The Body under the Piano

by Marthe Jocelyn

  “But I’m part of the crime!” I protested. “Leonard pushed me into the hut and left me there! The sea was pouring in! You must find him! May we not watch for a little—”

  “No,” said Inspector Locke. He tapped one of his constables. “Get these two home to their warm, wee cots. We’ll take their statements tomorrow.”

  “The girl may need to see the medic, sir,” murmured the constable. “There’s blood.”

  “Blood?” I said. “I’ve got blood?”

  Hector touched his own cheek to show where I could find my injury. My fingertips came away dotted with blood.

  “Then get her tended to!” commanded the inspector.

  “Yes, sir.”

  But no one produced a bandage or paid us a scrap of attention. The police had other worries for the moment.

  “Is Belle still here, at the top of the path?” I said. “With the cart?”

  “Yes, Belle is here,” said Hector. “The villain must be attempting to escape on his two legs only.”

  “How far do you suppose he could have run by now?” I lifted the hem of my borrowed coat so as not to drag it across the wet sand. “And who will drive us home?”

  “This I do not know.” Hector crouched to examine something. “Inspector Locke!” he called. “Come to look, please! Here is evidence.”

  I peered over his shoulder, but was firmly pushed to one side by an eager constable.

  “What is it?” said the inspector.

  “The boy is right,” said the constable, peering down. “It looks like a man’s glove. Yellow. Posh. Dropped in flight, I’d say.”

  “You’d be saying in error,” I said. Where had I got the nerve to sass a constable? “That glove belongs to Mr. Roddy Fusswell.”

  CHAPTER 30

  A RED HERRING

  INSPECTOR LOCKE EYED ME with a flicker of interest. “You recognize this glove, Miss Morton?”

  “Yes, sir. Mr. Roddy Fusswell was wearing it when he visited my home earlier this evening. When it came time for him to leave, one of the pair was misplaced. He was in a right sulk about it.”

  I held his gaze, astounded at how well my mouth was working. “Those are the facts, sir. I believe that Leonard Cable stole it from our front hallway and dropped it here for the purpose of incriminating another man.”

  Rose and I had giggled while Roddy whined about losing his silly yellow glove. We’d fled to what we thought was the safety of the pony cart. And there Leonard had stood, hands behind his back, appearing to wait respectfully to drive us into town.

  Oh, Leonard…My breath felt like lint in my chest. Were you always wicked?

  Inspector Locke ordered one of his men to put the glove in a burlap sack. “We’ll check to see if it’s a match,” he said, “but for now, I’d like to get the victim to a hospital.”

  “Sir!” I said. “Have you not enough men to look for Leonard as well? He murdered Mrs. Eversham and tried to strangle Rose.” I felt my voice get small. “And me,” I said. “He hurt me too. He cannot have got far.”

  The inspector put his hands on my shoulders—that were newly broad and sturdy under his coat. “You’ve had a fright, Miss Morton. But now you must put your trust in the Torquay constabulary. Get off the beach. We will arrange for a ride home.”

  I looked over to where Rose was surrounded by men with torches. I sent a wish across the wind, Please be well again.

  Hector and I hobbled slowly up the path holding hands.

  “Thank you for coming, Hector.”

  “You make also a good decision,” he said. “You are correct that time will not wait for the rescue of Miss Rose. We are the cunning foxes, you and I, two halves of the best resolution, no?”

  “How did you make them listen to you?” I asked. “A foreign boy must be considered even less reliable than an English girl.”

  “After my regrettable enthusiasm for powdered sugar as a weapon, the police believe me to be a nincompoop,” he said. “This is the correct pronunciation? Nincompoop?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “I persist because of my concern for you and for Rose. Sergeant Cornell, he is most discourteous. Then up from the jail cell comes Mr. Standfast who receives his valise with great relief. I say to him the words you say to me, the baby is Leonard Cable, the gardener and driver for Mrs. Morton. This lights a firecracker, much activity occurs, kaBOOM!” Hector’s hands fluttered to show an explosion.

  At the top of the path, dear, patient Belle whinnied and I neighed happily back. Hector climbed onto the cart where I joined him after giving the horse a good long pat.

  “Alas.” Hector lifted one foot and then the other, inspecting the once-shiny leather, now battered and torn. “My new shoes.”

  “Poor Hector,” I said. “You were so proud of them.”

  “One thing this night is making clear to me,” he said. “I am a thinker, and not built so much for the heroic action.”

  “I don’t think anyone sets out to be a hero,” I said.

  “Perhaps not,” agreed Hector. “But a hero must face danger, and this I do not like.”

  “A hero sometimes faces danger,” I said. “Like a dragon-slayer or a nurse in a jungle hospital. But don’t you think a hero might also be a person who does what no one else wants to do?”

  Two officers trotted past, scattering stones from under their heavy boots. They carried a canvas stretcher rolled on two poles, and disappeared down the path to the beach.

  “That’s borrowed from beside the hotel swimming pool,” said a voice I knew too well. “For old ladies who faint.” Florence Fusswell materialized out of the darkness. She gave me an amazed and steady look, taking in the mass of sopping hair and Inspector Locke’s enormous coat.

  “Are you one of the girls who was attacked?”

  I nodded, pushing back my hair with the coat cuff that dangled over my fingers.

  “Are you…harmed ?” said Florence.

  “A few scratches,” I said. “And my clothes are soggy. The inspector loaned me his coat.”

  “A constable came panting into the lobby saying two girls were hurt,” said Florence. “I never imagined it might be someone I know! How thrilling! You look terrible.”

  Before I could find an answer, Florence hurried away back up the hill, as her brother arrived with a steel flask.

  “Hot drink, for Rose,” he said. “It’s rum with honey, so I shan’t offer you any. You did well, though, finding Rose, I will say that. We’ve telephoned to the hospital. Medics have been dispatched. One of the constables insisted that I make a telephone call to your home. Your grandmother was not pleased to hear from me.” He loosened the cap of the flask and tightened it again. “But your family has been informed of your safety and your whereabouts. I believe a constable will assist in getting you safely home.”

  “Thank you,” I said.

  “When I leave Roddy Fusswell, he is drunk,” whispered Hector. “Now he is king of the rescue operation.”

  A braggart and a bully, but not a killer. I should have been clever enough to realize that he wasn’t clever enough, nor the least bit brave. Just like Grannie’s Bertie Cummings.

  My biggest worry at breakfast had been that Mummy would discover I’d been out riding a bicycle last night. And now…there’d be no hiding the frightful story of this evening’s adventure if she’d heard already from Roddy Fusswell. Constable Beck would no doubt tell his version to Charlotte. I was in for a shower of trouble.

  “I am begging your pardon,” said Hector. “Does anyone know where the villain might be?”

  Roddy Fusswell glared at him. “The workings of the constabulary are no business of the foreign element.”

  “The foreign element?” I nearly spat. “The foreign element happens to be the reason the constabulary arrived in time to rescue Rose!”

  Hector began to pr
otest, but a clamoring bell announced the arrival of a carriage from the hospital. At the same moment, the inspector and several other policemen emerged from the shadowed path to the beach. The two men holding the stretcher poles were not sure-footed in the dark. My stomach turned over as Rose tipped awkwardly to one side.

  “Steady on, there!” shouted Roddy Fusswell. “You’ll have her overboard!”

  “Move!” Inspector Locke barked so abruptly that Roddy tripped over his own feet trying to get out of the way.

  Hector and I watched from our perch as the stretcher slid with a bump into the medical wagon. We pinched each other when Roddy Fusswell tried to insist on climbing in with her, only to be rejected by the attendants. He moved sulkily away, unscrewed the cap of the flask and took a long drink.

  Just as the ambulance doors were fastened, Mr. Gus Fibbley came trotting up the hill.

  “We meet again.” He doffed his brown hat to Hector and me. His spectacles were slightly steamed over, the only sign that he’d been hurrying or breathing hard.

  “What the devil are you doing here?” said Inspector Locke. “You’ve got a nose like a damnable bloodhound!”

  Mr. Fibbley grinned. “Yes, sir,” he said. “I see a police horse galloping past and am compelled to chase it. What can you tell me about the connection between Miss Marianne Eversham and…And whoever is inside that medical wagon, needing emergency care?”

  “Can’t tell you a thing,” said the inspector. “And unless you want to join the lady in the jail cell, you’ll put yourself a long way out of my sight. Only thing worse than children is a reporter. We’ve still got a killer on the loose!” He marched off to bellow instructions at his men. I climbed to the ground with Hector right behind me.

  “Psst!” I said to Mr. Fibbley.

  He leaned down a little.

  “I know who is going to hospital,” I whispered.

  “Well?” said Mr. Fibbley.

  “I know everything that happened here tonight.”

  He looked at me more closely, taking in the outsized overcoat, the bedraggled hair, my injured face and general dampness.

  “But I do not want to be misquoted,” I said. “It’s my story and I want it right.”

  “First an accusation of murder,” said Mr. Fibbley, “and now blackmail?”

  I shook my head. “I am merely setting the terms for our interview. For now, I’ll tell you who was in the ambulance. Tomorrow, you can come and hear the rest. Or at least the parts that are not other people’s secrets.”

  Mr. Fibbley removed his spectacles and polished the glass with great care, using a corner of his dotted necktie. “You’ll be doing my job in about ten years,” he said. “And by then you may be allowed to wear a skirt even for murders.”

  “Trousers look to be a good deal more practical,” I said.

  “The best thing about men’s clothing,” said Mr. Fibbley, “is no corsets. In my opinion, that small particularity explains a good deal about society itself. It’s extraordinary how different the world looks when a person can breathe.”

  “Miss Marianne says exactly the same thing,” I said. “Perhaps that is why she dances. I don’t wear a corset yet. I’m tall, but not…you know…”

  “My advice,” said Mr. Fibbley, “is to avoid—”

  I could trust him. Her. “It’s Rose,” I said. “Rose Eversham has been taken for medical care, following an assault.”

  “And where is the perpetrator?” he asked. “Who is the perpetrator?”

  Inspector Locke was here again, interrupting before I could think of what to say. “Did you not hear me?” he said. “This young lady will not speak to a reporter until she is accompanied by an adult member of her family. If you’re lucky, it won’t be the grandmother. Now, go!”

  Mr. Fibbley jammed his spectacles back on and set out at a run, on the tail of the hospital wagon. Was he right? Might I be a writer someday, hurtling down the road in pursuit of a story?

  “I’ll have my coat now, if you please,” said the inspector, looming over me. “It may be an endless night, looking for this scoundrel.” He lifted the coat from my shoulders along with its envelope of warmth. “You can use one of the blankets.”

  He pointed to the police wagon. Hector hurried over to fetch a gray wool blanket with TORQUAY STATION embroidered across one end.

  “Don’t touch that nasty thing!” Florence was back. “I’ve brought you some of my clothes.” She handed me a bundle. “You’re bigger than I am, but I did the best I could.”

  Tears of grateful surprise sprang to my eyes. I clutched the offered clothing and stepped behind Belle to make use of it. Florence held the blanket as a curtain while I wrestled my wet things off. Was it more absurd that I was nearly naked on a public road or that I was pulling on a skirt and sweater belonging to Florence Fusswell? On no single morning could a person wake up confident about what might happen that day. Was it God in Heaven who had an eccentric sense of humor? Or the nature of humans to be entirely unpredictable?

  Florence’s skirt came only just below my knees and I could pull up the stockings hardly high enough to cover anything with decency, but it was all better than what I’d had before. Florence kept chattering on the other side of the blanket.

  “Your feet could never fit into my shoes. They’re custom-made from Italian leather. I brought my mother’s Wellington boots instead. And her Persian lamb jacket, though she’ll be furious. But how often does a person have the opportunity to loan one’s clothing to a nearly murdered, fatherless waif? Lavinia will die of envy.”

  I knew I must look hideous, but I was dry, making these possibly the best garments I had ever worn.

  “Oi!” A shout from up near the hotel. I flung aside the blanket and stepped out from my hiding spot.

  “Sodding villain! Stay put!”

  “Let me go!”

  An angry scuffle and more shouts.

  “Hey! Stop! You there! STOP!”

  CHAPTER 31

  AN UGLY MOMENT

  SOMEONE HURTLED DOWN the road from the Royal Victoria Hotel, going so fast on the hill that he staggered a little. Another someone chased him, the beam of a torch bouncing from cobbles to tree branches with every pump of his arms. It was Leonard who ran in front, we could see him now, hair flying, with a scratched face and wild eyes. I shivered and shrank back behind Belle.

  “Hold up!” It was Constable Beck who chased Leonard. “You! Stop!”

  Hector leapt directly into Leonard’s path and raised his hands as if to snatch him. I saw the look on Leonard’s face as he nimbly swerved out of the way. He was fueled by demons and no mere boy would thwart his escape. I jumped from the shadows and thrust out a large Wellington boot. Leonard tumbled, grunting, to the ground. Constable Beck thundered up and threw himself upon his quarry. Runner and captor lay panting in a heap.

  Leonard’s mouth twisted in pain. I had to remind myself that he did not deserve pity. And yet…why did my heart feel sore? A friend had turned out to not be a friend. He’d locked me in a leaking vessel on an icy sea and not heeded my cries for help.

  “Bravo, Aggie!” Hector’s normally sleek hair was ruffled and his pale cheeks flushed.

  “Bravo to you,” I said. “You sent him my way. An action hero after all!”

  “Man down!” cried Constable Beck. Leonard squirmed and kicked, but the policeman was bigger and kept him pinned.

  Two more officers leapt forward, letting Constable Beck roll out of the way as they yanked Leonard to his feet and gripped him tightly between them.

  I could not bear to watch and yet could not look away. The demon of a few minutes ago was gone. It was a boy I saw now, with a bruised face and bloodied nose. A boy who tended flowers and did magic tricks and fed Tony nubs of sausage.

  A boy who had killed a woman in a most horrible fashion.

  “I’m sorry, Miss
Aggie. It all went wrong.”

  I could scarcely hear his voice.

  “I wanted her to get sick, that’s all, to stop her calling the coppers on me. I was going to talk to Miss Rose, only then it was too late. She was telling me lies and I got mad, I didn’t mean…” He tried to wipe his bloody nose on his shoulder but the constables held him too tightly.

  “I didn’t want to hurt you, only—”

  “Only you did,” I said. “And Rose too. You hurt everyone, Leonard.”

  He took in a hollow-sounding breath and began to cry.

  Inspector Locke dug in the pockets of his coat for a pair of handcuffs and snapped them into place. Leonard yelped as the metal at his wrists was used to pull him away. His teary eyes met mine for one moment more, but I thought only of Rose, lying on the stretcher. The officers shoved Leonard into the police wagon and climbed in to flank him. Hector’s hand found mine, a small, warm comfort in the wet, black night.

  “Constable Beck.” The inspector clapped the young officer’s shoulder. “I commend you heartily for your courage and speed. You’ve run the villain to ground!”

  Constable Beck’s left eye was swollen nearly shut, his face sweaty and smeared with dirt.

  He saluted. “Sir!”

  As soon as the inspector turned away, I saw Beck grin like a birthday boy.

  “Constable Beck,” I said.

  He smiled crookedly beneath his puffy eye. “You have broken a promise,” he said. “Last evening you vowed to leave policing to the police. But here you are again, wander­ing about in the dark, improperly dressed and jumping into the path of wanted criminals! For which I must heartily thank you,” he said.

  “I don’t think it will happen again,” I told him.

  Constable Beck offered his hand. I shook it and so did Hector. We shared a look, Hector and I. After all our deductions and daring and drenchings, it did not seem quite fair that Constable Beck should be the only hero. I supposed that being children we were overlooked, though I felt we deserved small medals at the very least. Nonetheless, we gave a good show of congratulations, for we were mightily relieved to have the escapade at its end.