Alexander frowned.
“You don’t scare me.”
Alexander kept frowning.
“Not even with that mask.”
More frowning.
“Fine. But remember, she’s my friend, and even if she did kill him, she helped the school. You have no idea how bad things were. It was self-defense.”
“I know about the burlap.”
“Daisy was allergic to burlap!” Miss Brontë pulled out her notebook and scribbled what looked like He knows about the burlap. “All right, go ahead and solve the murder, but don’t arrest anyone I like.”
He tried not to smile. “I make no promises, Miss Brontë.”
Several minutes later, Alexander found himself in the center of the parlor, with teachers and students (both living and dead) all standing in a circle like an audience. It was quite crowded, and everyone seemed to be talking at once, going back and forth about the murder, the improved situation since, and the latest theories about who’d done it.
And . . . there was an even more uncomfortable topic spreading from the back of the room. More uncomfortable than murder. More uncomfortable than the murderer likely being in the room with them. And that was—
“A boy,” one of the girls said, and she didn’t exactly say it quietly enough to avoid Alexander’s notice. “A boy here.”
“I’ve never seen a boy so tall.” That was another girl in the back. “With hair so black.”
“You’ve never seen a boy, so you don’t know if this one is tall or not.”
“He looks like someone straight out of a story.”
“Do you think he’s come to marry one of us?”
“He’s probably here to marry a teacher.”
“Miss Scatcherd? Or Miss Smith?”
“No, probably Miss Temple. She’s so pretty. Imagine what beautiful babies they’d have.”
Alexander felt his face going red under his mask, and it wasn’t long before the living half of the girls were finger-combing their hair and pinching one another’s cheeks. Some of the dead girls started, too.
Quickly, he found the line of teachers near the door. One was definitely a Miss Scatcherd, if the sour expression on her face was any indication. The second was a tall, lovely woman, possibly Miss Temple. The third might have been a Miss Smith. And the fourth was the girl from the pub.
Their eyes met, and the young lady blushed and looked away.
“You,” he said, approaching her. “What’s your name?”
Her mouth moved, and some sort of sound came out, but it was too soft to hear under the students bouncing where they stood.
“Oh my gosh!” one of the girls whisper-screamed. “He’s here to marry Miss Eyre!”
Miss Eyre. The same girl Miss Brontë thought killed Mr. Brocklehurst.
Alexander sighed, but at least he’d found her. “Miss Eyre,” he said, “may I speak with you privately?”
Miss Eyre didn’t say a word, but when he went out of the room, she followed after a bit of prodding from Miss Temple.
Just before he closed the door, Miss Brontë caught his eye. Do not arrest her! she mouthed.
“Miss Eyre,” he said once the door was closed and they had the hallway to themselves. “I’ve come to speak to you.”
“To me, sir? Everyone says you’re here to solve the murder.”
“Not originally,” he said. “I came here to see you.”
“Why me? I didn’t do anything.”
Well, she might have murdered Mr. Brocklehurst, but that was beside the point.
“Of course you did nothing wrong,” he said quickly. “I’m with the Society for the Relocation of Wayward Spirits. You may have heard of us.”
Miss Eyre said nothing.
“Well, I assume you’ve heard of us. Is that why you came to the pub last night? Because you learned we would be coming?”
Miss Eyre said nothing.
Alexander cleared his throat. “I know you were able to see the ghost. That would make you what we call a seer.”
Miss Eyre . . . still said nothing.
He tried a new tactic. “You shouldn’t be ashamed of what you can do. It’s actually a rare and valuable gift. It makes you unique. Special.”
Her brow rumpled, but still she said nothing.
“At the Society we are in great need of such talented individuals. Normally we don’t employ women, of course, but in this case I think an exception could be made.”
Nothing.
“I’m trying to offer you a job,” he said. “At the Society.”
Her eyes widened slightly. That was obviously not what she’d been expecting.
“What do you think, Miss Eyre?” he prompted.
“I think . . .” She frowned.
Of course she must be overwhelmed, to have such a sudden, wonderful turn of her fortunes.
“I think I must decline. I’m going to be a governess,” she said.
Alexander’s mouth dropped open. “A governess! Why?”
“It’s my life’s dream. I’ve always wanted to be one. I think children are adorable.”
“But . . .” He was completely flummoxed. “What are your qualifications for being a governess?” Because she clearly had the single most important qualification to be a Society agent: she could see ghosts.
“My qualifications?” Miss Eyre shook her head. “Why, I was meant to be a governess.” She rattled off a list of things she could do: something about Latin verbs and pianoforte and high marks in classic literature.
He frowned. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
“I’m going to be a governess,” she said. “Thank you very much.”
Alexander scowled. “Are you sure I can’t persuade you to join the Society? If you’ll just come with me to London, I can show you—”
“I’m going to be a governess!” Miss Eyre pressed her hands to her mouth. “Excuse me. Can we get on with the murder investigation?” She turned on her heel and opened the door to the parlor.
Several girls jumped back (Miss Brontë included) and scattered to the other side of the room, as though they definitely hadn’t been trying to listen at the door. Fortunately for Alexander, he hadn’t been speaking about the whole seer and job thing with much volume. By now, the students had probably decided on names for the children they imagined he and Jane Eyre would create.
Awkward.
Confused over the less-than-favorable response to his job proposal, Alexander turned to leave.
“Wait,” called one of the girls. “Did you solve the murder?”
Alexander glanced from Miss Eyre to Brocklehurst to the door and back to Miss Eyre. “Should I?”
“Yes,” several girls cried.
“No!” said Miss Brontë.
The latter was outvoted. Alexander strode into the center of the room. His eyes landed on Miss Temple. “Please tell me what you know about the poisoning.” Now that the seer had turned him down, he wanted to get back to his inn.
Miss Scatcherd prodded Miss Temple. “Go on. He wants to talk to you.”
A couple of the students in the back whispered that he’d left Miss Eyre for Miss Temple, and what a scandal it was. “This is like a real live romance novel,” one girl said. “I can’t stand the tension. Who will he choose?”