CHAPTER 18
A CLOSING ARGUMENT
“IT MAY SURPRISE you to learn,” said Inspector Willard, “that the dagger inside that brown paper was not the murder weapon.”
Mr. Mooney and Annabelle, without the advantage of having seen the true wound from the spy-hole when the body was flipped, both gasped and clutched each other’s hands.
“He died from something other than a knife in his back?” said Annabelle. “But how…?”
“What killed him?” said Mr. Mooney.
“We do not yet know the full story,” said the inspector. “But to help us get there, I’d like to hear exactly what you did last night after the party in the drawing room.”
Annabelle spoke up at once. “Sebastian and I had our meeting,” she said. “We always chat after every performance. What went well? What could we do better next time? That sort of thing.”
“Mr. Corker did not participate?”
“Not last night,” said Annabelle. “He didn’t always.”
“And where was this?” the inspector asked.
“We, uh…sat on the stairs, up there, near our rooms.” But Annabelle’s pause had been just long enough to make the rest sound like nonsense.
Mr. Mooney rested a hand on Annabelle’s shoulder. “It’s all right, Annie,” he said. “There’s no harm in me telling the good inspector the truth.”
“There’s a great deal of harm in telling me anything otherwise,” said Inspector Willard. “Shall we sit?”
Sergeant Shaw trotted back and forth, collecting chairs from different places in the room. Ballroom chairs, with padded seats and yellow ribbons trailing from their spindled backs.
Hector busied himself counting the same stack of gloves that had been counted three times already, while I leaned deep into the bin full of boots. I found that two of them had balls of newspaper stuffed into their toes.
“Annabelle’s,” I whispered.
“I went into the library,” said Mr. Mooney. “His lordship had invited us earlier to prevail ourselves of the liquors he kept there in a cabinet. As I was still enlivened by the success of the evening, I thought to pour myself a brandy.”
“You were alone?” asked the inspector.
“I came into the room alone,” said Mr. Mooney, “but found that Roger was there before me. He’d had the same thought as I had and was making some progress with the rum bottle.”
“Do you mean to say that he was tipsy?”
“Sozzled,” said Mr. Mooney.
Annabelle sighed, a long, sad sound. I picked up a pirate boot and rubbed the shiny buckle.
“What happened next?” asked Inspector Willard.
“I am grieved to say that we argued,” said Mr. Mooney. “He was not supposed to drink in the homes we visited. He knew that. He was too likely to become unpleasantly drunk. And that’s what happened on Christmas Eve. I admonished him. He became belligerent with me, called me names. I left the library and went to my room. That is the end of the story. I’d give anything…to have had a different parting.”
The inspector was quiet. He tugged on the swatch of white hair over his brow, as if that might help him think.
“What time did you leave the library, Mr. Mooney?”
“I’d guess it was about half past eleven?” As if to confirm his guess, he pulled the watch from his pocket to see the time.
“And where were you at that time, Miss Day?” asked Inspector Willard.
“I’d gone to bed,” she said. “And I’m not usually a liar, Inspector. Just that Roger being drunk…well, I didn’t like to let the rumors fly.”
“Drunk and murdered, Miss Day,” said Inspector Willard. “With Mr. Mooney being possibly a final witness.”
Annabelle bowed her head.
“Did either of you see anyone else up and about?”
Annabelle shook her head no.
“There was a servant coming down the stairs as I went up,” said Mr. Mooney. “The footman who joined us for the tableau, young Frederick. He’d changed back into livery, but that sunny blond hair of his is unmistakable.”
Inspector Willard rose abruptly. “I’d like you to recreate the paths you took last night,” he said. “Sergeant Shaw will follow and take notes.”
They filed out of the ballroom without a glance our way. I dropped a boot back into the crate.
“We didn’t really learn anything new,” I said, “except that Frederick was running about rather late in the evening. Why do you suppose Annabelle tried to lie about what they were doing last night?”
“She makes an alibi,” said Hector. “For Mr. Mooney? Or for herself? Mr. Mooney, he is fighting with his friend for the last time.”
The door creaked open again and Dot appeared.
“Miss?” She scuffled her way across the marble floor.
“Hallo, Dot. Why, what’s the matter?”
Her eyes and nose were pink, her hair escaping every which way from under her cap.
“Oh, miss,” she said. “It’s me brother. First he was fretting over the foreign gent gone missing, wondering if he’d been dressing a murderer…but then the police come to the kitchen and got terrible pointy with their questions, asking has Fred gone back to his thieving ways, does he own a knife, was he a burglary partner with the dead man, and all manner of cruel suggestions that’d break our mother’s heart.”
No wonder that Mr. Mooney saying he’d seen Frederick had pricked the inspector’s interest. But how would the footman have become so quickly intimate with Mr. Corker that they plotted a crime together? And even if Frederick had assisted in the jewel theft, did that mean he’d suddenly become a killer?
“Fred is the softest-hearted boy I ever knew!” Dot was crying. “He rescued kittens from a sack when the grocer tried to drown them last summer. He never forgets Mama’s birthday, and he—”
Hector awkwardly patted Dot’s shoulder.
“The truth is still hidden,” he said, “like the shy bird in a bramble bush. But do not upset yourself. The truth, she will be coaxed into the light.”
“Frederick has nothing to fear if he is innocent,” I began, but that word if prompted a whimper from Dot. “He will be proven innocent,” I amended (for what else could I say?). “Though I expect it will take the police a day or two to speak with everyone, and then to make their deductions.”
We clucked and soothed a little more, until Dot said, “I’m forgetting! The reason I was sent to find you flew right out of my head! Your grandmother says to tell you that enough is enough, miss. You and Master Hector are to go to the nursery. I’ll have your supper upstairs on a tray nearly before you get there.”
Twilight had deepened to winter darkness when we entered the Great Hall. Flames danced in the fireplace and the chandelier far above our heads reflected splinters of light from the candles burning on the festive tree.
A bell chimed at the front door. More police? Mr. Pressman crossed the tiles to open it. His back obscured our view, so we could only hear the visitor without seeing him.
“Good evening,” said a hearty voice. “I am Blake Cramshot from the Tiverton Bugle. I have a few questions about the tragic event that disturbed your Christmas morning.”
Mr. Pressman raised his hands, palms up. “I cannot help you, Mr. Cramshot. His lordship prefers that we decline to make any comment on the matter.”
“You don’t think his lordship would want to set the record straight? It’s rumors what’ll get in the paper if we don’t have direct word.”
“Good night to you, Mr. Cramshot.” Mr. Pressman closed the door with a firm click and lifted a key from the chain at his waist to lock it as well.
Upstairs, Lucy was in her nightdress, grumbling that we had never finished the hunt for our stockings or opened a single package. Dot had delivered the supper tray and gone away, leaving Grannie Jane—despite the many stairs!—to oversee our cozy supper. Chicken soup with tiny dumplings, salted butter smeared on warm bread and a blackberry jam tart. With the fire leaping and snow hurling itself against the windows, we ate our feast and were just a wee bit merry. The day had not been the Christmas we’d expected, but truly? Aside from the wretched end for poor Mr. Corker, Hector and I confessed to each other that we were content, even invigorated, by the unfolding events.
“I do not regret,” said Grannie Jane, “that my penchant for curiosity has been passed along to you, my pet. Though some consider it unseemly when expressed in the extreme. But really, is there anything more fascinating than the misdeeds of others?”
“Nothing at all,” I agreed. “Every day becomes a day at the theater.”
“Act One is done!” Hector stood to go to his own room. “When we awake, another act begins.”
Grannie and I stayed beside the fire as Lucy crawled beneath her quilt. She was asleep in minutes. But my head buzzed with characters and conversations, motives and questions. Were all the players now onstage? Could Dot’s brother be a villain? Had Mr. Sivam fought to protect his country’s heritage? Or would the second act reveal an unknown killer hiding in the wings? Were the clues required to solve the crime already noted, or might some unexpected detail come to light? Which moments were the ones that mattered and which could be disregarded?
“Agatha,” said Grannie Jane. “I have been thinking about your mother.”
I hurriedly scratched my forehead so that Grannie would not see me flush. Mummy had not entered my thoughts all this Christmas Day!
“I shall write to her at once,” I promised. “Now, before I sleep.”
“It seems to me,” said Grannie, “that were she to know the full truth of what has occurred here today, it would cause great worry.”
Mummy would be frantic. As fussed as a sick cat, as fretful as a hungry baby, as unsettled as a moth in a windstorm.
“I would like to suggest a small deceit.” Grannie Jane had lowered her voice to a near-whisper.
“Yes!” I caught her meaning at once. “But Marjorie must be also in accord.”
“We have already discussed the matter and are agreed,” she said. “How I worry for your sister, bearing the burden of a murder in one’s library while being scrutinized through narrowed eyes by her mother-in-law. Good night, pet.”
She toddled off toward East House, braver than any of us, I thought, having to spend the night in a suite next to that of old Lady Greyson.
Christmas night, 1902
Dear Mummy,
Did you know that Owl Park has a tradition of hiding the Christmas morning socks? James and Marjorie wrote clever clues for a treasure hunt first thing this morning.
And what surprises awaited us!
There has been so much snow that we haven’t been outside, but we are not bothered. Marjorie hired a small company of actors to entertain on Christmas Eve. Hector and Lucy played parts and I watched. The house is enormous with many unexpected things to see, including a cupboard full of teapots—in the morning room!—and other secrets besides.
Marjorie is a little nervous about feeding so many guests, but her menu choices have been delicious. No one is going hungry, despite the blizzard preventing some deliveries.
I do not think I shall ever forget this day.
Please rub Tony’s ears for me and know that I am sending you kisses.
My very best love,
Aggie