“He said that?”
“Yeah, I think so.” She couldn’t remember now his exact words, but she’d had a very strong impression. “Why else would he lead me here?”
Eddie shrugged and made a few more thrusts and parries. “Never can tell with Andrews.”
“Well, he’s written—or rather, he’s discovered—a detailed mystery surrounding Mary Francis. I don’t see him as a sloppy guy.”
“He does dress with care.”
“Surely the secret room and the body are part of that mystery, and uncovering clues to one will help solve the other, all neat and tidy. I think he’s being so secretive, though, because he used this room without Mrs. Wattlesbrook’s permission and he doesn’t want to upset her. But really,” she said, gesturing to the mess, “he could be just a teeny, tiny bit less opaque. I can’t find the needle for all this hay.”
She briefly thought, Well, maybe the body was real, but then scoffed the thought right out of her head. Dead bodies don’t show up then disappear; murders don’t cross her path in real life. Of course this was all part of the game—just as was Mr. Mallery’s amorous confession from the night before. She would not get unduly sucked in. She would not allow her fancy to run wild, imagining murders in the dark and handsome actors genuinely falling for her. She was never the type of child to jump off the garage roof believing that a costume cape could make her fly.
“Perhaps the fake dead body was the only intended clue in this chamber?” said Eddie, slightly out of breath from ducking under his imaginary opponent’s swing.
“Maybe. But he went to all the trouble of stowing the corpse in a secret room. Once a secret room is introduced in a mystery story, it always comes back into play. Besides, I don’t know where else to look for clues.”
Eddie rested the tip of the foil on the ground. “Why does this matter so much to you?”
She shrugged, then laughed. “I came to get lost in a story, I guess, and ironically the make-believe mystery and murder story seems safer than … than whatever I’m supposed to accomplish with Mr. Mallery, and a lot more hopeful than the news from back home.”
“Are your children all right?” he asked.
“Oh yes. They seem to be great, actually. Now that I’m …” She slumped down on the bodyless sofa. “Never mind.”
“Ah, but you need never ‘never mind’ me, Charlotte dear. You may always tell me anything.”
Charlotte’s eyes were on the floor. Was there something peeking from beneath the sofa? She got on her hands and reached under, pulling out a yellow rubber glove, like the kind one wore when washing dishes. She shook her head.
“Found the corpse, did you?” Eddie asked.
Was this what she had seen? No, the hand had been gray for one thing. Then again, night and lightning would drain the yellow into gray. But she couldn’t have confused a rubber glove for a fleshy corpse hand. Could she? Well, she had been pretty freaked out.
“I give up.” She dropped the glove on the floor.
“Ha-ha!” said Eddie, bounding forward, his foil raised. “You surrender to my skill with sword and derring-do. Very well, I accept.”
He presented her the foil, handle first. It was amazing how much more confident she felt with a weapon in her hand—even a useless, blunt-tipped play sword. Eddie took its partner from the box, and they dueled badly until lunch.
Tables and shade were set up on the lawn, refreshments sparkling in glass pitchers and silver trays. The day was radiant, the sky blaring the news that it was summer and to please take notice and act accordingly. Everyone was dressed in clothing as bright as the garden flowers. Mr. Mallery gazed at Charlotte, an invitation to come hither and fall in love. It was as idyllic a scene as artist or poet could e’er express! And yet Charlotte’s thoughts wandered a dark alley.
The glove/hand thing confused her, so she set it aside and seized instead on the question of the murderer. Neville the butler and Mary the maid seemed like juicy suspects, but she’d never seen Miss Gardenside or Miss Charming speak to Neville, and Mary was Charlotte’s personal maid. Surely Colonel Andrews would design a game not just for Charlotte but for all the lady guests and so would choose one of the central characters to be the villain.
It’s a universal truth that nothing spoils a postlunch game of croquet like suspecting the other players of murder.
That evening in the drawing room, Mrs. Wattlesbrook brought out large pieces of paper and charcoal. They dimmed all the lights except one hooded shade pointed at the wall and took turns drawing each other’s silhouettes. Charlotte proved the best for the task, and soon all were sitting for her, Miss Gardenside’s piano music providing the soundtrack for the evening.
She enjoyed tracing the mounds of Miss Charming’s hair, the sleek line of Colonel Andrews’s nose, the brave forehead of Miss Gardenside, that wonderful chin Eddie bore so well. There was an intimacy in the process, and she fumbled as she traced Mr. Mallery’s lips.
“What I said last night … I made you uncomfortable,” he whispered.
“Don’t speak,” she said. “I mean, you move when you talk. You have to hold still.”
She didn’t want him to say anything to make her heart all frantic like that again. It was much more intense in person than in a book, even if this was a game. She dragged the charcoal over the shadow of his bottom lip, plumper than its twin, and caught herself contemplating what it would be like to nibble on it.
“Ha,” she said.
“What?” he asked.