Arsenic For Tea: A Murder Most Unladylike Mystery (A Wells and Wong Mystery) (13 page)

The door was shut. Daisy went tiptoeing up to it, twisted the handle and carefully pushed it open.

It felt most dreadfully wrong. Miss Alston was such a secretive person – we really knew nothing about her at all. I had never even seen inside her bedroom, and nor had any of the others. I imagined her doorway as an invisible line that, if crossed, would burn you up into a crisp or freeze you to death.

‘Oh no!’ whispered Beanie as Daisy poked a careful shoe-tip through the doorway, then craned her neck round, and I could tell that she felt as uncomfortable as I did.

‘What, Beanie?’ said Daisy, without turning her head.

‘I don’t think this is legal!’ whispered Beanie nervously.

‘Of
course
it’s not legal, Beanie. But we’re detecting, so that makes things all right.’

‘I don’t want to go in!’ Beanie’s face crumpled.

‘All right, then, stay out here! No one’s making you. You can be our lookout. If Miss Alston comes up the stairs, whistle, or squeak, or something. Hazel, Kitty, are you coming?’

With Beanie trembling on the landing, we had to. Shooting nervous glances at each other, Kitty and I crept forward, and over the dividing line into Miss Alston’s bedroom. I did not burn up – although I did feel a rush of shame that made me tingle with heat all the way to the tips of my fingers.

Inside, everything was neatly ordered – drawers shut, bed made with military precision, and a gleaming row of schoolbooks laid out in alphabetical order. It was so neat that I was terrified all over again. What if we left signs of our presence? If she was not the murderer, she would be furious. And if she
was
 . . . I shivered.

But Daisy seemed to have no concerns at all.

‘Oh do come along,’ she hissed at us, tugging a drawer of Miss Alston’s bureau open. ‘We’ll never solve the mystery if you’re wet about it. Hmph – only combies.’

‘Daisy!’ I cried, half shocked at what she was doing and half shocked at the sight of Miss Alston’s white combinations.

‘Come on, hurry up about it,’ said Daisy. ‘We must search! Papers, watch, cup – remember? Quickly!’

But although Daisy raked through the contents of the bureau, sending dull brown skirts and jumpers spinning into the air like birds bursting out of the undergrowth on an English walk, her search yielded no results.

‘Nothing here,’ she groaned. ‘Come on, Hazel – hurry up! Kitty, be useful and fold these clothes.’

I did look. Really I did. I looked inside each of Miss Alston’s books, wafts of new-book smell ruffling my hair as I did so, and I even pulled her shiny brown suitcase out from under the bed and ran my fingers across the lining. That’s where people keep stolen jewels in stories, after all. But there was nothing. No watch, no cup, and no letter of reference. In fact, no letters of any kind. And although we had been through Miss Alston’s room quite thoroughly, we hadn’t found a single personal item. No family photographs, no notes from friends. She was as mysterious as ever.

‘She really is an awfully private person,’ I said to Daisy. ‘Do you think she even
has
a family? There aren’t any snapshots of them.’

Daisy sat back on her heels. ‘She
must
have a family,’ she said. ‘Everyone does . . . unless – wait, Hazel, wait! You might have a point!’

Kitty and I waited.

‘Look at this room,’ said Daisy. ‘Look at the things in it. You ought to be able to tell about someone from their surroundings. What does this tell us? Nothing. The books are new, and there aren’t even any inscriptions in them. The clothes are brand new too – they don’t even look as if they have been washed. She might have bought new outer things for this visit, but surely she’s not rich enough to have bought new underwear. And yet it’s all new! Even her case is new. Just look at it! No customs labels, no scratches on the leather. What’s wrong is that nothing’s wrong. It’s all too perfect! These aren’t possessions, they’re
props
.’

‘What does that mean?’ I asked. I realized that Daisy was quite right. This whole room was a gap where a personality ought to be. Miss Alston was not a real person at all.

‘It means,’ said Daisy, ‘that even though we haven’t found any real clues, we are closer to understanding Miss Alston’s secret. Whatever she is, we know what she isn’t: she isn’t a real governess; she is merely playing the part of one. We need to know what she’s shown Mummy and Daddy, and how she managed to get herself here, teaching us. What Hazel and I heard yesterday proves that Mr Curtis knew something about her that she didn’t want to come out – we must discover what that was.’

‘
How?
’ asked Kitty. ‘If you ask her, I doubt she’ll tell you anything.’

Daisy rolled her eyes. ‘Of course I’m not going to ask
her
,’ she said. ‘I’m not going to ask anyone. I’m going to find the letter she sent Mummy and Daddy when she applied for the post of governess.’

Beanie was still standing outside on the landing, her face more pinched and worried than ever.

‘Excellent guarding, Beans,’ said Kitty.

‘Yes, good stuff,’ added Daisy, not really looking at her. ‘Now, can we get on?’

‘Daisy,’ said Beanie, in a very small voice.

‘Our search was inconclusive,’ said Daisy. ‘We’re off to Daddy’s study to see if we can find anything more helpful.’

‘Daisy,’ said Beanie again.

‘What is it, Beanie? You’re not still worried that we did something wrong, are you?’

‘Not exactly,’ said Beanie, in the tiniest voice imaginable. ‘It’s just that . . . I think I found something.’

Beanie unclasped her hands from behind her back and brought them round where we could see. Clutched in them was a small black notebook. ‘I was standing waiting for you,’ she said, ‘and I was looking around, in case someone came up behind me and surprised me, and then I suddenly looked down and saw this. It was just by the top of the stairs, and I nearly didn’t see it because it’s so dark, and the banisters are dark too. I think someone must have dropped it.’

‘What is it?’ asked Daisy, ready to shrug it off.

‘Oh, I haven’t looked yet,’ said Beanie. ‘I was afraid to.’

Daisy sighed and snatched the book out of her hands. ‘It’s probably just Chapman’s to-do list,’ she said. ‘Or Miss Alston’s lesson planner. I’m sure—’

But then her eyes went wide, and wider, and her mouth opened in a gasp of excitement.

‘What is it?’ asked Kitty. ‘Ugh, it looks dirty.’

I had to admit that it did rather. It was all bent and fraying, and the black leather had gone grey at the edges.

‘Hazel, come look at this and tell me whether I’m going quite insane,’ said Daisy softly, without looking up.

Kitty and Beanie stared at me jealously as I took the book, and opened it.
Property of Denis Curtis
, it said on the first page, and all the other pages were squeezed full of rows and rows of words, all squashed together in the most minute black lettering. It was a long, long list of names, with tiny notes next to each.

Henry. Visited house 16.8.1932 – Meissen tea set – had no idea of worth. Offered to take it off his hands for £10. 18.8.1932 – sold for £130.

Abbot. Visited house 2.10.1932 – necklace, diamonds and rubies. Took straight off the neck of his lovely wife. Suggested it must have fallen into a pot in the conservatory. We hunted, no joy. 5.10.1932 – sold on for £800.

Schultz. 28.1.1933 – Old Master in a drawer. Liberated it into my suitcase. Sold on for £460.

I flicked forward through the book, past pages and pages of little names.
Ferrars, Lord Digby-Jones, Mackintosh, Petrey (MP)
– half the important people in the country seemed to be here, and their valuables. I turned to the final pages, a little spark of horror going through me, and saw:

Wells (Lord Hastings). Visited house 12.4.1935. Ming vase – but too large to lift! Chippendale furniture, and some very good paintings too. Old Master in the downstairs hallway! May have some luck with jewels. Lovely wife responsive, has no idea of value of anything. Should be easy money!

‘Daisy,’ I said. ‘It’s the notebook we saw Mr Curtis with yesterday! We were
right
.’

‘HAH!’ cried Daisy. ‘Yes! We said it all along! Mr Curtis was a criminal, and now we have proof!’

‘But—’ Kitty started.

‘There’s no doubt, Kitty. You look at this book and tell me that it’s not a list of all of Mr Curtis’s dastardly thieving.
Tell
me!’

She thrust it in Kitty’s face, and Kitty flicked through it, frowning.

‘Well . . .’ she said. ‘Well – all right, it is.’

Beanie gasped. ‘But why would he put his name on it?’ she asked.

‘If I’d done bad things, I wouldn’t write it down in a book at all,’ said Kitty.

‘I’d write it in code,’ I said.

‘Well, I know
you
would,’ said Daisy to me. ‘That’s because you’re clever. Mr Curtis was stupid and vain, and so it absolutely fits that he’d do something so – so
smug
!’

‘Are you going to show anyone?’ asked Beanie.

Daisy paused. ‘No,’ she said. ‘I think I’ll wait until we have more evidence. Until we can announce who the murderer is as well.’

Daisy had told Uncle Felix about her suspicions so eagerly a few days before. Everything had changed since then. We could no longer be sure that he was on our side. We could not even be sure that he was not the guilty person.

Daisy flicked through the little notebook again, and she scowled. ‘Bother!’ she said. ‘It’s all in date order, rather than alphabetical, and it’s written so small! How are we ever to know if any of our suspects are in here? Hazel, you’ll have to read it.’

Just then, we heard loud voices below us. They came from somewhere deep down in the house, and they sounded very cross indeed. Reading the notebook would have to wait. Daisy and I glanced at each other, and then Daisy motioned us all downstairs.

We crept down the front stairs together. I felt most dreadfully nervous, and as always when we go on detective missions, quite sure that anyone who saw us would know what we were up to at once. The notebook felt very hot and guilty in the pocket of my skirt – but as usual, I need not have worried. When we reached the hall we found everyone much too busy to bother wondering about us.

Lady Hastings, Aunt Saskia and Uncle Felix were standing there, and they were all shouting at each other.

‘I
tell
you, Margaret, I have everything under control!’ said Uncle Felix. His cheeks were flushed and his monocle was dangling down from his jacket pocket, swinging with every gesture he made. ‘Mr Curtis’s room and the dining room are locked. Dr Cooper has taken samples, and he will send them to London as soon as the roads open again. Even if they could get here – which they certainly cannot with the floods so high – there is simply nothing else the police could do.’

‘They could interview us,’ said Lady Hastings. ‘They could
believe
me. I still don’t think you do, Felix!’

‘You
mustn’t
call the police, Margaret!’ said Aunt Saskia urgently. She was squeezing her fingers in her fur stole, and bits of her hair were escaping from their pins down about her shoulders. She was only wearing one earring, and her stole glared at me with its beady little button eyes. ‘I mean to say – it’s not nice. People like us don’t call the police. We can sort this out on our own, can’t we?’

‘
Doesn’t
she look a fright?’ Kitty muttered in my ear.

‘Good Lord, this is maddening!’ said Lady Hastings. ‘What is wrong with you all? Anyone would think you weren’t sorry that Mr Curtis was dead! Well, I’m calling the police this minute, and there’s not a thing any of you can say to stop me!’

She pounced on the telephone.

‘The line will still be down from last night,’ said Uncle Felix – but it wasn’t. I saw a flicker of annoyance chase across his face.

‘Operator!’ cried Lady Hastings. ‘I want the Deepdean Police. Immediately.’

Aunt Saskia pulled her fur stole around her. Uncle Felix paced, fists clenched in his pockets. We four glanced at each other. I could tell that Kitty, especially, was adoring the scene.

‘Hello!’ said Lady Hastings. ‘Hello! . . . This is Lady Hastings, and I want to report a murder. Hello? What? . . . No, I am not making it up . . . Don’t be ridiculous! Of course I am. I am Lady Hastings, of Fallingford House, and one of my house guests has been murdered.’

‘This is just like the pictures!’ whispered Kitty in excitement.

‘I say,
will
you pass me to Inspector Priestley? I know him. Listen to me, one of my guests has been murdered and if you do not pass this telephone to your Inspector
immediately
I shall have you fired . . . Hello? I say, hello? . . . Oh, Inspector Priestley, there you are . . . Yes, this is she . . . Yes, really murdered . . . Yes, Fallingford House . . . How? Poison. Yesterday. It was simply awful. You must come at once . . . Yes, we’re fearfully flooded . . . What? Don’t you have boats? . . . Well, come as soon as you can, then. I tell you, a man has been poisoned! Goodbye.’

She slammed down the receiver and turned to look at us all. ‘There,’ she said. ‘That’s done. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to be by myself in the library.’

‘I’m leaving,’ said Aunt Saskia. ‘At once. I can’t bear—’

‘As you know perfectly well, we are all trapped here,’ said Uncle Felix.

Aunt Saskia made a gasping, choking noise, and fled past us up the stairs, shedding a scarf and a jangling bracelet as she went. The bracelet nearly hit Beanie.

‘Oh dear!’ whispered Beanie. ‘Do you think Daddy will still be able to come for us tomorrow?’

‘Now,’ said Uncle Felix, turning to us. It gave me a little jolt of shock. I was realizing that he was just as noticing a person as Daisy. ‘What are you four up to? Listening in, were you?’

‘No,’ said Daisy coolly. ‘We were on our way down to see Daddy, and you stopped us. We couldn’t very well creep past while you were all shouting at each other, could we?’

‘Hmm,’ said Uncle Felix. ‘As usual, a likely story.’

‘You haven’t
really
locked Mr Curtis’s room too?’ asked Daisy.