Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine, Vol. 41, No. 4, October 1977

“I mean what I say and you are in no position to argue about it. Now... if and when any of you feel the need to go to the bathroom, simply raise your hand and ask politely to use the lavatory. I will then unfasten that person, and I will have this pistol in my hand in the event there is any attempt to overpower me.

“There is a convenient bathroom at the side of the room, where that door is, with no window in it, like the rest of this place, and no lock on the door. You will then return and fasten yourself to the chain again. If I do not happen to be in the room at the time you need to go, Frank will find a button in the wall behind him which will ring a bell upstairs. I think that takes care of your living conditions.”

Someone started to speak, then stopped and raised his hand. Ezra. “Grand — Miss Palmer, I mean, how come you got this kinda place down here? You keep prisoners before?”

She smiled kindly at him. “No, but my father did. He trained police dogs and sometimes he had to get rough with them, so this room is entirely soundproofed. There is no way that anyone can hear you. I don’t doubt there will be people looking for you, but we’ll worry about that when the time comes.”

Another hand went up. “Miss Palmer,” said the small Iris tearfully, “you ever gonna let us go?”

“Of course, my dear.” The teacher spoke benevolently. “As soon as you have learned how to be little ladies and gentlemen. And have learned how to speak properly and acquired sufficient knowledge to function in the outside world and to prove to your present teachers that the so-called old fashioned methods of teaching are the best in training young minds — why, then you may go.”

The tall towhead raised his hand. “Miss Palmer? What’s gonna happen to you if you set us free? The slammer, that’s what. This is kidnapping, you know that? So you can’t let us go, you’re gonna have to kill us to save yourself, you old crackpot!” His voice rose.

A wail went up from the others, and everywhere was bedlam.

Miss Palmer banged on her bell and finally slashed the whip through the air.

“Quiet!” she demanded. “Haven’t you listened to a word I’ve said? The sooner you learn what I am about to teach you, the sooner you will get out of here! Frank, you will speak to me with respect or you will feel my whip on your legs. Now, I presume by ‘the slammer’ you mean jail or, more properly, prison, since kidnapping is a felony and not a misdemeanor.”

She continued in her pleasant schoolteacherish voice, “I don’t know if any of you have been there, but up in the hills beyond Riverville there is a beautiful group of buildings for the mentally ill — little cottages, trees, benches, arts and crafts and many interesting things to do in the recreation building — friends and companionship quiet and no responsibility.

“My money is gone and my house is almost in ruins by now, so I will be glad to have someone to take care of me. I will not be sent to prison, you can be sure, but to this beautiful home in the hills, for the rest of my life. So do not worry about what will happen to me once you are set free. As you will be; you have my personal bond for that.

“And that is the first lesson you are about to learn today: the question of personal integrity. Do not lie. Do not break promises. Hold yourself always above such demeaning traits. This is what is called ethics. Now. Shall we proceed to our school books?”

It was a rough and stormy voyage. The whip was used occasionally, but lightly, the bell was pounded on often, but heavily. The pistol was used just once, shot into the ceiling to teach Frank a lesson when, on his way to the bathroom, he made a lunge for the door to the upstairs. He was scared out of his wits, and returned to his chains with relief. The little black boy, Ezra, gave no trouble. Obedience was in his genes.

Although they studied the usual school subjects such as mathematics, geography and history (up until World War I) Miss Palmer stressed English above all else. “How will you communicate?” she asked them reasonably, “if you don’t know how to write or speak properly? And without communication—”

“But Miss Palmer—” Remembering suddenly, Iris waved her small brown hand in the air and, at a nod, “Miss Palmer, I don’t want to communicate,” she objected. “I just want to get married, have big family.”

“Oh, I see,” said Miss Palmer. “You don’t adhere to the teachings of the woman’s liberation movement I hear so much about these days.”

“Well, I do,” said Maggie, waving her arm but not waiting for permission to speak. “When I grow up I’m going to be a revolutionary.”

“To what purpose?” Miss Palmer asked with interest.

“I’m going to fight in Ireland and save it!”

“From what?”

“Why, from... from all them people that’s blowing it up.”