An Old-Fashioned Mystery

by Runa Fairleigh

  “And La Hook does nothing to refute that,” Sebastian laughed. “After all, we’ve been looking for nearly twenty minutes. But I think our goal is near.”

  He pointed to where the dimness of the corridor was broken by a rectangle of pale yellow light coming out of the open door of one of the storage rooms. They heard sounds of rooting and rummaging, and of objects being roughly chucked about, all punctuated by harsh grunts and guttural curses.

  “Sounds like the grande dame herself,” Sebastian said. He held up a warning finger. “Approach with caution. You thought old Ching was alarming, but you ain’t seen nothing yet.”

  “Now, dear…” Budgie clucked, and pushed Sebastian’s arm in good-natured reproof. Still, she was careful to position herself behind him as they approached the door.

  Looking in, they saw the crepe bottoms of two sensible shoes, above which was a large rectangular expanse of black rayon tautly stretched across two rather square buttocks.

  “Hmm. Like being behind the eight cube,” Sebastian whispered, and Budgie pushed him again, a little more roughly this time.

  The rest of Mrs. Hook was hidden beneath a large pile of the kind of garbage that is always found in attics. Broken bits of once useful objects; perfectly intact specimens of useless ones; half-empty containers of products whose manufacturers had long since ceased to exist; things of sentimental or potentially pragmatic value, like a box labelled “Pieces of string too short to save”; the usual stuff. Into all this Mrs. Hook burrowed furiously, noisily, like a pig after truffles. A snort of triumph, then she slowly backed out of the heap and stood up. When she turned around and saw Budgie and Sebastian, her eyes went round and her lips pulled back on her crooked and discoloured teeth, as though preparatory to snarling. She quickly recovered, though, and her eyes narrowed in a way that gave Budgie a good idea of what Sebastian had meant. For his part, Sebastian couldn’t decide if the gimlet stare that pinned him was one of suspicion or—could it be?—guilt.

  Seen in her entirety, Mrs. Hook looked like a cubist’s rendition of a housekeeper, all black-and-white rectangular blocks and flat surfaces lumpily stuck together. Broad, mannish shoulders, a stern shelf-like bosom, chunky hands with blunt, stubby fingers, large square hips, and sturdy pillar legs. Her face looked almost completely flat beneath the square little maid’s cap that tightly covered her short steel-grey hair. Below a wide forehead overhanging small eyes and a compressed upturned nose with flaring nostrils, the permanent frown of her mouth formed vertical crease lines down her face, making her chin look like that of a ventriloquist’s dummy. So great was the impression of large, dense immobility that Sebastian felt it would be necessary to call a taxicab in order to go around her.

  With difficulty he forced his eyes away from Mrs. Hook’s to the box she held in her hand. It was very dusty from years of abandonment, but there was no mistaking the large skull and crossbones on the front, nor the bold yellow letters announcing RAT POISON. Then Sebastian noticed the other boxes neatly stacked near the door. Each was dedicated to the eradication of a different pest, but each displayed the same clear image of Jolly Roger.

  “Charming,” Sebastian mumbled.

  “We got rats,” Mrs. Hook announced, much as some restaurants said that they had three stars. “We got mice. We got roaches. I told Missy it’d be no good coming here. That there’d be nothing but work for a body. Told her there’d be vermin running all over the place.” She looked hard at Sebastian as she said this, and he involuntarily backed up a step, bumping into Budgie.

  “But does little Missy listen?” Mrs. Hook went on, addressing the bare lightbulb overhead. “No, of course not. Does little Missy care how much work she makes for a body? No, of course not. It’s ‘Please do this, Mrs. Hook. Please do that, Mrs. Hook. Could you do this if you get the chance? Would you do that if it’s not too much trouble, Mrs. Hook?’ Never gives a body a chance to rest. Some people just never have any consideration. Think the whole world is there for their pleasure. Well, I told little Missy, I told her, enough is enough. A body’s got to draw the line. And this body goes no further.” Mrs. Hook heavily stamped her square-toed sensible shoe. “And now we got rats.” She again squinted at Sebastian. “Well, what do you want?”

  Sebastian’s mouth moved soundlessly a few times before he managed the one word, “Tea.”

  “If it’s not too much trouble, dear,” Budgie quickly added.

  “For seven or eight, I think,” Sebastian said.

  Mrs. Hook’s eyes narrowed menacingly.

  “And be sure to make some for yourself, too, dear,” Budgie offered placatingly.

  Mrs. Hook grunted as she turned her back on them and bent to gather up the boxes.

  Budgie and Sebastian looked at one another and silently agreed it was time to leave. As they hurried down the corridor, they heard Mrs. Hook vehemently grumbling about how some people had learned that there’s some things a body won’t do, and how some other people were just going to have to learn it.

  “You see what I mean?” Sebastian said when they were at a safe distance.

  Budgie clucked a few times. “Oh, my. She certainly is…imposing, isn’t she?” She shivered. “You know, dear, I got the strangest sensation just then. I can’t explain it. It was one of…of.…”

  “Murder and mayhem!” a voice shrieked immediately behind them, as Mrs. Cassandra Argus leapt out from an unused storeroom. Once again, the black-robed figure nearly knocked them over as she careened down the long hall like a human bowling ball.

  “That’s one old bat I’d like to get out of this belfry,” Sebastian muttered as he attempted to fluff up and smooth down a most disarranged Aunt Budgie.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  When Sebastian and Budgie returned to the lounge, they found the Colonel and Violet separated by most of the room, and standing in postures indicative of considerable tension.

  “Not again!” Budgie said to herself, quite annoyed, and scurried over to her husband.

  Thinking that this looked promising, Sebastian joined Violet. “What’s up, Sis?”

  Her blue eyes flashed like valuable sapphires. “That son of a bitch tried to open some of my zippers,” she hissed, and checked again that everything on her jumpsuit was securely fastened.

  “And?”

  “I dissuaded him,” Violet said, in a way that made Sebastian think that the Colonel was lucky not to have become the latest addition to the mounted trophies he was so intently studying.

  A few minutes later Eustace Drupe, carrying a large, old, and very battered leather briefcase, came into the lounge, but his entrance did nothing to dispel the decidedly frigid atmosphere that had settled on the room. Glancing around and deciding there was little reason to choose either group, Drupe went over to Violet and Sebastian, and the latter performed the introductions.

  “I know about Mr. Drupe,” Violet said. “He was a presidential advisor and party fund raiser.”

  The lawyer bowed in acknowledgement, bending far enough to provide a glimpse of his lumpy cranium.

  “He also had the distinction,” Violet went on, “of being the least-well-known unindicted co-conspirator in that sleazy affair not long ago.”

  Drupe clicked his dentures twice, and his gaze hardened. “And I am not completely unfamiliar with you, Miss Cornichon. Tell me, what was the disposition of that most interesting case of yours?”

  “It has not been decided yet.”

  “What case is that, Violet?”

  “Nothing very important.”

  “No?” Drupe said. “It seems a young woman who used one of Miss Cornichon’s products ended up scarred for life.”

  “Neither causality nor liability has been determined.”

  “The case—and its settlement—should create precedent.” Drupe clicked his teeth and smiled at Violet. Sebastian thought he’d not seen an expression like that since the last time he watched The Return of the Mummy on the Late Show. Drupe again bowed slightly, and left to visit Budgie and the Colonel
.

  “Mousey’d better count the silver before she lets him leave,” Violet said through clenched teeth. “Desiccated old goat. That’s one corpus it’d be a pleasure to habeas.”

  Before Sebastian could pursue the most interesting issue that the lawyer had raised, Cerise and Derrick appeared in the doorway. She had on a cheerful red and blue plaid flannel shirt tucked into faded army fatigue pants that were, at the same time, amusingly baggy and intriguingly tight. Far tighter, though, was Derrick’s fawn-coloured Italian suit and his fine French shirt in palest yellow. The shirt was open to mid-torso to display curls so dark and thick that they nearly covered the heavy gold chain that nestled on his chest.

  “My goodness!” Sebastian said.

  Barely pausing, Derrick sized up the situation and made a beeline right to Violet. He positioned himself in such a way that Sebastian was effectively excluded from the conversation, then he took Violet’s hand and commenced introductions.

  When he heard Violet’s name, his eyes momentarily widened, but he did not surrender her hand. “As in Cornichon Cosmetics?” he asked.

  “Yes, Mr. Costain.”

  He smiled broadly, brought his other hand up to cover Violet’s, and leaned closer. “Call me Derrick,” he said in his most oily manner.

  “Gimme a break!” Sebastian said under his breath.

  Cerise, who was standing next to him, giggled, and they both immediately recognized that they would be friends. They huddled together, laughing and joking for a bit, then eased themselves next to Violet and Derrick, where yet more introductions were made.

  “I just love your jumpsuit,” Cerise said sincerely.

  “Oh? Thanks.”

  “Tell me, what surplus store did you get it at?”

  Sebastian, who recognized all of Violet’s danger signals, quickly ushered away a bewildered Cerise.

  “Let me introduce you to the Colonel,” he said. “He might shake his cane at you, but at least he won’t scratch your eyes out.…”

  And so, eventually, everyone got to meet everyone else, and discussions of varying degrees of animation and interest took place. As often occurs at gatherings of strangers, the party slowly began to collect itself close together in the centre of the room. Perhaps the proximity of others who are in the same boat in some way mitigates the pall of an otherwise boring or awkward conversation.

  Violet, at least, looked as though she’d welcome some fresh input as Derrick escorted her to one of the floral-patterned couches. He pushed aside Drupe’s briefcase so they could sit down, but because he was not paying much attention to what he was doing, the case accidentally fell to the floor and popped open, spilling its contents.

  A panicked gasp, like the scraping of a harsh desert wind, issued from Drupe, and he dove to retrieve his belongings.

  As one of Derrick’s few guiding principles was to always, always do whatever was necessary to ingratiate himself with people of wealth, power, and influence, he too gasped in horror. Then, uttering profuse apologies, he joined Drupe on the floor to help him gather in the scattered papers. This assistance seemed to upset Drupe even more, but Derrick was bigger and stronger, and insisted upon trying to make amends for his terrible gaffe.

  The insignia on the outside of a slender paper wallet caught Derrick’s attention, and with friendly curiosity he opened it. “Oh, I say! Going to Rio in two days! Lucky you!”

  Two red spots appeared on Drupe’s sallow, sunken cheeks. “Give me that, young man!” A claw-like hand shot out and tried to grab the ticket.

  “Are you going for business or pleasure? But of course, there’s always pleasure in Rio.”

  “Give me that!” This time Drupe managed to snatch the envelope from Derrick, and quickly shoved it into his briefcase.

  “Do you know Rio?” Derrick went on, blind to the lawyer’s agitation. “I adore it. I remember the Duchess once chartered a yacht, and we all went down for Carnival. Or Carnaval, as they call it down there.”

  “Oh, shut up,” Violet said, though perhaps not loud enough to be heard.

  Drupe finished picking up his things and made to sit down.

  “You missed something,” Sebastian said helpfully, retrieving an object from beneath the couch. It was roughly cylindrical, six inches long, and he looked curiously at it. “Yikes!” he said, as he inadvertently touched the hidden button and a razor-sharp blade sprang out with a menacing swoosh.

  “Thank you.” Drupe took the knife, closed it, put it in his pocket, and sat down, clutching his briefcase tightly against his scrawny chest.

  An uncomfortable silence, during which no one knew where to look and everyone tried unsuccessfully to think of something to say, settled on the room. It was Aunt Budgie who ended it at last.

  “Do you know, our boatman tried to tell us that this island was haunted. Or that there was a curse on it. Something like that. He was a bit vague about the details.”

  “Mine told me the same thing,” Cerise said. “There’s an Indian legend that disaster comes to anyone who spends the night here.”

  “Charming,” Sebastian said.

  “Balderdash!” the Colonel snorted.

  “It is no legend,” a voice behind them said. Once again, Mrs. Argus had materialized apparently out of nowhere. This time, however, she did not shriek. Her voice was calm, her manner reasonable; only her words were demented. “It is no legend. Death is in this house, and She—”

  “She?” Derrick asked, amused.

  “Yes, She. Death is a woman.”

  “At last! Equality!” Cerise said, and Sebastian giggled.

  “Laugh if you want,” Mrs. Argus said, and Sebastian no longer wanted to. “But Death is here. And She sits on your shoulders, and yours, and yours.…” A long bony finger pointed at each in turn, causing them to squirm uneasily and avert their eyes.

  “And yours, too?” Violet asked, but by then Mrs. Argus was no longer to be seen. “Damn! I’d like to know where she keeps popping out of and disappearing to.”

  “I’d like to know,” Sebastian said, his voice unusually hard, “why someone doesn’t step on that old hag.”

  “Hear, hear!” the Colonel said, pounding the floor with his cane.

  “Now, dear, don’t excite yourself,” Budgie soothed. Then her brow wrinkled and she looked around at the others, shaking her head apologetically. “I know I’m being silly—it’s probably just this lonely place, and the boatman’s stories, and everything—but I have the strangest feeling that something awful is going to happen.”

  “Well, I hope so,” Sebastian said. “And the sooner the better. This is getting awfully tedious.”

  “Sebastian!”

  “Well, it is, Violet.” He stood up and went over to the fireplace.

  “I don’t know about anything awful happening,” Cerise said, “but ever since I got here, I’ve had the feeling we’re being watched.”

  “Of course we are.” Sebastian pointed to the trophy wall. “There’re thirty-six pairs of glass eyes staring down at us.”

  “Yucko.” Cerise made a face, then shook her head. “No, it’s something else.”

  “It’s probably just that time of the month, sweetie,” Violet purred, smiling.

  “Tea!” Mrs. Hook announced, bringing the trolley to a halt with a clatter that expressed perfectly her opinion of this labour-intensive social custom. “You can serve yourselves. A body’s got enough work to do without pouring tea, too.”

  As she whirled to go, a lacy monogrammed hankie that was sticking out of a pocket in her uniform caught on a corner of the tea trolley and fell to the floor.

  Another of Derrick’s principles was that you always wanted the servants on your side, and so he quickly scooped up the frilly article, and said, “Mrs. Hook.” He had to repeat this, in successively louder tones, three times before she stopped her march across the room and turned around.

  “You talking to me?”

  “Your name’s Mrs. Hook, isn’t it?”

  The housekeep
er’s eyes narrowed suspiciously, and Derrick felt himself growing a bit rocky around the edges. He held up the hankie. With a sound like a vacuum seal being broken, Mrs. Hook sucked in a breath, then stormed across the room, grabbed the hankie, and headed out.

  “Mrs. Hook?” Cerise said tentatively, but this time the housekeeper stopped right away and turned again. “Did she—Miss Sill—say when she’d be arriving?”

  Mrs. Hook looked expressionlessly at Cerise. “Dinner’s at eight,” she said, and left.

  With that, they all seemed to want to drink their tea as fast as possible and retire until dinnertime.

  Soon, only Cerise was left in the lounge, pacing around, trying to determine the origin of that feeling she’d had. After the event, intuitions are often found to have had a basis in reality, and so it was to prove with the sensation Cerise had experienced. However, for the moment she was unable to figure out its cause, and soon went up to her room, again thinking that she must be cracking up.

  Even if the others had believed her—or had had similar feelings themselves—it is doubtful if it would have made any difference to what was shortly to happen.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The eight who gathered for dinner that evening did not seem to do so with much enthusiasm or appetite. Whatever the other reasons, the dining room itself certainly did not help. It was gloomy, dark-panelled, and high-ceilinged, and the huge dimly lit chandeliers over the long table seemed designed to cast shadows rather than shed light. Sebastian felt as though he’d wandered into an especially murky German expressionist film.

  After some initial jockeying for position, the Colonel sat at one end of the table and Aunt Budgie at the other. Mr. Drupe, Sebastian, and Cerise were down one side, and Mrs. Argus, Violet, and Derrick sat opposite them. Not, perhaps, an ideal arrangement, but probably the best that could be managed, all things considered.

  Soon after they were settled, Mr. Ching came in bearing a platter with a large but not very tasty-looking roast on it, and set it between the Colonel and Mrs. Drupe. After a few quick swipes on the whetstone brought the large knife to surgical sharpness, Mr. Ching began carving the joint.