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  Copyright © 2017 by Radha Vatsal

  Cover and internal design © 2017 by Sourcebooks, Inc.

  Cover design by Sourcebooks, Inc.

  Cover image © Alan Ayers/Lott Reps

  Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks, Inc.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks, Inc.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Apart from well-known historical figures, any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Published by Sourcebooks Landmark, an imprint of Sourcebooks, Inc.

  P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410

  (630) 961-3900

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  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Vatsal, Radha.

  Title: Murder between the lines / Radha Vatsal.

  Description: Naperville, IL : Sourcebooks Landmark, [2017] | Includes bibliographical references and index.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2016052526 | (pbk. : alk. paper)

  Subjects: | GSAFD: Mystery fiction.

  Classification: LCC PS3622.A885 M87 2017 | DDC 813/.6--dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2016052526

  Contents

  Front Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Author’s Note

  Further Reading

  Reading Group Guide

  Selected References and Resources

  An Excerpt from A Front Page Affair

  A Conversation with the Author

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Back Cover

  Chapter One

  “Did you or did you not remove the book from Ruth’s desk?” Miss Howe-Jones, headmistress of Westfield Hall, stared down at the pupil in her chilly, slate-floored office, a panorama of portraits of graduating classes hanging from the walls. “Stand up straight, Virginia, and look me in the eye. No blubbering.”

  Hair braided in two loops on either side of her head and tied with white ribbon, Virginia attempted to do as she was ordered, but her lower lip trembled, and her eyes filled with tears. She couldn’t have been more than eleven or twelve years old.

  Ladies’ Page reporter Capability “Kitty” Weeks shifted uncomfortably in her carved, high-backed visitor’s chair. She really ought not be here; minutes ago, she had offered to leave, but Miss Howe-Jones had insisted she remain and observe. “We run a tight ship at Westfield,” the headmistress had said, lips breaking into a thin smile before beginning her interrogation.

  Kitty glanced out of the leaded glass window. Snow fell in gentle drifts, covering the school’s Gothic campus. A group of girls, bundled in coats and hand muffs, chatted and giggled as they shuffled along in two lines under the supervision of a schoolmistress.

  “I’m waiting, Virginia.” Miss Howe-Jones spoke firmly. She wore her salt-and-pepper hair swept off her forehead in a bun and sported an old-fashioned, high-collared blouse with a heavy jeweled brooch clasped at her throat. Beside a potted poinsettia on her desk lay a copy of The Automobile Girls Along the Hudson.

  “I just wanted to read it.” Tears rolled down Virginia’s cheeks.

  “See, that wasn’t so bad. All you had to do was admit the truth.”

  “Yes, Miss Howe-Jones.”

  “So much grief over nothing.” The headmistress handed the book over. “Please return this at once. And which penalty would you prefer? Delivering mail or tidying up after lunch?”

  Virginia didn’t hesitate. “Delivering mail, please.”

  “Very well. You will begin tomorrow and then continue after the holidays.”

  “Yes, Miss Howe-Jones.” She wiped away her tears with the back of her hand.

  “That’s all. You can go now.”

  Virginia dropped a quick curtsy and left the room. Miss Howe-Jones turned to Kitty. “I know you won’t report this incident, but I did want you to be aware that we don’t rely on corporal punishment at Westfield, and our students—all boarders—benefit from the manner in which I handle discipline. I’m responsible for sixty girls, Miss Weeks, ranging in age from eleven to eighteen. By the time they leave, all my pupils—even little Miss Virginia—will be fully equipped with strong moral characters. They never forget the lessons they learn from me, and they take those lessons with them as they fulfill their duties as daughters, wives, and mothers, or as exceptional students at Bryn Mawr, Barnard, and Radcliffe.”

  “I’ve heard wonderful things about Westfield Hall.” The school, in the northern reaches of the Bronx, was reputed to be one of the finest girls’ academies in the country. That was why Kitty’s editor at the New York Sentinel had chosen to feature it in Saturday’s issue of the Page and had arranged for her to visit a few days before the students left for Christmas recess.

  “Let’s take a look around, shall we?” Miss Howe-Jones stood.

  Kitty followed the principal out of the office and through the reception room. At nineteen—she’d turn twenty in March—the pretty, dark-haired reporter wasn’t much older than many of the school’s students.

  “I believe you started the school yourself,” Kitty said.

  Miss Howe-Jones nodded, striding down the hallway. “Thirty years ago with just ten students. Even then, I had a way with the girls. I never used harsh punishments, and in addition to a well-rounded education, I provided wholesome meals, plenty of exercise and fresh air.”

  “And what subjects do your pupils study, Miss Howe-Jones?” Kitty asked.

  “Well, we make sure all our girls have already mastered the basics of reading, writing, and penmanship when they enter,” the hea
dmistress replied, “and we offer English, German, and French, as well as Greek or Latin—each girl must choose one, but some do both—history and geography, natural history, music, art, domestic science, health, hygiene, and mathematics.”

  “Lessons are restricted to no more than five hours a day. The girls play tennis and badminton and go on hikes in the spring and fall. They cross-country ski and skate on the pond in winter. And twice a year, they undergo full physical examinations by the nurse to ensure that they’re all in good health… But here we are. Take a look.”

  Behind a closed door fitted with a glass panel so one could keep an eye on things without disturbing the class in progress, three rows of girls, all in white blouses and cream- or peach-colored cardigans, repeated a drill led by an energetic schoolmistress.

  “Madame Pouille, our French teacher,” Miss Howe-Jones whispered.

  “Êtes-vous l’homme?” Madame Pouille enunciated each word clearly and loudly, her piercing voice audible from behind the closed door.

  “Je le suis.” A chorus of girls responded.

  “Êtes-vous sa mere?”

  “Je la suis.”

  Kitty smiled. She had loved her French lessons and had an excellent ear for languages.

  “We have German across the hall,” Miss Howe-Jones said. “Some parents have threatened to remove their daughters from the class, but I’ve explained to them that education is education. A language is a language. We must keep it separate from politics.”

  She was referring to the European war, which had recently crossed the one-year mark, and although the United States was officially neutral, people still took sides—increasingly against Germany and Austria-Hungary, and in favor of England and its allies, France and Russia.

  Kitty, who had studied French and German for ten years at her boarding school in Switzerland and had friends on both sides, felt the effects of the struggle keenly. “I think German is a wonderful language.”

  “Do you?”

  The headmistress’s suspicious look suggested that she thought Kitty was taking fairness too far. After all, mellifluous French was said to be the language of culture, while guttural German sounded stiff and formal.

  “Ah, there’s Miss Howell.”

  A young woman in a long tartan skirt with leather buckles at the side made her way down the hall. She had a trim, athletic figure, a confident gait, and a fresh complexion. Kitty took a liking to her at once.

  “Georgina, come meet Miss Weeks,” Miss Howe-Jones called. “She’s a reporter at the New York Sentinel.”

  “A reporter for the Sentinel?” Georgina Howell gasped, hurrying over. “At the Ladies’ Page?” Her eyes widened as Kitty smiled. “You write those wonderful interviews? Did you do the one with Anne Morgan as well? I loved it!”

  Kitty’s editor, Helena Busby, wouldn’t have cared for the schoolgirl’s gushing response. She believed that crediting writers by name was déclassé, too much in the vein of the “yellow press” that showed off its female writers, often derisively known as “stunt reporters” or “sob sisters.” Miss Busby credited Kitty only as “Our Correspondent” or “Special Ladies’ Page Journalist,” and so, despite the popularity of some of her stories, Kitty wasn’t well known—and she preferred it that way. There was no reason to court publicity. She’d make a better reporter if she could blend into the background.

  “Don’t jump on Miss Weeks, Georgina!” Miss Howe-Jones corrected her.

  But Georgina couldn’t stop staring. “I’d love to do what you do.”

  “You have plenty of time before you decide,” Miss Howe-Jones said. “At least six months.”

  Kitty laughed. “That’s right. Choose with care.” In the public’s mind, newspaperwomen were just a step removed from actresses and a stumble away from streetwalkers or any other female whose profession entailed conversing with strange men and roaming unsupervised about the city. It explained why Miss Busby preferred not to use names and clung to the conventions of propriety.

  “When they do work,” Miss Howe-Jones went on, “Westfield Hall graduates take up teaching or nursing, librarianship or charitable endeavors.”

  “The more ladylike pursuits.” Kitty understood the headmistress’s caution, although she didn’t agree with it.

  The principal nodded. “Exactly. Georgina, I’d like you to show Miss Weeks the yearbook and then take her over to the science lab when we’re finished, but for the moment, please return to your studies.”

  “Yes, Miss Howe-Jones.” Georgina curtsied.

  “Georgina is one of our best pupils and our head girl,” Miss Howe-Jones said with pride as her student disappeared down the hall. She opened the door to a classroom, and Kitty found herself transported to a world she had forgotten about, although barely a few years ago, it was the only world she knew.

  Chalk dust flying as she wrote, a teacher jotted a mathematics question on the blackboard. “A parlor is 15 feet 9 inches square. The height of the ceilings is 11 feet 6 inches. What would be the cost of plastering the walls and ceilings at $0.33 per square yard? How much would be saved by having the ceiling calcimined at a cost of $0.18 a square yard? And what would be the cost of wainscoting the outside hall, which is 30 feet long, 8 feet wide, 12 feet 8 inches high, at a cost of $0.40 a square yard?” The teacher turned to face the class and noticed Kitty and the headmistress standing in the doorway.

  “Reporter from the Sentinel. Don’t mind us.” Miss Howe-Jones waved her hand. “In mathematics,” she whispered to Kitty, “we focus on problems of a practical nature. Ones that our girls might face in life. It keeps them engaged.”

  The teacher held out her chalk. “Perhaps our visitor would like to try for herself and see how she fares?”

  Kitty blushed as a room full of faces turned to stare at her. “You will have to excuse me, ma’am. I’m a bit rusty at the moment.”

  They moved on to a geography lesson in the room next door. “It’s so important to be fully acquainted with the world, don’t you think?” Miss Howe-Jones held the door open, allowing Kitty to enter first.

  “Who will read from Morton’s, page thirty-three?” A bespectacled school mistress who was nearly as round as she was tall held a textbook in one hand and pointed to a globe on her desk with a stick.

  Hands shot up.

  “Go ahead, Miss Appley.”

  Miss Appley stood. “East of Tibet is the plain of China, which we may call the ‘Yellow Land,’ as it is the home of the yellow people and much of its soil is yellow. The Huang He—He means river—carries so much of this soil that it is called the Yellow River. It is also sometimes called ‘China’s Sorrow,’ because of the great losses of life and property caused by its floods.”

  “Can anyone name another important river in China?”

  Again, several hands shot up.

  Kitty realized she missed being in school. She had enjoyed the easy camaraderie of school friends and the excitement of learning something new each day, but more than that, she missed the security that came from believing that every problem could be solved and every question had a right answer.

  Most of the world now spinning beneath the teacher’s fingers had gone up in flames and the noxious effects of Europe’s war could be felt as far away as Asia, Africa, and the Middle East. Even all the way to New York City, as Kitty had learned this past summer when she inadvertently stumbled upon evidence of wrongdoing by those who should have known better.

  “I’ll send for Georgina.” Miss Howe-Jones beckoned Kitty outside. “You should take advantage of your time with her to see the school from a student’s perspective.”

  Minutes later, Kitty was heading back down the hall, following the head girl’s brisk footsteps.

  “So you’d like to be a reporter?” Kitty asked now that they were alone.

  Georgina grimaced. “Miss Howe-Jones hates the idea. She wants me to go on t
o Bryn Mawr and study the classics. I think it’s her dream to have one student at the pinnacle of each realm—that female professor? That society matron? That botanist? All Westfield women. But why not something different? It’s so old-fashioned.”

  “And what happens if you don’t agree with her?”

  “No one disagrees with Miss Howe-Jones.” Georgina opened the door to a closet-sized office. She picked up the mock-up of a large volume lying on the desk. “This is a Westfield Hall tradition. Our annual yearbook. I’m the editor.”

  “May I take a look?”

  Georgina Howell handed it over, and Kitty flipped through the pages.

  “We include essays and photographs from events during the year but”—Georgina pointed as Kitty neared the end—“this part is everyone’s favorite.”

  Beneath photographs of the girls, arranged alphabetically by surname, a few lines of description summed up each student of “The Graduating Class of 1915–1916.”

  Of stature, Joan is passing tall,

  And sparsely formed and lean withal.

  Mistress Mary, who does not want to vote,

  To home and its beauties her time shall devote.

  “Do you write this?” she asked.

  “The entire yearbook committee contributes.”

  Kitty read on. A photograph of a beautiful, composed young woman was followed by the words, I strove with none, for none was worth my strife.

  And then, beneath a round-faced student: “Baby” we call her not unkindly, Merely because she seems in manner set, And hates the little epithet.

  “Isn’t this a bit mean?” The faces and nicknames in the yearbook reminded her of so many bugs pinned to a board, their peculiarities neatly labeled for all to examine.

  Georgina shrugged. “It’s just a little teasing. That’s part and parcel of being here. What doesn’t kill you only makes you stronger.”

  Kitty didn’t agree. The headmistresses at her boarding school had been members of the Theosophical Society. They followed no set religious practices and urged their charges to seek the truth themselves. Moreover, they discouraged close friendships. No “best” friends, no groups, no name-calling. Of course, such behavior occurred, but it was never condoned, and it never would have been enshrined in print.