The World's Greatest Detective Page 9

  In most ways, however, the kitchen was perfectly ordinary, and Toby had almost run out of suspicious things to notice by the time Norton the footman hobbled past. His ankle was wrapped in a bandage, and his expression was stormy. When he spotted Percival, who had given up making observations and gone to beg for a soup bone, it became even stormier. Then he saw Toby and Ivy. Norton looks angry, Toby wrote frantically as the three of them ran out of the servants’ quarters and through a narrow hallway. He’s not very fast with his ankle wrapped up, but he’s excellent at shouting.

  Toby was so busy making observations, in fact, that by the time he noticed Philip Elwood stepping out into the hallway in front of him, it was too late to stop running. His notebook collided with Philip’s stomach, and his pen went flying. “I’m sorry, sir!” he said, trying to ignore the sound of Ivy sighing behind him. “I didn’t see you there. Are you all right?”

  “Oh, I’ve been in worse collisions than that.” Philip said it kindly enough, but his eyes darted from one end of the hall to the other, as though he’d rather look at anything other than Toby. “Where are you off to in such a hurry?”

  “Getting away from Norton,” Toby said.

  Ivy picked up Toby’s pen from the floor and handed it to him. “What my colleague means,” she said, “is that we’re conducting a covert investigation, and we’re not at liberty to divulge our methodology.”

  Toby was impressed. He didn’t know half the words Ivy had just said, but they seemed to mean something to Philip. “That’s right,” he said. “I meant to say that, about divulging the methodology.” If he and Ivy sounded official enough, maybe it would make up for the fact that their investigative partner was trying to eat Philip’s left shoelace.

  Philip nodded seriously. “I understand. And don’t worry; I won’t be poking my nose into your investigation. I prefer to work alone.” He bent down and removed his soggy shoelace from Percival’s mouth. “Has anyone been murdered back there, by chance?”

  “In the kitchen?” Toby was about to tell Philip that everyone except the lamb was alive and well, but Ivy looked sharply at him, and he swallowed his words. This was a competition, after all, and a famous international investigator like Philip Elwood didn’t need any help from Toby. “I guess you’ll have to find out for yourself,” he said instead. “Like you did with those thieves in Gyptos!”

  Philip smiled at this, as though he was pleased to be reminded of what a good detective he was. “Fair enough,” he said, putting his hand on the brim of his hat. “Best of luck to you both.”

  Philip passed through the swinging door into the servants’ quarters, and Ivy frowned after him. “That was odd,” she said. “Did you notice anything unusual about Mr. Elwood, Detective?”

  Toby hadn’t, to be honest, but he wasn’t going to admit that to Ivy after telling her how observant he was. He closed his eyes and tried to picture how Philip had looked. “He was wearing a hat inside,” he said at last, doubtfully. “My aunt Janet used to say that wasn’t polite, but maybe it’s how people do things abroad?”

  “It’s not, actually,” said Ivy. “Mother is from Gyptos, and she and Father have traveled all around the world, but they always take their hats off as soon as they step inside. Good work, Toby; I hadn’t thought of that.”

  Toby couldn’t help feeling proud as he wrote this latest observation in his notebook: Philip Elwood wears a hat indoors. I wonder what’s under it. “You must have noticed something else, then,” he said to Ivy. “What was it?”

  Ivy walked over to a plain-looking door in the wall and turned the knob. “The reason you crashed into Mr. Elwood,” she said, “is that when he stepped right in front of you, he was coming out of this room.”

  Toby peered into the darkness. “A broom cupboard?” he asked. “What would Mr. Elwood be doing in there?”

  “That,” said Ivy, “is exactly what I’d like to know.”

  In the stories Mr. Peartree wrote, Hugh Abernathy was always breaking into creepy old buildings, sneaking into seedy crime dens, and stumbling across murder scenes. If they’d been in a Hugh Abernathy story, Toby thought, they would have stepped into the broom cupboard to find a murderer looming over them. But the only things that actually loomed in the cupboard were tall, rickety ladders and thin, lifeless mops. A wall of shelves held sheets and towels and other mysterious fabrics, all neatly folded and stacked, and bottles full of oils and polishes. When Toby brushed against one of the bottles, it left his hand covered in something as dark and wet as blood. “Ugh,” he said, trying to wipe away whatever it was on a towel.

  “I wish Mr. Elwood had been more careless.” Ivy was on her hands and knees next to Percival, peering under the shelves. “He didn’t leave any clues behind—not even anything boring like a dusty footprint. What do you think he came in here for?”

  “He might have been looking for a washroom,” Toby suggested. “Or maybe he needed a mop.”

  “Maybe,” said Ivy. “But I think we should keep an eye on him. I don’t trust that man.” She looked at Toby upside down. “It’s my detective’s instinct.”

  Toby followed Ivy and her instincts all over the house, winding through skinny back corridors and wandering through huge open rooms decorated with artifacts the Websters had collected on their travels. These fascinated Toby. He was used to houses full of practical things, like shovels and jam jars and potbellied stoves; even the investigative oddities in his bedroom at Uncle Gabriel’s all served a purpose. But he couldn’t imagine what purpose the round, earth-colored urn in the corner of the conservatory might serve, except for being interesting. A carved hunter with a bow and arrow chased a carved deer around and around the crackled surface.

  “The urn is from Mother’s hometown,” Ivy said proudly. “It was one of her first discoveries. It’s at least two thousand years old.”

  “That’s amazing,” said Toby. He felt sorry for the hunter. Two thousand years was a long time to spend chasing anything. “What’s inside this one?” he asked, pointing at a wooden box painted with faded, colorful symbols. “Can I open it?”

  Ivy made a face. “I wouldn’t,” she said, “unless you like mummified cats.”

  Toby didn’t. He moved away quickly. “Do your parents have a lot of—um—dead things?”

  “Only the usual,” said Ivy. “Butterflies and beetles, mostly. Their really gruesome discoveries are all in the Colebridge City Museum. Father wants to take the cat there, too, but Mother won’t let him. That’s one of the things they argue about—along with money, of course.”

  Toby was surprised to hear this. “But they have so much of it!”

  “That just means there’s more to argue about. You know how parents can be.” Ivy hesitated. “Or maybe you don’t. I overheard you speaking with Mr. Abernathy earlier.” Her voice had slipped into that soft, worried tone people had always used around Toby in the days after the funeral. He’d forgotten how badly it made his stomach hurt. “Are your parents still alive?”

  Toby had answered this particular question hundreds of times before, but this was the first time he hadn’t known quite what to say. “I didn’t think they were,” he said, “but Mr. Abernathy has been looking into their accident, and he says he’s got news for me.”

  Ivy’s eyes went wide. “Good news?”

  “I think so. I mean, I hope so. I’m supposed to meet Mr. Abernathy this evening to find out.”

  “This evening?” Ivy groaned. “For heaven’s sake, Toby, how can you possibly stand to wait? Your parents might be somewhere out there looking for you!”

  Toby sat down on a velvet chair. “I guess they could be,” he said. “I haven’t been letting myself think about it. What if they’re not alive after all?”

  “What if they are?” said Ivy. “If Mr. Abernathy’s found them, I swear I’ll apologize for every mean thought I’ve ever had about him.” She gave Toby a guilty smile. “It may take an awful lot of breath, though.”

  Behind them, the conservatory door swung op
en. “I can’t put up with it much longer, Amina,” Ivy’s father was saying in a low voice. “We’re being taken advantage of. We can’t afford to go on like this.”

  “What else can we do?” Mrs. Webster didn’t bother to keep her voice low. “We haven’t got a choice. He made that perfectly clear.”

  “I’ll tell you what I’d like to do to the fellow,” Mr. Webster said. “First of all, I’d—”

  Mrs. Webster put a hand on her husband’s shoulder. “Look, Robert,” she said, “it’s the children.”

  “Oh!” Mr. Webster coughed. “Hello there, Ivy. Hello, um . . .”

  “Toby,” said Toby helpfully.

  Mrs. Webster smiled at them. “You two shouldn’t be indoors when the weather is so pleasant,” she said. “Why don’t you take Percival for a walk in the yard?”

  Toby and Ivy exchanged a look. This was the sort of thing adults said when they wanted you to go away. Toby would have liked to stay and hear what the Websters were arguing about, but it was clear they weren’t going to say another word until he and Ivy were safely outside. Ivy’s parents are angry at someone, he wrote in his notebook as they trudged out of the room. Then he drew a long row of question marks on the page and tucked the book away in his pocket. Even the best detectives had to know when to admit defeat.

  On the front lawn of Coleford Manor, the visiting detectives had fallen into a game of badminton. Hugh Abernathy and Julia Hartshorn faced off against Miss March and Mr. Rackham, while Miss Price watched from under a shady oak tree, clapping politely each time a detective scored a point. “Has anyone died yet, dears?” she asked Toby and Ivy as they sat down next to her. “I must admit I’m wild to find out who the victim will be! I’ve heard the Websters’ cook trod the boards on the Colebridge stage back in her day; perhaps she’s been enticed to play the role of the corpse.”

  After what Toby had seen of the cook, he thought she’d make a better murderer than victim. “I don’t think the competition’s started yet,” he told Miss Price.

  “Not that we’d know if it had,” said Ivy. “Mother kicked us out of the house.” She looked as though she might like to murder someone herself.

  “Well, you’re welcome to wait here with me.” Miss Price leaned back in her lawn chair and let out a sigh of contentment. “I do hope the crime scene will be good and bloody.”

  “Heads up, Flossie!” called Miss March from the badminton court. A gust of wind had caught the birdie she’d hit over the net, and it flew toward Miss Price and Toby with surprising speed.

  “I’ve got it!” said Julia Hartshorn, who was closest. She stepped back to return the lob, but just as she reached out with her racquet, Mr. Abernathy dove in front of her and thwacked the birdie away. It sailed back over the net and landed meekly at Mr. Rackham’s feet. Toby and Miss Price burst into applause.

  “Another point for us!” Mr. Abernathy called. “Give that racquet a swing next time, Rackham; you just might hit something.”

  Julia was looking thunderously at Mr. Abernathy. “I told you I’d get that shot, Hugh,” she said. “You might let me score a point for once.”

  “But we’re winning, my dear! We make an excellent team, don’t you think?” In the stories Toby had read, Hugh Abernathy was always smiling charmingly at luckless young ladies, grieving mothers, and injured kittens; he delivered this same smile to Julia now.

  But Julia was nothing like an injured kitten. Toby thought for a moment that she would punch Mr. Abernathy in the nose, just as Uncle Gabriel had done years ago. Instead of making a fist, though, she drew in her breath, tightened her grip on her badminton racquet, and turned back to the net without bothering to answer Mr. Abernathy’s question.

  I don’t think Julia Hartshorn likes Mr. Abernathy, Toby wrote in his detective’s notebook, turning away from Miss Price in case she tried to sneak a glimpse over his shoulder. His charming smile doesn’t work on her. Find out why.

  It was warm for early May, and even in the shade, Toby could feel the back of his neck prickling with sunburn as the game continued. This made it much more difficult to focus on the work of detection. Even Ivy had stopped making observations and started to play fetch with Percival instead. Toby was considering joining them when Miss Price nudged his arm.

  “Here comes dear Mr. Peartree,” she said, looking back toward the house. “If we’re lucky, he might have some gruesome news to report.”

  Toby squinted across the lawn in the direction Miss Price was pointing. From a distance, it wasn’t easy to see Mr. Peartree in his green finery against the backdrop of boxwood hedges. He was holding his watch—the new one Mr. Abernathy hadn’t broken yet—and he flipped it open as he hurried toward the badminton court. When he’d passed the oak tree where Toby was sitting, he slowed his pace, walked up behind Mr. Abernathy, reached out a hand, and tapped the detective on the shoulder.

  Mr. Abernathy must have jumped a foot. Toby hadn’t imagined that the world’s greatest detective would be so easy to startle, but apparently even Hugh Abernathy himself could be taken by surprise. “Peartree!” he said, composing himself in a hurry. “You’re very soft-footed this afternoon. What is it?”

  “It’s almost three o’clock, sir,” said Mr. Peartree. Even in the heat, he hadn’t taken off his coat or loosened his necktie. “If we don’t start preparing for the evening’s events, we’ll fall off schedule.”

  “So we will. Thank you, Peartree.” Mr. Abernathy pulled a green handkerchief out of Mr. Peartree’s coat pocket and wiped the sweat from his forehead. “I’m sorry, everyone, but I’ve got other tasks to take care of this afternoon. When the competition calls me, I must answer. Step in for me, Flossie?”

  “Gladly,” said Miss Price. She got up from her lawn chair. “I used to be badminton captain at school,” she whispered to Toby. “Rackham’s looking smug at the moment, but I’ve got a backhand that will make his head spin.”

  Mr. Abernathy handed Miss Price his racquet and followed Mr. Peartree back toward the house. As they passed Toby, Mr. Abernathy paused. “This evening, Mr. Montrose, before dinner. I’m in the Orchid Room. You won’t forget our meeting?”

  “No, sir!” said Toby. “I’ll be there.”

  Mr. Abernathy tucked the green handkerchief into his own pocket and smiled. “I’m extremely pleased to hear it.”

  The evening couldn’t come fast enough for Toby. At six o’clock, an echoing boom rang out through the manor, and Ivy explained that this was the dressing gong. “That means dinner’s in an hour,” she said, “and we have to get dressed.”

  “But I am dressed!” said Toby.

  “Dressed for dinner,” Ivy said, as though she expected this to help. “I have to let Mother try to throw some clean clothes over my head, but I’ll see you later in the dining room. And you’ve got to promise you’ll tell me what Mr. Abernathy’s found out about your parents. I want to hear everything.”

  Toby promised. Back in the Marigold Room, he scrubbed at the brown stain he’d gotten on his hand from whatever he’d brushed against in the broom cupboard. It didn’t come off easily, even with soap. At least it hadn’t gotten all over his clothes. Since the outfit he was wearing was the only one he had left, he couldn’t exactly change for dinner. Instead, he smoothed his hair, took a few exploratory sniffs to make sure he didn’t smell too awful, and went out to find Mr. Abernathy.

  The Orchid Room was at the other end of the second-floor hallway, closest to the main staircase. Toby recognized the elegant petals carved into its door; Grandfather Montrose had grown orchids, and he’d occasionally let Toby look at them, though no one in the house had been allowed to touch them. They had been anxious, delicate flowers. Feeling a little anxious himself, Toby raised his hand to the door and knocked.

  No one answered.

  “Hello?” Toby called. “Mr. Abernathy? Are you there?”

  The door across the hall opened, and Mr. Peartree poked his head out. “I couldn’t help overhearing you, Mr. Montrose,” he said. “Can I be of
any assistance?”

  “I’m supposed to meet Mr. Abernathy before dinner,” Toby explained. “He told me to come to the Orchid Room, but I’m not sure he’s inside.”

  “That’s peculiar,” said Mr. Peartree. He stepped out of his room. It had a fern carved into its door, and from what Toby could see of it, the room was just as green as Mr. Peartree was. In one corner, a record spun on a gramophone, filling the hallway with the scratchy sound of a lady warbling a song in a language Toby didn’t recognize.

  “I spoke to Mr. Abernathy about an hour ago,” Mr. Peartree said over the warbling, “and I don’t believe he’s left his room since.” He walked across the hall and turned the Orchid Room’s doorknob. “Sir? Toby Montrose is here to see you.”

  The door swung open.

  At first, all Toby could see was that everything was purple. Purple curtains cloaked the windows, letting in only a sliver of late afternoon light. On the woven purple carpet, plump folders stuffed with papers were stacked untidily; the purple bedsheets on the slim four-poster bed were rumpled. A half-empty bottle with a paper label rested on a purple tray. The tray lay on a table, the table stood next to an armchair, and in the armchair sat Hugh Abernathy, the world’s greatest detective.

  He was definitely dead.

  CHAPTER 10

  DEAD!

  It wasn’t a performance; Toby knew that right away. He would have known even if Mr. Abernathy’s face weren’t as purple as an orchid blossom, even if Mr. Peartree hadn’t choked back a cry and rushed to the detective’s side. The trouble that had followed Toby for years had slithered out from all its hidden corners, and now it writhed in the heavy folds of the curtains, in the shadows under the bed, and in the gasping, frozen expression on Mr. Abernathy’s face. He had never looked that way when he was alive.

  “Oh no,” Toby whispered. “Oh no, oh no.”

  “He’s not breathing.” Mr. Peartree stepped away from the body. “This wasn’t supposed to happen! This wasn’t part of the plan!” He pulled out his notepad and started flipping through the pages, as though somewhere in his papers were instructions about how to proceed if your employer suddenly turned up dead.