Page 29 of See Me After Class

She tutted sympathetically. "Oh, dear, I didn't mean to distress you. Here, have another scone. I'll add some butter for you."

As she tended to the tea table, allowing me a moment to compose myself, I murmured an apology. "Sorry, Ms. Wainwright."

"It's quite alright." Handing me a scone with a small bowl of cherry jam, she added, "You must try this, it's homemade."

In the tranquilityof her home, with the soft swaying of yews in the waning sunlight, I relished the serene moment, a stark contrast to my turbulent thoughts.

Eventually, I broached the subject. "You must be wondering about my return to the Institute."

"Yes, it did catch me by surprise," she admitted, her tone cautious. "Not that it's my place to comment, but when I heard you joined the staff, it was quite unexpected. I thought you'd be eager to leave the past behind."

"I wish it were that simple," I confessed. "But I felt a pull to be here, to honor Oswald's memory. There are too many unfinished chapters in this story."

Ms. Wainwright looked at me with a hint of disapproval. "You're still so young," she remarked, as if my youth were a temporary affliction. "And you were flourishing in Newhaven. Why abandon a promising future there? You're free to explore the world, unburdened by financial constraints."

A faint smile crossed my lips. "Oswald wouldn't have wanted a life of frivolity for me. I believe he left his fortune for the betterment of the Institute, not for me to indulge in a life of luxury. That would contradict everything he stood for."

"Indeed." Ms. Wainwright's gaze hardened. "But that still doesn't clarify your presence here, or your decision to use an alias. Could it be a fear of accusations of favoritism?"

"That's a part of it," I acknowledged with a shrug. "But it's not the crux of the matter. I'm here to delve into the essence of Oswald's life, his work in this vast research institute and its myriad complexities. Frankly, I don't possess the requisite expertise to helm such an endeavor."

"I should think not," Ms. Wainwright interjected, visibly taken aback. "That responsibility falls to the board and the trustees. You shouldn't have to shoulder such burdens."

"I'm also driven by a need to understand the circumstances of Oswald's untimely demise," I persisted. "The police haven't reached a conclusion. It clearly wasn't a natural death. Despite Uncle Cuthbert's attempts at obfuscation, the truth is that rumors are likely circulating far and wide, even if they haven't reached our ears yet."

Ms. Wainwright's posture stiffened, her face a mask of controlled emotion, betrayed only by the subtle quivering of her hands.

"I am utterly dismayed," she stated, her voice taut with indignation. "While I can't say I'm shocked —given the nature of people— I am deeply aggrieved to hear of such baselessspeculation about Oswald's private affairs. You'd think people would have more decency."

"Is that your interpretation, then?" I queried, observing her closely. "That his murder was motivated by a personal vendetta?"

"What else could it be?" she retorted sharply. "You and I, the ones who cherished him most, are the only ones who might benefit financially from his passing. He had no other close kin or confidants that I'm aware of. So, it seems logical to surmise that the perpetrator was some sort of obsessed lunatic. In a large organization like this, such individuals are not uncommon, though the possibility of an outsider being involved seems unlikely."

Ms. Wainwright's gaze drifted into a distant, solemn reflection, seemingly oblivious to my presence.

After a contemplative silence, she addressed me, her voice tinged with sorrow. "I regret to hear this, truly. And it pains me more to think of you, burdened by such worries. But what benefit lies in uncovering these truths? Oswald's return is beyond our reach. Does any of this truly matter now?"

I leaned in, my gaze locking onto hers with earnest intensity.

"It matters immensely," I declared, my voice resonating with passion. "Someone took his life, brutally and without mercy. I must uncover their identity, Ms. Wainwright. I implore you, aid me in this quest."

For the first time, I witnessed a flicker of fear in Ms. Wainwright's eyes. They widened, revealing her vulnerability, her hands intertwining anxiously.

"Me?" Her voice quavered. "What role could I possibly play, Desdemona? I'm merely an elderly lady, far removed from such sinister matters. And truthfully, I am reluctant to involve myself. It's all so harrowing. Do you genuinely believe we should pursue this path?"

"Yes, your assistance is crucial," I affirmed, sliding a tattered paper across the table. It was the list of names I had discovered at Oswald's home on the night we mourned him. Ms. Wainwright cast a nervous glance at the paper.

"I suspect one of these individuals is the culprit," I stated with a composed urgency. "Please, for Oswald's memory, help me."

Her eyes oscillated between the list and my earnest face, her expression etched with concern. "What would you have me do?" she inquired, her voice laced with worry.

I reclined, maintaining my intense gaze. "Tell me everything you know about them. Everything. I need to know, Ms. Wainwright, and you're the only one I can really trust.”

"Help me understand why my father had to die."

11

John

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