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(art by E.W. Strange)
Veena consulted her notes for what must have been the millionth time that day. For such a humble town, Twitchencopse certainly had its fair share of suspects - and each with their fair share of secrets.
Opening the door to another of the guesthouse’s rooms, Veena found her next individual of interest sitting quietly by the window. The older woman’s stark white hair, backlit by sunlight in the otherwise gloomy room, ringed her head like a halo. Her hands were folded neatly in her lap as she stared outside. Indeed, everything about her was neat, from her dress to her lipstick. She looked like a well-kept antique—unmistakably worn around the edges by time and the pains of life, yet clean and mindful of every detail.
The woman turned at the click of the door’s latch. Her polite smile faltered at the sight of Veena’s notepad but recovered quickly.
“Sorry to be a bother, Ducky,” the older woman said gently, “but will this take long? We’re meant to open this afternoon, you see.”
Veena flipped to a clean page in her pad and took a note.
“Moira Tabb, curator of the Nobbs-Hedson Museum of Natural Life, correct?”
The woman nodded.
“Manager, curator, and resident historian, yes. You see, aside from the janitors, I’m the only one with a key. So, I really must be back in time to-”
“I’m afraid the investigation takes precedence over business, Ms. Tabb.”
Moira’s soft smile pursed into a thin line. Again, she recovered her composure quickly.
“Very well. I suppose you know best, Miss…?”
“Veena Carrier. We met at the race this morning.”
“Oh, quite right. My apologies, there was so much going on, what with the excitement and festivities. Would you like a seat, Ducky?”
Moira made to get up, looking about for a second chair, but Veena shook her head.
“Thank you, but I’ll stand. Keeps the blood flowing.” Veena tapped the end of her pencil to her temple.
Moira re-folded her hands in her lap.
“If you insist.”
“Do you mind if I ask an unrelated question? Unrelated to the murder investigation, that is.”
“Murder?!” Moira went pale. “There hasn’t been a murder in Twitchencopse for two hundred years!”
“I’m afraid there was, just this morning. Mr. Griffith Graves was found drowned in the reeds at the finish line for today’s duck race,” Veena explained patiently.
The look of shock on Moira’s face diminished. Pursing her lips, she smoothed a wrinkle out of her skirt before commenting.
“Well… I suppose if it was anyone, it would be him.”
“Why do you say that?”
Moira shrugged.
“Nobody liked him. Even the people who think they like him don’t really like him.”
“Why do you say that?”
Moira glanced at the closed door to the hall before leaning in to whisper.
“The other day, I was passing by the guest house when I heard Mr. Cheung’s voice. Once I realized he wasn’t addressing me, I thought he must be arguing with someone.”
“Arguing?” Veena’s brow furrowed.
“Yes, he sounded rather cross. But he must have only been practicing, as he stopped to correct himself several times, repeating himself in different tones and phrasing.”
Veena cocked her head as she flipped back several pages in her notepad.
“And he was doing this openly on the sidewalk?”
“Oh, no, Ducky. Have you met Richard?”
“Briefly. I haven’t had him in for questioning yet.”
“Perfectly polite and very smart—I suppose one must be if coming half-way ‘round the globe on business is to be worth the investment—but rather withdrawn. That’s why I was so confused: he was very nearly shouting. He must not have realized his window was open. I thought he said something about graves and how much they cost, which wasn’t at all a subject we’d discussed previously, but I do know quite a bit about burial costs thanks to the genealogy section.”
“But now you think he wasn’t speaking of funerary prices after all?”
Moira shook her head sombrely.
“It would be improper to jump to conclusions…but yes.”
“Do you remember anything else he said?”
“Oh, forgive me; I don’t recall exactly. Once I realized he wasn’t speaking to me, I went on my way. It isn’t very polite to eavesdrop, even unintentionally.” Moira smoothed a crease in the skirt of her dress absently. “He did also close the window. I was already walking away at that point, though.” After a beat, she added, “I suppose gossip isn’t very proper, either…”
Veena smiled.
“Don’t think of it as gossip. Every little bit helps. In fact, you answered the question I was going to ask.”
“You had a question?”
“I was going to ask your opinion of Mr. Graves. But—”
“Oh, he’s horrid,” Moira offered without hesitation. “Have you heard of how he plays the two Carmine girls against one another, the cad?”
“Played.”
“Excuse me?”
“He’s dead, so it would be past-tense.”
A flash of panic raced across the aging curator’s face.
“Yes. Of course.” Moira smoothed an invisible wrinkle out of her dress while Veena dashed something down in her notepad.
“Can you recount your movements this morning, before the race?” Veena asked.
Moira thought for a moment.
“I first arrived at the museum at five. The sun hadn’t quite risen yet.”
“Goodness, you must be an early riser.”
A quiet pride crept into Moira’s smile as she straightened her back in her chair.
“Always have been. I prefer to have everything in order before anyone arrives.”
“And what was on the docket this morning?”
Again, Moira took a moment to arrange her thoughts.
“We were closed in the morning for the race, but I’d planned to open in the afternoon. With everyone out and about, I thought we might still see decent numbers.” Moira sighed, touching her cheek. Her hands were worn and plain, save for a single ring, though her nails were immaculately manicured. “I’d even gone through all the trouble of putting together a little scavenger hunt in theming with the race.”
Veena looked up from her notes, a gleam in her eyes.
“What fun! I’m sure the bairns would’ve loved it.”
“That was my hope. I even commissioned Miranda to make a set of little clay ducks with accessories to match the exhibits. You know, like the ones we decorated for the race. I hid them around the museum, each with a little card of facts and a hint on where to find the next duck. We didn’t have the money for prizes, but… Oh, all that hard work for nothing…”
Veena shrugged.
“You could always use it for next year’s race.”
“I suppose.” The curator fell quiet, staring sullenly at her hands.
“So you were setting up the hunt this morning?” Veena asked, flipping to a clean page.
“No.” Moira shook her head firmly. “I had it all set up last night. I like to have everything in place well ahead of schedule.”
“Were you alone?”
“No. The janitor was doing his shift.”
Moira glanced furtively at the pages of Veena’s notepad as she flipped through.
“Edgar Reed?”
“No, Edgar only works Saturday nights. Donald works the remainder of the week. Donald Spruce,” she added, leaning in as Veena scratched out another note.
“And this morning?”
“Neither works mornings. Twitchencopse may have a wonderfully rich history, but we’re not so grand an institution as to need all that.”
“So you were here alone?” Veena surmised.
“Yes, as usual.”
“So there wouldn’t be anyone who could attest to your alibi that morning?”
“Alibi?” Moira blinked.
“Just to establish a timeline,” Veena soothed. “I’m not suggesting anything nefarious. I’m sure you do the same with histories, yes? Got to have your facts, dates, and references all straight.”
Moira’s shoulders relaxed as she smoothed out her skirt for a fourth time since sitting back down.
“Of course! Of course. Well, Shirley and I - that is, Mrs. Sweet, the baker - always wave to one another on my way in. Though, I’m not sure a wave is sturdy enough to be considered an alibi.”
“As I said: every little bit counts.”
“Then, I spent the morning as I always do: a circuit of the exhibits to ensure all is in its place, an hour addressing the mail, stepping out for lunch at the deli, then back to work for the remainder of the day.”
“Until the race, you mean?”
Moira’s brow furrowed. Her lips drew thin as she turned to the window.
“No, you’re right. Today was the race. Yes, I went straight to the event from lunch.”
“Do you remember seeing anyone else at the deli? And do you remember what time you took lunch?”
Moira clutched her skirt so tightly in her thin hands that her knuckles went white. Her shoulders trembled, until finally she burst into tears. Veena froze where she stood, watching as the older woman sobbed into her hands.
“No. I don’t remember,” she shouted. “No matter what I try, I can’t. The rosemary hasn’t helped, Richard’s blasted tea didn’t help, the walks haven’t helped! Nothing helps! I’m losing days—weeks!—and it’s all I can do just to tread water.”
Veena was silent as Moira poured her heart out. She remained silent for the fresh deluge of tears that followed. Eventually, while the older woman was still sobbing into her hands, tears soaking the starched cuffs of her sleeves and leaving dark speckles across her skirt like raindrops, Veena quietly excused herself from the room.
Left alone, Moira fought to bite back her wailing. This was the guest house, after all: for all intents and purposes—especially today, filled as it was with suspects and witnesses—a public forum.
As Moira daubed her eyes with an off-white handkerchief from her pocket, Veena reentered. With a series of futile sniffles and a deep breath, Moira wrestled with herself to put an impassive façade back in place. Approaching as Moira stoically gazed out the window, Veena held out a dainty cup on a saucer, filled with steaming, amber liquid.
“I asked Evelyn to fetch you a cuppa. Thought the warmth might be soothing.”
Moira’s face screwed up as she teetered on the edge of another deluge of tears. Biting her lip, she simply nodded her head and accepted the cup and saucer with trembling hands.
Veena gave the museum curator a kindly smile as she perched on the window ledge and flipped to a fresh page in her notepad.
“I think that’s all the questions I had for you, Ms. Tabb. Take your time finishing your tea. I have a few more notes to get down before the next interro- Mmm, the next interview, and I wouldn’t mind the company.”
(art by bitchfitch)