“Would my husband follow me into the night like some cheap detective?”
“He might if he was worried. You were just worried for her, isn’t that it, Harry?”
“Oh… yes… worried sick.” It was a lie, of course. The truth is, I never worry much about Emmie. In the same way the other Borgias never worried much about Lucrezia.
Eventually, she let up. Most likely from pure exhaustion. Naggie helped me crawl out of the pond—my shoes lost forever to its murky depths.
“You ruined a perfectly good plan, Harry.”
I chose not to mention the shoes. “Was this meant to catch Mosher’s assassin?”
“Yes, of course.”
“What makes you think his assassin is lurking about all night?”
“He’s been seen, by me, for one. And he’s been asking questions about Richard Merrill.”
“What’s he look like?”
“I haven’t gotten that good a look at him. But he isn’t tall.”
“So you thought I was him?”
“It never occurred to me you’d stoop to spying on me so soon after the last episode.”
Naggie did a good deal to calm her down, and then we three made the trek back to the hotel. Myself, shoeless, taking to the grass beside the road—and following a safe distance behind.
I’m sure it won’t come as much of a surprise to learn I spent the remainder of the night alone.
But I didn’t wake up that way.
13
“Still in bed?”
An unexpected visitor stood over me, and I need hardly tell you who.
“It was an eventful night, Mrs. Field.”
“What? After our rehearsal? And you didn’t invite me along?” She went to where her peach tie still hung from the mirror and started to remove it. Then decided to leave it and turned back to me. “It makes me wonder if I should share my find with you. And I’d prefer it if you called me Delia.”
“All right, Delia. What find?”
“A little book that belonged to Lady Sneerwell.” She sat down on the bed beside me. “I found it in the couch Miss Goodwin was lying on when she….”
“Was poisoned?”
“Died.”
“Why didn’t Peabbles see it?”
“It was down between the cushions. I had to reach in and feel about for it,” she told me, then tried to do likewise with my bedding.
“How do you know it was May Goodwin’s? Couldn’t someone have lost it there last week?”
“Well….” Her hesitation was noticeably prolonged, especially for someone never at a loss for words. “There’s a reference to the fire, and who set it. And as I told you, she intimated she knew who that was.”
“Jolly?” I asked.
“Yes. But she used some sort of cipher. I can’t make it out.”
She took a small black notebook out of her jacket, opened it to a particular page and handed it to me. At the top was the word “Jolly,” underlined twice.
Then below:
Tommy Dodd
Firebug
Bought K in Cornwall from Long Acre
“I suppose ‘K’ could stand for kerosene,” I said. “And maybe there’s a town nearby called Cornwall.”
I flipped back to the front of the book, but found nothing identifying the owner. The first page was headed “Bed,” and below that:
The quim at a fresh bit
Ariadne 25
Maggie Ellen 6
Ninetta Porcella 9
Damietta & Joanna 16
Marie Louise 18
Mattie Alles 22
Florence P 31
Next was a page headed “King’s.”
Believes what he’s told.
Buys from Bed.
And then the page on Jolly was followed by one headed “Well.”
But not.
William Tell
The next page had been carefully torn out, and the rest were blank.
“A fascinating bit of work, don’t you think?” she asked. “Particularly this cove Bed.”
“What do you make of it?” I asked.
“It’s her book of bleeding culls!”
“You think she was a blackmailer?”
“What else? Mr. Bed takes a mort, sometimes two. That’s something to hide. I’ve already named him.”
“Mr. Bed?”
“That’s right. He came to my room to give comfort, after you all left yesterday morning. I wager he offers his comfort to a good many of his guests.”
“Who are you talking about?”
“The innkeeper.”
“Branscombe?”
“Yes, thinks he’s something of a Don Juan. I had to beat him off with a walking stick.”
I found it difficult to believe Branscombe had been feeling amorous a few short hours after a girl had been found dead in the sitting room of his most prominent guest. When I voiced this thought, she indignantly unfastened her collar and exposed a purple love bite on her neck.
“Next time you’ll know better than to doubt my word,” she said while buttoning her collar. “The point is, if we can catch him in the act, we can force him to name the others.”
“I suppose you may be right.” In the interest of amity, I declined to speculate openly about the origin of her neck wound. “What do you make of the numbers after the names?”
“Dates of assignations,” she said. “The first, the 25th of June, then the 6th, 9th, 16th, 18th, 22nd, and 31st of July. That would mean he expects to meet Marie Louise tonight. All we need to do is find out who Marie Louise is and where he’s meeting her.”
“And the phrase, ‘The quim at a fresh bit’?” I asked.
“You are thick. A fresh bit is a dell, a mort unsullied.”
“A virgin?”
“Well, or nearly so.”
“And quim?”
“Her madge… her jam-pot… her commodity!”
“Oh,” I said, then tried to enter into the spirit of the thing. “But then shouldn’t it be ‘quim of a fresh bit’?”
“If you had met our Lady Sneerwell, you’d know she wasn’t a slave to proper diction.”
“Tell me, why is it you developed such an antipathy for the late Miss Goodwin when you had only just met, and your only exchange with her was about a part in your play?”
“I’m an adept judge of character.”
“I don’t suppose you know what became of the page torn from her notebook?”
“What page torn from her notebook? What are you accusing me of?”
She looked genuinely taken aback.
“Sorry. Just feeling around for clues.”
“I forgive you. But surely we can think of more pleasant things to feel about for, if you’re willing.”
I was still in bed and she still sitting beside me. She moved in closer and began peeling back the coverlet.
“Oh, sorry.” It was Emmie, speaking from the bathroom. She’d closed the door and latched it before Delia could turn around.
“Who’s that?” she asked.
“Miss Meegs. Remember, we share a bath.”
“How rum. Shall I seek out that birthmark you mentioned?”
“You can give it a try. But she’s the quiet type. Upsets easily.”
“Really?” She stood up, looking at the bathroom door. Then tiptoed over and tried to open it.
“Go away,” Emmie told her.
“I was wondering, Miss Meegs, if you’d mind handing me a moist towel. My encounter with Mr. Reese has left me rather… heated… and discomposed.”
We heard water running. Then when Emmie opened the door, Delia forced her way in, latching the door behind her.
At first Emmie protested, but then entered into a quiet conversation with her guest. Subsequently, someone entered the bath. I assume it was Emmie because I heard Delia offering to scrub her back.
I got out of bed and dressed, making sure to slip the notebook in my pocket. Then listened at the door. They were exchanging whispers and I heard
nothing distinguishable—until a loud splash, followed by Emmie’s distinctive laugh.
The door opened and she stood wrapped in a towel.
“I believe, Mr. Reese, you will find your friend now fully cooled.”
Evidently my plan to provoke the green-eyed monster had succeeded. I gave her a sly smile, but whether she saw it before walking back to her own room, I can’t say. A scant second later Delia emerged, drenched, yet still fully dressed.
“That doxy will take some taming,” she said with surprising good nature. “I only wanted to nim a clip. And you were mistaken about the birthmark.”
“Must have been someone else.”
She sloshed out and down the corridor.
Not long after, Emmie opened her door to the bath and called across.
“Oh, Harry. There you are.”
“Yes. Waiting patiently for your return. How did Mosher’s swim go this morning? Make it out of the water alive?”
“Yes, but almost didn’t make it back to the hotel. This time there’s no doubt another attempt’s been made. He was nearly run down by a bull.”
“A bull?”
“Mr. Mosher prefers taking a shortcut through a farmer’s cow pasture. Apparently, a bull is sequestered at the far end of it, but this morning, someone released him into the main pasture just as Mr. Mosher passed through on our return.”
“And the bull charged him? But not you?”
“Well, he was drying himself with his towel as he walked. Vigorously.”
“Resembling a toreador?”
“Yes, remarkably like that. You see, while he was in swimming, someone had replaced his towel with a bright red one.”
“I see. Perhaps you should check the register for Spanish-surnamed guests?”
“Don’t play horse with me, Harry. It was just as I told you. What reason do you have to doubt it?”
“Two reasons. First, how do I know you didn’t put the bull up to it? Like that kid yesterday?”
“You flatter me. I find my talents as seductress are best appreciated by healthy young men. By the way, did you notice that boy’s physique?”
“I noticed you had to promise him a dollar.”
“And money well spent. But you mentioned two reasons. What’s the second?”
“I happen to know it’s a myth that bulls charge on seeing red.”
“How would you know that?”
“Based on some researches performed by me and my fellows back in grammar school. We tested three bulls with three different colors. We found that bull number one never charged, regardless of color. While bull number two always charged. And bull number three always charged Tommy Fenton. Ergo, color made no difference whatsoever.”
“Perhaps you’d like to debate the point with the bull?”
“It may have happened as you describe, Emmie, but there’s no use arguing that the culprit wouldn’t have stood a greater chance of success had he replaced Mosher’s towel with Tommy Fenton.”
“You’ve been spending too much time in the sun, Harry.”
“If you are telling the truth, it means your ploy of having Mosher use an alias failed to divert his assassin.”
“That would be because I’ve been letting nearly everyone in on the secret.”
“What’s the point of that?”
“To set a trap, of course.”
“When do you expect to spring it?” I asked. “Hopefully before the killer’s successful.”
“I might well have caught him last night, if you hadn’t made a mess of my plan. Besides, I don’t see what right you have to be critical. How goes your own mystery?”
“The killing of May Goodwin?”
“I was thinking of the arson. Remember? What you’re being paid to investigate.”
“There was a time, Emmie, not long ago, when a murder would have had your undivided attention.”
“Yes, but now I have higher concerns.”
“Ingratiating yourself with a publisher?”
“What’s wrong with that?”
“Then I suppose you don’t want to hear about the latest development in the May Goodwin murder.”
“What latest development?”
“Mrs. Field’s visit this morning was not without purpose.”
“I don’t doubt that, but it’s of no interest to me.” Her assertion had a convincing sound to it. Apparently the green-eyed monster would need some nurturing.
“It seems Miss Goodwin was a blackmailer.” I handed her the notebook and she sat down on the bed.
While Emmie sat reading, Ed came to the door. This time looking more exhausted than worried.
“Harry, I just got a message from the manager asking me to stop by his office.”
“Branscombe?”
“Yes, him. I assume it has something to do with the arson.”
“Hello, Ed,” Emmie called to him.
“Uh, hello, Miss Meegs.”
“You can use my real name here, Ed.”
“So you are Emmie?”
“In this room I’m Emmie, but elsewhere I’m Miss Meegs.”
“I see,” he said. Then looked at me.
“Let’s go see Branscombe,” I suggested. “I’ll be back in a bit, Emmie.”
“No need on my account,” she assured me.
I closed the door behind us and turned to Ed.
“You look like you didn’t sleep a wink.”
“I was up early,” he told me. “Working on something.”
“The something that necessitated your trip to the chemist’s?”
“That’s right,” he said, then deflected any further inquiry. “What’s up with Emmie? Using two names, and having a separate room?”
“She’s teaching me a lesson while establishing her career as an author.”
“Kind of ironic, my asking you to help with Annie when you’re obviously knee deep in the same stuff.”
“I’m glad you’ve finally realized that, Ed. No man alive has less idea of what goes on in his wife’s mind than I do.”
“And that doesn’t bother you?”
“Only when I make the mistake of trying to imagine what it is she’s thinking.”
Branscombe’s office door was open. I gave a little rap to get his attention.
“Gentlemen, please come in.” He motioned us to some chairs and closed the door.
“Is there something you forgot to mention? About the fire?” I asked.
“The fire? No, that isn’t why I sent Mr. Ketchum the note. But how is your investigation going?”
“I think we might be on the verge of a breakthrough,” I confided.
“Are we?” Ed asked. I answered him with a sharp kick.
“You mean, you know who set the fire?”
“Or at least will shortly,” I told him. “You see, a certain piece of evidence has come into my possession. A small notebook.”
“Notebook?” Branscombe seemed genuinely puzzled.
“Yes. But we don’t need to go into that now. Why was it you asked to see Mr. Ketchum?”
“Oh. Well, as you both know, here in Maine the people, wisely or not, have determined that drink should be abolished. And being both a citizen and a businessman, I do what I can to respect their wishes.”
“Provided it doesn’t cut too deeply into your profits?”
“Eh, provided it doesn’t preclude a comfortable stay for our guests. For the very good reason that many people, many jobs, are dependent on the patronage of our summer guests. So a careful balance must be struck.”
“Give lip service to the law, and table service to the guests?”
“Eh, yes. But with discretion. So while I maintain a cellar, I must dispense it with care. I can’t have it appear I’m running a lumber camp taproom.”
Just then, Ed stood up. I could hear Annie’s voice in the lobby. Before I could stop him, he went out after her.
“I can convey the rest of the conversation to Mr. Ketchum,” I said while closing the door. “I take it you feel
we’ve been making too free with the blue pigs?”
“It’s not the quantity, per se, but the public displays that follow. Mr. Ketchum, if you’ll excuse me for saying so, has made his state of mind readily apparent on several occasions. All I’m asking for is a little decorum. Moderation in all things….”
“But not so moderate it deprives you of…”
“…deprives you of a pleasurable stay with us. Do you think you could instill this in Mr. Ketchum?”
“I have a better solution. Why don’t you just inform your staff that should Mr. Ketchum order a blue pig, instead of a triplet of rye, give him just a few drops, maybe adding some coffee for color… and a little iodine for flavor. He’ll never detect the difference and it can only help your profits.”
“What an excellent suggestion, Mr. Reese.” He started jotting down a little note. “What proportions?”
“Proportions?”
“The ratio of coffee to iodine.”
“I’d start with a dozen drops of iodine and a cup of coffee per quart of distilled water. But make sure the coffee is at least a day old—gives it the hint of age. Then add a shot of the real thing just to let it know what you’re aiming for.”
“A whole shot, you think?”
“Yes, why not be generous?”
“Yes, why not?” he agreed. “I must say, Mr. Reese, I approached this interview with some trepidation. But I see now that was foolish.” He’d risen and put out his hand, so I did likewise. “And if I can be of any help with your investigation….”
“There is one thing I wanted to ask. This May Goodwin…”
“A tragic outcome for the poor girl.”
“Yes, I’m sure she’d agree. Wasn’t it unusual for her to be staying on the fourth floor?”
“She needed a place to stay. Rooms are hard to come by in the summer here. And it was all she could afford.”
“But why her? There must be others working the summer here needing a bed.”
“She came when I had an empty room. Why not make a little money from it? But what has she to do with the fire?”
“I’ve heard a rumor that she may have been blackmailing someone. In fact, several people. One she described as a firebug.”
“Where did you hear that?”
“I’m not free to say just now. By the way, I saw Mr. Noyes on his way out of the hotel last evening.”
Fair Play’s a Jewel (Harry Reese Mysteries Book 5) Page 11