How It Happened in Peach Hill

by Marthe Jocelyn

  “It’s right there on her palm, Mama.” I tilted my head to remind her that Peg was listening. “At least, I saw she had a romance looming. She decided who to tackle.”

  “Peg, I will have my bath and prepare for this evening. If by some miracle we have another caller, fix a time for tomorrow.”

  “Yes’m.” Peg took my empty bowl and wiped a cloth across the tabletop.

  “What are you doing, Mama?”

  “I know it’s your birthday, dear heart, but I didn’t think you’d mind. I’m going out to dine, with Gregory.”

  “Really?” The prelude to my wish come true!

  He’d be safely out of his house, but he’d also be telling Mama he was on to us. Would he threaten her, too? Would she come hurrying home to drag out the carpetbags, ready for flight? All I needed was something to wave in his face to force his retreat instead of ours.

  If I could find papers, or a statement from the bank, showing that his finances were not as healthy as he pretended … Even if I could find a stash of twenty-dollar bills and reclaim them as our own …

  “I hope he takes you somewhere fancy,” I said, to cover the pause. “And maybe dancing. I know you like that.”

  “You’re being very generous,” said Mama. “I know your feelings for Gregory are not the warmest.”

  Peg raised her eyebrows at me over Mama’s head and left to draw the bath.

  23

  Laugh alone and the world

  thinks you’re an idiot.

  I met Helen at the school gate and we walked up the hill together. Mr. Poole’s house looked bigger now that I was approaching it as a fortress to be breached.

  “Looks high, doesn’t it?” I knew by now that the wrought iron fence did not restrain a lurking dog, but it was still a six-foot fence.

  “We climb over,” said Helen, not the least bit daunted. “We smash one of the panes on those fancy garden doors. We knock out the jagged bit with a stone and poke a hand through to jiggle open the handle.”

  I stared at her. “You sound a little too sure that would work,” I said. “But breaking glass would be too noisy. The maid would hear us.” That gave me an idea. “I think you still get to climb the fence, though. Good thing you wore your dungarees.” I’d worn my trousers too, but I didn’t plan to crawl over the fence.

  “And where will you be?”

  “I’m going to see if I can get in through the kitchen. I know the maid, a little, hopefully well enough. You wait at the French doors in the garden, and I’ll meet you there. But stay hidden and don’t smash anything!”

  Helen hoisted herself over the fence, and I trotted around the corner to the servants’ entrance. The light was on in the cellar kitchen, and Norah came out to the gate a moment after I’d rung the bell.

  “Oh,” she said, “it’s you, is it, miss?”

  “Hello, Norah,” I said. “My mother thinks she may have dropped an earring last night. Did you find it, by any chance? A pearl drop set in gold?”

  “No, miss.”

  “May I go and take a quick look?”

  “The master’s not here.”

  Well, I know that!

  “And Douglas, he’s driving. Since the chauffeur was let go.”

  “I’ll only be a minute,” I said. “I just want to check around the platform where she was performing.”

  “I suppose …”

  “Thank you, Norah! You don’t have to lose your suds,” I said, pointing at the sink, where she’d been washing the dishes. “I’ll go up and be back before you’ve finished rinsing the last cup.”

  “I suppose …” She nodded toward the stairs, and I took them at a ladylike gallop.

  I found myself in the foyer, with the only light coming from a glimmering chandelier above my head. We’d used the dining room for the séance the first evening. I hurried across its dim length to unlatch the first pair of French doors.

  Helen appeared at once and slipped inside with a grin.

  “Stay here,” I whispered. “Open the door for me in five minutes.”

  I raced back down to the kitchen, where Norah was just drying her hands.

  “No luck,” I said, shrugging. “Thank you anyway.”

  “Yes, miss.”

  “Good-night, Norah.”

  Instead of going out by the gate, I scuttled around the side of the house, through the pagoda and straight to the French doors. Tap, tap.

  I was in! We stood in the dark, shaking with excitement and in a fit of giggles, if Helen’s wheezing qualified as giggles.

  “Let’s go.” I led her into the foyer and hesitated.

  I wanted to search Mr. Poole’s study, where papers and files would most likely be. But was it wise to send Helen upstairs by herself?

  “You’re looking for cash,” I said. “Twenty-dollar bills. You can’t go through taking just anything, okay? We have to be discreet.”

  “Mmmm,” said Helen.

  “I mean it,” I said. “We’re trying to prove that he’s a cad, not get ourselves arrested.”

  Helen tiptoed up the staircase. I hopped across the carpet to the room where Mr. Poole had taken me on Saturday night.

  The door was locked. Oh, rats! Locked! Of course. Why hadn’t I thought of that? And the key was probably jingling about in his pocket right now while he ate caviar with my mother. I turned and hurried up the stairs after Helen.

  My first surprise was on the landing; the beautiful Persian runner that carpeted the treads stopped abruptly as the stairs turned for the second flight. My shoes now clicked on bare wood. The floor of the upstairs corridor was bare. There were no paintings on the walls and no shades over the lights, no ornamental tables, no chairs, no mirrors.

  “Helen?” I called in a whisper.

  The nearest door opened into an empty room. Moonlight shone through uncurtained windows, making my shadow the only decoration on the wall. The next room had been a library or reading room. There were shelves from floor to ceiling, but they held only a few battered books with unstitched spines or stained covers, the remnants of a collection. Room after room looked nearly abandoned.

  “Helen?”

  “Here.” Helen beckoned from a doorway ahead of me. Mr. Poole’s bedroom had a majestic bed covered with a royal blue eiderdown and a dozen plump pillows.

  Helen pointed at a row of boxes on the chest of drawers in the dressing alcove, the sort of boxes that would normally hold jewelry. She lifted the lids and tipped them over. Not one coin, cuff link or ring tumbled out.

  “He’s sold it all,” said Helen, “I bet you! He’s got no more money from what his wife left him. He’s been selling off or pawning whatever he had.”

  “All his wife’s jewelry,” I said, remembering the bracelet in the shop window. “All the books and the paintings, even the furniture and rugs. No surprise he thinks she’s haunting him—he’s got a guilty conscience. Maybe his investments are duds. The study’s locked. There’s no way to look at papers or find Mama’s money.”

  “He’s only pretending he’s rich,” said Helen. “There’s nothing to take! What a waste!” She kicked the shoe rack, which held a dozen pairs of shoes in different shades of brown. It toppled over with a resounding thunk, thunk, thunk as each of the shoes hit the floor.

  Helen’s face showed the alarm I felt. “Oh! I didn’t mean to do that!” she cried out. Our clattering race back down the corridor was not nearly so careful as our arrival.

  “Stop!” I hissed at the top of the stairs. “Wait! Norah is all the way at the bottom of the house. Maybe she didn’t hear anything.”

  We stood still as stones for more than a minute, listening for footsteps, or bells, or screams. Nothing. The house nearly trembled with quiet.

  “Let’s get out of here,” I said. “It’s making my spine prickle.” I led the way down, relieved when my shoes hit carpet again and I could breathe. Until, creak …

  My heart stopped. I felt Helen freeze behind me. Norah’s frightened eyes peered out from the door t
hat led to the kitchen.

  “You, miss? I thought you’d gone. We said good-night, didn’t we? Didn’t you leave already? You’ve scared ten years off my old age!”

  I tried to smile, tried to summon ease, tried to think what to say as I descended to the foyer.

  And then the worst words of all. “I’ve telephoned to the police,” said Norah. “And let Mr. Poole know at the restaurant that he’s to come straight home.”

  Half a glance behind me showed that Helen had vanished. She must be hiding on the landing, waiting to hear what would come next.

  “You better come to the kitchen with me, miss, and explain to the master, else I’ll be in hot water up to my eyeballs.”

  “No,” I said. “I … I’ll go outside … I’ll tell them it was all a mistake. You go on to the kitchen and I’ll speak with the police as soon as they get here.”

  I strode to the front door, hoping I looked confident, blameless. Norah retreated down the kitchen stairs.

  Helen’s head popped up over the railing, and she tore down the stairs in seconds.

  “Don’t use the front walk,” I whispered. “They’ll be here any moment.” We trotted across the lawn, away from the front gate.

  Helen swung herself over the fence in a blink, landing softly on the other side.

  “Come on,” she said.

  “I should stay,” I said. “Norah knows it was me.”

  “Don’t be an idiot,” said Helen. “Let them find you later, safe home in bed.” I laughed out loud. I tried to heave myself up, but my feet kept slipping on the palings. Helen put her hands through the fence to give me a boost, and I swung one leg over the top just as a whistle pierced the night. Out of the shadows half a block away up Hill Road came two uniformed men, waving their sticks and hollering.

  “We’re cooked,” said Helen.

  “Run!” I said. “I mean it, run!”

  She ran down the hill faster than a rabbit in front of a greyhound. I yanked my other leg over the fence, tearing the silk of my trousers as I thudded to the ground.

  A motorcar trundled up the road, beeping its horn, at the same moment that Officer Rankin laid his nightstick firmly across the back of my neck as a warning not to move.

  Happy birthday, I thought.

  24

  It is a good omen to meet

  an idiot when on some

  important task.

  Officer de Groot apparently made a brief attempt to pursue Helen, but he was back, puffing heavily, within a minute. The same minute it took for Douglas to open the doors of the automobile and assist Mr. Poole and my mother to climb down and come barreling over to investigate.

  “What the devil’s going on here?” demanded Mr. Poole.

  “Catherine?” Officer de Groot was still puffing, but I could hear the dismay in his voice.

  “We discovered two youths trespassing on your property, Mr. Poole, sir,” said Officer Rankin.

  “Catherine, what are you doing here?”

  “Hello, Monty.” Mama paused. The be-kind-to-men-in-uniform rule was about to backfire.

  “She’s with me,” interrupted Mr. Poole. “If it’s any of your business.”

  “So you were not at home this evening, sir?” Officer Rankin was trying to conduct his inquiry.

  “We were dining out,” growled Mr. Poole.

  I could hear a small cluster of neighbors gathering.

  “Douglas,” said Mr. Poole, “go check on your wife. Make sure all is secure inside.”

  “Yes, sir.” Footsteps thudded away.

  “We received a telephone call at eight-fourteen p.m.,” said Officer Rankin. “From a Mrs. Douglas.”

  “That’s right,” said Mr. Poole. “I got the same call. Noises, burglars, thumps.”

  “And looky here what we found. Ruffians climbing out over the fence. One of them got away, being faster than—”

  “Did you get a look at the one who managed to escape?” asked Mr. Poole.

  “No,” admitted Delia’s father.

  “Up you get, boy.” Officer Rankin tapped his stick against my back, and Officer de Groot dragged me upright by the arm.

  “Annie!” cried Mama.

  “What the—”

  “Annie?” said Mr. Poole. “What the hell are you doing here?” I didn’t know which way to look. Mr. Poole’s face was twisted up and much too close. Mama showed astonishment, but she was quickly determining her next step, I could see. The police officers—well, confusion overtook them.

  “What are you doing on my property?” thundered Mr. Poole. “Did you break into my house?”

  “Gregory!”

  I needed more time to think. I started to whimper and then sob. A sympathetic “Ahhh” rose from the audience across the road.

  Mama opened her arms and folded me inside. “Have you hurt my child? Did you lay a hand on her?” The spectators murmured as she assumed the role of outraged mother.

  “No, ma’am,” said Officer Rankin. “But she is a suspect in our custody, and I’ll have to ask you to release—”

  “Nonsense,” said Mama, holding me closer than she had in years. I shut my eyes. What should I be doing? “There is clearly some misunderstanding, and—”

  “Let go of the girl!” Officer de Groot bellowed suddenly, surprising us all. Mama loosened her embrace but kept me next to her, with her arm linked through mine.

  “No need to be so fierce, Monty!”

  “I am an officer of the law,” he growled. “You will address me accordingly. We’ve had a report of a break-in. We found this child climbing a fence in the dark, along with whoever it was that got away. We have a little digging to do here. We’re going down to the station to ask questions until we get to the bottom of this!”

  Douglas appeared at that moment, jogging to his master’s side.

  “Well, Douglas?” asked Mr. Poole. “Is Norah all right?”

  “She’s in a state, sir. Hard to get a clear story. And there’s a bit of an upset with your shoes, sir, nothing else.”

  Now they were all staring. Even the neighbors had inched themselves to the middle of the quiet road, intent on watching the scene unfold.

  Mr. Poole’s voice was low and hard, as threatening as the rattle of a snake’s tail.

  “What were you doing in my house? What were you looking for? What did you see?”

  I felt Mama tremble. She gazed at me, her face only inches away in the gloom. She crossed her eyes, ever so quickly, and made her lips go slack. The policemen both stepped nearer. My mother blinked as the faintest smile flitted across her mouth. She knew we needed a pause, a chance to synchronize our efforts.

  She reached for the blue-clad arm of Officer de Groot and drew him close to her, ready to spill a secret.

  “This is very difficult for me, Monty.” Her voice was husky with quickly produced emotion. “This experience has done greater damage than you’ve realized. Look at my daughter! The fall, the dreadful nightstick, who knows what? But she has had a serious relapse! Her mind has left her!”

  Mama turned to me, dipping her chin ever so slightly, a signal that I should take center stage. I didn’t think. I did what I’d been doing all my life, especially in a crisis; I obeyed Mama. I clapped the heels of my hands together. I panted, then squawked like a pigeon in great distress. I gurgled and stomped my foot a dozen times as if I were trying to wipe my boot.

  The onlookers gasped. Mr. Poole struck a hand to his forehead. Officer Rankin coughed. Mama winked at me, she was so proud.

  “Uh …”

  The fearless police officers looked at each other.

  “Uh …”

  Mr. Poole narrowed his eyes and stepped in close, examining every droop and pucker of my face. His very stubble was bristling with anger.

  “You—” he began.

  But Mama put a restraining hand on his arm as she pleaded with the police.

  “She needs to go home,” she said. “She’s terribly hurt.”

  “She doesn’t look
well,” admitted Officer Rankin.

  “She broke into my house, Catherine!” Mr. Poole’s frustration was giving me the giggles. “What was she doing in there?”

  I was betting that even if he’d confessed to Mama earlier in the evening that he knew of her admirable deceit, he certainly wouldn’t have admitted that he was broke, would he? That was why he was in such a tizzy, I was sure of it.

  “Look at her, Gregory! What harm could she possibly have done? Perhaps she felt this dreadful fit coming on and came searching for her mother! She needs to go home.”

  Another of Mama’s rules: Retreat from outsiders to put our stories in line. I allowed a glob of spittle to roll over my lip and down my chin.

  “Uh …,” said Officer de Groot. “Maybe, uh, the interview can wait until tomorrow.” His partner shuddered and nodded.

  “Thank you, Officers.” Mama pressed a palm to her bosom. “An act of human kindness.”

  Mr. Poole grasped her arm and pulled her to one side, pulling me too, as I was attached to Mama.

  “What’s going on here, Catherine? Is this part of the game? I’d like to know what she was up to in there.”

  “I’m surprised at you, Gregory. You must realize that my daughter is every bit as trustworthy as I am.”

  “Is she indeed?” said Mr. Poole. “Drive them home, Douglas.”

  25

  It is bad luck to leave a house

  through a different door than

  the one used to enter.

  “We were having a lovely evening before the telephone call from his maid,” Mama started as soon as we were indoors. “He said he had something very important to discuss with me, and—”

  “Mama, stop,” I said. “I know what he was going to tell you, and it’s connected to what I did tonight.” I felt it all bubbling up, ready to gush out in a torrent, but I forced myself to slow down. She wouldn’t listen if I rattled her. I had to lead her through it carefully, as if we were climbing rickety stairs.

  “Well?”

  “He knows about us,” I said. “About you.”

  “What about me?”

  “Mama!” Why was she making me say it? “That we’re not really in contact with the Other Side,” I said. “That you’re a fake, like Delia said.”