Imogen Shelley, snug and smug in a short blue coat and sturdy boots, leaned against the lamppost, scribbling away in her nasty notebook.
“What’s she doing here?” I hissed. And yes, Dear Reader, sibilants or no, that is exactly the correct word. I was spitting mad, my fur on end. If I’d had a tail, it would have been puffed up, all the way to its white tip.
“She’s been here all morning. I spotted her earlier.”
“Why didn’t you say anything?” Before she could answer, a beautiful, blindingly brilliant thought burst into my brain like sunspots from a solar storm. “She’s been awfully quick with all of her stories, hasn’t she? Reporting on them before we’d barely had a chance to notify the police? And ‘Olive Blackwell Lives’?” I turned to Miss Judson, triumph flashing (I was sure) in my eyes. “She’s doing this.”
Miss Judson hesitated. “Wait—what?”
I couldn’t hold back. The ideas tumbled together into a perfect chain, link by link. “She was there last night! She left early to ‘meet a source.’ She had opportunity. She has motive—”
“Which is what, exactly?”
“Drumming up a good story!”
“By committing murder? Murders? And her means would be . . . ? Oh! Do you suppose she’s hiding an asp inside her coat? It must be awfully cold by now, poor thing.”
“This isn’t funny! She’s a perfect suspect. Think about it.”
“I’m trying, but you’re not letting me reflect on this sensibly. Which is what I would like you—”
She oughtn’t have bothered. I was halfway across the circle, marching over the now well-trodden snow. Dr. Munjal and Inspector Hardy were finishing up with the body, wrapping poor Miss Carmichael in a clean white sheet before bearing her away on a stretcher. Miss Shelley looked on, long and satisfied, smiling like an asp.
She spotted me and gave a wave that made me hate her all the more. What in the world had Mr. Blakeney been doing in her company last night? I was relieved to have a murder—two murders . . . maybe three—to solve, instead of having to ponder that imponderable mystery.
Gazing steadily at Miss Shelley, I approached Constable Terrence and tugged on his sleeve, trying to look as young and innocent as I could. Perhaps he’d already forgotten my Discourse on Egypto-Roman history over biscuits just now.
“Excuse me, Constable?”
He glanced down at me.
“You told us to let you know if we remembered anything else about Miss Carmichael?” None of the constables had suggested anything of the kind, but they ought to have. That is my excuse for what transpired next—and I stand by that testimony, Dear Reader.
“Er—that’s right. Yes. Excellent.” He scrambled to produce his notebook. “Go ahead then, Miss—?”
I pretended to misunderstand him as I did an Unthinkably Unladylike thing. I wheeled slowly around, leveled my arm, and pointed straight at Miss Shelley. “She was there last night, too. And she was saying all sorts of things about Miss Carmichael.”
*We don’t actually know that Cleopatra used an asp, for that matter, although historians do agree she poisoned herself.
†If this had not been one of her qualifications for employment in a Hardcastle household, it ought to have been.
13
Femmes Fatales
In remote Alpine regions of Germany, children are visited at Christmastime by Perchta the Disemboweler, who rewards the obedient with coins and sweets. Her name suggests what becomes of the naughty. —H. M. Hardcastle, A Modern Yuletide
To say that the Swinburne Constabulary was not entirely pleased to see me return for the second time in a week would be something of an understatement. And to say that Miss Judson was tolerant of the situation would be an outright lie.
Having pointed the finger (literally) at Miss Shelley, I was labeled a Key Witness, and therefore ushered to the police station practically alongside Miss Shelley herself.
“You’re lucky they’re not holding you in custody.” The police did that—witnesses were often reluctant to appear in court, so they were detained to ensure their participation. I felt fairly certain that Father’s status as Prosecuting Solicitor would preclude such a precaution. But given Miss Judson’s mood, I could hardly count on her support at the moment. The notion that they might hold Miss Shelley somewhat longer than necessary, however, was particularly cheering.
I had only Observed the initial encounter between Constable Terrence and the reporter, but Miss Shelley had—disappointingly—seemed unshocked. She gave that little wave again as she climbed into the police wagon, and I had a slightly sickish feeling that this was not quite the triumphant checkmate I had intended.
Even so, Miss Shelley had produced her stories on the murders rather swiftly. Either she was involved in the crimes—or she had a source among the police. I couldn’t decide which of those options I liked least. Neither Dr. Munjal nor Inspector Hardy had returned from the crime scene yet. I tried to tell myself that only meant they were being exceptionally thorough.
Miss Judson gave an audible sigh. I suspect it had something to do with my fidgeting and kicking the legs of the bench.
“She was horrible, and you know it,” I said.
Miss Judson took a moment to marshal her Exceptional Forbearance. “Remind me, which crime did you have her arrested for? Was it horribleness, or murder?”
“She wasn’t arrested,” I snapped back. “They’re questioning her as a witness.”
We continued in this vein for some moments before Miss Judson chanced to look up—and stopped herself, mid-scold.
“Don’t let me interrupt,” said a familiar voice, sounding uncharacteristically weary. “Hullo, Stephen, Miss J.”
I frowned. “What are you doing here?”
Mr. Blakeney grinned. “I might ask the same thing, but I’d actually be surprised to pop round a neighborhood police station and not see the likes of you two! I half suspect you frequent them just for fun.”
“And you would not be far wrong.” Miss Judson rubbed the bridge of her nose, like she was fighting off a headache. “But what brings you down?”
He shook his brief-bag. “Genie.” He sighed. “She’s managed to get herself in trouble again.”
Miss Judson worked that out before I did. “Gen—oh, Imogen, of course.”
Mr. Blakeney looked chagrined. “Yes, Miss Shelley,” he said, with the same curious emphasis he’d used last night. He didn’t seem to like her much, either, which warmed me a bit. But in that case, I really couldn’t figure out why he was so much in her company. “I’m here to dig her out of this latest mess.” A constable beckoned to him. He tipped his hat to us. “Wish me luck.”
“Well, well,” Miss Judson said as he disappeared.
“Would you stop with that! If you have something to say about them, just say it already.” I crossed my arms and slumped down—just as crossly—against the bench.
Her cool eyes shifted sideways toward me. All she said, however, was, “I’m glad to see he’s not letting his legal skills get rusty.”
Mr. Blakeney’s promising career as a law clerk and aspiring solicitor had been cut short with the abrupt end to his employer’s practice this summer. We’d called on his help during our last Investigation, and through our adventures together, we’d all grown to be great friends. But I had to admit, I didn’t really know all that much about him. That was entirely befitting an acquaintance between a Young Lady of Quality and a professional young man—but it did rather put my Investigative Skills to shame. I determined to be as Observant as Miss Judson from here on out.
I got my chance sooner than I expected. Only a few minutes later, the interrogation room door swung open, and a pleased-looking Miss Shelley emerged, followed by Mr. Blakeney. He’d recovered some of his own ebullience, and raised a cheery hand. But that wasn’t enough for Miss Shelley.
“Myrtle!” She swooped down like a bird of prey—and kissed me soundly on the cheek. “Th
ank you! I hadn’t decided how I was going to get the police to talk to me. You’re brilliant, you.” She plopped down beside me—almost in Miss Judson’s lap—and whipped out her notebook. “So. Fair’s fair, and I owe you. Share and share alike, right, Robbie?”
“Er.” Mr. Blakeney had turned alternately pale and scarlet and was regarding us with something like horror.
Miss Shelley popped to her feet again. “You are quite right. This calls for a far less public venue. Let’s all have coffee. My treat. Woodstein’s is just round the corner.”
Dear Reader, I’m really not sure what happened next, except that somehow the four of us found ourselves ensconced in a cozy nook at a nearby tea shop, sharing a steaming pot of coffee (for them) and a cup of tea (for me) and a hearty plate of bread-and-butter and pickles.
Miss Judson had been silent on the journey over, and now she had out her small sketchbook, sketching away, Observing everything. Miss Shelley kept up a lively strain of chatter, while Mr. Blakeney shrank into the corner, until he was little more than curly hair and wrinkled suit.
“Myrtle, Robbie says I was a perfect beast to you last night and I must apologize.” Miss Shelley set down her coffee, looking serious. “I said some dreadful things about your mum. I’m sorry. No hard feelings?”
Mr. Blakeney broke in. “I don’t know, Genie, I suspect our Stephen is very good at hanging on to hard feelings.”
She wheeled on him. “I don’t know why you insist on that ridiculous nickname! She’s perfectly capable of standing up for herself without having to pretend she’s a boy.” She gave him a none-too-friendly shove. “I always knew you were a misogynist. Myrtle, don’t let him—or anyone—treat you like that. Never be ashamed of being female. Never.”
Miss Judson finally looked up. “Brava,” she murmured—but I felt a little cowed by Miss Shelley’s fierceness. Still, she sounded so genuine that I was tempted to believe her.
“What were you doing there so early this morning?”
Mr. Blakeney answered. “She lurks. She’s exceptional at it. Fortunately, she’s found a way to make a living with it, so I suppose we mustn’t complain.”
And Miss Shelley, shocking me utterly, stuck her tongue out at him.
They had a very curious relationship.
Miss Judson finished her drawing and laid her sketchbook on the table. It was a comical sketch of a young Miss Shelley and Mr. Blakeney—a fair-haired lad sneaking a frog into the bed of a bespectacled girl. With a jolt, I stared at the drawing. I stared at Miss Shelley. I stared at Mr. Blakeney. I stared at them both. He was blond, curly-haired, and blue-eyed; her hair and eyes were brown, and the spectacles hid the resemblance even more. But otherwise I’d been doltishly Unobservant about her. About them.
“Your second name’s not really Shelley, is it?” I said—halting Miss Shelley in mid-bite.
“Well.” She set down her bread with a grin. “Took you long enough. And you said she was clever.” She slung an easy arm around Mr. Blakeney’s shoulders. “Usually it’s obvious to everyone. When I started at the Trib, he made me change my name so I wouldn’t bring down any more shame on the family.” Miss Shelley—Miss Blakeney, in true—didn’t seem the least bit ashamed of anything.
“You’re his sister.”
Mr. Blakeney hung his head. “Guilty.”
“Twins,” Miss Shelley declared. “I’m the oldest.” She reached around the food to pick up Miss Judson’s sketchbook, then let out a clap of laughter as she passed it to her brother.
“Close,” he admitted, returning it to Miss Judson.
“But it was usually me putting frogs in his bed.”
“Oh, dear,” said Miss Judson. “I imagine the two of you gave your governesses terrors.”
Miss Shelley bit her lip. “Poor Miss Kittridge. She still hasn’t been released from the asylum.”
“She’s kidding,” Mr. Blakeney said swiftly. “It was a sanatorium, and she’s fine now.”
And with that, they burst into peals of laughter that soon had our whole table—even me, Dear Reader—in an uproar.
“People probably called you Irrepressible,” I posited.
Genie pondered this. “Well, now, I’ve been called incorrigible, uncontrollable, a hellion—”
“Don’t forget irredeemable,” Mr. Blakeney put in. Genie sighed fondly.
“Oh, yes. Miss Simser. Or was that Miss Nisbett?”
“How did you know so much about the crimes?” I asked when we’d all finally recovered. “You knew exactly where to be this morning. You have to admit, that was suspicious.”
“Or brilliant,” she said agreeably. “That was such an odd gathering last night at the museum. I had a feeling things weren’t over, especially after ‘Olive Blackwell’s’ latest handiwork at Leighton’s Mercantile.” She spread jam on bread with nonchalance. “I just put two and two together and figured out who Cleopatra was likely to be.”
“Why didn’t you warn anyone?” I cried.
“Oh, I did.” Miss Shelley wasn’t offended. “I strolled right up to Nora Carmichael and said it straight to her face—”
Mr. Blakeney’s groan confirmed this audacious statement.
“—And she just laughed it off. So, of course, I assumed she was the killer, or that she’d staged the Cleopatra thing as a publicity stunt.”
“So did we! Well, not that last bit. That’s pretty clever,” I added grudgingly.
“It didn’t turn out to be true, though.” For the first time, Miss Shelley sobered. I had the sense it wasn’t an expression she wore often. “I wish she’d believed me.”
I wasn’t convinced I believed her. “Can you prove you didn’t kill her?”
“Myrtle Hardcastle!”
My beleaguered governess went ignored. “I have an alibi. And a witness.” Genie hooked her thumb at her brother, who nodded. “I was all the way across town, at the college. For the midnight carillon concert. It was very impressive. You ought to have been there.”
“We saw the first one. How did you get there in the terrible weather?”
“A cab, naturally. Anything else?”
“Yes, actually,” Miss Judson put in. “Did you notice anything strange at the Campanile?”
“You mean the chairs?” she said with a grin. “There’s no chance you drew that, is there, Miss Judson? It would look fantastic with my article.”
“I would advise you against that,” Mr. Blakeney said, and Genie sighed.
“Always such a lawyer.”
“Somebody always needs one,” he shot back.
I got us back on track. “Were you able to learn anything from your—time with the police, this morning?”
“Not much,” Genie said. “It was definitely poison—something injected into her arm—and she was chloroformed, first.”
“Just like Mr. Leighton.”
“That does seem to be our killer’s modus operandi. First incapacitate her victims with chloroform, then poison them more dramatically.”
“Her?” I said.
“Olive, of course.” Genie polished off a pickle. “Why? Who’s your top suspect?”
“The Mayor.”
Miss Judson tossed up her hands in exasperation, and I realized I had probably gone too far.
But Genie was nodding. “That man is involved somehow. He has too much riding on this not to be. But I can’t get close to him. He keeps fobbing off all my interview requests. He has a daughter about your age, right? You’re friends?”
Miss Judson let out a high, sharp laugh.
I issued a faint growl. “Not exactly.”
“What about Miss Munjal?”
“What about her?” I said sharply.
“Come on,” she coaxed. “Give me the buzz. You’re an inside source with the police and the courts.”
“I’m not a source!” I glared at her. “Besides, you must already have one, right?”
She only shrugged, not answering. Inst
ead, she said, “What I can’t figure out is how the killer is getting inside the shop to leave the warnings in the Display. I’ve been over there twice, and it’s locked up so well it’s practically watertight.”
I wasn’t letting her off the hook so easily, but she had a point. “And how did he leave the body this morning? There were no tracks around it—just the constable’s who found her.”
“Hot air balloon?” Mr. Blakeney suggested.
Genie ignored him. “I can’t get around the confounded physics of it all.”
I nodded thoughtfully. “Just like Olive Blackwell.”
“Exactly.”
“Do you really think it could be Olive?” I wasn’t convinced yet. “How could she have survived the fall? And where did she go?”
Genie’s gaze darted around the coffeehouse, like she was concerned someone might be listening in. “I’ve been working this story since I came to Swinburne, and sometimes I think she really did just vanish into thin air. There’s no trace of her.”
“Before, even,” Mr. Blakeney interposed. “It’s a bit of a lifelong obsession with her.”
Genie went on as if her brother hadn’t spoken. “And there’s more. Every record of Olive Blackwell’s disappearance has disappeared, too. Every newspaper account”—she held up her hands, in an eerie echo of the carillonist’s gesture at the Campanile—“vanished from the morgue.”
“The newspaper morgue—that’s where they keep all the old copies.” Mr. Blakeney had noticed my confusion.
“The police reports? Missing.”
“Missing!” I cried—but softly. Her suspicion was catching. “How can that be?”
“Some careless clerk must have ‘lost’ them.” Her voice was thick with skepticism.
“But they never solved the case!” I sputtered with indignation, even as I took in the implications of such a fact. Who could access the police records and make the files disappear? I didn’t like the answers.
“And that’s not all,” Genie said. “This isn’t Olive Blackwell’s first reappearance.”
“Here she goes,” said Mr. Blakeney.
Cold-Blooded Myrtle Page 12
