The Novel Art of Murder

by V. M. Burns

  Mrs. Churchill nodded. “Yes, he was here quite a lot back then. He used to be good friends with Randolph and he had a bit of a crush on one of the girls. I think it was Sarah. He was a couple years older than her. Girls always like older boys . . . bad boys.”

  Lady Elizabeth stared off into space. “Interesting.”

  “What’s so interesting about a young girl’s crush?” Detective Inspector Covington asked.

  “Perhaps we should go back inside. It’s rather cold and I could use a nice cup of tea.” She turned to the butler. “Thompkins, could you please see to tea in the parlor.” She turned to Mrs. Churchill. “Oh, I’m sorry, Clemmie, if that’s okay with you, of course.”

  Detective Inspector Covington and Sergeant Turnbull made certain the door was secured.

  Mrs. Churchill nodded. “Of course. Tea would be perfect. Then you can explain what John Amery’s crush on Sarah has to do with any of this.”

  “I’d appreciate hearing that myself,” Detective Inspector Covington said.

  “Of course.” Lady Elizabeth walked with her friend back toward the warmth of the house.

  Chapter 21

  I didn’t sleep much Sunday night, so when I woke up Monday morning, I was more than a little grumpy. Sometime between two and three in the morning, the reality that there were only a few days left before Nana Jo could get arrested, if I didn’t figure out how Horace Evans got into Maria’s room at Shady Acres and killed her, hit me. There was no way I could leave for New York with my grandmother in jail. She wouldn’t get an opportunity to perform in New York and I’d miss meeting my agent. What a mess.

  She was already downstairs when I got the courage to come out of my room.

  “You look like death warmed over.” Nana Jo stared at me. “You realize you’ve got your shirt inside out and you’re wearing one blue shoe and one black shoe, right?”

  I looked at my feet and sighed. It would have been an easy mistake if the shoes were the same type or if the heels were even the same height. I remembered trying them on to decide between the blue flats and the black heels. “I got distracted.” I ran upstairs and put on the two blue shoes and turned my shirt to the right side.

  When I got back down to the bookstore, Nana Jo was sitting at a table with two mugs of coffee. I sat down in the seat across from her and took a long drink.

  “Now, what’s wrong?”

  It would be best to lie. I could tell her I was thinking about Leon. I hated the idea of lying to my grandmother and especially using my dead husband as an excuse, but I didn’t want to worry her with the truth. I took a sip of coffee and opened my mouth and the next thing I knew, I was bawling like a baby. Nana Jo slid her chair around next to mine and put her arms around me. I sat and cried until I had no tears left.

  When I was done, she handed me a handerkerchief. “Do you feel better?”

  I shrugged.

  “Now, tell me what’s wrong.”

  I told her how sorry I was for letting her down because I had no clue how Horace killed Maria. I should never have bargained with Detective Pitt for her freedom. I begged for forgiveness. I cried again.

  Nana Jo listened patiently. “Sam, stop it. This isn’t your fault. All you did was buy me some time. I was the prime suspect in Maria’s murder. If you hadn’t made your deal with Stinky Pitt, I would already be behind bars.” She patted my hand. “Now, stop crying and worrying yourself. We’re not defeated yet. Besides, I have faith you’ll figure this out. Now, pull yourself together. Customers will be coming soon and we’re going to have to open those doors.” She gave me a big hug. “You’ve been trying too hard. Stop thinking about it. We’ll talk things out later. Now, let’s sell some books.”

  Business was brisk, more brisk than most Mondays. I would have to take note. The Monday before Thanksgiving was a busy time. Next year, I’d plan better.

  Jillian and Dawson arrived before lunch.

  “What’re you two doing here? Shouldn’t you be in class?” I asked.

  Jillian smiled. “I’m done. I had a test earlier and a paper I turned in about an hour ago. So, I’m officially on Thanksgiving break.”

  Dawson smiled. “I’ve got a paper due tonight and a test tomorrow, but I want to study here, if that’s okay.” He shuffled his feet. “I’d rather not be on campus. Too many reporters.”

  “Of course it’s okay.” I hugged him. “Congratulations. Does this mean MISU will go to a bowl?”

  He nodded. “We should get an invite to a bowl game. I just hope it’s a good one.”

  I didn’t realize there were bad bowls. I’d ask Nana Jo later. For now, there was a line of folks waiting to be rung up.

  Dawson had cookies baked and on the counter in record time.

  We were so busy we didn’t have time to stop for lunch. Frank stopped in, but I didn’t have time to chat, so he just waved and left. I was disappointed until he came back an hour later with soup and sandwiches. He left the food in the back, waved, and walked out again. I smiled and realized my debt to him was getting longer and longer. My face heated when I thought of repaying him. Thankfully, things were too busy for me to dwell on those thoughts for very long.

  We took turns running to the back to eat. The day went by in a blur. When the last customer left, we were exhausted.

  Jillian and Dawson went upstairs to study.

  Nana Jo and I sat and caught our breath.

  “You ready for our meeting?” She got up.

  I’d totally forgotten we had a sleuthing meeting tonight. My lack of sleep and the hard physical labor of the day combined with my emotional meltdown from the morning had pretty much sucked all of the life out of me.

  Nana Jo pulled me to my feet. “Come on, Sherlock. We’ve got to get ready.”

  Something flashed in my head for about two seconds and then quickly flitted away.

  “What?”

  I shook my head. “I don’t know. It’s gone now.”

  Nana Jo smiled. “Good. It’ll come back.” She gave me a gentle shove. “Now, get moving.”

  Everyone arrived and we went into the back room. Dawson had placed a plate of sugar cookies in the center of the table, along with napkins and plates. I would have to do something extra special for that kid. He was amazing.

  Nana Jo pulled out her iPad. “Who’s going first?”

  I raised my hand and shared the information I’d gotten from Frank about Denise Bennett and Maria.

  Irma seemed unusually quiet.

  “What’s wrong with you?” Nana Jo asked.

  She coughed. “I was just thinking about Magnus. He seemed like such a nice man.” She pulled a cell phone from her purse and swiped the screen until she got to her pictures. “We took this the first night we . . . well, you know.” She coughed. “We ate dinner and then came back to his apartment for . . . dessert.”

  I looked at the picture. It was the weird angle that indicated Irma had taken the picture herself. It showed a smiling Irma and Magnus standing near a wall in his apartment. There were two large pictures on the wall behind them.

  “Irma, we don’t have time for any treks down memory lane.” Nana Jo typed. “Who’s next?”

  I tapped the photo, enlarged it, and readjusted so the focus was slightly behind their heads. “Wait. Something’s wrong.” I looked around. “This picture on the wall.” I pointed to the picture and everyone crowded in to see. “It’s gone.”

  I stared at Irma and Nana Jo. “Do either of you remember seeing it in the room?”

  They shook their heads.

  We all looked at Freddie. He stared at the phone and then shook his head. “I’m positive that picture was not there the night Magnus was killed.”

  “Irma, when was the last time you remember seeing that picture?” Nana Jo asked.

  She looked up as she thought. “It was there the night before. I’m positive.”

  “Think back to the night of the murder. Do you remember if anything else was missing?” I asked.

  We all star
ed at her.

  She shook her head. “I don’t think so.”

  Nana Jo pulled out her phone and handed it to her. “Here, look at these pictures from the night of the murder.”

  Irma looked through the pictures. She paused when she got to the one of the small ballet dancers. “Wait. I think there was another one.” She tapped her hand on the desk. “It was one of those blotchy pictures where you had to squint to tell what it was.” She coughed.

  “Impressionist?” Dorothy asked.

  “Yeah, it was a street somewhere in Europe. It was yellowish and there were buildings and the people were on horses and buggies.”

  Dorothy pulled a book from her purse and flipped through the pages. “After I talked to my sister, I picked up this book about missing art from World War II.” She flipped to a page and pushed the book across the table to Irma. “Was it like this?”

  Irma’s face lit up in recognition. “That’s it. That’s the picture.”

  I leaned over and looked at the picture. “Pissarro, The Boulevard Montmartre, Twilight.” I read further. “It says the painting was looted by the Nazis and sold. It’s shown up since the war, but the current location is unknown.”

  We talked about art for several minutes.

  “You’d better tell Detective Pitt,” Nana Jo said.

  “So, you think Horace killed him for the paintings?” Freddie asked.

  I shrugged. “It looks that way.”

  Judge Miller had been very quiet. “I think Pitt has enough to get a search warrant.”

  Something nagged at the back of my mind, but I ignored it and pulled out my phone. I dialed Detective Pitt’s number. The phone rang four times and then I heard a recording telling me to leave a detailed message. I left my name and number and asked him to call me when he had a chance.

  The mood in the room lifted from gloom to elation. Everyone talked at once. Despite all of the noise, I zoned out. It wasn’t until Nana Jo shook me that I came out of my fog.

  “Earth to Sam.”

  “I’m sorry.” I yawned. “I’m really tired and I think everything is just catching up to me.”

  No one else had anything to report, so we ended the meeting and promised to get together tomorrow. By then, I would have talked to Detective Pitt and hopefully he would have made an arrest.

  I went upstairs. Dawson and Jillian were studying at the dining room table. Snickers was curled up in Jillian’s lap and Oreo was under Dawson’s chair. I went to my room and flopped down on the bed, not even bothering to get undressed. I was out before I knew it.

  I slept hard and fast. I woke up at two and thought it was time for work. One look outside showed me it was still dark. Dawson and Jillian were gone and they must have taken the poodles with them, because the house was quiet.

  I changed into my pajamas and tried to go back to sleep, but my brain wouldn’t cooperate. I was wide-awake now. I pulled out a notepad from my nightstand. I tried to organize my thoughts. I wrote down everything that popped into my head. I wrote words like “Degas,” “Pissarro,” “New York,” “prison,” “painting,” “mob,” “cyanide,” “locked room,” “nosy neighbor,” and “Sherlock.” I read the words aloud, and I knew I was onto something, but, like smoke on the wind, the thought was clear one second and evaporated the next. I was close. I pulled out my laptop and tried to focus on something else.

  Thompkins pushed the tea cart into the drawing room. Mrs. Churchill stood with her back to the room, staring out of the window. He pushed the cart to Lady Elizabeth, bowed, and walked to the door.

  Lady Elizabeth stopped him. “Thompkins, I think it would be better if you stayed.”

  “Yes, m’lady.” The butler bowed and stood near the door.

  Lady Elizabeth sat on the sofa near the fireplace and poured the tea. She handed the cup to the butler. “Would you take that to Mrs. Churchill, please.”

  Thompkins took the tea and stood for a few seconds. However, Mrs. Churchill was lost in her own world. He coughed discretely. “Ma’am.”

  Mrs. Churchill turned and looked at the tea as if it was her first time seeing such a thing. After a second, she shook herself and accepted the cup. “Thank you, Thompkins.”

  Lady Elizabeth poured tea for Detective Inspector Covington, Sergeant Turnbull, Lord William, Anthony Blunt, and Guy Burgess. Leopold Amery arrived soon after. Lady Elizabeth poured out.

  Mrs. Churchill looked around. “Where’s Winston?”

  Daphne entered. “He and James are in the studio.”

  “When did you get back?” Lady Elizabeth smiled at her niece.

  “We only just arrived.”

  Guy Burgess and Anthony Blunt stood near the fireplace. They were engaged in an animated discussion of the Mediterranean and didn’t seem to notice the tension that permeated the room.

  Lord Stemphill arrived. “Tea in the drawing room. Wonderful.” He accepted a cup from Lady Elizabeth and looked around the room. A brief flash of disappointment crossed his face, but he received a smile from Daphne and sauntered over to the chair where she sat.

  Detective Inspector Covington raised a brow to Lady Elizabeth.

  Lady Elizabeth took a sip of tea. “You’ll never guess what we found today.” She spoke to no one in particular.

  “I couldn’t hazard a guess,” Leopold Amery said.

  “We were in the bedroom where that poor woman died and we found a secret tunnel.”

  Detective Inspector Covington stared at the faces in the room.

  “How fascinating.” Amery turned to Mrs. Churchill. “Surely you knew of this tunnel?”

  Mrs. Churchill shook her head. “Actually, no. I was as surprised as everyone else.”

  Guy Burgess finally turned and looked from Mrs. Churchill to Lady Elizabeth. “How fascinating. Where does the tunnel go?”

  “We followed it out into the weald,” Lady Elizabeth added.

  Lord William huffed on his pipe. “You don’t say? Extraordinary. I suppose it’s to be expected in an old house like this.”

  “Oh, yes, secret passages and priest holes were quite common in old country estates like this one.” Anthony Blunt sipped his tea. “I’d be surprised if there wasn’t one.”

  Guy Burgess’s face lit up. “Say, you don’t think that’s how the killer got in to do the deed, do you?” He pulled a notepad from his pocket and looked at Detective Inspector Covington. “What does Scotland Yard have to say about it?”

  Detective Inspector Covington looked as though he had a lot he’d like to say to Burgess but swallowed the words. “Scotland Yard has no comment for the press at this time.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry, Detective. Perhaps you’d have preferred for the tunnel to remain a secret.” Lady Elizabeth fluttered her hands and gave the detective a wide-eyed look that belied her intelligence.

  “Does this mean the Yard believes the murderer was someone outside of the family?” Burgess pressed.

  Detective Inspector Covington pursed his lips into a straight line. “No comment.”

  “I suppose this eases your mind, Mrs. Churchill.” Burgess turned to Lady Elizabeth. “And yours.” He glanced significantly at Lady Daphne.

  Lady Daphne’s face flushed, but she smiled coldly at the BBC producer.

  Mrs. Churchill went pale and swayed. For a second, it looked as though she would fall. However, she recovered herself, pushed her shoulders back, and raised her head tall. “I don’t know what you’re implying, Mr. Burgess, but I don’t like it, and I won’t stand for it in my house.”

  “What’s this?” Winston Churchill boomed from the doorway.

  Everyone had been so focused on Mrs. Churchill, they hadn’t noticed James and Winston entering the room. James carried a large satchel, which he conspicuously kept by his side.

  “I won’t have you upsetting my wife, Mr. Burgess.”

  Guy Burgess hung his head. “I’m very sorry, Mrs. Churchill. I didn’t mean to insult . . . I’m sorry.”

  Mrs. Churchill gave a subtle nod in
acceptance of Burgess’s apology.

  Winston walked over to his wife. “Are you okay, Clemmie?”

  She nodded. “Yes, dear. I’m fine.” She looked at her husband. “Tea?”

  He sat down on the sofa and Rufus curled up at his feet.

  Lady Elizabeth handed Winston a cup of tea. “We were just talking about the tunnel that leads from one of the guest bedrooms out to the weald.”

  Winston chomped on his cigar and balanced his tea on his lap. “Tunnel?”

  “Didn’t you know about it either, dear?” Mrs. Churchill asked.

  He was silent a moment. “I recall Tilden mentioning something about an old passage when we were renovating the place back in ’22. Told him to close it up. Last thing a man with four . . . ah, three daughters needs is a secret passage into the house.”

  Clementine Churchill gasped but quickly recovered. She sat down on the sofa next to Lady Elizabeth, who gave her hand a squeeze.

  Lady Elizabeth knew Winston’s gaffe about the number of daughters he had was not due to poor memory but was an indication that even after twenty years, Marigold, the daughter the Churchills lost at the age of two, was never far from his thoughts.

  Detective Inspector Covington moved to the edge of his seat. “Who else would know of the tunnel?”

  Winston thought. “Tilden, the architect, and probably some of the workers who helped close it up.”

  “What about the children?” Detective Inspector Covington asked hesitantly.

  Winston blanched. “You’d have to ask them.”

  “Why would someone inside the house need to use the secret passage?” Daphne asked.

  Everyone turned to stare. “I mean, if Randolph knew about the tunnel, he wouldn’t have had to use it to get into Jessica’s room. He could have knocked.”

  “Or used the key.” Randolph stood in the doorway. His face was red and flushed. He looked as though each breath caused him pain and he stumbled forward into the room. “If I’d wanted to get into Jessica’s bedroom, I could have simply used the key.” He fumbled in his pocket and pulled out a set of keys and tossed them on the table.

  “We’ve been looking all over the house for those keys. Where’d you find them?” Mrs. Churchill whispered.