I wandered slowly back towards Cherboys, thoroughly vexed with Elspeth Gresham. A lady had no business going around not murdering people when she had excellent motive, plausible means, and the correct temperament. Elspeth was decisive, physically strong, and by her own admission capable of coaxing along a seedling of a grudge until it flowered.
“How dare she be innocent,” I muttered. “It ismostinconsiderate.”
So irritated was I that I took the long way round, circling the Pineapple Pavilion. As I passed the back, I heard voices within. My senses prickled. I could not have said why, precisely, but there was something of a hushed, furtive quality about them, and I realised it was high time to engage in a little harmless eavesdropping.
I eased into the shadows of the pineapple, moving on silent feet towards the French windows. They had been thrown open to admit the luscious air, no doubt, and this permitted me to hear everything so long as I crouched.
“I do hope it shan’t cause trouble if I am discovered here. It is thefamilypart of the estate, after all.” The first of the two voices was female, purring as distinctly as Elspeth’s cat.
A male voice, earnest and kindly. “Oh no, no. It is quite all right, I assure you. You are my guest, as such. I mean, your request for confession demands privacy. Now, I cannot say that I have much experience with confession. My father was very High Church, but my own ambitions have always been much more modest.” He broke off for a moment, and I could well imagine the gentle blush on Merryweather’s cheek. “Of course, if I can give comfort, then it is my bounden duty to hear whatever you have to tell me.”
“It is not so much what I can tell you as what you can tell me,” the female voice replied. It was still catlike, but the sort of cat that waits mercilessly outside the hole of a trembling mouse, anticipating its next meal.
“J. J.,”I mouthed furiously.
“You see,” she went on in that oleaginous tone, “I am not really a maidservant. I have come in disguise, as it were.”
“Oh, I say! How extraordinary,” Merry replied.
“Indeed. I am, in fact, a connection of your brother Stoker’s. And Miss Speedwell’s. I have upon several occasions been with them in the course of their investigative adventures.”
“Investigative what?”
“Adventures. Do you mean you don’t know? Your brother and Veronica Speedwell are responsible for unmasking several murderous villains. They have imperiled themselves in the course of justice more times than I can enumerate!” She paused and pitched her voice lower, conspiratorial, coaxing him into her confidence. “If you were to see your brother’s baredtorso, you would note the fresh scars upon his person, the marks of bullet and knife inflicted upon his flesh by desperate fiends.”
“When haveyouseen my brother’s bared torso?” was Merry’s shocked reply.
“I nursed him,” J. J. returned, doing an excellent impression of insulted modesty. “I have assisted and indeed even led them, upon occasion. We are close as the proverbial peas in the pod. I came down with Julien d’Orlande because I feared this very thing would happen—murder.” She breathed the last word out in a thrilled whisper.
Merry made a noise of protest, a sort of whimper, and I could well imagine him thrusting his hands through his hair. “I cannot credit it. My brother and Veronica, involved in murder.”
“In the solving of it,” she corrected hastily. “They are servants of justice, Father. As well may you be.”
“Me? How so?”
“I believe you may have information about the murder that has taken place within the walls of Cherboys.”
“Murder!” His exclamation resounded through the tiny pineapple and I could well imagine J. J. wincing as she shushed him.
“Not so loud, I beg you! We must be clever. There is a murderer on the loose, I am certain of it. Stoker and Veronica are as well. And I am assisting them,” she said.
“But then won’t you be in peril as well?” Merry sounded troubled.
“Ah, but not as much as they,” she said. “For I have a secret weapon, a stalwart companion and helper in this endeavour.” She must have given him a nod or a wink, for he made a choking sound.
“Me? You want me to help you find a killer?”
“You need not fear, Father, no harm will come to you, I promise. But you may well know something that could assist me in unmasking the miscreant who took Beatrice Salviati’s life. You could be the key to solving this mystery.”
“But how?”
“You may have seen something. You were sitting next to her at the fateful dinner. How was her mood?”
With that, they were off. They spent the next several minutes discussing Beatrice’s disposition that evening as well as the movements of the staff serving the food and drink. I might have put a stop to the interrogation, and I was even poised to charge in to rescue Merryweather, when I realised I might use whatever J. J. gleaned from him to my advantage. I did not much care for the fact that she discussed our detectival exploits with him, but family feeling would prevent him from spreading tales abroad. Stoker and I both preferred for various reasons to keep our involvement in such investigations secret. It was enough to know that justice was satisfied by our efforts. Justice—but not always the law. We had little faith in the established systems that governed our island. We had, both of us, fallen afoul of what was strictly legal, and we were thoroughly convinced that justice was the superior aim. And listening to Merry’s discourse might well provide a piece to the puzzle.
But crouching is devilishly hard upon the ankles, no matter how supple they may be, and I was forced to change position to stretch them. In doing so, I missed one of J. J.’s questions and heard only Merry’s response. “No,” he said slowly. “I think she was well, except perhaps a bit overexcited. She had to take a little of her tonic.”
“Did she?” J. J.’s voice sharpened with interest. “I never saw her drink it at dinner.”
