Murder Most Unladylike: A Wells and Wong Mystery Read Online Free Page A

didn’t. Therefore the murderer will have no idea who either of us is. I promise you, Hazel, on my word as an excellent detective. Say it. I am an excellent detective.’
    ‘You are an excellent detective,’ I said, because she was digging her fingers into my arm.
    ‘You see? It’s quite all right. There’s nothing to be worried about.’
    I tried to make myself believe her.
    ‘Unless, of course,’ said Daisy casually, ‘the murderer is just biding their time; waiting to find out exactly who we are and how much we saw before they come after us both. But that’s not particularly likely. Now go back to your own bed, Watson, you’re squashing me. We’ve got important work to do tomorrow.’
    I went back to my bed, but it was a very long time before I got to sleep. I could hear Daisy breathing peacefully next to me, and thumping from Lavinia’s bed as she rolled to and fro in her sleep. But then there were other noises I was not so sure about. The House pipes squealed and groaned louder than I had ever heard them before, and then there was a squeak below me, rattles and rustles in the walls; a soft sigh just outside the door. A floorboard, I told myself – mice . . . Matron on her rounds – but I was most shamefully afraid. I squeezed my eyes tight shut, to stop myself looking at the curtain floating in the breeze from our open window (Matron believes that fresh air is good for children), and tried to be brave. But I kept seeing Miss Bell’s head lolling away from me, and when I did get to sleep my dreams were awful.

2
    We began our detective work the next day.
    We filed into Prayers, The One blaring away at the organ, to find that Miss Bell was not in her usual seat. This was just as Daisy and I expected, of course, but shocking for the rest of the school. You see, Miss Bell had never been late for anything before. She had always been perfectly punctual, so her absence from Prayers seemed as impossible as the Hall simply falling down around our heads. The wooden pews filled, and although the rule in Prayers is dead silence, punishable by detention, a whisper rose up like a shell pressed against your ear, making all the mistresses and prefects frown and glare about them.
    ‘Where’s Miss Bell?’ breathed Beanie. ‘She’s never ill!’
    ‘Perhaps this is the day Miss Griffin is going to announce that she’s the new Deputy,’ Kitty whispered back, louder than she meant to. ‘I’ll bet anything they’re about to come onto the stage together.’
    ‘Girls!’ snarled Mamzelle, whipping round from the row in front to glare at the third form. Her sharp face was looking particularly sour, and we quietened down at once. ‘ Silence . Contemplate ’eaven, eef you please.’
    The third form was quiet. But then Miss Griffin walked onto the stage, making us all rise to our feet, and she was alone. Kitty nudged Beanie in amazement, but then Miss Griffin began to speak and it was impossible not to pay attention to what she was saying.
    I have not yet said much about Miss Griffin, other than that she is our Headmistress. That is because it is quite difficult to remember that Miss Griffin might need describing. Miss Griffin is a presence. I cannot imagine Deepdean without Miss Griffin, or Miss Griffin without Deepdean. If the school was a person, it would wear Miss Griffin’s neat swooped-back grey hair and immaculate Harris tweed.
    Every day she glides along the corridors in sensible shoes that are just high enough to click. When I heard her during lessons I used to vaguely connect her with an automaton from the future. Even though I know it is shrimp-like foolishness, I still rather think that if you peeled away Miss Griffin’s tidy outside you would find rows of gleaming clockwork wheels, busily ticking over to keep Deepdean going. It is very difficult to have an emotion about her, the way I like Mamzelle (despite her incomprehensible accent) and despise hockey-playing Miss Hopkins. Miss Griffin is simply