I held the letter for a moment, closing my eyes against the sting of tears. I missed my sister dreadfully. But I missed Papa even more, and Marjorie had just reminded me of that. It was Papa who had used my name to make up a silly variation of the nursery rhyme.
Agatha-Pagatha, my black hen,
She lays eggs for gentlemen.
She laid six and she laid seven,
And one day she laid eleven!
I screwed up my face as hard as ever I could, teeth biting into my lip. Go AWAY, tears! Think of something else!
As I tucked the letter back into its envelope, I saw that Marjorie had scrawled a postscript on the reverse side of the page.
My goodness, Aggie!
I’ve just had a note from Grannie Jane telling me about Rose Eversham’s mother. This is the most dreadful news. I shall write to Rose at once, but am horror-stricken that you made such a grim discovery. You are a brave girl. Best love, M.
My fame as a body-finder was spreading without me doing a thing. The harder task was finding the murderer. Being a clever sleuth was far more deserving of fame than simply walking into a room where a corpse was waiting to be found under the legs of a piano.
And being a clever sleuth involved taking notes. I’d come up here to collect my writing book, so where was it? Not in the drawer of the table at my bedside where I usually kept it. Not amongst the cushions on the window seat where I liked to write poetry. Not on the bed. Not under the bed.
Come on, think! Where had I last seen it?
My mind flew to the dreadful scene in the Mermaid Room. Doctor Chase on his knees next to the corpse of Rose’s mother. Miss Marianne, ashen-faced, wringing her hands. Charlotte hissing at me to hurry back out. Me paying no heed, but scurrying over—almost close enough to step on poor Mrs. Eversham—to retrieve my notebook from where Rose had laid it on top of the piano the evening before.
Then what?
Charlotte had dragged me away, down the stairs and into Mr. Dillon’s shop to await the police. Eureka! I had slipped the book into my dance bag, and not given it another thought.
How much brain cell friction had assisted in remembering one small detail? I pulled my dance bag from the bottom of my wardrobe and fumbled to open the clasp.
Hooray! My dear, tattered writing book quietly waiting to be of service. I riffled through, looking for my most recent entry. A loose page fell out and fluttered to the floor. Not my writing. Not writing at all, but words assembled from the cut-out bits of printed text.
I turned the page over. Nothing was written or pasted on the reverse. I read it a second time, and then again, my face hotter and hands more trembly every moment. Who had written this?
Clearly it was not meant for me. My parents had Marjorie first and then me, no confusion about that. There could never be another because poor Papa was dead. So, who was it meant for? And how did it come to be inside my writing book? Despite being signed Fair Play, it whiffed of menace more than good intentions.
As well as a very big secret.
Each letter had been cut from other texts and then made into new words. Most of them were quite small and must have come from newspapers. Upper- and lowercase letters were mixed up so the sentences dipped and rose in crooked lines. I examined it so closely I could smell the paste and ink. The author had gone to great lengths to hide his—or her—identity.
I gave myself a shake. I was holding a real clue to a real murder. It simply must be connected. There could not be two ominous mysteries happening at the same time.
Begin at the beginning, I told myself. Proceed logically, as Hector would.
When I’d passed the notebook to Rose at the concert there had been no letter inside. Between then and the moment when I reached over the corpse to retrieve it, this letter had been slipped between its pages. Who by?
Was the writer also the hider? Or was the recipient the one who wished it to stay a secret? Were there two identities to discover…or three? Was my notebook meant to be a postbox of sorts? Or was the insertion an accidental one? Neither of these ideas made sense. My name was boldly written across the front, so no error could be made.
Rose was likely the last person to touch the notebook, since I’d picked it up from where she’d put it down. If Rose had slipped a paper into the book while reading my poem, the audience would have seen her. And later, when we’d all gone home? By then, there’d be no reason for secrecy. She could have simply put it into her handbag.
My head swam. How would I ever sort it out?
Just then came two taps on the door, and then another. Charlotte’s usual knock. I crammed the letter back into my notebook and slammed it shut.
“Miss Aggie?” Charlotte poked her head around the door. My heart pounded as if I’d raced a pony rather than hidden a piece of paper.
“Hullo,” I squeaked.
“We’re all at table,” said Charlotte. “And you are not.”
I flattened a palm on the cover of my precious book. “Coming. Ten seconds.”
As soon as she had gone, I flew to the window seat and tucked the book under a cushion. One thing was certain. I would not show the letter to Charlotte. She had been so rude about Hector’s powdery paper. Offering a second clue would be begging for ridicule. She’d never be an ally in a murder hunt, I knew. I rushed along the hallway and down the stairs without pausing to smooth my hair or catch my breath. Deceit was an energetic pastime! How did criminals manage to live their lives?
Grannie Jane shot me a stern look when I scurried into the dining room, hot-faced and mumbling an apology. Charlotte passed a plate of cold tongue with sliced bread and butter. I loathed tongue. It looked so much like tongue!
“If I had known that an outing would result in the discourtesy of being late…” said Grannie Jane.
“Yes, ma’am. Sorry, ma’am.” Well, humph! Grannie Jane could be so unreliable! One minute she was a person’s best friend, and with the next breath she turned brusque and unhelpful. Best not to risk showing her the letter either. Grannie Jane in the wrong mood might toss it into the fire or, worse, send it straight to Inspector Locke. What an insult that would be to my sleuthing abilities.
“Are you quite well, darling one?” Mummy reached over to feel my forehead. “You look flushed.”
“I’m fine.” I nibbled on bread spread thickly with butter.
“You haven’t touched your tongue,” said Mummy. “A growing girl needs excellent meat, along with improving grains and lots of fresh air. Charlotte, come with me now to speak with Cook. We’ll devise a restorative diet. I’m terribly concerned since Agatha’s upsetting day on Saturday.”
I did not protest as they made their way out. It made Mummy feel better to feed me bran and cod liver oil. But I wouldn’t share the letter with her either. It was too easy to worry Mummy, and a worried Mummy was a terrible thing to behold. I had never done it on purpose, of course, but I squirmed to remember the time or two when I had caused distress by accident. Like when fat little Tony had fallen into the creek last summer and couldn’t get himself out. I had waded to the rescue and come home caked in creek-slime. Mummy had swooned, actually swooned. If she saw the menacing letter, she would agree with Charlotte and forbid the very thing that I wanted most—to solve the puzzle of Mrs. Eversham’s murder.
“Has hot cocoa in a hotel spoiled you for proper food?” said Grannie. “I recall a fervent promise that food at home would be eaten without complaint.”
“I didn’t know it would be tongue,” I muttered.
Grannie unfolded the Torquay Voice. “How disappointing,” she murmured. “Mr. Fibbley has not filed a story this evening, despite his promise in the morning edition. Too busy taking tea with one of the prime suspects, I presume.”
“Is there nothing about the death of Mrs. Eversham?”
“Only a statement from Inspector Locke. ‘The investigation contin
ues, et cetera…Anyone with pertinent information should notify the constabulary at once, et cetera…’ ”
I stared at the nasty little bumps on the slab of tongue before me. If only Tony were allowed into the dining room, I could slip him a treat. Unbeknownst to the police—or to cocky Mr. Fibbley—Hector and I were holding two pieces of pertinent information: a paper dusted with possibly lethal powder, and a threatening, anonymous letter. But Charlotte had roundly scolded us for thinking we had something to offer the police. She’d forbidden me from further involvement. It seemed prudent to follow her instructions and refrain from passing along clues just yet. Who said a girl could not keep a secret?
“May I please, please be excused from table?” I said.
“You may,” said Grannie Jane. “But do not imagine that putting a serviette over your plate disguises the uneaten tongue.”
* * *
Finally released and back in my room, I kicked off my shoes. I pulled my notebook from under the cushion of the window seat and sat with my feet tucked up, peering through the window into the black beyond. Nightfall happened so quickly in the autumn. Above the branches of the little woods, a single light burned in Rose Eversham’s bedroom.
The girl’s fingers danced in agitation on the soft, peach-colored coverlet. She watched the candle splutter, imagining that she would never sleep again, so heavy with sorrow was her heart.
Or, perhaps…
The girl’s dark eyes flashed in the candlelight, bright with barely contained exultation. Until Saturday, she had been flung like a feather on the wind by the whims of an angry woman. But no longer! She was now queen of her own domain, rich and pretty, happily sharing the castle with her dear Auntie M.
Auntie M.
I arrived with a thunk at a nagging recollection, one I had been trying to ignore.
My notebook was usually of little interest to adults. Mummy said fondly that I was a poet, and Grannie Jane occasionally suggested that I record the correct spelling of a newly learned word. But no one had ever asked to read what I had composed.
Until yesterday.
CHAPTER 14
A SCHEME IS DEVISED
I RECALLED THE PLEADING look in Miss Marianne’s eyes during the visitation when she’d asked—even begged—that I should bring her my notebook, expressing a sudden curiosity about my poems. And before that, when Mrs. Eversham was lying dead at her feet, Miss Marianne had objected to me taking my own same notebook from where it lay on top of the piano. At the time, I had assumed it was about disarranging the elements of a crime scene. But her request now made perfect, horrible sense. She had hidden the letter and urgently wanted it back.
Had she been intending to send it? To whom?
Or had she received it? From whom?
I needed help to untangle this knot. I would find Hector tomorrow and together we would decipher its meaning. I withdrew the letter and smoothed the page flat on my bed.
My neck prickled with cold, as if I’d forgotten my muffler on a winter day. One small corner at the bottom of the page had been torn away. The missing piece looked to be the size that might be trapped between a thumb and forefinger if wrenched from the grasp of somebody holding it.
Somebody dead.
I was looking at the very clue that Inspector Locke had been so keen to recover. I paced the room while daubing my teeth with tooth powder and a rough flannel. Back and forth, around and round, my slippered feet trying to catch up to my spinning thoughts. This matter could not wait until tomorrow after all. Something must be done at once. But what? What could I do?
I rinsed my mouth and swished and spat. I brushed my hair and braided it as best I could, though most bedtimes it was Charlotte’s task to ready my hair for sleeping. My curls were so long they got in the most dreadful tangle if I left them loose at night. I’d got my dress unhooked and off and put away on a hanger when I saw the solution. An utterly simple solution.
A light still burned in Leonard’s shed, a yellowy glow in the darkness of the chilly garden. Despite his bad humor earlier, I expected he’d be a brick and help in this small mission.
The lacy blossoms on Rose’s curtains were still illuminated, as much a part of my evening sky as the moon rising over the sea. Bringing peace to the inhabitants of EverMore was the reason behind my plan, which I now put into action. I carefully tore a page from the back of my writing book and found a nearly sharp pencil in the drawer of my little table.
I folded the paper twice and wrote HECTOR PEROT, CONFIDENTIAL on the outside. I tipped the candle and let drops of wax fall on the fold. I pressed my thumb into the blob, making a whorly seal.
The door opened. I jumped nearly out of my skin.
“Ready for me to do your hair?” said Charlotte.
I got clumsily to my feet, banging my knee while trying to block the tabletop from view.
Charlotte’s gaze, naturally, went straight to the paper that I was hoping to conceal. “What are you up to?”
I felt a blush rising, warm and stupid. I shrugged, a gesture not permitted in the Morton house. Charlotte’s eyes narrowed.
“You’ve done your hair all by yourself,” she said.
“I’m twelve,” I said. “I can braid my own hair. And I shan’t need tucking in either.”
“Well, then,” said Charlotte. “Good night, Miss Aggie.” She’d nearly closed the door when she turned back. “Does this have anything to do with your odd little chum?”
Which was worse, to be a liar or a soppy goose?
I sighed as aggravated a sigh as I could muster and thumped myself down on the bed. Finally the door clicked shut. I raced to the window. A candle still burned in Leonard’s shed. Beyond the fruit trees, the Eversham villa was now in darkness.
I counted slowly up to one hundred and then backward all the way down. I wasn’t the least bit tired. I pulled on the old knitted spencer jacket that I’d adopted from Mummy and often wore to keep warm in the evenings. The spencer made my pantaloons feel positively indecent. I fastened my petticoat back on to cover my legs. I counted again to one hundred and back to zero.
No sound from outside my door.
Shed still alight.
Time to go.
The hallway was empty and as black as a cellar. Were the gaslights always extinguished when I went to bed? How did Charlotte find her way when I occasionally pulled the cord in the night? How lucky that I’d outgrown sharing the nursery with Charlotte! How lucky that Tony now slept in Mummy’s room and was not here to raise a fuss.
How unlucky that I didn’t have one of those new electric Flash Lights, advertised in the Torquay Voice. I’d ask Father Christmas to bring me one. For now, I kept a hand on the wall and inched my way to the stairs. At the first creak, I gasped. At the second creak, I held my breath and waited, expecting Charlotte’s door to fly open and a candle flame to shock the darkness. I was sneaking out! At the third creak, I began to giggle silently, part in terror and part with glee. Two full flights! And then along the back hall to the kitchen, small hiccups of laughter bubbling up. At the garden door I scooped Cook’s egg-collecting jacket from its hook and pulled it on over the spencer, making my arms a bit stiff, but a tad more presentable for visiting a young man in a shed in the dead of night. I tucked the letter for Hector deep into one of the pockets.
The frosty night air whistled straight through my cotton undergarments, chilling my legs, making Cook’s jacket all the more welcome. How could I have waited twelve whole years to be out of doors alone at night? Stars shone in glorious constellations, and a glowing moon peeked between nearly bare branches as it rose. Far off was the gentle roar of the sea, a constant lullaby.
Except, of course, that there’d been a murder, and I, Agatha Caroline Morton, was in possession of a crucial piece of evidence. Make haste!
The grass glistened with droplets from a sprinkle of rain. My crocheted slippers were soppi
ng within moments. The garden shed cast a moon-shadow across my path and I bumped into the wheelbarrow. Reaching out to steady myself, I jostled Leonard’s bicycle, leaning against the wall with its tire jutting out.
I was making enough noise, as Grannie Jane would say, to wake the dead. It was no surprise that the shed door creaked open before I had summoned my nerve to knock.
Leonard wore a woolly hat and a ragged grass-colored muffler wrapped twice around his neck and pulled up over his chin.
“Oh,” I said. “You’re going out. I’m ever so pleased I’ve found you first.”
“Miss Aggie!” Leonard’s eyes were as round and dark as chestnuts. “I’m not going nowhere, just keeping warm.” He peered over my shoulder, concern on his face. “Is there trouble, miss? Is your mother taken ill?”
“Nothing like that, Leonard. I need you to help me. It’s a bit urgent, if you don’t mind.”
“What is it?”
“Well, I’ve found something crucial. Related to the murder. I mustn’t tell you, because it’s not my secret to tell.” I thought briefly of Mr. Standfast, the lawyer, insisting on discretion. “But…Rose, you see, had my notebook at the concert…” I found myself stuttering a little. After being so very careful and quiet all evening, the words were pouring out in a jumble.
“I couldn’t speak in front of all those people at the concert on Friday. I freeze up sometimes. So Rose read my poem aloud. She was the last person to hold my book. When I opened it tonight, there was a…paper inside, and it’s a clue.”
Leonard stared at me. Why, when I was usually struck dumb, did I sometimes—with handsome, friendly Leonard, for instance—turn into a foolish chatterbox?
I took a deep breath. “This is rather a confidential matter. Do you suppose I could come inside? It’s awfully cold out here.”
“No!” said Leonard. “It wouldn’t be right, miss. Your mum would have chickens just knowing you’re out of your bed at this time of night. It’s too small in here for a visitor, a young lady besides.” He moved slightly, allowing me to catch a glimpse.
The Body under the Piano Page 10