Peril at Owl Park

by Marthe Jocelyn

  “Lucy,” I said. “We don’t know that Mr. Sivam is the murderer. You’re making things up.”

  Hector laughed. “It is most amusing,” he said, “to hear Miss Aggie Morton accuse someone else of the odious crime of telling fictions.”

  I scowled at him. “I tell stories, not lies.”

  “And even policemen must have theories,” he agreed.

  “What if…” I began. “What if Mr. Sivam was followed from the bank vault after he collected the emerald? The robber drove a second motorcar, all the way to Owl Park. He crept into the house during the festivities, disguised as a servant especially hired for the holidays…He watched the tableaux right there in the room with the rest of us! And afterward, with so many pirates running around—”

  “He became confused!” cried Lucy. “And killed the wrong man!”

  “Mr. Sivam saw the body in the library, and fell to his knees,” I said. “Devastated that his emerald had caused such bloodshed, but also filled with dread. He took the gem and ran for his life.”

  “Do you not think,” said Hector, “that someone would have noticed a stranger in the room? A stranger with a motorcar?”

  He was right, of course.

  “But still,” I said. “Just because Mr. Sivam is missing doesn’t mean that he’s the killer.”

  “This is true,” said Hector.

  “Also, the real weapon has not been identified,” I said. “We would have heard some sort of fuss if the police knew what actually killed him.”

  “All the kitchen knives are where they should be,” said Lucy. “I heard Mrs. Hornby say so to Aunt Marjorie. We needn’t worry that the murder weapon is now being used to chop onions.”

  “We can look for the weapon,” I said, “and keep an eye open for the magnifying glass. And we must ask Stephen what he meant when he said the boots were wrong. Weren’t all the pirate boots the same for everyone? Also, there’s a pirate shirt missing.”

  Where was my notebook when I needed it? We should be writing down all our clues and questions.

  “Oh!” A tiny idea had just popped into my head. A bit of spatter, one might say, from a bigger idea.

  Hector waited. Lucy said, “Oh? What’s oh? Why did you say oh that way?”

  “It’s morbid,” I said. “But, the pirate shirt…I suppose it may have been swept up by a maid and be sitting in a laundry hamper right this moment. Or mistaken for someone’s regular shirt and put away in a wardrobe. But…What if—as I suspect that stabbing is not a tidy task—what if Mr. Corker’s shirt was not the only one covered in blood!”

  Hector’s eyes lit up like those of a cat in lantern light, like beacons in a storm, like fireflies on a summer night.

  “Aha!” he said. “A logical breakthrough! If the murderer is also a pirate…this will allow us to logically consider the six pirates who perform Treasure Island on Christmas Eve.”

  “Five, really,” I said, “because I don’t like to include James.”

  “Lord Greyson is not a likely killer,” agreed Hector. “But he should remain on the list until we can dismiss him logically.”

  “Uncle James?” cried Lucy. “No!”

  “Already we know the shirt of Mr. Corker is covered in blood,” said Hector. “Leaving us four shirts to consider, with the outside possibility of a fifth, belonging to your uncle James.”

  I ticked off on my fingers. “Miss Annabelle Day, Mr. Sebastian Mooney, Mr. Lakshay Sivam and Frederick the footman.”

  “Blood on the missing shirt is a guess only,” Hector said. “But a good one. And these names become suspects as the outcome of this guess.”

  “A deduction,” I said, “with further discussion required.”

  I was graced with Hector’s beautiful smile.

  “But first,” I said, “since we were so hurried yesterday…and didn’t even know who he was at first…” I dropped my voice to a whisper, though we were alone in the conservatory. “I think we should have another look at the corpse.”

  CHAPTER 20

  A PACK OF NEWSHOUNDS

  WE BUNDLED UP WITH hats and mittens, but a sharp wind blew careless gusts of snow into our faces as soon as we stepped from the shelter of the warm kitchen. Just outside, the service courtyard was a village of industry. The coalhouse, the bakehouse, the woodshed, the stable, the smithy, the coach house, the laundry, the icehouse—all the essentials for running Owl Park were nestled within a few steps of the back door. Servants traipsed back and forth through the snow, carrying logs or bricks of ice or loaves of bread.

  Two men, not wearing livery and clearly not servants, were hunched and smoking cigarettes beside the door to the bakehouse.

  “Reporters,” said Hector.

  They nodded to us, puffing streams of smoke into the frosty air.

  “Oi,” called one. “Anything you can tell us about the murder? Did you see anything?”

  With a friend on each side, I was not shy. “No,” I called back. “We’re children.”

  Lucy giggled, and dragged us toward the stable.

  “Whoa, there,” said the constable standing guard. “Where do you think you’re going?”

  “I want to introduce my friends to Buttermilk,” said Lucy. “She’s the pony in stall number seven. I always ride her when I’m visiting my uncle James.”

  “Not right now you’re not,” said the constable. “No one’s to go in here today. There’s a dead body inside. No place for little girls.”

  “Really?” Lucy feigned surprise.

  “Aye,” said the constable. “And you’ll leave him be. My gran told me that the ghost of a murdered man is fearsome vengeful.” He stamped his boots in the snow.

  My own toes were noticing the cold, so I stamped too.

  “Have you heard anything?” I said. “Phantom howling, for instance?”

  “I did hear some moaning,” the constable whispered, “but the actor fellow told me it was only the wind.” He nodded up at the roof and shivered. “There’s holes up there, where the wind goes through.”

  Lucy led us to the next building along, the roomiest one in the yard and nearest the gate to the drive. “Coach house,” she said.

  James and Marjorie have a small carriage, one that needs only two horses, so there is plenty of space leftover in the coach house. Here is where Mr. Sivam had parked his motorcar and the actors their caravan.

  “When a coach drives up, it goes through the big doors on the other side,” Lucy explained in a whisper. “But you’ll see, there’s an archway that lets you pass into the stable from the coach house. James keeps six horses, plus Buttermilk, but there are ten stalls, so he could have more.” She pulled on the door handle, but there stood Mr. Mooney blocking our way.

  “Hullo,” he said. Behind him were painted flats leaning against the side of the Sivams’ motorcar, Mr. Holmes’s dining room and the rolling waves of Treasure Island. A stack of packing cases stood between us and the actors’ caravan.

  “Things are a bit tight in here,” said Mr. Mooney. “What can I do for you?”

  “We were going to say hello to Buttermilk,” said Lucy. “Next door. She’s a pony.”

  Mr. Mooney glanced over our heads at the constable guarding the entrance to the stable. “Ah, well. I can’t help you there, missy. We’ve all got our orders. Leave old Roger to rest in peace.”

  “I suppose,” said Lucy. She shrugged at us.

  “Oh, well,” I said. “We can try again later. Oh, look, there’s Stephen.”

  The boy was running from the bakehouse to the kitchen, a large loaf of bread tucked under each arm. He slipped this way and that on snowy ridges made by foot traffic in the courtyard. “Inspector’s making a statement,” he shouted to us. “Follow the reporters ’round front!”

  Three or four men stumbled out of the bakehouse, along with a wonderful smell of hot bread.
Grumbling about wind, they buttoned bulky coats and pulled caps low over their eyes and ears. The smokers ground their cigarettes into the snow and joined the others.

  “Let’s go,” I said. “We want to hear this!” We trotted out of the courtyard and along the drive, the long way around to the front door.

  Mr. Pressman held open the door, allowing Inspector Willard and his two sergeants to pass onto the top step. The inspector held a piece of paper with both hands to prevent it from flapping in the wind.

  “During the night of the twenty-fourth December,” he read, “a guest of Lord and Lady Greyson met an untimely end on the premises of Owl Park. The body was discovered at approximately half past eight on Christmas morning, and the police were summoned to the scene. The deceased is not related to his lordship. All efforts are being made to secure a satisfactory conclusion to the matter.”

  “Can you tell us the victim’s name?” called a reporter with carroty eyebrows under a dark cap.

  “And how he died?” asked another.

  “How old was he?”

  Questions were hurled at the inspector like a barrage of snowballs.

  “Where on the premises?” shouted a pockmarked fellow at the back.

  “Do you have enough experience to do this job properly?” asked a man with white hair poking out around the edges of his hat.

  “Was it an intruder?”

  “Have you got a suspect?”

  “Is Lord Greyson a suspect?”

  “His lordship is not a suspect,” said the inspector. “At this time.”

  Hector’s hand caught my wrist and squeezed, silently sharing my surprise.

  At this time? Did that mean James might be a suspect at a later time?

  “We heard the body was discovered by children,” said a slim fellow at the front of the horde. “Is this true?”

  Inspector Willard put up a hand. “The victim’s name is being withheld until the family can be informed of the tragedy. Other details cannot be released. That’s all for now, gentlemen. Please respect the privacy of a household in mourning and be on your way.”

  This was met with noisy grousing, but the inspector gave a curt wave and stepped back into the house. The reporters pocketed their notebooks and conferred with each other. Two of them waved to their colleagues and began the long march down the drive.

  “They go to find a telephone,” said Hector. “Or a telegraph office. The newspapers await their reports.”

  “Brr,” said Lucy. “It’s a mile to the village.”

  “He gave them nothing useful,” I said. “How could they make a story out of that? Not even so much as a bucket of vinegar and a pound of salt. Poor fellows, they must be freezing.”

  “I’m freezing,” said Lucy. “Let’s go in.”

  Hector’s trousers were sodden, up to the knees. He could not bear the discomfort and headed up all those stairs to the nursery to change into his second pair. Lucy and I preferred to dry out before the dancing flames in the drawing room grate. James and Marjorie sat together on the sofa. I had a notion that their conversation had stopped one instant before. Lucy filled them in on the inspector’s statement. My damp stockings steamed as the fire warmed my legs. We had barely shrugged off the chill of our expedition outdoors when the butler appeared.

  “Who is it, Pressman?” asked Marjorie. The sole purpose of the silver tray in his hand, I had learned from Lucy, was to carry the calling card of any visitor to the master or mistress of the house.

  “A journalist, my lady.” He bent slightly, though it could not be called a bow.

  “We are not receiving journalists, as you know, Pressman. Send him away.”

  The butler hesitated.

  “Was there something else?” asked Marjorie.

  Mr. Pressman turned to me and proffered the card upon the tray. “The gentleman is asking most particularly to speak with you, Miss Morton, or with Master Perot. He tells me that you are well acquainted.”

  CHAPTER 21

  A DISQUIETING SCENE

  “I CAN TURN THE man away, my lady,” the butler suggested to my sister.

  “You needn’t do that,” I said, quickly taking up the card. Lucy stood on tiptoes to look.

  Marjorie put aside her book. “Didn’t you say, James, that we mustn’t speak with—”

  “Mr. Augustus Fibbley is from Torquay,” I told her. “He wrote about the murder in October, when Rose’s mother was poisoned.”

  “Ah yes,” said James. “The determined Mr. Fibbley.”

  “Whether you know him or not, he is still a reporter,” said Marjorie. “A man whose livelihood relies on the disasters of others.”

  I hesitated at the word man. But then, “Well, yes. But he does try to tell the stories readers want to hear.”

  Why was I defending Mr. Fibbley? In my experience, he was not a trustworthy person. However, I rather liked him. He was a writer, after all. And he’d called me a writer too. I hoped that wasn’t a lie.

  “I’d like to meet with him,” I said. So bold! “Thank you, Mr. Pressman. Where is he?”

  “I want to come with you.” Lucy gazed defiantly at her uncle James. “For protection.”

  “I think not,” said James.

  “I shan’t need protection,” I said. Ignoring Lucy’s scowl, I slipped around Mr. Pressman.

  “Should we not accompany…?” said James to Marjorie. “A young girl alone with a man? It isn’t proper.”

  “Oh, he isn’t a—” I stopped myself. Now was not the time to be breaking promises, especially in front of a bigmouth like Lucy. “I shall be perfectly fine. Mr. Pressman will watch.”

  Marjorie sighed her consent.

  The butler walked ahead, his back as straight as a bookcase.

  The reporter was bundled in a sailor’s peacoat and a muffler, but held his hat in a mittened hand. He stood by the armored knight in the Great Hall, peering into the eye-slit in the visor as if hoping to encounter the ghost of the long-ago inhabitant.

  “Hello,” I said.

  Mr. Fibbley turned and smiled and pushed wire-rimmed glasses up the bridge of his nose. “Hello,” he said. “No barking dog?”

  “Tony stayed at home to keep Mummy company for Christmas,” I said. “He would have driven the servants quite mad, I think.”

  We considered one another. Our last encounter had been on a dark road, during a night of anguish and alarm. Memory took me there now, chilled and wet through, frightened but coming to the end of an ordeal that this odd person and I had partly shared.

  “How did you know we were here?” I said. “Is Owl Park not rather out of your territory?”

  “Very much so, Miss Morton. But you are my territory, especially when it comes to murder. My editor was notified of the connection—that your sister is the new Lady Greyson and that terrible events had occurred under her roof. So, here I am, not having Christmas. I have traveled through the night and would appreciate any details you might share. The detective inspector, as you heard, was not at all forthcoming.”

  I felt a bit sorry for him, traveling nearly fifty miles to stand about getting chilblains in the snowy courtyard, but I was resolved to honor my sister’s wish of discretion.

  “I don’t have anything more to add to his statement,” I said.

  Mr. Fibbley smiled, a cunning, charming smile. “We both know that’s not true,” he said. “We both know you’re the most observant twelve-year-old in the south of England.”

  “I’m observant too. And I’m only ten.” Lucy was suddenly at my side, grinning like a cat who’d swallowed a canary. Like Jack Horner with a giant plum on his thumb. Like a little girl who had tricked her aunt and uncle into letting her speak with a reporter…

  “I’m Lucy,” she said, not looking at me.

  I managed not to groan aloud.

  “How do you do?
” Mr. Fibbley gave a slight bow. “I am Augustus Fibbley of the Torquay Voice. Are you related to the clever Miss Morton?”

  Lucy giggled. “She’s my new cousin. My uncle James is married to her sister.”

  “Ah,” said Mr. Fibbley. “I expect your uncle James is a lucky man.”

  He was pleasant and informal, as if we met often for a glass of lemonade and a game of Snakes and Ladders. A very friendly fellow, Mr. Gus Fibbley, up until the minute he decided not to be.

  Friendly, or a fellow.

  “We’re not meant to speak with—” I began.

  “We found the body,” said Lucy. “I was first.”

  “Tell me about that,” said Mr. Fibbley. His hat now dangled from the hilt of the knight’s sword, his mittens stuffed into pockets. A notebook had appeared in one hand and a pencil in the other.

  Lucy told, of course. About the dim library, the blood-soaked carpet and identifying Mr. Corker, despite his being in costume.

  She might be considered as much of a barking dog as Tony, I thought.

  “So, the cause of death was a stab wound?” said Mr. Fibbley.

  “Yes, but the dagger—” Lucy began.

  “That’s enough,” I said. What Lucy had said so far might have come from a servant. But we mustn’t say anything we knew from spying in the hidden passage.

  Lucy’s look showed that she had plenty more to tell.

  “Lucy,” I said. “Think of James and Marjorie.”

  “He was in costume because he was an actor?” said Mr. Fibbley, still scratching along the page with his pencil. “Could you describe exactly what he was wearing? I heard he was dressed like a pirate.”

  “White shirt, orange-colored trousers,” said Lucy, promptly. “Dingy stockings and no boots!”

  “No boots?” said Mr. Fibbley, looking up. “Why was that?”

  Lucy glanced at me and I shook my head. She pressed her lips tightly together as if they were fighting her.