France, 1873

 The blood-chilling scream echoed through the dark corridors. It seemed to cascade down the staircase to the floor below. Its vibrations could be felt even into the basement, into the kitchen where the domestic staff were busily preparing the breakfast trays.

A number of young ladies appeared from behind closed doors still in their night attire with looks of anxiety and confusion upon their faces. Under their pretty white mop hats long tresses tumbled over slim shoulders, and clenched fists muffled the sounds of fear that longed to escape their lips.

Francoise, the cook, with powdery flour particles floating from her hands and apron, came up from the kitchen as quickly as her rather rotund body could allow. She was shadowed closely by Emmaline and Janie, the scullery maids. Pierre, the doorman, bounded up the main staircase as if the building was on fire. The scream seemed to have come from one of the private bedrooms on the first floor. He was met by the terrified figure of tiny Ellie, one of the chambermaids. She was shaking and sobbing uncontrollably. Pierre couldn’t make out what she was trying to articulate. She kept on pointing towards the third room on the left, so he raced past her, and she dissolved into Francoise’s floury bosom.

 What greeted Pierre was something he would never forget. There she was in the centre of the room, hanging from a carefully knotted noose of white sheeting ... the beautiful, exceptionally talented Miss Caroline Esme Worthington, daughter of the highly respected Lord and Lady James Worthington of Windsor, London.

Caroline’s perfect youthful body, attired in a fine white muslin nightgown, hung limp, suspended in the air, a tipped-over chair on the floor below. Her face was devoid of any colour, except for a sprinkling of freckles here and there. Her head hung so much to one side that it was obvious her neck had been broken. Her previously crystal blue eyes protruded in a pool of greyness, and her glorious mop of thick auburn hair shone in the morning light that heralded the dawning of another lovely day.

Pierre stood as if in a trance, fixing his gaze on the tragic young woman’s delicate feet, hanging so daintily, like a pair of soft pink transparent ballet shoes, and yet the feet were bare. So much sweetness and beauty, but all life had gone forever!  

Madame Boussante, La Principale, caught unaware in her proper night attire, strode along the passageway on the first floor to the central staircase. She indicated quite strictly that the girls were to return to their separate dormitories immediately, and prepare for their morning prayers before breakfast. She then entered the private room of Mademoiselle Worthington and stood beside Pierre.  

“What can you tell me, Pierre?” she asked, in her usual brusque, unruffled manner.

“Well, Madame, there is a sealed envelope on the desk under the window.”

As the pair made their way over to the window they noticed something in the shadows beside the desk. It was a cat, Caroline’s marmalade cat, Matilda. But it too was dead. It appeared to have been strangled with a ribbon. A lifeless pile of magnificent titian-mottled fur, never to purr again.

“What on earth could have caused her to do this?” Madame asked the space, not really expecting an answer. “Well, get her down, man! We certainly don’t want this sort of thing to disrupt the order of the day.” She had a certain attitude of aloofness which Pierre found disconcerting to say the least. Sometimes he felt the woman who ran this elite school had no heart.

The letter was sealed and addressed to Dr James Worthington in England. They really did not have the right to open it. But then Pierre noticed a crumpled piece of paper on the floor beside the bed. As he slowly unravelled it, he looked up to Madame Boussante almost asking her permission to do so. It was a letter recently received by Miss Caroline from Lord Worthington. Before there was the slightest chance of anyone reading the contents, both letters were snatched rather abruptly by the Principale and tucked securely into the pocket of her dressing gown.

 First things first. It would be just another day at Le College Sainte Catherine a Chatillon pour Mesdemoiselles, as if nothing unusual had taken place. Madame Boussante gave her instructions to the staff and life returned to normal as best it could. When the girls were caught whispering in little groups around the cloisters, the stern teachers were told to hurry them on to their various classes with no chatter.

In between eating her breakfast omelette from a tray specially brought to her private office, Madame sent a message by courier to report the incident to the authorities. She stressed the fact that she didn’t want a fuss, as nothing, absolutely nothing, was to bring the reputation of her elite College into jeopardy.

Eventually on the advice of Sergeant Gaston from the Chatillon Police Station, a telegram marked ‘Personal and Urgent’ was forwarded to the dead girl’s parents, Lord and Lady James Worthington in Windsor. There had never been a suicide at the College for the betterment of young ladies before, and it left a rather horrid taste in Madame Boussante’s mouth.

Pierre was made responsible for removing the unfortunate girl’s body and organising the undertaker to put it in a casket as soon as the police had finished with their examinations. The casket would be kept in the cellar awaiting instructions from the girl’s parents. It may be that they would wish the body to be taken over the Channel to England for burial.

“Petite Mademoiselle Caroline! Mais pourquoi?” said Pierre later that evening as he and Francoise shared a glass of red wine together in the warm kitchen. “Such a waste, and for what!”

“C’est tragique! We will never understand the minds of the English aristocracy, Pierre,” Francoise responded. “These young women are so indulged from the moment they come into the world. The smallest upset and they fall to pieces. Sometimes I feel sorry for them.”