The Case of the Blue Violet Read online

  ‘But – he didn’t say he was!’

  ‘Of course he didn’t! Why would he? He didn’t want to contradict a lady – and then it was too late.’

  ‘Too late?’ repeated Violet. Her eyes had gone very wide.

  ‘He had already fallen in love with you, of course,’ I said. ‘Of course he loved you – look at his letter! Oh, Hazel, explain again.’

  ‘He copied down poetry for you,’ said Hazel. ‘All of those nice words! He was afraid that when you found out you’d be cross, and leave him – that’s what he meant by We mustn’t let anything break us apart. And it wasn’t just what he said, but what he did – he spent all summer with you. He must love you very much.’

  ‘Of course, when it was your maid going to the Graves estate, he could stop her and take the letters from her before they ever reached the real Edward,’ I went on. ‘Then, when he wrote back, he disguised his handwriting to look like Edward’s – just in case. He would have seen plenty of samples in notes and so on, and really, it wouldn’t be hard. That copperplate of his – every schoolboy in the world learns how to write like that. And these days, even chauffeurs are very educated. The only difference between the way the boy you’re in love with and the real Edward write their letters is very small – but, of course, I noticed it at once.’

  Violet’s mouth was hanging open.

  ‘The date!’ I said impatiently. ‘Didn’t you see? Now, the real Edward Eastham went to America when he was already quite old, so we know he doesn’t have an accent. But he went to school there, and so he would have picked up certain American habits – like writing the date all wrong, with the month first. In the most recent letters you got, the date was like that. But in the romantic one you showed us, that your boy-friend had written to you during the summer, the day was first, and then the month. Two different ways of setting out a letter – two different people, with two different backgrounds.’

  ‘But if – but how—’ Violet began, and I saw she was still struggling with the problem.

  ‘The real Edward Eastham only began to write to you because when you went back to Deepdean—’ Hazel began.

  ‘—your letters went through the normal post!’ I finished for her impatiently. ‘Your boy-friend had no chance to intercept them – the postman would give them straight to the valet every morning. That’s how we knew that your boy-friend wasn’t the valet, by the way. There are three young men on the estate apart from Edward Eastham: the gardener, the valet and the chauffeur. The gardener was all wrong, because the boy you described wasn’t dirty or scruffy. It could have been the valet or the chauffeur – but your letters from school went to the real Edward, and if it had been the valet, he would have taken them, not given them to Edward. And, of course, the valet wouldn’t have been very likely to be driving about in a car. No, it all fits. You’ve fallen in love with Lord Graves’s chauffeur, not his son. What do you think about that?’

  Violet had gone pale. ‘But . . .’ she whispered. ‘What am I going to do?’

  ‘You ought to be pleased!’ I said. ‘After all, your father will be furious. And as to what you do with your boy-friend – tell him you know, of course. And if he doesn’t mind, you can marry him.’

  ‘Marry him!’

  ‘If you go to Scotland you can do it without your parents knowing anything about it,’ I said. ‘Haven’t you read books? I don’t see why you shouldn’t marry him. He knows poetry, and he can drive. He’s probably far better than Edward Eastham.’

  ‘Daisy!’ said Hazel. ‘She doesn’t even know what he’s called!’

  ‘Names aren’t important,’ I said. ‘After all, you’ve got two, and you were my best friend for years before I found out your Chinese one.’

  Violet was crying and laughing at the same time, so I thought it best to leave her to herself for a while. I winked at Hazel and nodded my head, and we slipped away together.

  ‘Another case solved,’ I said. ‘Rather good work, on my part.’ Hazel sighed. ‘The Detective Society’s part, then! But it really was mostly me.’

  ‘All right,’ said Hazel, rolling her eyes. ‘This time it was.’

  I slipped my arm through hers. Hazel is good to lean against – she may be short, but she is comfortingly solid. ‘Aren’t people soppy when they get old?’ I asked. ‘All this love nonsense. I’m sure I don’t understand it. Don’t fall in love, will you?’

  ‘Of course I won’t,’ said Hazel.

  I was glad we had agreed that. And, all in all, I was pleased with the case. It may have been the Detective Society’s quickest ever. It was all neatly wrapped up – and even more so on the next Monday, when we came up to our dorm after lunch to discover a box of Violet’s delicious-looking cakes on my bed. Next to them was a note. It read:

  His name is Ed Higgins. He said yes. Don’t tell Daddy.

  Violet

  Hazel and I grinned at each other. We are really becoming rather good detectives.

  About the Author

  Robin Stevens was born in California and grew up in an Oxford college, across the road from the house where Alice in Wonderland lived. She has been making up stories all her life.

  When she was twelve, her father handed her a copy of The Murder of Roger Ackroyd and she realised that she wanted to be either Hercule Poirot or Agatha Christie when she grew up. When it occurred to her that she was never going to be able to grow her own spectacular walrus moustache, she decided that Agatha Christie was the more achievable option.

  She spent her teenage years at Cheltenham Ladies’ College, reading a lot of murder mysteries and hoping that she’d get the chance to do some detecting herself (she didn’t). She went to university, where she studied crime fiction, and then worked in children’s publishing. She is now a full-time writer.

  Robin now lives in London with her pet bearded dragon, Watson.

  Also by Robin Stevens:

  Murder Most Unladylike

  Arsenic For Tea

  First Class Murder

  Jolly Foul Play

  Read on for an extract of Daisy and Hazel’s next mystery,

  Jolly Foul Play!

  1

  We were all looking up, and so we missed the murder.

  I have never seen Daisy so furious. She has been grinding her teeth (so hard that my teeth ache in sympathy) and saying, ‘Oh, Hazel! How could we not notice it? We were on the spot!’

  You see, Daisy needs to know things, and see everything, and get in everywhere. Being reminded that despite all the measures she puts in place (having informants in the younger years, ingratiating herself with the older girls and Jones the handyman and the mistresses), there are still things going on at Deepdean that she does not understand – well, that has put her in an even worse mood than the one she has been in lately.

  And, if I am honest, I feel strangely ashamed. The Detective Society has solved three real murder mysteries so far, and yet we still missed a murder taking place under our noses, in our very own Deepdean School for Girls – the place where we began our detective careers one year ago.

  It really is funny to think about that. It seems in a way as though we have not moved at all – or as though we have made a circle, and come all the way back to the beginning again. I suppose I still look almost exactly like the Hazel I was when I ran into the Gym and found Miss Bell, our Science mistress, lying on the floor last October. I am not much taller, anyway. When I measured myself last week, I found I have hardly grown at all – or at least, not upwards. My hair is still straight and dark brown, my face is still round, and I still have the spot on my nose (I suppose it must be a different spot, but it does not look that way). Inside, though, I feel quite different. All the things that have happened the past year have made me quite a new shape, I think – one who has faced up to the murderer at Daisy’s home, Fallingford, and defied my father to solve the Orient Express case. On the other hand, sometimes I think that even though Daisy keeps on shooting upwards, and becoming blonder and lovelier than ever, she h
as stayed the same inside. She bounces back from things, like a rubber ball – not even what happened at Fallingford could truly alter her.

  Before the fifth of November, I had not been enjoying Deepdean much this term. Just like the changes that have taken place in me, the school has felt different from last year, and not at all in a good way. It has felt as though something awful were rushing towards us all term. Last night was dreadful, but now it has happened I feel almost relieved. It is like the difference between waiting to go in to the dentist and sitting in his chair. And now that there is a murder to solve, Daisy and I can be the Detective Society again. It is sometimes difficult being Daisy’s best friend, but being her Vice-President and Secretary is much more simple. This case, though, will not be simple at all.

  You see, the person who has died – who we think has been murdered – is our new Head Girl.

  2

  This case began yesterday, on Tuesday the fifth of November, but all the same, to explain it properly I must wind backwards, all the way to the end of summer term.

  That was when Daisy and I were preoccupied with our upcoming holiday on the Orient Express, but although we were not paying much attention to them at the time, extremely important things were happening with Miss Barnard and the Big Girls.

  For the purposes of this new casebook, I must mention who Miss Barnard is. You see, after the case of Miss Bell was over, there were almost no mistresses left at Deepdean. This means that everyone except red-haired, dramatic Mamzelle, old Mr MacLean, and Miss Lappet with her big bosom, is entirely new since last December. Miss Barnard is our new Headmistress. She is slender and tall, and I think quite young – at least, there is still brown in her hair. She is also calm, and kind, and sensible, and she has a way of making you feel safe – something Deepdean badly needs, after last year. But sometimes kindness is not the best thing. As Daisy always says, it is no good being nice if the people you are being nice to are not nice themselves.

  Now Miss Griffin, our last Headmistress, always chose the next Head Girl at the end of each school year. She knew every girl’s character, and judged it carefully before she made her choice. But Miss Barnard did not know any of the Big Girls really well by the time it came to make her selection last summer term, and so instead of choosing, she let it go to a vote. And that was quite disastrous, for it meant that Elizabeth Hurst could bend the vote her way, and have herself elected Head Girl.

  The outside of Elizabeth Hurst was not particularly remarkable. She was tall and broad-shouldered, with a pale face and sandy hair, just like most of the girls at Deepdean. The only clue as to what was inside her was the smile at one side of her mouth. It never went away, and it was not a very nice smile. It looked as though she was remembering something nasty about you, and deciding whether or not to say it aloud. That smile was the truth about her, for Elizabeth was in the business of secrets.

  That makes her sound somewhat like Daisy – but while Daisy likes to know things just for the pleasure of it, to make things fit in her head, Elizabeth used the things she knew. Just like a cat snatching little birds out of their nests, she took all the information she could find about each girl at Deepdean, and kept it. And she didn’t simply use the information she gathered – or at least, not immediately. Instead, she would store it up like a present for the day when it would become useful to her. And when it did – well, then you would be ruined.

  There had been one girl, Nina Lamont, generally thought to be the front runner for the Head Girl position – until Elizabeth was seen paying Miss Barnard a visit one morning, looking very grave. Later that day it came out that Nina had stolen from the Benefactors’ Fund. And after that no one could vote for her at all. She did not even come back to Deepdean this year. Apparently, she had been sent to prison – although Daisy said that this was not true, and that it was only to a school in France.

  Elizabeth led a group of five girls, the oddest and angriest and most hateful in their year. They were Elizabeth’s helpers, like a bruising, bullying version of Daisy’s little informants, and they went about prising facts out of all us younger years and feeding them back to Elizabeth. We called them the Five, and we hated them.

  So you can see why everyone at Deepdean was quite terrified of Elizabeth, and why we all got the most horrible thrill when we heard that she had indeed been elected Head Girl – and, as was tradition, had chosen five other Big Girls to be her prefects. Of course, she chose her helpers – and so when we came back to Deepdean this year, Elizabeth and the Five were running the school.

  3

  We had been afraid of Elizabeth and the Five, but all the same, I do not think we quite understood how dreadful the new year would be until we were a few weeks into it. At first, the autumn term felt as clean and full of possibility as ever – new timetables, new pencils and inkwells, and exercise books with none of their pages torn out to pass notes. We were fourth formers, closer than ever to being Big Girls, and we undid our top buttons daringly in celebration. Kitty even tried to leave her hair down, although Miss Lappet told her off at once. Clementine had a new contraband bracelet, and Beanie had a dormouse which she hid in her tuck box (it was called Chutney, and all it did was sleep). It seemed as though this term might be better than the last – the shadow of Fallingford had finally lifted, for The Trial was over and the murderer in prison.

  But then the Five began their punishments.

  Elizabeth was absolutely in control of the school’s discipline, and behind everything that happened, but the genius of her was that she never carried out any of the punishments. It was only ever the Five who came after us, and they did it quite dreadfully.

  Red-headed, fierce, athletic Florence Hamersley, captain of the hockey team and in training for the hurdles at next summer’s Olympics, was a stickler for laziness. If you were late to breakfast or dinner, or slow at toothbrushes in the evening, her hand would come down on your shoulder and the next thing you knew you were running ten laps around House in the cold and the rain. If you did it slowly, you had to run twenty.

  Dark-haired Lettice Prestwich was even nastier. She ought to have been pretty – she would have been, if she were not so thin. With her, we lived on shifting sand, waiting for the catastrophe. Any flaw in your uniform at all – a missing button, an undone tie – and she would pounce on you, shrieking. She made the shrimps cry almost every day. Once she marched into our dorm and, hearing squeaks from Beanie’s tuck box, discovered Chutney the dormouse. She took him to Matron at once, who put him outside – Beanie sobbed, of course, and we were all furious. Beanie, our friend and dorm mate, is very small, and not at all good at schoolwork – but she is good, and that counts for quite a lot. But there was nothing to be done. Chutney was gone.

  Una Dichmann is from Germany, where her father has a most important position in the Nazi Party, and she is blonde and pretty as a fairy-tale princess – but if you failed to treat her, or any of the rest of the Five, with the respect you ought, she would have you carrying her books between lessons and shouting at you if you did not move quickly enough.

  Enid Gaines does not look as threatening as the others, at first. She is a swot, Deepdean’s great hope for a Classics place at Oxford next year, and her nose is always in a book. She is small – almost as short as I am – and has a dull, forgettable face. But if you laughed in the corridors, or whispered in Prayers, she would turn on you, and you would find yourself writing lines – I must obey my elders and betters – a hundred times at lunch break.

  The last member of the Five is Margaret Dolliswood. She is large and angry – unhappiness radiates off her in waves. Fail to get out of her way, or draw attention to yourself at meals and bunbreaks, and you would find your food snatched out of your hands and your wrists pinched. I have gone hungry many times because of her – which I think the worst cruelty of all.

  The Five’s punishments were dreadful, and there was no escape from them. When we went up to House, one would always be taking our Prep, and another supervising the commo
n room, and they all sat at the end of our tables at dinner. We were under siege, and the worst thing was that none of the mistresses or Matron noticed. Grown-ups never do see this sort of thing – to them, any harm children do to each other does not really matter.

  It felt as though we were rabbits waiting for the fox to pounce. Elizabeth and her five prefects patrolled the school, and their viciousness spread down, until we were all at each other’s throats. They made us all so miserable that even the nicest girls began to argue and snipe at each other horribly. Under the force of the Big Girls’ nastiness, we all became nastier too – the fifth formers to the fourth, us to the third, the third to the second and so on. All the old alliances broke down under the pressure of it. Deepdean itself was changed, so much so that although its black-and-white corridors and wide windows and chalk smell was no different, I could barely recognize it.

  Daisy, of course, was furious. There are certain places that, in her own mind, belong to her. Deepdean is one of them, and the fact that it had gone wrong sent her into an absolute rage. I had decided that this year would simply have to be endured, like any other unpleasant thing, but Daisy does not endure. She cannot bear not to try to solve any problem that she comes up against, and Elizabeth and the Five became the most fascinating of problems, all the more so because the truth was that there was nothing she could do about them. She did not even have her old confidant King Henry to give her prestige among the Big Girls – for, of course, King Henry was no longer our Head Girl. She was far away at Cambridge, where Daisy could not use her.

  ‘I’m watching them,’ Daisy told me, over and over again. ‘I’m watching her. Elizabeth can’t think she’ll get away with it. She can’t be allowed.’

  It seemed to me that she could – and that she was. Elizabeth had committed no crime apart from nastiness. Her blackmail was so subtle that there was nothing we could pin on her, nothing we could detect. In fact the Detective Society had no cases at all this term, apart from the strange case of Violet Darby which Daisy solved in a day in September. (Daisy is rather proud of that case.)