Historically Dead. Greta McKennan

I certainly wasn’t going to ask. She preceded me out of the library and led me back to the living room. The crowd had dwindled to Priscilla, Ruth, and John Ellis. Franklin surveyed the group and said, “I’d like to speak with Priscilla Compton now.”

      Priscilla leaned heavily on the arms of her chair to get to her feet. She adjusted the full skirt of the period gown I’d made her, and accepted the offer of her nephew John’s arm to steady herself. “How can I help you?”

      Ruth elbowed her son aside and settled Priscilla’s hand on her own arm. “I will accompany my sister while you question her.”

      “There’s no need,” Officer Franklin soothed. “I can assure you, we will be careful not to upset Miss Compton.”

      Ruth didn’t budge. “My sister has moments of diminishing lucidity. She cannot be considered a reliable witness. You may question her in my presence, or you may wait until our lawyer arrives. There are no other options.”

      “Actually...” Officer Franklin bit back the rest of her retort, evidently coming to the conclusion that it was fruitless to argue with Ruth, the human dragon. “Very well. Come with me, please.”

      She marched out of the room, followed by Ruth supporting Priscilla. “John, I want you here when we get back,” Ruth admonished on her way out the door.

      I stood in the middle of the room, staring after them. I noticed my hands were shaking, and quickly stuffed them in my pockets. I turned to see John watching me.

      “You were a long time with the cops. What did they say to you?”

      “Officer Franklin just asked about Professor Burbridge’s body when I found it....” My words died on my lips at the look on John’s face: not mere curiosity or commiserating over a distressing experience that we both shared, but a look of calculation, of discovery. Ruth’s fierce “Who?” echoed in my mind once more. Could it have been John? Did John think it was me?

      “Um, I should go get to work,” I stammered, and fled for the stairs.

      But I couldn’t focus on historical embroidery. I kept getting up and going to the head of the stairs, listening for the tap of Ruth’s cane, wondering what Officer Franklin was learning from Priscilla. I shared Ruth’s concern about the usefulness of Priscilla as a witness, given her sweet vagueness. I didn’t really know if she suffered from dementia or was just delightfully quirky, but she did have a way of distorting reality that could be disconcerting, especially when it came to a murder investigation. I hoped Officer Franklin really was taking it easy on Priscilla.

      I looked out my window to see a couple of officers pacing around the exterior of the house, examining the ground around the windows and checking the walls and windowsills. I shivered at the thought of a murderer creeping in the library window to bludgeon poor Professor Burbridge to death.

      Finally I couldn’t stand it anymore. I threw down my curtains, having only succeeded in adding two inches of embroidery to the hemline, and strode out of the room and down the stairs. I paused in the great hall, listening. A clatter came from the kitchen, so Carl Harper must have finished with the police and gotten back to work. I turned toward the living room to find the door closed and Louise Pritchard standing outside, ear pressed to the keyhole. I chuckled at the picture she presented, far less subtle than I had been. But she could probably hear much better than I had. I walked over and tapped her on the shoulder.

      Louise reared back as if I’d hit her over the head with the murder weapon. She let out a yell you could have heard all the way in Philly. Carl Harper popped out of the kitchen brandishing a massive wrench at the same instant that Officer Franklin hustled out of the living room.

      “What’s the matter?”

      “It was a mouse,” I cried, willing Louise to keep her mouth shut. “It ran right along the baseboard. It scared us both.” I took Louise’s hand and pulled her away from the door. “Come sit down in my sewing room to get over your fright.” I propelled her to the stairs, catching a glimpse out of the corner of my eye of Carl Harper trying to hide the oversized wrench behind his back, while Officer Franklin’s bright black eyes took everything in.

      I dragged Louise up the stairs and led her to my sewing room. I pushed her into the only chair, and perched myself on the corner of the sewing table. “So?”

      She rubbed her mouth sullenly. “What’d you have to go poking me like that for? Scared the bejesus out of me.” She shuffled her feet and rubbed her hands on her blue twill pants. “You didn’t really see a mouse, did you?”

      “No, of course not. I didn’t think you’d holler like that, or I would have called your name or something.”

      “Well, don’t go judging me for listening at keyholes.”

      I rolled my eyes. “I’m not judging you. I want to know what was going on inside. What did they say?”

      She stared at me, and then started to laugh, an ugly sound with a hint of hysteria just below the surface. I waited as patiently as I could until she settled down.

      “That lady cop, she’s asking Miss Priscilla all kinds of questions. See, there was an argument with the professor, the night before you found his body. The two old ladies were going at it with him, I don’t know why. Somehow the cops found out, and now they think the old ladies bumped him off.”

      I bit my lip, remembering the shouting I’d heard coming from the living room right before Professor Burbridge stormed out, muttering something about not wanting to be silenced. If he had something to say that the two old ladies wanted kept quiet, then they’d gotten their way in the end, hadn’t they? Could they have threatened him? Could they have actually killed him?

      “That’s ridiculous,” I said out loud. “Neither Ruth nor Priscilla could have hit Professor Burbridge over the head hard enough to kill him.”

      “Miss Ruth could have done it in a heartbeat,” Louise retorted. “That cane of hers could drop an ox. You know she murdered her husband. What makes you think she’d never do it again?”

      I stared at her. “She murdered her husband? I heard she was acquitted at trial.”

      “Maybe that’s what you heard, but I’m telling you, she was guilty. She had a fight with him, she stormed out of the house, and then the house burned to the ground in the wee hours of the night with him in it. Who else wanted that man dead? People loved him. He was always donating to worthy causes. She was probably just mad that he was giving away all her money.” She leaned in to whisper in my face, “I’ll bet that professor found out something about the old man’s murder, so Ruth had to shut his mouth for good.” She sat back with satisfaction, no doubt enjoying the dumbfounded look on my face. “I hope the cops get to the bottom of this before anyone else gets clonked over the head!”

      I shook off the mental picture of Ruth creeping up behind Professor Burbridge and whacking him over the head with her gold-tipped cane. “Did you hear anything else just now?”

      Louise stood up and dusted off her pants. “The cops said there was no evidence of forced entry into the house. The murderer didn’t need to break in. The professor was killed by someone who was already in the house.”