The Body under the Piano

by Marthe Jocelyn

Rose yelped like a puppy whose paw had been stepped upon. “Let go this instant!” She tried to wrest the case from his grasp, nearly toppling Grannie at the same time. Leonard was somehow part of the muddle, too, and neatly caught Grannie before she went over.

  “STOP THIS AT ONCE!” Mummy stamped her foot in a most un-Mummy-like way.

  The grandfather clock ticked loudly in the sudden quiet before Rose gave the case a sharp tug and won her prize.

  “Thank you,” she said. “Mrs. Morton? I am borrowing your daughter for a mission of mercy. Leonard, we’ll meet you outside in a moment.”

  Rose, so bold! She had not asked permission, but had informed my mother of the plan. Leonard hesitated and then withdrew.

  I tried to follow Rose’s lead. “Leonard is driving anyway,” I said. “We’ll be looked after.”

  “Rose,” said Roddy Fusswell.

  Rose raised her hand. “I am too angry to listen to you just now. Please do not speak to me.”

  My chest swelled in admiration. How able she was!

  Rose clamped the case between her calves and jammed her arms into the sleeves of her jacket. “Have you got…what’s needed, Aggie?”

  The letter from Fair Play! I did not! “I’ll just fetch my…” I slid into the hallway to retrieve the all-important paper from inside my skate. But where were my skates? I’d dropped them on the floor by the stairs when I’d come in.

  “Miss!” Someone was hissing at me.

  “Sally! Did you move my skates?”

  “In the closet, miss. I tidied them out of the way. But, miss!”

  I swished aside coats to find my skates in their bulky case, lying atop the row of overshoes.

  “Miss! Listen, please! There’s a boy—”

  The first skate was empty. I crammed my hand into the other one, but it was empty too. I swung around and scrabbled on the hall carpet to see if the letter had fallen out.

  “Miss?”

  “Sally! There was a…a paper! Inside my skate.” My nose began to tingle, a sure sign that tears were next. “You must help me find it!”

  “This one, miss?” Sally pulled a crumpled—but familiar and, oh, so beautiful—folded page from the pocket of her apron. “I were taking it down for the kitchen fire, miss. Here you go.”

  I snatched the letter and shoved it into the pocket of my dress. I plucked my coat from its hook and pulled on my beret.

  “But, miss! I’ve been trying to tell you! There’s a boy in the kitchen, and he’s—”

  I sprang upright. “You mean Hector?”

  “He’s dripping wet, miss. Ever so consternated, what with his shoes having got so waterlogged. We’ve given him a cup of broth and dry socks, but he wanted me to ask you: what happens next?”

  I leaned against the wall, muddling the buttons on my coat.

  What happens next?

  The suspect had wrestled with the lovely heiress for possession of a case full of incriminating evidence. Where would his next move take him? The intrepid refugee, hardened by the difficulties of his escape from oppression, was determined to follow wherever he must, through rain or snow or dark of night. The devoted sleuth would accompany the heiress in her pursuit of the family honor, taking her—

  “Miss Aggie? Most urgent, he says.”

  “Tell him the Caterpillar is on the move. Tell him I’ve gone with Rose to the police station, but he should stick with the Caterpillar. Have you got that, Sally?”

  Sally wrinkled her nose, and went through to the kitchen shaking her head.

  Rose came out of the drawing room, with Mr. Fusswell and Mummy as close behind as baby ducks.

  “There you are,” said Rose.

  “Rose,” said Roddy Fusswell.

  “Rose, dear,” said Mummy.

  “Listen to me,” said Roddy.

  “I don’t understand,” said Mummy, “why you feel it necessary that Agatha accompany—”

  “Mummy, yes!” I said. “I’ve promised! Rose needs company. You’d never wish me to break a promise!”

  “Rose,” said Roddy again.

  Rose ignored him and spoke to Mummy. “Mrs. Morton,” she said. “Aggie is a favorite of my aunt. She will be the ideal companion.”

  “But to a prison?” Mummy had a familiar wobble in her voice.

  “Prison?” said Roddy Fusswell.

  The door to the kitchen passage opened and Leonard poked his head through.

  “It’s not right for a girl to visit a prison unaccompanied!” said Roddy Fusswell. “I insist on—”

  “Which is why Aggie is coming with me,” said Rose. “Leonard, would you assist Mr. Fusswell with his coat? He’ll be leaving shortly.”

  “Er, yes, miss.” Leonard scooped up the coat from where Roddy had draped it on the newel post. I offered his hat from the stand.

  “Give me that!” Roddy jammed the hat on his head. He snarled at Leonard to move off, that he could put on his own blinking coat.

  Mummy was at risk of wringing her hands into rags, but I resolved not to be deterred in my mission. I kissed her.

  Leonard turned to Rose, but kept his eyes on the floor. “The horse and cart are waiting, miss. Mr. Standfast was most urgent in his request.”

  “We’ll come now,” said Rose. “Mrs. Morton, you’ve been most kind. I’m sorry you’re being left with…” She tipped her head toward Roddy Fusswell, who had made no effort to put on his coat but was brooding in a corner of the foyer.

  “Take an umbrella.” Mummy offered Papa’s large black one from the stand by the door and Rose thanked her.

  “Do watch out for Agatha,” said Mummy.

  “Are we all set?” asked Rose in a whisper. “You’ve got…?”

  I nodded. We stepped out into the night.

  “Where’s my blasted glove?” said Roddy Fusswell, as the door closed.

  Rose began to giggle. “We’ve escaped!” she cried.

  Leonard helped us into the cart.

  “Hold this.” Rose handed over Mr. Standfast’s case. “I’ll just get the umbrella up. I didn’t think about your cart not having a roof!”

  “Let me take the case,” said Leonard.

  “No, thank you, Leonard,” said Rose. “We’ll look after it.”

  “The gent asked most particular that I bring it.”

  “Goodness, this case is causing full-fledged battles in Torquay this evening,” said Rose. “You are bringing it safe and sound, Leonard. With me attached.”

  “Just drive!” I said. “Rose’s aunt is waiting in a prison cell for a crime she did not commit!”

  Leonard shook the reins and Belle began to walk.

  Our good cheer faded. A steady breeze was bringing in fog even all these hills away from the sea. Rose wrestled with the umbrella, fighting to hold it at an angle that would protect us from the rain.

  “Even a brolly conspires to make life difficult,” she muttered, and then was silent for several minutes as Belle clopped carefully over slick cobblestones.

  When Rose spoke again, I cupped a hand behind my ear to show that I could not hear.

  Rose raised her voice. “She may have wished my mother dead a hundred times, but she never would have killed her. Aunt Marianne is a gentle soul—except on the topic of the vote! It was my mother who carried bitterness in her heart.”

  She put a hand on Leonard’s shoulder. “Even you can vouch for that, can you not? I saw you with her on The Strand last week, both scowling like spoiled children.”

  “Leonard?” I said. “Why did you have cause to speak to Rose’s mother in the high street?”

  “I didn’t.” Leonard flicked the switch against Belle’s backside, and glanced around. “She bumped into me outside the post office. She tread on my toe.”

  “Is that what happened?” said Rose. “I was inside, posting a
letter. I didn’t see a collision, only her scolding you and you barking back. Good for him, I thought. About time she was made to drink a bit of her own medicine.”

  I gasped and Rose went silent. How horribly close to the fact of things.

  “That’s not w-w-what I—” Rose said. “Forgive me. That was thoughtless.”

  She went on, more quietly, “Mama was in a foul mood afterward, about strange young men getting in the way. A bit extreme, now that Leonard has explained.” Rose’s voice caught, and I knew she was crying. “So many sour encounters!” she said. “All these years of living with Auntie M., and never a kind word…”

  How miserable breakfast must have been at EverMore, I thought.

  After a few more damp and silent minutes, we arrived at the police station.

  “Thank you, Leonard.” Rose closed the umbrella and laid it on the seat.

  “I can carry the case for you, miss,” said Leonard.

  “Don’t be a silly,” said Rose. “I’m perfectly capable. Find a sheltered place to wait. We shan’t be too long. I shouldn’t think they’ll let us linger.” We clambered down to the pavement and hurried inside.

  “Dodging raindrops,” said Rose, laughing, switching Mr. Standfast’s case from one hand to the other.

  An officer sat behind a desk, brass buttons straining to keep his jacket closed over his tummy. A nameplate by his elbow announced his name as Constable Lloyd Rushton. The man who had embarrassed Hector, I realized.

  “Your Mr. Standfast is gone to supper,” he told us. “Up at the Crown and Cushion is where I recommended. Only one of you at a time is allowed in to see the prisoner. Dangerous villain like her, eh?” He grinned.

  “That is not the slightest bit funny,” said Rose.

  “You go ahead,” I said.

  “No,” said Rose. “She’s wanting whatever it is that you’ve brought. You go first. I’ll find Mr. Standfast.” She leaned over and kissed my cheek. “Let’s see if we can bring her home tonight.”

  The officer sighed and heaved himself up. He motioned for me to come along. More than a little nervous, I waved good-bye to Rose and followed the constable’s wide navy-blue backside down a narrow corridor.

  CHAPTER 24

  A PAINFUL CONFESSION

  I HELD MY BREATH, intent on believing the words that churned inside my head. I will not be afraid. I will not be afraid. I will not…

  The constable stopped at a door covered with chipped brown paint. He gave the knob a hefty wrench and it squealed open. We seemed to be looking straight into a black velvet curtain. He unhooked a torch from where it hung on a nail inside the door. He pressed a button on its side and it lit up like magic. It was the same sort of torch used by Constable Beck on his night patrol, dull silver with a strong beam that illuminated a steep set of stairs leading down into a pit of darkness. A cellar of gloom. An impenetrable night. Apparently they were keeping poor Miss Marianne in a dungeon!

  By the time we reached the bottom step my hand was covered in grime from the banister. Enough lamps burned down here to see without the torch, but the ceiling was so low that I could have touched it with an outstretched arm. The smell was like old socks in vinegar. An officer sat on a wooden chair chipping at a piece of soap with a knife. Miss Marianne, separated by a wall of iron bars, perched on a stool with her back to the guard.

  The constable who had brought me this far spoke to the other fellow. “You might as well come have your tea break, Smithers. The prisoner’s not going anywhere. And neither is the girlie. Unless she wants to fight the rats on her way out.”

  Rats? He was teasing. Wasn’t he?

  “Aggie?” Miss Marianne stood as the two policemen shuffled back up the steps. Her face was gray-hued, the blood gone from her lips. Her hazel eyes, usually sparkling, were dull and wary. And her hair! Usually she wore a tidy dancer’s knot at the nape of her neck. She may have spent the afternoon tearing at it with both hands, the way it straggled out like unkempt straw. A place like this was designed to scare a person to bits, and it worked. What words of comfort could I invent?

  “My dear child.” Miss Marianne touched my fingertips through the bars.

  “I…I’ve brought your letter.” I passed the folded paper.

  “It isn’t mine.” She unfolded the page and tilted it toward the weak gas jet in a corner of her cell. When she looked at me again, her eyes were moist.

  “I know you didn’t kill her!” I cried. “You never would.”

  “Thank you, Aggie, for saying that.” Miss Marianne squeezed her eyes shut, causing tears to roll down her pale cheeks. “ ‘Is this a secret you can live with?’ ” she read, the letter shaking in her hand. “I did not write this, nor was it meant for me to read. The envelope was addressed to Rose. But Irma didn’t like Rose to receive letters from strangers. She opened it herself—and felt entirely justified, since she had saved her daughter from seeing such a thing.”

  I held my breath as Miss Marianne leaned against the bars as close as she could get to where I stood.

  “They might end our visit at any time,” said Miss Marianne. “And you deserve to know…”

  Another minute passed while I watched resolve and indecision take turns upon her face. Finally, as if diving into a cold lake from which there would be no easy exit, she began.

  “I believe,” she said, “that this letter was written by someone I lost long ago. I think my own child killed Irma as the result of a terrible mistake.”

  She did not wait for me to collect my wits, which now were scattered on the floor. She had jumped into the water and would swim with no rest until she reached the other side.

  “Long ago, I had a sweetheart.”

  A sweetheart!

  “His name was Otis Connor. He was a horseman in the Royal Guard, though he thought one day he’d like to be a veterinary doctor. My brother, Giles, Rose’s father, was thankfully pleased with my choice. Our parents were dead, and Giles was all the family left to me. It mattered, you see, even more then than it does now. A woman is rarely trusted to decide the path of her own life.”

  I nodded, as if I heard confessions of love every day. But my heart was skipping beats.

  “Otis and I were to be married. I had a gorgeous dress, which had been my mother’s—”

  “But the wedding never happened?” I said. And then cursed myself for interrupting. A person will hear far more by listening than by talking. Grannie Jane had taught me that.

  Miss Marianne peered at me in the dim light. “Your mother will not thank me for telling you these things. But…Otis and I…We loved each other dearly. We became as close as people who are married, do you understand?”

  What Miss Marianne was saying fell into the cloudy region of grown-up life to do with love. Why my sister had married James, and what servants shushed about, why Charlotte went pink in the presence of Constable Beck, and why Mummy mourned Papa so woefully.

  “Otis…,” Miss Marianne’s voice was a little thicker, “belonged to a regiment of the army that went suddenly to the Sudan to squelch a rebellion. Before our wedding day. After he’d gone, I discovered that I was to have a baby. I wrote to him at once. Though we had not planned for a family so soon, I believed the news would bring him joy while away fighting. Within a few days I received a telegram that he had been killed in a battle at Khartoum.”

  Tears sprang to my eyes. “Oh no! So sad!”

  How inadequate were words! Sad, for a whole life gone, and another changed forever. Two lives changed, because there’d been a baby to consider.

  The baby in the letter belonged to Miss Marianne!

  She wiped her eyes. “Let me tell you a bit more,” she said. “I have thought of nothing else, of how this dreadful mistake occurred. My brother, Giles, had just been married to Irma. He knew that losing Otis had broken my heart, but he was dismayed about the baby. It is not good news to h
ave a baby outside a marriage. The world does not look upon you kindly.”

  She closed her eyes again, her voice low and a little hurried. Giles had offered to adopt the baby, she said. He and Irma would raise it as their own child. Such a relief! Her brother’s suggestion meant that she would not lose the child entirely.

  “Rose is your baby?” I said.

  “No.” Miss Marianne shook her head. “Not Rose.”

  The ending was not so simple as that.

  Irma Eversham’s opinion was firm and furious. No child born of a sinful union would be welcome in her family, and she certainly would not adopt such an outcast! She threatened Giles with ending their marriage and Marianne with ruin by unforgivable scandal.

  I remembered the whispering ladies next to the cakes at the visitation for Irma Eversham. Wouldn’t they faint dead away if they knew the truth?

  Giles was torn apart, Miss Marianne said. He wanted to help his sister, but how could he go to war against his bride? Miss Marianne speedily resolved that she did not want her baby raised by such a heartless woman. She and her brother agreed that he should find a home far away to take the child, and so he did, settling matters with the help of his solicitor so that Miss Marianne did not know where her baby’s home would be. She traveled to a village in the Lake District for her confinement. She never even looked into the infant’s eyes before he was whisked away by the nurses. Her brother, Giles, paid a monthly allowance for his care.

  Life continued as it had before Otis Connor had come into Miss Marianne’s world. She resigned herself to being the Captain’s spinster sister and remained living in the house where she’d grown up, though now she was the guest of her brother’s new wife, the critical and bad-tempered Irma. A year later, baby Rose had been born, bringing renewed joy to her auntie’s spirit, but also a reminder of her harrowing loss.

  Miss Marianne stopped talking. She fetched a tin cup from the floor next to the cot. She pointed to a bucket of murky water beside the guard’s chair where I might fill it up.

  “And you never knew what happened to your…baby boy?”

  I had not missed Miss Marianne’s revelation. He was whisked away by the nurses before he ever looked into his mother’s eyes. By now her baby boy was nearly a man, a year older than Rose.