The Body under the Piano

by Marthe Jocelyn

  “We did not speak of him again,” said Miss Marianne. “The solicitor placed him with parents wanting to adopt a child. Even Giles did not know where the boy was raised, and never told Irma that he paid an allowance all those years. She’d have hated me more—and what if she found a way to put a stop to it? I wanted the child looked after, safe…and beloved. When he reached eighteen, the payments would end.” Her voice broke. “We would never meet him,” she whispered. “Nor celebrate those birthdays with him.”

  I bit my lip, sharing the weight of Miss Marianne’s unbearable sorrow. My Papa would not have another birthday. For those of us left behind, his day in March would be one of loss instead of celebration.

  “And then my brother died,” said Miss Marianne.

  All this awful remembering! She took a sip of water and hurried on. Irma had been livid to discover after her husband’s death that he had been paying for Marianne’s shameful mistake all these years. The Captain’s will made no provision for the boy beyond a very small legacy. Irma instructed the solicitor to inform the family that payments had ceased a few months early because of Giles’s death.

  I did not like to say it, but, “This is where the confusion began, is it not?”

  “It must be.” Miss Marianne’s voice was hollow, as if creeping up from a deep hole. She raised her hand, still holding the letter from Fair Play. “I think this was written by my son. He does not know the circumstances of his birth. His words suggest that he believes himself to be Rose’s brother, that Giles was his father and not just an uncle. That Irma was his mother, not I.”

  “That’s what he means about inheriting,” I said.

  “Yes.”

  “But Rose never read it,” I said. “She didn’t have a chance to make things right. If Mrs. Eversham hadn’t stolen the letter, she would likely still be alive.” And if Miss Marianne had not ripped the letter from the dying woman’s clasp and hidden it, if she had told the facts to the police about her baby, she might not be in this jail cell.

  “Rose does not know the truth,” said Miss Marianne. “I never told her. It was a secret that Irma and I meant to take to our graves.”

  A chill prickled my neck, as if a ghost were breathing ice my way.

  “That is exactly what she did,” I said.

  “And so I shall not,” said Miss Marianne. “How wretched that my own son—” She broke off, too choked by tears to finish the unsayable sentence.

  One thing was now certain. Roddy Fusswell was not Miss Marianne’s son and not the killer. The Fusswell family was well-known in Torquay. Roddy had lived here—at the Royal Victoria Hotel—the whole of his life, not hidden in some distant town, adopted by parents that no one knew. I should be looking for a stranger. My fists tightened around the bars of the cell, as if I might squeeze them to cinders. My mind flew to the pale, smirking face of Mr. Augustus Fibbley, his raspy voice and cocksure manner. When had he moved to town? And where had he come from?

  “Can you tell me what happened on Saturday?” I said. Had Mr. Fibbley’s visit overlapped with Mrs. Eversham? Had he gone into the pantry for any reason?

  “When Irma appeared, so distraught, I feared that some great harm had befallen Rose. The studio was buzzing, as you know, but Irma thought her news so urgent that she did not wait to discuss it privately. She said that she was guarding her daughter’s life from the shame I’d cursed her with, that the letter amounted to blackmail, and we must go at once to the police. Her face was bright red, the letter trembling in her hand.”

  “Who else was there?” I asked.

  “The reverend had been up and down the stairs with two volunteers for half the morning, and they were carrying out the last of those boxes when Irma came, and several armloads besides. Roddy Fusswell took the tea urn and the cups, but he missed the sugar bowl sitting in the pantry waiting to be washed. Your garden boy came to fetch the floral arrangements. The reporter chap came by to find the case for his spectacles, which had been dropped under a chair.”

  I caught my breath. “When exactly did Mr. Fibbley come?” I said. “Do you remember?”

  “He…well, let me think a moment. He held the door for Mr. Fusswell, so he was coming in as…But was that the first trip down the stairs, or…?”

  My mind was skipping about, uncovering further facts. Augustus Fibbley worked for the Torquay Voice! Fair Play had used letters cut from the pages of a newspaper!

  “Miss Marianne,” I said. “Do you suppose—?”

  A sudden burst of footsteps thudded on the stairs.

  “What the devil’s going on?” Mr. Standfast appeared from the darkened stairwell. “I’ve been waiting over at the Crown and Cushion, eating a rather stringy chop. I sent that boy for my valise more than an hour ago, and he still hasn’t come back!”

  “But Rose has your case, sir.” A wave of apprehension swept up my arms like a rash. “I came down here to see Miss Marianne, and Rose was going straight away to find you!”

  “Have a look about for her, would you, Miss Morton?” said the lawyer. “I have a great deal to discuss here with Miss Eversham and my papers would be very useful.”

  I said good-bye to Miss Marianne, but did not wish her a peaceful night as that seemed like wasted words. She waved the letter, a small white flag, to say her thanks. I set my feet upon the steps with an aching heart and a shiver of worry. If Rose had not gone to meet Mr. Standfast, wherever could she be?

  CHAPTER 25

  A BOLD ACCUSATION

  THE CROWN AND CUSHION was only a few streets away. Even I knew where it was, though I’d never been inside, as it was full of men drinking pints of ale and using coarse language. How could Rose have got lost between here and there?

  I pushed against the heavy door at the top of the stairs and nearly tumbled into the corridor. My hands were filthy and I had a suspicion that I wore cobwebs in my hair. Poor Miss Marianne, having to sleep here! I wiped my hands on my coat and considered where I might begin to look for Rose.

  But who should be standing by the desk—leaning on it with one casual hand—but the man who had been in my thoughts moments earlier. He thwacked a hat against his leg, spraying droplets of rain all over the tiled floor.

  “Well, well. My lucky day!” said Mr. Fibbley, in that odd, croaky voice. My spell in the cellar had left me chilled and clammy. This was no one’s lucky day. Rose’s mother was dead. Miss Marianne was in a dungeon, possibly in the company of rats. And suspect number one stood before me, face bright with cheer.

  “Here I am…” The reporter propped his hat on the desk and flicked open his notebook. “Chatting with the amiable Constable Rushton, waiting to speak with the Mermaid Room Murderess, and who should appear but Miss Agatha Morton, the indomitable mystery queen. How is it that you beat me to the scene every time? Not bad for a twelve-year-old. Are you trying to take my job?”

  My voice had disappeared down my throat. How dare he be nonchalant and jolly? He had likely mixed mouse poison into a sugar bowl. At the very least, he had written rubbish in the newspaper for all the world to read.

  Rose’s words came to mind.

  “I am too angry to listen to you just now,” I said. “Please do not speak to me.” I heard Mummy tsking. That sounded too rude, even if he were a poisoner. “Until perhaps next week,” I added.

  Mr. Fibbley tossed back his head and laughed, showing off immaculate white teeth. “Waiting a week in the news business is not a viable option,” he said. “You are clever enough to understand that. I need today’s truth today.”

  “Today’s truth?” My heart thumped. “Today’s truth is that Miss Marianne Eversham is not guilty of murdering her sister-in-law! You’ve already got that wrong. And I think you know it!”

  Mr. Fibbley raised an eyebrow, high above the gold rim of his spectacles. He had rather nice eyes, I noticed in surprise, though I only looked into them for half a moment before direct
ing my gaze downward. Could a murderer have nice eyes? And was there any resemblance between Mr. Fibbley and the woebegone prisoner in the cell below?

  “I am most curious to hear your opinion on the matter, Miss Morton. If your dance teacher is not guilty, then who has performed this heinous act?”

  Who indeed? Was he attempting to misdirect my suspicions? Could I perhaps…Might I lead him into an accidental admission of his guilt? I would not begin with the subject of murder, but tackle instead his irresponsible journalism…

  “You implied in your report that I accused Mr. Fusswell,” I said. “I admit that he is fairly loathsome, but he is not a killer. What you wrote has injured his reputation, and presented me as a silly girl.”

  “Fairly loathsome,” repeated Mr. Fibbley. “May I quote you on that?”

  “No,” I said. “You make a show of caring what people say, but what gets published is entirely unrelated to the truth, despite your claims.”

  “Did I write down something you did not say?”

  Blood pounded so noisily in my ears that I had difficulty remembering exactly.

  “You twisted my intentions.”

  “Did I?” said Mr. Fibbley.

  “I did not say that Roddy Fusswell murdered her, or suggest that he brought the poison with him!”

  “Did you not?”

  “Stop it!” I stamped my foot, just as Mummy had earlier. I stomped it again because it felt good. “What really matters is that Rose’s mother is dead. And that Miss Marianne did not kill her!”

  “Have you considered the notion that Rose herself is the most suspicious of anyone?”

  Of course I had. Not so long ago, I had contemplated the possibility—with some sympathy—that Rose had sent her mother to the grave. But Miss Marianne’s sad tale had confirmed her niece’s innocence.

  “It wasn’t Rose,” I said. “The killer was a man.”

  Mr. Fibbley jerked to attention, his fingers deftly opening the notebook and readying the pencil.

  “What makes you think that?” he said.

  “A man recently arrived in Torquay and not well known.” It turned out not to be so difficult to look a killer in the eye, now that I was fired up. (And with a constable sitting across the room, inattentive as he was.) “A man of about your age.”

  Mr. Fibbley examined me with a hard stare.

  And then began to laugh!

  “Are you accusing me of murder?”

  With blazing eyes, Mr. Fibbley stepped toward me, a smile on his lips. Was he dangerous? Armed with a pistol? Hiding a dagger?

  I stepped back a pace, and looked over at the desk sergeant, who was chomping on an apple and paying no attention to the deadly drama playing out before him. Should I scream? The main door opened with a loud bang. Wind whistled in, along with a most welcome face.

  “Hector!” I ducked around the reporter and raced to greet my friend. “Goodness, you’re wet.”

  Hector stood in the doorway, blinking, as if surprised to enter a room holding light and people. His hair and jacket, his short trousers and stockings were all as wet as if he’d pulled them on straight from a washing tub.

  “Oi!” called the officer from behind the desk. “Close the door like a good lad, won’t you? Devil of a night out there.”

  Hector pushed the door shut and began to shake.

  “M-m-my cap is lost.” His plastered-down hair made it look as if his head had been dipped in ink. His shoes made a slurping sound as he stepped toward me. I knew, from my own misadventure last night, exactly how awful that felt.

  “Poor Hector,” I said. “Such a lot has happened. You’re lucky I’m still here.” Mr. Fibbley was lurking too close by. “Where is your…quarry?”

  “The Caterpillar goes to the hotel,” said Hector, “pausing to kick some fishing nets along the way. He sits in the bar to drink the whiskey. I am watching from the terrace. One glass of whiskey, then another, and then another. I believe he is intoxicated and not a threat this night. So, I come to find you.”

  “Roddy Fusswell is not the killer,” I whispered. “You have been following the wrong man.”

  “The wrong man?” Hector’s gloomy look darkened. His lips were the color of spring violets. “You know this?” He removed his jacket and jiggled it, causing a small rainstorm.

  “She thinks I am the killer,” said Mr. Fibbley, suddenly at my elbow.

  “You, sir?” Hector looked at me.

  “I have acquired…a heap of new information.” I took Hector’s hand and guided him behind one of the columns that held up a dark and distant ceiling. Mr. Fibbley followed us.

  “If you’re accusing me of murder,” he said, “I have every right to know the reasons you—”

  “Please to tell me something,” said Hector. “I am most curious.”

  “I don’t want to speak while he is listening,” I said. “He has a very bad habit of taking a person’s words and twisting them into—”

  Hector led me to the very center of the police station foyer.

  “Speak quietly,” he said. “The man will become dizzy trying to tread on our tails.”

  I bent my head next to Hector’s and murmured as efficiently as I could. “The baby in the letter belonged to Miss Marianne, but she never knew him after the first minute of his life. She couldn’t keep him because she wasn’t married. The baby was sent away, adopted, and the Captain provided money for support. Mrs. Eversham was furious about the baby. The letter was written to Rose, but Rose never saw it because her mother—Oh!”

  I had forgotten for a few minutes about Rose. “Rose was meant to be here, but—”

  Mr. Fibbley was again hovering close by, though I felt certain that he could not have heard my rapid report to Hector.

  “If you do not permit me to consult with my associate,” I told him, “I shall have no choice but to report you at once to the officer.”

  “Why are you waiting?” said the reporter. “I’ll make it easy and do it for you.”

  He pretended to address the man across the room, speaking in a squeaky whisper. “Oh, constable? This little girl thinks I’m the Mermaid Room killer. And she surely knows what she’s talking about, because she writes poems and has a vivid imagination.”

  Hector stopped blowing on his fingers to give me a sympathetic smile. “His manner is sarcastic, but from what you tell to me so far, there is not the necessary evidence to make such a grave accusation.”

  “You haven’t heard everything yet,” I said. “I have almost the necessary evidence.” I glared at Mr. Fibbley. “And why don’t you say you’re innocent? Or anything else to dissuade me?”

  “I know two things that you don’t know,” said Mr. Fibbley.

  I turned my back on him and spoke rapidly to Hector.

  “I have just delivered a document to Miss Marianne in her jail cell that confirms that the killer was a young man not from Torquay, who—”

  “What document?” Mr. Fibbley propped open his notebook on my shoulder! “How did it come into your possession?”

  “What two things?” said Hector. “Why do you not assist in clearing your own name?”

  “Am I obliged to defend myself to children?” said Mr. Fibbley.

  “Why do you always answer a question with a question?” I wished to thump him on the head.

  “Do I?” said Mr. Fibbley, smiling.

  “I remind you,” said Hector. “A woman is come to a most unpleasant end.”

  “A convincing point,” said Mr. Fibbley. “Here is my first defense. I have never, to my knowledge, met Mrs. Eversham. Why would I want her dead?”

  “Another question,” I muttered, but had the answer ready. “The document identifies the killer as a man, and also suggests very strongly that he is unknown to the victim. So, Mr. Clever Boots, you are not yet in the clear. You have a second item?�
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  “I do,” said Mr. Fibbley.

  “And it is?”

  He looked at me and then to Hector and then back to me, as if not certain that this was the audience for his next words.

  He cleared his throat, and when his voice came, it was softer. “I ask that this revelation remain in your pockets,” he said. “Can I trust you?”

  “But of course,” said Hector.

  “I suppose,” I said. Was this another trick? The grave calm of his look told me it was not, that foolery had no place in this admission.

  “I am not the man you’re looking for,” said Mr. Fibbley. “Because I am not a man at all.”

  CHAPTER 26

  A SURREPTITIOUS UNMASKING

  I GASPED. Mr. Augustus Fibbley was not a man?

  “Remarkable.” Hector gazed at Mr. Fibbley with what looked like admiration. “You make a most convincing gentleman.”

  I peered more closely. Smooth face, nice eyes…I made a blurting noise, and quickly manufactured a cough to cover my confusion. I’d been blind to so many clues! The raspy voice, the pretty lashes, the whiskerless cheeks and chin. But if she was a woman, why was she dressed like a man? How long had she dressed this way? What was her real name? Did anyone else know the truth? Did simply everyone have a secret?

  “You do realize,” said Mr. Fibbley (Miss Fibbley?), “your silence is essential? The masquerade protects my livelihood. As a woman, I would be relegated to reports on church suppers and tips for growing better dahlias. As a man, I can write the stories that people want to read, like murder!” She grinned and raised her eyebrows, assuming my understanding of such an equation.

  I thought of Mr. Standfast saying that women could not be lawyers. And here was Mr. Fibbley saying the same about crime reporters. I had not paid attention to such things in the small world of Mummy and Grannie and me. But for now there was a far more pressing matter at hand…If Mr. Fibbley was a woman, she was not Miss Marianne’s baby—and not the killer. If Mr. Fibbley was not the killer, then who was?