“What do we do?” Toby cried. This was nothing like the famous murder sites he’d walked past in the city, where peddlers sold commemorative ribbons to tourists and all the actual bodies had been long since carted away. Mr. Peartree had been to crime scenes before, though; Mr. Peartree was an expert.
“Do?” Mr. Peartree threw his pages of notes to the floor. “I have no idea what to do! I’m not a detective! I just write the stories. It’s not the same thing at all.”
“Then I’ll go get help.” Toby wasn’t sure which was more terrifying: the corpse in the armchair or the sight of Mr. Peartree, panicked and disheveled, rubbing his forehead with his green-gloved hands. All Toby knew was that he had to get out of the Orchid Room, and fast. He backed out of the room, almost tripping over the untidy stacks of papers, and slammed the door shut behind him. Maybe, he thought, that would make the whole purple nightmare disappear for good.
Then he ran.
There were plenty of people in Coleford Manor, but Toby couldn’t imagine how any of them could help him. The other detectives wouldn’t be able to bring Mr. Abernathy back to life; neither would the Websters or their servants. Even Uncle Gabriel wouldn’t have been able to fix this mess. Toby skidded across the second-floor landing and into the opposite hallway; these were the Websters’ rooms. “Help!” he shouted, knocking on each door as he passed it. “Come quick! Something awful has happened!”
One of the glass-knobbed doors flew open, and Ivy ran out. She was a mess. Only the left side of her hair had been brushed and braided, her shoes were missing, and she was hopping up and down on one foot. Percival stood behind her, looking significantly more dignified.
“I stubbed my toe on the wardrobe when you started shouting,” she said, “so this had better be worth it. What’s the matter?” She stopped hopping and balanced on one leg, looking sort of like a flamingo in a party dress. “Has the murder happened?”
“Yes,” said Toby, “only it’s not a fake murder; it’s a real one. It’s Mr. Abernathy. He’s very, very dead.”
Ivy’s leg wobbled beneath her. “I don’t believe it. It’s just not possible. Mr. Abernathy can’t die! He’s famous!”
“Oh, he can die,” said Toby. “I promise he can. He’s purple.”
Slowly, Ivy put her foot down. “You’re not pretending, are you?”
“I went to see Mr. Abernathy in the Orchid Room before dinner,” Toby said, “and when no one answered the door, Mr. Peartree let me in. We went inside, and—well—we found him. His body, I mean.” Toby felt sick at the thought of it. “That’s when Mr. Peartree sent me to get help.”
Ivy looked a little shaken, but she didn’t fly into a panic. Toby was impressed; his heart was still racing as fast as the engine in Grandfather Montrose’s motorcar. “All right,” Ivy said, pulling on her shoes. “Percival and I will get Mother and Father, and you’d better alert the other detectives. We’ll all meet back at the scene of the crime.” She glanced up at Toby. “You don’t look so good, Detective Montrose. Are you the fainting type?”
Toby hoped he wasn’t. “Of course not!” he said. He was willing to bet that if Ivy had been the one who’d just found a dead body, she wouldn’t have looked so good, either. “I’m not going to faint. I’ll get the others and meet you in the Orchid Room.”
“Good,” said Ivy. “And hurry.”
Running as quickly as he could, Toby gathered Mr. Rackham from the Rose Room, Julia Hartshorn from the Sunflower Room, Miss March and Miss Price from the Daisy Room, and Philip Elwood from the Delphinium Room. The detectives scurried down the hall after him, shedding half-arranged hairpins and unfastened cuff links as they went. “What an inconvenient time for a murder,” Miss Price said to no one in particular as Toby fumbled with the Orchid Room’s doorknob. “I just stepped out of the bath!”
Toby pushed the door open, and the whole crowd stumbled inside. “I’ve brought the other detectives,” he told Mr. Peartree, who was sitting on the purple bedsheets and paging desperately through his notes. “I’m sure it’ll only be a few minutes until they figure out what’s happened.”
But the other detectives had gone silent. They all stood over the body.
“My goodness!” said Miss Price at last. “He’s really quite dead, isn’t he?”
“Perhaps it’s one of his performances,” Philip Elwood said uncertainly. “Mr. Abernathy has always had a flair for drama.”
Miss March shook her head. “I’ve seen plenty of dead bodies in my day, and I can tell you this isn’t a performance. Step back, Flossie; you’re dripping on the corpse.”
“I don’t like it,” Mr. Rackham said. “Detectives aren’t supposed to be murdered. It makes the rest of us look careless.”
Julia Hartshorn had knelt down to examine Mr. Abernathy’s body. “He’s been dead for an hour, maybe more. I’ll have to perform some tests, but I’m almost sure he’s been poisoned.” She turned to Toby. “And you were the one who found him?”
“Mr. Peartree and I did.” Toby felt all the detectives’ sharp, steady gazes land on him. In the Hugh Abernathy stories, he realized, the people who found dead bodies were almost always highly suspicious. “I didn’t kill him, though!” Toby said quickly. “I wouldn’t even know how!”
There was a storm of footsteps in the hall, and all four Websters appeared in the doorway. Ivy, in the front, was flushed and breathless. “See?” she said. “I wasn’t telling tales. He’s really dead!”
“My heavens,” Mrs. Webster said softly. “So he is.” She put an arm around Lillie, who was already blinking back tears.
“What’s the meaning of this, Peartree?” Mr. Webster pushed his way through the crowd of detectives. “I never agreed to a real murder in this house!”
“I doubt Mr. Abernathy agreed, either,” Julia murmured, “but look what’s happened to him.”
Mr. Peartree finally raised his head from his notepad. “I don’t know what went wrong,” he said. His voice was hoarse and low, and the whites of his eyes had turned pink. “Mr. Abernathy had the contest all planned out. One of the serving maids was assigned to play the role of victim, and the false murder was supposed to happen tonight at dinner. She was scheduled to drop dead during the soup course!” He blew his nose into a jade-colored handkerchief. “But I suppose there’s no point in continuing the contest now.”
“It’ll have to be canceled at once,” Mr. Webster agreed. “Has anyone sent for a doctor? Must we call the police?”
Everyone gasped. Mr. Webster might as well have suggested that the house should be attacked by ravening wolves.
“Not the police!” Julia said firmly. “They’ll only muck things up as usual. But I suppose a doctor would be all right.”
Mrs. Webster rushed downstairs to contact Doctor Piper, though Toby couldn’t see what good it would do. He’d thought that the other detectives would take charge of the investigation, plucking up clues and setting off to uncover the truth of the matter, but most of them were only wringing their hands, talking in low, worried whispers, or pacing the length of the Orchid Room. This never happened in the sorts of stories Toby loved—but those stories were mostly about Hugh Abernathy, of course, and Hugh Abernathy was in no shape to take charge of things anymore.
The gong downstairs rang again, making Toby’s teeth vibrate. “It’s a sign!” said Miss Price. “A portent of doom!”
“Actually,” said Philip Elwood, “I think it’s the dinner bell.”
Either way, it seemed to rouse Mr. Peartree. He stood up, cleared his throat, and slipped into his usual calm, orderly manner as though it were a dinner jacket he’d misplaced. “Mr. Abernathy may not be here to host you all,” he announced, “but I hope you’ll let me attempt to perform his duties. Since there’s nothing more we can do for him at the moment, may I suggest that we head downstairs for a hot meal? We’ll all feel better with food in our gullets, and it will give us a chance to discuss what should be done next.”
As the detectives left the Orchid Room, T
oby hung back. “Are you all right?” Ivy asked. “You might as well come down to dinner. There’s nothing more we can do for Mr. Abernathy now.”
“It’s not that,” said Toby. “It’s his case files.” Toby couldn’t bring himself to look at the body in the purple armchair, but he couldn’t stop staring at the papers scattered across the rug. “Mr. Abernathy never got a chance to tell me what he’d learned about my parents, but if I can find their file—”
He never got a chance to finish his sentence. “Come along, children,” said Mr. Webster, rattling a large ring of keys. “I’m afraid this room is a crime scene now. We’ve got to leave it just as we found it until the detectives have examined every inch of the place.”
Ivy rolled her eyes. “We are detectives, Father.”
“And we’ve got important work to do,” Toby added.
But Mr. Webster wouldn’t listen. Even as Toby and Ivy protested, he ushered them out of the Orchid Room and twisted one of his keys in the lock. Toby’s heart twisted, too. “I’ve got to look at those files!” he whispered to Ivy. “If I don’t find out what Mr. Abernathy learned, I’ll never know what happened to my parents. What if they’re still alive? What if they’re in trouble, and they can’t get home, and they need my help?” Finding Hugh Abernathy’s body had been awful enough, but this was a disaster.
“Stay calm, Detective.” Ivy spoke with such authority that Toby’s heart began to untwist despite itself. “We’ll figure out what to do. Have we ever lost a case?”
“We’ve never won a case,” said Toby, but Ivy only sighed at him and pulled him down the stairs to dinner.
No one had much of an appetite. The soup was cold and green, with slimy bits floating in it. It reminded Toby of slugs and sludge and rainstorms, and he wondered if it was the thing that had killed Mr. Abernathy. Would it be more impolite to push the soup away or to taste it and die right there at the dinner table? He wanted to ask Ivy about this, but she was busy slipping chunks of brown bread to Percival under the tablecloth.
As Toby nudged his soup bowl farther away from him, Mrs. Webster swept into the dining room. “I’ve sent a message to Doctor Piper,” she announced. “She’ll be here as quickly as she can. I’ve also spoken to Cook, and she’ll inform the rest of the servants of Mr. Abernathy’s—situation. They’re not to leave the house tonight.”
“A wise idea, madam.” Mr. Rackham, who had been brave enough to taste the soup, dabbed at his mouth with a napkin. “In fact, I think it would be prudent for all of us to stay put. If the murderer is among us, we can’t allow him to escape.”
“I agree,” said Miss March. “We must all keep an eye on each other.”
“Yes, we must.” Philip Elwood looked from one end of the long table to the other, counting heads. “By the way, Toby, where in the world is your uncle?”
Five years ago, when Toby was only six and playing in the fields behind his house, a wasp had landed on his arm. He’d known right away that it was going to hurt him, but he hadn’t been able to do anything to stop it; he’d only stood there, frozen, waiting for the sting. Now Philip’s question hovered over Toby, buzzing in his ears, and he knew there was nothing he could do to stop what was about to happen.
Still, he tried his best. “Uncle Gabriel’s upstairs,” he said, just the way he’d rehearsed, “in the Marigold Room. He’s really upset about what’s happened to Mr. Abernathy, and he doesn’t want any dinner. He probably won’t come out of his room until it’s time to leave.”
“We can’t allow that!” Mr. Rackham threw down his napkin. “We’re all in this mess together now. What can Gabriel be thinking?”
“I imagine,” said Miss Price, “that he’s thinking about how relieved he is to be off the overnight ferry and on dry land in Gallis. Gabriel never has enjoyed ocean voyages. He gets frightfully seasick.”
Toby, who had been reaching for his water glass, knocked it over instead.
“Gallis?” said Philip.
“Uh-oh,” said Ivy.
As Toby scrambled to sop up the puddle of water on the tablecloth, Miss Price gave him an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry to ruin your story, dear, but considering the circumstances, I think it’s best that everyone know the truth. Gabriel Montrose went abroad yesterday to follow a lead on a case. He’s never set foot in Coleford Manor, as far as I know. And he certainly isn’t here now.”
For the second time that evening, everyone looked at Toby. He wasn’t used to being the center of attention, and so far, it wasn’t going well. The damp part of the tablecloth had started to drip onto his knees.
“So Gabriel doesn’t have any new investigative methods after all!” Julia looked triumphant. “I wondered why I hadn’t heard of them.”
“I’m afraid I don’t understand,” Mrs. Webster said. “If your uncle is out of the country, Toby, what are you doing here with us?”
Toby sighed. He was tired of deceiving with confidence. “I wanted to be the world’s greatest detective,” he said. “I asked Uncle Gabriel to enter the contest, but he wouldn’t, and I thought that if I came instead . . .” He looked quickly at Mr. Peartree, and then back at his knees. “I’m sorry I lied, sir, but we needed the money. You know what business is like back on the Row.”
Ivy was leaning forward in her chair and staring at Miss Price the way another detective might stare at her hero—or her nemesis. “How did you know Toby was here alone?” she asked. “He’s very convincing.”
“He certainly is!” Miss Price said a little too kindly. Toby wondered if she meant it. “But we’ve known about Gabriel’s trip to Gallis for ages. He told us about his plans when he came to our house for tea a few weeks ago, and Anthea and I poked and pried at him until we’d found out all the details. We like knowing what our neighbors are up to.”
“Yes,” said Miss March, “and we’re good at it.”
“You knew about Uncle Gabriel all this time?” Toby slumped down in his chair. For weeks, he thought he’d been getting away with something really clever, but at least two of the people he’d been trying to fool had known the truth all along. Had the others known, too? He hoped Ivy wasn’t too upset: after all, this was a serious blow to the reputation of Inspector Webster’s Detection Correspondence Course. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“We considered it,” said Miss March, “but there didn’t seem to be any harm in letting you enjoy yourself. Besides, we’re fond of Gabriel. We decided that as long as you were here at the manor, we could watch over you for him, and we couldn’t do anything of the sort if you were sent home.”
“But he’s got to go home at once!” Mrs. Webster rose from the table. “Toby’s poor uncle doesn’t have any idea where he is—or that he’s at the scene of a murder! In fact, I’m thinking of sending my own daughters away to stay with their grandparents until Mr. Abernathy’s case has been resolved.”
“No!” said Toby and Ivy at once. Ivy rose out of her chair just like her mother, and Toby would have too if Percival hadn’t been sitting quite so heavily on his feet.
Even Lillie spoke up, though she did it quietly. “I don’t think that’s a good idea, Mother,” she said. “Didn’t you hear Mr. Rackham say we must all stay put? I’m sure he wasn’t only referring to the detectives in the house.”
“I certainly wasn’t,” said Mr. Rackham. “The girl’s right, madam. Now that a murder has been committed, we can’t let anyone leave the grounds until the investigation is complete. That includes the children.” He waggled a finger at Toby. “We’ve already learned that young Mr. Montrose isn’t to be trusted. What other secrets might he be hiding?”
Normally, Toby would have protested that he really was trustworthy—most of the time, at least. But what if Mr. Rackham’s distrust was the only thing keeping Toby from a long, humiliating carriage ride back to Detectives’ Row? He’d be in a world of trouble as soon as Uncle Gabriel got home—there was no way to avoid it now—but he absolutely wasn’t going to leave Coleford Manor without finding out what Mr. Abern
athy had learned about his parents. And he badly wanted to know who had killed Mr. Abernathy. A murder wasn’t the sort of thing you could just forget about or ignore, especially if you had been the one to discover it in the first place. Even the worst detectives in the city would never stumble across a corpse, shrug, and go home for the weekend.
“I’ve got loads of secrets,” Toby promised the others. “You’d better keep me around.”
“I suppose we don’t have a choice.” Mrs. Webster frowned, but she sat back down. “I can’t say I like the idea of spending the weekend locked up with a murderer, though. It can’t be safe for any of us.”
“I don’t like it, either,” Mr. Webster said. “You will track the culprit down soon, won’t you, Rackham?”
All around the table, detectives bristled.
“Er,” said Mr. Webster. “I mean, Rackham and the rest of you.”
“I hope you do mean it,” Miss March said. “When it comes to solving murders, Mr. Rackham isn’t the only one who’s up to the task. After all, we still haven’t established who among us is the world’s greatest detective.”
“Well, we know Hugh didn’t deserve the title,” Julia said darkly. “Surely the world’s greatest detective wouldn’t let himself get murdered.”
“Please, Miss Hartshorn!” These were the first words Mr. Peartree had spoken since he’d sat down to dinner. “I hardly think we should be spending our time insulting poor Mr. Abernathy when we could be bringing his killer to justice. There are five world-renowned investigators at this table. I don’t care which of you cracks this case, but someone’s got to do it!” Toby had never heard Mr. Peartree speak so forcefully before—but then, he was the one person in the world who’d known Hugh Abernathy better than anyone. He’d spent years making sure his employer got whatever he needed, and what his employer needed now was a good detective. “Mr. Abernathy was going to give ten thousand dollars to the winner of his contest,” Mr. Peartree continued. “The contest may be canceled, but the prize money is still in safekeeping at his office. I propose that we give it instead to the person who catches his murderer.”
The World's Greatest Detective Page 10
