“You be careful, too.”
That night Miss Judson, Peony, and I sat together in the schoolroom, simmering with disbelief and consternation. And arguing, a bit, about what to do next. I studied the blue wool under Mum’s microscope, but beyond an intriguing glimpse at the minute qualities of the fibers (hairy, porous, and squiggly, in a tweedy weave of beige, blue, and grey), it could offer no explanation for its presence in the tunnel underneath Leighton’s Display window.
Other than the obvious one.
I was again cursing my carelessness with the Quæstio repetundarum letters; if only we’d had those, we could compare the handwriting to the samples we had of Genie’s penmanship and be certain she was our culprit. Although I shouldn’t have been surprised—who else would have old Schofield College letter paper? She had every other souvenir from the year Olive disappeared.
“We should turn the wool fragment over to your father,” was Miss Judson’s take on the scenario: wash our hands of it, and let Father and the police deal with Genie.
“What about the Mayor?” I said.
“What about him?”
“And Olive? We still didn’t figure out what happened to her.” I shoved away from the microscope, feeling like we’d failed. Somehow, I’d imagined we’d get to the end of things and all the pieces would fall neatly into place, like the orderly green-brick rectangular cells of a plant. Instead all we had was a hairy blob, tangled up and pointing every which way—except the one we wanted.
Miss Judson came and sat beside me. “You’ve come closer than anyone has before. You can give her family some closure. Olive ran away, and in all probability it was because she’d discovered the truth about the forged Chalice, and the rest of Hadrian’s Guard were threatening her.”
“That’s all just supposition,” I argued. “We don’t have any evidence of what really happened.” There were still pieces missing. I couldn’t just sit here and do nothing. I knew there was still more to learn. The Mayor, at least, could give us the last pieces of the puzzle, if only I could talk to him. Or if I could get into the tunnels myself—both of which seemed nigh on impossible.
As it happened, the opportunity I could not manufacture arrived on its own, in the evening post, in the form of engraved vellum, heavily scented with orange and clove, and delivered with some ceremony right to Father’s office by Cook. She’d even unearthed a silver tray (freshly polished) and a pair of white gloves for the occasion.
Miss Judson and I lurked in the hallway as she passed, mouths agape. Well, mine was, and might have stayed thus if Miss Judson hadn’t coughed politely.
“The Worshipful Mayor of Swinburne, Mr. Henry Spence-Hastings, requests the honor of your reply, Mr. ’ardcastle,” she said.
Father looked up from his work. “Well, well. Bring that on in, then.”
“Is that what we all think it is, Cook?” Miss Judson inquired.
Cook stood at the ready, eyes alight as the letter knife was procured and drawn across the wax seal to free it from the thick envelope. For a moment I felt a belated stab of panic—what if the letter was a short note in blotchy Latin? Would Genie come after us next?
Father was silent too long. I thought I would burst from the suspense, and Peony uttered a mrow! of agonized impatience.
Finally, with nearly as much ceremony as Cook had shown, he held it up for us to see: a small card, one-sided, lavishly printed and embossed, with Father’s name handwritten in:
A small cheer went up, although I couldn’t say exactly who issued it. I let all my breath out—here at last was my opportunity to question the Mayor.
Assuming Father would let me come.
“And family?” I turned pleading eyes to him. Cook and Miss Judson did the same.
Peony, from her perch in the letter tray, gave a hopeful warble.
Father deigned to speak only to her. Bending to scratch her neck, “I don’t believe the invitation extends to felines,” he said, with great apology.
Unconvinced, Peony demanded a closer look for herself.
When Father finally looked up, it was to find Miss Judson and me waiting demurely, irresistibly ladylike and perfectly presentable in Polite Company. Not at all the sorts of females who might interrupt the biggest social Event of the year with impolitic accusations of murder against our host.
Father carefully laid the invitation on the desk. “I shall reply forthwith.” He returned to his paperwork, and it seemed we were all dismissed.
But Cook’s feet were planted, and she plainly had no intention of moving before Father’s official pronouncement was made.
“Was there something else?” Father raised his eyebrows and tried to look stern.
“As a matter o’ fact, sir, an’ I ordinarily wouldn’t interrupt your work, but I meant to ask if I might have the night of the twentieth off. Molly Carter—she as is housekeeper at Mansion House—were looking to bring in extra help for the event.”
Father clapped a hand to his chest. “But however shall we survive without you for a whole evening? That will mean no stewing chicken, no fillet of sole, no Stansberry pie . . .”
Cook turned red and fought off a smile. “Get on with you, sir.”
He relented. “Very well, yes, of course, enjoy your evening with the Mayor.”
“An’ what about yourselves? Do I need to lay by dinner before?”
“Mr. Hardcastle, if you would kindly put us all out of our misery,” Miss Judson interjected.
Father stood up, yawned elaborately, and finally said, “Well, if we won’t be fed here, I suppose we’ll have to find other arrangements. Yes, we’ll all go. I’d better see if my evening suit still fits.”
And he wandered off to his room, whistling “Greensleeves,” as Miss Judson and I realized that he’d successfully circumvented any potential discussion of the case. He was getting nearly as good at this as we were.
The merry weather did not last. Monday morning at breakfast, Miss Judson and I were greeted by a sudden winter storm.
“Oh, my god!” came the thunderclap, reverberating through the dining room and rattling the glass in the sideboard. Father was reading—or, rather, scorching with the heat of his glare—the Tribune, which had a huge black headline:
MYSTERY OF OLIVE BLACKWELL SOLVED!
mayor implicated in fraud, conspiracy & murder
I sat down with a commanding thud, which Father under ordinary circumstances could not fail to notice. Miss Judson’s graceful slide into her seat was more than normally subdued.
We did not dare to interrupt. Neither did I dare glance at Miss Judson. My mind was spinning and I felt cold all over. I did not think I could feel any more betrayed, but Genie had surprised me, yet again.
“Mr. Hardcastle?” Miss Judson’s voice was at its most tentative and surgically precise.
Father didn’t answer. He merely gathered up the newspaper, threw it into the fireplace, and stormed from the room.
In one swift, athletic motion, Miss Judson leaped to her feet to rescue the newspaper. But as with Nora’s note at the Blackwells’, she was too late. The paper had gone up in flames. Jaw set, she said, “We’ll get another copy when we go see Mr. Blakeney.” I could tell she was nearly as angry as Father.
“Maybe it didn’t say anything about us?” If it had, surely Father would have lingered long enough to immolate us, too.
“We can hope,” she said. “But we’d best make ourselves scarce, all the same.”
A surprise was waiting at Woodstein’s Coffeehouse. A bespectacled, brown-haired, blue-coated lady journalist had commandeered a booth big enough for a grand jury and made herself at home, with notebooks, newspapers, and the remnants of a meal. She waved us over. Mr. Blakeney sat slumped guiltily across from her.
“Did you see my story?” she cried, before we even made it to the table. “Isn’t it perfect?”
“Stephen—” Mr. Blakeney tried to begin, but Miss Judson spoke first.
“Perfect may
not be the word I’d use.”
Genie eyed her, head cocked. “I’d not have pegged you for such a stick in the mud, Miss J.”
“Why would you write such a thing?” I cried. “You promised!”
“Can’t blame a girl for reporting what she hears.” At this, Mr. Blakeney looked even more miserable. We should have taken his advice about not confiding in him.
Genie gave a slimy little shrug. “It worked, though—just see if it doesn’t. It’ll get the whole town talking, and sooner or later, somebody will slip up and say something. And I didn’t break my promise,” she added. “The story doesn’t mention you or your mother by name. Not once.” She handed me a fresh copy of the paper, which I flung down unread.
“My father was right about you,” I said.
She didn’t look wounded at all. “Probably. Now sit down, and let’s talk sensibly. I want to know what you found out!”
“Actually, you may not.” Miss Judson had seldom sounded so cold.
“Genie, what did you do?” There was an edge to Mr. Blakeney’s voice.
She shot him a look. “Well, I don’t know, little brother. Let’s hear what the detectives mean to accuse me of.”
I slid into the booth, Miss Judson beside me, so we wouldn’t be overheard. Mr. Blakeney deserved that, at least. I dug in my satchel and withdrew the scrap of blue wool, safely preserved in a specimen jar. I had brought it along as a sort of talisman, hoping I would not need to show it to Mr. Blakeney. But his sister’s actions had stripped away all my sympathy.
She peered at it with great appreciation, holding it to the light. “What is it?”
“That,” I said, “is what we found in the tunnel beneath the Leightons’ shop window.”
“You found evidence? Why didn’t you say anything—I could have put it in my story. Myrtle, that’s splendid!”
“Not so splendid,” Miss Judson said.
“That came from your coat.” As Genie held the jar, I could see how obviously it matched her jacket.
If I’d expected her to give herself away so easily—patting down her sleeves and hem, looking for the tear—I was disappointed. “I don’t think so.” She set the vial down on the table between us. “There must be hundreds of blue wool coats—or skirts, or scarves, or blankets—in Swinburne. You have one,” she pointed out.
“Not this color.”
“Well, I’ve never been in the tunnels—Robbie can tell you that.”
Mr. Blakeney was looking at his sister with dismay. “Not really.”
“Is that all?” Genie sounded wary.
“We know you wrote the threatening letters in Latin. I saw the paper on your desk.”
Now her lips spread in a slow, lopsided smile. “There’s the clever Myrtle Hardcastle I’ve heard so much about.”
“You admit it?”
“I’ll always take the credit,” she said. “I work too hard on my writing not to. The chairs at the Campanile were me, too.”
Mr. Blakeney, taking this all in, had turned pasty white. He grabbed her by the (blue, wool) shoulder. “Imogen Shelley Blakeney, what have you done?”
She pulled away, nonchalant. “Stirred the pot, little brother, that’s all. Kicked the anthill.”
“Hit the hornet’s nest with a stick? Oh, Genie.”
She glared at him. “And why not? All the little ants are scrambling to cover their tracks. It’s obvious I’m making everyone nervous.”
I was starting to understand—only I wasn’t, not really. “You made them so nervous they arrested Mrs. Leighton!”
Here she looked briefly chagrined. “Those charges will never stick. Especially not when we expose the real culprit.”
“You might have gotten Nora Carmichael killed. Or killed her yourself.”
She leaned over the table. “No. I sent those silly notes, just to see how they’d all react, but I didn’t monkey with the shop displays. That was all the killer’s doing.”
“Maybe you’re in on it together.”
Her bark of laughter was cut short. “You’re serious, aren’t you? You think I was involved in the murders?”
“Genie, don’t you ever learn? This is what got you kicked out of Elmhurst!” I had never seen Mr. Blakeney so angry. His face was flushed so red even his hair seemed aflame. “You have gone too far this time! What were you thinking!”
“Robbie! You can’t believe I’d actually kill somebody for a story!”
“I don’t know,” he said. “I didn’t believe you’d string Headmistress Peabody’s Sunday petticoat up the flagpole, or whatever that stunt with the donkey on the hockey field was, either, but here we are.”
She rose to her feet. “This is not the same. I’ll prove it to you.” She dug in her pockets and withdrew a pair of folding scissors on a watch fob. Before our very eyes, she turned up the hem of her coat and snipped out a slice of the cloth. “There. Compare it. Test it. Do whatever you want. You’ll see I was never in that tunnel. And I didn’t kill anybody.”
She gathered up all her things in a messy armload, blinking furiously. Her cheeks were burning and she wouldn’t look at the rest of us. But as she shoved away from the table, the last thing she said was, “But I’ll find out who did. You can count on it.”
22
Adverse Consequence
The selection of Christmas gifts for friends and loved ones must be undertaken with the utmost care, and if at all possible, planned throughout the year. Waiting until the last minute is a fatal mistake. —H. M. Hardcastle, A Modern Yuletide
We sat in numb silence for some time afterward, Mr. Blakeney staring at the spot that, a moment before, his sister had occupied. Finally he came back to life, rubbing furiously at his ruddy face. “I’m really sorry, Stephen, Miss J. I should have known even I couldn’t trust her.”
“Should you go after her?” Miss Judson said.
“Not in that mood,” he said. “I’m no fool. Well, not a complete one, anyway. How much time before you tell the police—or Mr. Hardcastle—what you’ve learned?”
“Wait.” I was confused. “How come you’re not protesting her innocence? Defending her honor, or something?”
“Ah. Therein lies a tale, indeed. But the short version is, I’m all tapped out.”
Something in his voice restrained me. Or perhaps that was Miss Judson’s hand on my arm. She looked at him gravely and said, “Perhaps you’d better tell us.”
I felt sorry for Mr. Blakeney. “Unless it violates solicitor-client privilege.” I didn’t want him to compromise himself, simply to satisfy our curiosity.
“I’m not aware that she’s done anything that would require my discretion,” he said stiffly. I didn’t know if that made me feel better or not. “But I guess this whole thing started when we were kids. Genie’s always been fascinated by the Olive Blackwell story. She saw her as a kindred spirit—a mischievous prankster who met a mysterious fate. When she was expelled from her last school, she set about trying to solve the mystery.”
He waved to the server to bring another pot of tea. I had a feeling we were all going to need it. “When she got the job at the Tribune, my folks were thrilled that I’d be here to look after her. But when she moved in—” He shook his head. “I couldn’t believe how obsessed she’d become. All those clippings we sent you? They don’t even scratch the surface. The walls of her room are papered with them. William Morris* has nothing on Imogen Blakeney. I didn’t know what to think—and then the shopkeeper died, and her stories took off. But I swear I never thought there was any connection. I still don’t. There can’t be.” He turned his stricken gaze to us. “Can there?”
How could we answer that?
Mr. Blakeney dragged himself to his feet. “Well, there must be a fire I should be putting out somewhere. She usually leaves a burning trail in her wake. As you’ve seen.”
Miss Judson’s frown deepened. “I hope she doesn’t mean to do anything drastic.”
His s
mile returned fleetingly, before vanishing again. “Genie?” he said in mock disbelief. “What in the world would make you think that?” He rummaged in his pockets for some coins to pay for the tea, and found a slip of paper. “Oh, Stephen—I don’t know if this is any use anymore, but I did go to the museum to ask around about the Chalice. The curator told me that it was the third time somebody had asked about it in recent weeks.”
“Well, one was us,” I said. “Who was the other?”
“All he could recall was that it was a young woman.” Mr. Blakeney looked toward the coffeehouse door, where his sister had stormed off, with a rueful sigh. “I suppose now we can guess who that was.”
Miss Judson, Peony, and I spent the evening in the schoolroom, staring at the vial of wool and the sample Genie had given us, sitting untouched on the workbench. Somehow, despite having the evidence and equipment at hand, I could not bring myself to examine it.
“What if it’s not the result we want?” I asked Miss Judson.
“Which is what, exactly?”
“Well, that she’s not guilty, of course . . .”
Elbows on the counter, Miss Judson said, “Are you asking me, or telling me?”
“Miss!” I wailed. “I don’t want her to be guilty. But if we look at this, and it turns out that she is—” I flailed a hand. “We’ll have to tell Mr. Blakeney, and it’ll be our fault.”
She eyed me steadily. “You know that’s not true.”
I nodded. “But it still feels like it is.”
She put out a hand to meet mine. “I know exactly what you mean. Get out the microscope and let’s find out the truth. We don’t hide from the evidence—good news or bad.”
Moments later, I took a deep breath and slid Genie’s sample under the lens, saying a silent prayer to Mum. I’m not even sure what I asked her—something entirely unscientific, no doubt. Without waiting for her reply, I plunged down to the eyepiece.
I gazed through it silently for so long that Miss Judson started to fidget. “Well?” she demanded. “What’s the verdict?”
Cold-Blooded Myrtle Page 20
