by Morgana Best
I let Sandy outside, showered and dressed quickly, and then pulled on some shoes before hurrying out the front door. The crisp air helped to wake me, and as I walked, I found myself happy to be going to breakfast after all. The rose garden flanking the pathway on the boarding house was full of all manner of scented, Old English roses, and I delighted in the fragrance.
I kept up a quick pace, and I was at the boarding house before I knew it, now fully awake and desperate for the first cup of coffee. I stepped lightly up the front porch stairs and reached for the front door handle.
Before I could wrap my fingers around the brass handle, the door flew open.
Someone rushed onto the porch, roughly pushed me aside, and sent me into a spin, all but knocking me over. I was so shocked that I was unable to take much in, only that the person was dressed in black and had a ski mask over their face.
I reached for the walls, steadying myself against the door.
The masked person was fast, running down the steps and off to the left, rushing for the trees there. For a moment I thought to run after whoever it was, but then common sense prevailed. My first thought was that there had been another murder, or at the very least, a robbery, although the figure was holding nothing.
I looked into the front hall of the boarding house. “Mr. Buttons?”
There was no reply, so I ventured inside, afraid of what I might see. I hadn’t gotten far before I saw the body at the bottom of the stars. I rushed inside and left the front door hanging wide open.
The figure was lying face up. I saw at once that it was Colin Palmer. His neck was bent at an odd angle, and his leg was bent as well.
He was obviously dead. It could have been a fall, of course; falling down a long staircase like the one in the front hall of the boarding house was certainly going to kill almost anyone, but there had been the masked figure.
I reached into my pocket, and then realized I’d left my cell phone at home. I hurried to the phone in the front hall, an old fashioned black thing with a coiled wire keeping the headset from traveling too far from the body. I called the police, and explained to Constable Andrews what had happened.
“My word,” a voice called out, high pitched and British.
Mr. Buttons was part way down the staircase, staring down at the body in horror. He pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and I was afraid he would dust the body.
“We can’t touch him; it’s a crime scene,” I said.
Mr. Buttons paused, his handkerchief in mid air. “A crime scene? Surely he fell?”
“I think he was pushed,” I said. “When I got here just then, a man or a woman pushed past me and ran out the door.”
“Did you see who it was?”
I shook my head. “They were wearing a ski mask.”
Mr. Buttons gasped. “Someone in a mask?” he said. “I’m starting to think I should leave Little Tatterford and move elsewhere.”
“Me too.” I helped Mr. Buttons to a chair in one corner of the room, near the phone. He sat and laid his long hands together in his lap.
I sat next to him, and we waited for the police to make their appearance. I wondered where everyone else was, but then I remembered it was still early in the morning, and everyone else in the house would still be asleep. I wondered if I should wake Cressida and tell her about the boarder. I shivered, and decided I would save a job like that for Blake himself.
“Who would want to kill Colin Palmer?” I asked.
Mr. Buttons shivered. “Likely the same person who killed Martin Bosworth, but it was obviously someone who knew that Colin always came down for breakfast at six thirty precisely.”
“Who would know that?”
Mr. Buttons crossed to the opposite wall to straighten up a painting. It must have been one of Cressida’s efforts, as it depicted a cliff scene with a car caught in time half way between the cliff top and the bottom of the cliff. People were falling out of the car and being separated from their limbs on the rocks. It was painted entirely in primary colors: bright blue, vivid red, and garish yellow. I put my sunglasses back on my head.
Mr. Buttons stood back and put his head to one side, and then adjusted the painting one more time. “Anyone here would know that: me, Cressida, the boarders, anyone at all,” he said, before returning to his seat.
I had left the front door open, and it seemed to take forever before Blake appeared through the doorway.
“Where’s the body? Who found the body?” he asked in quick succession, shooting me an accusing look.
Mr. Buttons and I stood up. “It was a masked man,” I said, and then I felt like an extra on an old episode of The Lone Ranger.
Blake frowned at me for a moment, and then approached the body. He put his hand to his forehead and shook his head.
“Man is an animal that makes bargains; no other animal does this - one dog does not change a bone with another."
(Adam Smith)
Chapter Eight.
After Blake covered the body of Colin Palmer with a linen sheet provided by Mr. Buttons, he went up to the bedroom wing to rouse Cressida from her sleep. Mr. Buttons and I waited downstairs, at the far side of the spacious entrance hall.
Blake had no sooner reappeared on the top of the staircase than Cressida rushed past him. She ran down the stairs to the body and pulled the white sheet away.
“No!” she cried, and she burst into racking sobs as she sank to the ground, clutching at the sheet. I was surprised; I had no idea Cressida was so attached to her boarders. Surely she hadn’t known Colin Palmer too well; he hadn’t been at the boarding house for very long. Then it dawned on me. It wasn’t so much Colin; it was simply that it had happened again.
I fought the overwhelming urge to leave, but I had no option; I had to wait for Blake to take my statement. At least Blake allowed us to wait in the kitchen, where I drank some strong coffee; I had no stomach for food. Cressida was still distraught, and Mr. Buttons was trying in vain to comfort her.
As soon as Constable Andrews arrived, Blake took us into the dining room one by one to take our statements. He had already marshaled the boarders into the library. I was the first to be questioned, no doubt by virtue of the fact that I had discovered the body.
I walked into the large, dark, dining room. The rising sun had done nothing to brighten the room, shining feebly through two small windows covered by ancient lace curtains which were flanked by heavy, silk brocade curtains. While the room was clean - Mr. Buttons had seen to that - there was the ever-present musty smell.
I walked carefully past a large, walnut credenza, on whose top was packed every manner of Victorian luster ware vases, their crystal droplets reflecting pretty rainbow patterns on the otherwise drab, yellowing walls. The room was so full of furniture covered with antique glassware that one false move would prove a costly mistake.
I saw that Lord Farringdon was fast asleep on a threadbare reclining chair in a corner, and wondered idly why he didn’t jump up on the furniture and knock over any of the antique glassware. I supposed there was simply nowhere for him to land.
I crossed to the large, polished, cherry wood dining table and sat down. Blake took a seat opposite me. He grimaced as he did; no doubt his antique Victorian, mahogany, balloon-back chair was just as hard and uncomfortable as mine.
I told Blake everything; I explained about the masked assailant, and how I had found the body.
“It wasn’t one of the boarders,” he said. “They’re all present and accounted for. There is the possibility that whoever did it doubled back, but then they wouldn’t have run out the door in the first place.”
I frowned, trying to follow his reasoning.
“And you couldn’t tell if it was man or woman?”
I shook my head. “It all happened so fast. It wasn’t as if I was expecting it. I just went to open the door and then the figure rushed past me.”
“Did you see their eye color?”
I thought hard. “No, I’m sorry.” I figured I was a ter
rible witness.
Blake’s only response was to shake his head sadly and to tell me that we all needed to go to the station with him to speak to the detectives.
Duly dismissed, I went back to the kitchen to wait while Blake questioned Mr. Buttons, and then Cressida. I couldn’t believe it was happening again: this was the third murder since I had arrived in Little Tatterford.
As the three of us walked down the path, the forensics team arrived. They smiled and nodded to me. Things must be pretty bad when the forensics team knew me by sight. I sighed loudly. This was all getting too much for me.
The gardener arrived just as we headed for the parking area. Cressida broke the news, and the gardener was visibly shocked. Cressida told him to take the day off, and the three of us climbed into Blake’s police car. Mr. Buttons rode beside Blake in the front, and Cressida and I sat in the back. No one spoke; the air was heavy and tense. I looked over to Cressida and caught her eye. I flashed the older woman a half smile, but it was one Cressida did not return. I went back to staring at the back of Blake’s head.
Soon we were at the station, and once again I was escorted in, and the detectives were waiting for me. “You'll be first,” Detective Roberts said, and he smiled a thin-lipped sort of smile as he held a door open to an interview room.
I walked around and sat at the small table. It was cold, with metal legs and some sort of laminate top. It matched the dingy, pale green walls. The two detectives at once sat across from me.
“Did you want some coffee?” Roberts asked.
I shook my head, remembering the coffee of the other day. “No, thanks.”
“Did you know Colin Palmer?”
“No, not very well.”
There was a small digital recorder sitting on the table in between the detectives, and Roberts reached for it.
“I forgot; do you mind if we record this?”
I shook my head.
“Did you know Colin Palmer?” Roberts asked again, this time leaning forward.
“No, not very well.”
“Who was he to you?”
“No one,” I said, and at once realized that my words probably sounded harsh. “He had only moved to the boarding house for the Socratic conference. I was at one philosophy club meeting with him. He seemed nice.”
“I understand,” Roberts said, nodding. Detective Henderson scribbled away in his note pad.
Roberts went on. “You saw someone leaving?”
“They practically barreled over me,” I said. “I had just opened the door, and someone came running out.”
“And what was he or she wearing?”
“He was wearing all black, and a mask.”
“It was a man?” Roberts asked.
“Well, I don’t know,” I admitted. “I’m just saying he, but it might have been a woman.”
“What build was the masked person? How tall?”
I tried to remember. “It’s hard to say; it all happened so quickly. He seemed skinny, and tall.” I stood up. “About so high,” I said, holding my hand a little above my head.
“For the record, say it aloud please, Miss Potts,’ Roberts said.
I felt silly. “Oh, okay, sorry. A bit over 180 centimeters, so about six feet tall.”
The detectives exchanged glances, and that made me uneasy. Didn’t they believe me? I didn't want to be seen as a suspect. Still, since I had moved to Little Tatterford, there had been three deaths in the nearby boarding house.
“So, a masked man pushed Palmer down the steps, and then ran past you just as you arrived?” Roberts asked.
“Yes,” I said, wondering if he suspected me.
Roberts threw a look at his partner. “You were the first one to touch the body?”
“No,” I said with some horror. “At least I don’t think I did.”
Detective Henderson stopped scribbling and looked up. “You must be getting used to crime scenes by now,” he said.
Before I could respond, Roberts spoke again. “Do you have a suspicion as to what had happened to Mr. Palmer?”
“I figured he was pushed down the stairs. I would’ve thought he’d fallen down, if it hadn’t been for the person in the ski mask who ran out the door.”
“What were you doing at the boarding house so early?”
“I was going to have breakfast with Mr. Buttons before we took my dog for a walk.”
Roberts nodded. “Is this something you usually did?”
“No. Well, Mr. Buttons and I often walk my dog around seven in the morning, but yesterday he suggested we have breakfast at the boarding house first.”
“So it was his idea?”
I nodded, and then remembered the interview was being recorded. “Yes.”
Roberts was silent for a moment, and then he turned to his partner. “Detective Henderson, do you have anything to add?”
Henderson looked at me for a moment, and then shook his head. “No.”
Roberts leaned forward again. “Now, Miss Potts, are you good friends with Cressida Upthorpe?”
I frowned, wondering why he asked such a question. “Yes, we’re friends.”
Roberts leaned back in the chair and put his hands behind his head. I wondered for a moment if his chair would topple backward, and stifled a chuckle. I figured the stress was getting to me.
“Miss Potts, do you realize the seriousness of covering for a friend, especially on a matter as serious as murder, or manslaughter?”
I was puzzled. “I don’t know what you mean.”
Roberts leaned forward and his chair came to rest with a thud. “If someone has knowledge of a crime, and they do anything to hinder the arrest of the perpetrator, then they can be charged as an Accessory After the Fact.”
“But-” I began, but Roberts cut me off.
“So, if you knew that someone had pushed Colin Palmer down the stairs, and withheld that information from us, that would be a criminal offense.”
“I’ve done no such thing,” I said, standing up. “I don’t like being falsely accused. I told you; the masked man ran past me. I don’t know who he was.”
Roberts merely pointed to my chair. “Sit down, Miss Potts. Do you understand what I’ve just told you?”
I crossed my arms. “Yes, but I’m not covering up anything for anyone, and I did see a person running away.”
Roberts and Henderson exchanged glances, before Roberts turned back to me. “You may go now.”
I stood up. I was furious and trembling. Did they suspect Cressida? Or Mr. Buttons? They didn’t seem to believe that I had seen a person running from the scene.
I walked back to the waiting room, where I saw Cressida and Mr. Buttons sitting in two green plastic chairs with metal legs that curved down underneath them. Henderson had followed me out, and he called to Cressida.
“We’ll speak to you now, Mrs. Upthorpe,” he said.
“Are you okay, Sibyl?” Mr. Buttons asked me, once Cressida had vanished through the door.
“I’m all right,” I said. “This is all just…” I didn’t know what to say, so let the sentence trail away. Mr. Buttons spoke up, keeping the thought from derailing completely.
“Rather tiring,” Mr. Buttons said.
I agreed, and was about to say more, when Blake appeared. “Mr. Buttons, the detectives want you to wait in an interview room for your turn to be interviewed. Constable Andrews will take you there.”
As soon as both Mr. Buttons and Constable Andrews had disappeared through the door, I stood up. “Blake, what’s going on?”
He shook his head. “Are you waiting here for Cressida?”
I wondered why he hadn’t added, “And Mr. Buttons.” I could tell something was wrong, but I didn’t know what and I figured he wouldn’t tell me. “Yes, I am.”
“That’s a good idea. I’ve sent Constable Andrews for coffee, and he’s bringing one back for you, too.”
I was struck by his thoughtfulness, and thanked him.
About an hour after I had finished
sipping my latte, the door opened again and Cressida was escorted out. She was red in the face, and looked for all the world like she had been crying. Long, black streaks of mascara made their way down the thick powder on both her creeks in rivulets.
“Cressida, are you all right?”
The older woman nodded, and then hitched the strap of her purse further on her shoulder. “I want to get out of here!” she said, wildly.
"Old dogs, like old shoes, are comfortable. They might be a bit out of shape and a little worn around the edges, but they fit well."
(Bonnie Wilcox - Old Dogs, Old Friends)
Chapter Nine.
Cressida and I left the police station and set off at a brisk walk, heading a few blocks downtown in tense, simmering silence. Cressida was in the lead, and when she turned and entered a small café, I followed her.
We sat at a small, circular table with three chairs around it, dumping our coats and purses on the third chair. I hadn’t been in this café before. It was light, bright, and airy, and the walls were filled with signs: affirmations stenciled on whitewashed boards, such as, “Today is your lucky day;” “You are joyful every day;” “When life gives you showers, dance in the rain.” I found it all too cheerful and irritating. I wasn’t in the mood for nice.
A waitress came by and we both ordered coffee.
“They think I did it,” Cressida said, as soon as the waitress was out of earshot.
“They what?” I said.
“They think I did it.” Her voice broke. “Martin Bosworth and Colin Palmer.”
I shook my head. I had been concerned that the detectives suspected Cressida, given their lecture about not protecting a friend. “Why do they think it was you?”
“Well,” Cressida said, but then she stopped as the waitress returned and set our overfull mugs on the table. Coffee slopped out of them, and the waitress mopped the table and apologized. As soon as the waitress left, Cressida continued. “I used to date Colin Palmer,” she said in an exaggerated whisper that was almost as loud as her speaking voice.