She shakes her head.
“Did you find the axe?”
She shakes her head.
“Did someone give you the axe?”
She doesn’t reply.
“Boo Boo, who is talking to you at night?”
“An angel,” she says, her eyes bright and dark like liquid chocolate.
I crouch next to her. “What does the angel look like?”
She touches my nose with her finger. “Like you,” she says.
“He’s a man. What is his name?”
“Mr Angelcakes,” and she smiles a big soppy smile and cuddles me.
I meet with Constable Walnut in the herb garden.
“Everything alright, sir?” he enquires.
“Yes. I want you to ask Sally to make arrangements for us to stay at the Highwayman public house in the village tonight. And get her to send this telegram.” I hand him the note.
Detective Waxford —
Can we meet? Very strange situation here.
Detective Sergeant White
“Are you arresting the six year—old?”
“No. Someone is manipulating her and making a fool of us.”
I go back into the house and inspect the guest room of Icarus Hookeye. The room is comfortable, if small. The bed unmade with gentlemen’s toiletries by the mirror and washbasin. His coat hangs behind the door. I go through the pockets, only finding some matches. Nothing else. It is then that I examine the pocket book I found on his body. A little red book, and what a curious thing it is! On every page is a sketch of a black butterfly. Over and over. Butterfly after black butterfly. They soar across the pages in inky shapes. Snap shut their wings at the edges, glide over white spaces. Is this some sort of code? Does this have secret meaning?
Detective Sergeant White and Constable Walnut interview the Professor
We trudge through the undergrowth towards the medieval keep of the Professor and arrive just as the sun is beginning to set. I have borrowed a lantern from Mrs Treacle for our return journey. The woods round this area are especially sinister. An owl hoots in the distance.
“Any theories, Walnut, on our killer?”
“Nothing is springing to mind, sir.”
The moated keep materialises in front of us. White-moon-coloured flowers float on the waters. We cross the bridge and walk into the courtyard, approach a little side door. To my surprise, it is open and we enter. The corridor is blood red: the wallpaper red, the carpet red, the ceiling red. It is like stepping through a tunnel of blood. Inside an intestine. Red upon red. Red, they say, is the colour of magic. The colour of devils.
This is a labyrinth maze. A coiling puzzle of corridors, each leading to a room of red. And along the walls are framed glass pictures, each with a butterfly with a pin through its heart.
To stop you flying away, you naughty thing
There are hundreds of them, each different. Chocolate browns, fuzzy pinks, lemon curd yellows, peacock blues. We keep moving: red upon red surrounds us, enclosing upon us. More butterflies trapped in glass.
“This is some sort of madness,” I say to Constable Walnut.
Finally, the corridor coils, spiral shaped, into a room at the centre, the heart of this diabolical maze. Here sits Professor Hummingbird at his study desk, writing in his journal. Behind him is an enormous butterfly, the wing span of two human hands. It is ebony black with two red shaped eyes on the wings.
“You are admiring my prize possession,” the Professor remarks, and he raises his head. His voice is soothing and oddly mesmeric. He is a man in his late fifties, I would have guessed; he sports a long beard and has deep amber eyes. He wears striped trousers and pointy blue slippers.
“She is the rarest butterfly in the world and I have the only specimen. She’s a dazzler, isn’t she? Originates from Mexico. Her name translates as ‘Angel-Eater’. She eats other butterflies.”
“I am Detective Sergeant White and this is Constable Walnut. I believe Mr Grubweed may be here?”
“You just missed him. He left rather upset. He was very close to Icarus.”
“You’re aware of the situation then?”
“Of course. My associate has been decapitated.” The Professor smiles.
“Do you know of anyone that would want to harm him?”
“Not at all. He was quite an amusing fellow and competent doctor.”
“And can you account for your whereabouts last night?”
“I was here the entire evening, writing my journals. I have no alibi. I have only one servant, my housekeeper, who comes in the mornings. I prefer as little human interaction as possible. I can only work with my butterflies with absolutely no other distraction.”
“What sort of work was he doing for you?” I step closer.
“Menial tasks. Paper pushing, administrative silliness.” He yawned.
“Procurement of body parts for medical research?” I add.
“Oh, he wasn’t that macabre. You see devils, sergeant, when there are only men.”