Next time, I thought, Hector should come here with me. Which animal would be his favorite? I was certain he’d be pleased by the displays of bones as well. If only Charlotte weren’t such a thorn to our friendship. We had so many other topics to discuss! A real newspaper reporter had sought my observations! If Leonard hadn’t interrupted, I might have asked Mr. Fibbley a few questions of my own. Like, how did a person go about writing a story when presented with so many threads to follow? And if the story involved a dead body, how did one decide which details were irrelevant and which might be crucial to a solution?
I wiped my face with my sleeve. Was it possible that instead of needing distraction from the murder, I needed the distraction of the murder, to help dispel the gloominess of a world without Papa?
* * *
Grannie Jane was in the Reading Room as promised, peering at a framed drawing on the wall. A burly man with untidy side-whiskers stood nearby, murmuring instruction.
“Lavandula,” he said. “Commonly called lavender, as you likely know. A member of the mint family, so the aromatic quality is of no surprise. The species shown here has pinnately toothed leaves, but this is not consistent across the genus.”
“Oh, hello, dear.” Grannie touched my arm. “You remember Mr. Tunweed, the museum botanist?”
“Sir.” I bobbed slightly.
“I am delighted to have you visit us again, Miss Morton. I believe your grandmother is finding me quite tiresome as a docent this afternoon.”
My grandmother’s eyes confessed to tedium. I guided her to sit in a chair. Purpose overcame my usual wish to avoid a conversation. Here was an expert, presented on a platter! “Grannie Jane already knows everything about buds and blossoms,” I said. “And about knitting. But, I have a question.”
The man brightened. “Of course, Miss Morton. How may I help?”
I scanned the small gallery of drawings mounted on the one library wall not lined with bookshelves. Surely he would know about poisonous plants?
How to ask without alarming my grandmother? “Have you any drawings kept away out of sight?” A tall wooden cabinet stood across the room with more than a dozen wide, shallow drawers. “I am most particularly curious…” I kept my voice only just above a whisper, “about poisonous mushrooms.”
Among other poisons, I might have added but did not.
“That’s an eccentric interest for a young lady,” said Mr. Tunweed. He cast a worried look in Grannie Jane’s direction.
“For the safety of my dog,” I said. “Tony is quite adventurous in his appetite, and likes to eat all sorts of horrible things. Only yesterday we found a rabbit with its spongy little brain seeping out.”
Mr. Tunweed looked decidedly concerned.
“Tony didn’t kill it! But he was keen to get close, you see? So perhaps I should know more about potential dangers in the garden.”
“Er…” said Mr. Tunweed.
“Cyanide,” I said. “Doesn’t that come from a plant?”
The botanist coughed. “Cyanide is present,” he said, “in many fruit stones and pits. Cherries, for instance, or apple seeds, though in very small quantities. I think your little doggie will be quite safe if you prevent his eating of fruit.”
“Have you drawings of anything else I should watch out for?” I asked. “What does deadly nightshade look like? Or opium?” It was a welcome insight that once I’d launched a conversation, I could keep it going simply by asking questions.
The botanist rolled open a drawer and showed me a detailed picture of a pale purple bloom. “I’ve never met a dog who liked to eat flowers,” he said. “So I may assure you that Tony will not become a drug addict. This is known as Papaver somniferum, or the sleep-bringing poppy, used in the Far East to produce opium and morphine.”
“What about strychnine?” I said. “In the Sherlock Holmes books, strychnine is very popular.”
Mr. Tunweed coughed again, a small bark, and peered across the room at Grannie.
“I’ve heard that strychnine is often an ingredient in mouse poison,” I said, coming finally to my intended destination. Could it be a coincidence that Roddy Fusswell and Miss Marianne had both complained of rodents on the night before the murder? That poison was on both their minds? “Mice or rats. That would be perilous for a small terrier, would it not?”
“Undoubtedly perilous,” said Mr. Tunweed. “But the use of such a compound would normally be restricted to a cellar or a kitchen. Not a concern with your dog in an outdoor garden.”
“What might be the symptoms,” I pressed, “if such a substance were consumed? I’m wondering about something that might cause a person to become blue in the face when dead?”
“A person?” Alarm rang loud and clear in Mr. Tunweed’s voice.
“Agatha, dear,” said Grannie Jane.
Oh, dash it! How long had she been listening?
“I believe Mr. Tunweed is quite worn out from our visit this afternoon. And I am feeling anxious for my tea.”
I was gracious with my thanks and my farewell. We got all the way to where Leonard was patiently waiting with the cart before the scolding came.
“I can see this outing was quite useless as a diversion from the fate of poor Irma Eversham.” Grannie Jane had to raise her voice because of the clopping hooves and the squeaking wheel. “I don’t suppose you learned anything of value?”
“Not really,” I said. “But you should be applauding my efforts, dear Grannie. My brain cell friction is at a high velocity this afternoon.”
* * *
We arrived at the Royal Victoria Hotel with hearty appetites. The Royal Victoria Hotel high tea was a treat saved for rare and special occasions. I supposed that distracting a person from a murder investigation could be considered rare.
“How does a young lady feel about hot chocolate?” said Grannie.
“A young lady,” I said, “feels particularly warmly about hot chocolate when it is garnished with a dollop of double cream.”
My favorite sandwiches were the cucumber with chopped chives, and the ones with ham sliced as thin as onionskin. After sandwiches came cakes and tarts. Plus an extra plate of scones and clotted cream, with a pot of strawberry jam.
“I don’t suppose the vicarage serves tea like this,” I said. “I wish Hector might have come.”
“I expect that Hector attends school on a Monday afternoon,” said my grandmother. “I understand he’s at the Grammar, on a scholarship.”
“He’s very clever,” I said. “And quite a suitable friend, don’t you think?”
“Miss Graves appears to disagree on that point, Agatha, though I found him an appealing boy. Your mother will have the deciding vote, I daresay.”
I buttered a scone with a layer thick enough to look like cheese. “Well, I think it’s nice to have a friend. And to be puzzling about chemistry instead of moping around,” I said. “I wish we knew for certain which poison was used. What do you think, Grannie?”
“It may surprise you to know that I am not well-schooled in poisons, Agatha. But I do recall a compelling case when I was younger, perhaps thirty years ago? A woman named Mary Ann Cotton was arrested for poisoning her stepson. A stepson from her fourth marriage. It came out during her trial—thanks to the dedication of newspaper reporters—that she had left a string of corpses in her wake.”
“How many?” I said. “How did she do it?”
“If I remember correctly, she killed three of her four husbands and eleven of her children. All with arsenic. The victims suffered what were called ‘stomach fevers.’ It took years for Mrs. Cotton to be suspected. Her lawyer tried to suggest that the stepson died from inhaling the dye used to make the green wallpaper in their home.”
I licked a dollop of butter from my thumb. “A stomach fever sounds slow,” I said.
“I believe arsenic takes several days and is often mistaken fo
r cholera or some such.”
“Well, it wasn’t arsenic for Mrs. Eversham, then. She went ever so quickly. Does anyone blend poisons? For speed and strength combined?”
“Your mother is quite correct that you are perhaps too entranced by morbid thoughts,” said Grannie. “Though it is a mysterious affair.”
I was quiet for a moment. “I do not choose my thoughts,” I explained, after a while. “They seem to choose me, like the lines in a poem.”
“There was a poem!” said Grannie Jane. “About Mrs. Cotton. Let me think…Most of it is gone.” She tapped her forehead. “But the last lines are memorable. You’ll like this, Agatha…Mary Ann Cotton, dead and forgotten. Lying in bed with her bones all rotten!” She laughed, pleased with herself. I agreed that it was an excellent rhyme.
“What was Mary Ann’s motive?” I said. “Was she simply seething with hatred?”
“Hatred? No. It was more a matter of greed. You likely are not familiar with the particulars of life insurance, my dear. Back then it was quite a new idea. One could insure someone else’s life like making a bet at the races, for just a few pounds. If the insured person died unexpectedly, the person making the bet would receive a sizable dividend. Mary Ann Cotton earned a substantial income by sacrificing her family members.”
“She killed her own children and it was all for money?” I said. Such wickedness seemed inconceivable. “Sherlock Holmes was right, I suppose. The motive is nearly always money in his cases. Murder and greed must be the best of friends, do you think?”
“Money, or terrible hurt,” said Grannie. She spread clotted cream on a corner of her scone. “Or both together. Intimate companions, as you say.”
“Do you suppose someone insured Mrs. Eversham’s life?” I asked.
“Despite our being inquisitive, certain details of a person’s life are not any of her neighbors’ business,” said Grannie Jane. “If pressed, however, I would guess that, no, the Evershams are not the sort of people who stoop to vulgar equations such as putting a money value on human life.” She rustled in her chair just enough to have the waiter spring to attention. She bade him bring the account. I turned away from the view of rollicking waves on the sea to look at who else was lucky enough to take tea at the Royal Victoria on a Monday afternoon.
“Oh!” I clamped a serviette over my mouth. “That’s him!”
“Surely you meant to say, that is he?”
“It’s the reporter,” I whispered. “Mr. Augustus Fibbley, right there at the corner table.”
Grannie Jane, naturally, could not writhe about in her chair to stare. “And how did you become familiar with the appearance of a newspaper reporter?” she said.
Lying came more easily than I expected. “He attended our Befriend the Foreigners concert.” True but false at the same time. “He mentioned my poem in his little notice.” Not my name though.
“And then today, not to be boastful…I was in the headline.” I quoted, “POISON!!! Vicious Murder in the Mermaid Dance Room! Woman’s Body Discovered by Children! Remember? Torquay Sways in Fear?”
“Scandal-snake,” said Grannie Jane.
“He’s talking to Roddy Fusswell,” I said, watching. “Or, rather, Roddy Fusswell is talking to him. The reporter is scribbling things down as speedily as anything.”
“A pity our table is so inconveniently distant,” said Grannie Jane. She lifted her handbag from its hook under the table. “Come along, Agatha. I should like to meet the young man who has been assigned to the Mermaid Room murder.”
Her face showed a grim resolve, except for the spark of mischief in her eyes. My sudden rise set the cake crumbs atremble. Grannie stood more gracefully, causing the waiter to fly to her side, but she waved him away.
The two men looked up as we approached. Roddy Fusswell’s fuzzy lip made him appear older than clean-shaven Mr. Fibbley, but I guessed they were about the same age as Rose Eversham and my sister Marjorie. The reporter’s schoolboy eyeglasses reflected darts of light from sunlight streaming through the windows. Roddy Fusswell rose nimbly to show respect for Grannie Jane. I supposed he was polite every day to old ladies visiting the hotel. Mr. Fibbley’s chair made a dreadful scraping sound as he got awkwardly to his feet.
I stammered out the introductions, and didn’t mix anyone up.
“I do like to partake of the news,” said Grannie, “and even enjoy an occasional taste of gossip. But I must say that making one’s living by nosing about in other people’s business is rather seamy.”
Pink flared in Mr. Fibbley’s cheeks. Mr. Fusswell’s went straight to red. “It’s for a good cause, Mrs. Morton,” he said. “I’m only talking to the chap because of Rose, just trying to set him straight about what a good egg she is.”
“Does Mr. Fibbley have reason to believe that Rose Eversham is not a good egg?” Grannie Jane turned her gaze to the reporter, using what I long ago dubbed The Withering Look.
Mr. Fibbley pushed his spectacles up to the bridge of his nose and blinked. “I am delighted to count you among my readers, Mrs. Morton,” he said. “Most stories go deeper than just the facts, as you’ll have noticed. In this case, I’m looking for motives not necessarily visible on the surface of things.”
“If Rose killed her mother, I could only wonder what took her so long,” said Roddy. “That old woman was asking for something like this to happen, the way she bullied and bruised everyone who crossed her path. Myself included.” He smirked briefly. “But Rose most of all.”
Mr. Fibbley’s eyes shifted to the notebook open on the table. I sensed his fingers itching to write down what Roddy Fusswell had just said. Was this an admission that Roddy had aided Rose in a homicide that he thought was justified because the victim was a nasty woman? Did Roddy know something that no one else could know? Or was he slyly stirring up interest in someone other than himself?
Grannie Jane raised an eyebrow. “A word of advice, Agatha dear, as you go forward into the world. Remember at all times with whom you are speaking and how your words may be interpreted by those hearing them.”
“That’s good advice, Mrs. Morton,” said Mr. Fibbley. “Though I rather depend on people forgetting themselves in my company.” And then he winked. At me!
“Now, just a minute.” Roddy Fusswell finally understood that they referred to his own brash comments. “If you think—”
“Time to go,” murmured Grannie Jane. “Our curiosity is becoming unbecoming. You have a lovely tearoom, Mr. Fusswell. We have enjoyed ourselves. Good day.”
“If you think what I just said about the old biddy means I offed her, you’d be dead wrong,” said Roddy Fusswell. “If I were going to kill someone…”—he glared straight into my eyes—“I’d do it with my bare hands.”
CHAPTER 13
A LETTER AND ANOTHER
“IT SEEMS TO ME,” said Grannie Jane afterward, “that Mr. Roddy Fusswell is similar in temperament to little Bertie Cummings who lived down my road when I was a girl. Bertie waited for the braver boys to climb the vicarage wall and sneak out with their pockets full of plums. When he managed to cadge one, he’d make a great show of munching it in front of the rest of us, as proof of great naughtiness on his part.”
I thought it a peculiar notion that someone might pretend to be naughty, as I spent a great deal of effort pretending to be a Good Girl. Was Grannie suggesting that Roddy Fusswell had not, but wished he had, killed Mrs. Eversham? He was still very high on my list of suspects.
* * *
As soon as we were home, Grannie went to have an overdue afternoon lie-down. I hastily bundled my coat into the hall closet and hurried toward the staircase, eager to record the clues I’d been gathering inside my head.
“Miss?” Sally called from the back hallway. “There’s a letter come for you.” She waved the envelope. “The postman’s given up knocking on the front door and only ever comes to the kitchen.”
Marjorie! Back from her honeymoon! I knew that script as well as I knew my own, though mine was never so tidy.
“Thank you, Sally! Did Mummy get one too?”
“Yes, miss.”
I did not bother looking for the letter knife. Climbing the stairs to my room, I peeled off the seal with my fingernail.
Friday
Dearest Aggie,
Thank you for the letter and the darling drawing of Tony with his enormous lamb bone. It was waiting when we arrived home from our wedding travels, which were perfectly splendid. (Your spelling is still atrocious! One of the drawbacks of Mummy thinking you shouldn’t go to school!)
I am sitting in my Morning Room, sending you the warmest of best wishes for the Mermaid Room concert this evening. By the time you receive this note, you will be looking back at your poetry recitation with relief and triumph. Congratulations, Missy.
I paused. My last letter to Marjorie had been written before I’d found Mrs. Eversham! How speedily one’s view of the world can change—especially when one has gazed coolly into the face of death…
James’s niece, Lucy, is still chattering about meeting you at the wedding. She says it was the most wonderful day of her life so far. (It was certainly one of my favorite days as well but, of course, I was the bride!). I’m so pleased that you and Lucy got on well.
James and I hope that you and Mummy and Grannie Jane will all come to spend Christmas with us at Owl Park. Lucy will be here, and the rest of James’s family, as well as various other friends and odd acquaintances who have nowhere else to go. Do say you’re as excited for this as I am.
Many hugs, dear Agatha-Pagatha,
Your loving sister, Marjorie
The Body under the Piano Page 9
