Cheat the Hangman

by Gloria Ferris

  He looked at me rather severely. “Not everyone has your inquisitive turn of mind, Madam.”

  “Yes, well, I have one more question, Conklin. Who is Tommy? I mean, whose child was he? He wasn’t one of Uncle Patrick’s nephews.”

  “He was the child of a second cousin of Mr. Patrick’s. Miss Wisteria Pembrooke.”

  “Aunt Wisty? You mean Aunt Wisty wasn’t married?”

  “Of course she was, Madam.” Conklin looked shocked. “She married another cousin, Thomas Pembrooke. He died in Italy only months after the tragedy.

  My head whirled. It was hard enough trying to keep the Pembrooke lineage straight without every second male being christened Thomas. “Poor Aunt Wisty. First her child, then her husband. No wonder she spent most of her life in Lychwood.”

  Lychwood was an exclusive mental institution a few miles away. It was Hammersleigh’s nearest neighbour to the east as the crow flies, but because both properties contained expansive wooded areas, it was easy to forget their proximity to each other, easy to forget the chain link fence that separated their common border. Lychwood was a maximum security facility, and the patients were not free to leave at will. Aunt Wisty was by no means the only Pembrooke to have been a registered guest at Lychwood, but she was the only one who had lived most of her life there.

  “What are you making for supper tomorrow night, Conklin? Have you decided?”

  “I believe I will attempt to make baked beans, Madam. I used to enjoy them in the army and have developed a desire to experience them again.”

  I looked at him. “I hope you plan to de-gas them first.”

  “Excuse me, Madam? De-gas?”

  I explained. “Beans contain an enzyme which produces intestinal gas when they’re cooked. However, there is a very simple way to avoid the problem. You may want to write this down, Conklin.”

  After he fetched pen and pad from a drawer, I continued, “Boil the water first, then drop the beans in, and boil them for four or five minutes. Then take the pot off the heat, cover it and leave for several hours. You may want to do this much tonight, Conklin. Next you drain the beans, add fresh water and simmer for an hour or so. Oh, and don’t add any tomatoes until just before the beans are done since tomatoes toughen them. Did you get all that?”

  “I believe so. Madam, this seems like a lot of work for a pot of beans.”

  “Believe me, Conklin, the result will be worth the effort.” I was betting he would forget the whole thing and open a can of mushroom soup for dinner. At least the soup would be edible, even if he didn’t whisk out the lumps.

  Conklin cleared his throat. “Now, Madam, I have taken the liberty of making up this memorandum for you. It lists everything you need to see to before the reunion. Which will be,” he paused for emphasis, “in less than two weeks.”

  “The reunion.” I shot up straight in my chair. “We have to sign a guest book at every reunion. I could look at the book for 1943 and see who was here.”

  “The police have already thought of that, Madam. Unfortunately, the use of a guest book did not begin until 1962.” His thin lips compressed and it was clear he was done with the subject.

  Too bad about that, but I had other ideas and no time like the present to start working on them. First, though, I needed some real food to keep my strength up, and I wouldn’t get it in that kitchen. I reached over my head and opened a cupboard. I dropped the bag beside Conklin’s plate.

  “I have to go out for a bit, Conklin. Here, you can have your cookies back.” I spied what looked like a giant dust bunny underneath the table and walked toward the door. “It’s your turn to feed the dog.”

  CHAPTER 5

  I woke up to the clamour of birdsong. Before daylight.

  The racket produced by thousands of birds was not, to me, a wondrous and mystical experience. I realized they were planning to twitter and chirp every morning, and I wanted to wring their noisy little necks. Rolling over, I pressed the pillow against my ears.

  It was no use.

  “Quiet,” I yelled at the three sets of open windows. All were hung with stiff green and gold brocade that matched the bed curtains and canopy. The heavy fabric was meant to prevent the sleeper from experiencing a draft in winter, but they also stopped any cooling current of air from reaching said sleeper during periods of stifling summer heat.

  The birds continued to celebrate with joyous abandon, as though the imminent sunrise happened just once a year like the April Revenue Canada deadline. I jumped out of bed to slam the windows shut and almost broke a leg again. I kept forgetting my bed was four feet off the ground and the one way to get on or off was by means of a two-step wooden stool that never seemed to be in the right spot for vacating the bed in a hurry.

  My bedroom overloaded the senses, both by its size and by the proportions of the furniture. The bed was a four poster and matched the highboy, armoire, cabinets, bureaux, chiffoniers and several other unfamiliar pieces, all looking like some crazed woodworker had mated Gothic Revival with Late Classical to beget this Early Hideous result.

  Dragons and other mythical creatures writhed their way up the bedposts and legs of the chairs and highboy, while a row of frilled and feathered pineapples crested the armoire that soared to within a millimetre of the twelve-foot ceiling. It was typically Victorian and terrifying to wake up to each morning.

  In fairness to Hammersleigh, most of the other rooms contained furnishings much more pleasing to the eye, but I had chosen this room over the five other possibilities for several reasons. First were the three sets of windows that opened onto the stand of mature sugar maples. I thought it idyllic before learning about the dawn habits of bird life.

  The other reason could be seen high up near the ceiling. Dozens of gilded cupids cavorted on the cornices, all with unique expressions on their carved faces. They made me smile whenever I looked up at them.

  With the windows closed, the noise from the trees was reduced to a muted peeping. However, the air inside became close and still within seconds. My T-shirt clung to my body and I felt my hair corkscrew into tight curls.

  Even the thick stone walls of Hammersleigh were yielding to the summer heat wave most of the continent was enduring. In the northern parts of the province, forest fires were raging out of control, and closer to home, campers were forbidden to light fires for cooking. There was even talk of prohibiting backyard barbecues. Since Blackshore sits smack in the middle of beef country in south-western Ontario, steak enthusiasts were prepared to storm the town hall if any meat-restrictive law was passed.

  My own house in town had air conditioning and so far, it was one of the few things I missed. My bed was another, and then there was the lack of privacy. Living with a butler that materialized without warning was a definite minus, although I had to admit I wouldn’t want to live in that house alone.

  The tower room was a problem. Whenever I came out of my bedroom or walked down the hall toward it, I kept my eyes on the floor. I did not want to look down the dark length of the hall toward the door of the tower room.

  It was ridiculous to feel this way. The body of a child had been hidden in there for over sixty years. I did not believe in ghosts, but I could neither ignore nor suppress the tingling sensation between my shoulders when I was in the upper hall. And even worse was the smell that accompanied the tingling.

  The subtle odour was faint and somehow familiar. But I couldn’t pin it down. It wasn’t unpleasant and I seemed to detect it with just the first breath I took in the hall. When I stopped and breathed again to recapture the fragrance, it was gone. The tingling in my back lasted a few seconds longer, then it too would fade away.

  I felt it now as I held my breath and hurried into the bathroom, which in keeping with the ambience in the rest of the house, contained a pedestal sink and a toilet with the tank suspended six feet off the ground. Everything worked, though, even the showerhead in the claw-footed tub. The shower curtain hung from a brass track that circled the entire tub and I found there was no
appreciable difference from showering behind a tub enclosure, although I mopped up a lot of water before I got the hang of it.

  While I readied myself for work, I thought about what I had learned the previous evening about that long-ago reunion. Not much.

  Having left Conklin and Jacqueline behind in the kitchen to feed on cookies and kibble, I had headed for Ali’s Pizza Emporium on Blackshore’s main street and treated myself to one of Ali’s deluxe personal-sized pizzas. I sat alone at a tiny table and devoured the whole pizza in minutes, washing it down with a quart of watery peach-flavoured drink. I felt much stronger when I finished my meal, and I walked the three blocks to the police station.

  I planned to break my own rule and visit Marc at work, hoping he would unbend enough to give me some information about the cause of Tommy’s death. With a lot of luck, I thought he might even let me peek at the police archives.

  Marc was not in his office. The on-duty officer reported that the chief had left and wasn’t expected back that evening. Her eyes followed me out.

  The library was my next stop. It would have microfilm of newspapers from the past, and I wanted to read the Blackshore Oracle’s coverage of the reunion and Tommy’s disappearance. The library was next door to the police station, but when I climbed the steps to the double front doors, the sign stated the Public Library was closed on Thursday evenings during July and August.

  I started back toward my car parked in front of Ali’s and I wondered whom I could visit at eight-thirty on a hot summer’s night. Someone that might have been at that reunion or at least remembered hearing about it.

  In some towns that might not have presented a problem, but Blackshore’s residents were notoriously mobile during the summer months. They visited back and forth, went to the air-conditioned movie theatre, lawn bowled, attended outdoor concerts given by the local pipe band in the park. You name it, the town folk did it, anything to get out of the house.

  Since Blackshore was located on the shores of Lake Huron, the fiercest of the Great Lakes, about three hours northwest of Toronto, our winters were long and harsh. This might explain why the population of 7,500 felt the need to make every minute of the summer count.

  I was just about to give up and go home when my eye was caught by the display in the window of Tackaberry’s Antiques.

  It was a Crown Derby teapot. The shape was unmistakable and the delicate colours glimmered in the light of a mock-Tiffany lamp. I admit to a weakness for teapots and was the proud owner of dozens, most not very valuable but precious to me all the same. The collection was still boxed up and piled in a corner of my bedroom at Hammersleigh, along with my computer paraphernalia. I proposed to set the teapots in a cabinet in my bedroom where they would not be overshadowed by the priceless collections found throughout the rest of the house. There was enough room in my bedroom for half a dozen display cabinets, and plenty of cabinets to choose from. The computer required a more modern setup and I hoped it wouldn’t look out of place in a corner by the windows.

  Through the shop window I saw Peter Tackaberry’s head bent over the counter, his dark blond hair falling around his face. Since the handwritten sign on the front door was not yet turned to Closed, I took this as an opportune invitation.

  Three minutes and fifty-seven dollars plus the dreaded HST later, the teapot sat wrapped in a box on the counter.

  “I was going to call you about that teapot, but I figured you might have lost your taste for the merely pretty since you inherited Hammersleigh. There must be hundreds of pieces of antique china and porcelain there. At least there was the last time I was in the house.” Peter shoved the drawer closed on his manual cash register and smiled at me.

  “I’m always interested in an unusual teapot to add to my collection. The contents of Hammersleigh don’t belong to me, you know. Not for another twenty-five years anyway.”

  “I hope you’re enjoying yourself. When I heard about your uncle’s will, I knew you were the one person who would be appreciative of the beauty and history of Hammersleigh.”

  “I love it. Although finding the body was a shock and it’s going to take me a while to feel comfortable near the tower room again.”

  “Do you want to hear something odd?” Peter stopped fiddling with his cash register and moved around to my side of the counter. Nudging me into a fretwork-backed mahogany side chair—reproduction Elizabethan Revival—he pulled over another for himself and sat down.

  “I was in that tower room about ten years ago. Your uncle hired me to clear out all the junk and paint it. I think he planned to make it into some kind of sun porch with plants and rattan furniture. I hoped he would ask me to decorate and furnish the room, but I never heard back from him after I finished the painting.”

  It had slipped my mind that Peter did painting and wallpapering on the side when his antique business was slow, which was every winter. He also had other talents and was popular with Blackshore’s numerous women’s clubs as a guest speaker on decorating and gardening.

  “Uncle Patrick never did anything else to the tower room.” I recalled all those glass eyes now staring from the walls. “I wonder why?”

  Surely Uncle Patrick didn’t know about the child’s body concealed at the back of the closet. If he did know, he had over sixty years to find another resting place. And what if he didn’t know—what if he found Tommy after Peter started cleaning and painting. He would have stopped Peter from doing any further work on the room, but then why didn’t he inform the police? My brained whirred as I imagined myself back in time, back to Hammersleigh House so long ago. Who else was there in the house?

  I jumped and realized Peter had been talking to me.

  “I was sorry about not finishing off the room. It would have been lovely, filled with greenery and natural light with a soft area carpet on the floor and flowered cushions on the furniture.”

  “Do you remember the closet behind the door? It was painted over. Didn’t you want to open it and see what was there?”

  He shuddered. “I remember it quite well. I asked Mr. Pembrooke about it, but he instructed me to just paint the room white and not worry about prying out the nails. He wasn’t interested in extensive renovations. Just think, if I had opened the door of the closet, I might have been the one to find the child.”

  It would have been impolite to tell Peter that I wished he had found little Tommy ten years ago and saved me the trouble, so I kept quiet.

  He seemed to know what I was thinking though. “I can’t say I was very curious about the closet at the time. I was there during the summer and was doing the work for your uncle at night after I closed up the store. Not everyone is as curious as you are, Lyris.”

  He smiled. “You were always that way. I remember your inquisitiveness used to get you into a lot of trouble at school.”

  “It still does. Curiosity is not an attractive trait in a woman my age, or so I’ve been informed more than once.”

  Peter had been a friend when we were in high school. He was not a member of the more popular groups, since he lacked the aptitude or interest for sports or the postgame parties. Peter was a loyal friend to me and I could trust him not to blab my confidences all over the school. Peter, Patsy and I had been close friends for several years until life took us in different directions.

  “Well, it’s getting late and I have to work tomorrow. I better take my teapot and get going.”

  When I stood up, I noticed for the first time the glass case standing on a shelf behind the counter. Inside was a doll about two feet high with an exquisite bisque face and blonde hair styled in ringlets. It was dressed in a high-necked pale-blue dress with puffy sleeves and ruffled hem. I moved closer for a better look. “Why, it’s beautiful, Peter.”

  Peter pulled me around with him to stand in front of the case. “This is Samantha. She’s a Kammer and Reinhardt doll. Mint.

  “Where did you get it?”

  “From my Aunt Judy. A friend left Samantha to her, and Aunt Judy bequeathed Samantha to
me when she passed.”

  Peter opened the case and handed me the doll. I held it with careful fingers and wondered, as I always did when I looked at an antique doll, how so fragile a plaything could have survived intact for a hundred years or more. The most obvious explanation is that no child was ever allowed to touch it.

  “Samantha is priced at twelve hundred dollars,” Peter said, “but I kind of hope nobody will offer to pay that much. I could use the money, but I would hate to part with her.”

  I gave the doll back to Peter. “There’s a cabinet in the drawing room at Hammersleigh full of antique dolls. Several look very similar to Samantha. If you’re interested, you should come over some time and have a look. I think there’s an index somewhere of the dolls and who made them.”

  His blue eyes brightened with interest. “I saw that cabinet from a distance when I was painting the tower room. But I never had a chance to get a close look. Mr. Conklin escorted me up and was waiting for me when I finished for the night. It was quite painful to see all those dolls from afar and never get a good look at them. I would love to come over sometime if it wouldn’t be putting you out.”

  “Not at all.” A thought occurred to me. “As a matter of fact, you can maybe help me. You still do decorating, don’t you?”

  He nodded.

  “My bedroom needs some drastic work done on it.”

  “Like what?”

  I explained about the horrible furniture and curtains and the special cherubs on the cornices. “I asked John Brixton. He’s the executor of Uncle Patrick’s will, and he says that if I pack the existing fabrics away and pay for the new ones myself, I can do what I want in any room as long as I preserve the period look of the house.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “What do you propose?”

  “We could take the furniture out of one of the other bedrooms and you could coordinate the wallpaper and curtains and everything else. Are you interested?”

  Peter beamed from ear to ear. “I have the time in the evenings, if that would be suitable. When can I come over for a look?”