In the Rose Garden

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description

Mystery in English village.

Transcript of In the Rose Garden

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For Denise,My mother-in-law,An excellent cook,Who never rests

From helping others

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In the Rose Garden

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Chapter 1In the Rose Garden

Portia was, in all respects, above most things in the world, most fond of her rose garden. It was the greatest of her earthly possessions. Each morning, no matter the weather, rain or shine, she would be found there, just in front of White Cottage in the Cotswolds of England, tending her roses. Every sort of rose grew there. Reds and oranges. Pinks and mauves. Some oranges with red hearts. Some

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yellows with orange centers. And some of them white, which almost glowed in the twilight. She could often be seen working amongst the soil and the prickly vines, with a cup of hot blackberry tea set on the porch step. And her hands would be deep in the cotton-lined pockets of her gardener’s gloves. She took the greatest of care, always. At no time did she rush through pruning or watering or planting or removing the little unwanted bugs from the leaves… No, in all of these processes, Portia took her time. And, as a result, her rose garden was the most splendid and beautiful rose garden in the entire county of Summerset. White Cottage faced the southwest corner, toward hill country, at the very edge of the village. As a result of this promising position, Portia was able to easily observe the passerby, the townsfolk, the occasional newcomer… And in turn, the

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townsfolk and occasional newcomer were able to observe her at work in her garden and comment amongst themselves, just what a lovely garden it was. And just down the stone cobbles, amongst a variety of other cottages and residences, were a few principal buildings. The small village store. The bakery. The villagers could often smell warm chocolate souffés and crispy doughnuts in the early morning hours, if the wind was right. The little bank, if it could be called a bank. It was so very small and kept only one banker, Mr. Truffes, and one vault keeper, Mr. Pound. And it was a very small vault at that. The post was run by Mrs. Ivory. But Portia seldom went to the post. For there was never anything there for her to pick up. The church was at the very end of the cobbles. And there was a

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small inn about halfway down the street between White Cottage and the church. The Church of St. Dominic, to be exact. Episcopalian of course. Most everyone in the village was Episcopalian. And if they weren’t truly Episcopalian, they at least practiced being so in public. And the village happened to be rather overrun with cats. But no one seemed to mind that very much, because the cats were, in general, very tamed and mild mannered. And those who weren’t, were often sent to the outlying farms within the mile or two. But Portia’s cat was not one of these poorly behaved cats. Her name was Matilda, and like White Cottage, she was also white. And she was a very good sort of cat and seemed very happy with life just to sit in the garden and to watch the passerby over several naps a day, and the occasional saucer of cream. Portia had no family. The very

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last known relative of whom she had ever heard, was a distant aunt living somewhere in Spain. But they had never bothered to look each other up, due either to the inconvenience of locating an address, which seemed practically an impossible feat in a day of very little information, or to the matter that Portia was very happy to stay in her little corner of the world without bothering to leave it unless for some very necessary reason. Portia worked at the bakery on a regular basis, preparing the pastries for the morning rush of town wives preparing to entertain guests at dinner, and for the various collection of gentlemen who held jobs in the village and could not afford to eat their wives’ cooking for one reason, or another. She worked with the head baker, Mr. Fritter and his wife, Mrs. Fritter. And when the pastries had all been fnished and laid out prettily on their trays under the

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glass case, Portia walked the half-mile home to her rose garden and to Matilda, waiting on the warm stones of the porch of White Cottage. On Saturday evenings, in the summers, Portia would sit in her rose garden with another cup of tea and watch the blinking lights of the little frefies whisk around her fragrant roses until the twinkling of the white stars above glazed the heavens in their marvelous ether, and then they would retire for the night. And on Sundays, when the shops were closed and the streets were quiet, Portia would open her clothespress and lift out one of her two best dresses for Sunday morning services. The wine-colored dress was for the autumn and winter months. But in the spring and the summer, she would put on her dress the color of goldenrod. And her wheat-colored gloves and her little dark brown hat. And then

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she would walk to church, unless there was a very heavy rain, in which case most of the village would arrive late, and Reverend Hollycross would begin services at a later time than usual. And when the autumn months came, and the winter months, and often in early spring, when Portia’s roses were not yet blooming -- then she would read. Everything that she could fnd, she would read -- classics, histories, dissertations… But more than anything, she loved a good mystery book. Many winter nights Portia would lose herself in a mystery novel, wrapped up in a quilt by the fre, with Matilda curled up on the warmth of the rug. And for hours they would stay in that corner of the cottage as Portia became a part of a world far away. Sometimes in the far away steamy Mediterranean nights or the hot sands of Egypt or the Far East… And that was the way Portia’s

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week went from one season to the next. It was quiet and it was nice. The same events and conversations from one day to the next. And Portia liked it that way. But sometimes she started to think that maybe it would be nice to have something just a little different happen. Just a little out of the ordinary…

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Chapter 2The Dinner Party

It happened that on one day early in June, Portia was out in her rose garden. The air was sweet with her roses in the warm winds of a later afternoon. And Portia was very busy pruning an exceptionally lovely Blush Noisette. Matilda had just fnished her daily saucer of cream and was quietly washing her paws. When Mrs. Fritter happened to walk past on her way to one of the

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nearby farms where she purchased eggs once a week. “Oh, Portia, dear,” she said, bustling on her way. “I forgot to mention to you this morning. How could I have forgotten? It’s been just all over the village since last evening. But did you know that I heard it just from Mrs. Ivory at the post only when the news frst arrived… The manor house that no one ever seems to know anything about, up on the hill, that no one seems to have ever seen... Well, the gentleman’s name there is Lord Coldstone, apparently, and he's just coming back from abroad and has decided to host his very frst dinner party. And I must say that the guest list is a trife short, perhaps. Seven guests. A very odd sort of number…” Portia listened carefully to Mrs. Fritter, having laid aside the little pruning shears. It was not an uncommon thing for Mrs. Fritter to have heard some interesting news

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from Mrs. Ivory at the post. And whenever this sort of news came to the ears of Mrs. Fritter, the whole town was certain to know of it within several hours. So it was an unusual thing that Portia had not heard this news from Mrs. Fritter herself until so late in the day. “And who do you think is one of the invitations sent out to?...” Mrs. Fritter was still going on. “Our very own Reverend Hollycross!” Reverend Hollycross was a quiet sort of man. Kind. Gentle. One of the older gentlemen in the village. And it seemed a very odd sort of thing that he might be called up to a fancy dinner party by a lord whom no one knew. It all seemed to be a very unusual thing. And no one knew this better than Mrs. Fritter herself, who had spent the entirety of her day away from the bakery, busy spreading the news to anyone who might listen. And everyone would listen. “Can you believe it, my dear?”

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“No, Mrs. Friter. It does sound quiet amazing.” “Amazing is the word for it. More like unexplainable, I should say. Who could be so wealthy and so mysterious and yet invite dear old Reverend Hollycross as part of his dinner party? My dear, you should see the guest list.” “Oh, Mrs. Fritter, it is really none of my business…” “Nonsense. Of course it’s not. But it doesn’t much matter when he sends his correspondence through the royal post now, does it?” “Mrs. Fritter…” “Tut tut, dear. I shall have to fll you in on the rest at a later date. Perhaps tomorrow. I must be off and see Mrs. Brown about the eggs…” And she continued talking as she walked away down the path. Portia smiled, shaking her head, and went back to her pruning.

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P Portia completed her gardening for the day just as the supper hour approached. It was usually the case that her gardening conveniently ended at about the time that dinner needed to be prepared. “Come, Matilda,” she said, coaxing in the sleepy white cat. “Sit by the window.” And Matilda trotted in obediently to her usual place at the window seat, laid with a quilt the color of indigo and rose and cream. It was a small sitting room with the little fre built out of the rocks from the seashore, in an earlier day when her great-grandfather had built the cottage. There were braided rugs on the old worn wood foor, the color of chocolate. And there were cuttings of roses set around the furniture, all just as old as the cottage itself. And when twilight came, Portia

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would light the lamps and the room would look very much like a little frefy, glowing out at the end of the village. “Are you hungry, Matilda?” Portia asked as she usually would. And Matilda would reply by curling up cozily on the window seat to wait for her supper. Portia set about preparing the little stove for her supper of gravy and triangle toast. Life as a young baker did not afford much money for the care of roses, cottage, cat, and sustenance. But Portia never complained. “Mrs. Fritter did seem terribly excited this afternoon,” Portia said aloud to Matilda. “She has scarcely ever been so full of… alacrity. Perhaps there is more to this dinner party business than meets the eye…” Matilda closed her dark blue eyes and began her seventh nap of the day while Portia continued piecing together her little meal.

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Mrs. Fritter, as much of a gossip as she was, somehow did generally seem to be correct. Her information was almost always right. And as much as she might be tempted to embellish her knowledge by adding a series of ‘what if’s, ‘do you think’s, and ‘quite possibly’s, she was not a malicious sort of older lady. And her heart was good. Certainly, if anyone wanted to know anything at all about anything, they had only to ask Mrs. Telulah Fritter, and she would tell them in the most matter-of-fact way, and with all the advice and know-how she could possibly muster. Lord Edmund Coldstone… That was a name. Uncommon. No one knew where he came from, not when he had moved back sometime around the previous summer. Some said he came from the East Indies after fghting it out with the natives over some folly or other. And that he returned with a wounded arm

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and a dozen trunks of spices and jewels and a trail other exotic entanglements. Some said that he grew up in the Highlands and had come home, well not quite so far as to home. But as far as England. After a tragedy of great proportions whilst sailing round the world. Some said he made it even as far as the Cape of Good Hope. And some said even further… to the Antarctic… But whatever the real story, Portia had come to conclude that he was a mysterious sort of person. Perhaps most particularly because none of the villagers had ever even seen him. No one knew quite for certain that he actually had ever taken up residence there, except for the fact that smoke rose from two of the very many chimneys. And there seemed to be occasional activity on the lawn when the maids would come out to beat the rugs, or the livery was being cleaned. And yet no one knew even what he looked

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like. It was intriguing, of course, but no one had ever found anything out. So Lord Coldstone and his grand, albeit dark, hall was eventually forgotten in the last year. That is, until Mrs. Fritter unearthed the matter of the dinner party. And Portia was sure to hear more of it the following morning at the bakery…

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Mrs. Fritter, was, indeed, in the most exceptional of moods the following morning. She bustled in at her usual hour, just as Portia was up to her elbows in four. “Well, what do you think, my dear about this strange business? I spoke with Mrs. Brown, you know, and she has heard, in addition, that

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this dinner party is to have an ice sculpture as its centerpiece for the table. Can you imagine? An ice sculpture! Of what, who can say…” Portia had never heard of anything so fancy as an ice sculpture. But she had read of the fancy sorts of things that wealthy people did for entertainment in her mystery novels. And an ice sculpture seemed to match this sort of setting. “And I never was able to mention to you, did I now? The invitations. Who they were sent out to. Of course I didn’t. I was on my way to purchase eggs from Mrs. Brown. Well I shall tell you now.” Portia continued to mix the beginnings of her pastry dough. Already she had a batch of them out in the glass case. But customers were hungry, and gossip or no, she had to continue mixing up fresh pastries. “Well, yes, I did tell you one of them, did I not? Our very own

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Reverend Hollycros!. Of all the peoples of the village to attend the table of Lord Coldstone! But the other names are almost all mystery, and seem to have no connection whatsoever.” Portia knew this would take some time, and lifted the cask of butter onto the baking table. “The frst one of them I can hardly say my way around it. Such a strange name. It started with a sort of foreign title. A sheik, I think it was. Sheik. Whoever heard of such a title? But it was the name after that which mixes me up and I don't think I could possibly repeat it. Mrs. Ivory wrote it down for me, but I seem to have left the paper at home. Well, never mind it. I’ll bring it tomorrow. But can you imagine it, my dear? A sheik! A sheik from who knows where on God’s good green earth. And coming here to our little village to visit for dinner! Our little village!” Portia tried to think carefully on

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what a sheik might look like, as she punched through the risen dough in a ceramic bowl. He might come riding in on an Arabian horse, in long white robes sweeping the ground as he walked, still flled with desert sand. A headdress encrusted with precious stones, a silver saber at his side, sharp enough to slice through a piece of silk tossed into the air as if it were butter… she had read about that trick somewhere in a novel regarding the adventures of a band of sheiks in Morocco. “Do you know where he comes from, Mrs. Fritter?” Portia asked aloud. “The sheik.” “Oh, who could say. Who could say. Somewhere out there past any decent sort of civilization. Where the Crusades happened and all of those terrible bloody battles and things of that nature… The address was perfectly unreadable. How the royal post is to manage sending it, I could not know.” It sounded so exotic and

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mysterious… more so than even Lord Coldstone… But Portia shook herself away and continued with the pastry dough. It wasn’t the time to be thinking about her mysterious novels. Paring novels with real life could often result in strange happenings. And she didn’t have time to consider such things while she was working. “Shall I tell you who comes next?” Mrs. Fritter continued. Portia knew that she would not need to reply in the affrmative or the negative. Because Mrs. Fritter would tell her despite anything Portia would say. “Now I must say that the next of these names I truly know nothing about in the slightest. It would appear that two of them are at least sisters, for the invitation is addressed to two women of the same name and same status: a Miss Inga and Ellen Oslo. The address appears to be someplace in Norway. But that is all that we know on their

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situation. And there are four more guests. A Mr. Israel Seabead, a Mr. Joseph Whitefsh, a Mr. Mikkel Lafayette, and a Miss Bríghid O’Callaghan. Ireland address of course. Who ever heard of such strange goings-on. Who would ever come so far for only a dinner party?” “Perhaps, Mrs. Fritter, it is for a longer stay than a dinner party…” Portia managed to slip in. “Maybe, dear, but Mrs. Ivory had it on the best of authority by the boy who brought in the post that it was to be a dinner party. Heard it from Reverend Hollycross himself, who I’ve yet to speak with on the matter, as he seems most busy at present. And I did not wish to disturb him. Of course the rascal boy might have not known a thing of what he was talking about… Who’s to say he actually spoke with the reverend about it. But be assured, it is a dinner party.” Portia prepared the individual

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pastries for the oven as Mrs. Fritter continued, occasionally pausing for the customer who came through the door to aid them in their selection of pastries, and to count out their change, all the while gossiping further about any new information the customer might have to offer, or that she could share in exchange. “Oh, yes, my dear, where was I...” she continued some time later, “Yes, yes, the Mr. Seabead, it would seem, is some sort of traveler, for his address is labeled as a hotel in some address in South America. Don’t ask me the country; I couldn’t tell you. The Mr. Whitefsh is from some place in the States. I believe it St. Louis. And Mr. Lafayette -- his invitation is to somewhere in Greece. So you see, my dear, something strange is afoot for having called up a collection of people from as far as the Americas! And I aim to get at the bottom of it!” And Portia had few doubts that

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she would, as she pulled a set of steaming golden pastries from the brick oven.

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Chapter 3The Guests Arrive

The arrival of the guests two weeks later was a most magnanimous occasion. And yet a most mysterious event, at that. The entire village was practically on pins and needles on the day of arrival, anxiously awaiting their approach. And no one was entirely certain at what hour, and in what mode of transportation, they would arrive. And as to the matter of anyone learning anything of signifcance

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through the Reverend Hollycross -- no one had found out anything at all. For Reverend Hollycross had been called away for all of those two weeks on an urgent set of business with a fellow clergyman in a neighboring town. Although Portia wasn’t entirely certain that it wasn’t because he wished to avoid the busy questions of his parishioners. Portia was, on that particular afternoon of anticipation -- as every afternoon was an afternoon of anticipation -- working calmly in her rose garden, as usual, when Mrs. Fritter bustled over to her. “What do you think, my dear?” she said in a most frazzled manner. “The frst to arrive must be here on the coach. It is almost certain. Within these very next minutes, I’ll warrant. Don’t stand here long in your garden. You’ll be sure to want a glimpse of them when they come.” “To be sure, Mrs. Fritter,” Portia said with a little laugh, “I much

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prefer digging in my rose beds. Although I thank you for the invitation.” “Nonsense! You must come. For I hear upon the best of authorities that it will be quite a spectacle, indeed. And you should be present for it.” “But Mrs. Fritter…” “Really, now, dear. I came all the way down here to have you come back with me. And you must comply. Now run along inside and wash your hands. Oh, yes, your face, dear, as well. It appears as though the dirt… And fx back your hair. There now, hurry. I can’t wait for long!” Portia reluctantly obeyed, and did all of the suggested preening of herself within the next several minutes. “Ah, dear, very lovely. Very lovely,” said Mrs. Fritter, already walking off. “Come with me now. I think I hear distant coach wheels!” For a woman of Mrs. Fritter’s

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stature, Portia was having to nearly run to keep up with her. And yet thirty years of baking pastries did little to slow her down in the crowd. So when the coach did, indeed, thunder into the village within the next several minutes, Mrs. Fritter had already placed herself and Portia at the front line to see who might come out frst. All the village seemed to have simultaneously come out. And it was a most large collection of people who stood together waiting for the click of the door handle…

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It had all taken place so very fast, that as the dust of the coach cleared away, Portia was still standing at Mrs. Fritter’s side, wondering what it had all been

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about. There had been altogether four passengers in the coach. And Mrs. Fritter eagerly gave a running dialog whispered between herself and Mrs. Ivory, as each of them stepped into the warm summer air. Two young girls frst emerged, helped down the one step to the ground by the footman. “Certainly the Miss Oslos,” Mrs. Fritter said excitedly. “And so young! I think, Mrs. Ivory, that they must be twins. Yes, indeed, they are. For one looks just as the other, except for the dark hair on the one and the lighter on the other. I’ll warrant that Inga has the dark and Ellen has the light. For I’ve never heard of an Ellen with dark hair… And so young! Why, they must not be over eighteen. And no chaperone? Or do they keep governesses in Norway? I wonder.” Next stepped out a tall gentleman, seemingly athletic, and dignifed. A very noble way about it.

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“I must take a guess that this is Mr. Mikkel,” Mrs. Fritter continued. “He has the sort of European look about him, has he not, Mrs. Ivory. Although not Greek, I wouldn’t think.” And the last person in the coach could be none other than… “Oh, Miss O’Callaghan,” of course. “What a little Irish beauty! And also very young, although I can’t think as young as the Miss Oslos. Perhaps there was no need of a traveling companion…” But after this last notice, Mrs. Fritter’s conversation was immediately cut short by the arrival of a new coach. The guests hadn’t two moments altogether to even address their small welcoming party. And then the coach had arrived, driven by a young coachman and four well-groomed black horses. The guests were immediately escorted inside it, and that seemed to be the end of it.

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“Well, what a grand disappointment!” Mrs. Fritter exclaimed, as the coach thundered away. “And we might have gotten a little information out of them too! Well, I suppose that we must just wait until the next coach comes in.” But Portia was almost glad that she had come. To see such, what appeared to be almost, royalty, was something new and exciting for their little village. Even if they were never to meet Lord Coldstone himself, at least they had caught glimpse of a few of his illustrious guests.

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The villagers hadn’t long to be graced yet again by such an apparent spectacle, however. It was just that same evening that the

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second coach arrived, bringing the last of the dinner party guests. “So soon!” Mrs. Fritter cried, as this time Portia joined the rest of the village in the town square of her own accord. “How very exciting. Perhaps this time we shall know something concrete!” The rumble of hoofbeats came ripping into the village just at dusk, and though the lamps were lit, Porta could barely make out the faces of the remaining guests. One after another. The Sheik, or so it would appear by his dress, Mr. Seabead, and Mr. Whitefsh. And once again, without a word, the next coach arrived and sped them off to the manor house, without a single piece of information being exchanged between themselves and the villagers. “Imagine that!” Mrs. Fritter declared after the dust had, once again, settled. “That puts an answer to it. The only information we shall

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have at all is from our Reverend Hollycross. I will put out to ask him tomorrow before he takes leave for the dinner party.” And that was all that was mentioned on the subject for the rest of the evening.

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It wasn’t until the following afternoon, when the town was buzzing with all sorts of conversations about the mysterious guests, that Mrs. Fritter fnally made some headway in the matter. She marched straight to Portia at her rose garden without any pretense. “My dear, it all appears to be coming together quite nicely. And so much faster than I had anticipated. I just spoke with Reverend

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Hollycross, direct before he left for the very place itself -- Lord Coldstone’s estate! As you know the reverend is only just back this morning. And I must tell you that I have also found out the name of it: Blackwood Manor. And although our dear reverend seems to not know quite as much of the matter as I had so hoped, he does know more than I had feared.” Portia’s hands were deep in the black soil, and she knew that it was not entirely necessary to even look up occasionally to nod at Mrs. Fritter to let her know that she was still listening. For Mrs. Fritter would continue at any rate. “Our reverend says that he knows Lord Coldstone to be the descendant of a long-time friend of the reverend’s grandfather. And although little was mentioned of the connection in the dinner invitation -- Lord Coldstone apparently subscribed an addendum to the invitation -- the reverend says that

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Lord Coldstone addressed the reverend’s grandfather as being a good man, and often mentioned by Lord Coldstone’s great-grandfather, the distant relation, as I told you.” Portia continued at the digging, processing this seemingly intricate connection in her mind. “And that is the most of it. However, as to why Lord Coldstone has invited all of these other guests to the dinner party, which Reverend Hollycross has confrmed for me as being tomorrow eve, the reverend does not know. Although he could tell me that he expected the dinner engagement to be an extended invitation, and has made preparations for the young mite fresh from the seminary to preach for him should he be gone through Sunday. Can you imagine!” “I cannot, Mrs. Fritter.” “And he is only leaving just now! Who knows when he shall return? I am near green from curiosity of it all, my dear. And when shall we

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know what is afoot, I ask you? See you in the morning, dear. I must be off to share the news with Mrs. Brown!” And off she toddled, leaving Portia still rooting amongst the rose bushes and wondering what she ought to put together for tea.

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Chapter 4Murder!

It was the evening of the dinner party. The whole town seemed to be waiting to see what might take place there, as if Lord Coldstone could have only possibly gathered together all of these unusual guests for some mysterious purpose. And for no other purpose. “I think I should take out Mr. Fritter’s spyglass and see if I might detect anything unusual on the grounds there,” Mrs. Fritter was

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saying at the bakery that morning, to one of her apparent cohorts. “For I can just see the ends of the grounds from our house, you know. Nothing to speak of. It would hardly be the same as seeing past the windows into the dining hall. But I must content myself with the grounds I suppose.” Portia rather wondered to herself how Mrs. Fritter could not be somewhat embarrassed for parading around such intentions to the townspeople. But on the other hand, most of the women of the town seemed very much as eager as Mrs. Fritter to understand what was going to take place at Blackwood Manor that very night. Everyone, of course, except for Portia. In her mind, as she explained to Matilda that night, it seemed more proftable to unravel the inner workings of an actual mystery novel than to scheme and suppose upon the importance of a simple dinner party being given at a

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manor house across several green hills. Portia had, instead, plans to work around a special new bed of blooms that evening, several brilliant white rose bushes that she had just set in last autumn. And then there would be tea and bread and butter, and some of the new piece of bacon she had brought back from the butcher’s on Tuesday, and a novel newly borrowed from Mrs. Fritter, who had purchased the book, thinking she might read it -- as the cover engraving had looked somewhat intriguing -- and then had not read it after all. Mrs. Fritter was not prone to reading much of anything, as she preferred a good gossip circle to anything else, and so passed on any unwanted material to Portia, who always eagerly accepted anything offered, which were mostly novels. So several hours later, while the town still waited upon pins and needles, and Mrs. Fritter was

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hurriedly trying to locate her spyglass -- as the last occasion upon which it was needed took place the previous autumn when an unexpected niece of someone or other’s came to town and was said to have been seen riding about the countryside with Mrs. Fritter’s nephew -- Portia walked quietly through her little rose garden around to the east side of the cottage. She had already enjoyed her dinner and was on her frst cup of after-dinner tea. Matilda was purring contentedly, mincing down the little stone path covered in little green mosses and gray lichen. The stars were just surfacing at the haze of the night horizon. When… and that’s when Portia saw it… Something somewhat unusual for an evening in the summer at such an hour. It was just a shadow at frst. A shadow hurrying out of the woods and across the feld. But the last bit

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of sunlight refected on the sheen of a silk dress, which the shadow was wearing. The woman was too far away for Portia to make out her face. She noted the hour, as the small chime of the wall clock rang through the open window. One, two, three… Seven chimes of its little bell. Seven ’clock in the evening, and who would be wandering about in the far felds, just at the edge of the woods like that? Portia shaded her eyes against the last folds of sunlight winking into the corner of her eye. The fgure was almost at a run now, back up the slope of the hill. The color of her dress now an unmistakable silver print against the English green of the hill. Toward the general direction of the manor house. “What do you think about that, Matilda?” Portia asked then, just as the fgure disappeared above the

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top of the hill. “A bit unusual perhaps.” Portia hesitated. It was more in her nature to avidly follow the mystery of a book than the mystery of a real life situation. However, the call of investigation was a bit too strong. She set her tea cup on the little stone wall of her garden. “Come on, Matilda,” she said. Matilda obediently followed her out of the gate and across the feld, picking up her dainty white paws carefully over the fading grass. It was a bit of a distance to the edge of the wood. Portia wasn’t certain for just what she would be looking. Footprints in the grass, perhaps. Just to confrm that she had, actually seen the woman, and that it was not a trick of the passing sunlight. The crunch of grass broke the quiet of the evening, as they walked toward the woods. Only the small whispers of summer winds and the

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occasional buzz of winged bugs through the feld… Then they were there. Just at the edge of the wood, where the shadows suddenly turned black and the trees reached into the night air, silent, unmoving. Then something caught Portia’s eye. There, just fxed to the pine -- snagged by a climbing thorn -- a piece of cloth. Portia lifted it carefully from the thorn that had torn it. Silver, a distinct pattern of stars upon it. Just like the dress of the woman climbing the hill. Portia turned toward it. The woman was still gone. Strange… Portia hadn’t even noticed the woman stop to examine her dress where it must have torn. No doubt she was in a serious rush to leave the wood and arrive at wherever it was that she was going. Portia slipped the piece of cloth into the pocket of her sweater. “Maybe we should go fnd her,” she said to Matilda, cuddling the

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white cat against her. But the night was getting dark, and Portia did not fancy taking another walk into it and into unknown territory. For she had never been over that hill, as alluring as it was. She had been almost to its very top. But everyone knew that the property beyond it was privately owned by the manor house, and she did not want to be accused of trespassing. So she and Matilda returned to the cottage for another cup of tea and a good book before the night owls cried and the evening had come to an end, and Portia had entirely forgotten about the dinner party.

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The next morning, the town could not have been more at a buzz of astonishment and horror. Never before in its small history, had the town heard of such grisly happenings. And no one was eager to hide the news. Portia knew there was trouble when she saw Mrs. Fritter bustling toward her early that morning before Portia had even fnished breakfast. “Oh, my dear! You’ll never believe the terrible thing I have heard! I could not have wanted to believe it for anything! What horrible deeds! Who could have done such a dreadful thing! Murder! Yes, murder this very last evening while we were all about talking over the mystery of this fateful dinner party. Who could have done it? The whole town is in uproar! I cannot believe that you have heard nothing of it. One of the rascals carted in from the coach, no doubt. One of his own dinner

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guests! Or there is the possibility of one of the servants. Oh, the tragedy! And we none of us have ever yet met him. Oh the shame of it!” During this lengthy announcement, Portia nearly forgot the eggs on the fre for her breakfast, for it was at that moment that she immediately remembered the scrap of cloth in her pocket. Why she would think of it at the announcement of murder, she did not know. But the event was mysterious enough to warrant the idea that perhaps the two events were connected. “What a terrible thing, indeed, Mrs. Fritter,” said Portia solemnly. “And they have no idea of the identity of the murderer?” “No, my dear. None at all! The whole thing is a mystery, and until Scotland Yard arrives, we will likely know nothing. And to think in the meantime we might be murdered ourselves! We know nothing, not

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even how he was murdered. It only came to us via word from our dear reverend himself, who had word sent to the town that we might send for help…” But as Mrs. Fritter continued on, Portia hardly heard a word of it, for none of the information was new or particularly helpful, only repetition of the one fact that Lord Coldstone had been murdered, and some unknown person was to blame for it. When Mrs. Fritter fnally left to go off to see Mrs. Brown about the continuation of the terrible story, Portia prepared to leave for the bakery, all the while wondering about the mysterious woman she had seen climbing up the hill. Likely, she told herself, the two were unconnected. Perhaps the lady had only taken a walk before dinner… But, no, the dinner party was to have begun at eight, and surely the woman would not have wanted to be late to such an

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engagement. Of course, she might well have been lost, roaming about the manor grounds, and when she became aware of the lateness of the hour, she hurried to return. And yet… she was already dressed for dinner. That had been clear from the quality of her gown. And no woman of any sort of dignifed state would have been roaming the grounds already dressed for dinner… Portia began mixing her pastries, saddened at such a terrible announcement, and puzzled by these strange facts.

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Chapter 5Scotland Yard Arrives

Portia was sorry to hear of the murder. She was certainly not unsympathetic toward the calamity and those involved. But she couldn’t help but be very distracted by the remembrance of the strange fgure the previous evening. And she began to wonder if, perhaps, she ought to turn over the piece of cloth to the police when they arrived. It was a long shot to be sure. And the more she thought about it, the less

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she liked the idea. “They would just laugh at me, Matilda,” she said to the little white cat. Matilda sat contentedly on the warmed stones of the garden path while Portia worked on a bed of beautifully blooming dark orange roses. “Maybe I shouldn’t say anything at frst. I imagine they’re bound to solve the murder without any of my help.” And she made her decision to keep the piece of cloth pressed between the pages of her copy of Journey to the Center of the Earth in her small library until she might further reconsider the matter. In the meanwhile, Mrs. Fritter had insisted that Portia come early to work the following morning. For with the arrival of Scotland Yard, there was promise of more business. “I want as many pastries as you can make in three hours’ time,” she

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instructed. “An exceptional amount of the blueberry, I should think. And even more of the chocolate. Let me know how you make out with the eggs. I owe Mrs. Brown another visit as it stands and could easily bring back another few dozen for the morning.” But Portia assured her that there were eggs enough for the promising onslaught of detectives desiring piping hot pastries.

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The next morning, Portia found Mrs. Fritter to be entirely correct about the added business to the little bakery. Portia found that she could not rest a moment between preparing batches of sweet goods. For there was constantly a stream of customers. Most of them for the

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pastries. And even more to share in the latest gossip. Portia only managed to hear snatches of it from various customers, between coming back and forth with fresh pastries from the kitchen to the glass case. And she could not help but think that they were more than somewhat insensitive to the situation at hand:

“Can you believe all this noise about murder? I think it couldn’t be so bad as they say. To send out Scotland Yard with no less than a dozen police and investigators! Seems a waste of time and money…”

“They say they never found a body. But it’s sure murder, for they found the blood stains rubbed right into the carpet. And the murder weapon… though they won’t say what…”

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“I say who ever did it tossed the body into the lake. I’ve always said that lake ought to be drained. It sits too near the manor house. A terrible liability…”

“They’re holding everyone at the house. Not one of the guests or servants is allowed away until the case is solved. Not even our poor reverend! Imagine considering him a suspect!...”

And on it went in such a manner for all the hours of the morning and into the early afternoon, when Mrs. Fritter fnally agreed to close the shop, for the pastries had all been sold out. “My dear, you have done wonderfully this morning,” she said cheerfully. “I’ll see that your pay is better this week as a result. Now off with you and see if you can’t learn a little more of the news about town.” Portia would have explained that she planned to, instead, return

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home to her roses. But she could not say a word about it, as Mrs. Ivory just then came through the door. “I’m all in a tizzy, Mrs. Fritter!” she exclaimed, breathing very hard. “I’ve just come all this way from the post to say to you that I overheard two of the offcers talking -- they were unaware that I was behind the window where they were conversing just outside the post -- when I heard them say that they are, all of Scotland Yard, to retire to Blackwood Manor in a matter of hours.” “Is this true, Mrs. Ivory? So soon! I had hoped we would hear more before they truly begin the investigation.” “Yes, my dear Mrs. Fritter. And they will be stationed there until this whole matter of murder is cleared up. But they mentioned the matter of provisions. Mrs. Fritter, you must keep Portia here late, for I am certain that they will be here

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shortly to order breads and baked goods for the next several days. For I hear it said they are not allowing the servants to cook or bake a thing, for fear of poisoning! They are setting their trust at no one!” “Mrs. Ivory, your thoughts are inspired. We might even gladly convince them to allow myself the convenience of bringing up the order myself on a daily basis. Portia, dear, might you stay another several hours and prepare a few loaves of bread and perhaps muffns? A cake or two…” Portia carefully unpinned the hat from her head with a smile. There was no refusing Mrs. Fritter in such matters. “Of course, Mrs. Fritter.” “What an excellent girl you are. Yes, begin now, so that when they arrive, we might be ready to offer them whatever they would need.” It was not a full half-hour later that Mrs. Ivory was proven correct. The chief investigator had sent over

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one of the offcers to see into a full order of breads and baked goods, enough to last through dinner and the following breakfast. Portia subsequently did not leave the bakery until nearing four o’clock, hands sore from kneading, somewhat covered in four, and quite ready to attend to her rose garden. “My dear, how quite marvelous of you to have worked so hard today,” said Mrs. Fritter to her. “I have requested, as my special treat, that you accompany me this evening to deliver the baked goods to the manor house. You well deserve the trip. And I daresay I could use your help in bringing everything up. Mr. Fritter is, as you know, quite indisposed at the moment with his usual summer hay fever. And so, my dear,” she said, her countenance quite beaming, “I shall see you here at half-past six o’clock. Goodbye, my dear!” And she bustled off down the

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road, leaving a somewhat bewildered Portia, dusted in four, and wondering what, exactly, about an evening delivery of baked goods to a murder investigation was considered a ‘treat’. But she said nothing on the subject and returned to her beautiful rose garden to have a cup of tea and work around a bed of yellow blooms for the duration of the afternoon.

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At six-thirty, sharp, Portia returned to the bakery. She didn’t know what, exactly, to wear to a manor house for delivering sweet baked goods. She had nothing elegant to put on, but she did not think this quite necessary, and slipped on her gardening sweater

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over her every-day dress. However, before leaving the cottage, she considered bringing the piece of cloth with her. She stared at Journey to the Center of the Earth sitting on the shelf for a few moments. It couldn’t hurt to bring with her a possible piece of evidence. And so carefully, she pulled out the delicate piece of silk and put it back into her pocket. In the late sun of the early evening, Portia could still make out from a distance that Mrs. Fritter was handsomely overdressed. This was apparent by the rather ostentatious ostrich feather sticking out of her hat, mixed with other garnishes of fne silk fowers and berries. “It wouldn’t do to not be looking our best, dear,” Mrs. Fritter explained, fuffng the feather with her hand. As though the enormous feather needed further fuffng. “Come along now, then. The sun

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won’t wait. And I am quite certain that they will be expecting our arrival before the dinner hour, which I think must be eight o’clock, or perhaps seven-thirty. One can never tell with Scotland Yard running everything at the moment. I can’t say I ever completely trusted their ability to get to the bottom of anything in a timely fashion…” Mrs. Fritter continued her speculations regarding the law and the police and other things of a ‘questionable nature’, the entire drive to the manor house. Mrs. Fritter was a fne horsewoman herself and knew how to handle the cart well enough, but the road was new and the bumps along the way were many, allowing for the trip to take, perhaps, twice as long as might be ordinarily expected. So the length of her narrative was doubled. But the weather was fne. The pale twinkle of stars would emerge soon beyond the froth of purple sky

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in their wake. And the night birds’ song whispered in the winds across the felds. Portia pulled her sweater a little closer around her in the cool of the early summer evening and half-listened to Mrs. Fritter’s speech, all the while wondering to herself what had happened to poor Lord Coldstone, and of the cloth in her pocket.

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Chapter 6Mr. Lafayette

When Portia frst saw the house, she was surprised. She had not been expecting such an estate. No one from the village had ever really seen it before, at least from circulated reports. And when they did come upon the dark stone house, lit with many yellow lights from the windows, refected in the black pond set just in front of it… Portia couldn’t speak. “So grand!” Mrs. Fritter

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exclaimed, hardly at a loss for words. “So massive and so beautifully situated. I should think they must be locating Lord Coldstone’s heir at once. For certainly such a property as this cannot go to dust and ruin. It is too ornate!” Portia couldn’t help but think that this sounded somewhat unsympathetic toward the disastrous plight of Lord Coldstone. But by this time they had arrived just around the courtyard where, Mrs. Fritter had been told, the deliveries ought to be made. “To think! I have lived here all of my life and never set eyes on this exquisite place!” Mrs. Fritter declared. “Now, my dear. Here comes the detective. Gather what you can from the cart and we will follow him indoors.” Portia did as instructed. She hardly noted what she took from the back of the cart, so mesmerized was she by the exterior of this

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manor, grand enough to be a castle. With a basket on one arm and a cake balanced in her other hand, she followed the poor footman, who had, it seemed, four cakes and two baskets of baked goods. And all the while she was wondering absently to herself, just how many cakes a party of a dozen or so people might actually eat, when all were murder suspects and likely wouldn’t have much of an appetite anyway. And then she remembered that Scotland Yard likely did still have their appetites. And by the time she had fnished thinking about these things, she had entered the door to the kitchen. “Just set these here, Madam,” said the footman, trying to be pleasant. Portia looked carefully at the footman. He looked apprehensive, and she couldn’t blame him. “Are you a suspect?” she asked him, suddenly. The footman looked up in

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surprise. “Why, I suppose that I am, Madam. Although I was not even in the manor at the time of the incident.” “You weren’t?” Portia surprised herself by continuing the conversation. “No, Madam,” the footman looked around nervously, as he saw Mrs. Fritter still toddling up the path to the kitchen door. “I was with most of the servant staff in the kitchen.” “My dear, take this cake, would you, please?” Mrs. Fritter exclaimed, just having come through the door. “It is quite making my arm go senseless, it is so heavy. Whatever do you put in these cakes, my dear?” And she set it heavily on the table before Portia could reach her. “Well, my dear, I suppose that I must speak with someone about these things. No, the footman will not do. I must speak with someone who knows about baked goods so

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that they serve them properly and at the correct time. Lead me to the cook, my boy.” And the footman hastily led her from the kitchen. Portia was all alone. Everything was silent in the cold stone kitchen. No signs of any dinner being prepared. And she wondered who was going to make it. Mrs. Fritter, she was certain, would take a considerable amount of time before she returned with a passel of gossip to share with the village. She took a seat near the door that led up to the dining hall. And her fngers absently went to the scrap of cloth in her pocket. She wondered if the girl was there even now, numbered amongst the suspects. Perhaps she hadn’t been one of the guests at all. There were only three women invited: the Miss Oslo, and Miss O’Callaghan. She tried to retrace the image in her mind. Had the fgure been tall or short? But then again, from what

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she had remembered, the three female guests did not seem to differ in height from each other, at least not greatly enough to make a visible difference from far off… The easiest thing would be for her to hand over the scrap of cloth and have the police inspect as to which guest owned the silver dress… Unless she had thrown away the dress when she saw that it was torn… Women of such wealth could likely do such things... “Oh! Hello.” Portia was startled as a young man entered the room. The man she knew, according to Mrs. Fritter, to be Mr. Mikkel Lafayette. “I am sorry. Am I interrupting something? I thought the kitchen was empty.” Portia swallowed quickly, the alarm beginning to leave. “I was just here to deliver the baked goods. I am waiting for my employer to return. I won’t be here long.”

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“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that,” he replied with an extraordinarily white smile. “You seem a pleasant sort of girl. I came here to see about dinner.” He began to look about the kitchen. “Ah, I see that we have, at least, a good number of cakes. Let me assist you in moving them to the larder. For I fear a girl of your small stature could not possibly begin to carry such heavy things.” “Thank you, sir,” Portia managed to respond. “That is very courteous of you.” “Why not at all, madam,” he said, taking one of the cakes from the table. “I don’t suppose you know how to cook?” Portia could feel her face growing warm. She hadn’t expected to be speaking with one of the suspects, particularly not a charming sort of athletic suspect. “I cook, of course,” she replied, watching him as he opened the

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pantry. “Good then. Might I entice you to prepare something while you are here? Nothing fancy, of course. A soup or a chicken or something… You see, the cook and all the other servants are under suspicion as well… You must know the story of the murder and all of it. So if you wouldn’t mind giving me a hand. I’m afraid I know nothing of kitchen work.” Portia still hesitated in replying, somewhat shocked at the request. “Don’t worry. Scotland Yard has given full permission for me to inspect the pantry. I am sure they could not consider you as a suspect for any reason. You are from the village, are you not?” Portia nodded, watching the row of cakes grow on the pantry shelf. She happened to notice that there was an extra cake, one she had not baked herself there. The frosting was likely strawberry... “Good then,” Mr. Lafayette

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replied, interrupting her thought. “Let us see what we can fnd.” The whole encounter was so surprising, that Portia wasn’t entirely sure where to begin. But before she could think very hard about the matter, Mr. Lafayette had managed to talk her into making a hot bubbling stew to go with the bread, and several game hens were roasting over the fre. And throughout the entire ordeal, he helped with the chopping of vegetables and the mixing of things… And he seemed to have a knack of talking endlessly in a charming sort of manner, and managed to hear Portia’s entire life story in the course of one hour or so. When the clock struck eight, Portia looked up in a bit of an alarm. The dinner was prepared, and Mrs. Fritter had still not returned. “Well, you have managed quite a splendid feast, Miss Portia,” said

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Mr. Lafayette quite pleasantly. “Might I entice you to come with me as the food is served so that I may present our cook for the evening?” Portia blushed, somewhat embarrassed. “I’m not sure that is entirely necessary, sir. I am no cook by profession.” “Nonsense. I insist. I will just call the footman. I hear he is less a suspect than most here. And Scotland Yard seems to put a little more trust to him that he wouldn’t think to poison the food and knock us all off,” he said with a wink. And so Portia obliged, despite the nagging sort of feeling that Mrs. Fritter would not be happy with this presentation. Soon, the footman had returned with Mr. Lafayette, and the three of them began to carry the dishes up to the dining room. “Highly unconventional, I must say,” Mr. Lafayette said quite loudly as they walked the stairs. “But one

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has to eat, don’t you agree?” And just through the doors to the dining hall where several dozen faces stared from around the table and behind it, where all the servants waited for further instruction. The whole sight was so overwhelming for Portia, that she immediately handed the bread to the nearest servant, and would have left to join the astonished Mrs. Fritter in the corner, who was still conversing with the head cook, had not Mr. Lafayette detained her and escorted her to the head of the room. “Ladies and gentlemen,” said Mr. Lafayette, “I present to you our chef of the night -- Miss Portia…” And Portia heard nothing else for the rest of his brief speech, because of her embarrassment, which only increased when, upon the house guests beginning to eat the meal put before them, there were even further acclamations.

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It seemed as though everyone had quite forgotten that poor Lord Coldstone was murdered and missing, with, most likely, the murderer amongst them, and were more interested in dinner than anything else. And before she had time to escape and wait for Mrs. Fritter in the kitchen below, there was a general consensus that Portia be made the designated cook of the manor until the murderer had been weeded out and the cooking staff returned to the kitchen. “Surely you must agree, my dear,” Mrs. Fritter had whispered somewhat loudly to her. “Think of all the news you will unearth about the case as it comes along. I will be certain that your duties at the bakery do not interfere.” And so Portia was obliged to take on the position, after having been assured that she would be allowed to return to Matilda and her rose garden by seven o’clock every

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evening, if the house guests would not mind dining an hour early every night. “Happy to have you aboard, Miss Portia,” said Mr. Lafayette with a slight bow and a smile.

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Chapter 7The Miss Oslos

The next morning, Portia woke up wondering if the whole thing hadn’t been some sort of strange dream. She vaguely remembered the individual faces of the house guests, and some of the serving staff. But she had spoken to no one except for the footman, Mr. Lafayette, and Mrs. Fritter, naturally. And as she prepared to leave for the bakery, for she would not be

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needed at the manor house until later in the afternoon, she talked to Matilda about her impressions of the whole matter. “I’m not sure what I think about any of them, really. Mr. Lafayette was very nice. And the footman seemed very innocent. But who can say for certain? There are so many of them! The wait staff is about a dozen, and the house guests… and Scotland Yard… I don’t know how I’ll manage dinner for them every night. They all look like they could be so guilty! And yet I’ll warrant a few of them appear more innocent than the others. But it’s the innocent ones that are often guilty… from what I’ve read… And poor Lord Coldstone! They cannot even fnd the body! There, I’m sounding like Mrs. Fritter. This won’t do, Matilda.” Portia looked out the window to her neglected roses. She promised Matilda that she would be back late in the morning to see to her lunch

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and to the roses, and then she would be off to the manor house. And as it stood, the morning passed very quickly, due to Mrs. Fritter’s chatter about the previous evening. She continued where she had left off. “But I didn’t tell you the truly interesting bit of news, my dear! They say that it wasn’t only a murder. There was something else afoot. I hear that some object of great value was taken from the scene of the crime. A relic or vase or statuette or something to that effect. Which gives quite a decent amount of motive, wouldn’t you say?” And thus went the narrative on and on for a considerable time on the same sort of things, over and over again, offering little else that was new.

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By the time that Portia had completed making her pastries for the day, and had rummaged through the rose bed, pruning, and working the soil… she saw that it was three o’clock, and time to take the cart to the manor house. Mrs. Fritter had offered it to her. “Now be sure to tell me everything, my dear,” she had said. “Don’t leave out a single detail. I shall discuss everything with you in the morning.” And off she went. Portia, the longer she considered the matter, wondered at the discretion of her new position. Albeit a paid position, for Scotland Yard had assured her that the estate would pay her for her troubles, she could not help but consider the fact that she had likely already met the murderer. And the chills that went up her spine as the cart wended down the path, were cold. But not entirely unpleasant. There was an additional sort of

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mystery that accompanied the chills, and was almost welcome. All of the plots and characters of her novels were suddenly coming to life in a strange sort of way, right before her eyes. The kitchen, this time, was more of a cheerful setting. A fre had been just set by the footman, and the larder was unlocked and ready for using. Portia immediately got to work. The pheasants looked well. She wondered how long they had been there. Perhaps Scotland Yard had been out to hunt on the grounds. Who was to stop them, now that Lord Coldstone was dead? About the time that Portia was preparing the glaze for the pheasants, the door opened, and in walked two young women. They were the Miss Oslos, and both were lavishly dressed, though not yet even in their dinner gowns. Both had hair so blonde, it was practically white, and shining blue

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eyes. “Oh!” said the one, “We thought you might not be here yet. Miss Portia?” Portia nodded. “I am Miss Ellen Oslo. And this is my sister, Inga. We were just coming down to see if there would be something cold to drink.” Her accent was subtle. “I think there might be a pitcher of lemonade in the chill box,” said Portia, nodding toward it. “I’d get it for you, but…” She looked down at her hands mixing the herbs into the glaze. “Oh, never mind about that,” said Miss Ellen. “You’re not even a servant! I wouldn’t ask you to get anything. We’d help, you know, but…” “Scotland Yard.” “Right.” Ellen went to the chill box. “You know,” said Inga, “I hope they do not keep us here through the end of two weeks. Mama is

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expecting us to prepare the duke’s ball.” Portia began to baste the pheasants. “Do you think it will take that long to solve the murder?” she asked, wondering if perhaps she was out of bounds. “Who could say,” Inga replied. “If only they would believe us. How many times have we already told them what we saw?” “Yes,” said Ellen, bringing over the lemonade. “We were all in the drawing room, waiting for the announcement of dinner. Well, at least some of us. The two of us, Miss O'Callaghan, and Mr. Seabead. We had not even yet met Lord Coldstone. And that’s when we heard the scream. One of the servant’s had found it.” “It?” Portia asked, trying not to be so curious. “The blood,” said Ellen grimly. “In the library. On the foor. But no trail of it. It was as if Lord Coldstone had

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been murdered and then someone must have carted him off.” “And the detectives don’t believe you?” Portia asked. “Who could say,” replied Inga. “Miss O'Callaghan and Mr. Seabead… they can confrm it. But since no one has confessed to the murder, the police can’t believe any of us.” Portia shivered a little, in spite of herself. “Well, it won’t do us any good to keep repeating our story,” said Ellen, offering her sister a lemonade. “I can’t think of another detail. We have told them everything. Who can think straight to remember all of it when there has just been a murder? Lemonade, Miss Portia?” “Oh,” Portia realized she had stopped basting the pheasants. “No. Thank you. I really must fnish dinner.” “Well, we shall leave you to it, then,” Ellen replied. “Come, Inga. I

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hear that Mr. Lafayette is set on playing us at billiards. Again…” And the door closed softly behind them. Portia returned to the pheasants around the crackling fre. A gruesome tale, all of it. Who could have done such a thing? Portia was lost to her thoughts for the next quarter of an hour, as she continued preparing the hens to roast over the fre. And then she got around to preparing the vegetables. “Hallo,” said a voice. Portia had not heard the door open. “I do seem determined to startle you every time we meet,” said Mr. Lafayette with his same white smile, just coming into the kitchen. “I heard there was lemonade here, from the Miss Oslos. Might I help myself?” Portia nodded. “You don’t like me, I think, Miss Portia,” he went on, walking to the ice box. “And I cannot think why.

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Would you care to join me at some cards for the evening?” Portia’s eyes widened at the invitation. “Oh, after supper of course. I would not think to take you away from your delicious preparation.” Portia bent her head back to her work. “I thank you for the offer, Mr. Lafayette. But it would not be appropriate.” “Nonsense. I insist. You must come.” “But, sir…” “What possible objections might you have?” “I must really get home to my cat…” He laughed. “I should think your cat could do without you. And a humbug on all social protocol. I say it should be fne that a sweet young girl from the nearby village should join a passel of random dinner guests for a game or two of cards.”

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Portia could think of no other objections, except for the matter of not having ever played a game of cards. And she somehow ended up agreeing. “You are a persistent man, Mr. Lafayette,” she said fnally. He smiled brightly. “There are some advantages to being persistent, I think you will come to agree, Miss Portia. I will see you at nine.” So Portia completed the dinner, somewhat bewildered, and prepared to remain at the manor for several hours longer than she had originally expected. Perhaps she could ask about the missing object of value. For she had completely forgotten it till that moment.

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Chapter 8Mr. Whitefsh

Portia fnished supervising the serving of dinner with just enough time to wash up and escort the scullery maids back into the kitchen to begin scrubbing down the pots. “What will Matilda think?” she thought to herself. Matilda had never been away from her so long. But she didn’t have long to think about this dilemma. Because almost as soon as she had brushed back her hair and pressed a little rose water on her

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wrists, loaned to her by Miss Ellen, she was announced in the drawing room by the butler. She blinked to take in the scene in full. Everyone was there from the company: the gentlemen and the ladies. All were composed and dressed somewhat elegantly, sitting about the card table and the harp and the sofas with books and newspapers. “Ah, Miss Portia,” said Mr. Lafayette, “welcome to our party. Will you have a seat?” He fourished a hand at the seat of a sofa which appeared to be upholstered in blue silk, as lavish as any other piece of furniture or hanging in the room. “Well, now that we are complete in our gathering,” Mr. Lafayette continued, “allow me to introduce you to our other companions, Miss Portia.” Portia looked somewhat shyly around at the other sets of eyes

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staring, most of them, rather curiously at her. “Ah, the Reverend, of course. You must be at least acquainted with him.” The Reverend looked kindly upon her with his blue eyes, the skin crinkling around them behind his eye glasses. “It is good to see you here, my dear,” he said. “You prepared a wonderful dinner for us. May I thank you for it.” Portia nodded at him, smiling. She had always thought Reverend Hollycross to be the most kind of elderly men. And she thought it so horrible, the more she thought of it, that he should be detained as a murder suspect. It was purely abominable. “The Miss Oslos, whom I have heard that you have met,” Mr. Lafayette continued. “Mr. Seabead. A traveler, just come from South America. Never can trust those sorts.”

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He laughed and slapped a hand on his back, as Mr. Seabead returned the laugh and rose to bow slightly toward Portia. “Then comes Miss O’Callaghan, our little Irish guest. And I see that the last of our company has already taken off to his room for the night. Shady fellow, our grand sheik. As I have said all along, it could very well be he that we must thank for this madness.” “Mr. Lafayette!” Miss O’Callaghan cried at him. “What a perfectly awful thing to say!” “I only jest, dear Miss O’Callaghan,” he continued, grinning. “Oh, and I have nearly forgot Mr. Whitefsh.” He nodded toward the corner where a man with dark hair sat behind his newspaper. He lowered the paper upon hearing his name, and observed Portia for a moment. “Welcome to our detainment, madam. I trust you are enjoying it thus far.”

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Portia was unsure how to respond at frst. “Oh, he’s the moody sort,” Mr. Lafayette whispered to her. “Those artists. Nothing but paint fumes all day long to bother their thoughts.” And then he winked. “Come, let us begin our cards. Who will join Miss Portia and myself for a game?” Miss Ellen and Mr. Seabead immediately obliged, and all set about to instructing Portia on the rules of the game. But it was Mr. Whitefsh that caught Portia’s attention more than anything else during the next two hours of playing at cards. He sat and hardly moved for those several hours, turning one page after another in his paper, slowly, methodically, one by one. “He is an interesting specimen, the old boy,” said Mr. Lafayette, catching Portia's eye. “Hardly ever says a word. We fnd it laughable enough that Lord Coldstone would

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have invited all of us here in the frst place. For did I tell you, Miss Portia, we, none of us, have ever met before in our lives? But Mr. Whitefsh seems to have not uttered more than two dozen words altogether since he arrived. Such an unusual character!” “Don't be too hard on the poor fellow,” said Miss Ellen. “Yes, after all it was he we can credit for noticing the missing vase,” said Mr. Seabead, setting his next card on the table. “Yes, if it wasn't he who took it in the frst place and then called attention to it to make him look innocent,” Mr. Lafayette retorted in a whisper. “That is unkind,” said Miss Ellen. “You see, Miss Portia, Mr. Whitefsh had already begun a painting in the library when the murder happened. And it was after the murder had taken place that the vase -- of what signifcance it possesses we know not -- quite disappeared.

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“And that is why he is suspect,” said Mr. Lafayette. “As are we all. Although I can't think why he would be invited. He cannot last long in this young crowd.” He looked mysteriously around the room and laughed. Portia looked over at Mr. Whitefsh. Mr. Lafayette exaggerated his condition. He wasn’t old at all. His late thirties, perhaps. Dark hair, a little gray, perhaps, dark brown eyes… but there was something very mysterious about his appearance. As if he might have traveled the world picking up ancient secrets, and never mention a word of them to a single soul. Portia also rose from her seat at the table and thanked the crowd still gathered for their company. “You must join us again, Miss Portia,” said Miss Ellen pleasantly. And then Mr. Lafayette escorted her to Scotland Yard and to the waiting cart outside the kitchen.

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“I will expect you again tomorrow, Miss Portia,” he said, as the cart began to troddle down the stone cobbles.

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When Portia returned to the cottage under cool moonlight, there was Matilda, sitting in the window, waiting for her. “I’m sorry, Matilda,” Portia said, cuddling her next to her face. “I would much have rather spent the evening with you.” She went about preparing Matilda a late night morsel while she thought more to herself about the passage of the evening. So there was something of value that had been taken after all. Some provided motive for the murder of Lord Coldstone. But why not just

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have taken the vase and avoided such a terrible thing as murder? How valuable was this vase after all? Portia shook her head and went to the small larder. Matilda minced in behind her to see what Portia might fnd for her to eat. “I am sorry, Matilda. But there seems to be only milk sop for your dinner tonight.” But Matilda did not mind, and eagerly began to eat while Portia prepared for the night. It was then, however, just as she prepared to draw the curtains, that she saw it. The glimmering light in the wood. Portia froze. A small light, moving through the wood. She was so very glad at that moment that she had not lit the light in the room. The moon was out, and she could see easily by it. Just a little light, and coming

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nearer and nearer, almost in the same place that she had seen the woman in the silver gown before. But she could not have told who it was, wandering there in the woods. And then, almost as soon as she thought it might have been drawing even closer than before, the light went out. And she did not see it again.

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Chapter 9Mr. Seabead

The following morning, as Portia went about her usual business, she could not forget the light that she had seen in the wood. The temptation was too strong to walk down and see what was happening there. Was there something this same person was looking at? Was there something hidden there? But Portia did not have time that morning. It was off to the bakery for further gossip from Mrs. Fritter,

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who was just as interested as she had ever been. For she had one piece of unheard news. “Would you believe it, my dear? I hear only just this very morning… that all of our dinner guests had not even met Lord Coldstone before his ghastly murder? I could not quite believe it myself. The host not making an appearance before he was quite killed! Who ever heard of such a thing! So even if his body were to be found, no one would be able to identify him. For even the servants had not yet met him! How very peculiar, I think. They had better hope that they fnd only one body and not more than that, or they might not be able to tell which one was Lord Coldstone!” Portia listened to the end of this grisly business, while completing a set of caramel rolls for the glass case. She did not ask where Mrs. Fritter had obtained this information, but she would confrm that evening at the manor.

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And only several hours later, she was off again, having said farewell to Matilda, and having picked up several baskets of fresh vegetables from Mrs. Brown, who had sent them from her garden for the evening’s dinner. The wind was cool that evening, and Portia was glad to get inside the warm kitchen, where everything, once again, was prepared for making dinner. Portia was absolutely uninterrupted during the next two hours, except for the young footman who came in from time to time to be certain that she didn’t need anything else that he could fetch from some other part of the manor. This included carrying up the dessert. “Mr. Lafayette particularly desires the chocolate cake,” said the footman to Portia, quite out of breath from his many errands. “And for me to bring it directly.” Portia opened the pantry to

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examine the cakes. They had polished off the caramel cake the night before. And there were several others remaining, including the strawberry iced cake, which was in the way of the chocolate. Portia heaved it to the side. Mrs. Fritter was right. The cakes were heavier than she thought possible. And by the time dinner was served, Portia had been, once again, invited to stay for the evening’s gathering. And this time, she didn’t hesitate. She accepted. Something of curiosity had gotten a hold of her. And if Scotland Yard didn’t seem to be making any headway in solving the case, maybe she could.

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“It is good to have you with us again, Miss Portia.”

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Portia looked up to see Mr. Seabead standing just next to the sofa. It had already been twenty minutes into the evening, and with cards and newspapers, and glasses of port for the gentlemen, little conversation had yet been exchanged. Portia had only been carefully observing the guests within the room. All were once again present, but this time, with the addition of the sheik. Although they had not been properly introduced to Portia, as it would appear that everyone forgot they had not yet met. The sheik was deep into the contents of a newspaper, sitting across from Mr. Whitefsh, with his own newspaper, once again. The sheik was dressed as the other gentlemen. No exotic garb as he had been wearing upon his arrival into the village. And he sat there with his paper, just as grave and unresponsive as Mr. Whitefsh.

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Miss Heather, who was sitting on the opposite side of the room with a book, appeared to be just a simple sort of girl. Young, nicely dressed. Likely from a good family. None of these guests appeared to have any sort of thing in common. And while Mr. Mikkel kept up a rousing game of whist with the Oslo sisters and the reverend, who had graciously obliged them by becoming the fourth player, it was Mr. Seabead who had removed himself from the isolation of his corner by the fre, to speak with Portia. “Thank you, Mr. Seabead,” Portia replied. “I am happy to be here.” Mr. Seabead took a seat on the sofa next to her, setting his glass of port on the table next to him. “I am afraid we all must appear rude, after having requested your presence here as a guest… But you see, we are all becoming quite dull, I think, trapped here throughout the day. We are really not even allowed

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to wander the grounds. I think the old boys must expect us to run away and avoid further exile.” He laughed a little. “But tell me, Miss Portia, have you any thoughts to this whole business? You know, I am sure, that we do not even know the identity of our host. Wherever his body is, we would not know it if we saw it.” So Mrs. Fritter had been right. “I am sorry to hear it,” Portia replied, uncomfortably aware that the rest of the room could hear everything that she was saying. “I am certain that Lord Coldstone was a very good gentleman. And I fnd it a sad thing that no one has yet to mourn him.” She felt her face turn warm at her own response. She knew her response had been somewhat accusatory. “You are quite compassionate, Miss Portia. You are right, of course. Although I must admit that it is a diffcult thing to mourn

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someone whom you have never seen. If only I, or any of us, had been in just the next room to prevent the tragedy from occurring. We were just here in the drawing room, and then the maid saw the horrifc blood stains, there just in the library. They were fresh, sadly.” While he spoke, Portia kept half an eye on Mr. Whitefsh. So very quiet and unassuming... “And yet you have no real idea if it was actually Lord Coldstone who was murdered?” “What else were we to think? No host. None of the staff missing. Nor the guests. Who else could it be?... I beg your pardon, Miss Portia. But it would seem as though you are somewhat distracted this evening. Am I boring you?” “Oh,” Portia quickly replied, taking her eyes off the silent Mr. Whitefsh. “I am sorry. I was only thinking.” “Of what? Could it be you might

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have some idea as to who our killer is, after having spent a few evenings amongst us?” “I cannot say that I have any idea. But I wish that I could help.” “You are a kind soul, Miss Portia. It seems that the rest of us are mostly anxious to have the whole thing over with, so that we might return home. Except for your reverend, of course. He has been nothing but sympathy for the staff…” Portia didn’t know how to reply. “I think that maybe you would stand a better chance of fnding out our killer than anyone else here,” Mr. Seabead continued. “You are honest. I like that. It is hard saying who one can trust these days.” On the ride back home that evening, Portia thought about what Mr. Seabead had said. It was true, she was an outside source and perhaps, unsuspecting. Perhaps she could learn more about what had happened that terrible night at the

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manor house, through observation. And the frst thing on hand, was to fnd out what, exactly, was the signifcance of this missing vase.

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Chapter 10Miss O’Callaghan

It was the next evening that Portia returned to the manor house, ready for further observation, once dinner had been completed and Mr. Lafayette had visited the kitchen once again to examine the selection of cakes. “I cannot believe one could be so talented in the art of making cakes. You are a marvel of the kitchen, Miss Portia,” he said, picking up the cake frosted in mint.

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Later, in the drawing room... “Can you believe that Scotland Yard has made, still, no progress in the case?” Miss Ellen was saying to her in the kitchen. Miss Ellen and Miss Inga had come down to visit her and discuss the matter of the delay in fnding the killer. “And I do not think they have any plans to fnd out soon,” added Miss Inga. “In fact, it seems as though, perhaps, they are purposefully not solving.” “I think that Lord Coldstone should have been with all of us earlier, or this would have never happened,” Miss Ellen replied. “If only he had made his appearance a little earlier. Perhaps one of us could have stopped the murder from taking place.” “Well, it isn’t as though he wouldn’t have been killed later, I suppose,” Inga said. “Whoever wanted him dead would have done it sooner or later…”

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The girls were busy discussing this possibility while Portia mulled over the details in her head. It was diffcult to know where to begin. The blood stains, the woman in the silver dress, the lamp in the woods, the mysterious Mr. Whitefsh and the painting, the missing vase… Then the door opened. “Miss O’Callaghan!” Miss Ellen greeted her. “Miss Oslo,” she nodded. “Miss Inga. Miss Portia.” She nodded and slipped across the room for a glass of cold water. “Miss O’Callaghan might as well have left last week,” said Miss Inga. “She is as innocent as us. I would say she has never said an unkind thing in her life.” Miss O’Callaghan smiled. “Thank you, Miss Inga. Although I am quite certain that Scotland Yard could not so freely agree with you.” “It would seem as though they

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should have cleared at least several of us by now,” Ellen said with a little irritation. “It isn’t as though we don’t have alibis. Most of us…” “Except for Mr. Whitefsh…” said Miss Inga quietly. Portia’s eyebrows rose at this statement. “You see, Portia,” Inga continued, “Most of us were in the drawing room, as I said before. Except Mr. Lafayette, who was with the reverend in the library. But Mr. Whitefsh...” “And why haven’t they cleared your names?” Portia asked. Miss Ellen shrugged. “Who can say?” “What is more interesting,” Miss Inga continued, “is why we were invited here in the frst place. A lord from a place we had never heard of before, inviting us all here together. And we, none of us, know one another from before. It makes no sense at all.” This seemed to be a popular topic

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amongst the group. And why not, Portia thought to herself. Wouldn’t they all just rather go back to their homes instead of waiting here for, perhaps, weeks to come… except for the fact of the strange curiosity they all seemed to possess surrounding their original summons from the late Lord Coldstone. This was a matter worth further investigation.

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Following dinner, Portia sat on the sofa, watching the card game between Mr. Lafayette, the Miss Oslos, and Mr. Seabead. Every evening it was the same. The others spoke amongst themselves and chatted about the lack of variety of the day, Scotland Yard, not even so much the event of the murder

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itself… Except for Mr. Whitefsh… There he was, still sitting on the same chair near the window, paper in hand. “Do you enjoy your evenings here, Miss Portia?” Portia pulled her gaze away from Mr. Whitefsh. “Oh, Miss O’Callaghan.” Miss O’Callaghan took a seat next to her on the sofa and smiled, smoothing the folds of her rose-colored dress “It seems as though you would fnd us all very uninteresting, as we have little to do but speak of the same things over and over again from one evening till the next.” “I don’t mind it,” Portia replied. “And it seems as though I am one extra hand to play at cards if the need should arise….” Miss O’Callaghan laughed a little. “Yes, our Mr. Lafayette seems quite intent in his games here. I wonder that he is not a gambler himself, as he claims.”

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“And what of Mr. Whitefsh?” Portia asked, her voice low. “Does he never speak?” Miss Brighid shook her head. “Little, if anything at all. Not even at dinner. We know nothing of him. Only what Scotland Yard knows, and that he collects antiques and relics from abroad…” “And what are you two ladies trifing about?” Mikkel asked suddenly. “I fnd my game of cards to be a bore compared to what whisperings I fnd here by the fre.” Portia could see Miss Brighid blush at this announcement, as the rest of the room turned their eyes toward them. “Mr. Lafayette,” she said. “I had not thought you would be fnished for quite some time.” “Oh, I have had enough of cards for one evening,” he continued, swirling the wine in his glass. “I had much rather join the two of you in some manner of interesting discussion.”

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He took his seat between them. But in doing so, the wine slipped off the lip of his glass and landed directly onto the lap of Miss Brighid’s elegant evening gown. “Oh!” she cried lightly. “Miss Brighid, forgive me!” Mr. Lafayette declared, hurriedly pulling a handkerchief from his pocket. “No trouble, Mr. Lafayette,” Miss Brighid replied, embarrassed. “I shall go take care of it immediately.” “Ah, you must have another gown for the evening,” Mr. Lafayette returned. “I do apologize. I accept responsibility if the dress is ruined.” “That will not be necessary, Mr. Lafayette,” Miss Brighid assured him. “I shall return shortly.” While one of the servants hurried to attend her to her room, Mr. Lafayette slipped to the other side of the couch, setting the half-flled glass of wine on the table next to

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him. “Let us see what elegant gown Miss Brighid will fnd for the rest of our short evening,” he said to Portia, with a twinkle in his eye. Portia could not help but think this a rather inappropriate statement, but was immediately distracted by the event of Miss Inga winning at the next round of cards. It was not ten minutes later that the door opened, and Miss O’Callaghan returned. But it was more to the surprise of one person there gathered, than to any other. For when Portia looked up to greet her once again, she saw with strange alarm, that the cloth of Miss O’Callaghan’s gown was none of other than that of silver roses...

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Chapter 11The Reverend Hollycross

Portia was clearly shocked. That was almost too apparent. And Mr. Lafayette noticed it. “Whatever is the matter, Miss Portia? Is something wrong?” he asked, in a state of concern. But as Miss Brighid made her way to the fre, Portia quickly recovered. “No, Mr. Lafayette. Nothing is the matter at all. Thank you.” But she could tell that Mr.

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Lafayette was not very convinced. Fortunately, Miss Brighid did not seem to notice. Mr. Lafayette turned his attentions to Miss Brighid. “My dear Miss O’Callaghan,” he said. “You look quite splendid. I only hope that I have not ruined your other gown.” “Fortunately my last evening gown was ready set for me,” said Miss Brighid calmly. “And I do not believe that my other gown was too terribly soiled, Mr. Lafayette. You may put your mind at ease.” “You look better set than I could be,” Mr. Lafayette replied admiringly. “Why, I am in my very same suit as I was the night of the murder. And I have not even had it washed.” As they continued speaking, Portia could not help but look carefully for the place where the gown might have torn. This was, indeed, the exact same cloth that had been torn on the thorn bushes

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at the woods. Identical. There was no question. “It is very beautiful, Miss O’Callaghan,” she found herself saying. “Would it be rude of me to ask where you purchased it?” “I am afraid that it cannot be bought. It was a gift, custom-made, for my eighteenth birthday. From my mother.” So that certainly settled the question of whether or not the cloth could be duplicated. It had been made only for this dress. And, unquestionably, the cloth in Portia’s pocket would match the dress. But where was the tear? Miss Brighid was now seated on the opposite sofa, and there was little way of telling if the train had been torn, perhaps, in the back. But who would wear such a fne article of clothing into the woods? Surely not a lady of Miss Brighid’s standing. But surely nothing was out of the question for a killer. But could Miss Brighid truly be a killer? Even if it

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had been her in the wood, it certainly was no great piece of evidence… And she did seem to have a good alibi. Unless she and the Oslo twins were in it together… Something had to be behind it. Something someone wanted badly enough to kill. Badly enough to lie for someone else to give them a good alibi. The reverend! He could be trusted. She would have to ask the reverend. Maybe he could begin to make sense of these unusual happenings. Portia looked over to where he was sitting, in a corner, there, of the room where there was a small pile of books on the table next to him. Miss Brighid seemed intent on speaking with Mr. Lafayette at that moment, so Portia slipped away to the other part of the room where it was more cool, away from the fre. “Good evening, Reverend,” she said kindly. He looked up from the book set carefully in both of his hands.

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“Miss Portia,” he said, rising, with a smile. “I see we are fnally able to speak after these several days. Please, my dear, take a seat here.” “Thank you, Reverend. It is good to have the opportunity to speak with a familiar person.” The Reverend smiled. “I agree, Miss Portia. I do fnd the company of the other guests to be most interesting. But I am all the more pleased to see you again. It feels as though it has been a long time.” “And yet not so very much, I suppose,” Portia replied, watching Miss Brighid across the room for a moment. “It is only just Sunday today.” “And for that I am saddened,” the Reverend replied remorsefully. “To have missed services, as you know.” “Yes, Reverend. And that is yet another reason I wish to know why you cannot be claimed as ‘innocent’ yet in this terrible matter.” The Reverend laid aside his

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books and carefully folded his hands. “It is, indeed, a terrible matter,” he said quietly. “And if only there were a way to settle it quickly, so that we may get about to the necessity of kindly remembering Lord Coldstone in a memorial service. His grandfather, you know, was my good friend, when we were boys together. But as for the matter of my innocence, I fnd that I have only one alibi. Mr. Lafayette. This is not good enough a thing for the police, I am afraid.” “Mr. Lafayette…” Portia repeated. “They do not trust him enough then?” “Oh,” the reverend laughed a little, “I cannot say as to that. However, I do fnd it only smally unusual…” Portia waited carefully for what he might say next. “That evening. It is almost as though there were a small gap in my memory it would seem… There I

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was in the great hall with Mr. Lafayette. We were speaking generally as to the importance of our host. When, I remember that Mr. Lafayette rose from his seat to go to the window, saying something about wishing that he might have a cake. He was quite hungry and waiting for dinner. And then… it was as if it seemed as though a very long time passed, and he must have, while I was in reply, left the room to see after something in the hall. And the next moment that I remember, he was running back to the hall to say about the terrible matter itself.” This was a most unusual thing. Portia wondered what the reverend could mean by it. But there was a more pressing concern at hand. “But, Reverend, how could they not trust you? And if you are, indeed, Mr. Lafayette’s alibi, why can they not let him go? For they must believe you.” The Reverend smiled a little sadly. “I am afraid that the police

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can believe no one these days,” he said. “Not even a member of the cloth. Even ministers of the Gospel go astray.” This was not a satisfying thing to Portia. She did not like it that Scotland Yard would not believe their dear reverend. “I am sorry for it,” she said after a moment of quiet. “And I wish that there were some thing that I could do to help you.” “Well, my dear, I imagine that the police would not greatly mind you having a look about. They allow us passage throughout all of the house. They keep only the hall itself quartered off with rope where Lord Coldstone…” Portia nodded, understanding. “I might do that, Reverend,” she said. She took another look toward Miss Brighid. Still talking and laughing quietly with Mr. Lafayette, the silver of her dress fashing against the ficker of the fre.

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“Good evening, Miss Portia,” the reverend nodded, rising with her. Portia, as quickly, and unnoticeably as possible, slipped out of the room into the hall. It was dark and cool, lit only with the golden glow of a few lamps set on little tables down its full length, illuminating the family portraits hung upon the wall. Nothing of this was adding up. Not Miss Brighid’s dress, the alibis, the secretivity of Mr. Whitefsh, the seeming innocence of the Oslo girls, the conglomerate guest list in the frst place… For a few moments she wished she was back in the rose garden with Matilda. The hallway was too eerie, just at moonrise through the panels of glass window at the end of the hall. The click of her shoes on the foor was too loud, but she continued walking, moving further and further away from the chatter of the party behind her.

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There, just at the end of it, was the place where it had happened, generously quartered off with rope. And there was one of Scotland Yard’s men, sitting near it, working at a letter or some other paper at a small table. Portia did not want to draw near enough so that she must speak with him. What had the reverend meant? It was almost as if he had lost a piece of time, just before the murder. Portia looked to the set of doors near the end of the hall. The library. Carefully, she crossed the hall toward the doors and opened them. She was greeted with a coolness, even more so than in the hall. And it was darkened, except for the light of the moon through the window glass. The smell of cedar and old books greeted her as she entered. But there was something else… Something faint. A small trace of it. She couldn’t quite place it.

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She walked toward the window. The same window Mr. Lafayette must have stood at, just before the murder. The moon patterned the wood of the sill in white light. There it was again… the smallest of traces. Portia stood by the window. It was almost unmistakably stronger there. She knelt toward the sill. Even stronger. The wood had the smell of it. But she was still unsure. The polished wood of the sill, perhaps with something of a lemon wax. But it was mixed with something else. Portia could not quite make it out. “Oh, here you are,” said a voice.

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Chapter 12A Clue in the Garbage

Portia stopped herself from jumping. It was only Miss Brighid. “Miss O’Callaghan,” she nodded, recomposing herself. “I thought I saw the door open from the other end of the hall. I was just thinking of getting some fresh night air. Would you care to join me?” Portia nodded, momentarily forgetting the lingering scent of the wood sill in the library. The

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moonlight refected the silver of Miss Brighid’s gown. And it sent a shiver up Portia’s spine. Could Miss Brighid really be the killer? Kind, quiet Miss O’Callaghan? The two young women left the library as they found it, Portia carefully shutting the doors behind her, as they made their way toward the back of the manor house where the gardens were situated. Away from the place of the killing. “I am in need of the scent of a garden, Miss Portia,” said Miss Brighid. “I envy you. I hear that you have a beautiful rose garden of your own.” “I have. How did you know?” “Oh, Mr. Lafayette told me. He seems to know facts on just about everyone. I love roses as well. There is no more beautiful fower, I do not think.” The two women were out, then, through the glass doors overlooking the grounds. Quiet, dark green lands, stretching far away to the

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wooded end of the manor’s great extent of land. “To think, poor Lord Coldstone owned all of this,” said Miss Brighid, “and was so little here to enjoy its beauty… ” They were quiet for a moment. “You know, Miss Portia. I still cannot think what great reason would have drawn us all together here in this place. But I begin to wonder if, perhaps, he had something very important to tell to all of us. And then he was killed. And now we shall never know…” It was at that moment that the footman was walking along the path toward them carrying what appeared to be a very large basket. “Pardon me, madam,” he said, awkwardly. “I was to take out the garbage. I didn’t think that I would be interrupting…” “Oh, of course not,” said Miss Brighid to him, stepping aside. “Carry on.” As he walked past, Portia

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stopped suddenly in her thoughts. “Wait a moment!” The footman stopped. “Could I see what that is, just there?” she asked, pointing to piece of cloth on the top of the pile. “She carefully lifted it out and waved it past her nose.” That was it. That was the smell. And still quite strong. Immediately, she knew what it was. “Do you know where this came from?” she asked. The footman looked somewhat bewildered. “I found it just today, ma’am. Brushed under a chair in the library. I thought ‘twas an old rag used by the maid and forgot. I am sorry…” “No need to be sorry,” Portia assured him. “I will take it for you. I know a better way in which to dispense of this.” The footman nodded and hurried off, obviously embarrassed with the whole meeting.

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“Miss O’Callaghan,” said Portia. “Would you please excuse me? I shall return momentarily.” Miss Brighid nodded, curiously. Portia hurried back indoors without another look behind her. There was something she had to fnd out. There was only one way to know. And that way would involve her own bit of detective work.

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Chapter 13Matilda

Within several minutes more, everyone was gathered together in the library. Scotland Yard, all of the guests, the serving staff, and even Mrs. Fritter, who had suddenly found it quite necessary to make a late-night visit in order to drop off another dozen muffns for the next morning's breakfast. Portia stood before them, her face hot with the knowledge of so many pairs of eyes watching her,

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waiting for her to speak. “Thank you all for gathering here at my request,” she started out. “It is just that... I think that I might have solved the answer to the murder.” Immediately, the room began to buzz with exclamations. Even the serving staff could not maintain protocol. “Who was it?” many asked at once. Portia nodded. “First,” she said carefully. “Allow me to retrace several steps. When frst I heard of the murder, I must confess that I felt nothing of curiosity. I felt only remorse, as I am sure all of you also felt. However, when I began my nightly visits here, I started to think about things. And…” she paused, looking around the room. “Miss O’Callaghan.” Miss Brighid straightened up. “The night of the murder, I saw something. Someone, to be specifc.

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I was in my rose garden, looking out over the feld, and I saw someone running out of the wood, up to the manor. At frst, I thought that whoever I saw, one of the dinner guests, I presumed from the look of the gown, could not have been a suspect to the murder. How could someone be a killer when she was away from the manor house? But then, I remembered the time. The clock had just struck seven in the cottage. But I found out later that the murder had taken place at quarter till eight o’clock. This person, suspiciously running through the woods an hour before dinner… could have still easily been the killer. But this person was hiding something. And the gown, in fact, was none other than… Miss O’Callaghan’s.” There was a general gasp. Miss Brighid’s face turned the brightest red. “But I was never in the wood!” she protested.

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Portia slipped a hand into her pocket. “I walked down to the wood after the person ran up the hill,” she said. “And I found this…” She pulled the scrap of silver cloth from her pocket. “In a thorn bush.” Miss Brighid gasped. “But how?” she asked, her voice quivering. “I never left the grounds. How could that be?” “I know that your dress is an original, Miss O’Callghan,” Portia continued. “And therefore, it could be none other but your own. If you look underneath your left sleeve, I think you will fnd the tear.” “Yes, there it is!” Miss Inga exclaimed. “However…” Portia continued. “It was not Miss O’Callaghan who I saw that night. No. It was someone else wearing her dress.” There was a tenseness in the air as she continued. “At frst, I couldn’t think who. I

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knew that it could not be Miss O’Callaghan in the wood because she would not have worn the dress again had she known it was torn. No lady would do such a thing. As I was certain of this, I began to wonder what this mysterious person could be doing down in the wood. What was hidden down there? I saw this person, presumably the same, the following night, out with a lantern, coming the same way through the wood up the hill to the manor. And then I began to think, what purpose anyone could have for wanting to murder Lord Coldstone. No one knew why. And then it occurred to me… If you look about, you will fnd that the walls and tables of this manor are quite bare. Look around you… Very little ornaments that are often seen in such places. Mr Whitefsh…” He looked steadily at her. “You, as a collector of fne antiques, sir, I am sure, have noticed this. You began a painting, I

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believe, in the library. And that is where you noticed the vase missing?” Everyone turned to look at him. Slowly, he nodded. “Every day…” he said. “Every day, something new was missing. But it was the vase I frst noticed.” “Exactly,” Portia replied, looking around at the different faces before her. “And I propose that, whoever was there in the wood that day, was beginning to collect a stash. A stash of priceless treasures: jewels, vases, and other such things of value, slowly collected from the tables and walls of this house.” “But how?” Miss Ellen asked. “We are none of us allowed to leave.” “Scotland Yard has only so many men,” Portia replied. “There are always ways of escape. The question is, whoever was stashing these treasures…. If this person was able to escape, most likely, every night, why didn’t this person fee altogether with what was already

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stashed? Why risk staying any longer than was necessary? And then… I realized that there must have been something this person was waiting for. Waiting for just the right moment… Reverend?” Reverend Hollycross nodded. “You told me, sir, that when you were in the library, just before the murder, it was as if you had lost several moments. I think I know where those several moments went. If you examine the garbage this evening, you would have found a cloth in it. A cloth doused in camphor, which was found by our footman here, just under a chair in the library.” The reverend raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Someone put you out, briefy, Reverend. Someone who wanted to do something important. This same person was the one wearing the dress. This person knew that the dress would sooner or later be found out as Miss O'Callaghan's, and

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that Miss O'Callaghan would then be framed for the stolen goods. And this same person stashed something of great value. The vase. And this vase is….” And Portia pointed an accusing fnger. “There.” Her fnger stopped, just at the cake set on the table. The strawberry cake that she had brought up from the pantry. “What?” Miss Inga laughed. “Can you be serious?” “Turn it over,” said Portia. For a moment, no one moved. And then, Mr. Seabead stepped forward and did so. “Of all the stars!” Miss Fritter exclaimed for them all. “The vase!” Mr. Seabead said aloud. “The person who hollowed out that cake intended to take it away as the last item to add to the treasure collection in the wood,” Portia continued. “A clever thing.

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Hidden in a cake. An easy way to take away such a priceless object. No one would think to look there. Which brings me back to the camphor, Reverend. The vase was once set in the library, behind glass. In the event of the murder, it was forgot. But as you noted, Mr. Whitefsh, you had begun to sketch it there, and when it disappeared you did not continue it. For how could you? And I say that it was taken just at the time that our dear Reverend was given the camphor. Moments before the murder. The vase was then set inside the cake in the distraction of the moment, most conveniently, and…” Portia’s eyes came to rest on one person in the room. “That person failed to remove the strawberry frosting from the sleeve of his coat.” Everyone’s eyes turned in shock to none other than Mr. Lafayette. Mr. Lafayette laughed. “You are quite a silly girl,” he

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said. “Who is ever going to believe this nonsense?” “I work in a bakery, Mr. Lafayette. When I went to lift the cake, when it was in the pantry, I knew it was quite heavy. Too heavy. And I think you will fnd that the frosting on your sleeve is several days old. You yourself said that you had not had your suit cleaned since the day of the murder. I only saw it just this evening. And if it wasn’t for that happenstance, I do not think that I would have found you out. Except that you had also told Miss O'Callaghan of the beauty of my rose garden, which you could not have seen unless you saw it for yourself when you left the wood.” “You have no proof,” he said. But he looked nervous. No one moved. “So while I cannot prove that Mr. Lafayette is a killer --” Portia continued, “indeed, I hope he is not -- as you can see, ladies and gentlemen, there is now confrmed

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motive for it. Yet, sadly, I have not entirely solved the terrible tragedy of Lord Coldstone’s death.” “You have, madam,” said a voice from the back of the room. The sheik rose. “For I am Lord Coldstone.”

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Chapter 14The Revelation

No one said a word. The sheik smiled broadly. “You fnd it a shock?” he said. “Forgive me -- it was a terrible ruze -- but you will see, shortly, that this has been a… game of the mind… if you will. And a necessary one.” “Lord Coldstone!” Mrs. Fritter exclaimed, fabbergasted. “How can this be? What have you done?” “Calm, madam,” he said, laughing kindly. “Do not be alarmed.

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Scotland Yard knew it all along.” And he shook hands with the chief inspector. “I don’t understand,” said Ellen. “There was no murder?” “Thankfully, no,” the sheik replied. “It was faked, yes. And I must ask your forgiveness. But I had to know how you all might take it. Before I made my decision.” “Decision?” the whispers went around the room. “As you can see,” said Lord Coldstone, “this is a fne estate. Grand. Beautiful. When I inherited it from my late father, who, as you might have guessed, was my adoptive father… I was most grateful for the gift. However, business kept me abroad. And for years. It wasn’t until recently, when I made plans to remain abroad permanently…” and he looked carefully around the room. “…that I knew I had to fnd someone to watch over this estate and care for it…” and then he looked at Mr.

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Lafayette. “Honestly.” Mr. Lafayette’s eyes darted to the door. “I would not think of escape, sir,” Lord Coldstone continued. “You will not get far. Thanks to the observations of Miss Portia, your stash of treasure is even now being confscated. Including the priceless vase, which is actually a chalice. Once owned by Queen Cleopatra. As to the rest of you…” and he looked on them kindly. “You must think of me as some sort of monster to have treated you in such a way. But I had to be sure of your integrity. You are, all, relations of my grandfather’s closest of friends. And I could think of none other persons to pass off such a great inheritance. But I wanted to be absolute certain. These…. Priceless treasures cannot be given away lightly. And, though you all presumed me to be dead, none of you here, aside from Mr. Lafayette, touched a single item here. Not one of you. And because of

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this, I would like to offer you, humbly, these things.” And with a fourish of his hand, several of the chief inspector’s men walked into the room, each holding something in their hands. “For the reverend,” the sheik began, “as he is a man of integrity and uprightness, just as my grandfather always described him. I ask you, sir, to accept these antiquated writings. Said to come from the great castle in Jerusalem before the Crusades... For the Oslo sisters, for their parents’ kindness toward my family in past years, and for their goodness of heart, and for Miss O’Callaghan for her gentle spirit, please take these jewels, crown jewels of Persia... For Mr. Seabead, for his integrity and willingness of spirit to be of help, I ask that he would take from me, these travel journals kept for many years by my grandfather. One is from the hand of Marco Polo himself, never published... For Mr.

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Whitefsh, for his steadfast loyalty all of these years to my family, these fne paintings from my father’s gallery are for him to take and protect. You will fnd, sir, that there are two Rembrandts amongst them. One from Leonardo Da Vinci. And a third from Michelangelo...” It seemed as though almost everyone was too dumbfounded to move. No one could say anything until the reverend managed to compose himself and say, “Lord Coldstone, may I say, from us all, an unending thankfulness and gratitude. We have not come to deserve these treasures.” The sheik shook his head. “No, my dear reverend. It is I who must thank you all. For I could not trust such valuables to a mere set of strangers. They are, I am certain, to be kept in your good hands for the enjoyment of further generations. But I have not come to the matter of my estate and grounds. And that is why I now

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turn to you... Miss Portia.” Portia looked up in great surprise. “I was continuously amazed by the compassion you showed for my presumed disappearance and death these last days. And for your willingness to solve the case, for the beneft of my name. Even though we had never met. And because of this, I feel that it would be best for me to offer you the care of my estate.” Portia could not reply to this. It was so unexpected and completely amazing. “We will discuss the details at a later time,” the sheik went on. “I haven’t much time, ladies and gentlemen. I leave on my Arctic expedition soon. Likely never to return. For after my adventure there at the bottom of the world, I intend to try ballooning in Africa… But enough of my anticipations. Let us enjoy the rest of our evening here together where more questions will be answered. And as

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for you, Mr. Lafayette, we will talk at a later date.” He nodded, and the chief inspector led a very disgruntled Mr. Lafayette from the room. And then the room was a buzz. The guests, the servants, Mrs. Fritter, who seemed somewhat rather shocked at the idea of Portia having been given the care of such a wealthy estate. Of any estate… And the conversations were flled with laughter and congratulations and questions to the sheik… But Portia could say nothing. She only stared in awe. An estate? All her own! She had to think on all of these things for awhile before making any decisions.

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Chapter 15In the Rose Garden

It was one week later that Portia was rooting around the rose beds. The soil was warm from the afternoon sun. And Matilda was sleeping contentedly on the baked stones of the doorstep to White Cottage. Portia glanced up to see Mrs. Fritter bustling toward them. And by the way of her walk, Portia could see that she was in a hurry to talk. “My dear, my dear,” she said in

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all a commotion. “Can you guess what it is? Of course you cannot. For you have not been to town since this morning. So I shall tell you.” And here, she heaved in a great breath to continue. “Word has been reported to us that the Sheik, our grand Lord Coldstone, has made it all of the way to Antarctica! And he is quite alive, so they say! What grandness! To traipse off on such wild adventures. I could never imagine it. It appears, my dear, as though he may be coming to visit his manor house sooner than you had thought, if he does not spend too much of his next months traveling by balloon over Africa. What silliness this is!” “Perhaps so, Mrs. Fritter,” said Portia, smiling, returning to her rose beds. “You don't seem at all put out. Hadn't you hoped to have been the caretaker of Blackwood Manor for the rest of your days? Or by the way he put it to you, it would seem

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that you should be so.” “Mrs. Fritter, as I told Lord Coldstone before he left for the Antarctic, I am quite content to stay in my little cottage with Matilda and my roses. I am more than happy to watch over the care of his manor house. But even if he did never return, I believe I would be quite happy here in the peace and quiet of my own garden.” “I cannot imagine why, when such grand wealth is just right at your fngertips.” “I will tell you, Mrs. Fritter. In my opinion, there is no wealth better than a garden of beautiful roses, and a cat by which to watch you work.” Matilda seemed to purr just then, in approval. And Portia returned to her rose bed with a smile.

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