Sacrificial Ground

10

It was almost nine the next morning when Frank arrived at Northfield Academy. It was located only a few miles from Angelica’s house, and its grounds were shaded by similarly elegant trees. A rich summer greenness swept out all around the few buildings that dotted the campus; their exteriors looked as if they’d been designed to remind students of the glory that was Greece. The main building was larger than the rest, and its tall, Doric columns looked down upon a wide, cobblestone driveway.

The summer session had already begun, and Frank made his way toward the building through a steady stream of students. They were very well dressed in the latest teenage fashions, and in their midst, Frank felt like some bit of flotsam that had somehow managed to enter a bright, shimmering stream.

The crowds of young people thickened as he entered the building. They flowed around him in all directions, glancing at him indifferently and continuing their own daily routines. But one of them finally took pity and stopped in front of him.

“You look lost,” she said.

“I am.”

The girl smiled cheerfully. “Maybe I can help you.”

“I’m looking for the headmaster’s office.”

“Oh, that’s easy,” the girl said brightly. “Just go straight down this hallway. It’s the last door on your right.”

“Thanks,” Frank said, and did as she had told him.

A single desk confronted him as he went through the door. A well-dressed middle-aged woman sat behind it. A short, slightly overweight man in gold-rimmed glasses stood over her, pointing something out in a letter. “Just change that one line,” he said, “and then get it out right away. Mr. Douglas has been expecting it for a while.” He laughed lightly. “I think we’ve sunk the hook in pretty deep on this one, and it’s time to reel it in.”

The two of them laughed conspiratorially, then the man looked up at Frank.

“May I help you?” he asked.

Frank pulled out his badge. “Frank Clemons,” he said.

The man’s face whitened. “Oh, yes, so sad,” he said. “Please come in.” He hustled Frank into an adjoining office and quickly closed the door. “The other detective said you’d be coming by. I can’t tell you how sorry we all are about Angelica.”

Frank took out his notebook. “Of course,” he said.

“There’s some talk of a memorial gift, actually,” the man said.

“You’re Albert Morrison, right?” Frank asked. “The headmaster?”

“That’s correct,” Morrison told him. “And as I was saying, a memorial gift has been discussed. Arthur Cummings has expressed an interest.”

Frank looked up. “You know Cummings?”

“Of course. He’s one of the trustees of the Academy.”

Frank wrote it down.

“And of course,” Morrison went on, “he’s very interested that the school be protected.”

“Protected? From what?”

“Well, to use an old Victorian word, scandal,” Morrison said. “I mean, she had been a student here. As you know, she was a member of the senior class. She only graduated a few weeks ago.” He smiled thinly. “One other thing, I want you to know that Northfield will cooperate fully with your investigation. After all, we consider every student, whether past or present, to be a member of our extended family.”

“When did Angelica graduate?”

“June first.”

Frank wrote it down.

“On the grounds of the Academy,” Morrison added. “That’s been our tradition.”

“How old is the school?”

“Fifteen years old,” Morrison said. “Angelica was a good student here. Her death is a tragic loss for the entire community of Northfield. I do think a memorial gift would be appropriate. I was thinking of a flagstaff, or, if the donations warrant it, perhaps even a new addition to the theater.”

“How many students were in her graduating class?” Frank asked.

“Twenty-five,” Morrison said. “It was a beautiful ceremony. We had a string ensemble. They played Mozart.”

Frank nodded dully. To celebrate his own graduation, he and a few of his classmates had bought an old car and pushed it off a cliff. It seemed now to have fallen as quickly and resoundingly as their own ambitions.

“How well did you know Angelica?” he asked.

“I try to know all the students here. And I mean more than just their names.”

“How well did you know Angelica?”

Morrison seemed lost in thought. “She was very beautiful.”

“How well did you know her, Mr. Morrison?” Frank asked, this time with a slight edge in his voice.

“Well, less than most,” Morrison admitted. “Less than any, if you want to know the truth. She was not a terribly approachable human being.”

“Did she have many friends at the school?”

“I really don’t know.”

“Well, did you ever see her with other students?”

“Rarely.”

“But sometimes?”

“Yes, I suppose.”

“Who were they?”

Morrison hesitated. “You mean, the names?”

“Yes.”

“What would you do with them?”

“I’d look them up in your little student directory,” Frank told him coolly, “and then I’d go talk to them.”

“That could be embarrassing.”

“One of their friends is dead,” Frank reminded him. He waited for this to sink in. Then he fired again. “She was pregnant, did you know that?”

Morrison winced. “Yes.”

“How?”

“Arthur told me,” Morrison said. “He felt Northfield should be warned.”

“About six weeks pregnant,” Frank said, “which would mean that she was pregnant at her graduation.”

Morrison’s eyes lowered mournfully. “Yes, of course.”

Frank leaned forward slightly. “Do you have any idea who the father might have been?”

“None at all,” Morrison said. He shook his head worriedly. “One incident like this can have a terrible effect upon a school like Northfield.” His lips curled downward. “All you need is one rotten apple.”

“Is that how you thought of Angelica?”

Morrison looked like a child who’d been caught using bad language. “Well, no,” he sputtered, “of course not. I mean, she was very—”

“Beautiful, yes,” Frank interrupted. “What else?”

“Odd, that’s all.”

“In what way?”

“She didn’t participate in school activities very much,” Morrison said. “We stress community life at Northfield. We like joiners.”

“And Angelica wasn’t one?”

“Hardly,” Morrison said with barely concealed disapproval. “She was very much to herself most of the time. I don’t think she ever attended a school dance, or any other school function for that matter.” He thought a moment, and something caught in his mind. “Except one.”

“Which was?”

“The senior play,” Morrison said. “She was in the senior play.”

“When was that?”

“You’d have to ask Mr. Jameson; he directed it.”

“Where could I find him?”

“He’s probably in the theater right now,” Morrison said. “We do have a summer theater program.”

Frank wrote it all down.

“She was quite good, actually,” Morrison added. “Everyone was impressed.” He shook his head. “I do wish we could have helped her more.”

“In what?”

“In life,” Morrison said. “When you teach children, you realize how unprepared they are for life.” He smiled gently. “We send them into a wilderness, Mister …”

“Clemons.”

“Mr. Clemons, yes. We do the best we can, but it’s not always enough.”

“Would you say that Angelica was withdrawn, moody, anything like that?” Frank asked.

“From the life of this campus,” Morrison said. “She was very withdrawn from that. Perhaps she had something else. Other people who were pulling her away from us.”

“Toward the Southside?” Frank asked.

“Well, that’s where she was found, after all.”

“How did you know that?”

“It was in the paper,” Morrison said. He took a folded newspaper from the table behind his desk and handed it to Frank. “See?”

Frank opened the paper. Angelica’s Northfield photograph stared up at him from the front page.

“She should have been in the paper,” Morrison said, “but not like this. As an actress, perhaps, or something else equally meaningful.” He shook his head. “But not this.”

Frank handed the newspaper back to him.

Morrison glanced at it again, then allowed his eyes to drift toward one of the Civil War portraits that hung on the opposite wall. It seemed to calm him, as if he had discovered something sweet and beautiful within it which the hectic world of upper-class education could not give him.

“I believe in tradition, Mr. Clemons,” he said, finally. “I don’t believe I should have to apologize for that.” He looked back toward Frank. “When I think of Angelica, I think of someone who was drifting, who had no traditions to stand on.”

“Maybe she didn’t like them,” Frank said.

“Of course, that’s possible.”

“Why did she go to this school?”

“It was not her choice.”

“Whose was it?”

“Arthur Cummings chose the school.”

“He made her go here?”

“He administered her trust fund,” Morrison said. “Part of it was allocated for Angelica’s education. Arthur elected to spend that money at Northfield.”

Frank wrote it down.

“And may I add that I think Arthur made a wise choice?” Morrison said. “He was trying to help Angelica. But some people simply cannot be helped.”

From the tone of his voice, Frank would have thought that he was talking about the kind of girl who ended up on her back, waiting for the next trick.

“What did Cummings want her to be?” he asked.

“Responsible,” Morrison replied. “A credit to her family. A woman of some standing in the community.” He looked at Frank sadly. “Isn’t that what everyone wants for his children?”

Frank said nothing, but in his mind he suddenly asked himself what he had wanted for his own daughter. It struck him that he’d wanted only for her to live through all the stages of life, and, at the end, to have had some sense that it had been worthwhile.

“If she’d just allowed herself to join in with the other people at Northfield, she’d have been all right,” Morrison said confidently.

For a moment, Frank actually tried to see the world as Morrison did, but he found that he could not comprehend his vision of a clearly divided world where a human being remained safe in one place and was imperiled by another. Instead he saw it as a constantly melding landscape, one in which there were no isolated lands, no insurmountable walls, no places so high that the tide could not rush in and sweep everything away.

“I’ll need copies of the student and faculty directory,” he said.

“I hope you’ll use them discreetly,” Mr. Morrison told him.

“And could you tell me where the theater is? I need to talk to this Mr. Jameson.”

“The building just behind this one,” Morrison said. He walked Frank out of the office and stood with him a moment in the corridor. “I am sorry about Angelica,” he said. “I hope you understand that.”

Frank nodded. There seemed nothing left to say.