Philip had stopped to catch his breath in the kitchen, but when he saw Toby and Ivy, he pushed over a shelf and sent stockpots and saucepans crashing into their path. Toby ducked as an eggbeater flew over his head. “It doesn’t exist?” he shouted.
“I mean that I haven’t written it yet,” said Ivy. “I know what the rules are, though. They’re very helpful.” She counted on her fingers. “One: run as fast as you can. Two: don’t lose sight of the suspect.”
“We’re doing both those things already,” said Toby, clearing a path through the pots and pans, “but I don’t think they’re helping.”
“And three,” said Ivy, “control the route. Force your suspect to run to a place where he can’t get away.”
Philip was fumbling with the locks on the servants’ entrance to the manor now, but he couldn’t seem to get the door unstuck. Ivy ran toward him, brandishing a rolling pin she’d grabbed from the kitchen counter. “Halt, villain!” she shouted, sounding very much like a hero from a story in the Sphinx. In any case, Philip didn’t halt. He pushed Ivy aside and made a break for the servants’ stairs. Ivy swung her rolling pin in his direction, but she only clipped his knee; he winced and kept running.
Toby had been thinking about Inspector Webster’s third rule of pursuing a criminal on foot. “We’ve got to get him up to the third floor,” he told Ivy, “and make sure he heads toward the Investigatorium.”
“The Investigatorium?” Ivy frowned. “Oh! Of course!” She crashed up the staircase after Philip. “I wouldn’t try the second-floor landing if I were you, Mr. Elwood!” she shouted. “That whole hallway is full of detectives. If you wake them up, they’ll catch you in a second!”
Philip must have realized she was right, because he ran straight past the door that led to the second-floor hallway. Toby took the stairs two at a time behind him. When they reached the third-floor landing, Philip darted into the hallway and stopped for a moment, looking around. It was too dark to see much of anything, but Toby knew that the Investigatorium was to his right. To his left were the attic rooms—the ones full of bats and ghosts, where Mr. Rackham had gotten lost and a murderer would feel right at home. They absolutely couldn’t let Philip turn left.
Toby and Ivy burst out of the stairwell, blocking the left side of the hallway. “Well, Mr. Elwood?” said Ivy. “Aren’t you going to keep running?”
“Or would you like to stay here and confess?” Toby asked.
Philip drew in his breath, wiped the sweat from his brow, and ran in the only direction he could.
“One . . . ,” counted Ivy under her breath. “Two . . . three!”
At the far end of the hall, there was a wiry twang, a dull thud, and the sound of a tablecloth landing on someone’s head.
“That,” said Ivy happily, “is how you trap a rat.”
No one had slept through the commotion. In a matter of minutes, the other detectives had all gathered around Philip in their robes and slippers. “You say he’s the murderer, dears?” Miss Price asked, shining her lantern in Philip’s face. “Are you entirely sure?”
Philip groaned and pulled the tablecloth around him like a blanket. “I’ve told you already, I’m not a murderer. The children are pretending to be detectives, and they’ve let their imaginations run away with them. They’ve also bruised my left kneecap and nearly broken my neck.”
“Really?” Miss March looked impressed. “How bloodthirsty of them.”
“We wouldn’t have hurt Philip if he weren’t a criminal,” said Toby. “Ivy and I caught him sneaking out a window with Mr. Abernathy’s files. When he saw us, he tried to run away. Why would he run if he weren’t guilty?”
“An excellent question,” said Mr. Rackham. “I myself take great care never to run. The world moves too quickly as it is.”
Julia was shining her own lantern up and down the hallway. “Toby,” she said, “where are Mr. Abernathy’s files now? I don’t see them anywhere.”
“Philip dropped them in the parlor,” said Toby. He’d been itching to go downstairs and retrieve them, but there hadn’t been any time. “I’ll get them now.”
“No, you won’t,” said Julia firmly. “Stay here and watch Philip, please. I’ll find the files.”
“And I shall come with you,” said Mr. Rackham. “It would be unfortunate if those files happened to wander away under your watch, Miss Hartshorn.”
Julia glared at Mr. Rackham, but she didn’t protest as he followed her down the stairs.
Ivy leaned against the Investigatorium door, studying Miss March and Miss Price. “Don’t you both want to get a look at Mr. Abernathy’s papers, too?”
“They’re not Mr. Abernathy’s papers,” Philip said mildly.
“Whether they are or they aren’t,” Miss March said to Ivy, “Flossie and I shall find out what’s in them soon enough.”
Miss Price nodded. “There’s no point in exhausting oneself by running up and down staircases at two o’clock in the morning,” she said. “I have to say, Philip, that tablecloth suits you. You must wear it more often.”
While Miss March and Miss Price poked at Philip’s bruises and prodded his excuses, Ivy nudged Toby in the ribs. “Do you realize what this means?” she said. “We caught the murderer! We’re the world’s greatest detectives! We’ll be rich and famous, and you won’t have to go to the orphanage! Isn’t it wonderful? Wherever criminals lurk, Webster and Montrose will track them down!” She froze. “I mean, unless you don’t want to. I know you’d rather not be partners anymore, and you probably don’t need my help.”
“But I do need your help!” said Toby. It was a relief to admit it. Being Ivy’s enemy all afternoon had been exhausting, especially when he would have much rather been her friend. “I had an awful time trying to investigate the murder alone, actually. I didn’t learn anything at all.”
“Really?” said Ivy. “Oh, Toby, thank goodness! I didn’t learn anything, either. I felt so guilty about making you upset that I couldn’t do an ounce of detecting. I never would have caught Mr. Elwood by myself.”
“Neither would I,” said Toby. “I would have been too busy apologizing to him as he squeezed out the window.”
“Maybe.” Ivy grinned at him. “Can you forgive me for being so thoughtless? You can set all our traps from now on, and I’ll get you some disguises, and your very own skeleton—I’m sure Doctor Piper must have another stashed away somewhere—and you can be polite whenever you’d like to, or rude if you’d rather be that.” She took hold of both Toby’s hands. “What do you say? Can we be partners again?”
Toby hesitated.
“Do you not want a skeleton?” Ivy’s face fell. “I was afraid that might have been too much.”
“It’s not that,” said Toby. “Of course I want to be partners again. But Mr. Peartree says detectives are impossible, and they hardly ever get along. We’re always arguing, Ivy. What if we really start to hate each other someday? What if I punch you in the nose?”
Ivy shrugged. “Warn me first,” she said, “so I can duck.”
Julia appeared at the top of the stairs, followed by Mr. Rackham, Mr. Peartree, and the rest of Ivy’s family. “Stay back, my dears,” Mr. Webster said grandly. He put his arm around Lillie, who’d gone pale in the lantern light. “That man is a murderer, and you mustn’t go anywhere near him.”
“Don’t be nonsensical, Robert!” said Mrs. Webster. “He’s not likely to slay anyone right here in the hallway.” She gazed down at Philip. “Besides, he’s wearing my table linens. How murderous can he be?”
“I’m not murderous at all,” said Philip.
“Yes, he is,” Ivy said fiercely.
“He’s not!” said Lillie. “He can’t be!”
“May I get a word in edgewise?” said Julia. She held up a sheaf of papers in her hand. “Mr. Rackham and I found these on the parlor floor. They were just where Toby and Ivy told us they’d be.”
“Ha!” said Ivy. “You see, Lill? Those are Mr. Abernathy’s missing case fi
les.”
“Actually,” said Julia, “they’re not.”
The back of Toby’s neck began to prickle, and he thought he heard the trouble snickering in the shadows. “That can’t be right,” he said. “They’ve got to be Mr. Abernathy’s files. What else would anyone want to run off with?”
“Love letters!” said Miss Price. “Or valuable maps, perhaps, or government secrets, or blackmail. . . .”
“Well, it’s nothing as exciting as all that,” said Julia, “but I can certainly see why Mr. Elwood didn’t want to be caught with these papers.” She cast the light from her lantern over the pages. “‘Hugh Abernathy,’” she read aloud, “‘was a man with intelligence to spare and an ego to match. He kept his secrets as well as his grudges, inspiring fear in his enemies and devotion in his admirers. In short, he was a legend.’”
Mr. Peartree dabbed at his eyes with the sleeve of his green pajamas. “It’s true,” he said. “Every word of it.”
Julia ignored him. “‘The same,’” she read, “‘cannot be said of the idle blatherers, unimaginative bores, and hapless children who are attempting to take Mr. Abernathy’s place as the world’s greatest detective. As the investigation at Coleford Manor stretches into its third day, we continue to reveal the upsetting truth about the state of modern detection and the questionable talents of the men and women who practice it.’” Julia stopped reading. “If we’d only waited a few hours longer,” she said, “we would have seen this charming story on the front page of the Morning Bugle. Isn’t that right, Peter Jacobson?”
“Jacobson?” Mr. Rackham looked bewildered. “There’s no one here named Jacobson. Jacobson is a reporter!”
“So that’s who you are.” Miss Price bent down to look Philip Elwood—or Peter Jacobson, Toby supposed—in the eye. “I do wish you’d told us earlier. We all could have saved ourselves a good deal of exercise.”
Mr. Peartree raised his hand. “Excuse me, Miss Price. Do you mean to say that this gentleman isn’t actually a detective?”
“That’s right, dear.” Miss Price beamed at him. “I’m sorry Anthea and I didn’t say anything about it, but we didn’t see the harm in keeping a few little facts to ourselves.”
“We’ve met the real Philip Elwood, you see,” Miss March explained. “We ran into him last year when we vacationed in Gyptos. This man looks nothing like him, except for that ridiculous hat he favors.” She frowned at Peter Jacobson, who cringed under the tablecloth. “I wondered if you’d written that newspaper report we were all forced to digest this morning. If I’d known for sure, I wouldn’t have kept my mouth shut. What do you have to say for yourself?”
“You don’t all need to glare at me like that,” said Peter. The bruise he’d gotten from Ivy’s rolling pin must have still been bothering him, since Toby saw him wince as he got to his feet. “It’s true that I’m a reporter, but I didn’t murder anyone, and I certainly don’t plan to in the future.”
“You’ll only kill our careers, then?” asked Julia. “How kind of you.”
“It’s not my job to be kind, Miss Hartshorn,” Peter said. “I came here to report on Mr. Abernathy’s competition. The whole city’s been dying to know what he’d planned for this weekend, and when a friend of mine offered to help me get inside the manor during the contest, how could I resist? I knew all the other papers would have reporters clamoring on the other side of the gate, and I’d be right here on the spot! I didn’t know Mr. Abernathy would get himself murdered, of course.”
“But you had no concerns about reporting the news when he did,” said Miss March.
“Why should I?” said Peter. “Doesn’t everyone deserve to know the truth?”
“Truth,” said Miss Price, “is rather a generous word for it.”
“Excuse me, everyone.” Mr. Peartree raised his hand again. “If this man is an impostor, then where in the world is the real Philip Elwood?”
“Still chasing after criminals on the Continent, I assume.” Peter shrugged. “Once my friend told me about the contest, I called in a favor with a postal worker I know, and he got ahold of Mr. Elwood’s invitation. The real Philip has no idea what he’s missing. I assumed I’d be caught out by one of you as soon as I set foot on the manor grounds, but I was delighted to learn that almost no one in this house had met Philip Elwood before! Even Hugh Abernathy had never laid eyes on the man.”
“I hope he’s a better detective than you are,” said Ivy. “You’re just awful.”
“Ivy!” said her mother. She sounded rather halfhearted about it, though.
“Is that why you wanted to know about Uncle Gabriel?” asked Toby. “Were you writing about him for one of your articles?”
Peter nodded. “I’ve been working on a story about Mr. Abernathy’s early life. A tribute, you might say. It’s at the bottom of that stack Miss Hartshorn is holding on to. I was on my way to deliver today’s work to my newspaper colleagues on the other side of the gate when you and Ivy startled me. Be careful with that story, please, Miss Hartshorn; I spent half the night polishing it.”
“Really?” Julia smiled. “It won’t take me anywhere near that long to rip it up.”
Peter groaned.
“I’ll keep it safe for the moment, though,” Julia told him. “As far as I’m concerned, these papers might still be evidence.”
“That’s right!” said Mr. Rackham. “Nothing this fellow has said proves that he’s innocent of murder. In fact, his story makes him more suspicious than ever.”
“Yes!” said Ivy. “What if Mr. Abernathy found out Peter’s true identity, and Peter poisoned him to keep it secret? Or what if he committed the murder to make his newspaper stories more exciting?”
“Ivy!” her mother said again.
“But, Mother, Miss Hartshorn said she saw Peter poking around near Mr. Abernathy’s room on Friday afternoon! And Toby and I saw him acting suspicious, too.” Ivy crossed her arms. “Can anyone here prove that Peter Jacobson isn’t a murderer?”
Miss March looked at Miss Price, Miss Price looked at Julia, Julia looked at Mr. Rackham, Mr. Rackham looked at Ivy’s parents, Ivy’s parents looked at Mr. Peartree, and Mr. Peartree looked right back at them. Toby and Ivy both stared at Peter, but his eyes were fixed on someone else.
“That’s enough!” Lillie Webster squirmed free from her father’s arms and ran to Peter’s side. “You may think you’re as clever as the grown-up detectives, Ivy, but you’re not. I know Peter didn’t poison Mr. Abernathy. He couldn’t have done it! I was with him all afternoon on Friday.”
“You were with him?” Ivy wrinkled her nose. “For goodness’ sake, Lillie, why?”
“Um, Ivy,” Toby whispered. “Remember how Peter told us there was a girl he wanted to marry?” Lillie had grabbed Peter’s hand now, and for once she looked even fiercer than Ivy, as though she might burn Coleford Manor to the ground and stomp across the flaming fields in her nightgown. “I think Lillie might be that girl.”
“I am,” Lillie said grandly, “and you might as well all know it. I’m sick of keeping secrets, and I won’t keep one that sends Peter to prison.”
Maybe the attic ghosts were real after all, Toby thought, because Mrs. Webster looked as if she’d seen one. “Married?” she said. “But you don’t even know this man. He’s an utter stranger!”
“And he’s a journalist!” Mr. Webster sounded so appalled that Toby wondered if he might take a rolling pin to Peter Jacobson’s knees himself.
Ivy, on the other hand, was practically bouncing with glee. “Oh, Lillie,” she said, “you do have secrets after all! Awful ones!”
“Peter’s not a stranger, Mother,” Lillie said. “I met him last year when I went into town for my music lessons, and we’ve become friends. He’s a very talented reporter, but he doesn’t get the recognition he should, and when you and Father told us about Mr. Abernathy’s competition, I gave Peter the news right away, before any of the other papers could beat him to it. It seemed like the perfect chance for him to mak
e a name for himself. We decided that Peter would pose as one of the detectives, and if he could get away with it, I’d help him gather facts for his articles.”
“That’s what we were doing on Friday,” said Peter, “while the rest of you were playing badminton. Lillie let me into the guest bedrooms, and I tried to learn as much as I could about each of you.”
Mr. Peartree’s eyebrows shot up. “You went through our private things?”
“I only took a quick look, I swear! I didn’t even make it into all of the rooms. Miss Hartshorn came along as we were trying to get into Mr. Abernathy’s; she scared us half to death. Lillie had the presence of mind to hide, but I wasn’t nearly as quick. We gave up on breaking and entering after that. Lillie listened at doorways for me and told me what she’d heard, but since we couldn’t let on that we knew each other, we had to meet in the broom cupboard to make our plans.”
Lillie blushed violently.
“A mop and a dustpan,” Mrs. Webster said sternly, “are hardly suitable chaperones. What if someone had caught you? What in the world would they have thought?”
“Toby and I did catch them,” Ivy said. It didn’t seem to make her mother any happier. “Well, we caught Peter coming out of the broom cupboard, at least. We must have just missed Lillie.”
“I was sure you two knew what we were up to,” Lillie said. “I’d knocked over that awful bottle of brown hair tonic in the cupboard and ruined my dress. When you found me washing it out, and then you asked if I knew where Peter was, I was so nervous that I thought my heart would stop beating.”
“Hair tonic in a broom cupboard?” Miss Price murmured. “How odd!”
“It’s not half as odd as my daughter’s behavior.” Mr. Webster looked thunderous. “We never should have given Lillie those music lessons, Amina. Just look what that infernal piano has done to her!”
“All of this is beside the point,” Mr. Peartree said briskly. “Ruined dresses and secret betrothals might make for an entertaining story, but they don’t tell us whether this man poisoned Mr. Abernathy.”
The World's Greatest Detective Page 16
