“I will not,” I said. Promises were to be honored, I knew that much. But could not the same be said of honesty?
“Good girl,” she said. “Then poke me in the eye, Miss Morton.”
“Wha—?” I began to say. But truly? There was nothing I wanted to do more right then. I followed her instruction and twisted two corners of the hand towel into points.
She leaned forward. “Go on,” she said.
Without warning her as to the moment of attack, I jabbed one eye and then the other, an instant later.
“Ohh!” She blinked and winced and peered into the mirror. “That worked a charm!” Her eyes had turned pink and filled with tears. “Now you have conspired with me and must play the game to the end. Come, let us get back before my sorrow dries up!”
In the drawing room, everyone was seated as before, except for Hector, who offered around the plate of seed cake. I had such a trove to tell him! Miss Beatrice Truitt had her veil turned up and allowed her pink eyes to brim with tears. This prevented anyone from wondering why we’d been absent for so many minutes.
“Miss Truitt,” said Grannie Jane. “Please sit here by me.”
Miss Truitt sat, modestly shielding her face—now that her woe had been witnessed.
“Because of the investigation…” Marjorie spoke in a careful voice so that I guessed at once that Grannie had been coaching her. “We may not assist in making plans for a funeral as yet, but please be assured that when the time comes…” She paused because Miss Truitt had sobbed.
Her weeping now rang loudly of fraudulence. I wished to stamp on her toe. I waited with the others, however, for the woman to recover her calm.
“If I could just…” said Miss Truitt. “It would mean so much to me if I might…see him? To pay my last respects?”
“Would that really give you comfort, my dear?” said Grannie Jane. “It may be…just a bit gruesome.”
A soft knock came at the door half a moment before it opened to reveal Mr. Pressman and one of the policemen.
“Constable Gillie, my lady,” said the butler.
The constable stepped in and cast a quick look around the room, as if he had not entered many like it before. The ornate plaster roses, set into the ceiling to reflect the ones in the carpets, the gold-threaded draperies, the cascade of crystal blossoms hanging in the chandelier—it was all pretty grand.
“Yes, Constable?” said Marjorie. “How can we help?”
Constable Gillie cleared his throat. “Detective Inspector Willard understands there’s a young woman come who might shed light on the investigation.” His eyes fell on Miss Truitt, sitting with head bowed. Truly, gossip flew from one room to the next in this house, as speedily as a nervous bat. Like a fly catching a whiff of honey. Like a bird with its tail on fire.
“The inspector would like to have a word, as soon as it is convenient,” said the constable.
Marjorie rose to her feet and smiled. “I cannot, naturally, presume for our guest, but neither will I disappoint her. She wishes to spend a few moments, now, alone with…with Mr. Corker. After that, she may speak with the inspector, if she has strength to do so.”
“Thank you, Lady Greyson,” murmured Miss Truitt. “The girl has been unwavering in her kindness. Might she lead me to view the body of my beloved?”
CHAPTER 27
AN INTIMIDATION
CONSTABLE GILLIE escorted us to visit the corpse. We could not escape that courtesy. What machinations were occurring in Miss Truitt’s head to prepare herself for an interview with the detective inspector?
I led them along the route I knew to reach the service courtyard, through the baize door and into the kitchen.
Cook slapped a hand to her mouth at the sight of us there, and hearing her squawk made all the staff look up in surprise and worry. It was no common sight to see a lady in a fine mourning dress and veil come traipsing through their territory without a word of warning.
“You should be going through the side door, miss, next to the library. It leads to the terrace and a path to the courtyard.”
“I do apologize, Cook,” I said. “I’ll remember that for next time.”
Dot pulled a woolly shawl from a hook near the door and bundled it about my shoulders. “You’ll need this,” she said. “Snow’s coming down like powdered sugar on a plum cake.”
The stable had two doors. A tall double door used by the horses, closed for the moment, and an ordinary human-sized entrance. Sergeant Fellowes stood at this one, thumping the end of his baton into one palm in quite a threatening fashion. He nodded to our constable and eyed Miss Truitt up and down. He ignored me as thoroughly as if I were a sparrow on some distant branch.
“Lady Greyson was firm in her wish,” explained Constable Gillie. “Miss Truitt here is to have a look at his nibs.”
“She’s what?” said Sergeant Fellowes. “Going in there?”
“Alone,” said Miss Truitt, from behind her veil.
Sergeant Fellowes looked at Constable Gillie and Gillie nodded curtly. Sergeant Fellowes looked hard at me (for the first time) and the constable said, “Not her.”
“I’ll wait here,” I said to Miss Truitt. “I’ve seen him already.”
She made a noise that I discerned to be laughter, but she covered it smoothly with a tearful sob. Constable Gillie backed away and left us. Sergeant Fellowes opened the door, which creaked on its hinges and welcomed the grieving charlatan into a world of straw and dung.
Straw, dung and a dead body. I peered into the dark before the sergeant pulled the door shut. Was Mr. Corker on the floor or on a table? Perhaps a bench? Was he wrapped in a sheet or his own coat? Had Miss Truitt hidden her notebook in the folds of her mourning gown? What details would she be writing down, to preserve her memory of the scene? Had she seen a dead body before now?
Sergeant Fellowes stamped his feet against the creeping cold, and I stamped mine.
I could not boast that I felt proud of participating in Miss Truitt’s deceit, and yet…her devotion to her task was wholly admirable. Certainly, the report of a murder could not be so vivid if one did not meet the corpse. I wished I could tell James or Grannie Jane the extent of her research, but I could not. My admiration was at odds with my loyalty. By assisting Mr. Fibbley to tell as true a story as possible, I was being untrue to my family.
The stable door flew open and Miss Truitt was with us again. She tugged the veil over her pale face as if to extinguish her connection to the world.
Another door banged and Mr. Mooney approached from the kitchen, arms wrapped around the enormous plaster goose from the Blue Carbuncle tableau, in which he’d starred as Sherlock Holmes. Our small company turned to stare and he stared back, with most particular attention to Miss Beatrice Truitt, head to foot in black mourning weeds. Miss Truitt’s foot pressed firmly upon my toe, so surprising me that I nearly laughed.
“Good afternoon, sir,” she said.
“Good afternoon.” Mr. Mooney seemed somewhat puzzled to be addressed by a woman who was a stranger.
“Oh, er, hello,” I said. “Miss Truitt, this is Mr. Sebastian Mooney, actor and friend of your…of the decease—of Mr. Corker. Mr. Mooney, sir, may I introduce Miss Truitt.”
Miss Truitt extended her gloved hand. “I regret the circumstance under which we meet, Mr. Mooney. My Roger has spoken of you so often.”
Mr. Mooney gaped. “Your Roger?” he said. “Who the devil—” He glanced at me and back again to peer at Miss Truitt, as if by gawping harder he might penetrate the crape of her weeping veil.
“Miss…Turret?” he said.
“Truitt,” said she and I together, though how I spoke I do not know, as my heart was skittering like a rat in a trap. Thumping like a dog’s tail on a plank floor. Beating like autumn rain against a windowpane.
“Forgive me, Miss Truitt,” said Mr. Mooney. “But I have known
Roger for…eight years? Nine? In all that time he has never once mentioned that he had a lady-friend, though there were occasions when together we dallied with—”
He looked at me and stopped his tongue, and even had the grace to flush. Surely it was discourteous to tell a young woman of the other young women who may have come before her in a man’s affections?
“I was a secret,” said Miss Truitt. “I still am, truth be told, on account of my husband who is still living.”
Truth be told? When would that happen? A husband??
Sergeant Fellowes’s eyes bulged, while Mr. Mooney’s narrowed.
Miss Truitt hurtled on. “I have lost my dearest friend,” she said. “And now that I’ve said farewell, I shall be on my way. No need to encumber the family with my grief a moment longer.” She took in a deep breath and turned so quickly that it took half a second for her skirt to catch up. I jumped to her side, recognizing an attempt to escape.
“Miss Truitt,” said Mr. Mooney. “Your hat and veil.”
Her gloved hand flew to touch the brim of her widow’s cap.
“Nothing is amiss,” I told her.
Sergeant Fellowes stomped his feet and briskly rubbed his hands together. “Cold,” he muttered. “Devilish cold.”
“I recognize your hat,” said Mr. Mooney. “I believe it to be part of the costume for our tableau of Queen Victoria at the graveside of Prince Albert.”
I felt that devilish cold from the roots of my hair to the soles of my feet. Mr. Mooney knew Miss Truitt to be a fraud.
She did not falter. “A keen eye, sir,” she said. “As an ardent admirer of the esteemed late queen, I wished to honor my dear love as she honored hers. Good day to you.” She strode toward the kitchen door, which was the nearest. I trotted behind like a tipsy duckling.
“Who are you?” called Mr. Mooney. My foot tripped on the kitchen doorstep as I crossed. I saw the actor thrust the giant goose into Sergeant Fellowes’s unwilling arms.
“He means to chase us!” I hissed.
Miss Truitt raced ahead, the length of the kitchen and through the baize door to the Upstairs part of the house. I followed in haste, apologizing to Cook as I flew past. Miss Truitt galloped—galloped!—along the passage toward the Great Hall. She turned a corner with a swish of her silk skirt, and disappeared.
I heard Mr. Mooney’s voice booming behind me. “Hello, hello! Sorry all! Which way did the ladies travel, can you tell me? We’re playing a silly game of Duck, Duck, Goose!”
He mustn’t find me! I would die of mortification if he found me. Or certainly faint dead away as Annabelle had in the library when she saw Mr. Corker’s body. I ran up one passage and down another. The constable outside the library door was thankfully dozing and didn’t see me hurry past. Finally, I recognized the familiar door of the morning room and flung myself inside.
Another door opened and banged shut nearby. Footsteps, and then an even closer door. Mr. Mooney was checking every room! I prayed that Miss Truitt had made her escape. One breath later I turned the cabinet handle with a giddy tug. More footsteps. From the dark of the secret passage, I pulled the door shut with not a moment’s grace.
“Hello?” said Mr. Mooney’s voice, inside the morning room. And then a muffled clunk as he presumably moved on. I sank to the floor, a trickle of unladylike perspiration running down my spine. Slowly, my breathing returned to normal. All that running and I’d been wrapped in Dot’s shawl. I shook it off and lay it across my knees, thinking hard. One question had been answered. Miss Truitt’s clothing had come from the theatrical trunks. She must have crept into the coach house and helped herself.
Mr. Mooney had known at once that Miss Truitt was not who she claimed to be. He’d likely been Mr. Corker’s closest acquaintance, he and Annabelle. He’d have met a sweetheart—or would certainly have heard news of her. Spotting familiar garments from the troupe’s own collection had naturally stirred his suspicions. Did he think her guilty of murder? Then why had he not sent Sergeant Fellowes racing after us instead of coming himself? Knowing she was an imposter, who did he imagine her true self to be?
Miss Truitt had not killed Mr. Corker. But only I—and the murderer—were certain of that. Even Hector did not yet know, because her true identity was hidden behind her veil. So, why had Mr. Mooney not (thank goodness) asked the trickster to show her face? Had he seemed more afraid than angry? Did he, too, have something to hide?
I shivered. The chill of snow-damp stockings propelled me to stand and move my legs, to pull the shawl back over my shoulders. How would I explain my absence to Marjorie and Grannie Jane? My rumbling stomach told me that lunch must be well over. I surely would be missed by now. Had Miss Truitt been cornered by Mr. Mooney? I did not like to emerge until the chance of an encounter had passed. Perhaps I should remain concealed for just a little longer.
And, since I was here…Might I learn anything by peeking into the library or James’s study? I found the torch on its hook and pressed the button. Nothing. Its failing beam on our previous excursion had now expired. Instead of light, my fingertips upon the wall would serve as guides.
The shades in the study were drawn, making it as dark as night except for threads of light outlining the windows. It appeared that James had not been there today. Peering into the library, I deduced from the evidence that someone had visited recently. The grate sparkled with embers and the curtains were pulled back. The table lamp glowed as it had when first we entered on Christmas morning, its glass shade casting a bright pool of green.
I pressed one cheek and then the other to the spy-hole, trying to see as far to the sides as I might. My chest and arms were also pressed against the wall, as snugly as a body could be. In this way, I felt a handle jabbing my stomach.
The spy-hole was embedded in a door!
CHAPTER 28
A PLETHORA OF PLOT TWISTS
LUCY COULD NOT POSSIBLY know that this end of the secret passage opened into the library—or would she not have shown us? Dare I enter? The room was empty. Had Mr. Mooney already checked the library and gone on his way?
I turned the handle ever so slowly, expecting resistance from disuse, or a creak of protest. It rotated smoothly and quietly. I stepped into the library and turned to see what sort of door I’d come through. It was disguised as a bookcase that held the complete works of William Shakespeare and other fat leather-bound books with gilt lettering on the spines. The spy-hole was well hidden in the shadow above a volume of The Moonstone by Wilkie Collins.
Being certain the bookcase was again firmly in place, I turned to examine the scene before me, as if it were a theatrical stage awaiting actors to enter from the wings. The carpet had been scrubbed, I knew, but Mr. Corker’s final resting place was still evident, the wool now darkened with water rather than blood. A tiny crackle from the grate made me jump. I was not truly certain that the spirit of a murdered man might not linger for a time in the place where he had died. How helpful that would be! What happened here, if I may inquire? The cushion on the big leather chair was still squashed down. On Christmas morning, the contents of the nearby glass had been identified as rum by Inspector Willard. Reporters’ gossip, repeated by Miss Truitt, lingered in my head. A genial chap, a little too fond of drink. It had likely been Mr. Corker lounging in the chair, squashing the cushion flat. Before or after his argument with Mr. Mooney?
And what of the magnifying glass on the other table, beneath the bright green lamp? Had Mr. Corker used it to examine some volume from the bookshelf? And then—because the magnifier had not been on the same table as the one that held the glass of rum—he crossed the room to remove his boots and fall asleep in his chair? Was he finally relaxing? Or still fuming at Mr. Mooney for scolding him?
I closed my eyes to think through Mr. Corker’s final half hour…
Perhaps the third drink had not been a good idea, but, dash it! Mooney had no right to boss him about!
The weary actor pulled off his boots and rubbed a hand across the stubble on his chin, his head a little foggy. Where was his partner in this crime caper? Had that nervous young footman encountered trouble during the burglary? Had he run into Mooney on the stairs?
Or, was Frederick alone in this endeavor—and the author of a terrible mistake?
The nervous young footman entered the library with his heart pounding. He had taken the emerald from the foreigner’s bureau in a moment of daring and now…Oh, horror! The man from Ceylon was here before him, still clad in pirate garb, and at any moment would turn to catch him red-handed. He took up a weapon and struck, realizing too late that he’d been fooled by the costume and attacked the wrong man!
Or had Mr. Corker been waiting for Miss Annabelle Day?
The actor pulled off his boots, with a sigh of anticipation. He rubbed a hand across the stubble on his chin, his head a little foggy. An irresistible opportunity had presented itself here at Owl Park, tied up like a Christmas package. Even if Annabelle encountered the scowling Mr. Mooney on her way downstairs, she could handle him easily. In her pocket would be a chance to leave the fickle world of theater. She’d pulled off the jewel heist of a lifetime!
Or had Miss Day been working alone, and Mr. Corker only an unhappy witness?
The actor’s earring flashed in the candlelight as he looked up, surprised, when the library door opened. Miss Annabelle Day did not notice him, but strode purposefully toward the single lamp glowing in the darkened room. From her pocket she withdrew…the Echo Emerald! But how did this infamous gem come to be in her possession? Roger Corker lurched to his feet with a grunt and stumbled toward his friend. “What have you done?” he cried.
Suppose he had wrestled her for it? Neither of them realizing that the stone they battled for was merely a copy?
Merely a copy…
What if…Oh! What if the magnifying glass had been used—not to peer at a book, but at the Echo Emerald instead? Who, other than the Sivams, might have discovered that the gemstone was a copy before Sir Mayhew arrived?
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