The Body under the Piano

by Marthe Jocelyn

  “Mon Dieu,” he said. “This is a new ball on the playing field, n’est-ce pas?”

  “Yes!” I breathed. “At last I have someone to talk to. I’ve been bottled up like a jar of fizzy lemonade!”

  I told him everything from the discovery of the letter in my notebook right up to the midnight encounter with Constable Beck—omitting only how I had been clad at the time. I added my deduction that it was Miss Marianne who must have hidden the letter, Florence’s reluctant admission of her brother’s money woes, and Constable Beck’s revelation that Mr. Fibbley had been in the Mermaid Room on Saturday morning.

  “I think that’s everything,” I said. “Except that I cannot decide whether Rose likes Roddy Fusswell or is only putting up with him.” I had been speaking so rapidly that the pause here felt considerable. We listened to the hungry cries of seagulls and the faint flurry of piano notes from the roller rink.

  “None of this seems to touch upon the letter I am holding,” Hector said.

  “But, do you see?” I pointed to the torn corner.

  “Oui, I see. This is evidently the source of the scrap for which the inspector is seeking, yes?”

  “I expect so,” I said.

  “And so…” Hector tapped the paper several times with his fingertip. “These few words are so critical to Madame Irma Eversham that she holds on even while she is dying.”

  “And so important to Miss Marianne,” I said, “that she tore the page from between the fingers of a dying woman. And then hid it.” I sighed from the bottom of my lungs. “She must have been desperate, to imagine that my notebook would keep a secret safe, even for a few hours.”

  Hector put a comforting hand on my arm. “I believe this is not proof that she is a killer,” he said. “The friction here…”—he touched his forehead—“tells me that it may be proof that she is not.”

  CHAPTER 20

  A FURTIVE ENCOUNTER

  “HOW CAN AN ANONYMOUS letter prove innocence or guilt?” I said.

  “This letter upsets both women, yes? We do not yet know the reason, but it compels both to act as they do not normally act. Rose’s mother comes—as never before—to visit Miss Marianne in the Mermaid Room, and—”

  I saw at once. “And Miss Marianne conceals a clue that may be essential to finding a killer!”

  “We too are hiding the same clue,” Hector reminded me. “It is time, do you agree, to consult the police?”

  “No!” I cried. “They think Miss Marianne is guilty of murder! This might be a clinching factor. We need to protect her at least until we know why she hid the letter.”

  “Is she in need of our protection?” said Hector. “It appears she is already protecting herself.”

  “Or someone else,” I said.

  “We must look carefully at the cast of characters in the Mermaid Room on Saturday morning.”

  “Not every one of them wished Mrs. Eversham dead.”

  “But one of them does,” said Hector. “One most particularly wants her dead, and promptly.” He withdrew from his pocket a small notebook, half the size of my own, and held a pencil ready. “Which one is it? Who benefits, now that Irma Eversham is dead?”

  I wriggled on the bench. “Rose would be the first choice,” I said. “She likely inherits buckets of money and gets rid of a nasty mother. But Rose never went to the Mermaid Room on Saturday. Her alibi is as firm as bricks.”

  “Unless she has a lethal accomplice willing to commit this most terrible act.”

  “I don’t think she even likes Roddy Fusswell. Why would she trust him to murder her mother? Let’s not be narrow-minded. It wasn’t Rose or her aunt. We need to consider other suspects, whatever their likelihood at first glance.”

  “I am not ready to put aside Miss Rose,” said Hector. “But I am willing to consider Mr. Fusswell with full attention. You think someone else beyond these two?”

  “What if Rose’s mother learned that Mr. Teasdale is not really a vicar at all, but a jewel thief in disguise who steals from old ladies in the All Saints congregation. He has amassed a fortune in pearls and rubies, but Mrs. Eversham discovered his cache in the alms box. He was forced to silence her in order to protect his reputation.”

  Hector’s eyebrows lifted a little. “This is not a logical conclusion from the facts that we—”

  “Or perhaps,” I said, “Mrs. Eversham fell in love with Mr. Augustus Fibbley and would not leave him in peace. She followed him everywhere, pleading that he relent and take her for his bride. Finally, he cracked, luring her to her death under the piano so that he could print the sordid details in the Torquay Voice.”

  Hector sighed. “You are mocking me, I think. But we must be serious in the face of a letter such as this. The exposure of a secret is announced. A secret so great that no signature can be attached.” He folded the paper and gave it back to me. I tucked it carefully into my left roller skate, somewhat chastened by his scolding.

  After a moment of silent consideration, Hector said, “We must answer three questions.”

  “One,” I said. “Who wrote the letter?”

  “Two,” said Hector. “To whom is it written?”

  “And who is the mysterious baby?” I said. “Three questions of who.”

  A small boy went past, clutching his mother’s skirt with one hand and holding a toy trumpet to his lips with the other. Blatt! Blatt!

  “I would like to be a spider for an hour,” I said. “It is the spider’s good fortune to see the world from eight different directions. Would that not be useful while detecting? Every possibility could be considered.”

  Blatt!

  “Equal consideration of eight views is wasting the time,” said Hector. “Most points of view can be ignored. We need only logic to tell us where to look next. We must ask who is most easily tainting the sugar?”

  “That’s easy,” I said. “Roddy Fusswell was king of the sugar bowls and no one looked twice. And he wants Rose to be rich. All her money would become his if they got married. He could pay his debts without stealing anything more from his family.”

  “We are in accord. I will commence the watching of Mr. Fusswell,” he said. “What will you do?”

  “Rose is meant to be coming to tea. Although the will has not yet been read, I will be watchful for any sign that…”

  Grannie Jane’s stern look darted through my mind.

  “It wouldn’t do to ask directly,” I said, “but Mr. Standfast may slip up and give a hint of her expectations.”

  “This is good.” Hector adjusted the collar of his sailor jacket so that it lay smoothly over his shoulders. “I go now to the Royal Victoria Hotel.”

  “You know how to get there?” I pointed across the harbor to the stately building that perched atop the cliffs beyond. Sun sparkled on the water, reflecting flashes of light as if stars floated just beneath the waves.

  “I see it,” said Hector.

  “From here you must go the whole way around the harbor,” I said. “At the foot of the cliff there is a path that goes down to the Ladies Bathing Cove. That’s where I go swimming all summer. But you will take the road up the hill, not the path down to the cove, and—”

  “If I were a bird, I would be there in one minute,” said Hector. “I am not discouraged by the distance.”

  “Today is Tuesday. Let us meet again on Thursday on this same bench. But be discreet if you see Charlotte or Constable Beck.”

  “I shall avoid Monsieur Beck wherever we may encounter. I am not at ease with those who consider me foolish,” said Hector. “I go now.”

  “Excuse me?” Florence Fusswell’s voice pierced the breezy air. “Is this boy bothering you? He looks rather foreign.”

  Florence, with Lavinia peering over her shoulder, spoke loudly and slowly, “Are. You. Foreign?”

  “Oui, mademoiselle,” said Hector, making a small b
ow. “I am quite foreign.”

  The intruders inhaled in unison, Lavinia’s eyes so wide that she looked like a startled owl.

  “May I introduce Hector Perot,” I said. “Miss Lavinia Paine and Miss Florence Fusswell. Florence is the sister of Mr. Roddy Fusswell. Of the Royal Victoria Hotel.”

  “Ah!” said Hector.

  “I do not think being Roddy’s sister is much of a commendation,” Florence said, “since he is an arrogant worm.”

  “Or should you say dog?” asked Lavinia.

  “But you are worthy in your own name,” said Hector, “for which I must give thanks. You are the girls who dance for friendship with the foreigners, yes? As you have so astutely noted, I am a foreigner, and now the owner of a fine pair of new shoes!” He lifted his right foot and pointed a shiny black toe.

  Lavinia giggled, but Florence eyed him suspiciously.

  “We danced,” she said. “And we also provided the refreshments. Guineas worth of cakes and biscuits! It would not have been a successful evening without the Royal Victoria Hotel.”

  “Did you provide also the sugar in the sugar bowl, mademoiselle?”

  Florence’s mouth dropped open and then snapped shut. “If you’ve nothing better to do than make slanderous remarks, you should probably go straight back to France,” she said. “It is not permitted to bother girls on piers, not in England. I shall summon Miss Boyle to assist.”

  “It is permitted to speak with a friend,” I said quickly, before Florence could disturb her nursemaid, who was poking the pointy nib of her parasol at a seagull on the boardwalk. “Which is what he is. A friend. Of mine.”

  “A friend who now is saying the farewell,” said Hector. His eyebrows did a small caper, telling me good-bye, and as-of-this-moment-I-am-a-dedicated-sleuth, and also Beware! Look-over-your-left-shoulder! He bowed once more and slid away as I turned to find Charlotte trotting along the pier, lifting her skirt several inches above her ankles to permit better mobility.

  “There you are, Charlotte,” I said.

  “Hello, girls,” she said. “Good afternoon, Miss Boyle.”

  Miss Boyle nodded a brusque greeting while using her parasol to indicate a jumble of bags on a bench across the pier. “Your skating gear, ladies, is to be carried by you. Come along.” She marched away, but Florence and Lavinia made no move to follow.

  “I’m glad you’re ready, Miss Aggie,” said Charlotte, briskly. “Did you manage to remain upright on the rink?”

  “Her hour was most upright,” said Florence.

  I wished to clamp my hand over her mouth. And hold it there.

  “If,” she said, “sitting rather too cozily on a bench with a foreign boy can be considered upright?”

  Lavinia snorted a laugh, and Charlotte turned to stare at me. If Charlotte consulted with Miss Boyle, my absence on the rink would be discovered within seconds.

  “Aren’t we rather late for tea, Charlotte?” I said. “Thanks to your appointment with the constabulary?” I paused to let her cheeks go pink. “We have a long walk ahead, as Leonard is not here to fetch us. Good-bye, everyone!”

  “Ladies?” Miss Boyle was calling.

  I speared Florence with a furious glare, and set off toward The Strand, taking the longest steps I could manage.

  Charlotte caught up, panting slightly. “Was Florence referring to Hector?” she said. “Or have you sprouted a wider acquaintance with foreign boys in the last few hours? You were most particularly instructed not to—”

  “Would you have me rudely ignore a poor foreign person when he says good afternoon?” I said. “That would be most uncivil.”

  “Saying good afternoon does not require sitting on a bench!” said Charlotte. “What would your mother say?”

  “What would my mother say if she knew where you spent your hour?” I asked her calmly.

  Charlotte stopped walking right in the middle of the pavement. “Miss Aggie, that’s blackmail.”

  So easy to slip into a life of crime, I thought.

  “ARREST IN MERMAID ROOM MURDER!” hollered a newsboy. “PENNY FOR THE PAPER!”

  “READ ALL ABOUT IT!” cried another boy from the opposite corner. “MERMAID KILLER CAUGHT!”

  CHAPTER 21

  A MATTER OF THE UTMOST IMPORTANCE

  CHARLOTTE WOULD NOT let me purchase a newspaper, even with my very own pocket money. There’d be one waiting at home, she said, and we were late. True enough, Mummy and Grannie Jane were entertaining Mr. Standfast in the drawing room when we arrived, and the tea trolley had been rolled in, brimming with Mrs. Corner’s best offerings. Tony slept as near to the fire as he could be without singeing. Charlotte did not join the family for meals if there was company, and so excused herself.

  “Where is the newspaper?” I asked. “And where is Rose?”

  “The evening edition has not yet come,” said Grannie Jane.

  “But the newsboys had it!” I said.

  “Rose will be here,” said Mummy. “Alas, a grieving person occasionally loses her sense of time.”

  “There has been an arrest,” I said. “The newsboys were hollering like jackdaws. Where is the paper?”

  “Agatha, dear,” said Grannie. “Your fussing will not speed its arrival. Say hello to our guest.”

  Dutifully, I bade Mr. Standfast a good evening and accepted the cup of tea that Mummy poured for me.

  I had just dropped in three lumps of sugar when there came a frantic hammering on the front door, followed by the scuffle of Sally’s running steps. A ruckus in the foyer brought us all to our feet.

  “Rose, at last,” said Mummy. “Why such a clamor?”

  Someone crying, more of Sally’s hurried footsteps, and the door to the drawing room burst open.

  “Oh, please, ma’am, come!” Sally’s eyes were wild, as if she’d met a leopard in the vestibule. “It’s Miss Rose,” she said, “Rose Eversham. She’s quite undone.”

  Mr. Standfast pushed past the maid and returned a half minute later, supporting a weeping Rose.

  “Sorry,” said Rose, gulping a bit. “It’s just that I finally have someone to tell, and, and, I seem to be—”

  “More tea,” Mr. Standfast told Sally. “She needs sweet tea.”

  “Whatever has happened?” said Mummy.

  Arrest in Mermaid Room Murder! I thought. But who?

  “Brandy,” said Grannie Jane, opening the cupboard that held rows of stemmed glasses and glimmering cordials in dark bottles.

  Rose was whisked to a chair—Papa’s favorite—and handed a snifter before she’d even settled into the cushion. Mr. Standfast urged Rose to drink, but one small sip of brandy made her cough. She couldn’t talk for ages, and we had to wait politely to hear her news, though clearly the headlines shouted in town and Rose Eversham’s miserable disarray must be parts of the same story.

  Grannie Jane was the first to succumb to curiosity. “Well, dearie? What has happened?”

  “They’ve taken away Aunt Marianne. In the police wagon.” Rose paused to collect herself. “They say she murdered my mother!”

  Nooooo! Miss Marianne? They’d got it wrong!

  We pummeled Rose with questions, but the police had not been forthcoming. How vexing that the newsboys on The Strand—and probably Mr. Augustus Fibbley—knew more about Miss Marianne’s situation than we did.

  “If you’ll excuse me, Mrs. Morton,” said Mr. Standfast, bowing slightly to Mummy. “And Mrs. Morton.” Another bow, to Grannie Jane. “I regret that I must leave your hospitable domain, but if Miss Eversham is being detained, I must be present. I will insist on speaking with the prisoner at once.”

  “The prisoner!” whispered Rose. Tony padded back and forth in front of her chair, as if in consternation.

  “Do you suppose your man could drive me into town?” said Mr. Standfast.

  Mummy an
d Grannie glanced at each other, both a bit pink.

  “Our man is the garden boy, for the time being,” said Grannie, capping the brandy bottle with a sharp click. “And the vehicle is a cart. But there is nothing young Mr. Cable likes better than driving like a chariot-racer.”

  “Mr. Cable?” said Mr. Standfast.

  “His name is Leonard,” I said. “Grannie calls him mister to make him sound more respectable.”

  “I’ll come with you!” Rose tried to stand, but swayed and sat back down with a bump.

  “You will not,” said Mr. Standfast. “I’m quite certain that Mrs. Morton will serve you soup of some sort, and then you will rest for a while. I shall return to see you, Rose, when I have met with your aunt and know better of her situation.”

  “I’ll tell Cook at once that we need broth.” Mummy led Mr. Standfast away with the intention of finding Leonard.

  I pushed the ottoman close to where Rose sat, but did not quite have the courage to take her hand. Grannie Jane asked more questions. Despite Rose’s disquiet and her hiccupy way of answering, we eventually had a jumbled sense of the afternoon’s story.

  They’d had poached pears and cheese for lunch, Rose and her Auntie M., sitting in the kitchen near the fire. It was their habit to seek comfort below stairs rather than to use the grand dining room for just the two of them. Their maid, Norah, had been humming while she washed the crockery and waited for the kettle to boil.

  (I wanted to tell her, Oh, do skip the humming maid and get to the point, but Rose was in shock and not to be hurried.)

  Inspector Locke and two young constables had come banging on the kitchen door, Rose reported, and tromped across the stone floor with their muddy boots, making Norah awfully peevish. Auntie M. was to go with them to the police station, the inspector said. Her previous statement was lacking particular details, they said, including the truth. Auntie M. laughed at such nonsense. “She’s done nothing wrong!” cried Rose, and the inspector said they’d see about that. One of the constables (with dreadful spots) said there was new evidence to implicate her. Auntie M. asked what could there possibly be? The inspector said would she come without a fight or had they got to restrain her? Auntie M. said that she’d best speak to her solicitor. The spotty constable sneered to the other, well, that’s the sign of a guilty conscience. Auntie M. was ever so plucky, according to Rose, though her eyes were too bright, and her hair became disheveled. They said to come along, it was only questions for now. Rose helped her on with her coat. She’d paused, brave and tender, to look at Rose, leaving firm but hurried instructions, Rose being blind with tears and deaf with worry. “It’s all a mistake,” Rose said. Is it now? said the inspector. They’d got an eyewitness confirming that Miss Marianne Eversham did not take sugar in her tea, proving that she was not the intended victim. First step toward a death sentence, in his opinion. After that they bullied her out the door like a common criminal.