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‘As far as I know, they are not entirely sure
how she died. They are hoping that some of the
students may be able to shed some light on this.’
‘Do they suspect someone . . .?’ I couldn’t
finish the question.
‘I don’t know,’ Miss Ingleton told us.
She walked towards the other window, which
looked out across the heat-parched oval. There
was a small bird on the ledge and it cocked
its head to one side, chirruping loudly in the
momentary silence. Miss Ingleton turned back
to face us.
‘We should take a minute,’ she said, ‘to think
about Amanda and to send loving wishes to her
family.’ She bowed her head and closed her eyes.
In the stream of light through the window, she
was pale, illuminated, and we all looked at her,
unsure as to whether we too should close our
eyes. The classroom was quiet. I could hear the
slow flick of the mower blades outside, and I
knew the gardener was starting at one end of
the oval, cutting lines into the green as he made
his way up and down the great stretch of grass.
Someone walked past the window. I could hear
their footsteps on the asphalt that bordered the
row of classrooms. They had probably been sent to
carry a note. I looked around and saw that most of
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