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  Toby didn’t join them. He liked Miss March and Miss Price, but they were dangerous. No morsel of information stayed a secret for long once they got hold of it, and their talent for spreading gossip up and down Detectives’ Row was second only to their knack for uncovering the truth of every situation. If Toby didn’t stop them, they’d have the truth about him uncovered in minutes. “Uncle Gabriel didn’t want to come,” he explained, “but I convinced him to enter the contest. To be honest, we could use the money.”

  “So could we all,” said Miss March. “Flossie and I haven’t seen business so slow in years.”

  Miss Price shook her head. “It’s no surprise half the detectives on the Row turned up here this weekend.”

  “Philip Elwood doesn’t live on the Row, does he?” Toby pointed across the room to the man in the white linen suit. “I’ve never seen him before today.”

  Miss Price practically glowed with delight at the chance to talk about her fellow guests. “That,” she said, “is because he’s international.”

  “He’s got an office in the city, but he’s almost always abroad,” Miss March explained. “He’s got a good reputation on the Continent. They don’t have so many detectives over there, of course.”

  “They don’t even read mystery novels!” Miss Price said in grave tones. “Not nearly as many as we do, at least. And they haven’t got any famous murder sites to visit. I can’t imagine what they do for fun on the weekends.”

  “Philip Elwood rounded up a whole gang of thieves near Gyptos last spring,” said Miss March. “Awfully impressive, but I hear it was more luck than logic. Now, a girl like Julia Hartshorn—she doesn’t need luck.”

  “Why not?” Toby looked over at Julia Hartshorn, who sat with her shoulders squared and her jaw clenched, staring straight ahead. He’d never seen someone who didn’t need luck before. She looked brave, as though she’d grab luck by its forelegs and hoist it over her shoulders if she ever did need it after all.

  “Julia Hartshorn,” said Miss Price, “has got science. She’s a whiz with calculations and devices, and she’s got all sorts of horrible chemicals in jars. I’ve heard she can work out how a poor soul was killed just by examining a bit of hair or a slice of stomach.”

  Toby’s own stomach churned at the thought of it. Miss Hartshorn was brave. “And what about Mr. Rackham?” he asked. The elderly detective was studying his wristwatch, sighing loudly through his nose, looking up at the parlor door, and shaking his head before turning back to his wristwatch and repeating the whole performance. “How does he solve crimes?”

  Miss Price and Miss March exchanged a look. “The same way he does everything else, dear,” Miss Price said. “The old-fashioned way. Rackham was quite the thing forty years ago, and he hasn’t changed a bit—except in the usual places.” She patted her own stomach. “Do you know, I’ve never seen him out of his formal coat, even when he goes out to collect the eggs from his henhouse. Our Mr. Rackham likes to keep up appearances.”

  “He’s not the only one.” Miss March looked around at the other detectives and laughed a little. “After all, there are plenty of people in this house who aren’t quite what they seem.”

  Mr. Peartree chose this moment to open the parlor door. Even Miss March stopped talking as a small parade of people filed into the room, led by Mrs. Webster and a responsible-looking man in a suit. Toby guessed this must be Mr. Webster. Behind them were Lillie, who smiled prettily at the detectives, and Ivy, who didn’t. If Toby’s aunt Janet had been there, she would have gone after Ivy with a scrubbing brush. Her tights had a new ladder in them—Toby wondered if she’d gotten stuck in a rosebush—and she’d tracked in more than a few clumps of garden dirt, which Mr. Peartree quickly swept up into his palm. Ivy was obviously trying to walk as elegantly as her sister, with her chin up and her shoulders back, but it only made her look uncomfortable. At least, Toby thought, there was someone in the room who felt even more out of place than he did.

  When the Webster family had taken their seats, Mr. Peartree cleared his throat. “Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls,” he said, “and dog”—he looked pointedly at Percival—“I am delighted to introduce the man who is my employer and the host of this weekend’s festivities. Please welcome the world’s greatest detective, Hugh Abernathy.”

  Toby clapped so hard his hands hurt. Mr. Abernathy strode through the doorway with a wave for the crowd and—although Toby might have imagined it—a hint of a smile just for him. “Welcome!” he said, sweeping to the front of the room as if it were the only reasonable place for him to stand. “My dear friends and neighbors, I can’t tell you how pleased I am that you’ve joined me this weekend. But first, I must thank the Webster family for allowing us to overrun their lovely home. I hope you’ll agree with me that it is the perfect location for a crime.” He bowed to the Websters, who didn’t seem particularly flattered by the compliment. “Now, I’ve promised you a game, and a game you shall have. By the end of our time together, someone in this house will be rich. Someone will be the world’s greatest detective. And someone”—Mr. Abernathy paused, looking reluctant—“well, someone might be dead.”

  “Dead!”

  Julia Hartshorn was the one who said it. She stood up from her chair and looked Mr. Abernathy in the eye. “What in the world are you talking about, Hugh?”

  “I’d like to know the same,” said Mr. Rackham. “I didn’t come all the way out here just to get myself murdered.”

  “I doubt any of us did,” Miss Price murmured to Toby.

  “Never fear!” Mr. Abernathy said hastily. “The death will be merely temporary. In the next few hours, one member of the Webster household will pretend to die.”

  “Thank goodness,” said Julia, sitting down. “You should have said so from the start.”

  Toby agreed with her. He could still feel his heartbeat thudding in his ears. The last thing he needed was for Uncle Gabriel to return from Gallis and find him dead; he’d have been in more trouble than ever.

  “As for the identity of the murderer,” Mr. Abernathy continued, “that will be up to the six detectives to discover. Miss Hartshorn, Miss March, Miss Price, Mr. Rackham, Mr. Elwood—and, of course, Mr. Montrose.” He raised an eyebrow at Toby. “You will each have the weekend to interview suspects, examine the evidence, and determine how and why the crime was committed. All I ask is that you do not leave the manor grounds. If you are first to uncover the solution to my mystery before we all depart on Sunday afternoon, you shall win the title of world’s greatest detective, along with my eternal good regard.”

  “And your money,” said Julia.

  Mr. Abernathy nodded. “Ten thousand dollars, Miss Hartshorn, straight from my pocket to the winner’s.”

  “And if no one wins?” Philip Elwood stretched out his legs. “What happens then?”

  “Then I suppose I’ll have to suffer the blows of fame and fortune myself for a few years longer. But I sincerely believe there is a winner among you. There’s more crime-solving potential in this room than there is in the rest of the country put together.” Mr. Abernathy looked at each detective in turn. “Of course,” he said, meeting Toby’s gaze, “there’s also an alarming amount of deception, duplicity, cunning, and fraud. Most of you have secrets, and all of you have faults. If you can’t overcome them, you’ll almost certainly leave this house empty-handed.”

  “Faults?” Mr. Rackham rapped his walking stick on the floor. “Nonsense! Haven’t had any of those for fifteen years!”

  Toby wished he could say the same. He knew from his trip to the end of Detectives’ Row that if anyone could read people’s secrets right off their faces, it was Hugh Abernathy. Did Mr. Abernathy already know about Uncle Gabriel’s trip abroad, the letter Toby had forged, or the detective-shaped pile of pillows upstairs in the Marigold Room? And what did the others have to hide? As much as Toby didn’t want anyone knowing his secrets, he had to admit he was curious about everyone else’s.

  “About this crime,” Miss Ma
rch said, raising her hand. “Will we be allowed to work together to solve it?”

  “You may work with anyone you choose,” Mr. Abernathy said. “I’ll remind you, though, that the Webster family and their servants will all be murder suspects, and even your fellow detectives might not have your best interests at heart.” His smile grew even broader. “To be frank, Anthea, I wouldn’t trust a soul.”

  “Don’t worry,” said Miss March with a smile of her own. “I never do.”

  When Mr. Abernathy had finished speaking, two maids rolled a silver dining cart into the parlor and began to set out sandwiches and lemonade on the tables. While they worked, Toby sized up his competition. Philip Elwood was still scribbling away in his notebook; was he collecting clues already? Mr. Rackham looked like he was about to doze off, but maybe that was part of his crime-solving strategy. Toby was especially worried about Miss March and Miss Price, who probably knew so much about everyone in the house that they’d have the case cracked by dinnertime. As for Julia Hartshorn, when Toby turned to study her, he realized that she had been studying him. Mr. Abernathy had been right: he couldn’t trust a soul. Even Percival was starting to look a little shifty.

  Toby helped himself to three sandwiches and wrapped two more in a napkin. “For Uncle Gabriel,” he said loudly, just in case someone was watching—and since the room was full of detectives, someone probably was. Then, with his mouth still full of watercress and salmon paste, he made a beeline for Hugh Abernathy.

  Mr. Abernathy stood by the fireplace, sipping lemonade through a long paper straw and chatting with one of the Websters’ footmen. “When you caught the Colebridge Cutthroat,” the footman asked, “was it really as thrilling as Mr. Peartree made it sound in his story?”

  “It was even more thrilling than that,” said Mr. Abernathy. He caught sight of Toby and gave him a wink. “Quite a few prominent members of government had already been attacked, as you’ll recall, and Lord Entwhistle believed he’d be the Cutthroat’s next victim. That’s when he hired me to keep an eye on Entwhistle House. I watched every man coming and going from the house, but it never occurred to either of us that the Cutthroat might be a woman! If I hadn’t noticed the knife hidden in the young lady’s hair, she might have succeeded in her aim. She came dangerously close to ending Lord Entwhistle’s life, and as I wrestled the blade away from her, I thought she might end mine as well. I asked Mr. Peartree to spare his readers the bloodiest details.” Mr. Abernathy gave a little bow to the footman, who was staring at him now in full-fledged awe. Then he turned to Toby. “I hope my story hasn’t alarmed you, Mr. Montrose.”

  “No, sir. I’ve read it at least five times.” Toby hoped the tattooed carriage driver was taking good care of the Sphinx issue that contained “The Adventure of the Colebridge Cutthroat”—it was one of Toby’s favorites. “May I ask you a question, sir?”

  “You may ask anything you’d like.” Mr. Abernathy took a sip of lemonade. “I only hope I can answer you.”

  “It’s about my case, sir.” Toby clutched his packet of sandwiches more tightly. “About my parents. I was just wondering if you’ve learned anything new.”

  Mr. Abernathy slurped the rest of his lemonade and handed the glass to Mr. Peartree, who was passing by. “I apologize,” he said. “I should have come to find you earlier. Of course you’ve been wondering. As a matter of fact, I’ve uncovered some information that I think you’ll be excited to hear.”

  Toby nearly dropped his sandwiches. “Are you sure?”

  “Entirely.” Mr. Abernathy hesitated. “We shouldn’t discuss the matter here, though. I’ve brought the case file with me, and I’d be happy to share it with you this evening. Can you come to see me tonight before dinner?”

  “Of course!” said Toby. He felt a little unsteady, as though he’d just wandered into the pages of the Sphinx. Had Mr. Abernathy actually managed to find his parents? No ordinary person would have been capable of it—but Hugh Abernathy wasn’t an ordinary person, not by a long shot.

  “Excellent. I’ll see you then.” Mr. Abernathy’s eyes flicked to the right, past Toby’s shoulder. “I’d suggest leaving your spy behind when you come to see me, though. She’s been watching you for the past five minutes.”

  Toby spun around. Just behind him was a large potted palm, and behind that, peeking over the rim of the ceramic pot, was the top of Ivy’s head. “You don’t look much like a palm frond,” he told her. “You’re not even green. Next time you should borrow Mr. Peartree’s hat.”

  Ivy got to her feet and gave Toby a steely look. “You wouldn’t have seen me if it weren’t for him,” she said, jabbing a finger in Mr. Abernathy’s direction. “After all, you’re only a junior detective.” Then she turned on her heel and ran out of the parlor, leaving Toby staring after her.

  “How interesting,” Mr. Abernathy said mildly. “It looks to me, Mr. Montrose, like you’ve got more than one mystery to solve this weekend.”

  CHAPTER 8

  THE INVESTIGATORIUM

  Toby was quick, but Ivy was quicker, and she knew the tangled hallways of Coleford Manor much better than he did. In the time it took him to say good-bye to Mr. Abernathy and squirm loose from the crowd of detectives, she’d escaped out the parlor door and up the front stairs, giving Toby nothing but a glimpse of her scuffed patent-leather heel disappearing around a corner.

  He thought of leaving her alone, but the thought didn’t last more than a second. Ivy was definitely up to something, and if he didn’t even try to find out what it was, he might as well cut up his junior detective badge and send himself home. Besides, all the adults were still chatting in that dull, droning way they had, and anything was better than that. He started up the stairs himself, hoping he could figure out which way Ivy had gone.

  Two hallways branched out from the second-floor landing: a left-hand one, with the Marigold Room at the end of it, and a right-hand one, lined with glass-knobbed closed doors. Neither of the hallways contained Ivy. Toby stood on the landing as quietly as he could, holding his breath and listening for the creak of floorboards in the distance, or the patter of footsteps, but he couldn’t hear anything like that. If it hadn’t been for the hum of conversation floating up from the parlor, he would have thought he had the whole vast manor to himself.

  Toby tried to remember what else he’d learned from the correspondence course about tracking suspects. He couldn’t exactly follow footprints indoors, but Ivy had tracked all that mud into the parlor; maybe she’d left a trail behind her as she ran away. As soon as Toby knelt down to look more closely at the floorboards, though, he could tell they wouldn’t be much help: crumbs of dirt were scattered along both hallways and up the stairs to the third floor, too. Those could have come from anyone’s shoes. If there was a way to tell the difference between flower-garden dirt and the regular kind, Toby had no idea what it was.

  Then, somewhere above Toby’s head, a door slammed so loudly that he almost laughed. He took the stairs to the third floor two at a time and turned left, where the noise had come from. The corridor was dim and shadowy, with only a small window at one end to let the sunlight in, but Toby was almost sure he could hear someone moving behind the farthest-away door—the one right above his own room. He took off his shoes and slid down the hall in his socks, staying close to the wall to keep the floorboards from creaking.

  If it hadn’t been nearly so dim, or quite so shadowy, Toby might have seen the wire before it caught his ankles. But he didn’t, and half a second later he was sprawled on his stomach, trapped under a heavy tablecloth that had dropped on him from the ceiling. It smelled of mothballs and disaster.

  A door opened nearby, and Toby poked his head out from underneath the tablecloth to see Ivy’s feet coming toward him. It was enough to make him pull his head right back in again. Being caught in a trap would have been bad enough under any circumstances, but being caught in this trap was completely humiliating. Toby had even set it himself once, when he’d accidentally trapped Mrs. Satterthwaite.
He wondered how Ivy had figured out how to build it—and then, horribly and all at once, he knew.

  “You did a good job sneaking silently,” Ivy told him, pulling the tablecloth off of him. “For a minute, I thought you weren’t following me after all. But you should probably read the lesson about trap detection again. I’m going to put ‘needs improvement’ in my notes.”

  Toby sat up too quickly, which made him dizzy. “You’re Inspector Webster,” he said. He wasn’t sure whether to be horrified or amazed. “But you’re supposed to be a man!”

  “And you,” said Ivy, folding the tablecloth crisply, “are supposed to be smarter than that. Get up and come inside before someone overhears us. If Mother finds out what we’re up to, she’ll scold us both, and at least one of us doesn’t deserve it.” It was pretty obvious which one she meant.

  “I didn’t do anything wrong!” said Toby as he scrambled to his feet. “You’re the one who set the trap, and spied on me, and pretended to be a detective. I sent you ten whole dollars!”

  “I wasn’t pretending to be anything.” Ivy grabbed Toby by the wrists and tugged him into the room at the end of the hall. She was stronger than she looked. “If you don’t believe a girl can be a detective,” she said, shutting the door behind her, “then you’re just as hopeless as that old bore Hugh Abernathy.”

  “Mr. Abernathy isn’t a bore! And of course I know girls can be detectives. But you’re not any older than I am, and . . .” Blinking in the sunlight, Toby looked around the room where Ivy had dragged him. He promptly forgot what he’d been going to say. The space was bright and cramped, and every inch of it was crammed with investigators’ tools. A microscope stood on a desk; a pair of binoculars waited by the window. On a rack that ran the length of one wall, dozens of disguises hung from pegs: there were hats and wigs, shawls and gowns, even a pair of motoring goggles. Long coils of rope and wire were stacked in a corner behind a life-sized and perfectly complete human skeleton that Toby desperately hoped was just a model. A set of encyclopedias filled one bookshelf, a row of thick notebooks filled a second, and a third was stuffed with volumes about every subject Toby could think of and several more he couldn’t, from swordplay to snake venom. The only normal piece of furniture in the room was an old, worn-out velvet couch, but even this was covered in back issues of the Sphinx Monthly Reader. Toby spotted at least three he hadn’t read before.