The murder of my beloved great-aunt, Miss Edith Montague, always known in our small but enterprising town as a most amiable woman, came as a tremendous shock to her nearest and dearest.
Since I am her only surviving heir, I suppose her nearest and dearest would be me. She was one of two children of the founder of Montague Manufacturing, my great-grandfather, the inventor Marcus Montague, for whom I was named in a shameless attempt by my parents to curry her favor. The other child, the ne’er-do-well from whom I am descended, squandered his portion of his inheritance and died destitute. An annual allotment from Aunt Edith allowed my parents to live fairly comfortably during their brief lives.
The woman I called Aunt Edith (from the start, she gently told me she preferred this to “great-aunt”) was in complete control of the sizable Montague fortune.
As her sole heir, I might have been placed in the awkward position of being suspect number one, if I hadn’t had an undisputed alibi on the night of her murder. At the time of her death, you see, I was having dinner with the chief of police.
Occasionally fate makes up for all its cruel tricks by actually doing one a good turn. That one, however, was hardly enough to make up for the loss of Aunt Edith.
She had taken me in after my parents died of typhoid fever—the illness apparently the result of hiring a rather unsanitary cook. Had my parents not sent me to boarding school, I probably would have met the same destiny. This was perhaps the only reason I ever had to be grateful for being sent to the Billingsfield Academy, although at the time I probably would have chosen typhoid fever over the torments meted out by the headmaster and my classmates. Aunt Edith, nearly the only relative who showed any concern for my welfare, rescued me from them.
Another unmarried, wealthy lady of a certain age might have found the unexpected responsibility of raising a ten-year-old boy daunting, but Aunt Edith seemed overjoyed at the prospect. She brought me to live with her. Indeed, over the next fifteen years she gave me more kindness and attention than I had received from my own fun-loving but rather negligent parents.
I said she was nearly the only relative, because I suppose I must give some credit to my somewhat misguided uncle Gilbert, whom I had never met. He was not actually my uncle, but some sort of cousin of my father. Aunt Edith told me he was her favorite relative, a salesman who traveled a great deal, and said it with a kind of twinkle in her eye that made me wonder things I dared not ask. He occasionally sent odd packages—never twice from the same address—with terse notes. In general, the contents were designed to ensure that although I was being raised by a maiden aunt, I was exposed to masculine entertainments. As I aged, they grew increasingly risqué.
He should have known that Aunt Edith was not the type to tie a boy to her apron strings, and indeed, she made sure I met and made friends with other males. If it was Uncle Gilbert who sent the pair of stilts, it was Aunt Edith who encouraged me to give them a try and, as in other areas of my life, cheered my successes and patched me up after my failures. Uncle Gilbert might send me packets of French postcards, but it was she who arranged for a male friend to discuss the facts of life with me in a no-nonsense fashion. I always had the suspicion she would have done so herself, but she rightly assumed I would have been mortified to hear of such things from her.
In almost every other sort of life lesson, she was my guiding light, an example I tried to emulate. She was someone whose confidence in me steadied me enough to leave the past behind and look forward. I knew that in the natural course of things, she would most likely predecease me, but not this soon. And not in this horrible way.
Jenksville is normally a peaceful community. Our entire police force consists of fifteen individuals. So the evening of Wednesday, May third, the night she was murdered, it did not take the officer sent by our single detective very long to locate the detective’s uncle, Chief Irons, who was enjoying a good cigar and a fine brandy at Jenksville’s best restaurant. The other fourteen members of the force knew where we were, because throughout the day, they had been hopeful that at some point during that dinner, I would hand the chief a check from my aunt, a donation large enough to help the department buy its first automobile. As usual, she did not seek publicity for her generosity. I’m sure Chief Irons was secretly relieved to have the check in hand before events took our minds away from dinner.
Some hours later I stood motionless in the center of the room in which Aunt Edith had died, staring at disorder that was entirely foreign to it, trying not to look at the bloodstained carpet. It was a room she had used as a study, the place where she kept her business records, wrote correspondence, made telephone calls, held committee meetings, and read quietly before the fireplace.
One end of the room was lined in bookshelves, now in some disarray. Detective Mortimer Osburn was at the opposite side, leaning his ample posterior against the handsome tiger maple desk where Aunt Edith had spent part of each day.
The clock over the elaborately carved mantel had run down, and so had I, although Detective Osburn seemed as oblivious of this fact as he was of any possible clues.
“So, to review,” he said, not for the first time, “your cook and housekeeper, Mrs. McCray, who does not reside on the premises, has worked here for some time?”
“She has spent nearly twenty years working for my aunt, and is entirely trustworthy. She is so distraught that I have given her the week off, but she and her husband live nearby—in a home my aunt bought for her as a wedding present—and I’m sure she would be happy to answer any questions you may have for her.”
“No, no, that’s all right—known her all my life. In fact, I helped her when she fell and broke her arm a few months ago.”
“Yes, my aunt told me about that. She was grateful for your assistance. And I’m sure you know Mrs. McCray has recovered.”
He shifted his weight. “As for Mrs. McCray, officially, you see, I have to ask these questions.”
I stared at him in disbelief. “Surely only once?”
His ears grew red, and he consulted his notes again, muttering something about never knowing “what might occur to a person on reexamination.” He cleared his throat and said, “Yes, well, Mrs. McCray, who does not reside on the premises, admitted four individuals into the home at seven this evening.”
I took out my pocket watch. “As of an hour ago, yesterday evening.”
“Yes, well, I apologize, Mr. Montague, I do realize it is very late, but I want to make sure I have all of this straight before I leave. Last time, I promise, then I’ll be on my way. I wouldn’t want you to feel it necessary to hire outside help.”
At last I saw what this dithering and delay was all about. Clorinda.
For a moment I considered reassuring Osburn that the odds of Clorinda Ainsbury’s involving herself in this case were remote indeed. Instead I wound my watch, returned it to my vest, and waited for the fourth recitation of the few facts at Osburn’s disposal.
Osburn went back to his notes.
“Mrs. McCray left not long after she admitted Mrs. Wainwright, Mr. Dillon, Miss Freedman, and Mrs. Conrad. All were expected as visitors today.”
“It was a meeting of the Jenksville Opera Society.”
“I’ve been meaning to ask—just the four of them. Executive committee?”
“The entire society.”
Osburn raised his brows.
“My aunt did not intend to perform. If you heard the other four sing, you’d understand why it has been of limited interest to their fellow citizens.”
Osburn snorted a laugh, but I regretted the words as soon as they were out of my mouth. Aunt Edith would never have said anything cutting about anyone of her acquaintance, a forbearance I found infinitely admirable and impossible to imitate. Whenever I had said as much to her, a sparkle would come into her eyes and she would smile sweetly. Then she would say that someday she would tell me the secret of her ability to hold her tongue, but in the meantime, she found my observations so amusing, she begged me not to withhold them from her. I don’t know if she really did find them amusing, but it was like Aunt Edith to never make one feel as if one were at fault.
“Perhaps I haven’t a proper appreciation for their art,” I said to Osburn. “In any case, I cannot believe any of them would want to harm their patron.”
“My unc—er, Chief Irons will find out soon enough.”
Wisely, his uncle had decided to ask additional questions of the witnesses himself at the station. “My deepest sympathies, Marcus,” the chief said to me as he prepared to take his leave. “Your aunt was a fine woman who will be deeply missed.” He unthinkingly reached to pat the pocket in which he had placed the check, caught himself at it, then offered his condolences again. He left the house just after the coroner removed Aunt Edith’s body.
Now, several hours later, Osburn scratched his head. “Truth is, sir, I can’t think of anyone in Jenksville who’d want to harm her. That’s why I’m sure it had to be a stranger. Some thief!”
“There are many valuable items in this room. Why would a thief leave them behind?”
“Something or someone scared him off.”
I made no comment.
“You left the house at seven-thirty?”
“Yes, and as I’ve said, drove to the police station, where I met Chief Irons. I took him to dinner.”
“Yes, of course. And you heard no arguing or anything of that sort?”
“No. But the garage is at the back of the property, where the stables once were. I left through the back door, and didn’t walk past this room or interrupt the meeting to say good-bye.”
I felt my throat tighten, then chided myself for wishing for something that could not change. I did not stop to say good-bye. I did not know… could not have known…
“The Opera Society meeting lasted until eight-thirty,” Osburn said. “Then all four left together. Mr. Dillon drove the ladies home, then realized that he had left his notebook here and returned. That was at some time after nine, he said, and he was considering not disturbing your aunt at such an hour, until he saw the lights were still on. Then he noticed the front door was ajar and came in, and found—”
“Yes. I heard him tell Chief Irons what happened after that.” I couldn’t bear another recitation of the story of Mr. Dillon’s discovery of my aunt’s body, lying before the hearth. She had apparently received a single, mighty blow to the back of her head as she stood in front of the fireplace. The police had arrived quickly, but she was already dead. The coroner believed she was killed instantly. She had not suffered, but that fact alone is not the healing comfort some seem to think it will be to the bereaved. A death in the family will teach you that people are capable of saying the damnedest things.
“So the only thing that’s missing is a wooden box?” Osburn asked again.
“I can’t be sure. I will need to put the room in order again, and attempt to do a complete survey, but so far, it seems to be the only thing that is gone. Whoever was in here apparently searched for it until he or she discovered the false bottom of that desk drawer.”
Again I confirmed to him that the only thing missing was the large, locked wooden box in which my aunt had stored receipts, canceled checks, and old bills. The bank would be notified in the morning to be especially vigilant regarding forgeries or other problems with my aunt’s account, but I still could not see why someone alone in the house would overlook items in the other rooms, such as expensive jewelry, priceless works of art, and the silver pieces in the dining room. Even here in the study, in the very desk he had rooted through, a large sum of cash had been left behind. Why leave that and other valuable items in the desk and take only that box?
Osburn hinted that it might be best if he remained to guard me, but this service I quickly declined. Eventually he left.
Although it was the very thing I had been hoping he would do for several hours, I found myself wanting even his obnoxious company not long after he was gone. Alone, I began to realize that his dull conversation had distanced me from my own thoughts and feelings.
I was still in a state of shock, wishing I could find relief in tears but not really able to believe that my aunt was dead, let alone that someone had murdered her.
I decided I could not face spending another moment in the study. I locked the front and back doors and ensured that the windows were latched. It was a warm evening, but I decided I would rather suffer heat than a return of the intruder.
I reached my bedroom and was debating whether I should close my window, which was, after all, upstairs and at the back of the house, when I heard someone in the alley.
I was frightened, but I have a pistol and have practiced with it faithfully. I took it and a flashlight from my nightstand and hurried outside.
Someone was rummaging around near the garage.
“Who’s there?” I called. “Come out now—I’m armed and won’t hesitate to shoot.”
“Don’t shoot!” an all-too-familiar voice said.
“Detective Osburn,” I said, lowering my weapon.
“I was just making sure your back gate is secure.”
“Detective Osburn, it is now after two in the morning. Go home. Now. I don’t mean to be rude, but really, if I see you around the house again, I will be forced to report to your uncle that you have been pestering me.”
He left.
I went back into the house, relocked the doors, went upstairs, put the gun and flashlight away, and undressed.
I finally wept—of all the stupid things to set me off, it was donning an old pair of pajamas she had given me—and lay awake until exhaustion finally blessed me with a dreamless sleep.
I awakened at dawn to find a body in my bed.
This one was alive, warm, and naked.
“Clorinda?” I said drowsily, thinking I must still be asleep and dreaming.
“Hush, darling,” she said, and sealed my lips with a kiss.
For once I wasn’t going to argue with her.
Clorinda is willowy, stronger than she looks, and wears her dark brown hair bobbed. She is not quite a beauty—if forced to name her best feature, I suppose I would mention her large, dark eyes. Or perhaps her slightly husky voice. Or the curve of her lips—something about them always makes her look as if she has a delightful secret you want to know, without making her look smug about it. But it is the sum total of her Clorinda-ness that draws me to her. If I were blind, I would still love her.
She is intelligent, independent, and strong-willed. She has her own private investigations agency and is an avid suffragist. She does not suffer fools, which is why what I thought of as a romance and she thought of as experimentation went awry three months ago.
We had slept together, I had offered marriage, and she had told me she never wanted to speak to me again. And proved she meant it.
But she had just now said, “Hush, darling.” I told myself not to be a fool. And made mad if not quite silent love to her.
I know what you are thinking, some of you. You are thinking that this was disrespectful of my aunt. In the interest of proving you wrong, I will continue my tale.
When we had caught our breath, I humiliated myself by weeping again, although I had not wanted to do so in front of her. She didn’t ridicule me for it, merely held me until I quieted. “I’m so sorry, Marcus.”
I couldn’t speak for some time, but finally managed to say, “How did you get in?”
“Lockpicks. It has taken me months to get the hang of it.”
“I would have let you in.”
“I wasn’t sure.”
Clorinda, unsure? A new experience. I decided this was not the moment to say so.
“I know you weren’t expecting me,” she went on, demonstrating a mastery of understatement, “but I loved Edith, and her death has made me reconsider a number of things. I thought you might need a friend.”
That last, distancing word might have been crushing under other circumstances, but I was too wrung out to worry about my failed love life. I merely nodded.
“I hurried over as soon as I read the newspaper,” she said.
“Oh God. The newspaper. Reporters. Gaaagh!” I pulled the covers over my head. Clorinda had bribed someone at the paper to ensure that she received one of the first copies off the press, but it was only a matter of time before its later readers would demand sordid details that could not have made the morning edition.
“Don’t worry, Irons is distracting them with a lot of nonsense about hobos.”
I emerged from my bed-linen lair. “Hobos?”
“Marcus, of course a stranger will be blamed! No one in Jenksville will want to believe that the murderer of a respected and beloved elderly lady might be living next door, shopping at the same shops they do, sitting next to them in the pew at church. Chief Irons has already sent officers down to the hobo camp just outside of town, near the railroad tracks.”
“Oh dear.”
“Yes. It’s a pity. The men there are already facing hard times.”
“I hope no one suffers too much in the chief’s quest to find a suspect.”
“He knows he needs to make some sort of arrest soon or face an angry citizenry, but perhaps he’ll do so without using the very tactics your aunt tried to persuade him are ineffective.”
“I suppose it will now be my job to keep bribing him into better behavior.”
“One of the best possible uses of your money,” she agreed, rising and beginning to dress.
I couldn’t help myself. “You aren’t leaving?”
“Of course not. But I think it would be best if we wore clothing downstairs. You’re bound to have loads of callers.”
I groaned.
“Irons can put that idiot nephew of his out front to turn them away. It would be a better use of his time than his so-called investigating. Ring him up and ask him to do it.”
“It seems cruel to turn away those who want to grieve for her.”
“You’ll see them later. You don’t want a lot of rubbernecking buzzards poking their beaks in here.”
“True.”
“Get dressed. I’ll make breakfast.”
“You are giving a lot of orders this morning.”
She smiled. “So I am. You can take a turn at it later if you’d like, but just now you probably need a little help to get going.”
I couldn’t deny it.
We eventually ended up exactly where I knew she most wanted to be, and if asked, I would have readily included my bed among the places that ranked much lower in interest to her. She observed the study and I observed her doing so. She moved slowly, stood at different places in the room, even climbed onto a chair at one point to get something like a bird’s-eye view of the scene of the crime. There was one brief moment when I saw sadness cross her face as she looked down at the bloodstain on the carpet—then she shocked me by lowering herself next to it and asking me to position her as my aunt had been found. I complied.
She rose to her feet again and studied the mantel. My great-grandfather had commissioned the work of a master woodcarver to cover the columns, front piece, and sides with lions in various poses—some roaring, some springing upon prey, some in stately repose. The mantel had terrified me when I was a child.
Clorinda asked a few questions—most of them quite different in nature from the ones Osburn had asked.
“The intruder searched this room after he or she struck Edith down. Do you agree?”
“Yes. Aunt Edith wouldn’t have allowed someone to search while she was here, and there was no sign that she had been anywhere else in the house after the meeting.”
“And you agree she was given no opportunity to struggle? That this disarray was the result of the search, not a fight?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
I frowned. “The way things are left. The lamp is not knocked over. Nothing breakable is smashed, the desk is the only piece of furniture out of place. She… she had no marks on her, other than the single blow, so all that adds up to a surprise attack rather than a fight.”
“Excellent. I agree.”
“And even the search—the desk is a mess, and things have been pulled forward on shelves, books tossed down, and so on, but the cushions are on the chairs, and not ripped open. Perhaps it’s because I know the box was taken, but I think the intruder found what he was looking for.”
“Perhaps so. The grate is clean—no fire last night?”
“No. It was too warm for a fire.”
“For you or me, but older women sometimes experience temperature differently.”
“Yes, I understand,” I said, “but there was no fire.”
“So why was your aunt staring at the fireplace?”
“I don’t know that she was. She was just—No, wait. The clock!” I said, suddenly seeing what Clorinda was trying to determine.
She frowned at it. “It stopped at eleven-fourteen.”
“I noticed last night that it had run down. Even the clock couldn’t outlast Osburn. Aunt Edith always wound them on Wednesday.”
“Winding, Wednesday. All right. Does she—did she do that in the morning?”
“No, in the evening, usually after dinner. But she would have put it off last night until after the meeting.”
“Hmm. Would she have locked the front door after her guests left?”
“No. I don’t think half the people in town do.”
“They will now. Fearing hobos, I’m sure.” She opened the slender pocket watch I had given her to commemorate the day New York fully enfranchised women, a milestone reached, in part, because of her work.
I moved to the clock and opened the ornately painted glass door of its case. I was surprised to see not one but two brass clock keys, then decided that Aunt Edith might have kept the clock keys together as she made her rounds.
Clorinda distracted me by saying, “I detest people who disguise their nosiness as sympathy, and I believe you will soon be inundated by such. Make the call to the chief, please.”
“Right.” I put the clock keys in my vest pocket and moved toward the telephone on the desk.
“Ah, the telephone! Another sign that she was away from the desk and probably never saw the intruder,” Clorinda said. “She might have used the telephone otherwise.”
“Unless he threatened her with a pistol.”
“A possibility, but I think he would have forced her to reveal the location of the wooden box to him, then, and spared himself the effort of searching for it.”
“True.”
I asked the operator to connect me with the police, and within minutes a patrol officer was dispatched to my aunt’s home. Although the chief had not sent his nephew, Clorinda agreed with me that this was for the best—satisfying her thirst for petty revenge on Osburn was not worth dealing with his paranoia about her investigative abilities. “Besides, I know Duffy. He’s the best of that lot over there. The chief wants you to be pleased.”
Officer Duffy was equally gratified to see her. “Now we’ll get somewhere, sir,” he confided to me. “Miss Ainsbury’s worth a hundred of Osburn. Smart of you to call her in.”
He then seated himself in the foyer. As Clorinda had predicted, a steady flow of visitors began to arrive on the doorstep soon after. I overheard Duffy saying that they must not disturb the master of the house and that he was sure an announcement of arrangements would be made before long.
Master of the house. Arrangements. I resolutely turned back to the study and Clorinda. The master of the house didn’t want to be such and had no stomach for arrangements.
I was brought up short by the sight of Clorinda standing on a chair, looking down on the mantel clock.
She heard me enter, and when she turned toward me I saw that her eyes were bright with excitement. “Close the door, please,” she said just above a whisper. “And lock it, in case someone should get past Duffy.”
“Unlikely, I would think.” But I locked it. “What are you doing?”
“Come here, Marcus!”
“All right, but I don’t think that chair will support our combined weight.”
“Don’t be silly. And please keep your voice low. I’d prefer not to be overheard.” She stepped down and pointed to the still-open clock case.
“Have you ever tried to move this clock?”
“No, why should I?”
“Try it now.”
I did. It wouldn’t budge. “What in blazes—?”
“It’s attached to the wall. It has a door—”
“What? Into the flue?”
“No. Look,” she said, stooping before the fireplace. “The fireplace is deep, and the chimney is set back.”
She was right. “Yes, I see what you mean, but what does that have to do with that clock being there?”
“Take the pendulum off.”
“I assume you have already done this once?”
She nodded, not looking the least bit guilty. “I was going to try to move the clock. One should never move a pendulum clock with the pendulum attached.”
I removed it and saw that the back panel, behind the pendulum, had a keyhole in it.
“You found two keys,” she said. “Will one of them fit that slot?”
I tried the larger of the two keys. “I hope this won’t cause some harm to the works.” But as I turned it, we heard the muffled sound of a gear turning, and then something sliding. To our left, one of the lion’s heads now stood out a good six inches away from the rest of his body, at the end of a smooth metal cylinder.
“Looks as if your great-grandfather the inventor included a few innovations when he built the place.”
She encouraged me to try turning the lion’s head, which I did, and was nearly knocked flat by a bookcase swinging out from the wall.
We stared at each other in wide-eyed amazement. I peered inside the opening and saw a small room lined with shelves. I brought the chair over to block the door open—my first concern was that we not be trapped inside. Clorinda approved but said she was certain there would be a mechanism to get out from the other side. First she found a flashlight on a small table just inside the door, and turned it on.
“The batteries seem fresh. The room doesn’t smell musty. I’d say your aunt has been in here quite recently.”
Next she found the lever that worked from this side.
“All the years I’ve lived here, I never imagined such a place.”
We explored the shelves. Most appeared to hold treasures from Great-grandfather Montague’s day. Some items were sentimental—a sword he carried in the Civil War, an embroidered handkerchief, and a miniature of his wife, who had died giving birth to Aunt Edith. Others were less so—a tray of jewelry, another of gold coins, a stack of stock certificates.
A final set of shelves held nine large boxes, each identical to the one stolen from my aunt’s desk. They were made of black walnut and polished to a dark sheen. Five were open and empty. Four were closed and locked.
“I’ll bet her father made these for her,” Clorinda said. “Or had them made for her.”
I lifted one. It wasn’t heavy.
“Try the passage key again,” Clorinda said.
I did, and it worked. I heard the lock turn, and hesitated. “Let’s do this where there’s more light.”
I carried the newly unlocked box out to the study and placed it on the desk.
“Would you like me to leave?” she asked.
I shook my head.
“I’ll sit on the sofa,” she said. “You can have a little privacy, and I’ll be near if you need me.”
I felt ill at ease. Aunt Edith and I had always respected each other. She had never opened the cigar box full of boy’s treasures I had kept as a child, nor rummaged through my belongings when I became an adult. I had extended the same courtesy to her—I had as much curiosity as the next child, but at first because I did not want to be sent back to Billingsfield Academy and later because I never wanted to betray her trust in me, I did not snoop through her possessions.
Clorinda, watching me, said, “She is dead, Marcus, and you were more important to her than anyone on this earth. Don’t be afraid—she had faith in you.”
I opened the box.
It was half-full of slips of paper of varying sizes. The handwriting, I knew at a glance, was Aunt Edith’s own. Her handwriting and hers only on every note. I picked up a small stack of them and began to read.
If Phineas Carmichael believes that no one can identify the deadliest farter in the congregation, he is the biggest self-deceiver on earth. I am convinced the church is vermin-free because he gasses it once a week.
I burst out laughing, startling Clorinda.
What cruel devil is telling Maud Blemsey she looks good in pink?
Caught Mr. Diggs placing his thumb on the scale—again! Very difficult to be diplomatic about it. Shall drive to the market in Kerrick Corners for the next few weeks.
Thought I heard Hortense Wainwright in a duet with Ulysses Dillon. It was only two cats fornicating in the alley. Is there anyone so deluded as an amateur musician?
Herbert Rushworth asked me to read his poetry. I believe I have found the answer to my question about amateur musicians.
“So this was her secret,” I said, which Clorinda rightly took to be permission to come closer. “This box is loaded with undelivered insults. She told me that one day she would let me know the secret of her amiability. This must be it.”
“Public amiability, anyway. My, my.”
“Go ahead—read some of them. You know I can’t keep secrets from you.”
“Do you wish you could?”
I thought before answering, and said, “No.”
She smiled. “Perhaps we can figure out why her murderer wanted to get his hands on these.” She chose a slip of paper and laughed. “Obidiah Pilsy.”
“Picks his nose.”
“Observant man.”
“Not really. Obie is quite blatant about it.”
As we looked through the notes together, we soon saw that some were not simply a way for Aunt Edith to express anger or loathing. Though never one to carry tittle-tattle among the townspeople, when confiding to the box of secrets, she had much to say about her neighbors. Many of her notes were full of gossip and innuendo.
Stella Osburn’s second and third sons bear a striking resemblance to George Horvath’s boy. Am I the only one who sees it? I wonder if the chief would continue to blindly support his incompetent “nephew” if he knew?
“Is she saying Detective Osburn and his brother are—”
Clorinda ruffled my hair. “You know that’s exactly what she’s saying.”
Estelle Freedman would like us to believe she came here from Boston, yet has not the least trace of a Boston accent. I would swear I hear a bit of the South in her vowels when she’s not paying attention.
I’ve discovered what happened to my stolen bracelet, I’m glad I didn’t report it missing. Lizzy Conrad took it, and frankly, now that I’ve figured that out, I don’t care. It wasn’t worth much to me, and it will help her to get her youngest daughter away from Lizzy’s horrible second husband. Lizzy’s secret is safe with me.
It was then that I came across the first note that mentioned my own name.
Marcus has still not figured out that I am “Uncle Gilbert.” Marcus is so dear to me, and I am afraid that if—no, when—I reveal to him that his aunt is the one who has been sending him all these naughty items, he won’t forgive me for deceiving him so. What a fix!
“You know, Clorinda, I’m beginning to wonder if I knew Aunt Edith at all.”
When I didn’t hear a reply, I looked over to see that she was biting down on one of the sofa cushions, trying to restrain her laughter. Tears were streaming down her face. I realized then that I had been a bit too open with Clorinda about some matters—before we slept together, I had bashfully confided to her that my uncle Gilbert had sent me condoms.
“It’s not funny!” I said, then saw that it was.
When we were able to breathe normally again, I said, “Duffy will think I’m the worst sort of person, laughing in here.”
“Marcus, Duffy has been with more bereaved families than you can begin to imagine. He won’t judge you, and neither will I.”
“You’ll just wonder why I didn’t figure out that good old Uncle Gilbert was no more real than Santa Claus. Good God.”
“Not at all. Your aunt was a master at keeping secrets, and you were very young when she established the idea of his existence with you. Had she done so later, I think you would have questioned it. You can’t blame her for not knowing how best to handle such matters. As my father used to say, every infant is born into an experiment in child-rearing.”
“She did a much better job of it than my parents did, Uncle Gilbert or no.”
“I’m impressed with her ability to purchase such items for you.”
“Like you, she could afford to hire discreet intermediaries. I shudder to think how many households in Jenksville and surrounding communities rely on you for additional income.”
“Not enough to strain my coffers, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“I have never had need of your coffers, as you damn well know.”
She smiled. “One of your attractions, Marcus. You’ve never been after my money. Another is that you’ll swear in front of me.”
“The feeling is mutual. On both counts.”
I went back to work, somewhat mollified.
Not many minutes later, I came across a note that made me wish it had been cold enough for a fire, for I would have burned it immediately.
I believe Marcus has finally lost his virginity. This would make me happier if it made him happier.
I can’t understand what has gone wrong.
I know there was mutual regard and, on his part at least, deep affection, if not love.
He can’t be worried about an unwanted pregnancy. Even if he failed to take the condoms with him, I know that Clorinda has read Mrs. Sanger’s “Family Limitation” pamphlet (illegal though it may be) and would be prepared.
Did it not go well? Apparently not.
I suppose even his own mother would not be able to discuss this with him, but how I wish I could. He seems so heartbroken.
I, too, am fond of Clorinda, and could not resist having such hopes for their happiness. I know Clorinda is quite fierce—I admire her for it—but I have not previously suspected her of cruelty.
“And I never suspected you of the same, Edith.”
At that moment, if I could have locked myself in the secret room and never reemerged, I would have made a dash for it. Clorinda had been reading over my shoulder. I opened my mouth, then shut it again.
“What were you going to say?” she asked.
“I was going to apologize for her. But that’s not my place. And I do think, in the privacy of her own home, she was entitled to her own thoughts, however mistaken her opinions might have been. I’ve had a mistaken opinion or two myself.”
There was a long silence; then I felt Clorinda’s arms come about me, and she gently pulled me back against her. I have never been able to figure out how one person could be both so firm and so soft in such perfect proportion.
She rested her face between my shoulder blades, and I placed my hands over hers. It took me a while to realize she was crying. In five years of courting her, I had only seen Clorinda tear up three times. Once when I gave her the pocket watch. Once when she told me how much she missed her father. And when we had first made love. But she had never out-and-out cried.
I turned around and held her. “Did her words hurt you, Clorinda? If so, I am so sorry—”
“No, I’m just thinking of how much I’ve missed your—your Marcus-ness.”
I held her even closer. “I was thinking something very similar about you a little earlier today.” This brought on more tears. When at last they abated, I found a handkerchief for her.
“I had better lock this box away and close up the secret room,” I said. “I know I should probably hand the entire collection of notes over to the police and let them sort out who might have been insulted to the point of murder, but when I think of the potential harm…”
“We need to think this through, but yes, for now, let’s straighten the room.”
As we worked to restore order, I answered some additional questions from Clorinda about my interview with Detective Osburn.
“What did he mean about your housekeeper’s broken arm?”
“Mrs. McCray fell and landed badly on her arm, just out front. Osburn happened to be nearby, and helped her into the house. He assisted quite ably. Aunt Edith was grateful to him—I was with you that day, so I wasn’t here to help.”
“Oh. That day?”
“Yes.”
“I was a damned fool,” she said.
“So was I,” I said. “Something we had in common.” I closed the clock case, making sure only one key remained in the clock. The other I kept in my vest.
I had no sooner done so than a knock sounded and we heard Duffy call through the door.
“Pardon me, sir, but I stepped outside to have a smoke and noticed Osburn walking up the street, headed this way. He’s got a lady and a gent with him. Just thought you might not want to be found—well, in a position that might compromise Miss Ainsbury.”
I opened the door. “Thank you, Duffy.”
He nodded, looked past me at Clorinda, and seemed shocked.
“Miss Ainsbury?”
“It’s quite all right, Duffy. Contrary to popular opinion, I am capable of crying, swooning, screaming, and a multitude of other so-called feminine activities.”
He grinned. “You’ll do, but you’d better get your beau to comb his hair. He looks a fright.” He winked. “Wouldn’t want any swooning.”
As I quickly combed my hair, Clorinda called police headquarters and put in a request for Chief Irons’s presence.
“Is that necessary?” I asked.
“He can control Osburn better than anyone.”
“We have Duffy—”
“Duffy’s going to run an errand for me.”
“Clorinda—”
“A very quick errand. Trust me?”
Her face was tearstained, and she is not one of those women who looks gorgeous after a bout of crying. In fact, what she looked was—dear to me. And a little more vulnerable than usual. “Yes, of course,” I said, causing her to reach for my handkerchief again as she ran out of the room to talk to Duffy.
The two people with Osburn were Ulysses Dillon and Lizzy Conrad. Lizzy was handcuffed to the detective. She appeared to have been weeping, with no more beautifying results than those on Clorinda. Dillon looked extremely unhappy.
“Well, Mr. Montague! I think we’ve solved the case,” Osburn said.
“Is Ulysses going to accuse a hobo?”
“A hobo!”
“Never mind. Go on—I’m all ears.”
At that moment, Clorinda came back into the room. Osburn scowled at her.
“Detective Osburn,” she said sweetly.
“You’ve been crying,” he said.
“I’ve lost the woman I had hoped would be, in essence, my mother-in-law. Of course I’ve been crying.”
Detective Osburn caught me looking surprised—I’m to acting what the Opera Society is to singing. “Clorinda, I thought we agreed—”
“To let a decent period of mourning pass before announcing our news? Yes, of course. But none of these people will say anything to anyone, will they?” As she looked at each member of the stunned trio, she received pledges of secrecy.
It would be all over town ten minutes after they left.
“Clorinda,” I said, “you’ll be happy to know that Detective Osburn has solved the case.”
She looked about. “Where’s the hobo?”
Osburn was infuriated. “What hobo?”
“Oh. Surely it wasn’t one of these people?”
“I’m afraid so. Dillon?”
“A few weeks ago, I saw Mrs. Conrad steal a bracelet from your aunt’s desk,” he mumbled.
“And said nothing?” Clorinda asked, earning more dark looks from Osburn.
“I felt sorry for her. Her husband’s a brute. If I hadn’t told him that two other ladies would ride with us to the Opera Society, and that being in it would put Lizzy in Miss Montague’s good graces, I don’t think he would have given permission for her to come with us to the meetings. As it was, I had to tell him that being in Miss Montague’s good graces would lead to fat contracts for him for building sets, or he never would have let her out of the house.”
“She stole from your aunt,” Osburn said to me. “She’s done nothing but cry since I arrested her, but I’ll get the story out of her. It’s obvious—she slipped back here after the meeting last night to see what else she could steal, killed your aunt.”
“And forgot to take anything but a box of receipts,” Clorinda said.
“Dillon showed up unexpectedly, and that scared her off.”
“Does she have powers of invisibility?”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“How did she get past him?”
“She went out the back, out to the alley, and away. Simple.”
“But there has been a misunderstanding,” I said. “My aunt gave the bracelet to Lizzy.”
Lizzy, who had stood with head bent, looked up at me.
“I saw her take it from the desk,” Dillon said, on the defensive.
“Of course you did. She did just as my aunt asked. Dear me, my aunt had hoped no one had noticed, because she feared the other two ladies in the society might expect similar gifts.”
“Why not just give it to her some other time, then?” Osburn asked.
“As Mr. Dillon has explained, Lizzy was unable to leave the house much. This would be the only opportunity to bestow a gift on her without her husband’s knowledge.”
“Why in God’s name would your aunt give an expensive bracelet to a nobody like Lizzy Conrad?”
“As I know from personal experience, my aunt didn’t believe any human being was a ‘nobody’—man, woman, or child. As for why, that was a delicate and private matter between the two of them, but let me just hint that my aunt had the welfare of Lizzy’s daughter in mind.”
“Is this true, Lizzy?”
Clorinda asked it before Osburn could, and she looked into Lizzy’s eyes in such a compelling way, I was unsurprised when Lizzy said, “Yes, yes it is.”
Chief Irons arrived just in time to hear Clorinda say, “Unless you are accusing my fiancé and Mrs. Conrad of lying, Detective Osburn, perhaps you would be so good as to free Lizzy from those handcuffs?”
With an uneasy glance at his uncle, Osburn said, “No, of course, if that was the way it was…” He freed Lizzy from the cuffs.
Clorinda walked Lizzy to the door, interrupting Dillon’s profuse apologies to Lizzy by saying, “Mr. Dillon, I know Marcus has questions for you,” damn her fine eyes, and then telling Lizzy that she would hire her to work in a place where she would be safe from Mr. Conrad if she should decide to leave him.
Dillon was looking at me expectantly, as were the chief and Osburn, when Duffy saved the day, or at least the moment, by arriving with Mrs. McCray. I smiled and said, “Mrs. McCray! Perfect timing. And Duffy!” I was about to continue in this inane fashion when I noticed that Duffy had donned gloves and was carefully carrying a black walnut box. Osburn noticed the box, too, and made a grab for it, but Duffy dodged the effort and stood out of Osburn’s reach.
Clorinda came back just then. “Let’s all move to the study, shall we?”
“Oh, please, miss,” Mrs. McCray said feebly. “The blood and all. I can’t bear it.”
“Poor dear, then we’ll begin here. Tell us about the day you fell and broke your arm.”
Mrs. McCray glanced at me. I smiled and nodded.
“I was coming back from the market, and tripped on the sidewalk out front and fell and broke my arm….”
As we stood together in the hallway, she told of Detective Osburn’s finding her and helping her up, and bringing her into the house.
“And where did he take you in, the front or the back?”
“The front, miss, and probably because I was screeching from the pain.”
“And where was Miss Edith?”
“In her study, working on her bills and such. She come runnin’ out, and was plumb distracted when she saw the bone stickin’ out and all. Well, I thought I’d faint myself, but I didn’t, did I? Then Mr. Osburn asks her to please get some clean towels and a bit of brandy for me, and when she goes off to do that, he asks me where’s the telephone, and I points to the study. And he goes in and calls Dr. Willis, and that seems to take forever—you know how it is when you’re in pain—and when he comes back out Miss Edith gives him the towels, and—forgive me, but he hardly seemed to know what to do. But luckily, the doc was not but the next street over and he was able to stop by and patch me up. Whooeee, that hurt like the devil, but all’s right now, isn’t it, Detective Osburn?”
“I’m glad you are recovered,” he said mechanically. He was staring at the box in Duffy’s gloved hands.
“Is this the missing box?” Chief Irons asked. “Where did you find it, Duffy?”
“Behind the house, sir. In a patch of grass between the garage and the fence.”
“Thank you, Mrs. McCray,” I said. “You may go on back home now. I appreciate your coming over here on such short notice and during your time off.”
She was disappointed, I could tell, but I didn’t want to have a bigger audience than necessary. Mrs. McCray spoke with me about my aunt, and how much she would be missed. I thanked her again and assured her that an arrest would be made before the end of the day.
She left, clearly brimming with curiosity. We adjourned to the study.
Chief Irons had grown quiet, as had we all.
We did not keep Dillon for long, although he must have wondered what would take place after—in answer to Clorinda’s questions—he described how quickly Osburn had arrived after he had called for the police. Faster, he was sure, than Osburn could have arrived from the station. Clorinda thanked him, and he left.
She then outlined events. She told Chief Irons that we had found notes among Miss Edith’s effects, notes that Detective Osburn had undoubtedly seen out on the desk the day Mrs. McCray broke her arm. Notes in Miss Edith’s own hand, usually hidden, locked away, and never intended to be seen by any eyes but her own.
Clorinda paused, then said, “What I have to say next—perhaps you would prefer to have Officer Duffy wait in another room?”
“Duffy,” the chief said, “you are now officially deaf.”
“What’s that you say, Chief?”
“Good man. Go on, Miss Ainsbury.”
So she told him that one of those notes raised questions about the paternity of two of the Osburn brothers—the chief shook his head slowly as Clorinda recited it from memory:
Stella Osburn’s second and third sons bear a striking resemblance to George Horvath’s boy. Am I the only one who sees it?
“That’s a damned lie!” Osburn shouted.
Chief Irons sighed. “Mort, I’ve long known that you two are George Horvath’s sons. You and Clarence both.”
“But—but—”
“My sister-in-law—your mother—is dead, and I don’t like to speak ill of the dead, but facts are facts. Your older brother, Raymond, was the only real Osburn in the whole nest full of cuckoo’s eggs.”
“But then—then I’m not your nephew!”
Chief Irons sighed again. “Not by blood, no. Your mother and my wife were sisters, so you were never going to be my nephew except through marriage, and yet—”
“But we were Osburns! And since Raymond died in France—”
“You’re beginning to get the picture, Mort. You’ve lost both parents and a brother. I’ve lost my wife. So right now, when it comes to family, I have only two living nephews. You were raised by a man who loved you and turned a blind eye to his wife’s unfaithfulness. I have followed his lead. Up until now, anyway. You turned your back on the law, Mort. The law that I have worked my entire adult life to uphold. You killed Miss Edith, didn’t you? And you were going to blame poor Lizzy Conrad for it? Well, the Devil and his right-hand man Horvath can have the responsibility of you now, for all I care, but maybe something can be made of Clarence yet.”
“I asked Officer Duffy to use gloves, sir,” Clorinda said. “I believe you’ll find Detective Osburn’s prints on the box. I suspect he knew—as did everyone in the police department—that Marcus would be dining with you last night, and therefore out of the house, unable to defend his aunt. Detective Osburn may not have known about the Opera Society, but it would be an easy thing to come into the house after they left. He killed her, and then looked for the box. Having Dillon return unexpectedly probably frightened him into grabbing the box and running out the back door with it. I suspect the murder weapon—perhaps his nightstick?—is either in the area where Duffy found the box, or perhaps by now is among the ashes in Detective Osburn’s fireplace.”
“Well, Mort?” the chief asked. “If you want any help at all from me, you had better tell me where to find your nightstick.”
“Somewhere out by the garage,” Osburn said miserably.
Chief Irons ordered Duffy to handcuff him. Then he sighed and said to us, “If it’s all the same to you two, we’ll work out a story that won’t cause his brother Clarence any more shame and heartbreak than he’s already bound to suffer. There will be no mention of any note.”
We agreed.
Clorinda stayed with me that night, and asked me to marry her. I didn’t hesitate to say yes. She said she knew her timing was bad, and I told her it was perfect.
Eventually we sorted through all the boxes. Aunt Edith had apparently been encouraged by her father to pen the notes from an early age. We immediately burned the worst of the notes, and used others as the basis of a book we wrote together, although we changed the names of those mentioned in them. Once the book was written, we kept only a few of the notes that were just about us, and consigned the rest to the fire.
The book became a bestseller and still provides us with a little extra money, which we use to help women like Lizzy to start new lives away from their spouses.
I know some of you think we probably wrote a colorful history of Jenksville, but no, it was Aunt Edith’s Giant Book of Insults.
Now that I know both sides of Aunt Edith, I think she would have laughed heartily over that one.
Still, when the last scrap had been burned, I felt a great relief. Clorinda asked me if Pandora’s box was now empty. I reminded her that no, there was always going to be one last item in any Pandora’s box, which was a good thing, or I might have given up on her.
She’s a smart woman, but it took her a few minutes to remember that the gods left Pandora hope.