“I can’t imagine you were with Mrs. Lewis all through the night,” Evelyn said. “Where’d you go after?”
“You really want to know?”
She wrinkled her nose. “No, but tell me anyway.”
“I went to the second crime scene on Hanbury Street.”
Her upper lip twitched like the lit fuse of a firework. I waited for the explosion, but she kept her word and didn’t blow up at me. “And what did you find there?” she asked with forced patience.
I showed her the pin. “I have no idea where it’s from. Can’t find a damn thing online about a pin like that.”
She took it between her index finger and thumb. “It’s a prefect pin.”
“A what?”
“A prefect pin,” she repeated, examining it from all sides. “Don’t you remember from school? The prefects wore badges to show off their status.”
Delving into my memories of boarding school with Evelyn, I vaguely remembered that a few older students were elected as prefects. They were assigned to keep the other students in check, especially in the dormitories at night and in the corridors between classes.
“I don’t remember any of them wearing badges,” I said.
“Well, they did.” Evelyn held out the pin to show me the back. “See there? It’s an insignia. Match that to a school, and you’ll find out where your prefect is from.” She rolled off the couch, muffin in hand. “Good luck with that.”
I examined the back of the pin. Sure enough, a tiny emblem was etched into the metal. If I squinted hard enough, I could make out a fleur-de-lis with a pattern of stars around it. I roughly sketched a larger version on a sheet of notebook paper and began my search.
It turned out that an enormous amount of schools in the London area employed prefects. I compiled a list and started at the top, visiting each school’s website to see if their insignia matched the one on the back of the prefect pin. It was slow, boring work. Some of the schools had sub-colleges with different emblems, so I had to sift through those possibilities as well. Other schools had various insignias based on areas of study. Nearly seventy percent of every logo featured a fleur-de-lis. My pulse quickened each time I spotted a new one, but there was always something missing or different between the pin and the websites.
Sometime later, Evelyn leaned over the back of the couch and glanced over my shoulder to see how I was getting on. She observed the map I’d pulled up of all the possible schools in the area. I’d ruled out almost all of them.
“Far be it from me to accuse you of stupidity,” Evelyn began, munching on an apple right next to my ear, “but why are you looking at schools so far away from Whitechapel? Most kids in school don’t have cars. If one of them lost a pin on Hanbury Street, they likely walked or caught a ride from somewhere nearby. Like here—” She pointed to a school on the map that I hadn’t seen. “What’s this one in Lambeth? It’s right across the river.”
I clicked on the school, and the map zoomed in. “Saint Francis Boarding School. How did I miss that?”
Evelyn took a big crunch out of her apple. “What’s the insignia look like?”
I navigated to Saint Francis’s website. As soon as the page loaded, a fleur-de-lis surrounded by stars popped up next to the school’s name. I double-checked the logo to make sure it matched the one on the back of the pin. “That’s it! Evelyn, you’re a genius.”
I hugged her around the neck, and she almost spat bits of the apple into my lap. As I closed my laptop and fetched my shoes, she tossed the core into the bin.
“Where are you going?” she asked.
“To the school,” I said, slipping my shoes on. “I need to figure out which prefect lost their pin.”
Evelyn crossed her arms. “How do you intend to do that?”
“That depends. Do I have a partner in crime or not?”
She let out a long, impressive swear.
Saint Francis’s Boarding School for Boys and Girls was a short drive from our flat in Whitechapel. After some cajoling, I got Evelyn to come with me. We strolled across campus, arm in arm, as a part of our shtick. It was a beautiful school, smaller and more intimate than other institutions in the area. The grounds were massive, and Evelyn couldn’t stop talking about it.
“The grass is still solid green,” she marveled. “Even with the weather getting colder at night. Did you see that cricket field? It was gorgeous! I hope they have a team for the girls as well—”
“Evelyn?” I said. “We’re not actually sending our child to school here. It’s just a front so I can get access to the prefect files.”
“I know,” she said. “But we have to get our stories straight.”
“If you follow my lead, everything will be fine.”
We located the main office, where a school official greeted us with a friendly smile from behind the front desk. “Good afternoon, ladies,” she said. “I’m Elsie. What can I help you with?”
“We called earlier today hoping to speak with the headmaster.” I squeezed Evelyn more tightly to my side. “My wife and I are looking into schools for our daughter, and we want to make sure she has the best education possible.”
“How progressive!” Elsie said, beaming as she handed over a stack of brochures. “Welcome to Saint Francis. As you can see, our campus is quite lovely, and we have some of the finest educators in the country. We can prepare your daughter for any university. Oxford and Cambridge, of course, or should she be interested in studying abroad, we can likely ensure her a position at Yale, Harvard, or another Ivy League if you prefer.”
“That sounds wonderful,” I said.
“What about sports?” Evelyn butted in. “Do you allow girls to play cricket here?”
Elsie’s eyes widened at Evelyn’s brusque tone. “We
