“And he wouldn’t have tried to cheat at Mr. Abernathy’s contest,” Toby pointed out.
Ivy’s eyes lit up. “Maybe Mr. Abernathy found Philip snooping, and that’s why Philip had to finish him off!”
Toby guessed things could have happened that way, but it didn’t seem very likely. He’d caught his cousins cheating at checkers hundreds of times when he’d lived with Aunt Janet, and none of them had ever tried to poison him—at least, not that he knew about. “I don’t see how killing Mr. Abernathy would have helped Philip at all,” he said. “He wanted to win the contest, not get it canceled.”
“Then it was a crime of passion!” said Ivy. “The two of them argued. Mr. Abernathy threatened to tell the world that Philip was useless at investigation, and Philip lost his temper. He ran to Mr. Abernathy’s washstand and poisoned the tonic!”
“But that doesn’t make sense, either,” said Toby. “If Philip hadn’t meant to kill Mr. Abernathy all along, why would he have brought poison with him to the manor? Most people don’t pack bottles of Brandelburg acid in their luggage just in case they get into a fight.”
Ivy frowned. “I bet Julia does.”
“But Philip doesn’t. He doesn’t seem to know much about poisons at all. Besides, bumping off the world’s greatest detective isn’t something you do without a plan. Don’t you think whoever killed Mr. Abernathy must have had the crime all worked out from the beginning?”
“Maybe.” Ivy slumped down in her seat. “I still say Philip Elwood is suspicious, though.”
“He’s definitely not telling us the truth,” Toby agreed. “But what about Julia and her tattoo? What about the other detectives, and your parents, and Mr. Peartree? What if they all turn out to be just as suspicious?”
“Everyone’s got secrets,” Ivy grumbled. “At least Philip was right about that.”
“Then we’ll uncover those secrets,” said Toby, trying to sound more confident than he felt. “We’ll keep doing interviews.”
“And I’ll keep crawling around in pantries and passageways, searching for Mr. Abernathy’s silly old files.” Ivy pulled off her goggles and unwound her scarves; Toby guessed even Madame Ermintrude was capable of being disheartened. “If only it was as easy to catch a criminal as it was to catch you, Toby—you know, with wires and tablecloths and things.”
“Hey!” Toby sat up straight.
“Sorry,” said Ivy, looking guilty. “I shouldn’t have reminded you how easy you are to catch.”
But Toby wasn’t embarrassed, even though he guessed he should have been. Ivy had just given him the best idea he’d had yet. It was still green and tightly coiled in his mind, but as he looked down toward the crowd of shouting journalists, he could feel the idea beginning to unfurl. “I know what we have to do,” he told Ivy. He couldn’t believe they hadn’t thought of it earlier. “We’ll set a trap for the murderer!”
It was a brilliant plan—anyone could see it—but Ivy didn’t seem to understand that right away. “With tablecloths?” she asked, wrinkling her nose. “I don’t think Mother has any more.”
“No, not with tablecloths,” said Toby. He was talking faster now, but he couldn’t slow down; he was too excited for that. “We’ll set a trap with Mr. Abernathy’s files.”
“Oh, Toby.” Ivy threw a scarf at him. “We don’t have Mr. Abernathy’s files!”
Toby grinned. “Exactly.”
CHAPTER 15
THE RATTRAP
Before long, every detective at the manor had heard about the article in the Morning Bugle, and no one was happy about it. Toby could hear them complaining to each other in the parlor as he made his way downstairs, with Ivy a few steps ahead of him and Percival bringing up the rear. They had spent the last hour sprawled on their stomachs on the floor of the Investigatorium, preparing their trap—“a rattrap,” Ivy had clarified, “to catch a sneaky, awful rat”—and now it was time to place the bait.
Ivy stopped near the parlor door, just out of sight of the detectives on the other side. She wasn’t Madame Ermintrude anymore; she’d changed into a party dress so fluffy and sweet that anyone who didn’t know better might think those words described her, too. “You haven’t lost your nerve, have you?” she whispered. “It’s all right if you have. I can probably set the trap myself.”
“No,” Toby said firmly. “It was my idea, remember? And I want to help.”
“All right,” said Ivy. “Just as long as you’re sure.”
“Why wouldn’t I be sure?” Toby scrambled to keep up with Ivy, who had lifted her chin high in the air and walked into the parlor as though she’d already been named the world’s greatest detective. How did she do it? Why couldn’t Toby get his own chin to work that way? Maybe he wasn’t as confident as Ivy was, or as smart, or brave, or rich, but he was starting to get a little tired of running after her. After all, he was clean, he was polite, and he was just as much of a detective as she was. When Percival nudged the backs of his ankles, he stood up a little straighter. This was his trap, and he was going to be the one to spring it.
“They’ve claimed my brain is filled with more cobwebs than facts!” Mr. Rackham, accosting Toby with the rolled-up Morning Bugle, came perilously close to knocking over one of the Websters’ antiques. “Who would say such a thing? Would you say I’m a fool, young . . . er, young . . .” He narrowed his eyes.
“It’s Toby,” Toby reminded him.
“Of course! I know that perfectly well. And that’s only one of the facts I’ve got in my brain.”
“I’m sure it is,” said Toby as he tried to squeeze by. Ivy was halfway across the room by now, and he was supposed to stay with her.
“For instance”—Mr. Rackham stepped directly in front of Toby, cutting off his only escape route—“I know that none of the servants in this house could have committed the murder. I interviewed them myself, every one of them. Could a witless fool do that?”
He seemed to expect an answer. “Probably not,” Toby admitted. “But if you’ll excuse me, Mr. Rackham, I’ve actually got something—”
“Precisely,” said Mr. Rackham. “Servants must account for all their movements, you know, and each of them agrees that none of the household staff set foot in the guests’ wing of the manor yesterday afternoon. It would have been highly irregular. They’re still fond of the old ways at this house. Not like this newspaper journalist, this . . .” He unrolled the Morning Bugle and squinted at it. “Peter Jacobson!” he roared, making poor Lillie Webster slosh half her glass of lemonade at the noise. “Who in the world is that? I’ve never heard of him, so he can’t possibly know a thing about me. And he’s got no manners at all! I bet he’d sell his own mother if the price was high enough.”
Toby felt sorry for Mr. Rackham, but he couldn’t even see Ivy anymore. “I’ve really got to go!” he said. He ducked past Mr. Rackham, who continued complaining loudly to the wallpaper as Toby craned his neck to look for Ivy. Where was she? She hadn’t stopped to chat with Miss March or sip lemonade with Lillie, and she certainly hadn’t waited for Toby to catch up with her. They were supposed to stick together! Maybe she hadn’t realized she’d lost him, Toby reasoned; maybe she’d just assumed he’d stayed behind her as she made her way through the crowd of detectives.
At least Percival was still underfoot. He whined a little, and Toby bent down to pet him. “Don’t worry, boy,” he said. “We’ve just got to find Ivy, and then we’ll set our trap.”
Percival looked doubtful.
From across the room, Ivy’s voice rang out even more loudly than Mr. Rackham’s. “Oh, Father!” she said, just the way they’d rehearsed it in the Investigatorium. “I’m so glad I’ve found you. I wanted to tell you about something I overheard this afternoon!”
Now that he could follow the sound of Ivy’s voice, it didn’t take Toby long to spot her. While he’d been fending off Mr. Rackham, Ivy had managed to pen her father into the far corner of the parlor, between the piano and an armchair, and turned herself slightly toward
the rest of the crowd so they’d be sure to hear every word of her conversation. It was all exactly the way they’d planned it—except, of course, that Toby wasn’t there with her. He was supposed to be standing on Mr. Webster’s other side, not stranded next to the potted plant, trying to see over Miss Price’s head. And, more importantly, he was supposed to deliver his lines. Should he squeeze past Miss Price? Shout his part from across the room?
Before he could decide one way or the other, though, Ivy decided for him. She didn’t even pause. “I was sitting in the summerhouse this afternoon,” she said, reciting the precise words Toby had spent half an hour learning by heart. “I know I’m supposed to be staying out of the way, but I couldn’t help listening to those journalists at the gates. They were shouting up at all of us here at the house, and one of them said something that was really shocking!”
Toby tried to make his way around the edge of the parlor, but Mr. Peartree was sitting on the sofa with his long legs stretched out, blocking the way. Percival growled at Mr. Peartree’s feet. “Excuse me,” Toby whispered, but Mr. Peartree didn’t seem to hear him. Everyone in the room had abandoned their own conversations and turned to listen to Ivy.
“You’re very loud, my dear,” said Mr. Webster. He touched his ear gingerly, as though Ivy was likely to damage it. “And you shouldn’t be talking to those people at the gates or listening to anything they have to say. They certainly didn’t listen to me when I asked them to go away.”
Ivy sighed. “You’re supposed to ask me what I heard, Father,” she said more quietly. “Wouldn’t you like to know what it was?”
“I’d like to,” Julia Hartshorn put in.
Ivy beamed at her. “I’ll tell you, then. A journalist wants to see Hugh Abernathy’s private files. He says his paper will pay awfully well for a look at them, and even more if they’re allowed to publish the contents.” She did her best to look scandalized, although Toby thought she looked more pleased with herself than anything. Of course she was pleased; she’d laid the trap—Toby’s trap!—all by herself. He might as well have been back on Detectives’ Row, playing checkers with Mrs. Satterthwaite.
Mr. Peartree was looking a little more green than usual. “Perhaps it’s fortunate after all that those files have disappeared,” he said. “Mr. Abernathy would have hated for his private notes to be turned over to the press.”
“Any of us would,” said Miss March. “It’s simply disrespectful. I’m surprised the man was bold enough to ask.”
“No manners!” Mr. Rackham growled.
“You know what journalists are like,” said Philip Elwood. “They’ll do anything for a story. Did you ask for the fellow’s name?”
For a moment, Ivy wobbled. The journalist only existed in Toby’s imagination, after all, and they hadn’t thought to come up with a convincing name for him. “I certainly didn’t,” Ivy said finally, putting on her scandalized look again. “You heard what Father said. I’m not allowed to speak to newspaper reporters.”
When the others had all returned to talking about their own plans and theories, Ivy kissed her father on the cheek and hurried back across the room, scrambling right over Mr. Peartree’s legs without bothering to apologize. “How’d I do?” she whispered, pulling Toby aside. She was bubbling madly, like one of Julia’s potions. “Do you think they believed me? Oh, I hope they did. We’ve set the trap now, anyway, and all we have to do is wait for someone to spring it. I can’t wait to see who tries to sneak outside with those files in their arms, can you?”
Toby didn’t say anything. He hoped Ivy would stop bubbling before she boiled over and made a mess.
“Toby?” Ivy frowned at him. “What’s the matter? Didn’t I set the trap well? Aren’t you excited?”
Toby couldn’t understand it. How could a girl who thought she was the world’s greatest detective have such a hard time seeing the things that were right under her nose? “You didn’t wait for me!” he said. “You said my lines! You didn’t even give me a chance to catch up!”
“Oh.” At least Ivy realized that she was supposed to look apologetic. “I’m sorry, Toby, but I thought you were right behind me. Really, I promise I did. By the time I realized you weren’t there, I’d already cornered Father, and . . . well, to be honest, I thought you might have lost your nerve.”
“I didn’t lose it! I told you I wouldn’t. But Mr. Rackham started complaining at me and waving his newspaper, and I couldn’t get around him.”
“Well, that’s silly. Why didn’t you just push him aside?”
Toby could feel himself bristling. He wasn’t silly, and anyway, he hadn’t spent half the day wearing his mother’s old motoring goggles. “Because,” he said, “that wouldn’t have been polite.”
“Honestly!” said Ivy. “I don’t understand you at all, Toby. We’ve got a real, genuine murder to solve, and you’re worried about being polite? Detectives aren’t supposed to apologize; they’re supposed to act! What if the criminal escapes while you’re busy figuring out which fork to use at dinner?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Toby. “That’s definitely not going to happen.”
“Oh, really? And why not?”
Toby blushed. “Because I had to memorize which forks to use when I worked at my uncle Francis’s hotel.”
“I knew it!” Ivy crowed. “I knew you were just as horribly well behaved as my perfect sister! Oh, Toby, if you’re ever going to be any good as a detective, you can’t be so afraid of making trouble now and then. Here; I’ll give you a lesson.” From the table at the back of the parlor, she picked up the tall glass pitcher of lemonade. Then, before Toby could stop her, she tipped it over.
Lemonade streamed from the pitcher and splashed down near Toby’s feet. It puddled on the floorboards, and its rivulets stretched toward the Websters’ expensive-looking carpet, but Ivy didn’t even seem to care. “See?” she said. “That’s not so awful, is it?”
“Of course it’s not awful for you!” said Toby. “Of course you’re not afraid of trouble. It doesn’t follow you around like it follows me!” Was he the one boiling over now? Well, he couldn’t help it; he couldn’t stand any more of Ivy’s lessons. She didn’t know as much about detection as she thought, and she didn’t know anything at all about Toby. “When your parents find out you’ve spilled that lemonade, they’re not going to pack up your suitcase and pass you from one relative to the next, are they?”
Ivy went perfectly still. The lemonade kept dripping. “No,” she said quietly. “No, they’re not. But—”
“I bet you could flood every room in the manor if you wanted,” said Toby. “The whole thing could fall down around your ears, and you still wouldn’t be sent to an orphanage.” He snatched the pitcher from Ivy’s hand and set it upright on the table. Then, although all his fingers itched to wipe up the puddle of lemonade, he made himself turn around and walk out of the parlor without looking back. Ivy could clean up the mess for herself.
CHAPTER 16
FRIENDS AND ENEMIES
A pair of moss-colored shoes clicked down the hall toward the Marigold Room, but Toby didn’t notice. He was extremely busy being angry with Ivy, and coming up with reasons to be mad at her didn’t leave much time to think about anything else. He counted those reasons on his fingers: she was bossy, and thoughtless, and more than a little strange, and—
“Excuse me, Mr. Montrose.” There was a knock at the door. “May I come in?”
Toby got up from the orange armchair and opened the door to Mr. Peartree. “Is something wrong, sir?”
“Not at all—at least, nothing aside from the usual.” Mr. Peartree stepped into the room and squinted. “Good gracious! What a lot of orange. I don’t feel as though I really fit in.”
It was true. In most rooms, despite his unusual clothing, Mr. Peartree tended to fade into the background—to become part of the room itself, Toby thought, like a wallpaper pattern or a crack in the ceiling plaster. In the Marigold Room, however, he was as noticeable as a caterp
illar on a pumpkin, and he settled himself in Toby’s armchair as though he intended to stay awhile. “Can I help you, sir?” Toby asked.
“As a matter of fact,” said Mr. Peartree, “I was wondering if I might be able to help you. I couldn’t help noticing that you tore out of the parlor as though all the hounds of the hunt were after you, and I thought I’d come see if everything was all right.” He took off his green gloves and tucked them into his pocket. “If you don’t mind my making a deduction, I suspect that you and Miss Ivy might be doing a little sleuthing of your own. You haven’t learned something . . . unpleasant, have you?”
“No, sir; it’s nothing like that.” Since Mr. Peartree had taken the only chair in the room, Toby sat cross-legged at the end of the bed. “We haven’t learned much of anything, actually. I don’t think we’re even working together anymore.” Ivy hadn’t followed him out of the parlor, and she certainly hadn’t come to apologize, so as far as Toby could tell, Webster and Montrose, Private Investigators were officially out of business. He wished he felt happier about it.
“Ah,” said Mr. Peartree. “There’s been trouble with Miss Ivy?”
That was one way of putting it. “She’s impossible!”
“Most detectives are,” Mr. Peartree agreed. “Hugh Abernathy certainly was. No one else on the Row could stand to work with him. It was convenient, actually, because he couldn’t stand to work with any of them.”
“Except for you,” said Toby.
Mr. Peartree shrugged. “I, Mr. Montrose, am not a detective. I was only Mr. Abernathy’s assistant. It was Hugh who made the plans, and Hugh who solved the cases. I merely wrote about them.”
“Didn’t that bother you?” Toby asked. “Didn’t you want to become a detective, too?”
“Heavens, no.” Mr. Peartree looked mildly horrified. “I hope I never gave anyone that impression. I’m sure some people think I was jealous of Hugh, but I’ve always been more content to stay behind the scenes. Besides, I’m fairly hopeless when it comes to detecting. If I’d gone off and tried to start my own investigative business, I’d have lasted a week at most. And anyway, I wasn’t interested. As I’ve been reminded this weekend, I find writing about murder far more enjoyable than experiencing it firsthand.” Mr. Peartree shrugged. “Hugh could be difficult, but we were good friends, and I’m immensely sorry he’s gone.”
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