune teller.
A small dark-haired girl was sitting beside a sign that read:
Madame Porikova Foretells Your Future!
"That's a load of hogwash, but if you girls want to amuse yourselves, go ahead," said Seymour. He dug in his pocket for some coins and dropped them in Carla's hand. "Jason and I will wander over to the food stalls."
"Oooh, I want some apple pie!" squealed Carla.
"And I'll take some blackberry cobbler!" added Nikita.
"I want to go first!" said Carla. She gave the little girl a coin and lifted the tent flap.
"Wish me luck!"
PART 37
Inside the tent, Carla discovered a black-haired gypsy woman sitting behind a small table. A dark green velvet cloth covered the table and a sputtering lamp cast fantastic shadows throughout the interior. Was the gypsy young or old? Carla could not be sure. The overpowering perfume the woman wore caused Carla to gasp and cough.
"Come in, dearie! Take a seat." The gypsy indicated a small stool in front of the table.
"I am Madame Porikova and I will tell you your fortune!" She smiled broadly and Carla noted the gap in the upper left side of her mouth. Large gold hoops hung from her earlobes.
"Let me see your hand."
Carla obediently laid her right palm on the table. Madame Porikova picked up her hand and moved it closer to the lamp. She studied the lines, tracing them with her fingernail and tilting the hand one way, then another.
Finally, Carla could bear the suspense no longer. "What do you see, Madame Porikova?" she asked breathlessly.
"Ah! You will marry a handsome young man! Your husband will worship the very ground you walk upon. Many fine, strong children will be born to this union!"
"And what is my husband's name?" persisted Carla.
Madame Porikova frowned and looked at Carla's palm once more. With a shrug she said, "Stephen. . .or maybe Samuel."
"What about Seymour?"
With a heavy sigh the gypsy said, "Or maybe even Seymour."
"Oh, thank you, Madame Porikova!" Carla was overjoyed and left the tent with a big smile on her face.
One by one the other girls went in and heard their fortunes:
You will become a well-known artist!
Your husband will be a famous politician!
A large inheritance will come to you next year!
You will marry a man with red hair!
You will travel to exotic places!
Nikita was finishing her blackberry cobbler when Fern urged, "Go on, you're the last one!" She practically pushed Nikita inside the tent.
The oil in the gypsy's lamp was running low and it took a few seconds for Nikita's eyes to adjust to the almost total darkness within.
"Come, my dear," beckoned the gypsy with her long, bejeweled fingers. "Come and sit. I have been expecting you!" She gave a sinister chuckle that made the hairs on the back of Nikita's neck stand up.
While Nikita was of the same opinion as her cousin about fortunetellers, there was something in the woman's countenance and manner that made her uneasy. Without realizing it, she drew her cloak closer about her shoulders.
The gesture was not lost on the gypsy. "Are you chilled. . .or afraid?"
Nikita's mouth suddenly went dry, but she managed to ask, "Wh. . . why would I be afraid?"
The gypsy was silent. A long minute passed. Her black eyes continued to bore into Nikita.
Nikita shifted uneasily on the hard stool. For some unknown reason her heart was pounding against her ribs. In a small voice she asked, "Is something the matter?"
In response, Madame Porikova reached into a pocket of her voluminous striped skirt and withdrew a deck of cards. She made a great show of shuffling them before spreading them face down on the table.
"Choose one," she commanded Nikita.
Nikita hesitated for an instant, then slowly turned one over. Madame Porikova gasped in shock, but Nikita failed to see why it should be so disturbing. It was only a drawing of a bird - a crow or perhaps a raven.
"There is an aura of danger surrounding you!" said Madame Porikova dramatically. "The Raven. . .the Raven is coming! Mystery and danger follow in his wake!" *
"Danger? Who is in danger?" The words tumbled out of Nikita's mouth.
"You must choose another card!" said Madame Porikova. "Quickly!"
Nikita obeyed, but this time she picked a card from the opposite end of the deck.
"Ah!" Madame Porikova frowned as she studied the card. "Beware of a thief!"
"What?!" Nikita's hand immediately flew to the small gold locket around her neck. It had been her late mother's and was her most prized piece of jewelry.
Suddenly, the stifling atmosphere of the tent and the gypsy's frightening pronouncements were too much for Nikita. A light-headed feeling came over her. She got up and stumbled backwards, groping blindly for the tent's opening.
"My dear, the thing has already been stolen from you!" said the gypsy. "And you will never get it back!"
"What do you mean?" cried Nikita. Surely no thief would bother about the few coins in the bottom of her bureau drawer.
Madame Porikova laughed in that most sinister way, sending chills down Nikita's spine.
"Your heart!"
* A reference to Le Raven, a wonderful fanfic by Roxanne.
PART 38
With the Madame Porikova's haunting words and unsettling laugh echoing in her mind, Nikita stumbled out of the tent. She had to take several deep breaths of the cool night air before she began to feel better. Her heart was still pounding furiously in her chest and her palms were sweaty.
The little gypsy girl was sitting there counting the coins that had amassed during the evening. She glanced up at Nikita and asked, "Did you like your fortune?" Then she laughed, the same eerie cackle as Madame Porikova. "Her predictions are quite accurate, you know."
Nikita spun around looking for her friends, but they were nowhere in sight. She felt highly agitated as raucous snatches of laughter and conversation filled the air. Then she remembered that Carla wanted to buy some fancy handkerchiefs from a woman they had noticed earlier in the evening. If only she could think clearly and remember exactly where that woman's booth was.
She set off at a fast pace, ignoring the shouts of the various peddlers in their stalls and maneuvering around groups of children playing games for cheap prizes. The wind was picking up and Nikita reached up to brush the hair out of her eyes.
In that instant, she collided with someone. A distinctly masculine someone. Strong hands gripped her shoulders to steady her.
"Well, well, this is an unexpected pleasure!"
Nikita was quite taken by surprise. She opened her mouth to speak, but words failed her.
"Damn!" muttered Headmaster Wolfe. He was anxious to get to the county fair and indulge his sweet tooth, especially after today's unsatisfying menu in the refectory. However, a stack of mail and paperwork was keeping him at his desk later than usual.
He scanned the progress reports from Miss Glanzman and Miss Roddy, signed some letters that needed to go out, then started going through his mail. At the bottom of the pile, he came across a letter from The Sanibelle Foundation announcing the date and time of its annual meeting in London.
Bloody nuisance, he thought as he perused the letter. The meeting was the following week. Why does everything have to happen at the same time? He tossed the letter aside. Miss Glanzman will have to see to getting the new teacher settled in, he thought as he pushed back his chair and reached for his hat.
He decided that he would go up to London first thing in the morning. Might as well kill two birds with one stone. His mood lightened as he recalled the short letter he had received last week from a certain lady.
When he had gone up for the meeting last year, one of the board members had introduced him to an intriguing woman who was employed as a governess. They had gone out to a quiet dinner in a new restaurant called The Perch. Strange name, but excellent cuisine, recalled Wolfe.
Even now he could remember her perfume as she leaned across the table. Her brown eyes looked deeply into his as she expanded on her theories of how to educate young ladies.
This was a woman who fascinated Headmaster Wolfe on many levels – intellectual, professional, emotional, and physical. Ah, Madeline! Wolfe's hands longed to release her long brown hair from its upswept coiffure and see it tumble down. Tumble preferably over her naked breasts! With that all-too-vivid image, his groin tightened.
Her note explained that she had accepted a new position as governess to the three daughters of a wealthy tea merchant who lived in Belgrave Square. She hinted that she would like to renew their acquaintance.
Wolfe turned the key in the lock of his office door. Tomorrow cannot come soon enough.
PART 39
"Well, well, this is an unexpected pleasure!"
Nikita was quite taken by surprise. She opened her mouth to speak, but words failed her.
"Not that I hadn't dreamed of a moment like this!" he said smoothly, his meaning all too clear from the bold look in his eyes.
Nikita was stunned to think that she had not seen him directly in her path. She stepped backward to put a little distance between them. What if Miss Glanzman were to come upon them suddenly?
"Are you not glad to see me?" he asked in a low, seductive voice.
"What are you doing here?" she asked breathlessly. Her thoughts were still in a jumble after the session in the gypsy's tent.
"Why, enjoying a night out among the locals, of course. I must say that your presence has greatly improved my evening!"
The odor of drink was strong on his breath. He kept staring at Nikita. "Unfortunately, so many Englishwomen are so plain, so unattractive. But you. . ." He reached out to touch Nikita's windblown hair. ". . .you are quite the exception. I often think about you!"
Feeling very uncomfortable and nervous now, Nikita stepped back and tripped over some rubbish that had been carelessly tossed out. Once again, strong arms reached out to her, going around her waist and pulling her close. A hard mouth sought hers as she flailed her arms. She tried in vain to pull her head away and scream. The din from the crowd overshadowed her best effort. Now he had moved her against the side of the building that bordered a narrow alley.
"I always knew you were a feisty one!" he said as he moved one hand to hike up her skirt. "Nothing's worse than a passive woman in bed," he said in a cruel, mocking tone.
"Stop it, stop it!" Nikita screamed as she continued to struggle, but no help was forthcoming. The throngs of people were too caught up in filling their stomachs and trying their luck at the games of chance.
"Damn it, hold still!" His sour breath again assaulted her senses.
Nikita thought she might throw up or faint at any moment. As she was desperately trying to control her fear and think of a way out, there came a rustling sound from the opposite end of the alley. It was only a large rat nosing around some wooden barrels in search of food, but it gave Nikita her chance.
As the man's concentration was momentarily broken, Nikita brought her right hand up.
"AAAARRRGH!" It was an anguished scream that seemed to echo off the walls of the narrow alley.
He immediately released Nikita and stumbled backward, clearly disoriented by her swift and unforeseen action. Blood was running freely from the deep gash she had inflicted on the side of his face.
"Damn bitch!" he cried as he hurriedly pulled out his shirttail and tore off a strip to staunch the bleeding. "You'll pay for this!" he spat out angrily.
Nikita looked down at small knife in her trembling hand. The knife Walter had given her for protection. She breathed a silent prayer of thanks and quickly wiped her hand on the hem of her cloak.
She was both shocked and emboldened by what she had just done. After taking a deep breath she said, "You're not as attractive and amusing as you like to think, Mr. Chandler. In fact, you are nothing but a pig!"
Alec Chandler grunted in pain and let out a stream of expletives. By now, he was slumped against the wall and still trying to get the bleeding under control.
Nikita turned and ran out of the alley. Some distance away, she paused and leaned her forehead against a wall. She closed her eyes as the disturbing images of Chandler's assault replayed in her mind.
Then she dropped to her knees and was violently ill.
PART 40
Alec Chandler stumbled out of the alley. . .and straight into Headmaster Wolfe, who was eating a meat pie.
"For God's sake, Alec! What happened to you?!" exclaimed Wolfe as he took in Chandler's bloody hands and shirt.
Chandler was dabbing at his cheek and cursing under his breath. ". . .called me a pig, the little slut," he mumbled as he tried to get his balance.
Headmaster Wolfe pulled a face as Chandler's stale breath hit him. "Well, you are," he agreed. "When are you going to find a woman who doesn't charge you for it?"
Before Chandler could answer, Walter rushed toward them shouting, "That bastard tried to rape Nikita!" His right fist swung out and connected with Chandler's jaw, sending him sprawling on the ground. The gash on his cheek opened up again and blood spurted out.
"What's going on here?" demanded Wolfe. Walter lunged at Chandler again as he attempted to get up and pummeled him with both fists. By now, some bystanders stepped up to help Wolfe separate the two men.
When Wolfe had pulled Walter off Chandler, he said harshly, "There had better be a damn good explanation for this!"
Walter ran the back of his hand across his forehead and said, "I found Nikita around the corner. . ." He paused to catch his breath. ". . .half scared out of her mind because that animal attacked her!"
Wolfe glanced up and saw Nikita walking slowly toward them. Carla supported her on one side and her cousin Seymour was on the other. One look convinced Wolfe that Walter spoke the truth. Her clothes and hair were disheveled and there was a smear of blood on her forehead.
Wolfe was shocked and more than a little angry. He clenched and unclenched his fists tightly at his side. "Nikita, are you all right?" he asked quietly.
She was still shaking and Seymour put his arm around her shoulders. "Yes, I'm fine," she whispered.
"Tell me exactly what happened, Nikita. Do not leave out any details."
"It's okay, Sugar. Tell him everything," urged Walter.
The words came out in a rush as Nikita recounted the whole gruesome episode. As she spoke, Headmaster Wolfe frowned and took off his spectacles to rub the bridge of his nose. It had already been a long day; he didn't need more aggravation.
He realized that Chandler had become a tremendous liability to the school. He had assumed – obviously wrongly – that Chandler had learned his lesson after that distasteful incident involving a senior girl last year. That, coupled with his public drunkenness, was more than Wolfe could tolerate.
When Nikita finished, Wolfe turned to Chandler. "What do you have to say for yourself?"
"She wanted it! She tries to act all innocent, but I know better!" snarled Chandler.
"Why, you low-down. . ." Walter was about to land another punch, but Wolfe restrained him.
A man approached and introduced himself. "Constable Barrett, at your service. What seems to be the problem, gentlemen?"
Headmaster Wolfe sighed. For far too long he had ignored the rumors about Chandler and his appetites. He could no longer afford to do that. His reputation, not to mention that of the school, was on the line. He came to a swift and final decision.
It was time to cancel Alec Chandler.
Some time later, Headmaster Wolfe was seated in his office. The hour was very late and Miss Glanzman was on the other side of the desk. Chandler had been arrested and was in the county gaol.
"Throw away the key, for all I care," was Wolfe's parting shot to the Constable as Chandler was led to his cell.
Everyone else had returned to the school in a subdued mood. Doctor Sandra was roused from her bed and instructed to give Nikita a draught to help her sleep.
"The new teacher, what's his name?" asked Wolfe.
"Michel Samuelle."
"Yes, yes, of course," sighed the Headmaster. "Do you recall if Samuelle knows anything about self-defense? It would seem that mathematics and foreign languages are not enough for our young ladies anymore."
"As a matter of fact, he is quite skilled in the martial arts," said Miss Glanzman. "He took top honors in a competition while at the Sorbonne."
"Excellent. Then make arrangements for him to instruct the girls. I realize that it will be a heavy load with this and the language classes, but if he is as good as you say, then I'm sure he can manage."
"Of course. I will start drawing up a schedule in the morning," said Miss Glanzman.
PART 41
Michel turned off the bustling, tree-lined boulevard in the heart of Paris into the quieter rue Orsini. It was a mild evening and many Parisians were out shopping or simply taking a stroll before dinner. The more fashionably dressed people were, no doubt, headed to an evening's entertainment in the theater or opera.
His mentor, Professeur Trémont, lived in an ancient stone house near the end of the street. As he walked along, Michel thought of the many pleasant times he had dined with the Professeur and his family. Perhaps it was during those times that Andrea, the Professeur's unstable daughter, had developed her obsession with him. He shuddered even now as he remembered her irrational letters to him and how she had stalked him on the Sorbonne's campus.
Michel reached the front door and lifted the heavy gargoyle doorknocker. After a few moments, a maid opened the door. "Good evening, Mr. Samuelle. The Professeur is in the salon."
The maid took Michel's coat and hat and he made his way toward the salon. The professeur put aside his evening paper and rose as the door opened. "Ah, Michel! It is good to see you again," he said. "I trust everything is well with you."
The two men chatted amiably for a few minutes, then they were joined by Mrs. Trémont. "I am so pleased that you could join us tonight," she said as Michel kissed one cheek, then the other. "You must have been very busy preparing to move."
"Yes, but I would not think of leaving without saying goodbye."
The maid announced dinner and the three of them went across to the dining room. After dinner, Mrs. Trémont excused herself. She knew that her husband wanted to give Michel some last minute advice. "Dear Michel, you must promise to keep in touch and visit whenever you are in Paris," urged Mrs. Trémont as she took his hands in hers.
"I promise," answered Michel solemnly. "Goodnight, Mrs. Trémont."
When she was gone, the men retired to the library and the professeur served some of his finest brandy. Michel could not help but notice the portraits of Andrea and her older brother, Alain, on the opposite wall. The professeur followed his glance upward.
"We don't see much of Alain these days. His army career keeps him quite busy, much to his mother's chagrin."
"But he enjoys his work, does he not?" asked Michel.
"Very much so. Which brings me to what I wanted to say to you, Michel." He set the brandy snifter down. "You have a great opportunity ahead of you. You will meet many new people and be able to influence the minds of impressionable students. I urge you to embrace whatever challenges life offers. It is in the day-to-day struggle that a man defines himself."
The professeur got up and poked at a log in the fireplace, then resumed his discourse. "You know, I always hoped that you and Andrea would, well, come to an understanding. You have always seemed like a son to me. But it was not to be, God rest her soul."
Professeur Trémont sighed heavily and sank down into his chair. He suddenly seemed much older than his fifty-five years. The year since Andrea's untimely death had taken its toll on him.
The professeur looked up and smiled. "I am sorry, Michel. I did not intend for this to be like one of my lectures at school. It is just that I wish all good things for you – to enjoy your work, find a good wife, and have many children!"
Michel laughed. "In other words, 'eat, drink, and be merry!'"
Professeur Trémont laughed, also. "Yes, but with moderation."
Later, as Michel was making his way home through the darkened streets, he reflected on the things his mentor had said. He had sensed that the Trémonts hoped for a marriage between him and Andrea, especially given her infatuation with him. But he had felt nothing for her. He had been an intense young man entirely focused on his education.
While Michel would miss Paris and his many friends, there was one person that he was longing to see above all others. She was never out of his thoughts, day or night.
Nikita.
PART 42
We are such stuff
As dreams are made on, and our little life
Is rounded with a sleep. *
Michel returned to his apartment shortly before midnight. Unlocking the door, he saw the trunks he had packed earlier in the day sitting in the hall, along with his cello case. Everything was ready to go and a new phase of his life was about to start.
You are the only man who can do this job. It will require all of your skills.
These were the Professeur's final words to him as he passed through the front gate into the dark street. Without knowing why, Michel had an uneasy feeling. He looked closely at his mentor, but could not comprehend what he saw in his eyes. He waited for an explanation, but Trémont only sighed and shook his head. Au revoir, Michel.
Michel rubbed the back of his neck and yawned. He was tired, but the Professeur's words seemed to rattle around in his head. Unable to make sense of it, he finally gave up and prepared for bed. There would be time enough tomorrow on the train, and then the ship, for reflection.
He stretched out on the narrow bed and within a few minutes was asleep.
The afternoon was hot and still in the south of France. He sat on the terrace cradling his beloved cello between his legs. He closed his eyes and bent his head as he drew the bow slowly back and forth across the strings. A haunting melody filled the air. He played on, totally absorbed in the music.
Suddenly, his reverie was broken by a woman's laughter. His eyes flew open and his head jerked up. In the middle of a field of lavender stood the laughing woman. She wore a long white cotton dress and her face was shaded by a large straw hat. There was a blue ribbon around the hat. Even though she was some distance away, he knew that her eyes were the same color as the ribbon.
"Ni-ki-ta!" he cried. He laid the cello aside and ran down the steps to meet her.
"You did not write to me, so I came looking for you!" she explained with a throaty laugh.
"How did you find me?"
"Does it matter?" she asked. She turned and began running through the lavender. Suddenly, a light breeze took her hat away. Long blonde hair tumbled down her back.
"Ni-ki-ta, wait!" he implored. "I must talk to you!" No matter how fast he ran, he could not catch up with her.
She looked back over her shoulder, laughing and daring him to catch her. It was a mistake on her part, for she tripped over a large stone and fell into the lavender. In an instant, Michel was kneeling and pulling her into his arms.
"Are you hurt, ma chérie?" he asked tenderly. He brushed the hair out of her eyes and found himself staring at her soft pink mouth. Without waiting for an answer, he crushed his mouth to hers. She moaned softly and parted her lips.
"Hurry, Michel! The ship is leaving!"
Startled, Michel looked up and found his old friend, René Dian, waving frantically from the shore. A ship called the Destiny lay at anchor there.
While Michel's attention was diverted, Nikita scrambled to her feet and ran toward the shore. "I want to go swimming!" she yelled excitedly. She pulled up her dress to wade out into the water. As she frolicked in the water, her dress became soaked and clung to her lithe body, revealing taut breasts, a flat abdomen, and long legs.
René was calling again from the ship's deck. Nikita ran onto the ship and disappeared below deck. When Michel reached it, he discovered that Professeur Trémont was the captain. "Come, join the Destiny," he beckoned.
"I must find Ni-ki-ta!" shouted Michel.
"Perhaps my co-pilot can assist you," offered the captain. Michel glanced over his shoulder to find Miss Glanzman in trousers and an ostrich feather hat. "I must find Ni-ki-ta," he repeated.
He started checking each cabin and finally located her on a lower level. She was looking out the porthole and shivering in her wet dress. When he entered the cabin, she did not turn around. "I have been waiting for you," she said quietly, still not looking at him.
Michel's breath caught in his throat. "Mon Dieu, you are beautiful and you are mine."
He advanced toward her and took her in his arms. He kissed her fiercely and this time snaked his tongue into her warm, inviting mouth. Her erect nipples pushed against his chest and he resented the clothes that separated their bodies.
Breaking the kiss, he impatiently tore the sodden dress from her body and pushed her down into the soft mattress. Quickly, his hungry eyes scanned her naked beauty. He bent his head to kiss her mouth again while one hand cupped a breast. He reveled in the feel of her soft skin and the scent that was uniquely hers.
"Oh, Michel!" she moaned. He saw his own passion mirrored in the depths of her blue eyes. He wanted to touch her all over and press his bare skin against hers. He stood up and quickly stripped off his clothes and then covered her body with his own.
His aching arousal pressed into her abdomen, longing to unite with her. "I must have you, Ni-ki-ta!" he whispered huskily as he pushed her legs apart. "I must have you now!" In one smooth move, their bodies were joined.
Michel sat bolt upright in bed. The dream had been so incredibly real! He was drenched with sweat and could have sworn that he had called out Ni-ki-ta's name. Shakily, he ran a hand through his hair and waited for his heart to slow down. The sky was already beginning to lighten. He might as well get dressed and make his way to the train station. There would be no more sleep for him this night.
The sooner he started on his journey, the sooner he would be reunited with her. But what sort of reception would he receive?
William Shakespeare, The Tempest, Act IV, Sc. 1
PART 43
Inspector Vartan's team was assembling for a briefing in a makeshift conference room at Scotland Yard. In fact, the room was nothing more than a dumping ground for odds and ends no one knew what to do with – old case files, broken furniture, a chipped set of crockery, discarded coats and hats.
Lionel was squatting down and peering at a lopsided chair. "You know, I could fix this thing if I had my tools," he said. Leona was poking around behind an old file cabinet while Weiss removed the lid from the cracked teapot. It was like he expected to find some freshly brewed tea in it.
"I'd be careful if I were you, Leona. There might be a big rat holed up in that corner!" warned Lionel.
Leona snorted. "If there is, I will simply deal with it in my usual efficient manner."
"No doubt you could crush it with that gargantuan purse you always carry."
Before Leona could think of an appropriate retort, the door opened and Vartan came in. "Sorry I'm late. I couldn't get away from the Chief. You know how he goes on and on about everything from the weather to the price of fish and chips."
"And the lack of hard evidence," added Weiss glumly.
"Especially that," said Vartan as they sat down around a rickety table. "Leona, why don't you begin?"
"Miss Rousseau only got as far as drinks with the Prince of Wales. The Queen. . ." she paused and glared at Lionel.
"Lionel, will you stop making that chair squeak?"
"Didn't realize it was squeaking," he said with a grin.
"Now where was I? Oh yes, the Queen summoned him for an emergency consultation about some affair of state. Left Miss Rousseau high and dry Boy, was she in a snit when she returned home!" Leona took pleasure in this because she had no love for her "employer."
"What about her flat?" prompted Vartan.
"Nothing out of the ordinary there," said Leona.
Vartan turned to Lionel. "What about Wellman's trip?"
"As far as I could determine, it really was a business trip. Of course, I wasn't with him every single minute of the day. But on the last day, he decided to swing down to Paris to order some new suits. Goodness knows why. He must have fifty suits already. That was the only anomaly."
Vartan sighed heavily. "So basically we don't know any more than we did."
Weiss rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "We're probably overlooking something very basic and it's right in front of us."
"Then we have to keep looking," said Vartan.
Miss Glanzman awoke the morning after the county fair with an abominable headache. After getting Nikita settled last night and meeting with Headmaster Wolfe, she returned to her room, but had trouble getting to sleep. The incident with Chandler had shocked and upset everyone at Sanibelle. Wolfe wanted to meet with the students first thing today to reassure them. Afterwards, he was off to London for the Board of Directors meeting.
As she brushed her hair, Miss Glanzman saw her ostrich feather hat and suddenly remembered a strange dream. Wearing that very hat, she had been standing on the deck of a ship. She had no idea where she was going or why. It was all quite puzzling. That does it, she thought. I'm sending that hat to Aunt Ophelia. I never really liked it and she's the one who insisted I buy it.
Having decided that, she started for the chapel, where the Headmaster would speak to the girls.
Headmaster Wolfe adjusted his glasses and looked over the assembly. No one was talking or giggling today. Surely this must be the first time during my tenure.
"I'll make this brief. Because of an unfortunate incident last evening at the county fair, Mr. Chandler's contract has been cancelled, effective immediately. Miss Roddy will take over his classes until a replacement is found. In addition, Miss Glanzman is in the process of planning for self-defense classes for all students." He paused and saw Walter standing at the back of the chapel, arms folded over his chest and nodding in approval.
"Are there any questions?"
No one said anything. "Very well. I am going up to London to meet with the Board. If you have any concerns, please direct them to Miss Glanzman."
Three days later
For the last hour, Nikita had been tossing and turning. She glanced over at her roommate. Carla was sprawled on her stomach with her head buried under a pillow. She was snoring softly, but Nikita knew that that wasn't what was keeping her from getting back to sleep.
She felt restless, agitated. It's all because of Mr. Chandler, she thought with irritation. Finally, she decided to get up. The sun was just beginning to peek over the horizon. She decided to go outside and do some drawing before everyone was up and about.
She put her slippers on and draped a shawl around her shoulders. Carefully, she gathered up her sketch pad and pencils and crept out of the room.
Once outside, she sat on a bench and opened her pad. She had been happily drawing for about twenty minutes when she saw a coach approaching. It was turning off the main road and into the school grounds. Probably Headmaster Wolfe returning from London, she thought.
She knew she would be in trouble if discovered outside with only a shawl over her nightgown. Quickly, she picked up her supplies and hid behind one of the large columns on the porch. Once the coach was gone, she would sneak back to her room.
She dared not look out for fear of being seen. The man who disembarked was saying something to the coachman, but Nikita could not make it out. But something about his voice was familiar.
Oh, my goodness! She clapped her hands over her mouth. It can't be! She had to have a look! At the very moment she peeked out, the passenger turned toward the front door. In shock, Nikita dropped her box of drawing pencils and they clattered on the stone floor.
Michel Samuelle stood there staring at her. He wore a black suit and was even more handsome than she remembered. Somehow, he did not seem surprised to see her.
"Bonjour, Ni-ki-ta," he said quietly.
PART 44
Eyes wide as saucers, Nikita blurted out, "Michel! What are you doing here?"
His emerald eyes did a quick head-to-toe appraisal of her before his lips curved into a slight smirk. Self-consciously, Nikita tried to tug the shawl more closely over her breasts. A flush was creeping up her neck. I will be in detention the rest of my life if Miss Glanzman catches me, she thought nervously.
"You don't know?" he asked lazily. He seemed amused by her confusion. "I am the new language teacher."
"Language teacher?" she repeated. She was having trouble thinking, given the intensity of his stare. Then it came to her. "Of course. Dr. Desbiens is retiring next week."
"I assumed Miss Glanzman had informed you."
Nikita toyed with the fringe on the edge of her shawl. "She did. . .only she did not mention any names."
He stepped closer. The air was heavy with expectation. Seeing her like this brought back vivid images of his recent dream. It was all Michel could do not to pull her into his arms and kiss her savagely. "I'm sorry, Ni-ki-ta. I should have been more open with you when we met in London."
Further conversation was delayed when they heard someone whistling nearby. "It's Walter, the groundskeeper!" cried Nikita in a panic. "I must go!" She bent down and began snatching up the drawing pencils. In her haste, she was dropping more than she managed to pick up.
"Let me help you," said Michel soothingly. Once the pencils were back in their box, Nikita straightened and turned to go, but suddenly looked back. Her heart was pounding and she wanted to say more, but something held her back. She was both excited and confused by Michel's sudden appearance.
"Goodbye, Michel."
"Ni-ki-ta, wait! Where is your room?"
Before turning the corner she whispered, "Four-twelve. I'm in room four-twelve!"
From the opposite corner of the house, Michel saw a weather-beaten older man advancing toward him. The man from the train station.
"I say! You must be that new French guy." Walter stuck out his hand and Michel shook it. "Name's Walter. I'm jack-of-all-trades around these parts."
"Michel Samuelle. Enchanté, Walter."
Walter laughed. "Better save those fancy French words for the students. I'm pretty plain-spoken myself – I say what I mean and mean what I say."
"Point taken, Walter, and it is a pleasure to meet you," answered Michel with a smile.
Walter was immediately impressed by Michel's firm handshake and by the fact that he looked him square in the eye when he talked. Walter put a lot of stock into a man's handshake.
"We didn't expect you quite so early. I doubt if Miss G's up and about yet."
"The driver made excellent time. The wind was at our back all the way," said Michel.
"Well then, how about a cup of coffee? Don't worry about your trunks. I'll have Sparks, my assistant, take them up to the Tower."
"Thank you. I like coffee."
Carla was disentangling herself from the bedclothes when Nikita returned to the room. "I figured you were out there somewhere drawing," yawned Carla.
Nikita plopped down on her bed. "Oh, my goodness, Carla! You will not believe what has happened!"
"You look like you've seen a ghost. Out with it!" urged Carla.
"It's Michel! He's here!"
"What are you talking about?"
Nikita jumped up and started pacing the floor, wringing her hands. "You know how Miss Glanzman kept talking about the new language teacher, the one who's replacing Dr. Desbiens? Well, it's Michel!"
Carla's jaw dropped. "Did you know he was a teacher?"
"Of course not! But I did mention Sanibelle."
Carla slapped her forehead as the pieces fell into place. "That's it! He was interviewing with Miss Glanzman while we were out shopping that afternoon!"
"And then we met for tea," added Nikita.
"Will you stop that infernal pacing?! You're making me tired," said Carla with mock irritation. "I would say that this is your lucky day. Your Prince Charming has arrived!"
Carla stared off into space for a moment, caught up in the fairy-tale quality of it all.
"No, it's terrible!" wailed Nikita. "He's our teacher!"
"Oh, pshaw! You'll find a way to make it work. After all, it would be a pity to let a gem like that slip through your fingers!"
"I don't see how it can work, not after the uproar Mr. Chandler caused," said Nikita. "Miss Glanzman will be watching everyone like a hawk."
She stopped pacing as her eyes fell on the book lying on her nightstand. "I'm such a dolt! I didn't even thank him for the poetry book."