I have been spanked so now I am humble by Mark Danelaw
The first part: Introduction, can be found here.
Over the following days Annabelle went through her stolen papers as often as she could. There was nothing, not really. Guardian was pleased that she had gathered some evidence and arranged a pickup on Friday night at the pub. That gave another day to go through it all again. She had asked for copies of her own, but Guardian had deemed that too dangerous and Annabelle had to reluctantly agree.
Her toilet seat desk was a godsend and although she was getting exhausted on only two hours sleep that week, she was able to get to know the school finances backwards forwards and sideways on.
Firstly it was absolutely clear that every payment over £500 was signed off by Margaret Clements herself. None of these payments seemed the least bit odd and many of them were for amounts well over £5,000. That was the amount that would draw automatic scrutiny from the banks.
Therefore it seemed to Annabelle that these payments were going to be clean. It was the small stuff, the £300 here and £50 there. This was where it got strange. In the very early payment sets the headmistress had signed off on virtually no small payments. They had all been signed by Rachel Denton her deputy. Then later the headmistress had started signing off on tons of small stuff, sometimes several times a day; several days running. Furthermore there had been a marked increase in expenditure for these later periods. One week had 15 payments of £440 in one day over five days, with other payments that amounted to £50,000 on trivia in one week. Someone had got lazy sloppy and it would appear that it was Margaret Clements. One payment was soap for £440 and then napkins for the same amount from a different company.
There were no other weeks that she could see that were quite so unsubtle, but once she saw this kind of pattern it appeared everywhere. There were even two payments for soap, two completely different companies, she checked the account numbers, they were different. Why have to different suppliers of soap. The largest amount was cheaper by unit cost too?
Annabelle checked a few companies and then noticed something. The companies were different for sure, Landsman gardeners, three payments of £440 for trowels, but the same account details as the napkins.
“Okay, okay,” she muttered aloud, her tongue was sticking out of her mouth as she bit on it gently in concentration. She read through it all again.
Annabelle compared bank account numbers and sort codes. They were all different at first glance. All the usual stuff signed by Rachel had no matching numbers. However on the small amounts that had been signed by Margaret Clements there were only five different accounts. Once she saw this, the same numbers leapt out of the page at her. There were tens of thousands of pounds going to the same five accounts every week, all signed off by the headmistress. The school was haemorrhaging money and apparently dear old Clements was stealing it. Donations, it had to be donations, laundering maybe, money in, money out, all through the school.
“Got you,” Annabelle punched the air. But something was not quite right; there was a missing piece maybe more.
Somehow Annabelle’s gut told her that Margaret Clements wasn’t a crook; that, despite the evidence. Also where did Rachel Denton and Helen Holt et al, come into this. Perhaps they were a birthday club or a coven of witches and a complete red herring?
“Or maybe,” Annabelle spoke again, “Just maybe pigs can fly.”
***
“This is odd Ma’am,” Ducky said.
“What is?” Margaret Clements was not really listening.
Both women had spent the morning since breakfast reviewing the accounts and various payments. It was clear that in the last two years there had been several donations from various groups. The graph Ducky had drawn up showed a clear hike in payments mostly at the £4,000 mark or thereabouts. Oddly there had been two bequeathments that totalled £150,000 but there had been a condition that the payment came in £4,999 instalments. An odd stipulation, but some of these old birds were very eccentric, but it was very odd that there were two such donors.
Margaret had remembered this when it arose but it had escaped her notice that there were two different people. That was odd, how had she not noticed? Both had been handled by Rachel.
This was all very well, but why had there been no investment no rise in the school fortunes. It was doing well enough, but the sudden influx of money had been countered by an increase in petty expenditure.
Margaret had signed off on the accounts in her first year as headmistress, but for a year she had no feel for. The next year was signed off by Rachel. She asked Ducky.
“You were very ill just before the accounts were due,” she was told, “There had been a delay of some kind, I don’t recall, so by the time they were ready you were in bed.” Yes, strange now that I think of it, Ducky didn’t say anything.
“No, I was in the lavatory, I remember,” the headmistress sighed, “Sorry, what is odd?”
Margaret looked at the chart she was shown. The increase in income matched the petty spending perfectly, almost as if the increase income was anticipated.
“No not that,” Ducky said, “Although… that is odd too, but l charted the signatures for each payment. Your blue, Rachel is red and the grey is someone else, not many of those.”
“Someone else?”
Ducky blushed, she could still feel the cane lines on her bottom, “Not all me, the accountants had some authority and the Chair… I found nothing odd there but look…”
The headmistress looked and shook her head.
“More payments after the first year, lots more, but Rachel’s signature rate does not go up, but yours does… why would you be signing off on more petty expenditure?” Ducky waited for her boss to join the dots.
The headmistress sat down and let her face dance in consternation. The wheels were in motion, but conclusions eluded her. That would require a huge jump on her part and she wasn’t ready.
“I did a quick bit of maths… to do this much admin you would have to have worked an extra two or three hours a day…” the secretary ventured, “I don’t think you had time.”
Margaret nodded. “Arrange an audit with the accountants, going back to include the last full year before I arrived,” she said in a very careful voice, “And make me an appointment to see Lady Avebury as soon as possible.
Ducky sighed and said, “Yes Ma’am.”
***
Annabelle met Colin in the pub carpark. Detective Constable Colin Parker was a regular on the back up team and a safe pair of hands. “I was hoping for Guardian, there is something…”
“Just the envelope with the paperwork,” Colin said, his gaze swept the carpark for witnesses. He was young enough to pass for an illicit lover if anyone had seen them, “You can talk with Guardian on the phone when he has read this little lot.”
Annabelle gave him the papers and then quickly walked away. At least tonight she would not be on her knees in the toilets reading until dawn and she could get some sleep.
***
The next day after lunch Detention was promptly at 1.30. Annabelle had heard the horror stories and knew that there was next to no chance that she would escape either the cane or some other similar punishment, but in truth she had no idea what to expect.
June Carney, a 48-year-old fusty Latin teacher with grey streaked hair and horn-rimmed specs was in the chair that day. The only good thing Annabelle had heard about the woman was that she was not as bad as Kathy Bakewell.
Annabelle entered at 1.27 and most of the girls had arrived. There were seven of them all facing the side wall, all devoid of their skirts and underwear so that there was a row of largely white bare bottoms mooning her as she entered.
Miss Carney did not look up from whatever she was doing and Annabelle put her bag down at a desk that did not already have one.
“Miss, should I…?” Annabelle ventured, she had butterflies in her tummy and the punitive view was somewhat unsettling.
Miss Carney glanced at the clock and then her watch. There was no other answer forthcoming.
Just then Janice ‘Spiffy’ Jones came panting through the door looking harassed. “Sorry I am late,” she said breathlessly.
“You are not late, you have one minute,” Carney intoned.
Dropping her bag at the nearest desk she whipped off her skirt and stepped out of her knickers as she dashed for the wall to stand next to the others.
Annabelle did not wait, taking her cue, she followed suit and was facing the wall with her bottom exposed only a beat later.
“Now girls,” June carney said on the dot of 1.30 as she stood up, “We are not here for fun, not mine and certainly not yours.” She did a slow walk up the line inspecting bare bottoms like general inspecting her troops. “To begin our afternoon together we will be writing some lines at the desks provided; only today we will be writing them in Latin.”
Several of the girls gasped and Miss Carney smiled.
“Every 10 minutes I will call a halt and you will stop writing and put your hands on your heads,” she explained, “The two girls who have written the least lines and anyone who has done sloppy work as judged by me will stand out front and receive six of the best on their bare bottoms.”
A ripple of anxiety went down the line and there were more muted sighed.
“The caned girls will face the wall as you are now and then we shall continue.” She stopped and turned to review the row of bottoms, “After I have caned the next girls I will collect your work and we will start again.”
Annabelle didn’t know any Latin and began to panic. She wasn’t the only one judging from the fluttering of the other girls.
“Settle down and take your places,” Carney told them.
In a moment nine young women were jostling to sit at their desks in a melee of bare legs and bottoms. Annabelle certainly felt quite humbled and doubly so seeing the suppressed smug look on Miss Carney’s face.
Each desk had a writing pad and a pen on it, all neatly set out. Annabelle felt every bit like a schoolgirl in a nightmare doing a forgotten test when she saw that there was nothing written on the paper. Two hands went from the other women.
“Hands down and prepare to write,” the Latin teacher intoned.
Annabelle exchanged looks with a girl next to her who looked equally disconcerted.
“Please write out, verberatus sum, et nunc humilis sum,” she said as if it was the most natural thing in the world.
Two of the women began to quickly write it down but the others shifted uncomfortably in their seats.
“Verberatus sum, et nunc humilis sum,” Carney repeated.
Annabelle took a stab at it but having no idea how to spell it and also struggling to remember it all.
Carney said it once more and then sat down to give her attention to her paperwork.
The out-of-her-depth police officer used all her training to repeat the phrase in her head before committing it to paper. She wrote: ‘Verberytus sum et nunk humilisum’ and hoped for the best.
Some of the women were already writing rapidly like they knew something she didn’t, but one or two others were also seemingly stumped. Annabelle joined the race. It was hard to write down something that she had to laboriously copy each time and she had to write it a dozen times before she began to get into a flow. By then her hand had begun to ache.
There was no sound in the room but the frantic scratching of pens upon paper. Disconcertingly two of the women turned a paper over and began on the next sheet before Annabelle was even halfway down her page.
“Alright stop,” Carney said suddenly, “Put your hands on your head.”
Along with everybody else Annabelle obeyed but she felt foolish and embarrassed sitting like a junior school kid in class.
Miss Carney inspected each paper in turn, saying once or twice “good,” but mostly she groaned. She passed over Annabelle’s with a muttering of disapproval but when she got to Spiffy Jones’ she snatched up the single sheet and said, “What do you think this gibberish is?” and tore it up.
Annabelle was shocked, but also relieved, her car crash could not been as bad as she thought.
“Miss Clarke, Miss Jones, your work is absolutely atrocious, Miss Crofton and Miss Aubrey-Green… horrible spelling and a poor effort all round. Stand out here please,” Carney told them.
Annabelle could handle six, she could, but her tummy was in a tangle all the same.
“Clarke will get six, it was a mess girl… Crofton and Aubrey-Green will get double for being slow and for the atrocious spelling… as for Miss Jones… it was utter gibberish, you made not the least effort… you will get 18 strokes,” Miss Carney told them, “And the four of you will get six extra the next time you have to come up here.”
Annabelle wanted to protest, but this was the game, and she was forced to play it. With an inward groan she joined the others in a line in front of the class.
“I want you to bend across my desk in a line… come along… Clarke on the end…” Carney sounded impatient, “The other end girl…”
Annabelle stood back as the others stumbled about.
“Jones on the other end and you two in the middle,” Carney sighed as if it were obvious, “You would think you had never been caned before.”
The muddle over Annabelle squeezed in between Clarke and the Aubrey-Green girl until all four of the women were lined up and presenting their bare bottoms to the class.
“Finally,” Carney said as she took up the cane.
Annabelle could see that Clarke was set in an exaggerated posture with her bottom out and staring straight ahead. Next to her Miss double-barrel didn’t meet her eyes and only Spiffy looked relaxed.
Annabelle felt the swish-crack of the cane by proxy, there was even a hint of breeze from the cane’s passing; but it was across Clarke’s bottom that it landed and she gasped. Another stroke followed and then the next, with Jenny Clarke getting all the more strained as the strokes landed.
At six she turned to look at Annabelle as if to say ‘I made it,’ but she was panting heavily.
The next swoosh landed across Annabelle’s bare bottom before she was ready and she exclaimed, “Oh,” and blew hard as if a hot chip was in her mouth. Two more cut her arse and she gripped the desk white knuckle-style with her face all screwed up.
“What a row of miscreants,” Carney said, “I hope your bottoms are feeling this, you certainly deserve it.” As she finished caning Annabelle she paused to study her bottom and Clarke’s as each developed six red ridges.
Aubrey-Green yelled at the first stroke and kept squalling at each subsequent one. Annabelle could feel her squirming and hips rubbed up against her. Her fellow sister getting the cane did not take it well. She was crying by the end and she had six more to come.
“Silly girl, I ought to give you extra,” Carney scolded her.
“It’s my first detention Miss,” she sniffed.
Annabelle might have had some sympathy, but it was her first too.
“Now we come to Janice ‘Spiffy’ Jones, a familiar face,” Carney said with a steel edge as she patted the proffered bare bottom with a cane. “Always in trouble aren’t we?”
“I don’t know about you Miss, but I know I am,” Spiffy said miserably.
“Oh comic insolence, so original,” Carney put her hand to her heart as she mocked, “You can take six extras for that.”
“Oh I was… I didn’t mean…” Spiffy blustered.
“Do you want another six for arguing?”
“No Miss, thank you Miss,” Spiffy replied.
Annabelle thought this was ridiculously harsh, the woman was a sadist.
Carney tapped Spiffy’s bare bottom a few times with the stick and leaned over to share an evil grin. “Quite a bit to work on here,” she said.
Spiffy Jones might have had a comeback but she was pre-empted by the first stroke. She took it well, a small hiss escaped her lips and she imperceptibly shook her behind.
The next stroke set awhile as Spiffy rode the lines of pure pain and then had to gasp at the third.
“Bottom out Miss Jones,” Carney caned in hard, “Don’t make me chase you,” then she caned her again, conscious that there were other bottoms waiting.
Spiffy made it to a dozen before she started to cry.
“Crofton,” Carney said as she moved back down the line.
“Yes Miss,” Annabelle said, praying there was no sass or sarcasm in her voice.
“You have six more,” Carney tapped the bare bottom of 24-year-old police officer who was pretending to be 19-year-old student with the cane.
Annabelle thought of the team and the smirks she would get if they knew.
The next stroke was expertly laid and Annabelle Crofton hissed, her bottom wagged back and forth as she rode it.
“Keep it still,” Carney warned.
“Yes Miss,” Annabelle said through gritted teeth.
Another stroke was sharp and placed slowly under the previous, but unpleasantly atop of a previous raised ridge. The detective let out a scream.
“I am so glad you are joining us, I thought you had gone to sleep.”
“No Miss,” Annabelle said in a tight voice.
There were four more, each harsher than the last and Annabelle almost, but not quite, started to cry. The network of throbbing was intense enough that she entirely missed Aubrey-Green’s caning; it was a doozy. The girl screamed out at each stroke and was a sobbing mess by the end.
June Carney stepped back to admire the display and then sauntered along to Spiffy’s bottom. It already looked as bad as the others, but she had another dozen to deal with.
“Another dozen for you my girl and remember next time it is another extra six,” Carney told her, pausing only to let that sink in while she scanned the faces of the other women watching. They all knew that anyone of them could be next; or more likely would be. No bottom would escape the cane that afternoon.
“Miss Carney…?” Spiffy visibly gulped, “You mean…?” Surely not 30 next time? She now regretted her cheeky bravado.
“You’ll find out what I mean,” the teacher said and caned the offered bare bottom fiercely; most of the women in the room startled and in their seats.
***
Annabelle did not relish sitting back down, nor did the other young women, especially Spiffy. That said, the girl was quite sanguine and although she had bloodshot eyes she was not hold back sobs like Aubrey-Green.
The spoiled little brat needed it, Annabelle thought uncharitably before she caught herself on; she was going native. Given that her arse too was pulsing with painful ridges she was shocked at herself.
Carney reached for some chalk and wrote on the board in extra-large letters: Verberatus sum, et nunc humilis sum. “There, for the benefit of the illiterate, although I am loathed to let you more learned ladies from losing your advantage over the barbarians. The first girl who can tell me what it means can miss out the next round of lines and the subsequent penalties.”
Two women put up their eager hands.
“Bidwell,” Carney said.
“Beating me makes me humble,” Paula Bidwell said.
“Not quite, but a fair effort, Davidson?”
“I have been beaten and now I am humbled,” Melanie Davidson smirked.
“Close enough,” Carney told her, “You may go to the corner and stand with your hands on your head.” It was a lousy prize, but perhaps better than lines and a risk of caning.
“The rest of you may begin,” the teacher told them.
With a better idea of what she was writing Annabelle focussed and in her best hand and as fast as she could she set about filling the page with the phrase from the board. Only Spiffy Jones seemed more determined to write faster, although neither of them could keep up with Bidwell, who knew the line and did not have to refer to the board.
Clarke, it seemed was equally careless in this round and joined to new girls up the front for a dozen strokes. Annabelle wished it had been Aubrey-Green, but with her bottom safe for the moment she actually enjoyed the show, just a little bit.
The next part: Suffer and sit no more
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