CHAPTER 14

AN EAVESDROPPING INTERLUDE

THE MORNING ROOM was thankfully empty. Poor Marjorie would be occupied by far more than letter-writing today. Lucy had the cabinet open in a flash, and the torch switched on.

“The library is the second spy-hole, a few feet beyond the study,” she said. “Hector, you go first. I’ll tap your shoulder when we’re in the right spot. I’ll turn off the torch. Remember, no talking!”

The passage wasn’t scary this time. Hector had just got into position when a sudden flash of light filled the narrow viewing slot.

“What was that?” whispered Lucy.

“Photograph,” Hector whispered back.

“Who’s in there?” I said, soft as a mosquito.

“Three policemen,” said Hector, “and Lord Greyson.”

We heard a knock and the library door opening.

“Ah, there you are, Doctor,” said James. “How is Mother?”

“Not happy,” said Dr. Musselman. “Can’t find the chloroform drops I use to moisten the cotton packing in her tooth. I’ve had to rub on clove oil instead. The taste is…not pleasant.”

“Oh, dear,” said James. “Well, the patient here in the library is past complaining. This is Detective Inspector Willard, and his sergeants, Fellowes and Shaw. Shaw is taking photographs of the scene, before Mr. Corker’s body is moved.”

We heard murmurs as they presumably shook hands, while James finished the introductions. “Gentlemen, this is Dr. Musselman. He is a family guest and a private physician. He confirmed the death at eight forty-nine this morning.”

“Damn cold in here,” said the doctor.

“I asked for the fire to remain unlit,” said James. “Best to preserve the chill until the bod—until the deceased is taken elsewhere. We can’t have servants trucking in and out.”

“An excellent decision,” said Inspector Willard.

There came another bright flash. Hector pulled back from the spy-hole and blinked a couple of times before resuming his post. I was longing to see what he could see!

“Two more angles, Sergeant Shaw,” said the inspector, “and then we’ll turn him over.”

“Do you wish to sit, Inspector?” said James.

“I prefer to stand, my lord. It helps me commit the room to memory.”

Another burst of light, then quiet, broken only by an occasional muffled word. Hector made room for me to take his place. I could see the head and torso of poor Mr. Corker on the floor. The sergeant named Shaw was setting up a tripod to hold steady his box camera. The other sergeant and Dr. Musselman were not in my sightline just then. James leaned on the lectern that held the dictionary. Inspector Willard stood in the center of the room, rotating slowly, muttering to himself the whole time.

“Bookshelf. Reading chair, squashed pillow. Glass of…” He went over and bent at the waist to sniff. “Rum, I’d say.” Then, “Fire tongs, oil painting in gold frame. Very fine landscape, by the way,” he said. “Is that an original by Edwin Landseer?”

“Yes, it is,” said James. “You’ve a good eye.”

“Dictionary,” continued the inspector. “Open to what page, my lord?”

“The M section,” said James. “Maudlin on the upper left. Meticulous on the lower right.”

“Maudlin,” repeated Inspector Willard as he turned. “Occasional table. Lamp. Writing desk. Sterling-handled accessory set: two pens, a blotter, a seal, a paper knife, a page-turner, an inkstand. Meticulous. Queen Anne chair with tufted cushion…”

And so on. A bit dull. No wonder Hector had shifted.

But then, pop! Another flash, and, “I’m done, sir,” said Sergeant Shaw.

Willard perked up, the moment he’d been waiting for. “I’d like to have that blade out, don’t you think, Doctor? Before any shifting? Can we do that?”

“Certainly,” said Dr. Musselman. “Certainly.” He shuffled into view and, with a helping hand from James, got to his knees next to Mr. Corker.

“Do you know,” he said. “I’ve been a country doctor for thirty-three years. I’ve delivered more than three hundred babies. I’ve amputated two legs—from two different men, mind. I’ve sewn back a few fingers and seen my share of death. But I have never removed a dagger from the body of a pirate.”

Goodness! I thought. Three hundred babies! More than! And two legs!

James patted Dr. Musselman’s shoulder. “There is no one I would rather trust,” he said.

The doctor leaned in to look closely at the weapon.

“Harumm,” he said, though it was more of a growl.

“What is it?” asked the inspector.

“Not enough blood, I’d say.” The doctor gently prodded the pirate jerkin around the wound.

“But it seems like a tremendous amount of blood,” said James. “Practically a pond full.”

“Not in the right place,” said the doctor. He reached for the handle of the dagger, and paused. “I don’t suppose you’ve latched on yet to this notion of fingerprints on things, Inspector? Do I need to mind what I’m touching?”

The Inspector sighed. “I’m very keen for the Tiverton constabulary to catch up with London on that matter,” he said, “but for now, we’ve not got the proper kit for analyzing what we cannot see. It’s an expensive enterprise, and we’ll all need training. Not there yet. Go ahead, take hold of the handle.”

The dagger came out, with a faint slurp. I swallowed hard.

“Looks to be the real thing,” said the inspector. “Not a stage prop.”

“It belongs to the actors, though,” said James. “Mr. Mooney showed us during rehearsal for the tableaux. He and Mr. Corker like to wear the real weapons, makes them feel more the part.”

“Does it now?” said the inspector.

“We’d best look for other wounds,” said Dr. Musselman. “I don’t see how this one can be the cause of death.”

Inspector Willard crouched at Mr. Corker’s top end and slid his hands beneath the shoulders. “Fellowes,” he said. “Look sharp. Umm, sorry, bad choice of words.”

There was a shuffling while Fellowes presumably got into position by the corpse’s feet.

“Ready?” said the inspector. “We turn him to the left—my left, mind! Your right! In three…two…one!”

“Oof,” said someone, but I couldn’t see who.

More grunts, and they got him over. The hat and wig dislodged, revealing the yellowy, waxen face of Mr. Corker, his eyes rolled back—Heavenward?—and his jaw agape. A wound was evident on one side of his neck, blackened and crusty, but freshly seeping now that the body had been turned. The small gold ring glinted in his earlobe.

“God’s teeth,” said James. He put a hand over his face.

“Like flipping a park bench,” said Sergeant Fellowes. “That stiff.”

Dr. Musselman cleared his throat. “Full rigor mortis,” he said.

Lucy gave me a nudge but I ignored her.

Was the open mouth a result of rigor mortis? Or was the man expressing alarm at the violent end coming his way?

“This explains the blood,” said Dr. Musselman, leaning in to look at the neck wound. “Too small an incision for the dagger, though. Whatever the weapon, it must have punctured the artery.”

“Two weapons, Doctor?” said the inspector. “Just my luck. Can you narrow the time of death?”

“A broad guess would say between eleven o’clock last night and two this morning. The temperature may have affected the process.”

“Let me see!” hissed Lucy.

“And you’ll confirm my opinion that this is not a self-inflicted injury, Dr. Musselman?” said the inspector.

“I will indeed, Inspector. Indeed, I will.”

“The best close shot you can manage, Shaw, up close to that entry point.”

“Yes, sir,” said the sergeant.

“It’s MY turn!” Lucy had forgotten about utter silence.

James snapped his head around and glared—it seemed—directly into my eyes. He could not really see me, the slit being so narrow and across the room from where he stood, but he certainly knew that someone was watching. I shrank back, holding a finger to my lips and another to Lucy’s in case she did not understand the danger. We dared not breathe.

The inspector kept on talking. “I apologize in advance for the inconvenience, my lord, but we’ll need to interview everyone in the house.”

“I will arrange for a room,” said James. His voice was closer to us now.

“With a table and chairs,” said Inspector Willard. “And preferably a fire.”

“Have we finished in here, Inspector?” said James. “We can have the carpet cleaned, once the man is moved?”

“We’ll get him out today,” said Inspector Willard, “and you’ll have your library back…though I’d discourage common use, in case I need another look. We’ll have a man keep watch if we can spare one. Blast this snow.”

“May I suggest,” said James, from what seemed now to be right next to us on the other side of the wall, “that you speak first with the children who found the body? Accounting for some of those bloody footprints, I’m afraid. They are waiting nearby in the morning room, if you—”

Hector jumped. Lucy squeaked. I did both. We fumbled and bumped and squeaked again. We ran as best we could in the dark and narrow passage, trying to be stealthy but not succeeding well in that endeavor. We tumbled into the morning room, closed the cabinet door and heard it click into place. The relief of escape tickled my chest and I began to laugh, more so when I saw the smear of grime across Hector’s nose and chin. He pointed at my face, laughing also, showing that I had the same marks from pressing up against the spy-hole.

“Quick!” Lucy pulled a doily from the arm of a chair. “Wipe it off! They’ll be here any moment. Ooh, I wish Uncle James hadn’t heard us!”

Us? I thought, but did not say. I had been a bit greedy about my turn. I rubbed my nose and passed the lacy cloth to Hector.

“He is most calm and clever, your uncle James.” Hector dabbed at his chin. “He gives to us a warning but does not alert the police detective.”

A tap at the door made us all jump. Frederick, the footman. We began to laugh again.

“His lordship requests that you join Mrs. Morton in the Avon Room,” said Frederick. “At once. To attend the police.”

“Well, that’s good news,” I said. Grannie Jane was the ideal companion when facing a detective inspector. She’d been quite stern with the imposing Inspector Locke after the murder in Torquay.

“Tell him we’re coming,” said Lucy.

“I am to escort you,” said Frederick, gazing blandly at one of the curtain rods.

“Mr. Frederick,” said Hector. “May I ask, have you found your gentleman, Mr. Sivam?”

Frederick glanced over his shoulder to confirm that we were alone before speaking like a normal person instead of a footman. “He’s not been seen by no one,” he said, “since when he come to the library where the body was, telling Lord Greyson about the missing jewel,” he said. “I’m getting curious why he’s run away!”

We filed out of the morning room in front of Frederick, along the passage, around a corner and down another corridor. In truth I was not paying attention to where we were because the image of Mr. Corker’s blood-encrusted wound had settled before my eyes and was becoming more grotesque with every step.

The man’s artery had been pierced; life extinguished in a few breaths. Though his spirit had fled in terror, his body remained in the darkened room, an invitation to more earthly visitors. It was the body—the torn tissue, the blood, the residue of fear—that became a beacon for a near-invisible population of carpet mites and flies, gnats struggling to survive the winter, and maggots already breeding within the corporeal remains…

“Aggie!” Hector’s hand prevented me from stumbling. We were at the top of three wide steps that led into a room I hadn’t seen before. One whole wall inside was a painted mural of a riverbank, with willow trees and sunlight blinking through silvery leaves.

“How lovely!” Spring had suddenly arrived in the fluttering reeds and dappled water, despite the snow whirling against the real-life windowpanes.

“That’s the River Avon.” Lucy plunked herself down on a sofa. “That’s why this is called the Avon Room. Frederick, where is Mrs. Morton?”

“Madam is coming now.” He held open the door.

“Thank you,” said Grannie Jane. She had her knitting bag tucked under one arm, creamy white wool peeking out. Under the high ceiling and next to upright Frederick, she seemed to have shrunk overnight. I carefully wrapped my arms around her. A bubble of warmth swelled in my chest and threatened to leak through my eyes in the form of tears.

“Hello, Grannie,” I said, and then laughed a little. “Merry Christmas.”

She kissed me and patted Hector’s shoulder. Lucy stood and received a pat as well. “My dears, my dears,” she said. “ ‘Merry’ does not seem quite the right word.”

“Will you sit, madame?” said Hector.

“I will,” she said. “Houses of this size are such a nuisance to one’s legs.” She sat on one of the upright chairs, keeping her knitting bag on her lap.

“I am here now,” she said to Frederick. “You may go.”

She waited until the door had closed behind him. “Now then.” She turned her attention to us. “You’ve had a morning unlike any other, if what my maid was chattering about is true.”

“If she told you we found a dead body, Grannie, then her chatter is as true as the sky.”

“Goodness, Agatha, you’ll get a reputation if this keeps up.”

We three sat in a row, perched on the edge of the sofa. Grannie extracted her knitting project from the bag, adjusted the stitches to her satisfaction, and began to work the needles.

“Well?” she said.

“Well, what?” I said.

“You must be vivid and specific in your descriptions, my dears, as I have not had the pleasure of seeing the crime scene for myself.”