Muriel’s Adventures

by Barron, Melinda

  Muriel went to the wardrobe and pulled open the doors. It was crammed full of dresses and shoes.

  “Very odd,” she said. “We need to talk to her friends, see what sort of wardrobe she actually had. Maybe there were more dresses stored somewhere else and that’s what she took.”

  “Or maybe Merlin kidnapped her,” Ewan said. “Maybe he killed her and is trying to cover it up by writing a note that they were going in search of his birthright. The first thing we need to do is question her friends.”

  “Well, the first thing we’re doing, or I’m doing, is talking to Mr. Holmes,” Muriel said. “I want to ask him how he knows Mr. Robson-Jones and why he suggested that we look into Phee’s disappearance.”

  “Possibly because I’m the only detective he knows,” Ewan said. “Plus, I’m successful, aren’t I?”

  “You mean we’re successful, right?” She wagged her finger at him. “I’ve had a hand in some of your investigations.”

  “You have,” he said. “I’ll go with you to talk to Mr. Holmes, and then we’ll go to the theater.”

  “I don’t think that’s such a good idea,” she said. “After all, I have to work at the shop this afternoon. I don’t think Mr. Holmes will be too keen on you being there when I’m supposed to be tending to the customers.”

  “Then I’ll go to the theater without you,” he said. “After we talk to Mr. Holmes.”

  “Wrong again,” she said. “Why should you get to talk to Mr. Holmes and then go to talk to the theater friends by yourself? It’s not fair.”

  “Fair?” Ewan cocked his head and narrowed his eyes at her.

  “Fair,” she repeated. “If I’m going to help solve the case I need to be in on all the questioning.”

  “You seem out of sorts,” he said. “Have I upset you in some way?”

  “I just had a bad day yesterday and I’m afraid it’s carried over,” she said. “I like the idea of questioning people about Phee Robson-Jones. I hate the idea of being yelled at by a man who thinks I know nothing about literature.”

  He took her hands in his and squeezed. “I’m sorry, I should have let you discuss it last night, and I’m afraid things were rather interrupted. I tell you what, you question Mr. Holmes and we’ll go to the theater group when you’re off shift. What time will that be?”

  “Not until five,” she said. “My position is getting in the way of my fun.”

  “Perhaps it’s time to give up your position,” Ewan said.

  Had she heard him right? She knew her shock was displayed on her face, because he laughed.

  “We’ve been doing quite well in the investigation department,” he said. “We would never be able to afford a new home in Kensington, but we would be able to spend more time together. After all, if this case takes us out of town, which I think it will, I don’t want to go alone. And you can’t go if Mr. Holmes objects unless you leave your position.”

  Yes, she was definitely shocked. “I don’t know what to say.” She cleared her throat. “Well, I suppose I do. I don’t think this is a decision we should make in the middle of Phee Robson-Jones’ bedroom.”

  “Don’t lie, you’d rather be a detective than a bookseller,” Ewan said. “We’d get to spend more time together, and we could take on more cases.”

  “Yes, but my job provides regular income,” she said. “With your work we only get paid when a job comes along.”

  He sat down on the edge of the bed. “You’re right, we should discuss this later, when we’re at home. We need to keep looking around for other things that might give us a clue as to where we can search. You take the bookshelf, and I’ll look under the bed and tap on the walls to see if there’s a hidden compartment.”

  “A hidden compartment? Are you writing fiction now?” Muriel laughed.

  “There were hidden rooms in the house where we met, if you remember, right?”

  “Oh yes, I remember,” she said as she bent and examined the titles on Phee’s shelves. As memories flooded back of the cases they’d worked together, she thought about his suggestion of her giving up her job and working with him. She rather liked the idea.

  She listened as he pounded on walls, and she couldn’t help but smile. Leave it to her husband to never give up on anything. He would probably tap on every inch of the wall to see what he could find.

  “Anything interesting on the shelves?” he asked.

  “Bronte sisters, Shakespeare plays, Austen, and, oh, Trollope. But other than that—oh, wait a minute.”

  “What did you find?” he asked.

  “It looks like a journal,” she said. “Actually, it looks likes several of them.”

  She waved the leather-bound sheets toward hm. “Tell me, if you were running wouldn’t you take them with you? I would. If I had been recording my personal thoughts for years, enough to make…” she leaned over and counted, “one, two, three, four, five volumes, you wouldn’t leave them behind for your father to read.”

  “Wouldn’t you?” he asked. He paused before he asked, “Why?”

  She turned to him. “All her life, a woman is taught that she is supposed to be chaste, to keep herself for marriage. Phee Robson-Jones has never been married. But she ran off with a man whom, for all intents and purposes, is her lover. I would say he was not her first.”

  “You’d say that because she has feather boas and silk scarves in her bedroom?”

  “Well, that plus this.” She turned back to the bookcase and pulled out a slim volume.

  “What is that?” he asked.

  “It’s a French novel,” she said. “We’ve ordered them in the store once or twice. They are love stories, quite explicit ones. They go into great detail about sex. I don’t think she’d have this on her shelves if she hadn’t read it.”

  “Are you sure that’s what it is?” Ewan took a step toward her.

  Muriel opened the book to the middle section. “It’s been translated into English.” She cleared her throat. “Josephine palmed her breasts and then took hold of her nipples, twisting them tightly for the man and woman sitting in front of her. ‘Please suck me,’ she begged. ‘Which one of us?’ the man asked. ‘I don’t care,’ Josephine responded. ‘I want mouths on my tits before I take a cock up my ass.’”

  “Oh my,” Ewan said. “Do you read these when they come into the store?”

  “Why yes, I do,” she said. “They are special orders, but I always make sure to take the time to read about Josephine, because she is the main character in the books, and her many lovers. In the last one she had three men, one for each opening in her body.”

  “All at the same time?” Ewan asked.

  “Well, it depends on which part of the book you were reading,” she said. “Sometimes they took turns, and sometimes she entertained them all. They would draw lots to see who got to plug her bum.”

  “She sounds like a naughty girl,” Ewan said.

  “Oh, very.” Muriel wiggled the book in the air. “But she’s always thoroughly spanked, sometimes even birched until her bottom is redder than an apple. That’s the writer’s words, not mine.”

  “You’re making my dick hard, and that is making it difficult to concentrate on the case at hand,” Ewan said. “Maybe I’ll have to dig up my own birch rod to punish you with tonight.”

  He rubbed his fingers over his crotch and Muriel licked her lips. “Promise?”

  “Depends on what we have to do in this case,” he said. “Perhaps I should tie you to the tree before I birch you.”

  “Perhaps you should.” She went back to the shelf and took out the last three volumes of Phee’s journals.

  “Do you think we should ask for permission?” he asked, but she could tell from the sound of his voice that he was doing it just for show, in case Mr. Robson-Jones came into the room while they were gathering up his daughter’s diaries.

  “Certainly,” she said. Muriel cradled the books in her arms. “Perhaps you can ask him tonight, or tomorrow afternoon. Of course, I don’t want to t
ake these to the bookshop in case someone might think they were for sale. I’ll grab a hansom and go home before I head to the store.”

  “An excellent plan, as always,” he said.

  “As always? As far as I know this is the first time I’ve ever come up with this plan,” she said, then she winked.

  “What a smart mouth you have,” he replied. “Something we need to work on.”

  “Your other fixes have not helped,” she said. “I look forward to seeing what you plan next.”

  He muttered something she didn’t understand, and then the door burst open. She looked up to see Vernon Robson-Jones standing there.

  “Have you news?” she asked, mostly because he looked as if he wanted to say something, but he wasn’t quite sure how to do it. She pulled the books closer to her, praying he didn’t see them and ask what they were.

  “I wanted to stop in before I left for the theater,” he said. “We have a performance of the Scottish play tonight, and one of my actors is giving me fits.”

  “Actors are known to do that, aren’t they?” Ewan asked.

  “Yes, they are,” Robson-Jones said. “I had hoped to receive a missive from Phee in the post today, but there has been nothing.”

  “Don’t worry, we’ll find her,” Ewan said. “I want to come down to the theater and speak with your actors, if that is all right with you?”

  “I would rather you wait until after the performance,” Robson-Jones said. “I don’t want to get them anxious and speaking to a detective might bring about nerves for many of them. Say around ten tonight? Is that too late?”

  “That is fine,” Ewan said, and Muriel was sure he was thinking that this would work to their advantage. The later time meant she would be able to go with him.

  “Have you found anything that might give you a clue?” Robson-Jones asked.

  “Nothing right now,” Ewan answered.

  Muriel felt a little guilty about the diaries she had in her arms. Should they tell him about them, or would it get his hopes up? It probably would be best to wait and tell him about the journals later.

  “Mr. Robson-Jones, did your daughter leave any other clues around the house as to where she and her paramour were heading?” Ewan asked. “Are you sure they are not going to Gretna Green?”

  “The only thing I have is the letter which you have read,” he said.

  “May we speak with your wife?” Muriel asked. “Perhaps Phee said something to her.”

  “My wife is at a friend’s house, and has taken to her bed,” Robson-Jones said. “I don’t believe she would be any use to you in this matter. She is quite upset with this turn of events.”

  Muriel nodded, and made a mental note to speak to Ewan when they were alone in the cab together.

  “Then we will take our leave,” Ewan said. He walked in front of Muriel, effectively blocking Robson-Jones’ view of her. Then he took off his coat and wrapped it around her shoulders and pulled it closed in front of her. When he did, it concealed the books she held in her arms and she knew he was thinking the same thing she was—that it was best not to let him know they had them at this point in time.

  “We will see you tonight,” Ewan said.

  “Come early and I will leave seats for you at the theater door,” Robson-Jones said. “I think you will enjoy the production.”

  “Thank you, we will do that,” Muriel said before Ewan could decline. He wasn’t a big fan of the theater, but she enjoyed the stories that were told, even when she knew the plots, as she did with the Scottish play.

  When they were in the cab and headed toward their home so they could store the books, he said, “Macbeth… you’ve sentenced us to watching Macbeth. I should withhold sex for a month for this transgression. You know I don’t like Shakespeare.”

  “It will be entertaining,” she said. “Plus, we can watch the crowd. There is every chance Phee could be there, that she is pulling one over on her parents.”

  “I hate to admit I had not thought of that,” he said. “We do need to spend time reading her last few entries.”

  She handed him the books, wishing she would be able to stay with him so they could read the journals together.

  “I suppose I do need to think about leaving my job,” she said. “But I worry.”

  “We’ll think about it after the case is over,” he said. “I think you need to talk with Mr. Holmes on your own. I will go home and start reading. I’ll even prepare supper for us tonight.”

  “What a frightening thought,” Muriel said with a laugh. “I’ll be sure to stop by the druggist for a tonic just in case my stomach can’t handle your creation.”

  “Please, my food is better than yours,” he said.

  Muriel smiled, because she knew he was right. If there was something she wasn’t it was a cook.

  The cab dropped her off at The Written Word, and when it was gone she went into the store. There were many customers, and Mr. Holmes looked harried. When he saw her, he didn’t seem pleased. She nodded at him and wondered where Connie, the other clerk, was. She was supposed to be working this afternoon and should be here by now.

  By way of greeting he jerked his head toward the back of the store where three men stood looking at something. As she drew nearer she could see their attention was drawn to books on—she stopped in her tracks as she realized what they were looking at—books on King Arthur.

  That couldn’t be a coincidence as far as she was concerned.

  “May I help you, gentlemen?” she said as she drew near.

  “Which is the most historically accurate book in this genre?” one of them said as he held up a copy of Le Morte d’Arthur.

  “None of them,” she said. “Those are novels. King Arthur is a myth.”

  She’d said it on purpose, waiting to see how they would react. All three of them started to talk at once, telling her how wrong she was and wanting to know how she could sell books when she was so ignorant.

  “You do realize Arthur is a myth, right?” Muriel glanced from one man to another.

  “Not true,” the taller one said. “Besides, there is a rumor running about that Excalibur has been found. We need books that will tell us where to look so we can go in search of the sword.”

  “Find the Lady of the Lake,” Muriel said.

  “Is that in Cornwall?” one of the men asked.

  Muriel held back a laugh. “You should read the book you’re holding.” She pointed at the tome the middle man was grasping as if his life depended on it. “Good luck with your search.”

  She turned to where Mr. Holmes stood. He frowned, and then narrowed his eyes in obvious anger. She should have come to work on time instead of begging off this morning. Or maybe he was unhappy because she’d told the men that Arthur wasn’t real.

  Mr. Holmes turned from her to greet a new customer. Muriel turned to where the three men stood. They seemed to be arguing about something. She went to them, intent on asking them about the rumor they’d mentioned, but not wanting to make them suspicious that she wanted to horn in on their search for the sword.

  “Is there something else I can help you gentlemen with?” she asked.

  “No,” one of them all but barked.

  His friend nudged him with his elbow. “Mind your manners.” He turned to Muriel. “Forgive my brother. We actually came in to talk with Mr. Holmes and are just waiting on him to be finished with his patrons.”

  “I see,” Muriel said. “I’ll go see if I can help him, then.”

  She took over at the front and watched as Mr. Holmes joined the conversation the three men were having. There were enough people around that Muriel couldn’t eavesdrop.

  They left about twenty minutes later, and Muriel, along with Mr. Holmes, took care of the customers that streamed in and out the door until after five. When the doors were locked she turned to Mr. Holmes.

  “Where is Connie? Is she ill?”

  “She has left us,” he said. “The note she sent me, which I received right after I read
yours, explained she had taken a position as a governess for a lord. She didn’t say which one, so I wonder if it is true, or if she is off on some scheme.”

  Off searching for Excalibur? Muriel wondered.

  “I am very sorry to be late. Please forgive me. We were talking with Mr. Robson-Jones, the man you sent to us, so we can search for his daughter.”

  “So Ewan could search,” Mr. Holmes said. “He is the detective, is he not?”

  “You know I help him,” she said. “I do apologize for leaving you here alone today. I will not do it again.”

  “We’ll see,” she heard him murmur.

  “May I ask how you know Mr. Robson-Jones?”

  “He was at school with my older brother,” Mr. Holmes said. “I think at one time Vernon thought of me marrying Phee. Of course, that was before I met my wife. When she left me Vernon suggested, once again, that Phee would make a good wife. But she is a bit young for me, and, well, I’m not sure I want a wife again.”

  Muriel wasn’t sure what to say on that subject, so she decided to change it.

  “The men that were in here today were talking about Excalibur, which is what the man who has supposedly run off with Phee is interested in. Do you know this man?”

  “I do,” Mr. Holmes said. “His name is Raef Montgomery. I’m surprised that Vernon didn’t tell you we all grew up together, although Raef is more my age than Vernon’s. But Raef, to my point of view, has been mentally unstable for years. His family has always said they were related to Merlin, that they were sorcerers who used their magic to better themselves and to put curses on others.”

  “Did you believe him?”

  Mr. Holmes huffed. “Did I not tell you that he was, in my point of view, mentally unstable? He has found the perfect patsy in Phee. She is horribly spoiled, and she is ridiculously romantic and believes all the tales of what are, truly, myths.”

  “Do you think he would hurt her?”

  “Doubtful,” Mr. Holmes said. “I believe he fell in love with her. Phee probably has returned the emotions. She is, as I said, a romantic.”