Autumn (23 page)

             
“No, young miss, your grandmother ordered Mr. Larsen to deliver the goods three days ago, whilst you were still laid up with fever.”

             
“I see.”

             
Arabel felt for a moment that she was back in the nightmare; she was trapped, and no one could extricate her from this deadly situation. Arabel sighed. It was going to be a long morning. No matter which way she examined it, she really disliked Florence Peyton-Peggison, and Arabel was well aware that her grandmother’s secretary reciprocated her disdain.

             
“Well, let’s begin then, shall we? I thought we might start with floor and wall maintenance and you could scrub out the back laundry rooms and the front and back cloakrooms.”

             
Arabel shut her eyes for a brief moment. She could picture herself, on hands and knees, scrubbing viciously at old dirt and caked on grime.

             
“I think I’d better change,” she said, turning toward her wardrobe to look for something old and worn to put on instead of the pretty lilac dress she currently wore.

             
Before Arabel could decide what old outfit would suffice for an intense cleaning session, Morna entered the room, her eyes nervous, a tad excited. The maid seemed out of breath, as if she’d run all the way upstairs from the front hall. She had.

             
“Come quickly, miss,” Morna said urgently to Arabel, whispering, so Mrs. Peyton-Peggison couldn’t hear her. “The Chief is here to speak with you!”
             

             
Arabel wasted no time in making her way downstairs, relieved to get away from Mrs. Peyton-Peggison and her nasty ideas, although she wasn’t entirely certain that an interview with Chief Constable Bartlin was honestly going to be any easier or any more enjoyable than hours of harsh, manual labour.

             
Morna rushed on ahead and ushered Arabel promptly into the formal front parlour. Arabel was glad to see that Amelia Bodean was nowhere in sight; hopefully she was not in residence and would not need to partake in or be privy to the upcoming conversation.

             
The Chief was standing in front of the fire, absently perusing the bookshelf next to the roaring blaze. He turned when he heard Arabel step into the room and did not smile when he greeted her. His green eyes were sharp but did not contain any hint of of the strange lasciviousness they’d shown the last time he’d been here, for which Arabel was eminently grateful.

             
The Chief’s eyes today were flat, un-emotional, speculative and totally in professional authoritarian mode.

             
“Miss Spade,” he intoned formally, inclining his head toward her in a brief nod. Arabel curtsied in return and then sat on the sofa quietly and waited for him to begin the interview.

             
“I’m sure you know why I’m here,” The Chief said and Arabel nodded.

             
“Jonty Governs?”

             
“Yes. He surrendered himself to the Gypsies last night and it is rumoured you have some withheld information about the recent murders.”

             
“I’m sorry, sir,” Arabel replied, “but I am not sure I have any information which would be new to you.”

             
“You proclaimed his innocence last night, did you not, at the Gypsy council meeting?”

             
“Yes, based upon what Governs himself told me, and my impressions of the murders themselves.”

             
“Meaning what, exactly? Speak plainly, Miss Spade.”

             
Arabel hesitated; she was not sure what to divulge and what to keep hidden. How much of her paranormal comprehension would the Chief be able to understand?

             
“Jonty said he was responsible for the thefts last summer of the Gypsy horses and community chest funds, but that he was innocent in the matter of Klara and Northrup’s deaths. Jonty swore he’d never laid eyes upon the girl and he had no idea of who Indra Northrup was when asked.”

             
“What reason did he have then for his involvement in this matter? Or how could he explain why his name came up to begin with?” The Chief sounded slightly irritated and Arabel really couldn’t fault him. Murder irritated everyone. And so, it seemed, did Jonty Governs.

             
“Jonty swore he had been framed. The only person he said who he did have any contact with was a Gypsy by the name of Nick Chauncer. That’s really all I have been privy to, sir.”

             
“Why did you not come to me with this information? Why not come forward with the thief when you had him within your grasp?”

             
“I believe Jonty is being framed; he speaks the truth, as best as he knows how. He’s not evil enough to commit murder. He’s more cowardly than anything, really.” Arabel spoke with firm conviction and the Chief regarded her solemnly.

             
“That doesn’t answer my question, young lady. Why did you not turn him in?” the Chief demanded again and Arabel reluctantly realized she would have to give him her honest answer.

             
“I thought he would be bait for the killer, sir,” she said.

             
“Bait for the killer?” the Chief echoed. “Exactly how did you surmise that was going to occur, or even advance the case if it did?’ he asked dryly.

             
“I’m not sure, sir. It was what my intuition advised me to do.”

             
“Your intuition, eh?” the Chief looked her up and down. “Arabel Spade, witchy girl.” he muttered and Arabel squirmed uncomfortably upon the sofa. She did not reply. The Chief stared at her for a long, piercing moment.

             
“Get your overcoat. You’re coming with me,” the Chief ordered abruptly.

             
Arabel felt a cold fear descend sharply upon her being. A mass of unsettling shivers tracked uneasily down her spine.

             
“Going where, sir?” Arabel asked meekly, dreading the answer. Was he going to jail her? Amelia Bodean would have a heart attack most likely, and Arabel’s head as well, for bringing such a disgrace upon her household.

             
The Chief smiled down at Arabel, completely sans humour.

             
“The Gypsies are cooperating with my department and they have released Governs to me for questioning. “

             
Chief Constable Bartlin snorted in puzzled resignation as he surveyed Arabel.

             
“He’s asking for you.”

             
Arabel was shocked; Jonty was asking for her? How bizarre! It didn’t make any sense. She rose immediately from the sofa.

             
“He wants to talk to the witchy girl from the Moor, he said. I take it he means you, Miss Spade.”

             
“Yes, sir, just give me a moment,” Arabel said and hurried into the hall to tell Morna where she was going.

             
Morna, of course, had been eavesdropping just outside of the door and so was already aware of the reason for the Chief’s visit and of Arabel’s imminent departure for the jailhouse.

             
“I’ll be alright, Morna,” Arabel said briskly to the maid, whose frightened face was pale as she brought Arabel her large black cape and proceeded to help Arabel step into her stout and sturdy black boots. 

             
The Chief pushed past Arabel and Morna to open the front door.

             
“I have a carriage out front,” he said and exited.

             
For a brief moment, Arabel simply stood in a dazed shock with Morna. Then Arabel heard Mrs. Peyton-Peggison’s brisk step coming toward them and she hugged Morna quickly and dashed out of the house. No way was she waiting around for her grandmother’s secretary. If Mrs. Peyton-Peggison reached Arabel in time, she would no doubt insist upon accompanying her to the jailhouse, which would completely hinder Arabel’s ability to question and make sense of Jonty Governs’ frightened tale and his actions of late.

             
A groomsman helped Arabel into the shiny black carriage and they set off immediately down the snowy track toward the jailhouse. Arabel was filled with a strange elation as she wondered just what the thief was going to tell her. Her mind raced madly in all directions of wild speculation. Within Arabel’s peripheral knowing, she could feel the presence and energy of Ira, and knew the crow flew overhead the carriage with her, guarding her and standing sentry as always.

             
Seated across from Arabel, Chief Constable Bartlin’s broad face gave nothing away. His impassive green eyes were hooded like a hawk as he surveyed Arabel with a reluctant interest.

             
Here’s your chance to set things straight, Arabel Spade, pixie maiden, the Chief thought to himself wryly, but he said nothing aloud and the carriage lurched through the snow in an uneasy and contemplative silence.

             
Arabel had never had occasion to visit the jailhouse before nor had she been to the ornate offices and joint headquarters of Mayor Aldritch and Chief Constable Bartlin.

             
Well, I am here now, she thought to herself, taking a good, long look around. Arabel was surprised to see how opulent the offices were in their decor, and how spotlessly all of the surfaces shone. How even the workers who rushed around like busy little worker bees looked freshly scrubbed and cleaner-than-clean.

             
The main office was large and beige and richly carpeted and branched off into several different alcoves. Arabel could see at least twelve of them and all were occupied by various officious looking personnel. Arabel was largely ignored as she followed the Chief into his private domain, just off to the side of the main office and down a dim hallway.

             
The Chief’s office was furnished solemnly in dark browns and amber hues. A walnut desk dominated the room and behind it, a large picture window provided a view of the courtyard outside. The Chief seated himself behind the desk, his place of power, and motioned Arabel to a rather uncomfortable looking brown wooden chair opposite. Arabel seated herself on the wooden chair and waited for him to begin.

             
“They’
re bringing him down now. You will have fifteen minutes with him.” The Chief pinned Arabel, hard, with his sharp green eyes. “Make the most of it and do not dare lie to me about what information you receive.”

             
“Yes, sir,” Arabel replied.

             
She heard a shuffling noise in the hallway and presently two guards appeared with the thief sandwiched in between them. Jonty was shackled at the wrists and he assumed a look of fearful relief upon his face as he spied Arabel with the Chief.

             
Arabel and the Chief watched as the guards placed a restraint upon Jonty’s ankle, effectively tethering him to a post, rendering him unable to escape. The Chief grunted in approval as he and the two guards made to leave the room.

             
Just outside the door, the Chief turned back to Arabel. He shook a domineering finger at her.

             
“Fifteen minutes,” he instructed brusquely, before closing the door firmly and leaving Arabel alone with the accused killer.

             
Jonty’s face had a greenish tint to it and Arabel surmised that his night in jail had done nothing for his complexion. Around Jonty’s head, the same orange pain cloud she’d seen hovering over him before bobbed up and down. Arabel wondered if the thief suffered from migraine. Jonty’s eyes were bleak as he leaned toward Arabel; profuse fear and anxiety leaked off of him in stagnant, suffocating waves.

             
“Miss, you have t’ help me - it was after I seen you!” Jonty cried immediately in quiet desperation, his eyes darted around the room nervously and glistened with unshed tears.

             
“What was?” Arabel queried, instantly alarmed by the thief’s palpable, wrenching grief.

             
“The attacks, miss! The attacks that are takin’ me over!”

             
“Tell me about them, Jonty. What happens? Is that who you meant was coming after you when you burst into the Lodge last night?”

             
Jonty nodded eagerly; his eyes flashed with an unnatural brightness and his pupils looked humungous within his small, weasel-like face.

             
Arabel kept her distance. She wondered if he had been given drugs to make him talk or perhaps, to settle him down. Alternately, his jailors might have given him drugs to wind him up. Arabel had heard the whispers before about the peculiar goings-on at the jailhouse during the long, hard hours of the night and heartily suspected that they were true.