“ ‘Miss Chatsworth revealed that blood had seeped’—” Marjorie stopped reading because James put up a hand to request a pause.
“Now that you girls are here,” he said, “I may voice my disappointment.”
My heart doubled in weight and turned over inside my chest. Disappointing James was a dreadful feeling. But Lucy! She wiggled herself right next to Marjorie so as to read along with her.
“Good thing I came with you yesterday,” she said to me. “What I told that man was important enough to put in the newspaper!”
“That is precisely where you’ve let the family down,” said James, in his sternest tone. “It was a mistake to let Aggie meet with him, but far, far worse that you tricked us into tagging along—and then blabbed! I will say this one last time, Lucy…We. Do. Not. Speak. With. Reporters.”
Lucy paled and then flushed bright pink. I felt a tinge of empathy. I’d made the same mistake in October, starting with a thrill down my spine at the sight of my name in a news article and ending with wishing to shrivel up like a poked worm.
And the same reporter had been wielding the pencil.
“He did come from Torquay because of Hector and me,” I said, clutching at a defense of Lucy’s actions—even if I had tried to stop her.
“And he did write a better story than the local chap did,” said Marjorie, “using a bit of ingenuity with the same lack of information.”
“No one could say that Mr. Fibbley is not clever,” I said.
“The point is,” said James, “that Mr. Fibbley had rather more information than the local chap, thanks to our little chatterbox.”
I confess to feeling some comfort in Lucy being the one to cause trouble instead of me. I served myself a waffle, covered with a syrup made of the sap from maple trees and imported all the way from Canada.
James gave Lucy an ultimatum after breakfast.
“You are fortunate that your grandmother does not care for the daily news—or, indeed, for any reference to our presence in the twentieth century. I will not tell her that you’ve been sharing family secrets. In exchange, you will read aloud whatever she requests until lunchtime.”
Off Lucy went with her lower lip stuck out far enough to catch flies, as my nursemaid Charlotte would say. Goodness, I hadn’t missed Charlotte for one minute since I’d arrived at Owl Park. I wondered whether Christmas with her mother had been the ordinary sort, with a roast goose and carol singing and no dead body in the library. Was she feverishly writing letters to Constable Beck every evening? Had she told her mother about the young man with whom she’d been walking out?
“Aggie?” said Marjorie. “Are you two coming?” She meant to the morning room, where she and Grannie and Kitty Sivam were heading.
“I suppose.”
Hector and I would have much preferred to find a policeman to follow about, or to search the house ourselves for the magnifying glass and the blood-smeared shirt, but alas…
Back in the morning room—though it was nearly past morning—Grannie Jane was sorting through her skeins of wool. Marjorie rang for tea and sat at her desk to write. Snow continued to blow against the windows and boredom wormed its way into the room like smoke from an ill-burning fire. Grannie’s needles began the clickety-clacking that accompanied most of our quiet hours. Hector turned the pages of a book, hoping to find a pressed flower. I wished for Tony’s nose to be lying across my boot and his tail to thump as we listened to the familiar clicks of Grannie knitting.
Mrs. Sivam draped herself upon the chaise, her neck on the headrest, her face glowering at the ceiling. “I keep thinking of that thieving actress,” she said, “making such a noise, while her victim—one of her victims, since I am the other—has disappeared without a trace and the police seem not to care one bit.”
“I see that it must feel that way,” said Marjorie, “while you are so distraught, but James tells me that the police from four other villages are assisting the Tiverton constabulary. There is plenty of activity beyond what we’re aware of. Your motorcar is still in the coach house, rather penned in by tableaux scenery, so he has not gone off in that. Which means on foot or by train, unless he was picked up in somebody’s coach. The police keep asking questions, hoping that a witness will come forward.”
“So many questions, and no answers!” complained Kitty.
I leaned on Marjorie’s shoulders, nuzzling her cheek with my cheek, trying to see what she was writing.
“Aggie,” she said. “You’re making my script go wobbly.”
“Are you writing to Mummy?” I said.
“Yes.”
“And you’re telling her? About Mr. Corker?”
“I feel I must,” said Marjorie, glancing at Grannie Jane. “Even if Mummy doesn’t read the newspaper herself, most people do. Someone is bound to think it a duty to pay a call and tell her all about it.”
“She’ll know I wrote a letter full of untruths,” I said, “and I only fibbed because you said I must.”
“We did not realize that a reporter would come all the way from Torquay to make such a fuss,” said Marjorie. “We thought we were protecting her from worry.”
I slumped on an ottoman with a glum conscience.
Mr. Pressman appeared at the door to offer a welcome instant of anticipation. Why had he come? What might happen next?
Mummy had arrived, bringing Tony with her, unable to bear another day without us…The police had found another clue, this time a ruby necklace with a broken clasp…Mr. Lakshay Sivam had been sighted, running along the top of a train between Leeds and Durham…Mr. Lakshay Sivam had been arrested, a passenger in a coach carrying the post to Scotland…
“Yes, Pressman?” said Marjorie. “Did I hear the bell ring?”
“Indeed, my lady. There is a woman come calling, without a card. I put her in the drawing room to wait, but…I don’t know.”
“What troubles you, Pressman?” Marjorie put down her teacup and saucer. “Who is she?”
“Her name is Miss Beatrice Truitt, my lady. She is wearing heavy mourning. She is apparently betrothed to marry the corpse.”
CHAPTER 25
A BEREAVED VISITOR
“OH MY.” Marjorie’s face paled to what in books is called ashen. As white as fresh-fallen snow. As if visited by a ghostly apparition. As shocked as curdled cream.
“No!” Mrs. Sivam looked every bit as dreadful. “She’ll think that Lakshay killed him!”
“Grannie Jane?” said my sister. “What shall I do?”
Grannie moved stitches back and forth on her knitting needle. “You will go to greet her, my dear. Take Agatha with you, for good cheer. Ring the bell in twenty minutes and we will join you.”
“Not I,” said Mrs. Sivam. “How could I face her?”
“This will be your opportunity to set matters straight,” Grannie Jane said, firmly.
Marjorie stood, her face a picture of woe. My poor sister! It wasn’t her fault that Roger Corker had received stab wounds from two different weapons. But the stabbings had occurred in her library, and now she must offer kindness and solicitude to a devastated stranger. Lucky me to watch how this unfurled! With a guilty and delicious quiver of anticipation, I followed close on Marjorie’s heels along the hall, while she practiced words of condolence. We are so sorry for your loss…my utmost sadness that you find yourself…how can I express my sorrow on your grievous…
“This is awful, Aggie! What words can possibly make the slightest difference? The poor woman! How do you suppose she heard the news?”
“She likely expected him to visit on Christmas Day when he returned from Owl Park,” I said. “Imagine sitting down to one’s Christmas tea, a nice slice of fruitcake, and having a message come that your sweetheart has had his neck pierced!”
“Aggie, stop! It’s too grim to think of. And now here she is to seek solace and answers from a
household of strangers! Should we not be the ones visiting her in her hour of despair? Though how could we know that the poor man had a sweetheart? And goodness knows in what dreadful place an actor’s fiancée must live.”
“Any of the phrases you’ve been muttering will work perfectly,” I said. I imagined that Mrs. Sivam should have a few words to say as well. She might say, It may have been my husband who made you a widow before you were even married…or…My sincere condolences that your betrothed seems to have been a drunkard before he died…or…Your dream of a happy wedding has been shattered by the ancient curse upon an emerald I carry about in a box…
“Marjorie,” I said. “You need only survive twenty minutes before Grannie Jane joins us. She is ever so good at visits with the bereaved.”
“I shall be counting every second,” said my sister. She paused at the door of the drawing room, took a deep breath, and transformed into the young Lady Greyson, in full possession of grace and poise.
Miss Beatrice Truitt stood before the fire, close before the fire, leaning in as if her very blood had frozen and she’d prefer to melt than shiver another moment. As Mr. Pressman had informed us, she was dressed from head to toe in mourning. A dress of silk crape, a short cloak, a widow’s cap with heavy veil, all in dull black that did not reflect the light, as was the custom. One should not permit one’s clothing to display a sheen during one’s darkest hour.
She turned at our approach and accepted my sister’s outstretched hands with gratitude, her head bent low and stifling a sob. I knew without looking that Marjorie’s cheeks would also display tears. I nearly wept myself at her distress. The introductions were made, and Miss Truitt agreed to sit. Marjorie peppered her gently with questions. Had she come far? Would she take tea? Had she been long engaged to Mr. Corker? What shocking news to hear on Christmas Day!
Our guest responded sweetly, in a voice not much above a whisper. She had not come too far, only from Exeter. She would like tea, if it wouldn’t be too much trouble. She had been acquainted with Mr. Corker for some two years, but engaged for only these past three months. Shocking? Yes. Far beyond shocking—and what progress had the police investigation made?
“Pull the cord, will you, Aggie? We’ll order tea and have Grannie join us.” Marjorie’s hands, turning over themselves in her lap, betrayed her great discomfort.
“The police…” she said. “It is a Detective Inspector Willard who leads the case, and he is very clever, it seems to me, though these things take time, I am afraid.”
“Interviews,” I whispered to Marjorie as I sat, after ringing the bell. Marjorie patted my knee.
“Ah, yes, thank you, Aggie. The police have interviewed everyone in the house, all the guests and servants. And a search has been conducted, though…” Her voice died away as she entered the murky waters of how much a stranger should be told about the other crime committed within these walls. “Though I do not know how a search might assist in apprehending a…a…”
“A killer, Lady Greyson?” said Miss Truitt. “I must learn to say it plainly. Though I cannot begin to understand why anyone would murder my poor dear Roger.”
For this we had no answer, and thus a lengthy moment of silence.
“We have been wondering the same thing,” said Marjorie, finally. “How could we not?”
Another painful interlude where none of us spoke.
“Tell me,” said Miss Truitt. “Is it true that one of your houseguests is suspected of the crime? Did I not read in the newspaper—on my journey—that someone else is missing? Or is my…my sorrow muddling my sense?”
Marjorie took in another slow breath. “It is best not to pay much heed to the newspapers,” she said. “The fellows so often get things wrong. We must put our trust in the police and their steadfast endeavors.”
She had deftly avoided answering the question, but there was no comfort in her words. The tea arrived at last, and a moment later, Grannie Jane and Hector came in, with Mrs. Sivam following nervously.
We had an interlude of introductions and condolences, tea-pouring and biscuit-passing. At the very moment when we might have sunk once again into the Awkward Well of Despair, Miss Truitt lifted the veil from her face and pinned it back momentarily so that she might sip her tea.
She lifted the cup to her lips, having put in a slice of lemon, and looked me straight in the eye.
I nearly dropped my macaroon.
I’d seen those eyes before.
And they were not the eyes of a stranger named Miss Beatrice Truitt.
CHAPTER 26
AN AGONY OF DECEIT
MY HEART STOOD STILL and then began to tremble as if it were a mouse under the gaze of a cat. I had met those eyes a dozen times. For a moment I could not place the face, until it struck me that on other occasions there had been a pair of round gold-rimmed spectacles sliding down the pointed nose. I opened my mouth and closed it again. My eyes flicked to Marjorie, who used the tongs to put a slice of lemon into her teacup with no notice of a calamitous revelation here in her drawing room.
One does not expect to be utterly deceived by the same person twice. But here I was, a double dupe. Admittedly, in my experience, she was very, very good at deception, so I credited her talent more than I rued my foolishness.
Until this morning, I had only ever seen her dressed as a man. That’s how Mr. Fibbley did his job, in disguise, writing about sights that most women dare not see, sights that most newspaper employers consider unhealthy for any but the hardest-hearted men to witness.
And yet, here was another version of Mr. Fibbley, a slim and pretty woman, un-spectacled and clad in mourning from hat to hemline, sniffling into a black-bordered handkerchief. So familiar, and yet never seen before!
“Miss Truitt,” I said. I did not wish to expose her without knowing what game she played. For my sister’s sake, I could not join the game with an easy conscience. “Perhaps…” I glanced again at Marjorie, but her lips were at the rim of her teacup. “Would you care to, er, wash your hands after your journey? I could show you the way.”
Marjorie flushed, and smiled at me warmly. “Oh, Aggie, thank you. I should have offered at once to…”
Miss Truitt rose and followed me.
“We haven’t much time,” she whispered, her black skirt rustling along the passage.
She opened the door of the lavatory and turned back to me with a sassy grin. “This will be cozy.” She clasped my wrist and pulled me with her into the tiny room, closing the door swiftly. We were squished together as closely as herrings in a jar.
“Have they got electric lights?” she whispered.
“In some of the rooms,” I said. “Some of the time. It does not appear to be a reliable commodity.” I felt her arms swatting the walls in a fruitless search of some manner of illumination. I found the switch and turned on a small lamp suspended from the ceiling.
“I will wash my hands while we’re in here,” said Miss Truitt, “if you don’t mind.”
My hip was wedged against the sink, but I pressed myself flat against the wall while she turned on the tap and found lavender soap.
“What are you doing here?” I said. “What if someone recognizes you?”
“Why would it occur to anyone to look for a male journalist in the clothes of a bereaved young maiden?”
“Why are you pretending to be a bereaved young maiden?” I spoke as fiercely as I could. “Wherever did you find a weeping veil at such short notice?”
She wiped her hands dry on her skirt and ignored my question. The hook with the hand towel was digging into my back.
“The police,” I said, “will want to speak with you, Miss Beatrice Truitt. They’ll be looking for a motive. Perhaps it was you who killed him, that’s what they’ll be thinking. They’ll ask all sorts of questions—and you know nothing about him!”
“I know from the other reporters the bits
they’ve gathered from the servants,” she said. “I know he was a harmless chap who owed a bit of money and was too fond of the bottle. Nothing to get killed for.”
“Maybe he wasn’t the one meant to be killed,” I said. “There were four men dressed the same way. What if one of the others—”
“It’s done now,” said Miss Truitt. “I report on what happened, not what might have happened. His old mum died last year, and he’d got no one else to care about him, except these actors. I shall disappear as soon as I have gathered a bit more color. Just watch. As good as a conjurer, my vanishing act. Really, these few minutes with Lady Greyson have already given me a trove of details…though it would be a treat to have a quick look at the body. Only you and Hector will ever know I was in here. I’d have thought, as a fellow writer, that you would applaud my ingenuity!”
“Your ingenuity is swamping my sister with guilt,” I said. “And what if a real fiancée arrives? Or an actual Mrs. Corker, with three children and genuine sorrow in her heart? What will you do then?”
“I tell you, there’s nobody like that. Mr. Corker had a heart-to-heart with a footman over a bottle of ale, told him he was alone in the world, not so much as a cat to go home to.” Miss Truitt grinned, her teeth gleaming faintly in the near dark.
Which footman? I wondered.
“Listen,” she said. “It is not every day that a reporter has an opportunity like this, to see the inside story. Not one of those men out there could do what I have done this morning, isn’t that right?”
I thought of the fellow with the pocked face and wiry black beard. Or the ginger-haired man with gray smudges under his eyes and a droopy mustache. What sort of women might they dress up to be? I laughed.
“I’m not certain that’s a fair defense of your trickery,” I said.
“You and Hector swore an oath in October that you would not tell the secret of my identity,” Miss Truitt said. “Surely you will not break a promise so soon as this?”
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