by Morgana Best
“Who would know that?”
Mr. Buttons crossed to the opposite wall to straighten up a painting. It must have been one of Cressida’s efforts, as it depicted a cliff scene with a car caught in time halfway between the cliff top and the bottom of the cliff. People were falling out of the car and being separated from their limbs on the rocks. It was painted entirely in primary colors: bright blue, vivid red, and garish yellow. I put my sunglasses back over my eyes.
Mr. Buttons stood back and put his head on one side, and then adjusted the painting one more time. “Anyone here would know that: me, Cressida, the boarders, anyone at all,” he said, before returning to his seat.
I had left the front door open, and it seemed to take forever before Blake appeared through the doorway.
“Where’s the body? Who found the body?” he asked in quick succession, shooting me an accusing look.
Mr. Buttons and I stood up. “It was a masked man,” I said, and then I felt like an extra in an old episode of The Lone Ranger.
Blake frowned at me for a moment, and then approached the body. He put his hand to his forehead and shook his head.
Chapter 9
After Blake warned us to stay away from the body of Colin Palmer, he went up to the bedroom wing to rouse Cressida from her sleep. Mr. Buttons and I waited downstairs, at the far side of the spacious entrance hall.
Blake had no sooner reappeared on the top of the staircase than Cressida rushed past him. She ran down the stairs to the body.
“No!” she cried, and she burst into racking sobs as she sank to the ground. I was surprised—I had no idea that Cressida was so attached to her boarders. Surely she hadn’t known Colin Palmer very well. After all, he hadn’t been at the boarding house for very long. Then it dawned on me. It wasn’t so much Colin—it was simply that it had happened again.
I fought the overwhelming urge to leave, but I had no option. I had to wait for Blake to take my statement. At least Blake allowed us to wait in the kitchen, where I drank some strong coffee. I had no stomach for food. Cressida was still distraught, and Mr. Buttons was trying in vain to comfort her.
As soon as Constable Andrews arrived, Blake took us into the dining room one by one to take our statements. He had already marshaled the boarders into the library. I was the first to be questioned, no doubt by virtue of the fact that I had discovered the body.
I walked into the large dark dining room. The rising sun had done nothing to brighten the room. It was shining feebly through two small windows covered by ancient lace curtains that in turn were flanked by heavy silk brocade curtains. While the room was clean—Mr. Buttons had seen to that—there was the ever-present musty smell.
I walked carefully past a large walnut credenza, on whose top was packed every manner of Victorian glass lusters, their lead crystal droplets reflecting pretty rainbow patterns on the otherwise drab, yellowing walls. The room was so full of furniture covered with antique glassware that one false move would prove a costly mistake.
I saw that Lord Farringdon was fast asleep on a threadbare reclining chair in a corner, and I wondered idly why he didn’t jump up on the furniture and knock over any of the antique glassware. I supposed there was simply no flat surface for him to land.
I crossed to the long polished cherry wood dining table and sat down. Blake took a seat opposite me. He grimaced as he did. No doubt his antique Victorian, mahogany, balloon-back chair was just as hard and uncomfortable as mine.
I told Blake everything. I explained about the masked assailant, and how I had found the body.
“It wasn’t one of the boarders,” he said. “They’re all present and accounted for. There is the possibility that whoever did it doubled back, but then they wouldn’t have run out the door in the first place.”
I frowned, trying to follow his reasoning.
“And you couldn’t tell if it was a man or woman?”
I shook my head. “It all happened so fast. It wasn’t as if I was expecting it. I just went to open the door and then the figure rushed past me.”
“Did you see their eye color?”
I thought hard. “No, I’m sorry.” I figured I was a terrible witness.
Blake’s only response was to shake his head sadly and to tell me that we all needed to go to the station with him to speak to the detectives.
Duly dismissed, I went back to the kitchen to wait while Blake questioned Mr. Buttons, and then Cressida. I couldn’t believe it was happening again: this was the third murder since I had arrived in Little Tatterford.
As the three of us walked down the path, the forensics team arrived. They smiled and nodded to me. Things must be pretty bad when the forensics team knew me by sight. I sighed loudly. This was all becoming too much for me.
The gardener arrived just as we headed for the parking area. Cressida broke the news, and the gardener was visibly shocked. Cressida told him to take the day off, and the three of us climbed into Blake’s police car. Mr. Buttons rode beside Blake in the front, and Cressida and I sat in the back. No one spoke; the air was heavy and tense. I looked over to Cressida and caught her eye. I flashed the older woman a half smile, but it was one Cressida did not return. I went back to staring at the back of Blake’s head.
Soon we were at the station, and once again I was escorted in, and the detectives were waiting for me. “You’ll be first,” Detective Roberts said, and he smiled a thin-lipped sort of smile as he held a door open to an interview room.
I walked around and sat at the small table. It was cold, with metal legs and some sort of laminate top. It matched the dingy, pale green walls. The two detectives sat across from me.
“Did you want some coffee?” Roberts asked.
I shook my head, remembering the coffee of the other day. “No, thanks.”
“Did you know Colin Palmer?”
“No, not very well.”
There was a small digital recorder sitting on the table in between the detectives, and Roberts reached for it. “I forgot. So you mind if we record this?”
I shook my head.
“Did you know Colin Palmer?” Roberts asked again, this time leaning forward.
“No, not very well.”
“Who was he to you?”
“No one,” I said, and at once realized that my words probably sounded harsh. “He had only moved to the boarding house for the Socratic conference. I was at one philosophy club meeting with him. He seemed nice.”
“I understand,” Roberts said, nodding. Detective Henderson scribbled away on his note pad.
Roberts went on. “You saw someone leaving?”
“They practically barreled over me,” I said. “I had just opened the door, and someone came running out.”
“And what was he or she wearing?”
“He was wearing all black, and a mask.”
“It was a man?” Roberts asked.
“Well, I don’t know,” I admitted. “I’m just saying he, but it might have been a woman.”
“What build was the masked person? How tall?”
I tried to remember. “It’s hard to say because it all happened so quickly. He seemed skinny, and tall.” I stood up. “About so high,” I said, holding my hand a little above my head.
“For the record, say it aloud please, Miss Potts,’ Roberts said.
I felt silly. “Oh, okay, sorry. A bit over one hundred and eighty centimeters, so about six feet tall.”
The detectives exchanged glances, and that made me uneasy. Didn’t they believe me? I didn’t want to be seen as a suspect. Still, since I had moved to Little Tatterford, there had been three deaths in the nearby boarding house.
“So, a masked man pushed Palmer down the steps, and then ran past you just as you arrived?” Roberts asked.
“Yes,” I said, wondering if he suspected me.
Roberts threw a look at his partner. “You were the first one to touch the body?”
“No, I didn’t touch the body,” I said with horror. “At least I don’t think
I did.”
Detective Henderson stopped scribbling and looked up. “You must be getting used to crime scenes by now,” he said.
Before I could respond, Roberts spoke again. “Do you have a suspicion as to what had happened to Mr. Palmer?”
“I figured he was pushed down the stairs. I would’ve thought he’d fallen down, if it hadn’t been for the person in the ski mask who ran out the door.”
“What were you doing at the boarding house so early?”
“I was going to have breakfast with Mr. Buttons before we took my dog for a walk.”
Roberts nodded. “Is this something you usually did?”
“No. Well, Mr. Buttons and I often walk my dog around seven in the morning, but yesterday he suggested we have breakfast at the boarding house first.”
“So it was his idea?”
I nodded, and then remembered the interview was being recorded. “Yes.”
Roberts was silent for a moment, and then he turned to his partner. “Detective Henderson, do you have anything to add?”
Henderson looked at me for a moment, and then shook his head. “No.”
Roberts leaned forward again. “Now, Miss Potts, are you good friends with Cressida Upthorpe?”
I frowned, wondering why he asked such a question. “Yes, we’re friends.”
Roberts leaned back in the chair and put his hands behind his head. I wondered for a moment if his chair would topple backward, and stifled a chuckle. I figured the stress was getting to me.
“Miss Potts, do you realize the seriousness of covering for a friend, especially on a matter as serious as murder, or manslaughter?”
I was puzzled. “I don’t know what you mean.”
Roberts leaned forward and his old metal chair came to rest with a thud. “If someone has knowledge of a crime, and they do anything to hinder the arrest of the perpetrator, then they can be charged as an Accessory After the Fact.”
“But…” I began, but Roberts cut me off.
“So, if you knew that someone had pushed Colin Palmer down the stairs, and withheld that information from us, that would be a criminal offense.”
“I’ve done no such thing,” I said, standing up. “I don’t like being falsely accused. I told you that the masked man ran past me. I don’t know who he was.”
Roberts merely pointed to my chair. “Sit down, Miss Potts. Do you understand what I’ve just told you?”
I crossed my arms. “Yes, but I’m not covering up anything for anyone, and I did see a person running away.”
Roberts and Henderson exchanged glances, before Roberts turned back to me. “You may go now.”
I stood up. I was furious and trembling. Did they suspect Cressida? Or Mr. Buttons? They didn’t seem to believe that I had seen a person running from the scene.
I walked back to the waiting room, where I saw Cressida and Mr. Buttons sitting in two green plastic chairs with metal legs that curved down underneath them. Henderson had followed me out, and he called to Cressida.
“We’ll speak to you now, Mrs. Upthorpe,” he said.
“Are you okay, Sibyl?” Mr. Buttons asked me, once Cressida had vanished through the door.
“I’m all right,” I said. “This is all just…” I didn’t know what to say, so let the sentence trail away. Mr. Buttons spoke up, keeping the thought from derailing completely.
“Rather tiring,” Mr. Buttons said.
I agreed, and was about to say more, when Blake appeared. “Mr. Buttons, the detectives want you to wait in an interview room for your turn to be interviewed. Constable Andrews will take you there.”
As soon as both Mr. Buttons and Constable Andrews had disappeared through the door, I stood up. “Blake, what’s going on?”
He shook his head. “Are you waiting here for Cressida?”
I wondered why he hadn’t added, “And Mr. Buttons.” I could tell something was wrong, but I didn’t know what and I figured he wouldn’t tell me. “Yes, I am.”
“That’s a good idea. I’ve sent Constable Andrews for coffee, and he’s bringing one back for you, too.”
I was struck by his thoughtfulness, and thanked him.
About an hour after I had finished sipping my latte, the door opened again and Cressida was escorted out. Her face was beet red, and she looked for all the world like she had been crying. Long, black streaks of mascara made their way in rivulets down the thick powder on both her cheeks.
“Cressida, are you all right?”
She nodded, and then hitched the strap of her purse further onto her shoulder. “I want to get out of here!” she said wildly.
Chapter 10
Cressida and I left the police station and set off at a brisk walk, heading a few blocks downtown in tense, simmering silence. Cressida was in the lead, and when she turned and entered a small café, I followed her.
We sat at a small, circular table with three chairs around it, dumping our coats and purses on the third chair. I hadn’t been in this café before. It was light, bright, and airy, and the walls were filled with signs: affirmations stenciled on whitewashed boards, such as, “Today is your lucky day;” “You are joyful every day;” “When life gives you showers, dance in the rain.” I found it all too cheerful and irritating. I wasn’t in the mood for nice.
A waitress came by and we both ordered coffee.
“They think I did it,” Cressida said, as soon as the waitress was out of earshot.
“They what?” I said.
“They think I did it.” Her voice broke. “Martin Bosworth and Colin Palmer.”
I shook my head. I had been concerned that the detectives suspected Cressida, given their lecture about not protecting a friend. “Why do they think it was you?”
“Well,” Cressida said, but then she stopped as the waitress returned and set our overfull mugs on the table. Coffee slopped out of them, and the waitress wiped the table and apologized. As soon as the waitress left, Cressida continued. “I used to date Colin Palmer,” she said in an exaggerated whisper that was almost as loud as her speaking voice.
“What?” My voice too, came out as a shriek, and I noticed that some of the patrons shot us sidelong glances.
“We dated, years ago, before I was married,” Cressida continued in her stage whisper.
I put three spoons of sugar in my latte, and stirred well. The whole situation was going downhill rapidly. “Did you tell the police that you knew him from before?”
“No, not until just now; they knew it already and asked me about my prior relationship with him. I know I should’ve told them.”
“Cressida, he was murdered; you should have said something before they came to you with the information,” I said, doing my best not to sound accusatory.
Cressida turned an even deeper shade of red than her blusher. “I was embarrassed that I had, you know, dated him without the benefit of marriage. A lady doesn’t reveal such dalliances from her past. I simply cannot see why the detectives didn’t understand that. These modern men.” She shook her head in disgust.
I had no idea what to say to that, so I added another spoonful of sugar to my coffee.
Cressida was still talking. “They said I had the means. I was the one who prepared the meals for Martin Bosworth. I was the one who looked after the poisoned quail. I had known Colin Palmer when I was a young woman. They said that he might have upset me and I was awaiting my chance.”
I shook my head. “What motive did they think you had for Martin Bosworth?”
“They don’t know, and that’s why they haven’t arrested me, yet, I guess. They told me to get a lawyer.”
“Shouldn’t you have gotten a lawyer before you spoke to them?”
Cressida shrugged. “They suggested I should get a lawyer, but I have nothing to hide.”
I sighed. “Cressida, my divorce lawyer is always saying, The law has nothing to do with justice. Please, promise me, you’ll call a lawyer today.”
“I will.” Cressida wrung her hands. She opened her
mouth to say more, but Mr. Buttons arrived.
“This is the third café I’ve tried,” he said. “I’ve looked for the two of you everywhere.” His face was flushed and his hands appeared to be trembling.
Cressida and I hurried to remove our coats and purses from the seat so he could sit down.
He collapsed into the chair. “That was awful.”
I signaled the waitress and ordered a pot of English Breakfast tea for Mr. Buttons. “What did they ask you?”
He didn’t speak for a while, and his face turned from a deep red to a sickly shade of white. After a minute, Cressida spoke. “It’s all right. I know they suspect me.”
Mr. Buttons was visibly shaken. “They kept questioning me about you. They said that if I withheld information that would implicate you, I’d be charged with being an accessory after the fact.”
“The trouble is, I’m their only suspect,” Cressida said.
Mr. Buttons brightened a little. “They have all the boarders at the police station now; they’re about to question them. And I overheard one of them telling Blake that they’ll be questioning the whole Philosophy Department at the university. Perhaps they’ll turn up another suspect.”
I was relieved. “That’s great! That means that the cops will soon find the real murderer.”
“I’m not so sure. They didn’t listen to me.” Cressida shook her head. “They seemed to have their minds made up that it’s me.”
Mr. Buttons and I looked at each other. “But surely Blake knows you didn’t do it?” I said.
Both Cressida and Mr. Buttons shook their heads. “Blake would know,” Cressida said with a catch in her voice, “but those detectives, well, I think they just want to pin the murders on me and then get out of Little Tatterford and back to the city as fast as they can.”
“Cressida’s right,” Mr. Buttons said. “Blake will have no say in it. He’s just the local cop, and he’ll have no influence whatsoever over the detectives.”
I rubbed my forehead in dismay. Things looked bad for Cressida.
“There’s only one thing to do,” Mr. Buttons said. “The three of us will have to solve the murders. Blake confided in me that those detectives are none too bright.”
