Murder on the Blackboard by Stuart Palmer

must admit. In fact, Mr. Champney and Mr. Velie, of the Board, have agreed to follow out any recommendations I might make for a change at the end of the semester.”
    “Mercy sakes,” said Hildegarde Withers. Birnam Wood had come to Dunsinane with a vengeance.
    “Then we’ll consider it settled? Of course, you will keep me informed of all developments and so forth. It has always been my belief that the intellect can easily triumph over force, and perhaps I can aid and guide you.”
    Miss Withers said nothing to that.
    “It is a deep mystery to me,” went on Macfarland in his high, excited voice, “a very deep mystery why a crime was committed in Jefferson School when the murderer must have known, as everyone associated with the school from the janitor to myself knows, of your remarkable success in solving such cases in the past. It was a terrible mistake he made….”
    Miss Withers frowned. “I’ve just begun to wonder if it was a mistake,” she said softly. But Macfarland did not hear her.
    “We shall simply put it down as the intervention of Divine Providence,” said the Principal. “He was ignorant, or else he forgot. In either case, you were on the spot when the deed was done, and you must have heard or seen things which will lead you quite easily to a solution of the crime. Eh?”
    “I’m afraid not,” Miss Withers admitted. “It looks as though I was deaf, dumb and blind this afternoon.”
    Mr. Macfarland was seemingly able to conceal his disappointment at this. “I shall always regret,” he went on, “that I hurried away from the school at two o’clock this afternoon, cancelling my last class in eighth grade history, and came home to nurse my cold.” He sniffed, and sought a handkerchief, while Miss Withers mumble polite wishes. “If I had only been there, as is my custom, until five o’clock or so, this unfortunate accident would never had occurred. To think that I sat calmly here writing at my daily essay when the quiet halls of learning entrusted to me were being violated….”
    He motioned toward the large ledger-like book which graced the exact center of his desk. Miss Withers knew that Macfarland prided himself upon having written, every day for the past dozen years or so, an essay upon any subject that struck his fancy. One whole shelf of his library was devoted to the ledgers, each page filled from margin to binding with microscopic script. Miss Withers had seen them, had even been permitted to read as many of them as she could manage. “Twilight,” “My Garden,” “Eternal Youth,” “Children,” “The Orient,” “Friendship” … the range of Waldo Emerson Macfarland’s subjects was as wide as his experience was limited.
    “Anyway,” ventured Miss Withers a little daringly, “you’ll have a new subject for tomorrow’s essay, won’t you? Murder as a Fine Art, perhaps?”
    Macfarland looked pained. “But my dear Miss Withers, that title was used by De Quincey some years ago.”
    She knew that. She also knew Danny Ahearn’s recent classic “How to Commit a Murder” was much more interesting and to the point, but she did not mention the fact to the Principal.
    Miss Withers rose to her feet. “I’ll do what I can, of course,” she agreed. “I’m not making any rash promises but I’ll try, if I’m allowed a free hand. You’ll excuse me now. I’ve had a very hard and exciting day.”
    Instantly Macfarland was bursting with sympathy. “Of course! Of course, my dear Miss Withers! And you came ’way up here in the midst of all this inclement weather. I shan’t let you go until you have some refreshment. A cup of tea, of course.” He raised his voice. “Chrystal!”
    “Mrs. Macfarland will be most happy to join us,” he confided. “Oh, Chrystal!” He began bustling about with a spirit lamp on the table behind his desk, and at that moment a heavy lacquer screen across the room swung aside and a tall and formidable person appeared. Miss Withers greeted the