CHAPTER 21

A DISQUIETING SCENE

“I CAN TURN THE man away, my lady,” the butler suggested to my sister.

“You needn’t do that,” I said, quickly taking up the card. Lucy stood on tiptoes to look.

Marjorie put aside her book. “Didn’t you say, James, that we mustn’t speak with—”

“Mr. Augustus Fibbley is from Torquay,” I told her. “He wrote about the murder in October, when Rose’s mother was poisoned.”

“Ah yes,” said James. “The determined Mr. Fibbley.”

“Whether you know him or not, he is still a reporter,” said Marjorie. “A man whose livelihood relies on the disasters of others.”

I hesitated at the word man. But then, “Well, yes. But he does try to tell the stories readers want to hear.”

Why was I defending Mr. Fibbley? In my experience, he was not a trustworthy person. However, I rather liked him. He was a writer, after all. And he’d called me a writer too. I hoped that wasn’t a lie.

“I’d like to meet with him,” I said. So bold! “Thank you, Mr. Pressman. Where is he?”

“I want to come with you.” Lucy gazed defiantly at her uncle James. “For protection.”

“I think not,” said James.

“I shan’t need protection,” I said. Ignoring Lucy’s scowl, I slipped around Mr. Pressman.

“Should we not accompany…?” said James to Marjorie. “A young girl alone with a man? It isn’t proper.”

“Oh, he isn’t a—” I stopped myself. Now was not the time to be breaking promises, especially in front of a bigmouth like Lucy. “I shall be perfectly fine. Mr. Pressman will watch.”

Marjorie sighed her consent.

The butler walked ahead, his back as straight as a bookcase.

The reporter was bundled in a sailor’s peacoat and a muffler, but held his hat in a mittened hand. He stood by the armored knight in the Great Hall, peering into the eye-slit in the visor as if hoping to encounter the ghost of the long-ago inhabitant.

“Hello,” I said.

Mr. Fibbley turned and smiled and pushed wire-rimmed glasses up the bridge of his nose. “Hello,” he said. “No barking dog?”

“Tony stayed at home to keep Mummy company for Christmas,” I said. “He would have driven the servants quite mad, I think.”

We considered one another. Our last encounter had been on a dark road, during a night of anguish and alarm. Memory took me there now, chilled and wet through, frightened but coming to the end of an ordeal that this odd person and I had partly shared.

“How did you know we were here?” I said. “Is Owl Park not rather out of your territory?”

“Very much so, Miss Morton. But you are my territory, especially when it comes to murder. My editor was notified of the connection—that your sister is the new Lady Greyson and that terrible events had occurred under her roof. So, here I am, not having Christmas. I have traveled through the night and would appreciate any details you might share. The detective inspector, as you heard, was not at all forthcoming.”

I felt a bit sorry for him, traveling nearly fifty miles to stand about getting chilblains in the snowy courtyard, but I was resolved to honor my sister’s wish of discretion.

“I don’t have anything more to add to his statement,” I said.

Mr. Fibbley smiled, a cunning, charming smile. “We both know that’s not true,” he said. “We both know you’re the most observant twelve-year-old in the south of England.”

“I’m observant too. And I’m only ten.” Lucy was suddenly at my side, grinning like a cat who’d swallowed a canary. Like Jack Horner with a giant plum on his thumb. Like a little girl who had tricked her aunt and uncle into letting her speak with a reporter…

“I’m Lucy,” she said, not looking at me.

I managed not to groan aloud.

“How do you do?” Mr. Fibbley gave a slight bow. “I am Augustus Fibbley of the Torquay Voice. Are you related to the clever Miss Morton?”

Lucy giggled. “She’s my new cousin. My uncle James is married to her sister.”

“Ah,” said Mr. Fibbley. “I expect your uncle James is a lucky man.”

He was pleasant and informal, as if we met often for a glass of lemonade and a game of Snakes and Ladders. A very friendly fellow, Mr. Gus Fibbley, up until the minute he decided not to be.

Friendly, or a fellow.

“We’re not meant to speak with—” I began.

“We found the body,” said Lucy. “I was first.”

“Tell me about that,” said Mr. Fibbley. His hat now dangled from the hilt of the knight’s sword, his mittens stuffed into pockets. A notebook had appeared in one hand and a pencil in the other.

Lucy told, of course. About the dim library, the blood-soaked carpet and identifying Mr. Corker, despite his being in costume.

She might be considered as much of a barking dog as Tony, I thought.

“So, the cause of death was a stab wound?” said Mr. Fibbley.

“Yes, but the dagger—” Lucy began.

“That’s enough,” I said. What Lucy had said so far might have come from a servant. But we mustn’t say anything we knew from spying in the hidden passage.

Lucy’s look showed that she had plenty more to tell.

“Lucy,” I said. “Think of James and Marjorie.”

“He was in costume because he was an actor?” said Mr. Fibbley, still scratching along the page with his pencil. “Could you describe exactly what he was wearing? I heard he was dressed like a pirate.”

“White shirt, orange-colored trousers,” said Lucy, promptly. “Dingy stockings and no boots!”

“No boots?” said Mr. Fibbley, looking up. “Why was that?”

Lucy glanced at me and I shook my head. She pressed her lips tightly together as if they were fighting her.

“Where is the body now?” said Mr. Fibbley. “Could you take me to see it?”

“Certainly not,” I said.

“They moved it,” said Lucy.

I pressed the toe of my shoe upon the toe of hers.

“A peek at the crime site, then?” said Mr. Fibbley.

Footsteps thundered down the marble stairs into the Great Hall. Mr. Pressman, usually so stately, darted toward the commotion, which turned out to be two constables racing to find Inspector Willard.

“What’s this?” Mr. Fibbley watched with a keen eye as the policemen jumped the last three steps. One of them carried a woman’s low buttoned boot. They trotted toward the Avon Room where Inspector Willard was still conducting interviews.

“They must have found it,” Lucy said to me.

“Found what?” said Mr. Fibbley.

“The emerald,” said Lucy.

“An emerald was lost?” said Mr. Fibbley.

“Lucy,” I said. “You are an object of tremendous vexation.”

Another constable trotted toward the ballroom. Mr. Pressman strode our way, addressing Mr. Fibbley in the firmest of tones.

“I believe the time has come, sir, to say good day.”

“Just as things get interesting,” said the reporter, with a bright smile. “I am not dismayed, however. I have enough to get started.”

A scuffle in the passage from the ballroom sent Mr. Pressman hurrying to investigate.

“Must this occur at the front of the house?” said the butler tersely. “It is most discourteous to the—”

“Most bloody discourteous, being treated like a common criminal!” shouted Miss Annabelle Day, as she was dragged into the Great Hall.

One of the constables put a hand over her mouth. “None of your barnyard language here, miss, if you please.”

Miss Day wriggled her face clear of his hand and protested so loudly that the Dowager Lady Greyson may have heard her in East House. Two footmen came into the Great Hall from the service passage and stopped to gape, this not being a common scene at Owl Park. Sergeant Shaw appeared and moved quickly to assist the struggling constables.

“I never touched that emerald, as Heaven is my witness!” cried Miss Day. “And if I had—which I did not—why would I be such a fool as to hide it in my own damn shoe? This is a trap!”

She yanked her arm from the grasp of Sergeant Shaw’s thick fingers. “Let go of me, you great ape! I can walk perfectly well without you pawing me.”

“This way, miss,” said Sergeant Shaw, quite humbly, I thought, for a great ape. “The inspector will put it all to rights, whatever right is.”

Annabelle lifted her chin, set her shoulders straight and, flanked by two men, with a third behind, marched toward the Avon Room as gracefully as a doomed queen heading to the scaffold.

Mr. Fibbley was madly scribbling the whole time.

“You mustn’t put in anything about the emerald,” I said. “Please? Not yet. You mustn’t.”

“And why is that, Miss Morton? You did not breach a confidence. I’ve watched all this with my own two eyes.”

“Mr. Fibbley, sir?” Mr. Pressman loomed over us. “Your departure will be most efficient through a side entrance. Here is Frederick to escort you.”

He signaled the second footman, who strode forward and stood waiting until Mr. Fibbley had put away his notebook and pencil, straightened his muffler and retrieved his hat from the knight. He managed to wink at me before following Frederick out of the Great Hall.

“What is all the racket, Pressman?” James was here, the book he’d been reading still in his hand. “Are the girls—oh, hello, girls. What happened? Did the reporter cause trouble after all?”

“The reporter was lovely, Uncle James,” said Lucy. “He winked at Aggie and said I was a clever girl.”

To be factual, he’d called me “the clever Miss Morton,” and never said any such thing about Lucy, but let her have her silly fib. I would not deny her story.

“My lord,” said Mr. Pressman. “There has been an apprehension.”

“Explain.”

Mr. Pressman explained. James shook his head, in disbelief or dismay I could not tell.

“Has my mother been visible at all?” said James.

“No, my lord.”

“Small mercies,” said James. “Though I do feel an element of sympathy, since the chloroform drops for her toothache seem to have disappeared into thin air. Not that she needed any help in becoming crankier.”

The doorbell rang.

Mr. Pressman glanced around to be certain that the Great Hall was as quiet and elegant as it was meant to be. Lucy and I crept closer as he unlatched the door. Outside was an elderly gentleman, accompanied only by his cane.

“Good afternoon,” said Mr. Pressman.

“Good afternoon.” The man touched his hat. “I am here at the request of a Mr. Lakshay Sivam. We have an appointment today. My name is Sir Mayhew Dullingham. The stationmaster was kind enough to bring me from the village in a sleigh! I am here from the British Gemological Society. I believe the appraisal of a gemstone is required?”