“I…I did not ever hold the two at once,” said Kitty Sivam. “I am not an expert. Lakshay kept them apart. But someone…that woman! She has stolen the genuine stone and put a copy in its place!”
“Refuse Worthless Imitations…” I whispered to Hector, recalling the motto on the bottle of smelling salts.
“Why does a thief keep a copy in her own shoe?” Hector murmured back. “Does she know the difference? Has Mr. Sivam taken the genuine stone somewhere?”
“We’ve been tricked!” cried Mrs. Sivam. “Annabelle Day is partners with someone who works at the bank! They tried to steal the emerald our first night here, and then succeeded on Christmas Eve! Who knows where the jewel is now?” She stared about wildly. “Lakshay has run for his life! Or else been murdered too!”
“Kitty, my dear,” said Marjorie. “The police will soon learn all the answers, do not fear.”
A gong sounded.
“Half an hour until lunch!” said Lucy. “I’m starving near to expiring.”
James leaned in to speak with his wife. “My darling, I must go and tell Mother of this new twist in the plot. I’ll bring her to lunch and join you as soon as I can. We’re awfully late today, aren’t we?”
“Aggie?” Marjorie’s arm was around my shoulder. “Do you mind terribly much taking Hector and Lucy to eat in the servants’ hall again? James’s mother makes everything so difficult, and—”
“We don’t mind,” I said.
Hector looked away so that Marjorie wouldn’t see his smile.
Lucy did not think to hide her feelings. “Hurrah!” she said. “It’s much better fun below stairs.”
* * *
—
Dot was at the table, with Archer and Stephen, and a couple of others I had no names for. The footmen, Frederick and Norman and John, formed a small parade, traveling back and forth from Cook’s domain to the dining room upstairs, carrying clean plates, polished glasses and shining silverware to set the table.
“The doctor and Mrs. Sivam have asked for their lunches on trays in their rooms,” said Cook. “So you’ll take those up, Frederick, when you get back.”
“Yes, ma’am,” said Frederick.
“I’m running a hotel instead of a house,” Cook grumbled.
We had just begun our turnip soup with bread and butter when Mr. Mooney came in from the service courtyard. He brought a swirl of snow and a blast of winter. His face was ruddy, hair disheveled.
“Have you lost your hat?” asked Lucy.
Mr. Mooney touched his head and shrugged, saying that yes, he must have, while moving scenery. He had not even noticed. We revealed to him the news of the fraudulent jewel, and his jaw dropped open in astonishment.
“I don’t understand,” said Mr. Mooney. “There are two emeralds? A real one and a copy?”
“That’s what Uncle James asked Mrs. Sivam,” said Lucy.
“And how did Mrs. Sivam answer?” said Mr. Mooney.
“She seemed to agree that there might be two,” I said. “She was very upset.”
“I suppose Mr. Sivam mixed things up on purpose,” said Mr. Mooney. “Very clever of him. Put the copy in a fancy box and pretend it’s stolen while he runs away with the real one.”
We all went silent. Who would tell him? One friend had been murdered and now his other friend was revealed to be—well, appeared to be—a jewel thief.
Admirably, it was Lucy who spoke up. “Sorry, Mr. Mooney, but nobody knows if there really is a real one. Miss Day had the copy hidden in her room.”
“Miss Day? But that’s impossible!” Mr. Mooney looked from one to the next of us, begging with his eyes that Lucy had misspoken. “This cannot…How did…No! It doesn’t make sense! Not Annabelle!”
“The constable named Worth found it in the toe of her boot,” said Lucy.
“Them’s nice boots, the red ones,” said Stephen. “I took extra care.”
“The toe of her boot?” Mr. Mooney was dumbfounded. He sat at the table and stared at the basket of bread for several minutes. Mrs. Hornby put a bowl of soup in front of him. He ate it up, but it could have been a bowl of snow for all the attention he paid.
“Tell us about Sir Mayhew,” I said to Hector. “What happened in there?”
Hector told us all in rapid detail what tests the stone had failed during its examination. If one exhales on a real emerald, the fog will disperse at once rather than linger for several seconds as it does on the surface of glass. The gemologist had suspected from his first breath that he was looking at a copy, but went through several more trials before allowing himself to make a pronouncement. A drop of water on a real emerald will hold its shape, but on a fake will run off. A submerged emerald will cast a green light in water, but a copy will not. Only a false gem is clear all the way through. A genuine emerald has many interior fissures and flaws, and its facets are sharp, not easily worn away. A real emerald does not flash or cast what the old expert had called fire.
“When Mrs. Sivam held the jewel up to the light that first evening,” said Lucy, “it was the flashes that impressed us all.”
“Next time, I will know,” said Hector. “It is glass that flashes. A genuine emerald does not.”
Mr. Mooney perked up. “You’ve been apprenticed under the top man in his field,” he said to Hector. “You can start your trade as a master jewel thief.”
Hector grinned. “It is a beginning,” he said. “Though, sadly, I do not think I have the nerve to be a villain.” He patted his lips with a napkin and folded it tidily beside his empty soup bowl.
Frederick came in and collected the first of the lunch trays, carrying it up the men’s stairs on a slight slant.
Hector was still thinking about the Echo Emerald. “If the genuine jewel still exists, where is it? Does Mr. Lakshay Sivam know, or not know, which stone is mere glass?”
“The burning question!” Mr. Mooney slapped the table with his palm. “How many ladies’ necks are adorned with counterfeit jewels while crafty husbands sell the genuine items?” He took out his watch, attached on a long chain to his pocket, and looked at the time. He held it to his ear to be certain it was ticking before idly twisting the links a few times about his finger.
“Will Miss Day be in less trouble for stealing a copy?” said Lucy. “Because it’s not so valuable?”
“I can’t believe she did this,” said Mr. Mooney. “When I think of all the treasures we’ve seen, in all the manor houses we’ve visited…I suppose we’ve learned a little about fine stones along the way…but why would she…why now?”
“The beauty of the emerald, it is irresistible,” said Hector.
“And small enough to fit anywhere,” said Stephen.
“Speaking of small,” said Mrs. Frost to Stephen, “it’s time you went up to do the bedroom lamps while they’re all at lunch. Go on, you.”
Stephen scooped up his tool basket and went to the men’s stairs.
“When the first attempt was made to steal the Echo Emerald,” I said to Mr. Mooney, “Miss Day and the rest of you had not yet arrived at Owl Park. So, I don’t see how she had any part of a burglary.” I was thinking of Kitty Sivam’s accusations. “You were performing elsewhere?”
“We were,” said Mr. Mooney. “We performed a play that night, a charming version of Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland at Hanley House near Axminster. The daughter of the house made rather a buck-toothed Alice and could not recall a single one of her lines.”
The door to the courtyard opened, hurling in another rush of cold air. Sergeant Fellowes scraped his boots on the mat, and shook the snow off his jacket.
“All is calm outdoors,” he said, touching the brim of his hat to acknowledge Mrs. Frost. “I’m just doing my rounds.”
“You can tell your inspector there’ll be lunch for you lot in the Avon Room when his lordship’s company has been serve
d,” said the housekeeper.
“That’s right nice of you, ma’am,” said the sergeant. “And we’ll be wanting the boy for more questions as soon as you can spare him.”
He went through the baize door just as the gong sounded for lunch upstairs.
“Oh, heavens, there’s the bell gone,” said Cook. “Where’s Frederick to take the second tray?”
No one had an answer. Norman waited patiently for Cook to finish filling a tureen. The aroma was fresh, like celery and thyme. Upstairs was having a different soup.
A minute later, we heard a cry from the men’s staircase. And then a crack. And then a rapid series of dreadful thumps.
Stephen lay at the bottom of the stairs, like a doll tossed down in a temper. He was more or less on his back, arms flung wide, and we could see his face, still and blank. The kitchen fell silent for a single heartbeat before Effie screamed, and the rest of us made other horrified noises.
Hector, the speedy one, was first to kneel beside him. “He is breathing.”
The muslin shirt on Stephen’s chest stirred with a slight but regular rise and fall.
“Heaven be praised,” said Cook.
“Shall I find the doctor, Mrs. Frost?” said Archer.
“Dr. Musselman is a houseguest for Christmas,” said Mrs. Frost. “Not on duty, so to speak. And he’s already got m’lady’s teeth to worry about. We’ll pull out Stephen’s mat and let him rest quiet till he comes to.”
“He’s meant to be speaking with the inspector in five minutes,” said Dot.
“Do not move him,” said Hector urgently. “If the arm is fractured, or inside maybe…” He made a stirring motion in front of his own stomach. “An injury may become worse with motion.”
“The boy is right,” said Mr. Mooney. “You’d best have the doctor check for broken bones. And someone tell the inspector there’s been a delay.”
Mrs. Frost sighed. “Frederick? Where has Frederick got to? Norman, go up and tell Dr. Musselman, soft like, while you fill his glass, we’ve had an incident needing medical advice. No need to fuss the rest of them. Miss Lucy, you and your friends had best get up to the nursery. No need to linger about seeing this…” She nodded toward Stephen, whose face was swelling and turning darker.
“Shouldn’t he have a pillow at least?” said Lucy.
“Do not move the head,” said Hector.
“The doctor will say what’s needed,” said Mrs. Frost. “Off you go, children. Too many cooks in the kitchen.”
Mr. Mooney went over and mounted the first few steps of the men’s staircase, craning his neck to look up around the turn.
“I don’t see anything he might’ve tripped over,” he said. “What happened, do you think?”
“He’s been up and down those steps like a mountain goat for half his life,” said Mrs. Frost. “His feet is still little enough to fit, no matter how steep the rise. How did so nimble a boy lose his footing?”
Up to the nursery we went, as the housekeeper had said we should. But then what?
The sky was darkening already, because of the ever-falling snow, a bruised yellow swath above the tangle of black branches. As if Owl Park itself were mourning Mr. Corker’s woeful end. Nature’s way of expressing disquiet over the boot boy’s fate.
It was too snowy to go skating and no one much felt like it anyway. Especially Hector. We were not inclined to play a board game, and the few nursery books were too pious to be of interest. Had James really read Elsie Dinsmore? Hector and I would have liked to discuss the murder, but Lucy was there—being Lucy—and that did not feel helpful to the cause. Eventually Marjorie came up to tell us that the doctor had visited Stephen, but the boy was still unconscious. She delivered to me a folded paper bearing my name, Agatha, in Grannie Jane’s scrawl.
“Our heroic grandmother has been at Lady Greyson’s side for the entire afternoon,” said Marjorie. “She must now know more about James’s childhood than James does himself. Dot will be up in a bit with a supper tray. Good night, darlings.”
The note read:
Children in nurseries are often
more entertained than
old ladies in drawing rooms.
Sweet dreams.
TORQUAY VOICE
BOXING DAY, 1902
LATE EDITION
DEADLY SWORDPLAY!!
BODY DISCOVERED BY CHILDREN
ON CHRISTMAS MORNING!
VICTIM LIES IN POOL OF BLOOD
WITH SLASHED THROAT!
by Augustus C. Fibbley
Horror awaited unsuspecting children as they sought their gifts from Father Christmas yesterday morning at an elegant manor outside the village of Tiverton, in Devon. The murdered corpse of Mr. Roger Corker, wearing the disguise of a pirate, lay upon the floor of the library at Owl Park. Readers of the Torquay Voice will recall the murder-by-poison that shook our town in October, a case solved, in part, through the fortitude and determination of twelve-year-old Miss Agatha Morton. Here she is again, first to arrive at another fearsome scene. Miss Morton was accompanied by a cousin, Miss Lucy Chatsworth, 10, and Torquay resident Hector Perot, 12, a guest of the household. Miss Chatsworth revealed that blood had seeped from the dead man’s wounds across the carpet all the way to the fringe. Her uncle, the young Baron, Lord James Greyson, requested that all further questions be addressed to the police. The investigation is being led by Detective Inspector Thaddeus Willard, new to the rank, and tight-lipped regarding this case. Mr. Corker’s murder is the first such crime since D.I. Willard joined the Tiverton force last summer. Concern has already been voiced regarding his inexperience, and his brief statement to the press on Christmas Day was not reassuring. The family is sequestered and did not care to comment, though rumors circulate about a second houseguest not accounted for and a valuable jewel gone missing. This intrepid reporter will continue to investigate despite efforts by police and staff to close their doors to our inquiries.
DECEMBER 27, 1902
SATURDAY
CHAPTER 24
A MOUNTAIN OF WORRIES
THE NEXT MORNING, Dot rattled us awake by dropping the fire tongs.
“How is Stephen?” I said from my bed.
“Just the same, miss. He looks like death. Meaning, I’ll be doing his work as well as my own. Next to impossible, it being Christmas week. Near impossible already, even without clodhopping policemen around every corner.” She wiped her cloth along the mantelpiece, squinted at it and sighed. “I do forty-one fire grates every day of my life,” she said. “And then I’ve got the soot grime and ash-dust to look after. It’s a never-ending story. Not even mentioning poor Frederick’s troubles with that inspector. Did he ever see the special emerald? And what was Mr. Sivam wearing? And has he got a need for money? Well, don’t we all?”
She poured us each a cup of cocoa—but no tray today, she said. There was a perfectly good breakfast waiting in the breakfast room. “Master Hector is already dressed and gone downstairs.”
Lucy began to count strokes as she brushed her hair. “Three, four, five…”
“Stephen usually sleeps on a mat near the oven,” said Dot. “For now, he’s been put in the butler’s pantry, so’s we can watch him but also keep him out of the way. Except it’s Mr. Pressman’s private spot, and he’s an ogre when peeved, I’ll tell you straight. The doctor says Stephen’s got hisself concussed in the skull. No bones broken, but horrible bruises! I had a peek first thing—his eyes is all swolled up and purple, like a mask.”
I shivered.
“His head is wrapped up with brown paper soaked in vinegar. He don’t half smell like a jar of pickles.”
“Just like Jack,” I said. “And Jill. Bumped his head and went to bed.”
Lucy’s punishing brushstrokes made her hair crackle. “Eleven, twelve, thirteen…What about the prisoner?” she said.
“Oh, Miss Day’s all right,” said Dot. “Mrs. Frost said only porridge, as she’s a prisoner, but Archer and me, we like Miss Day, she’s as nice as sugar, so we take turns going up and slipping her buns and whatnot. The sergeant on guard, he don’t mind. He likes her too.” Dot waggled her eyebrows up and down. “I mean, he likes her.”
Lucy tried to copy the eyebrow maneuver but she looked demented.
“I’d best be off.” Dot collected our mugs. “We had a bit of an uproar below stairs last evening,” she said, pausing at the door. “Lords and ladies can’t have all the fun, can they? Effie—she’s scullery—and Archer, they saw out the window what seemed to be some sort of hunchbacked monster, swaying against the coalhouse door, clutching his head and staggering like he were a lunatic.”
“Go on!” said Lucy, eyes round.
“Lucky that Mr. Mooney happened along. He nipped straight out to investigate without a smidgen of fear. ‘Stay away from the windows!’ he says to us, and we ducked down giggling, but leery too. He was gone ever so long, we thought he might be doing battle. And what do you think it was?” Dot hushed her voice to a spooky whisper.
We shook our heads, waiting to hear. Lucy had stopped brushing.
Dot cackled. “He found the coalhouse door swinging open and shut, with an empty coal sack caught in a hinge and flapping. ‘Here’s your monster,’ says Mr. Mooney, and he plunks down the sack on the kitchen table. He flashed that smile of his what Archer says could melt a block of ice.”
“A coal sack?” I said.
Lucy picked up her brush again. “Fancy thinking it was a monster,” she said.
“I’m hungry.” I threw back my coverlet. “Time to get dressed.”
* * *
—
Hector waved cheerily when we came in. But he was sitting with Dr. Musselman at the far end of the table, so I sat next to my grandmother. She was happily eating a kipper and listening to Marjorie read aloud from last evening’s Torquay Voice. Mrs. Sivam held her hands over her ears. She said the only news she wished to hear was that her husband was safe and sound.
Peril at Owl Park Page 14