Death of a Schoolgirl: The Jane Eyre Chronicles by Joanna Campbell Slan Page A

spoke more to himself than to me. “Fast and light, but hard to overturn.”
    “Is one conveyance markedly better than another?” My curiosity got the better of me.
    Williams’s jaw dropped. “Certainly, ma’am. Why, just look at it!”
    What was it Edward had once told me? “In London, ostentatious style determines one’s pecking order. The citizens ofthat town judge one another with the same sort of assessment a farmer generally bestows on livestock.”
    “I shall get out here,” I declared, having made my decision.
    “No, ma’am! Please, no, you cannot! Mrs. Brayton finds out, she will have my hide!”
    I doubted that. Stuffed and mounted he wouldn’t make much of a prize. Williams certainly would not enhance her fine marble entryway.
    “I’ll speak on your behalf. My mind’s made up.” I struggled to open the door, and Williams hurried to help me down. I swallowed a whimper as I stepped first on the lozenge-shaped carriage step and finally onto the uneven cobblestones.
    The smells of London assailed me: damp wool, wet coal dust, moist peat smoke, running waste from chamber pots, and piles of fresh, steaming horse droppings. All this at a highly desirable address! I could only imagine the squalor of the rookeries in Holborn, those wretched quarters where I had been told that thieves, children, hogs, and dogs vied for food and shelter.
    “Williams, those two men block the front door. How else might I enter?”
    “See the wrought iron railing with the steps going down? That’s called the area. But it’s for the trade and servants. Wouldn’t do for quality like you!”
    Two years ago, I wouldn’t have been welcome anywhere except through the servants’ entrance. My wardrobe may not have changed, but every other aspect of my world had.
    “Thank you, but it will have to do,” I said, my tone brooking no argument.
    Williams tipped his hat again and said, “Very well. I shall wait for you around the corner, ma’am!” With that, he hopped back up to his high perch.
    I hurried against the wind as it buffeted me up and down, the way a kite gets tossed about on a fretful spring day. Picking my way through the puddles, I discovered a walkway. Igave a wide berth to the two men—who still stood on the front steps, talking in urgent tones and totally ignorant of my presence—and I continued until I could grasp the wrought iron fencing and follow it along. I was nearly at the bottom of the stairs when the two men ended their conversation.
    One hopped into the Berlin and took off down the street. The other opened the front door of Alderton House and disappeared inside. He came right back outside, his hands gripping a long, low plank. On it was a bundle covered by a white sheet. A partner carried the other end of the burden, both struggling to keep their footing as they navigated into the wind.
    Unexpectedly, the wind changed direction. The gust knocked the men sidewise—and pushed me against one of the house walls. I watched helplessly as the men struggled to regain their balance by juggling their load. A corner of the white fabric worked free from the stretcher.
    The wet sheet rose up like a sleeping creature comes awake. The fabric swayed first this way, then that. Snapping and snarling in the wind.
    I shivered at the sight of it, an inanimate object come to life to dance a demonic jig.
    The new man shrieked and nearly dropped his end of the transport. The other man responded with guttural curses, first at his partner, then at the elusive fabric that jerked up and away from his grasp.
    The cursing man reached high and snatched at the white sheet, finally dragging it. The pelting rain ought to have plastered it down, but the fabric refused to stay pinioned. It jumped free of his hand once more, and flew up to reveal what was in the bundle.
    A body with skin as white as chalk.

Chapter 7

    While the men loaded their burden into the hackney, I knocked on a heavy door. My repeated appeal brought no