Cold-Blooded Myrtle Read online

  Cold-Blooded Myrtle

  A Myrtle Hardcastle Mystery

  Elizabeth C. Bunce

  Algonquin Young Readers 2021

  In loving memory of Milton L. Bunce, Jr.

  a man who never thought about murder a day in his life (except when reading his daughter-in-law’s books)

  Contents

  Chapter 1: The Metropolitan Holiday

  Chapter 2: Ghost of Christmas Past

  Chapter 3: In Camera

  Chapter 4: Tidings of Discomfort

  Chapter 5: Holiday Spirit

  Chapter 6: Ding Dong Warily on High

  Chapter 7: Sharp as Any Thorn

  Chapter 8: Window Dressing

  Chapter 9: Christmas Cards

  Chapter 10: Saturnalia

  Chapter 11: Circulus in Probando

  Chapter 12: Algor Mortis

  Chapter 13: Femmes Fatales

  Chapter 14: Amantes Ira

  Chapter 15: Mum’s the Word

  Chapter 16: Boar’s Head Revisited

  Chapter 17: Upon the Midnight Clear

  Chapter 18: Ad Fundum

  Chapter 19: Lord of Misrule

  Chapter 20: Shop Around the Corner

  Chapter 21: Dux Femina Facti

  Chapter 22: Adverse Consequence

  Chapter 23: Non Verbis, Sed Rebus

  Chapter 24: Un Flambeau, Jeannette, Isabelle

  Chapter 25: Solvitur Ambulando

  Chapter 26: Semper Ferians

  A Note from the Author

  1

  The Metropolitan Holiday

  As we approach the New Century, our age-old traditions and celebrations join us in this modern world. —H. M. Hardcastle, A Modern Yuletide: An Historical & Scientific Discourse on the Christmas Holiday & Its Most Venerable Traditions, 1893

  “Don’t blame me if you’re disappointed. You’ve been warned.” Miss Judson, my governess, dipped a gloved hand into her jacket pocket and withdrew her watch, frowning slightly. “Your father was nearly inconsolable when he heard.”

  “I just want to read it for myself,” I said stoutly. I’d been waiting for the December issue of the Strand Magazine to come out, for I had yet to read the newest Sherlock Holmes story, “The Adventure of the Final Problem.” It had been released in America the prior month, which I thought patently unfair, since Holmes was, above all, an English sleuth.

  Moments later, a foggy-breathed Caroline Munjal joined us outside Leighton’s Mercantile. “Is it here yet?” she asked, shaking snow from her black hair.

  We were not the only people awaiting the opening of the shop. A whole crowd had gathered this Saturday morning for the grand unveiling of Leighton’s annual Christmas window display. Caroline had been alight with eager speculation for days now over what Mr. Leighton might have chosen to depict.

  “Maybe it will be the Redgraves Murder!”

  As if on cue, another figure flitted toward us, balancing a stack of magazines—our neighbor, heiress Priscilla Wodehouse. “The latest issue of Tales from the Red Graves,” she announced. Capitalizing on her home’s recent history, she’d opened a small publishing enterprise named for the notorious residence. “Hot off the press and ready to stock Mr. Leighton’s newsstand.”

  “Is there a Mabel Castleton story?” Caroline wanted to know. The new penny dreadful tales were gaining popularity—at least among a small crowd of devoted followers. Priscilla held out high hopes of their worldwide success. I had mixed feelings on the subject.

  Priscilla’s eyes twinkled. “You’ll just have to wait and see.”

  “I see Dr. Doyle has a rival,” Miss Judson Observed.

  “We’ll read them both.” Caroline was nothing if not loyal.

  I stood on tiptoe, trying to look past the assembled company. Would there be a miniature Redgraves manor, site of my own first triumph as an Investigator?

  “Don’t get your hopes up,” Miss Judson advised. “It has been a busy year for the village.”

  “Indeed it has.” Here came Mrs. Munjal, arms laden with parcels. She wore a sprig of holly pinned to her collar, and the mingled scents of pine and peppermint came with her. “There was the flower show, Lancelot and Elaine’s cygnets”—referring to the ill-tempered swans at the park—“and of course we have a Mayor now.”

  “Don’t remind us,” Caroline grumbled—but it was too late. The crowd parted, somewhat reluctantly, and a grandly dressed pair of females paraded through like peahens, nearly identical in matching velvet and fur and towering, beribboned hats.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Spence-Hastings, LaRue.” Miss Judson’s voice was as frosty as the morning as she greeted our former neighbors.

  “You may address me as Mrs. Mayoress,” LaRue’s mother said. Inaccurately, not that anyone bothered to correct her.

  “And me as Miss Spence-Hastings,” put in LaRue, her mother’s perfect miniature, down to the arrogant angle of their heads as they gazed down their noses at the common folk.

  I managed to avoid rolling my eyes, but Caroline was not as successful. LaRue had been putting on airs even more than usual since her father’s appointment to the new office of Mayor. It was all part of Swinburne’s ongoing Modernization, efforts to secure its status as one of the most progressive villages in England.

  “It’s sure to be the Mansion House,” LaRue declared. “We’ve entirely refurbished it, you know. Father’s found the biggest tree in the county for the Mayor’s Christmas Ball.”

  I ignored the Spence-Hastingses and turned my attention to the rest of the crowd. Despite the cold, throngs had turned out for the big reveal. A Salvation Army band played an enthusiastic medley of “We Three Kings” and “God Rest You Merry, Gentlemen,” and Mrs. Munjal wrestled an arm free to drop a shilling into their red bucket.

  The shop itself was quiet, its gas off and a green baize curtain closed over the window inscribed, Leighton’s Mercantile Emporium: Fine Goods & Wonders from Across the Empire. The deep glass windows were usually crammed full of every manner of necessity and luxury, from reels of lace to rows of books to crocks of marmalade and mincemeat.* They’d recently showcased an Underwood typewriter, and inside I was hoping to find a new leather brief-bag for Father’s Christmas gift. I still had not decided what to get Miss Judson. Despite being my closest companion in the world, she was notoriously difficult to shop for. Her reception of the pocket toxicology analysis set I’d produced for her last year (for testing her food against poison) had been somewhat . . . lackluster.

  This being the first Saturday in December, the ordinary goods had been cleared out of the windows to make room for Christmas. One window held the tree, sparkling with silver and red ornaments, paper chains, sweets, and candles, while the other featured the Display: a meticulously crafted scale model of Swinburne, dressed up for the holidays and depicting the year’s most notable events in the village. Mr. Leighton worked on it year round, and the shop window had been shrouded for the last two weeks, as he set up the final touches in absolute secrecy.

  As the band played and the snow fell and the Spence-Hastingses preened, the rest of us craned our necks, trying to peek round the curtain for a glimpse.

  “Are you ready for your first English Christmas, Miss Wodehouse?” Mrs. Munjal’s voice was merry and bright. Miss Judson and the two Munjals were all dressed in festive holiday clothes and smart hats that set off their varying shades of brown skin—tan, bronze, and olive. Priscilla was a picture in pink, with blond hair and ivory cheeks tinted with rose. Beside them all, I felt small and pasty and rumpled.

  Priscilla did not have a chance to respond, for at that moment, Mrs. Leighton finally arrived, bustling through the assembled crowd with the great bras
s key to the shop doors in her hands.

  “It’s so nice to see you all!” She beamed, blue eyes crinkling beneath her frizzy red fringe. “Basil has been working so hard this year—claims it’s his best Display ever, and won’t let me see a peep of it! Even stayed in the shop last night to make sure everything was perfect. Had to bring him his breakfast, I did.” She patted her basket. “Now, wait out here while I rouse Himself to unveil it properly. He’ll want to point out all the details.”

  With a rattle of her key, the shop door opened, emitting a very Christmassy jingle. A moment passed, then another, then at last the green cloth parted, and—with a little tugging and hesitation as the curtains caught on the roof of a model building—a miniature Swinburne Village appeared.

  There was a burst of applause. The band struck up “Pat-a-Pan,” and there came gasps of appreciation as we all marveled at the perfection of the replica: the exact details of the Town Hall’s broken chimney pot and wreaths of evergreen in every window, the red postbox and telephone kiosk at the High Street tram station, the flocked model horses pulling their glossy sleigh across the wool-wadding snow.

  This year Mr. Leighton had not elected to reproduce Redgraves and the Gilded Slipper lilies, or the change in Swinburne’s local governance. Or the swans. Instead, he had expanded the Display to include nearby Schofield College. The streets of the model village were empty, and there was a collective murmur as we realized that the tiny villagers were all clustered round the Campanile, the college’s famous belltower. Amid a ring formed by the model people stood two small objects that seemed incongruous: a stone wishing well, painted entirely black, tipped on its side; and a life-size sprig of grapes—no, olives—still on the stem.

  “That’s not very interesting at all,” the Mayoress exclaimed. “What is that supposed to be? People standing about staring at rubbish?”

  “It’s certainly . . . unusual,” offered Miss Judson. “What do you suppose it means? Olives and a well?”

  “What? Let me see!” Mrs. Munjal shoved her way forward, barreling through several small children and their mums, who howled in protest. I squeezed aside to make room, but she halted a few feet from the window, staring at the Display. “No,” she breathed. “It can’t be. Not again.” Without further explanation, she seized Caroline by the arm and hauled her away from the shop.

  “Mother!” Caroline cried—but whatever had startled Mrs. Munjal was stronger than Caroline’s curiosity, and Caroline could not escape her mother’s grip. She gave me a look of confused apology as Mrs. Munjal bundled her swiftly into their carriage and rode away.

  “What was that about?” Priscilla said.

  “I have no idea,” I said. But we had no time to wonder further, for at that moment, from inside the shop erupted a bone-rattling scream.

  Miss Judson and I exchanged one brief, significant Look before turning on our heels and diving for the shop door. It flew wide under Miss Judson’s grasp, onto a peculiar scene. Deep in shadows, in the very back near the stove, sat Mr. Leighton, in a hard kitchen chair with a mug in his hand, looking for all the world like he’d just sat down for tea and dozed off.

  Except his eyes were open, staring blindly at nothing.

  Mrs. Leighton’s white hands clutched her anguished face. “He’s dead!”

  *Cook turned up her nose at this, saying any self-respecting Englishwoman made her own.

  2

  Ghost of Christmas Past

  The liturgical season of Advent is a time to prepare for the arrival of Christmas with prayers, carols, and celebrations. A less happy observation involves reflection upon the Four Last Things: Death, Judgment, Heaven, and Hell. —H. M. Hardcastle, A Modern Yuletide

  Words poured from Mrs. Leighton. “I couldn’t find him, he wasn’t here to open the curtains, and everyone was waiting, so I went ahead, and that’s when I saw—” She waved weakly toward the back rooms, trembling. “Oh, Lordy, what’ll we do?”

  Miss Judson swept the shopkeeper into a firm embrace. “We’ll catch our breath, Mrs. Leighton, and send for the authorities. Myrtle, will you phone Dr. Belden?”

  I nodded, dumbly—but I was staring at Mr. Leighton with the cold, pooling conviction that the person we really needed was Dr. Munjal, the Police Surgeon.

  I summoned the police, too. They were right across the street, after all. Constable Carstairs showed up first, unfortunately, instead of Inspector Hardy of the Detective Bureau, who knows my work. I supposed that made sense; we didn’t need a detective for an ordinary death. Miss Judson put me in charge of poor Mrs. Leighton so she could impose order on the crowd outside, which gave me very little time to examine the scene.

  Of course, it was possible that I’d jumped the gun, so to speak, and Mr. Leighton had simply passed away while having his evening tea. But something about his posture, upright in the chair, cup in hand, made alarm bells clang in my head. A cracker barrel sat at his side, and it looked like he’d been jotting a note, perhaps to Mrs. Leighton.

  “Wot’s this?” Constable Carstairs peered in closer, prizing the missive from Mr. Leighton’s hand. “It’s gibberish. Must’ve been having a stroke or sommat.” He waved the scrap of paper in the air, and I caught a glimpse of it.

  “No, it’s Greek,” I said, which roused Mrs. Leighton.

  “Greek?” She sniffed tearfully. “But he hasn’t done that in years. Not since he retired.”

  “Eh?”

  “He was a professor, at the college.” She flicked an absent hand toward the Display in the window.

  “May I see that?” I asked politely, as if it were a perfectly normal request. “I read Greek.”

  “Course ye do.” Constable Carstairs started to hand it to me, but I stepped back, hands knotted behind my skirts.

  “No, the fewer people who touch it, the better. It may have finger-marks on it.” I leaned in instead. “It’s—er, it’s upside down, Constable.”

  He rotated it, and I read the words, frown growing. “But that doesn’t make any sense.”

  “What did he say, Myrtle? Is—is it a suicide note?” Mrs. Leighton’s voice was frail.

  “I don’t think so.” But that tugged even harder at my brain. Dr. Leighton’s Greek was perfectly legible, and the grammar was fine, but it was totally nonsensical. A message with no meaning at all.

  “‘We owe a cockerel to Asclepius,’” I read, first in Greek, then English, more mystified each time.

  “I beg yer pardon?” Constable Carstairs’s voice was icy and hard.

  “That’s what the note says. Don’t ask me. It doesn’t mean anything. Mrs. Leighton?”

  She shook her head, hand at her lacy throat. “Why would he write that?”

  Maybe he hadn’t written it. It had been clutched in his fingers, but there was no pen nearby, and the ink was dry, unsmudged. “You need to keep that for evidence,” I advised the constable, who growled his thanks.

  The jangle of bells heralded the return of Miss Judson, Dr. Belden in tow. I scurried across to admit them, hiding behind the door. Dr. Belden strode into the shop and examined the scene with a wise, weather eye. An older man with a reassuring stoop and gnarled hands that spoke of decades of competent medical work, he’d kept the High Street surgery for as long as anybody could remember.

  All my self-confidence and assurance withered up inside me when he walked into Leighton’s Mercantile. Not for any logical reason; he was as skilled and experienced a physician as there was to be found anywhere in England, I was sure. But he’d been Mum’s doctor before she died, and even all these years later, I couldn’t help the sinking dread I felt whenever I saw him. He still gave me that sad smile, like he wanted to give me something impossible, and it pained him that he couldn’t. He didn’t make me feel at all like an accomplished Investigator working a case.

  I hung back, edge of my thumb in my mouth like a baby, and watched. The doctor frowned into the professor’s clouded eyes, clucking his tongue like he was exami
ning a patient who could actually use his help. I wondered if he’d give Mrs. Leighton that sad smile, too. He touched the man’s cold, stiff wrist—although there was no chance of a pulse.

  “Did you bring your thermometer?” My voice was a pitiful creak, but I was proud of myself for finding it.

  He frowned, as if he couldn’t quite place me. “Oh, Miss Hardcastle.” Unlike the men from the police force, he wasn’t accustomed to tripping over me in his work.

  “To test the body?” I ventured. “A corpse loses about a degree per hour, depending on conditions.” You could estimate the time of death based on body temperature. Dr. Munjal had taught me that. The conditions here, however, were a freezing cold shop in December, which would no doubt affect accuracy.

  “I have no intention of taking this man’s temperature while you’re all standing about,” the doctor said sternly. “Even a dead man deserves his privacy.”

  “Was it his heart?” Mrs. Leighton’s voice wandered over to us. Miss Judson had joined her, a reassuring hand on her arm.

  Dr. Belden leaned closer, peering at Mr. Leighton’s face and hands. “A stroke, more likely,” he said. “Poor old chap. My condolences, Mrs. Leighton. Your husband was a fine man.”

  I swallowed hard. Mr. Leighton had always been kind to me, happily explaining the entire natural history of every object in his shop—waterproof Wellies from Brazilian rubber, cocoa and cinnamon from Ceylon and Java—and sneaking me copies of Illustrated Police News when Miss Judson wasn’t looking. I’d been eager to hear his take on the latest Sherlock Holmes number, and now I never would.

  At that moment, the doorbells jangled, and Dr. Munjal, Police Surgeon and Caroline’s father, stepped in, gripping his medical bag and breathing hard.

  “Munjal!” Dr. Belden looked taken aback. “What are you doing here? This isn’t a police matter.”

  “This may be a crime scene, Doctor.” Miss Judson spoke up before Dr. Munjal—or I—could reply. She was more soothing than I could have managed. I was working on it, Dear Reader, although I rather feared I was turning out more like the constable, better at barking at people to get my way.