“You mean you lied,” Ivy said flatly.
“Yes,” said Mrs. Webster. “I didn’t find the goddess of justice on a dig. It had been stolen from a tomb near our excavation site, and your father and I purchased it from the thieves. It was a magnificent piece—truly one of a kind—and if you could have seen the way those criminals were mishandling it . . .” Mrs. Webster shook her head. “There’s no point in making excuses, though. We knew perfectly well that we were buying stolen property and that it would ruin our careers if anyone ever found out. Hugh Abernathy knew it, too. When we begged him to keep our secret, he told us cheerfully that he’d never tell a soul—as long as we paid him a fair price in return. If we refused, he’d have his assistant print our story in the Sphinx for the entire world to read.”
“He blackmailed you?” Toby had believed Mrs. Webster’s story until now, but the idea of Mr. Abernathy betraying his own clients was too awful to imagine. It certainly didn’t sound like the Hugh Abernathy he’d read about. “He wouldn’t have done that,” Toby insisted. “He was a detective! Detectives are supposed to help people!”
“All Mr. Abernathy helped us out of was our savings,” Mrs. Webster said. “We’d been paying him much more than we could afford to keep him quiet. He even demanded to host his charming little contest here. Robert and I couldn’t stand the thought of letting him into our home, but we couldn’t possibly say no!”
“Oh, Mother!” said Ivy. Toby wondered if she was going to start throwing things again. “That’s an awfully good motive for murder. Are you sure you didn’t poison him?”
“Of course I’m sure!” Mrs. Webster sat up straight on the velvet sofa. “I don’t know how I can possibly prove it to you, Ivy, but I would never do such a horrid thing, and neither would your father. We didn’t have any idea that Mr. Abernathy was going to pass from this world to the next in our purple armchair. Once he did, though, I realized that we had to destroy whatever evidence he’d collected against us before someone else could find it. I brought Doctor Piper upstairs to examine the body, and while she was busy with that, I picked up all of his files and hid them in my dressing table. It didn’t take more than a moment. And in any case, it didn’t help. None of those papers had anything to do with us. As soon as I realized it, I thought I might as well sell them and make back a little of the money Hugh Abernathy took from us.” Mrs. Webster sighed. “I can’t imagine what you children must think of me. I feel like an awful fool.”
“You are a fool!” cried Ivy. “You should have told me what Mr. Abernathy was doing to you and Father all this time. I could have helped!”
“Oh, darling, I don’t think there was a thing you could have done. And you shouldn’t be burdened with your parents’ troubles. Theft and blackmail and murder—why, you’re only a child!”
“I’m a detective!” Ivy was really shouting now. She looked as though she were fighting back tears, although knowing what Ivy was like in a fight, Toby didn’t think the tears stood much of a chance. “I guess I must not be very good at my work, though,” she said, “because detectives are supposed to know things, and I don’t even know what’s happening in my own family. Do you realize that no one ever tells me anything? You don’t, Mother, and neither do Father or Lillie. Is it because you think I’m unusual? I know you do, so don’t deny it. I heard you saying so to Father.”
“Darling!” Mrs. Webster flew to her daughter. Toby had never seen anyone attempt to hug Ivy before—he hadn’t been sure it was possible—but Mrs. Webster took Ivy in her arms as though she were as delicate as a baby bird. Even when Ivy tried to wriggle away, Mrs. Webster held fast. Mothers, Toby remembered, could be like that.
“You are a very unusual person, Ivy,” Mrs. Webster said firmly, “and that is precisely why all of us love you. I had no idea you were feeling so lonely. I should have been paying much better attention. In fact, I wish you would teach me how you manage to notice so much about the people around you. I do try, but I’m sure you can see I have plenty to learn about being a good detective.”
Ivy stepped back from Mrs. Webster’s embrace. She wiped her eyes with the sleeve of her dress. “Luckily for you, Mother,” she said, “I’ve got a correspondence course.”
CHAPTER 21
MR. ABERNATHY’S SECRETS
No one had ever taught Toby what the polite thing to do was when a detective and her mother were sniffling all over each other, passing handkerchiefs and apologies back and forth. For a few minutes, he tried standing in the corner and staying out of the way, but that didn’t seem right at all. He was a detective, not a coatrack, and Mr. Abernathy’s case files were still stacked on the Investigatorium desk. The corners of some of the pages were bent upward, as if they were beckoning him. “I’m going to look through these papers,” Toby announced to the room, though only Egbert really seemed to hear him.
The files were clipped together into five tidy bundles—one for each of the cases Mr. Abernathy had been investigating, Toby assumed, though none of the bundles were labeled. He picked up the thickest one and scanned the first page, looking for the words Montrose or seashore or rowboat or alive. But this bundle didn’t seem to have anything to do with Toby’s parents. He flicked through it impatiently, tossed it aside, and moved on to the second bundle, then the third and the fourth. There were letters and doctor’s reports, handwritten notes from Mr. Abernathy himself and typed documents from the police, but nothing looked familiar to Toby. He could feel his skin prickling all over with heat and worry as he grabbed the final bundle of papers. He’d forgotten all about trying to keep things tidy. I have discovered that Toby Montrose’s parents are alive and well and living near the seashore, the papers were supposed to say. When their rowboat capsized, they swam to safety, but the trauma of the incident caused them to forget to return from their holiday. Now that I have reminded them of their loving family (particularly their brave son, Toby), however, they are eager to come home. I will tell the boy at once. Another case happily solved!
Toby looked down at the last bundle. There was the word Montrose, so bold it practically leapt off the page. But these files weren’t about accidents by the seashore, and they didn’t even mention Toby or his parents. All of these papers seemed to be about Uncle Gabriel.
Toby dropped the whole bundle back on the desk. Uncle Gabriel didn’t have anything to do with Toby’s parents’ accident. Where was the information Mr. Abernathy had promised him? “It’s not here,” he said. “It was supposed to be here!”
He hadn’t meant to interrupt, but Ivy overheard him. “What’s not there?” she asked.
“The notes about my parents’ case!” Toby shuffled through the papers again, praying that a new bundle would appear on the desk. “Mrs. Webster, are you sure these are all the files Mr. Abernathy had? Did you see anything about a mother and father in a rowboat?”
Mrs. Webster shook her head. “I’m sorry, Toby. I only glanced at most of the papers, but I don’t think I saw anything like that.”
“Maybe the information about your parents is back at Mr. Abernathy’s house!” Ivy jumped up from the sofa and ran to Toby’s side. “I’m sure that’s where he kept all his most important files. We’ll ask Mr. Peartree to find them for you.”
“All right,” said Toby, even though he didn’t feel all right at all. If Mr. Abernathy had wanted to talk about Toby’s case, why hadn’t he brought the files with him? Come to think of it, why had he agreed to take the case in the first place? He’d said that Toby could repay him somehow at the manor, but he’d gotten himself murdered before Toby had had a chance to do anything in return. Meanwhile, Toby’s parents might still be out in the world somewhere, missing Toby and needing his help. . . .
A low, steady scratching noise came from the doorway. Toby grabbed Ivy’s arm. “Do you hear that?” he whispered. “I think someone’s trying to get in.”
Ivy cocked her head. The noise grew louder, and Ivy looked around the room. “Percival!” she said. “We forgot to brief our assistan
t!” She sighed and went to unlock the door. “He’ll never let us hear the end of it.”
Percival stalked into the Investigatorium with his nose in the air. He walked straight past Ivy without acknowledging her at all, gave Toby’s shoes a cursory sniff, settled onto his stomach, and began to chew indignantly on the carpet fringe.
“Oh, don’t act so offended,” Ivy told him. “You really didn’t miss very much. Mother’s a criminal, and we’ve got Hugh Abernathy’s files, but we haven’t read them yet. In fact, we were waiting for you.” She picked up half the papers from the desk and handed them to Toby. “I know these aren’t about your parents, but they might help us learn more about Mr. Abernathy, and that might help us guess why someone killed him. You can take one half, and I’ll take the other.”
Toby wrinkled his nose at the stacked pages. They didn’t look very useful to him. Still, he had to admit he was curious to read all those notes about Uncle Gabriel. “Which half does Percival get?” he asked.
“He can guard Mother,” said Ivy. “I don’t want her sneaking out and doing anything else shocking while we’re not paying attention.”
“I was going to speak to Cook about dinner,” said Mrs. Webster, “but if that behavior is too suspicious for you, I suppose I can stay here for a while longer.” She picked up one of Ivy’s stray Sphinx issues and began to leaf through it.
Toby and Ivy lay on their stomachs on the Investigatorium floor with Mr. Abernathy’s files spread out between them. The pages at the top of Uncle Gabriel’s bundle seemed to be a record of all the cases he and Mr. Abernathy solved together long ago, when they were partners. The cases weren’t anywhere near as glamorous as Toby had expected: together, Montrose and Abernathy had located a missing child, returned a stolen necklace to its rightful owner, and escorted seven different escaped convicts back to Chokevine Prison. Still, they had solved each case swiftly and without much fuss. Within months, some of the most influential men and women in the city were asking Montrose and Abernathy for assistance. Received a summons from Lord Entwhistle today, Mr. Abernathy had written in the case record. Gabriel and I paid him a visit. He wants us to capture the Cutthroat whose murders have enthralled the city. Naturally, we leapt at the opportunity. If we succeed, our firm will be the best-known detecting operation in Colebridge—and beyond!
This was where the case record ended. The rest of the bundle consisted of a very long, very angry missive from Lord Entwhistle, written in bright purple ink with many splatters and cross-outs. It didn’t take long for Toby to figure out that although Hugh Abernathy had caught the Colebridge Cutthroat, Lord Entwhistle had been furious. You tell me that Mr. Montrose’s carelessness nearly caused the Cutthroat to slip through your fingers, Lord Entwhistle wrote. I would like to suggest that you press those fingers together tightly, curl them into a fist, and deliver a blow to Mr. Montrose that will remove him from your company forever. I can tell you are a capable fellow, Abernathy, but Montrose is worse than useless, and I place the blame for this calamity squarely on him. I promise you that no one of consequence in this town will ever entrust Gabriel Montrose with their private affairs while I am living to warn them of his dangerous incompetence. Lord Entwhistle went on to call Uncle Gabriel a nincompoop, a flibbertigibbet, and several other words Toby wasn’t sure were real. All of them sounded very unflattering.
As Toby read, he grew even more upset than Lord Entwhistle. The real adventure of the Colebridge Cutthroat had been a disaster—that much was certain—but Toby knew Uncle Gabriel, and Uncle Gabriel wasn’t anything close to useless. Why had Lord Entwhistle been so convinced that the disaster was entirely Uncle Gabriel’s fault? Why had Mr. Abernathy kept this awful, yellowing letter all these years, and why had he brought it to Coleford Manor? Whatever his reasons had been, Toby decided, he didn’t need the letter anymore. Toby picked up the last page of it—the worst page, about nincompoops and flibbertigibbets—and started tearing it carefully into pieces.
“What are you doing?” Ivy grabbed the torn-up sheet out of his hands. “That’s evidence, Toby!”
“No,” said Toby, “it’s awful, and it’s all about Uncle Gabriel. It’s a good thing your mother didn’t manage to sell it to the journalists. If they printed it, Uncle Gabriel would never have any clients ever again!”
“Does he have any clients now?”
“Well, this would make things worse!” Toby pulled the paper back. “No one else can see this letter, Ivy. I mean it.”
Ivy was too busy frowning at her own stack of papers to argue with him. “Are all the notes in that bundle about your uncle?” she asked.
Toby nodded. “Are yours?”
“No.” Ivy chewed the ends of her hair. She looked like she was thinking hard. “The first set of papers in my bunch is all about Philip Elwood—the real Philip Elwood, I mean, not the one downstairs who wants to marry Lillie. Some of the notes are written in Gyptian, so they’re hard to make out, but the grand sum of everything is that Mr. Elwood’s been mixed up in some awfully seedy business. Mr. Abernathy thought Mr. Elwood was actually working with some of the criminals he helped to capture.” Her mouth twitched. “I guess the real Philip Elwood isn’t much better at being a detective than the fake one is.”
“I didn’t know Mr. Abernathy was investigating Philip Elwood,” Toby said. “Why would he be doing that?”
“Why would he investigate Mr. Rackham, either?” Ivy asked. “That’s the other set of papers I’ve got. They’re all Mr. Rackham’s medical records, and they say he can remember only half of what he’s told. The doctor doesn’t think he’ll be able to work for much longer. Our attic isn’t the only place he’s been lost in the past few months.”
“Poor Mr. Rackham.” Toby thought of all the times Uncle Gabriel had gone to help Mr. Rackham feed his chickens or make a pot of tea. Had he known Mr. Rackham’s secret, too? “I don’t think these are case files, Ivy. I think Mr. Abernathy was keeping notes about his competition guests.”
“But your uncle’s not a guest,” Ivy pointed out.
“He was supposed to be. Mr. Abernathy didn’t know I’d lied about that.” Toby couldn’t help feeling a little bit proud as he said it. “And the real Philip Elwood was supposed to be a guest, too.”
Ivy’s eyes widened. “Then you’ve probably got notes about the others—about Miss March and Miss Price, I mean, and Julia. What did Mr. Abernathy think of them?”
“I haven’t looked yet.” Toby moved Uncle Gabriel’s bundle aside and examined the next set of papers. These weren’t Mr. Abernathy’s notes; they were letters addressed to him, handwritten on a few sheets of soft lilac stationery. The old-fashioned script looped across the pages like tendrils of a vine, and there were lots of words Toby couldn’t read at all. Only a few phrases were legible, really, because the writer had printed them in tall capitals and underlined them for emphasis. WE WILL NOT STAND FOR IT, one said. Another said I AM WARNING YOU and a third said YOU WILL BE SORRY. Each of the letters ended in the same way, as though the writer’s pen had torn across the paper in a powerful rage as she scrawled her signature: Flossie.
Toby put the letters down and shoved them toward Ivy; he didn’t like holding them. “These are from Miss Price,” he said. “She was sending threatening notes to Mr. Abernathy.”
“Miss Price?” said Ivy. “But she’s so sweet! Are you sure she knows how to threaten people? Did she swear she’d tickle Mr. Abernathy’s nose with a feather duster?”
“Just read the letters,” said Toby. Honestly, he couldn’t imagine Miss Price writing them, either. She and Miss March had been really kind to Toby ever since he’d moved to the Row, and they were Uncle Gabriel’s closest friends. Could their charming smiles and the fresh cinnamon buns they made every Saturday be disguising something more sinister? Why had Miss Price been so angry with Mr. Abernathy—and what had that anger driven her to do? Thinking about the possibility made Toby feel sick to his stomach. Uncle Gabriel had told him once that a certain queasiness in the gut was o
ne of the unfortunate side effects of being a detective, and Toby was starting to understand what he’d meant.
“Oh dear,” said Ivy. She recoiled from the sheets of lilac stationery. “I guess we know what Miss March and Miss Price thought of Mr. Abernathy. What do you think he did to them?”
But Toby had already moved on to the final set of papers. It was slim, just a few pages typed on official letterhead from Chokevine Prison. “This is a letter to Mr. Abernathy from the prison warden,” Toby told Ivy. “A prisoner went missing from Chokevine ten years ago, and the warden wanted Mr. Abernathy’s help to find her and bring her back.”
Ivy shrugged. “People are always escaping from Chokevine, aren’t they? I wonder why Mr. Abernathy kept that letter.”
“Maybe the missing person was someone he’d sent to Chokevine in the first place,” Toby said, “or someone he knew a lot about.” He frowned and read the letter more closely. “Whoever she was, she must have done something awful. She’d been sentenced to prison for life. The warden says here that she might be wearing a disguise or using a different name, but— Oh no.” The letter started to shake in Toby’s hands.
Ivy reached for it. “What’s the matter?”
“Lots, I think,” said Toby. “The warden told Mr. Abernathy that every criminal who’s spent time in the prison can be recognized by the chokevines tattooed on their forearms.”
Ivy sat bolt upright. “Julia Hartshorn!” she shouted.
Toby nodded. The curling tendrils around the Chokevine Prison insignia looked exactly like the strange mark he’d seen on Julia’s arm. No wonder she’d panicked when Toby had noticed it. “She’s an escaped convict,” he said.
On the sofa, Mrs. Webster put her magazine aside. “Surely not!”
The World's Greatest Detective Page 18
