“What about the forensics at the scene?” asked Pen. “What about trace evidence and DNA?”
Fay, Morwen and Maggie stared at him.
“What?” he said. “I watch television. I know about modern policing methods.”
Fay tried to imagine Pen curled up in front of The Wire in the evenings. It wouldn’t come into focus. Whenever she pictured him alone in his cottage at night, she saw him sitting in front of the fire whittling a piece of wood into the shape of a bird, or some other activity that belonged to the preindustrial age. Apparently, this was completely wrong.
“They’re testing the murder weapon now,” said Fay. “It’s an old candlestick that was used to hit Desmond Pinkerton over the head. They might be able to get DNA off it, but that will take weeks. Fingerprints will be quicker, but they’ll only get a match if the perpetrator has previously been arrested for a crime.”
“What’s your next move?” asked Morwen. “We know you have one.”
“I pretended to be interested in Spanish artefacts from the late thirteenth century and got myself invited to a seminar this evening.” Fay pulled the invitation from her purse.
“Why Spain and why the thirteenth century?” asked Maggie.
“Because the murder weapon belongs to that era, according to Doc Dyer.”
Pen nodded. “If Doc Dyer says it’s so, then you can take that to the bank. He’s never wrong, the doc. Not about things like that.”
“That’s what I’ve heard. Also, the website of RARE, the organization that Desmond Pinkerton belonged to, states that they are interested in collecting artefacts connected to Eleanor of Castile who died in 1290, the late thirteenth century. She was an English queen, but her origins were Spanish.”
“Where is the seminar being held?” asked Morwen.
“Let’s see.” Fay unfolded the invitation and looked at it. There was quite a long pause.
“Something wrong? If you’re not sure where it is, we can tell you.”
Fay held the invitation out to Morwen. “Good luck with that.”
Morwen looked at the paper. “Is this a joke?” She passed it to Maggie and Pen who also stared at it.
“Not a joke,” said Pen. “It’s a riddle.”
Fay groaned. “I’m hopeless at riddles. Do you know what it means, Pen?”
The Cornishman shook his head. “I know a riddle when I see one, but I’m no good at interpreting them. I do the normal crossword puzzle every morning, but never the cryptic one. If you want to know a three-letter word for a large flightless bird, I’m your man. But the cryptic riddles might as well be Greek to me.”
Fay’s lips tightened. “That little worm. No wonder he was so smug.”
“Which worm would that be?” Morwen helped herself to more fish pie.
“Cecil Travis. The one who will inherit the store from Desmond Pinkerton. He had the cheek to tell me that he had also been invited to the seminar but didn’t think he would see me there. He obviously thought I wouldn’t be able to solve this riddle.”
“Let’s prove him wrong,” said Maggie. “He sounds like a right pain in the …”
“That’ll do, Maggie,” said Morwen, the eternal mom. “Not at table. But I agree with you. If the four of us put our heads together, we should be able to crack this. Fay and Pen might not be good at riddles, but I wasn’t bad at them, back in my school days.”
“Me too. And I do the cryptic crossword regularly.”
Maggie sighed when everyone at the table raised their eyebrows.
“Is that so hard to believe? I don’t plan on being a cleaner forever, you know. I’ve got big plans for my family’s organic produce business. Mum always says I have a good brain and she’s right. It’s time I started to use it.”
“Bravo, Mags.”
“Thanks, Fay. Now pass me that invitation.”
Maggie read it carefully. “Okay, so it’s not one riddle. It’s three separate riddles. When we’ve got the answers, we’ll put them together and see if they tell us where the seminar is being held.”
“Let’s look them up on the internet,” said Fay.
“That’s cheating.”
“I’m not interested in winning this fairly. I just want to know where the seminar is being held so I can help the police figure out who killed Desmond Pinkerton.”
Fay took out her phone and copied the riddles into her Google search box. Her face was a picture of disappointment when she got no results.
“Ha!” Maggie was delighted. “Google hasn’t a clue. We’ll solve this the old-fashioned way.”
“Read the first one out loud,” said Morwen. “That way we can all work on it together.”
Maggie obliged.
In marble halls as white as milk
Lined with skin as soft as silk
Within a fountain crystal clear
A golden apple doth appear
No doors there are to this stronghold
Yet thieves break in and steal the gold.
Fay and Pen looked at each other with identical expressions of mystification. Fay could already feel the brain-sapping weakness that came over her whenever she was confronted by a riddle.
“A golden apple …” she said. “Isn’t that from Greek mythology? Something about someone having to give a golden apple to the most beautiful goddess. But he ended up giving it to Helen of Troy instead …”
“No, that’s not right,” said Morwen. “It was Paris and he gave it to the goddess who promised him the love of Helen of Troy who was already married to someone else.”
“Yes, yes. Look here – there’s all this stuff about soft skin and something as white as milk. Maybe the answer is Helen of Troy.”
Pen was baffled. “How does Helen of Troy help us figure out where this seminar is being held tonight? The lady was never on Bluebell Island as far as I know.”
“Maybe it will become clearer as we go on,” said Fay. “Let’s write down Helen of Troy for the first answer and then go onto the next one.”
Maggie couldn’t hold it in any longer. A snort of laughter burst from her. She closed a hand over her mouth.
“Sorry! Sorry! But you guys are really bad at this.”
Morwen gave her an offended look. “I suppose you’ve got a different answer?”
“Of course, I do. It’s really quite simple.”
Chapter 8
Pen stood up to rinse his plate and put it in the dishwasher. “Simple, is it?”
“It really is. You guys are crazily over-thinking it. What has got a hard outside like marble but with no openings or ‘doors’? And what has got a soft white layer inside its hard covering and a golden heart inside that? And everyone wants to break inside to steal the gold?”
“Wait, I know,” said Morwen. “A chocolate with a soft center.”
“An Easter egg!” said Fay.
Maggie managed not to roll her eyes at her bosses, but only because she knew it was rude.
“Not an Easter egg, you guys. Just a regular egg. The answer is an egg.”
“Let me see that.” Fay grabbed the invitation and read the riddle again. “Huh. An egg. That makes sense. Thanks, Maggie. I wonder what it means.”
“We need the rest of the riddle.” Morwen picked up the invitation and read the next clue out loud.
Thirty white horses on a red hill
Now they tramp
Now they champ
Now they stand still.
“These riddles are very old,” said Pen. “Medieval, I’d say.”
“That makes sense when you think that these antique dealers are obsessed with the late middle ages. Now, what’s this about white horses on a red hill?” Fay tried to concentrate.
“The War of the Roses!” said Pen.
“Yes. Red and white. The white rose represented the House of York and the red rose represented the House of Lancaster. Maybe the answer is a rose. We’ve got an egg and a rose.”
Morwen looked dubious. “I don’t know. Why are there thirty of
them?”
“Maybe you would have got it faster if there had been thirty-two of them,” said Maggie.
“Thirty-two? Thirty-two roses? No, that doesn’t sound right. What comes in sets of thirty-two?”
“Teeth!” Fay clapped her hands.
“Yes, teeth,” said Maggie. “Thirty white horses on a red hill are thirty white teeth in a person’s red gums. They champ and stamp and stand still. That’s what teeth do.”
“Wow, I’m so bad at this. Well done again, Maggie.”
Morwen looked at the invitation. “Let me try the next one. I used to be good at this. It’s like my brain has gone on strike today.” She read out the last riddle.
White bird featherless
Flew from paradise
Lit on the castle wall
Along came Lord Landless
Took it up handless
Rode away horseless
To the king’s white hall.
Morwen looked up and saw Maggie’s face. “Oh, I don’t believe this. She’s already got it. Look at that insufferable smile.”
Maggie mimed zipping her lips. “I’m saying nothing. See if you can solve it.”
Fay stared at the invitation. She hated how helpless riddles made her feel. A white bird without feathers falling from paradise? A bird of paradise? But why didn’t it have feathers?
“Who is this Lord Landless guy?” asked Pen. “He’s the one that’s got me puzzled.”
“And why doesn’t he have hands?” asked Fay.
“Everything is white in this riddle,” said Morwen. “Is it winter?”
Maggie made an inarticulate sound.
“It is!” said Morwen. “It is winter. Look at Maggie’s face. We’re getting warmer. What is white and falls from heaven without wings?”
Fay and Pen looked at Morwen with blank faces.
“Snow,” she said. “It’s a snowflake and Lord Landless is the wind that picks the snow up without hands and blows it sideways into drifts. Am I right, Maggie?”
“You are. Well done, Mor. You cracked that one.”
Morwen pumped her fists and did a lap of honor around the kitchen.
“Never mind, Pen,” Fay consoled the grounds-man. “Let them have their moment of triumph. We have other skills, don’t we?”
“Hmmph.”
“But what does it all mean?” asked Maggie. “An egg, teeth, and a snowflake. We’ve solved the riddles, but I don’t see how it’s going to help you find that seminar tonight.”
Fay felt her brain grinding into gear. These weren’t riddles anymore – they were clues. And clues were what she was best at.
“These are signposts leading us towards the seminar. First of all, eggs. Where do we get our eggs?”
“From the chickens in Luigi and Vito’s backyard,” said Morwen. “Ooh, is that the first clue?”
“Luigi and Vito are hardly the main supplier of eggs on Bluebell Island. They only have about a dozen chickens. Where does the rest of the island get its eggs?”
“From the village store.”
“And where does the village store get them from?”
“Ilford’s poultry farm,” said Pen.
“Then I think that’s our first clue. Where is that exactly?”
“Ilford’s is the first farm you come to when you head out on Mountain View Road,” said Maggie.
“Okay. Let’s put a pin in that. Now, what’s next? Teeth.”
“The dentist?” suggested Morwen. “I know Dr. Tilley moved his practice from the high street to a smallholding outside of town because his wife wanted to breed pugs. You reach his property about halfway up Mountain View Road.”
“That’s right. And then of course there’s snow.”
Fay looked around the table, but blank faces looked back at her.
“Where does snow linger the longest on Bluebell Island?” she asked. “Some years it doesn’t melt at all, according to what you’ve told me.”
“Tintagel Mountain,” said Maggie. “The highest point on the island.”
“That’s right. The place where the snow never melts. Winter and summer, the peak of Tintagel Mountain always has its snowy cap on. What is the nearest farm or building to that snowy peak?”
Morwen, Pen, and Maggie looked at each other as they considered this.
“That would be Hunter’s Cabin, wouldn’t it?” said Pen.
Morwen nodded. “If you keep going up Mountain View Road, you eventually come to Hunter’s Cabin. It has been there for hundreds of years. People use it as a fishing and shooting lodge. There’s a high-lying lake up there that is frozen for most of the year. When it thaws, the birds flock to it. Hunter’s Cabin is an old log structure that locals have used for centuries as a base for fishing and shooting. I believe there’s a fireplace in the cabin, but no other heating or light. I wouldn’t fancy holding a meeting there at night. It must be freezing cold.”
“I guess I’ll find out tonight,” said Fay.
Maggie shivered. “Aren’t you nervous of going out there alone? I wouldn’t fancy it. It’ll be pitch dark.”
“I’ll have the flashlight on my phone.”
“Are you really not scared?” asked Morwen.
Fay thought of all the doors she had gone through with various partners when she hadn’t known what was on the other side. She remembered being cursed at, stabbed at, and shot at. She remembered the sound that a bullet makes as it displaces the air right next to your ear. She remembered the one that had finally hit home – leaving a crease in her fourth rib and a scar on her side. She remembered the burn-out she had experienced towards the end of her time in New York – the bad dreams, the starting at sudden noises.
“No,” she said. “I’ll be fine. These are antique dealers. How dangerous can they be?”
“One of them may have killed Desmond Pinkerton,” Morwen reminded her.
“True.” But that had been a crime of opportunity. A Medieval candlestick had been brought down on Mr. Pinkerton’s head. The killer might not have intended to kill him at all. He might have just wanted to knock him out. Either way, a candlestick-wielding antiques dealer was less scary than an armed gangster.
“I’ll be fine,” said Fay. “We’ve cracked the riddle, so I’ve earned my place at the seminar. Mr. Travis thought I couldn’t do it, and he was right. But thanks to Maggie and Morwen, I’ll be taking my place among the Medievalists. It will be an evening of information gathering. You don’t have to worry about me.”
Everyone began to turn their attention to their afternoon activities.
Maggie took her plate to the dishwasher. “Right, Pen. I’ll be cleaning your cottage today. If you have a secret mistress in there, now is the time to hide her.”
“I don’t know why you need to clean my place,” grumbled Pen as he had many times before. “I keep it perfectly clean myself.”
“I’ll just flick the hoover around and do a bit of dusting,” said Maggie. “You ought to know by now that I don’t disturb anything.”
“I’ll update the room accounts,” said Morwen. “We have a number of guests checking out tomorrow.”
“And I’ll be mulching the roses to protect them from water loss in the warmer months,” said Pen.
“I’m going to update my blog, prepare the salary slips, and monitor the kittens for allergies,” said Fay. “Apparently, they can have a reaction after being introduced to solid food.”
They dispersed in different directions. Fay went upstairs, keeping her fingers crossed that she would find four perfectly well kittens.
Chapter 9
The hypoallergenic kitten food had done its job. The kittens looked happy and contented. Cinnamon was lapping from one of the water bowls Fay had put out – another good sign.
Fay opened the dashboard of her website. All that talk about Hunter’s Cabin had given her an idea for a blog. One of the attractions of Bluebell Island that wasn’t widely known was the excellent freshwater fishing to be had at the numerous lakes and tarns that
dotted the island.
Fishing permits were carefully regulated to prevent overfishing, but responsible bait and fly fishers could find good sport on the island. She spent an hour writing about fishing opportunities for tourists and finding the right images to go with her words. Then she added a guide on how to apply for permits at different times of the year.
When she was happy with the blog she pressed ‘publish’ and shared it across all of the Cat’s Paw’s social media sites. The likes started coming in immediately, suggesting that there were a lot of fishermen out there. She made a mental note to write more blogs about outdoor activities in the future.
Fay closed her website and opened Google. In order to pose as a medieval enthusiast that evening, she would have to bring herself up to speed on the history. She searched ‘Eleanor of Castile’ and sat back to read the story of a fascinating queen.
In an age when arranged marriages between members of royal families were a matter of strategic alliance rather than romance, the thirty-six-year marriage between Edward I of England and his Castilian queen was a close and happy one. She was barely thirteen when she married him, but they seemed to have fallen in love on sight. They were seldom separated. She accompanied her husband on all his wars, journeys, and crusades.
When she died at the age of forty-nine her husband was overcome by grief. He ordered twelve stone crosses to be erected in her memory – the Eleanor Crosses. Fay read that three of them still survived today and were much admired even though they were not intact. Edward married again, as was his duty to ensure the succession, but continued to attend services in Eleanor’s memory until his dying day.
Fay was interested to read what a modern woman she had been. Her Spanish father and French mother had believed in educating their children way beyond what was normal for the time. Her superior education shaped her life as she became a great patron of literature and the arts in England. She was a wealthy woman in her own right, inheriting her mother’s fortune and title.
The Cat That Got Your Tongue Page 5