CHAPTER 11

A POOL OF BLOOD

LUCY’S MOUTH FELL open and stayed that way.

“Ooh la la,” murmured Hector.

The slash of light now pouring through the window illuminated a body lying facedown on the floor. A man wearing the loose white shirt, rough jerkin, and dark orange britches of a pirate. Bulges of bare skin showed through holes in his striped socks. More impressive was the dagger standing straight up from the middle of his back, its bronze handle gleaming faintly. A prickle started in the same place on my own back, creeping up to my neck and ears.

“Who is it?” Lucy whispered. His face was covered by a matted wig, and his hat sat crookedly, so we could not see at once who had met this dreadful end. I thought of Irma Eversham under the piano in the Mermaid Dance Room, of her blue face and floppy feet.

“So many similar pirates,” said Hector. “Which one is it?”

“Not James, thank goodness,” I said. James was calmly eating toast in the breakfast room, wearing his cheery cardigan.

“The footman?” said Hector. “The actor?”

“Mr. Sivam is a different color,” said Lucy.

“I hope it’s not Frederick,” I said. “Think of poor Dot.”

“Frederick is skinnier, don’t you think?” said Lucy.

“Mr. Corker, then,” said Hector. “The logical deduction.”

“The carpet is soggy,” said Lucy. She was now vigorously rubbing the blood off her hands, adding scarlet streaks to the coal dust on the front of her robe.

“As well as our slippers,” I said.

Lucy made an odd little jump, as if she could escape her own toes.

“I don’t suppose there’s a chance he might still be alive?” I said.

Hector crouched and poked a finger through the curls of the wig, to touch the man’s neck.

“Not a bit warm,” he said. “He is most certainly dead.”

“He’s pretty whiffy,” Lucy whispered. And it was true. Mingled awful smells that I didn’t recognize, and one that I did, an alcoholic drink.

“Why do you suppose his pockets are pulled out?” I said.

Lucy made a noise that might be a whimper. “I wish my mother were here,” she said.

I was ever so grateful that my mother was not. She would be dismayed beyond words.

“We should call for Uncle James,” said Lucy.

“Wait,” I said. “Wait just one little minute, please.” I wanted desperately to think, to carefully look at the scene before us.

“Grandmamma will be ever so troubled,” Lucy said. “Must it be me to tell her?”

“James will,” I said. I thought of my own grandmother. She would be decidedly enthralled by the arrival of a corpse.

“The police will come,” said Hector. “I should not have touched the drapery. Even the Dowager Lady Greyson cannot stop the police when a body bleeds in the library.”

The police! Most certainly they’d be here. The room would be swarmed in no time!

“This is our only chance,” I said, “to be in here alone.” I gazed at the body, at the bloodstain, and then, in wider and wider circles, at everything else in sight, trying to memorize exactly what sat where. When I’d found the deceased Irma Eversham in October, Inspector Locke said that I was an excellent witness. I wished to honor my reputation.

The dictionary that had brought us here stood open, upon a pedestal. Next to it was a globe of the world on a cast-iron stand with pale azure oceans and sand-colored continents. Bookcases lined the walls, showing hundreds of leather spines in orderly rows. A green-shaded lamp on a little table illuminated the silver rim of a magnifying glass. A desk of polished wood near the window had a stack of writing paper and a tray of implements—the ones with silver owls that Marjorie had mentioned. Further off was a pair of armchairs with another small table between them. The lamp there was unlit, but a cut-crystal glass holding amber liquid glimmered faintly. A pair of high buckled boots lay nearby.

Aside from the boots and the dead body, nothing was apparently amiss. The library was calm and tidy, awaiting only a reader. Except that Lucy seemed to be huffing noisy breaths beside me, each one huffier than the one before. Her cheeks were pale, her mouth open.

“Lucy?” I said.

She squeezed shut her eyes and began to scream. A long, admirable scream.

My eyes met Hector’s. “That should do it,” I said.

“Most emphatically,” said Hector.

The noise stopped when Lucy paused for breath. “Sorry,” she gulped. “It just came over me.”

Footsteps thudded in the passage, like heartbeats in the hush of the pirate’s tomb. The housekeeper, Mrs. Frost, threw open the door, her cheeks mottled red. Archer, head parlormaid, was a step behind. She took one look and set to screaming herself.

Mrs. Frost smacked Archer’s face with a swift slap. “Pull yourself together. Find Dr. Musselman. Tell him to come at once.”

Archer slouched away, holding a hand to her face.

Pressman appeared just as James strode through a second door on the far side of the room. The butler clasped a poker borrowed from the kitchen fire. James was equipped with an enormous pistol, though it looked old and blackened.

“There is no one to shoot,” I said. “He’s already dead.”

Marjorie came a moment later, and froze in the doorway, aghast. Her gaze flew from the corpse to me, to James and back to the body on the floor. Pressman pulled open more draperies until Hector spoke up.

“Perhaps not to disarrange the room?” he said.

“Quite right,” said James. “Don’t touch anything else, Pressman. Though the light helps.”

“So much blood,” said Marjorie.

“So much blood,” I repeated. Now that the scarlet marsh upon the carpet was brightly illuminated, I felt a bit of a whoosh, as if someone had blown very hard against the inside of my face.

“I can’t promise we’ll get that stain out, my lady,” said Mrs. Frost, frowning.

“But who is it?” said Marjorie.

James put aside his weapon and stepped gingerly along the fringe of the carpet.

“It’s hard to see,” I said. “Because of the wig.”

James leaned closer. “I suppose we’d best wait for the doctor, but if there’s any chance…”

“Hector touched him,” said Lucy.

“He is dead,” said Hector.

“Marjorie, darling?” said James. “Do you feel up to placing a telephone call to the police?”

“Certainly,” she said. “I’ll go at once.” She looked at me. “Perhaps you should come too. Mummy would be vexed to think I’d left you in the company of a—”

“I’ll look after the children,” said James. “The call is urgent.”

Thank goodness Marjorie did not argue but hurried away, nearly colliding with Mr. Mooney as he came in.

“What’s this?” The actor’s eyes bulged at the grim sight while two footmen tried to peer over his shoulder. “Is that one of our daggers?”

“Please may we stay, James?” I said. “It’s not my first dead body.”

He put an arm about my shoulder. “You do realize that’s not a normal thing for a young lady to claim? And what about you, Lucy?” he said. “Are you quite recovered after your alarming scream?”

Lucy nodded vigorously, and it seemed our presence would be allowed a while longer.

“Let me through!” came the doctor’s voice, more harshly than we’d heard it the day before. “Medic’s here.”

Mr. Mooney and Mrs. Frost moved over to let Dr. Musselman shuffle in. He wore an old wine-colored dressing gown, tightly knotted about his round tummy. Archer must have called him from his bed, for his sparse hair stuck up like blades of grass and his spectacles sat crookedly on his blobby nose. He clutched his black bag, taking in the scene with a single look.

“I’ll be jiggered,” he said. He put the bag aside—no use now!—and leaned over the body, careful not to step where blood was darkening the pattern on the carpet. His fingers went to the man’s wrist and then fumbled under the wig to his neck. I suspect I was not alone in holding my breath while we watched. A small shake of the head confirmed that he hadn’t felt a pulse, though we’d already known that he would not.

Dr. Musselman leaned farther over, gently lifting the pirate’s curls, as if parting a curtain. The light caught a ring of gold in his earlobe. Oh, poor man. Every one of us sighed when the face was revealed. Mr. Roger Corker.

The doctor creakily straightened, and patted the spot on his chest where usually he would find his watch in its pocket, except that he was in pajamas and robe.

“Does anyone know the time?” he said, looking about.

James pulled out his watch and told him, “Eight forty-nine, old chap.”

Marjorie came back in just then, shaking her head. “The line is down,” she murmured. “Too much snow.”

Dr. Musselman cleared his throat, rubbed his mustache and spoke in a low, even tone. “A male person is pronounced dead at eight forty-nine, Christmas morning, 1902, apparently by violent means.”

Apparently? Whatever else might a dagger in the back indicate?

The doctor took a giant step backward, off the carpet and away from the corpse. Now, officially, a corpse.

“Mrs. Frost, I would like a cup of coffee,” he said, in his normal voice.

“At once, sir.” As she turned one way, her departure was blocked by Mr. Mooney, the other, she nearly tripped on the doctor’s bag. She tucked it under the dictionary lectern before bustling away. One moment later, Kitty Sivam appeared in the doorway, gold hair streaming down her back. She, too, wore a dressing gown instead of proper clothes, though no one cared, of course. Her eyes widened in ghastly fright when she saw what lay on the floor.

“Is it Lakshay?” Kitty Sivam inched toward the body and let out a cry. “Stabbed in the back?”

Marjorie put a hand out to prevent her guest from going any closer.

“No, dear,” said Marjorie. “It’s poor Mr. Corker. You must stay clear. The doctor…” Her voice trailed off as Kitty took in a ragged gulp of air and began to shudder in my sister’s arms.

The door at the other side of the library opened with a bang. Mr. Sivam strode in.

“Lakshay!” cried Kitty. “Where were you?” She stepped toward him, her arms lifting and then dropping in a slow flap. She’d meant to embrace him, I saw, but stopped herself. Her husband had gone rigid, gaping at Mr. Corker.

“Noo…” Mr. Sivam’s anguish in one little word. He fell to his knees and covered his face with his hands.

And now the actress, Annabelle, appeared at the door. She stared at the men on the carpet, one so still with a dagger in his back, the other moaning in dismay. A hand crept up to cover her mouth, wide in distress. Her gaze jumped from the corpse to the faces of those watching her, from Mr. Mooney to James and Mrs. Sivam, to us children and the old doctor. Then, in a sudden terrible moment, her eyes rolled back—they truly did! I saw them!—and she slumped to the floor in a melting swoon.