“I came into the room alone,” said Mr. Mooney, “but found that Roger was there before me. He’d had the same thought as I had and was making some progress with the rum bottle.”
“Do you mean to say that he was tipsy?”
“Sozzled,” said Mr. Mooney.
Annabelle sighed, a long, sad sound. I picked up a pirate boot and rubbed the shiny buckle.
“What happened next?” asked Inspector Willard.
“I am grieved to say that we argued,” said Mr. Mooney. “He was not supposed to drink in the homes we visited. He knew that. He was too likely to become unpleasantly drunk. And that’s what happened on Christmas Eve. I admonished him. He became belligerent with me, called me names. I left the library and went to my room. That is the end of the story. I’d give anything…to have had a different parting.”
The inspector was quiet. He tugged on the swatch of white hair over his brow, as if that might help him think.
“What time did you leave the library, Mr. Mooney?”
“I’d guess it was about half past eleven?” As if to confirm his guess, he pulled the watch from his pocket to see the time.
“And where were you at that time, Miss Day?” asked Inspector Willard.
“I’d gone to bed,” she said. “And I’m not usually a liar, Inspector. Just that Roger being drunk…well, I didn’t like to let the rumors fly.”
“Drunk and murdered, Miss Day,” said Inspector Willard. “With Mr. Mooney being possibly a final witness.”
Annabelle bowed her head.
“Did either of you see anyone else up and about?”
Annabelle shook her head no.
“There was a servant coming down the stairs as I went up,” said Mr. Mooney. “The footman who joined us for the tableau, young Frederick. He’d changed back into livery, but that sunny blond hair of his is unmistakable.”
Inspector Willard rose abruptly. “I’d like you to recreate the paths you took last night,” he said. “Sergeant Shaw will follow and take notes.”
They filed out of the ballroom without a glance our way. I dropped a boot back into the crate.
“We didn’t really learn anything new,” I said, “except that Frederick was running about rather late in the evening. Why do you suppose Annabelle tried to lie about what they were doing last night?”
“She makes an alibi,” said Hector. “For Mr. Mooney? Or for herself? Mr. Mooney, he is fighting with his friend for the last time.”
The door creaked open again and Dot appeared.
“Miss?” She scuffled her way across the marble floor.
“Hallo, Dot. Why, what’s the matter?”
Her eyes and nose were pink, her hair escaping every which way from under her cap.
“Oh, miss,” she said. “It’s me brother. First he was fretting over the foreign gent gone missing, wondering if he’d been dressing a murderer…but then the police come to the kitchen and got terrible pointy with their questions, asking has Fred gone back to his thieving ways, does he own a knife, was he a burglary partner with the dead man, and all manner of cruel suggestions that’d break our mother’s heart.”
No wonder that Mr. Mooney saying he’d seen Frederick had pricked the inspector’s interest. But how would the footman have become so quickly intimate with Mr. Corker that they plotted a crime together? And even if Frederick had assisted in the jewel theft, did that mean he’d suddenly become a killer?
“Fred is the softest-hearted boy I ever knew!” Dot was crying. “He rescued kittens from a sack when the grocer tried to drown them last summer. He never forgets Mama’s birthday, and he—”
Hector awkwardly patted Dot’s shoulder.
“The truth is still hidden,” he said, “like the shy bird in a bramble bush. But do not upset yourself. The truth, she will be coaxed into the light.”
“Frederick has nothing to fear if he is innocent,” I began, but that word if prompted a whimper from Dot. “He will be proven innocent,” I amended (for what else could I say?). “Though I expect it will take the police a day or two to speak with everyone, and then to make their deductions.”
We clucked and soothed a little more, until Dot said, “I’m forgetting! The reason I was sent to find you flew right out of my head! Your grandmother says to tell you that enough is enough, miss. You and Master Hector are to go to the nursery. I’ll have your supper upstairs on a tray nearly before you get there.”
* * *
—
Twilight had deepened to winter darkness when we entered the Great Hall. Flames danced in the fireplace and the chandelier far above our heads reflected splinters of light from the candles burning on the festive tree.
A bell chimed at the front door. More police? Mr. Pressman crossed the tiles to open it. His back obscured our view, so we could only hear the visitor without seeing him.
“Good evening,” said a hearty voice. “I am Blake Cramshot from the Tiverton Bugle. I have a few questions about the tragic event that disturbed your Christmas morning.”
Mr. Pressman raised his hands, palms up. “I cannot help you, Mr. Cramshot. His lordship prefers that we decline to make any comment on the matter.”
“You don’t think his lordship would want to set the record straight? It’s rumors what’ll get in the paper if we don’t have direct word.”
“Good night to you, Mr. Cramshot.” Mr. Pressman closed the door with a firm click and lifted a key from the chain at his waist to lock it as well.
Upstairs, Lucy was in her nightdress, grumbling that we had never finished the hunt for our stockings or opened a single package. Dot had delivered the supper tray and gone away, leaving Grannie Jane—despite the many stairs!—to oversee our cozy supper. Chicken soup with tiny dumplings, salted butter smeared on warm bread and a blackberry jam tart. With the fire leaping and snow hurling itself against the windows, we ate our feast and were just a wee bit merry. The day had not been the Christmas we’d expected, but truly? Aside from the wretched end for poor Mr. Corker, Hector and I confessed to each other that we were content, even invigorated, by the unfolding events.
“I do not regret,” said Grannie Jane, “that my penchant for curiosity has been passed along to you, my pet. Though some consider it unseemly when expressed in the extreme. But really, is there anything more fascinating than the misdeeds of others?”
“Nothing at all,” I agreed. “Every day becomes a day at the theater.”
“Act One is done!” Hector stood to go to his own room. “When we awake, another act begins.”
Grannie and I stayed beside the fire as Lucy crawled beneath her quilt. She was asleep in minutes. But my head buzzed with characters and conversations, motives and questions. Were all the players now onstage? Could Dot’s brother be a villain? Had Mr. Sivam fought to protect his country’s heritage? Or would the second act reveal an unknown killer hiding in the wings? Were the clues required to solve the crime already noted, or might some unexpected detail come to light? Which moments were the ones that mattered and which could be disregarded?
“Agatha,” said Grannie Jane. “I have been thinking about your mother.”
I hurriedly scratched my forehead so that Grannie would not see me flush. Mummy had not entered my thoughts all this Christmas Day!
“I shall write to her at once,” I promised. “Now, before I sleep.”
“It seems to me,” said Grannie, “that were she to know the full truth of what has occurred here today, it would cause great worry.”
Mummy would be frantic. As fussed as a sick cat, as fretful as a hungry baby, as unsettled as a moth in a windstorm.
“I would like to suggest a small deceit.” Grannie Jane had lowered her voice to a near-whisper.
“Yes!” I caught her meaning at once. “But Marjorie must be also in accord.”
“We have already discussed the matter and a
re agreed,” she said. “How I worry for your sister, bearing the burden of a murder in one’s library while being scrutinized through narrowed eyes by her mother-in-law. Good night, pet.”
She toddled off toward East House, braver than any of us, I thought, having to spend the night in a suite next to that of old Lady Greyson.
Christmas night, 1902
Dear Mummy,
Did you know that Owl Park has a tradition of hiding the Christmas morning socks? James and Marjorie wrote clever clues for a treasure hunt first thing this morning.
And what surprises awaited us!
There has been so much snow that we haven’t been outside, but we are not bothered. Marjorie hired a small company of actors to entertain on Christmas Eve. Hector and Lucy played parts and I watched. The house is enormous with many unexpected things to see, including a cupboard full of teapots—in the morning room!—and other secrets besides.
Marjorie is a little nervous about feeding so many guests, but her menu choices have been delicious. No one is going hungry, despite the blizzard preventing some deliveries.
I do not think I shall ever forget this day.
Please rub Tony’s ears for me and know that I am sending you kisses.
My very best love,
Aggie
DECEMBER 26, 1902
FRIDAY
TIVERTON BUGLE
DECEMBER 26, 1902
by Blake Cramshot
Early Edition
Police were dragged from their Christmas suppers yesterday to attend the scene of a heinous crime at the manor house in Owl Park, one mile from the village of Tiverton in Devon. An unidentified male was found dead in the home of Lord and Lady Greyson several hours after his demise. The case will be handled by Detective Inspector Thaddeus Willard, newly appointed to the Tiverton constabulary under some protest, as certain local men of standing consider him to be an outsider and too young for this position of responsibility. A murder at our most prominent address will be a test of his abilities that many expect him to fail. Lord Greyson’s family and servants are nearly united in avoiding questions from the press. If police meet the same resistance, a solution to this barbaric act will not be soon forthcoming. The family have only themselves to blame if the situation is not quickly resolved. A few details have slipped out from the close-lipped household: The deceased was part of a theatrical troupe that performed for the Christmas Eve party. According to a member of the staff, the crime involved bloodshed. A bucket of vinegar and a pound of salt were used to clean the carpet. It is hoped that D.I. Willard will soon make a statement to satisfy the natural curiosity of a village that is now forever tainted by this violent act.
CHAPTER 19
A GOOD MANY QUESTIONS
WE HEARD QUITE A ruckus as we came down for breakfast on the morning of Boxing Day. The sort of ruckus caused by heavy boots pretending to be discreet but not managing very well. Hector and I watched from the mezzanine, while Lucy marched boldly down the stairs to get some answers.
How many officers had come? she asked. Four, said one of the constables (so young his mustache was barely fluff above his lip). Only four!? scoffed Lucy. Did they not think a murder at Owl Park was worthy of more than four constables? The Tiverton constabulary had only six constables, and two of them must remain at the station house to direct the hunt for the runaway guest. What hunt? Looking in the wood, checking inns and coaches along the carriageway, and combing through trains. What were the constables going to do here at Owl Park, exactly? The house was to be searched. It would take a long time with only four. And for that reason, miss had best run back to her nanny and let them get on with it. No, they would not be requiring her guidance.
“Detective Inspector Willard!” The imperious voice of Lucy’s grandmother rang through the Great Hall.
Lucy scampered up the stairs. “What is she doing up and about?” she muttered to us. “It’s not even half past eight.”
“I simply will not have it,” said the Dowager Lady Greyson.
Lucy tugged my sleeve and I tugged Hector’s. We slid quietly away and did not hear what Lady Greyson would not have, though it was bound to be something the police considered an urgent matter to accomplish.
In the breakfast room we were informed as to what none of us could have, on account of the snow preventing deliveries. There were no kidneys or sausages, but we were welcome to bacon or smoked kippers from Owl Park’s own smokehouse.
Grannie Jane was alone at the table, poking at a dish of porridge with little interest.
“Do you miss your newspaper, Grannie?” I said.
“How astute of you to notice, my pet. The local news”—she nudged a copy of the Tiverton Bugle, only four pages thick—“does not satisfy. I feel quite cut off from the world.”
She asked the footman—it was Norman—to bring buttered toast. And then, “Did my granddaughter, Lady Greyson, mention that the Torquay Voice is delivered each day?”
“Yes, Mrs. Morton,” said Norman. “She likes to keep up with the news from home. But it arrives later in the day. We have the Voice from Christmas Eve, if you’d like it, ma’am.”
Grannie Jane waved him away. That issue was useless, having been printed before the murder.
Norman returned to his place by the sideboard, where Lucy was sprinkling cinnamon sugar over a bowl of stewed pears.
“Norman?” asked Lucy. “Do you think Frederick stole the jewel?”
“I do not think that, Miss Lucy,” said Norman, rather stiffly. “As I share a room with him, I prefer not to consider him a thief or a murderer.”
“Hmm,” said Lucy. “To that I say, sweet dreams.”
“You may take this away,” said Grannie Jane, nudging the Tiverton Bugle toward the footman. “This fellow has filled his article on the murder with puffs of thin air, no substance whatsoever.”
“If no one will speak to the reporters,” I said, “how can they find substantial news to write about?”
“One of the conundrums of the modern age,” said Grannie.
“Co-nun—what is this word?” said Hector.
“Conundrum,” said Grannie Jane. “A difficult or puzzling matter to resolve. In this case, we do not like to have people interfering with our privacy, and yet we prefer our newspapers to tell us the truth.”
“Beg pardon for interrupting, madam,” said Norman, refilling her coffee cup. “But if it’s news you want, there’s a pack of fellas around the kitchen door won’t leave us alone. They were at the front door before the sun was up, but Mr. Pressman threatened them off with a horsewhip. Imagine if her ladyship had come downstairs to find that! Now we’ve got reporters camping in the kitchen courtyard like a band of tinkers.”
He offered the coffee pot to the rest of us and we said no thank you.
“Have you any cocoa?” said Lucy.
Yes, he’d fetch it.
“My goodness, but reporters move quickly,” said Grannie Jane. “Like flies to the jam pot.”
“They have to be quick,” I said. “First, they hear that something has happened and hurry along to where the news is. They interview people and gather whatever facts they’re given. And then they write the whole story, hundreds of words, with a few made-up bits, so that you may enjoy it over breakfast.”
Grannie Jane gave me a lengthy look over the top of her reading spectacles. “I believe your infelicitous choice to speak with the reporter in Torquay has put you in favor of these men being allowed to perform their jobs.”
“They must be terribly cold, that’s all,” I said. “Standing about on the flagstones hoping for crumbs of news like seagulls on the wharf.”
Grannie Jane was not to be diverted. “Agatha, may we agree on a particular kindness to your sister? We mustn’t add to her troubles by mingling with or encouraging members of the press. Are we in harmony on this?”
“We are,” I said. “And Hector is too, are you not?”
“In fact, I am,” said Hector, pleasantly ignoring my speaking for him.
Lucy chewed her pears and said nothing at all, giving us a rare moment of silence.
Breakfast done, we three wandered into the conservatory, which we’d only seen through its glass doors during our house tour on the first day. We stepped into a summer garden, warm and humid with an abundance of blossoms and greenery. Above our heads, the domed ceiling was also glass, letting us glimpse a sky mottled with snow-filled clouds.
“Si belle,” said Hector.
“Like an enchanted castle,” I said. “It smells delicious.”
Lucy threw her arms wide. “I love it in here,” she said. “But the only place to sit are those awful iron benches.” She made a circuit of the perimeter, sniffing every flower she came to.
Hector whispered, “I am thinking very much in the night. My brain cell friction is overly agitated.”
“Mine too,” I said. “Did you come up with anything clever?”
“I have many questions and not, as yet, the logical answers. Most important is the location of Mr. Lakshay Sivam—and the reason for his departure. Also, where is the cursed Echo Emerald? With its owner? Or in someone else’s pocket?”
“Do you suppose,” I said, “that Mr. Corker is the latest victim of the evil curse upon the stone? When Kitty pulled the jewel from its case on Christmas Eve, its gleaming allure overcame his common sense and forced him to perform a bold and wicked act of thievery—”
Hector shot me a look of grave disappointment. When it came to sleuthing, he did not like my imagination getting in the way of perfectly good logic.
“What are you two whispering about?” said Lucy, done with her blossom-sniffing.
“The murder, of course,” I said.
“I dreamt about it,” said Lucy. “I woke up screaming.”
“You did not,” I said. “I was sleeping in the same room.”
“It felt as though I woke up screaming,” said Lucy. “I can’t believe I stepped in his blood, up to my ankles almost. And then Mr. Sivam, the wicked murderer, was kneeling at the side of his victim with an evil leer across his face!”
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