Jane Steele(27)
Fox refused to say what had happened—they all did—but I heard her whimper I’m not as feckless as I am ugly in my memory as I stepped over the threshold.
The record lay wantonly open next to an ink pot, pen, blotter, and gleaming letter opener. A silvery charge shot through me, and I dived for the thing; my stomach rose up my gullet as I examined the record of purchases never meant for us to consume:
20 lbs. cod, alive—at 2d. a pound
50 bunches turnips—at penny a bunch
13 pints dried figs for pudding—at 1d. a pint
Biting my lip, I reached for his pen and dipped it in the inkpot. Keeping track of foodstuffs was rightfully the cook’s province, but considering the profits Mr. Munt made by selling our strength away, it was unsurprising he sought complete control. Meals were planned a month in advance, with decisive check marks next to the supplies that had already been paid for.
My hands were steady as I hovered over the order to be delivered the next day. It would have been a fatal mistake to cross anything out and rewrite it, so some thought was required; but within three minutes, I had changed 70 bunches cress to 20 bunches cress, 90 lbs. potatoes to 80 lbs. potatoes, and 7 dozen eggs to 4 dozen eggs.
Granted, I should have to ascertain how to make off with fifty bunches of cress, ten pounds of potatoes, and three dozen eggs, and then hide these items, and then cook them, but these steep obstacles to me seemed mere irritants. The fire languished, and the smiling moon of the standing clock leered at me. My altered numbers were rather strange, but not so very unlike Mr. Munt’s other characters, and I blew upon the page to dry my falsehoods, imagining a great steaming plate of fried eggs and potato hash and cress salad for—
“I wonder just what you think you’re doing—and then again, I don’t.”
Dropping the pen as horror gripped me, I sent a bloodlike spatter across the page.
Mr. Munt stood in the doorway, half smiling as if he were greeting a friend in a tea shop. My dismay was quickly buried under an avalanche of frozen rage.
“She meant for me to be caught,” I found myself hissing.
“The kindhearted Miss Lilyvale?” Mr. Munt shut the door and approached with even strides as I backed away. “Come now, I’m not going to hurt you. When have I ever hurt any of you? Madame Archambault is a fine French instructor, and her ways are set, but despite the Bible’s injunctions to spare not the rod, I confess I find violence crude.”
“What are you doing here?” I demanded, too angry to prevaricate. “What about your sermon?”
Mr. Munt placed his Bible reverently upon the desk. “The village prelate is delivering his marvellous message upon original sin. One must grasp the squalorous condition of the unredeemed soul in order to be duly grateful for Christ’s intercession. As for your accusation regarding Miss Lilyvale, that is more complicated. I may have mentioned to the cook that I was grateful she was so honest—for were this ledger to be tampered with, I should never know whether our deliveries had arrived intact. Miss Lilyvale may have heard me say so, for she was nearby, though I should never imply she is capable of eavesdropping.”
Hatred thrust like a stake through my heart.
“I took advantage of my colleague’s visit in order to settle the books. I ought to have locked the door, in retro—”
“You planned all of this!” I cried. “This is another of your cruel games.”
“Cruel?” He feigned hurt, his fine features twisting. “Steele, is your heart so hardened that you can invade my private office—”
“You left the door unlocked.”
“Falsify my accounts—”
“As you indirectly suggested!” I fairly shrieked.
“Plan to steal food from the mouths of your fellow students—”
“You’re killing Clarke.” Outrage transformed effortlessly to begging. “Please, even you cannot justify death by starvation.”
Mr. Munt walked round his desk, the smug uptilt to his lips intact; I have never seen a man enjoy himself so much. “Heavens! Where on earth would you have stored these items, and how would you have cooked them?”
“I would have found a way,” I spat, but the bitterness lay in the fact that he was correct.
This had been a fool’s errand, and Miss Lilyvale and I the fools.
Mr. Munt sat before his ledger. He was dressed for Sunday, wearing a grey waistcoat which made his pale eyes gleam, and a high collar; his garb ever hinted at the parsonical whilst still accentuating his Byronic appearance. Running a hand through his black curls, he emitted a sigh.
“You will have to be severely punished for this.”
“Do what you like,” I snarled, confidence bolstered by loathing. “I’ll fight back. Only please,” I added as his sad look shifted into annoyance, “don’t deprive Clarke anymore. I was the one who read the letters first, not she. You know Clarke is half mad, and anyway she’s learnt her lesson.”
“Half mad,” Mr. Munt reflected, pulling his index finger and thumb along his lower lip. “Do you know, Steele, I don’t think the half-mad one is Clarke.”
A poisonous silence fell, one which burnt my skin.
“Do not pretend that this is about my mother.”
“It is not about your mother. It is about whether you are capable of rational behaviour, or whether the devil works his will through you.”