by Jenn Thorson
“Suffixiation?! Not hardly,” said his brother.
“Quite muchly. It put an end to him, didn’t it?” said the first Tweedle, and the second Tweedle begrudgingly nodded. “There’s the suffix. The suffix always goes on at the end.”
“See here,” began Tweedle Two, who Mary Ann could now see was D.M. Tweedle, and he was itching for a fight. He pointed to the body. “A bump on the head. A contuberation. That’s the cause.”
“That’s the prefix,” D.I. Tweedle corrected. “It fixed him good first. But the ultimate cause was the water in his lungs, which suffixed him. You cannot argue with that.”
“I will in my report.”
“Not if my report gets to Lord Carmine first.”
For a moment, Mary Ann thought it would come to blows—there was certainly some posturing in that direction. But the tension eased and the other guards didn’t seem to notice, anyway.
“How did he end up drownde — er, drowning?” Mary Ann asked quietly.
It took them a moment to fix their gaze on her. “Boat hung up on the rocks, didn’t it?” D.M. hooked a thumb to the scene.
Mary Ann stepped closer. “But look: there’s plenty of room for him to have sailed past them. And Mr. Banks was a fine sailor. How could this have happened?”
“Perhaps he got distractipated,” suggested D.I. Tweedle. “Distractipated driving is responsible for one in five accidents.”
“None such,” said D.M. “This is the first boating accident we’ve seen.”
“And how many accidents have we investigated?” asked D.I.
“In our billustrious career of three whole weeks?” He seemed to do some mental arithmetic. “Four.”
“There you go. This is five.”
Mary Ann moved to the river. “Is there any chance someone could have hit him on the head? Could he have been, er, clubbed first?”
“Well, he’s the only one in the boat. So no one to do the clubbing.” D.I. Tweedle eyed her narrowly. “Surely you don’t think he clubbed himself, do you?” He turned, laughing to the other guards. “Look at her, she thinks he clubbed himself.”
“Not no-how,” laughed D.M. Tweedle. “He’d never get up the leverage!”
But Mary Ann was determined to make them see sense. “Couldn’t someone have gotten aboard, struck him and then leapt off?”
Sadly, they didn’t seem much interested in that idea. “Nah,” said D.I. Tweedle. “Then there’d like as be footprints along the banks somewheres and we saw nothing of the kind in our investibles.”
He hadn’t finished his sentence before Mary Ann was already searching a short distance away upriver. And it wasn’t long after that before she saw two solid boot prints in the sand. They were men’s, full-sized and not at all a flipper. “Here!” she called. “Take a look at this.”
The Tweedles and their men ran over. “Where? What?”
And in no time, they had stepped upon the very place Mary Ann had pointed out.
“Oh, them? Those are guard-issued boot prints, nothing to get yerself in a twist over.”
“Well, they are now,” snapped Mary Ann. “You’ve trod all over it!”
“What we need to do,” mused D.I. Tweedle, “is notificate any of whom might be fambily to poor old Sandy Banks, eh? Send someone round to let them know and give our condolorances.”
D.M. Tweedle was jotting this down.
“I’m not sure about any wee ones,” D.I. continued, “but I know he had a friend in that woodworker fellow, that Carpenter who lives over at the edge of Tulgey Barrens. They was business partners, and this’ll mean something to him.”
“Frabjous, then send a group round right speedily.”
When Mary Ann heard this, cold was the chill that ran down her spine. They were “sending someone round.” And when they arrived, they would find the place completely empty and a fresh grave in back. What if they spoke to the trees? The trees had, at the least, seen Jacob Morningstar come and go, but not the crime itself. Just her and Douglas Divot carrying two parts of Rowan Carpenter to “mulch.” The trees did seem to believe she was not responsible for the tragedy, but would the guards? Also, this put Douglas smack-dab in the middle of one mysterious death and another mass killing in just a few days. How would this be for him?
And what if they wanted to question Mary Ann? Everyone knew she was sent to Neath years ago. What if they followed the trail and tracked her down? What would she say? It was a little late to say, “Oh, by the way, I saw my father murdered and was afraid to mention it so I buried him quietly and cleaned up the evidence.” Even if they did believe her and exonerate Douglas of any wrong-doing, she had very little confidence the Tweedles would be able to protect her from a determined assassin. The Tweedles couldn’t protect themselves out of a paper bag.
She was in a cold sweat by the time she was done pondering the situation.
She pried herself from the crime scene and had started back to the Manor when she remembered the reason she’d been sent to the river in the first place, so she moved downriver to look for additional patches of watercress. It was action, at least. Something to burn off some of the fear, until she could think straight.
“You look like the weight of the world is on your shoulders,” said a voice, and it was Douglas Divot.
“Funny,” she said, “I was just thinking about you.”
“Me? I don’t weigh all that much,” he said.
“But J. Sanford Banks does. Or rather did.”
Douglas looked surprised. “He’s reduced since we last saw him? Good for him. As long as he’s healthy.”
“He’s dead,” she said and she described the scene upriver.
“Perhaps it was a suicide,” said Douglas, kneading his clawed hands in a worried way. “Could he have felt some guilt about your father? Could he have been involved in it somehow?”
“The Tweedles seem to think it was an accident,” said Mary Ann. “But he had a head injury that I’m not fully convinced happened when his boat went down. And I found a boot print in the sand upriver from where the boat crashed and capsized. I’m starting to really believe he was fleeing something. Or someone.”
“Well, it’s not me,” said Douglas.
“I didn’t think it was,” she said.
“I only met the fellow that time with you.”
“I know.”
“And when commissioning furniture,” he said.
“Right.”
“And I had to commission it, you know, because your father didn’t do tove-sized pieces. DwindleAde won’t work on it to make it smaller. You can’t just rub it into the wood grain and hope for the best; it’s got to be built small from the start.”
Mary Ann looked at him hard. “That’s very specific. It almost sounds like you tried.”
The tove’s ear twitched. “Er, I’m sorry,” he said. “This whole rath thing has got me a bit paranoid. The Wabe is entirely too quiet now that everyone’s gone. Even the other toves have left. They consider the place a bad neighborhood now and feel it’s a hazard to even live there. I’m not sure I feel safe myself.”
She pressed a hand to his shoulder. “Take it easy. Mind what you eat and drink. Don’t fall for a bowl of seafood you find lying about in the woods.”
“Oh, I’d never do that,” he said. “There’s the shellfish allergy. Also, toves eat cheese, you know.”
She did know. “Cheese then.” And rising, she took the watercress she’d gathered up in her basket and headed back to the Manor.
14
Judging by the laughter coming from the dining room, the dinner was a success — at least, as much as Mary Ann could hear it from the kitchen. The Earl of Scarlet was visiting from Square Three, a very bald, very boisterous fellow who the servants said always made for a lively time. It seemed the table discussion had largely turned to the travel for Queen Valentina’s Unbirthday, which was impending, and to Lady Carmine’s health, which was improving. Improving so much, it seemed almost certain she would be able to
attend the event in four days time with no black cloud of illness hanging over her.
“I’m somewhat concerned about that walrus situation, though,” admitted Lord Carmine, and Mary Ann drew close to the door of the dining room. Peering through a crack in the pocket doors, she could see the interest cross Sir Rufus’ face as his father said, “Hate to leave with all of that going on, of course.”
“All what?” Sir Rufus asked, in mid-bite of salad. “I thought it was an accident.”
“Interesting thing about that. I received a rocking horsefly not ten minutes ago. Seems those Tweedle boys went to notify that Carpenter fellow — you know the one, the recluse? He works with Banks, sort of a manufacturing and sails partnership they have for the furniture business. Anyway, it seems that one’s dead, too.”
Sir Rufus’ fork clattered to his plate. “What?”
“Hopping hedgehogs, Carmine!” exclaimed Lord Scarlet with a laugh. “Your people are dropping like … like … something that drops a lot, aren’t they?”
“Apparently,” continued Lord Carmine, not bothering to address his friend’s simile issues, “there’s a grave in the back of Carpenter’s house, made with some care.”
“Well, these things happen. Easy come, easy go. Circle of life and all that,” Lord Scarlet said philosophically and helped himself to some more wine.
“How long?” Sir Rufus asked, sitting up very straight. “How long do they think the grave’s been there?”
“Fresh grave,” said Lord Carmine. “The ground still doesn’t have any grass on it. I understand there’s also what looks like a large stain on the floor of his workshop.”
“And I’m guessing you’re about to tell us it’s not the kind meant to paint chairs,” said Sir Rufus, narrow-eyed.
Lord Carmine reached for the butter. “Seems Tweedle and Tweedle both think it’s a blood stain.”
“You think the two deaths are related, then?” Sir Rufus asked.
Lord Carmine popped in a bite of buttered bread. “Not certain at this point. One theory is that there was some form of disagreement and Banks struck Carpenter in a fit of rage. You ever meet that Banks fellow? Very emotional. Cried at the drop of a hat. Hat didn’t even have to be his. Something about headgear got the fellow weepy and out of control.” He had swallowed the bread and took another bite. “Other topics did, as well, of course. Like I said, very emotional.”
Sir Rufus said, “So they think Banks got angry or offended, and that was that?”
“Or hat was hat. Hard to say,” said Carmine. “We do know Banks had owed quite a bit of money on that fancy sails boat of his. It was just about to be repossessed, when he suddenly paid it off in one go. So it could be a dodgy financial thing. Maybe Banks, having killed his friend and meal ticket and all, was overcome with regret, took to his ill-gotten boat and drove himself distractedly onto the rocks.”
“Sure, things like this happen a hundred times a year,” said Lord Scarlet affably.
Sir Rufus raised an eyebrow. “A hundred?”
“Or this once,” said Lord Scarlet and reached for the salt.
“You said one theory,” Rufus looked like he needed some wine now himself and poured a glass. “What’s the other?”
“Ah, yes,” said Lord Carmine. “Well, on account of Carpenter’s death, they looked into who needs notification of the thing. The man had a daughter. Turns out, she was shipped off to Neath years ago for being troublesome. Carpenter set her up in a housemaid’s position and now she’s gone missing there, as well. Blew up Herald Rabbit’s house first, though, and caused mayhem in a few other areas around Neath. There’s a warrant out for her.”
“So Carpenter’s daughter is a mad housemaid, eh?” said Sir Rufus. His eyes darted to the door between the dining room and the kitchen. Mary Ann ducked away from the crack, but she wasn’t sure it was fast enough. “Will you excuse me a moment?” Sir Rufus asked and he leapt up from his chair.
That second, Mary Ann was trying to put as much distance between herself and the dining room as possible. She rushed into the drawing room and grabbed a doily from a chair arm, using it to wipe the moldings. In a moment, Sir Rufus entered.
“All right, Mary Ann …” Just once, she wished he’d say her name nicely. “Mary Ann Carpenter, isn’t it? It is time for you to talk.”
So she talked. And talked of many themes. Of knaves and dads and walruses, Unbirthday gifts and dreams. Of why she fled to Tulgey Wood and whether friends had schemes.
He listened to it, listened to it quietly with intense interest. And when she was done, she took a deep breath, wiped her eyes with the dusty doily, sneezed once and waited. “Well?”
“I daresay, I didn’t expect it to be in rhyming verse,” he said, scratching his chin, “but it certainly all has come clear now.”
She held out her wrists. “So I suppose you’ll be apprehending me. Shackling me, taking me to the Mirrigation Room for further questioning, or tossing me in the dungeon until the Tweedles come.”
“Dungeon? We haven’t any dungeon,” he said. “Father keeps his model train collection in the basement. And put your arms down, would you? Nobody’s being apprehended.”
“Really? Nobody’s being apprehended?”
“Actually, Nobody was apprehended earlier today, but on a vagrancy charge. Not at all related to your problems.”
She sank into a chair.
“Why didn’t you just talk to me, or to my father, about this in the first place?” His expression was all sincerity.
“Because,” she said, “I didn’t know how much contact your family had with the Royal Family in Neath. I needed a chance to see what inter-realm relations were in the courtier circles. But I kept hearing how you were invited to Queen Valentina’s Unbirthday event. And you knew Mr. Rabbit. I had no idea where your loyalties would lie in a case like mine.”
He thought about this and nodded. “And you think Jacob Morningstar killed your father.”
“I know it. I saw him do it with my own eyes,” she said. “How much do you know about the man?”
“Not much,” he said, “for now. But I shall see what I can learn. Tell me what day this happened specifically, and I’ll see what information I can track down amongst my contacts.”
Mary Ann hesitated and he added, “Don’t worry. I won’t mention anything related to you or what you saw.” He rose.
So she gave him the details, adding, “And you really will do this for me?” After feeling so alone with her troubles, it was strange to think she might now have him on her side.
“Well,” he said, “with no sense of humor, I feel compelled to shift from my past frivolous ways to one of service to the less fortunate.” And with that, he vanished through the door.
If Mary Ann hadn’t known better, she would have thought he was kidding.
“Ow, ow, no! Please! Stop! I never asked for this!”
The next morning, Mrs. Cordingley said it was time to beat the rugs, so she and Mary Ann rolled up and dragged out a few of the smaller ones into the yard and hung them on the line to give them a good thrashing. Mary Ann had expected the great amount of dust, but not the complaints and the trouble the things were giving them.
“What have I done?” asked a particularly vocal geometric-patterned one. “Just tell me what I did to deserve this maltreatment?”
WHACK! WHACK! “Shut your noise, you,” said Mrs. Cordingley. “You give me lip about this every spring, you do, and I’ll not have it again. Keep it up and I’ll unravel you where you hang!”
And that set the carpet crying all the more.
It wasn’t a wonder that Mary Ann never heard Sir Rufus approach. Instead, a hand gripped her shoulder but for half a moment she thought it was some fringe trying to strangle her in its defense.
“Oh! It’s you!” she said, relieved.
“Mrs. Cordingley, I’d like a word with Mar — er, your housemaid a moment. I promise I’ll give her right back.”
Mrs. Cordi
ngley beamed up at him. “Oh, you take all the time you want, Mr. Rufus, Sir. I’ll still be out here with the rugs that need a good what-for when you’re done.” And with that, the beatings continued until morale improved.
“So I’ve asked around a bit,” began Sir Rufus once they were out of earshot, “worked it casually into conversation amongst my father and the guards. It seems that Jacob Morningstar had quite the reputation during the Great War of Neath. Apparently, he was fierce on the battlefield, yet many in the Clubs family considered him a traitor because of the speed with which he switched to serve the Hearts’ side. The general consensus is that if he were acting in the way you described, he’d be acting on Queen Valentina’s order.”
“Oh dear,” sighed Mary Ann. “It is as I feared.”
“But I have some questions. You said yesterday your father was beheaded with an axe. And that it was done in one chop.”
“That’s correct.”
“One swoop, at a sideways angle and no hacking?”
“Er, yes.”
“And it resulted in no jagged cuts or veins, just a smooth wound area that —” At what must have been her very pained expression, he said, “Look, I wouldn’t ask, but this is important.”
“Yes,” she said. “It was a perfectly smooth, even cut and it took the head off in one lop.”
“So it was a magic axe,” he said.
“Well, one would expect so,” she said, dusting off her hands. “I’ve never seen a normal axe cut like that.”
“And who have you asked about it?”
“Asked?” She blinked in lieu of a better answer.
“You didn’t trace the axe?”
“Er, not precisely yet …” She decided she was not going to be a liar these days, so she went on. “I mean, it’s the Knave of Clubs’ axe. Why trace it when we know who has it?”
“We know who has it now, yes. But this is not a weapon he was known for.”
“What was he known for?”
Rufus looked at her hard. “What do you think he was known for? The Knave of Clubs …”
“Oh.” She’d never thought about it. But then she hadn’t any dealings with that pack of courtiers when she lived in Neath. It wasn’t as if Mr. Rabbit needed a traveling companion when he went to the castle, or that the Queen ever popped by the cottage for tea.
