Peril at Owl Park

by Marthe Jocelyn

  “Where is the body now?” said Mr. Fibbley. “Could you take me to see it?”

  “Certainly not,” I said.

  “They moved it,” said Lucy.

  I pressed the toe of my shoe upon the toe of hers.

  “A peek at the crime site, then?” said Mr. Fibbley.

  Footsteps thundered down the marble stairs into the Great Hall. Mr. Pressman, usually so stately, darted toward the commotion, which turned out to be two constables racing to find Inspector Willard.

  “What’s this?” Mr. Fibbley watched with a keen eye as the policemen jumped the last three steps. One of them carried a woman’s low buttoned boot. They trotted toward the Avon Room where Inspector Willard was still conducting interviews.

  “They must have found it,” Lucy said to me.

  “Found what?” said Mr. Fibbley.

  “The emerald,” said Lucy.

  “An emerald was lost?” said Mr. Fibbley.

  “Lucy,” I said. “You are an object of tremendous vexation.”

  Another constable trotted toward the ballroom. Mr. Pressman strode our way, addressing Mr. Fibbley in the firmest of tones.

  “I believe the time has come, sir, to say good day.”

  “Just as things get interesting,” said the reporter, with a bright smile. “I am not dismayed, however. I have enough to get started.”

  A scuffle in the passage from the ballroom sent Mr. Pressman hurrying to investigate.

  “Must this occur at the front of the house?” said the butler tersely. “It is most discourteous to the—”

  “Most bloody discourteous, being treated like a common criminal!” shouted Miss Annabelle Day, as she was dragged into the Great Hall.

  One of the constables put a hand over her mouth. “None of your barnyard language here, miss, if you please.”

  Miss Day wriggled her face clear of his hand and protested so loudly that the Dowager Lady Greyson may have heard her in East House. Two footmen came into the Great Hall from the service passage and stopped to gape, this not being a common scene at Owl Park. Sergeant Shaw appeared and moved quickly to assist the struggling constables.

  “I never touched that emerald, as Heaven is my witness!” cried Miss Day. “And if I had—which I did not—why would I be such a fool as to hide it in my own damn shoe? This is a trap!”

  She yanked her arm from the grasp of Sergeant Shaw’s thick fingers. “Let go of me, you great ape! I can walk perfectly well without you pawing me.”

  “This way, miss,” said Sergeant Shaw, quite humbly, I thought, for a great ape. “The inspector will put it all to rights, whatever right is.”

  Annabelle lifted her chin, set her shoulders straight and, flanked by two men, with a third behind, marched toward the Avon Room as gracefully as a doomed queen heading to the scaffold.

  Mr. Fibbley was madly scribbling the whole time.

  “You mustn’t put in anything about the emerald,” I said. “Please? Not yet. You mustn’t.”

  “And why is that, Miss Morton? You did not breach a confidence. I’ve watched all this with my own two eyes.”

  “Mr. Fibbley, sir?” Mr. Pressman loomed over us. “Your departure will be most efficient through a side entrance. Here is Frederick to escort you.”

  He signaled the second footman, who strode forward and stood waiting until Mr. Fibbley had put away his notebook and pencil, straightened his muffler and retrieved his hat from the knight. He managed to wink at me before following Frederick out of the Great Hall.

  “What is all the racket, Pressman?” James was here, the book he’d been reading still in his hand. “Are the girls—oh, hello, girls. What happened? Did the reporter cause trouble after all?”

  “The reporter was lovely, Uncle James,” said Lucy. “He winked at Aggie and said I was a clever girl.”

  To be factual, he’d called me “the clever Miss Morton,” and never said any such thing about Lucy, but let her have her silly fib. I would not deny her story.

  “My lord,” said Mr. Pressman. “There has been an apprehension.”

  “Explain.”

  Mr. Pressman explained. James shook his head, in disbelief or dismay I could not tell.

  “Has my mother been visible at all?” said James.

  “No, my lord.”

  “Small mercies,” said James. “Though I do feel an element of sympathy, since the chloroform drops for her toothache seem to have disappeared into thin air. Not that she needed any help in becoming crankier.”

  The doorbell rang.

  Mr. Pressman glanced around to be certain that the Great Hall was as quiet and elegant as it was meant to be. Lucy and I crept closer as he unlatched the door. Outside was an elderly gentleman, accompanied only by his cane.

  “Good afternoon,” said Mr. Pressman.

  “Good afternoon.” The man touched his hat. “I am here at the request of a Mr. Lakshay Sivam. We have an appointment today. My name is Sir Mayhew Dullingham. The stationmaster was kind enough to bring me from the village in a sleigh! I am here from the British Gemological Society. I believe the appraisal of a gemstone is required?”

  CHAPTER 22

  AN EXPERT OPINION

  SIR MAYHEW DULLINGHAM seemed as old as a tree, remarkable upon first sight because of his eyebrows. They were not sleek and agile, as Hector’s were, but wiry and ferocious. His eyes were difficult to find beneath such hairy scrawls, and behind thick spectacles as well.

  Mr. Pressman helped the old man out of his coat and took his hat, but was shooed away when he offered to carry a small leather valise. James sent a footman to notify Kitty Sivam. She soon arrived with Marjorie, and with a grinning Hector close behind.

  “I am most excited to meet an expert of such renown,” he whispered to me.

  “How do you know he is renowned?” I said.

  “He is a sir!” said Hector. “Rewarded for the power of his brain and not for prowess on a battlefield.”

  The Great Hall was populated with more people than I imagined Sir Mayhew Dullingham expected to see, and none of them the person he’d planned to meet. Inspector Willard had also appeared, looking quite puffed up and ready to make a pronouncement. James introduced himself to Sir Mayhew and explained there had been a tragic death, that the police were here, that Mr. Sivam had been called away, but here was Mrs. Sivam in her husband’s stead.

  “And the stone, my dear lady?” said Sir Mayhew.

  “The stone—” Kitty began.

  Inspector Willard could keep quiet no longer. He raised two tightly closed fists, looking like a boxer without puffy gloves.

  “Officially,” he said, “the stone is currently in the care of the Tiverton constabulary, as part of an investigation into the crimes committed.”

  “You have the—” Kitty Sivam’s eyes watched the inspector’s hand, as if he were a conjurer about to produce a white rabbit. “You’ve found the stone?” she cried. She pounced on him, pulling his fists out of the air. He stepped back and held his arms aloft.

  “Madam,” he said, “I must ask you—”

  “Where did you find it?” she demanded.

  “The stone has been lost?” Sir Mayhew’s voice held a distinct waver.

  “Who took it?” said Mrs. Sivam. “I want to know where it was.”

  “Under the circumstances,” said the inspector, “the police are reluctant to allow the Echo Emerald out of our care, even for a short time.”

  Kitty Sivam had two spots of color high on her cheeks. “Let me see the stone!” she cried. “Have you found my husband too?”

  “Have I arrived in a madhouse?” The old gemologist’s eyebrows seemed to tremble as he peered at the inspector, who finally opened his left fist to offer a glimpse of the gem. I stood on my tiptoes to catch a glint of green, as did Hector next to me.

  “I’d like i
t back,” said Kitty Sivam. “Until Lakshay can be here to—”

  James intervened. “I propose that we proceed with the appraisal that Lakshay arranged. Surely it will be to everyone’s advantage to know precisely what sort of gem we’ve got here—why the actress took it into her silly head to—”

  “The actress?” said Kitty Sivam, her voice high-pitched and furious. “The actress?”

  The inspector’s hand snapped shut. James realized his error in revealing the possible culprit and attempted to change direction.

  “We do need to know whether it was worth…” He paused again.

  What had he been about to say? Was it worth the risk that Annabelle had apparently taken? Was it worth Roger Corker dying for? Was it worth so much that someone (I had trouble imagining Annabelle) had become a killer? Or…was it fulfilling an ancient curse?

  Marjorie put a hand on Kitty Sivam’s arm. “It will be best for everyone, dear, if we know its value.”

  Mrs. Sivam swallowed hard and straightened her back, seeming to adjust her attitude along with her posture. “Of course.” She nodded to Inspector Willard. “I apologize for my upset. I’m…on edge.”

  The inspector passed the Echo Emerald into Sir Mayhew’s open palm. The gemologist sighed, rather like the sigh of someone given a large slice of cake. He squinted through his thick spectacles, lifted it close to his lips and exhaled abruptly. He then peered again at the jewel, his head seeming to jiggle as much as the tremor in his hand.

  “Well, sir?” said Kitty Sivam. “What do you see?”

  Her voice was soft, but surprising to the old man. He fumbled. The emerald fell from his fingers. All watching gasped together, and then again half a second later when Hector darted with the speed of a hummingbird and caught the gem before it hit the floor.

  Sir Mayhew Dullingham jumped, and began a wheezy chuckle. “Splendid,” he said.

  It seemed he was about to pat Hector’s head, but accepted the emerald instead.

  “If you would be so kind,” he said to James. “I should like two glasses of water and a private place with good light to continue my examination.”

  “But—” Kitty began, and stopped at once.

  James signaled to Mr. Pressman to arrange for water. James himself would escort the gemologist to a private spot.

  “I will have the boy to assist,” said Sir Mayhew.

  Excellent work, my friend! Hector shot me a triumphant smile.

  The inspector himself planned to stand guard while the gemstone was examined.

  Lucy poked me.

  “James will take them to his study!” she whispered. “We can watch!”

  Doubly excellent! We pretended to scrutinize one of the enormous urns full of festive greenery as Marjorie guided Kitty toward the drawing room. A few minutes on, we sidled out of the Great Hall, with the casual stealth of practiced spies.

  How deflating to arrive at the morning room and discover James leaning against the door frame! Lucy glared. He had read our minds—and didn’t he look smug.

  “Hello, ladies,” he said. “Going somewhere special?”

  “I have misplaced my landscape embroidery,” said Lucy. “I may have left it on the…on the ottoman.”

  “Do have a look,” said James. “I can wait.”

  I did not imagine that Lucy had ever embroidered anything more than her initial on a handkerchief. I laughed.

  “Come on, Lucy,” I said. “We’ve been outsmarted. Let’s go and wait with Marjorie for news about the emerald.”

  “But it’s so deadly boring in the drawing room!”

  “You could start a new piece of embroidery,” suggested James.

  * * *

  —

  Hector, presumably, was passing a pleasant hour of instruction in gemology, while Lucy and I sat upright on a drawing room chaise, listening to Kitty Sivam mutter and fuss as she paced back and forth across the cabbage roses woven into the carpet.

  “But where is Lakshay?” she cried, every third or fourth turn. “It made sense that he might flee to protect his precious jewel, but it makes no sense at all that he should go away without taking it with him.”

  Marjorie invented a new soothing remark each time. Lucy yawned or retied the ribbons at the ends of her plaits. And I thought about Hector diving for the Echo Emerald and how not bored he must be just now.

  A tap on the door and Frederick came in. He bowed to my sister and glanced over his shoulder to where I saw Stephen hovering.

  “Begging your pardon, my lady,” said Frederick. “Due to the police activity, the lamps have not been trimmed on schedule. If the boy could slip in now? The inspector wishes to speak with him again and we do not know when next—”

  “Certainly, Frederick, send him in,” said Marjorie, ignoring Kitty’s raised eyebrow. “The servants’ schedules are as upset as everyone else’s,” she explained to her guest. “Perhaps even more so. We must accommodate, for our own comfort.”

  Kitty sat, in a rustle of silk, as Stephen came in carrying his basket of lamp-tending tools. Frederick waited at the door, perhaps to prevent any misbehavior on the part of the boy. We sat for a few minutes, diverted by Stephen performing his duties—though if I’d been in his place, the mortification of all eyes on me would have been unbearable!

  It was Kitty who cracked the silence by addressing Frederick. “Are you the boy who was acting as my husband’s valet?” she said.

  “Yes, ma’am,”

  “And were you the one to rifle his drawers and leave the room in disgraceful disarray?”

  “Kitty!” scolded my sister.

  “No, ma’am!” Frederick colored scarlet. “I found the room that way! The police asked that I wait to tidy while they looked around.”

  “The police have searched there too?” said Kitty, disconcerted.

  “Yes, ma’am.” Frederick’s voice was quiet but firm.

  “Frederick has been with us for many months,” said Marjorie. “He’s becoming a fine footman, aren’t you, Frederick?”

  “Yes, your ladyship, I hope so,” said Frederick.

  Lucy turned to Stephen. “Why are you being interviewed again by the police? Are you also a suspect?”

  Stephen paused in his task, with scissors in midair. “No, Miss Chatsworth, I am as honest as a mirror.”

  This made Marjorie and Kitty laugh, while Stephen flushed.

  “Why then?” said Lucy.

  “I expect they want to hear more about my observations on the subject of boots,” said Stephen. “As I happen to be the one polishing, and I know there were no jewel in Miss Day’s boot last night, because I’d of noticed if—”

  “Stephen,” said Frederick, sharply, from his place at the door. “Finish up.”

  Stephen ducked his face to his task, while his ears glowed red.

  Lucy moved to the piano. “May I play, Aunt Marjorie?”

  “I suppose so,” said my sister.

  Kitty rolled her eyes and Marjorie rolled her eyes in return, but listening to Lucy plink-plunk her way through a Brahms lullaby allowed us to pass the next many minutes. Frederick escorted Stephen away, and we were back to waiting for news from Sir Mayhew Dullingham.

  Happily, James appeared after not too, too long. “Please come to the study.”

  “Oh, thank Heaven.” Kitty reached for her shawl.

  It was my first time being inside the study, though I had seen a slice of it through the spy-hole. The desk of burnished wood caught a trickle of winter light through leaded panes. Walls of books, a reading chair, a tin of biscuits close to hand. I could live in this one room!

  But we were here on important business, and what did it mean that Hector would not meet my eyes?

  “Well?” said Kitty Sivam, too eager for good manners.

  “Lord and Lady Greyson,” said Sir Mayhew, “and M
rs. Sivam. I shall be brief. It grieves me to inform you that the stone in your possession is not the famous Echo Emerald missing from the statue of Aditi in Ceylon.”

  Kitty Sivam gasped and reached for my sister’s hand.

  “It is not, in fact, an emerald at all,” said the old man. “It is a well-composed copy, made of glass.”

  CHAPTER 23

  A HORRIBLE SOUND

  KITTY SIVAM RELEASED A cry of anguish and swayed on her feet.

  Not an emerald? A lump of colored glass? The faces around me reflected many shades of disbelief and horror. Hector came to stand next to me now that the worst was said aloud, though we could not yet confer as we wished. Inspector Willard was listening closely, and watching each person in turn.

  Sir Mayhew bowed to James and to Kitty Sivam.

  “It dismays me to impart ill-wished-for news, my lord. If it is of any comfort, the copy is an old one, and of the highest quality.” He bowed again and looked about as if wondering how he’d got here.

  Hector took his arm and we led him back to the Great Hall. Mr. Pressman was most solicitous in ensuring that the old man was seated comfortably in the stationmaster’s sleigh.

  “Cook has wrapped a pork pie for your journey,” the butler told Sir Mayhew. “Along with a pot of her famous pickled radishes.”

  Returning to the library, we discovered that the news continued to cause an uproar. Mrs. Sivam’s face was blotched and teary, like sand after a brief downpour. My sister offered her a handkerchief.

  “Sir Mayhew said the duplicate was many years old,” James was saying. “I expect Lakshay’s father had it made for safety’s sake. Were you aware that a copy of the Echo Emerald existed, Mrs. Sivam?”

  She looked at him as if uncertain how to answer.

  But then, “We learned of the copy when we went to the bank, thinking to collect just the Echo Emerald itself,” she said. “Lakshay’s father left a note to explain about the second stone. It was a…precaution, I believe he said? Though Lakshay wondered if it was more of a souvenir.”

  “Had you learned to see the difference between the two?”