The Body under the Piano

by Marthe Jocelyn

  “Hearing stories all day long sounds like an ideal occupation,” I said. “Perhaps I shall become a solicitor.”

  Mr. Standfast chuckled. “A woman cannot be a solicitor,” he said. “I cannot think of a law school that would care to accept a female applicant. The bar exams are far too difficult.”

  My eyes shifted to the doorway, where I could see Miss Marianne, her hands being held by another well-meaning matron. She must never have heard Mr. Standfast’s opinion of women, or he would not be welcome in her home!

  “Even if one or two members of the gentler sex were determined enough to succeed, what client would trust a woman with his secret? Not even a criminal would be so foolish. Females are known for being chatterboxes, which rather blights the oath-of-secrecy bit, you see?”

  I did not feel quite so warmly toward Mr. Hugo Standfast as I had previously. I could keep an important secret, just see if I couldn’t! And uncover plenty more. I took some comfort in how silly he looked with icing on his lip.

  “Mr. Standfast.” Grannie Jane handed him a serviette. “You must come up to Groveland for tea before you leave town, if you can bear to enter a household run by the gentler sex? Are you available on Tuesday? I know Fletcher’s wife would be so pleased. Cora misses him dreadfully, and you will have reflections to share.”

  He agreed at once. I wondered how pleased Mummy would truly be about having a stranger thrust upon her. It would require serving a proper tea instead of having a bowl of soup on a tray. But perhaps I would be allowed to invite Hector? Unless Charlotte managed to convince Mummy that his friendship was in some way harmful. Why did some people, like nursemaids and vicars’ wives, imagine they knew what other people should be thinking about?

  This room was now as crowded as the parlor. Grannie Jane and Mr. Standfast lowered their voices rather than raising them against the chatter. The bespectacled man who had been at Friday’s concert stood by the refreshments table, devouring a tart with precise little bites, shedding flakes of buttery crust all down his chest. Why had a journalist come to a visitation? Was he paying his respects? Or pursuing the story of a murder? Mr. Fibbley deserved closer scrutiny. I would say so to Hector, when I had the chance.

  Miss Marianne and Rose had come in to join their guests. Rose sat on the bench of the pianoforte, looking bleary-eyed and weary.

  Mr. Roddy Fusswell stood close by, one hand resting on her shoulder. She did not look at him, nor he at her, though he kept patting her shoulder for all to see. If Rose’s mother’s ghost had recovered from the surprise of having such a populated visitation, she would strenuously object to a man who publicly caressed her daughter. I squinted up to the shadowed corners of the ceiling, imagining a phantom’s thin howl, staaay awaaay from Rrrooosssse!

  “Roddy is devoted to her,” someone murmured. “Very attached.”

  Attached like a burr to a silk stocking, I thought. Like dog hair to a velvet cushion, like candle wax on a lace cuff.

  Rose closed her eyes and swayed slightly, leaning against Roddy Fusswell. Wearing a silly grin, he stroked her hair, which made her sit up straight again and bat away his hand. He promptly dismissed the woman talking to Rose and snapped his fingers at Norah, the maid. I knew Norah. She came often to visit our maid, Sally, in the Groveland kitchen. She’d told lots of naughty stories about Irma Eversham and had wished her evaporated many times over. How must she be feeling now?

  Norah brought a small tray with a cup of tea already poured. She added milk, telling Mr. Fusswell that’s how Miss Rose preferred it, with just a splash.

  “She’s still in shock,” he said. “She’ll have sugar too.” He dumped in two teaspoonfuls, stirring briskly before handing the cup to Rose.

  My skin prickled, as if suddenly there were ants crawling inside my camisole. Had I just witnessed a demonstration of how the murder had been performed?

  (cut from the Torquay Voice)

  POISON!!!

  VICIOUS MURDER IN THE MERMAID DANCE ROOM!

  WOMAN’S BODY DISCOVERED BY CHILDREN!

  IS THERE A KILLER ON THE LOOSE?

  TORQUAY SWAYS WITH FEAR…

  FULL DETAILS IN THE EVENING EDITION!

  Augustus C. Fibbley

  CHAPTER 11

  A FEW QUESTIONS

  ON THE AFTERNOON following the visitation, I waited in the garden with Tony lying across my feet like a furry, snuffling log. My Monday reading lesson with Mummy had been postponed in favor of an excursion with Grannie Jane to the Torquay Museum. I knew—from overhearing—that the outing was Charlotte’s suggestion, to divert me from the frightful occurrence that was riveting my attention.

  Murder.

  Try as I might to dispel it, the vision of Mrs. Eversham’s bloated face had not yet faded from my mind. This was not, in fact, alarming, but rather a logistical puzzle that I yearned to solve. I ought to be writing down my thoughts about the murder case before they got more muddled. Having a pencil in my hand was part of the machine that kept thoughts flowing from my brain to the page. The scritch, scritch, scritch of lead upon paper and the occasional pause to sharpen the point, allowed me to sharpen the next sentence at the same time. Whether writing poetry or a catalogue of crucial facts, a pencil and paper were essential.

  My writing book, however, was upstairs somewhere, and my feet were immobilized under a dog. I would do my best to arrange the points inside my head, making an effort to follow Hector’s example by proceeding logically instead of allowing a flight of fancy to take hold.

  One. Miss Marianne rushed into the street in her dance dress with no shawl, meaning that she believed that speed might save a life, that Irma Eversham was still breathing, and a doctor must be summoned at once. This would indicate concern, an attempt to assist rather than kill her sister-in-law. Unless (though I truly did not think this was so) she was diabolically clever and had abandoned the corpse of her victim in order to cover her own deed. Point not settled.

  Two. Rose Eversham would gain more than anyone from her mother’s death. She was probably an heiress and would no longer be abused by Irma Eversham’s tongue. But after a lifetime of tolerance, what had compelled a desperate act on Saturday morning? One which Rose cannot have performed herself, as she was a church volunteer all day…meaning that Rose Eversham was only guilty if she had a partner in crime. Point to be pursued.

  Three. Mr. Roddy Fusswell had imported the sugar bowls from the Royal Victoria Hotel. Had he imported the deadly contents as well? Was he Rose Eversham’s conspirator? Or had she been in league with her aunt? One crucial fact demanded attention: Miss Marianne did not own a sugar bowl. She made no secret of this, eager to lecture anyone who would listen on the ill effects of eating sweets. She urged her students to avoid Mr. Dillon’s sweet shop for the sake of our health. Roddy Fusswell knew well enough that Miss Marianne loathed sugar and that Irma Eversham loved it. If he were the one who stirred poison into the sugar bowl, Miss Marianne was not the woman intended to die. But the question remained: Was he the killer? Point not settled.

  Four. Somewhere there was a paper with its corner torn off, a paper that mattered very much to someone. Enough to kill for. What was it? And where?

  Again, point not settled.

  How exasperating! All my ideas led only to further questions. Far from scrubbing clean a glass through which to examine the picture, I was smudging the surface with grimy fingers! And none of the points even pointed anywhere.

  I was inclined to think that Hector’s find yesterday, of the powdered paper, advanced the progress of our detection well ahead of the police. That was one small triumph, no matter what Charlotte had to say about the matter. I had urged her, during the long walk home, to agree that we should inform Inspector Locke about the new clue.

  “Clue to what?” said Charlotte. “Clue to the feverish delusions of two silly children?”

  “But don’t you think Constable Beck would—”<
br />
  “Constable Beck?” Charlotte flushed scarlet. “He is never to hear of this, do you understand? You may play silly sleuthing games if it pleases you, Miss Aggie, but you are not to approach the police! Your pretend clue went into the rubbish bin where it belongs.”

  Into the bin and out again. I smiled to myself. That paper was safely in Hector’s pocket, and the police had Charlotte to blame for another lapse in their investigation. I could keep a secret, just watch.

  At that moment, Tony hopped up from a dead sleep to being on full alert, barking furiously. Was there a shrew in the meadow grass? Another bunny dead amongst the roses?

  “Ssh!” I scolded. “Only me, Tony dearest. Sorry if I woke you!”

  But Tony kept on, aiming his fury at the holly bushes that framed the garden gate.

  “Stop!” I cried. “You’ll upset Mummy’s rest! Please stop!” I put a hand on his head to knead his ear but he grrred and then yipped a few more times, glaring at the shaking holly leaves.

  “I’m afraid it’s me he’s riled about,” said a voice from behind the bush.

  My breath caught. The solitary girl sat like prey in the garden chair, unaware of the grisly doom lurking nearby. A fiend had tromped the lanes awaiting just such a chance to garrote and flay an innocent as she reflected upon his previous brutish crime.

  “If you hold the dog, I’ll come out.”

  Was it the killer? Honestly, it did not sound like a killer. I did not think that killers worried about barking dogs.

  “Who’s there?” I summoned a pretend self, a bolder self. “Appear at once or my dog will eat you.”

  A slim young man stepped into sight and leaned against the gate. Aha! Mr. Augustus C. Fibbley, reporter from the Torquay Voice, wore a brown checked cap and an ill-fitting jacket. He was not hollow-eyed and grizzled, as I imagined a killer should be. His cheeks were smooth—no mustache or silly whiskers. His spectacles were two circles of glass, framed with thin gold wire.

  I opened my mouth and closed it again. My brief spell of bravery had vanished.

  “Hello,” said the man. His voice was a croaky whisper, as if perhaps he had a sore throat and needed a hot honey toddy. “Do I have the honor of addressing Miss Agatha Morton?”

  My tongue was twisted in a knot but I offered a nod.

  Tony yelped.

  “I thought so,” he said. “You have the look of someone who can gaze coolly into the face of death and come up smiling.”

  I liked that phrase, gaze coolly into the face of death. That is what I had done, though not smiling, to be truthful. The young man found the gate latch and stepped into the garden, bringing his own ease with him.

  “Tony!” I said sharply. “Do stop barking!”

  “Quite the guardian you’ve got there. I startled him, a stranger appearing out of nowhere.”

  “U-usually, he only barks at girls,” I said, wishing fervently to quell my nerves. This was someone who wrote words for his livelihood! It mustn’t appear that I could not use them myself. “The girls who aren’t me.”

  “I apologize,” he said. “But I do so want to speak with you.” He glanced down at the notebook in his hand and gave it a little wave.

  This morning’s headline flashed in my mind. Woman’s Body Discovered by Children! He must have learned that I was first at the scene of the crime! He wanted my answers to his questions! First mentioned as a poet in the press and now an interview subject! If I could summon words and spit them out.

  “I should have introduced myself first thing,” said the young man. “My name is Augustus Fibbley. I prefer Gus. I am a reporter for the Torquay Voice.”

  I nodded. I knew that.

  “I understand you were the first person to see the poor lady in her deceased state,” said Mr. Fibbley. “Did you swoon?”

  I shook my head.

  “Of course not!” said Mr. Fibbley. “Now that we’ve met, I can see that you’re not the fainthearted type at all.”

  Our brief acquaintance had not yet shown me in a valiant light, but I was not so fainthearted as Florence Fusswell, to be sure.

  “You were in Rose’s parlor yesterday afternoon,” I said, in a whisper.

  “I was indeed.” He came a step closer.

  “And at the concert too. Befriend the Foreigners. I saw you in the back.”

  “I deduce, from having heard your poem, that you are an accomplished observer,” said Mr. Fibbley. “I’ll wager you soaked it up in a flash, am I right? The mayhem in the Mermaid Room?”

  Tony had finally stopped yapping, but stood rigid by my knee, panting like a steam engine.

  “And being a good witness, you told the policeman everything you’d seen, yes?”

  “I think so.” I needn’t mention that Miss Marianne had likely poured the poison brew herself. “The body, the blue face…the spilled tea, the sugar bowl.”

  “The sugar bowl?” said Mr. Fibbley.

  “The crest,” I said. “From the Royal Victoria Hotel. Where the poison was.”

  “Ah! You’ve proved me right already. Sharp as a needle in a dish of ice cream, that’s you.” Mr. Fibbley scribbled a note in his book. “It was Mr. Roddy Fusswell who donated the refreshments, was it not?”

  Steps on the path made me turn. Leonard carried a bucket that slopped water across the flagstones.

  “Leonard!” I said. “You gave me a fright!”

  Leonard stepped out of reach of the growing puddle.

  “Come meet Mr. Fibbley,” I said. “He’s a reporter.”

  “Does your Miss Graves know you’re with a stranger?”

  I squinted toward the house and shrugged with great nonchalance. “He’s not really a stranger anymore. We’ve been talking for ages.” Five minutes at least. He did not feel like an ordinary stranger. My speechless embarrassment had not lingered.

  “Miss Agatha.” Leonard’s voice came from behind closed teeth. “Take the dog inside.” He nudged Tony’s flank with his toe and advanced.

  “You think it’s clever, creeping about in back gardens?” he said to Mr. Fibbley. “Is that how news is made these days? Drumming up gossip from a child?”

  The young man shrank back and collided with the holly bush, causing it to tremble. “No harm intended, my friend. The girl is an eyewitness—”

  “I am not your friend,” said Leonard. “Try asking your nosy questions at the big flashy hotel. Don’t let us see you again.”

  “Leonard!”

  Mr. Fibbley flushed, pushed his glasses up his nose and strode briskly around the corner of the house. Tony renewed his insistent noise.

  Leonard picked up his bucket and glared. “Reporters are goutweed,” he said. “I’ll have the cart ’round at the front in five minutes,” he said. “For your excursion to the museum.”

  “I’m not a child,” I said. “If you would care to remember.” Tony finally stopped his yipping.

  “Miss Agatha?” Sally called from the kitchen door. “Your grandmother is asking for you!”

  I waved to Sally, but did not move at once. Leonard was being awfully churlish. Would he tattle to Mummy? Perhaps I should thank him for rescuing me from the clutches of a stranger! If it were possible to discover a body under a piano, could there not be a killer right here in our garden?

  CHAPTER 12

  A SENTIMENTAL OUTING

  WHEN PAPA WAS ALIVE, we went together often to the Torquay Museum of Natural History, but I had not visited since his death. A fine, sharp needle twisted itself into my heart as Grannie Jane and I stepped through the arched doorway and into the dimly lit foyer.

  “I know you have your special pets, Agatha, so off you go,” said Grannie Jane. “There is a great deal to discover by following one’s own nose. When you’ve had enough, I shall be in the Reading Room with the botanical drawings.”

  I went up the double
staircase to the second-floor exhibition hall, to where a person could look at bones and taxidermied animals.

  Papa had been the sort of museum visitor who paused before each glass case, perusing the contents, reading the cards of explanation and examining the display again. But I was a roamer, ambling back and forth until something called out and demanded my notice.

  I began with one of my favorites, the diorama of a lynx attacking a fawn. The lynx had long been extinct in England, but here it lived on in front of a stone castle with a drawbridge painted on a backdrop to indicate the era during which the beast had wandered the countryside. The lynx, with a spotted golden coat and elegant ear tufts, had been modeled in a ferocious pounce, springing from behind wild privet made of plaster. The cat’s claws tore into the hindquarters of a baby deer, leaving long bloody scratches in the fur. Looking closely, one could see that it was red paint dotting the stripes of the wound, but the effect from afar was deliciously gruesome.

  I imagined myself perched on a stool in a workshop, surrounded by pots of paint and glue, heaps of wood scraps and a jar of brushes…The devoted artist wore a sturdy canvas apron with a special pocket for her hammer. The spectacles upon her nose glinted as she hummed. Repairing the torn ear of a badger with careful stitches, she imagined it had occurred during a duel with a raccoon. Each tug of the needle, each tap of the awl, became part of the story she constructed.

  Papa’s favorite was a snake, jaws agape, caught in the act of stealing an egg from the nest of a flustered mother mallard. Papa laughed at the drake cowering amongst the reeds while the female’s beak and wings were wide open in maternal fury.

  I wandered past scenes featuring the gray wolf, the Canadian beaver and the leatherback turtle, more disconsolate with every step. It wasn’t as much fun, being here without Papa. All the moments of my life, my poems and my adventures from now until I was a wrinkly old woman taking final breaths through yellowed teeth…it would all unfold without Papa. How could I bear it? Hot tears pricked my eyes. I must bear it, that’s all. There was no choice. So think about something else.