The Sudbury School Murders

Начало книги

"And I want it stopped," Everard Rutledge growled.

One week after my arrival at the Sudbury School in March of 1817, Rutledge faced me over his desk in his private study.

The headmaster had a large, flat face, a bulbous nose, and short graying hair that looked as though perpetually whipped by high wind. His coat hung untidily on his large frame, his ivory waistcoat was rumpled, his yellowing cravat twisted. The effect was as though a bull had climbed into an expensive suit and then gone about its business.

He had just told me a story of vicious pranks that had been perpetrated in the school-a chandelier in the dining hall coming down, a fire in the maids' attic, threatening letters written in blood, and three boys falling ill due to poisoned port.

"Not nice," I remarked. "Worse than the usual pranks boys play on each other."

"Exactly," Rutledge barked. "What do you intend to do about it, eh?"

Читать дальше →