The Mystery Megapack

Summer Solstice, for we had many hours of light left though my pocket watch showed half past five.
    “Do you like my crossbow, Mister Coachman?”
    I turned and saw that the medieval weapon which had singly altered the face of warfare in that era was now pointed, loaded with an arrow, at my privy parts. I hopped like a man on fire and hid myself behind the nearest tree.
    “I wasn’t going to shoot you, Mister Coachman.”
    “What were you going … going to do then? Frighten me to death? ”
    “Maybe. And careful with your tone,” she replied. “I have funny fingers. They like to dance.” Then she tromped off into the wood, likely glad they had dressed her in knee pants.
    * * * *
    The team ’ostled properly, I climbed back into my seat and, shaking like sheep fuzz in a breeze, packed my oom-paul pipe with a rich cherry tobacco, lit it, and tried to relax.
    “Mister Coachman!”
    I do not remember taking myself down from the four-in-hand. Nor do I remember running into the wood. After Charlotte’s scream coloring the surrounds like a nightmare, my first recollection is seeing the handsome lad crawling toward me, his eyes bulging as he gasped for air, an arrow piercing his left jugular and spine.
    “I got one!” Charlotte cried. “One of the shepherd lads! Oh, will he be tender enough to eat? I hope I haven’t made a mistake, Mister Coachman.” With her words she fired another arrow from the evil contraption, this one squarely entering his heart. He fell with a thump to the dewy grass.
    “ Mmmm , smells wonderful, doesn’t it? I so love the scent of freshly spilled blood. They wouldn’t let me eat …”
    I had the crossbow in one hand and Charlotte in the other, dragging her by the collar back to the coach. How I accomplished it I do not to this day know, but soon I had the child tied securely and placed in her seat. Later I wished I had gagged her, but chose not to stop yet again to risk some kind of mishap such as a bite to my own jugular, or perhaps the employment of some hidden weapon I was unaware of.
    * * * *
    Two tall footmen, several servants, and Charlotte’s uncle all appeared as if they greeted the ‘Ooser’ itself as we arrived. When I was ushered into the Great House, for fear that I was dying, a quick glimpse into an outsized wall mirror showed me the reason for their pallid complexions. Though I knew the reflected figure to be me, the green skin and disheveled hair of a lunatic were completely incongruent with my usual demeanor.
    “Sir!” Lord Perrault whispered as he waved all servants but his footmen away. “What is the meaning of your arrival here with my niece?”
    “Arrival?” I asked, still very much dazed.
    “Aye! Were you not properly briefed?”
    “What … should I have been briefed about, sir?” I managed to say.
    Lord Perrault looked to his footmen and the few family members who had entered the room. He then turned back to me.
    “Based upon your, ah, curriculum vitae , shall we say,” the rich man replied, “you were hired to perform a certain service for the family.”
    “I am afraid I do not follow you, sir,” I replied. “I have done as requested. The child is quite safe, though I do apologize for her being bound. I can explain.”
    The gentleman closed his eyes as beads of sweat erupted over his features. “Are … you not John Copper, newly released from Dublin Castle gaol to, shall we say, serve the Pilchard-Perrault clan with a most necessary but particularly unsavory duty?”
    “Copper? Copper , did you say? No, my surname is Coppe . I am John Coppe .”
    “Oh God in Heaven,” he replied. “There has been a terrible mistake. The rush and bustle of yesterday, surely. All the confusion. May … may I ask, Mr. Coppe, how came you to be hired?”
    “A reputable reference made an appointment for me a fortnight ago,” I said.
    “That damned butler Renault!” came Perrault’s reply. “His infernal loss of memory has caused us far too much pain this time round!”
    “Sir,” I said, “if I may be permitted. I am quite sure that I do not understand what has happened. Mr. Renault was quite cordial, if a bit flustered. Might I inquire into the particulars, even a wee bit, in order to clear my own mind?”
    Lord Perrault again looked about him, and, I assume, receiving a familial consolation invisible to me, perhaps because of my own bedraggled state, turned back and placed his large hand on my shoulder.
    “You sir—or I should say the murderer