Mr. Mooney was watching me so closely, it seemed as if he were reading my thoughts as they unscrolled. He took a breath and released it slowly.
“You’ve made up a story,” he said, sounding very tired. “But maybe…some of it…is close.”
“You and Mr. Corker had a fight,” I said. “He was drunk and angry, and you picked up the paper knife, and—”
I stopped. When I said paper knife, the inspector and Mr. Mooney both stiffened. What had I said wrong?
But, I was thinking, what about the dagger? How did Mr. Corker’s dagger become part of the action? My imagined scenario had all made unexpected sense up to that point, but now I had bumped up against the second weapon and could not think what to say next.
“I think we’ve heard enough,” said Inspector Willard. He gave a curt nod to the sergeant, who pulled the chain attached to the iron cuffs binding the prisoner’s wrists.
“I did not kill Roger Corker,” said Mr. Mooney, at last allowing himself to be tugged away.
He was transported to town within the hour and we never saw him again.
* * *
—
“God’s teeth,” said Lucy. “You are so brave!”
“Lucy!” I couldn’t help but laugh. “Your grandmother would keel over to hear you swear like that!” I looked about, a little surprised to find myself still standing in the courtyard with a small crowd of onlookers. My scalp tingled.
“That was quite a punch,” I said to Mr. Fibbley. “Where is Hector?”
“I can hardly flex my fingers,” he said, with a crooked smile. He cocked his head toward the coach house. “Your friend is still in there. I’ll wait with him until you bring someone. That man needs serious medical attention.”
“What man?” said Lucy.
“Mr. Sivam,” I said. “Lucy, you get the doctor, and I’ll get James.”
We barreled through the kitchen, startling Effie so badly that she dropped a pot. An empty pot, luckily, but it made a tremendous clang.
“Uncle James went to fetch Grandmamma for lunch, once Hector was settled,” said Lucy. “He probably doesn’t know what’s happened, even though the gong was late.”
“Because Cook was outside,” I said, “armed with a soup ladle!”
Lucy giggled. “Well, anyway, I’m guessing they’re all together by now. And if the doctor has finished mending Constable Gillie, he’ll be eating lunch as well.”
We skidded to a stop outside the dining room and inspected each other head to foot. Tousled and grubby, wrinkled and damp, we looked a fright!
“We just rescued someone,” I said, shuddery and gulping in air after our frantic run, “for the second time today. Who cares if we’re not groomed and proper?”
“Grandmamma cares.” Lucy, too, was breathless. But she pushed open the door and in we went, bumping smack into Frederick holding a platter of fish.
We met a circle of stares. Old Lady Greyson, Grannie Jane, Marjorie, James, Dr. Musselman and Mrs. Sivam.
“A little more decorum,” said Lucy’s grandmother, “when entering a room?”
“Lucy?” said James.
“Aggie, what has happened?” Marjorie rose to her feet.
“Do you need to sit?” Grannie Jane shifted the empty chair next to her. I shook my head, no thank you, still panting slightly and even giggly. Lucy poked me to speak.
But, to whom should I deliver the news?
Mrs. Sivam. She would want to know first.
“Your husband,” I said, “has been found.”
I was scolded later for announcing the alarm this way. I had not been thinking of tact or discretion.
“Is he alive?” said Kitty Sivam.
“Almost,” I said.
* * *
—
Dr. Musselman came out of the Juliet suite carrying a hand towel, drying his hands as if he’d just washed. Mrs. Sivam nestled under Marjorie’s protective arm, while James kept an arm about Marjorie. Hector, Lucy and I sat in a row against the wall with our curiosity burning.
“When may I speak with him?” said Mrs. Sivam. “Does he remember anything?”
But the doctor shook his head. “He’ll not be properly conscious for some time. He’s had a nasty time of it. That Mooney ruffian stole the chloroform from my bag and administered too much for too many days. A dose should never be more than a drop or two.” He turned the towel over and patted the back of his neck.
“I will sit with him,” said Mrs. Sivam.
“I won’t stop you,” said the doctor. “But I advise that you rest tonight and let the servants keep watch. You’ll be wanted tomorrow when he’s awake. Bedrest only until we can get him to a hospital. He may be incapable of speech for a while, even when the drug has worn off.”
Mrs. Sivam gasped as James said, “God’s breath, man, why not?”
“One of the perils of the drug. It can burn a man’s throat as sore as if he’d swallowed tacks. He can barely croak. I suspect he was gagged whenever Mooney left him alone, in case he woke up to cause a ruckus.”
“Mr. Mooney kept checking his watch!” I murmured to Hector. “Pulling it from his pocket, remember? To be certain he was present when a dose was wearing off.”
“Altogether, a nasty business.” Dr. Musselman shook his head, attempting to roll the towel into his medical bag. “A very nasty business.”
“When do you think Mr. Sivam will be recovered enough to speak with the police?” said James. “The inspector is eager to ask a few questions.”
“Possibly by morning,” said Dr. Musselman, “if he answers with a pencil and paper, I suppose. Every man’s body recovers differently from an overdose. So, who’s to say? Who’s to say?”
Old Lady Greyson had gone to her room as soon as Lucy and I interrupted lunch, asking that this evening’s meal be brought on a tray as well, and insisting the same be done for Grannie Jane. Grannie Jane would far rather be nattering with us than over there in East House behaving like an old woman, but was too polite to say so. Mrs. Sivam insisted on sitting with her husband, no matter what Dr. Musselman’s advice had been. Marjorie understood—for what if it were James?—and kept company with her guest.
Thankfully, Lucy reminded James that we had not eaten, since forever. He said to come to the dining room to be fed whatever we wished. And so it was that we ate fried potatoes and crispy battered fish (and ignored the stewed tomatoes), while telling James every detail of Hector’s miserable night, and the battle with Mr. Mooney, and the discovery of poor, pitiable Mr. Sivam.
“It is most enlightening, the English Christmas,” teased Hector. “You provide much entertainment, Lord Greyson.”
“Your mothers will be vexed with me,” he complained, “for I have failed in my charge to supply a safe and merry Christmas.”
“Mummy won’t mind,” I reassured James. “Marjorie was here to watch over me. Over all of us.”
“The story will be made more gentle in my letters,” promised Hector. “I will be certain to report that Stephen and Constable Gillie are both back on their feet…though the policeman is using a crutch.”
“My mother may never let me come again,” said Lucy, her voice full of woe. “I leave it to you, Uncle James, to fix everything with her before my summer visit.”
“She’ll be coming too,” said James, “with your new brother, Robbie, or Bobbie, or whatever we end up calling him.”
Mr. Pressman came into the room and bowed to James.
“The actress, my lord,” he said. “She has been released from confinement, but it is too late at night to consider a train.”
“Poor woman,” said James. “She’ll loathe the name of Owl Park for the rest of her life. Is she hungry?”
“Ask her if she likes stewed tomatoes,” said Lucy.
James instructed Pressman to please invite Miss Day to joi
n us for supper. She must have been close by for she appeared within a minute, dressed in a lovely sea-blue gown with a lace jacket of the same color. She tried to apologize for interrupting us, but James was apologizing to her at the same time, about her being wrongfully detained. Eventually we moved on.
“I believe, madam,” said Hector, “that you and I have something in common.”
Annabelle lifted an eyebrow. “Explain yourself, Master Perot,” she said. Hector lifted one eyebrow in reply, and they both laughed.
“Every day I am adapting to the customs in a new land,” said Hector. “I must alter myself to suit the wishes of others, to be less foreign. But for you—”
“For me, it is what I do for a living,” she said. “Every time I put on an old apron or a ballgown, a crone’s wig or a pair of pirate boots, I am becoming a person that I am not.”
“I’m a bit bewildered too,” said James. “Truth be told, learning to be Lord Greyson instead of Lord Greyson’s son. Not so harsh as you must find it, Hector, far from home and navigating in a new language, but still a struggle to find my way some days. And Lucy has also entered a new world, though she may not realize the challenges just yet.”
Lucy looked perplexed. “This is still England,” she said, “last time I looked out the window.”
James reached over to tousle her hair. “You have become a big sister,” he said.
“Oh, that,” said Lucy. “I suppose the baby might muck things up a bit, though I expect him to be jolly some of the time. I suppose I’ll wait and see.”
“You have no choice,” said James. “Life-altering events are often thrust upon us.”
“Like mine,” I said. “The world without Papa.”
James got up and came around the table to put his hands on my shoulders. “Marjorie and I are both in that world with you,” he said. “Though it must still feel very lonely at times.”
I blinked hard to keep the tears inside my eyes.
“Wasn’t there meant to be peach crumble for dessert?” said Lucy.
“I’m too tired for dessert,” I said. “This day began a long time ago.”
“At the beginning of this day, I am imprisoned in a packing case,” said Hector.
“I was imprisoned by a man in a chair,” said Annabelle. “But at least I had a pillow.”
“As lord of the manor,” said James, “I decree that we have arrived at bedtime.”
* * *
—
We paused on the nursery landing to say good night.
“I have a few unanswered questions,” I said to Hector. “Mr. Mooney was eating turnip soup right next to us when Stephen fell down the stairs. So, who pushed him? And why were Mr. Corker’s boots outside the Juliet suite instead of with Mr. Corker? And when did—”
“Tomorrow,” said Hector. “Now, I am already sleeping.”
TORQUAY VOICE
DECEMBER 29, 1902
CHRISTMAS KILLER CAUGHT!!
MANOR GUEST ABDUCTED,
TWO CHILDREN HARMED!!
HEARTLESS VILLAIN MURDERS FRIEND!!
by Augustus C. Fibbley
Perilous events continued yesterday at Owl Park manor near Tiverton. The leading role was played by an actor with blood on his hands—or certainly upon his shirt cuffs. An arrest has been made after a near escape, a physical scuffle and the enterprising actions of two young girls. This reporter was an eyewitness and has since interviewed all parties. Detective Inspector Thaddeus Willard made a statement to the hardy reporters who have lingered near the manor house of Lord and Lady Greyson since December 25. On that day, the body of Mr. Roger Corker was discovered in the library by three children seeking their gifts from Father Christmas. The heinous criminal is named Mr. Sebastian Mooney, also known to use the alias of Sebastiano Luna when employed on the continent. He does not speak Italian.
The final act of the Christmas Corpse drama unfolded in an enclosed courtyard outside the service wing of the grand house. Mr. Mooney will be charged with murder and with child-snatching, as he brutally held a boy captive for a period of many hours. Also imprisoned in the coach house was a longtime friend of Lord Greyson, owner of a valuable gemstone stolen on Christmas Eve. Mr. Mooney has yet to confess or explain his crimes, saying only that he is innocent of murder. He is detained at the Tiverton Jail to await formal sentencing and trial.
Mr. Corker’s body will be removed tomorrow, weather depending, from the stables at Owl Park. He will be buried in the churchyard of St. Aidan’s church in Tiverton. Lord and Lady Greyson have commissioned a commemorative headstone. Miss Beatrice Truitt, betrothed to the deceased, has thanked them for providing the memorial marker for her fiancé and intends to visit this resting place when it is complete.
DECEMBER 29, 1902
MONDAY
CHAPTER 36
A SERIES OF CONCLUSIONS
MARJORIE CAME INTO the breakfast room fresh from a bath and smelling like chamomile.
Sturdy horses had just pulled the police wagon slowly into sight from behind the manor, trundling sedately over the shoveled drive.
“Here you all are,” Marjorie said. “As if you’re in a theater box, watching a melodrama.”
“Have a seat,” said Grannie Jane, patting the chair next to her.
“James and his mother are here as well,” said Marjorie, gently warning us before they appeared.
“I have come to witness the end of this miserable episode for myself,” said Lady Greyson.
We fussed and quickly rearranged chairs in front of the wide windows, so as not to miss the farewell.
Swaths of black crape had been draped from the corners of the wagon’s roof, to alert onlookers to the solemnity of the vehicle’s contents. Dr. Musselman sat up front with the driver, wearing a top hat. He had offered to accompany the deceased on his final ride, as Miss Truitt was nowhere to be found. Old Lady Greyson and Hector stood up out of respect, so the rest of us did too. It was not a funeral cortege, but it was the best poor Mr. Corker would get—especially as his fraudulent sweetheart, in her reporter’s guise, was striding behind the moving wagon, scribbling notes.
“Has anyone noticed,” said Lucy, when the sad parade had disappeared from sight down the long drive, “that four days have gone by and we have yet to open our socks from Father Christmas?”
“Goodness,” cried Marjorie. “Do you suppose the stockings are still sitting where they were stashed a week ago?”
“The mice will have eaten all the sweets,” James said.
“I wish you wouldn’t tease, Uncle James,” said Lucy. “Where were they stashed?”
“I believe the rule is,” said old Lady Greyson, in an almost-kindly voice, “that you need to find the next clue.”
“Will you please just tell us?” said Lucy.
“Certainly not,” said her grandmother. “The stocking hunt is a treasured tradition at Owl Park and must not be disregarded.”
“Who do you suppose made the hunt for your mother and me when we were little?” James asked Lucy.
Lucy cocked her head to inspect her grandmother with closer interest.
“Where did you leave off?” said old Lady Greyson.
Beside a pirate lying in a pool of blood, I thought, catching Hector’s eye.
“In the library,” said Lucy.
“We are about to look at the letter C in the dictionary,” said Hector.
Lucy’s eyes lit up. “Please excuse our rapid departure, Grandmamma, Aunt Marjorie?”
A rapid departure ensued.
The dictionary waited on its stand as if nothing unusual had ever occurred nearby. Lucy flipped through the pages so eagerly there was a risk of tearing. Between celebrate and ceremony was a paper the size of a visiting card with a new poetic clue.
Perhaps you are thirsty
And want a hot drink.
Will you fill a small trunk,
While you have a good think?
“A small trunk?” said Hector. “I am having enough of small trunks, no thank you.”
“Not that kind of trunk, silly,” Lucy said. “It has to do with hot drinks.”
“Follow me!” I cried. I led them straight to the morning room, and across the carpet to the cabinet where the teapots were kept.
“Perhaps you are thirsty?” I said. “And want a hot drink?”
“Aggie, you’re brilliant!” said Lucy.
“Very clever,” said Hector.
Inside the elephant teapot to the left—rolled into his small trunk—was the next clue.
In here it is gloomy.
Spiders frolic and spin.
When chilled from the Avon,
Let the fire begin.
“There is only one Avon in Owl Park,” said Lucy, leading the way.
“Spiders?” Hector’s brow crinkled in distaste.
“It can’t mean real spiders,” I said. “Can it?”
Inspector Willard’s table and chairs sat waiting to be moved away by the footmen. There had been no fire in the grate since yesterday’s arrest of Mr. Mooney, but a tower of firewood sat on the tiled hearth.
“When chilled from the Avon,” repeated Lucy.
“Let the fire begin!” I cried. “We should have known at once, with all the logs heaped outside the cupboard.” I stepped over to my old hiding place and pulled open the door. “Voilà!”
Barricaded from the passage side by a carefully laid camouflage of kindling—I’d been lucky not to tread on them!—were our wonderful, lumpy, knitted stockings.
* * *
—
We had just rejoined the others, exclaiming at the cleverness of their clues, when Pressman appeared to alert my sister that Miss Day would be departing shortly and wished to have a word. She was waiting in the morning room.
Peril at Owl Park Page 22
