Peril at Owl Park

by Marthe Jocelyn

  A pot clattered in the kitchen and we heard Cook’s voice scolding Effie.

  “Miss?” said Stephen.

  “We thought it was an accident,” I said.

  “It’s an accident my neck weren’t broke,” said Stephen. “I’d like to break her neck, that’s what.”

  I looked to be sure the door was shut between us and the rest of the kitchen staff.

  “You’re certain you were pushed?”

  “By a woman?” said Hector.

  “As certain as my name is Stephen.”

  Who would do that? One of the servants? But why? Marjorie? Ridiculous. Mrs. Sivam? Because even if Annabelle had stolen the jewel and killed Mr. Corker—not yet proven—she’d been on the third floor under guard when Stephen fell…and why would she hurt a harmless boy? Had bumping his head filled his brain with nonsense?

  “What did she say?” I asked him. “This mysterious woman?”

  “No words,” he said. “Just a sound, really.”

  Perhaps only imagined. Should we again consider Frederick as the fiend we were looking for? Had he been in the kitchen when the accident happened? Mr. Mooney certainly had—sitting right there next to us, slurping his soup. But no, Cook had been calling for Frederick a few minutes before and not finding him.

  “Who knows you’re awake?” asked Hector.

  “Everyone, I suppose.” Stephen tugged his paper bandage back into place. “Mrs. Frost has been right kind, considering I’m only lamps and boots.”

  “Did you tell them all you’d been pushed?” I said.

  “I suppose I did.”

  “I do not like this.” Hector’s eyes strayed to the closed door.

  Stephen looked miserable, thanks to his bulging violet-rimmed right eye.

  “The voices you overheard in the library,” I asked him. “What did they say?”

  Stephen shrugged. “Only word I heard was dunderhead, thrown like a curse. I put meself out of the way, quick as quick.”

  “Did you see anyone on Christmas Eve when you collected the boots?”

  “Someone female, perhaps?” said Hector. “A servant? Anyone?”

  “I didn’t see no one,” said Stephen. “Nobody caught her?”

  “They’re looking for a murderer and a jewel thief,” I said. “Not a person who pushed a boy down the stairs. We all thought your tumble was an accident.”

  Stephen’s face crinkled in disgust. “I’d never’ve stumbled, not ever. It weren’t no accident.”

  “What did you mean when you said the wrong boots?”

  “Mr. Corker’s boots was upstairs in the passage next to the ones what Mr. Sivam was wearing. Only Mr. Corker’s feet were lying dead on the library carpet with some other toff’s boots next to him. Mixed-up, see?”

  “But weren’t all the pirate boots the same?” I asked.

  “That’s what I was waiting to explain to the police,” said Stephen. “They weren’t the same. Because of the bumps.”

  The bumps, Stephen told us, were bunions, a pitiable affliction that happens sometimes to old feet like Mr. Corker’s. Bunions pushed the bones into painful bumps beside each of Mr. Corker’s big toes. His regular shoes and his costume boots had the sides stretched out to make room so the bunions would not pinch or chafe. His boots could only be his, and they were not the ones next to the body in the library.

  “No wonder you were confused,” I said.

  “The owner of the boots found next to Mr. Corker may also be the villain,” said Hector, “and wants to keep you quiet.”

  “You keep yourself safely hidden away in here,” I said. “We’ll spread the word that you’re sleeping again. Try not to wake up, no matter who comes in, unless it’s us, or Lucy, and we’re alone. You understand?”

  “I does,” said Stephen. “You just find that woman afore she finds me.” He closed his eyes and curled up under his blanket.

  In the passage beyond the baize door, I kept my voice low, though the servants had all retired and light in the kitchen was dim.

  “Bunions!” I said.

  “A happy discovery,” agreed Hector. “Though not, alas, for poor Mr. Corker.”

  “How did Mr. Corker’s boots arrive on the mat outside Mr. Sivam’s room?” I said. “And whose boots were next to his corpse?”

  “I think not the boots of Annabelle,” said Hector. “They were the size for a man.”

  “But hers were too, remember? The toes stuffed with newspaper?”

  “We must investigate,” said Hector. “Compile the facts. Activate the friction of the brain cells.”

  “My investigation,” I said, “will take me to visit Annabelle before I go to bed. We must be absolutely certain that she was locked up during the time of Stephen’s fall, not sneaking about or bribing the guard.”

  “It seems that the servants and also Mr. Mooney must now be in their beds,” said Hector. “I will visit the coach house and examine the boots returned to Miss Day by the police, tied up with string.”

  “Let’s hope the police are also sleeping,” I said, realizing I had no idea which rooms Marjorie had assigned the inspector and his men.

  “We shall confer shortly,” said Hector.

  We shook hands and went our separate ways.

  * * *

  —

  Sergeant Shaw sat on a chair directly in front of Annabelle’s door, his big feet planted on the plank floor.

  “No visitors,” said Sergeant Shaw, standing up. “Except with the inspector’s approval.” His head nearly met the low ceiling of the servants’ hallway.

  “Who’s out there?” called Annabelle’s voice from behind the door.

  “He approves,” I lied. “Annabelle, it’s me, Aggie Morton.”

  “Let her in,” said Annabelle. “I’ve got a few things to say.”

  “I need to see a note,” said Sergeant Shaw, “from the inspector.”

  “Aw, Sergeant, honey?” said Annabelle. “This would be one of those times when you can use your intuition and your generosity in the same action. Let the child in. She will not assist in a daring escape.”

  The sergeant’s ears went pink. He glanced at the chair. Moving it, we both knew, meant an admission that his authority on the third floor of Owl Park amounted to nothing.

  “Charley?” said Annabelle.

  “Oh, dash it,” said Sergeant Shaw. He shifted the chair and tapped on the door. He turned the handle and let me into the room. There wasn’t a lock. That’s what the chair was for.

  Annabelle Day gave me a squeeze and the sergeant a wink. “You see?” she said to him. “Not a threat to my person or yours. Leave the door open if you must. Then no one can accuse you of shirking your official duty.”

  His hand lifted in the beginning of a salute, but he caught himself and flushed, tripping over his own boots in leaving the tiny room. There was space for a cot, a small bureau, a washstand, and two people standing close together or both sitting on the bed, which is what we did.

  “What are you doing up and about at half past ten at night, young lady?”

  “You sound like Grannie Jane,” I said. “I’m already twelve.”

  She laughed. “Well then, Miss Twelve, what are you doing visiting an accused-and-imprisoned-but-entirely-innocent person?”

  “I’ve come to check your alibi,” I said.

  Now she really laughed. “That’ll rankle the handsome sergeant,” said Annabelle. “He’s stuck up here guarding the wicked Miss Day, and they’ve replaced him with a girl detective! My alibi for when, ducky?”

  “To you, it might sound silly,” I said. “I don’t know if you stole the emerald, but we don’t think you did. And something else bad has happened, so we’re checking where people were at a particular time.”

  Annabelle lifted an eyebrow the way Hector often did, a question
and a comment with the same flick. “Who is ‘we,’ exactly?”

  My turn to blush. “Well, Hector and I,” I admitted. “We have this idea, and—”

  “What else bad has happened?” she said. “Inspector Willard didn’t mention anything when he questioned me yesterday.”

  “The inspector may not have been told,” I said. “Everyone thought it was a kitchen accident until Stephen woke up this evening.” I told her about the fall, and how Stephen said he hadn’t fallen. I did not tell her that Stephen claimed a woman had done the deed.

  “When was this?” said Annabelle.

  “Yesterday afternoon.”

  “I’m a prisoner,” she said. “I’ve been up here, not lurking about on staircases.”

  “Yes, but we wanted to be certain.”

  “What time did it happen?” She glanced at the thin towel hanging on the bar of the washstand.

  “Just after lunch in the kitchen,” I said. “About two o’clock.”

  “Charley?” she called.

  Sergeant Shaw poked his head around the door frame.

  “Do you remember what time it was yesterday when your kind heart allowed me to take a bath?” said Annabelle.

  “It’d be after the lunch tray,” said the sergeant. “ ’Round about two? Half past?”

  “There’s a little bath chamber along the passage,” she explained to me. “I took my time, I can tell you. First wash in nearly a week. What were you doing while I was in there?” she asked her prison guard.

  “I went to stretch my legs for a bit,” said Sergeant Shaw. “Out for a smoke with those reporters. Had a bit of a laugh with Fellowes about him guarding a corpse while I watched you.” His face reddened again. “Came back upstairs while you were still in there. Singing,” he said.

  “There you go,” said Annabelle, sliding an arm about my shoulder. “That’s my alibi. An officer of the law.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “That seems watertight, if you’ll excuse the pun.”

  She laughed. “Shouldn’t you be getting off to bed?”

  I said good night and hurried away. Annabelle had not been the mysterious woman to push Stephen. She’d been in the bathtub.

  But if not Annabelle…then who? Was Stephen mistaken about the muttering he’d heard? Or was it done by a man who made himself sound like a woman? Had Stephen even been pushed? Maybe he was the sort of boy who made things up. We’d only known him a few days. Could we base our theories on someone who might not be trustworthy?

  I crossed the landing that separated the servants’ quarters from the nursery rooms, wondering whether Hector had news to trade with mine. But no light shone beneath his door. I guessed he wouldn’t like me to knock if he were in his nightshirt or already sleeping. We would consult in the morning.

  Lucy pounced the instant I came into the nursery and closed the door.

  “Where have you been? It’s nearly eleven o’clock! Grandmamma would faint dead away if she knew you were roaming the halls at this time of night.”

  “I was not roaming,” I said. “I was on a mission, to the kitchen.”

  “You saw Stephen? Dot said he woke up.”

  “Just for a short while…” If I put about a rumor that Stephen was still loopy, perhaps it would help to keep him safe? “He was awake, so we rushed down, but he was talking wildly and then ffft—back to sleep, like a candle being guttered.”

  “Oh dear,” said Lucy.

  “I’m sure he’ll rally,” I said. “Eventually. Was there any excitement at dinner?”

  “Grandmamma was still cross with James for inviting the policemen to stay but couldn’t behave crossly with Inspector Willard chomping on duck two places over. She was also cross with Dr. Musselman for losing her toothache medicine. Mrs. Sivam was cross with Uncle James for not permitting Mr. Mooney to join the civilized company, as she called it, rather than being banished to the kitchen. She said if Frederick was allowed to serve—being a murder suspect—then surely Mr. Mooney deserved to eat a hot dinner. Frederick took away the soup plates and never came back. Your Grannie Jane did her best to be merry with the inspector, asking him about a Dr. Palmer who was hanged as a poisoner—but that set off Dr. Musselman defending his profession.” Lucy paused to plump up her pillow. “Also, the first course was snails, which is never a pleasant thing.”

  “Goodness, Lucy, you could write the gossip column for a ladies’ magazine!”

  “I could, couldn’t I?” she said, but soon enough, her vigor subsided. She snuggled under her quilt and went to sleep.

  I brought notepaper into my bed and wrote to Mummy, using a pillow for my desk. I shared a little more truth than in my first report, but, admittedly, not all the truth I knew.

  December 27, 1902

  Dear Mummy,

  I hope this letter finds you well and not too lonesome. Tony is an excellent companion and never sassy.

  You’ll have had news from Marjorie and may also have seen the Torquay Voice . Now you know that I was not all the way truthful in my previous letter. Please forgive me, Mummy? Grannie Jane said my fibs were for a good cause as I was trying to preserve your calm.

  The police have put Miss Day, the actress, under guard. They think she stole the emerald, though she claims that someone else is trying to falsely implicate her and that she is innocent. Mr. Corker’s killer has not yet been discovered, but please do not worry about me. I am well and safe and most admiring of Marjorie being Lady Greyson in such a way as to make you (and Papa) and James, and even herself, quite proud.

  I shall write again soon with every detail.

  With many kisses to you and Tony,

  Your loving,

  Aggie

  Only after folding the letter, and then losing my pencil over the side of the bed, did another scenario creep into my head…

  The wily actress wore a pink blouse and a gray gabardine skirt, a little shorter than considered proper and revealing a glimpse of shapely calf from certain angles. Seated on the three-legged stool next to the tub, she swirled her hand in the bathwater, splashing noisily and humming a beguiling tune. As the prison guard’s bootsteps receded, the woman dashed to the door. She pressed her ear against the crack to confirm that the passage was empty. Wiping dry her hands on her skirt, she hurried to the men’s staircase to await in desperation her chance to silence the boy who knew the terrible truth…

  Annabelle’s alibi was a little shaky after all.

  TORQUAY VOICE

  DECEMBER 27, 1902

  CHRISTMAS CORPSE

  KEPT IN A STABLE!!!

  by Augustus C. Fibbley

  Two days after the luckless Mr. Roger Corker was brutally stabbed in the neck, there is speculation that he was a victim of a tragic case of mistaken identity. Mr. Corker wore the costume of a pirate, one among four men so clad, following the performance of a tableau of Treasure Island on Christmas Eve. Was one of the other men meant to receive the mortal blow? According to an inside source, the actor’s body has been ignominiously placed in the stable at Owl Park near Tiverton, accessible only across a snowy and windblown courtyard. Stall number 5 still bears the label of its previous inhabitant, a bay mare named Captain’s Lady.

  Lady Greyson was surprised yesterday by a visit from the victim’s fiancée, Miss Beatrice Truitt, arrived from Exeter after being informed of Mr. Corker’s demise. It was reported that the young lady was received with heartfelt condolence and permitted to see the body of her beloved to bid farewell.

  Miss Truitt, demented with sorrow, agreed to speak with this reporter in the hope that public attention might bring justice upon the head of her sweetheart’s killer. Asked if she knew why someone might kill Mr. Corker, the heartbroken woman replied, “He never did anyone wrong. It must have been a grievous mistake—unless he saw something that put him in peril. I hope the w
icked murderer meets the hangman.” Miss Truitt was further dismayed upon encountering one of Mr. Corker’s colleagues, a Mr. Sebastian Mooney. This actor’s erratic behavior must be attributed to the tragic loss of his friend, as nothing else could explain why he chased the bereaved Miss Truitt off the premises with words of anger and abuse.

  When will the police report success in the Case of the Christmas Corpse?

  DECEMBER 28, 1902

  SUNDAY

  CHAPTER 31

  A WORRISOME ABSENCE

  I STRETCHED AT THE sound of Dot striking a match. I did not think about the paper knife until I rolled over and my knee touched it. Then, boing! I sat up faster than a rubber ball bouncing off a brick wall.

  “What time is it?” I said. Hector had not come to wake us as he had on other mornings.

  “I went in to light his fire,” said Dot. “But he’s already gone to breakfast. I never saw a boy so deft at making his own bed. Tight and smooth as a drum.”

  I brushed my hair in eight strokes and did not wait for Lucy to do her usual hundred. A dedicated sleuth does not waste time on primping. I tidied my own bed with care, keeping the probable murder weapon tucked out of sight. I would report to Inspector Willard as soon as Hector and I had exchanged our news from last night’s excursions.

  But Hector was not in the breakfast room.

  Grannie Jane had the Torquay Voice spread open, last evening’s edition, but her attention was turned to Inspector Willard sitting next to her. It was entirely peculiar having him at the breakfast table, demonstrating that inspectors liked to eat oatmeal and ham and eggs just as the rest of us did. (His eggs were poached, mine scrambled.) Despite wishing to see him, this was not the ideal occasion. One thing I mustn’t do is mention a bloodied blade in front of Grannie.

  “Has anyone seen Hector?” I said.

  “Good morning, Agatha,” said Grannie Jane. The edge to her voice suggested that my manners had lapsed.

  “Good morning, Grannie. Good morning, Detective Inspector. Has Hector been here?”