Peril at Owl Park

by Marthe Jocelyn

  “You’ll eat more than a bit, Miss Day, I hope,” said Cook. “You’re as thin as a book, you are.”

  Miss Day flushed and protested. I supposed that Cook liked to see people grow round from eating her food, not lolling about looking wan and slim.

  “I feel well enough,” said Miss Day. “We’ve just been wondering whether the police will let us head out.”

  “We’ve got another engagement,” said Mr. Mooney. “Next Wednesday, New Year’s Eve.”

  “We’d have to replace Roger, if we keep the booking,” said Miss Day. “It’s dreadful to think of.”

  “The new hire will need to rehearse,” said Mr. Mooney. “We’re hoping for someone Roger’s size, so the costumes fit.”

  There was an awful silence.

  “That sounds a bit heartless,” said Miss Day. “But we need every shilling…No one hires actors after the holidays, so this is our last chance to make a little money. Weeks and weeks ahead of bread and soup for supper.”

  The baize door had been opening and shutting, over and over again, as servants moved in and out. They couldn’t sit all together for meals, especially today, because the people upstairs needed tending to. But this time, the person coming in made Mrs. Frost get quickly to her feet. The other servants jumped up to show respect as well. Even Miss Day and Mr. Mooney, who weren’t servants.

  “Goodness,” said Kitty Sivam. “You’re having a party.”

  “No, no, madam, not really,” said Mrs. Frost.

  Our paper crowns said otherwise, as did the table’s splendid feast. Mrs. Sivam must wonder how we could celebrate while a corpse lay upstairs and a priceless gem had been stolen from her husband’s bedchamber.

  “How can I help, madam?” said Mrs. Frost. “Is there something you wanted?” Upstairs guests did not often come to the kitchen, her voice said. It was possibly even wrong, her being here. But the entire day was wrong, we all knew that. A corpse in the library was wrong.

  Mrs. Sivam told everyone to please sit. Her voice trembled when she spoke.

  “I can’t find my husband,” she said. Was she angry? Or fighting tears? “After all the upset…that poor actor, and the Echo Emerald missing…I haven’t seen Lakshay since he left the library. I thought…” She looked back and forth between the footmen, Frederick and John. “I thought one of you might have seen him?”

  “I’m the one who’s assigned as his valet,” said Frederick, “only I was just up there to see if he needed anything, and he weren’t in his room. I’ve been worried where he might be.”

  Mrs. Frost led her to a chair. “You sit for a minute, madam. Would you like some lunch? Or a cup of tea?”

  Kitty shook her head, no tea, thank you, and she wouldn’t sit. But then she sat.

  “I heard something,” said Stephen, “in the library, where you found the dead man.”

  “Stephen,” said Mrs. Frost, sharply. “This is not the time for one of your ghost stories.”

  “It weren’t a ghost,” said Stephen. “Ghosts do moaning and chain-rattling. But I never heard a ghost saying ‘dunderhead’ as loud as a minister talking, even being midnight. That, alongside having the wrong boots in odd places, it were a very peculiar night.”

  “What do you mean by ‘wrong boots’?” I asked him.

  But Mrs. Sivam had begun to shiver and Mr. Mooney half-stood, as if he might be required to assist another fainting woman.

  “Ignore the boy, Mrs. Sivam, if you will,” said Mrs. Frost.

  “Not to mention, a murder!” said Stephen, with a touch of glee in his voice.

  Mrs. Frost raised a finger to warn him, and turned back to Mrs. Sivam.

  “Are you certain you won’t have tea?”

  “No, no thank you.” Mrs. Sivam looked pale and sick. She stared at Miss Day. “You’ve recovered quickly,” she said. Her eyes traveled to the shiny crown jauntily tilted on Miss Day’s auburn curls.

  “Tip-top,” said Miss Day. “Thank you for watching over me.”

  “And you?” said Mrs. Sivam to Mr. Mooney. “How are you feeling, about…Mr….”

  Mr. Mooney did not meet her inquiring eyes. “Heartbroken,” he said simply.

  Well, I knew what that felt like.

  A bell chimed, and then again.

  “That’s you, Frederick,” said Mrs. Frost, nodding up at the box fixed to the wall at the bottom of the stairwell. One circle on the display had turned green, indicating the need for a footman at the front door of the Great Hall.

  “On my way.” Frederick pushed back his chair. He left his emptied plate on the table and reached for his jacket from its hook. The bell chimed again before he’d clicked the lever to show he’d heard.

  “We’ve got all the modern touches here,” said Cook, flapping her hand at the bell box. “Ee-leck-tro-fried, that’s what I calls it. They rings a bell up there to tell who’s wanted, and off they go.”

  Suddenly a crackle sounded from somewhere near the steps.

  “Must be important if Mr. Pressman is using the speaking tube,” said Mrs. Frost.

  The butler’s voice boomed. “His lordship is back. The police are making their way up the drive, on snowshoes. They will arrive shortly. Footmen up front please, and a groom to the stables. Put snowshoes and poles in the box room. Stand by for further instructions. I repeat, the police are here.”

  The men pushed their plates aside and jumped to their feet. The maids gave them a quick look-over to make certain nothing was out of place.

  Mrs. Sivam stood, seeming bewildered amidst the hubbub.

  “Only the beginning,” sighed Mrs. Frost. “Police means snow and muck from their boots melting all over the floor. More buckets. More scrubbing. And men every which way!” Her fingers flew up to pat her hair and met the paper crown instead. “Wouldn’t that be a fine way to meet a detective?” She slid it off her head and onto the table.

  “Look sharp,” she told the remaining staff. “We’ll all be wanted, one way or another.” She clipped her way up the stairs while the maids cleared the table and got on with their tasks.

  “Thank you for a delicious lunch.” Annabelle, too, took off her paper crown and laid it on the table. “Having police come makes it horribly real,” she said. “Roger has been murdered.”

  “I’ll speak with the detective in charge,” said Mr. Mooney. “Find out when he thinks we might move along.”

  “We’ll likely have to cancel Inverness,” said Annabelle.

  “I should think so!” said Mrs. Sivam, turning to rebuke before she went through the baize door. “One man killed and another missing, as well as a priceless emerald? None of us will be going anywhere.”

  “No one cares about us, just for the moment,” I whispered to Hector and Lucy. “Let’s go back to the secret passage while we’ve got the chance. We can watch the police examine the body!”

  CHAPTER 14

  AN EAVESDROPPING INTERLUDE

  THE MORNING ROOM was thankfully empty. Poor Marjorie would be occupied by far more than letter-writing today. Lucy had the cabinet open in a flash, and the torch switched on.

  “The library is the second spy-hole, a few feet beyond the study,” she said. “Hector, you go first. I’ll tap your shoulder when we’re in the right spot. I’ll turn off the torch. Remember, no talking!”

  The passage wasn’t scary this time. Hector had just got into position when a sudden flash of light filled the narrow viewing slot.

  “What was that?” whispered Lucy.

  “Photograph,” Hector whispered back.

  “Who’s in there?” I said, soft as a mosquito.

  “Three policemen,” said Hector, “and Lord Greyson.”

  We heard a knock and the library door opening.

  “Ah, there you are, Doctor,” said James. “How is Mother?”

  “Not happy,” said Dr. Muss
elman. “Can’t find the chloroform drops I use to moisten the cotton packing in her tooth. I’ve had to rub on clove oil instead. The taste is…not pleasant.”

  “Oh, dear,” said James. “Well, the patient here in the library is past complaining. This is Detective Inspector Willard, and his sergeants, Fellowes and Shaw. Shaw is taking photographs of the scene, before Mr. Corker’s body is moved.”

  We heard murmurs as they presumably shook hands, while James finished the introductions. “Gentlemen, this is Dr. Musselman. He is a family guest and a private physician. He confirmed the death at eight forty-nine this morning.”

  “Damn cold in here,” said the doctor.

  “I asked for the fire to remain unlit,” said James. “Best to preserve the chill until the bod—until the deceased is taken elsewhere. We can’t have servants trucking in and out.”

  “An excellent decision,” said Inspector Willard.

  There came another bright flash. Hector pulled back from the spy-hole and blinked a couple of times before resuming his post. I was longing to see what he could see!

  “Two more angles, Sergeant Shaw,” said the inspector, “and then we’ll turn him over.”

  “Do you wish to sit, Inspector?” said James.

  “I prefer to stand, my lord. It helps me commit the room to memory.”

  Another burst of light, then quiet, broken only by an occasional muffled word. Hector made room for me to take his place. I could see the head and torso of poor Mr. Corker on the floor. The sergeant named Shaw was setting up a tripod to hold steady his box camera. The other sergeant and Dr. Musselman were not in my sightline just then. James leaned on the lectern that held the dictionary. Inspector Willard stood in the center of the room, rotating slowly, muttering to himself the whole time.

  “Bookshelf. Reading chair, squashed pillow. Glass of…” He went over and bent at the waist to sniff. “Rum, I’d say.” Then, “Fire tongs, oil painting in gold frame. Very fine landscape, by the way,” he said. “Is that an original by Edwin Landseer?”

  “Yes, it is,” said James. “You’ve a good eye.”

  “Dictionary,” continued the inspector. “Open to what page, my lord?”

  “The M section,” said James. “Maudlin on the upper left. Meticulous on the lower right.”

  “Maudlin,” repeated Inspector Willard as he turned. “Occasional table. Lamp. Writing desk. Sterling-handled accessory set: two pens, a blotter, a seal, a paper knife, a page-turner, an inkstand. Meticulous. Queen Anne chair with tufted cushion…”

  And so on. A bit dull. No wonder Hector had shifted.

  But then, pop! Another flash, and, “I’m done, sir,” said Sergeant Shaw.

  Willard perked up, the moment he’d been waiting for. “I’d like to have that blade out, don’t you think, Doctor? Before any shifting? Can we do that?”

  “Certainly,” said Dr. Musselman. “Certainly.” He shuffled into view and, with a helping hand from James, got to his knees next to Mr. Corker.

  “Do you know,” he said. “I’ve been a country doctor for thirty-three years. I’ve delivered more than three hundred babies. I’ve amputated two legs—from two different men, mind. I’ve sewn back a few fingers and seen my share of death. But I have never removed a dagger from the body of a pirate.”

  Goodness! I thought. Three hundred babies! More than! And two legs!

  James patted Dr. Musselman’s shoulder. “There is no one I would rather trust,” he said.

  The doctor leaned in to look closely at the weapon.

  “Harumm,” he said, though it was more of a growl.

  “What is it?” asked the inspector.

  “Not enough blood, I’d say.” The doctor gently prodded the pirate jerkin around the wound.

  “But it seems like a tremendous amount of blood,” said James. “Practically a pond full.”

  “Not in the right place,” said the doctor. He reached for the handle of the dagger, and paused. “I don’t suppose you’ve latched on yet to this notion of fingerprints on things, Inspector? Do I need to mind what I’m touching?”

  The Inspector sighed. “I’m very keen for the Tiverton constabulary to catch up with London on that matter,” he said, “but for now, we’ve not got the proper kit for analyzing what we cannot see. It’s an expensive enterprise, and we’ll all need training. Not there yet. Go ahead, take hold of the handle.”

  The dagger came out, with a faint slurp. I swallowed hard.

  “Looks to be the real thing,” said the inspector. “Not a stage prop.”

  “It belongs to the actors, though,” said James. “Mr. Mooney showed us during rehearsal for the tableaux. He and Mr. Corker like to wear the real weapons, makes them feel more the part.”

  “Does it now?” said the inspector.

  “We’d best look for other wounds,” said Dr. Musselman. “I don’t see how this one can be the cause of death.”

  Inspector Willard crouched at Mr. Corker’s top end and slid his hands beneath the shoulders. “Fellowes,” he said. “Look sharp. Umm, sorry, bad choice of words.”

  There was a shuffling while Fellowes presumably got into position by the corpse’s feet.

  “Ready?” said the inspector. “We turn him to the left—my left, mind! Your right! In three…two…one!”

  “Oof,” said someone, but I couldn’t see who.

  More grunts, and they got him over. The hat and wig dislodged, revealing the yellowy, waxen face of Mr. Corker, his eyes rolled back—Heavenward?—and his jaw agape. A wound was evident on one side of his neck, blackened and crusty, but freshly seeping now that the body had been turned. The small gold ring glinted in his earlobe.

  “God’s teeth,” said James. He put a hand over his face.

  “Like flipping a park bench,” said Sergeant Fellowes. “That stiff.”

  Dr. Musselman cleared his throat. “Full rigor mortis,” he said.

  Lucy gave me a nudge but I ignored her.

  Was the open mouth a result of rigor mortis? Or was the man expressing alarm at the violent end coming his way?

  “This explains the blood,” said Dr. Musselman, leaning in to look at the neck wound. “Too small an incision for the dagger, though. Whatever the weapon, it must have punctured the artery.”

  “Two weapons, Doctor?” said the inspector. “Just my luck. Can you narrow the time of death?”

  “A broad guess would say between eleven o’clock last night and two this morning. The temperature may have affected the process.”

  “Let me see!” hissed Lucy.

  “And you’ll confirm my opinion that this is not a self-inflicted injury, Dr. Musselman?” said the inspector.

  “I will indeed, Inspector. Indeed, I will.”

  “The best close shot you can manage, Shaw, up close to that entry point.”

  “Yes, sir,” said the sergeant.

  “It’s MY turn!” Lucy had forgotten about utter silence.

  James snapped his head around and glared—it seemed—directly into my eyes. He could not really see me, the slit being so narrow and across the room from where he stood, but he certainly knew that someone was watching. I shrank back, holding a finger to my lips and another to Lucy’s in case she did not understand the danger. We dared not breathe.

  The inspector kept on talking. “I apologize in advance for the inconvenience, my lord, but we’ll need to interview everyone in the house.”

  “I will arrange for a room,” said James. His voice was closer to us now.

  “With a table and chairs,” said Inspector Willard. “And preferably a fire.”

  “Have we finished in here, Inspector?” said James. “We can have the carpet cleaned, once the man is moved?”

  “We’ll get him out today,” said Inspector Willard, “and you’ll have your library back…though I’d discourage common use, in
case I need another look. We’ll have a man keep watch if we can spare one. Blast this snow.”

  “May I suggest,” said James, from what seemed now to be right next to us on the other side of the wall, “that you speak first with the children who found the body? Accounting for some of those bloody footprints, I’m afraid. They are waiting nearby in the morning room, if you—”

  Hector jumped. Lucy squeaked. I did both. We fumbled and bumped and squeaked again. We ran as best we could in the dark and narrow passage, trying to be stealthy but not succeeding well in that endeavor. We tumbled into the morning room, closed the cabinet door and heard it click into place. The relief of escape tickled my chest and I began to laugh, more so when I saw the smear of grime across Hector’s nose and chin. He pointed at my face, laughing also, showing that I had the same marks from pressing up against the spy-hole.

  “Quick!” Lucy pulled a doily from the arm of a chair. “Wipe it off! They’ll be here any moment. Ooh, I wish Uncle James hadn’t heard us!”

  Us? I thought, but did not say. I had been a bit greedy about my turn. I rubbed my nose and passed the lacy cloth to Hector.

  “He is most calm and clever, your uncle James.” Hector dabbed at his chin. “He gives to us a warning but does not alert the police detective.”

  A tap at the door made us all jump. Frederick, the footman. We began to laugh again.

  “His lordship requests that you join Mrs. Morton in the Avon Room,” said Frederick. “At once. To attend the police.”

  “Well, that’s good news,” I said. Grannie Jane was the ideal companion when facing a detective inspector. She’d been quite stern with the imposing Inspector Locke after the murder in Torquay.

  “Tell him we’re coming,” said Lucy.

  “I am to escort you,” said Frederick, gazing blandly at one of the curtain rods.

  “Mr. Frederick,” said Hector. “May I ask, have you found your gentleman, Mr. Sivam?”

  Frederick glanced over his shoulder to confirm that we were alone before speaking like a normal person instead of a footman. “He’s not been seen by no one,” he said, “since when he come to the library where the body was, telling Lord Greyson about the missing jewel,” he said. “I’m getting curious why he’s run away!”