Peril at Owl Park

by Marthe Jocelyn

  Lucy huffed out a laugh. “Grandmamma! ‘Not delighted’!”

  “Thank you, Sergeant,” said Inspector Willard. He turned back to us. “My attention is momentarily required elsewhere, but I believe we have more to discuss. I shall be calling upon you again.”

  He stood and nodded curtly to Grannie Jane. Sergeant Fellowes pulled his superior’s chair out of the way.

  “Appearances would indicate that Mr. Sivam has perpetrated a misguided form of personal justice,” said Inspector Willard. “If he caught this fellow in the act of attempting to steal a valuable jewel, he may have felt justified in fighting for it.”

  He turned a stony gaze to each of us in turn. The skin around my eyes tingled, as if he were casting a spell by staring into them with such intent. “I have learned, however, to mistrust appearances,” he said. “Anyone watching right now would mistakenly see three innocent-looking children. But you are not deceiving me.”

  CHAPTER 17

  A PATCHY INVENTORY

  MARJORIE ARRIVED AS Grannie Jane was shepherding us out of the Avon Room. Her face was flushed, her hair losing its pins. “Goodness, but battles are raging whichever way I turn today,” she said. “I don’t know whether it will be James’s mother or the Tiverton constabulary who will finish in triumph. Nor whom to cheer on, if I’m truthful.”

  “Have you eaten, my dear?” said Grannie Jane.

  “Not one bite,” said Marjorie. “There is a bountiful Christmas luncheon on the dining room table that I was forced to abandon at the arrival of the police. And now they wish to interview every person in Owl Park! When a few constables can be pulled from their seasonal festivities, there will be what they casually call a search of the premises! I wonder if they realize the size of the premises? James is attempting to calm his mother and get her out of the way so that he may assist inquiries as best he can. Two servants have given notice and two of the Christmas hires have announced they will leave as soon as the police allow. Kitty is pacing the hallways like a nervous lioness, distraught about where her husband might have gone. One of the footmen is frantic, thinking Mr. Sivam’s disappearance is somehow his responsibility. Where do you suppose he is? James is so concerned!”

  Marjorie began to flick her hands in agitation, but her rattled flow of worries did not cease. “Dr. Musselman is encouraging the transferal of—of—Mr. Corker to the privacy of the stables…while the actors are hauling pieces of scenery from the ballroom to the coach house and trying not to think about their murdered friend. Murder, in my house! It all makes me…I don’t…I don’t know…”

  And that’s when my sister burst into tears like a six-year-old and threw herself into Grannie Jane’s open arms.

  “There, there,” murmured Grannie, stroking Marjorie’s hair and letting her weep. Lucy and Hector edged away down the passage, pretending to look at the paintings. I slipped my hand into Marjorie’s, which seemed very small comfort to extend.

  The crying quickly calmed, and Grannie asked what might anyone do to help.

  “No one should be doing anything,” said Marjorie. “It’s Christmas!”

  Not Christmas for servants or policemen, I did not say. Or for Mr. Corker.

  “However.” Marjorie gave herself a little shake and stepped out of Grannie Jane’s embrace. “If not I, then who?” She used a dainty handkerchief to blot her face and wipe her nose.

  “Good girl,” said Grannie. “Chin up. Face the world. We shall do whatever we can. Am I correct, Agatha?”

  “Always,” I said.

  “You are both so dear,” said Marjorie. “I will assign you awful tasks, and we will get through this day.”

  “Whatever you devise,” I said, “it could hardly be as awful as moving a dead body.”

  “On any other day, I would offer a cheeky reply,” said my sister, “but today I haven’t a flicker of mischief in me.”

  “Hector and Lucy will help too,” I said. “Won’t you?” I called to them.

  “We are at your service, madame,” said Hector, beaming at her.

  “Lucy, your grandmother—”

  “Again?” protested Lucy. “There is nothing left to talk about!”

  “Then play cards,” said Marjorie firmly. “Off you go.”

  “Aggie, you and Hector run along to the ballroom to see whether Mr. Mooney and Miss Day can use your assistance. It seems dreadful that they arrived with three and are leaving as two. I will arrange for footmen to help with the heavy lifting when the time comes to load their wagon, but I suppose their departure may now be delayed…which will send James’s mother into a tizzy! Perhaps you can help sort or pack the troupe’s belongings? So that at the very least their presence is not so insistent?”

  “It will be our pleasure.” Hector bowed his bow, and we turned toward the ballroom, so lucky not to be Lucy just then!

  * * *

  —

  Miss Day sat on the floor amidst heaps of costumes. Tattered white pirate shirts in one pile, burnt orange pantaloons in another, ragged jackets, billowing aprons, battered hats, black suits and gowns, boots and shoes of all styles and sizes, paupers’ vestments, fine ladies’ dresses, leather masks and feathered boas.

  On a table was a collection of props, some familiar and some from other scenes in the repertoire. Tankards and crockery and foods made of plaster, featured in the various feasts. A couple of clocks, bouquets made of paper roses and lilies, the oversized magnifying glass and pipe of Sherlock Holmes, oars and pirate weaponry, and the splendid goose that had appeared on both Mr. Holmes’s and the Cratchits’ Christmas tables.

  Miss Day was matching gloves and counting as she put the pairs into a box, all the fingers carefully stacked, one upon the next. Hector watched with happy approval.

  “Oh, hello,” she said. “Nine, ten, eleven…”

  “My sister wondered whether you might like help with packing your things,” I said.

  “That is kind of you, but—”

  “Especially,” I said, “as you are recovering from a swoon, not to mention shock, and no doubt full of sorrow.”

  “We are able to count,” said Hector, and the actress obliged us with half a smile.

  “We do an inventory every time we pack up,” she said, “so that we know if we’ve misplaced something or need to repair it because of a stain or a tear. It’s a simple task, but it does take time. I’m particular about how things are folded.”

  Hector vigorously nodded his head. “We are birds of a feather, I believe you English say. I, also, am most happy with careful folding.”

  “Doesn’t Mr. Mooney help?” I said.

  Miss Day sighed. “Inventory was never his favorite activity. And today he’s very shaken. He will show his face eventually. Usually, it’s Roger and me.” Her voice cracked a little when she said his name, and tears filled her eyes. “I know he had his faults,” she whispered. “But he was a good and loyal friend.”

  “It’s very sad.” I tried to think of any single phrase said to me after Papa died. He is in a better place. Our Heavenly Father has called him home. Prayers will ease the loss. None of these were true, or useful, so I turned my mind to more practical matters.

  “We’ll help you get the counting done. Then you’ll be ready when the police say that you may leave.”

  “Loading the caravan will be the hardest bit,” she said. “Roger always did more than his share because Sebastian is a lazy old sod.”

  “I believe,” said Hector, “there are several footmen waiting to assist with such an endeavor.”

  Miss Day wiped her eyes and smiled at him. “Funny how I’ve played a servant on stage a hundred times and never had one of my own. It does not occur to me to ask for help.” She patted the tidy stack of gloves she’d already counted. “I’ve lost my place.”

  “Is there a list, Miss Day?” said Hector. “We count the piles and call out
the numbers for you to record, yes?”

  “Only if you’ll call me Annabelle,” she said, “now that we’re sitting around on the floor together. Is that agreed?”

  Hector was not truly sitting on the floor, because he had placed a pirate flag between his bottom and the marble, but we agreed with Annabelle’s terms. We soon were tallying the piles and announcing totals so that she could make notes on her chart.

  “Four aprons.”

  “Eight pair of hose.”

  “One deerstalker hat. One child’s crutch.”

  “Five white shirts,” I said, “if you can call this white.” The fabric was so old and worn it looked closer to gray in color.

  “Five?” said Annabelle. “Not six?”

  “Five,” I said.

  “Item missing,” she said, adding pirate shirt to her list of things to look for.

  “Mr. Corker is wearing one,” I said, not liking to remind her.

  “I’ve taken account of that on my list,” said Annabelle. “His whole costume will need to be replaced, but there should be one more shirt.”

  Hector handed a tidily folded stack of pirate breeches to Annabelle. “The pants, they are a bit shabby.”

  “They haven’t been cleaned in a while,” she admitted. “They get splashed with makeup or cider or mud until we’re terribly grubby. Then we give them a good scrubbing or make new ones.”

  “Six pair of pirate boots,” said Hector, “but also there is a pair held by the police, I assume?”

  “The police returned the pair from the library,” said Annabelle, “as they were not…” She swallowed. “Not on the body. That’s the pair tied together with string. Boots were rounded up from all over the house—his lordship’s, the footman’s, your guest’s and ours. So, six pair altogether, including mine.”

  We carried on sorting and stacking and counting and folding, slowly clearing piles from the floor. It was the dull and methodical sort of chore that made a person want to hum, except that we were thinking about a corpse. A few tears escaped Annabelle’s eyes from time to time, but we pretended not to see.

  Mr. Mooney burst through the door, out of breath, cheeks flushed and hair tousled. Seeing us, he stopped short and began to applaud. “I’ve come a-running,” he said, “not wanting to let you down, Annabelle. And here you’ve hired two able-bodied sailors to perform my duties.”

  “Where have you come a-running from?” asked Annabelle, not quite hiding her exasperation.

  “I bumped into young Lady Greyson and Mrs. Sivam,” said Mr. Mooney, “looking for her missing husband. She is very upset. Understandably.”

  “We are all upset.” Annabelle pushed a loose curl off her forehead. “Where does she suppose he has gone? Taken his precious jewel and run for the hills? If he killed Roger, good riddance.”

  “Is that what you think?” said Mr. Mooney. “I suppose a disappearance does point to guilt, though I favor the scoundrel footman as thief and bandit.”

  “That seems a bit far-fetched,” said Annabelle. “And I wish you wouldn’t treat Roger’s murder as a joke.”

  “Lady Greyson and Mrs. Sivam were sharing concern about the state of Mr. Sivam’s room,” said Mr. Mooney. “Ransacked, they said. Mrs. Sivam blames the footman, which made me think of it.”

  “Did Mr. Sivam leave his wife a note?” I asked.

  “She did not mention a note,” said Mr. Mooney. “Ours was a brief conversation.”

  “Not so brief that we’ve been counting and folding for an hour without you,” said Annabelle. “You didn’t offer her an acting job, I hope, if she has been abandoned?”

  “Don’t be a silly goose,” said Mr. Mooney. “We have room for only one leading lady and that is you, my dear Annie.”

  We were interrupted by the sudden and noisy arrival of Detective Inspector Willard with Sergeant Shaw. Boot soles clattered the length of the marble ballroom floor, making the officers’ approach more ominous. Annabelle stood and smoothed down her skirt. Hector and I hopped to our feet as well.

  “Good afternoon.” The inspector introduced himself to Annabelle and Mr. Mooney. “I am here with a number of questions,” he said, “beginning with the matter of weapons.”

  He gestured to Sergeant Shaw, who ceremoniously opened a brown paper parcel to reveal a bronze-handled dagger, most recently seen standing upright between the shoulders of Mr. Roger Corker on the library carpet.

  All four of us took a small step backward. The blade was stained with a dull, dark film of dried blood.

  “Oh,” said Annabelle.

  “I understand you fainted this morning, Miss Day,” said the inspector. “Are you feeling shaky now?”

  “No, sir, I’m fine. Though it is not a pleasant sight.”

  “Surely, however, a familiar one?” he asked. “Does this weapon not belong to the theatrical troupe? You have seen it many times before?”

  “It is one of ours,” Mr. Mooney confirmed. He looked about at the piles and boxes we’d been arranging this afternoon, until he spotted the long, leather case and opened it. Two swords and a dagger, tucked beneath velvet bands, one loop dangling empty.

  “These do not appear to be stage weapons,” said Inspector Willard, touching his finger to the tip of a sword. “Far too sharp for playacting.”

  I had the feeling that Annabelle and Mr. Mooney were purposely not looking at each other, that they had already exchanged words on this very topic.

  “It is safe to wear such a weapon in a tableau,” said Mr. Mooney, “because all the players are stationary. The real blades are never used for performing combat.”

  “Why do you have them?” said Inspector Willard. “If they are never used for what they are?”

  Mr. Mooney smiled. “They were my father’s,” he said. “And now my talismans of good fortune.”

  “Not this time,” muttered the sergeant, catching a sharp look from his superior.

  “When was the last time you saw this dagger, Mr. Mooney?” asked the inspector. “Prior to the scene of the crime?”

  “Roger and I each wore one for the Treasure Island tableau on Christmas Eve,” said Mr. Mooney. “I returned mine…” He tapped the open case. “After the performance and before the party, at the same time that I removed my peg leg.”

  “A most clever device,” said Hector.

  “I invented it myself!” Mr. Mooney’s eyes were bright with pride. “My leg gets strapped up under the frock coat, and the knee rests on a sturdy peg that is built to fit me precisely. I can show you, later, how it works.”

  Inspector Willard seemed to notice for the first time that Hector and I were part of the small circle standing next to the weapon.

  “I think it would be best,” he said, “if the children were to leave us for the remainder of this interview.”

  Hector blanched. I knew he was thinking that if he hadn’t commented on the peg leg, we might have been ignored. I was thinking the same thing. But I did not hold it against him, as Long John Silver’s costume had been worthy of comment.

  “Sir,” I said. “Inspector Willard, sir. Please allow us to continue helping to stow the props and costumes. We’ll remove ourselves to…” I waved toward the packing cases. “Over there. Please, sir? Old Lady Greyson has been most adamant about having the ballroom cleared.”

  He considered. As occasionally happens, it was to our benefit that children are not considered highly. He shooed us away with a wave.

  “I am so sorry,” whispered Hector.

  “Shh,” I whispered back.

  We went to stand next to the crate full of boots, and banged them gently so the police could not imagine we were listening. But we were.

  CHAPTER 18

  A CLOSING ARGUMENT

  “IT MAY SURPRISE you to learn,” said Inspector Willard, “that the dagger inside that brown paper was not the murder
weapon.”

  Mr. Mooney and Annabelle, without the advantage of having seen the true wound from the spy-hole when the body was flipped, both gasped and clutched each other’s hands.

  “He died from something other than a knife in his back?” said Annabelle. “But how…?”

  “What killed him?” said Mr. Mooney.

  “We do not yet know the full story,” said the inspector. “But to help us get there, I’d like to hear exactly what you did last night after the party in the drawing room.”

  Annabelle spoke up at once. “Sebastian and I had our meeting,” she said. “We always chat after every performance. What went well? What could we do better next time? That sort of thing.”

  “Mr. Corker did not participate?”

  “Not last night,” said Annabelle. “He didn’t always.”

  “And where was this?” the inspector asked.

  “We, uh…sat on the stairs, up there, near our rooms.” But Annabelle’s pause had been just long enough to make the rest sound like nonsense.

  Mr. Mooney rested a hand on Annabelle’s shoulder. “It’s all right, Annie,” he said. “There’s no harm in me telling the good inspector the truth.”

  “There’s a great deal of harm in telling me anything otherwise,” said Inspector Willard. “Shall we sit?”

  Sergeant Shaw trotted back and forth, collecting chairs from different places in the room. Ballroom chairs, with padded seats and yellow ribbons trailing from their spindled backs.

  Hector busied himself counting the same stack of gloves that had been counted three times already, while I leaned deep into the bin full of boots. I found that two of them had balls of newspaper stuffed into their toes.

  “Annabelle’s,” I whispered.

  “I went into the library,” said Mr. Mooney. “His lordship had invited us earlier to prevail ourselves of the liquors he kept there in a cabinet. As I was still enlivened by the success of the evening, I thought to pour myself a brandy.”

  “You were alone?” asked the inspector.