The Curious Case of Mary Ann

by Jenn Thorson

  It was after she fortified herself with a quick slice of bread and butter, and a cup of water, that she proceeded to the morning chores.

  Today, she’d been tasked to gather fresh flowers for the manor. Mrs. Cordingley said the ones from yesterday had escaped sometime last night and tucked themselves back into bed. Rousing them, let alone persuading them to uproot themselves into pots, was a challenge.

  “Please,” she urged a belligerent begonia, trying to keep the note of desperation from her voice. “You’ll like it in the pot. There’ll be fresh water and a change of scenery and …”

  “Too early,” moaned the blossoms, as if as one. “And the house is so drafty.” They gave a collective shudder and pretended to close back into buds. Mary Ann knew they were faking because one kept peeking.

  “You, then,” she moved on to the daisies. “What would you say to a little adventure indoors? I have a nice sunny window all picked out for you!”

  “Go deadhead yourself,” one of the larger daisies snapped. “You coerced our relatives into your pots of despair, then never watered them. They endured an excruciating death by dehydration! You think we don’t find out these things? It’s all over the grapevine!” And the daisy made a leafy gesture to the arbor alongside the mansion. “We’re onto your torturous ways, you fiend!”

  “Now, honestly, I’m afraid you have it all wrong,” said Mary Ann. “I would never —”

  But the daisy was unmoved. “Deny all you want. We know it was you. We recognize you by your red petals.”

  She looked down at her housemaid uniform and smoothed the skirt on reflex. “But we all wear red pet —”

  “How are you getting on?” This last voice came, not from the flowerbed, but from behind her. And Mary Ann turned to see Douglas Divot, claws clasped before him, looking intrigued.

  “At the moment?” she said. “I fear the household staff has sown the seeds of discontent.”

  “Ah. Well. I’m certain you’ll get to the root of it eventually,” said Douglas. He assessed her weary smile. “You look tired, my friend. Didn’t you sleep?”

  “Dreams,” she murmured. The feeling of sand in her shoes and surf swirling through her dress, that sense of being wooden and paralyzed, was still a very real and lingering sensation. And in this waking moment, it reminded her of something. “You know, my father’s business partner has no idea what’s happened. I shall have to talk to him — and sooner rather than later. Perhaps he might also shed some light on Father’s relationship to the Royal Family of Neath.”

  “This partner, is he a craftsman, too, then?” As he tugged at his collar, she could tell the tove’s mind was filled with uncomfortable questions. Rowan Carpenter’s work was always billed as a solo act. If he had a partner in the creative end of things, how much work had he really done himself? Was it all left to an apprentice and was Carpenter a mere figurehead? How would this affect the value of Douglas’ collection?

  She realized she had to put that to rest swiftly before the tove hyperventilated there on the spot. “Mr. Banks is purely in sails,” she told him. “He sails from place to place selling Father’s finished pieces and arranging new commissions.”

  In a moment, Douglas’ expression brightened. “Oh, yes!” He let out a relieved sigh. “Him! I’ve met him several times. Large, boisterous fellow, right? Prominent in the smile department?” He mimed tusks in duo.

  “That’s the one.”

  “Well, I’ll join you, then. Frabjous fellow. Love to have another chat with him.”

  Love to secure a few last works for his collection, Mary Ann thought cynically. But she could hardly blame the fellow. And he’d been so generous with his assistance. “I have some chores to do just now, but perhaps I could steal away after the midday meal.”

  “I’ll come back later, then,” Douglas said. His gaze went to the defiant flowers. “And hopefully this little war of the roses you’re having will prove to be mulch ado about nothing.”

  

  The nice thing about housemaid’s work was that one could be physically occupied with a task, yet mentally caught up in solving one’s father’s murder. As such, Mary Ann’s body went about her work efficiently, while the events of the past two days turned in her mind.

  So lost was she in thoughts of royal connections, paranoid intrigues and potential confidants that she’d been working in the entry hall for almost twenty minutes before she realized the Jabberwock head had, at some point, vanished from the wall.

  “Peculiar,” she said and went back to sweeping. She did not envy Sir Rufus one whit.

  

  “Well, it looks like Mr. Banks is not out on a sails call, at least,” Mary Ann said to Douglas Divot later that day, indicating the bright and shiny sailboat with its crisp sails docked along the river. They proceeded down the path toward the gentleman in question’s cottage. She hadn’t yet raised her hand to knock, when the front door flew open and there stood her father’s business partner. He was a large, well-dressed fellow, clad in many shades of exotic silks from waistcoat to cravat to stockings, almost as if a textile factory had exploded on a mountain.

  He was also a walrus.

  “Why, Mary Ann Carpenter! That’s you, isn’t it? How you’ve grown!” He leaned down to hug her, a flippery embrace. Then his attention shifted to Douglas. “I’m J. Sanford Banks … Sandy, if you like,” he said, extending the flipper to the tove and assessing him with interest. “Now, I know we’ve met before. Dougal, is it?”

  “Douglas,” Douglas said, looking pleased to be remembered. “Douglas Divot.”

  “Indeed! Douglas! Yes! I quite apologize for not recalling it straight away. One of our most treasured repeat customers. A man who knows fine art when he sees it. Wonderly to meet you again. What brings you both here?”

  “Is there somewhere we could perhaps sit down, Mr. Banks?” Mary Ann asked. She recalled a little something about one of Mr. Banks’ personal quirks and a calm, quiet setting would be a small step to mitigate its display.

  “Of course,” he said. And he led them through a beautiful home — all rich wooden beams, oyster shell-tiled fireplaces and more striking fabrics — to a porch overlooking the river. The river around the dock was teeming with aquatic life. And the little room itself simply overflowed with original Carpenter furniture. The sight made Douglas’ face all smiles. Realizing he was under Mary Ann’s observation, he struggled to transform his expression into something more solemn for the occasion, but his awe and excitement lingered on the air.

  They sat, and were offered tea, and Mary Ann wasted no time explaining the reason for their visit.

  Mr. Banks took the news rather better than she’d expected. The weeping was as loud as anticipated, a series of bellows reminiscent of a lighthouse in fog. But there was virtually no gnashing of teeth, and he’d improved considerably in the tearing of hair department. This last point may have been largely due to the fact that time and temper had left him nothing but bristles about the temples and cheeks.

  She let the display of emotion play itself out, and in time, the fellow was dabbing his eyes so they were able to get back on course. “You knew my father as well as anyone. I’m curious: what was my father’s reputation here in Turvy?”

  “As a fine woodworker and a clever architect, of course. The pinnacle in quality craftsmen,” said Mr. Banks.

  “I mean, rather, what did people think of him personally?” said Mary Ann. “Was he liked? Were there any spats, any enemies? Can you think of any reason he might have been killed or … or perhaps …” she took a short breath, “ … executed?”

  Well, this unleashed a second round of sobbing, albeit a lesser wave than the last. “Your father was a wonderful man … Wonderful man!” Mr. Banks blubbered through the tears. “Everyone loved him! Worshipped the feet he walked on and the hands he worked with and the thinker he did thoughts with. And —”

  “So his relationship with the Turvian royals was —”

  “None at
all,” he said. “He stayed quite clear of the Turvian royals, both Red and White—and anyone else for that matter. You see, I do most of the face-to-face business. Always have done. Your father is … was … more of a behind-the-scenes man.”

  She nodded. “And what about his connections to Neath?” She’d been easing into this question.

  “Oh, Neath,” he said, his tone falling flat. “Funny, I heard back in Neath they’re having some problems of their own. Some transient has been stirring up trouble, flooding things, wrecking property, making a mess of the Queen’s sporting events and such.”

  Douglas said, “How awful!”

  “Your father wouldn’t have been involved in any of that, would he?” Banks asked Mary Ann, the used handkerchief now mopping his brow.

  “It doesn’t sound like him.” But Mary Ann’s voice sounded uncertain, even to herself. What had she really known about Rowan Carpenter?

  “What a tragedy … A tragedy, I say,” began Mr. Banks, clearly gearing up the ocular moisturization process again. “It’s hard to conceive that there will be no more new pieces of his work. What a talent he was! Like that mirror he was working on for Queen Valentina. The one you helped commission. Sublime! Did you see it yet?”

  For reasons she could not explain, she shook her head no.

  “Well, that wasn’t just special because of the glass,” continued Mr. Banks. “No, indeed, it was a masterpiece of craftsmanship, every inch of it!”

  Mary Ann thought back to the mirror sitting in her father’s workshop, propped against the wall. While Rowan Carpenter certainly had outdone himself in terms of wood-carving, the glass had appeared quite standard. Beveled, yes, but nothing unique in that. “Was the glass very different?”

  “Why, different? My dear, you couldn’t get more different, if you painted it black and called it a kettle!” said Mr. Banks. He leaned in and lowered his voice, his breath smelling noticeably of fish. “This glass has special transporting properties. All you have to do is say the right word, and it’s an escape hatch. Perfect if any nasty political uprisings should happen to pop up. I hear royals love that sort of thing,” he said, and added, “Escape hatches, not uprisings. Not fond of uprisings, royals. Yes, they quickly get full-up of those.”

  “An escape hatch to where?” asked Mary Ann.

  “Oh, now, there’s no need to concern yourself with that, Miss Mary Ann. That’s neither here nor there.” Mr. Banks waved it away with a flipper and mopped his brow again. “It’s also not Hither and Yon. Have you been to Yon? It’s lovely this season. Should have been considered for the piece, but —alas, I’m not in control of these things.”

  Douglas asked, “Don’t you know where it goes, then?”

  “I do,” Mr. Banks gave him a very narrow look. “And all I am privy to say is: it’s a one-way trip and its secret will be divulged in due time to the recipient herself. Safer that way for all concerned. Now,” Mr. Banks heaved himself from his chair, “I hope you won’t think me rude, but I have a late afternoon appointment, and I must go while the tides are right and the wind’s at my back. A sailsman’s work is all ebb and flow, don’t you know? Navigating uncharted sales quarters and whatnot.”

  They said they did have an inkling of the challenges he faced, and he escorted them to the door. “It’s been lovely seeing you again, Miss Mary Ann,” said Mr. Banks. “And you, Mr. Divot. Next time, I hope to meet under gladder circumstances.” And they had only taken a step away before Mary Ann heard the door shut and lock.

  5

  “I want to take a better look at that mirror my father made,” Mary Ann told Douglas, on the walk back to Carmine Manor. “I saw it there in his workshop. Can’t say I noticed anything unusual about it, but then again, I got only a glance. Pity we don’t know the secret word that Mr. Banks had mentioned.”

  “Perhaps it’s written somewhere in your father’s things,” suggested Douglas. “Any ideas where that might be?”

  Out of the corner of her eye, Mary Ann thought she spied something move in the grass along the road.

  “Mary Ann?” pressed Douglas.

  “Oh, sorry,” she said, finding nothing, and resumed. “There weren’t any work papers in the house when we searched, were there? So they must be somewhere in the workshop. A shame we never got that far.” She glanced up at the sky. It was two o’clock-ish. She’d been gone longer than she’d wanted, and she hoped no one had missed her around the Manor or she’d have ruined her employment status before she’d even begun. “There’s no time to search today, either, unfortunately. It will be tea soon.” She picked up the pace. “Alas … Perhaps tomorrow.”

  Douglas’ shorter legs were working hard to keep up. “Do you think that looking-glass had something to do with your father’s death? Someone trying to prevent Queen Valentina from acquiring an escape route?”

  “I’d say it was possible,” she mused, “but then, why not smash the mirror or steal it? The murder would be unnecessary to achieve that end.”

  “It is a puzzlement,” said the tove.

  Soon, they were approaching the road to the Wabe. “Well, here’s me,” said Douglas, hooking a thumb Wabe-wise. “Best of luck, now. Remember, don’t try to get there too quickly or you’ll be very late, indeed.”

  “Thank you. Good day to you, Mr. Divot,” and she waved as he ambled down the road into the forest green.

  Left with her own thoughts, which had become manifold in recent days, she was pleased to find herself on Lord Carmine’s property in no time. The Manor looked so placid from a distance, and as she passed the stables, she considered it quite possible she hadn’t been missed at all. But if she had? She would come up with a convenient excuse. Any number of invaluable household tasks might take a person out of reach for a few hours, mightn’t they? And she was just deciding whether she wanted to say she’d been perturbing milk into butter, or putting lighter jackets on the library books to suit the warmer weather, when a figure emerged from the stable house like a red-headed explosion.

  “Ridiculous!” spat Sir Rufus. “They knew what this day is. Where are they?” To Mary Ann’s surprise, he directed this question quite specifically to her.

  She stopped. “Excuse me, Sir?”

  “I’m supposed to quest for the Jabberwock today,” Sir Rufus said. “The single, most important day in the history of my life — and jolly important for the realm of Turvy, as well. Poems have been written about it, you know.”

  She did know.

  “And yet no one’s here to help me with my armor, prep my horse, wave flags and say a little, ‘You can do it, Rufus. Make us proud by not dying gorribly. Stick it to that Jabberwock!’ and so forth. I’m fighting knee-quivering terror here on behalf of the kingdom and there’s no one round to appreciate it. Hardly makes it seem worth all the hype.”

  She understood his dilemma. “Perhaps that paper says something?” She pointed. It was a leaflet tacked to the door of his horse’s stable.

  He grumbled, marched over, grabbed it and read. “Squire practice?” His outgrabe might have rivaled the mome raths’. “But that was this morning! They should be back by now. It’s heading toward brillig. I swear, it’s a concerted effort to wound me, in a very real fashion.”

  “Well, I’m sure you’re aware, Sir, that travel in Turvy can be challenging. Particularly when you want to get somewhere very badly. The roads tend to —”

  He moaned, head sinking into his hands. “Oh, curse it! —That must be it. Curse it, this stupid land of ours, and its rampant idiosyncrasies.” He kicked a rock. “Now all the people who were supposed to help me with this epic journey are likely ten squares away, milling about a field, scratching their heads and wondering how the flappin’ Jubjub they got there, when they were only going to the stables.”

  It was highly likely.

  “Well,” said Rufus, “there’s nothing for it, then. There’s only one thing we can do.”

  Go back to the Manor, Mary Ann thought sensibly.

  But Sir Rufus s
ighed and motioned to her. “Come along, miss.”

  “What?!”

  “Let’s get this over with. You and I are going on this Jabberwalk.”

  

  As she worked with him to saddle his horse, she explained she’d never squired before. As she helped him into layers of battle gear, she told him she’d no experience at all with armor. As she packed the last of the saddlebags, she expounded on her complete lack of specialized knowledge of Jabberwocks, both wild and domesticated, beyond the lines of one very old poem. And as she rolled up the travel hammocks and loaded them onto the horse, she could tell that Sir Rufus was not remotely listening to her.

  Then a glorious idea popped into her head. “If I recall the poem correctly, it never did state a date, did it? It only mentions ‘brillig.’ Perhaps you could wait until your squiring group finds its way back and do the deed some other brillig,” Mary Ann suggested.

  He shot her a look. “I take it you’re not familiar with the first version of the poem, in its original Olde Turvian?”

  That she was not.

  “In Olde Turvian, ‘slithy’ was a condition that toves are known to experience during the month of Jamberry. We call it ‘molting’ now. It got misinterpreted over the years to mean lithe and slimy.”

  Now she thought about it, Douglas was a bit patchy and shedding, wasn’t he? It did seem odd, considering how fastidious he was overall. “Which still means,” continued Mary Ann, trying to find some wiggle room in the thing, “that you could do your quest any day this month.”