A Will To Murder by Hilary Thomson Page A

smile.  “Mr. Cummings, I need those keys.”
    “So you’ve got other people to unlock, eh?”
    “What’s going on?” asked Rose, woken by the duel.  Grumpily, Arthur came to life as well.
    “Never mind, honey,” said Bert.  “I'll be back in a moment.”  He set off down the hallway, testing doors and trying keys wherever he found them locked.
    “Now, Mr. Cummings, you just hand me those keys.  I won’t hold this little prank against you.”
    “Prank?  Is locking us in a little prank?  Seems to me I’ve been hearing a lot about irresponsible pranks lately.”
    Mrs. Marshpool tried to grab the keys, but he held them out of her reach, and resumed his walk.  
    “Bert,” she oozed.  “Don’t be absurd.  I need those keys to carry out the household chores.  The key to my own door is on there.”
    “Hey, you even locked Armagnac’s door, Letitia .”  Bert began to climb to the third floor.
    “I’m telling you for the last time, Mr. Cummings, hand over those keys .”
    He ignored her and began to work on the third floor locks.
    “All right then,” sputtered the housekeeper.  “I’ll have a locksmith come and re-key the locks.”
    “No, you won’t.”  
    Mrs. Marshpool only raised her eyebrows contemptuously.
    “Or,” continued Bert, “I’ll tell Armagnac you locked him in as well.”
    For a moment the housekeeper whitened.  Then she ran furiously down the stairs.  
    Cummings shivered.  Though he’d won, Mrs. Marshpool still made him uneasy.
     
     
    The living room was dark when Arthur came down the stairs for breakfast.  A dim bundle was lying on the couch.  He tried to tiptoe, but Colette must have already been awake.
    “What’s that disgusting smell?” her weary voice asked from the couch.
    “That’s Mom’s sage gruel,” Arthur said.  He headed into the kitchen.  Rose was distributing plates of pancakes and bacon around the table in the nook for the children while Sheila loaded them at the stove.  Once seated, Arthur stared at his bacon in dismay.
    “What’s the matter?” Rose asked.  “Your bacon’s whole this time, and I even put maple syrup on it, just the way you like it.”
    “No!” wailed Arthur.  “It’s supposed to be by accident! The syrup is supposed to run off the pancakes and get the bacon just a little wet.  You’re not supposed to pour it on!  That’ll make the bacon soggy!”
    “Honey, just try to eat it.  You are the pickiest child.”
    Arthur made a face at his mother’s back.  Considering the way his mother ate, he thought that comment unfair.
    As the housekeeper was setting out the silver, Bert walked in.  Mrs. Marshpool paused.
    “No!” Bert said firmly.
    The housekeeper glared at him, but left the room.
    When Briarly joined Arthur at the breakfast table, the boy said to her in a genial way, “Last night I dreamed that you and me ate your father, but we couldn’t finish all the pieces because we ran out of mustard.”  He added thoughtfully, “I can still taste him, a little.”
    “They warned me about you,” said Briarly.
    “Who?” asked Arthur.  Someone thought he was tough and dangerous?  The boy was flattered.
    But the girl did not explain.  She only watched him listlessly, ignoring her plate of pancakes.  
    “What’s the matter?”
    “Nothing.  It’s just that I have to do the laundry.”
    “Whose?”
    “My family’s.”
    Sheila, who was at the stove, looked over her shoulder.  Arthur was surprised.  Doing laundry at the age of eight sounded formidable to him.  And he had been impressed that he could unpack his own clothes without help.
    “I don’t know how to use the washer and dryer here,” Briarly added.
    “I think they have servants who do that.  Just ask them.”
    “That’s the problem.  Mrs. Marshpool does the laundry.  Mom won’t let Marshpool touch her clothes--she says Marshpool would vandalize them.”
    Sheila’s apron was suddenly looming over them.  “You don’t have to do