A Case of Grave Danger

by Sophie Cleverly

  HAWTHORNE’S PAPER MILL

  and it had been stamped

  DISCHARGED DUE TO INJURY.

  Another job lost. Could that be how she had received her scar?

  ‘Miss Violet!’

  I jumped up, but it was only Oliver from the other room. ‘Come and look at this,’ he said, beckoning.

  I followed him back there, closing the adjoining door behind me. There was more old and battered furniture that looked as though it had been found in a rubbish dump – a three-legged table pocked with knife marks, a chest of drawers that Oliver stood beside and an open wonky bureau that Bones was sniffing around. To the right was an iron range with a rusty pot and kettle. It didn’t look like it had been used for a while – the whole surround was thick with black dust and ash. A few tin cans lay discarded on the floor.

  Oliver followed my gaze. ‘Not much to eat. She probably has to beg, borrow or steal. Maybe that’s where she’s gone. Market day today.’

  The sadness caught up with me again – this poor woman had next to nothing. I had to remind myself that we were on the trail of a possible murderer, not least one who could walk through the door any minute.

  ‘What have you found?’ I asked.

  He pointed into the top drawer that he had pulled open. It was almost empty, save for a pair of carefully laid-out floral lace gloves.

  With one glove that had a section torn off at the bottom. As if it had been torn off, say, by a loose nail in a filing cabinet at an undertaker’s.

  I gasped. ‘Oliver! This is exactly what we’re looking for! So she could have stolen the file—’

  Just as I was about to examine them more closely, Bones suddenly barked. This time, we both jumped.

  I turned. ‘What is it, boy?’ I hissed. ‘Is she coming back?’ But he was standing up at the bureau. With a swift paw, he knocked down a deep red notebook. ‘No!’ I cried.

  He caught it in his mouth and shook it as if it were a rabbit, the loose binding spilling pages out. Oliver quickly scrambled to try and pick them up.

  ‘Bad dog!’ I chastised Bones. ‘Bad …’

  Bones had gone still and quiet, the book still clasped in his jaws. And then I heard the creak of the front door.

  ‘Oh no,’ I breathed.

  ‘Run!’ said Oliver, and he flung open the back door and raced across the overgrown yard, the papers still clutched in his hand. I turned, and saw Bones drop the notebook and shoot after him, both of them leaping the broken fence at the same time.

  My heart pounded in my chest. The Black Widow was merely feet away – I could hear her moving about the house. She couldn’t know we’d been there! I quickly picked up the red notebook from the floor and put it back on the desk. The footsteps were getting closer.

  Wait – the drawer! It was still wide open. I pushed it back in, wincing and gritting my teeth as I willed it not to creak. Then I turned and hurled myself towards the back door, swinging it shut behind me as I went through into the chilly air. I could have sworn I heard the door to the kitchen open as I did so.

  I stood, shaking, in a tangle of crushed weeds and thorns. There was no sign of Oliver and Bones.

  I took a deep breath, and went to jump the fence – and my skirt caught.

  ‘No, no, no,’ I muttered, tugging at it in desperation.

  Was the Black Widow inside? Had she noticed the door closing? Spotted that we’d been in there, touching her things? This was not the time to be stuck.

  Looking up at the house frantically, I could’ve sworn that there in the barely transparent window were those cold eyes under black lace, staring back.

  With a whispered prayer I kicked hard at the fence with a well-placed boot. There was a cracking and tearing noise as the battered wood relinquished the bottom of my skirt.

  I turned, and ran as fast as my legs could carry me.

  ran all the way home, the wind streaming through my hair. There was no sign of Bones or Oliver.

  I found Mother in front of the fire in the parlour, stitching a pair of Thomas’s trousers that he’d filled with holes (how that boy managed to destroy so many of his clothes, I could never work out). She was still trying to distract herself, I knew. ‘Are you all right?’ she asked me as I hurried in, panting.

  ‘S-sorry,’ I gasped. ‘I’m perfectly all right. But …’ I took a gasping breath. ‘I’ve lost Oliver and Bones.’

  Mother put her needle down and stared up at me, clearly suspecting there was more that I needed to tell her. ‘Well?’ she asked.

  ‘We went to find Miss Stone’s house. She was seen at some of the houses of the victims and, and,’ I paused for breath, ‘talking to the servants. I thought she might be able to help us.’ I sat down heavily on the nearest chair. I wasn’t sure what Mother would think of us breaking and entering someone’s house, even if there was no actual breaking and if the someone was a murder suspect. So I tried to brush that fact under the rug. ‘We didn’t really find anything that could save Father,’ I said sadly. ‘But I did notice that her glove was torn – it was just like the fabric I found in our filing cabinet when Oliver’s file was stolen.’

  Mother frowned. ‘Hmm. And what happened to Oliver and Bones?’

  ‘Bones … um … ran off,’ I said. ‘And Oliver chased after him. I couldn’t see them anywhere on the way home!’

  ‘If there’s one thing I know about that dog,’ Mother replied, ‘it’s that he knows what he’s doing. He’ll be back soon, I’m sure. Oliver has the sense to come home before dark too.’

  ‘Hmmph.’ I didn’t think Mother would say the same for me. And I didn’t know how she could not be worried about them when there was a murderer on the loose!

  Instead of any further concern, she simply sighed and stared into the fire. ‘So you didn’t find anything out? Anything that could … help? I don’t know if a torn glove can help us that much on its own. She could have torn it anywhere.’

  It was back again – the unspoken implication that Father’s impending doom hung over all our words. A dark undercurrent that threatened to pull us into the depths of despair.

  I rested my hand on her shoulder. ‘I’m sorry,’ was all I could say. I felt sure that the torn glove was a clue, that it meant Miss Stone had been the one going through the files. Mother was right, though, that even if I could prove that for certain (and how could I, without the glove?) it wouldn’t prove she was a murderer.

  Mother rose from the chair. ‘Find out what you can, then. I’m going to check on Thomas. He’s doing his arithmetic upstairs. Let me know when Oliver and Bones are home.’ With that, she left the parlour, carrying the half-mended trousers with her.

  I clenched my fists and followed her out into the hall, where I noticed Maddy in the shop, dusting the desk. I hurried in. ‘Maddy! Have you seen Oliver? Or Bones?’

  She shook her head. ‘No, miss. I—’

  There was a knock at the door. Instinctively, I ran to get it, thinking it could be them returning home.

  ‘No!’ Maddy shouted, and I thought she was thinking of the journalists, but it was too late. I had already unlocked the door and was pulling it open.

  But it wasn’t journalists. It was a man, holding his hat against his chest, the street quiet behind him. ‘Oh, hello,’ he said, and I could already detect the sadness in his voice. ‘Are you open?’

  I was tempted to point out the large CLOSED sign that had been pasted over the door, but the man seemed upset. If he was looking for an undertaker, that was to be expected. ‘No,’ I said. ‘I’m very sorry. Haven’t you heard about my father?’

  The man’s brow knitted as he stared up at the sign above the shop. ‘Mr Veil?’

  ‘Yes, he’s … um …’ I was about to tell the truth, and then thought better of it. ‘Very sick at the moment, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ the man said. ‘I’ll go elsewhere.’ He turned away.

  ‘Try Flourish and Co.,’ I said, wincing at having to send someone to our competitors.

&
nbsp; How long would this have to go on for? Our business was really starting to suffer. If Father never came back, and nobody was going to let me take over, we wouldn’t be able to afford food. At least our wood for the fire came from the trees out in the cemetery, but if ‘not freezing to death’ was the best-case scenario … Well, things were not looking good.

  ‘Really, Miss Violet,’ Maddy chastised me. ‘You shouldn’t be opening the door. You don’t know who could be out there. That newspaper lot have been snooping again.’

  I ignored her reprimand. ‘I thought it could be Oliver and Bones! Bones ran off and Oliver chased after him.’

  ‘I’m sure they’ll be back soon,’ Maddy said, continuing her dusting. ‘Perhaps you could do some piano practice while they’re gone, miss.’

  I gaped at her. ‘Maddy, there’s a murderer on the loose and Father’s in jail! This is not the time for piano practice!’

  She barely flinched at my outburst. ‘It’ll keep your mind occupied.’

  Anger boiled up inside me. It hadn’t escaped my notice that I was expected to play pretty tunes while Thomas learned his sums. Perhaps normally I would put up with that, but not when my friend and my dog could be in danger. Without another word to Maddy, I stomped through the house, grabbed my coat and went back outside.

  I marched out of the gate and into the cemetery. It seemed as good a place to look as any. I was sure Bones would know his way home, but he knew the cemetery especially well.

  It was growing dark and cold, so I picked up a brisk pace. I waved at Alfred, who was enjoying a flask of tea on one of the benches, and continued up the path.

  ‘Bones!’ I called out.

  A passing mourner looked at me, horrified.

  ‘It’s my dog’s name,’ I explained, but she simply glowered at me and carried on walking. ‘Oliver! Bones!’ I tried again. ‘Here, boy!’

  It was as I crested the top of the hill that I heard a bark from up ahead.

  ‘Bones!’ I called again, only to have him barrel out of the trees towards me and nearly knock me over, trying desperately to lick my face. ‘There you are!’

  ‘Miss Violet!’ I heard Oliver’s voice, sounding a little weak and out of breath. Bones led me over to him. He was sitting in the middle of three panes of glass that were set into a stone base, surrounded by a low railing.

  ‘You’re sitting on the Hamiltons,’ I told him.

  ‘What?’ He scrambled up, and I noticed he was clutching some pieces of paper.

  ‘The Hamiltons. This is their family vault. They thought it was too dark, so they added these to let the light in.’ I tapped the glass windows with my foot. Their mausoleum was set into the hillside, so up here you were on the top, but the walls ran down the path, and lower down there was a heavy door so you could walk straight in – if it were unlocked.

  There were distant whispers on the wind – the Hamiltons were all terrible gossips, and I could tell they were discussing the arrival of myself and this strange boy. Then, remembering the matter at hand, I added: ‘Where have you been? What are those pages?’

  ‘I was chasing the dog. He’s far too fast for me,’ Oliver replied as Bones wagged his tail happily, ‘but I realised he was heading back here, an’ he seemed to slow down once we were well away from the house an’ that woman …’ He held out the pages to me. ‘I can’t tell you what they say, miss. It’s all squiggles to me.’

  I reached out to take them, realising just how freezing my hands were without my gloves. They were starting to turn blue, and Oliver’s fingertips were just as icy as they brushed against mine. But there was one other thing I noticed as soon as I held the paper in front of my eyes.

  ‘Are these the pages Bones tore from her notebook?’ I said with a gasp.

  Oliver brushed the dirt from his legs. ‘Yeah, why?’

  ‘This is the same handwriting that was on the pieces of paper I found at the funeral.’

  I looked down at the page, and there was one word that immediately stood out to me.

  Revenge.

  liver and I sat down on the chilly glass panels of the Hamiltons’ tomb.

  ‘Look at the date on this one!’ I exclaimed, pointing to the paragraph I’d noticed. ‘This is around when you were attacked!’

  Oliver’s skin paled under his messy blond hair. ‘What does it say?

  Week of 21st September

  I read about Karma today. Retribution. I question if I am doing the right thing. Perhaps the universe should act alone, and I am upsetting its balance.

  I stole aboard the Necropolis Train for three stops. It’s better that way. I don’t like to be seen. If I’m not seen, it is as though I don’t exist. A ghost in the night. My black clothes render me yet more invisible to other mourners. I am in mourning for the life I lost.

  They say that revenge is a dish best served cold.

  And there they are correct.

  The colder the better.

  I shuddered. Whatever this meant, it didn’t sound good at all. I felt as though the cold words had turned the air around us even more frosty. And it wasn’t the ghosts of the Hamiltons, who I could tell were intrigued by our presence.

  ‘The Necropolis train?’ Oliver asked.

  ‘Yes – it’s the railway of the dead. It takes coffins and mourners to the big new cemetery outside the city. She must have been up to something, travelling on there.’

  ‘Sounds like it,’ Oliver replied with a grimace.

  I continued reading.

  Alas, I was seen. He was there before me. He must have been waiting in the shadows by the river. He could have run for the police. I don’t trust them – especially not Inspector Holbrook. He’s crooked and a liar. What was I to do? I picked up …

  I looked up at Oliver’s face. ‘That’s all it says,’ I said, with some disappointment. ‘It’s torn off below there.’

  ‘Who’s she talking about?’ he asked, his voice low and desperate. ‘Who saw her? Doing what? What did she pick up?’

  ‘She mentions the police, and Inspector Holbrook by name, calling him crooked,’ I said. ‘Perhaps he caught her doing something. Or she caught him?’ The whole thing sounded very fishy indeed. Sneaking onto the Necropolis train? Acting out retribution? These didn’t sound like the activities of an innocent former governess.

  Bones got to his feet and started stalking around in the grass. I wondered if he was trying to tell us something, but then he picked up a stick and happily tossed it in the air. There was a faint shimmer beside him – I had a sense that the Hamiltons were joining in.

  Oliver smiled at the dog, then looked back at me, his expression turning sour. ‘There’s something I’ve been thinking about, miss,’ he said, twirling a small stone between his fingers. ‘If the inspector is pinning the blame on your pa, then … could he be the murderer?’

  I folded the pages away carefully and put them in my pocket. ‘Even if he hates my father for some reason, and he really is a bad man like Miss Stone says, I can’t see what would motivate him to kill people. And why would he hurt you?’ But something from what I had just read was clinging in my mind, refusing to let go. ‘If that diary entry is from around the time you were attacked, then couldn’t she be talking about you?’

  Oliver’s mouth hung open. ‘Of course! If she’s the murderer, maybe I was the one who saw her. That could make sense. But … I don’t think anyone would want to murder me, miss. That they’d plan it, I mean …’ He began tapping himself on the forehead. ‘But why can’t I remember? I don’t know her. I don’t recognise that house. Nothing’s coming back to me.’

  ‘It could just be your head injury. And, you wouldn’t have been at her house, would you?’ I said, considering the matter. ‘You would have been near one of the victims. She could well have seen you, panicked, and hit you on the head to stop you running for the police! We need to jog your memory. Maybe something will come to you.’

  Bones barked, though I wasn’t sure if he was just joining in with my excitement or pe
rhaps barking at the distant ghostly echoes. I really felt as though we were getting somewhere. Miss Stone and Inspector Holbrook were both deeply suspicious, and what we’d learned just proved it.

  ‘But … why, miss? Why would she be doing this?’ Oliver frowned and threw his stone across the tomb.

  ‘Careful!’ I snapped, making him flinch. ‘Watch the glass.’

  I hadn’t meant to be so harsh, but even with the steps we seemed to be making, I was feeling more and more stressed with every passing minute. The clock was ticking for Father, and I needed answers that I didn’t have. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said, tilting my head down. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Hard times happen to all of us, don’t they?’ he continued. ‘I was dirt poor, miss, an’ I didn’t go around whacking folks on the head.’

  ‘But she writes about revenge and karma,’ I said. I climbed to my feet. ‘She blames people. For her situation.’

  He appeared to ponder this as he stood up beside me, shuffling away from the glass and on to the solid stone. ‘I think you’re right. If she could be the murderer … I think we do need to jog my memory somehow.’

  I nodded, deep in thought. ‘Come on, we ought to be heading home. Mother will be panicking if she thinks I’m missing as well.’

  ‘We’ll get to the bottom of this, miss,’ he said determinedly. ‘We will.’

  As Bones led us back down the path past the doorway to the mausoleum, I shielded my eyes from the setting sun. From where we stood on the hill, it was turning a fiery orange as it sank towards the horizon. The graves were bathed in amber light, the trees swaying gently in the dying breeze.

  All this stillness … it was enough to make you forget the outside world, the murderers and strange governesses and the noose that threatened Father. It was what I loved most about the cemetery. It was on the fringe of life and death, neither quite one nor the other. Sometimes I felt that was where I was too. And Oliver, after his brush with death? Perhaps he knew how I felt.