Secrets of the High Tower

Prompt:
Thomas Babington Macaulay:

"The measure of a man's real character is what he would do if he knew he would never be found out."

Many thanks to Anna for proof reading, so now I may have fewer spelling and grammatical errors.

I think this tale is a different Rosamund adventure than the last one. I believe her to be a regular Nancy Drew of Swinegart's School of Deadly Deeds. One shouldn't be too surprised at the murder rate however - it's a school for assassins, after all.

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It was an hour later than they planned, and almost completely dark by the time they finally made their way back to the room in the tower. As soon as they entered, Rosamund knew that something was off. The change was so absolute, and everything else looked so much the same, that it took her a second to catch what was wrong. It was like one of those puzzles where you have to find the difference between two seemingly identical pictures. Finally the gleaming, empty surface of the secretaire caught her attention: the scrolls, sheaf of scripts and documents that had been piled on it that morning were now gone. With a heavy thud in her chest Rosamund rushed to the fireplace with Pree on her heels. Her worst fears were confirmed: it was full of the delicate ashes of paper. She sighed despondently. They were too late. Again. If only they hadn't been waylaid by that frightful old crow, they might even have caught the perpetrator in the act. Pree seemed to read her mind, as was her habit.

“I hope Professor Gorehart catches parrot flu!” she huffed.

Rosamund couldn’t suppress a chuckle. “Undoubtedly, that would amuse Professor Fairwright to no end.”

She was about to turn when something among the ashes caught her eye. Leaning closer for a better look, she reached in, and with the tips of two fingers got hold of the little corner of white within the mound of grey. She slowly pulled out a small piece of paper that, aside from a few smudges, was untouched by the fire. She knew immediately what it was.

“That’s impossible!” Pree gasped.

"Mandora Scripts don't burn," Rosamund explained.

"Heh?"

"Because of a little known decree from over a hundred years ago, Mandora Scripts are always written on a flame proof material. It looks almost exactly like regular paper, but it doesn't burn."

"How do you know this stuff?"

"My father is an accountant. When we were little, he used to tell us wild tales at bedtime. Mother always complained that he was filling our heads with nonsense." Rosamund smiled to herself at the recollection. She suspected that despite her protests, her mother had been rather fond of those stories; she had always stayed, sitting on the edge of their bed, her reproachful frown softening into a mocking smile as the tales went on.

Tearing herself away from the memories, Rosamund turned her attention back to the sheet in her hand. She carefully shook off the ashes so she could read the single sentence inscribed on it in cursive script. She handed the sheet to her companion who read the words out loud:

"The measure of a man's real character is what he would do if he knew he would never be found out."

“Well that’s completely useless,” Pree grumbled, “talk about anticlimactic.”

“Au contraire, my dear Pree,” Rosamund turned to her with a wide grin, even her freckles radiating excitement, “I now know who the murderer is.”

Lessons

Prompt:
George Eliot: Middlemarch

"'I suppose it would be unprofessional,' said Rosamond, dimpling."

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“So, What do you do next?”

Rosamond was in a pickle. She had neglected her homework, and now she had no idea of the correct answer.

“I cut out his hart?” She ventured uncertainly.

“No, no, no! Can you tell me why not?” Professor Gorehart’s voice boomed over the class.

“I suppose it would be unprofessional,” said Rosamond, dimpling.

Dimpling was Rosamond’s secret weapon, but unfortunately for her, it didn’t work on Professor Gorehart, who looked down at her disappointedly.

“Because you don’t cut out the hearts of tax evaders!”

Professor Gorehart had been teaching at the Swinegart’s School of Deadly Deeds for thirty-five years, and had never had a student as hopeless as Rosamond. The only reason she was at the school at all was her illustrious family; she came from a long line of assassins, every one of whom graduated from Swinegart’s. Her great-great-great grandmother, Rosalin was the one who dispatched the emperor of Volg. Of course, the official ruling of the inquest was accidental death, and nobody had contested that His Highness fortuitously fell on his own dagger seven times. Rosalin was known as ‘Rosalin Of The Seven Daggers’ thereafter.

Of course, Professor Gorehart didn’t say any of that out loud, but it was written in her eyes for Rosamond to see. What she did say was:

“Who can tell me what subjects are suitable to have their hearts removed?”

At the back of the class Winston was raising his hand with such enthusiasm that he almost fell out of his desk. Winston was one of the first boys admitted into Sweingart’s, and he was very eager to prove himself. Professor Gorehart ignored him.

“By next week’s class I want you all to write a five page essay about the proper occasions for removal of heart, kidney, part of liver, testicles, and little finger, illustrated with appropriate historical examples. Class dismissed!”

Rosamond felt disheartened. Now, on top of failing Daggers, Rapiers and Other Sharp Objects, her classmates were cross at her too. Dimples (and batting of eyelashes) got her through Poisons, Blunt Objects, and even Ropes and Other Implements of Strangulation, but Professor Gorehart was an old crow, impervious to her charms.

With a sigh she picked up her books and headed off to her next class: Miscellanea. It was her favorite class, taught by the dreamy Professor Fairwright. Other students made fun of Professor Fairwright, took her class only for an easy credit. Most of the pupils in Miscellanea were boys, taking it as an elective instead of Explosives. The general consensus among the students – and the staff as well – was that Professor Fairwright was a bit light in the head, and her class was a complete waste of time.

Rosamond, on the other hand, found Professor Fairwright’s somewhat disjointed lectures of spontaneous combustion, accidental dismemberment, freak accidents with toasters, and so on, most inspiring.

These were the early days of the most unconventional assassin of her time, and all recorded history: ‘Rosamond of the Dimples’.