Cedar Locke and the Missing Brooch

     It was a cosy, but functional space. Its walls were painted a muted yellow that caught the light and glowed warmly in its rays. On the counter, a weathered chopping board rested, empty for now. Low windows spilled out onto a spread of grass and herbs. Above, shelves lined the walls and sagged slightly under the weight of cookbooks, mortars, brass weights, mysterious jars and pots and the occasional glass-encased preserve. At the far end of the room, a range cooker stood in a dark recess. Cedar could see a door, presumably leading to the back stairs, as well as an alcove for the dumbwaiter.

     The cook, or perhaps assistant cook, was busy scrubbing a pile of potatoes with an intensity that bordered on aggression, as if each potato had gravely insulted her, and perhaps some of her family as well. However, she not unkindly nodded towards a metal pot, left warming on the stove, in response to Cedar’s plea for coffee. Under her direction, Cedar took a cup, striped bands of blue and white, that was hanging from a rack, and filled it with steaming liquid. Ms. Graychart took a glass of water for herself.

     The pair sat by a table, squat and round, in the kitchen on a set of time-smoothed chairs. Before them, the cook placed a plate of sand-coloured biscuits. To the sound of resumed scrubbing and the smell and taste of coffee and buttery ginger, Cedar idly started to flip through the pages of the book Professor Brooke had given him. Really, his mind was deep in thought.

     Cedar started with the table of contents. Neatly formatted, but no information that stood out. Turning to the next page, he casually read the introduction to the book. Again, nothing of real interest here. It was mostly aligned with what he remembered of Professor Brooke’s half-lecture earlier. Scarabs seemed to have been ubiquitous as curios, charms, decorations, jewelry, weapons, tools and even currency.

     Cedar perked up at this last one. Pushing his coffee to the side, he flipped with renewed interest to the page. Scanning through the first paragraph, he sank back in disappointment. The very first paragraph emphasised how old scarab-based currency has little to no value in the modern neoconomy. He took up his cup again, and drained it to the dregs, before setting it down with a slightly too heavy clunk to the frown of the cook. No new information. No new leads to follow. Most vexing.

     “Shall we head back upstairs now sir?”

     “Yes.” He and Ms. Graychart both knew the drill. At this stage, it was best to step through the sequence of events, perform a mini-reenactment. On their way to the stairs, Cedar left the book in the estate office. No need to carry that around.

     Back in the bedroom, Cedar surveyed the scene once more, mentally noting the key locations: where the locket was last seen, the bed where Lady Ashbury sat to recover and the door to the balcony, opened for fresh air. He rummaged through his mind, trying to catalogue and bring forth the events he knew had occurred.

     There was an impeccably polite knock on the door.

     “Excuse me sir,” came the voice of Barnsley, “I saw you rushing up the stairs, and wondered if there was anything I can do to help?”

     “Not yet,” replied Cedar, “but I did want to double check a few things. You said the doors were open when you arrived.”

     “That’s right sir. I’m afraid I didn’t think anything of it.”

     “Where was Mikey?”

     Barnsley frowned, “He was standing by the balcony. I thought he was just looking outside.”

     “What did he do after that?”

     “I sent him to fetch some water for her Ladyship, then he was dismissed. It’d be no good for him to stay with Lady Ashbury in that state.”

     Cedar curtly nodded. No surprises here. It all aligned with Mikey’s account.

     “And yourself? What happened next?”

     “Well sir, I stayed with her Ladyship until she had settled somewhat. I remember the room was getting a bit chilly then sir, so I ran a bath for Lady Ashbury, before fetching his lordship from the ballroom. Only a few stragglers left at the ball by that time if I recall. The musicians had finished up for the night. I was most distressed, as the missing guests must have had to make their own way out the front door and to the carriages. They must certainly have thought I was the worst behaved doorman in Neopia. I do hope they will forgive me. In any event, whilst Lady Ashbury recovered with a long soak, Lord Ashbury, and I searched every nook and cranny of the bedroom. Twice sir. But the brooch was nowhere to be found. Gone sir, like it was never there.”

     “I see,” said Cedar. He paused for a moment before continuing, “That is all for now Barnsley. Could you wait outside? It is most important we are not disturbed.”

     She assented, although seemed somewhat cool in her manner. Cedar waited till she left the room.

     “She kept to the same story then,” observed Ms. Graychart, in a low voice.

     “Worth checking.”

     “Perhaps. Is it possible that Lady Ashbury is mistaken about the brooch being here?”

     “Mistaken or lying? I wondered the same myself. But she has no reason to mislead us. There is no insurance. The brooch has significant sentimental value to Lady Ashbury, and the cost of our services is, although fair, not trivial. No. I believe that the brooch must have been here when she left the room. Yet it seems to not have been here on her return.”

     “I agree. But the thought was worth considering before disregarding it. Shall we work through the course of events?”

     “Yes. At least, those that have been told us by the individuals. To start then. According to Lady Ashbury, she placed the brooch here on the dressing table. She left the room, locking the windows and doors, and headed downstairs to the ball. We think she was the last one to leave this floor. Some time later, Professor Brooke and Lord Ashbury came up and over to the upstairs library down the hall. There was a period of time where they were split. Ashbury to his study, Brooke remaining in the library. Brooke claims to have not been aware of this. Shortly after Ashbury returned, the gardener, Meadows, interrupted the pair to replace the candlesticks. Brooke and Ashbury returned downstairs. About this time, Mikey was asked to clean the blue room.”

     “For Lady Thornslow”, added Ms. Graychart.

     “Quite. Mikey and Meadows passed on the stairs, Meadows returning to the gardens. As Mikey was finishing up the cleaning, Lady Ashbury must have come up the stairs and opened this door.”

     Ms. Graychart moved over to the door, playing the part of Lady Ashbury and mimed turning a door handle and stepping through.

     “There’s perhaps a few seconds whilst I straighten myself out, at which point I notice that the brooch is missing and let out a cry,” she continued the sequence of events, stepping over to the dressing table, “before finding myself needing to sit down on the bed.”

     “And Mikey comes through the door,” said Cedar standing in the appropriate position, “He sees Lady Ashbury sitting on the bed, and frets for a moment before heading over to the balcony doors, unlocking them with difficulty and throwing them open.”

     Cedar walked through the motions, flinging the balcony doors open to their fullest extent. A cool breeze heralded the swift arrival of evening in the air. He stood there, gazing out across the expanse of green, when a movement on the balcony caught his eye. A Springabee floated up from the balustrade and hummed lazily away and down to the grass and out of Cedar’s vision, the buzzing sound persisting long after the Springabee was out of sight, carried on the wind.

     As he gazed out, a fleeting thought passed by him. He quickly caught hold of it with his mind and wrestled it to his consciousness. Could it be as simple as that? It would fit in with everything that he had been told. But he must have proof. He needed to check something. Without another word, he turned sharply on his heel and darted out of the room past the now-reclining figure of Ms. Graychart who was still acting out her role. Barnsley stood a respectable distance away from the door, and seemed to eye him curiously as he slipped down the stairs.

     He went into the estate office. He picked up the book that Professor Brooke had given him. He flicked through the pages rapidly till he landed on what he had been looking for. Quickly scanning through the text, he jabbed a finger down. That was it. He smiled. The second in a long time. Elise would be pleased. Ms. Graychart burst through the open door, somewhat breathless and certainly flustered.

     “Mr. Locke”, she said severely, “Must you run off so?”

     “I make no apologies Ms. Graychart,” said Cedar, still smiling, “I believe I know what has happened to the brooch. Please wait for Professor Brooke and Lady Ashbury to return, I will meet you, and all of our suspects, in the ballroom”.

     “You know the thief? Goodness. I will certainly gather everyone there as soon as possible.” She furrowed her brow slightly, “But where are you going?”

     “I’m going out for some air,” said Cedar, “Don’t worry, I won’t be gone long”.

          Leaving Ms. Graychart behind and looking somewhat baffled, Cedar headed through the atrium and out into the grounds.

     To be continued…