Mystery & Mayhem. Julia Golding

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      The soda bottle was smashed.

      And on the bed lay the still, white body of the Viscountess in her Parisian nightgown, quite dead.

      (‘A tragedy,’ pronounced Lord Copperbole, wiping his brow with exaggerated sorrow. ‘Such exquisite taste in decor, and she had barely one night in which to appreciate it.’)

      All this was recounted to Emily over limande sole au beurre (buttered lemon sole; Emily was learning all her poissons alongside her poisons) at Lord Copperbole’s dining table on Friday.

      ‘I feel we have barely scratched the surface of this most enticing case, dearest Emily!’ said her father, eagerly squeezing a lemon over his fish. ‘One week into our investigations and so many clues still to unravel! So many theories present themselves . . .’

      ‘I maintain the Lady’s maid is prime suspect,’ sniffed Lord Copperbole. ‘Sole witness. First to find the body. One should never be too trusting of a servant, Miss Emily,’ he added meaningfully, as a footman held out a platter of potatoes. Somehow the footman did not tip them all upon his head.

      ‘Ah, now, I have my eye on the sommelier still, sir!’ said Mr Black. ‘The wine was surely poisoned. Although how he would have profited from the murder, I have yet to draw together. And that does not explain the significance of the hare.’

      ‘Then there is the matter of the torn bedlinen . . .’

      ‘And the clock which struck thirteen . . .’

      Mr Black drank deeply, and smacked his lips. ‘Indeed! It is a remarkable case. One for the history books, if we can but solve it! Tell me, dearest Emily, what do you make of it?’

      Emily dropped her fish knife (into all her other knives – there were at least six) in surprise. He was smiling benevolently at her, sincerely curious as to her mind. She felt suddenly aglow. Perhaps, at last, he saw her.

      She stole a glance at Lord Copperbole, waiting for his lip to curl ready with dismissal – but he was staring listlessly at his plate, pushing his limande sole about. He had not touched either of the soups, nor the kickshaws of pickled herring (hareng mariné, she remembered) and horrid oysters (les huîtres horrible) he typically pounced upon.

      She recognised the expression; her father often sank into similar despondency mid-case. Unless Lord Copperbole was realising he was shortly to be replaced at her father’s side . . . by herself ?

      ‘Well,’ she said eagerly, pushing her plate away. ‘I think – that is to say, what I make of it is –’

      Her voice faded to a croak.

      Emily, for the first time in her life, had no idea how the crime had been committed.

      Usually she was able to see each clue, each suspect, each moment of importance in her mind as if they were chessmen on a board – and played a swift and confident game until the only piece remaining was the solution. For the first time, for every pawn she took, there was another jostling for attention. For the first time, it seemed the murderer had left too many clues to his identity, not too few. And all while seemingly committing the crime from inside a locked room – and vanishing.

      Her shoulders drooped. Perhaps she was not worthy of royal patronage after all.

      ‘Oh dearest, in my excitement I’ve overtired you with this unpleasantness,’ said her father. ‘We shall not speak of it again.’

      Emily opened her mouth to protest, but it stretched itself into an unbidden yawn. She was sent up to bed at once, and the next morning her father and Lord Copperbole returned to London to pursue the case.

      ‘Today, we shall paint this vase of lovely flowers,’ said Miss Hethersmith.

      Emily was so dejected, she obeyed without argument.

      The rest of the week was spent pressing flowers, reciting poetry, and improving her deportment.

      On Friday evening, the Queen’s Detectives returned to Sussex, aflow with new theories.

      At least, her father was.

      ‘The Viscountess’s Venetian glass was purchased from an antiquities dealer in Amsterdam,’ he explained in an excitable gabble. ‘However! It is a fake. I surmise that the Viscountess had discovered the lie, revealed it in conversation with Her Majesty, and in doing so inadvertently revealed that the royal house too had fallen prey to such fakery. She was murdered to prevent a scandal!’

      ‘It is a bit more of a scandal now, though, isn’t it?’ said Emily, thinking of the stack of newspaper cuttings in the library, and shifting one chessman across the board.

      Mr Black tapped his chin. ‘True. Perhaps instead it was the antiquities dealer himself, fearing exposure, who killed her!’

      ‘He’d need to enter the room, though,’ said Emily, ‘and come out again, and to come all the way from Amsterdam to do it with no one noticing, and to kill her with a weapon no one has yet found.’

      Another pawn was discarded.

      Mr Black nodded thoughtfully. ‘Very well. I propose the key clue is the word “hare” and that it is a bookmaker that we must pursue! Perhaps the Viscountess was prone to gambling on hare-coursing, and the murderer wished to . . . er . . . send a clear message to all other hare-gambling enthusiasts who had not paid their debts, by writing the word in blood!’

      ‘Do you really think so?’ said Emily.

      Mr Black sighed. ‘No. The Viscountess had no unpaid debts. And the bookmaker too would need to enter the room and get out again: the police are adamant the bolts inside the windows were quite secure, and the door locked. Then there is the clock striking thirteen. Unless . . . was there a bee, perhaps? A killer bee, which stung the poor woman? Or, or – Basil?’

      Emily had almost forgotten Lord Copperbole was present.

      He was still moustachioed, and as weaselly as ever – but there was no flounce or flourish to the wilting knot of his cravat. Even his famous coat hung loose from his narrowed shoulders. And the food that whirled around the table – truite aux amandes (trout with almonds) and cucumber salad – seemed to interest him not at all.

      ‘Lord Copperbole is taking the challenge of this case to heart,’ confided Mr Black to Emily, in a kind low voice. ‘We are working so terribly hard, you see.’

      Emily did see.

      Unfortunately, the newspapers saw too.

       QUEEN’S DETECTIVES OUTFOXED?

       NOT SO CLEVER NOW, SIR! COPPERBOLE AND FRIEND REMAIN PERPLEXED

       MURDERER ROAMS STREETS AS QUEEN’S TOP ’TEC TURNS PEAKY

      Emily redoubled her efforts.

      While Miss Hethersmith urged her to paint a bunch of violets, she traced the letters of ‘hare’ in her paintbox in Cadmium Red, over and over.

      She spent hours in the library, poring over Lord СКАЧАТЬ