She literally ran along the path toward the gate. Jennifer called after her once more. "Thank you very much."
Then, gloating, she went in search of Julia.
"Look." She flourished the racquet dramatically.
"I say! Where did you get that?"
"My godmother sent it to me. Aunt Gina. She's not my aunt, but I call her that. She's frightfully rich. I expect Mummy told her about me grumbling about my racquet. It is smashing, isn't it? I must remember to write and thank her."
"I should hope so!" said Julia virtuously.
"Well, you know how one does forget things sometimes. Even things you really mean to do. Look, Shaista," she added as the latter girl came toward them. "I've got a new racquet. Isn't it a beauty?"
"It must have been very expensive," said Shaista scanning it respectfully. "I wish I could play tennis well."
"You always run into the ball."
"I never seem to know where the ball is going to come," said Shaista vaguely. "Before I go home, I must have some really good shorts made in London. Or a tennis dress like the American champion Ruth Allen wears. I think that is very smart. Perhaps I will have both," she smiled in pleasurable anticipation.
"Shaista never thinks of anything except things to wear," said Julia scornfully as the two friends passed on.
"Do you think we shall ever be like that?"
"I suppose so," said Jennifer gloomily. "It will be an awful bore."
They entered the Sports Pavilion, now officially vacated by the police, and Jennifer put her racquet carefully into her press.
"Isn't it lovely?" she said, stroking it affectionately.
"What have you done with the old one?"
"Oh, she took it."
"Who?"
"The woman who brought this. She'd met Aunt Gina at a cocktail party, and Aunt Gina asked her to bring me this as she was coming down here today, and Aunt Gina said to bring up my old one and she'd have it restrung."
"Oh, I see..." But Julia was frowning.
"What did Bully want with you?" asked Jennifer.
"Bully? Oh, nothing really. Just Mummy's address. But she hasn't got one because she's on a bus. In Turkey somewhere. Jennifer - look here. Your racquet didn't need restringing."
"Oh, it did, Julia. It was like a sponge."
"I know. But it's my racquet really. I mean, we exchanged. It was my racquet that needed restringing. Yours, the one I've got now, was restrung. You said yourself your mother had had it restrung before you went abroad."
"Yes, that's true." Jennifer looked a little startled. "Oh, well, I suppose this woman - whoever she was - I ought to have asked her name, but I was so entranced - just saw that it needed restringing."
"But you said that she said that it was your Aunt Gina who had said it needed restringing. And your Aunt Gina couldn't have thought it needed restringing if it didn't."
"Oh, well -" Jennifer looked impatient. "I suppose - I suppose -"
"You suppose what?"
"Perhaps Aunt Gina just thought that if I wanted a new racquet, it was because the old one wanted restringing. Anyway what does it matter?"
"I suppose it doesn't matter," said Julia slowly. "But I do think it's odd, Jennifer. It's like - like new lamps for old. Aladdin, you know."
Jennifer giggled.
"Fancy rubbing my old racquet - your old racquet, I mean, and having a genie appear! If you rubbed a lamp and a genie did appear, what would you ask him for, Julia?"
"Lots of things," breathed Julia ecstatically. "A tape recorder, and an Alsatian - or perhaps a Great Dane, and a hundred thousand pounds, and a black satin party frock, and oh! lots of other things. What would you?"
"I don't really know," said Jennifer. "Now I've got this smashing new racquet, I don't really want anything else."
Chapter 13
CATASTROPHE
The third weekend after the opening of term followed the usual plan. It was the first weekend on which parents were allowed to take pupils out. As a result Meadowbank was left almost deserted.
On this particular Sunday there would only be twenty girls left at the school itself for the midday meal. Some of the staff had weekend leave, returning late Sunday night or early Monday morning. On this particular occasion Miss Bulstrode herself was proposing to be absent for the weekend. This was unusual since it was not her habit to leave the school during term time. But she had her reasons. She was going to stay with the Duchess of Welsham at Welsington Abbey. The Duchess had made a special point of it and had added that Henry Banks would be there. Henry Banks was the Chairman of the Governors. He was an important industrialist and he had been one of the original backers of the school. The invitation was therefore almost in the nature of a command. Not that Miss Bulstrode would have allowed herself to be commanded if she had not wished to do so. But as it happened, she welcomed the invitation gladly. She was by no means indifferent to duchesses and the Duchess of Welsham was an influential duchess, whose own daughters had been sent to Meadowbank. She was also particularly glad to have the opportunity of talking to Henry Banks on the subject of the school's future and also to put forward her own account of the recent tragic occurrence.
Owing to the influential connections at Meadowbank, the murder of Miss Springer had been played down very tactfully in the press. It had become a sad fatality rather than a mysterious murder. The impression was given, though not said, that possibly some young thugs had broken into the Sports Pavilion and that Miss Springer's death had been more accident than design. It was reported vaguely that several young men had been asked to come to the police station and "assist the police." Miss Bulstrode herself was anxious to mitigate any unpleasant impression that might have been given to these two influential patrons of the school. She knew that they wanted to discuss the veiled hint that she had thrown out, of her coming retirement. Both the duchess and Henry Banks were anxious to persuade her to remain on. Now was the time, Miss Bulstrode felt, to push the claims of Eleanor Vansittart, to point out what a splendid person she was, and how well fitted to carry on the traditions of Meadowbank.
On Saturday morning Miss Bulstrode was just finishing off her correspondence with Ann Shapland when the telephone rang. Ann answered it.
"It's the Emir Ibrahim, Miss Bulstrode. He's arrived at Claridge's and would like to take Shaista out tomorrow."
Miss Bulstrode took the receiver from her and had a brief conversation with the Emir's equerry. Shaista would be ready any time from eleven-thirty onward on Sunday morning, she said. The girl must be back at the school by 8 P.M.
She rang off and said:
"I wish Orientals sometimes gave you a little more warning. It has been arranged for Shaista to go out with Giselle d'Aubray tomorrow. Now that will have to be cancelled. Have we finished all the letters?"
"Yes, Miss Bulstrode."
"Good, then I can go off with a clear conscience. Type them and send them off, and then you, too, are free for the weekend. I shan't want you until lunchtime on Monday."
"Thank you, Miss Bulstrode."
"Enjoy yourself, my dear."
"I'm going to," said Ann.
"Young man?"
"Well - yes." Ann coloured a little. "Nothing serious, though."
"Then there ought to be. If you're going to marry, don't leave it too late."
"Oh, this is only an old friend. Nothing exciting."
"Excitement," said Miss Bulstrode warningly, "isn't always a good foundation for married life. Send Miss Chadwick to me, will you?"
Miss Chadwick bustled in.
"The Emir Ibrahim, Shaista's uncle, is taking her out tomorrow, Chaddy. If he comes himself, tell him she is making good progress."
"She's not very bright," said Miss Chadwick.
"She's immature intellectually," agreed Miss Bulstrode. "But she has a remarkably mature mind in other ways. Sometimes, when you talk to her, she might be a woman of twenty-five. I suppose it's because of the sophisticated life she's led. Paris, Teheran, Cairo, Istanbul and all the rest of it. In this country we're inclined to keep our children too young. We account it a merit when we say: 'She's still quite a child.' It isn't a merit. It's a grave handicap in life."
"I don't know that I quite agree with you there, dear," said Miss Chadwick. "I'll go now and tell Shaista about her uncle. You go away for your weekend and don't worry about anything."
"Oh! I shan't," said Miss Bulstrode. "It's a good opportunity, really, for leaving Eleanor Vansittart in charge and seeing how she shapes. With you and her in charge nothing's likely to go wrong."
"I hope not, indeed. I'll go and find Shaista."
Shaista looked surprised and not at all pleased to hear that her uncle had arrived in London.
"He wants to take me out tomorrow?" she grumbled. "But, Miss Chadwick, it is all arranged that I go out with Giselle d'Aubray and her mother."
"I'm afraid you'll have to do that another time."
"But I would much rather go out with Giselle," said Shaista crossly. "My uncle is not at all amusing. He eats and then he grunts and it is all very dull."
"You mustn't talk like that. It is impolite," said Miss Chadwick. "Your uncle is only in England for a week, I understand, and naturally he wants to see you."
"Perhaps he has arranged a new marriage for me," said Shaista, her face brightening. "If so, that would be fun."
"If that is so, he will no doubt tell you so. But you are too young to get married yet awhile. You must first finish your education."
"Education is very boring," said Shaista.
II
Sunday morning dawned bright and serene - Miss Shapland had departed soon after Miss Bulstrode on Saturday. Miss Johnson, Miss Rich, and Miss Blake left on Sunday-morning.
Miss Vansittart, Miss Chadwick, Miss Rowan, and Mademoiselle Blanche were left in charge.
"I hope all the girls won't talk too much," said Miss Chadwick dubiously. "About poor Miss Springer I mean."
"Let us hope," said Eleanor Vansittart, "that the whole affair will soon be forgotten." She added: "If any parents talk to me about it, I shall discourage them. It will be best, I think, to take quite a firm line."
The girls went to church at ten o'clock accompanied by Miss Vansittart and Miss Chadwick. Four girls who were Roman Catholics were escorted by Angele Blanche to a rival religious establishment. Then, about half past eleven, the cars began to roll into the drive. Miss Vansittart, graceful, poised, and dignified stood in the hall. She greeted mothers smilingly, produced their offspring and adroitly turned aside any unwanted references to the recent tragedy.
"Terrible," she said, "yes, quite terrible, but, you do understand, we don't talk about it here. All these young minds - such a pity for them to dwell on it."
Chaddy was also on the spot greeting old friends among the parents, discussing plans for the holidays and speaking affectionately of the various daughters.
"I do think Aunt Isabel might have come and taken me out," said Julia, who with Jennifer was standing with her nose pressed against the window of one of the classrooms, watching the comings and goings on the drive outside.
"Mummy's going to take me out next weekend," said Jennifer. "Daddy's got some important people coming down this weekend so she couldn't come today."
"There goes Shaista," said Julia, "all togged up for London. Oo-ee! Just look at the heels on her shoes. I bet old Johnson doesn't like those shoes."
A liveried chauffeur was opening the door of a large Cadillac. Shaista climbed in and was driven away.
"You can come out with me next weekend, if you like," said Jennifer. "I told Mummy I'd got a friend I wanted to bring."
"I'd love to," said Julia. "Look at Vansittart doing her stuff."
"Terribly gracious, isn't she?" said Jennifer.
"I don't know why," said Julia, "but somehow it makes me want to laugh. It's a sort of copy of Miss Bulstrode, isn't it? Quite a good copy, but it's rather like Joyce Grenfell or someone doing an imitation."
"There's Pam's mother," said Jennifer. "She's brought the little boys. How they can all get into that tiny Morris Minor I don't know."
"They're going to have a picnic," said Julia. "Look at all the baskets."
"What are you going to do this afternoon?" asked Jennifer. "I don't think I need write to Mummy this week, do you, if I'm going to see her next week?"
"You are slack about writing letters, Jennifer."
"I never can think of anything to say," said Jennifer.
"I can," said Julia, "I can think of lots to say." She added mournfully, "But there isn't really anyone much to write to at present."
"What about your mother?"
"I told you she's gone to Anatolia in a bus. You can't write letters to people who go to Anatolia in buses. At least you can't write to them all the time."
"Where do you write to when you do write?"
"Oh, consulates here and there. She left me a list. Stamboul is the first and then Ankara and then some funny name." She added, "I wonder why Bully wanted to get in touch with Mummy so badly! She seemed quite upset when I said where she'd gone."
"It can't be about you," said Jennifer. "You haven't done anything awful, have you?"
"Not that I know of," said Julia. "Perhaps she wanted to tell her about Springer."
"Why should she?" said Jennifer. "I should think she'd be jolly glad that there's at least one mother who doesn't know about Springer."
