Cold-Blooded Myrtle

by Elizabeth C. Bunce

  “Like that ritual they were performing?”

  “Ritual?” he boomed, coming half out of his chair. “Rituals are holy things! That was some pagan nonsense—dressing up like ancient Romans and parading about indecently. If Olive’s disappearance hadn’t killed my Esther, that alone would have done her in.” He grew petulant. “Why are you asking all these questions? Where’s Olive?”

  Before we could answer, the Campanile’s bells began to ring, shuddering the thin glass in the flat’s old windows. It acted like a thunderbolt, smiting the old man where he sat. His body went abruptly rigid, arching in his armchair like the victim of a strychnine attack.

  The kitchen door slammed. “What have you done!” Damaris dropped her tea tray with a crash and rushed to her father. “Father! Catch your breath. That’s it. Everything’s fine.” She turned to us. “Did you bring up O-l-i-v-e?” She mouthed each letter silently.

  We all nodded. LaRue’s eyes were wide with mute terror, and the three of us tripped over one another in our crush to back away from the scene we’d caused.

  “Should—should I send for my father?” Caroline asked. “He’s a doctor.”

  “He just has these fits. Always has. I’m the only one who can help.” Indeed, her presence was calming, and in a few moments Mr. Blackwell was slumped in his seat, asleep or dazed, but at least peaceful.

  “Did we kill him?” LaRue asked—and I elbowed her, none too gently, in the side.

  After a few dreadfully long minutes of fussing over her father, and then attempting to calm the shrieking bird, Miss Blackwell finally turned to us.

  “Had your fun, then? It’s bad enough that we live in the shadow of that horrid belltower—especially now. That girl had to go and convince everyone that it would all be so lovely to have the bells ringing again. But we have to contend with folks like you lot coming about, digging up the dead. Why can’t you leave well enough alone?”

  “Don’t you want to know what really happened to your sister?” I said.

  “I know what happened. It’s all in the past, and we’re better off without her.”

  She paused to straighten the picture I’d bumped. It was a needlework sampler with a dark blob stitched in the middle. I drew closer, trying to make out the image. A Bible verse was stitched around it:

  They shall go into the holes of the rocks and the caves of the earth for fear of the LORD

  Miss Blackwell’s sharp fingers touched the stitches. “Olive’s work—or it was meant to be. I had to finish it for her, of course. Never had the patience for anything.”

  The next picture had also been knocked askew: a framed family portrait from happier times, with a cherubic little Olive posed front and center, clutching a doll. Elder sister Damaris was just as recognizable—the younger, feminine version of her father in his stern clerical robes. Their mum looked like Olive, small and round and pretty, and on her lap she held an infant in a heap of white frills.

  Caroline couldn’t help herself. “Oh, who’s that?” she cooed, pointing at the baby. “Do you have a little brother?”

  Miss Blackwell’s expression did not soften. “After Olive’s—after Olive, we decided our youngest would be better off raised by family elsewhere.” She looked briefly pensive. “Mother never got over losing two of her children in one blow. Olive was always determined to bring shame down on our family. And she’s still upsetting things, all these years later.” She opened the door, letting in a gust of frigid corridor, and fairly shoved us all out into it. “Good day.”

  “Well,” said LaRue, once we were back outside in the bright cold air, “it’s obviously them. They killed the shopkeeper and that Cleopatra woman and sent those crazy letters, and they’re trying to ruin Father’s Christmas Ball. Let’s go tell the constables.”

  She sounded precisely like a small version of Aunt Helena. “That’s not how it works,” I said, knowing it was useless. “We don’t have any evidence against them.”

  “Evidence?” she crowed. “You saw them! How much more obviously murderous could they be? I’ll bet the bird was in on it, too.”

  Caroline and I exchanged worried glances as LaRue marched off toward the waiting cab. Evidence or no, I had a feeling LaRue was probably right.

  The cab trundled away from Schofield College, the castlelike buildings fading into the background, even as the haunting notes of the Campanile filled the sky. I tried to spare a thought for the carillonist, merry Leah hammering away at the bells, despite all the chaos and tragedy that belltower had caused.

  As we left the college behind, Caroline could not hold her tongue any longer. “Myrtle, you should have told me that Nora Carmichael got one of those notes before she was killed!” she said. “What if the killer is after our fathers, too?”

  I swallowed my answer—hadn’t Genie told us as much? But Caroline had more to say; she was twisting the end of her braid. “What is it?”

  “I didn’t tell you this before—I couldn’t, because—” She waved a distraught hand. “But I do know what our fathers—LaRue’s and mine—were talking about that night the Mayor came over.” She took a great sniff. “Back when Miss Blackwell disappeared, they arrested Father for it. They held him in custody for three days, until Mr. Spence-Hastings provided an alibi for him. A false alibi.”

  I stared at her, aghast. No wonder her mother was so upset!

  “He didn’t do anything to her!” Caroline insisted. “He was at home with Mother that night, which wasn’t good enough for the police. But when Mr. Spence-Hastings said he could vouch for him, they let him go. They wouldn’t believe my father—but they believed yours.” There was bitterness in her voice.

  “Because he was rich and English,” I said bluntly. Even LaRue gave a half-hearted acknowledgment.

  Caroline nodded tearfully. “Anyway, that’s why Mr. Spence-Hastings said Father owes him—because he gave him an alibi all those years ago, and he needed Father to do the same now.”

  LaRue had turned scarlet to the roots of her hair. “Why would my father possibly need yours to lie for him?”

  “He would if he didn’t have an alibi for the murders,” I said.

  LaRue looked like she wanted to kick both of us out of the cab right then—but our argument was forestalled when the carriage turned a corner onto High Street and slowed to a halt. The street was jammed with carriages and pedestrians, and the odd cyclist.

  “What’s the holdup?” LaRue banged the carriage ceiling to get the driver’s attention. He didn’t have a chance to answer her. He didn’t need to. Soon enough we could see for ourselves.

  The knot of traffic clogging High Street was centered around Leighton’s Mercantile.

  “Is it another Display?” Caroline’s voice wavered, and I craned my neck to see past her. It was impossible to tell what was happening inside the Leightons’ shop window—but there was plenty of excitement outside.

  Two police wagons were parked there, horses snorting clouds of steam into the cold afternoon air. On the corner, watching intently, was Genie Shelley in her short blue coat. I spotted young Constable Terrence standing rigidly beside the shop door, which swung open. Inspector Hardy and Dr. Munjal came out, escorting a careworn woman in a white cap and apron. Her shocked blue eyes seemed to look straight at me, as the men bundled her into a police carriage. Following behind, red robes swinging, was the Mayor.

  I stared at the scene in disbelief, but Caroline found her voice.

  “They’re arresting Mrs. Leighton!”

  * an unflattering allusion to a character from Charles Dickens’s Great Expectations, 1861, an unhappy old woman lost in her memories. And her wedding gown.

  17

  Upon the Midnight Clear

  Amid the hustle and bustle of the holiday season, nothing stirs the mind to contemplation quite like a still, cold, clear midwinter’s night.

  —H. M. Hardcastle, A Modern Yuletide

  I could not believe it. I could not make myself b
elieve that poor Mrs. Leighton had killed her kindly husband—scandal or no—let alone Nora Carmichael. Father had absented himself to his office in town, chiefly so he would not have to hear Miss Judson’s and my Idle Speculation on the case.

  We gathered in the kitchen, with a bright and cheery fire in the grate and comforting smells of cinnamon and clove emanating from the hob. Cook had made eggnog and had served small, nutmeggy cups of it to each of us. I didn’t like the sharp burn of liquor, but Miss Judson had deemed it Medicinally Appropriate—for all of us, like cough syrup after a day in the rain. (Peony got a serving smaller still and minus alcohol.)

  “I never should have made that promise to Father.” I had lugged all my case notes down and spread them across the table, and nobody complained.

  Looking over my shoulder, Miss Judson made an Observation. “I take it this is not the suspect to whom the evidence would have led your Investigation?”

  “Harrumph,” opined Cook, who had known Mrs. Leighton longer than any of us.

  “It just doesn’t make any sense.”

  “Murders seldom do,” Miss Judson said.

  “Of course they do! They always make perfect sense—at least to the killer. There’s always a cold and ruthless reason for everything. Or at least a motive! What’s Mrs. Leighton’s supposed to be?”

  Miss Judson paused to consider this too long.

  “And even if she was angry with her husband for some reason, that wouldn’t explain her killing Nora.”

  “Maybe she were trying to cover up the first crime,” Cook said. “Misdirection. Make everyone think someone were trying to do ’em all in, those Hadrian’s Guard folk.”

  “Cook!” Miss Judson gave her the exasperated look usually reserved for me or Peony. Cook just settled comfortably into her rocking chair, looking like a pleased hen.

  “No,” I said. “It’s too elaborate. Those murders were very public and very—”

  “Showy?” Miss Judson filled in.

  “Exactly. Mrs. Leighton’s not like that at all. If she were going to kill somebody, she wouldn’t do something so . . . attention-grabbing.”

  Once again my thoughts went to Olive—dramatic, center-of-attention Olive Blackwell—and I couldn’t help shivering, despite the cozy warmth and the nog. What about the other Miss Blackwell, Damaris? She’d certainly seemed to hate everyone involved in Olive’s disappearance—especially Olive.

  I turned my attention back to the scene outside Leighton’s that afternoon, or, more specifically, the cast of characters who’d been present.

  It could have been perfectly natural. Dr. Munjal was the Police Surgeon who’d examined Mr. Leighton, and it was a high-profile crime that had the whole village on edge. Of course the Mayor would want to be on hand to supervise the arrest of the prime suspect, especially if a certain newspaper reporter could be there to witness his triumphant success.

  Except . . . what if it was more than that? Dr. Munjal and the Mayor were the only members left of Hadrian’s Guard—the only people alive to keep their secrets. Caroline’s confession had thrown a shadow over their whole relationship, and we could not be certain anything they did together was truly innocent. What if they’d decided to wrap up the case in a tidy little Christmas bow?

  I hated that idea. It was hard to believe that Dr. Munjal might be involved in something nefarious. But LaRue’s father was another matter.

  “It must have been the Mayor,” I decided. “He’s the only one left, and he has enough influence to convince the police to go after Mrs. Leighton, even without strong evidence.”

  “I hesitate to take your father’s side of this argument,” Miss Judson said. “But I must point out that we don’t know they don’t have strong evidence. Perhaps she confessed.”

  I Looked, Cook harrumphed, and Peony said, “No.”

  “All right—unlikely. But they might have been building a case against Mrs. Leighton this whole time,” she pointed out. “You saw how her passions were aroused when she spoke about the scandal. Maybe the dedication of the gallery, along with the depiction of the Campanile in the Display, was enough to push her over the edge.”

  “Fine,” I conceded. “But I still think the Mayor is worth Investigating. He has access to all sorts of resources—it would be easy for him to come up with both means and opportunity—and he has a strong motive for killing both the professor and Nora.”

  “Aye, and how are you going to prove it, then?” Cook wanted to know.

  I kicked the chair legs. “I haven’t figured that out yet.”

  As Miss Judson tucked me in, my thoughts were still churning over the long, strange day. The image that kept leaping to mind was young Olive’s ugly sampler, with the cave and the Bible verse.

  “Miss? Do you know any scripture about caves?”

  “Very likely,” she replied. “Why do you ask?”

  I told her about the sampler. “I keep thinking about it. It was something about people hiding in caves to protect themselves?” Why was it ringing round in my head like a song I couldn’t quite remember?

  “Hmm. Perhaps Isaiah? Let me see.” She strode down the hallway to her own bedroom, and returned with a copy of the Bible (an English one, not her favorite French volume) and thumbed through it. “Here. Isaiah 2:19: And they shall go into the holes of the rocks, and the caves of the earth, for fear of the LORD, and for the glory of His majesty, when He ariseth to shake terribly the earth.”

  I let the words sink in, sleepily imagining Roman soldiers hiding from the wrath of God in tunnels (although I was mixing my Old and New Testaments; the Romans came much later), stashing their Cornish Saturnalia Chalice for safekeeping. It was a dreamy, vague image—but a moment later it jolted me wide awake with sudden clarity.

  “That’s it.” I sat up, unable to hold still. “Tunnels!” I half leaped from the bed. Complaining, Peony stalked off, and the look on Miss Judson’s face was not much keener. “That carillonist at the Campanile—she told us, remember?” It was perfect. It was so perfect, I couldn’t believe no one had thought of it before. “The Campanile is built above a network of steam tunnels that run underneath the whole college grounds.”

  Miss Judson’s fingers froze in leafing through the Bible. “Well, now.” A slow smile spread across her face, as she read the next verse aloud. “In that day a man shall cast his idols of silver, and his idols of gold, which they made each one for himself to worship, to the moles and to the bats.”

  We grinned at each other. Olive had vanished into the tunnels.

  Miss Judson, naturally, would not permit me to launch an expedition that very night, but convinced me (somewhat grudgingly) to postpone it until first light. We breezed past Father as he came down for breakfast.

  “Are you two off somewhere? It’s not even eight o’clock.” He was well to be curious (if not concerned). Many of our most spurious escapades happened before elevenses.

  We were, in fact, off to visit the Blakeneys, although it would hardly do to admit as much to Father.

  “Just errands,” Miss Judson prevaricated smoothly.

  It was a good thing we were in a hurry; if we lingered any longer, I’d be forced to fling myself at Father and pester him within an inch of sanity about the case. It was madness to even consider that Mrs. Leighton might have killed her husband, and I knew he wouldn’t share any of the evidence against her with us, despite his promise. And he certainly couldn’t explain the mystery of the relationship (or collusion) between the Mayor and Dr. Munjal. If he even believed it. Father had been working closely with Dr. Munjal on the case. Would he think it suspicious to find the Mayor lurking in the shadows, pulling the strings?

  Miss Judson and I cycled into town, keeping close abreast to discuss the particulars of Olive’s escape. As much as we both liked the idea that she’d slipped away from the world by disappearing beneath it, it didn’t answer everything.

  “How did she get from the belfry to the tunnels without everyone see
ing her?” Miss Judson said. “They all agree that she fell out the open archway.”

  “Like Cook said. Misdirection,” I answered, with a decided lack of specificity. But she was right. We still hadn’t solved that essential part of the mystery—how had Olive fooled everyone into thinking she’d died? “Maybe we’ll find more clues in the tunnels themselves.”

  Miss Judson’s bicycle squeaked to an abrupt halt. “Who said we were going to the tunnels?”

  “We have to! How else will we find out what happened to Olive?”

  Miss Judson did not exactly answer. She adjusted her hat and gloves, and then the fit of her bloomer cuffs, then her gloves again, and then set off once more, brow creased. Nonplussed, I followed in her wake.

  We arrived at the Swinburne Tribune offices just as the morning staff was switching over. Sleepy-eyed men staggered out of the building, passing sleepy-eyed men staggering in. Inside, there was no sign of Genie or Mr. Blakeney. I realized they’d never actually told us whether Mr. Blakeney was working for the newspaper now or not, or if he was just following along at Genie’s heels, cleaning up her messes—figuratively or literally.

  The newspaper office was a splendid, modern affair, full of typewriters (three!), its own telegraph unit clattering in the background, even a telephone. Newspapermen in sleeve garters and visors typed away frantically. No one looked up. There was a reception desk, but the clerk was nowhere to be seen, and a teakettle on a gas jet had boiled itself dry and was making an alarming rattle. Miss Judson coughed politely, which was also overlooked.

  As we glanced about for direction, a door at the back of the office swung open, and thence appeared Genie, in a neat twill frock and a jaunty little felt hat with a turned-up brim. She frowned at a half sheet of newsprint in her hands.