get satisfactory roles.”
“Quite brilliant,” says Crawler Batson.
“What’s it called?” says Penny.
“The Rat Trap,” says Miss Murdstone proudly.
Penny shakes her head. “It’s amazing but that name rings a bell, somehow.”
“Me too.” I say. “It doesn’t feature a police inspector who arrives on skis?”
“Water skis.” says Miss Murdstone, firmly. “The school is built on stilts in the middle of the Indian Ocean.”
“Oh,” I say. “I made a mistake. This school was nothing like that. In fact it was a hotel.”
“Vole Trap? Guinea Pig Trap? Hampster Trap?” Penny snaps her fingers. “I know it will come to me in a minute.”
“You may possibly be thinking of The Mouse Trap by Miss Agatha Christie.” Miss Murdstone’s voice has more than a hint of scorn in it. “I can assure you that my piece owes nothing to that work. The similarity of title is purely coincidental—and I say that out of deference to Miss Christie. I was thinking of my play years before she first dashed pen to paper.”
“You mean she stole your idea?” says Miss Batson.
Miss Murdstone waves her arms about airily. “I would never dream of saying that,” she says. “It was just one of those occasions on which, unbeknownst to each other, two great artists were waking—I mean, working on the same idea.”
“Fascinating!” exploded Miss Batson. She looks round the room for support but everyone is gazing out of the window.
“I think it would probably be overweaning of me to play a role myself,” says Miss Murdstone.
“Yes,” says Miss Batson.
Miss Murdstone frowns. “On the other hand it could be said that, as the writer of the play, I am the best person to understand the motivations of the principal characters.”
Miss Batson grabs the drift just in time. “Of course, of course. That probably outweighs the other consideration.”
“I think it does,” says Miss Murdstone firmly. “I will have to play Inspector Braithwaite.”
“Does that mean you’re playing a man?” I ask.
“Of course not!” snaps Miss Murdstone. “They have female inspectors.”
“All the men I know are female inspectors,” whispers Penny.
Miss Murdstone looks up sharply. “I find that kind of remark in very bad taste,” she says. “Any more of it and I’ll put you down for an extra week’s art class supervision.”
“I wanted to mention that, Miss Murdstone,” says Miss Honeycomb. “A lot of the girls are complaining about having to work in the quarry.”
“Stuff and nonsense!” storms Miss Murdstone. “We bought them new picks, didn’t we? How do they think we’re going to get the stone for the sculpture classes?”
“But we don’t have any sculpture classes.”
Miss Murdstone claps her hands together in exasperation. “That’s because we haven’t unearthed the right stone yet, isn’t it? Those lorries the girls load are taking the stone away to be tested.”
“Oh, I see,” says Miss Honeycomb. “I’ll tell the girls that. And I suppose the gravel and sand are being removed to clear the way for the mining operation?”
“Exactly!” says Miss Murdstone. “Don’t give any credence to these wild stories that are going around. The girls are only chained together to prevent them slipping down the side of the quarry.”
“Parents are going to be invited to the play, are they?” asks Penny.
“I thought I’d made that crystal clear,” says Miss Murdstone comtemptuously. “Furthermore I think it would be a good idea if we got some famous thespian who was a former pupil of the school to present a prize for the most promising actress.”
Miss Batson claps her hand to her mouth. “Ooh, wouldn’t it be funny if you won it, Headmistress—Oooh! Did you hear what I said? I’m sorry but with poor Miss Grimshaw still so poorly, I can’t help thinking of you as her natural successor.”
It is all I can do to stop bringing up my puffed rice but Miss Murdstone purrs like an armchair-bound moggy. “Thank you, Batson,” she says. “Your faith is touching. Now, can anyone think of an old girl who has made a name for herself on the stage?”
“Dame Sybil Thorndyke,” says Miss Batson eagerly.
“I meant an old girl of the school!” hisses Miss Murdstone.
There is a long silence before Miss Honeycomb puts down her petit point and speaks. “I can remember Muriel Chills.”
“Muriel Chills? That doesn’t ring a bell.”
“I think she’s now called Gloria Van de Bust. I read about her in the paper.”
“The striptease dancer who was prosecuted for causing unnecessary suffering to a boa constrictor!?” Miss Murdstone looks appropriately horrified. “We don’t want her!”
“There must be someone else,” says Miss Batson. “I can’t believe that in a school of this size—”
“Robin Brentford!” says Miss Marjoribanks, who has been helping Miss Wilton with her collection of pressed ferns.
“He wasn’t here, was he?” says Miss Batson.
“No, but Syllabub Brentford is his daughter, isn’t she?”
The thought makes me go all dithery. Robin Brentford whose gorgeous moustachioed mug has had pride of place in the drawer of my bedside table ever since I arrived at St Rodence. The man who made me forget Dr Eradlik of Casualty Ward, my favourite T.V. star. Can his flesh and blood actually reside under the same roof? I feel like rushing round and asking for an autograph.
“Who is Robin Brentford?” asks Miss Murdstone.
Stupid old crone! I could scratch her eyes out sometimes. “He’s the star of The Implausibles,” I say.
“There’s no need to shout!” Miss Murdstone dabs at her eye with a handkerchief. “I’m not deaf, you know. What is The Implausibles? Some kind of television programme?” The poor, deluded old fool does not realise that Robin Brentford is a star. He has opened more supermarkets than she has had hot dinners.
“I believe it attracts a large following,” says Miss Honeycomb. “The girls were most distressed when the television broke down just before last night’s show.”
“So that’s what the flames were,” says Miss Murdstone. “I thought one of the stills had gone up again.”
“Do you think we can get him down here?”
