The Body under the Piano Read online

  “He was a bit curt,” I said. “I expect it was due to not finding a pulse. He might have felt badly, not saving her.”

  “How far away is the home of Dr. Chase?” said Hector.

  But I was thinking about Miss Marianne’s clothes.

  “She was wearing her dance skirt,” I said. “I mean, only her dance skirt, and a blouse. No coat or hat. Not even a shawl over her shoulders.”

  “This is very important,” said Hector. “When a lady is improper in her clothing for a chilly English October, it is logical to deduce great distress. How is she forgetting to bring with her a shawl?”

  “She just didn’t think,” I said. “She was in a terrible hurry.”

  “She’d have been mighty unnerved,” said Mr. Dillon, “with her sister-in-law dropping dead at her feet.”

  “But you don’t rush to fetch a doctor for a corpse,” I said.

  “She is believing that the fallen may be revived,” said Hector. “She runs into the street while Mrs. Irma Eversham still breathes.”

  Unless…A dire thought crept into my head.

  “Unless…” said Hector.

  “Unless…” I said. “Miss Marianne was only pretending to get help, when really she is a murderess.”

  CHAPTER 5

  A HULLABALOO

  THE MOMENT I SAID out loud that Miss Marianne could be a murderess I knew it to be a ludicrous notion. Yes, she had an ongoing dispute with her sister-in-law, but that had been true for nearly a lifetime and she had never killed her before! So why today? It seemed highly unlikely. I had witnessed her anguish as she sat beside the corpse.

  A commotion outside brought us all to the door. Thudding hooves, clattering wheels, shrill whistles and bells. The police had arrived.

  “What an almighty din,” said Mr. Dillon. “No respect for the dead.”

  Five men jumped from the police wagon, carrying a canvas stretcher and other implements of rescue. A burly man wearing a tweedy Ulster overcoat shouted directions, a thick mustache jumping on his lip.

  “The senior detective,” said Hector. “No uniform, but much noise.”

  “Look there.” I recognized the young officer holding open the door. “It’s Charlotte’s constable! The one who came too late to pick you up off the floor, Mr. Dillon.”

  Charlotte burst into the shop, gasping, as if she’d run beside the police wagon all the way from the station. The men thumped and bumped their way up the narrow staircase that shared a wall with the sweet shop. Then, silence.

  “Well, now,” said Mr. Dillon. “Some of those young men may find themselves a bit sick seeing what they’re about to see.”

  Hector and I looked at each other. Our entire acquaintance amounted to little more than a half hour, but I knew in an instant that we both wished with all our hearts to be upstairs watching the constabulary perform their duties. A tickling thrill of conspiracy raced up my spine.

  “Time to go, Miss Aggie!” said Charlotte. “We’ve been dawdling far too long.”

  “It can’t be called dawdling at a death scene,” I said. “We’re making crucial observations.”

  “My crucial observation is that your grandmother will have sharp words if we’re late for tea,” said Charlotte. “Thank Mr. Dillon for the unnecessary sweets and we’ll be on our way.”

  “Come with us!” I spoke to Hector, not looking to Charlotte for permission. Why did an afternoon so perfect as this need to end? “There’s always plenty. It would be ever so nice to have you.” I was depending on Charlotte being too polite to interfere with an invitation just given. “Mummy will love to meet a new friend, won’t she, Charlotte? Please, Hector. We’ve so much to discuss!”

  * * *

  It used to be that Mummy would be sitting with Papa in the library after lunch, sewing perhaps, and quietly chatting. When Papa was still alive. Naturally she wouldn’t be sitting so pleasantly with a ghost, would she? Though perhaps his ghost had remained a faithful companion these many months, giving Mummy some small comfort. I considered the idea that memories and ghosts are knitted together as closely as stitches of yarn on a needle, part of the same warming shawl that each of us wears. Occasionally my mind strayed to consider what my father might look like now, not his ghost, but inside his coffin. Or, what if he hadn’t been buried, but picked clean by helpful carrion, leaving him a skeleton, shining white and elegant?

  Mummy was most impatient with what she called my Morbid Preoccupation. Papa being dead was the very last thing she wanted to think about, though she clung to his memory with her own melancholy resolve. Quite recently I had discovered a memento tucked under her pillow—the stub of a pencil in an envelope labeled Last Pencil Ever Used by Fletcher. Its end was dented with the marks of Papa’s teeth, as he would gnaw in concentration while he tabulated numbers.

  It was my fervent intention to tell Mummy the afternoon’s news in a calm and factual manner. Despite my plan, I dashed across the drawing room and draped myself around her.

  “Oh, Mummy!”

  The clicking of Grannie Jane’s knitting needles paused, as if waiting to hear what came next. Tony hopped off his mat by the fire and pushed his head against my leg, accepting my ear pulls as merely his due.

  “Whatever has happened?” Mummy’s voice was muffled by me squashing her. “Gracious, Agatha!”

  She caught sight of Hector hovering in the doorway. “And who is this?” She tried to rise, but my hug impeded her. “Are there now boys in the Mermaid Room?”

  Grannie put her knitting back into its basket. This was a novelty not to be missed.

  “This is Hector, Mummy. Hector Perot.” I tried to remember the sequence one should follow when making introductions. “Hector, this is my mother, Mrs. Morton. And this is my darling Tony Dog.” Tony sniffed Hector’s shoes and seemed to approve. But, oh dear, perhaps Grannie Jane should have been first because she was so old and also a person?

  “This is my grandmother, also Mrs. Morton.”

  Hector performed perfectly. He gave a small bow to each woman in turn and even clicked his heels together.

  “Oh,” said Mummy, a bit surprised.

  “Mummy, I told you how we met Hector last week in Mr. Dillon’s shop. Today I have invited him for tea.”

  “Lovely to have you here, Hector. And how was the dancing lesson? Were you all resting on your laurels after last evening’s triumph?”

  “The lesson didn’t happen at all! You’d best stay sitting, Mummy, because when I tell you…”

  I took a breath.

  “There was a dead body, under the piano. Not crushed by the piano, just lying there, under it. With one side mashed up against the pedals. I was the one who saw her first, wasn’t I, Charlotte?”

  “Yes, miss.”

  “Goodness!” cried Mummy. “Not dear Miss Marianne?”

  “No, no!” I said. “Miss Marianne is perfectly well, but she’d rushed off to find a doctor. So there I was, with—”

  Mummy was on her feet, hands pressed to her face. “Agatha! This is frightful!” She turned on Charlotte, hovering in the doorway. “How could you let her see such a thing? You’re meant to be protecting her!”

  “Certainly, Mrs. Morton, I attend Miss Aggie at every moment.” Her tone made clear that the task was not a restful one.

  “It’s not Charlotte’s fault, Mummy! I just happened to be the first through the door.”

  “You haven’t said who died!” said Grannie Jane. “I’m trying to be patient, but, really, this is the most slipshod report.”

  “It was the Captain’s wife,” said Charlotte.

  “The Captain’s widow,” I corrected. “Rose’s mother, Mrs. Eversham, from next door.”

  “Irma!” Mummy’s hands reached backward for the arms of her chair.

  “Cora!” Grannie stepped toward Mummy, but Hector was closer.

 
; “Please to sit, madame,” he said softly. He held her elbow and guided her into the chair. Tony’s nose gently nudged Mummy’s hand until she stroked his neck. He was very good at knowing where he was needed. He’d been sleeping on her bed since Papa died, and they were now the best of friends.

  Grannie Jane opened a cabinet and withdrew a bottle with a gold label, embossed with a red seal. She poured amber liquid into a teacup and added a spoonful of sugar.

  “Brandy for shock, my dear. Sugar, for sugar’s sake.”

  Mummy drank it in two gulps, giving a little shudder in between. “I should like to go to my room,” she said. “Charlotte? Will you bring a hot pan from the kitchen to warm the bed?”

  Their footsteps had scarcely faded down the hallway when the front door knocker banged. We all jumped a little. Most visitors knew to come to the less formal side door—or even all the way around through the garden to the kitchen.

  Grannie clasped her bosom in surprise. “Who is making that appalling uproar?”

  “We haven’t any servant to answer the front door,” I whispered to Hector. “Robertson left months ago, when we turned out to be poor because of Papa’s bad investments.”

  Another knock.

  “I will go.” I hurried into the hall, with Hector close behind.

  I peered through the pane that overlooked the doorstep.

  “Oh!” I cried. “It’s a policeman!”

  Charlotte’s policeman! Tall and ruddy-cheeked, his knuckles raised and ready to knock again. Next to him, stamping enormous boots, was his bushy-lipped superior. I opened the door.

  “I am Detective Inspector Locke,” the man announced. “And this is Police Constable Beck.”

  I bobbed my head and stared at his boots, willing the words to come out. In rather a mumble, I managed that Mummy was indisposed but Grannie was in the library.

  “Then take me to the library,” said the inspector.

  I imagined that I was handsomely attired in the sharp tailcoat and striped cummerbund of an excellent butler as I stepped to the library door.

  “Detective Inspector Locke and Police Constable Beck,” I told Grannie in my best posh voice. “Ma’am.”

  “Oh, for Heaven’s sake,” said Grannie Jane.

  The inspector paused on the threshold, eyes scanning the book-lined walls, the floral arrangements from last evening’s concert, the deep velvet chairs, a cozy fire in the grate. His survey refreshed my own appreciation of the best room in all the world. Grannie’s keen eyes awaited the inspector’s attention until he finally approached. The constable and Hector slipped in behind him.

  “You may go, Agatha,” said Grannie. “Please ask Mrs. Corner to make a tea tray for the inspector.”

  “No, thank you, ma’am. No tea on duty. And the young lady is to stay. She’s the one we’re here for.”

  “We’ll also need to interview the girl’s…uh…nursemaid,” said Constable Beck. “The other witness at the scene.”

  “Charlotte,” said Grannie Jane, “is with my daughter-in-law, who is unwell.”

  “She’s not a nursemaid,” I muttered. “I’m not a baby.” I sounded most uncivil, but at least my voice was emerging.

  “Who’s this?” Inspector Locke peered down at Hector as if he were a fly on a cream biscuit.

  “Hector Perot, at your service, monsieur.” Hector made it sound as noble a position as the Prince of Wales.

  “Were you also at the crime scene?”

  “Non, monsieur.”

  “Crime scene?” said Grannie Jane.

  Crime scene? Just as we’d guessed! Hector lifted one eyebrow and I did my best to lift one in return. It was official. I had seen a murdered person!

  How grim for poor Rose to hear that her mother was a victim of murder! But thinking back upon what Rose had said—aloud—before the concert, would she consider it such grim news after all?

  “Your attendance is not required here,” the inspector said to Hector. “Go away. See if you can find this Miss…Miss…” He flipped open his notebook to retrieve the name.

  “Miss Graves,” said Constable Beck, from his position near the door.

  “Graves,” said the inspector.

  Hector bowed neatly.

  “Remember every word!” he whispered to me as he passed. I slid onto the ottoman at my grandmother’s side.

  “You may speak with Agatha only if I am present,” said Grannie Jane to the inspector. She gestured toward what I called the Sofa of Rigor Mortis, the very hard one that leaves a person rather stiff. The inspector’s eyes widened slightly as his bottom met the surprising plank of tufted satin.

  “Now then,” he began.

  “The child has had a most distressing afternoon,” said Grannie Jane.

  “Indeed. We will keep this brief, but she was the first to arrive on the scene. Her impressions may be important.”

  I kept the smile from my face but I preened a bit inside. As a poet, I had practiced having first impressions. This would be a good test of my observational skills. If only I could write them down instead of talking. My fingers began to itch.

  Grannie leaned forward, pinning the police inspector with her fierce gaze. “I believe, Inspector Locke, that you said crime scene?”

  “That is correct, ma’am. The news will be all about town by morning, so there is no point in trying to keep it quiet. The woman was poisoned. Clear and simple.”

  CHAPTER 6

  A PROBING INTERVIEW

  “WHAT KIND OF POISON?” I asked.

  “That, miss, is confidential information.” The inspector shifted his bottom and the sofa legs creaked. “I’ll thank you to be discreet about anything we ask here today. There is a villain at large and we mean to arrest him as soon as possible.”

  “Or her,” I said.

  Inspector Locke’s furry eyebrows lifted. “Why do you say that, miss?”

  “Poison is so conveniently domestic,” said Grannie Jane. “Suitable for use by ladies.”

  “Our delicate constitutions,” I said, “are not so fond of blood.”

  I would far prefer to administer poison than to shoot a gun. One needn’t even be present at the time of death!

  “Who better to administer the poison than she who prepares the food?” said Grannie.

  Inspector Locke tapped a heavy finger on his notebook. “Ladies, this is a very serious crime. You”—he pointed a finger at me—“are a witness. Do not obstruct the investigation with fancy.”

  I stifled the temptation to salute and sat up straighter.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I’d like to ask you, Miss Morton, to close your eyes for a moment. Tell me what exactly you saw when you entered the dance studio.”

  Closing my eyes was a clever suggestion. The library vanished and the inspector’s hairy face with it.

  “The stool was on its side with its cloth pulled off. The cloth is yellow with a tatted edging, embroidered with peonies. Miss Marianne would never let it lie upon the floor. The room looked wrong before I even noticed the body.”

  “Can you describe the position of the body?”

  “Really, inspector, she’s a child!”

  “I’ll show you.” I dropped to the floor and contorted myself into the same shape in which I’d found Mrs. Eversham. I turned my head and opened my mouth into a silent scream, but closed it at once because the carpet smelled so dusty.

  “My word,” said Grannie Jane.

  “Indeed,” said Inspector Locke. “Children often make the best witnesses. They report what they see instead of making assumptions about what we want them to have seen.”

  “An interesting point,” said Grannie. “However—” She broke off to glare at me. “That’s enough, Agatha. Up you get.”

  “However.” The inspector said it just the way Grannie had. “You are findi
ng it difficult to remain silent. I need the girl’s impressions with no interference. You can stay with your lip buttoned or depart for a room where your chatter is welcome.”

  No one had ever, not ever spoken to my grandmother with such cheek! I held my breath—but it took only three seconds for Grannie to respond.

  “I’m quite comfortable here, inspector, thank you.” She made a great show of settling into the cushions, displaying not even a hint of the affront. She was disguising herself as we watched, becoming a fluffy old woman. I could hear in my head what she would say later. Uppish man. Needs to trim his mustache.

  A knock at the door caused Constable Beck to spin briskly around. I rolled onto my tummy and pushed myself up to standing. I heard Charlotte from the hallway, asking was she needed?

  “Shall I take Miss Graves elsewhere, inspector?” said Constable Beck. “We’d have independent witness statements that way, without…er…each other’s influence.”

  I imagined Charlotte’s blush beginning at her throat and rushing to her temple. He wanted to be alone with her! Inspector Locke dismissed them with a wave of the hand. I watched the door close. If only I could see what happened next!

  The manly policeman, his brow a bit damp from nerves, turned to the young woman with the dimpled chin.

  “Oh, Miss Graves,” he sighed, his large bony hands cupping her freckly face. “I have longed for this moment, praying that you would share the secrets within your—”

  I blinked. I had nearly used the word bosom!

  “Miss Morton?” said Inspector Locke. “Can we proceed?”

  “May we?” murmured Grannie Jane, so quietly that only I could hear. A good thing, as I did not think the inspector would appreciate a grammar lesson.

  “Think very carefully, miss. Was the victim holding anything in her hand?”