 
Killing at the Carnival/ A Tale of Two Clerks

copyright (c) 2014,2017 L. A. Nisula

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof

may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever

without the express written permission of the publisher

except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

This is a work of fiction; any resemblance to actual places or persons is purely coincidental.

~ * ~ * ~

Cassie Pengear thought a visit to the carnival would be fun: see some shows, eat some sweets, help her landlady's nephew decide if the cowboy was real or an actor. But then the cowboy shot the volunteer, and he didn't get up. Now Cassie has a ten-year-old boy insisting the cowboy isn't a killer and a landlady insisting she help solve the killing at the carnival.

# Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

A Case of Two Clerks (short story)

# Chapter 1

THAT DAY STARTED OFF normally enough. I had just found a new client, a small Regent Street dress shop that wanted me to type up the new inventory from their buying trip to Paris, and I was hoping to impress them with my speed and accuracy. It was one of the more interesting clients I'd found, although compared to the normal run of business letters and interrogations from Scotland Yard that seemed to consist of subjects who couldn't remember where they'd been or who they'd been with, it didn't take much. I was halfway through the first list of the latest fabrics and trims when there was a tapping on my door. I considered ignoring it until I recognized the hand. My landlady. I pulled myself away from the typewriter and went to answer.

"Hello, Mrs. Albright."

"Cassie, how would you like to go to the circus?"

The circus? I wondered why she would be going to the circus. The last thing I wanted to do right then was go out to a dusty arena under the sun and watch cheap shows. "I've got stacks of typing to do."

"But my nephew is so looking forward to it. He wants to see the cowboys. And since you're American, he's convinced you'll be able to tell him if it's a real western show."

I'd forgotten her nephew was staying with her for a few weeks during the school holidays. That explained the circus but didn't make it any more interesting to me. I kept trying to get out of it. "But I've never been west of the Mississippi. I've never even been _to_ the Mississippi."

"Oh, come on. It'll be fun. There are some lovely rides, and there's always fair food. I'll get you some fish and chips or whatever dough they're frying there. My treat."

I sighed. Mrs. Albright had been one of my first friends in London, and she gave me an excellent deal on the flat thanks to some help I had given her soon after I'd ended up in England. I always hated saying no to her. And fried dough did sound good. "All right. When are we leaving?"

Mrs. Albright gestured to the stairs, and a boy of about ten came running up from the landing. "Now Davy, this is Miss Pengear."

He grinned at me. "The American. I'm Davy Hawkin. Have you seen real cowboys?" He had blond hair and brown eyes and looked ready for a growth spurt.

So much for getting any work done. "I'm afraid I've never been out west."

"Oh. But I suppose you can tell from the accents." He wandered into my flat and looked around my main room as I covered my typewriter and decided on a hat.

"Is that steam powered?" He poked at the cover on my typewriter.

"No, just a plain manual one."

"Oh. I suppose it doesn't break as often."

I pinned my hat on and adjusted the veil to keep the sun off my neck. "That's right."

But he'd already lost interest. He was looking at my steam vent with the kettle attachment. "Why is the kettle clear?"

"So I can watch it boil." I saw him eyeing the door to my bedroom, so I grabbed the first pair of gloves I spotted and started for the landing before he could get too curious. "All set?"

The promise of the circus made him forget about mysterious treasures behind closed doors. He hurried past both of us and started down the stairs. "Can we take a steam cab?"

"If we can find one," Mrs. Albright called after him.

**~ * ~ * ~**

The Kingston Carnival was being held at the old fairgrounds in Smithfield. It was a small affair, slightly shabby around the edges, but with a big, bright sign pointing the way in and shiny brass pipes pumping steam to attractions and rides. I could smell whatever they were frying on the midway, which made the whole outing seem more worthwhile.

Davy lost no time being interested in everything around us. He started with the banner over the entrance, then the turnstile, then the empty ticket booth. By the time we got to the machine dispensing the tickets, he was ready to be impressed by anything, but even I found it interesting. It was similar to the machine I got my payments from when I did typing for Scotland Yard, but this one was in a clear box, so we could watch the wheels and cogs turn as Mrs. Albright put in her coins and the machine dispensed the tickets. She pulled them out and counted automatically, then paused and counted a second time more carefully.

"Something wrong?" I asked.

"Tickets at ha'penny each, and I gave it six shillings, so I should have how many?"

I still wasn't used to the odd monetary increments here, but I did my best to calculate. "Seventy-two, I think."

"So do I. Then why do I have sixty-seven?"

"There's the missing ones." Davy pointed to a small string of tickets caught between two gears.

Mrs. Albright leaned in to look. "So how do we get them out?"

Davy and Mrs. Albright started poking at the slot the tickets came out of while I scanned the area for someone who worked for the carnival.

"Machine's broken." We all turned to see a boy about Davy's age come out of the nearby tent. He was wearing a mix of brightly colored costume bits and plain homespun boy's clothes, so I assumed he was with the carnival. "It always snatches the last five tickets."

"We figured that out," I said. "Now is it broken or _broken_?"

He laughed. "Genuinely broken. Boss says he can fix it, but he just patches it up, and it breaks again two hours later. You can set your watch by it. I'll get 'em out for you." He kicked the leg of the machine, knocked on the glass, shook the whole thing, then kicked it again, with Davy watching every move. When the boy turned the crank on the side after all that, the tickets dropped down into the chute. "There you are. Should come out right now."

"Thank you, dear. What a nice boy you are." Mrs. Albright tore off three of the tickets.

I kept staring at him. "If it takes five tickets every time, why didn't I see any other tickets caught inside when I was watching it?"

The boy grinned at me again. "You're a sharp one. I like you a lot. They let us that work here see the shows for free, but I got to pay for any food and games, same as anyone. Does that seem fair to you?"

Mrs. Albright slipped the three tickets into her handbag with the rest. "It was still kind of you to help us. Thank you. Come along, Davy, let's find the midway."

Davy looked torn between the lure of the midway and the slightly dangerous air around his new friend. I could tell Mrs. Albright did not want her nephew running away to join the circus on her watch. She looked vaguely in the direction of the tents. "I wonder if they have a shooting gallery."

That got his attention. "Shooting gallery?"

"For Miss Pengear. You're not quite old enough." She started walking towards the smell of frying food. Davy was hovering around her legs.

"They're perfectly safe, you know. They shoot blanks. I wouldn't aim it at anyone."

I followed the pair, wondering how Mrs. Albright was going to get out of that.

~ * ~ * ~

It turned out Mrs. Albright had a very good plan. She didn't take Davy to the midway games but to the row of small tents that housed the lesser shows. At first I thought Davy was going to be stubborn, but Mrs. Albright led him past the free acts meant to tempt people inside, and it turned out a snake charmer in front of him was worth more than a shooting gallery somewhere else. I stayed well back with Mrs. Albright, just in case the snakes weren't as well trained as the sign implied.

When the snake charmer packed up, Mrs. Albright collected Davy from the crowd of boys hoping to get another look at the snakes. "I have all these tickets. Which show do you want to see first?"

Davy looked around at the posters and placards. "Let's start with the cowboy. Then Miss Pengear can tell me if he's the real thing."

We followed Davy to the tent with the poster of an anonymous cowboy riding a bucking bronco. Davy stopped to study every detail of the poster while Mrs. Albright counted out the five tickets each for entry and handed them over to the boy in cheap red satin. Mrs. Albright distracted Davy by pointing to the cowboy posters inside before he realized the boy collecting tickets was also about the same age as he was and got any new career ideas.

We got seats in the center of the fourth row, Davy between us, sitting on Mrs. Albright's handbag so he could see the stage clearly. He bounced up every few minutes to make certain he wasn't missing anything. Mrs. Albright didn't look concerned, so I assumed there was nothing breakable in her bag.

"Do you think the Indian show costs the same?" Mrs. Albright counted the remaining tickets hanging out the side of her bag.

"I would think so."

"And we'll need food. And probably a few games." She went through the tickets again. "We should be fine with these."

"Do you think he'll have a horse?" Davy asked.

"The stage doesn't look big enough," I told him.

He looked disappointed. "What about roping?"

"I would think so."

"That's good. That's how they catch cattle. That's like cows."

We hadn't been there more than ten minutes when the small shaft of light that had been coming through the tent flap disappeared, plunging us into semidarkness. "It's starting," Davy whispered to no one in particular.

"Sh, don't disturb your neighbors," Mrs. Albright whispered back, but as our neighbors were mainly boys about Davy's age or governesses and uncles who looked about as interested as I was, I didn't think there was much danger of that.

The performance started with the pipe organ playing something that sounded vaguely like "Clementine" while sending clouds of green and purple steam across the stage. I could see the boy from the entrance pushing levers on the side of the pipes, and then a scratchy voice seemed to come from nowhere. "Presenting the Lovely Lucinda!"

"How do you think they do that?" Davy whispered as the Lovely Lucinda came out on stage wearing a white bodice encrusted with glass beads and a skirt with ruffles and feathers that was just a bit too short in front.

"Probably a phonograph in the organ," I whispered back.

The Lovely Lucinda made a circuit of the stage, lighting the lamps along the edge then posing at each one so we could all admire the beading on her costume. When she'd finished lighting the stage lamps, she went to center stage and twirled around, making her streamers and ribbons fan out from her skirt and the gaslights sparkle off the sequins. When she had finished showing off, she swept her arm out with another flourish of ribbons and ruffles and gestured to the wings stage left. "I am pleased to present to you, directly from the United States of America, the legendary cowboy Nick Culpepper!" Her voice swelled dramatically at the end, giving the audience the overwhelming desire to applaud even though none of us had heard of the legendary Nick Culpepper outside of the poster by the tent flap.

The legendary Nick Culpepper who appeared out of the steam was wiry and a bit above average height. He was wearing a circus rendition of a cowboy outfit, which meant everything from the hat to the chaps to the spurs was not only fringed but also studded with paste gemstones and beads. Well, maybe the spurs weren't fringed. He swaggered across the stage, hanging back a little so he reached the Lovely Lucinda just as the steam was clearing.

"Howdy, folks!" He tipped his hat. "Right pleased to see y'all."

Lovely Lucinda gestured for the crowd to answer, and all the boys yelled, "Howdy, Cowboy Nick!"

I leaned in to listen to the accent, but while the legendary Nick Culpepper was clearly American, he was also clearly from Boston. I didn't think there were many cowboys there. I wondered how I was going to tell Davy if he asked for my opinion on his genuineness. I supposed I could just say he was really American.

"Would y'all like to see a bit of ropin'? If the Lovely Lucinda would assist me."

Lucinda brought him a rope, and Legendary Nick caught a chair and a candle -- unlit, of course.

"Let's make it exciting. Lovely Lucinda, if you would rustle up a volunteer for me."

The Lovely Lucinda swept out into the audience. I glanced at Davy and was surprised to see he hadn't put up his hand. He caught me looking at him.

"Do you think cowboys really say 'y'all' so often?"

"Only in stage shows. Part of the patter, I expect."

He nodded. "But the roping's good."

At least he wasn't disappointed in the show. "It is."

The Lovely Lucinda brought a skinny young man who looked like a clerk from the row behind us up on stage. I could hear his friends yelling encouragement as she had him sit in a chair and hold up a carved wooden steer head. The legendary Nick caught it on the first try. The same with the hat she put on his head and again with a candle he held, unlit again, of course. Then Lovely Lucinda had the man stand behind the chair holding a needle. Legendary Nick played around with his rope, making bigger and bigger circles around himself, then tossed the lasso and caught the young clerk. I could hear the man's friends laughing and cheering him on as Legendary Nick tied the young man up by wrapping the rope around him again and again.

While Legendary Nick took his bows, Lovely Lucinda released the volunteer and kissed him on the cheek, which made his friends even louder.

Legendary Nick shook the volunteer's hand as he left the stage, then turned to the crowd. "How would y'all like some shootin' next?"

Lovely Lucinda brought him a pair of pistols, and Cowboy Nick proceeded to twirl them around his fingers, holstering and unholstering them, tossing one in the air while catching the other. While he was showing off, Lovely Lucinda went back into the audience for another volunteer. This time she came back with a middle-aged man wearing a suit that was a little too neatly creased for a circus. He tried to pull back, as if he wanted to be done with this nonsense, but Lovely Lucinda steered him into position. She gave him a playing card to hold, guiding his hand to the bottom corner. "Just like that, that's right." She turned him towards Nick.

The volunteer's hand dropped out of position.

"You're a little nervous? Oh, don't be. Here, I'll hold it too." She had the man straighten his arm, then grabbed the other corner of the card and stood slightly sideways, showing off the ruching and beading on the side of her skirt and a bit more leg than was strictly proper, making a nice picture of the two of them standing with their arms outstretched, the playing card held between them.

Legendary Nick was standing with his back to the pair. He finished an elaborate series of spins and twirls with his gun then spun around and shot in one motion.

The gunshot rang out, sounding as though it came from everywhere in the tent at once. Then there was silence and the smell of cordite. We all waited for the trick, but the only movement was from the volunteer, who fell backwards off stage, badly concealed by the great puffs of steam being produced by the pipe organ. We all waited for the patter that would make the trick seem clever, or at least part of the act, but Cowboy Nick just stood there, staring at the steam swirling around his target, as if he couldn't remember his next line.

"I think he fainted," Mrs. Albright whispered to me over Davy's head, "unless that was part of the act."

"I don't think it was."

Lovely Lucinda knelt in the smoke. She didn't say anything, and I couldn't see her face through the colored steam. I could hear feet shuffling around me. Even Davy was starting to fidget when Cowboy Nick made a sound that could only be described as squealing like a schoolgirl, dropped his gun, and ran off stage, disappearing into the wings. The tent was so small, we could all see the fabric on the side sway as he pushed the side of the tent up. It didn't pleat very high up, so he must have crawled out under the edge. We all sat there, staring at the curtain where he had disappeared. Some of the audience started to look around the tent as if they were expecting him to reappear behind some tent pole in a triumphant climax to the trick. He didn't.

# Chapter 2

NOTHING HAPPENED UNTIL the boy from the entrance came up on stage and tapped Lovely Lucinda on the elbow. There was a whispered conversation, with lots of pointing towards the fallen volunteer, then the boy ran down the aisle and out of the tent. Lucinda came to the front of the stage and flourished her arms. "I am sorry for the technical difficulty with the performance." Her voice echoed through the room even though it didn't sound as though she was yelling. "We will return your five tickets and offer you three more for the inconvenience. Please give us a moment to organize, then proceed to the back exit to get your tickets. First five rows may begin to line up now." Lovely Lucinda leapt off the stage and tripped up the aisle to the exit. We gathered up our things and steered Davy towards the line.

"What do you think happened?" Davy asked.

Mrs. Albright tried to distract him. "What would you like to do next?"

"Do you think that was what went wrong? Something technical? Maybe with the gun?"

"I'm sure that's it." Mrs. Albright gave me a look.

So she didn't think the man had fainted anymore, either. I nodded. "That must be it."

Mrs. Albright nudged Davy forward, and we collected our tickets from Lucinda.

When we were back outside on the midway, Mrs. Albright kept Davy moving away from the tent. "What shall we do with all these tickets?"

Davy looked around. "Let's try the Indian next. You don't think he'll have technical problems, do you?"

Mrs. Albright steered him along. "Of course not, dear."

Redbird's Genuine Indian Tricks was in the next tent over, which made sense, I supposed. It had an equally anonymous poster outside, this time of an Indian riding a painted pony across the plains. Inside, the setup was the same as the cowboy's tent, only this time it was a teenaged girl in a brown satin dress collecting the tickets, and we managed to get seats in the third row. Davy rocked back and forth in his seat, staring at the pole holding up the tent.

"Something bothering you, love? Would you like something to eat?"

"No, Auntie, I'm fine." He was quiet for a minute, then he said, "Do you think that banker is? Fine, I mean."

"Banker?" she asked.

"The man from Cowboy Nick's show. He didn't look all right."

"I suppose he did look like a banker," Mrs. Albright said. She glanced at me but was saved from answering by the tent flap closing and leaving us in semidarkness again.

This time there was no Lovely Lucinda lighting lamps. The girl with the tickets came on stage and dropped a match onto the pile of logs in the center. There was a pause, the small squeak of a gas jet engaging, then the fire flared up towards the ceiling. I glanced up to make sure nothing caught fire even though I knew it was part of the act. The flames settled down to a normal level, and the girl left the stage. I spotted her pushing a lever on what looked like a music box on her way down, and the tent was filled with a creaky rendition of " _Home on the Range_."

Redbird stepped out from behind the curtain. He was dressed in a slightly shabby suit and had an elaborate feather headdress on his blond head. He pushed his horn-rim glasses up on his nose and held up his bow and arrows. "I, Redbird, greet you, seekers of knowledge."

No one answered back as they had with Cowboy Nick.

"Let us begin with the bow and arrow. This is an ancient weapon which predates the settlement of the New World by several centuries. Variations of this weapon have been found in archeological digs in..."

I could hear the audience shuffling around us, although Davy seemed somewhat interested in the history lesson. At least I wouldn't have to figure out how to tell him this was not a real Indian.

The lecture had moved away from general discussion and was focusing on the identification of specific arrowheads when the tent flap opened. Redbird blinked into the light. "Who's interrupting my show? Sorry, you'll have to wait for the next--Oh, Mr. Kingston, it's you."

I turned to see whom he was talking to, along with half the audience. There was a little man who I assumed was Kingston chasing after the last person I was expecting to see, Inspector Burrows of Scotland Yard, but there he was striding up the center aisle.

"I run a legitimate outfit. It says, 'Genuine Indian tricks.' Nowhere does it say the Indian is real. Not my fault my Indian was stolen."

"I'm not interested in your Indian, Mr. Kingston. It's your cowboy I'm after. Unless you think the same culprit stole your cowboy."

"What would Cody want with him?"

"What?"

"Buffalo Bill. What would he want with my cowboy?"

"That's who stole your Indian?"

"That's right. Cody snatched him right out from under me. Offered him more money."

"Then I'm not interested in him, only in the one who shares a tent with Cowboy Nick." Inspector Burrows hopped up onto the stage with a bit more flourish than was strictly necessary, and I wondered if he was enjoying having an audience. Every eye in the room turned to him, including Redbird's, wondering if he was part of the act.

"Forgive the interruption, ladies and gentlemen. I will be needing to speak with Mr. Redbird and later with some of you. Mr. Redbird, if you would be so kind."

Someone in the crowd yelled, "You mean we have to sit here listening to you talk to him?"

Inspector Burrows turned. "No, I'm afraid you cannot listen in on the questioning. We'll find someplace to hold you while you wait." He turned to Mr. Kingston. "I assume there is somewhere suitable here?"

"You don't need the Magnificent Malvolio, do you?"

"Was he in the cowboy tent?

"No."

"And who does he share a room with?"

Kingston muttered something.

"Python? Who is Mr. Python?"

"Not a who, a what," mumbled Mr. Kingston.

"Speak up," Inspector Burrows said.

"Python is the name of a five-foot-long grass snake in a twenty-five-foot-long box."

"Then no, I will not need to speak to Mr. Malvolio or Mr. Python. If you would please clear the tent. But keep the group together so we can get names."

Mr. Kingston was too nervous to notice that Inspector Burrows was smiling. He scrambled to the front of the stage and burst out in his best ringmaster voice. "Ladies and gentlemen, there has been a slight delay here. If you would form an orderly line, I will personally escort you to the tent of the brilliant, the amazing, the Magnificent Malvolio, where you will see an exclusive performance of feats of magic that will astound and amaze you. Normally this is a six-ticket attraction, but as an apology for this fiasco, it will be at no extra charge, and you will be refunded your tickets for this interrupted show."

The audience didn't know whether to be pleased by what was apparently a great deal or annoyed at having to move again. Davy pulled on my sleeve. "Didn't Malvolio's poster only say three tickets?"

I grinned. "That's what I saw. Maybe it's a special show."

Davy looked unconvinced. "I guess it'll be interesting, even if it doesn't have Indians."

Mrs. Albright grabbed his hand. "Coming, Cassie?"

"I'd like to see what Inspector Burrows is doing here."

"All right. We'll find you near the food tents after the magic show." She steered Davy towards the exit. If I hadn't known better, I would have thought she was trying to get away before I changed my mind.

As I was edging up the aisle against the traffic going to see Magnificent Malvolio, I could see a pair of constables return with a table and chairs. "Those'll do. Constable Jones, go get the names of anyone who was at the other show before they all disperse. I am assuming most of them came here, and those should all be at this Malvolio's tent. Constable Lipson, see if you can find any other witnesses that weren't here. Try the other shows around Cowboy Nick's tent. And locate this Lucinda." Inspector Burrows seemed to be in a good mood, so I didn't think he'd snap at me for interfering just for wanting a look.

"Right, sir." Constable Lipson moved down the aisle, pushing through the crowds. Constable Jones went back on stage and disappeared into the wings. I tried to figure out how to greet the inspector without looking as though I was interfering.

Inspector Burrows turned towards me before I could figure out how to gently make my presence known. "Miss Pengear, we have to stop meeting like this."

"Now, Inspector, I'm sure you find plenty of bodies without me around."

"I'm sure I do, but you do turn up with alarming frequency. Why are you here?"

"Mrs. Albright brought her nephew to see the shows and invited me. Apparently being American means I can spot a genuine cowboy at fifty paces. But why are you here? Does that mean he is dead? It looked like an accident."

"You were at the cowboy show?"

"Davy loves westerns."

Inspector Burrows sighed. "He would. But you saw what happened?"

"We were in the fourth row, so we had a good view, or as good as we could with all the smoke and steam."

"Mr. Kingston said the organ was acting up. But judging from the rest of the place, I'd say that was a fairly common occurrence."

"We met a boy at the gate who thinks that Mr. Kingston believes he can fix anything when in reality he can't hang a picture."

"That would explain it. Tell me exactly what you saw."

I could see Redbird watching us from the stage, and I wondered if he knew what all of this was about. Come to think of it, I wasn't even sure I knew what it was about. "Lucinda came out and lit the lamps and showed off a bit, then Cowboy Nick came on stage. He is American, by the way, but I doubt he's been farther west than New York. There was some patter; then he did some rope tricks, lassoing and then tying up an audience member. He was actually pretty good. Then there was some play with the guns, twirling them and drawing them, and then they picked another volunteer, and he and Lucinda were going to do a card trick. They held the card out between them, and Nick was supposed to shoot it, only when he shot, the volunteer collapsed back into the smoke. It almost looked like part of the trick except that Cowboy Nick looked shocked. And then he screamed and ran into the wings and out of the tent."

"Were there a lot of volunteers?"

I thought back. "I don't really know. I was watching the stage. Like I said, he really wasn't bad."

"And how was the volunteer chosen?"

"I don't know that either. The Lovely Lucinda went into the audience and came back with him."

Inspector Burrows kept scribbling in his notebook. "But they did ask for volunteers?"

"That's right. Both of them were sitting behind us, though."

"So I should ask someone who was sitting behind you." He closed his notebook. I was expecting him to tell me to run along and play nice somewhere, anywhere other than in the middle of his investigation, so I was surprised when he asked, "Can you take dictation?"

"Of course." He hadn't asked if I was good at it, after all.

"As well as you can swing on a trapeze, no doubt. Well, I've sent all of my constables off to round up witnesses, so you'll have to do. Sit there, stay quiet, write what they say, and above all, don't ask any questions of your own, all right?"

I was too stunned at being asked to help on a case to answer. Inspector Burrows took the silence for a yes and pushed me in the direction of a small table and chair. Judging by the streamers and diamond edging, they had been appropriated from one of the ticket vendors. He put a notebook and three pencils down in front of me.

"Mr. Redbird, if you would join us?"

Mr. Redbird hopped off the stage and approached the table. Inspector Burrows motioned for Mr. Redbird to sit across from him.

"If you would state both your real name and your stage name for the record."

"Really, sir, I had no intention of deceiving anyone. And everything here is a replica, nothing stolen or smuggled. I made most of it myself, using the original techniques..."

"Names, please."

"Joseph Cardinal and Joe Redbird on stage."

"Any other stage names you've used in the past five years?"

"No, this is actually my first circus. Well, technically I believe it is a carnival since it has rides, although I wouldn't personally ride any of them. But I digress. I was just thinking of it like play, you see, an actor, no harm meant. I mean..."

"Very well, Mr. Cardinal, you share a wagon with Nicodemus Cullingsworth-Pepridge, known as Cowboy Nick Culpepper, is that correct?"

Mr. Cardinal looked surprised by the change of topic. "That's correct."

"Do you know where he is now?"

"He should be on stage. I've told Mr. Kingston he should alternate our shows, so someone can go straight from his to mine and vice versa since our audiences overlap so much, but he says he has crowd-control studies. I think he's too cheap to reprint the posters, myself."

"Do you know where Mr. Culpepper might go if he isn't on stage?"

"You checked our wagon? Maybe the commissary, or the infirmary."

"I'm thinking more along the lines of a hiding place."

"Hiding place? Why would he have a hiding place? He's not ten years old."

"So nowhere you can think of where he would go to ground, as it were?"

"Why would he need to 'go to ground,' as you say?"

Inspector Burrows switched topics again. "You said this was your first circus. How did you become involved with the operation?"

"I'm studying the various tribes of the Plains region of the United States. Well, as well as I can here in England. I've been trying to earn enough money for the passage to America since I can't find a university to sponsor me. I had been interviewing Flyingcrow, the former occupant of this stage. When he left, Mr. Kingston offered me a nice--well, decent, to be perfectly honest--a miserable salary and the chance to help spread my knowledge. And miserable as it was, it was more than I was making at my studies, so I accepted." He leaned in. "I'm getting the impression this is not a fraud investigation."

"No, it's not. As you say, you were being paid to be an actor in a show. There's nothing illegal about that. We're interested in Nicodemus Culpepper."

"Why would the police be interested in Nick? Is there an immigration problem with him performing or something?"

"So it would seem strange to you that we're interested in him? No drunken bar fights spring to mind, no upset paramours?"

"Nick is frankly boring. And coming from me, that's saying something. There are plenty of people here that if the police started asking questions, I would assume drunk and disorderly or a fight, or for a couple of them even attempted robbery or assault. But not Nick. That's why we room together. I spend most of my time studying, he spends most of his time practicing his act. He really takes that stuff seriously."

"I see." Inspector Burrows closed his notebook. I kept mine open. I assumed that was a ploy, and he would still want my notes. "There was an incident during his performance. A man was shot."

"Impossible."

"Why do you say that?"

"I can't believe it. I mean, I know you wouldn't be here if it wasn't true, but Nick has so many safety precautions in place. He really does take this show seriously, right down to the stage effects. It drives him mad that the music is always off." Mr. Cardinal stopped speaking abruptly.

"You've thought of something?"

"I think I know where Nick might be hiding."

"Can you show me?"

"Yes, I think so. Come on."

# Chapter 3

INSPECTOR BURROWS AND I followed Mr. Cardinal out of the tent and across to the area behind the midway. As we passed the last of the performers' tents, I felt a tug on my sleeve. "Miss Pengear?"

I looked down and saw Davy following me. "Does your Aunt Agnes know you're here?"

He ignored my question. "Do you know that policeman? The one who thinks Cowboy Nick is a killer?"

So Mrs. Albright didn't know where he was. "Inspector Burrows? Yes, I do. And why do you think that's why he's here?"

Davy ignored my question again. "Is he all right?"

"He's a very good policeman. Why?"

Davy started jerking his head to the side, and I realized he was signaling to someone behind the tents. "This is my friend Art." I recognized him as the boy who had helped us with the ticket machine. "He works for the carnival. You remember, right?"

"Pleased to meet you again, Art."

"He heard something, and he wants to know if he should go to the inspector with it. I said you'd solved lots of murders, so you would know what he should do."

"I wouldn't say lots..."

"But more than he has," Davy pointed out.

Art poked Davy in the back. "Hey!"

"Well, it's true."

I addressed Art. "What did you hear?"

Art stopped looking offended and started looking important. "I heard the dead man arguing with someone."

I must have looked as interested as I was since both boys perked up at once.

"It's important, isn't it?" Davy asked.

I knew I wouldn't get any information like this out of Inspector Burrows. "I'd need to hear a bit more to be sure."

Art grinned. "It was on the midway, this morning, near where it turns into souvenirs. They were fighting."

"When you say fighting, what do you mean?"

"I mean fighting."

"But were they yelling? Did it come to blows?"

Art scratched his foot in the dirt. "No punches. It wasn't really yelling, either. The dead guy was getting all worked up about something, and he said, 'I didn't know. I just need a little more.' Then the other fellow said, 'All right, all right, I'll ask Martha about it. Will that shut you up?' and the dead guy nodded, but I don't think he liked that answer."

"Why not?"

"He looked like he wanted to follow the guy and argue some more, but then he didn't."

"How do you know it was the dead guy?"

"It looked just like him."

"I mean how do you know what the dead guy looks like? Or that he was dead to begin with?"

I could feel Davy trying to slink away from me, so I grabbed him by the shoulders and stared at him until he muttered,

"We may have stumbled through the back of Cowboy Nick's tent accidentally and caught a glimpse of him lying there."

"And whatever they had covering him just happened to have been moved. And you just happened to get lost on the way to Malvolio's." How could I of all people fault them for a little curiosity at a crime scene? I sighed and turned back to Art. "Did you recognize the other man?"

"He's not with the show, I'm certain."

"What did he look like?"

"Kind of tall. Big sideburns."

"What color was his hair?"

"Kind of brown, could have been blond, or maybe...well..."

So it could have been black or grey or purple. "What was he wearing?"

"Just a normal sort of coat."

Not my best witness, but it was something. "Would you recognize him if you saw him again?"

"I think so."

"And do you know anyone named Martha?"

He shook his head. "Everyone here has names like Malvolio and Cobra and Lucinda. No Martha."

Davy was grinning from ear to ear. "This was important, wasn't it?"

"Very important. You need to tell Inspector Burrows about this."

"He looks kind of busy now."

I glanced over at him. Mr. Cardinal was leading him towards a wagon behind the midway that I was pretty certain contained one of the steam engines powering the show. That was probably where Nick was hiding. If I sent Art over, Inspector Burrows would remember I was following and probably send me away before I could hear Cowboy Nick's side of things. "All right. The policeman near the cowboy tent should know when a good time would be."

"Right. I'll ask him." Art paused. "Do you want us to keep quiet about telling you?"

So he was sharp. "You can say I sent you, if you'd like, but unless he asks, I wouldn't tell him you told me the whole story."

Art tapped the side of his nose. "Right. Come on, Davy."

I grabbed Davy's sleeve. "No, Davy's coming with me. Your aunt's probably frantic."

"Go ahead," Davy said. "I think she's going to investigate."

Art looked tempted to stay, but I gave him my best schoolmarm glare until he nodded and ran off. I kept a firm grip on Davy's shoulder and followed Inspector Burrows and Mr. Cardinal to the wagon in the middle of the clear area behind the midway. There were brass pipes poking out of the roof of the wagon, splitting and branching out over the top of the carnival carrying the steam that powered most of the effects in the acts and the games.

Mr. Cardinal felt around on top of the door until he found the key.

"Very secure," Inspector Burrows said.

Mr. Cardinal shrugged. "Nothing valuable inside, really. We lock it to keep the customers out more than anything." He unlocked the door, put the key back, and led us inside.

"You always put the key back?" Inspector Burrows asked.

"It locks from the inside, too, so someone has to be able to get in if there's a problem with the boiler or the engine."

The inside of the wagon had been plated in brass. We stepped into a small compartment that had originally been used to hold luggage and was now where the tools were kept. There was an opening into the center compartment of the car. We could hear someone sobbing faintly inside, the sound echoing inside the room. Inspector Burrows gave Mr. Cardinal a nudge. "Do you want to go first?"

"And soften the blow? All right." He stepped inside. "Nick? Someone here to see you. Nick?"

Inspector Burrows followed Mr. Cardinal. I considered staying in the entry with Davy, but he was already following Inspector Burrows. Curious as ever, I supposed.

The center room was taken up with the steam engine, a huge brass boiler with pipes carrying the steam outside. The boiler was surrounded by layers of what looked like quilt batting, keeping the heat in and making the compartment only slightly warmer than expected. Mr. Cardinal led us around the boiler to a small alcove that contained the main valves and levers to control the flow of steam.

"Nick? They just want to talk. I know you couldn't have..."

Cowboy Nick was bunched up in the corner, half under the desk where the engine keeper's logs were kept. He was still wearing most of his costume, including the hat, which was shoved back on his head and crushed up under the desk. Inspector Burrows knelt down. "Mr. Culpepper? Could we go outside? I need to ask you some questions."

Nick turned in his corner. "What kind of questions?"

"You know what happened?"

"Not really. I'm always so careful. But...he fell..." Nick turned back towards the wall.

"Let's go outside, and you can tell me all about it."

"And then you'll arrest me. You don't understand. I can't be arrested for murder. Dad teaches law in Boston. My grandfather was a Boston cop. If I'm arrested for murder, my family will, will kill me." He burst into tears again.

Davy leaned in. "I don't think he's a real cowboy, is he?"

I smiled a little. "Maybe not."

"But he sure was a good fake one. He didn't kill that man, did he? He wouldn't use his sharp shootin' for that."

"I don't know, Davy."

"I do. And you'll know how to prove it." Clearly Mrs. Albright had been talking about the time I helped her.

Mr. Cardinal knelt down next to Nick. "Come on. Let's go outside. You tell him the truth, and he'll find out what really happened. Isn't that how it worked with your grandfather?"

"How he wanted it to work, but..."

"Now is Cowboy Nick going to sit here blubbering when one of his fans is watching?"

I gave Davy a poke in the back, and he ran forward in his full cute-boy act. "I know you didn't do it, Cowboy Nick. And we're going to find a way to prove that, just like they do in the Marvelous Mike and Spike books."

Apparently the cute-boy act worked on cowboys as well as it worked on aunts. "All right. I'm coming. Let me find my hat."

"Try your head," Mr. Cardinal suggested.

As we made our way back to Inspector Burrows's temporary headquarters in Mr. Cardinal's tent, Constable Jones caught up to us. "Sir, I've compiled the list of names and Constable Lipson has started preliminary questioning."

"Very good." Inspector Burrows was managing to be appreciative and dismissive at the same time.

"And I located a gentleman who was with the victim at the show."

Nick made a strangled sort of sound like a sob.

"I've asked him to wait for you in... at your temporary desk."

"Thank you, Constable. Excellent work. Now would you take Mr.--" He glanced at Davy then at me.

"Hawkin," I supplied.

"Mr. Hawkin back to meet with his party, a Mrs. Albright at Malvolio's show. I believe you've met her?"

"Miss Pengear's landlady? Yes, sir."

"Mr. Culpepper, I think it would be best if I questioned you here."

Nick made another sobbing sound but nodded.

Inspector Burrows sighed. "Have you calmed down enough to answer questions reasonably?"

Nick looked down at his hands. "I'm sorry about that, but you have to understand..."

Inspector Burrows cut him off before he could get started again. "Now, the gun that you were using in your act, does it normally contain real bullets for this trick?"

"It never has real bullets in it, not for any of the tricks. Always blanks. It's too dangerous otherwise. If I'm off by even a fraction, I could hit someone in the audience."

"Then why did it have real bullets today?"

"It shouldn't have. Even if the prop cupboard ran out when they were loading it, I have some in my wagon. And even then, this is London, not some backwater. We could have sent one of the roustabouts out to buy some if we needed to."

"So who could have substituted them?"

"No one. Jerry, Jerry Dalton, the prop man, checks the guns before the performance when he brings the supplies out. I check them again when I load them backstage. Then we put them out on the table at the back of the stage, and they stay there until Lucinda brings them over to me."

"Could Mr. Dalton have slipped a bullet in?"

"No, not possible. We look at the guns together and put them out together while the steam engine that runs the smoke effects is warming up. They let the audience in almost as soon as we're done, so there's no way he could get back out there without being seen by the audience. Not that he would anyway."

"I'll add that to the list of questions I ask the audience, then. Now how was the trick supposed to work?"

"I ask for a volunteer from the audience. Lucinda finds one and brings him up to the stage. We give him the card, and he holds it up. I do my patter about how good a shot I am, then I turn and fire at the card. Then I run forward and grab the card before he gets a chance to look at it and flourish it around. While I'm showing off, Lucinda is getting the right pre-shot one from under the table. I pretend to hand her the card, and she pretends to take it and carries the shot one around for everyone to see while I get rid of the original one."

"So it's a magic trick."

"It is. Most of the stuff with audience volunteers is. Mr. Kingston doesn't want me shooting at civilians."

"A very sensible attitude."

"If you don't mind my asking, you don't sound like you're going to arrest me."

"Not at the moment, but I am going to have to ask that you not leave town for any reason and that you make yourself available for further questioning."

"Of course, of course." Nick looked ready to promise anything to avoid the shame of arrest.

"All right. I'm going to have more questions for you once I've investigated things more thoroughly. Until then, you're free to go. Which is your wagon?"

"Second row, third down."

"It looks like a prairie schooner," Mr. Cardinal offered.

"The only one like that, I assume. Very well, I'll find you when I need you."

Mr. Cardinal put his arm around Nick's shoulders. "Come on. Jerry always has a bottle hidden somewhere. I think we could both use a drink."

When Cowboy Nick and Joe Cardinal were out of hearing, Inspector Burrows asked me, "Did you notice anyone by the prop table before the performance?"

I shook my head. "But I wasn't really looking for that. Davy was telling me about the tricks he was hoping to see, and Mrs. Albright was counting how many tickets we had left once Davy saw all the shows he was looking forward to."

"And that's how it will be for everyone. No one thinks about it until they're asked, and then who knows if what they remember is what they actually saw. On to questioning the victim's friend, I suppose." He looked around and realized he'd sent his constable away again. "I'm stuck with you, aren't I?"

"Unless you want to take your own notes, but then you couldn't do your little shut-the-notebook-this-is-just-between-us trick."

"Come along, then."

# Chapter 4

I FOLLOWED INSPECTOR BURROWS into Mr. Cardinal's tent. There were two men waiting for him. I recognized the one closest to the entrance as Dr. Greer, the medical examiner. He looked up when we came in and nodded a greeting.

"We're taking the victim away now. I just wanted to let you know it was the shot that killed him."

Inspector Burrows nodded. "And have we identified him yet?"

Dr. Greer pointed to the man sitting at the table. "He was with him. His name is Harris. The victim was Josiah Spalding. I'll drop by your office when I have more information."

I could feel Inspector Burrows perk up when he heard the name Josiah Spalding. Clearly it meant something to him. But before I could ask him, he had crossed to the table and sat across from Mr. Harris. I took the seat slightly behind them and picked up the notebook that had been left there.

"Mr. Harris, correct?"

"That's right."

"You were here with the victim. Were you friends?"

"Coworkers, associates really. We both worked at the Montwell Bank."

Now Inspector Burrows was really interested; I could tell by the way he leaned in, trying to catch every detail. "I'm sorry for your loss."

"Poor old Spalding. That man had the worst luck ever."

"You don't seem very upset."

"We were just business acquaintances. This was supposed to be a treat for our branch having the second-highest rate of new business accounts. First place got to go to Paris."

"What did you mean about his bad luck?"

"Let's see, his first wife left him for another man, the first bank he managed was robbed two weeks after he took over, the first airship he took crashed on the way to Paris, the first..."

"I see," Inspector Burrows cut him off. "So this was most likely an accident, you think?"

"That's right. What else could it be?"

"Well, who would have reason to kill him?"

"No one that I can think of."

"The first wife?"

"No, she's in America now, Chicago I think."

"The first bank?"

"Why would anyone from there be after him?"

"I have to leave my options open."

"I suppose you do. I don't know of anyone, but it was the Crilston Bank in Goston. It's near Newcastle, I think."

"I see, I see." Furious scribbling followed. "And the airship?"

"The _Iron Dove_. He joked about the name before he got on."

"I see." But Inspector Burrows didn't write that down. "And is there anything else that you can think of that might be helpful?"

"'Fraid not. He was a nice guy, decent boss. Probably brought most of his trouble down on himself."

Inspector Burrows didn't look up. "How do you mean?"

"Well, his problems begin and end at the whist table. Or the roulette wheel. Or the racetrack. Or the poker table. Or which wall of paint will dry faster in a room."

"So he was a gambler?"

"Would bet on anything where there was some uncertainty. He would swear he was stopping, then take it up again. I think he was looking for something to bet on here. He got all twitchy when we started past the midway, and he disappeared for about ten minutes while we were getting in line and wouldn't say where he'd been."

"Did he win?"

"Every so often. He'd win £100, but lose £200 getting it, if you see what I mean."

"I do. And how are the bank's finances?"

"Really, sir, I said he was a good man. Our finances are in excellent condition. There's no evidence anywhere of fraud or embezzlement."

"I didn't say there was, but I do have to ask. What about his personal finances?"

Mr. Harris calmed down. "I wouldn't know. He did his banking through our bank, so I'm sure you can get the information through the proper channels."

"And I will. Now, if you wouldn't mind, I would like you to show me what was involved in this trick."

"Certainly. Who am I playing?"

"Mr. Spalding, if you don't mind. Miss Pengear will be the Lovely Lucinda. Will this stage do?"

"I think so."

"Excellent. Then the two of you were sitting where?"

"Towards the back."

"If you would..."

Mr. Harris got up and sat in the second row from the back.

"Now Lucinda came down the aisle, and what did Mr. Spalding do? Raise his hand? Stand up?"

"Oh no, I think he thought the whole thing was silly. He was kind of hunched down in his seat, like he didn't want to be seen. I told him that was the wrong way to go about it; they always take the one that doesn't want to be picked so they can have a good laugh. Then she came down the aisle, looking at everyone, and grabbed his arm."

"Miss Pengear?"

I walked down the aisle, looking from side to side at the empty seats; then I stopped by his row and grabbed Mr. Harris's shoulder. "Like this?"

"No, she had a pretty good grip on his forearm."

I shifted my hand.

"That's right. She just stood there smiling at him while he said he didn't want to go, and I kind of nudged him. I mean, it's better to just take the medicine, as it were. So he went up with her." Mr. Harris stood up, and I led him up the aisle and on stage. "Then there was some patter, and she gave him a playing card."

I went to the edge of the stage and waited for Inspector Burrows to give me one of his calling cards, which seemed to be the closest thing to a playing card he had. We arranged ourselves as they had been on the stage.

"And the cowboy shot the gun, and Spalding fell backwards. You don't want me to do that, do you?"

"No, I get the general impression. And what did you think when it happened?"

"That the poor fellow fainted. I mean, the gun was loud, and with all the steam on the stage, it was hard to tell what was going on."

"When did you know it was worse than that?"

"When your man started asking if anyone knew the volunteer, I knew something had gone wrong."

"Not when you were ushered out?"

"No, I thought they were calling a doctor or something. Maybe he'd hit his head and there was blood they didn't want the audience to see."

"And what do you think the explanation is?"

"It's an accident, isn't it? Something wrong with the gun, I would expect."

"I think that's everything. Did you leave your address with Constable Jones? Then you can leave. Thank you for your help."

When Mr. Harris was gone, Inspector Burrows started to look through his notes. I stayed put. It took him five pages to realize I was still there. "Thank you for your help, Miss Pengear, but you're free to go, too. By which I mean the door is that way. Or tent flap, I suppose."

I didn't take the hint. "Are you going to tell me why you're here in the first place?"

He studied his notes with a bit too much intensity. "Whatever do you mean?"

"This looked like an accident when it happened. Someone put out the wrong gun or put the wrong bullets in the right gun. And yet Scotland Yard sent over a detective before anyone even knew who the victim was. If you don't want me asking questions, then you have to answer the most curious ones, at least."

Inspector Burrows sighed. "If it were anyone else... but then, if it were anyone else, they wouldn't be pestering me like this."

"I'd hardly call this pestering."

"I suppose for you it isn't. All right. There has been some money from a bank robbery showing up in circulation around here. The team investigating it thinks it came from the carnival, but they don't have any proof, so there's only so much they can do. When they heard about the shooting--and yes, one of them was here when it happened, so we found out about it fast--they asked the Yard if they could send someone down to look into it, and if we happened to see something about the missing money while we were at it, it would give them a direction to look. All right?"

I thought back to Mr. Harris's statement. "It wasn't the Crilston Bank in Goston that the money came from, was it?"

He glared at me.

"It was. That's why you got so interested when he mentioned the victim's name. Do you think it's connected?"

"It's a coincidence. And it gives me an excuse to poke around a little."

"But can you connect Cowboy Nick to the robbery?"

"Miss Pengear, we have no proof that the robbery and the murder are connected."

"So you can't. Quite a coincidence if they aren't, and I thought detectives didn't believe in coincidences."

"We believe in them, we're just suspicious of them. And you have to admit you saw him shoot the victim. That should be compelling evidence."

"And why do they think the carnival is involved?"

Inspector Burrows went back to his notes.

I tried to think logically. What would convince Scotland Yard this was the source of stolen money? "There was a carnival involved in the robbery, wasn't there?"

"A circus, actually. And no connection was ever uncovered."

"So are you treating it as an accident or a murder?"

Inspector Burrows looked up at me. "The man was shot with real bullets from a gun that had no business having bullets in it. He ran a large bank. He'd been a manager at a bank that was robbed five years ago. Money from that robbery is turning up here. Until I see otherwise, this is an investigation into a suspicious death."

"That's a nonanswer."

"We don't have enough facts."

"So Nick Culpepper is still a suspect."

"There's no question he shot Mr. Spalding. The only question is why." He reached for the notebook he'd given me. "Now, you were a great help with the dictation, but please, go home and let me investigate this."

I pulled the notes away and hid them behind my back. "You do need these typed up, don't you? I'll bring them home and take care of it."

Inspector Burrows studied my face. I plastered on my best innocent smile. He finally gave in.

"All right. Drop them by in the morning, and I'll make sure a payment slip gets submitted for you tonight. But just type them up. Whatever ulterior motive you have, forget it."

"Now, Inspector, you don't really think..."

"Yes, I do."

"Scotland Yard pays well and on time. Of course I'm going to want the typing job. Besides, I can read my own handwriting better than anyone else."

"And your made-up shorthand, no doubt. I already said yes. Now round up that landlady of yours and her nephew, and go home. Would you like me to call you a cab? The boy's probably dead on his feet, or will be once he's away from the midway excitement."

I had been planning to say no out of habit, but he was right. "Mrs. Albright would probably appreciate it."

"Constable Lipson, escort this lady and her friends to the main gate and put them all in a cab. Charge it to expenses; I'm approving it."

"Right, sir."

So he really wanted to be rid of me. I wondered what line of inquiry he'd be following.

Constable Lipson and I found Davy and Mrs. Albright near the cotton candy machine. Davy protested leaving, but his mouth was full of spun sugar, so we pretended we didn't understand him and steered him towards the front entrance.

As we got into the cab, he managed to mumble, "But I'm not tired."

He was asleep before the sound of the steam calliope had faded into the distance.

**~ * ~ * ~**

Back home at Paddington Street, Mrs. Albright carried Davy into her flat. I followed with the various parcels they'd managed to acquire while I'd been helping Inspector Burrows. "Did he win all of these?" I whispered.

"That boy we saw at the ticket machine was telling him all the tricks," she whispered back as she unlaced Davy's shoes. "I suppose it's fair since they weren't exactly playing by their own rules anyway."

I tucked Davy's new bear into bed next to him and spread the rest of his souvenirs out on the nightstand. The nightstand was already covered with advertising fliers, all showing cowboys and carnivals. One name caught my eye. "Buffalo Bill Cody's Wild West Show." I slid the page out. Limited engagement starting next week at Earls Court. "I wonder when they start setting up for these shows."

Mrs. Albright glanced over. "Davy wanted me to go walking there yesterday, so they must have already arrived."

I slid the flier back into place and followed Mrs. Albright into the parlor.

"Would you like some tea, dear?"

"No, I have to start typing up Inspector Burrows's notes." The sooner they were done, the sooner I could go to Scotland Yard to drop them off.

# Chapter 5

THE NEXT MORNING, I waited until I thought the first wave of clerks and shopgirls had made their way to work then took the underground to Scotland Yard. Inspector Burrows had left my name at reception, so I was able to show my file of typed pages and go straight up to his office.

Inspector Burrows was already at his desk when I brought the transcripts to him. "Why am I not surprised to see you this early? I take it those are for me."

I held up the folder. "I put each session in its own group, so you can file them however you like." I opened the folder and spread the papers out on his desk to show him what I meant. At least that was what I wanted him to think I was doing. As I leaned over to point to the headers, I scanned the papers already on his desk.

"I think I can figure out that the name is at the top, Miss Pengear. I am a detective." Inspector Burrows was smiling as he said it, so I hadn't gotten on his bad side yet.

"I just wanted to be sure my system was clear."

"So you had absolutely no interest in the Montwell Bank's financial records, then."

That seemed awfully fast, even for Scotland Yard. "Is there anything in them I should be interested in?"

"No, since you're not investigating anything." But he took pity on me. "And no because there's nothing there. This is a very preliminary report, of course, but there's nothing in it to suggest any kind of embezzlement, misappropriation of funds, lying, scheming, or other skullduggery. If Spalding was stealing money to support his gambling, it wasn't from his own bank, at least not as far as I can tell. If it seems like a viable path to investigate, I'll get someone with an accounting background to look these over. Otherwise, a dead end."

"So that's why you were willing to tell me about it."

"I don't want to be called to the Montwell Bank because there's a suspicious young lady asking very unusual questions and pestering the tellers."

"I never pester, at least not without a good cause. If the transcripts are satisfactory, then have a nice day."

As I turned to the door, Inspector Burrows said, "Whatever you're planning, don't do it. Leave this one to me."

"What makes you think I'm planning anything?"

"You almost walked out of here without your pay slip."

I had been so busy trying not to look suspicious, I had done just that. I turned back and took the slip of paper. "Thanks."

~ * ~ * ~

Once I had put the pay slip through the accounting machine, counted the money it deposited, brought the whole thing to the bored clerk at the accounting desk, and had been promised the balance of my money would be on its way in the next two to ten weeks, I hailed a cab and set out for the Smithfield fairgrounds and Kingston Carnival.

After my adventures in the Scotland Yard accounting department, I'd had more than enough of automated money machines, and besides, I wasn't planning on seeing any shows, so I walked past the ticket machines and headed into the carnival.

As I passed through the gate, I heard,

"Miss Pengear." It was not a cheerful greeting.

"Inspector Burrows, how nice to see you." I'd been hoping to get here before him, but that ridiculous accounting department payment machine had interfered. Although he still would have to have left almost directly after I saw him. "You read through my notes that quickly?"

"After our meeting, I had a feeling you'd be down here, so I thought I'd better come down myself and see what trouble you'd get into."

I did my best to look offended. "Trouble? Inspector Burrows, I'm shocked. You know Davy's only here for a few weeks. Mrs. Albright promised to get some me some fair food yesterday, but we were rather rudely interrupted by your investigation. I decided to come back and get myself something sweet and fried."

"Mrs. Albright didn't mention you when I saw her."

So Davy had convinced her to come back. "She probably wanted to save the surprise."

"Then I won't be seeing you near Cowboy Nick's tent. Unless you're going to see any of the other shows?"

"Let's see, at the first show I saw, the volunteer was killed. The second was raided by the police. I think I'm done with shows for now; I don't want to see what happens at the third. Mrs. Albright promised me something fried. I think I'll stick with food."

"Well, food poisoning isn't on my beat, but if you smell bitter almonds..."

I swatted at him with my handbag.

"I just wanted a fair warning. Enjoy your day."

From his tone, I didn't think Inspector Burrows believed me at all, but he walked off towards Nick's tent. It wouldn't do for me to return to the crime scene that soon, but the food stalls were in the same general direction, so I set off for them. If I was lucky, maybe I would stumble into whatever Inspector Burrows was investigating.

As I passed the back of the entrance tent, I heard someone calling, "Miss? Miss?"

I turned and saw Art, the boy from the ticket machine. "Hello."

"Davy with you?"

"No, I came by myself."

"So you're investigating just like Davy said you would."

"Like Davy said I would?"

Art nodded. "He said you were going to prove Nick's innocent; that's why he had me tell you about the fight I saw."

I grabbed Art's arm. "Did you talk to Inspector Burrows yesterday?"

"No, miss. He wasn't there when I went back, and that constable at the tent looked a bit, well, interfering, if you understand."

I was afraid I did. "Where _are_ your parents?"

"That's a bit personal to ask on such short acquaintance, don't you think?"

"I see."

"But you thought my information was that important?"

"It might be. Come on. I'll escort you to him personally."

"And get on his good side for bringing such an important witness to his attention."

"More to keep you from forgetting again." The rest was only an admittedly nice added benefit.

Inspector Burrows hadn't had time to get very far. In fact, he was almost right where I had left him. "Miss Pengear, I thought you would at least pretend you were going to get some food."

I ignored his tone. "This is a friend of Davy's. He has some information that I thought you would want to hear."

Inspector Burrows stopped walking. I could tell he was ready to send me away when he spotted Art and realized I really did have something useful for him. He turned to Art.

"You have information?"

Art stood a little straighter and puffed out his chest. "I saw the dead man arguing with someone on the day he died."

Inspector Burrows pulled out his notebook.

"Your name?"

"Artemis Sirius Gladwell Chillingsworth."

Inspector Burrows paused with his pencil over the page. "I mean the name your mother gave you."

They stared at each other, Art trying for enough bravado to shake Inspector Burrows, Inspector Burrows calmly expecting to be answered.

Inspector Burrows won.

"John Hodge."

Inspector Burrows scribbled on his pad. "Very well, Mr. Hodge-Chillingsworth, how did you come by this information?"

"I saw him when I was on my way to get something to eat on the midway."

"And you told Miss Pengear before you told me because?"

"You were busy with Cowboy Nick. And I needed to make certain I could trust you. She said I could."

I was touched that Art would try to stand up for me.

Inspector Burrows smiled a little. "I'm sure I'm flattered by that. Would you come with me, Mr. Hodge-Chillingsworth? I have a temporary office set up by the ticket booths. Miss Pengear, I don't want to interfere with your quest for fair food. I'm sure I'll see you again." He led Art away.

I decided retreating and regrouping was my best course of action. After all, I already knew everything Art would tell him, and anything unusual that happened, I could get out of Art later. No, my best move was to get something to eat to keep my cover story intact, then see where Inspector Burrows was planning on investigating and choose another direction.

~ * ~ * ~

Most of the food tents weren't open yet, so it took me almost twenty minutes to find a booth selling fried dough with cinnamon. When I'd found it, I realized I'd made a small circle and ended up back near the ticket tents. Inspector Burrows had told Art he'd set up headquarters somewhere around there. I wondered if I should try to find it or get as far away as possible before he came back.

I was still deciding when I heard my name called. "Miss Pengear, I thought you were getting something to eat."

"I did." I held up the sweet I was eating.

"And then you came back here?"

"The stall was right over there." I pointed.

Inspector Burrows sighed. "A very convenient coincidence, no doubt."

"It wasn't, actually. I had to walk all the way to the ball toss and back around to find this."

"Milk bottle toss, fish bowl toss, or tin can toss?"

"Does it matter?"

"I was just wondering how inconvenienced you were."

"Compared to, say, you?"

He smiled and inclined his head.

"Wasn't Art helpful?" It wouldn't hurt to remind him that I had brought him that clue.

"And how would you know the value of his information?"

"I'm not going to send just anybody to disturb you during an investigation. I checked the quality of the information first."

"I see. Very considerate of you, I'm sure."

As he was talking, we were walking in the direction of the practice tents. I wasn't sure if Inspector Burrows realized he was leading me there, but I doubted it, especially when we came upon Nick Culpepper, and Inspector Burrows moved in front of me, blocking my way. Cowboy Nick didn't seem to notice.

"Howdy, Inspector, and Miss Pengear, right? How's the little buckaroo doing?"

I assumed he meant Davy. "He's with his aunt. You'll probably see him around."

"So he's not with you?" I noticed his accent drop a few notches. "You said you had a few questions for me, Inspector."

"That's right," Inspector Burrows said. "If it won't interfere with your plans."

"I was just going to practice--"

"I don't want to disturb your schedule. Do you mind if I just come along and watch? I can question you there just as well."

Nick shrugged. "I suppose not. There'll be shooting, but you should be fine with that, right?" Nick looked over at me. I smiled back. If Nick wanted to think I was part of this, who was I to disabuse him of that notion?

"Mr. Cardinal said you practice quite often."

"That's right. They even put our wagon near the practice grounds to make it easy for me. Come on, I'll show you." Nick started across the open area behind the wagons. Inspector Burrows hurried to catch up.

Since no one told me not to, I followed Inspector Burrows and Nick.

"Here we are." Nick looked around as though he wasn't sure what to do next.

"Just go ahead and do whatever you were going to," Inspector Burrows said. "I don't want to interrupt you."

Nick looked uncertain, but he went to the shooting range and pinned up his paper target, which had a playing card stuck to the center of it. Inspector Burrows waited for him to check his guns and get into position then stood behind him and slightly to the side. I stood behind Inspector Burrows on the theory that, as a policeman, he would know the safest place to watch from.

Nick got off his first shots, then Inspector Burrows asked, "How often do you practice like this?"

"Every day if I can get the time. Have to keep sharp."

"And for how long?"

"About half an hour in the morning when I'm sure everyone's awake, and as much as I can get in in the evening after the place closes down. And I try to get in an hour of trick roping a day, and another hour of gun tricks, but I don't have any bullets in the guns for those."

"I see, so there's quite a bit of work involved seeing as you do so many kinds of tricks."

"I suppose so." Nick paused to reload. "But I enjoy it."

Inspector Burrows gave him a moment to begin shooting again before he asked, "And do you always aim at the target, even when you don't have any bullets in the gun?"

"Always. Partly a safety thing. You don't want to get in the habit of shooting at just anything. And partly to aid in the illusion of the trick. The audience can feel if you're not doing it properly."

"Have you ever had an incident like this before? Ever shoot someone by accident?"

"Of course not! I'm careful, I tell you."

"But how do you explain it, then? The real bullets in the gun and you hitting him like that?"

"I don't know. I honestly don't know. Jerry and I are so careful to stop something like this from happening."

"And you're certain you never met the victim before he climbed onto your stage?"

"He didn't look familiar."

"Where did you learn to shoot?"

"My grandfather taught me."

"Yes, you said he was with the police."

"That's right. In Boston."

Inspector Burrows blinked once. At first I thought it seemed odd, but then Art appeared from behind the tents. "Hey, Nick! Kingston's looking for you!"

"Thanks, Art." Nick holstered his guns. "I'm sorry, Inspector, but when the circus owner calls..."

"I understand. I'll probably be back, though."

Nick nodded and jogged off towards the office wagons. Art came over and held out his hand until Inspector Burrows dropped a coin into it. "What's he going to do when he realizes Kingston wasn't looking for him?"

Art grinned. "Kingston's in town checking to see our posters are all up where they should be. If he runs into Nick when he gets back, he'll just think he called for him before he left and forgot why. Pleasure doing business with you, Inspector."

As Art ran off, Inspector Burrows went to collect the target. "It seems I'll have to arrest him."

"Arrest Nick? Why?"

"Look at this. Even with me questioning him, even when I was practically accusing him of murder, he never missed a shot."

I looked at the target. Inspector Burrows was right, the bullet holes were all clustered around the playing card, every one at least nicking it. "Because he's a good shot? You knew that."

"I'm sorry, Miss Pengear, but look at the pattern of his shots. He is a crack shot. Even when I was talking to him, even when I practically accused him of killing Mr. Spalding, he didn't miss."

"But--" And then it hit me.

Inspector Burrows saw the moment I understood what he was saying. "Even if that bullet was in the gun by accident, he would have shot at the card, not Mr. Spalding. And from the setup you showed me, he would have had to miss by a fair bit to hit Mr. Spalding in the chest by accident. And that was at what, ten paces? Fifteen? But when I brought up his disapproving relatives, he still managed to hit a target at fifty. He meant to shoot Mr. Spalding. And that makes it murder."

I stared at the holes in the card. "What am I going to tell Davy?"

I didn't expect Inspector Burrows to answer, but he said, "Would it be easier if I told him?"

"No, no. I'll come up with something."

"As long as it's something to tell the boy and not a new way for you to get into trouble."

"Of course not." Clearly investigating was not getting into trouble. "What happened at that first robbery?"

I was surprised when he answered me. "There's nothing much to tell."

"Then there's no reason not to tell me."

He must have realized how worried I was about Davy since he said, "All right, Miss Pengear. Someone broke into the bank through the ventilation shaft. No one could figure out how they gained access to it. The Goston force thought it had to be the circus people because of the setup of the shaft. It was narrow with a lot of turns, so they were looking for someone capable of navigating it, like an acrobat. The thief got the money out of the safe and relocked it, then snuck out again. No fingerprints."

"And the money's been turning up around here?"

"That's right."

"When the circus came?"

"That's right."

"You're certain it was after they came?"

"We don't know the exact date it was spent, but it arrived at the bank the day after they came to town."

"Who deposited it?" When he didn't answer, I thought about it. "Why was the bank looking for five-year-old robbery money from Goston?" Still no answer. "They weren't, were they? They were checking the money coming in. Why? They don't look at every bill that comes in. A criminal brought it in."

Inspector Burrows looked back at me.

"I'm right, I can tell. Not a known thief or you'd be looking at him." I ran through money crimes in my head. "A house of ill repute, perhaps?"

Inspector Burrows rolled his eyes. "You're trying to shock me into telling you."

"Is it working?"

He sighed. "Just a run-of-the-mill bookie. They were watching the money from his legitimate storefront." He pulled the target off of the stand. "Now, if you'll excuse me, an arrest means paperwork."

And paperwork meant no more information for me. "I suppose I had better try to find Davy."

"Well, my offer still stands. Or I could ask Constable Lipson. I think his son is about Davy's age."

"Thanks. I'm sure I'll see you around."

"I'm sure you will."

"You could have said that a little more enthusiastically." I smiled as I said it, though, and turned towards the midway. It was best if Inspector Burrows thought I was looking for more food.

# Chapter 6

I LEFT INSPECTOR BURROWS at the practice grounds and headed back towards the public areas. If I didn't do something, Nick was going to get arrested and charged with murder, and much as I hated to admit it, he did look like a good suspect. But Davy had been so certain, I kept thinking it couldn't hurt to find out just a little more. But how could I do that?

I nibbled at my fried dough. There really was no way for me to interview the other witnesses from the audience. Most of them would have had quite enough of the carnival and wouldn't be hanging around today, and somehow I didn't think Inspector Burrows was in any mood to let me see his list of addresses.

Except Lucinda. Not only had she been the best placed to see it happen, but I knew more or less where to find her.

I glanced back, but Inspector Burrows was still at the practice grounds, so I turned away from the midway and slipped around Nick's wagon. That put me in the middle of the area of performers' wagons. The only question was which was Lucinda's.

"Miss Pengear?"

I turned and found Art trailing along behind me. "Hello, Art."

"Was that bad for Nick?"

I knew what he meant at once. "It wasn't good, I'm afraid."

"Oh, I didn't mean--I mean..."

I realized what he was really asking. "Oh, not your bit. Inspector Burrows would have gotten the target anyway. No, I'm afraid it's Nick's talent that's getting him in trouble."

"I heard. He's too good to miss unless he wants to. But I still don't believe it. He's a good bloke. I mean, he wouldn't just shoot somebody. I know it."

"Davy said the same thing, although he doesn't know him, of course."

"But I do. That's why I thought, if I could find out what the inspector was thinking..." Art started looking around. He fixated on a pair of roustabouts pounding in tent stakes. "Don't know why Kingston hires louts like that. They're dangerous."

"Hmm." There was something he wasn't telling me. So what was it?

"If one of the main tent poles isn't put in right, it'll bring the whole thing down right on the audience's heads."

He was still staring at something just beyond the roustabouts he was talking about. I leaned to the side so I could see what was in his line of sight. The practice grounds. I could see glimpses of them between the wagons. He was worrying about Nick. So he really did believe that he was innocent. Or he wanted to believe it, at least.

"I mean, do you think they'd know the difference between a tent pole that supports the whole thing and one that just holds up an end?"

I realized I wasn't paying attention to what Art was saying. I looked around until I spotted the roustabout he was talking about. "Do you think he's involved?"

"Charlie? He hasn't got the brains. Now Simon, he'd be clever enough, but he's much too nice. Haven't you heard a word I've said?"

I tried to cover by asking, "Where is Lucinda's wagon?"

"Then you _are_ going to investigate. Just like Davy said."

So that was it. "I'm sure Davy exaggerated my abilities."

"But you have solved mysteries before. Ones that Scotland Yard had given up on. Davy said they thought his aunt had been a murderer, and you proved that she was innocent. You'll do the same for Nick, right?"

I sighed. "I just want to have a word with Lucinda and find out what she saw."

"Oh, I don't expect a guarantee or anything. Just have a bit of a poke at the facts."

"Don't you trust Inspector Burrows?"

"He's all right for a copper, but I trust you more." He grinned up at me, and I was reminded strongly that he was only a year or two older than Davy. Then Art pointed over my shoulder. "Lucinda's is the green one with blue trim. I'd escort you, but I don't think the inspector can get by without me."

"Naturally."

"I'll let you know if I hear anything interesting."

"Thanks." I watched him run back towards the practice grounds then started for the green wagon with blue trim.

~ * ~ * ~

Lucinda's wagon was a little smaller than Nick's, but she had it all to herself. I pretended to study the geraniums she had planted in a pair of empty tea tins stuck on either side of her door while I tried to come up with a good way to approach her.

Lucinda answered the question for me. I saw the curtain twitch, then the door opened, and Lucinda stood there, staring at me. "Can I help you?"

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to bother you. I was just wondering how you were able to grow them so well on the side of a moving vehicle. They're really beautiful." Flattery didn't seem to be working, but I kept at it. I extended my hand. "Cassandra Pengear."

She hesitated. "I think Joe mentioned you. You were with the police."

"Not officially. Inspector Burrows press-ganged me into taking notes. I'm a typist, you see, and I sometimes work for the Yard."

"And now you're poking around the accident, aren't you?"

I knew I wouldn't get anything out of Lucinda if she was on the defensive. "I suppose I am. I was there, at the show."

"With all the others, whispering."

"Well, you see, I was with a ten-year-old boy, and I'm trying to figure out how to explain to him what happened."

That seemed to soften her a little. "Well, accidents do happen, I'm afraid, especially with firearms."

It seemed to be a way in. "I know, but he was so excited about seeing a real cowboy. If there was something I could tell him, an explanation of how it went wrong."

"I don't know how--"

I saw I was losing her, so I switched tactics. "You must have been so upset being so close to it. It was disturbing enough being in the audience."

"Yes, it was terrible. I was so upset, I had to go to the infirmary and ask Doc for a sedative."

"But you did have the presence of mind to get everyone out and refunded for the tickets."

"Well, that's the circus training. Show must go on. Never let them see you cry. As soon as the audience left, I fell apart."

"So Art brought you to the infirmary then?"

"No, no. I sent him away. I didn't want him to be as upset as I was. He talks a good line, but I think he's only eleven. Twelve at most. And he's a friend of Nick's."

"Is that why Inspector Burrows didn't interview you yesterday?"

"It might have been. I didn't realize the police were involved at all until I woke up this morning, and by then everyone was talking about it."

"I suppose you'll be an important witness, though. I mean, you saw everything."

Lucinda pulled back. "Do you think he thinks that? I mean, there was nothing to see."

"But you know how Nick set up the trick."

"I don't know how that could be of any help. I mean, what kinds of things do you think he'd ask?"

"Well, I would think he'd want to know how you choose your volunteers." When she didn't offer an answer, I went on. "How do you choose your volunteers? I mean, you may as well practice the answers so you'll be ready."

"I suppose so." Lucinda came out of her wagon and sat on the step. I joined her, sitting on the step below so I could look up innocently at her. "I look for someone who the audience will like. For the first trick, the roping, it's all right if they're a bit obnoxious, a bit hungry for the spotlight, since the tying up at the end makes the audience feel vindicated. The second trick has less for them to do, so I pick someone who seems typical of the crowd that day."

"What if they don't want to do it?"

"I tease them a little. It makes for good theater."

"So you still take them?"

"If they're with friends. The group usually becomes very supportive once they see their friend on stage, and the volunteer usually starts to have a good time once they feel like they're performing."

"Did Mr. Spalding seem like he wanted to be on stage?"

"Mr. Spalding? Who--Oh, was that his name? No one said--Well, he didn't raise his hand or anything, but he was _looking_ at me, if you know what I mean, so I thought he'd like the attention."

"I suppose you find a lot of volunteers that way."

Lucinda smiled. "Not when their wives are there, of course."

Good, she was relaxing. "I suppose not. Did you notice anything unusual during the trick?"

"Other than how it ended? No. Nick did everything just the same."

"And no one had tampered with the gun?"

"It looked the same as always, but I wasn't looking for anything unusual. And I don't really do much with the guns, just carry them out to him."

"And before the show?"

"I was in my wagon, dressing. These costumes take forever to put on properly." Lucinda glanced at the door. "I really should be practicing."

"So Nick's show will go on?"

"If he hasn't been arrested. If he has, I'll find someone else who needs help. Joe Cardinal might want a little flair. Heaven knows his show needs it."

I smiled. "It was a trifle pedantic."

"There's a reason we call him the Professor. He thinks it's a compliment though." She shrugged. "I'd suggest you take that nephew of yours to see the Mysterious Cobra. The snakes terrify me, but boys always love that one."

"Maybe I'll get his aunt to take him." I could see Lucinda was edging towards the door. If I wanted to be able to question her again, I'd have to stay on her good side now. I stood up. "Thanks for the suggestion. Perhaps I'll be able to catch another of your shows."

"I hope so." She seemed much friendlier now that she was getting rid of me.

Away from the wagon, I decided I'd pressed my luck and Inspector Burrows's patience about as far as I could for one morning, so I started for the midway. As I slipped out to the main path between two wagons, I almost knocked Art and Davy down.

"Thought we'd see if you needed our help."

"I thought Inspector Burrows couldn't function without you."

"He can't. He just doesn't realize it yet."

I smiled a little. Inspector Burrows never seemed to appreciate how much he needed me, either.

Art saw his opening. "Did you get anything out of Lucinda?"

"Not really. Not yet, anyway."

"Maybe she knows Martha," Davy suggested. "Did you ask her that?"

"She's the kind of witness I have to step gently around. I can't ask her too many things directly." But it was a good idea. Lucinda seemed the sort to move around a lot. But then so did a lot of performers. And if she knew this person... "Art, is there anyone else here who might have been in shows up north?"

Art folded his arms and rested his index finger along his chin. I supposed it was his thinking posture. "Lots of folks move around a lot in this game. I can ask around if it would help Nick."

"It would."

"Then I'm your man. Leave it to me." He saluted and dashed between the tents.

Davy looked as though he wanted to follow. "Come on. Lucinda suggested the Mysterious Cobra as something you'd like. I'll buy you a ticket, and you can see it by yourself."

"By myself? Really?"

"As long as you meet me exactly where I tell you when it's over."

"Are you trying to get rid of me?"

"Not at all."

"Then why--"

"I don't want to see the snakes." Which was true, but I also wanted him out of the way until I could find Mrs. Albright.

~ * ~ * ~

I waited until Davy and I were near the ticket booth by the show tents, but then I couldn't put it off any longer. "Davy, I have to talk to you about Cowboy Nick."

"You were talking to that inspector, weren't you? You and Art?"

"That's right, I was. And he has some very compelling evidence against Mr. Culpepper."

"He didn't do it."

"Davy, I know you don't want to believe it, but--"

"But he didn't do it."

I tried another tactic. "I know you don't want to believe that a cowboy could do something like that, but he isn't a real cowboy, just an actor."

"I know that. And Redbird isn't a real Indian. But he still didn't do it."

I pulled out the money for his ticket, four pence instead of two and halfpence since I hadn't used the ticket machine out front. "Why are you so sure?"

"You heard him scream, right?"

"Now Davy, we all like to think--"

"No, I mean it. You heard him scream."

I paused and thought back to that moment in the show. "You're right. That wasn't the scream of someone intending to kill someone else. He was as shocked as the rest of us. Maybe more so."

The ticket seller waved Davy's ticket in front of my nose, and I realized I'd become distracted by this new idea. I took the ticket from him.

"How long is the show?"

"Twenty minutes."

I handed Davy his ticket. "You meet me by that sign as soon as the show's over, all right?" I pointed to the poster for the Mysterious Cobra.

He took the ticket. "All right."

That gave me fifteen minutes at most to find Mrs. Albright.

"Where did you last see your aunt?"

Davy scratched the toe of his boot in the dirt.

I pinched the corner of his ticket between my thumb and forefinger, giving the impression I'd take it back if I wasn't answered.

"We were by the milk bottle toss, going to look at games."

"All right, by the sign, twenty minutes." I let go of the ticket.

"Right." Davy ran for the entrance to the tent.

I waited until I saw him enter the tent then started for the midway games.

As I walked past the show tents, I kept half my mind on spotting Mrs. Albright and let the other half wander around the idea Davy had just put there. He was right; that had not been the scream of someone who'd just committed murder. And Cowboy Nick, for all his talents, really wasn't much of an actor. He had been genuinely upset about the shooting, even though Inspector Burrows had interesting evidence suggesting he was involved.

Inspector Burrows was a fair man, but as a policeman, he did have to follow the evidence and only the evidence. So I just had to find him some evidence that pointed to someone other than Nick. I just had no idea how to go about doing it.

I spotted the shooting gallery up ahead. That meant the rest of the games were nearby. It was also the first place I would go to look for Davy, so it was a good place to start looking for Mrs. Albright. As I sped up to reach it, I heard my name called.

Mrs. Albright was three booths down from the shooting gallery when she spotted me and hurried in my direction. "Cassie, just who I needed. It's Davy."

"He's in the snake tent."

Mrs. Albright collapsed against the fish bowl stall. "Oh, I was so worried. He wandered off near the ring toss. I was hoping he'd come here to try the shooting gallery. I suppose even snakes have their uses."

"Come on. He's supposed to meet us when the show ends."

I led Mrs. Albright back to the area near the snake tent. We were just getting settled in to wait for Davy when Art came running down the midway to meet me. "I found someone for you." He was out of breath when he reached me, and I had to wait while he panted.

"Do you have a name?"

Art nodded. "Cheerful Chatsworth. He's a clown. He's been with every outfit from here to Dublin."

"That does sound promising."

Art perked up. "Come on then."

Mrs. Albright nodded. "Go on, Cassie. I'll wait here for Davy then get some of Inspector Burrows's handcuffs and chain him to me."

# Chapter 7

ART BROUGHT ME BACK to the area set aside for the performers and led me down the row of tents and trailers to a small, nondescript wagon. Art pounded on the door. "I brought her."

The door was opened by a small man as nondescript as the wagon except for the lime-green leggings he was wearing. "You're the one trying to help Nick?"

It was easiest to just say, "That's right."

"I told her you know everyone in this trade."

Chatsworth smiled, a broad, slightly ironic smile. "I wouldn't say everyone, lad. But I've known most of the outfits, and I know carnival people. That's why I'm surprised by Nick. Such a careful, conscientious fellow. He's one of the ones who cares about the craft of a show like this. Well now, miss, come inside and tell me what you want to know."

As I followed him up into the wagon, I asked, "Have you ever played Newcastle?"

"It's been a while since I was up that way. At least five years."

"Was it with Lyndvale Brothers?"

"No, I was with Westham and Sons. It was playing the same route as Lyndvale, though."

"Do you remember anyone else from Kingston's who was up there at the time?"

"Lucinda was there with me, but she was going by another stage name then. The Paragon Pauline. And Nick played a few shows there a few years ago, I think, but I didn't know him then; that's just from things he said."

"What did Lucinda do when she was up there?"

"Magician's assistant when I knew her."

"And you all came to Kingston's together?"

"No, there was another magician I knew who was looking for an assistant, so I suggested she meet up with him. The Amazing Archimedes, the Wizard of Northumberland. He did rope tricks. I always thought he should do something with water, but apparently he was afraid of it. Couldn't swim, I suppose. Actually, I think he was with Lyndvale at the time."

It could be something. "What did he look like? Was he tall?"

"I didn't think so, but then what do you consider tall?"

The question was what did Art consider tall. "Did he have a beard or a mustache?"

"Always clean shaven when I knew him."

"Hair color?"

"He died it black for his show. I don't know what it was naturally. You seem very interested in him."

"It's a lead, which is better than what I had before. Have you seen him since?"

"Not a hair. Not for years. He might even be out of the game. Not much help, I'm afraid."

Well, I hadn't really expected him to point me to the robber on the first try. "Have you heard the name Martha?"

Cheerful Chatsworth shook his head. "But then most people don't know my name is actually Charlie."

"Is there anyone else here who might know?"

"Most of the people here are new to the trade. It's not a well-paying gig. I would have sent you to Flyingcrow if he were still around. He's been in a few outfits, and people talk to him; he's just the sort you trust. In fact, I met him when he was working up north. Come to think of it, I think he was with Lyndvale then. Otherwise, I think Lucinda's knocked around a good bit, at least I've met her at other circuses, although she keeps to herself. And Nick has been here a while. He may have heard something."

I'd tried Lucinda, and she would only tell me what she wanted me to know. And if Nick knew anything, surely he would have told me already.

"And does the name Spalding sound familiar?"

"Sorry, no. Wasn't that the victim?"

I nodded. "He was a banker. How did you know?"

"It's all anyone is talking about. I think Art told me. Or maybe it was Lucinda. Could have been one of the roustabouts at breakfast. Word travels fast here."

"How is Lucinda doing today?" I'd thought she seemed all right, but I didn't know her well.

"She was next to the victim when he was shot, wasn't she? How terrible for her. She's very much the performer--show must go on and all that--but she's been on edge all morning. She says she's worried about the job, but then she would." He glanced at his pocket watch. "If you don't mind, my make-up does take some time to put on."

I stood up. "Of course. I didn't mean to be in the way. If you think of anything else, please let me know." I handed him one of my cards and left the wagon.

Outside, I could tell that Art was disappointed his contribution hadn't solved the case. I put on my most hopeful smile. "Well, it seems Mr. Chatsworth gave me my next lead. Was Mr. Flyingcrow friendly with Nick?"

Art seemed cheered by the idea that Cheerful Chatsworth had put me onto a new lead. "I'd say so. They didn't room together like him and Redbird, but they did seem to practice together, and they were both American, so I think they had things to talk about."

"Then I'll go and see if I can have a word with him. Would you find Mrs. Albright and Davy and tell them I've gone? They're probably still near the snake tent." I was counting on Davy to distract him.

# Chapter 8

I TOOK THE UNDERGROUND to Earls Court and walked the rest of the way to the exhibition grounds. When I got there, the ticket booth looked deserted, and I realized I should have checked when the show actually opened. There was no real barrier to entering, though, just a fence with a few ropes to funnel paying guests inside, but they were only closed off with a chain, easy enough to climb under and get inside. I hesitated for a second, but I had come this far, and how much trouble could I realistically get into? I gathered up my skirts and crab walked under the chain before I could change my mind.

I hadn't even straightened up when I saw a wagon wheel pull to a stop in front of me. I looked up and found a full Conestoga wagon just beside me, the driver grinning down at me. "Howdy, little lady. Couldn't wait to see your first cowboy, eh?"

I stood up and dusted off my skirt. "I needed to discuss something with one of the performers here."

"Hey, you're from back home." His accent became less penny novelette and more what I'd been used to hearing. "Let me see, Midwest. Not quite Chicago. Somewhere in Pennsylvania, maybe."

"Ohio."

"Ah. My sister lives in Philadelphia." He was grinning at me like he'd seen a long-lost cousin.

"We're practically neighbors, then."

"So you are. Who were you trying to see?"

"George Flyingcrow."

"That's the Indian village. I'm taking this to the settlers' encampment. It's in the same direction. Climb on up."

I used the wagon wheel to climb into the seat beside him. He gave me a chance to get settled then set the steam levers and drove off. "What do you think? Genuine wagon refitted for steam. We take the engine off if we need to use it in the show so the horses can pull it, and then it looks like the real thing."

"Fascinating." I wasn't sure that it was, but he seemed so enthusiastic that I had to say something nice.

"Wish we'd had one when I traveled to St. Joe. But the sand would probably have gummed up the engine. And the water for the steam would have been a problem. Do you know where to buy socks here?"

"What?" That had come out of nowhere.

"Socks. They gave us all kinds of ideas for places to buy a pint, and tea, and little statues of the Tower, but no one tells you where to buy a nice pair of socks that isn't plastered with pictures of Big Ben."

I smiled. "You could try one of the department stores on Oxford Street. Or maybe one of the markets. Even Portobello Road could have someone selling knitwear."

We talked about places to buy normal necessities with occasional breaks for my driver to point out the sights: a group of dignitaries getting a preview, a target that had been shot at by Annie Oakley, and the highlight, a pen of actual buffalo--something I'd never seen before--until we arrived at the Indian village. "George is in one of the wagons. Second blue one, I think."

I climbed down. "Thanks for the ride." I waved as he rode off. With all the animals and the hum of western accents, it felt as if he was preparing to cross the Dakota Territory. When he was out of sight, I went in search of the second blue wagon.

The wagons were all lined up along the edge of the village. I located the second blue one and knocked on the door. It was opened by a tall, thin man with black hair. Even though he was wearing a suit that had clearly come from Oxford Street, he looked more like a real Indian than anyone at Kingston's. He seemed confused to have a guest and was trying to place me. "Princess wishes a powwow?"

"I'm here about a murder."

"A murder?" He dropped the act at once. "Then I take it you're not part of Mr. Gladstone's party. You'd better come inside."

I followed him into the wagon. Inside was neat but small, with a bed folded up against the wall and a table that had been unfolded into the room. He gestured for me to sit on the bench by the window. "I could offer you some coffee. I haven't developed a taste for English tea, but I could borrow some from Sybil Astra behind us. Tea leaf reading optional."

I smiled. "Coffee is fine."

As he poured out, Mr. Flyingcrow asked, "When did this murder take place?"

"Just after one o'clock yesterday."

"Then I have an alibi. I was on horseback, ready to charge a wagon train for the fourth time. Twenty Lakota will vouch for it. Some of the Pawnee might, too. So who died?"

"A Mr. Spalding at the Kingston circus."

"Spalding? Must have been after my time." He handed over my cup. "Since when did Scotland Yard start hiring women? But I suppose you wanted to ask some of the questions."

I smiled again. "I'm not with Scotland Yard."

"Then should I be expecting another visitor?"

"No, they think they have their man. Nicodemus Culpepper."

"Nick? I wouldn't have believed it. What happened?"

"Mr. Spalding was shot during Nick's show. On stage. By Nick, it appears."

Mr. Flyingcrow offered me a sugar bowl. "That makes it even harder to believe."

"That's what my landlady's ten-year-old nephew says."

"Maybe the witnesses were wrong?"

"I was there."

He sighed. "It's still hard to believe. Nick was always so careful in his shows. He was one of the few performers who really understood the danger of his act. His family was with the police in Boston."

"Did you know of anyone he had trouble with?"

"No, Nick was a nice guy. He kept to himself most of the time. We were friends, but we were both a bit homesick, so we liked to talk about the old days."

"So you've been in other shows?"

"Not as many as some, but yes, a few."

"What about the Lyndvale Brothers?"

"That was a long time ago. At least five years."

"Were you there during the troubles with the police?"

"You mean the robbery? I was. But they ruled out the main acts there. We were all in the main tent for an encore when they think it happened."

"Why did you leave?"

"I was lonely there, and the police poking around spooked me. I stayed around until they were satisfied; then I left."

"And how did you end up at Kingston's?"

"I knew a clown named Charlie. He usually goes by Cheerful Chatsworth. The show he was with was folding, and he knew Kingston was hiring, so he suggested we go down together."

"Go down together? So he was with Lyndvale, too?"

"No, the Weston and Sons Carnival in Backworth. I was playing in Goston when it folded, which was nearby. They're both up north, near Newcastle."

"Why did it fold? The robbery?"

"The owner died, and his heirs weren't interested in keeping it open. None of whom were named Weston, as it turned out."

"So you came here with Chatsworth?"

"No, the police were still investigating us when he left, and I knew it would look suspicious if I left then. Charlie went down, and I followed a few weeks later."

An idea was forming in the back of my mind. "Did anyone else go to Kingston's with Charlie?"

"I think so, but I'm not sure who. Kingston doesn't pay well, so he wasn't the first choice. I went because it was far from Goston and Newcastle and all of that trouble, and it isn't easy to find an outfit who's interested in an act like mine, or it wasn't. Now that this show is popular, I'd have more options if I wanted to leave."

"Did you have any trouble with Kingston when you left?"

"No, he begged a little, but he didn't try anything underhanded."

"Why did you leave him?"

"Money mostly. Cody offered me more and a signing bonus that was enough to buy out my contract with Kingston. Besides, I like it better here. It was lonely at Kingston's. Nick was the only one who had been west of the Mississippi, or of the Atlantic. Here, there's a whole village who remembers the same places I do."

"Nick really had been out west?"

"For a whole two weeks before his parents found out and had him sent back home."

"I'll have to tell Davy that. It might be enough to make him a real cowboy in his eyes. If he isn't found guilty, of course. Was there a reason you needed the money?"

"Grandfather always said you win a war by knowing the enemies' weapons. My brother took that to mean law school. He got into Boston University. That was one of the things Nick and I talked about, the places my brother would be seeing. He's got scholarships, but food and rent still cost money. Not much hunting up there. Do you have any leads to help Nick?"

"There might be one. Do you know someone named Martha?"

"Yes, in fact, she was at Weston and Sons."

"How can I find her?"

"If it's the same person, you might know her as the Graceful Griselda, or the Paragon Pauline, or the Lovely Lucinda. Lucinda it seems. She changes names whenever she changes acts. Her real name is Martha Higgins. I only know that because I happened to be in the office getting a telegram from home when Kingston interviewed her for the job, and she had to tell him the name to put on her paycheck. She was Graceful Griselda, assistant to the Captivating Cobra, at the time, but Jim, that's Cobra's real name, was always talking about doing a solo act. With snakes, I think. She used to have a poster on her wall from Lyndvale Brothers if you're interested."

"Thank you. That's the best lead we've got."

"Then I wish I knew more about her. She's not one for sharing, though. Is there anything else?"

"I wish there was."

"Well, if you think of anything to help Nick, let me know."

"I will."

Mr. Flyingcrow saw me to the door, which really only involved standing up. He poked around the shelf above the door. "Give these to your young friend, the one who believes in Nick."

I looked at the papers he handed me. "Tickets to the show? He'll be thrilled."

"The last is a backstage pass. He can meet the horses, see the tents, maybe shoot a bow. All the things boys like."

"You've just made his summer. Thank you."

"Do you want me to find a wagon to bring you back to the gate?"

"That's all right. I can find it. Thanks again."

Mr. Flyingcrow watched from his wagon until I'd made it to the main path and was walking in the direction of the entrance. When I turned back, he waved and went inside.

# Chapter 9

WHEN I LEFT BUFFALO BILL'S, I went directly back to the Kingston Carnival. As I walked from the Underground stop to the carnival, I planned my next move. This time I was going to go looking for Inspector Burrows. Mr. Flyingcrow had put a new idea into my head, and Inspector Burrows had the resources to check it out. It was most likely he'd be wherever Nick was. Maybe the practice grounds. Or the crime scene. I decided that would be my first stop. If he wasn't there, there would be a constable, or maybe Art lurking around. Someone there would know where he was.

I was not expecting to run into Inspector Burrows just beyond the entrance, but there he was. I was disappointed to see he had Constable Lipson with him, leading Nick away in handcuffs. Davy and Art were running after them. Davy spotted me first and came running. "Miss Pengear! Miss Pengear! They're arresting Nick!"

Art ran after him. "She can see that." He looked up at me. "But you're going to prove he didn't do it, right?"

I avoided the question by asking Davy, "Does your aunt know where you are?"

He hesitated and was saved from answering by Inspector Burrows catching up with us.

"Miss Pengear, I did wonder why you weren't chasing after me to object along with the boys."

"Well, I'm objecting now. And I have some new information for you."

"I thought you weren't investigating." But he turned to Constable Lipson. "Take him in and start processing him. I'll be along soon."

Constable Lipson nodded and pushed Cowboy Nick towards the exit.

Cowboy Nick turned to me.

"I didn't do it. Miss Pengear, you believe me, don't you? I didn't do it. I didn't shoot at him."

As Constable Lipson led Cowboy Nick away, Davy grabbed my skirt. I patted his arm and stared at Art until he caught on. "Come on. Let's let her deal with the coppers."

I gave Davy a little push, and he followed Art back into the carnival.

Inspector Burrows watched them leave then turned to me. "So what is this new information?"

"There was another carnival near Goston five years ago. And Lucinda worked there."

Inspector Burrows was not as impressed as I'd hoped he'd be.

"Don't you see, she was near Goston when the robbery happened."

"Miss Pengear, have you ever known me to ignore a clue?"

"Not you, the original detective. Think about it. There's a robbery, so the carnival in town is the first suspect."

"Right, but there was no proof so no arrests."

"But there was another carnival nearby. Were they ever looked at?"

"If there was a connection, I'm sure--"

"What if there wasn't a connection, at least not one they could see, until several former members turned up here, with a dead banker and money from the robbery turning up?"

"Miss Pengear, there are two very important words in that last sentence. Dead banker. Stay out of this."

"I'm going. I'm going." No need to tell him where I was going.

Inspector Burrows sighed in a way that told me he didn't believe me, but he had a prisoner to process. I waited until I saw him walk out through the exit ropes then went back towards the midway.

The arrest was wrong. I just didn't know why. On the one hand, Inspector Burrows was right; if Nick's shot hadn't gone through the card, it was because he didn't want it to. But Davy was right, too; there was no way Inspector Burrows would convince me that Nick's reaction had been anything but shock and horror. So how could both obviously true facts be true at the same time? The more I thought about it, the more it seemed like asking why a raven was like a writing desk.

Well, if I couldn't solve it from that end, I'd just have to start at another. Maybe if I found another suspect, I'd be able to see how the trick had been done. I had the name of the second carnival; maybe that was a way to start. I was considering the best way to discreetly ask if anyone had been there when I felt two short presences following me.

"Hello, boys."

"You noticed us?" Davy asked.

I nodded and slowed so they were walking beside me.

"I guess we're not that good at tailing."

Art shrugged. "You just need more practice. So what are we investigating?"

I grabbed both their arms. "The mystery of the missing aunt."

"How is that going to help Nick?"

"By giving me one less thing to worry about. Now come along. Where did you see her last?"

Davy hung his head. "By the food stalls, but I told her I was with Art."

"Then come on."

They both glared at me, but they followed without protest and stayed silent as we walked.

As we passed Mr. Cardinal's tent, I noticed that there was no one outside and nothing stopping us from entering. I had thought I should go back to the beginning...

"Art, is the stage in Mr. Cardinal's tent the same setup as Mr. Culpepper's?"

"That's right. Nick's tent used to be Cobra's when he had a magic act, and Redbird's was for a knife thrower."

"What happened?" Davy asked.

"You don't want to know." Art said with so much drama I decided the knife thrower must have quietly retired.

I turned to Davy. "Your aunt really knows where you are?"

"Promise."

"I heard him tell her."

"Please can we help?"

They looked so eager, I couldn't say anything but, "All right. Come along."

Inside, Inspector Burrows had taken away the tables and chairs he'd used for his headquarters, so the tent looked very similar to Nick's.

"They're done with the crime scene." Davy sounded disappointed.

"It never was a crime scene," Art pointed out.

"And that means we can poke around." I led the way to the stage.

"What are we looking for?" Art asked.

"Some new idea about what happened."

"No matchbooks? Footprints? Fingerprints?"

"Inspector Burrows would already have found all of those. And as you just said, this wasn't a crime scene." I stood on the stage and looked around. "All right. Would you two like to help me recreate it?"

"We're your men." Art stood at attention.

Davy saluted.

"All right. You both remember how the trick is set up? Good. Then Davy, go stand there. You'll be Mr. Spalding."

"Why do I have to be the victim?"

Art started laughing, but Davy took the card I held out and went to stand on the stage.

"Art, go stand next to him. You get to be Lucinda."

Art stopped laughing just as Davy started. I glared at Art until he got into position. When they were set up, I went to the other end of the stage to see things from Cowboy Nick's vantage point, but no inspiration struck. Someone had shot Mr. Spalding. If it wasn't Nick, then there had to be someone else with a gun in the tent. I did notice there were only a few feet of space behind the curtain, not the full backstage area of a theater, but that didn't help.

I jumped down and walked around the audience area, stopping to look at the stage from different locations.

"Do you think someone from the audience shot him?" Art asked.

"Inspector Burrows would have noticed if the angle of the shot was wrong."

"And he fell back," Davy added, "not to the side like he'd been shot from out there."

"Good thinking." I climbed back on stage and made another circuit. "All right, boys. Thanks for your help."

"You mean you're done with us?" Davy looked disappointed.

"Come on. There's got to be something the coppers missed."

While Art and Davy searched the ground, I took another look at the area behind where Cowboy Nick would have stood, even leaning back to get a better look at the top of the tent, but no one could have been hiding in the ropes holding it up. And even if there had been someone hiding in the wings, it still looked bad for Nick. I didn't think there was anyplace in the tent where a second gunman could have hidden and gotten the right angle except behind Nick. And while he would have been hidden from the audience there, I didn't see how someone could have been back there without Nick at least sensing something, not unless he was pressed all the way against the back of the tent. And even then, Nick had been facing away from Lucinda and Mr. Spalding just before he shot.

I crossed the stage and stood in Lucinda's spot to look at the scene from her perspective. As I looked around, I realized the second shooter theory was even worse for her. While there was a tiny chance Nick might not have known about someone behind him, there was no way Lucinda hadn't seen him.

"All right, boys. Let's go find Davy's aunt."

Both boys got up reluctantly and followed me out of the tent.

When I was sure they wouldn't sneak off, I asked Art, "Do you remember anything else about the man you saw? What he looked like? What he was wearing?"

Art shook his head. "The inspector asked me the same thing, but all I could remember was that he had big mutton-chop whiskers. I didn't think it was important then."

"And there was no reason that you would."

Davy perked up now that he felt he was investigating again. "Maybe Malvolio could hypnotize you. Or Madame Sybil. Is she any good?"

"I think they're both frauds."

"Oh. Maybe I could get a book on it or something."

"Hey, isn't that your aunt?"

"Where?" Davy was looking right at her.

I grabbed his arm. "There she is." I steered him towards Mrs. Albright.

Mrs. Albright spotted us as we approached. "Davy, I thought you said you were going to say hi to your friend, not go wandering off. What if Miss Pengear wasn't here to find you? Thank you again, Cassie. Now you two realize you're interfering with her investigation, don't you? What do you have to say for yourselves?"

"I've decided to change my name. I want to be Sinbad Hercules Featherworth," Davy answered.

Mrs. Albright looked horrified. "Davy, what will your mother say? She wasn't fond of the idea of you spending so much time at that carnival to begin with. Now what's wrong with your name?"

"He should be allowed to be called whatever he wants to be," Art spoke up. "I changed my name as soon as I joined the circus. Sinbad here should start early if that's his intention."

I pretended to be very busy with my gloves. "Maybe you should have started a little later."

Art glared at me. "Should've known you'd take her side."

"Well, Artemis is a girl's name."

"What?"

"Artemis, Greek goddess of the hunt. Her Roman equivalent is Diana. Davy, if you're going to change your name, I'd be sure to do enough research first. You wouldn't want to be stuck with something worse."

Art had completely abandoned Davy's name change. "What am I going to do? They all call me Art here. I can't change that without explaining..."

Davy patted Art's hand. "I know. Say it's short for Arthur. That's a boy's name."

Art looked up. "Arthur. Yeah, that'll work. He was a king, so that's good."

"And I could be Hawk. That's a good name, and it's short for Hawkin, so I wouldn't really have to change anything, Auntie."

Mrs. Albright sighed. "It's certainly better than the alternatives. Come along. You need to have some kind of lunch."

"And Miss Pengear needs to prove Cowboy Nick's innocent." He ignored the hand Mrs. Albright held out but did start following her towards the food tents.

"See you later, Hawk."

Davy turned back. "Aren't you coming?"

"Nah, I think Miss Pengear needs a guide. I'm going to help her prove Nick's innocent."

"I'll come help when I've gotten ri--when I've had lunch with Auntie Agnes."

I smiled at Mrs. Albright and led Art off in the direction of the performers' tents, giving Mrs. Albright a chance to get Davy away.

Art stayed quiet as we walked together down the midway, letting me think. The mysterious man was the best clue we had. It was too bad Art's description was so vague. Of course, I wouldn't tell him that. Davy had suggested a hypnotist, and I was starting to think that was my best chance.

"That's where it happened." Art broke into my thoughts.

"Where what happened?"

"The argument, of course."

I stopped and looked up and down the midway where we were standing. "I suppose Inspector Burrows already spoke to all of the sellers around here."

Art nodded. "He had constables at it all morning. Scared away a good number of customers."

So I didn't need to worry about that kind of boring, routine work. But this was Art's clue, and he was proud of it. "Can you show me exactly where it happened?"

"Sure, I was standing right there." Art pointed to a tent near the games. "And they were right here." He led me to a tent set up for a ball toss. It was being run by a young man who was clearly more interested in watching the girl running the photography booth across the way than in listening to customer conversations.

"So Spalding was standing here?" Art was so enthusiastic, I figured I may as well try to recreate it.

At least Art was pleased. "That's right. And the other man was leaning on the tent pole there."

I took the other pose and looked around. Three people wandered away from the ball toss when the barker wouldn't take their money--he didn't notice them--only to be accosted by the girl at the photography booth.

"Come back anytime before closing tomorrow if you'd like a personalized souvenir," she called after them.

"Come on, Art. I have an idea." I led the way to the photographer's booth.

The photographer looked up when we approached, but I started speaking before she could begin her patter. "Were you here yesterday?"

"That's right, miss. Since we opened for the day."

"Could I take a look at your pictures from around eleven yesterday morning?"

"Sorry, miss. Only the people in the picture get to see the picture."

So much for that idea. Art looked crushed too.

"I think you could make an exception." Inspector Burrows was standing behind us, holding out his warrant card.

"Course, sir. Right away, Inspector." The photographer poked around her boxes until she found the right set of photos. She handed the box to Inspector Burrows, who handed it to me with an amused look. I handed it to Art. "Look through these and see if you can find the man you saw Spalding arguing with, even somewhere in the background."

Art took the box and flipped through the pictures, studying them with all the intensity of a trained investigator. "That's him." He pulled out a picture and held it out to me, pointing to a man in a suit that was too big for him, with mutton-chop whiskers and a large moustache.

Inspector Burrows leaned over to look at the picture over my shoulder. "That's what you wanted to know?"

"That's right. That's the man who was arguing with Spalding hours before he was killed."

"Very interesting." His tone told me he did not find it the least bit interesting. He looked at the photographer. "Thank you for your help, miss." He tipped his hat and walked down the midway towards Nick's tent.

I handed back the photograph. "I'll be back in a few minutes. There's someone else I want to show these pictures to."

"The inspector didn't say..."

"I'll just be a minute."

The photographer still looked doubtful, but she put the box of prints near the camera and watched us walk away.

"Art, run and find Cheerful Chatsworth fast, before she changes her mind."

"Right, miss." He saluted and ran down the midway.

# Chapter 10

ART WAS BACK DRAGGING Chatsworth behind him before I'd had a chance to decide whether or not to go after Inspector Burrows.

"I got him, Miss Pengear."

Chatsworth smiled at me. "Not that I put up much of a struggle."

I smiled back. "I wanted to show you some pictures." I led the way back to the photographer's booth. The photographer looked ready to protest again without Inspector Burrows around, but then she saw Chatsworth with me and handed over the box with no questions.

I handed Cheerful Chatsworth the box. "Just look through those and tell me if you see anyone you recognize in the background of any of the pictures."

Cheerful Chatsworth took the box from me and flipped through the photographs with less enthusiasm than Art had shown. He was halfway through when he said, "Well, I'll be. Who would have thought?"

"What?" I asked.

Art leaned in to look.

"I was just telling you about the Amazing Archimedes, and there he is. I know the carnival world is small, but still, fancy that." He held out the picture. "Right there."

I leaned in expecting to see mutton chops and a too-big suit. Instead, Cheerful Chatsworth was looking at an entirely different picture and pointing to a skinny man in a shabby black suit, clean shaven, and clearly taller than the man Art had identified.

"Something wrong, miss?"

"No, no, just not who I was expecting." I took the box from him and flipped through until I found the picture Art had identified. "Do you know this man by any chance?"

Cheerful Chatsworth stared hard at it. "Sorry, no. There's something vaguely familiar, but then mutton chops hide so much, anyone with them looks vaguely familiar. Was there something else?"

"No. You've been a great help, though. Thank you."

As Cheerful Chatsworth left, I turned back to the photographer. "Can I buy these from you?"

"Sorry, miss. I can't sell them to anyone who's not the subject. If the inspector were to come back and ask, that would be different, but I take it you don't have an official position?"

I avoided the question. "I'll talk to him, then. Thank you."

I handed back the box and left the booth. At least I had a clearer idea of what Art's suspect looked like and a promising new suspect. Of course, a magician was a rather obvious choice, but that didn't make him a bad suspect. If he was still around, where would he be? Was it too much to hope he would come back today?

Art ran up behind me. "Here, miss. Just keep it quiet."

I glanced down and saw he was cradling the picture he had recognized in his hand.

"Could only get the one. Sorry."

"I don't want to know how you did that." I dropped my handbag on the ground. Art dove for it and picked it up, slipping the picture inside as he stood.

"Need to be careful, miss. This place is crawling with pickpockets. Never know when one'll take your bag."

I smiled. "I'll be on the lookout."

"So what are we investigating next?"

I noticed the use of "we," but Art seemed to be my best guide to the carnival. "If Archimedes comes back today, where do you think he'd go?"

Art folded his arms and stared at the midway. "Depends on what he was doing here. He didn't seem to be visiting Lucinda."

"Maybe he was looking for a job?"

Art furrowed his brow, making quite a show of thinking. "We already have a magician, but if he was willing to do something on the midway to drum up business..."

"Do you think he would be?"

"Depends on how badly he needed the job."

I thought back to the photograph. "Judging from his suit, I'd say he needs a job."

"And a meal. I know where to look. Come on." Art led me back to the performers' area behind the wagons. "If Kingston was considering him, he'd tell him to come back today and audition. The only time Kingston has for auditions is in the middle of the afternoon. And if Archimedes is broke, then he'll probably try to get a meal out of us too while he's at it."

"So that's where we're going?"

"That's right. Dining tent is this way."

~ * ~ * ~

The dining tent was exactly what it sounded like: a large tent, this one plain canvas and threadbare in spots, filled with trestle tables and folding chairs. There were a few performers sitting at the tables talking over the remains of what looked like greasy fish and indifferent chips. A few junior members of the troupe were cleaning up what was left of the serving trays.

Art poked me in the ribs--or more accurately the stays-- and nodded to a chair in the corner where a man was hunched down, hiding in his coat collar. He was shoveling the last of the greasy fish into his mouth while his eyes darted from face to face, the classic look of someone who had snuck in where he didn't belong. I nodded to Art. That had to be our man. Before I could decide on the best way to approach him, Art had started across the room, weaving between the tables. I followed him.

Art sat down across from Archimedes and stared at him. The magician looked up, saw how old Art was, and went back to his food. I sat down beside Art. Archimedes looked up again. This time he saw me and put down his fork.

"I'm meant to see Mr. Kingston at two. He wasn't there, so I--" He gestured to the meal.

"I'm not with the circus."

He relaxed.

"But I did want to talk to you. Have you heard about the incident yesterday?"

"That's all anyone's talking about, but I wasn't at the show."

"Does the name Spalding mean anything to you?" I watched his face, but he didn't react in any way I would call guilty.

"Isn't that the victim's name?"

"Why do you think that?"

"Like I said, it's all anyone's talking about here."

"What about the Crilston Bank?

This time there was a reaction, but it could best be described as irritation. "Not that old thing again. They thought I had robbed the bank, but I had an alibi."

"What was it?"

"I was losing at cards to the ringmaster and two roustabouts, but the police didn't want to believe any of us. They thought with my knowledge of locks that I was the best suspect."

"A card game? Was anyone from the bank there?"

"There was... Oh, I didn't connect... You mean the victim is _that_ Spalding? The bank manager?"

"So he was there?"

"Lost even more than I did. That was odd, though."

"Why? Was he trying to lose?"

"No, no. I would have been able to tell. Most common cheats are trade secrets to me. No, what was odd was that he didn't remember I was there. In fact, that was why the police were so suspicious of me, not just my act."

I could feel Art sit up a little straighter. So he'd sensed it, too. A chance at motive. "What happened?"

"They questioned me again and again, but there was no proof against me since I didn't do it, so they had to let me go."

"And then?"

"Well, no one really wanted me around after the police were so interested in me. I was friendly with a clown named Chatsworth in another carnival playing nearby. He knew a magician's assistant who had just left the outfit and needed a magician."

"Lucinda? I think she was Pauline then."

"That's right. We met up and had an act for a little while, but she said she wanted to get out of magic, so she started working with a knife thrower. The circus got another magician's assistant who came with another magician, and I went to another show."

"And now you're here. Why?"

"I've been trying at every show I run into."

"So Lucinda had nothing to do with it?"

"No, I didn't know she was here until I saw a poster with her on it outside the cowboy tent. I had hoped she'd put in a good word for me, but I think she... Well, Mr. Kingston seemed interested enough in me when I first spoke to him then when I went back he was a bit... cold. It very well could have been the murder that spooked him, though. It might not have had anything to do with Lucinda at all."

"Why would she sabotage your chances? Did you part on bad terms?"

"Not really. I was a bit annoyed. She was the one that left. But I didn't try to stop her. Not really."

"Not really?"

"I knew they wouldn't keep me without her, so I tried to get her to stay. I even offered to give her a raise out of my own pay. But in the end, she insisted she wanted something different, and I couldn't very well tie her up. I mean, she'd know how to get out of it if I did." He smiled so we'd know he was joking.

"What was your act like?"

"A little sleight of hand. I was trying for a gimmick, something I'd be known for, and I've always been good with ropes. So most of it was her tying me up and me escaping."

That gave me an idea. "Does an assistant know how to do the tricks?"

"Certainly. In fact, sometimes it's the assistant doing the trick while the magician does the distracting."

"So an assistant would know as much about the act as the magician?"

"I wouldn't say that, or they'd start their own act. But yes, they would know quite a bit, certainly more than the average person."

"Was she any good at locks?"

"Not at all. Didn't have the patience for them."

"What about acrobatics?"

"I suspect trapeze is somewhat like that. That's what she was doing when Chatsworth suggested she work with me. So is magic, for that matter, at least some of the disappearing tricks are not dissimilar."

I tried to distract him from that question. "Did you know Lucinda before you worked together, when she was with the Weston circus?"

"A little. Like I said, I was friendly with Chatsworth."

"I have a photograph here. Could you take a look and tell me if you recognize anyone in it?"

"Sure."

I reached into my handbag and pulled out the picture Art had snatched for me and slid it across the table.

Archimedes looked at the picture. "Maybe, almost. It could be Preston. Tom, Tim, something like that. He was courting Lucinda back when she worked with me. I can't quite tell, though. He was clean shaven then." He tapped the mutton-chop man.

"Did you know him well?"

"Not at all, really. He was a townie, not with the circus. I only saw him once or twice when he came to meet her after a rehearsal."

"When was he courting her?"

"As long as I knew her."

"Do you know what he did in town?"

"He worked in a law firm as a courier, delivering papers and things. Before that, he did the same for a bank. I once needed a little help with a debt collector, and he knew what to do, according to Lucinda."

"Did he work for Spalding's bank?"

"No." Archimedes poked at his fish. "But now that I think of it, I think his law firm was nearby."

"How nearby?"

"Next door."

"And you never told the police?"

"None of us associated the Weston circus with anything. And I didn't really get to know Lucinda until later, after I was away from Goston. Believe me, I was desperate to clear my name. If I'd thought of it, I would have told them to save myself."

"When did she meet him?"

"I have no idea. They were already stepping out together when we started working together."

I sat up.

"So he would have been with her when she was in Backworth, near Goston."

"I suppose they would have been. You don't think--"

"I don't know." But a theory was forming in my mind. "Thank you for your help." I picked up the photograph and grabbed Art's shoulder to pull him along with me.

# Chapter 11

OUTSIDE THE TENT, I finally let Art shake me off. "I was going to question him some more."

"That's why I dragged you out of there." I thought fast how to convince him to leave it alone. "We don't want to tip off any of the suspects, so we have to go gently."

"I see. Trip them up. Lull them into a false sense of security, and they'll make a mistake."

"Exactly."

"So what's the next move?"

"We have a lot of new information now. I am going to get myself some tea and something sweet and consider how what we've learned fits together."

"That sounds, um, necessary."

Good. I didn't want him to think it sounded like fun. "Do you want to come along?"

"Nah. I think I'll go find Hawk and see what he's up to. I kind of promised I would."

"I'm sure he'll like to see you. Thank you for your help."

As I watched Art walk away, I couldn't shake the feeling that he was being about as honest as I was. I just hoped he wouldn't get into any real trouble. Not that I could blame him. I listened to Inspector Burrows just as well as the boys did to me.

I didn't want to lie directly to Art, so I went to the midway to get something to eat. I found an ice cream booth and meandered towards the show tents while I ate. It all seemed to lead back to Lucinda. But she was the one person who couldn't have shot Spalding. We all would have seen it. I went through the trick in my mind, trying to find an opportunity for a magic trick, sleight of hand, something. But her hands were visible the whole time, one of them on the card for the critical part. If there was a magic trick, I hadn't been able to see it. But I knew Lucinda was involved somehow, even if it was indirectly. If I wanted to begin at the beginning, it was with her. I tossed the remains of my ice cream in a bin and started for her wagon. I wasn't sure if I was hoping she was there so I could talk to her or away so I could poke around at my leisure. I smiled to myself; I'd find one situation or the other there.

Lucinda was there. As I walked towards her wagon, she looked out the window and spotted me at once. I tried to look cheery as I waved to her. It didn't work. She came out of the wagon and approached me, surreptitiously scanning the ground looking for anything I could be looking for.

"Still searching for clues?"

I thought fast. "Oh, Inspector Burrows is convinced he has the right man, but now I find all of this so interesting. Have you worked at other... outfits, do you call them?"

Lucinda seemed to relax a little. "This is my seventh. I used to be a magician's assistant."

"Now that must have been fun. All those costumes and devices. I loved the beading on the one you wore in Nick's show."

"I still have some of my old costumes. Would you like to see them?"

"I'd love to." It seemed like a good way to get inside her wagon, and maybe I could see something useful.

Lucinda led me inside and went to the back of her wagon, where she had a large traveling trunk. "There should be room for you to sit by the table."

I found a place to sit on the bench sticking out from under the table.

Lucinda opened the trunk and began to dig through. "So you know that police inspector, Burrows I think his name is?"

So that was why she invited me in, to find out how involved I was. "A little. I'm a typist, and I've done some work for him. He's a very good policeman. If he thinks Nick did it, then, well, I suppose he knows his job."

"Hard on your young friend, though, but little boys do bounce back." She pulled out the first of the outfits, a pale-tan silk dress with a cage skirt and mounds of lace. "This was from the time I was a knife thrower's assistant."

"That must have been terrifying." I scanned the wagon, looking for anything that might inspire some theory.

"I trusted him, and he was a complete professional."

I tried to keep the thread of the conversation so Lucinda wouldn't become suspicious of me. "I still wouldn't do it."

Lucinda smiled. "It takes a certain kind of person to do it. Now this was from my magician days." She held up a red taffeta bustle with deep gathers and flounces and a corset with gold braid and paste rubies and black feather trim. "I'm rather glad to be done with it, really. It took me over an hour to clean it when I needed to. And the tricks he did involved a lot of flash powder and greasepaint."

"It must have sparkled beautifully, though."

"Oh, it did."

And then I spotted it. The poster Flyingcrow had mentioned. As she poked through the trunk, I got up to get a better look.

"Now there's one in here you'll like from the days I was a bareback rider. Let me see where I put it." She dug around in the trunk. "So your inspector friend is done with us, then?"

I meandered towards the poster, a tricky thing to do when there weren't more than three paces between me and it. "I'm not sure I'd call him my friend. I think he's substantially done, just has loose ends to tie up, but then he doesn't really confide in me."

"I see. So we'll be rid of him soon?"

"I would think so." I realized she had looked up from the trunk and was watching me. I stopped meandering. "These costumes are all so pretty. It must be so much fun to wear them."

Lucinda grinned. "It is, I suppose. But caring for them is another matter entirely. And on the road, when you never know what the setup will be at the next stop..."

I let her ramble on as I scanned the poster, looking for a clue, when something else caught my eye. Two playing cards left on the table. Both ace of hearts. The one on top was shot clean through the center; the one underneath had been shot slightly higher, between the center heart and the "A" in the upper corner. I realized Lucinda had stopped talking and quickly turned my attention to the poster. "Was this from your assistant days?"

"No, that was a trapeze act." Something in the way she said it made me stop myself from turning around and lean in to examine it. I latched onto the first detail I saw. "That beading is fantastic. And look at those feathers. Does someone with the show do all of that?"

"I got that one from a woman in London. She retired, though. I'd hoped she'd make my costume for Nick's act." Lucinda's voice was back to normal, so I wandered back to the table.

"It's amazing how they can get so much of the detail into those posters." I sat back down.

"Here it is. From my riding days." She held up a white leather riding outfit with a fitted jacket and a slashed shirt. "A bit worse for wear, I'm afraid."

I decided to take a chance. Inspector Burrows was going to have plenty of reasonable explanations for those cards. "I suppose that's bound to happen with the amount of use. I mean, look, even in Nick's show, you must go through a lot of playing cards in your acts. And not much you can do with the deck after. Or do you use different cards and change the patter for, say, queen of diamonds or jack of clubs?"

"It's really just two cards; the whole one we pose with and the one with a hole in it." She smiled. "That sounded more confusing than I intended."

"No, I get it. But still, they must wear out being the only ones."

"Well, we don't handle them as much in a day as, say, a gambling house would, so no, they stay pretty much intact. Why?"

"I don't know; it's all just so interesting. Nothing like typing." So she would have no reason to have two shot cards, certainly not one with a hole off center. "I suppose you must go through a lot of gloves, too." I couldn't remember if she had worn gloves or not, but I wanted to get her away from the subject of cards. "What kind of a trapeze act did you have?"

"Oh, just the normal sort. Lots of swinging. I've enjoyed our chat, but I really have to start rehearsing."

"You mean they've let Cowboy Nick go?" Had Inspector Burrows found the cards too?

"No, but I'm filling in with one of the other acts. Hopefully, it will lead to a more permanent gig. You understand."

"Of course. I didn't mean to take up so much of your time." I did understand. She wasn't sure if I'd seen the cards or not, so she wanted to get rid of them before I could tell Inspector Burrows. "I'll show myself out." I was curious if there really was another act, but if I asked what it was, she might realize that I doubted there was one. "Good luck with the new act. I hope I can catch it."

Outside the wagon, I meandered in the general direction of the midway until I was fairly certain Lucinda couldn't see me anymore, then I turned towards the performance tents. I had to find Inspector Burrows. Hopefully he'd come back after arresting Nick, and the best place to start looking for him was the crime scene. At least I would find someone guarding it, and he would know where I could find the inspector.

As I walked, I thought. Lucinda was involved. I was sure of that now. The cards had convinced me. So Lucinda had been one of the robbers. And it was too much of a coincidence for her boyfriend to have turned up here now, so Preston was probably in on it. And the money Scotland Yard was tracking had come from a bookie. There were two people who gambled in this case: Spalding and Archimedes. Only one of them had been seen arguing with a known suspect, and only one was dead. So that gave me the third person in the robbery, Spalding.

So what else did I know? Lucinda would have seen the gunman. Come to think of it, so would Spalding. How had that escaped me? He'd been facing the same way as Lucinda. He would have seen what she saw. I thought back, trying to visualize the trick. He'd been nervous. I'd put it down to stage fright. We all did. That's what Lucinda told us. But what if that wasn't it? I tried to think. Had he been nervous from the beginning, like real stage fright, or later, when he saw the shooter?

No matter how hard I thought, I couldn't remember. But he hadn't tried to run. It hadn't been terror, just nerves. That's why we all believed it was stage fright. So he was worried about what he saw, but not in fear for his life. And Lucinda knew about it.

So who would have conspired with Lucinda but not frightened Spalding? Their partner in the robbery. Preston. Preston was the shooter. But how had he done it without Nick knowing?

~ * ~ * ~

When I got to Nick's tent, I found Inspector Burrows there. "You're back."

"Miss Pengear, let me guess. You found another body?"

"No, just a very interesting clue."

"And after I told you not to investigate?"

"I was visiting the Lovely Lucinda--"

"Not interrogating her?"

"We were discussing her costumes, if you must know, not the shooting at all." He didn't believe me. "Anyway, I was looking around at her posters and such, and I noticed two cards with bullet holes in them. Both ace of hearts. One shot dead center, one off to the side."

"The cards from the act. She said they had them. Why is that so interesting?"

"It shows there had to be another shooter."

"Miss Pengear, I admire your desire to help..."

"Then how do you explain the second card? The one with the bullet hole off center?"

"Another prop for the act."

"It couldn't be; the shot was off to the side. If they're going to use a preshot card, why would they use one that was off center? It's more dramatic when he gets it dead center. And we know he can do that easily on the practice grounds."

"Then what's your interpretation?"

"One was the normal prop card for the act, with the bullet hole in the center. The other was the card that Nick shot that day with the real bullet. Remember what he said to me when you were leading him away? 'I didn't shoot at him.' Not 'I didn't shoot him,' _at_ him."

Inspector Burrows stared at me. "You mean you think you've found proof that there was a second shooter and a second gun that actually shot Mr. Spalding, while Nick aimed for and shot at the card he was holding."

"Lucinda was holding the other side of it. She could have gotten rid of it. You said he wouldn't miss; that was why you suspected him. A second gun and a card with a fresh bullet hole would explain everything."

"And open up a world of suspects with very interesting motives. Does she know you saw it?"

"I don't think so."

"You didn't say anything?"

"Of course not, not at the time, anyway. I started babbling about a costume she had on in a poster. But I think she realized the cards were there and that I could have seen them. And we did talk about costumes and props wearing out."

"Then I probably don't have time to get a proper warrant. Maybe I can get her to let me in to talk about Nick without one, and if I happen to see them..."

"I told her you were convinced it was Nick. The cards were on the table under the poster of her in a white feather costume. She said she was going to practice, but I don't know if that was just to get rid of me."

"Then I'd better hurry."

"Oh, and one other--"

But Inspector Burrows had already started for Lucinda's wagon at a jog. Probably best; after all, it wouldn't take her long to burn the cards, and they were our proof. Telling him about her old boyfriend could wait a little while. Preston wouldn't run if he didn't know we knew. Besides, I should probably make certain Davy and Mrs. Albright were getting on all right. I walked around the tent and almost ran into Constable Jones as he appeared out of nowhere.

"Sorry, miss. Didn't mean to startle you."

"That's all right. I just didn't know you were there. I mean, you weren't a second ago." Which got my mind working in interesting directions. "How did you get out of the tent so quickly?"

"There's a slit in the canvas, behind the side curtain."

"Really? I didn't see one."

"They have it closed with magnets, and there's a flap that hangs over it outside to keep the public out. See, in my misspent youth, I ran away and joined the circus for a whole two weeks, and they had a setup like that. It was for the magician's tent, though."

My second shooter. That was how he could have done it without Nick knowing he was there. He wasn't in the tent at all but outside, hidden between the tent and the flap, watching through the slit. I turned to look for Inspector Burrows, but he was already heading for Lucinda's tent.

"Does Inspector Burrows know about it?"

Constable Jones shrugged. "I don't know. He never asked, so I never thought to tell him. Is it important?"

"It might be."

"Then I'll be sure to tell him when he gets back."

I smiled. "Thanks." There wasn't anything else for me to do, so I took off for the midway.

I was out of sight of Nick's tent, near the alleyway I'd used to get to the performers' area, when I felt someone behind me. I assumed it was Davy and Art trying out their detecting skills and ignored it. I thought they would give up when I passed Cobra's tent and the lure of snakes would draw them in. But the feeling didn't go away. I sped up. There weren't many people in the area around the show tents, not outside, anyway. The shows were all in progress, and everyone seemed to be inside watching them. There would be more people walking about near the games and the food. I headed in that direction.

So I had the how; all that was left was why. Why kill Spalding?

I thought back to the argument Art had heard. The money had been deposited by a suspected bookie. Spalding was a known gambler. If he'd been dipping into the stolen money to pay his bookie and the other two somehow realized Scotland Yard was interested in the Kingston carnival, that could be it. They'd wanted to silence him. He hadn't known the carnival would be here, hadn't known that they would fall under suspicion. And he needed more money than what he'd already used. He would probably always need more money. So they stopped him.

I had almost reached the game stalls when I felt something in the small of my back. Something small and round and cold.

"I can tell you know a gun when you feel one. Move or I shoot here." The voice was male, and I didn't recognize it.

I kicked back hard. I wasn't about to go with him to a second location. At least if I was shot in the middle of the tents, there'd be witnesses, maybe even a doctor watching one of the shows or one of the constables around. I was ready to take another jab at him when something was pressed against my mouth, and it became very hard to move or even think.

# Chapter 12

WHEN MY MIND CLEARED, I was inside a tent, this one small and shabby. I had been tied to a chair. I tested the ropes, but they'd done a good job. So why hadn't they killed me?

"Idiot. How could you bring the wrong gun?" I recognized that as Lucinda's voice. That explained the ropes and the knots.

"I didn't know, all right? It looks just like the real one; that's why the whole thing worked."

And that explained me being alive. Their gun was Nick's, the one he thought he had been using, with blanks in it. I could have run away outside.

"Well, go and get the real one, unless you want to bash her over the head with something and have to clean up the mess."

While they were arguing, they were too busy to notice me. I didn't think they realized I was awake. I slid the chair back slowly, trying not to make any noise. As long as they kept fighting, I had a chance. I just didn't know what to do with it.

"I thought you said it was foolproof."

"Nick's a bigger fool than I thought."

"I told you we should have left the blanks in his gun."

"He would have known the difference. That would have been the first thing he would have told the police; blanks in his gun, and they wouldn't have thought it was an accident." Lucinda kicked at the tent pole. "Why did he have to be such a bad gambler?"

I realized she meant Spalding that time. The second voice, the one belonging to the man with the gun, had to be Preston.

"You liked his gambling at the time. Good for an alibi, you said. Made him need money. If you could do locks, we wouldn't have needed him."

"It was good at the time. How was I to know he'd get himself into debt to someone who'd stick you for five pence, let alone £500? How was I to know he'd dip into the stash early to pay him off?"

Preston snorted.

"How were _we_ to know, hmmm? Besides, if I'd known locks, I would have been a suspect, too. You wouldn't want that, would you?"

I edged back towards the tent pole. I had no idea if it was one of the ones Art had told me about earlier, the kind that would bring the whole tent down, but it was better than doing nothing. I kicked at one of the stakes, which did absolutely nothing. I kicked out again. If I could just get a little leverage...

"If only that idiot magician hadn't come sniffing around for a job after five years," Preston grumbled. "She was talking to him, you know. I saw them in the food tent."

"He was useful then, too," Lucinda snapped. "How else were we going to get the money down here? He was the main suspect; if I was found with it on me, I could have convinced them it was his. I didn't hear you coming up with any brilliant plans if we were found with it."

I leaned back in the chair and braced both feet against the tent pole. As the chair righted itself, my legs slammed into the post. It wasn't enough to knock it over, but it was enough to shake the tent. I froze, hoping no one would notice.

"What was that?" Lucinda snapped.

"She's awake," Preston said.

"Go get the gun. I'll keep her quiet."

I started to rock the chair, trying to scoot around so I could face her.

"Stick 'em up."

Lucinda didn't turn. "Seriously, Nick, you don't have the authority to arrest anyone."

"But I do."

I recognized the voice at once. Inspector Burrows. I turned as best I could in the chair.

Inspector Burrows was standing in the opening of the tent, with Nick beside him and Constable Lipson holding the flap out of the way. Nick was aiming his gun at Preston.

Inspector Burrows was watching Lucinda. "Now, Mr. Culpepper is an excellent shot, but if he gets nervous, his finger might slip."

Preston dropped the gun with the blanks.

Constable Lipson came forward and grabbed Preston's arms, cuffing them behind his back. Lucinda turned as if she was looking for another exit, but Constable Jones came in through the hidden slot in back and grabbed her before she'd had time to find it.

Inspector Burrows held the tent flap open. "Get them locked up. I'll be by for the paperwork as soon as I can."

Both constables steered their prisoners towards the main tent flap. Nick followed, holding the prisoners at gunpoint.

Inspector Burrows crossed the tent to where I was and pulled out his knife. "Hold still. I believe I mentioned no investigating."

"But you didn't say no thinking. And I was coming to find you when they stuck a gun in my back. So how did you find me?"

"You've got Davy and Art playing this detective game, too. They were following you and saw them grab you. They came and got me, and when I saw the tent moving, I figured that's where you were. But please, encourage them to take up something safer, like genuine Indian tricks, or even genuine cowboy tricks."

"Isn't that what got us into this mess?"

"It's still safer than your detecting."

"So you let Nick go?"

"You're becoming contagious. I see why Wainwright complains about you. Yes, I let him go." Inspector Burrows started slicing through the ropes on my hands. "What he'd said bothered me all the way back to the Yard. 'I didn't shoot at him.' Murderers don't usually lie well enough to tickle at your mind; they're not subtle enough, or they think we're not smart enough to catch it if they are. So I let him go and followed him to see what he did."

"And then the boys found you."

"And I found you."

"Did you find the cards?"

"Not in the tent, but there was a clown who saw her leave right after you did, so I'm hoping she has them on her. Silencing you before you could tell me might have seemed more important than destroying the cards. Are you all right?"

"I think so."

"All right. So who is this third man I'm arresting, and why was he pointing a gun at you?"

"That's Tim or Tom Preston. Lucinda's boyfriend, the second thief, and Mr. Spalding's murderer."

Inspector Burrows knelt down and attacked the ropes on my legs. "I take it Spalding was the third thief. So according to you, how did he do it?"

"There's a hidden flap in the tent. It's how Nick got out during the show when he-um-"

"Panicked and ran away?"

"Well, yes. Constable Jones showed it to me."

"But not to me."

"He didn't realize it was important. Neither did I until just then. But it meant that Preston could be waiting outside with a gun, hidden between the tent and the canvas they have covering the opening. If anyone saw him, they'd think it was part of the trick. When he heard the part of the patter that meant Nick was going to shoot, he was able to open the flap, shoot, and get away in the confusion. It took excellent timing, but it wasn't really hard for Lucinda to plan."

"And I take it you've solved the question of motive as well."

"Of course. Spalding was the third member of their little gang. They were sitting on the robbery money, waiting for it to be safe to spend it. But Spalding got in trouble with a bookie who was demanding payment, and he had to use some of the stash. But when Scotland Yard started investigating the carnival, Lucinda and Preston knew it had to be Spalding who'd been using the money. He was too much of a risk, so they killed him and framed Nick. I'm not sure why he did it with the others in town, though. Surely they would have pointed to him."

"I can answer that. Lucinda isn't on any of the posters in town, not so you'd recognize her, anyway. They all focus on Cowboy Nick. That's probably why she stopped working with magicians; the assistants are more prominently featured there. Spalding probably didn't know she was here until he was dragged to the carnival as part of the group from the bank, and then it was Preston who saw him and confronted him about the money. They'd already realized the show was being watched by the police."

"How do you know all that?"

"I told you, the carnival was being watched after the money turned up. They just didn't know it was connected to the murder until I started asking questions. Now I've sent the boys to find Mrs. Albright. She'll take you home. If you feel like you can walk, I'll take you over to those food tents you've been using as an excuse and get you a bit of cake or something while you wait."

"I'd like that."

As we left the tent, we found Nick keeping Davy and Art at bay. They pounced as soon as they saw us.

"So it was Lucinda?"

"Nick says you solved it."

"And Inspector Burrows got there just in time."

"And..."

"Now boys, Miss Pengear has had a trying experience. Let's let her catch her breath." Mrs. Albright put her arm around me. "Come along. I'll take you home and get you a nice cup of tea. Inspector, will you join us?"

"I have prisoners to process and reports to write. Thank you for the offer, though." He leaned in between Davy and Art and whispered, "If Miss Pengear's not up to talking about it, maybe Mr. Culpepper will tell you how he held the killers off at gunpoint."

"Did you really?" Davy asked.

"Well, Inspector-"

"At gunpoint?" Art interrupted.

Mrs. Albright smiled at Inspector Burrows. "Perhaps we should invite Mr. Culpepper to tea as well."

"Right kind of you, ma'am." He tipped his hat, and I could hear his accent getting thicker and thicker as the boys looked admiringly up at him. "Suppose I take these little buckaroos to your place in one of those newfangled steam cabs, and we can pick up some cake on the way."

"Can I go with him, Auntie, please?"

"Go ahead. It'll give Miss Pengear a break from you two."

The boys each grabbed one of Nick's hands and dragged him towards the exit.

Mrs. Albright tucked her arm through mine. "Now you can tell me what really happened."

I grinned. "Well, Nick really was something of a hero. But it started when I saw Constable Jones coming out of the side of a tent. Or rather I didn't see him..."

# A Case of Two Clerks

THAT MORNING, I WAS on my way to Mr. Holt's office, a good-but-irregular typing client of mine. He was a solicitor who specialized in small matters for comfortably well-off clients, and employed two clerks with absolutely terribly handwriting unless they were putting forth a calligraphic amount of effort, which was where my typing came in. When he needed multiple copies of a not-terribly-confidential document, it was much easier to hire me to type them up than to trust it to the pair of them to copy anything in a readable manner. It meant the work was irregular and boring, but Mr. Holt made up for it by settling his account quickly, and always including money for a hansom cab to his office with his documents to make it easy for me to return them. That was where I was that morning, delivering three dull but simple files of typing: a Mr. Canson planning to buy a building in town, a Mr. Adams taking on a new partner in his firm, and a Mr. Pearson leasing office space in the City. It seemed to be a perfectly normal day when I descended from the cab; there was a nanny bringing her charges to the park, a pair of clerks on their way to the pub, a constable who nodded to me as I passed. In short, everything as it should be until I reached Mr. Holt's office.

The first thing I noticed was that front office was deserted, which seemed quite unusual. I was used to seeing at least one of the clerks at his desk when I entered, keeping an eye out for new clients. The door to Mr. Holt's office was open just enough to let me see that there was some movement there though, and a good bit of tension in the air. Perhaps they were having some sort of a meeting, I speculated. I hadn't thought Mr. Holt seemed to be the sort of employer to call the staff together to yell at them, but then I didn't know him very well. Perhaps he would if the error were serious enough. Would that mean going in to see him would be a good thing or not? I wasn't sure, but I couldn't stand there in the office with my papers indefinitely, so I crossed his office, tapped on the door, and walked into a scene of what I could only describe as very polite chaos.

The two clerks, Mr. Welch and Mr. Connolly, were indeed in the office, speaking to each other in rapid, whispering voices, both clearly trying not to panic. Mr. Holt was there as well, slumped over his desk and unnaturally still. Mr. Welch was standing over Mr. Holt, gasping and trying to form a complete sentence without sobbing. Mr. Connolly was standing across from them, asking, "How did you find him? How exactly?" over and over until I suspected the words had ceased to mean anything to him.

Chaos, no matter how polite, never helped anything, particularly in what I was beginning to see was an emergency. I rattled the doorknob and shoved the door towards its hinges as I pushed it further open to encourage it to squeak, which made enough noise to attract the attention of the two clerks. They both turned towards me, attempting to gather themselves.

"Miss Pengear," Mr. Connolly said when my presence had registered. "I'm afraid you can see we're a bit occupied at the moment."

"I found him like this," Mr. Welch moaned then started biting at his nails.

Someone had to be practical, and it seemed that was going to be me. "Is there a pulse?"

"I didn't check," Mr. Welch said. "Should I?" He moved from biting his nails to nibbling on the knuckle of his index finger.

Mr. Connolly sighed then tried to cover it with a yawn, which made no sense at all under the circumstances. "I'll do it." But he made no move towards the body.

Someone had to do it, so I pushed around the pair of them and briefly touched my fingers to Mr. Holt's neck, although I had the feeling I knew what the result would be from the stillness of the body. "Has help been summoned?" When no one answered, I took it as my answer and said, "Then I saw a constable on my way in. I'll get him." No one objected, so I hurried out of the office, dropping my typing folders on the edge of the desk as I did.

The constable had not gotten very far from where I'd seen him, so I was able to find him easily.

"Good morning again, miss. Did you need some help?"

There didn't seem to be much point to being euphemistic with a policeman. "There's been a death."

The constable immediately started walking in the direction I'd come from. "Where?"

I fell into step beside him. "Holt and Associates. It's Mr. Holt."

"Do you know what happened?"

"No, I'd just gotten there. I'd was delivering some typing I'd done for him."

As we approached the office, the group of messenger boys that were hovering around the street corner all turned in our direction. One of them asked, "Did you need anything, Constable Clarke?"

"I might." Constable Clarke looked the group over. "Molly, it's your turn, I think. Wait here until I see what's going on inside."

The only girl in the group took up a position by the door and watched us go in.

"He's in his office," I said as we entered.

Constable Clarke nodded and crossed to the door. Mr. Welch and Mr. Connolly were still in the office, both standing by the wall looking at Mr. Holt but not approaching him, clearly uncertain what to do. Both looked up when we entered but said nothing.

Constable Clarke went to the desk. He looked at Mr. Holt's position then pressed his fingers to Mr. Holt's neck and nodded. "Which of you found him?"

"I did," Mr. Welch said in a strained but steady voice which he ruined with a small sob.

"Can you tell me what happened?"

"I was bringing him some papers he'd requested, and I found him slumped over the desk. I thought he'd been taken ill, so I went forward to see what I could do and... And next I knew, Mr. Connolly was in the room."

Constable Clarke turned to Mr. Connolly.

Mr. Connolly took the hint and continued with the story. "I heard a... an exclamation from the office."

I took that to mean Mr. Welch had screamed. From the small smile on Constable Clarke's lips, I could tell he'd reached the same conclusion.

"So I hurried in to see if I could help. We were considering the best course of action when Miss Pengear came in."

Constable Clarke turned to me.

"Mr. Holt had hired me to do some typing. I was bringing him the finished product, and when I arrived, everyone seemed to be in here, so I came to see what was happening."

"Very well. I should contact his physician. Do either of you know who it would be?"

There was a scramble to locate address books and other records, giving me the chance to look at the desk. Mr. Holt had been having his morning tea when he'd been taken ill; there was still a cup of it near his arm. He had three folders spread out on his desk, but they were all still closed with their name labels showing: Bristol, Canson, Sloane. It seemed Mr. Holt was just starting his day when he became ill. Mr. Connolly grabbed for a stack of papers weighted down by the teapot, nearly upsetting the pot and spilling tea across the desk. I picked up the teapot before it could spill.

I still had the feeling that there was some tension in the air, something off about the whole scene. Almost without thinking about it, I brought the teapot up to my nose and sniffed. Under the scent of a rather cheap Assam, there was the distinct smell of bitter almonds. At least now I knew what was off about the scene. I caught Constable Clarke's eye and tried to show him what I'd found without alerting the other two.

I wasn't certain if Constable Clarke understood or not, but he cleared his throat and, when he had the clerks' attention, he said, "Best not to disturb too much before my superior arrives. They like to see things as they were. I'm sure his landlady or someone will know the doctor. When did you last see him well?"

Mr. Welch answered first. "When I brought him his morning tea."

"And that was something you did every day?"

"That's right, and heard if he needed anything else."

"And you, Mr. Connolly?"

"He asked us to pull some files for him when he came in, and I brought them through to him."

"Before or after the tea?"

"Before."

Constable Clarke nodded. "And that was normal as well?"

"It wasn't unusual," Mr. Connolly said. "Not something he asked us to do every day, only when he had something he wanted to work on at once."

"So you both arrived before him, he came in and requested the files, and you went to collect them, all before preparing the morning tea?"

They both nodded.

"Did he seem well when he arrived? In good spirits?"

"I thought so," Mr. Welch replied.

"A bit distracted, perhaps, as if he had something on his mind, but that isn't unusual here," Mr. Connolly said. "We deal with large sums of money for some of our clients, and the files he requested are about some of our bigger clients."

Constable Clarke went on as if none of this was of particular interest, but I did notice that he'd put the teapot on the bookshelf behind him, where none of us could get to it without physically moving him out of the way. "And when was the tea made?"

If it seemed an odd question, neither man reacted. Perhaps it only seemed significant to me as I'd smelled the cyanide in it.

"I prepared it after I'd delivered the files," Mr. Connolly answered.

"And was that normal?"

"Yes, one or the other of us made it every morning once he arrived."

Mr. Welch nodded.

"And was there a reason you did it this morning?"

Mr. Connolly shrugged. "He asked for it when I dropped off the files, and Mr. Welch was putting away some of the files we'd disturbed when we were getting the ones we wanted, so I made it."

"But didn't deliver it?"

Mr. Welch spoke up. "By the time it was ready, I'd finished with the files, and as he'd made it, I thought it only fair I bring it."

"And when you brought it in?"

Mr. Welch shrugged. "He seemed perfectly healthy. A bit preoccupied, as Mr. Connolly noted, but nothing out of the ordinary way. He asked me to bring him a few more papers, and I went to get them. It was when I was bringing those to him that I...that he..." Mr. Welch pressed back against the wall.

Constable Clarke nodded. "I'll need to send for a superior officer to handle having him taken away. I'm sure you would all be more comfortable in the outer office. If you wouldn't mind?" He gestured for us all to leave the room. Mr. Welch and Mr. Connolly seemed more than ready to be away from the body. I followed them out and sat in one of the chairs by the window where I could see the street outside. Constable Clarke went out to send the messenger girl for assistance then came back inside and took up a position by the door to Mr. Holt's office, leaning rather casually against the nearby desk, so that I doubted either Mr. Connolly or Mr. Welch realized that was what he was doing.

It was a very silent wait for me. Constable Clarke spent most of the time looking at his notebook, although I suspected he was really watching our reactions. Mr. Connolly and Mr. Welch sat at one of the desks, Mr. Connolly's I thought, and whispered to each other. I caught bits of conversation: Mr. Connolly saying, "Mr. Holt said Mr. Bristol has an appointment at two. We ought to send word to him not to come," and Mr. Welch adding, "What about tomorrow? I know Mr. Canson was going to come and discuss contracts," followed by, "No, he canceled." In short, exactly what one would expect to hear two clerks who weren't particularly close to their employer considering while they waited for the police.

A good twenty minutes had passed before we heard a cab stop outside of the office and someone come to the door. No one had thought to lock it, so there was no need for any of us to get up and let anyone in. I looked over with the rest to see who was coming to take our case. Unlike the others, I knew to be disappointed when I saw Inspector Fulson enter. He was someone I tried to avoid whenever I was at Scotland Yard, not difficult as he did not like the idea of civilians doing any work for them, even typing. He barely tolerated the constables he had to work with. Constable Jackson was with him now. Apparently, the poor man hadn't managed to get himself transferred somewhere better yet.

Inspector Fulson glanced around the room then asked, "Who found the body?"

When no one else spoke up, Constable Clarke answered, "Mr. Welch." He nodded in Mr. Welch's direction.

"You have his statement?"

"Right here, sir." Constable Clarke held up his notebook.

"And you allowed the witnesses to speak with each other while they waited?"

"I didn't think it mattered, as they had already spent a good bit of time alone together, both after the body was found and when Miss Pengear came to find me."

Inspector Fulson turned to me. "And you just happened to turn up here today?"

So he did remember me. "I was delivering some typing."

Inspector Fulson made a sound that suggested he didn't believe me, but wouldn't press just yet. "Where is it?"

Constable Clarke guessed, correctly I assumed, that Inspector Fulson wasn't interested in my typing. "In here, sir. This was his office. He's at his desk."

"Then let's go through and you lot can show me exactly what you did when you found him." Inspector Fulson marched back into the office, followed by Constable Jackson. Mr. Connolly and Mr. Welch did not look pleased to be going back, but Constable Clarke turned and gestured for them to hurry, so they followed. I wanted to know what would happen, so I followed them.

Inspector Fulson walked around the room, glanced at the teapot without touching it, then touched Mr. Holt's neck, pressing to be certain there was no pulse. Apparently, he thought we would leave Mr. Holt slumped over his desk without being certain that he was actually dead, and while Mr. Welch and Mr. Connolly nearly had, he had to know Constable Clarke and I would be more thorough. Then he turned to Mr. Welch. "Show me what you did when you found him."

I would have thought the arrival of the tea was the place to start, but perhaps Inspector Fulson didn't want too much attention to be paid to that. Mr. Welch went to the door and stepped into the office again. "I had some papers he'd asked for, so I brought them in, and I realized he'd been taken ill. I was shocked. I think I cried out. In any case, Mr. Connolly came in to see what had happened."

"And I found Mr. Welch standing in front of the desk and Mr. Holt slumped over it, just as you see here."

"And which of you checked for a pulse?"

Both men looked at each other. I had suspected, neither of them had thought of it before I'd mentioned it.

"We were wondering what to do," Mr. Connolly said, "and then Miss Pengear came in and... assisted."

I had the feeling he had nearly said something along the lines of _took over_ , but someone had needed to do something constructive.

Inspector Fulson turned to Constable Clarke. "Did you take notes on her interrogation?"

"I have her statement here, sir."

Inspector Fulson looked it over. "So you arrived after Mr. Holt was discovered, you went to get a constable, and then stayed to what? Collect gossip?"

I tried to stay calm as I answered, "To see if you wanted me to expand on anything in my statement."

"It seems we have it. As you were not involved in anything of actual relevance, you may go. Now I think there was some talk about locating Mr. Holt's physician. That's the next item on the list. Do either of you know where to find the name?"

Both clerks started to look through the desk again. Inspector Fulson seemed completely uninterested in the tea or in preserving the crime scene, although he did manage to notice me by the door and say, "I thought you were told you weren't needed."

I was prepared to object, to point out that I had been there almost from the beginning and he might need to ask me something else, when Mr. Connolly picked up my folders of typing from the middle of the desk and handed them to me. "You're not needed here this morning, Miss Pengear. You can send the projects on to the executor, and he'll see that you are paid. We are sorry for the inconvenience." And he all but pushed me bodily through the door to the outer office then stood there, waiting for me to leave. I didn't seem to have much of a choice.

And so I found myself standing on the pavement outside, staring at the office door. Mr. Connolly must have been more disturbed by finding a body than I'd thought. His reaction wasn't even logical. Whoever took over Mr. Holt's firm and clients would still need the papers I'd typed up. And why on earth would the executor want them? An invoice would be sufficient to see that I was paid properly, and a clerk in a law firm like Mr. Holt's should know that. But I certainly wasn't about to go back inside, not after being more or less thrown out. When they realized they needed the papers, they could send me a note, and I'd tell them I'd have to charge a rush fee. With that decided, I further decided that a cup of tea was in order and went to find the nearest shop.

I found a nice tea shop not far from the office and ordered a cream tea and settled in. Really, it was rather obvious what had happened. Someone had introduced cyanide into Mr. Holt's morning tea, which he drank, and it killed him. The only questions were who and why, not that Inspector Fulson seemed to be asking them.

Once my tea and scones had arrived and been properly smothered in butter and jam, I looked at the folders from Mr. Holt's. Perhaps I wouldn't be quite so cranky as to charge them extra. It had been a traumatic morning all around, after all. I opened first the folder to remind myself how much work the project had been, and realized I had more than three folders, a fact I hadn't noticed as I'd been rushed out the door. I wondered if I ought to go back and return the extra one straight away or if I could wait until I'd finished my tea. The only way to know that was to look at it.

The file was one of those I'd seen on Mr. Holt's desk when I'd gone in, one of the ones he'd requested before his tea that morning, I assumed. It concerned a Mr. Bristol who was a landlord renting out several office spaces around town. He seemed to be using Mr. Holt to check the contracts. There were several contracts, all neatly in chronological order starting with the earliest, and a set of newer, seemingly random, pages on top. The first unusual page was a copy of a letter from Mr. Holt to the Hallerson Bank dated a month before, asking for a complete copy of the account for Mr. Bristol. So what did that tell me? Perhaps the client wanted the accounting, which suggested he thought something was wrong. So did that mean someone at the firm was embezzling money from clients? But wouldn't that have been noticed? And there was no letter from the client asking for an audit. Had Mr. Holt stumbled upon something suspicious and decided to audit some of the accounts himself? The next pages were listings from an account book starting with the current month. Two lists for the current month, I realized. One in Mr. Holt's handwriting and a second on letterhead from the same Hallerson Bank as the letter.

A quick glance at the papers showed me that the final totals for the month were the same, but the list of transactions from the bank was much longer than the one from Mr. Holt's records. That didn't seem to make any sense. I couldn't think of a single good reason for him not to mark things in his copies of the accounts, not when it was a client record. I pulled a piece of paper out of one of my files and put it face down between the two account pages so I could write on the blank area between them without damaging the originals and began to compare the two, putting a tick beside any numbers that lined up correctly on both. When I'd finished, all of the transactions that were on the Holt account record were also on the Hallerson Bank record, but there were six transactions on the Hallerson Bank list that didn't seem to have a counterpart on the Holt one. Three deposits and three withdrawals, the amounts all pairing up neatly, all done on the same day as another transaction. I turned to the next page, which showed the accounts for the month before. Again, all of the transactions on the Holt account were also on the Hallerson account, but the Hallerson account had ten extra transactions, five deposits and five withdrawals, again with matching amounts and all done on days with another transaction.

The file narrowed my list of suspects considerably. Mr. Holt must have found out one of his clerks was using client accounts to pass funds through, most likely for some criminal group. But which one? Clerk, I meant; the criminal group was best left to the police. I smiled a bit at that. Apparently, murder was fine for me to poke at.

So what was there to poke at? It seemed Mr. Holt had been doing an audit of this file, why? There was no record of a request from the client. Something must have caused him to audit the file. I poured myself another cup of tea and considered the matter.

There had been three files on Mr. Holt's desk. Perhaps all three of them had been affected by the scam. And one of the names had been familiar. Canson. I flipped through my files until I found the one I was thinking of. It was thinner than the others. Mr. Holt had sent word the week before for me to cancel it, which was why I remembered it, and he had told me to bring him whatever I had already done when I dropped off the others so I could be paid for the work. I flipped through the papers to remind myself of what it had been about. Mr. Holt had been writing up a contract for the sale of a building Mr. Canson had planned to purchase. The contract had been written, but he'd canceled it before the sale could go through. I had assumed Mr. Canson had changed his mind about the purchase, but what if he'd changed his mind about Mr. Holt? A purchase of that size would have meant he'd go to the bank to arrange the transfer of funds. It was quite possible he'd seen a similar accounting to what was in the folder in front of me and had confronted Mr. Holt about it, causing Mr. Holt to look into the other files and scare whomever had been involved in the transfers badly enough to make him think he had to act before he was found out. And if that were the case, Mr. Canson was probably still buying the building, but planning to use a different solicitor. I wondered if it were possible to find out if the sale was still going through. It was something to check at least, and the building wasn't that far away; I wouldn't even need to take the Underground to go there.

But that wouldn't tell me who the killer was. The problem was, I had figured out the motive, means, and opportunity, but it all applied to both my suspects equally well. Both had handled the tea that morning, and I could easily see ways either one of them could have manipulated events so that they would have access to it. Mr. Connolly could have volunteered to make it, and Mr. Welch offering to bring it in seemed perfectly logical. Unless there was something else I could learn from the files.

The handwriting should have helped. I should have been able to compare the writing on the account sheets to something in my files of notes and see who had written the unpaired ones, but, when they were trying to write clearly, both Mr. Welch and Mr. Connolly wrote their numbers in the exact same hand. It would have confused me except I had been dropping off files one afternoon and overheard Mr. Holt all but yelling that if they did not complete the course on neatly writing numbers he'd found for them, he would sack them both despite the number of clients their families brought in. It was during the same conversation that I learned they were both third sons of quite well-off families, which was why Mr. Holt had thought it worth keeping them on and going to the expense of hiring me. It was also why I had to be very certain before I accused either of them of murdering him.

Of course, the simplest means of proving which of them it was would be to pull both of their bank records and see which of them had made unusual deposits in their own accounts, payments for whatever the scheme was, but that was not something I could do. It was something Inspector Fulson could do easily enough, if he started to look at this as a case of murder. And that meant the folder had to be there for him to look at. So the first thing to be done was return the folder. And perhaps while I was at Mr. Holt's office, I could see how the investigation was progressing and perhaps even drop a hint or two about where they might want to look for answers. It couldn't hurt. Provided there was, in fact, an investigation.

When I got back to Mr. Holt's office, the door was still unlocked and the front office was empty except for Constable Jackson standing near the door. That seemed odd. I had a hard time believing Inspector Fulson had already finished questioning both Mr. Welch and Mr. Connolly.

"Did you forget something, Miss Pengear?" At least Constable Jackson sounded friendly.

"No, I need to see Mr. Welch or Mr. Connolly. Have they left already?"

"No, they're in the back, going through Mr. Holt's office to find his address book."

That was certainly wrong. "Inspector Fulson is letting them go through a crime scene to find something that could be gotten from his landlady or someone else who knew him?"

"As far as Inspector Fulson is concerned, it's not a crime scene."

"Didn't Constable Clarke mention the teapot?"

"Constable Clarke attempted to mention a great many things. Inspector Fulson had no interest in listening. Was there something in the teapot?"

"The tea smelled of bitter almonds."

"Ah, that explains why Constable Clarke locked it in the safe before he left. I wondered."

"The safe?" It seemed both logical and curious.

"Yes, Mr. Connolly had just mentioned how good it was that the safe was still open, as neither of them knew the combination, and then Constable Clarke bumped into the door a few minutes later and the thing locked itself, so they have to get a locksmith in. But you see, I could have sworn I saw Constable Clarke put a teapot in there earlier before he ran into it. But if he suspected something was wrong with the tea, that does explain it. I'll see that they get the folder."

It wasn't Constable Jackson's fault Inspector Fulson was an idiot. "Thank you. You know where to find me if he changes his mind."

So there would be no investigation as far as Inspector Fulson was concerned. That meant that the murderer would go free and be free to continue whatever his scheme was that involved shifting money through the banks. Unless I could bring something to Inspector Fulson that he couldn't ignore. I glanced down at the notes I'd made. The building Mr. Canson had been buying was not far from where I was. It would be easy enough to walk over and see if the building was still for sale.

~ * ~ * ~

I found the address easily enough. It was for a small office building very like all the others on the same block. The sign in the window said _for sale_ , which seemed to support the idea that Mr. Canson had changed his mind, but I could see someone moving around inside, so I tapped on the door and waited.

The man who opened the door seemed surprised to find anyone on the other side. Clearly, he had been expecting to spend the afternoon alone with his work. But he quite politely asked, "Were you looking for an address, miss?"

He was wearing the dull and slightly cheap suit of a poorly paid clerk, so I took a guess at his purpose there and asked, "Are you with the estate agent?"

"Yes, but if you were inquiring about this building, I'm afraid it's as good as sold. I'm sure they would have something else suitable if you wanted to call in at our main office."

So Mr. Canson was probably still closing the deal on the property. "No, no, but you might be able to assist me. I'm supposed to be typing up some paperwork about the sale, but I can't read the handwriting. Would you mind if I asked you just to clarify a few things?"

"I don't know...." He was hesitant about sharing information with a stranger, but he didn't say no outright.

I opened the Canson folder. "The buyer is a Mr. Carson..." I squinted at the page as if I were trying to make out the handwriting, and as it had been scrawled by one of Mr. Holt's clerks, that was quite a realistic reaction.

"Canson, it's Mr. Canson." Now that he realized I really did have a file on the sale, which made my story seem much more plausible, he was more willing to be helpful.

"Canson, I suppose that does say Canson, doesn't it? And the negotiations are being handled on his side by a Mr. Holt..."

"They were. He's changed over to Mr. Addison."

"Really? Now when did that happen?"

"A couple of days ago."

"I wish they would keep me informed of these changes. Did he say why he was changing firms?"

"No, I'm afraid not. He simply sent us a letter saying Mr. Addison was who we would be dealing with from now on."

It certainly fit the theory I was developing. "Do you know the name of the clerks that were helping out? At Mr. Holt's, I mean. They might be able to help me read this." And it would certainly help to know if one or the other of them had been directly involved.

"I'm afraid not. Everything was handled by messenger."

"I see. I wonder if it was the same service we use."

"I doubt it. It was normally a boy. I assume they found someone waiting around on the street outside the office."

That was odd. Everything that had been sent to me had come through one of the larger courier services that promised confidentiality or through the normal post, but saying so might make the clerk question my story, so I said, "Yes, I think they've done the same thing with us. Well, thank you for all your help. I suppose I should go and ask if they want me to continue with this."

The clerk went back inside, and I started back towards Mr. Holt's office. So now I knew Mr. Canson had canceled whatever dealings he'd had with Mr. Holt but not the sale of the building, and had done so a few days before, roughly the same time Mr. Holt had canceled the typing order. But that didn't prove anything. He might have had any number of reasons for changing solicitors. And more importantly, it didn't do anything to narrow down which of the clerks had put the cyanide in his tea.

But it did give me another place to look for witnesses. There had been several messenger boys waiting near the office, hoping for a delivery. Perhaps they had seen something. It was worth at least asking.

~ * ~ * ~

When I got back to Mr. Holt's office, I saw what seemed to be the same gaggle of messenger boys still clustered nearby, which now struck me as odd considering Mr. Holt didn't use their services.

I spotted the girl Constable Clarke had trusted to take his note to Scotland Yard. He seemed to know the lot of them, so if he trusted her, she was most likely trustworthy. "Molly?" I called.

The girl hurried over. "Did you need something delivered? Oh, you were with Constable Clarke this morning. Was everything all right?"

"Not really. Did you hear about Mr. Holt?"

She nodded.

"That's why I wanted to ask you a few questions."

Molly looked around. "I'm not sure..."

"Just about general sort of things here. Nothing you've done wrong or need to be concerned about."

"It's not that. Just I have enough trouble getting jobs as it is. If they start rumors that I'm ratting out people...."

I saw the problem and its solution at once. "Take this," I handed her a random page out of one of my files, "and pretend I've told you to deliver it somewhere, then meet me around the corner, all right?"

"I suppose."

"Excellent. I'll see you in a few minutes." I went around the corner and waited halfway down the block.

In a few minutes, Molly was there, holding out my paper. "I don't know much, so I don't know how I can help."

"I was just wondering if anyone from Mr. Holt's office hires you lot for making deliveries on a regular basis."

I was expecting it to be a dead end and for her to say no, so I was a bit surprised when she said, "Only Mr. Welch. It's odd, though. He pays really well, far more than he ought to. That's why everyone is hanging around outside that office. They're all hoping he'll have something and don't want to miss the chance."

"Does Mr. Holt know he does it?"

"I doubt it. Mr. Welch always waits until he's halfway down the block to give the note. Not sure why, though. He does the actual errand himself then anyway."

That seemed interesting. "What do you mean?"

"Like I said, he pays well, and it's hard for me to get jobs, so I sometimes follow him in case he comes up with something else. Sometimes these solicitors do, you see. They go see a client and need something sent back to the office while they go see another one. But he wasn't ever doing that, just nipping down to the bank to deposit whatever he was supposed to, then back he goes."

That seemed promising and unusual. "Does Mr. Connolly also go to the bank?"

"Not that I've seen, but I don't follow him. He never hires us, and he doesn't seem to go in that direction very often. Just down to Naler's office on the corner."

That would be the delivery service Mr. Holt's used to send me work. "Where did Mr. Welch send the messages?"

"Different offices."

"Did you see any of them? The messages, I mean."

She shrugged. "He didn't have them sealed or anything, so we all got glimpses, but they were just receipts."

"You mean like for services rendered?" I saw she didn't know what I meant, so I added, "The sort of thing you'd get from the doctor or the tailor."

"Oh, no, the sort of thing you get from a bank. They had a bank's name on them. I never saw all the name, but it ended in _son_ , like part of a word, not a kid."

So he was sending clients receipts of bank transactions before he actually made the transaction, most likely labeling them with the Hallerson Bank name.

"That tells you something, doesn't it?"

"It does, but I don't know that anyone will listen."

"That inspector I fetched from the Yard won't, but Constable Clarke's a good sort."

"He is, but I don't think Inspector Fulson will listen to him either. But I can try. Let me pay you for your time." I paid her what I would have if she had actually been making a delivery for me then started back towards the office.

With Molly's information, I thought I had the case sorted out. Mr. Welch had been running money through the accounts of clients for some sort of criminal group, thinking no one would notice, perhaps to allow them to record the money as having been paid by Mr. Bristol, and presumably Mr. Canson and Mr. Sloane, if he brought them checks drawn from those accounts which they could then deposit in their own accounts. He'd go out saying he was making deposits for a client, probably that he would handle it himself to give himself an excuse to be gone for a period of time, then arrange for the delivery of a forged copy of the transaction receipt by a messenger boy and go to the bank to deposit both sets of funds, using the actual paperwork from Mr. Holt's office as a cover. Mr. Canson must have realized something was wrong when he went to the bank to look into buying the building and then canceled his work with Mr. Holt. Mr. Holt ran an audit of the accounts and figured out what had happened then went looking for more instances of the fraud. He must have been planning on telling the clerks that morning. Mr. Welch must have known that was what would happen from the files he was asked to pull, and then slipped the cyanide into Mr. Holt's tea.

Unfortunately, none of what I'd found was proper proof. It was certainly possible that Mr. Welch was using the time he should have been delivering papers for perfectly mundane personal banking, but it was definitely suggestive enough for me to bring it to Inspector Fulson, and it was the sort of thing Scotland Yard could prove with a search of bank records. Now the only question was how to tell Inspector Fulson in a way that would make him listen to me. Well, I'd simply have to give him the information with someone around who wouldn't let it be ignored.

By the time I reached Mr. Holt's office, I still hadn't thought of how I was going to approach telling anyone about my theory, or even how I was going to get into the office. The last proved to be easy enough at least, as the office appeared to be open for business. I glanced through the window and saw Mr. Connolly and Mr. Welch at one of the desks doing what appeared to be work. Constable Clarke was there as well, watching them, which seemed odd as he ought to be on his beat, but at least it meant the case still seemed to be a case. I went in without knocking.

Constable Clarke turned as soon as he heard the door open and relaxed when he saw it was me. "Miss Pengear, this is a pleasant surprise."

"That's nice to hear coming from a policeman."

He smiled. "You're saving me a journey across town to get your signature on your witness statement."

A proper witness statement, then. "So Inspector Fulson is going to look into it?"

"There wasn't much choice. The doctor was located just after the locksmith had finished with the safe. The doctor took one look at the teapot and asked when the inquest would be. Inspector Fulson couldn't ignore that. Constable Jackson is there now, getting the details from the coroner. Then they'll be back to look through the paperwork for suspects. That's what we're doing here. I'm supposed to wait and see if Mr. Welch or Mr. Connolly find anything that would point towards the as-of-now unknown heirs, and hope nothing else happens on my beat, I suppose. But I don't think you came here to save me an Underground fare. Did you have some business with the gentlemen? They're right over there."

Mr. Welch and Mr. Connolly had what seemed to be half the files in the office spread out between them on the desk. I crossed to the desk and held up the files of typing I was still carrying around. "I was just bringing back the files I was working on. I realized you might need what was inside."

Mr. Connolly looked up. "That was thoughtful of you. I think we did need one of them just a minute ago."

That was a surprise, considering he'd been the one who'd told me to send them to the executors. How much did he suspect? I looked at the folders I was holding. It couldn't hurt to see what their reaction would be. "I'm afraid there's one there I haven't finished, but I brought what progress I'd made. I can try to finish it quickly this evening..."

Mr. Connolly put the files I handed him on top of the emptier desk. "If it's the Canson file, don't bother. We won't be needing that one completed."

I paused. "Why not?"

Mr. Connolly started on the next stack. "Oh, don't worry. You'll still be paid for the work, but you don't need to do any more on it. Mr. Canson canceled the request."

"When did he do that?" Mr. Welch asked, trying a bit too hard to sound unconcerned, or did it only sound that way to me as I remembered Mr. Connolly mentioning just that morning that the appointment had been canceled while we waited for the police?

"Mr. Holt mentioned it when I brought in his tea. I thought I..." Mr. Connolly looked up from his papers then changed what he'd been about to say to, "I thought that was why he wanted the file this morning."

I turned to Constable Clarke. He was watching the pair of clerks very carefully. "There is something I would like to amend on this statement. Could we go into the other office and discuss it?"

"Of course." Constable Clarke held the door to the inner office for me and gestured for me to sit in one of the visitors' chairs. He glanced back outside. Before he followed me in, he said, "I do appreciate that you gentlemen need to tell your clients, well, Mr. Holt's clients I suppose they are, or were, that they needn't bothering coming for any meetings or appointments that were scheduled, but I do need to find those heirs. If one of you would like to go and inform what clients you need to..."

"I'll go," Mr. Connolly said before Mr. Welch could consider the question.

"Thank you. Mr. Welch, I do need to find those heirs. Motive, you know." So they had both heard it too, at least something that had made Mr. Connolly and Constable Clarke nervous.

When he'd seen Mr. Connolly leave, Constable Clarke came around to the other chair and murmured, "Mr. Welch is at the other end of the office. I can see him from here, but I don't think he can hear us. Now, do you have something that explains why Mr. Connolly doesn't want to be alone with him and why he doesn't remember being told that Mr. Canson had canceled his appointment when even I heard Mr. Connolly say it this morning? And more to the point, how does it relate to cyanide-flavored tea?"

I outlined my entire investigation for Constable Clarke, including my trip to the office building and what Molly had told me. When I'd finished, he looked down at his notes. "It will take me a little while to write all of this up."

I knew how well Inspector Fulson would take my investigating. "You don't need to. I mean, you'll have to confirm all of it anyway, and you did hear Mr. Welch say that he knew nothing about Mr. Canson canceling his appointment when Mr. Connolly clearly mentioned it to him this morning. And even that isn't conclusive, not in court. You could check his bank accounts, of course, and try to find the money. I would look for an account they don't know about here, with deposits that match the dates of those odd ones."

Constable Clarke looked up from his notes. "So you don't want me to tell Inspector Fulson you're the one who found all of this out?"

"Do you think it would change his opinion of me?"

He smiled, "I see. Then, thank you. I will try to have the typing work sent to you, but I don't know how much influence I can manage."

I thanked him for the effort and signed my original statement.

~ * ~ * ~

Constable Clarke wasn't able to send any typing my way--Inspector Fulson wouldn't allow it--so Scotland Yard never did pay me for all of my help in solving the Mr. Holt's murder. However, two months after the events at Mr. Holt's, I received two notes in Mr. Connolly's handwriting, one on the letterhead of another firm of solicitors, the other on his personal notepaper. Once I'd deciphered his scratches, I found the first letter had been dictated by the head of the firm asking for my rates and availability for typing jobs, and the other was from Mr. Connolly himself.

"Miss Pengear,

"I hope I am not too forward in writing to you or in putting your name forward when Mr. Barrett asked for recommendations on a typist. I have worked for him for a little over a month now, and I think you will find him to be a good client. It seemed the least I could do after your assistance with the matter at Mr. Holt's. I wasn't sure if involving you was the correct thing to do, but Mr. Welch's father has influence at Downing Street, and I did not want Mr. Holt's death to go unsolved. When I saw your reaction to the teapot and the inspector's reaction to you, I thought you would be someone who would not let him brush away the death if it was something other than natural.

"And I did suspect that it was. Mr. Holt was preoccupied that morning, as I tried to tell the inspector, and would stop talking abruptly whenever Mr. Welch came into the office. And as Mr. Welch never volunteered for any work that didn't directly benefit him, the entire morning seemed off, and as the only unusual thing was the request for the files, I thought it had to be related.

"I attempted to tell the inspector, but he kept questioning us together, and once a man has murdered once to protect himself, what's to stop him from doing it a second time to prevent discovery? So I made certain to give you one of the files in question when I handed you the ones you had brought in the hopes that you would understand the significance, and was so relieved when you did.

"If you haven't heard, Mr. Welch's bank records were pulled and they found evidence that he had been laundering money for a gambling house, to whom he owed a large debt himself, through several of our clients' accounts, including the three which Mr. Holt had asked me to pull. The two of us knew those three accounts had been audited when we pulled the files, as we saw the audit sheets on top of the papers. That was what told Mr. Welch that his scheme had been discovered, and why he became desperate enough to put the poison in the tea. He is trying to say it happened by accident, as the cyanide was from the store we had on hand to deal with a rat problem several months ago, but since it was clearly labeled and not stored anywhere near the tea things, no one is believing him.

"Again, thank you for all of your help. If I can ever be of service, please let me know.

Yours respectfully,

Jacob Connolly"

~ * ~ * ~

Death at Dinner: Cassie Pengear Mysteries book 2

Cassie Pengear did not want to spend her evening acting as a parlor maid even if the house was in Mayfair, but her landlady's friend was desperate and it was only night. But then one of the guests collapsed at the table. Now poison is suspected and the cook is convinced she's the main suspect and will be locked away if Cassie doesn't solve the death at dinner.

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Also available

Also available as part of a bundle with books one, two and three. For more information, go to

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