Toby grabbed Ivy’s arm so suddenly that even though she was Mitzi, the world-famous acrobat and spy, she still almost lost her balance. “Listen to me,” he whispered, hoping against hope that the double doors weren’t about to swing open. “I have to tell you something. It’s about the man we just talked to.”
Ivy frowned. “You mean Mr. Peartree?”
“That’s just it,” said Toby. “That’s not Mr. Peartree.”
CHAPTER 26
THE WRONG MURDER
“Of course that’s Mr. Peartree.” Ivy spoke slowly, as if Toby had just told a joke she didn’t understand. “Who else could it be? Who else has a mustache like that? Who else wears so much green?”
“Anyone can wear green,” said Toby, “and anyone can wear a false mustache. But did you see Mr. Peartree’s fingernails? They were dirty, Ivy. I noticed it back at the manor, too.”
Ivy groaned. “Everyone’s fingernails are dirty, Toby.”
“Not Mr. Peartree’s! He’s a very neat person—even neater than I am. Besides, he always wears gloves. How could he have gotten dirt and hair tonic on his hands if they’re always covered up?”
“He’s been packing boxes,” said Ivy. “That must be awfully difficult to do in gloves. He probably took them off for a few minutes.”
“Okay,” said Toby, “but it’s not just his hands that are wrong. Look at what Mr. Peartree was drinking.”
Ivy stared at the mug on the table. “It’s coffee.”
“Right, but what else?”
Ivy shrugged. “Cream, I guess.”
“Exactly!” Toby had to work hard to keep his voice at a whisper. “Do you remember my first day at the manor, when we snuck into the kitchen and observed the servants? They were making soup for dinner, and Cook shouted out that they couldn’t put any cream in the soup, because Mr. Peartree can’t tolerate cream. I wrote it down in my notebook.”
“Are you sure?” said Ivy. “I brought Mr. Peartree extra cream for his coffee last Sunday morning. He asked for it specifically.”
“Then that’s even more evidence that something is wrong.” Toby was sure of it now; he had to be right. All the questions that had fogged up his thoughts for days were beginning to burn away, leaving only a clear, bright truth behind them. Was this how Uncle Gabriel felt when he cracked a case? Toby hoped he’d have a chance to ask him someday. Right now, though, there wasn’t any time to worry about Uncle Gabriel. “Ivy, this is really important. Do you know if Mr. Peartree likes dogs?”
Ivy wrinkled her forehead. “I think he does. He scratched Percival behind the ears when he and Mr. Abernathy first came to the manor. I noticed particularly because Mr. Abernathy didn’t say hello to Percival himself, and I thought that was rude.”
“Mr. Abernathy hated dogs. He didn’t like any animals, actually—at least that’s what it says in ‘The Adventure of the Kidnapped Greyhound.’ He and Mr. Peartree were hired to find a valuable racing dog, and he complained about it the whole time.”
“I read that story,” said Ivy. “Poor Percival. No wonder that awful Mr. Abernathy wasn’t kind to him.”
“When I first met Mr. Abernathy,” Toby said, “he called Percival a wretched creature. That’s exactly what Mr. Peartree called him today, too. But why would Mr. Peartree say that if he doesn’t hate dogs? Think about it, Ivy: the dyed hair, the dirty fingernails, the cream, the way Mr. Peartree acts around Percival. None of it makes sense—unless that man isn’t Mr. Peartree at all.”
Ivy sat down on a packing carton. “Hugh Abernathy was a master of disguise,” she said quietly. “He once dressed up as a merchant seaman and worked on a ship for seven months before anyone realized he didn’t know a thing about the sea.” She folded her hands under her chin and looked up at Toby. “Hugh Abernathy isn’t really dead, is he?”
“I don’t think so,” said Toby. “I think he’s downstairs in the kitchen, making our tea.”
“And what about the real Mr. Peartree?”
Toby thought back to that awful first evening at Coleford Manor: the purple corpse in the purple room, its hand stretched toward the glass of poisoned digestive tonic, its face contorted almost beyond recognition. It had been wearing Mr. Abernathy’s clothes, but anyone could wear those. Had any of the detectives taken a really good look at the body? No one was likely to get a chance now, of course, since it had gone missing.
“Oh no.” Toby sat down next to Ivy. “Inspector Webster, we’ve been investigating the wrong murder.”
A pair of moss-colored shoes clicked down the hall toward Mr. Abernathy’s study, and a green-gloved hand turned the doorknob. Toby and Ivy were prepared for this. After more than a little arguing, they’d finally agreed on what to do. They’d thank the man in green for the tea, explain that they really couldn’t stay, and leave as quickly as they possibly could without looking suspicious. After that, they’d go straight to Miss March and Miss Price with their theory. Toby wasn’t sure whether the women would believe that Mr. Peartree was dead, and that Hugh Abernathy had poisoned him, but considering their opinion of Mr. Abernathy, he thought they might at least be willing to listen. Toby was certain of one thing, though: if Mr. Abernathy really had murdered Mr. Peartree, it was much too dangerous for Toby and Ivy to confront him on their own. Ivy had wanted to, of course, but she’d finally given in and admitted that Toby’s plan was the only sensible one, even if it wouldn’t bring any fame and glory to Webster and Montrose, Private Investigators. “Fame and glory,” Toby had told her, “aren’t as important as staying alive. And remember: don’t drink that tea!”
Now the man in green set down the tray he’d been carrying. “I’m sorry to have kept you waiting,” he said. He really did look almost exactly like Mr. Peartree, Toby thought—but was the bridge of his nose the slightest bit crooked, as though someone long ago had punched it? “The kitchen stove has a mind of its own, I’m afraid. Now, Mr. Montrose, let me see if I can find the information you’re looking for. It should be on this shelf right here, under the letter M.”
The man in green turned his attention to the bookcase. He didn’t seem to notice that Toby’s hands were trembling a little or that Ivy was glowering at him from beneath her parasol. “Actually, sir,” said Toby, “we promised my aunt that we wouldn’t be late for Sunday lunch, and we’d better leave before she starts to worry. I’m sorry to have bothered you.”
“Leave?” The man in green turned to look at Toby. “What about your parents’ case, Mr. Montrose? I’m sure it will take only a few moments for me to find Mr. Abernathy’s notes.”
“That’s all right,” Toby said quickly. “I can come back for them later.”
“I can write an apology to your aunt—”
“No,” said Toby, “that would only make things worse. She hates apologies.” He didn’t feel as if he was lying with much confidence; could the man in green tell how nervous he was? Some people said Hugh Abernathy could spot a lie from three hundred yards away, and Toby was less than three. He lifted his chin a little higher. “Come on, Ivy,” he said. “We shouldn’t waste any more time.”
“Wait!” The man in green moved toward them. “What about your tea?”
“Thank you,” Ivy said sweetly as she followed Toby toward the doors, “but we wouldn’t want to spoil our appetites.”
“It’s not poisoned, you know,” the man in green called after them.
Toby froze. It seemed to him that the room had gone quiet around them. The floorboards stopped squeaking, the pipes stopped clanging, and even the books on their shelves held their breath. “Poisoned?” he said. “Why would it be poisoned?”
The man in green let out a spring drizzle of laughter. “Don’t look so worried, Mr. Montrose. It’s just that I know how much you children enjoy playing your detective game. Interviewing suspects, setting traps, avoiding suspicious-looking cups of tea—it’s all very charming. I thought you might be playing your game again this afternoon.” He glanced at Ivy, who was looking daggers at him and clenching he
r jaw. “Now, of course, I can see you’re not. My apologies.”
But Ivy had had enough. “A game?” she shouted. She threw her parasol to the floor and marched back toward the man in green. “I’m tired of your games, Hugh Abernathy. You think everything’s a game, don’t you? You think blackmail is a game! You think murder is a game! You invited a crowd of detectives to a party where you poisoned your own assistant! Toby didn’t want me to confront you—and honestly, Toby, I’m sorry—but I can’t stand here for one more second letting you think that you’re the world’s greatest detective, when anyone can see you’re as false as your mustache!”
Toby sighed and picked up the remains of the parasol, which had splintered into pieces when it landed on the floor. Why couldn’t Ivy ever stick to the plan? She really was impossible! At this rate, she was going to get both of their heads preserved for eternity in Mr. Abernathy’s room full of skulls. Even so, as he watched her rail at the man in green, Toby couldn’t help hoping they’d end up next to each other on the shelf.
“You might as well know that Webster and Montrose are the new greatest detecting team in town,” Ivy told the man in green, “and the first thing we do will be to expose your crimes. It’s about time the world found out the truth about Hugh Abernathy.” She held out an open hand. “Now, my colleague and I would like our ten thousand dollars, please. We’ve won your contest, haven’t we?”
Slowly, carefully, the man in green walked to the far end of the room and sat down in Hugh Abernathy’s leather chair. “I suppose you have won,” he said—not in Mr. Peartree’s voice, but in his own. “Congratulations, detectives. I didn’t think anyone would crack this case, but I should have remembered that even when nothing is likely, everything is possible.” He shrugged. “Before you try to slap me in handcuffs, however, may I offer you both a piece of advice? It was once given to me when I confronted an adversary during ‘The Adventure of the Catacombs,’ and I think you might find it useful now.”
Ivy frowned at him. “All right.”
“Excellent,” said Hugh Abernathy. He reached one hand into the pocket of his green twill pants. When he pulled it out again, it held a small silver pistol. “I suggest you run.”
CHAPTER 27
THE TRUTH AT LAST
Toby didn’t need to be told twice. Before Hugh Abernathy could get up from his chair, both he and Ivy were out the tall doors and down the chessboard hallway. Toby had never run so fast in his life. “Did you see that pistol?” Ivy said. “I’m almost sure it’s the same one he swiped from the villainous jewel thief in ‘The Adventure of the Yellow Diamond’! Do you think it still fires?”
“I’d really rather not find out,” said Toby, “if it’s all the same to you.” He flew around the curves of the spiral staircase and raced toward the front door. The iron knob felt cold under his hands. When he tried to turn it, nothing happened. “Ivy,” he whispered, “it’s locked.”
“Let me try.” Ivy elbowed him aside and tugged at the doorknob. It didn’t budge. Then they both tried pulling at once, but even the two of them couldn’t break through Mr. Abernathy’s locks and latches. On the other side of the door, Toby could hear Percival whining.
“You shouldn’t waste your energy on that,” Mr. Abernathy called down to them. He stood at the top of the staircase, twirling his pistol around one finger as if he had all the time in the world. “I double-bolted the door after I made your tea, and the only keys are in my pockets. I know this doesn’t put me in the best light as a host, but then again, you two haven’t been particularly gracious guests. I’m not accustomed to being shouted at in my own study.”
“You’d better watch out,” said Ivy, “or I’ll shout some more.” She gave the doorknob one last useless tug. “I’m so sorry, Toby. This is all my fault. I should have followed the plan.”
“That doesn’t matter now,” said Toby. Mr. Abernathy was halfway down the stairs now, and so was his pistol. “Come on! We’ve got to find another way out.”
They hurried across the hall, ducked into the kitchen, and took cover behind a stove. Toby’s heart pounded in his ears, but he could still hear Mr. Abernathy’s footsteps coming closer. “What does the correspondence course say about being chased by a criminal?” he asked.
“Nothing,” Ivy muttered.
“You mean you haven’t written the lesson yet?”
“I mean I haven’t even thought about it! I didn’t think it would be relevant! Everyone knows chases like that only happen in Hugh Abernathy stories. I never imagined we’d actually be in one.” Ivy was breathing faster now, and sweat was glistening on her forehead. Was she starting to panic? Toby couldn’t let that happen. He looked around the kitchen. In front of him was the door that opened out into the hallway; behind him was another door that stood halfway open, and a dark flight of stairs leading downward to the cellar.
“All right, Inspector Webster,” he said, trying to sound calmer than he felt. “Here’s the plan. We’ve got to split up.” The idea of separating from Ivy made Toby feel sick, but he didn’t think they had a choice. “There’s no way Mr. Abernathy can follow us both. You go that way”—he pointed toward the cellar stairs—“and I’ll go back into the hall. If there’s another way out of this house, I’m sure one of us will find it.”
Ivy nodded. “You’re right,” she said. “But what’s going to happen to the other one of us?”
“Toby?” called Mr. Abernathy from the hall. “Ivy? Where have you gone?”
Both of them took off running. Ivy flew toward the cellar stairs, and Toby skidded back into the hall. There, to his left, was Mr. Abernathy, striding across the black-and-white marble in his moss-green shoes. When he saw Toby, he smiled and raised his pistol.
Toby turned hard to the right. In half a second, he’d plunged from the well-lit hallway into a warren of darkened hallways and even darker rooms. Mr. Abernathy had transformed his house into a kind of museum, with each room displaying a different bizarre exhibit. One was filled with dozens of animals’ heads mounted on plaques—Toby was very glad Percival wasn’t there to see them—while another held glass cases of rocks and gemstones, and a third contained a miniature model of the city of Colebridge, complete with a clockwork train and church bells that chimed the hour. Toby scraped his shin on one of the tiny High Street shops, but he didn’t even think of stopping. He didn’t want to hear footsteps behind him or see the shine of Mr. Abernathy’s pistol. He thought of trying to escape through a window, but all the windows on the first floor were barred from the outside; there was nowhere to go but forward.
From the dollhouse room, Toby passed into a pitch-black space with thick curtains over the windows and a chemical smell that stung his nose, and then into a room filled from floor to ceiling with insect specimens: beetles and moths and things with too many legs. Toby wasn’t entirely sure that all of them were dead. Finally, he stumbled up a narrow flight of stairs and stepped out into the light, blinking at the brightness all around him.
He was back in the chessboard hallway, on the second floor, but this was a part of the house he hadn’t seen yet. The first door he tried opened onto a riot of green: piney wallpaper, rugs that grew like grass from the floor, and an open wardrobe full of identical green pants and vests and shoes. This room had obviously belonged to Mr. Peartree. Toby ran to the window, but although it wasn’t barred, the only thing below it was a smooth white wall dropping down to the grass below. It was much too far to jump.
Toby left Mr. Peartree’s room and tried the door on the opposite side of the hallway. This one said WEAPONS, and it was tightly locked. The door to the next room was open, though, and Toby wished Ivy had been there to see it.
The DISGUISES room reminded Toby a little of the laundry at his uncle Francis’s hotel, with long metal racks of clothes, towers of hats, and traveling cases overflowing with everything from wigs to waterproof boots. Dressmakers’ dummies showed off a few outfits Toby recognized: a merchant seaman’s togs, an opera-ready tuxedo, and what looked
to Toby like Mr. Abernathy’s everyday clothes. There was even a harmonica tucked into the shirt pocket. Had anyone known the real Mr. Abernathy, or had his life as the world’s greatest detective been another one of his disguises? Toby wasn’t sure he’d ever find out, and at that particular moment, he didn’t really care: just outside the window, he could see the sturdy branches of a tree reaching toward the house. Toby had never climbed trees—they tended to leave your clothes torn up and your hands covered in sap—but if this tree could help him escape, he didn’t care how messy he might get. He rolled up his shirtsleeves and ran to the window.
“I’m very sorry, Toby,” said Mr. Abernathy behind him. Something in his pistol went click. “I’m going to have to ask you to stay.”
Toby had spent years watching the trouble flit across walls and slip under doorways, but it usually stayed just at the edge of his sight. Now that Mr. Abernathy’s pistol was pointed at him, though, the trouble was everywhere: oozing over his arms and legs, crawling through his hair, flooding every inch of the house, and pouring out through the cracks into the rest of Detectives’ Row. How hadn’t he noticed it before? Had he really believed he could beat Hugh Abernathy at a game the detective had been playing for years? What had he been thinking? He wasn’t a real detective; he had no idea what had happened to Ivy; Uncle Gabriel was missing; and if he somehow managed to avoid being shot in the next few minutes, he’d be sent to the orphanage tomorrow. All around him, the trouble snickered.
“You can’t kill me, you know,” Toby told Mr. Abernathy, trying to sound braver than he felt. “Ivy’s probably gotten out of the house by now. She’ll get the police, and they’ll be here any minute.”
“Maybe,” said Mr. Abernathy. “Everything is possible. I think it’s much more probable, though, that Miss Webster is stuck in the wine cellar. After all, I locked the cellar door behind her. If she does manage to escape, I’m sure she’ll tell everyone exactly what’s happened—but who do you think will believe her? Admit it, Toby: it’s an unlikely story, and children like Ivy have very active imaginations.” He sighed and sat down on a trunk full of costume jewelry, still pointing the pistol at Toby. “Anyway, I’m glad it’s just the two of us now. Ivy certainly enjoys the spotlight, but between you and me, I’ve always thought you were the more gifted detective. Now I’d like to know for sure. Why don’t you tell me how I killed Mr. Peartree?”
The World's Greatest Detective Page 22
