The Curious Case of Mary Ann

by Jenn Thorson

“Wasn’t Jacob Morningstar a trained military man at one point?” Mary Ann asked. “That’s what we’d heard.”

  “Oh yes. He was a whiz with that club on the battlefield. The ‘Bludgeon of Blackwater,’ they called him. And that’s what I mean about the valet position. It wasn’t naturally his skill set. Yet, now he spends his days making sure the King’s wardrobe is pressed just so and that the Queen’s bilberry jam sandwiches are cut into heart shapes.” He considered this. “Unless, of course, your suspicions are right and he’s gone into the execution game again.”

  “That’s rather what we’re trying to find out,” said Mary Ann. “Thank you, Ace.” She shook his hand. “You’ve been very helpful.”

  “I’m happy to provide any support that adds a little misery to that heart-faced harpy.” He walked them to the door. “And if you find yourself in need of a magic screwdriver, hammer or scythe, I’ll hope you’ll come back to ol’ Ace for a visit.”

  “Thank you, we shall,” said Mary Ann.

  16

  “And you’re absolutely certain your father had no connection to Queen Valentina’s court?” Sir Rufus asked Mary Ann as they made the return journey to Carmine Manor.

  “As I said, I can’t be certain. But I looked through my father’s books, which were detailed, and his correspondence, which was limited and I never spied anything that raised a flag. The only thing connecting my father to the Queen was that looking-glass. But it wasn’t like the mirror was a request from the Queen or her court. It was my gift idea. Mr. Rabbit signed off on it, but I arranged the thing.”

  “Curious,” said Rufus.

  “Then there’s the question of Mr. Banks. He was only involved with the mirror glass portion of the gift. But first he was acting queerly and now he, too, has died.”

  “Strange,” said Rufus.

  “The one thing they have in common is the gift to Queen Valentina. But that could have been stolen or broken at any time, depending on the murderer’s motive. Yet the mirror remained safe and intact.”

  “Peculiar,” said Rufus.

  “Also, my father was beheaded with an axe …”

  “With a magic axe,” corrected Goodspeed, who liked to be involved in most discussions.

  Mary Ann nodded. “… With a magic axe from the Neath Royal Armory. Mr. Banks, on the other flipper, ran aground in his boat, possibly because he was hit on the head first, knocking him out and causing the crash.”

  “Odd,” mused Rufus.

  “Two deaths. Two entirely different techniques.”

  “Three, really,” said Rufus.

  She turned to him. “How do you figure that?”

  “More than three, really,” he continued. “If you count the raths. Thirty-two deaths, three entirely different techniques.”

  She blinked. “Do we count the raths?”

  “I don’t know,” said Rufus. “Do we?”

  It hadn’t occurred to her before. She’d been so focused on the tragedy in general, and the death of the raths not being done by Douglas Divot, she’d not spent any time considering who it was or why. “What did the Tweedles decide on that?”

  “I hadn’t heard.”

  “Well, that’s worth knowing,” said Mary Ann.

  “Indeed,” said Rufus. “Do the raths, by any chance, have any connection to the mirror?”

  “I can’t think of any,” she said, shifting in her saddle. “The only connection of which I know is Douglas Divot.”

  Rufus squinted in the sun. “How so?”

  “Well, that expansive furniture collection of Mr. Divot’s — the one he likes to polish — was made by my father. Commissioned one piece at a time.”

  “But, of course, he didn’t know Mr. Banks …”

  “Yes, he did. Well, acquaintances, anyway. Mr. Banks was his sailsman. Mr. Divot commissioned projects through him.”

  “So Divot was neighbors with the raths, collected your father’s furniture and commissioned the pieces with Mr. Banks?”

  Mary Ann winced and groaned.

  “How much do you know about Douglas Divot?” Sir Rufus asked.

  “He was very kind to me the day my father died. He has excellent taste in home furnishings. Also: he likes cheese. You?”

  “Been around for ages in the neighborhood. Was on the Red Turvian side in the Battle of Square Four. Fine moat digger.”

  “Any alliances to Neath?” Mary Ann asked. And she hated to ask.

  “I don’t know,” said Rufus. “But I’ll find out. Quietly. Can’t rely on you to do it because you’ve become a real chatterbox.”

  

  It was late by the time they arrived at Carmine Manor, the sun dipping behind the horizon for some shuteye. Mary Ann was ready for some sleep herself, though the moment she stepped into her bedchamber, she was pounced upon by Celeste, who was lying in wait like a prettily-dressed Bandersnatch. “There you are! Where have you been? We received notice that the King and Queen of Red Turvy, and their entire entourage, will be arriving tomorrow and staying the night. There was so much extra cleaning that went on today and you weren’t here for any of it.”

  Mary Ann set her borrowed satchel down on the bed. “Why are King Garnet and Queen Rosamund coming here?”

  Mabel the parlor maid said, “So they and Lord and Lady Carmine can all travel together to the Unbirthday party. You know how Turvian travel is; the more people in your travel group, the more distracted you are and the faster you get there. They’re trying to amass all the Red Turvian nobles so they can make short work of the journey.”

  Celeste said, “But that’s not the point, Tamsin,” for everyone had finally settled on that name. She slapped a hand down on a table. “The point is: there was this tremendous load of preparations to be made, and I had to step in and handle all of your chores, while you were off doing who-knows-what.”

  Mary Ann had some doubts about the scope of her actual efforts, but did not say so.

  “She was helping Sir Rufus,” said Mabel, giving Mary Ann a sly look. “Didn’t you know, Celeste? She’s his new pet.”

  “He’s been so deeply unhappy these past weeks, I think it’s rather sweet he seems to like Tamsin,” said Emmaline, propped up in the bed with her cookbook.

  “Oh, it’s all sweets to you,” sniffed Celeste. “It’s completely inappropriate, and you know it.”

  Mary Ann knew it was best not to even address this. She went about trading her travel clothes for night clothes and washing in the basin. She could see in the mirror, however, that Celeste lingered.

  “Anyway, I’m simply dying to see what Queen Valentina wears to her party,” Celeste was saying. “My sister in Neath said she once saw her perform in the theater there. Hearts Afire was the show, I believe. She said the Queen was astounding, completely slayed them.”

  “Literally?” asked Mary Ann, recalling what Ace had said.

  “Oh, you’re not going to bring me down with your negativity,” Celeste went on. “I’ll be sure to tell you all about the event when I get back.”

  “Mm,” said Mary Ann. She had no doubt.

  Speaking of which, there were some questions that Unbirthday fete might help answer, Mary Ann thought. Not that she could trust Celeste with any of them. Sir Rufus, on the other hand …

  She moved to the little table in the corner and began to make out a list:

  1. Jacob Morningstar. Does he attend the event? What is his demeanor? Has he been absent from the court lately? If so, when, and what was the excuse? Has anyone noticed anything unusual in his behavior? Is he armed? With whom is he socializing?

  2. The axe. Where is it? Does Morningstar carry it? Is it hanging in the Royal Armory?

  3. The mirror. Looking at the attendees when the mirror is unveiled, what is the reaction? Does anyone seem surprised or unhappy? Does Rowan Carpenter get mentioned and what is the reaction to that?

  4. Rowan Carpenter. Drop name in conversation. Does anyone seem to know he’s deceased? What is the general opinion of him? Enem
ies?

  5. J. Sanford Banks. The same. How known is he in Neath? Has word of the boating “accident” reached Neath? What is the reaction? What is the opinion of Banks?

  6. Clarissa Carpenter. Is she there from the White Turvian side? Does she mention Rowan Carpenter? What are her feelings toward him? Does she have any connection to Morningstar?

  Mary Ann reread her work. There was probably more that she was forgetting, but she felt it hit the main points nicely. She would approach Rufus about it tomorrow, to see if he’d care to be her eyes and ears at the event. She smiled to herself, for he had really taken to the detective work, and she had a powerful feeling the request would not be denied.

  She picked up the little paper, blew on the ink and folded it, tucking the page under her pillow. A glance at Celeste caught sharp eyes lingering on that list. “What was that? A love letter?”

  Mary Ann felt her face go hot. “A letter home,” she said. She had never written a letter home in her life, but perhaps this Tamsin had people somewhere who cared for her. Mary Ann let herself think about that, as she climbed into bed, and she thought about it more as her head hit the pillow. She’d told Lady Carmine that her parents had both passed away, but perhaps Tamsin had siblings … Yes, two grown sisters! With families! And a grandfather. A wonderful fellow with great snowy white mustaches. Who told stories and used to slip her sweets when no one was looking.

  Unfortunately, these warm images didn’t carry into her slumber. They melted into woodland chases by unseen pursuers, mad dashes over a drawbridge that dropped her into the middle of Queen Valentina’s castle, winding her through unknown halls and tunnels. Soon she was plummeting off a precipice into the river, which was a hundred miles deep and sank her straight to the bottom among the catfish and oysters and clams, who would not help her … who kept grabbing at her shoes as she tried to reach the surface … white shoes that were uncomfortable because they were far too small. And she realized as she was drowning that they weren’t even hers. How had she gotten them? She did not want to drown in someone else’s shoes. She woke up gasping for air.

  17

  The next day, the arrival of King Garnet and Queen Rosamund of Red Turvy was like a dam breaking, torrential people pouring into Carmine Manor with a sound and fury that made Lady Carmine’s recent flood seem like a leaky water pump. Mary Ann had never seen so many children, so many courtiers, so many servants, so much luggage, so many carriages, all of it in varying shades of red and all of it moving, talking or wanting something.

  For the first three hours, Mary Ann ran everywhere she went. Ran to fetch, ran to remove, ran to assist, ran to slip away without disrupting anyone. She met the demands of Mrs. Cordingley, the royal guests, the royal guests’ courtiers and the royal guests’ courtier’s maids. She’d lost track of who was whom as she heard the names: Ruby, Magenta, Cherry, Redmont, Redfern, Lord Cerise and so forth. Mary Ann had no idea how the Manor was going to accommodate them all, but Mrs. Cordingley said she thought she noticed a new wing had shown up on the left side of the house overnight, so they would make do with that until it vanished again. Hopefully, it would hold out until everyone was on the road in the morrow.

  It was as Mary Ann hustled into the kitchen to fetch tea for a waiting lady-in-waiting that she came to a short stop that almost launched her head-over-tea-kettle …

  The Running Joke was there at the base of the Tower stairs.

  “You!” she said, pointing rather rudely on reflex. “Where did you come from?”

  “A long tradition of slapstick in theater,” it responded. “But no time for a history lesson. I simply must dash.”

  It headed toward the back door, while Mary Ann herself wasted no time running the opposite direction. She recalled seeing Sir Rufus in the parlor, so to the parlor was where she ran. And sure enough, there he was, sitting tensely on a sofa, looking glum. It appeared another Red Turvian knight — an older, beefy fellow — had him cornered in conversation. “So you really let that Jabberwock have it, what?” And the man clapped him hard on the back. “Who’s training you? Cornelius Clashammer? Why, I was going to train with him myself. Went all the way to his place in Thither for the interview process, only to have his servant stop me at the door and say he was full-up. You ever been to Thither? No? Well, it’s not like popping round to the corner store. Least he could do was invite me in for refreshments and use of the facilities. Anyway, the chap is clearly overrated. So I got myself a real trainer, name of Notlob and —”

  Rufus saw Mary Ann at the door, motioning frantically. Looking relieved, he bounded up from his seat. “Pardon me, will you?” he said, extracting himself from the knight.

  Mary Ann and Rufus stepped into an empty corridor. “What is it?” he asked.

  “I saw the Running Joke,” she whispered. “In the kitchen, by the Tower stairs.”

  They had been so busy since returning from the axe quest, they hadn’t time to address the “supposed-uncle-in-the-Tower” business. Determination crossed Rufus’ face now. “Right. This has gone on long enough.” He stepped back into the room. “Father? A word?”

  “Of course, my boy,” said Lord Carmine warmly. “What’s on your mind?”

  Mary Ann expected him to draw his father aside. Instead, his eyes went cold and hard, and in front of all the company, he asked, “Is my sense of humor locked in the Tower?”

  This certainly got Lord Carmine springing from his chair. “Nonsense, my lad, perhaps the stress of training has strained you.” He laughed in a forced way before their guests and shook his head. “Young people these days … I’ll only be a moment.” In the hall, his face clouded over and he hissed, “What is wrong with you, boy? That’s your Uncle Edmund in the Tower. We’ve spoken of this already, haven’t we?”

  “Yes, but —”

  “Please, son,” Lord Carmine got a grip on the knight’s arm, “you understand we mustn’t let everyone know he’s sane. It would be a terrible stain on our family.”

  There was something about Lord Carmine’s pleading tone, or perhaps the paternal vise-grip, that made Rufus all the more resolute. He squared his shoulders, narrowed his eyes and said, “Listen, Father: since my humor’s been gone, we keep encountering a Running Joke on the property. An expert was consulted on the matter and we learned that Running Jokes are spawned by concentrated humor. What’s more, that very Running Joke was just seen in the kitchen by the Tower stairs. There’s nothing funny about that kitchen, so something is going on.”

  Lord Carmine scratched his cheek. “Nothing funny in a kitchen? Well, I don’t know, dear boy … I quite think sieves are funny, don’t you? With all their holes, leaking and straining things? And — and spatulas! Isn’t spatula a funny word? Rather like a vampire who runs a tavern kitchen.” Lord Carmine certainly was trying hard.

  “Fine,” said Rufus flatly and started away.

  “My boy, where are you going?”

  “Where’s Mrs. Cordingley? I want the key to the Tower,” he said.

  “Oh, my gracious, this is hardly necessary,” said Lord Carmine, trailing after him like a caught string.

  Rufus found her in the laundry. “Mrs. Cordingley: the key to the Tower, if you please.” He held out his hand.

  Mrs. Cordingley’s gaze went from Rufus, to Lord Carmine, and back again.

  “I will not ask twice,” said the knight. Though Mary Ann wondered what the threat was there; surely he had no plans of pulling a sword on her. Besides, the woman was made of iron through and through. The only real way to hurt her was by mocking her starching techniques.

  But before he could deride her washing, Lord Carmine sighed and deflated on the spot. “Just give him the key, Mrs. Cordingley,” he said, defeated. “Let the young man see for himself.”

  In a moment, it was done, and in another moment they were all standing at the top of the Tower stairs as Rufus fiddled with the lock. The door squeaked open. Sunlight streamed in through a barred window. The room was very conventional, with a simple, tidily-m
ade bed, a kerosene lamp, a wooden chair and desk, a selection of non-fiction books and a spectacled man there of middle age and middle height, with a simple brown tweed suit.

  He looked like a banker in a very simple, sane, straightforward bank. Or at least, that’s what Mary Ann imagined they looked like. Turvy was not known for its simple, sane, straightforward banks — or bankers, for that matter. She was not sure where she even got the idea; perhaps she’d read about one in a poem once.

  “Uncle Edmund!” Rufus said.

  Uncle Edmund looked at him, blinked rapidly and pushed up his spectacles. “Rufus? Lad, I haven’t seen you in a tove’s age! My, you’ve become tall, haven’t you? Hard to believe you’re all grown up. Please tell me you’re not a part of this scheme.”

  Rufus scanned the room. “Are you alone in here, sir?”

  “Careful, son, don’t get too close,” warned Lord Carmine. “We’re not certain how contagious he is. Besides, now that you’ve seen him and know I was telling the truth, it’s time to return to our guests.”

  But Rufus was peering under the bed and looking behind the door.

  Uncle Edmund turned to Lord Carmine. “What is this about?”

  “Oh, nothing,” said Carmine, grabbing Rufus by the arm and trying to drag him from the room, “the young man just got it in his head that it was someone else living up here. Didn’t believe me it was you. But it’s nothing.” He waved it away and tried to put on a happy face. “Lady Carmine and I will be off on a little trip in the next day, but we’ll make certain your food is still sent up on time and that you have everything you need.” And Lord Carmine was now trying to shove everyone out of the room at once and close the door behind him.

  But Rufus was tenacious. “Uncle, have you seen my sense of humor?” he called, blocking the door with his shoulder as it was about to close.

  Edmund gasped. “Was that thing yours?” His eyes were filled with horror. “Great gryphons, lad, you must be as mad as your father!”