Peril at Owl Park

by Marthe Jocelyn

  A day ago, Dot’s answer would have made the blood freeze in my veins, but now I guessed the name before she opened her mouth.

  “Didn’t I say?” said Dot. “These bits has come from the grate in Mr. Mooney’s room. He hasn’t let me in there since Christmas, being ever so messy. It’ll take me all afternoon to scrub and tidy once he’s gone.”

  “You won’t be expected to clean it,” said Inspector Willard. “The police will take care of that.”

  “I’ve got the murder weapon,” I said, unable to wait another moment. “And Hector is still missing.”

  Inspector Willard looked abruptly in my direction. The light sparked in his eyes as if I’d lit a match.

  “Thank you, Miss Bolt,” he said to Dot. “You have been a great help. I shall commend you to Mrs. Frost.” Dot stood up and smoothed her apron. She smiled at me, a smile of triumph. A great help!

  “Constable?”

  The constable stiffened in anticipation of new orders. “Sir.”

  “You will escort Miss Bolt to the kitchen. You will then locate Mr. Mooney and tell him that I’d like another word. If he objects, you will thump him. Go!”

  As Constable Gillie hustled her out, Dot shot me another grin. This was the sort of action she could tell the servants’ hall!

  Inspector Willard indicated that I should sit. I willed myself to meet his eyes.

  “You are persistent,” he said. Did I discern the faintest twinkle or was that wishful thinking?

  “Sir,” I said. My fingers closed around the lump inside the stocking at my waist.

  “Please proceed,” he said, “even knowing that my focus is needed elsewhere.”

  Goodness, yes. What was I hesitating over? Hector’s safety was in peril! I fumbled to untie the clumsy knot in the stocking and withdrew the paper knife. I placed it on the table between us. He picked it up to take a closer look.

  “It’s from the desk in the library,” I said. “Sir.”

  “Yes,” he agreed. “I recognize the owl.” The black streak caught his attention. His eyes darted to me and then back to the knife. For one-tenth of a second, he allowed a grin—but replaced it quickly with a wooden face.

  “I will not ask how you came by this item from a guarded room during a murder investigation,” he said. “I’m beginning to suspect there is a secret passage in this old house. We have no time for that now. There is a chance that you have just presented a critical clue. One that you should not have. Having it means you are putting yourself in danger. I cannot allow—”

  “But, Hector!” I said. “He’s still—”

  He picked up the knife while shaking his head. “Please find your sister or your grandmother—or a book—and sit quietly for just a little while. We will get to the bottom of this.”

  There came a tap at the door and Constable Gillie put his head in.

  “We’ve got Mr. Mooney, sir. Sergeant Fellowes is here too, in case of trouble.”

  “Thank you, Constable,” said Inspector Willard. “And thank you for your contribution, Miss Morton. Good day.”

  Grrrrr!

  The two policemen and Mr. Mooney filed into the Avon Room with no struggle, while I was marooned on the wrong side of the door. I’d delivered the murder weapon right into Inspector Willard’s hands! How could he be so cruel as to prevent me from watching its effect on the killer? If only the secret passage reached this far!

  But wait!

  A short bark of glee escaped before I clapped a hand over my mouth and pursued my brilliant idea. Lucy had shown us the wood cupboards that allowed the servants to resupply the log pile in each room without disturbing the family members within. And was I not standing in front of the Avon Room wood cupboard this very minute?

  I checked that no one was in the passage before yanking open the tall narrow door. There were only a dozen logs stacked at the bottom, mostly against the other door, leaving enough room for a person to hoist herself up and squeeeeze sideways into the cupboard. I managed to shut the door but had to bend my neck rather awkwardly. The logs were knobby underfoot, but tightly packed and not at risk of rolling noisily about. It was the definition of uncomfortable, but I could hear nearly every word being spoken!

  “Yes, he was drunk,” Mr. Mooney was saying. “But worse than that, he had in his hand the jewel that Mrs. Sivam had shown us all a few hours earlier.”

  “Had he indeed?” said the inspector. “I’m sorry you did not provide this crucial detail during our first conversation, Mr. Mooney. How did you react to seeing that?”

  “I confess I was very angry indeed,” said Mr. Mooney. His actorly voice carried nicely through the cupboard door. “There’d been a matter of a mislaid bracelet at another manor house we visited a few months ago. As roaming actors, we came under suspicion—a cloud we cannot afford to carry. I was furious that here seemed to be proof that my old friend was guilty of such low dealings.”

  A moment’s pause.

  I’d never thought to wonder whether the Echo Emerald was the first or only theft. Was our calamity just one in a chain of events?

  “I’m afraid,” Mr. Mooney said, “that I used harsh words. I called him an idiot, and a dunderhead.”

  But hadn’t he said last time that it was Mr. Corker who’d called him names?

  “I told him,” said Mr. Mooney, “that his ongoing presence with the troupe was impossible. He’d put Annabelle and myself in a terrible situation.”

  “And how did he respond?” asked Inspector Willard.

  “He…he…” The actor paused again. “That’s when he hit me. My nose began to bleed.”

  “This is the first I’ve heard of a bloody nose,” said Inspector Willard. “Another point withheld during our previous encounter.”

  “Did I not mention that? I suppose I was embarrassed that a man ten years my senior managed to land a punch.”

  “And did you hit him back?” said the inspector, coaxing.

  “I did not.” Mr. Mooney sounded offended. “I gave him a push toward the chair. I had no intention of hitting a man so much the worse for drink. I told him again that we were finished and that he should be gone by morning. I didn’t care that he’d have to walk to Tiverton, is what I said, and maybe it would sober him up.”

  Nearly a minute passed. I tried to turn my head to ease the crick, but my nose met the wall.

  Then came a gulping noise before Mr. Mooney continued in a voice of deep regret. “I left the library. Because of the late hour, I went up the staircase from the Great Hall instead of using the servants’ steps. I heard a door open but hurried on, afraid to be noticed where I should not be. Thinking back, I assume it was Mr. Sivam, coming out of his room. He must have discovered the missing gem and gone to confront the thief.”

  “Mr. Mooney.” The inspector’s tone was soft, almost confiding, meaning that I stopped breathing in order to hear properly. “Put yourself in my position for a moment,” he said. “What would you think if confronted by an intelligent man who lies to the police during a murder inquiry?”

  No answer. Inspector Willard posed his next question.

  “Why did you burn your shirt, if the blood was merely from your nose?”

  I heard the clink of a dish and guessed that the plate of ashes had been pushed forward for Mr. Mooney to contemplate. I was impressed so far with Inspector Willard’s probing technique. His wording was careful, his pacing sure-footed, and his manner aloof but congenial. I had expected Mr. Mooney to be caught off-guard by the question about blood, but instead, he laughed!

  “Ha! It saddens me to realize there is no woman in your life, Inspector! I live in fear of my colleague, Miss Annabelle Day. Of worrying or vexing her. Give her a bloodied shirt and confess the cause to be a dispute between her two best friends? I shudder to think of the outburst. Reason enough, I promise, to tear my shirt to shreds and burn away the evidenc
e.”

  We’d seen with our own eyes how particular Annabelle was about the costumes. Mr. Mooney’s wish to avoid making her cross was entirely wise. I paused to reconsider the whole of his testimony. What if everything he’d said was true, rather than false? How would that color our investigation? If only Hector were here to—

  Hector!

  Hector was not here! And this was my chance—while Mr. Mooney was occupied in police company—to have a quick look around the coach house! I backed up slowly on the uneven logs, pressing my perspiring palms against the sides of the cupboard. I bounced my heel against the door to nudge it open and eased myself to the ground. I had been confined for only a few minutes, but my joints seemed as creaky as Grannie Jane claimed hers to be. I smoothed my hair, shook wood chips from my skirt and set off at a run toward the kitchen.

  CHAPTER 33

  A MARVELOUS FIND

  AGAIN I BORROWED one of the servants’ shawls as I tore through the kitchen door and hurried past the reporters, still loitering in the courtyard. No one stopped me from darting in through the stable door, because Sergeant Fellowes, I realized, was with Mr. Mooney in the Avon Room.

  A shape lay beneath a chilly linen sheet in stall number 5. I worried for a moment that pulling back the covering would reveal not Mr. Corker, but Mr. Sivam…or Hector. How unkind it felt to be relieved at the sight of the actor’s face.

  His skin did not look human, but like a waxwork version, a film of frost glistening upon his features, as if he’d been exhumed from a prehistoric ice cave. The hole in his neck was puckered and nearly black, crusted with dried blood. I might have stayed to examine him more closely, an endeavor of scientific research, but I had a more pressing search to pursue.

  I paused in the archway that divided stable and coach house. It was freeeezing cold. Mr. Mooney had been interrupted in his labors when summoned by Inspector Willard, and the big door to the courtyard was only partway shut. A shaft of light cut across the floor and bent its way up the side of a packing case. Several large and awkwardly shaped pieces of painted scenery were stacked against the side of Mr. Sivam’s motorcar.

  I stepped in—and tripped over a rope on the floor. “Ouch!”

  Instantly, I heard a thudding noise. Whump. Whump. Whump. Dull and steady.

  “Hello?” I whispered, scarcely daring to call out, though I knew that Mr. Mooney was not here.

  “Hector?” Full of fright, my voice had not enough air to make noise. I tried again.

  “HECTOR!”

  The thumping stopped and then began again with a frantic pulse. Whump, whum-whump, whump-whump-whump. The packing case before me shook with every whump. Until cr-raack! The wood on one end splintered open from the force behind it, revealing that the hammer was the sole of a boot.

  For an instant, my legs would not move. But then I heard a voice along with the thuds, a thin, furious keening. I nearly dove across the straw-covered dirt to land on my knees next to the shaking crate.

  “Hector!” My fingers were trembling twigs not performing as I required. “Hector, I’m here! Stop thumping!” After several tries, I unfastened the tight-fitting latch and yanked open the lid.

  “Hector!”

  He was lying on his side, legs bent and arms wrapped across his chest. One foot was caught partway through the smashed end of his tiny prison. His eyes were livid and bruised, his face strained, and pale, and oh, so dear.

  “Hector!”

  He tried to sit up but his foot was trapped, or perhaps the ordeal had left him weak. When I wiped the tears from my eyes, I saw that he was crying too. I pulled aside the splintered wood from around his shoe. Gently, I put my hands under his arms and helped him to sit.

  But, could he stand?

  Eventually, he could, trembling terribly. “I am wishing and wishing that you will come.”

  “Oh, Hector.”

  “I am very much cold,” he said.

  I rubbed his arms fiercely, the way Mummy rubbed mine when I came in from a winter walk with Tony.

  “Who did this to you?” I whispered.

  “I cannot say for certain,” said Hector. “He conks me from behind when I am considering the boots. When again I am conscious, I am lying in what I think is to be my coffin.”

  I shuddered, sliding an arm around his back. He seemed not to know how to proceed. I lifted his knee over the side of the box while he held my shoulder to steady himself.

  “Take it slowly,” I said. “You might not be ready to walk yet.”

  He took one step and then another. One step and then another, as wobbly as a baby.

  “I have a revelation about the boots,” he said.

  We had reached the open door. In the bright light outside, Hector’s skin was nearly blue with cold. One eye was circled with the gray of fatigue, the other swollen and purple, making him look like an exotic monkey.

  “LUCY!” I bellowed. She was across the courtyard, talking to Mr. Fibbley. She spun around at the sound of my voice and galloped over.

  “Hector!” she cried. “You’re back! Where were you? You look horrible!”

  “Lucy,” I said. “Run to find Marjorie or James, will you?” She was gone before I could add please.

  “Aggie.” Hector clutched my arm, swayed and crumpled into the snow like a broken doll.

  Reporters flocked around us, each tugging Hector in a different direction. His swoon lasted only a few seconds. He was not hurt, just woozy and embarrassed. Lucy hurtled out of the house with James on her heels. James hollered at the reporters to skedaddle, and most of them did, delighted with a new story to be filed at once. James scooped Hector off the ground and held him like an infant. Hector barked a laugh of surprise as James spun around and went straight back through the kitchen door that Lucy held open for him.

  “Come, Aggie!” Lucy dragged on my arm. “Aunt Marjorie is bringing blankets for a chaise in the conservatory. She says he needs the warmth and humidity in there, like an hour in Africa. Also, no stairs. Cook is making him a posset.”

  After much fussing, tucking, cosseting and sipping, we three were finally alone.

  “Well?” I said, as the conservatory door closed on Marjorie’s swishing skirt.

  “Who did this?” said Lucy.

  “As I am saying already,” said Hector, “I never see him and he does not speak to me. Occasionally there is muttering or moaning. I am deducing Mr. Mooney. Because of the boots.”

  “I gave Inspector Willard the paper knife,” I said, “but I was asked to leave and then I came to find you. Mr. Mooney had a sensible explanation for every question, so I don’t know if he has been arrested or freed.”

  “What boots?” said Lucy. “What knife?”

  Hector’s eyelids fluttered and his pale face looked even paler.

  “Wait!” I said. “Don’t you dare go to sleep or faint again before you’ve told us. What about the boots?”

  Hector had the strength to tilt half his mouth into a smile.

  “Are you warm enough?” said Lucy. “Aunt Marjorie said you need to stay warm.”

  “Ssh, Lucy, he’s under two feather quilts! Hector, the boots?”

  “Six pair of pirate boots,” said Hector. “One pair is Mr. Corker’s, altered for the affliction of bunions. One pair belongs to Annabelle, stuffed in the toe with newspaper so her feminine foot will fit.”

  I nodded. So far, not news.

  “When I go to the coach house,” said Hector, slowly, “we wish to identify the person who wears the boots that are in the library next to le pauvre Mr. Corker. Is it Lord Greyson? We think not. Mr. Sivam? This also is unlikely.”

  I trusted Hector to be leading somewhere, so I listened patiently to what I already knew.

  “We know all this,” said Lucy.

  Hector closed his eyes, and licked his cracked lips.

  I lifted th
e porcelain invalid cup to his mouth so he could sip from its spout. I caught a whiff of the contents. Hector’s favorite, chocolat!

  “Two remaining pair,” he whispered.

  “Frederick and Mr. Mooney,” I said. “Identical with the ones worn by James and Mr. Sivam.”

  “Not identical,” said Hector. “I look at the heels.” His eyelids were still closed, one the color of a rotten plum.

  I wanted to shake him. What about the heels?? But he’d spent the whole night in a trunk with his bones turned to ice. Didn’t he deserve some rest?

  “Don’t sleep yet!!” said Lucy. “What about the heels?”

  “One is worn down,” he murmured. “But the other is barely scuffed, almost like new.”

  “What does that mean?” said Lucy.

  Hector made a sound like a cat purring. He was asleep.

  The door behind us opened with a polite click.

  “Grannie, hello,” I said, pointing at Hector. “Ssh.”

  Behind her was Inspector Willard, both their faces showing grave concern.

  “He’ll recover,” I said. “But he was awake all night in a packing case as cold as the icehouse.” I furtively wiped a hot tear from my cheek. Grannie pulled me close. The next few tears were not so furtive.

  “There, there,” she murmured, into my hair. “There’s a pet. I admire you greatly, Agatha, for the persistent friend you’ve been today.”

  “And I apologize,” said Inspector Willard, “for not heeding your alarm to the extent that I should have.”

  Or at all, I thought.

  “If it weren’t for Aggie,” said Lucy, “Hector would be dead.”

  I shivered, despite the drenching humidity of the conservatory. “He was about to tell us something important,” I said, “about the boots.”

  Another purrr from Hector. Lucy giggled.

  “Boots?” said the inspector.

  “The boots found beside the body,” I added. “He had a revelation.”

  “Surely the police can take things from here, Agatha?” Grannie Jane was about to be an obstacle to justice, I could feel it.