As Chimney Sweepers Come to Dust (31 page)

She had not been at her best.

“Good lord, no! She hated kids. Used to cover her ears when she came around. Kept well away from them. Said they made her nervous. Wasn’t much more than a kid herself, to tell you the truth … tiny bit of a thing. Girlish.”

“Was she ever a student here?” I asked, in what seemed to me a sudden burst of inspiration.

“What makes you think that?” Marge said suddenly.

“I don’t know,” I told her truthfully. “It was just an idea.”

A cloud had come over Marge’s face, as sudden as a summer storm. “Say, is this anything to do with that body in the chimney?”

“Yes,” I said, watching her face carefully. “I’m afraid it is.”

Marge’s and Sal’s hands went to their mouths at the
same time, as if they had been stitched together at the elbows. It was obvious that, until this moment, they had not made the connection. I watched as horror crossed their faces.

“Listen,” I said, “I’m only telling you this because I trust you. I’m sticking my neck out. If anything comes out I’ll be held responsible.”

“Who told you this?” Marge demanded. “Was it that Scroop, from the
Star
?”

“As a matter of fact, it was,” I said, gilding the lily a little.

“Don’t you have nothing to do with him,” Sal said.

“Why not?” I asked, all wide-eyed and innocent.

“He’s always nosing around, isn’t he, Marge? A regular busybody. Miss Fawlthorne said not to breathe a word to him. If he tries to ask you questions, send him packing. That’s what Miss Fawlthorne said.”

“Send him to
her
is what she said,” Marge corrected. “But he’s never been back, not so far as I know.”

“Mrs. Rainsmith,” I said, getting back on the track. “Francesca, I mean. How did she die?”

“Originally, or recently?” Marge asked.

This Marge was a smart cookie. I had to give her credit.

“Originally,” I said. “The moonlight cruise.”

“Two years ago. Right after the Beaux Arts Ball. Their anniversary. She was all excited about it. The chairman booked it in advance as a kind of treat.”

“Dr. Rainsmith?” I asked. “Ryerson?”

“That’s right. She
was
all excited about it, wasn’t she,
Sal. Said she’d been a bit nervy. Moonlight cruise was all she needed—just what the doctor ordered. She laughed when she said it, ’cause the doctor was her husband, you see, and he
did
order it.”

I smiled dutifully. “She told you this?” I asked.

“Stood right where you’re standing,” Sal said.

“And they never found the body,” I said.

“No. They were seen going up the gangplank, and from then on it was all drinks and dancing. They didn’t hobnob with the other passengers—didn’t want to, really. It was their anniversary, you see. Very romantic. They even wore their wedding outfits. It was in all the papers, you know. A real mystery. Sometime after midnight, somewhere off Port Dalhousie, the chairman told the captain he thought his wife might have fallen overboard. Might have had a drink too many. Captain kept it pretty well to himself … didn’t want to alarm the other passengers. That’s what he told the papers: didn’t want to upset the other passengers. If you ask me, what he meant was he didn’t want bad publicity. He sailed around in circles in the dark for a while—searchlights, and that—but they never spotted her. Not a trace.”

“Not a ripple,” Sal added. “I remember they called in the Air Force in the morning: boats, helicopters. No use. It was on the radio.”

“ ’Course there wouldn’t be, would there, if she was in the chimney all along,” Marge said, glancing at me knowingly, as if we had just shared a very great secret.

“And the second Mrs. Rainsmith?” I asked. “Dorsey?”

“He knew her for years,” Sal said, with an obscure kind of glance at Marge. “Met her at medical school.”

“They say she was a great comfort to him in his time of loss,” Marge said.

“Who’s ‘they’?” I asked. “Who said that?”

“Well,
she
did,” Marge admitted.

A shadow flitted like a bat across my mind. How could Dorsey, Miss High Muckety Muck herself, ever have happened to come into conversation with the likes of Marge, a lowly laundry lass.

“Oh!” I said, seeming surprised. “Does
she
bring her laundry round, as well?”

“No,” Sal said.

“Well, just the once,” Marge said reluctantly. “She had a dress—an expensive one. Pure silk, like rippling water on a lake. Bought it at Liberty’s, in London. Must have cost her an arm and a leg, I told her. ‘More than that,’ she said. ‘Far more than that.’ I remember her saying it.”

“And?”

“An emergency. She was called in to handle an emergency. Car crash. Got blood on it. She phoned me at home and asked if I could help her out. Girl to girl. She slipped me ten bucks. Oh, don’t look at me like that, Sal. I’ll split it with you, if you like.”

“Hold on,” I said. “Was this after she married the chairman?”

“No, before. A year or so. I’ll still split it with you, Sal.”

“Was it before or after the Beaux Arts Ball?” I asked, my heart accelerating.

“After,” Marge said. “Just after.”

“Thank you,” I said. “You’ve both been of enormous help, and I mean to make it up to you.”

Marge glowed, and although Sal brushed off my remark with a flick of her fingers, I knew that she was secretly pleased.

“May I ask one last question?”

“Fire away,” Marge said.

“How was it that you knew Dorsey Rainsmith
before
her marriage to the chairman?”

“Why, because she was on the board of guardians,” Marge said.

My head was like a spinning top as possibilities sparked and glittered off in all directions.

Was Ryerson Rainsmith a member of the Nide? Was Dorsey? Had Francesca been?

Had Francesca’s death been an official undercover act? An execution?

Was Miss Fawlthorne in on the secret?

Or was it more sordid than that? One of those Lady Chatterley affairs that Daffy was so keen on reading, and which left me bored stiff?

Time enough to think about those things later. I had suddenly become aware of my hands, which meant only one thing: It was time to say my farewells and make a graceful—or at least dignified—exit.

Dogger had once told me, “Your hands know when it’s time to go.”

And he had been right. The hands are the canaries in one’s
own personal coal mine: They need to be watched carefully and obeyed. A fidget demands attention, and a full-blown not-knowing-what-to-do-with-them means “Vamoose!”

I gave Marge and Sal a grateful smile and headed for the door.

“Oh, by the way,” Marge called out, “better get Fitzgibbon to put something on that finger. I think you’ve cut yourself.”

“N
EWSROOM
,” I
WHISPERED INTO
the telephone transmitter. “Wallace Scroop.”

I was in the shadows of the back hall, hoping my uniform would make me invisible against the dark paneling. It was still early, after breakfast but well before classes, and the sudden departure of Mrs. Bannerman seemed to have cast an invisible pall over Miss Bodycote’s.

There was an eerie silence: an absence of joy and youthful voices. The air was a weighted vacuum.

“Scroop.” Wallace’s voice came clearly through the receiver.

“It’s me again,” I said. “I need a favor.”

“What’s in it for the
Morning Star
?” he asked. “More to the point, what’s in it for Wallace Scroop?”

He caught me by surprise. I had not expected to negotiate, had not thought it through before placing the call.

I had to make a snap decision, and I did. It was one of the most difficult things I have ever been made to do in my life.

“Everything,” I said.

And I meant it.

“All right,” he said, when we had agreed on the terms, “tell me what you need.”

“The details of Francesca Rainsmith’s death. She drowned on a midnight cruise two years ago. I am told by a reliable informant that it was in all the papers. You must have them in the files. I need everything I can get, especially eyewitness accounts, the captain and crew, passengers, and so forth.”

“That’s a tall order, isn’t it, little lady?”

“I’m not a little lady and it’s not as tall as what you’re asking
me
to do for
you
.”

“Touché, José,” he said. “But there’s no need to disturb the morgue—that’s what we call the files, by the way. Yours truly was on the scene and it’s etched into my brain in hot lead.”

“Go ahead,” I said. “I’m listening.”

“Gentleman and lady show up in taxi at harbor two minutes before sailing. Both in wedding duds: tux, tails, boiled shirt, cuff links, bow tie; white dress, veil, lots of lace, bouquet. Tips the purser—tells him it’s their anniversary.”

“Were they carrying anything?” I asked.

“He was. Big gift box. Fancy wrappings, blue ribbons.”

“And her?”

“Just the bouquet.”

Somewhere above me, a floorboard creaked. Someone was on the stairs.

“Hold on,” I whispered. “I’ll be back in a jiff.”

I put down the handset and tiptoed to the bottom of the stairs. By craning my neck I could see to the landing and above.

I put my foot on the bottom step and began upward, making more noise than I needed to by shuffling my shoes.

And then I stopped. If someone
had
been listening, they had beetled off.

I went back to the telephone.

“Sorry,” I told him, whispering. “Go on. About the Rainsmiths …?”

“They danced. Danced their hooves off till the wee hours. Everyone dog-tired. Drinks. Nobody paying attention. He appears in the wheelhouse, frantic. Out of his mind. Wife’s fallen overboard. Tipsy—must’ve lost her balance. Maybe the bang on the head.”

“Hold on,” I said. “What bang on the head?”

“Oh, yeah. I forgot to tell you. She conked her head on the door frame getting out of the taxi. There was gore galore. Purser offered to call a doctor. Wouldn’t hear of it. Rainsmith said
he
was a doctor. Just a scalp wound. Scalp wounds bleed a lot, you know. Nothing serious. He would patch her up.”

“And did he?”

“Must have. Like I said, they danced like there was no tomorrow.”

“Did anybody have a look at her?”

“Not much. It was dark, remember.”

“Dark? I thought it was a moonlight cruise.”

“Bit of a washout there. Cloudy night, cold for June. Rainy squalls, choppy. Not many dancing on deck. Only the foolhardy and the lovesick few.”

“And afterwards?”

“Rainsmith was a broken man. Had to be helped off the boat.”

“What about the box?”

“Never had a chance to give it to her. Very touching story.
DROWNING VICTIM DUCKS FINAL GIFT
. Tasteless, maybe—but it won me a press award.”

“Congratulations,” I said.

“Look, kid. I’ve got to scram. There’s been a bank robbery downtown, and they’re screaming for Scroop. And listen, don’t forget our deal.”

“I won’t,” I said, but he had already rung off, leaving me alone again.

I think it was in that moment, standing alone at the back of the dark hallway at Miss Bodycote’s Female Academy, that I realized I was not only on my own, but likely to remain so. Although I had made the acquaintance of several of the girls at the Academy—Gremly and Scarlett, for instance—no deep long-term friendships had grown out of it. We were all of us like the proverbial ships that pass in the night, signaling only briefly to one another before sailing off over the horizon into our own patch of darkness.

At least, that’s how I felt. It was sad, in a way.

And yet, if it was sad, why did I feel so exhilarated?

Could it be the challenge?

In my personal experience, the solving of murder mysteries
had involved the examination of a body, the gathering of clues, the putting-together of two and two, the unmasking of the killer, and … 
Voilà! Bob’s your uncle!
Case closed. It was as easy as boiling water.

But this case was an entirely new kettle of fish. The body had been removed before I’d had a chance to do more than barely glance at it, and there wasn’t the faintest hope that Inspector Gravenhurst was going to show up at the door to pile heaps of evidence at my feet with a shovel. There was no way of gaining access to autopsy results—short of trying to pry them out of Dorsey Rainsmith, which would be about as likely as the sun rising in the north tomorrow and setting in the south.

I was going to have to develop a whole new technique: a new modus operandi, as Philip Odell, the private detective on the BBC wireless, would have put it.

Rather than reasoning from corpse to killer, as I had in the past, I would now have to reverse the process. It would be like solving a crime in a mirror.

Which was, perhaps, the cause of my excitement.

I began a mental list that, if written in my notebook, might have looked something like this: