Cheat the Hangman

by Gloria Ferris

  “I want you to tell me how you came to find the box. But first, I need to call Ronnie.”

  Marc led us down the staircase, across the great hall, through the double oak doors, and down the limestone steps to the bricked driveway. The late afternoon heat was heavy with humidity as we halted in a row beside his cruiser.

  Marc called the dispatcher on the radio, asking her to contact Ronnie Guilbert, his sergeant, and instruct him to come to Hammersleigh House with his camera and other crime equipment. The radio squawked a question at Marc and he replied distinctly with a brief glance in my direction. “Ms. Lyris Pembrooke has found the mummified remains of a child in one of her closets.”

  CHAPTER 4

  “He looked at me like it was my fault. I mean, how could I be responsible for something that happened sixty-odd years ago? I wasn’t even born yet.”

  “Marc knows you aren’t responsible. But you are a bit of a catalyst, if you don’t mind me being honest.”

  It wouldn’t much matter if I did mind. Patsy Gerard had been my best friend since preschool and had always been honest with me. She prided herself on it. I guess we all need a friend who will tell us when our skirt is tucked into our pantyhose, or that we possess an undesirable human attribute. Patsy was mine.

  We were sitting at a table in a dim corner of Hammersleigh’s kitchen, tossing back glasses of iced tea. The kitchen was cool, thanks to the dense pine bushes that lined both sides of the property and shielded the house from winter winds and summer heat. We were quite comfortable in our shorts and T-shirts. Unlike the police officers who, two days after my grisly discovery, were still trudging up to the tower room and down again.

  The thunder rolled in the distance, as it had for weeks. But the moisture continued to hang heavily in the clouds, refusing to fall and cool the earth.

  “I’m just unlucky. Sooner or later somebody would have looked in that closet and sorted through the boxes. Look how long the Egyptian mummies lasted. A sixty-eight-year span is just a blink of the eye. That poor baby would still have been there another hundred years from now. Why did it have to be me who found him? Or why didn’t someone find him fifty years ago?”

  “Well, never mind.” Patsy poured another glass of iced tea with one hand and gave my arm a pat with the other. Her plump face was framed in reddish-brown hair that was tightly curled from the humidity. Between the hair and her round, hazel eyes, she looked like Little Orphan Annie, if Annie had irises. “Marc knows you aren’t to blame. He’s just worried you’ll start digging into the past trying to find out what happened to Tommy and mess up his investigation.”

  “Thanks. And there is no investigation. What possible leads could there be after all this time? Most of the people involved are dead now. Anyway, I don’t have time to worry about a crime that old when the family reunion is less than two weeks away.”

  “Sure.”

  “I’m serious. I’m going to put it right out of my mind. And I don’t think Marc is going to spend any time or manpower on this. It was an alleged kidnapping, and the RCMP were called in, so why aren’t they handling it?”

  “Marc already contacted them. They said he’s to let them know if they can do anything to assist.”

  “How do you know? Marc never said anything.”

  “I bet you never asked.” She fluffed up her short curls. “I’m kidding. Marc called Nick yesterday to put off their golf date and mentioned what the Mounties said.”

  “And Nick came home and spilled everything.” This was not a question.

  Nick and Patsy were my dearest friends, but as a couple, they made me squirm. They shared everything, including thoughts and feelings. It wouldn’t surprise me to learn they used the same toothbrush.

  “Lyris, when will Marc be done here? His officers aren’t searching the whole house, I hope. There can’t be any evidence left.”

  “Why ask me? I don’t know as much as you.”

  “Well, you and Marc must have been together since you found Tommy. What did you talk about? Or maybe…” she leered, “you don’t talk at all?”

  “I haven’t been alone with Marc since I moved in last Saturday. This place just hasn’t got enough rooms.”

  “What? Hammersleigh is enormous.”

  I lowered my voice. “It’s Conklin. I think he’s Nosferatu in the guise of an elderly butler. I never hear him coming, but out of nowhere, he’s standing there looking at me, calling me Madam. I hesitate to take a shower for fear I’ll throw back the curtain and find him holding my towel for me. Eyes modestly averted, of course.”

  Patsy’s one-track mind was still stuck on my sex life. “Are you telling me you and Marc haven’t…you know…since you moved in?”

  “We haven’t…you know…at all. What kind of person do you think I am, anyway? Marc and I have only been going out for two months.”

  “I just don’t believe it. I’ve seen the way you look at each other. Lyris, you’re almost forty. It’s not like you can be deflowered in the petunia bed again. What are you waiting for?”

  “The right moment. I’ve had sex with one man in my life, and I don’t want to make another mistake. We’re not all sex maniacs like you and Nick. And I wasn’t deflowered in a petunia bed in the first place. It was in the back seat of Dennis’s 1969 Pontiac. And I’m barely thirty-eight, three months younger than you.”

  She slapped the table and hooted, “No wonder Marc has been looking so grumpy. Wait till I tell Nick.”

  “I’ll never speak to you again if you do. I mean it, Patsy, don’t say anything. Let Marc and I set our own pace.”

  “I have a pretty good idea what pace Marc would like, but you can relax. This will be our secret.”

  “It better be. The chief deterrent to our unwedded bliss right now is Conklin, as I started to tell you. He sticks closer to me than a zebra mussel on a sailboat. I wish he’d go haunt somebody else.”

  “You’re mixing your metaphors again. Conklin is lost without your uncle, so he looks to you for direction, don’t forget.”

  “He does not look to me for direction. As a matter of fact, he tries his best to boss me around, in that genteel way he has. When I first moved in, I wanted to show Marc around upstairs, but Conklin followed us up asking if he could help us or bring us some refreshments. We felt like teenagers trying to find a place to park and went back outside to sit on the porch. Even if I did want to try out that petunia bed again, Conklin would find it necessary to weed it right then and there.”

  Patsy listened without comment for a minute. “Why don’t you hire a new housekeeper? With her to train, Conklin would be off your back.”

  “Do you think it’s that easy? Housekeeping is an outdated profession. John Brixton has advertised several times and few people have responded. He’s going to eliminate the objectionable applicants and send me the rest. I have to interview them, can you imagine? I could hire a kleptomaniac or a serial killer. How would I know?”

  “Ask Conklin to sit in. He’d be a good judge of character.”

  “Anybody that old should be. I’ve already asked him to help. He just looks down his nose and says it’s my job, and he couldn’t possibly interfere. I didn’t like Marion Beadle much, but sometimes I wish she was still here.”

  Marion was Uncle Patrick’s long-time sixtyish housekeeper. When her bequest and pension from Uncle Patrick hit her bank account, she took off for the bright lights of Montreal, never to be seen again.

  “Quit whining. You’ll figure something out. I have to go. Let me know if I can do anything to help you with the reunion.”

  “You know, Patsy, it’s obvious now that nobody crept into the house during the night and kidnapped Tommy. I wonder if the family suspected it was an inside job all along.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Nothing. I’m just thinking out loud. Since Tommy never left the house, either somebody already here, or somebody who knew the layout, must have killed him and placed his body in the closet.”

  “You don
’t know he was murdered. It could have been an accident, then somebody panicked and hid him in the closet.”

  I couldn’t argue with her, but I didn’t think she was right.

  Patsy stood up. “I’m going. Call if you need any help. With the reunion, I mean. Don’t ask me to help you with any murder investigation.”

  I was scarcely aware of her leaving. Little Tommy’s death had begun to prey on my mind, and the last thing I needed right now was to let anything deflect my attention from the reunion. Before I inherited Hammersleigh House, all I had to do was show up on the right day, picnic basket in hand. Now there were a dozen arrangements to make, with Conklin being no help at all. I didn’t know where to start.

  I went over to the sink to rinse out the pitcher and glasses. Suddenly, a pair of arms encircled my waist and a pair of warm lips nuzzled the back of my neck. I squealed in alarm and dropped the glass I was holding into the sink. It shattered into dozens of crystalline pieces.

  “Look what I did,” I said to Marc with some anxiety. “No doubt this glass is a family heirloom and I’ve broken up the set. Conklin will have a fit.”

  “I didn’t mean to make you jump. Usually you like it when I kiss you there.”

  “I was thinking about Conklin.”

  “Don’t tell me he’s been making passes at you,” Marc said with a disbelieving smile. Despite the heat, his regulation shirt was crisp and smelled pleasantly of fabric softener. His thick black hair just cried out to be touched, but I controlled myself. And the slight dimple in his right cheek, oh my.

  “Hardly. But he has me spooked. You know how he keeps popping up.”

  His arms were around me again, and I felt the too-familiar warmth suffuse my body and begin to overcome my better judgement. Kid stuff. I moved away from his touch.

  “Well, he’s not here now, so why don’t we take advantage of his absence. You can show me your bedroom and explain all the changes you want to make in there. And we can talk about getting married.”

  “Married!” Good thing I wasn’t holding another glass.

  Marc clapped a hand over his ear. “I think I’m deaf.”

  “Is this a sincere proposal, or are you just trying to take advantage of me? Because you know what a sucker I am for a man in uniform.”

  “Oh, I mean it. I thought I would just get the subject on the table so you can begin thinking about it, now that you’re more or less used to my company.”

  “Well, couldn’t we just wallow in lust and debauchery and leave it at that?”

  He pretended to consider. “Okay. We’ll start there if you like, and the sooner the better. Just think about my suggestion, won’t you?”

  I would think about it, not seriously, though. Somehow the thought of Marc, his two daughters, dog and cat joining my own unconventional household at Hammersleigh was almost funny. Mind you, it would be company for me at night, but I would have to sign Conklin into a rest home.

  Over Marc’s shoulder, I could see the kitchen door swing open. “I’ll have to tell you about my redecorating plans some other time. Don’t look now, but we are not alone, as the bishop said to the actress.”

  Marc cursed under his breath, but stepped away from me.

  “I want to know about the autopsy…”

  “I’ll phone you and by the way, we’re finished here.” After a gentle tug on my ponytail and a brief word to Conklin, he was gone.

  I broke the ensuing silence by asking Conklin, “Whose turn is it to make supper tonight?” I held my position in front of the double acrylic sinks, hoping to distract him from seeing the pieces of broken crystal.

  “I believe it is yours, Madam. I made the eggplant quiche last night if you recall. Before that, we had the beef stew you prepared in the crock pot. And the canned beets.”

  And a sorry meal that had been, if I do say so myself. I had not bothered to peel the potatoes or carrots, and left the onions in chunks. The meat was the cheapest I could find at the supermarket, and it was gratifyingly tough and stringy despite twelve hours in the crock pot. The dish turned out almost as bad as Conklin’s quiche—it was an unpleasant revelation to me that a quiche can be created from eggplant and cabbage.

  When I moved in, Conklin and I agreed to take turns making the evening meal until we—make that I—hired a housekeeper. It was Conklin’s idea. I was hoping he would do all the cooking, but was soon put in my place by his reminder that the preparation of meals, at least at Hammersleigh, was the responsibility of the housekeeper, not the butler. I was sick of everything being the housekeeper’s job. He made it sound like he was doing me a favour by taking a turn at cooking.

  We had been trying to wear each other down with our culinary ineptitude, hoping the other would give up and offer to cook every night. Both of us were on the lean side to start with, and growing leaner with each passing day.

  “I bought a packaged macaroni and cheese dinner. We could have that with some frozen fish sticks. Oh, and I think there’s another cucumber left in the fridge.” Conklin hated cucumbers, especially the mutant kind without seeds.

  “It sounds delicious, Madam. I will be in the pantry polishing the silver tea service if you need me.”

  “Fine, but I can’t let you spoil your appetite with the macaroons you bought. I moved them out of the cupboard where you keep your silver polish and cloths. You can have them back later for dessert.”

  His brief smile failed to reach his faded blue eyes. His thin shoulders drooped even more, and I felt I was being a bit harsh with him. Just as I decided a couple of cookies wouldn’t hurt, he looked in the direction of the sink. “Madam, might I suggest you exercise care in clearing up the broken glass, lest you cut your fingers?”

  Straight-backed, he marched into the butler’s pantry, a narrow room between the kitchen and the formal dining room. It was lined with glass-fronted cupboards from ceiling to floor and held all the exquisite, priceless china and silver collected by several generations of Pembrookes. The room was Conklin’s special place of refuge, and he retreated there now to mourn the loss of his cookies.

  I opened one of the two double-door upright freezer units and rummaged for the package of frozen fish sticks I had bought on the same shopping trip as the stewing beef. Both freezers were packed full of more enticing offerings such as lobster and steaks, but I stoically closed the door on them. Time enough for that later when I had either hired a housekeeper or forced Conklin to his arthritic, creaking knees.

  An hour later, we were seated at the same table where I had earlier shared iced tea with Patsy. Initially, Conklin had been upset when I refused to eat alone in the dining room, but the huge Jacobean-style dining table, twelve matching chairs, looming mirrored sideboard and the ten-foot serving table unnerved me. And I wasn’t going to eat in there by myself. Conklin was stiff and formal when I joined him in the kitchen, but was becoming more relaxed each day in my presence, and I felt he secretly enjoyed the company.

  I left the fish sticks in the oven ten minutes longer than instructed on the package and didn’t bother to add the quarter cup of milk to the macaroni and cheese. You could re-point bricks with the result. I was satisfied with the outcome of my meal, but had no intention of eating it.

  Conklin took ten minutes to cut his fish into pieces manageable enough to swallow whole. I guess his teeth weren’t up to the task of chewing the rock-like morsels. His macaroni was piled in a heap in the middle of his plate, and he poked at it with his fork from time to time and watched it jiggle. He didn’t so much as glance at the cucumber slices arranged attractively on a side plate.

  I occupied myself with moving the pieces on my plate from one side to the other, then back again. After a few minutes of silence, I asked the question that had been bothering me.

  “How could Tommy have been in that closet for over sixty years without anybody finding him, Conklin? I find it hard to believe that closet was nailed shut all this time without anybody prying it open, for no other reason than curiosity.”

 
; Conklin choked on one of the fish nuggets he was trying to swallow. I watched him closely, but he managed to get it down.

  “When I arrived here after the war, Madam, the tower room was full of furniture, paintings, accessories and such things. They were items of no use that were in the house when Mr. Thomas, that would be Mr. Patrick’s father, purchased it from John Hammersleigh around the turn of the century, the twentieth century, that is. The pieces were gathered up and stored in the tower room, and there they stayed. You see, Madam, there were more than enough bedrooms in the house for Mr. Thomas’s four children, Mr. Patrick and his brother and two sisters, so the tower room was not needed as sleeping quarters.”

  “But little Tommy wasn’t in the closet back then.”

  “No, of course not, Madam. I’m trying to give you a possible explanation for the body remaining hidden for so long. You see, by the time the war started, Mr. Patrick was in sole residence at Hammersleigh. His brother and sisters were married and living in their own homes, and Mr. Patrick’s wife had died—in 1941 that would be—without leaving him an heir. Therefore, from that time to this, there have not been children in the house.”

  I waited, not seeing any connection.

  “Madam, children are inherently curious. I believe that, had there been a child in residence these last sixty-eight years, the body would have been discovered.”

  “Maybe, Conklin. I know if I had lived here when I was a child, I would have explored every wall surface for secret passages.”

  “There is no doubt in my mind you would have, Madam.”

  “But before I filled the tower room with the trophy heads and other stuffed dead things, the room was empty except for a few side tables and wicker chairs. And the walls look like they were painted more recently than sixty-eight years ago. Don’t forget that the hinges and the nails were painted right over.”

  “Quite right, Madam. About ten years ago, Mr. Patrick planned to create a winter sunroom. We hired an antique dealer to clear out the furnishings and to whitewash the walls. He had no instructions to do anything other than make the room look clean.”