by Claire Logan
At that, she gave him an amused smile, holding up her injured arm. “Imagine once I’m well!”
The surgeon arrived at half past four. He was a man in his middle fifties with a solid, competent air to him.
Mr. Jackson stood watching as the man examined Mrs. Jackson’s arm, asking her to move it, testing its sensation. “The wound looks to be without infection,” the doctor said. “How is the pain?”
“Improved,” she said. “I cut the dose the surgeon gave me to half, as it makes me much too sleepy otherwise.”
“That’s a good sign,” the doctor said. “I’ll return next week to remove the stitches. In the meantime, you may move the arm, as long as there’s no pain when you do so.” He smiled at her, as one might to a young girl. “Yet be gentle with yourself. It’ll take a while to fully heal, and you’ll need rest for your body to do so.”
Later, the doctor took Mr. Jackson aside. “I’ve never seen such a botch job in my life.”
Mr. Jackson felt alarmed. “Is she in danger?”
“Danger?” The doctor shook his head. “It seems to be healing well enough. But this is going to leave a terrible scar. How did it happen?”
Mr. Jackson hesitated, unsure how much to relate. “A ... tragedy occurred just prior to our marriage. Family members were murdered. She was injured, and ... I wasn’t consulted on the matter until after the surgery.”
The doctor stood there, mouth open. “I had no idea, sir. My deepest condolences.”
Mr. Jackson nodded, pensive.
“The manager said you were on your honeymoon. I hope —”
Mr. Jackson stared at the man, horrified. She’d just had surgery. How could anyone be so cruel? Yet he understood where the question came from: other men might have taken advantage. He smiled to himself. “I’ve been kind to her.”
The doctor patted Mr. Jackson’s arm. “Good man. I’ve been married thirty years now. Kindness is a sure investment.”
“Her arm. What can be done?”
The doctor retrieved a notepad and fountain pen from the breast pocket of his tweed jacket. “I’ll give you the name of a specialist. A bit of a journey, but he’s the best at this sort of thing. A real artist. He’ll have her fixed up in no time.”
“We’re most grateful.”
The man handed the paper over. “You should wait until the wound’s fully healed to contact him.
Scars often improve over time.”
Mr. Jackson reached into his pocket for a tip.
But the man waved him off. “Not necessary, sir, it’s all paid for.” He took on a jolly demeanor. “One of the perks of fine hotel living.”
It was then Mr. Jackson remembered. “You’re on retainer.”
“Indeed I am,” the doctor said. “So if you need anything at all, don’t hesitate to summon me.”
When Mr. Jackson told his wife what the doctor had said about her wound, she snorted. “Figures.”
He laughed at her tone. “Well, at least we have a few weeks before we need to make a decision.”
“Perhaps in that time, we can find our poisoner.”
Mr. Jackson chuckled, shaking his head. “You’re like a bloodhound in your persistence.” He smiled at her fondly. “If much more attractive.”
Her cheeks colored as she glanced away. But a shy smile touched her lips, quickly fading. “You don’t understand: I need to be useful, especially now.”
He sat beside her, rested his hand on hers. “Usefulness is overrated. What you need is to recover.” A wave of grief and fear for her washed over him. “I won’t lose you too.”
She hesitated, then her shoulders slumped. “Oh, very well. You and the doctor have persuaded me, for now.” She stretched upon the bed with a smile. “The beds are so beautifully soft. That’s some compensation for my enforced idleness.” Her smile turned into a wicked grin. “Will I be served in bed from your hand? Perhaps strawberries and whipped cream would do.”
This made him laugh out loud. “My dear, you may have any pleasure your heart desires.” He rose.
“In fact, I’ll call for it now.”
She sat up. “I was only teasing.”
“Very well.” He sat beside her and put his arm round her shoulders. “Do you want to take tea here, or downstairs?”
“Downstairs, I think. I’ve had enough of being in here for now.”
10
By the time the couple descended for tea, the dining room was packed — every table full, every seat in the lobby taken.
The cook, a forty-year-old brown-haired woman, glanced at Mrs. Jackson’s arm and smiled at the couple as she passed by. “Afternoon tea, or early supper?”
“We’re here for tea,” Mrs. Jackson said.
“Very good,” the cook said. “I’ll have a girl get you set up, sir, ma’am.”
“Much obliged,” Mr. Jackson said.
Mrs. Jackson watched as a young maid arranged teacups, saucers, a pot of tea, and a large plate of small sandwiches from the buffet area onto a tray. Then she and Mr. Jackson followed the woman to an empty table in the soda shop.
A young man behind the bar waved to Mr. Jackson when they entered.
He seemed to make friends everywhere he went. However did he do it?
Mrs. Jackson was intrigued by the owl, especially after Mr. Jackson told her — in whispers, once the maid left — about the blinking. And the tremendous array of bottled flavors!
She’d never had a “soda“ before, so they resolved to return for one after dinner. “This is the most marvelous hotel,” she said. “By all accounts, one might never have to leave!”
“That seems to be the aim,” Mr. Jackson said with a grin. “More profits for them!”
“Indeed,” Mrs. Jackson said. “And I must say, well done!”
They feasted upon the sandwiches — egg, but like nothing Mrs. Jackson had seen before. These were made with whole quail’s eggs, hard-boiled and sliced thin upon a spicy creamed spread. She wiped her mouth. “Delicious!” She took a sip of her tea. “I never imagined such a dish.”
Mr. Jackson nodded. “The chefs in Chicago are superb.” He drained his teacup and poured another.
“There are dozens of restaurants in the downtown area alone.” He took a sip, then became animated. “We must visit them all!”
She enjoyed his enthusiasm, yet ... “Do you think it wise to stay here that long?” She leaned forward to speak more softly. “Perhaps once we find this killer, we should be on our way.”
Mr. Jackson’s face sobered, and he put down his cup, leaning over to cover her hand with his. “I would never do anything to put you into harm.” He leaned back, gazing off to one side. “No one in all the wide world is looking for Hector and Pamela Jackson. And even if they were, the chance of finding us here is astronomical. So relax, my dear. Enjoy yourself!” He gave her a fond smile. “Life’s much too short to do otherwise.” He sipped his tea. “I propose we stay until you’re completely well, then we’ll decide.”
She felt relieved that they might not have to rush away. That they might truly be safe here.
Just then, the old man from breakfast the other day walked by, and spying them, hurried inside. “My dear Mr. Jackson! I was just going to check on the garden.” He turned to Mrs. Jackson. “Your husband expressed an interest in touring the gardens.” The man glanced back and forth between them. “Would you care to join me?”
The couple exchanged a glance, and she nodded. Gardens seemed a pleasant enough diversion.
“Why, of course,” Mr. Jackson said. “Just as soon as we’re done here.”
“By all means, take your time.”
***
Just then, the manager strode in, coming to their table. “There you are!”
Mr. Jackson felt amused. Not wanting to force his wife to rise, he remained in his chair, just as he had when Albert arrived. “Indeed we are, sir. How may I help you?”
“Well, I told the owner about the situation here, and he’s come to tour the faci
lity today and talk with the staff. Stay the night. It’ll settle their worries, I think. He’ll probably take dinner in his room, but he wants to meet with you both sometime after.”
Mr. Jackson felt surprised. “I’d be honored.” He glanced at his wife. “If my wife is well enough, of course.”
“Certainly. Mr. Carlo knows the situation — you being on your honeymoon and all — but he did so want to at least meet you.”
“It’s settled then,” Mr. Jackson said.
Albert had watched the exchange without a word, arms crossed.
The manager glanced at him, then back at Mr. Jackson. “I’ll let you get back to your tea, then.”
Mr. Jackson said, “Would you like to join us?”
“No,” Albert said, “My wife needs me to have something sent up from the gift shop. I’ll meet you back here afterward.”
Mrs. Jackson beamed at Albert. “We’re looking forward to your tour.”
At that, Albert smiled, but it seemed forced. “Be right back.”
Mr. Jackson pondered the exchange. “I don’t think Albert Stayman likes the manager very much.”
His wife nodded, eyes far away, seemingly lost in thought. But then she said, “I imagine living in such proximity, anyone would have a spat from time to time.”
He chuckled at that.
She put her cup down. “I’m ready to go, as soon as your friend returns.”
As they waited for Albert, the cook came by their table. “How did you enjoy your tea?”
“Lovely,” Mrs. Jackson said. “I particularly liked the sandwiches.”
The woman blushed. “I’m so happy you liked them!”
Mr. Jackson said, “How kind of you to stop by!”
“I try to meet everyone while they’re here,” she said. “It helps me to know how to improve.”
This seemed quite admirable. Mr. Jackson held out his hand. “Hector and Pamela Jackson.”
She took his hand and curtsied. “Miss Goldie Jean Dab, sir.”
Mrs. Jackson said, “Have you worked here long?”
“Ten years in May, and a nicer place to work you’d never find.”
Albert walked up, and the couple rose.
“Just leave everything here,” Miss Dab said. “I’ll get a girl to take these for you. I hope you have a wonderful stay.”
Mr. Jackson and his wife followed Albert across the lobby. To his surprise, a wide hallway with a sign marked “Gardens” lay behind the stair. Down the hall, a beveled glass door appeared.
The door opened into a vast courtyard. Trees both large and small dotted the area, with flower bushes around them. A path of grayish-brown brick wound past these. The air was warm, humid, and fragrant.
During the chill of winter, Mr. Jackson thought he and his wife might enjoy this as much as walking the park.
Some trees held fruit! Mr. Jackson turned to Albert in astonishment.
“This is really a conservatory,” the old man said. “It gets so cold here in the winter, thus the glass roofing.”
Mr. Jackson nodded. The buildings stretched high above them, white clouds in the deep blue sky. The roof itself reminded him of some giant crystal, inlaid with pipes of brass. “Do you get much snow?”
“Yes, but it melts straightaway. Heated, you see.”
As they continued on, a pond appeared to the left. Lily pads, brightly colored fish, and smooth oval rocks lay in the clear water. Further on, a short waterfall dropped from a small brook as the path wound slightly upwards to another garden area.
“This is lovely,” Mrs. Jackson said.
The old man beamed.
They went on for some time. Off in one corner, the small tree he’d seen before appeared upon a raised area in the corner by the window, far from the path with no other plants in its bed. Mr. Jackson said, “What is that tree? I glimpsed it from the hallway.”
The old man smiled broadly. “Ah, the snake-wood tree! Fascinating. I picked up seeds while traveling, the summer before we came here. The tree which used to be in that spot died, so I took it out for them and planted this here.”
Mr. Jackson thought it a remarkable plant. “I’ve never seen leaves like that before.”
“It’s a most singular tree,” the old man said, yet he seemed uneasy. “It’ll produce these pale greenish flower bursts, and fruit of a sort once it’s old enough — in about fifteen or twenty years.” He let out a laugh. “I might even still be around to see them.” At that, he sobered. “Nothing you’d want to eat, mind you. I imagine it tastes terrible. But quite pretty.” He gestured towards the path. “Want to see more?”
Mr. and Mrs. Jackson moved along as directed. “You seem to enjoy plants quite a bit,” Mrs. Jackson said.
“I do! Much more reliable than people.” He laughed softly to himself.
Mr. Jackson said, “You mentioned you’ve known your wife since childhood. Did you live there at the estate?”
“Oh, yes. I was the groundsman’s son. It was my father gave me the love of growing things. I did up all the flower beds, planted most of the trees there ...” His face turned wistful. “It was a beautiful time.”
“And she was an only child,” Mrs. Jackson said. “I recall her saying so.”
Albert said, “Yes, she was.”
Mr. Jackson nodded. “And so the groundsman’s son became the groundsman. And the little girl, a woman.”
The old man smiled to himself. “Indeed.”
Mr. Jackson said, “Were you in love with her even then?”
Albert gave Mr. Jackson a startled glance. “Yes, I suppose I was. Of course, then, she was too far above me to even consider it. She married, they split the time between their properties. I saw her less, to be sure, but it seemed we had a bond even then. It was all very proper, though. I never dared speak until her husband’s death.”
Mrs. Jackson said, “What happened?”
“It was his heart.”
“I meant, how did you end up marrying? Her being so far above you and all.”
The old man glanced away, his cheeks coloring. “I suppose it just happened. She needed a great deal of help after her husband’s death. I provided all the flowers for the funeral. A grand thing, it was, befitting the Duke. But it cost more than the estate could bear.”
Mr. Jackson said, “And now you’ve been married these past three years.”
“Close to four, now. Three of them here. We traveled the world at first.” He paused for a moment, then said, “I don’t much care where I live. So long as I can be close to her, that’s good enough for me.”
Mr. Jackson found that touching. “Thank you for taking us round.” His wife’s face looked relaxed and happy for the first time in a long while. So when he next spoke, it was with sincerity. “We love this garden.”
“So you might stay, then?”
Mr. Jackson said, “We haven’t decided as yet. But we’ll most certainly enjoy it while we’re here.”
“I’m so glad.” Albert seemed relieved. “I’ve always felt a certain pride in my gardens, a responsibility to the things I grow. Like a parent who brings children to the world — to tend and care for them.”
Mr. Jackson nodded, fascinated by the man’s assertions. “I never considered it that way. But then, I’ve never been a gardener.”
“Well, any time you want to come with me, you’re more than welcome. I usually come out early, before breakfast. Not so many people then.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” They approached the door, and his wife took his arm as they returned to the lobby. “Thanks again for the tour,” Mr. Jackson said.
“Don’t mention it.” Albert pointed to their left. “Have you seen the library?”
“Not yet,” said Mr. Jackson.
At the same time, Mrs. Jackson gasped. “You have a library?”
“Did your husband not tell you? Come this way. Cordelia is there now.” He moved ahead, and they followed.
Mrs. Jackson whispered, “You never said anything about a li
brary!”
Mr. Jackson replied, “I never knew you enjoyed them!”
“I do,” she said. “Very much so.”
They reached the long hall to the library. “Then it seems you could just as well recover here as anywhere else.”
His wife beamed. “Perhaps I shall like staying here after all!”
The library was rather large, stretching (it seemed) clear the length of the building’s front on that side. Narrow windows of beveled glass let in the dim light of an early evening. The room was decorated in the same dark rosewood and brass which graced the rest of the building. The lampshades were finely-made panels of cobalt glass, and the chairs were upholstered in black velvet.
The dowager sat upon a chair, a pile of books on the round table before her. She rose once she saw them. “How lovely to see you!”
Several people looked up.
“Oh, silly me,” she said, half as loudly, “come, let me show you around.” She and her husband moved ahead.
“This is her garden,” Mrs. Jackson whispered.
Mr. Jackson thought the idea quite amusing.
Bookshelves eight feet high ran around the walls of the entire room, and many more lined up within.
Mrs. Jackson’s eyes were wide with wonder. “I love it!”
“I’m so glad you like it, my dear,” the dowager said. “I’m here almost every day. I would most enjoy your company.” She turned to the rows. “Here, walk with me and look around.”
So they did, moving well to the back to browse the collection there.
The dowager whispered, “I never asked. What brings you to the city?”
Wishing he had a dollar for every time he’d been asked this, Mr. Jackson whispered, “We’re on our honeymoon!”
“My congratulations to you both,” the dowager said, and her husband nodded.
Mrs. Jackson smiled at her. “Thank you!”
The old woman smiled to herself. “I do so love a good romance tale.” She focused on Mr. Jackson.
“When did you know she was the one?” He felt himself blush; why, he wasn’t sure. “Well. It’s perhaps awkward.”
“Oh, come now,” the old woman said with a quiet laugh. “I can’t imagine you doing anything remotely improper.”