The Talking Board

by Issy Brooke

“Go on,” Jack yelled over his shoulder at them. “Get out of here!”

  “Us?” Marianne said, just as her father started moving again. He wedged the box half against the wall, balancing it on his upraised knee and pulled the street door open.

  “Go!” Jack yelled.

  Russell blundered out into the street and Marianne rushed after him, trying to keep her grip on the box. Jack came a moment later, still stabbing randomly with the knife and the ladle. Jeremiah and Tom were shouting and throwing things, and the air was thick with cursing and swearing. People poked their heads out of doors and windows, and started to shout and laugh.

  The audience worked in their favour. Jeremiah and Tom stopped at their doorway, and Jack ran over to take Marianne’s place.

  “I am fine. I can manage,” she told him.

  “Yes, but...”

  “And it would mean leaving me in charge of the knife. Which I will willingly brandish,” she added. “But you might not like it.”

  “Damn it.” Jack tucked the purloined kitchen knife in his suit pocket and wrestled the box away from Marianne. “There. Lead on.”

  This time, Russell was able to walk forwards as Jack took the lead in going the wrong way, and Marianne steered them down the alleyway and to the main street. Jeremiah and Tom stayed behind, defeated. They knew they could not take on all three of them, and neither of the showmen were fighters – unlike Jack.

  No cab was willing to take them, however. “A coffin? Not likely!” was the general comment, along with jokes and jibes – “Who’s dead, then?” and “Vampires, are you?”

  So they made slow progress through the streets. The box was not heavy but one person had always to be going backwards. The darkness hid trips and holes, and Marianne took her father’s place when they were halfway to Simeon’s. They walked in silence now. She kept a careful eye on her father. It was late, and he was not well. She imagined that he had been fuelled, thus far, by rage and drugs, but those things would soon be wearing off.

  He knew that she was looking at him. He bristled, and turned his face away.

  Sixteen

  Simeon was ecstatic for around three whole minutes when they arrived with the cabinet and his money. He directed them to place the box on a set of trestles, and he immediately began to open and close it, trying to find the source of the problem. Russell sank into a chair, and Jack prowled around, poking at things, until a fake rabbit closed its teeth onto his fingers with a mechanical snap, and he yelped and drew away. He pulled the stolen knife from his pocket and said, “So, Simeon, do you need a knife?”

  “Um, thanks, why not,” Simeon replied. “Can you put it on that table near the kettle?”

  “Other people ask where the knife has come from,” Marianne pointed out.

  “Well, I assume it’s from a kitchen or a shop. Oh, look, the problem is with the runner here, do you see? It has warped. The wood was not dry enough. What a bother. I shall have to undo this whole side of the box...”

  Marianne took what was owing to her from the envelope and lodged the rest on the table, next to the knife. She said, “You ought to be careful who you do business with.”

  “I don’t have a great deal of choice. You told me to make things for others.”

  “This whole affair is hardly my fault.”

  “All’s well that ends well,” Jack said, suddenly the peacemaker.

  Simeon stopped and stood straight up, wild-eyed and fearful. “They know where I live! They will come back for the money! They will!”

  “They will not. Anyway, you are not alone here any longer. Where is Tobias?” Marianne asked. “Dear God, please tell me that you’ve released him from wherever he was trapped.”

  “He is hiding.”

  “From us?”

  “Yes. I told him to.”

  “But why?”

  “Just in case. After all, your father did menace me.”

  “Oh, Simeon. You are infuriating.” She looked around the chaotic workshop and called, in a loud voice, “Tobias, ignore what this buffoon tells you. You can come out. Anyway, I need to ask you something.”

  The boy sidled out from behind a mirror. He looked at Jack and Russell in alarm, and didn’t say anything.

  “Come, come. Sit with me. Um, Simeon, is this couch safe to sit on?” She indicated a long sofa with floral patterns of pink and red.

  “Yes, but don’t press the panel on the end,” he said.

  She took a seat, and gingerly patted the cushion next to her. Tobias came over reluctantly and sat with his hands clamped on his knees, his legs together, and his shoulders hunched over.

  “Tobias, who do you think killed your great aunt?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I know that it wasn’t you,” Marianne said, trying to sound confident. Did she know? Did she really? “I suspect that it was someone else in the household. What do you think?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Mrs Peck had no reason to do it, of course.”

  “No, she wouldn’t.”

  “But what of your aunt, Mrs Newman?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Do you get on with her? Do you like her?”

  “She’s loud. She tries to be kind, in her way. I don’t know.”

  Russell had been listening to his daughter’s painful attempts to establish a rapport with the young man. He grabbed a wooden chair and sat down opposite them. He leaned forward.

  “You, there. Now listen. Someone did for the old lady and we need to find out who that was.”

  Tobias couldn’t bring himself to utter “I don’t know” again. He froze and stared at Russell.

  Marianne said, “Tell us absolutely everything about Mrs Newman.”

  “Um. She came back from America. Her husband’s dead. She came to Rosedene.”

  “Was Miss Dorothea happy to see her?”

  “No. But Mrs Newman wasn’t happy to see my great aunt, either. I think she thought she had already died.”

  “Why would she be disappointed that she was still alive? Oh yes. I think that Mrs Newman expected to inherit Rosedene.”

  Tobias shook his head. “I don’t think she cares about Rosedene. She kept telling my aunt that she should sell it and move away.”

  “Well, she wanted the money then.” It was the most obvious, simple and understandable motivation for many things – including murder.

  “Maybe. I don’t know.”

  Marianne felt like she was banging her head against a brick wall. “What else can you tell us about her?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Where did she go? Who did she see? Did she receive callers?”

  “No. She went into London but I don’t think she saw anyone. She would come home annoyed. She was always annoyed. I stayed out of her way.”

  “What about your great aunt?”

  “Aunt Dorothea didn’t like her at all. I don’t know why. She said she should have stayed in America.”

  “Did you know you were the sole beneficiary in the will?”

  “No, but I did wonder when that man came to do it.”

  Marianne closed her eyes and inhaled. She opened them to see Russell, Jack and Simeon all watching and listening closely, all of a sudden.

  “Go on. What man?”

  “The man that came to do the will.”

  “When?”

  “After the other man.”

  Marianne had to sit on her hands to prevent herself from leaping up and strangling the boy. She waited for him to elaborate. As the silence lengthened, Tobias realised he was supposed to tell them more.

  “So, well, first this one man came, and he was from an auction house, and my great-aunt Dorothea said for Mrs Newman not to know about it, but she was out in town so it didn’t matter, and I showed him up to my great-aunt and they talked for a while and then he went away.”

  “Which auction house?”

  “I don’t know. They had a silly name. It was long and repeated itself and sounded like L
atin so I didn’t listen because I don’t like Latin. Except I do. I miss it now I am not at school. I want to go and learn Latin again.”

  Russell said, “That will be Atticus, Purfoy and Atticus.”

  “That is it. So he came and went. And then Great Aunt Dorothea asked me to bring Mr Unthank, that solicitor man, to her, so I did.”

  “Ahh. Was she rewriting her will?”

  “That’s what I thought, and I don’t know if it’s a sin or not but I did wonder who was going to get her house and her money. I didn’t know it was going to be me, though. I didn’t know. I promise. I swear it...” He bent his head and a tear dropped onto his trousers.

  “I know, I know,” Marianne said.

  “Pfft,” said Jack, and to Marianne’s surprise, he was hushed by her father.

  Marianne patted Tobias’s hand. He flinched but remained as still as he could. “It is late,” she said. “We should go. But I promise you that we will avenge your great aunt. Oh, one last thing. Do you have any idea where Mrs Newman might have gone?”

  “America?” the boy said.

  “I hope not,” Marianne replied with gritted teeth. “Come on, father. It is time to get you to bed.”

  “I rather hoped Jack might take us to a party. It looks like the sort of thing he would do.”

  “Oh, you’re best of friends now, are you?”

  Jack grinned at her in triumph while Russell blinked in confusion. “Actually, I am rather tired...”

  Jack caught his arm as the older man stumbled. She bid Simeon good night, although he looked as if he were going to work into the small hours, and followed the two men out into the night. At this late time of night, it would be at least another hour before they were all safely tucked up in bed.

  MARIANNE CURLED IN her bed, and pulled the covers up over her face to block the light that Phoebe had so rudely let flow into her bedroom.

  “Close them,” she growled from the depths of her warm nest.

  “I’ve brought you toast and eggs. Mrs Cogwell has done that sauce you like. She must be stockpiling and hiding food. Good on her. And there is coffee, and tea too. But you must sit up and tell me everything. Marianne! Why are you still dressed?”

  “Half dressed,” Marianne said, as she clawed her way up to lean back on the pillows. “I did take out anything that might puncture a lung in the night.” She still wore her softer undergarments, her skirts and her jacket. It would be creased and possibly ruined. “I was so very cold.”

  “Barrington says you did not come in until three in the morning.”

  “That sounds likely. I don’t recall the exact time.”

  “And Jack Monahan was with you!”

  “He insisted on seeing us home but he did not stay. He went off to do whatever it is men like him do at night.” She remembered the alleyway. “It might involve pigs.”

  “How dreadful,” Phoebe said in delight and sat on the side of the bed. “You must tell me everything!”

  “Eggs, you say?”

  “Here.” Phoebe pointed at the tray resting on the end of the bed. She passed it over. In payment, Marianne told her cousin everything.

  “I am so glad you got your money back, too!” Phoebe said. “I was wondering if...”

  “No. I simply cannot advance any more loans.”

  “I thought not.” She sighed. “Well, we must press on though we walk through a valley of tears, or something like that. My mother’s daily prayers are such a bind. And what is your plan for the rest of the day?”

  “How much of it is left?”

  “If you rise now, you will have at least the afternoon.”

  “Good. I need to pay a call on Atticus, Purfoy and Atticus.”

  “Who are they? Can I come with you?”

  “Will your mother allow it?”

  Phoebe pouted. “It is like I am twelve years old again. I simply shan’t tell her, Marianne. I will dress down and come with you in secret. And you will need to avoid my mother, anyway. She is furious about your antics.”

  Marianne thought about it. “Very well. Come with me; I should enjoy the company. But don’t dress down. This is a fine auction house we are visiting. In fact – will you dress up?”

  Seventeen

  Atticus, Purfoy and Atticus were not quite in the same league of the large, famous auction houses such as Christie and Manson’s or the like, but they rubbed shoulders close enough to St James’s as to make no difference, Albemarle Street being respectable enough and within sight of the hallowed district. Phoebe looked entirely at ease as she picked her way delicately along the crowded pavement. Marianne had done her best with her own appearance, and probably passed as the poor relation – which she was. They had also brought Mr Fry, Price’s valet, to follow behind, ready to carry parcels, open doors, fend off footpads and generally look the part.

  “Your mother should be proud of you,” Marianne said, remembering her out-of-character conversation with her own father the previous night. Clearly his sudden attack of sympathetic emotion had been brought on by stress. “You are every inch the well-bred lady.”

  “That is down to my schooling, I think, and my natural inclinations. You remember how mother was, when we were children.”

  “I confess I hardly remember a thing. She was just a blur in the background.”

  “That is true. I had intended to be so very different with Gertie and Charlie ... but oh, they are taking so long to get interesting!”

  “You do your part. You read to them, don’t you?” Admittedly, Marianne thought, Phoebe was trying to get her eight year old daughter interested in Clarissa, unsuccessfully, but it was something. Just the close proximity of mother and daughter was important, wasn’t it?

  “I try. I am supposed to guide them in their moral education. Really, I simply want them to be happy. And rich. I suppose those are the same things.”

  “Perhaps. Ah – this is it.”

  The front of the premises was narrow and the main door was locked. Mr Fry rang the bell and they were let in by a uniformed doorman. They passed through the large doors. Security was paramount in such a business; even the windows had curious collections of wires and metal on them, which would sound alarms if tampered with, an American invention which interested Marianne deeply. The doorman took them past desks and clerks and into a long, high-ceilinged hall at the back of the premises. There were no sales scheduled for that day, but still the place teemed with prospective buyers examining the lots, clutching catalogues, and conferring with their confederates in low and learned tones. Everyone wanted to sound as if they knew exactly what they were talking about.

  The doorman brought them to a closed-off room at the back, and knocked, and after a quick discussion, they were ushered into the presence of Mr Atticus himself, though whether it was the first or the last in the name of the company, Marianne had no idea. Mr Fry remained outside the door, close enough at hand to burst to their aid if they shouted.

  Mr Atticus was young, black-haired, and stout, with a yellowish tint to his eyes and skin as white and pale as a fine bone-china cup. He bounced to his feet and shook their hands with great enthusiasm.

  He got down to business straight away. “Lovely to meet you, lovely, lovely. I am in rather in a rush – you can make an appointment if you prefer – but I do have a spare moment, so, dear ladies, how may I help you?” He might have been overwhelmed with work, but he clearly didn’t want to miss an opportunity for potential business.

  Phoebe looked to Marianne. She leaned forward. “I am assisting Inspector Gladstone of Scotland Yard in a murder enquiry.”

  “You are a lady. I find it unlikely. Dashed exciting! But unlikely.” He smiled to soften the blow of his suspicion.

  “Well, you may send word to him to ask. Let me tell you who has been killed, and then you may reconsider the unlikeliness of what I say. Do you recollect going to see an elderly woman, Miss Dorothea Newman, who was confined to her bed in a house called Rosedene? If it were not you, it was one of your part
ners here.”

  “Miss Dorothea Newman! I do not forget her. Indeed, it was I who went. And how do you know about this?”

  “I told you the truth. I am aiding the police. I was initially called in to investigate the paranormal activity – supposed paranormal activity – occurring in the building. Here is my card.” Marianne slipped a firm and elegant rectangle over to the auctioneer.

  “Miss Starr. Well, well. So you are turned detective now? I should ask, is it Miss Newman who has been killed?”

  “The very same.”

  “Sad. Dashed sad news. She was a rare one. And murder, you say?”

  “Undoubtedly. And not long after your visit to her. That brings us to our purpose. I must ask you, what did she want to see you about?”

  Mr Atticus took a moment to gather his thoughts. She could see that underneath his bubbling energy, there was a keen mind and a precise judge of events. “Ordinarily we do not disclose private transactions. Yes, much of what we do is open and public, but sometimes people approach us to dispose of valuable items in confidence, and that was the case in this instance. However, as the main party is now deceased, God rest her soul, I feel able to speak. Miss Newman had requested that some jewellery be sold on her behalf.”

  “Were they particularly valuable pieces?”

  “Very much so. There is a necklace in gold set with a range of precious stones. Rather gaudy for today’s taste, but of considerable value nonetheless. It is part of a set, including a pair of earrings, and some bracelets, and a matching brooch with an emerald of unusual size, and a notebook detailing the entire provenance of the jewellery.”

  “Goodness me. And have you been able to sell these items?”

  “We have had a number of expressions of interest but the final sale has not yet taken place. We are – and remain to be – keen to secure the very best price for Miss Newman, or in this case, for her descendants. The monies will now go to whoever is named in her will.” He looked concerned. “I do hope she has made adequate legal provision, or it leads us to something of a problem.”

  “Indeed,” Marianne said. “I can assure you that those matters are in hand. As for the potential purchasers, are any of them particularly known to Miss Newman? Have you noticed any connections?” Anyone called Mrs Newman, she thought. Although she would hardly use her own name, would she?