by Lisa Tuttle
“What was it?”
“Just the usual. Nothing that would harm a healthy young man.”
“Did he tell you when his amorous meeting was to be—or where?”
“It was soon—I think that very night.”
“He saw you on Saturday morning?”
The cunning man made a gesture of assent.
“Then he must have walked here from the train station, and gone directly back to catch the train to Norwich,” said Mr. Jesperson, and I felt as often before that our thoughts were running along the same course, for I had been remembering my conversation with Billy.
“He did seem in a bit of a hurry,” Cunning Verrell agreed.
“He did not tell you he was going to meet a woman in London?”
“He did not say where he was going. I did not suppose he meant to spend the night at the Vicarage,” he said, with his dirty laugh. Then he slapped his knees and stood up. “Enough. If you want any more help from me, you know my terms.”
We stepped out of the house and were back in the mean little street. Eager to get to a more salubrious part of town, I hurried away, for once outpacing my friend. We had almost reached the top of the road when he stopped.
“What is it?” I asked.
“Wait.” He turned and galloped back to Cunning Verrell’s house. I watched in some perplexity as he was readmitted.
What could he have forgotten? I wondered and waited and shivered as the air grew chillier and the day darker while clouds gathered and thickened overhead. I could smell rain, or maybe even the prospect of snow, and I wondered how long I must wait. Yet I knew Mr. Jesperson must have had his reasons for going back; there might be questions the cunning man would be more likely to answer if I was not present. I guessed he was not often in the company of women. Perhaps there was some taboo against it—why else should he find a visit to Wayside Cross impossible?
At last, I heard the distant click of a latch and a squeaking of hinges, and saw Mr. Jesperson emerge. Jamming his hat onto his head, he broke into a run and, on reaching me, seized my arm and pulled me along.
“What was that about?”
“Oh, nothing. Never mind.” Looking up, I was surprised to see a red flush creeping over his normally pale face.
“Why did you go back?” I persisted. “Why will you not tell me? I suppose you thought of some more questions, but even if it was totally useless—”
“It was not useless,” he said, so quickly that I realized the very suggestion had wounded his pride. “I suddenly thought it could be useful to have a sample of the—of whatever pills or potion he supplied to Charles Manning.”
“A good idea,” I said encouragingly. “And he agreed?”
His flush deepened, and he kept his gaze fixed ahead, as if there might be some danger in catching my eye. “Well, I tried to purchase them…as if for myself, you see. He would have found it suspicious—would have thought, and quite rightly, that I suspected him of causing Manning’s death. Why else should he emphasize his ability to detect ailments and weaknesses in his clients?”
“Must we go so fast?” I gasped.
“Forgive me! I was hoping we might reach the post office before it starts to rain.”
But I was not to be distracted. “It took you some time to convince him.”
“Indeed it did. He inspected my eyes quite thoroughly and declared I was in the very pink of health—and such a vigorous young man as I could not possibly have need of, er, what I was determined to buy. He did his best to talk me out of it; in fact, I began to fear he would simply refuse to sell it to me—so, as a last ditch, I ‘confessed’ that I had been sent by another, to purchase it on his behalf.”
He laughed. “If Verrell was half as careful and concerned about his clients’ health as he claims, he should have sent me away with nothing. Especially as I would not say who it was for. How could he know my unnamed ‘friend’ was fit and healthy, and would not have a bad reaction to the ingredients? But my ruse worked. He thought he had guessed who I was buying for. It made him laugh, made him feel he had something over him…Ah, there is the post office,” he cried, with something of the relief and joy of a sailor spotting land after many weary weeks at sea, and quickly steered me across the street.
Chapter 15
Meeting Mr. Ott
I stopped him outside the post office, before he could steer me inside. “Wait a moment,” I said. “Who did he think you were buying it for?”
He looked at me very seriously, except for the twinkle in his eye, and said gravely, “Mr. Felix Ott.”
“Mr. Jesperson.” The loud, disapproving voice addressed him from the street behind.
We both turned around, startled. A tall man in his mid-forties, dark-brown hair beginning to go gray, beardless but with a handsome mustache, wearing mustard-colored tweeds and a somewhat military demeanor, was approaching at a rapid yet slightly stuttering pace. I knew at once this must be the very man of whom my friend had just spoken, and he had such an unfriendly look that I wondered if he had been following us, and had overheard all.
Now he turned his glare on me. “Miss Lane, I presume? I had not realized that the partner of the famous Mr. Jesperson was of the fair sex, but I can imagine it makes your job easier. I never suspected the youth filled with bright-eyed enthusiasm was acting a part—was in fact a spy—and I can well imagine that such a very sober, serious-looking young lady has deceived many others.”
Jesperson frowned, moving protectively in front of me. “I say, this is a bit much—explain yourself, Ott.”
Felix Ott snorted. “The way you explained yourself to me? How dare you suspect me of the murder of my dearest, truest friend!”
“Who told you that?”
“No one had to tell me. I have deduced it from the evidence,” he responded. “Do you deny that you are a detective? That the two of you are, in fact, the famous London partnership known as Jesperson and Lane?”
Even as I wondered where he had acquired the notion that our still-fledgling operation deserved to be called “famous,” Mr. Ott reached into his breast pocket and withdrew a small card, which he flourished in Mr. Jesperson’s face.
“This is your card, is it not?”
Jesperson peered down his nose. “It does appear to be.”
“Well then! Detectives, as I said. No better than spies. And you cannot deny that you are here to investigate the circumstances that led to the death of Charles Manning.”
“I have never denied it. I told you within moments of our first meeting that I had been sent to Norfolk by Manning’s brother with instructions to learn as much as I could about his time here and the people he had known—”
“But you implied you were acting as a friend—you never said that you were a hired detective—nor that you had a partner, also working on the case. That it should be considered a case at all strikes me as…as far-fetched. The police did not find that Manning’s death was the result of foul play.”
“Do you mind if I ask where you got that card?”
“Eh? It was given to me by a chap at my club.”
“Because you wished to hire a detective?”
Felix Ott scowled. “Certainly not! Why should I?”
“Well, despite your protestations of faith in the police, I do not think you were happy with their treatment of the death of Albert Cooke.”
“They are fools to call it an accident. How could it have been? Do they think he laid himself out so neatly? Someone else was there; someone killed him, and they have no idea,” he muttered.
“Precisely. And perhaps the London police are just as foolish? It seemed to me—perhaps I misunderstood—that you were shocked by Manning’s death.”
“Of course I was! He was in rude good health when I saw him last; there was no reason at all to think he had any problems with his heart.”
“And when did you last see him?”
The corner of his mouth twitched. “Friday…Yes, Friday evening, in Cromer. I already told you that
.”
“Yes, you did. And you said then that you had no idea he was going to London the next day.”
“Absolutely no idea.” The look of wounded outrage on his face was utterly convincing: Mr. Ott still felt the betrayal by his late friend.
“Perhaps you picked up that card advertising a detective agency because you were still hoping someone might find out for you…”
“Absurd!” He gave his head a shake as if to dislodge an annoying insect. “It was handed to me—had not the least thought of ever needing a detective—we only took the cards to be obliging—one doesn’t like to offend a fellow member, especially not ex-army, a very gentlemanly old duffer—had no interest, but he was handing them out; I tucked it away in my pocket without even looking at it, and had forgotten all about it until I came across it today. Then—imagine my surprise to see your name. A London detective! That put a very different complexion on things.” He gave the card a hard flick with his thumbnail that should have sent it into collision with Mr. Jesperson’s nose, but my friend caught it neatly in his fingers.
“I apologize for the deception,” said Mr. Jesperson. “There was nothing personal in it, only we thought it best to keep a low profile, rather than risk alerting the wrong people that we were investigating a suspicious death.”
“The wrong people,” muttered Mr. Ott, staring at the ground. Then he looked up, to frown at us. “Go back to London. Any suspicious circumstances must surely be there, where Charles met his end.”
Mr. Jesperson looked at the card in his hand, turning it over and over. “Yes, we shall have to go back to London.” Then he looked into Mr. Ott’s face again. “But first, I must fulfill my promise to you—and my obligation to the memory of Charles Manning—by giving the lecture tomorrow evening.”
I had to bite my tongue to keep from asking my friend what he meant. I saw Mr. Ott look surprised, but then relieved.
“You mean it?” he cried. “It was not all pretense, then?”
“None of it was pretense—except the necessary, slight evasion,” said Mr. Jesperson. “Everything I said to you was the truth—I only kept back the fact of my profession.”
“You have a genuine interest in the ancient ways and wisdom?”
Mr. Jesperson inclined his head. “Indeed I do. I cannot pretend to any expertise…and must admit that the existence of the shrieking pits was entirely unknown to me before this week. However, Mr. Manning left behind some interesting notes. His point of view strikes me as original and compelling—what a pity he did not live to write the paper that he had planned. But I think I shall be able to cobble together a talk that he might have approved, and that students of folklore and ancient history will find interesting.”
“And I shall be very grateful to you for giving it,” said Mr. Ott, whose manner and expression were now transformed. “And not only because I had already announced it.” Smiling with more than cordiality, he thrust out his hand for a manly shake; in that moment, I noticed Mr. Ott wore on his little finger a gold ring set with a familiar orange stone.
We proceeded into the post office after Mr. Ott had left us. “What was that about your talk?” I asked in a low voice as we joined the queue. “You said nothing of it to me.”
“Did I not? I do beg your pardon; with so much else on my mind…” He was so casual in his apology that I felt even more aggrieved.
“With so much else to think about, you nevertheless have managed to arrange a lecture! When did you mean to tell me? Or was I to hear about it afterward, from other members of the audience?”
He looked at me in surprise. “Why, of course you will be in the audience—and working harder than I shall be in your observation of those attending. I hope you will not have too inflated a notion of this so-called lecture, which barely exists. I fear I misled Ott in regard to Manning’s notes. He left very few. I shall be obliged to make up most of it out of whole cloth.”
Having reached the counter, Mr. Jesperson asked if there were any letters for him. The clerk went away to look.
“Well, at any rate you seem to have assuaged Mr. Ott’s suspicions,” I said. “I wonder where he got our card?”
Mr. Jesperson laughed politely, as if I had made a joke, as the clerk was returning with two letters. We immediately withdrew to a more private corner to inspect them.
The first letter was from the firm of solicitors who had long handled the Mannings’ affairs.
“I thought it best to go to them direct, in the unlikely event that Mr. Manning was not being entirely honest,” my partner reminded me as he quickly scanned the letter. “But it is as he said—Alexander, as the elder son, inherited all—and apart from a few stocks and shares, ‘all’ is the house and its contents. Mr. Charles was not honest if he allowed his lady friends to imagine he had any expectations.”
He tore open the other letter, which was from Mr. Alexander Manning himself.
“Any news?” I asked. “Has he discovered where his brother went or who he saw on his last day in London?”
“No, of course not,” he replied, refolding the letter and thrusting it into his pocket. “He went to none of his old haunts, saw none of his former friends.”
“That is disappointing.”
Again he laughed, as if I spoke to amuse him. “Hardly! Come along—no time to waste.”
With that, he rushed me outside and along the road in the direction of the train station. The sky was now very dark, the wind whipping up in anticipation of the coming storm, so I had no doubt of our destination and was relieved that we reached it before the heavens opened. Even more fortunately, we arrived as a trim two-wheeler cab drew up and let out two passengers, and the cabby met Mr. Jesperson’s interrogative stare with a nod that meant he would accept us as his next fare.
As the driver was helping his passengers with their luggage, Mr. Jesperson looked at his pocket watch and made a satisfied noise. “I shall catch the next Norwich train, and easily make the last connection to London,” he said.
I stared in surprise. “Why should you go to London?”
He looked equally surprised by my question. “Why do you suppose?”
“I have no idea.”
“Really? But now that we know where Manning was only hours before his death—”
I was amazed by his remark, considering that Alexander Manning’s letter had contained no useful information. “How do we know that?”
“Why, from this, of course.” He flourished one of our own business cards at me, and smiled encouragingly, as if something very obvious had simply slipped my mind.
“Is that the card you took from Mr. Ott?”
“Of course. Look at it,” he urged, pushing it into my hand. I turned it over, but there was nothing written on either side, and no changes to the printed information we had designed and ordered some six weeks ago.
“What do you expect me to see? How many times must I look at our own address?”
“That is not our card, but a copy. Call it a reprint, although as it must have been ordered from a different printer, it is effectively a separate original.”
I scowled and shook my head in bewilderment. “How can you say that?”
“Because it is so. Look at it. The difference is obvious. At least, it would be if you compared it side by side with one of ours. I noticed when I found the card in the dead man’s pocket. At least, I should have noticed.” He screwed up his face in an expression of self-disgust. “I was aware of a slight difference, but could make no sense of it. I did not appreciate the significance. It niggled at me…yet I did not pursue it, and almost managed to convince myself that I had been mistaken. But I was not mistaken.”
I stared at the card so hard my eyes should have burnt a hole in it, but I could not see what he claimed was obvious. “Really, Mr. Jesperson, I am not blind, but I do not see!”
He took pity on me and explained, “Different paper stock. Although superficially the same, it has come from a different batch, and probably a different mill.”
>
I did not doubt his knowledge, but what did it mean? “Well, then, perhaps our printer was forced to order more paper after he printed the first one hundred of our cards. For why should anyone want to make copies of our business card? Who would benefit?”
He smiled broadly. “We would—and no one else. It was done for our benefit. I saw it all as soon as Ott revealed how he had obtained it—he did not pick it up, but had it thrust upon him by a ‘fellow member’—he must have meant a member of his London club. And he made the slip of saying ‘we’—to whom else could that have referred but his companion that evening, the friend he had invited to be his guest, a person he was determined not to name for fear of self-incrimination.”
“You think he was with Mr. Manning?”
“I am sure of it. Manning acquired his card from the same source and now I know it must have been in Ott’s club on Saturday evening. Initially, I was misled by finding our card in Manning’s pocket into thinking he must have come to London in order to appeal for help from a detective agency, but in fact he never had any intention of looking us up until, in fear for his life, he remembered the card in his pocket, and sought out our address—fortuitously not far away, and in a neighborhood he knew very well from his prior residence.” He broke off to make arrangements with the cabdriver.
“You should have asked Mr. Ott for the name of his club,” I said. “How will you find it?”
He smiled. “There was no need to ask him. You wondered why anyone would copy our card, and I said that it was for our benefit. Who could have helped us in this way? Ott referred to his fellow member as ‘ex-army,’ a gentlemanly old buffer. Do we know anyone of that description who might have gone to the trouble and expense of printing copies of our card to distribute to his friends and acquaintances?” Mr. Jesperson helped me climb into the carriage and then continued, “Who else could it be but a certain elderly colonel for whom I did a trifling favor a few weeks ago—who was very eager to return that favor in any way that he could?”