Roods made no move to help him or join him, and was, in fact, snooping rather shamelessly around the room. He was sniffing occasionally, like a dog. After Abe had slipped on a jacket and fallen into one of the chairs, Roods must have felt his eyes on him, because he paused and glanced toward Abe, fingers still lingering on an object on the dresser. “Oh, yes,” said Roods as he let the object fall. The object was a large-ish knife.
“You see, Abe, after Mr. Ebensworth calmed himself he realized that you were in no fit state to report the events that befell you in Underton so shortly after arriving. You were obviously in a great deal of pain,” he gestured toward Abe’s cane as if to suggest that the pain had not entirely abated, “and besides that you were exhausted and traumatized. Regardless, we couldn’t tell Mrs. Richards that her daughter had been murdered by some sort of oaken beast...”
“Cedar, I think.”
“Whatever,” Roods waved his hand dismissively. “Wooden creature, anyway. Did you know,” and Roods had slinked over to the chairs by now. Though he put his hands on the arm of the chair, fingers long and pale and slowly drumming, he made no move to sit. “...that this is the third time I’ve been here to see you?”
Abe shook his head. “I had no idea.”
“Your mother had left very strict orders that you weren’t to be disturbed as you convalesced. I had every expectation of being turned away again today. I did want to return your suit to you, though, as you may be needing it.”
“I’m terribly sorry, sir. If I’d have known I would certainly have...” Abe trailed off as if he’d only just heard what Roods had said. “Why will I need my suit, Mr. Roods?”
Roods slid unctuously into the chair opposite, rather more like a poured gravy than a man, and he tented his long fingers. “You will be attending a wedding, Mr. Crompton. Incidentally, I rather hope the suit I’ve brought is not your best. The cleaners were thorough, but...”
“A wedding?”
“Miss Richards’s wedding.”
Abe’s face fell and he leaned his head into his hand. “Oh, I don’t want to do that.”
“Of course not, but someone has to tell Miss Richards what happened to her niece.”
“And it has to be me?”
“Well, it certainly won’t be me,” said Roods. Abe sighed and sank lower into his chair. Roods leaned across the gap between them and squeezed Abe’s shoulder familiarly. “It won’t be so bad, Abe. The old lady hardly knew her niece. Besides,” he raised his brows and smiled broadly, “open bar.”
This was not the enticement for Abe that it clearly was for Roods. “Am I supposed to tell her what I told Mr. Ebensworth?”
“Good gracious, no!” said Roods. “Mr. Ebensworth has come up with a story that I think you’ll agree will be much more well-received.”
“More well-received...?”
“...than her daughter being killed by an unstoppable wooden killing machine, yes,” said Roods. “It is an admittedly low bar. Here’s what you tell her.”
4.
“A train wreck, you say?”
Abe nodded.
“How horrible,” said the newly-minted Mrs. Saxby-Hendershot in a manner that managed to suggest both a macabre pleasure and boredom at the same time. “And you were there, were you young man?”
Another nod, and Abe lifted his cane a bit as if this was proof of his having been present. “The train goes in a loop, madame. Your niece,” for Abe could not bring himself to say Merry, “and I were riding it ‘round and through the tunnels. It was my idea, I’m afraid, but the train–”
“Horrible devices,” the bride interjected. “give me a horse and cart any day!” She gave Abe a look that suggested this should be the end of their interview, but Abe was too busy trying to recall the lie to notice.
“Before the accident, it was all she could talk about, the wedding and seeing the family again. It’s really a lovely affair, and I am most sincerely sorry for your loss.”
Mrs. Saxby-Hendershot conjured up a modicum of gravity and said, “It’s truly tragic, of course. Thank you for telling me.” And with that she waddled off to more pleasant diversions.
Abe had continued to lie even after he stopped talking about the ‘train wreck,’ because it wasn’t really a lovely affair. Everything about the party was just awful, and Abe couldn’t imagine Merry wanting to attend (though, given the choice he thought she’d probably pick his current fate - reluctantly - over her own).
There were dozens of people in attendance, all standing around in small circles and complaining about things. The open bar that Roods had been so excited about proving a most unpleasant social lubricant, and everyone seemed to be making an effort to establish their superior social position by insulting everyone else. The bride and groom were both very old and very well connected, and it was clear that the gathering was much more of an opportunity to see and be seen than any sort of family gathering.
Merry would have been miserable, and almost certainly she’d have gone totally unnoticed if Abe’s errand had worked out as intended. Things having gone as... well as they had, though, Mr. Ebensworth had sent Abe as a gesture. Abe had suspected that he was sent to the wedding as a sort of punishment for his failure, but when he arrived he learned that he had been at least partially wrong.
Yes, he was definitely being punished, but that was secondary. Mr. Ebensworth was submitting himself to great embarrassment by sending Abe to the wedding, a virtual bending-of-the-knee to Mrs Saxby-Hendershot and a self-flagellation that extended to all of Ebensworth and Associates. It wasn’t much comfort to Abe that the entire firm was suffering with him metaphorically since he was the only one actually being sneered at and reviled.
Of course, the distaste went both ways. Abe was as repulsed by the voluminous backside of Mrs. Saxby-Hendershot – all too visible through the semi-transparent gown she had chosen to wear, perhaps under the impression that she were a third her age and weight – as he was by her almost complete indifference to her niece’s death. Though he’d never been one for alcohol, Abe was under strict orders to remain at the reception at least until the bride and groom had left and he couldn’t imagine that drinking would do anything to make that prospect less appealing.
At the bar, Abe was the only non-servant. Apparently it simply did not do for gentlemen and ladies of rank to get their own drinks. Luckily, the livery of the servants for the event was so specific and terrible (what does one call the greyish pink color of just-gone-off ham? that was the color the servants were all wearing) that no one mistook Abe for a servant, even in his very unfashionable clothes.
“What’ll it be?” said the bartender, who was clearly more accustomed to dealing with servants than guests. He added “sir?” as an afterthought.
“I’ll have a pint,” said Abe, who was clearly not accustomed to dealing with bartenders. He added a “my good man” and was rewarded with a scathing look and a shake of the head.
“A pint of what, sir?”
“What do you mean, ‘a pint of what’? Beer, of course.”
The bartender swept his gaze meaningfully around the room before looking at Abe. “No beer on hand, I’m afraid. Not a beer crowd.” Abe glanced over the crowd and silently acknowledged that they were unlikely to ever drink anything so relatively inexpensive. “How about a pint of champagne?”
Abe was about to refuse, but any drink in this situation was better than no drink. He shrugged and nodded and a moment later had an improbably large glass of champagne in front of him in a crystal stein. He was only able to take the smallest of sips before a very small, very old woman said, “hot damn, son!” and grinned at him as if to encourage him to tip back the whole massive thing in one sip. That he failed to do so didn’t seem to dampen her spirits. “Glad somebody’s got the right idea. This is supposed to be a party?” Abe swallowed back a cough caused by surprise and champagne bubbles and shrugged helplessly.
The woman was only tall enough to see over the bar with the help of some the terrifyin
g heels on a pair of boots more daring than any of the other women at the party were wearing – this despite the fact that this woman was probably the oldest person in attendance by several decades. Nevertheless, she leaned against the bar beside Abe and nodded toward his giant glass of champagne and said, “I’ll have what he’s having.” A moment later, when the second pint of champagne was placed on the bar (there now being more than a bottle split between the two), the woman immediately overtook Abe in the drinking race, downing just a bit under half a pint in one long, slow, disturbing, neck-wobbling series of unbroken gulps.
She burped tremendously as she crashed her stein to the bar top, and then she eyed Abe for a long moment. “So, whose damn cousin are ya, anyway?” she asked as she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “We’ve not met, for I’d’ve remembered a man of such vision.” The “vision” was clearly the big glass of booze, but it was still by far the nicest thing anyone had said to Abe since he arrived.
And whether it was the combination of her manner of speech and her size or if it was just alcohol, Abe found that the woman reminded him of Begonia. Instead of responding monosyllabically or evasively, then, he told her exactly who he was and what he was doing there. The old woman, it turned out, was Merry’s great aunt Merry (“several ‘greats’ in fact, my lad, but I’m not real keen on the idea of wasting time, as you can imagine”) and she was quite distraught to learn of her great niece’s fate. Not, Abe thought, as distraught as he expected her to be, but it was a far more human reaction than he’d gotten from her much-nearer relative Mrs. Saxby-Hendershot.
After a healing draught from her rapidly waning champagne supply, the old woman said, “there’s some sort of curse on that school... I said so when that Lady Darbyshire first came a-callin’.”
“It had nothing to do with the school, though,” Abe drunkenly replied. He was only halfway through his glass, but was a bit of a lightweight.
“Maybe not,” the old woman said with a slur that Abe was probably just imagining to make himself feel better. “But that’s the fourth kid from her school who’s met a tragic end, m’ lad.”
“The fourth?” Abe definitely slurred.
“Fourth I’ve heard of. Dontcha read the papers?”
Chapter Twelve: A private investigation
1.
“Oh, that was you?” Roods seemed genuinely shocked. He reached into his pocket and produced a folded sheet of paper. After consulting it for a moment and tilting it toward the lamp on the wall as if it contained some secrets, he looked at Abe with the sincere eyes of a man who apologizes for missing appointments a great deal. “Sorry about that... Though in my defense the note does not say who it’s from or whether it’s important.”
Abe had just a moment ago pulled Roods into the very same disused couch-room where they had spoken weeks before, and he was exasperated enough to forget his manners. He snatched the note from Roods and glanced it over before holding it up to the other man, pointing. “Right there, IMPORTANT.”
“Must’ve missed that.”
“I’ve underlined it twice!”
Roods tilted his head in silent acknowledgement. “You didn’t sign it, though.”
“I handed the note to you.”
Roods did not remember that, but he closed his eyes for a moment in feigned concentration and then said, slowly, “right... Well, I did apologize.”
Abe sighed. “I thought detectives had good memories.”
It was Roods’ turn to shrug. “What was it that was so important you...” he read from the note “wanted to ‘meet at Four Goats, six, come alone’?”
Abe glanced nervously at the door and did a quick bit of calculation involving the likely success of a second try at a meeting. He quickly decided that it would be no use, and so he moved back from the door and took a seat on the very same couch on which he’d convalesced. The movement was rather deliberate and the wounds were aging in weeks now rather than days, but it still hurt. Once he was situated, he told Roods about the wedding.
At least he told him what was both salient and still in his somewhat foggy memory. The point was that Merry was not the only one to die. There had been other students at the school who had met an untimely end, at least that was what Abe seemed to recall.
Roods glanced back toward the door as Abe finished speaking then leaned in and whispered conspiratorially, “do you think we ought to be discussing this here?”
“I think we should be discussing at the Four Goats actually, but since you can’t read...!”
Roods inclined his head as if to acknowledge that this was so. When all Abe did was stare at him incredulously, Roods said, “so... should we plan on meeting up there, then?”
Abe very nearly rolled his eyes. To think he had spent nearly a year in awe of this man. He might be better off pursuing his investigation alone, but as useless as Roods seemed just now, Abe had been filing away reports of his success since he came to Ebensworth and Associates. The awe, after all, came from somewhere, and Roods was remarkably skilled at investigative work, at least according to his file.
At least with his expectations lowered, Abe couldn’t be disappointed by whatever Roods was able to come up with. “Mr. Roods,” he said, “I was hoping to entice you into undertaking a private investigation for me.”
Roods instantly straightened up, his eyes opening wider and revealing a bit of red around the edges. “Oh?” his voice seemed clearer too.
“I can pay you, of course.”
If professionalism were a coat one could simply put on, Roods had done so and was smartly adjusting the lapels as he said, “naturally.” He straightened up and cleared his throat said, “I imagine you have a file with the particulars...?”
Abe had to suppress a sigh of pleasure at finally seeing some inkling of the agent he had been expecting. “Only the start of one,” he said. He handed Roods a few sheets of folded paper. “I’ve told you almost everything, but I wrote it down as well and I’ve included one of the addresses for the school. I was considering–”
“Crompton!” It was a shout that was instantly recognizable as the impatient and displeased call of Mr. Ebensworth. Even if his voice weren’t distinctive enough to be instantly recognizable, there was no one else in Ebensworth and Associates who would dream of shouting so loudly for fear of receiving an earful from Mr. Ebensworth himself regarding decorum in the workplace.
Abe glanced back toward the source of the shout and said, “I’d better go.”
He was somewhat comforted to see Roods touch the folded sheets of paper to his nose and say, knowingly, “as had I,” before slipping out of the door on silent feet. Abe entertained the notion that the investigator might actually be as good as his reputation, and so he had one less worry as he propelled himself awkwardly on his cane toward the bellowing proprietor, his progress accompanied by further shouts.
2.
Mr. Ebensworth was a difficult man to work for if only for his inconsistent bluster. The strangely resonant high-pitched voice raised in a shout only when he (frequently) sought to gain the attention of a subordinate who was not currently in his line of sight. Otherwise, Mr. Ebensworth spoke in an earnest, quiet tone. He was almost always supremely respectful except, oddly, when he was trying to conceal his pride or delight. If Ebensworth greeted a man with invective and a raised voice, it invariably meant that Ebensworth was pleased with him. So naturally Abe was filled with apprehension when Mr. Ebensworth said, as Abe lowered himself with difficulty into a chair, “Mr. Crompton, you’re certainly healing up well... can I get you anything? A cup of tea?”
He’d offered a cup of tea... Abe had never been offered tea, not even when he’d lost the Sanders folder with the only copy of Old Man Sanders’ will in it. He braced for the worst but forced a smile anyway. “No, thank you sir, I’m quite all right.”
Mr. Ebensworth was a very old man with a very bad limp on account of having only one leg. He had a peg leg which he occasionally enjoyed augmenting with wheels or rubber
grips, but over the years since his amputation had removed him from the rolls of the city watch he had gotten progressively less mobile. This accounted in no small part for the weight gain that went hand-in-hand with being singularly legged, and these days he was a hefty and infrequently-ambulatory presence. So Mr. Ebensworth standing up and walking (waddling? shuffling? moving, anyway) around the side of his desk to prepare tea was probably a tremendously bad sign.
“Nonsense, Abnerssen.” He’d called Abe by his first name. Truly these were dark times. “Here you are, then. Three sugars as I recall.” He plopped three sugar cubes into a chipped cup of nearly black tea and set it on the desk in front of Abe. It was absolutely not how Abe took his tea, but still...
Mr. Ebensworth veritably fell into his chair on the other side of the desk, and Abe bit back a desire to ask if he’d been invited in to Mr. Ebensworth office for a competition to see who could sit the most awkwardly. He concealed his smile at the thought by sipping from his cup, a decision he instantly regretted.
After taking a moment to regain his breath, Mr. Ebensworth said, “how are you recovering?”
“Fine, sir,” Abe managed.
“And how is your uncle Volo doing these days? Have you seen him recently?”
Small talk? This was too much. “I’m sure you’ve seen him more recently than I have sir,” Abe said. “Did you want to discuss the judge?”
Now it was Mr. Ebensworth’s turn to sputter. He was far more comfortable with confrontation than chatting, and he was obviously a bit discomfited at having his small talk cut short. “Ehm... in a manner of speaking. I imagine your uncle must be getting rather impatient for you to come and work for him.” Mr. Ebensworth forced a laugh. “Every time I see him he accuses me of holding you hostage.”
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