An Old-Fashioned Mystery

by Runa Fairleigh

  The first door they tried led to the cellar. The next two were closets. Behind the fourth door they heard faint rustling sounds. Opening it, Budgie and Sebastian found themselves in an oak-panelled, oriental-carpeted room that must once have served as the study. The sounds were coming from behind a heavy mahogany desk where a man was bent over, rummaging through a lower drawer and muttering to himself.

  Sebastian cleared his throat, and the man hastily sat up, slamming the drawer and looking around nervously. He seemed to be in his sixties, a small, wizened individual in a conservative dark suit that hung loosely on his shrunken, dehydrated body. He had a fringe of grey hair around a high, knobby skull, and his face was so creased and puckered that there didn’t seem to be any flesh between the skin and bone. Sebastian thought he looked like an albino prune.

  The man’s dark eyes, though, were hard and bright, and darted between Sebastian and Budgie with a startled expression. While his uneasiness might have been due to a nervous condition or surprise at the unexpected intrusion, the last time Sebastian had seen a similar expression had been at a cocktail party when he’d flipped on the overhead light in the darkened bedroom that was being used as a cloakroom. Poor Freddy hadn’t been able to face him since.

  “Who are you?” Sebastian said.

  “Who are you?” the man replied. His voice sounded as dry and puckered as his face, each word separate and distinct, each a crackling of old parchment.

  “I’m the uninvited guest, just making myself at home. And this is Aunt Budgie.”

  The man sniffed a couple of times as though a disagreeable suspicion had been confirmed. “I’m Drupe. Eustace Drupe, of Drupe, Damson and Taupe. I’m Miss Sill’s guardian and trustee. I arrived a few moments ago and was looking for Miss Sill.”

  “In the desk?” Sebastian asked pleasantly. Budgie swallowed a laugh and poked Sebastian in the arm.

  Drupe’s hard little eyes narrowed, and behind his compressed lips they could see his dentures slide from side to side, independent of his jaws. “Have you seen Miss Sill?”

  “She’s not here yet,” Budgie said.

  “She’s not?” Drupe’s teeth moved up and down, then clicked twice. “She gave me very precise instructions as to how and when to get here, but she herself has not arrived.” Two more clicks. “Most inconsiderate. Most annoying.” Drupe’s eyes then focused at a spot directly through their bodies and two feet behind them, thereby precluding any possibility of further conversation.

  Sebastian looked at him for a long minute, then shrugged. “Well, it was certainly a pleasure. There will be tea in the lounge if we can ever find the kitchen.”

  “Down the hall; turn left,” Drupe said, not changing the focus of his eyes.

  “Oh? Ta.” They started to leave, then Sebastian leaned back in. “You might try that Chinese cabinet over there.”

  “What for?” Drupe’s raspy voice rose alarmingly, and his glance was suddenly sharp and suspicious.

  “For Miss Sill, of course. Given the choice, no one would stay in a desk any more.” Sebastian grinned and exited.

  Back in the corridor Sebastian said, “What a strange person.”

  Considering the source, some people might have found this assessment a bit strange too, but Aunt Budgie didn’t notice. “Why isn’t she here yet?” she said. “I hope nothing’s happened.”

  “I wouldn’t worry. Having had the Colonel for an uncle, Violet for a friend, and Drupe for a lawyer, I don’t know what more could happen to poor little Mousey Squeak.” Sebastian put a comforting arm around Budgie’s shoulders and smiled. “If she’s got any sense at all, she probably decided not to show up.”

  Budgie pulled away and looked at Sebastian, very alarmed, her pale watery eyes round and her soft cheeks shaking. “You don’t really think so, do you?”

  “Well, I’ve been known to give my own parties a miss.”

  “But that would spoil everything,” Budgie said. Then she turned and bustled down the hall, clucking worriedly to herself.

  Sebastian watched her, eyebrows raised in mild interest. He had the very rare sensation of feeling that he might well be the least unbalanced person present. He shrugged, then took a few quick strides and caught Aunt Budgie at the end of the corridor.

  Off to the left where the passage turned, they heard a rhythmic thumping, as though of a machine on an assembly line, and a weird, high-pitched wailing noise, like that of a cat caught in a drill press. Following the sound, they finally found themselves in the kitchen.

  It was a huge, old-fashioned room, filled with giant sinks, great black stoves, and a bank of ovens. Hanging from the beams were oversized utensils (whose original functions were obscure, although they did give Sebastian some interesting ideas) and immense cast-iron pots, seemingly large enough to stew up whole villages. Bigger than most restaurant kitchens, it could easily have accommodated a platoon of sauciers and sous-chefs, and been used to prepare formal dinners for 150 people, or more.

  At the moment, though, it held just one person. At the far end of the room, next to what was undoubtedly the door to a walk-in freezer, a man was working at the long butcher’s bench. Even from behind, it was obvious he was Chinese, with muscular shoulders and short black hair standing out on his head in spiky tufts.

  “That’s Mr. Ching,” Sebastian whispered. “Our cook.”

  Mr. Ching was chopping away at something with a large cleaver. The amazing speed and accuracy with which he worked was that of a highly skilled artisan, and the regular chk-chk of the cleaver hitting the chopping block could have come from a precision die-cutter.

  Sebastian and Budgie could not see what he was chopping, but from the agonized screeches they heard, they were afraid it was some still-living creature. However, when they moved closer they saw it was merely a slab of meat cut from what appeared to be the leg of a very large beast. The wailing sounds came from a small portable phonograph playing a selection from the Peking Opera along with which Mr. Ching was enthusiastically humming.

  Budgie and Sebastian moved close to Mr. Ching, but he was too immersed in the music and his work to notice. Sebastian tried to get his attention, but without success. Finally, after practically shouting “Excuse me” for the fourth time, he got through.

  Mr. Ching leapt high in the air and whirled around, his mouth ferociously open in a silent scream of surprise and anger. As he hit the ground, the cleaver came down on the thickest part of the leg and effortlessly sliced completely through it, bone and all, with a terse thwack. Mr. Ching pulled the cleaver from the chopping block and faced Budgie and Sebastian, assuming an attack stance—poised, knees bent, on the balls of his feet, with the cleaver held out to the side.

  Budgie whimpered and scurried to stand behind Sebastian. Had Sebastian been quicker off the mark, he probably would have taken cover behind her, but as it was, he smiled and placatingly held out his hands.

  “Guess the housekeeper’s not here, right?”

  Mr. Ching spat out a short, harsh statement in Mandarin tones, and took a half shuffle-step towards them.

  “You’re right,” Sebastian said hastily, still smiling. “She’s probably upstairs, and that’s where we’ll look.”

  Moving backwards as fast as they could, Sebastian and Budgie got themselves out of the kitchen. In the hallway again, they heard what sounded like a brief laugh, followed by the resumption of the rhythmic chopping.

  “Oh, my,” Budgie said.

  “Hmm,” Sebastian said. “He acts like someone used his wok for washing out underwear. Charming.”

  Going up the back stairway to the second floor, Sebastian paused on the landing to look out the window. He saw a small boat approaching the dock, and then, much farther away, another boat moving slowly through the choppy grey water.

  “More company,” he said to himself. “And none too soon.”

  At the same moment that Sebastian was trying to make out who was in the nearer boat, its passenger was gazing up at the Sill mansion—which looked, from
that perspective, particularly grim and foreboding. The passenger, warmly wrapped in a full-length wolf’s-fur coat, was Derrick Costain, well-known man about town and Rosa’s fiancé. His glossy black hair was brushed back from his broad forehead, and fell over the top half of his ears in thick, windswept waves. The tilt of his head, the angle of his firm chin, the thrust of his elegant nose, all suggested that he was at the helm of a sleek ocean-going sloop, rather than huddled on the front bench of a ten-foot dinghy. His deep tan, especially at this dreary time of the year, seemed to speak of Caribbean weekends and polo ponies. Or, perhaps, mid-town tanning clinics.

  If, while looking at the house, Derrick saw the vague outline of Sebastian’s pink-clad form behind the small landing window, it certainly did not register. His ordinarily smooth brow was creased, a sure sign that he was deep in thought.

  “What could little Pinky have been thinking about,” he wondered. “Coming up here at this time of the year? I told her, if she wants to go away to celebrate, there are lots of places we could go. I mean, it’s not like she couldn’t afford it. But no, she insisted. Sure been acting strange lately. And when she gave me the instructions to come out here. That look of hers. Kind of distant and secretive. Like she’d made a decision. Christ! Has she heard something? That’s all I need. And after all I’ve put into this. Maybe my last chance. No, don’t even think it.

  “Damn! Look at that place. What a dump! But it’s worth a bundle, that’s for sure. Maybe we can sell it or trade it. And I will get a chance to check out that idea of mine. Wouldn’t it be something if that came through? If I’m right, it could solve all my problems. And even if not, I just have to hold on a little longer, and then everything’s easy.

  “I just wish I knew what was in her mind. Damn silly bitch! It was all going so well. If this falls apart, that could be it for this boy. The old finito. No! She couldn’t have heard. Could she? Damn, damn, damn. I’ll just have to count on the old Costain luck to pull me through. On the other hand, if I’d had some luck along the way, I wouldn’t be in this mess. Well, it should all be clear soon, one way or the other. Oughta be a real fun party.

  “Another boat. I wonder which one that is, which lucky guest? I say! From this distance, she looks pretty good. Maybe this won’t be so bad after all.

  “Here’s the dock at last, thank God. I thought this boat trip would never end. I wonder how poor little Pinky’s going to take it? She gets seasick walking through puddles. Serve her right. Her own damn fault. Dumb idea. But I’ll be so kind and considerate…take care of my poor little Pinky Sillikins. That’s right. Hang in there, Derrick, old boy. With any luck at all, this time next year you’ll be some place a whole lot better.”

  Meanwhile, in the boat still approaching the island, the passenger shivered once and tried to snuggle deeper into her voluminous, heavy wool Navy-surplus pea jacket. On the lapel, the ornate medals from several long-since-defunct principalities softly jangled together.

  Once again, Derrick’s finely honed instincts, effective even at considerable distances, had proved to be correct. Cerise Redford, the passenger in the boat, was indeed good looking, though some might feel she tried her best to disguise it.

  Her hair was a striking shade somewhere between copper and maroon. Hanging in a series of shaggy layers, it was not unlike a deep-pile nylon bathmat—which was precisely the lo-tech look she wanted. Her face was a smooth oval, and even a heavy application of make-up could not totally obscure its pale, perfect, pre-Raphaelite quality. Lots of black stuff around her clear green eyes turned them into something from an Egyptian tomb inscription, but their wit and intelligence still shone through. Thick dark lipstick made her mouth a startling crimson blotch, but did not cover up the fact that it smiled frequently.

  For someone as gloriously, as flagrantly, as antagonistically contemporary as twenty-six-year-old Cerise Redford, the position she held—that of secretary/companion to Rosa Sill—was a curiously old-fashioned one. Still, it was precisely the one she wanted. Or, rather, the one she had to have.

  Like Derrick moments before, Cerise examined the manor house as she approached the shore. There must have been something in its grotesque features that prompted ambiguous reveries, for she too grew thoughtful.

  “So that’s where it happened. Considering the Victorian, maybe even eighteenth-century, nature of it all, that gothic folly would certainly have been an appropriate setting. Christ! Poor Becky. It was a big deal then. As was made very clear to me more than once. Stupid, sanctimonious, small-town bitches!

  “But I shouldn’t complain. I guess it could’ve been worse. Apparently, it was worse, for her. Poor little kid. Shipped off and around. At least Becky cared, did her best. But never got over it. She’d die if she knew I was here. Golly, look at that—turrets and everything. It’s funny. I really am kind of glad to see this place, at last. But I can’t imagine why she’d want to come out here.

  “Lately, though, I haven’t been able to figure her at all. She seems to be changing. Which, all things considered, might not be so bad. But the way she’s been looking at me, acting. I get the feeling she knows. Or suspects.

  “Will it make any difference if she does? It shouldn’t. I’ll get what’s mine. One way or another.

  “If I still want it.

  “What do you mean, ‘if’? Don’t be an idiot. It’s what you’ve planned for years, especially the last two.

  “Except before there was jealousy, even hate. Now I’m not so sure any more…Or sometimes I’m not sure.

  “Don’t be a jerk. Take what’s yours, take what you can. That’s what you decided. You’re becoming a dishrag. You’ve been around her too long.

  “My God! Now I’m talking to myself. I must be cracking up. It’s finally getting to me. And it used to be so straightforward. Well, I’ll try not to worry about it for just a while longer. I have the feeling that everything will become clear very soon. This promises to be quite some get-together.

  “Yeah. And so was the Masque of the Red Death.

  “Oh, hell. That guy is waiting on the dock for me. What does he think he’s doing? It must be Derrick. At least I hope it is. Two people like that would be too much. Jesus.

  “Take a deep one, kiddo. Here we go.”

  The man running the outboard smoothly manoeuvred his boat up to the dock. Derrick leaned forward, smiling, his large, strong teeth very white against his dark tan. He extended his hand to help Cerise from the boat.

  Cerise looked at the teeth, then the manicured hand, then nimbly hopped off the boat without assistance. The boatman handed up her green nylon duffle bag.

  After they introduced themselves, Derrick, still smiling confidently, made no attempt to hide the fact that his eyes were moving all over her, from her shaggy, metallic hair to her ragged, blue canvas deck shoes, studying her, sizing her up. Cerise looked back steadily, expressionlessly, her only thought that his magnificent fur coat would’ve looked a helluva lot better if it was still on its original owners.

  When he finished his leisurely examination, Derrick smiled at her with even more self-assurance. “Now I know why Pinky never introduced us.”

  Cerise coolly looked at him. “So do I,” she said.

  The small boat started to move off, and she went to the end of the dock. “When will you be back to pick us up?” she called.

  The boatman looked up at her, but said nothing. Then he swung the boat around and chugged off.

  “Mine wouldn’t tell me, either,” Derrick said. “You know, a few minutes ago, I couldn’t imagine anything worse than being stranded in this place.…Now, I’m not so sure.” He flashed her another dazzling testimony to his dentist’s skill.

  “We’d better go up to the house,” Cerise said coldly.

  Scarcely missing a beat, Derrick moved to pick up her duffle bag, but Cerise jerked it out of his grasp. At that instant, Derrick saw an odd expression flash behind her green eyes. At first he thought she was annoyed, then he thought she was scared. But that didn’
t make any sense, and before he could make up his mind, the strange look was gone.

  “I can do it myself,” Cerise said, putting the bag’s strap over her shoulder.

  One of Derrick’s eyebrows lifted as he watched her stride determinedly towards the house. “I’ll bet you can,” he said softly.

  He picked up his own elegant designer bags of honey-coloured leather and followed Cerise.

  By this time, in their search for the housekeeper, Sebastian and Budgie had covered the second floor, which held far more bedrooms than would be needed by their small party, and were now going down one of the low-ceilinged corridors on the top floor. This had originally held the servants’ quarters, as well as numerous storage rooms. If no expense had been spared on the lower floors, corners had not only been cut but entirely eliminated by the time construction had reached this level. Old Augustus, who had started life selling pickled fish from a barrel, had believed that the lower orders had to be kept in their place. And their place was the attic, in spartan little cubicles that managed to be both airless and drafty at the same time.

  “…and her real name is Mrs. Hook—if you can believe it,” Sebastian was saying. “But I call her Medusa, because the way she glares at you she might be trying to turn you to stone.”

  “Now, dear, I’m sure you’re exaggerating.”

  “You haven’t met Mrs. Hook yet. She’s the kind of person who regards it as a great imposition—even an affront—to be asked to do any of the things she was hired to do. Makes like she’s doing you a huge favour if she does her job. Because really, you see, she was hired so that you could make her life easier, rather than the reverse.”

  “Well, dear, I wouldn’t know because the Colonel won’t let me have any, but they do say that good help is hard to find.”