CHAPTER 28

A PLETHORA OF PLOT TWISTS

LUCY COULD NOT POSSIBLY know that this end of the secret passage opened into the library—or would she not have shown us? Dare I enter? The room was empty. Had Mr. Mooney already checked the library and gone on his way?

I turned the handle ever so slowly, expecting resistance from disuse, or a creak of protest. It rotated smoothly and quietly. I stepped into the library and turned to see what sort of door I’d come through. It was disguised as a bookcase that held the complete works of William Shakespeare and other fat leather-bound books with gilt lettering on the spines. The spy-hole was well hidden in the shadow above a volume of The Moonstone by Wilkie Collins.

Being certain the bookcase was again firmly in place, I turned to examine the scene before me, as if it were a theatrical stage awaiting actors to enter from the wings. The carpet had been scrubbed, I knew, but Mr. Corker’s final resting place was still evident, the wool now darkened with water rather than blood. A tiny crackle from the grate made me jump. I was not truly certain that the spirit of a murdered man might not linger for a time in the place where he had died. How helpful that would be! What happened here, if I may inquire? The cushion on the big leather chair was still squashed down. On Christmas morning, the contents of the nearby glass had been identified as rum by Inspector Willard. Reporters’ gossip, repeated by Miss Truitt, lingered in my head. A genial chap, a little too fond of drink. It had likely been Mr. Corker lounging in the chair, squashing the cushion flat. Before or after his argument with Mr. Mooney?

And what of the magnifying glass on the other table, beneath the bright green lamp? Had Mr. Corker used it to examine some volume from the bookshelf? And then—because the magnifier had not been on the same table as the one that held the glass of rum—he crossed the room to remove his boots and fall asleep in his chair? Was he finally relaxing? Or still fuming at Mr. Mooney for scolding him?

I closed my eyes to think through Mr. Corker’s final half hour…

Perhaps the third drink had not been a good idea, but, dash it! Mooney had no right to boss him about! The weary actor pulled off his boots and rubbed a hand across the stubble on his chin, his head a little foggy. Where was his partner in this crime caper? Had that nervous young footman encountered trouble during the burglary? Had he run into Mooney on the stairs?

Or, was Frederick alone in this endeavor—and the author of a terrible mistake?

The nervous young footman entered the library with his heart pounding. He had taken the emerald from the foreigner’s bureau in a moment of daring and now…Oh, horror! The man from Ceylon was here before him, still clad in pirate garb, and at any moment would turn to catch him red-handed. He took up a weapon and struck, realizing too late that he’d been fooled by the costume and attacked the wrong man!

Or had Mr. Corker been waiting for Miss Annabelle Day?

The actor pulled off his boots, with a sigh of anticipation. He rubbed a hand across the stubble on his chin, his head a little foggy. An irresistible opportunity had presented itself here at Owl Park, tied up like a Christmas package. Even if Annabelle encountered the scowling Mr. Mooney on her way downstairs, she could handle him easily. In her pocket would be a chance to leave the fickle world of theater. She’d pulled off the jewel heist of a lifetime!

Or had Miss Day been working alone, and Mr. Corker only an unhappy witness?

The actor’s earring flashed in the candlelight as he looked up, surprised, when the library door opened. Miss Annabelle Day did not notice him, but strode purposefully toward the single lamp glowing in the darkened room. From her pocket she withdrew…the Echo Emerald! But how did this infamous gem come to be in her possession? Roger Corker lurched to his feet with a grunt and stumbled toward his friend. “What have you done?” he cried.

Suppose he had wrestled her for it? Neither of them realizing that the stone they battled for was merely a copy?

Merely a copy…

What if…Oh! What if the magnifying glass had been used—not to peer at a book, but at the Echo Emerald instead? Who, other than the Sivams, might have discovered that the gemstone was a copy before Sir Mayhew arrived?

The man from Ceylon crept into the library and took up the silver-handled magnifying glass from where it lay next to the pens and inkwell on the desk. Mr. Corker, in a fog of rum, watched as the owner of the infamous Echo Emerald carefully examined his own precious jewel under the light cast by the green-shaded lamp…

But, how would that lead to murder?

Mr. Corker, in a fog of rum, crept into the library and took up the silver-handled magnifying glass from where it lay next to the inkwell on the desk. With a trembling hand, he withdrew from his pocket his newly stolen prize, the beautiful Echo Emerald. The door swung open with a bang, and in strode Mr. Sivam, his hair tousled and the cord of his dressing gown trailing. “You dunderhead!” he thundered. “How dare you! Return my gem at once!”

And then a tussle, where Mr. Corker tried to frighten Mr. Sivam by drawing his dagger, but dropped it, perhaps…and Mr. Sivam, seized with fury, stabbed the actor, and…sat calmly down to examine his jewel?

I could hear Hector’s voice inside my head: This is not logical.

None of my storylines made sense all the way through. It was most disheartening. I sat on the chair at the library desk and looked in the drawer for paper, but found none. I should not go anywhere without my notebook. I needed to have a Detection Consultation with Hector. We might scavenge some biscuits and cocoa at the same time. I rolled one of the pens back and forth, my fingertips tracing the delicate owl embossed in silver.

Surely Mr. Mooney had given up his chase by now.

And Miss Beatrice Truitt safely gone away?

Miss Truitt.

I had put her out of my mind for a few minutes, but now she waltzed back in. Not Miss Truitt herself, really, but the reporter who had used her as a disguise to gain entry to Owl Park. The reporter longing to uncover the true story of Mr. Corker’s demise, to tell it from a unique vantage point. That’s what she’d said while we were squished together in the lavatory. Not one of those men out there could do what I have done. And was that not what real writers looked for, to write about? A part of the story that had so far gone unseen.

I laid my hand across the row of pens and tools, the silver owls cool beneath my palm. My fingers rested on the paper knife. The sharp, narrow blade was meant to cut the edges of new book pages, as common in a library as books themselves. A shiver ran down and up my arms.

“You dunderhead!”

The actor pulled his dagger from its sheath at his waist, fumbling slightly as he wished away the rum that fogged his head. His foe looked about for a weapon and seized the silver-handled paper knife from the desk. One urgent swipe and the deed was done, the artery severed, the man’s blood spilling to the ground…

I went to the window and held the knife under the light. This was not a time for fancy, I told myself. I must see only what was there to see. And so I did. The merest smear of black near the hilt could perhaps be ink, but…might also be something far more ominous.

I turned with a jolt to the door that masqueraded as a bookcase. I must take the knife to Inspector Willard right away. I untied the ribbon from one of my braids and wrapped it several times around the sharp edges of the paper knife. I slid the blade down the side of my boot, where it bulged uncomfortably. No matter. It would not be there for long.

Certainty surged through me like fresh air through a newly opened window. I had uncovered the missing murder weapon! I stood before the complete works of William Shakespeare, patting and shifting the volumes with ever more frantic fingers. Where was the latch to open the door?

Where was the latch??? I recalled the handle on the inside, digging into my stomach, but search as I might, I could find no handle or knob on this side, nothing to aid my departure. Only one person, I supposed, knew the secret to opening this secret door, and that person was James. But for now, I had a knife to deliver and an urgent wish to speak with Hector.

Only one person, I thought, knew how to enter and exit the library without being seen. I felt a rush of cold so harsh it brought tears to my eyes. Was I truly considering James as a killer?