J.T. Edson - Blonde Genius

“I’ve always maintained that, but for her catching a chill, people would today speak of Mrs. Benkinsop and not Mrs. Fitzherbert.”

“I bet they would Fiorelli,” commented sycophantically, although he could barely remember who the Prince Regent was, much less details of “Prinny’s” paramour Mrs. Fitzherbert. “Is that her, the Regency lady in front of the safe?”

Maybe Fiorelli’s knowledge was lacking in English history, but his pose as an art collector had at least taught him the various periods.

“Yes,” Miss Benkinsop confirmed, walking back to her guest. “That’s Amelia, the founder of our line.”

“About our proposition. Miss Benkinsop?” Fiorelli hinted, bringing the conversation once more to the subject which the headmistress was trying to avoid.

“I’m afraid it’s quite out of the question, Mr. Fiorelli. I couldn’t even consider it.”

“But we—”

“Ever since the Academy was founded by my great grandmother,” Miss Benkinsop interrupted politely but firmly, we have prided ourselves on being a self-supporting and independent establishment. With no outside associations.”

“But we could help you make it pay better—” Fiorelli pointed out, using an argument which he felt sure could not fail to create a good impression.

He had sadly misjudged Miss Benkinsop. An expression of reproving distaste came to her beautiful face as she replied pointedly:

“ We ’ve never concerned ourselves greatly with making it pay. ”

“But—!” Fiorelli began, genuinely shocked by the apparent disdain his hostess expressed for the sacred subject of money.

“I’m afraid I’d rather not discuss it further,” Miss Benkinsop declared, with an air of finality in her tone. if we go now, I’ll just have time to show you some of our Prep. classes before the Main Debate.

Leading the way across the room, Miss Benkinsop paused on reaching the door. So did Fiorelli, having grown used to a minion opening up for him. Suddenly realising that such was not the case this evening, he did the honours. Smiling graciously, Miss Benkinsop swept by him.

“Perhaps you’ll change your mind,” Fiorelli commented, darting a fast and unobserved glance in the direction of the Regency portrait.

“I doubt it,” Miss Benkinsop replied.

“Don’t you lock your study?” Fiorelli asked, trying to sound more nonchalant and less hopeful than he felt as he noticed the apparent oversight.

In the Jaguar, Saunders tensed and muttered what for him amounted to a fervent prayer that the answer would be in the negative.

“It isn’t necessary,” Miss Benkinsop replied, then proceeded to destroy the sense of elation which she had unconsciously caused to rise in Saunders’ breast, “Amanda fitted one of her automatic locks for me.”

Letting out a disgruntled groan, Saunders glared furiously at the walkie-talkie. Clearly somebody up—or down— there did not particularly like the cat-burglar.

“Oh well, Gus boy,” Saunders told himself bitterly. “It looks like it’s a climb job after all. But if there’s one of them locks on the window—”

He let the words trail off, diverting his attention to uttering another prayer that such a contingency did not arise.

Having walked side by side along the first-floor passage, Miss Benkinsop and her guest strolled down the wide main staircase towards the entrance hall. To make conversation—and prevent his hostess from remembering that she had not closed the study’s window—Fiorelli remarked:

“Who’s Amanda?”

“The School Swot,” Miss Benkinsop replied. “Of course, you haven’t met her?”

“Not yet,” Fiorelli admitted, his voice implying that it was a pleasure to which he was looking forward with considerable anticipation.

“A charming girl,” Miss Benkinsop stated, then dropped her voice to a more conspiratorial level. “But not quite the class we like at Benkinsop’s. Her background’s all wrong, you know.”

“What’s wrong with it?”

“It’s her father. He was quite a well-known scientist, brilliant in his field but vague and terribly absentminded. He brought her here in mistake for Roedean, or one of the other less exclusive schools.”

“I’m surprised you let her stay,” Fiorelli commented.

“I was away at the time,” Miss Benkinsop explained. “And when I returned, a few days later, it was too late.”

“Why was that?”

“I told you he was absent-minded?”

“Yes.”

“Well, he was testing some new, very powerful high explosive at a top secret War Department laboratory and set off a charge of it to study the results—”

“And?” Fiorelli prompted.

“He forgot to go behind the protective screens before he set it off.”

“Couldn’t her mother take her back?”

“The Professor was a widower,” Miss Benkinsop explained. “I was unable to trace any other relatives. One can’t turn a poor, defenceless orphan out, can one?”

“No,” Fiorelli conceded, although his natural inclination had been to say, “Why not?” He realised that Miss Benkinsop had probably never made a more beneficial gesture than in keeping Amanda Tweedle at the school.

The main entrance hall, into which the couple descended, was the hub around which all the school’s activities centred. Various classrooms could be reached from it. The wide staircase led from it to the first floor, which housed the administrative offices and teachers’ living quarters, then on to the pupils’ dormitories in the third storey.

By the big front door, closed at that hour of the evening, was a large notice-board. In its centre, neatly—in fact, almost professionally—printed was a notice advertising, in large blue letters, an important school contest which was taking place that evening.

BENKINSOP’S DEBATING SOCIETY

PRESENTS

AN INTER-SCHOOL DEBATE

BENKINSOP’S v. LOWER GREBE A.S.G.

Myra Rosenbloom (3rd Form) v. Doris Hack

Carole Finnegan (4th Form) v. Betty Bull

Rosita Costello (5th Form) v. Anne Smith

MAIN DEBATE

PENELOPE PARKERHOUSE (Head Girl)

v.

TESS DUBERVILLE (School Captain, A.S.G.)

“That’s a real good bill you’ve put on tonight,” Fiorelli commented, indicating the poster as they went by.

“We try to put on the best possible show for these occasions,” Miss Benkinsop replied. “Of course, our girls have so many advantages over the A.S.G. that the results are mostly foregone conclusions.”

“Not in the Main Debate though,” Fiorelli suggested.

“That remains to be seen,” answered Miss Benkinsop, leading the way to a door marked “CELLARS. No Admittance”. “It keeps people from straying around,” she apologised as Fiorelli looked at the sign. “I hate visitors prying, unless they are properly escorted.”

“I can imagine,” Fiorelli grinned, for the Prep. classes at Benkinsop’s were famous in his social set.

Going down into the basement, Fiorelli looked at the various doors which led off from the passage at the foot of the stairs. Each had a red light above it, but in most cases the bulb was dull and not operating.

“I did warn you that there might not be many classes tonight,” Miss Benkinsop remarked. “We prefer the girls to attend and support the Debating Team.”

“There’re three classes, at least,” Fiorelli replied, glancing at the lights which were on. “And we wouldn’t have time to look in on many more before the Main Debate.”

“You’re right, of course,” Miss Benkinsop agreed. “Come this way, please.”

Feeling a growing sense of anticipation, Fiorelli followed Miss Benkinsop to one of the illuminated doors. A neatly-printed sign was attached to it.