by Claire Logan
He grinned. “You’d be surprised.” He hesitated, casting a glance at his wife. “It’s a rather long, somewhat embarrassing story. Yet I had chance to see her legs, and —”
Mrs. Jackson went crimson, and Albert glanced away.
“Oh, this is a good tale,” the dowager whispered.
”- and I have to say I was smitten.” For an instant, he felt foolish. But he collected himself, meeting his wife’s eyes. “For quite some time I could think of little else.”
Mrs. Jackson stood gaping at him.
“Well,” the dowager said with quiet glee, “this is fascinating! One day you must tell me the entire story.”
A woman’s voice came from above: “Dinner will be served at eight. Hotel guests have a standing reservation. Others should come to the concierge desk at once to make reservations if they wish to dine.”
A grandfather clock stood at the back end of the room: five minutes to seven. “We should dress for dinner,” Mr. Jackson said to no one in particular. “It was good to see you,” he said to the old couple. “And thank you for the tours.”
They went out into the lobby. Mrs. Jackson said, “So — all this time?”
Heat rushed to his face. “Yes.”
She didn’t reply.
As they waited for the elevator, he said, “I wonder — when you return to the library — if you would mind learning what you can about the snake-wood tree.”
“Oh?”
“It very much interests me.”
She bristled, gesturing back the way they'd come. “Well, the library stands ready. Tomorrow you’re welcome to go look for it.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to imply —”
The elevator opened, and people went in and out, but they stood off to one side, facing each other.
“I’m no servant,” Mrs. Jackson said. “I never have been, and I never will be. I didn’t ask you here; I allowed you to come with me. I even married you, at your advice, even though now it seems you’ve lied about the reasons. But if we are to be married, then let us see each other as equal. And speak true to each other in all things, as you claimed you prefer. Or we can part ways.”
He felt abashed. “Forgive me. I meant no harm.” Then he felt dismayed. He’d taken a vow, long ago, to protect this woman. One he could never break. Had he driven her away? “I — I’ve never done this before.”
She surveyed him for a long moment, then rose on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. “All is forgiven.” She took his arm. “I suppose we shouldn’t leave Mrs. Knight and Mr. Vienna waiting for us.”
As his wife had suspected, the maid and valet stood waiting in the hall to dress them for dinner. Mr. Jackson introduced them to each other. “Would you be so kind as to purchase nightclothes for us? We seem to have forgotten to pack ours.”
Mrs. Knight and Mr. Vienna exchanged a quick, amused glance. “They’ll be in your rooms after dinner, sir,” Mr. Vienna said.
The couple went down to dinner shortly thereafter. This time, they were seated with newcomers, and ate in silence as talk swirled around them.
Mr. Jackson felt a certain agitation. Why did he share that story? He should have known it would upset her.
But there was no help for it. He considered what might be best to say. Finally, he ventured, “I hope you’re well.”
Mrs. Jackson smiled then. “I am, so far as that goes. I was simply pondering a matter best left out of dinner conversation.”
“Ah.” She must mean the murders, all accomplished by food. At least so far. “Indeed.”
“Yet I did wonder when the next event might occur.”
“Oh?”
She put down her fork, and turning towards him, spoke for his ears alone. “Unless you believe the young woman to be the true target.”
It was a good question. From all accounts, the young lady hardly had the capacity to poison someone on her own. And it seemed doubtful she’d have knowingly poisoned herself. At least, not in a room full of her friends.
So the poisoner was still in the hotel with them.
Would someone poison their own coworkers? Yet who had access to the lunch room, other than employees?
“How are you enjoying your meal?” George, the young boating man turned waiter, stood across the table holding a tray full of dishes.
Mr. Jackson glanced at his plate: much of the food remained. “Forgive me; I’d become distracted.
It’s very good.”
“I’d be happy to get you something else if you prefer.”
“Not at all.” Mr. Jackson looked round the table. Some of the guests were sampling desserts, others had left. His wife’s empty plate held the remains of a lemon-cake. “Would you care to try a soda?”
She nodded, and he turned to the waiter. “Would you get us —”
George’s body jerked violently, and he dropped his tray with a crash.
11
Mr. Jackson, shocked speechless, stared at the empty space George had just occupied.
Mrs. Jackson leapt to her feet. “Doctor!”
His wife's shout jarred him from his immobility. Heart pounding, Mr. Jackson followed his wife to George, whose face twisted in agony.
“I’m a doctor,” an elderly man said.
Mrs. Jackson, who now knelt beside the young man, looked up at the old doctor. “It’s strychnine.”
“Good gracious,” the doctor said.
“There’s a veterinary around the corner there,” Mr. Jackson said. “Might they have something which could help?”
The doctor stared blankly back. “They might.” He hobbled out.
Meanwhile, George’s back arched, his eyes frightened, pleading. Mr. Jackson stood helpless, hands shaking, not knowing what to do.
“Peace, good sir,” Mrs. Jackson said, tenderly brushing hair from George’s forehead. “We’ll stay with you.”
Then she called out, “We need an ambulance!”
The room scattered as people ran about. The doctor returned, out of breath. “I have activated charcoal and tannic acid,” he panted, “and a mouth syringe.”
“Do what you must, sir,” Mr. Jackson said, feeling relieved.
The doctor fumbled with the containers, his hands shaking, as everyone watched. But finally he got a solution down George’s throat in between the young man's spasms.
Mr. Jackson said, “How long will this take to work?”
“It depends on how much he ingested and how long ago.” He bent over the man, trying to get his attention. “Did you eat or drink anything?”
George’s face was red with the strain. “Lemon-cake,” he groaned.
A woman began screaming, “AAAAA! AAAAAAA! I had lemon-cake!” People began running
towards her in agitation.
Then another screamed, “I did too!”
Mrs. Jackson stood. “SHUT UP!”
The first woman seemed shocked, then offended. “Well, I never!”
“If you’d been poisoned, you’d be dead by now,” Mrs. Jackson snapped. “So take your hysteria elsewhere.”
Mr. Jackson had never respected anyone more than he did his wife right then.
She returned to kneel by the man’s side. George seemed to be less agitated, then a spasm twisted his face once more.
Mr. Jackson looked to the doctor, who shrugged. “Never treated this before. Only read about it. But I’ll try a bit more of the charcoal. A glass of water, sir, if you please.”
Mr. Jackson fetched his own, and the doctor gave the young man a slurry of the activated charcoal by mouth. After George swallowed it, the ambulance arrived, along with the police.
As the ambulance men carried the young man off, the sergeant said, “You two again.”
“They saved me, sir,” George moaned. He looked at Mrs. Jackson. “Thank you.”
The dining room was in an uproar. Everyone had questions, concerns, expressions of outrage. Mr. and Mrs. Jackson retired to their original seats at the table to await the inevitable visit from the sergeant�
��s men.
“Quick thinking, that,” Mr. Jackson said to his wife, hoping his voice wasn’t shaking as much as it sounded. “Well done.” He took a deep breath, trying to calm himself. “I’d hate to see such a fine young man succumb to this poisoner.”
She nodded, face pensive. “This person — whoever it is — becomes more bold.”
“Surely this is being done by a man,” Mr. Jackson said, “is it not?”
The sergeant, who’d been standing across the table where the young man once lay, looked over.
“Poisoners are generally women. Or shall I say, women who kill are usually poisoners.” He shook his head wearily. “Every woman in this building is now a suspect.”
***
Once the young man was carried off, Mrs. Jackson felt weak, shaky, and her arm ached. The sergeant questioned them, then said they could go, warning them not to leave the building.
So the couple went across the lobby to have their ice cream sodas.
“This is quite good,” she said. “And I love how it fizzes so. It’s a unique flavor!”
Mr. Jackson didn’t reply.
She peered at him. He still seemed shaken by the night’s events. “Are you well, sir?”
“I don’t rightly know,” he said, staring at the table. “I feel as if something of great moment has happened —”
A laugh burst from her. “A man almost dying would qualify!”
He glanced up at her, and the look in his face made her feel chagrined. “Forgive me.” Then what was happening dawned on her. She leaned forward, eyes stinging. He’d given up a great deal for her, perhaps more than he should. “Truly. I should not have laughed. It was wrong for me to do so. I’m sorry.”
At that, he sighed, shoulders slumping.
“Listen to me,” she said. “Everyone reacts to sudden events in different ways. You must not berate yourself, or feel shamed at how you did so.” She reached across with her good hand to take his. “The doctors here are excellent. All will be well.”
A bit of a smile touched his lips. “I’m supposed to be comforting you.”
She shrugged. “We’re married, are we not?” She smiled at him, feeling a great fondness — and a bit amused. How different his attitude than that of most men! “I believe I’m allowed to be of comfort as well.”
Once they’d finished their sodas, they returned to their rooms. “Another eventful day,” Mrs. Jackson said, sagging into a chair.
“The reporters couldn’t fail to feature this,” Mr. Jackson said, an edge to his tone. “I feel certain whoever is doing this targets the management.”
“But why? Why not kill whoever the person has it in for?”
“Maybe he — or she — has it in for all these people. Perhaps the deaths are related. But what does a new, unprincipled desk clerk, a young woman who by all accounts wouldn’t hurt a fly, and a waiter from a good family have in common?”
“The hotel,” Mrs. Jackson said. “They all work the day shift. Might this waiter have been sampling lunches as well?”
“You don’t kill someone for stealing your lunch,” Mr. Jackson said, sounding annoyed. “Not unless you’re mentally deranged. Besides, the dinner pails are under guard as well.”
“The lemon-cake.” Mrs. Jackson kicked her shoes off, put her feet up on the side of her bed. “Individual cakes. Easy to poison one without harming others. And I imagine easier to hide a strong taste in a lemon-cake than in some other food.”
“Indeed.”
“So your young waiter swipes a lemon-cake —”
“Wait,” Mr. Jackson said. “George served me earlier today. After luncheon.”
“So he was on an extra shift, perhaps,” said Mrs. Jackson.
“Yes.”
She leaned forward. “So maybe the poisoner doesn’t know this. Maybe this order was to go to someone in particular, but the young man —”
“Swipes the lemon-cake,” Mr. Jackson said, then chuckled. “Apt way of putting it.”
Mrs. Jackson smiled at him. “And almost pays dearly for it.” Her heart sank. “How will we know who the cake was to go to? That’s our next target, I’d wager.”
Mr. Jackson rose. “Stay here. I’ll relay this to the sergeant. Surely they have someone searching the kitchens by now.”
She held out her hand, feeling suddenly afraid. “Be careful.”
“Oh, dear.” He gave her a soft smile, taking her hand in his. “First, apologies, now this? Who are you, and what have you done with my wife? I’d almost think you were concerned for me.”
She ignored his levity: he had to understand. “If this poisoner thinks you pursue him — or her, they might become desperate. Take care.”
He leaned over to kiss her forehead, something he’d never done before. “I will.”
She really needed her pain medication by this time, but she didn’t dare sleep until he returned. So she took a part dose, struggled into her new nightgown, and — more than a little frightened — sat up in bed to wait for his return.
***
Locking the doors to their suite, Mr. Jackson hurried down to the lobby.
A huge crowd milled about. Reporters and high-class men demanded answers which the young officers guarding the doors to the dining hall couldn’t give. Off by the chairs, a few richly-dressed ladies were being fanned and fawned over by their retainers.
Mr. Jackson felt a deep gratitude that he traveled with a sensible woman. She’d saved George with her quick action.
Pushing through the crowd, he approached the dining hall doors. A familiar-looking officer glanced at him and said, “Ah, yes — the sergeant asked me to let you through.”
Exclamations of outrage followed him inside — some quite rude — and he felt glad when the door shut behind him.
The dining hall swarmed with police. The far area was filled with people being questioned. Off to one side, Albert Stayman paced as the dowager Duchess sat speaking with an officer. The area where George had fallen was being measured and photographed, much as the area around the front desk had been.
The sergeant approached. “I hope you and your wife are well.”
“She’s resting,” Mr. Jackson said. “The pain medication makes her sleep.” He smiled to himself fondly, imagining her face peaceful.
“Very good,” the sergeant said. He seemed to relax a bit. “First marriage?”
“My first,” Mr. Jackson admitted. “My wife was widowed.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. I did wonder at such a lovely young woman marrying so late in life.”
Mr. Jackson felt amused. “Thank you.” He realized then what was happening. “This isn’t a social call.”
Sergeant Nestor snorted.
“Very well,” Mr. Jackson said, feeling weary. “What do you want to know?”
“You were speaking to the young man when he collapsed.”
“He stood across the table.” He struggled to recall the scene. “I don’t remember what we spoke about. But then he fell.”
The sergeant nodded. “And your wife came to his aid.”
“Yes, and I’m grateful for it. I happened to speak with him this afternoon. Most congenial young man.”
“Oh?”
“We both like boating.”
“Certainly fortunate that she did. And that a doctor was present who knew the remedy. And that the veterinary was still open.”
“It was indeed,” Mr. Jackson said. But something in the sergeant’s tone disturbed him. “You aren’t suggesting she had something to do with this?”
“You’ve been seen about quite a lot for a man on his honeymoon.”
Mr. Jackson felt confused. “I don’t understand.”
Sergeant Nestor frowned, his tone sarcastic. “I knew your kind the moment I saw you. You speak with a young, handsome waiter — thrice — then he falls, your wife the one to ʻsave’ him. That’s one way to win back your attentions.”
Mr. Jackson felt dismayed. “You have the situation mistaken.” A chai
r stood nearby, and he leaned upon it. “My wife is just days from having had surgery. The hotel surgeon instructed her to complete rest, but —” he took a breath to stop his voice from shaking, “my wife is, if nothing else, headstrong. Enforced idleness chafes at her.” He felt then as if rambling, and collected himself. “Our relationship is none of your concern. But if you think she would harm someone out of petty jealousy, then you know nothing about her!”
Normally, he was a calm man, but at this, Mr. Jackson felt angry. “And do you really think I would betray a woman I married? I made vows, sir, ones I would not break even on pain of death. I came to offer help, but I will not stand by as my wife and I are slandered.”
The sergeant gave him a soft smile. “I had to ask these things.” He hesitated a second, then held out a hand. “I would be glad for your help.”
Mr. Jackson hesitated, still feeling annoyed. But then he shook the man’s hand. “Very well. What do you want?”
“What most here want. To find our murderer.”
Mr. Jackson felt unsettled. “May we sit?”
“Of course.”
He sat, heart pounding. Had he been so transparent? Worse yet, should he have stayed beside his wife, not left her up there alone? He’d thought collecting information would help her feel as if something were being done.
The sergeant let out a breath, “Don’t berate yourself. You’re in a difficult situation — I’m sure you’ve done your best.” His tone turned businesslike. “I need you to focus on the matter at hand. I know you’ve spoken with the staff. What did you learn?”
“Learn?” He had actual proof of very little. “The staff are — naturally — disturbed by these events. There’s talk of leaving for new employment.” He didn’t want to mention his suspicions of an underground speakeasy just yet, so he shrugged. “That’s all.”
Then he remembered. “I did hear something of interest. A dockworker — Eugene, I believe his name was — told me that the desk clerk who first died had tried a few days earlier to force himself upon the young lady who died next. This dockworker is also the rat-man. I don’t know if it matters, but —”
The sergeant’s face didn’t change. “We’ll speak with him.”
“Do you know yet how the clerk died? After seeing what the waiter endured, it doesn’t seem like strychnine to me.”