Chapter Seven #2
“Research?” His reply won the approval of the two girls, who quickly echoed the suggestion. “For our story, you see,” he continued. “We were hoping to learn how he died.”
“Hmm.” I eyed them suspiciously. “And you thought standing against the wall, watching him, would give you that answer?”
“None of us wanted to move any closer,” Rose said, dropping her gaze to her feet.
“And it’s a good thing you didn’t,” I said. “We need a doctor to determine what caused Dr. Penhollow’s death, which is why you don’t see any of the adults in this house examining the body.”
Gregory, unmoved by my scowl, continued as spokesman. “We thought maybe you were just afraid to touch him.”
Well, there was that.
“Until we know what killed him,” I said, “everything about him could provide evidence of how he died. And like at the field earlier today, we don’t want to do anything that might damage the evidence.”
“How could we damage evidence by just standing here?” Grace asked.
I cocked a brow. “How long will the three of you stand here before one of you dares the others to go a little closer? Or touch him?”
The color that suffused Gregory’s cheeks told me he had already considered a dare.
“Until we find out what killed him, we don’t know what is and isn’t evidence.
” I glanced at each little face, not certain they even believed me.
“When we don’t know something, we call in an expert.
So, there will be no more coming in to look at him, touch him, or even breathe on him until one of you is in possession of a medical license.
In fact”—I raised my arm—“let’s go upstairs right now. ”
I held open one of the double doors and waited while they filed out. Judging from the frowns each of them wore, I sensed they were weighing the cost of arguing with me. We’d have to see about that.
We all headed back up to the schoolroom, and I had them take seats at the wide worktable in the center.
I stood at the head. “I’d like to hear each of you agree that you will leave Mr. Penhollow alone, allow the doctor, once he arrives, to proceed uninterrupted, and generally do nothing to interfere with his work. ”
“But how will we know what to write in our story?” Rose asked. “Scrooge has been murdered, and right now, everyone thinks Bob Cratchit did it.”
“He ought to have done it,” Grace muttered. “After the way Scrooge treated him.”
I patted her shoulder. “Murder never solves anything, Grace.” Heavens, did I really just say that to a nine-year-old?
“We’re stuck,” Gregory said. “We don’t know what kind of clues the police would look for.”
“Or our detectives,” Rose added. “They’re the clever ones.”
I supposed that would be Frank and Georgianna. How sweet that Rose thought we were clever. “Perhaps you would do better writing about something you already know—children and toys and how you celebrate Christmas.”
The silence and their grim expressions made me choose a different tact.
“Detective fiction, particularly a story about murder, doesn’t seem to be in the spirit of Christmas.”
“The murder happens before Christmas,” Grace said, as if I hadn’t been paying attention. “Our detectives will solve the crime, and everyone will be quite jolly once Christmas arrives.”
“That’s very reassuring—”
“We need some clues for the story, Mummy,” Rose said, interrupting. “If we can’t get them from Dr. Penhollow—”
“And you most definitely cannot,” I said, interrupting her back.
“Then tell us what our detectives should look for.”
Rose was becoming rather skilled at the art of negotiation.
Indeed, she was growing up. She was writing a book, for heaven’s sake, and her characters were George and me.
As long as she didn’t kill us somewhere in the story, I ought to be flattered that she thought we deserved to be written about.
And if giving them a little information would keep them away from the investigation, then what was the harm?
“I still want to hear it from your own lips.” With my finger, I drew a circle around the table, including them all. “If you agree not to interfere with the investigation in any way, I will answer your questions and give you some direction for your story.”
Though she quickly glanced down at the table, Rose’s lips quirked up on one side, telling me this was the outcome she’d expected. She could have just asked me, but I might not have been so willing without the threat of them ruining our investigation.
Once I had gained everyone’s promise, I thanked them for their agreement and turned to leave.
“Wait, where are you going?” Grace asked.
“You promised to help us,” Rose added.
“Right now?”
All three stared at me in eager expectation, which reminded me that they were three children without the guidance of a governess or tutor.
It was cold, damp, and muddy outside, with none of the snow that had brought us here in the first place.
They were bored and disappointed—the perfect formula for getting up to mischief.
We were all lucky they had the project of the Christmas story to distract them.
I took a seat at their table. “All right, then. It seems you are veering somewhat from the story of Mr. Dickens’s book if your Mr. Scrooge is dead. How did he die?”
“Someone murdered him!” Gregory said with macabre delight.
“Yes, I gathered that, but how did they murder him?”
My question was met with blank stares.
“Do you know who did it?”
“No, but we know it wasn’t Bob Cratchit,” Rose said. “That’s who the police think killed him.”
“Why do the police think that?”
“Because he was in their office when Mr. Scrooge was found,” Grace said. “Dead,” she added.
Now we were getting somewhere. “When Mr. Scrooge was found, did someone look over the body?” I asked. “Someone in authority,” I was quick to add. “Was there a knife protruding from his body? Blood somewhere? A gunshot wound? Was he bludgeoned?”
The children’s eyes lit up. Heavens, perhaps they were little ghouls.
“Those are good ideas,” Rose said.
“Well, those are the things your police or detectives would look for,” I told her.
“But Dr. Penhollow doesn’t have any of those things,” Gregory said.
“No, he doesn’t. Sometimes the cause of death is not that obvious, but since you are the authors, you may decide exactly how someone ended Mr. Scrooge’s life.”
Nodding heads told me they liked that idea. Heaven help them.
“How do we decide who did it?” Grace asked.
I would have thought they’d already know that before beginning the story, but perhaps they wanted the experience of solving a crime. Since the whole thing was fictional, I supposed I didn’t mind. “Have you included all the characters from Mr. Dickens’s book?”
“Most of them,” Grace said. “We didn’t really have room for them all.”
“Well, the police would want to speak with the deceased’s friends and associates.”
“Friends?” Rose put a great deal of sarcasm into the word.
“Very well, his associates. And since Mr. Cratchit is on hand, they would ask him first of all what happened. What did he observe? How did he know Scrooge? Was he friend or foe? Had Mr. Scrooge done anything lately to anger Mr. Cratchit? Did Scrooge’s murder take place after he sacked Mr. Cratchit? ”
“The next day,” Rose said.
“Isn’t the next day Christmas? Didn’t he sack Mr. Cratchit on Christmas Eve?”
“Not in our book,” Grace said. “The detectives have two whole days to solve the crime and get Mr. Cratchit back to his family.”
“The police arrested him, did they? What evidence did they find?”
“Evidence?” Gregory gave me a blank look.
“They couldn’t just arrest him because he was standing there by the body. If Mr. Scrooge was found at his office, then Mr. Cratchit had every right to be there. Oh! Except he was already fired.”
As their heads bobbed again, I began to catch on.
“Mr. Cratchit had a good motive. Foolish of him to let on to the police, but I suppose they’d have found out eventually.
What I think you need to do is determine how Scrooge was murdered, then go through the list of his acquaintances to see who else had a motive to murder him. ”
“They all did,” Grace said. “He was a mean man who did bad things to everyone.”
“I think your detectives are in a similar situation to ours. We are not certain what to do until we find out how Dr. Penhollow died.”
“But you did something,” Rose said. “What did you do after you sent us home?”
“We surveyed the area to see if anything was, well, peculiar about it.”
“Was there?”
I went on to tell them about the pattern of boot prints through the wheat.
“Maybe he was halfway through the field and someone called to him from behind, so he turned around,” Grace began.
“And they shot him!” Gregory said.
“Or stabbed him!” Rose suggested.
I gave them a stern look. “He was not shot or stabbed, and I’ll thank you not to repeat that to anyone else. These details are for your detective story only. Anything we discuss must not leave this room.”
They gave me their solemn promise.
“What did you do after you looked for clues?” Rose asked.
“We walked to Dr. Penhollow’s house to tell Mrs. Penhollow what happened.”
Her excitement dimmed. “I bet she was sad.”
“Very much so.” I wanted to redirect the conversation away from Dr. Penhollow’s death and back to the fictional murder. “So that may be what your detectives do next, talk to people—witnesses, associates, family.” I came to my feet. “And that should keep you going for now.”
“Yes, it should,” Rose said. “There are a lot of people the investigators can question.”
“I’m pleased I could help,” I said, wondering if I ought to be out asking questions myself.