Ask Martha - The Case of the Missing Canary

Written by Robbie Cutler

Disorder wasn’t the word for it. When I arrived at the Carstairs residence for a long anticipated dinner, my hostess was distraught. She was upstairs, and her husband, James Carstairs, greeted me, an alarmed expression on his face.

“It’s her favorite canary,” he said. “Or rather, it was her favorite canary, a real chirpy one. Rufus was his name. Don’t ask me why.”

He led me into the music room, which looked out onto the garden. A metal canary cage had been knocked off its table and lay on its side on the floor. The little door was opened, the latch sprung. There was no trace of the canary. An open window gave the obvious answer. Somehow, the canary cage had been knocked off its perch and fallen to the floor, breaking the latch and opening the cage door.

Mr. Carstairs leaned forward and said that his wife had gone upstairs as soon as she had entered the music room to arrange the flowers and discovered the missing canary, some twenty minutes earlier. I was early to dinner, hoping to talk about my columns for the Chronicle. Oh yes, I should have mentioned that Mr. Carstairs is my boss at the newspaper, which he owns and also runs as Managing Editor. The newspaper had had rather a good year, unlike most newspapers, and this dinner party was to have been a celebration. The other guests would be arriving in half an hour, and the cook was putting the finishing touches on the dinner that we would soon be enjoying, if this canary disappearance could be sorted out, Mr. Carstairs said.

“Maybe this could be one of your mysteries. You know, interview people, do what you have to do. Just like Martha would do.” He was referring to the advice column that I wrote for the Chronicle, under the Ask Martha byline. It was a more credible byline than Crusher Davis, my real nickname, and the one I used for reporting sports news. Crusher probably went better with my six foot six frame and two-hundred-sixty-five pounds. Anyway, the real Ask Martha identity was a well-kept secret with just Carstairs, Inspector Samuels of the local police and the newspaper secretary in the know.

“That means interviewing your own family, Mr. Carstairs.”

“So be it. I hate cold dinners. And I really hate having no dinner at all!”

“Who was in this room, or near it, when the cage fell?”

“We do know that. The maid, Marjorie, was here an hour ago. She reported that everything was normal. The children, Jimmy and Lydia, were playing outside with the neighbor’s boy, Alex Johnston. They’re still outside.”

I looked around the room carefully. There were a few mud stains by the French doors facing inwards, which traced the outline of a shoe, and here and there were a few strands of grass.

My attention was attracted by a squeaky yawn, and over against the far wall, a large orange cat sleepily shook herself awake. “And, of course, Sarabelle was here too,” said Mr. Carstairs. “She’s seventeen now, has a touch of arthritis and spends most of her time asleep, when she isn’t eating. Now I’ll go and see how my wife is doing.”

I opened the French doors to the garden, and saw the three children playing frisbee, right outside the house. They were in Middle School, what used to be called Junior High, I’d say. Jimmy and Alex were trying to keep the frisbee away from Lydia, who was between them, jumping for the frisbee whenever they would toss it, just over her head. “No fair,” cried an exasperated Lydia, “you two meanies haven’t let me catch the frisbee even once. This isn’t any fun at all!”

Jimmy, who was playing barefoot, saw me first. “Hi, Crusher! Want to join us?”

“Thanks, Jimmy. I’m on a case. Actually, you can all help.”

They all looked sheepishly at each other. “Snitching isn’t right,” said Jimmy.

“That’s true. But if it’s a game, it will be all right. If I tell you what happened, you can tell me if I got it right, can’t you?”

They thought this over. “Is it okay if we don’t exactly tell you what happened?”

“Sure. Why not? That happens all the time in my real cases, anyway.”

The children huddled together, made plans and laughed.

Alex had a question. “But what happens if none of us did it?”

“Did what, Alex?”

They all turned red. “Okay, Crusher, you’ve got us there.”

“Yes. Well, the canary is missing. The cage was knocked off its perch. It fell, and the door latch came undone. The canary, Rufus, flew away. That’s all pretty clear. How did it happen, that’s what I want to know.”

Alex finally answered. “Well, I was running to catch a frisbee toss over by the house. My shoes got wet from some mud and I fell, and the frisbee went through the window.”

“Then what happened?”

“I went in and got the frisbee, but the noise must have startled the cat, Sarabelle. After I left the house, I heard the cage fall. That must have been how the canary escaped.”

“Did you see the canary escape?”

All three children shook their heads. No, they had not seen the canary escape.

“Jimmy, is that your memory as well?”

“Pretty much. I went into the house, too, to look for the frisbee, which I had thrown. But Alex had found it first. I didn’t notice anything about the birdcage. Sorry.”

“How about you, Lydia?”

“I was thirsty, so I just took a drink from my cup over there while those two were getting the frisbee back.” She pointed to a picnic table and chairs near the house.

“So then, you had a clear view of the house all the time?”

“Yes. Say, this is fun!”

“And you are sure that you didn’t see the canary fly out the window?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. Let’s go back into the house, very quietly. We’ll see who can find the canary! And then, I’ll tell you who is fibbing, and what really happened!”