“Where are you going? Myrtle!”
The trail disappeared when the path turned into a well-manicured lawn, but I saw muddy scuffs on the brick terrace surrounding the conservatory.* The conservatory roof was Miss Wodehouse’s balcony, which I could see from the schoolroom windows. I studied the scuffs, trying to determine what might have gone on here.
“Myrtle! Wait for me!” Miss Judson hastened to my side, careful not to disturb the mud. Or maybe just not step in it. “Oh, well done. Footprints!”
“Those are Mr. Hamm’s.” I pointed to the larger footprints, showing the horseshoe-shaped mark from the gardener’s metal heel plates. But the other set—
“And those are Peony’s!” Her voice was triumphant.
“Those are squirrel prints.” I eyed her sidelong. “You’re supposed to be teaching me biology.”
“I got caught up in the moment. Well, those other ones aren’t Miss Wodehouse’s, or Trudy’s, either. They’re too big”—she hovered her own foot nearby for comparison, skirts held up—“and they look like a man’s shoe.”
“Did you bring your sketchbook?”
She blinked at me. “I didn’t realize we’d be gathering evidence—oh, never mind. No.”
I knelt down and got out my collection kit, using the tiny spatula to take a sample of the soil beside one of the prints. Miss Judson did produce something impressive: she handed over a retractable measuring tape, so I could take down the prints’ dimensions. “I know you have one of these,” she said, a hint of smugness in her voice. “If those prints are Mr. Hamm’s, then he was out here. At some point.”
“It rained last night,” I said. “But the soil is too hard to take prints now.” I stepped firmly in the nearby earth and left only the barest impression. “These must have been made hours and hours ago. Around midnight, I’d say.”
“Is that right, little lady?” boomed a hearty voice behind me. Miss Judson and I stood up and whirled around. “Why, if it isn’t young Myrtle, the lawyer’s girl!”
“Good morning, Inspector Hardy,” I said. My favorite policeman on the Swinburne constabulary, Inspector Hardy was with the brand-new Detective Bureau, which I hoped to join when I was old enough. Assuming I didn’t go to London and work for Scotland Yard. I gave a little curtsy. “Thank you for coming so swiftly.” I’d had to run down to the telephone kiosk at the tram stand to contact the police, since Father didn’t see the necessity of having service installed in our home. There was an entire list of modern things Father hadn’t seen the need for, and Miss Judson repeatedly admonished me to be thankful that the Education of Young Ladies of Quality was not among them.
“You called us, then? Station desk said some little boy, playin’ a prank.”
I tugged on the hem of my dress, which was stubbornly refusing to grow too short for me. Before I could answer, Miss Judson spoke up.
“Yes, I’m sorry, Inspector. I think Myrtle saw something that concerned her, and she got carried away. We didn’t mean to cause any trouble.”
“Oh, you’ve not done, no worries.” Inspector Hardy doffed his uniform hat and scratched his balding head. “We are having a bit of a go with the locals, though, if you know what I mean.”
A young man about Miss Judson’s age was lurking about the conservatory door, smoking a cigarillo.* I glanced about for dropped stubs. I couldn’t see the man’s feet, but he might have left the second set of footprints.
“You there! Are you just about done, then?” His voice was nasty and impatient. “I’d like to get this over with before the neighborhood gawkers come out in droves. Oh, I see the pack is closing in already.” He turned on his—invisible—heel and slammed the door.
“Who was that?” I demanded.
“Oh, some nephew or something of the—” Inspector Hardy hesitated. “What was it you called about, then, Miss Myrtle?”
Nephew? I didn’t know Miss Wodehouse had any relatives. Of course, if I had an aunt like Minerva Wodehouse,* I would make myself scarce as well. Returning my attention to Inspector Hardy, I delivered my first official report. “At approximately six forty-five this morning I suspected something was wrong at Redgraves. Miss Wodehouse and her groundskeeper, Mr. Llewellyn Hamm, typically work in the garden every morning, but neither appeared for work today.”
“Nor the cat,” Miss Judson murmured. She was glancing skyward beneath the brim of her hat, so it was quite impossible to guess what she was thinking.
“Eh? Cat?” asked Inspector Hardy.
Miss Judson gave a tiny shake of her head and gestured for me to continue. I repeated the account I’d given Miss Judson (minus the Holyrood poisonings, but stressing the irregular routine at Redgraves that morning). “So I decided I ought to summon help.”
“Again, I’m very sorry for all the bother,” Miss Judson put in. “Will you tell Miss Wodehouse that it won’t happen again?”
I nodded firmly. I’ll admit the consequences of upsetting Miss Wodehouse had not been foremost in my mind. “Unless it’s a matter of life and death,” I vowed.
Inspector Hardy gave me a solemn look. “Well, then,” he said, “it’s a good thing you called us.” Just then, the conservatory doors opened once more, and two more constables came out, carrying a litter. Miss Judson squeezed my hand, hard, as we saw what was borne on the stretcher. It looked like a body, completely covered in a black sheet.
“Aye,” Inspector Hardy said. “It’s the old lady, rest her soul. She died last night.”
2
Red Graves
In the case of suspicious deaths, it is critical to examine the crime scene, interview witnesses, and collect evidence as swiftly as possible. Time is indeed of the essence.
—H. M. Hardcastle, Principles of Detection
We were late for breakfast. Inspector Hardy kept us there a little longer, asking questions whilst skillfully evading mine, though he did inform us that Miss Gertrude Guildford, housemaid at Redgraves, had discovered her mistress’s body in the bathtub when she went to rouse her that morning. I answered thoroughly (Inspector Hardy must have already had a long day; he was looking rather weary by the end of my account), but my mind was awhirl. Where was Mr. Hamm? What had become of Peony? Who’d been prowling about Redgraves in the middle of the night? Where had this “nephew” come from? Why had Miss Wodehouse taken a bath at night, when everyone knew that Trudy ran the bath for her at half past ten in the morning, after the gardening?
I’d have stayed to help with the investigation, but Miss Judson kept giving her watch pointed glances. Father wasn’t as strict as some parents, but he would certainly expect his daughter and her governess to be at home for breakfast, not out consorting with police constables. Besides, I was eager to get home, not just to share the news of Miss Wodehouse’s mysterious and sudden demise with Father, but because the morning meal was a critical part of my day. It was the one time Father, Miss Judson, and I were sure to be together, engaged in ordinary, domestic activity; making it my singular opportunity for Father to see the three of us as I did: as a family.