Cold-Blooded Myrtle

by Elizabeth C. Bunce

  I stared and studied the wool fibers from Genie’s blue nubby coat. Like the sample we’d found in the tunnel, it was wiry and kinked, fibers pointing every which way. These strands all looked alike, a deep, even, solid blue, dyed before spinning and woven from the same yarn.† The sample from the tunnel had been tweedy—a mix of colors.

  “You look,” I said, moving aside. I wanted independent confirmation of my findings. Genie’s coat had looked the same to the naked eye, but the microscope told the truth.

  “Similar,” Miss Judson said judiciously. “But not identical.”

  I let out all my breath. “It wasn’t hers.”

  Miss Judson was less relieved. “Whose was it, then?”

  The next day, there was no further story by Imogen Shelley in the Swinburne Tribune. Nor did we hear from Mr. Blakeney. It ought to have been a reprieve (Father certainly took it that way), but I could not help feeling a certain foreboding disquiet.

  Father was determined to be in a good mood, however. With the Mayor’s party tonight, he came home early, then swooped down on me after lunch.

  “I have to pick up my suit from the tailor’s,” he said (Miss Judson and Cook having demurred from this particular task—the alterations, not the fetching). “I thought we could go into town together. Make an afternoon of it.” His eyes kept darting down the mistletoe-strung hallway to Miss Judson’s door.

  “You haven’t got her a present yet, have you?”

  Father shook his head. “No, have you?”

  I matched his mournful expression.

  “That settles it,” he said. “This is definitely a matter for two superior Hardcastle intellects. Or one superior intellect, and one solicitor with a wallet.”

  Happy for the diversion, I ran for my coat, with Miss Judson calling after us, “Be back by teatime! We don’t want to be late!”

  We headed into town on the crowded tram. The holiday atmosphere had thickened like fog, and three of our travelmates were attempting to outdo each other in a merry medley of semi-identifiable carols. They exhorted us to join, and Father, to my intense embarrassment, obeyed. With gusto. I sank into my coat and pretended not to be related to him.

  And fretted. Every blue coat on the tram and in the street reminded me of Genie and of the killer who’d left the scrap behind in the passageway. Although we’d exonerated Genie from our suspect pool, the way she’d stormed off felt ominous. She’d kicked the Mayor’s anthill, as she’d said, and there was no telling what he meant to do next. He’d already arranged to have Mrs. Leighton arrested to keep his own crimes from becoming public. Would he do worse? Had he? Shivering in the overheated tram, I was afraid I already knew the answer to that.

  I was thus engaged in a roiling circuit of unpleasant and unproductive thoughts, set to the disturbing rhythm of “The Boar’s Head Carol,” when the tram clanged to a stop on High Street, depositing everyone in a convivial heap in the blustery afternoon air.

  “Ah,” Father said, clapping his arms round himself. “Bracing!”

  I shook myself back to the moment. “Miss Judson doesn’t care for the cold,” I Observed. It came from being born in the tropics.

  “You’re right. Perhaps she’d like a nice woolly jumper?”

  And thus we embarked upon the Great Quest. With Leighton’s still closed, we had to choose from several other Purveyors of Fine Goods from Across the Empire, and we spent a diverting, silly, and increasingly frustrating two hours ducking in and out of various shops. We Considered and Rejected a monogrammed silver card case (too late to have the engraving done); a repoussé desk set (too expensive, despite my lobbying hard on its behalf—I quite fancied the inkwell, which was shaped like a rabbit); and the woolly jumper (too woolly). Also rejected were a globe (too practical), a velvet hat (too impractical), and a gothic romance so ridiculous each of us set the book down without comment.

  At long last, another shop window caught my eye. Arrayed on a bed of lush velvet were ladies’ toilet items: powder jars, hatpins and hairpins, hair receivers, and the other assorted bric-a-brac that littered a dressing table and contributed to the well-turned-out appearance of a Young Lady of Quality. I halted. Father halted beside me.

  “Is that ivory?” he Inquired.

  “Celluloid.” I indicated the sign advertising French Ivorine. “No elephants involved. We studied it last summer, remember?”

  Father’s moustache twitched. “I seem to recall an ill-fated experiment and a lot of fumes.”‡

  “That’s the one!” I tugged on his sleeve. “It’s perfect.”

  “Well, it’s better than that hat,” he agreed, and hauled open the shop door.

  Twenty minutes later we emerged victorious. Or at least Father did, having ultimately selected a pair of celluloid combs in a tortoiseshell pattern of mottled brown and amber, guaranteed to reflect the rich dark shades of Miss Judson’s hair (and signal to Miss Judson that Father thought about her hair, at least occasionally).

  “You should give them to her tonight,” I said firmly. “So she can wear them to the ball.”

  He frowned at this. “Then what do I give her on Christmas?”

  The shopkeeper had a suggestion for this as well. “The matching hairbrush, of course,” she said with a smile, taking more of Father’s money.

  I had not had Father’s luck with Miss Judson’s gift (having given him my best idea), but I refused to let that dim my enthusiasm for his choice. The combs were the ideal combination of practicality, beauty, and technology, with an understated elegance that suited Miss Judson perfectly.

  I should simply have to keep Pondering. Inspiration would be forthcoming. It had to.

  Father consulted his watch. “We have some time yet. Shall we stop for a cocoa?”

  While we’d been shopping, the bracing air had turned damp and gloomy, dull grey clouds draping the roofs and chimney pots of the High Street buildings. But I nodded happily, and as we turned toward the teashop, I spotted a familiar figure strolling our way, her fringed cape swishing in the snow.

  “That’s the carillonist from the college!” I waved heartily. The young woman lifted a vague hand—but recognized me a moment later.

  “Why, if it isn’t Myrtle! We do seem to keep running into each other.”

  “We told Father how splendid your recital was,” I said—which was patently untrue. Miss Judson and I had, in fact, left out most of the pertinent bits. Like Genie’s prank.

  “You’re too kind,” Leah said. “The midnight program was even more thrilling. Even without our duet!” Her merry laugh matched her bells—bells ringing, everywhere she went—until I realized she wore them on the fringe of her cloak, miniature silver sleigh bells, jingling with her every movement. “It was a singular performance, if I do say so myself.”

  I felt Father waiting for me with mild reproof, and remembered manners. “May I introduce my father, Mr. Hardcastle? Father, this is the carillonist I was telling you about, Miss—” I broke off with a mortified realization. “I’m very sorry, but I don’t know your last name.”

  “How rude of me,” Leah said, offering her hand to Father. “I’m Miss Blackwell.”

  For a stupefied moment I just stared at her, as Leah Blackwell shook my father’s hand, my brain skittering back over everything she’d told us. My father taught Divinity, my mother played the carillon, Olive ran away to a happier life. Of course. I was embarrassed not to have recognized the family connection.

  She and Father chatted easily, and Father made no sign that he was bowled over by the revelation of her identity. Well, why shouldn’t Olive have had another sister? We’d seen baby Leah in the family photo, after all. And what possible reason would poor Miss Blackwell have had to confess her identity to the two people who had rudely descended (well, ascended) upon her private sanctuary out of morbid curiosity over her sister’s fate? No, I realized—of course she hadn’t fully introduced herself.

  They were talking about the Mayor’s ball.
“. . . playing the pianoforte there tonight! I was so honored to be asked,” Leah was saying. “Mr. Spence-Hastings was one of my father’s favorite students. Father can’t attend, of course, but I’ll be there for the family. You’ll have another chance to admire my work, Mr. Hardcastle!”

  “I’m looking forward to it,” he said, and I put in: “Miss Judson will be there as well.”

  “Perfect,” she said. “It’s certain to be an unforgettable evening! Happy Christmas!”

  “Merry Christmas,” Father said.

  With a final wave, Leah drifted away into the mist, cape tinkling.

  Father watched her thoughtfully, no doubt thinking there went the sort of Young Lady of Quality who would never consort with scandal-mongering newspaper reporters and accuse the Mayor of murder. I sighed, but Father didn’t notice, merely hooked his arm in mine and steered me toward the hot cocoa.

  We never made it.

  A fellow was stalking across High Street, forging ahead like an oncoming pneumatic railcar. There was a cacophony of shouting and neighing as a carriage narrowly missed mowing him down. The coachman yanked the horses out of the way at the last moment with a jangle of harness and neighs, which did not quite cover the shouted invectives.

  “I say, there’s no call for that language,” grumbled Father, trying to shield my ears. I shook him off.

  “Father, it’s Mr. Blakeney!” I broke away and dashed into the street myself—looking both ways in case further carriages threatened. “Mr. Blakeney! Mr. Blakeney!” It was Not Done for a Young Lady of Quality to run after a young man in public, shouting his name, certainly not in such close proximity to her father, but it could hardly be helped. In his current state, there was no telling what misadventure Mr. Blakeney might fall prey to.

  “Stephen? Where’d you come from?” he said when I caught him. He looked like he’d been running all over town. His overcoat was unbuttoned, his collar and tie askew—and he’d lost his hat. Again. “Oh, you’re with your father. Good afternoon, Mr. Hardcastle.” He didn’t sound like he thought it was very good.

  “Young man, are you quite all right?” Father took in Mr. Blakeney’s disheveled appearance and red face with concern.

  “No, not really, sir,” he said. “It’s Genie—my sister. She didn’t come home last night.”

  *the author, artist, and purveyor of arsenic-infused wallpaper

  †Miss Judson’s expert artistic determination was that the exact shade was called “Stirwaters blue,” although frankly I think she got that from a fairy tale.

  ‡It turns out that guncotton and camphor are not as easy to homogenize in a kitchen laboratory as one might wish.

  23

  Non Verbis, Sed Rebus

  On the subject of gifts, in general most people do not enjoy overly practical items, and it should hardly be necessary to note that while fruit is marginally acceptable (oranges yes, raisins no), new underthings and socks are never a welcome thing to find under the tree and should in no wise be considered “gifts.” —H. M. Hardcastle, A Modern Yuletide

  I did not think I could take more surprises. And certainly Mr. Blakeney was not taking this one particularly well. He shoved and shoved his hand through his hair, red-faced and jaw set. I could practically see the steam coming out his ears. An ugly, wet, spitting snow had started, stinging my forehead, but Mr. Blakeney didn’t seem to notice.

  “Steady on, lad,” said Father. “Explain what’s happened. Your sister, you say?”

  “Yes, sorry, sir.” Mr. Blakeney forced himself to speak calmly. “Genie—Imogen—and I share rooms. We both work here in town, but I haven’t seen her since yesterday, and her employers say she never bothered to come in today at all.”

  Father immediately jumped to the most dreadful conclusion. “Have you notified the police?”

  “I don’t think she’s done anything wrong,” I said uncertainly.

  Father looked at me oddly. “Something might have happened to her.”

  I fought the urge to grasp Father by the arm. Not too many months ago, a situation chillingly similar to this one had played out, very near here. But then, it was me telling Mr. Blakeney that Father hadn’t come home.

  “I doubt that, sir. I’m more concerned about what she might have got herself into.”

  I took charge. “Do you have any idea where she might be? Where were you going, just now?”

  Mr. Blakeney gestured vaguely down the street. “I thought I’d try Leighton’s, on the off chance she’s gone there.”

  “Good idea,” I said. “We’ll come too.”

  Father frowned, obviously wondering who this wayward girl was who would be frequenting a closed shop. “Do you know this . . . Imogene, Myrtle?”

  “Imogen,” I corrected unthinkingly. Was this the moment to tell Father I’d been fraternizing with the enemy? But Mr. Blakeney struck off, dodging shoppers and moving at such a pace we were hard pressed to carry on any sort of conversation—let alone one so fraught with self-incrimination. I held my tongue.

  We soon assembled before the dark and shaded shop. Miss Judson still had her key, and there was no sign that Genie had broken in (although I would not put that past her—picking locks seemed just like something she’d know how to do). I checked to see whether the hatch over the pneumatic tunnel had been opened.

  But my gaze stopped at the Display itself, and held there. “Oh, no.”

  “Stephen, please tell me you didn’t just say, ‘Oh, no.’ ”

  “I’m with him,” Father said, as they joined me at the window. The three of us looked down together, into the model streets of Swinburne, and at the newly rearranged tableau of miniatures.

  “Oh, no,” so said we all.

  In the shadow of the olives and the wishing well, a figure was awkwardly laid out on the stone steps of the Town Hall, surrounded by lead Roman soldiers. A red cloak spread down the steps beneath him like a pool of blood, a tiny dagger nearby, blade bathed in red. All across the figurine’s body were slashes of red paint—stab wounds. I didn’t need to count them, but I did anyway. They were all there, in ghastly miniature perfection.

  “Twenty-three,” I said, cold and sick to the very bone.

  “What?” Father’s head jerked up.

  “Julius Caesar was stabbed twenty-three times,” I said woodenly. “Caesar, the red robes, the Town Hall . . .” I almost couldn’t get the words out. “She’s going to kill the Mayor.”

  Their eyes swung toward me. “Or he,” I backtracked. I was staring at the olives and the well.

  Father caught me by the shoulders. “Who’s going to kill the Mayor, Myrtle?” Unspoken behind that, but brimming sadly in his blue eyes, were the words, You promised. You promised me.

  “I didn’t mean to,” I said, voice barely a whisper.

  “Er—sir, I think she might mean my sister.”

  “What? Why should your sister want to kill the Mayor?” Father had a hand to his forehead, looking headachy.

  “She doesn’t!” I cried.

  “She wouldn’t,” Mr. Blakeney said. But now that he was staring at the figure of Caesar, bleeding out on the steps of the Town Hall, he didn’t seem at all certain.

  “Will someone please explain what’s going on!” Father was clutching the garment bag with his suit like it might shield him from danger.

  For the first time in my life, I didn’t know what to say. I stared at Father, then at the Display. Despite everything—even finding Mum’s letter and mapping the tunnels—I hadn’t really believed that Olive Blackwell could have come back to Swinburne to kill Mr. Leighton and Miss Carmichael. The Mayor just made more sense. Or the Mayor, somehow making it look like Olive. Or even Mrs. Leighton.

  But this latest tableau shook all other theories to ruins. We’d cleared Genie with the wool. Mrs. Leighton was in jail. And the Mayor was the next target.

  That only left Olive.

  Mr. Blakeney recovered first. “It’ll take t
oo long, sir. Time is of the essence, if we mean to save the Mayor. The other Displays occurred shortly before the victims’ deaths.”

  Father rubbed his whiskers. “Very well. Let’s bring the police in.”

  “Shouldn’t someone warn the Mayor? Everyone in Swinburne will be at his house soon!” I certainly did not say, including the murderer—but Father heard it anyway.

  For a moment, he stood locked in indecision, gaze darting from the Display to the police station up the street, to the direction of the Mayor’s nearby Mansion House residence. I seized the moment.

  “I’ll go.” I launched myself onward before anyone could stop me. “You summon the constables!”

  I heard them behind me—a low grumble that was Father protesting, and then Mr. Blakeney coming to my rescue. Or perhaps Father’s. “I’ll go with her, sir. Tell the police about my sister, too. Imogen Shelley’s her name.”

  I was fortunate enough to be out of earshot before Father could respond to that.

  Mr. Blakeney huffed to catch up, but I was small and spry and motivated to keep some distance between us. Eventually, though, his longer limbs got the better of me.

  “Whoa, there, Stephen.”

  I slowed down enough for him to fall in beside me. We trotted awhile in silence before my mortification broke through. “I didn’t want your sister to be a murderer.” I explained how her jacket had exonerated her. “I’m glad it’s not her.”

  His laugh shouldn’t have surprised me, after all this time. “Believe it or not, that’s one of the nicer things she’s been accused of.” He shook his head. “She brought this on herself. Don’t let it bother you.”

  How could I not? “She’s missing, maybe doing something mad, and it’s my fault.”

  Mr. Blakeney stopped in his tracks, catching me by the arm. “No, Stephen. Whatever Genie’s got herself into this time, it was not your doing. She’s responsible for her own actions. If she’d only owned up—” He broke off, ruffling his hair. “I sound like our father, talking to me. And now I’m giving you the same lecture. Guess the old man must have been right all those times. Funny, that.”