Cold-Blooded Myrtle

by Elizabeth C. Bunce

  Leah’s voice was low and dramatic, like she was declaiming a ghost story. “Disbanded now, of course. So they claim.” Creak, creak, creak—she had made it halfway round the tower, and her soft words echoed from the brickwork, thanks to the exceptional acoustics. “Late one winter’s night, the members of the society gathered here to initiate their new brethren. Six went up, but only five came down.”

  That chill, Dear Reader, had nothing at all to do with the weather.

  “It was this archway.” Leah beckoned us closer, and I would have gone, against my will—if Miss Judson’s grip on my shoulder hadn’t clamped me like a vise. Thank goodness. “They were blindfolded,” she continued. “The two new initiates, Olive Blackwell and another girl called Jemima Bell.”

  I could not tell if that sharp intake of breath was Miss Judson’s or my own. I strained forward, as if I could pull the scene up along with Leah’s words, envision Mum up here, blindfolded, in the dark.

  “No one ever explained what happened. No one saw her fall. The other students all ran down to see what had happened, but they never found her body.” Leah looked down through the archway. “There was freshly fallen snow—indeed, it was snowing all that night—and there were no tracks, or impressions from where she would have landed. She simply . . . disappeared.”

  “What do you think happened?” I could only whisper—what if Mum had fallen, instead? What if Mum had pushed her? I felt dizzy, and I wasn’t even near the edge.

  Leah turned back and spread her hands. “A terrible accident? It shook everyone, and for years the Campanile was closed, the bells silenced, even the clock stopped at the moment Olive fell. Eleven fifty-two.” She brightened. “Until the college governors decided that enough time had passed, and everyone had forgotten, and it was time to get the bells ringing again. I couldn’t wait to come back up here, where Mother had spent so much happy time.”

  “Not everyone forgot,” Miss Judson said gently.

  Leah’s hands were hooked at her waist. “No, of course not. But it was so long ago. It’s time to put those sad memories to rest.”

  “But doesn’t it bother you,” I said, “coming up here, where—” There was no possible way to finish that sentence.

  “Where she died?” She was thoughtful a moment. “It should, I suppose. But no one really knows what happened to Olive. Perhaps she didn’t fall after all, and she merely ran away to a new life. I like to think so, anyway.”

  My heart jolted. “Is that possible?”

  “Anything’s possible.” At that moment, she took a step toward us, her expression faraway. “They’re about to chime,” she warned. “You might want to step down a few stairs. It gets rather loud.”

  I could imagine.

  No, strike that: I could not imagine. Miss Judson and I backed away as advised, but even so, when the gears on the mechanism clicked and the clock hands shifted into position, a cacophonous concert erupted around us, like the heavens crashing open and all the angels singing at the top of their celestial lungs in strange discordant harmony. The simple notes of “Westminster Quarters,” the very ones I’d just practiced, jarred out, rattling us to our cores—followed by four slow, ponderous tones from the largest bell: Bong. Bong. Bonnnnnng. Bonnnnnnggggggg.

  I gripped hard to Miss Judson and the railing to keep from toppling down the stairs—but I wanted to laugh. Or cry. Or something. I was shaky and exhilarated by the time the last notes faded, my bones still vibrating. I’d be feeling that for weeks.

  We left Leah to her practice with a promise to return for her concert Saturday night.

  “There are two performances,” she said. “Twilight and midnight—the midnight Christmas concert on the last day of term is a Schofield tradition! It will be especially grand this year, because of the fiftieth anniversary.”

  “And the first concert since Olive,” I said. Leah’s light eyes glittered with anticipation.

  Miss Judson and I made our somber way back down and outside (by the customary fashion, naturally). I went through everything the carillonist had told us, trying to make sense of what we’d learned. A secret society with arcane rituals? What did that have to do with Professor Leighton? Or Socrates? How had Olive fallen, and what had happened to her after that? What had my mum known? What had my mum done?

  Daylight had faded while we’d been up there, and the twilit air blasted our bare cheeks and sucked our breath away. The Campanile was a looming shadow against the pink sky. The clock face had lit up—“Steam, again,” Miss Judson speculated—glowing like a full moon, soft and pearly. The bells were about to sound again, and we had a long ride home in the cold.

  But neither of us could seem to pull ourselves away.

  “What happened up there?” I mused aloud. “People don’t just disappear into thin air.” I didn’t share Leah’s conviction that Olive had merely run away to a happier life. She must have either jumped or fallen—or been pushed.

  I chewed on my glove, trying to work out a theory. “Unless they killed her some other way, some way that wouldn’t be easy to cover up in a fall—and they had to hide her body.”

  “Do you really think your mother could have been involved in something like that?” Miss Judson looked unconvinced—and more: appalled. Defensive. I felt a spike of pride at her loyalty, but I smashed it down with ruthless logic.

  “We don’t know,” I said bitterly. “She could have done anything. She’s not here to defend herself.”

  Miss Judson regarded me steadily. “Exactly,” she said. “But there were four other people in that tower that night, too. We need to track them down.”

  We arrived back at Gravesend Close to find a dim and quiet household, with the exception of Peony (who is seldom quiet), proclaiming to anyone within earshot* that it was well past teatime, and that supper was expected posthaste. We could hear Cook in the kitchen, battling with the hob; their Christmas Truce was over, and she was back at her perpetual quest to beat it into submission. I had it on Good Authority that Father Christmas would be delivering her a new, huge spanner and a welding torch for the ongoing feud.

  Father sat in shadows in the parlor, frowning (or perhaps squinting; see previous reference to inadequate lighting) at some paperwork. When he saw us enter, frosted and rosy-cheeked, he did not even attempt to hide it from us, just waved us closer with a weary smile.

  We had to circumnavigate Peony, who was doing her utmost to hobble us (should we perchance be carrying armloads of fresh salmon that might felicitously rain down upon her), to make our way into the mistletoe-bedecked, pine-cone-adorned, paper-chain-festooned parlor. Father had been busy in our absence! In the corner, upon a sturdy table, stood the Christmas tree, a feathery potted evergreen† from the greenhouse next door at Redgraves. Mum’s treasured chest of ornaments had been ceremoniously toted down from the attic and sat waiting beside it.

  After doffing my wet winter things, I squeezed in alongside Father, trying to catch a glimpse of his documents before he could spirit them out of my reach. Miss Judson took the seat opposite.

  To my surprise, Father handed the papers right to me. “The Police Surgeon’s report?” It was actually Dr. Belden’s write-up of his post-mortem findings, but it had been signed and stamped by Dr. Munjal, making it official.

  “Mmm,” Father affirmed. “As suspected, Mr. Leighton died from hemlock poisoning.”

  For a moment we were all silent enough to hear the clock ticking on the mantel, and the cheery pop of embers in the fireplace. Finally Miss Judson broached the delicate subject.

  “Was it suicide?”

  Father’s eyes darted between us. “Medical evidence cannot determine how the dose was administered,” he said carefully.

  I sped through Dr. Belden’s findings, trying to focus on the science and not the disheartening fact that it was about kindly Mr. Leighton. “He also found traces of chloroform?”

  Was that what Dr. Munjal had been searching for, when he’d smelled the body?
Chloroform (so I understood) had a sweet, cloying odor. I eyed Father over the papers. “You wouldn’t chloroform yourself before also taking hemlock.” It would be redundant. But it would make an ideal way to incapacitate a victim whose death you meant to stage in the most dramatic way.

  I continued reading.

  Cause of Death: Poison (Hemlock)

  Manner of Death: Unexplained/Suspicious

  My heart bonged once, low and heavy. I looked up. “What now?”

  He plucked the report from my hands, and I only held on to it a little longer before releasing it. “Now the police will investigate,” he said—enunciating rather more than necessary. “Were you two able to learn anything new?”

  Miss Judson and I exchanged Looks, and for once Father actually noticed.

  “And whatever you found out, I expect you to tell me everything,” he said.

  “Why would you think otherwise?” Miss Judson asked innocently.

  In fact, Miss Judson and I had already decided exactly what to share with Father, discussing it fervently during our ride home. We had agreed that Mum should remain out of the story as long as possible. Father, knowing well that Miss Judson is an absolutely immovable witness, turned his steely Prosecution gaze on me. I was far more likely to crack.

  “Mr. Leighton had recently received several threatening letters,” I reported, “which Mrs. Leighton believes to have been sent by the Blackwell family. He burned them all before she could read them—”

  “Although they were in Latin,” Miss Judson put in, “so she could not have given up their contents in any case.”

  Father looked thoughtful. “Perhaps the post­mistress will have some record of these letters. I’ll inquire in the morning. Anything else?”

  Another exchange of Looks. “We cycled over to the college to see the Campanile for ourselves,” I said.

  “Really?” His voice was unexpectedly keen. He settled in more comfortably on the settee. “I’ve only seen it from afar. What was it like?”

  “Tall,” replied Miss Judson.

  “And loud,” I contributed.

  He gave us a long-suffering Look.

  “They’ve just reopened it after all these years since Olive Blackwell’s disappearance,” I added. “The new carillonist gave us a tour.”

  “He didn’t happen to seem the threatening-letter sort, I suppose?” he asked.

  Miss Judson let out a little clap of laughter. “She. And no. Nor the sort to push someone out of a belltower.”

  “Well, she would have been a little girl at the time,” I pointed out.

  “I don’t know,” said Father, “I personally make a habit to never underestimate what mayhem a young girl is capable of.”

  “Mayhem!” I exclaimed. “When have I ever caused mayhem?”

  “On that note.” Miss Judson rose smoothly. “It’s been a day. I believe I shall retire before dinner.”

  “You’ll join us, won’t you, Miss Judson?” Father had been making this appeal more and more often lately, and Miss Judson was declining with as much frequency. Eventually, I assumed, one of them would have to wear down. Yet again I wished there was some way I might tip the balance in their favor.

  “Indeed no,” she said with a mild smile. “Cook and I have things to discuss.”

  “What things?” I demanded.

  “Secret Hardcastle Staff Things. Good evening.”

  Before departing, she paused to regard the swag of greenery in the archway, but said no more. Father’s face was set, watching her leave—but when he turned back to me, what he said was, “We need to discuss the mistletoe.”

  “What about it?”

  “It’s making Miss Judson uncomfortable.”

  It seemed to be making Father uncomfortable, but I didn’t say as much. “Talk to Priscilla. She’s the one who brought it all.” And no one could prove otherwise. There was certainly no evidence of conspiracy between me and any American neighbor with celebrated gardens, an unnatural interest in romance, and a scheming mind. I knew perfectly well how inappropriate it was for a Young Lady of Quality to interfere in the courtship (or frustrating lack thereof) of her father and her governess.

  But there was, so far as my understanding, no such prohibition upon neighbors. There were therefore boughs, wreaths, and balls of the shrub deployed strategically throughout No. 14 Gravesend Close, at places Miss Judson and Father were likely to cross paths: the foyer, the hallway, farther down the hallway, the stairwell, the stairwell landing, the parlor doorway, the dining room, above the front and back doors, and all around the kitchen.

  Father sighed. “I cannot go about kissing young women in my employ.”

  “Who said anything about kissing? It’s a toxic parasite. I don’t know why anyone should consider that romantic.”

  “No.” Peony had returned from her fruitless errand to the kitchen.

  Father scooped her up—and she made no objections to being kissed beneath the mistletoe, Dear Reader.

  Still toting Peony, he turned up the gaslights, filling the parlor with a bloom of golden light. “Shall we trim the tree?”

  I suspected this was the true motive for Miss Judson’s departure. She’d wished to preserve this as a private family ritual for Father and me. But with her parents in Cayenne, this was her Christmas tree, too. And the two of us could certainly use her Artistic Temperament. For an otherwise eminently sensible person, she really had some curious ideas about Propriety.

  Whistling “Good King Wenceslas,” Father produced the trunk of decorations and removed the lid. “Aha!” He plucked forth a blown-glass ornament, a fat, ugly cherub Aunt Helena had bought at Leighton’s. It was part of a set, ordered in from Germany, just like Her Majesty’s. Several of them had Mysteriously Broken over the years.

  Peony hissed at it, ears pressed flat.

  “Mum hated that,” I recalled.

  Father spun round with a grin. “Yes, it’s hideous, isn’t it?” He held it aloft, the lamplight flickering off its inefficiently tiny wings and chubby tum. “Guaranteed to terrify even the most mayhem-prone child into good behavior!” A Reasonable Man would have stuffed the ghastly thing back into the box—but Aunt Helena would expect to see it on the tree, so he shoved it to the very center of the branches, and turned it away from the light.

  I dug about, carefully withdrawing the remainder of the tissue-wrapped ornaments, the tin stars and paper poppets. Peony batted hopefully at the tissue and swiped her cheek and whiskers along the corner of the box. At the very bottom, my searching fingers found something I didn’t even realize I’d been looking for—but as soon as I felt the cool metal, I grasped it with purpose.

  It was a lead figure, a Roman soldier in a red cape and a helmet crowned with a brush of horsehair. Mum had looped some ribbon through his posed arm so he could hang, awkwardly, because I had enjoyed playing with him when I was small. I had forgotten all about it, but now I blinked at the painted figurine in astonishment. It was a perfect mate to the one I’d seen yesterday in Mr. Leighton’s workshop.

  “Did Mr. Leighton make this?”

  Father held out his hand. “Goodness, I haven’t seen that in years.”

  I handed over the centurion, and Father tipped him downward, to peek at the soles of his strappy sandals. “M-D-C-hmmm, this seems to be a Roman numeral, but I’m not—”

  Father was hopeless with Roman numerals, so I snatched it back. MDCCCLXXIV. “Eighteen seventy-four,” I translated. More letters on his shield spelled out Cohortis Hadriani. I had just enough time to work out the English—Hadrian’s Guard—before Father snapped his fingers.

  “It must be from your mum’s college days. She’d have been graduating just about then.”

  “That’s the year Olive Blackwell disappeared.”

  “Well, I doubt there’s any connection between this old chap and that sad business.” But he sounded uncertain.

  This was the moment to speak up—to let Father know tha
t Mum had been involved, somehow, in that sad business, after all. That she and her cohort had been present in the Campanile when Olive Blackwell’s fall from the tower had precipitated Professor Leighton’s fall from grace, and for some reason, somebody was dredging it all back up again now.

  But the moment passed, Father moved on, and then it was too late. “I’m glad you found Octavius, here,” he said, prizing the figure from my grip. “He can protect us from the cherub.”

  “And Père Fouettard,” I said, making Father shudder.

  “What else is in there?” He leaned his tall frame over the box, and found a crepe-paper clown, its springy limbs bobbing.

  “Peony will eat that,” I predicted, and Father put it on the highest branch (only making it more tempting). Then we were lost in the merriment of the moment, sad memories set aside.

  Sleep was impossible that night. I lay abed, still feeling the ghostly vibration of the carillon bells in my bones. We were too far away to hear them, but I still strained to catch the faint automated chiming of the hour through the cold night air. It had been such a long few days, from Mr. Leighton’s death to the exhilarating and disorienting visit to the Campanile—and the even more disorienting story of Olive’s disappearance—to the autopsy report bringing us right back around to who’d killed Professor Leighton.

  Olive’s disappearance and the Professor’s murder were two intertwining mysteries, and if I could just untangle them, perhaps it would solve them both. Whenever I closed my eyes, however, I kept seeing Mum’s face—swinging a pickaxe on expedition in Cornwall, boldly facing down the camera in the portrait in Father’s office, or focused and intent as she bent over her mending.

  With a jolt of revelation, I sat up. Peony grumbled, then stretched out a white paw and tried to go back to sleep, but I nudged her out of the way to free the coverlet. It was a crazy-patch quilt Mum had pieced from scraps of our old clothes. Here was a bit of striped silk from her wedding dress, there a snippet of Father’s robes from law school. I could find what I was looking for in the dark, but I pulled it closer to the window and the streetlight outside. In a lopsided trapezoid of dark velvet was an embroidered dove, and Mum’s initials: JBH. Her signature.