Cold-Blooded Myrtle Page 9

What had happened to Olive? But I could sense there was no use trying to persuade her. Reluctantly, I made my way back down to the ground. If the man guarding the door wondered at my dereliction of duty, he made no remark.

  When I returned to the crowd below, there was no sign of Miss Judson, but I found Priscilla easily. “Ada’s gone to fetch a guard,” she explained. “But—”

  She didn’t have a chance to finish. While the audience was still trying to figure out where to sit, a thrilling cascade of sound rained down upon us—startling everyone into a rush to sit down, like a strange variation on Musical Chairs. I ended up next to Priscilla, at the bottom (I thought) of the V.

  “No ghost did this,” I said to her.

  Miss Judson slipped in across from me, and waited for a lull in the music to give her report. Leah’s chosen song was a riot of Baroque notes that really did sound like she was summoning a ghost—or exorcising one. Members of the audience were alternately enraptured or puzzled. More than one set of lips pursed in confusion at the un-Christmassy aspect of things.

  Miss Judson surreptitiously pointed through the throng. A line of people stood right at the Campanile’s base, apparently representatives of the college. She whispered to me when Leah finished her Toccata & Fugue,* “A woman from the Musical Committee told me that the chairs were put up by the grounds staff this afternoon. But no one checked their work, so she can’t say whether they did this, or someone else came in after to rearrange them.”

  “Is Leah in danger?” I demanded.

  Miss Judson frowned. “There’s only one way in or out of the tower, and there’s a man guarding the door. I asked them to have someone walk her home.”

  “Fat lot of good he’ll be,” I said. “He let me in.”

  “Did you see anyone suspicious in the crowd?”

  “No.” I sighed. The Mayor wasn’t here, nor was anyone toting around olive branches and a stack of threatening letters. Everyone looked like ordinary innocent Swinburnians out for a holiday gathering.

  “That’s what they want you to think,” put in Priscilla unhelpfully.

  The remainder of Leah’s concert—what we were able to stay for, anyway—passed uneventfully, and her music was beautiful, chiming through the evening as darkness enclosed the college grounds and a light, damp snow began to fall. It sounded like a spectral sleigh jingling across the sky, conjuring images of snowfall and angels and every kind of holiday wonder. But eventually we grew restless for our next engagement.

  “You two go ahead to the museum,” Priscilla said. “I’ll keep an eye on things here. And I’m coming back for the midnight showing, too.”

  I couldn’t help shivering. Somehow, I felt that’s when disaster would most likely strike.

  “Don’t worry,” she promised. “I won’t come alone.”

  We would have to be content with that.

  With a final wave to Leah that I knew she could not see, I followed Miss Judson away from the tower, the bells clamoring in our wake.

  It was too far to walk, for two Young Ladies of Quality in smart evening dress, at night, in the snow, so we took the tram back into town. The Antiquities Museum sat a few streets over from the courthouse and the police station, looking grim and imposing and not at all the sort of place you’d want your bones to spend Eternity (which was, mostly, just a myth—more people than you’d realize get moved around a bit after they’ve died). It had dark brick walls and tiny windows, a lead roof that drummed in the rain, and a skinny little flight of stairs that might as well have a do not enter sign posted above, just in case anyone found them welcoming enough to scale on anything other than a dare.

  Inside, however, was another matter. The building opened into a great hall, vast stone walls hung with Flemish tapestries and Chinese screens—all ten or eleven panels depicting famous emperors and their triumphs in battle—and dinosaur bones unearthed in America. Glass cases marched along the perimeter, each with its own preserved specimen: a Turkish knife, a Greek headdress in a cascade of gold, a marble statuette of a Sphinx—not the one in Egypt, but a winged woman with lion’s paws. Peony would appreciate that.

  “There’s the Mayor,” Miss Judson said, gaze skirting the crowd. I searched the assemblage for the remainder of the Spence-Hastings family, but it seemed his women­folk had shied away from such a stuffy and intellectual gathering. The Munjals hadn’t come, either; evidently “appearing at public functions” was not the Hadrian’s Guard favor Mayor Spence-Hastings was calling in.

  “We should follow him.”

  “We should not.”

  Nowhere among the men—and one woman—in academic dress, the gentlemen in eveningwear, and ladies in gowns of every description, did I see poor Mrs. Leighton. Indeed, it was difficult to imagine her here—hard to picture her in anything other than her practical cotton day dresses and her endless array of aprons and neat caps. Harder still, in fact, to picture Mr. Leighton here. Although I supposed in their pre—Olive Blackwell days, they must have attended many such functions.

  The person I could not stop staring at, however, was not someone I knew at all. A small-boned, black-haired, dark-eyed beauty in a shimmering gold gown and long gloves stood bent before a glass case on a pedestal, admiring the object within. There was something naggingly familiar about her, although I was sure I’d never seen her before.

  I found myself drifting away from Miss Judson, toward her, until we stood on opposite sides of the case. Inside was an imposing goblet of hammered bronze, elaborate figures molded into its sloping sides. It was flecked with age, pitted and worn and missing a handle, but no less magnificent. My eyes followed its grand lines, from bowl to base, down to the card on the pedestal:

  “Cornwall!” I said too loudly, too eagerly. The woman met my eyes through the glass, and smiled. She was older than I’d first thought, with lines around her eyes and silver glittering her hair.

  “Do you know Saturnalia?” She had a warm, liquidy sort of voice, like treacle. “The Roman midwinter festival of unbridled excess.” She slipped around the case and offered her hand. “I am Nora Carmichael.” She said it like I was expected to know who she was—but I yanked my hand back in surprise.

  “You’re Mum’s friend!” I blurted out, then stumbled through an introduction.

  Her striking face lit up like a lantern. “But of course,” she purred. “Columba, we called her. Our little dove. You look just like her. And Myrtle. How appropriate.”

  I wasn’t sure what that meant—but I had so many questions, I couldn’t find my way to begin. Before I could come up with anything sensible, one of the museum directors came over and got Miss Carmichael’s attention.

  “I must go. But do come find me later. We have so much to talk about!” Her sphinxlike smile grew as she slinked away.

  I wondered what Miss Carmichael thought she was inviting me to.

  And whether it was wise to accept.

  As she departed, I was swept into the crowd, where a rumbling voice called out a warm greeting.

  “Why, if it isn’t Miss Myrtle!” I turned to see a tall, bald man in a black coat and tie, brushy black moustache twitching. “Don’t recognize me without the uniform, then?”

  “Inspector Hardy!” I wanted to hug him, but it wasn’t terribly professional. “What are you doing here? Are you working?” I glanced furtively at the crowd. “All the suspects are likely to be here.”

  He chuckled. “I see you haven’t taken the night off.”

  I felt my cheeks redden. “Would you believe that Father sent us?”

  “Ah, never mind me,” he said. “I know all too well how a case like this gets under your skin. I remember the night that girl vanished like it was yesterday.”

  “You worked on Olive Blackwell’s disappearance?”

  Inspector Hardy’s smile was weary. “All old coppers have an unsolved case that haunts them. That was mine.”

  “You’re not old,” I objected. Although, being strictly accurate,
his moustache did look a little more grey than I recalled. Perhaps police work had that effect. “You must have Investigated my mother, then. She was the other initiate at the ritual.”

  He started. “That was your mum? I’ll be.”

  “Was she ever a suspect?” When he paused too long, I pressed, “You can tell me.”

  “And I would,” he vowed. “But no. She was blindfolded the entire time. Didn’t see a thing.”

  “And you believed her?”

  “Of course I did. Miss Myrtle, what has you going on like this? What would make you think your mum—God rest her soul—could have been involved in a thing like that?” With a forced laugh, he said, “Been spending too much time with old coppers, if you’re beginning to suspect your own mother.”

  He gave my shoulder a kindly squeeze before moving on—and I wanted to believe him. But he hadn’t really known her.

  Maybe none of us had.

  I let the crowd move me along, and eventually found myself at the base of the wide stone steps, near a huge urn overflowing with poinsettias—and in between two of my favorite people in the world.

  Miss Judson had slipped up alongside me, and coming down the stairs, looking quite smart in a black coat with tails and a crisp white waistcoat, was our good friend Robert Blakeney.

  And on Mr. Blakeney’s arm was a young woman in a tight velvet frock and spectacles, her light brown hair looped up carelessly.

  “Stephen!” Mr. Blakeney called, meaning me, and fairly tugged his companion headlong down the stairs. She restrained him with a fierce grip of her gloved hand.

  Unaccountably, I froze rigid, clinging to Miss Judson’s side.

  “Mr. Blakeney, how nice to see you.” Miss Judson then offered her hand to the lady. “I’m Miss Judson, and this is Myrtle Hardcastle.”

  Mr. Blakeney’s companion had a quick, sharp smile that reminded me of a fox. “How do you do? I’m Imogen Shelley, and I see you know my colleague, Mr. Blakeney.”

  Mr. Blakeney and I reacted much the same way: with a look of surprise at Miss Shelley. Father’s nemesis† from the newspaper!

  “Colleagues, is it, Miss Shelley?” He sounded wounded.

  “Are you a reporter now?” I asked him.

  Miss Shelley let out a clap of laughter. “Hardly. We just keep him on for appearances.” She pinched his boyish cheek, making it flame red.

  “How’d you like ‘The Final Problem,’ Stephen? I couldn’t believe—”

  “Stop!” I covered my ears with my hands. “I haven’t read it yet!”

  “Yes, there’s been some distraction,” Miss Judson said.

  “Oh, don’t bother,” Miss Shelley said. “It was horrid. You should see the angry letters we’re getting at the paper! I had to tell Mother we can’t print that sort of language.” She shook her head. “Robbie, fetch me a drink while I talk to Miss Judson and Myrtle.” There was a note to her voice I found distinctly dangerous. And I had not forgotten her last article about Father.

  “Stephen, Miss J., don’t go anywhere. I can explain everything. Well, not everything. Well, nothing, actually, so don’t ask. But be careful.”

  “Robbie.”

  “Drinks! Yes!” Shaking his curly blond head, Mr. Blakeney stalked off.

  As soon as he was gone, Miss Shelley turned into a reporter. “You found Professor Leighton’s body,” she said—breaking every rule of polite behavior. In any other circumstance, I would have admired her. But somehow I couldn’t bring myself to.

  Miss Judson was studying her, trying to work something out. “Such a sad morning.”

  “It’s a shame Mrs. Leighton couldn’t make it tonight.” Miss Shelley gazed about the gathering. “But I see the old gang’s all here. What’s left of them, anyway.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “Oh, that’s right,” she said. “You’re the daughter of one of them. Miss Bell, right? I don’t suppose she’s here tonight, either, since you’ve brought your governess to chaperone you.”

  “She’s dead,” I said coldly.

  Miss Shelley turned her clear brown gaze on me. “Funny how that happens,” she murmured. The words should have been insulting, but instead they sent a shiver up the back of my dress.

  “I think you’d best explain that,” Miss Judson said.

  Miss Shelley was only too happy to fill us in. She counted softly on her gloved fingers (no doubt covering up ink stains). “Olive Blackwell,” she said. “Then David Carmichael—oh, yes. A mountaineering accident in the Alps. Then Jemima Bell. Now Professor Leighton. Who’s next, do you suppose?”

  “Why should anybody be next?” I said with alarm.

  “Olive Blackwell lives,” she said, echoing her own sensational headline.

  “You made that up!”

  Miss Shelley shook her head. “I just write what people are saying. The question is, why are they saying it?”

  And against my will, I had to admit she was right.

  I had no chance to ask her more—or, thank goodness, vice versa—as one of the Distinguished Museum Fellows mounted the steps to begin the presentation.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for braving tonight’s weather to pay tribute to one of Swinburne’s greatest figures, a man whose unexpected passing last week will be greatly mourned.”

  A moment of respectful silence followed, Miss Shelley Observing the crowd with intensity. What was she watching for? What did she suspect? She seemed to be waiting for something to happen—just so she could be on hand to witness and record it.

  The moment passed, and the Museum Director looked up again with a broad smile. “We will miss our friend and patron, Basil Leighton, both for his contributions to scholarship and to the museum, and for his service to the village in his latter years. Everyone here knows Leighton’s Mercantile. Best chocolate in town!” He patted his stout belly, earning a laugh from the audience.

  “That’s what I’d like to hear, and remember, about Basil Leighton,” he continued. “The happiness he brought to all of us in Swinburne, stuffy old scholars and schoolchildren alike. In fact, we have one of the people most influenced by the professor’s legacy here tonight. She hardly needs any introduction, as her feats as an archæologist are known round the world. Indeed, she was among the discoverers of one of the Antiquities Museum’s finest treasures, the Saturnalia Chalice. Please join me in welcoming Miss Nora Carmichael!”

  Miss Carmichael mounted the podium, skirt swishing. “Friends,” she said, in her molten-gold voice, “you did not come here tonight to listen to me. You came to pay your respects to a man beloved and respected by all who knew him—”

  “Not everyone.” That voice belonged to Miss Shelley.

  “—and to whom I owe a debt I can never repay. Professor Leighton was my teacher, my mentor, my inspiration. He taught me how to hold a spade and a brush, how to date bone fragments and potsherds. He opened up the wonders of the past, and showed me the doorway to my own future. None of my own accomplishments—the Meritaten Tablet or the Heliopolis Papyri, or our own Saturnalia Chalice”—she lifted her hands toward the goblet in its case—“which gave me my first thrill of unearthing the past . . . None of it would have happened without him.

  “But his legacy as a scholar of our own past is far more than that. Before Professor Leighton, archæology was not the modern science we practice today. It was a field of treasure hunters, plunderers, glory seekers, and frauds. He helped shape the field into a profession, advancing scholarship immeasurably, helping rewrite the history of our island. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the Basil Leighton Memorial Gallery of Ancient Britain!” She bowed, hands crossed over her chest like a pharaoh, and the room flooded with applause.

  Even Miss Shelley was clapping softly, one hand wrapped about a flute of champagne. “She does know how to woo a crowd, doesn’t she? Oh—excuse me, I want to catch the Mayor before he slinks away. That man is like an eel.”

  As the crowd flowed
up the stairs to the gallery, I stayed behind. The object I wished to see most was down here, the Roman chalice found in Cornwall. I was certain that it must belong with the photograph of Mum I’d found in the shop. It was taken at an archæological dig, I realized, with a ripple of excitement. Mum, an archæologist?

  Miss Carmichael had lingered as well. “Stunning, isn’t it?” She placed her gloved palm on the glass. “I will never forget that day. Our last in Cornwall. Everyone said the Romans had very little presence there, that we’d never make a big find—but Professor Leighton knew we’d prove them wrong. Did you know,” she continued, “that before we found the cup, he’d nearly lost his post? His detractors were gaining power, claiming his dream of a great Cornish Roman find was just that—a dream.” Her hands made a little flourish, like smoke dissipating. “But we proved them wrong. The professor, your mum, David—all of us.”

  I tried to put all these pieces together. “Mum helped save Professor Leighton’s career?”

  She gave a wistful sigh. “It didn’t last, though.”

  “Because of Olive.”

  Something flashed across Miss Carmichael’s face—but it was gone too quickly for me to identify. “Poor Olive,” she said. “Poor Professor Leighton. Look what’s become of us all.”

  I suddenly wondered what Miss Shelley might say. “It didn’t all turn out too badly,” I said. “You’re famous and successful. And Mr. Spence-Hastings is the Mayor now.” I silently unspooled the rest of that thought—he’d been successful even before becoming Mayor, with interests in businesses all over Swinburne. I found myself regretting—just a very little bit—not listening more closely to LaRue’s bragging over the years.

  “All thanks to the Chalice.” Miss Carmichael patted the case. “It cemented our reputations and made everything—that whole awful year—worthwhile.” She looked lost in the past. “I understand why your mum left, though. Why she had to get away. David couldn’t bear it, either—losing Olive that way. He loved her, you know. But he’d already graduated, and I was determined to stick it out. And look where I am.” She gazed up at the coffered ceiling, at the tapestry and statues. Then she looked at me, and reached out and—and petted my head. It wasn’t horrible. “Your mum made a good choice. Look at you. She must have been so happy.”