CHAPTER 27

AN INTIMIDATION

CONSTABLE GILLIE escorted us to visit the corpse. We could not escape that courtesy. What machinations were occurring in Miss Truitt’s head to prepare herself for an interview with the detective inspector?

I led them along the route I knew to reach the service courtyard, through the baize door and into the kitchen.

Cook slapped a hand to her mouth at the sight of us there, and hearing her squawk made all the staff look up in surprise and worry. It was no common sight to see a lady in a fine mourning dress and veil come traipsing through their territory without a word of warning.

“You should be going through the side door, miss, next to the library. It leads to the terrace and a path to the courtyard.”

“I do apologize, Cook,” I said. “I’ll remember that for next time.”

Dot pulled a woolly shawl from a hook near the door and bundled it about my shoulders. “You’ll need this,” she said. “Snow’s coming down like powdered sugar on a plum cake.”

The stable had two doors. A tall double door used by the horses, closed for the moment, and an ordinary human-sized entrance. Sergeant Fellowes stood at this one, thumping the end of his baton into one palm in quite a threatening fashion. He nodded to our constable and eyed Miss Truitt up and down. He ignored me as thoroughly as if I were a sparrow on some distant branch.

“Lady Greyson was firm in her wish,” explained Constable Gillie. “Miss Truitt here is to have a look at his nibs.”

“She’s what?” said Sergeant Fellowes. “Going in there?”

“Alone,” said Miss Truitt, from behind her veil.

Sergeant Fellowes looked at Constable Gillie and Gillie nodded curtly. Sergeant Fellowes looked hard at me (for the first time) and the constable said, “Not her.”

“I’ll wait here,” I said to Miss Truitt. “I’ve seen him already.”

She made a noise that I discerned to be laughter, but she covered it smoothly with a tearful sob. Constable Gillie backed away and left us. Sergeant Fellowes opened the door, which creaked on its hinges and welcomed the grieving charlatan into a world of straw and dung.

Straw, dung and a dead body. I peered into the dark before the sergeant pulled the door shut. Was Mr. Corker on the floor or on a table? Perhaps a bench? Was he wrapped in a sheet or his own coat? Had Miss Truitt hidden her notebook in the folds of her mourning gown? What details would she be writing down, to preserve her memory of the scene? Had she seen a dead body before now?

Sergeant Fellowes stamped his feet against the creeping cold, and I stamped mine.

I could not boast that I felt proud of participating in Miss Truitt’s deceit, and yet…her devotion to her task was wholly admirable. Certainly, the report of a murder could not be so vivid if one did not meet the corpse. I wished I could tell James or Grannie Jane the extent of her research, but I could not. My admiration was at odds with my loyalty. By assisting Mr. Fibbley to tell as true a story as possible, I was being untrue to my family.

The stable door flew open and Miss Truitt was with us again. She tugged the veil over her pale face as if to extinguish her connection to the world.

Another door banged and Mr. Mooney approached from the kitchen, arms wrapped around the enormous plaster goose from the Blue Carbuncle tableau, in which he’d starred as Sherlock Holmes. Our small company turned to stare and he stared back, with most particular attention to Miss Beatrice Truitt, head to foot in black mourning weeds. Miss Truitt’s foot pressed firmly upon my toe, so surprising me that I nearly laughed.

“Good afternoon, sir,” she said.

“Good afternoon.” Mr. Mooney seemed somewhat puzzled to be addressed by a woman who was a stranger.

“Oh, er, hello,” I said. “Miss Truitt, this is Mr. Sebastian Mooney, actor and friend of your…of the decease—of Mr. Corker. Mr. Mooney, sir, may I introduce Miss Truitt.”

Miss Truitt extended her gloved hand. “I regret the circumstance under which we meet, Mr. Mooney. My Roger has spoken of you so often.”

Mr. Mooney gaped. “Your Roger?” he said. “Who the devil—” He glanced at me and back again to peer at Miss Truitt, as if by gawping harder he might penetrate the crape of her weeping veil.

“Miss…Turret?” he said.

“Truitt,” said she and I together, though how I spoke I do not know, as my heart was skittering like a rat in a trap. Thumping like a dog’s tail on a plank floor. Beating like autumn rain against a windowpane.

“Forgive me, Miss Truitt,” said Mr. Mooney. “But I have known Roger for…eight years? Nine? In all that time he has never once mentioned that he had a lady-friend, though there were occasions when together we dallied with—”

He looked at me and stopped his tongue, and even had the grace to flush. Surely it was discourteous to tell a young woman of the other young women who may have come before her in a man’s affections?

“I was a secret,” said Miss Truitt. “I still am, truth be told, on account of my husband who is still living.”

Truth be told? When would that happen? A husband??

Sergeant Fellowes’s eyes bulged, while Mr. Mooney’s narrowed.

Miss Truitt hurtled on. “I have lost my dearest friend,” she said. “And now that I’ve said farewell, I shall be on my way. No need to encumber the family with my grief a moment longer.” She took in a deep breath and turned so quickly that it took half a second for her skirt to catch up. I jumped to her side, recognizing an attempt to escape.

“Miss Truitt,” said Mr. Mooney. “Your hat and veil.”

Her gloved hand flew to touch the brim of her widow’s cap.

“Nothing is amiss,” I told her.

Sergeant Fellowes stomped his feet and briskly rubbed his hands together. “Cold,” he muttered. “Devilish cold.”

“I recognize your hat,” said Mr. Mooney. “I believe it to be part of the costume for our tableau of Queen Victoria at the graveside of Prince Albert.”

I felt that devilish cold from the roots of my hair to the soles of my feet. Mr. Mooney knew Miss Truitt to be a fraud.

She did not falter. “A keen eye, sir,” she said. “As an ardent admirer of the esteemed late queen, I wished to honor my dear love as she honored hers. Good day to you.” She strode toward the kitchen door, which was the nearest. I trotted behind like a tipsy duckling.

“Who are you?” called Mr. Mooney. My foot tripped on the kitchen doorstep as I crossed. I saw the actor thrust the giant goose into Sergeant Fellowes’s unwilling arms.

“He means to chase us!” I hissed.

Miss Truitt raced ahead, the length of the kitchen and through the baize door to the Upstairs part of the house. I followed in haste, apologizing to Cook as I flew past. Miss Truitt galloped—galloped!—along the passage toward the Great Hall. She turned a corner with a swish of her silk skirt, and disappeared.

I heard Mr. Mooney’s voice booming behind me. “Hello, hello! Sorry all! Which way did the ladies travel, can you tell me? We’re playing a silly game of Duck, Duck, Goose!”

He mustn’t find me! I would die of mortification if he found me. Or certainly faint dead away as Annabelle had in the library when she saw Mr. Corker’s body. I ran up one passage and down another. The constable outside the library door was thankfully dozing and didn’t see me hurry past. Finally, I recognized the familiar door of the morning room and flung myself inside.

Another door opened and banged shut nearby. Footsteps, and then an even closer door. Mr. Mooney was checking every room! I prayed that Miss Truitt had made her escape. One breath later I turned the cabinet handle with a giddy tug. More footsteps. From the dark of the secret passage, I pulled the door shut with not a moment’s grace.

“Hello?” said Mr. Mooney’s voice, inside the morning room. And then a muffled clunk as he presumably moved on. I sank to the floor, a trickle of unladylike perspiration running down my spine. Slowly, my breathing returned to normal. All that running and I’d been wrapped in Dot’s shawl. I shook it off and lay it across my knees, thinking hard. One question had been answered. Miss Truitt’s clothing had come from the theatrical trunks. She must have crept into the coach house and helped herself.

Mr. Mooney had known at once that Miss Truitt was not who she claimed to be. He’d likely been Mr. Corker’s closest acquaintance, he and Annabelle. He’d have met a sweetheart—or would certainly have heard news of her. Spotting familiar garments from the troupe’s own collection had naturally stirred his suspicions. Did he think her guilty of murder? Then why had he not sent Sergeant Fellowes racing after us instead of coming himself? Knowing she was an imposter, who did he imagine her true self to be?

Miss Truitt had not killed Mr. Corker. But only I—and the murderer—were certain of that. Even Hector did not yet know, because her true identity was hidden behind her veil. So, why had Mr. Mooney not (thank goodness) asked the trickster to show her face? Had he seemed more afraid than angry? Did he, too, have something to hide?

I shivered. The chill of snow-damp stockings propelled me to stand and move my legs, to pull the shawl back over my shoulders. How would I explain my absence to Marjorie and Grannie Jane? My rumbling stomach told me that lunch must be well over. I surely would be missed by now. Had Miss Truitt been cornered by Mr. Mooney? I did not like to emerge until the chance of an encounter had passed. Perhaps I should remain concealed for just a little longer.

And, since I was here…Might I learn anything by peeking into the library or James’s study? I found the torch on its hook and pressed the button. Nothing. Its failing beam on our previous excursion had now expired. Instead of light, my fingertips upon the wall would serve as guides.

The shades in the study were drawn, making it as dark as night except for threads of light outlining the windows. It appeared that James had not been there today. Peering into the library, I deduced from the evidence that someone had visited recently. The grate sparkled with embers and the curtains were pulled back. The table lamp glowed as it had when first we entered on Christmas morning, its glass shade casting a bright pool of green.

I pressed one cheek and then the other to the spy-hole, trying to see as far to the sides as I might. My chest and arms were also pressed against the wall, as snugly as a body could be. In this way, I felt a handle jabbing my stomach.

The spy-hole was embedded in a door!