The Mam'zelles of Malory Towers

CHAPTER FOURTEEN: ROUGIER'S DATE

At the end of the day, Rougier's girls reported back to her with their exploits. Daphne smugly handed her a sack of Scottish valuables, including some vintage bagpipes that had been in the MacDonald family for centuries. Pam and Elsie volunteered a purse filled with earrings, necklaces and even a gold tooth that had fallen on the ground! Rougier fingered the treasures, a smile stretching across her thin lips.

"What about you!" barked Rougier, turning to Gwen and Mary Lou. "Where are your stolen goods?"

Gwen and Mary Lou bowed their heads in shame.

"I'm afraid my mother didn't wear any valuables so we couldn't steal anything, Mam'zelle," lied Gwendoline.

Rougier eyed the plump girl suspiciously, but refrained from commenting. After all, she could use these two incompetents as scapegoats if one of her schemes failed!

"Alright girls, leave. I need to plan the Grayling heist." Rougier shooed the girls out of the room, alone with her dark thoughts in her cavernous study. 

She began to rifle through the papers on her desk, trying to find the plan for the grand Grayling heist she had drawn up. Her fingers brushed against another note in the process. She picked it up to inspect it closely.

"Meet me in the village at 7pm. At the alehouse. - S" Rougier read aloud. She was irritated that somebody could just expect her to go all the way to the village on their demand, but was intrigued by the note and wanted a drink from the alehouse. So she got ready to go out.

When she entered the alehouse, it was nearly seven. She glanced around the dark, smoky room, trying to find this mysterious "S" from the note. From the corner of her eye, she saw Miss Potts and a few of her cronies enjoying a few pints of sherry.

And suddenly, the unpleasant sight of Mr. Young burst into her vision.

"You came!" he cried ecstatically, hauling a speechless Rougier to an empty booth.

"You are the author of this note?!" hissed Rougier when she finally recovered her speech.

"Jolly right," beamed Mr. Young, twirling his oiled moustache. "My first name's Stuart."

"Well - what do you want," snapped Rougier, wondering if this invite was a convoluted request to join her crime circle. She could use a fellow teacher on the team. "And I want a bottle of wine," she added, greedily looking at Miss Potts enjoying her sherry.

"Waiter - a bottle of red for the lovely lady," Mr. Young ordered, sleazily. "And as for the reason I called you here: one, you are a beautiful lady. And two, I wanted to get to know you a little better!"

Rougier looked like somebody had just fed her the mouse entrails she reserved for Esme.

Mr. Young seemed oblivious to this. He ploughed on: "Were you a teacher back in France, eh? What was your profession in the old Hexagon?"

"I was..." stuttered Rougier, racking her brain for a profession. "I was a gardener."

"Ah," said Mr. Young, sipping on his mug of beer. "What kind of homes did you work at?"

"Big, rich ones with plenty of GOLD," said Rougier, carried away by the wine and the fond memories of her heists back in the old days. 

Mr. Young widened his eyes. "So they must have paid you well, eh?"

Rougier narrowed her eyes. "I paid myself," she said shortly. This young man was asking for far too much information. It was time to leave.

She curtly got up and exited the alehouse, leaving a very intrigued Mr. Young. What was the stunningly beautiful Agathe, formerly a gardener at rich French houses, up to at Malory Towers?