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 Copperbole’s books.
She stared out at the green cow-smelling downs, as a spider crawled across the windowpane and began to spin its web.
At that, the final chessman shifted into place.
Now the queen was in play, and the game was on.
‘I shall need to send a telegram to London,’ she announced, in the large empty hall, as Wilfrid skittered across its tiles leaving small muddy prints. ‘Hello?’
But no footman or housemaid appeared.
She hurried to the schoolroom, but Miss Hethersmith was not there. All she found was a copy of the London Times.
COPPERBOLE & BLACK TO FACE THE DEADLY BEDCHAMBER!
These pages have remained firm in the conviction that the Queen’s own Detectives are to be offered every courtesy and respect while they unravel this notorious mystery – now entering its fourth week. It is with much hope that we report that Lord Copperbole – despite his recent ill health – and his dusky companion intend to stay one entire night in the Deadly Bedchamber itself, to expose its secret at last.
Emily’s heart pounded.
It was yesterday’s edition.
The time was now past three. Her father and his colleague were to lock themselves into the Deadly Bedchamber at nine that very evening – and she knew, now, with terrible certainty that if they did, she would never see either one alive again.
Lord Copperbole might be a weasel and a peacock with a curly lip, but she did not wish him dead.
And her father . . .
Her dear papa . . .
There was no time to waste.
Emily dashed to the library to collect one slim volume. Then she made for the stables, rode headlong for Brighton, and boarded a steam train.
She was alone, and rather muddy, and, as the darting eyes and whispers were quick to note, also unfortunately dusky. But she kept her head high and her chin firm, and made sure to find a compartment filled with people reading newspapers, so they would not stare.
After an agonisingly slow journey, the train pulled in at London Victoria.
For a moment she quailed: would a carriage driver take a small muddy brown girl, all alone? But all it took was a confident jingle of her purse, and the driver cracked his whip for Marylebone.
It was not hard to find the correct house. A crowd had gathered, all eager to see the famous detectives. A ring of bobbies was attempting to hold them clear of the front steps, and Emily found herself crushed against warm smelly bodies and hairy coats as she tried to press through the throng.
‘Stand back, ladies and gents, no pushin’!’ bellowed a policeman.
‘How are we to know they’ll stay all night long, eh?’ yelled one voice.
‘And who’s going to solve it if they both pop off ?’ called another, to a ripple of laughter.
‘I will!’ shouted Emily, finding herself pressed against a red pillar box at the edge of the pavement,