The Great Catsby

by T. H. Hunter

  “As long as we don’t get caught,” said Val.

  “Don’t worry,” I said, “I’ve almost got it. I just need to…”

  “Doch will der Held nicht Herzog sein genannt –

  Ihr sollt’ ihn heißen Schüüüützer von Brabant!”

  “What on earth was that?”

  “It’s Barry’s signal!” said Val frantically. “He’s singing Wagner. We’ve got to go now, Amy.”

  “I’ve almost got it…”

  “Amy!”

  And then, the lock clicked open. At the far end of the corridor, a shape had appeared, though I didn’t think it had seen us yet.

  “You head them off,” I murmured.

  “Amy, no!” Val hissed.

  “It’s the only way,” I said.

  I checked the corridor once more. The shape was slowly but steadily turning towards us. It would see us at any moment. It was now or never.

  Careful not to make a noise, I opened the door and slid through it, closing it softly behind me.

  I found myself in a small room with only a tiny window at the top of the wall facing me, as though someone had wedged it in as an architectural afterthought. Though there was hardly any furniture – merely a bed, an old wardrobe, and a tiny secretary with a chair – it was incredibly messy. Clothes were strewn everywhere on the floor, along with dozens and dozens of books. A bottle of ink had fallen off the secretary and onto the pillowcase, drenching the corner in navy blue.

  Outside, I heard Val’s footsteps move away, trying to get as much distance between her and the door. But it was evidently too late. A wizened old voice drifted through the corridor.

  “Can I help you, Miss…?”

  It was the voice of Carew, the butler.

  “Morgan,” I heard Val say as she came to a stop. “Yes, I… I was supposed to meet Amy. We wanted to go for a walk.”

  “A walk?” Carew asked mildly, though I could tell that his curiosity had been aroused. “I’m afraid you’re in the wrong part of the house for that, Miss Morgan. These are the servants’ quarters. There is no entrance to the grounds from here.”

  “Oh, right,” said Val apologetically. “I’m very sorry, Mr. Carew. The house is just so large. It… it won’t happen again.”

  “Not to worry, not to worry,” he said amiably. “I’ll show you the way, shall I?”

  “That would be great, thank you,” said Val, clearly sounding relieved.

  “This is the way to the stairs,” he said.

  I held my breath while footsteps echoed across the corridor. I could clearly distinguish Val’s clackity-clack from Carew’s monotonous scuffling, as though he rarely lifted his feet off the ground.

  Then, Carew came to a stop. And when he spoke next, I could tell that he was right outside my door. My heart began to pound violently.

  “This is... or was, rather… young Emma’s room,” he said in a somewhat hushed tone.

  “The maid who died?” asked Val nervously.

  “That’s right,” Carew said slowly. “She was a fine woman. It was a pity what happened to her.”

  “Yes,” said Val. “An accident, wasn’t it?”

  I could tell that Val was probing Carew in order to see how he would react.

  “An accident, yes, so they say,” he muttered. “Or suicide.”

  “Do you think it was suicide?” asked Val.

  “Well, she seemed like such a lively thing,” he said. “But you never know with some people. Happy one day, distraught the next. Very tragic indeed. Oh, that reminds me.”

  There was a pause, followed by a rustling of keys.

  “What are you doing?” asked Val, barely able to contain her horror.

  “I quite forgot about Miss Emma’s flowers. It would be a shame if they would wither away in there, all on their own. I think I’ll place them in the morning room for his Lordship.”

  “But, I thought…” spluttered Val.

  “Don’t worry, Miss Morgan,” he said kindly, “I will only be a minute. I’ll show you the correct way in a moment.”

  Panic rising within me, I desperately looked around the room for a place I could hide. There was no bathroom attached. Only the wardrobe next to me provided any sort of cover.

  It seemed to becoming a bit of a habit, hiding in dark places, but I had no choice. I tiptoed as fast as I could over to the wardrobe and opened it. Piles of clothes and loose sheets of paper came flying out of it.

  Clambering silently through the mess while Carew was fiddling with his keys, I stepped into the wardrobe and shut the door on myself, just as Carew turned the key in the lock. The wardrobe was damp and smelly and much smaller than the last.

  “Hullo,” I heard him say as he stepped inside, “the door is already open. Very peculiar, don’t you think?”

  “Perhaps she forgot to lock it,” said Val.

  “Yes,” said Carew thoughtfully. “That’s probably it.”

  Carew shuffled across the room.

  “This place is a mess,” said Val in surprise.

  “Young Emma was not the tidy sort,” said Carew simply. “Ah, here they are. We can go upstairs now.”

  “Yes, OK,” Val said. “I think it’s probably a bit late for a walk now. I’d better head for lunch in the hall.”

  “An excellent idea, Miss Morgan,” said Carew. “Follow me, if you please.”

  “No, please, I’ll find the way myself. Thank you very much, Mr. Carew.”

  Val didn’t sound at all like her usual self, strangely formal and distant.

  “Very well, Miss Morgan,” said Carew.

  I heard Val’s footsteps move out of the room and along the corridor outside. But Carew didn’t move an inch. It was getting hotter and hotter in the wardrobe, but as long as Carew was still in Emma’s room, there was nothing I could do but wait.

  After a moment’s silence, I heard Carew’s characteristic footsteps, though they seemed to be moving into the room rather than out. Standing awkwardly in the pitch black wardrobe, I listened for the slightest noise. What was Carew doing in Emma’s room? Did he suspect, perhaps, that he was not alone?

  Carew came to a halt. He was breathing heavily now, as though indulging in some sort of physical labour. Then, I heard the shuffling of paper, followed by drawers being opened.

  “Where is it?” Carew murmured. “It has to be here somewhere.”

  He was working his way closer and closer to the wardrobe. Mad thoughts raced at breakneck speed through my mind. I wanted to make a dash for it, to burst out of the wardrobe and out into the hall.

  As I was wrestling with my impulse to run, I heard Carew grasp the handle. The door was being pulled open. A crack of light emerged at the rim.

  And then, I was plunged back into the safety of darkness.

  I could hear footsteps in the hall. They definitely weren’t Val’s, though I was sure they belonged to a woman.

  “Carew, what are you doing in there?”

  It was Beatrice, Lord Pembroke’s sister.

  “M’lady,” said Carew, “I didn’t see you…”

  “Evidently,” she said coolly. “Now answer my question. What are you doing in Emma’s room?”

  “I was just getting the flowers from her room,” he said.

  “Don’t give me that, Carew,” Beatrice snapped. “The real reason.”

  There was a brief pause.

  “I cannot tell you, m’lady,” he said.

  “No? And why not?”

  “I promised Lord Pembroke,” Carew said.

  “My… my brother?”

  For the first time in the brief conversation, Beatrice sounded taken aback.

  “Yes, m’lady,” Carew said.

  “Very well,” she said finally. “I do not want you to break your word to my brother, so I shall ask him myself. I think I know what this is about, anyway. I only hope you were successful in your endeavours?”

  “Only partially,” Carew admitted cryptically.

  “I see,” said Beatrice. �
�Better finish the job later, Carew. It wouldn’t do to get caught going through her things. Not so soon after the… tragedy.”

  “Yes, m’lady,” Carew said.

  “I think I’ll go to the library now, Carew. Make sure to bring up the tea.”

  “Yes, m’lady.”

  Next, I heard Beatrice’s forceful footsteps move away and along the corridor again. Carew followed her, but came to a stop near the door.

  “The only tragedy with Miss Emma’s death,” Carew said softly to himself, “is that it didn’t happen sooner.”

  7

  After Carew had finally left, it took me a moment to realise what had just happened. Stiff all over from standing still for so long, I opened the wardrobe door and got out, squinting slightly as my eyes begrudgingly adapted to the light.

  My first impulse was to find Val and Barry, who were both surely waiting in our suite upstairs in the guest quarters of the North wing. And yet, by a lucky chance, I had not been discovered. All alone and undisturbed, I now had access to the deceased’s room. Surely, it wouldn’t hurt to poke around a little. This was what we had come for, after all. And after Carew’s strange behaviour and apparent malevolence toward Emma, I was more determined than ever.

  I made sure that nobody was in the corridor beyond, leaving the door ajar so that I could hear as soon as someone approached. Then, I started my search. I didn’t know what I was looking for specifically, except for a hint at why Emma had been so hated by the family she worked for.

  The wardrobe I had hidden in yielded nothing of interest, save a few rather daring outfits perhaps. Several maid’s uniforms hung side by side with what I could see were fairly expensive cocktail dresses.

  The floor was littered with clothes and products of everyday use. Judging by the amount of books strewn throughout, Emma had been an avid reader. I recognised some of the works from Barry’s library. There was The Ancient Warlock Families of Europe by Harald Eckberg, The Perfect Servant – A Self-Help Guide by Evelyn Bradshaw, as well as Great Witches of the 20th Century by Esmeralda Pew, among many others.

  Without being able to put my finger on it, I had the distinct impression that there were things missing. For one, there were no personal items at all; no photographs, no letters from family or friends. Though that might have been due to the fact that Emma had joined the Pembrokes’ staff quite recently, she hadn’t struck me as the loner type.

  The little secretary in the corner sported many little drawers, most of which were empty. There were a surprising amount of spare pens and sheets of paper, and yet I couldn’t find a single word she had written anywhere.

  There was also a stack of black notebooks. I flicked through them eagerly, only to find that none of them had been written in, though one of them had several pages torn out.

  “Found something, have you?”

  I swung around, my heart racing uncontrollably.

  “Barry!” I exclaimed. “What are you doing down here?”

  “Looking for you, of course,” he said, trotting idly into the room. “Val was getting worried about you.”

  “Well, it was a close shave,” I said. “I’ll tell you about it later. I’m just having a look around.”

  Barry’s gaze wandered from the bed to the wardrobe and the tiny window.

  “This place is a mess,” he said.

  “Agreed,” I said, checking under the mattress to see whether anything was hidden there.

  “What are you looking for?”

  “I don’t know,” I said, putting the mattress back in place. “Something to explain why the Pembrokes hated her so much. But I can’t seem to find anything.”

  “Well, at least she had some decent books,” said Barry, lazily scanning the titles of the works scattered around bed. “Surprising for a maid, don’t you think?”

  “I think she wrote, too,” I said. “Judging by all these pens and notebooks at least. But I can’t find a single word she’s actually written.”

  I showed him the secretary.

  “All unused,” I said.

  “Someone must have taken them,” said Barry immediately.

  “My thoughts exactly,” I said. “Carew seemed to be searching for something, too.”

  “Did he find what he was looking for?” asked Barry.

  “I don’t think so,” I said. “No, he was told by Beatrice to come back later. Which reminds me, we’d better hurry a bit.”

  “Are all of the notebooks blank?” asked Barry.

  “Yes,” I said. “I think one of them had some pages torn out but…”

  “Torn out?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  Barry cursed under his breath.

  “What now?”

  “No point hanging around,” I said. “We’d better head upstairs.”

  “Yes,” said Barry. “I passed several servants on the way down.”

  “Did you see Carew?”

  “No.”

  “I’ve probably pushed my luck too far already for one day,” I said.

  “Let’s just hope it won’t run out, shall we?” Barry added.

  ***

  Back in the relative safety of our room, I told Val and Barry the whole story about how Carew had almost discovered me, being unwittingly rescued by Beatrice, and Carew’s peculiar animosity towards Emma.

  “You were lucky Beatrice came when she did,” said Val, who was lying on the sofa and eating some grapes. “I thought he was going to find you for sure. I ran to get Barry immediately.”

  “Were you able to read Carew?” I asked, helping myself to some grapes, too.

  Val frowned.

  “He didn’t believe me that I had lost my way, I think,” she said. “But I don’t think he suspects the full story. As far as he is concerned, we’re just some overly nosey guests.”

  “Do you think him capable of murder?” I asked.

  “I don’t know,” said Val. “Perhaps it was because I felt under pressure, but he seemed to be lacking any sort of feeling. Positive or negative.”

  “So you think Emma was murdered, then?” said Barry.

  “Well,” I said hesitantly, “I have no evidence to support it, if that’s what you mean. But with the amount of enemies she apparently had, it would be a massive coincidence if she had decided to commit suicide.”

  “She could have done so precisely because everyone disliked her,” said Val.

  “Maybe,” I said. “But that still doesn’t account for the state of her room. If Carew couldn’t find what he was looking for, then someone else must have been there before him.”

  “Her room must be busier than the reception desk,” said Val.

  “And you say that Carew admitted to Beatrice that he was there on Lord Pembroke’s orders?” said Barry thoughtfully.

  “Pretty much, yes,” I said. “Beatrice didn’t seem surprised, though.”

  “Do you think Emma might have been sending those threatening letters?” said Val, helping herself to more grapes.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “But if she did, why not simply hand her over to Alec or the MLE? Why throw her off the tallest tower? It just doesn’t make any sense.”

  There was silence as the three of us pondered the problem.

  “Emma must have discovered something,” I continued. “Or asked the wrong questions, giving them a common reason to hate her. And for one of them, to kill her.”

  “Perhaps they all teamed up together?” said Val.

  “I wouldn’t put it past them,” said Barry uncharitably.

  “You can’t dislike all of them, surely, Barry?” I said, laughing.

  “With the exception of Lord Pembroke’s father, perhaps,” said Barry.

  “Yes,” I said, “I’m sure the portrait of that austere, stern pater familias appealed to you.”

  “No, no,” said Barry, waving a paw irritably in front of him. “It’s his research that counts. Whatever his successors have done to reap the laurels of his success, it was he who devised the magic tha
t protects the Pembroke estate from the effects of time to this day. Lord Pembroke simply put the theory into action after his father had passed away.”

  “You seem to be well informed on the subject,” I said.

  “Lord Pembroke’s assistant, Sarah, probably provided him with all the details,” said Val with a pang of jealousy in her voice.

  “Well, she is pretty,” I said, smirking at Barry.

  “That is completely beside the point,” he said. “But yes, Sarah has indeed been good enough to clarify some of the workings of the magical field.”

  “I’m sure she did,” said Val.

  “She – unlike some – appreciate my work,” said Barry sniffily.

  Val was just about to provide a retort when I held up both hands.

  “Please, let’s focus. We only have a few days before the ball begins. We’ll want to have come up with something by then. Alec’s putting a lot of trust in us. I don’t want to turn up empty-handed.”

  ***

  But despite our efforts, the following days yielded very disappointing results. With Steven still mysteriously missing from meals in the hall, engaging Lord Pembroke in conversation beyond the usual pleasantries proved impossible. Beatrice, on the other hand, was as swift and ruthless in her judgments and pronouncements as ever, yet Emma was a topic she brushed aside by professing her regret over the tragedy that had taken place and leaving it at that.

  Clearly, they were sticking to the story that Emma had been a beloved new addition to the staff. The remaining servants, no doubt instructed to do so by Carew, seemed tight-lipped about the entire affair.

  On the day of the ball, the official news arrived at breakfast that, lacking any other indication in the case, Emma’s death had been deemed an accident. I could not help the feeling the Lord Pembroke, as well as Beatrice, seemed relieved, though I didn’t know whether it was because of relief of not having been caught or simply seeing an end to the hitherto endless whisperings and suspicions uttered by guests behind their backs.

  The speculations, of course, only really got going after it was noticed that Steven was absent yet again from breakfast. In fact, he hadn’t attended a single meal in two days.