The Talking Board

by Issy Brooke

  “Tobias!” Mrs Newman shrieked.

  He said, in a voice that shook slightly, “This is my house now,” and continued on his way.

  “Show us the things that you have found, if you are able, Mrs Newman,” the inspector said in a kind and patient voice. Marianne looked at him and hid her smile. So, he was faking too; but then, that was part of his job.

  Mrs Newman led them the way that Tobias had gone, though he was out of sight now. To Marianne’s surprise they didn’t stop at the first floor, but instead continued up to the attic level. They turned the corner and Mrs Newman pointed down the corridor to the shadows at the far end. “Down there!” she whispered.

  “But I told you about this,” Marianne said. “I explained everything.”

  “What?”

  Gladstone walked away down the corridor, and Mrs Newman hung her head, sniffing and making little crying sounds. For a moment, Marianne wondered what was real and what was not. Her sobbing sounded pretty convincing. And she had plenty of reasons to cry.

  Gladstone reached the shadows and made a startled grunt, and then said, “Well. Miss Starr, you knew about this?”

  “If it is a stuffed cat, rather large, with fake green eyes, then yes, I did. I was going to tell you when I came to see you but you rather stymied me with the news of the death. Stay there.” She walked forward, keeping to the edge of the corridor, feeling deliberately with each footstep until she hit the right spot and the circuit was completed. Gladstone barked out with a laugh of surprise. She stepped off the floorboard, and the glowing eyes went out again. On, and they flickered into life. He saw immediately what she was doing.

  “How curious,” he said. “Electrical trickery, I assume?”

  “It is to scare the rats away,” she told him.

  “Of course, of course. And does this cause the screaming at night?”

  “No. As to that, it remains a mystery.”

  “It could only have been ghosts,” Mrs Newman said.

  “Could have?” Marianne asked. “Have they not been heard recently?”

  “Not since poor Dorothea died. Perhaps ... oh, it is too awful.”

  “Perhaps she was the originator of the mystery? No, I cannot see that at all,” Marianne said. “And it certainly was not ghosts. You seemed convinced of that – at first.”

  Mrs Newman sighed in tired exasperation. “Well, whatever it was, we shall never know. I believe it was ghosts, in the end, and unless you can find evidence to the contrary, you must believe the same. My question to you, Inspector Gladstone, is this: will you ignore the terrible actions of that boy? Is a dead cat and a suspicious inheritance not enough for you?”

  “It is a consideration, certainly,” he said carefully. “Come, let us find these refreshments that Mrs Peck has organised for us.”

  There followed a most awkward quarter-hour, and Marianne thought that the meals at Woodfurlong had been excruciating enough. They were nothing compared to perching on a dusty chair in a room all covered in dustsheets, still wearing hat and gloves, sipping at too-hot tea from chipped china cups that did not match their saucers. Mrs Peck brought out some fancy biscuits, shortbread and so on, which tasted more of brick dust than anything else. Inspector Gladstone got halfway through one before laying it aside and trying unsuccessfully to hide it under a teaspoon. He addressed Mrs Newman.

  “We are taking the death of your aunt very seriously,” he said. “The boy has weakened limbs, and until today, he quite clearly did not know that he was the sole beneficiary of the will. There are other suspects.”

  “Who?” she demanded. “And he is not as weak as you think. Don’t be deceived. He could be pretending to be surprised.”

  More fakery? Marianne thought. Who in this household is actually honest? “You once told me he was not a liar, and you thought him to be totally honest.”

  “Maybe he is so good at shamming that even I was deceived!” Mrs Newman snapped. “He is stronger than he looks!”

  “Is he really?” Gladstone said mildly. “I shall bear it in mind. But I need to inform you that two ruffians were reported in the area, earlier that same evening. One householder caught them in his outhouse, having broken the lock on the door. He chased them off, and they are still at large. My policemen report to me that this house is not as secure as it ought to be. They have found many loose windows and points of entry.”

  “Oh.”

  “Do you see, then, that the murderer could have come from outside?”

  “I do,” she said, slowly, nodding. “Oh, I do see. Oh. But still: what of Tobias?”

  “Well, I am not going to arrest the boy. Not yet, at any rate.”

  “And here he is.” Mrs Newman spoke a little more kindly now, as if she had fixed only upon the idea that Tobias was guilty, and was now almost relieved to discover that someone else could have done the terrible deed.

  Tobias entered the room slowly, but his eyes were fixed on the plates of food on the table.

  “Here,” Marianne said, thrusting some biscuits at him. “When did you last eat?”

  He shook his head at the question but scooped up the nasty shortbreads and ate them quickly, staying at a distance from everyone else. Mrs Newman offered to pour him some tea, but he wouldn’t look at her. He seemed to be working up to saying something. He coughed, and they all waited, looking at him.

  “You have to go,” he said at last.

  “We are on our way,” Inspector Gladstone said. “Mind that you stay here, young man. We may have more questions for you. I would advise you to engage a tradesman immediately and make the house secure. I can arrange to have one sent to you, if you like; you have a sudden burden thrust upon you. I can recommend an honest man.”

  “I am not scared,” he replied.

  “I am sure you are not. You must be a very brave boy. Mrs Newman, perhaps you could even consider taking Tobias and going to a hotel for a few days? Just tell me where you go, that is all I ask.”

  “No,” Tobias said, firmly. “I meant, you must all go. You must leave this house. This is my house now, isn’t it? So, get out. Everyone.” He was looking now at Mrs Newman. “Even you. Especially you.”

  “Tobias! You cannot do this.”

  “Tobias,” Gladstone said, going up to the boy and putting his hand on his shoulder. Tobias shrugged it off. “You are, what, fifteen? You cannot stay here alone.”

  “I am sixteen, actually, turned just last month, and I can stay here if I want to.”

  “You must have a guardian of some kind, and Mrs Newman is closest to you.”

  “I do not need her. I do not trust her. You can all leave. She is no connection to me.”

  “Tobias, I have nowhere to go,” Mrs Newman said.

  “Find a hotel, like the man says.”

  Mrs Newman sobbed again, and there was definitely a note of anger, frustration and genuine sorrow in it. “Please...”

  “Get out!” he roared, his voice cracking and squeaking.

  Inspector Gladstone went to Mrs Newman’s side but she pushed him away just as Tobias had done. She gathered up her shawl and her bag, and half-ran to the door.

  “Wait,” Marianne called. “Where are you going?”

  But she was gone. Marianne looked at Inspector Gladstone in stunned surprise. “We should go after her.”

  “She will come back, surely,” he said. “She will have her things here. Clothing and so on.”

  “I shall not let her in,” Tobias said.

  Gladstone wavered, and then went after Mrs Newman.

  “Why not?” Marianne asked Tobias.

  “I do not like her and she does not like me. Now you both may go. But...”

  “What is it?”

  “I am sorry about everything. I really am. I don’t know what I should do now.”

  “You probably shouldn’t stay here on your own. The house will be sold. Perhaps you can use the funds for continuing your education. Had you thought of a profession, perhaps?”

  “No. What
can I do?”

  “You are talented. You are practical and clever,” she said. “I admired your rat-scarer immensely. You should study natural sciences. What about your interest in electricity? It is very much the new thing and you might make your fortune in it.”

  “Perhaps.”

  She had an idea. “Look, you can certainly stay here, but I think you will be alone and miserable, and those biscuits are truly dreadful. I have a friend, a male friend, called Simeon Stainwright. He is like you, in some ways. He is a stage illusionist, and lives alone, and has space. At least consider staying with him for a few days.”

  “Why would he let me stay? I am a stranger to him.”

  “He needs the money,” she said. “That is the long and short of it. At least come and meet him. You can buy some nicer food on the way. That way, it won’t be a wasted journey, even if you don’t stay with him.”

  He didn’t say anything. Marianne went to the kitchens to tell Mrs Peck that everyone was leaving.

  “What am I to do?”

  “You should be looking for a new position,” she said. “I am sorry.”

  “I am owed wages.”

  “Apply to Mr Unthank, perhaps?”

  “And a character, to help me get a new position?”

  “I am so sorry.”

  Mrs Peck turned away with a muffled curse, and Marianne knew she would be rifling the cupboards to take away as many saleable goods as she could. Marianne could hardly blame her.

  Tobias was still waiting for her. He didn’t say anything but there was a defeat in the slope of his shoulders. He trailed after her as they left the building. They found Inspector Gladstone standing forlornly on the steps by the carriage, breathing heavily and red from exertion.

  “She said low things to me, and has gone,” he said. “She has quite a rich vocabulary for a lady. But I marked the hotel that she has fled to, not far from here, and I spoke with the manager, who will keep me informed of her movements.”

  “Excellent. Let us get back to the city. Do you carry brandy on your person?” she asked as they swung up into the carriage.

  “I do. Do you feel faint?” He passed her a small bottle.

  “No. I wish I did; it would distract me from the taste of brick dust or whatever was in those biscuits.” She sipped the fiery liquid and passed it to Tobias with a wink. He didn’t smile, but he did take a drink, and after a little while, the alcohol made them relax and they rolled back into London with almost a sense of merriment in the air.

  Eleven

  She alighted the carriage a street away from Simeon’s workshop. She had quashed her doubts with a few more sips of brandy, and ignored Tobias’s growing mews of reservation and protest. She took a firm grip on the boy’s elbow and steered him through the crowds. He evidently did not come into town very often, and he looked around him with wonder and excitement.

  She only let go of his arm when she purchased some lukewarm meat pies from one seller, and some fresh hot bread rolls from a bakery boy who was strolling the streets with a tray around his neck. Tobias was not going to make a run for it when there was free food in the offing.

  He was still eating when she reached the workshop. Tobias struggled with the rickety wooden steps because his hands were full, meaning that he couldn’t drag himself up by the railings. She ran up ahead and hammered on the door.

  To her relief, Simeon looked relatively calm. “Have you found it? My money?”

  “I have not. But I have brought you a source of cash and even, dare I say it, companionship.”

  “I do not need companionship. If I did, I’d get a dog. A small, quiet one.”

  “He is much the same,” she said, glancing down at the boy who was halfway up the steps now. “He needs somewhere to live. He’s from Rosedene. It’s Tobias Newman. He’s lost everything, Simeon; everything except money, which he has inherited. He built the rat-scaring device that I told you about.”

  Simeon’s eyes lit up. “Tobias! Direct current or alternating current? Which do you favour?”

  Tobias got onto the platform at the top, and caught his breath. “For what purpose?” he asked.

  “Lighting the city!”

  “Alternating, of course.”

  “And the dangers?”

  “Minimal. Tesla has shown us that. As long as one does not try to – I don’t know, drink it – as long as one takes care, then it must be alternating current, unless we want a great power station on every street corner. Consider the dangers of gas, after all...”

  Simeon grinned, and drew the boy inside, and Marianne was left staring at a suddenly closed door. At least she still had a bread roll.

  So she walked, to clear her head, and then tucked herself up in a half-empty second class carriage as she took the train back to Woodfurlong. She thumbed through her notebook. Was it worth pursuing the matter of the screams at Rosedene? Undoubtedly not, except that her methodical mind could not bear the loose end.

  What of the death of Miss Dorothea? Marianne could not now picture Tobias committing such a crime. Yes, he had inherited money, but he was thrown into chaos since his aunt’s death. She had suspected the boy at first, but no longer. He had not known he would inherit.

  As for Louisa Newman, she was ringing many bells of suspicion in Marianne’s mind. Perhaps she had expected to inherit. Marianne played it out: yes, that made sense. If Mrs Newman thought that she would inherit Rosedene, that would give her the motive to kill Miss Dorothea and supplant her. That would also explain her shock upon learning that Tobias had inherited everything.

  Suffocation, not a woman’s crime, pah! She replayed Inspector Gladstone’s words. What nonsense. She had half a mind to suffocate someone right before his eyes, just to prove a point.

  The stuff about burglars being in the area was a mere distraction. Mrs Newman could easily have done it. Perhaps she had help in the deed. Mrs Peck, then, would be a perfect accomplice, surely?

  She had to convince Inspector Gladstone to question Mrs Newman more closely. He had accepted Marianne as a lady scientist; he had to accept another woman as a potential suffocator.

  And if he would not, then she would do the work for him. She should have asked him which hotel Mrs Newman had fled to. No matter, she thought. She would get home and send a message out to the police station. She was likely to get a reply within the day, depending on which of the many daily postal deliveries she was able to catch; out at Woodfurlong they had only six, but in the city, letters would arrive a dozen times a day.

  If she did not hear from him by the following morning, well, she’d simply travel to Rosedene and hunt for every hotel in the vicinity, and find Louisa Newman that way. It would be simple. There would not be many to choose from.

  She would have made more detailed plans beyond that, but the train was pulling into the station and she needed to alight without dropping her notebook, losing her gloves, knocking her bonnet off, stepping on other people’s toes, and all the usual kerfuffle of a railway.

  She did take time to think about how she would question Mrs Newman. As Marianne walked back to Woodfurlong, she considered what her aim was. Mrs Newman was sure to suspect Marianne for working with the police, and therefore Marianne could not hope to befriend her and trick a confession out of her.

  Evidence was not going to be present, either. The police would have sent their own men all over Rosedene. Marianne wondered, then, who they were, and how she might get to talk to them. They were the ones to befriend, perhaps. A man of science or medicine allied to the police would be a very good person to know.

  She would have to be honest with Mrs Newman. Blatantly so – bullyingly so, perhaps. Marianne bit her lip as she walked. Could she do that? Should she do that? Would she not be better off behind the scenes, investigating quietly, rather than challenging suspects openly?

  Doubt invaded her. Her stomach flipped. She blundered into Woodfurlong, almost in a daze, as too many possibilities, and possibilities of embarrassing failure, flashed before
her eyes.

  Then she stopped dead. There was a way of approaching Mrs Newman as a representative of the police and not arousing her suspicion, all at the same time. Yes. Yes! She had it. She could do this.

  She ignored the approach of Mrs Kenwigs, and waved at her as she strode past, heading for the Garden Wing.

  “But Miss Starr – I must tell you, your father...” Mrs Kenwigs said desperately.

  “Thank you. I shall see to it.”

  She didn’t think anything would be seriously wrong. She went first to her own room and dumped her bag on her bed. She was just stripping off her gloves, and untying the ribbon of her bonnet, when Mrs Crouch knocked at her door and came in.

  “He is gone,” the nurse announced. She didn’t bother with polite formalities. She had spent years performing some of the most unpleasant tasks a human ever had to do for another human being, and saw that everyone was the same, underneath. She had an egalitarian, Quakerish way of dealing with people. “He has dressed for going out, and taken his good cane, but I don’t know where he has gone, or when he went, or how. Daft old bugger.”

  Marianne dropped her bonnet onto the bed. “Oh, for goodness’ sake, really? Had he said anything about going anywhere?”

  “Like I say, nothing. No clue.”

  “There must be some clue.” Marianne followed Mrs Crouch to her father’s day room, and looked around. “There will be a newspaper, open at an advertisement which has caught his eye – he might have gone to a druggist’s shop to buy some new cure. There will be a notice, perhaps of a scientific lecture, and he will try to attend it. There will be something.”

  “You’re spending too much time with the police,” Mrs Crouch said. “Clues don’t exist in real life. Things either are, or they aren’t.”