by Claire Logan
“The coroner is still investigating,” the sergeant said. “It may take days to learn the truth.”
“Well, then,” Mr. Jackson said. “How may I help? Do you wish us to investigate?”
“Absolutely not,” the sergeant said. “Stay out of it. I’ll let you know if I have any further questions.”
“But my wife and I believe —”
Voices raised above the crowd from behind, and Mr. Jackson turned towards them. The beveled glass doors were open; two men walked in.
Sergeant Nestor went to meet them. Fine clothing both, yet one had stiff, dark hair, deep-set dark eyes, and an imperious manner. The other, who resembled the young waiter, although much older, looked worried, and after getting some information from the sergeant, hurried away.
That must be the father, Mr. Jackson thought.
The remaining man seemed to be lecturing the sergeant, who appeared to be giving as good as he got. When the doors opened yet again, the manager rushed over to the two with a cringing, subservient mien.
Mr. Jackson rose, walked over, and held out his hand to the finely-dressed man. “You must be the owner of this establishment. Hector Jackson at your service, sir. A pleasure to finally —”
The man’s jaw dropped. “However did you —”
”— meet you,” Mr. Jackson continued, speaking over him.
The owner seemed flustered, yet shook hands. “And you, sir.” He glanced around. “I take it you discovered the first body?”
“I did.”
“Davis here has kept me informed.”
Mr. Jackson felt relieved at him not mentioning the arrangement he had with the manager, at least not in front of the sergeant.
The owner turned to the sergeant. “This has gone on long enough. No more arguments. You know what to do.”
12
The next morning, the front page of the paper read:
MURDER AT THE MYRIAD
Cook arrested for poison
Mrs. Jackson put down the paper, dismayed. “Surely the cook isn’t to blame for this! That’s much too simple an answer.”
Mr. Jackson nodded. “The owner insisted they arrest someone.”
“This is bad,” she said. “Two murders — and one attempted — in four days? And by the look of it, missing the real target each time. I fear another death will come soon.”
He nodded. “After our servants are through with us, shall we spend the day in the city? I don’t fancy staying around the hotel today.”
There came a knock at the door. Mr. Jackson rose. “They’re here early, it seems!”
But it was the dowager Duchess come to call.
Mrs. Jackson wasn’t sure whether to be amused or annoyed that without so much as asking, the dowager pushed past Mr. Jackson and into the room. Mrs. Jackson did, however, feel very glad that Mrs. Knight had found her a proper nightgown!
“I’m sorry to disturb you so early,” the dowager said, glancing at them both. “But my Albert is in a state of agitation! I’ve called the doctor, who’s with him now. In all my years, I’ve never seen him like this!”
“Come in, sit down.” Mr. Jackson sat on the bed. “Whatever has distressed him so?”
The dowager Duchess said, “That’s just it, he won’t say. I think it was the unpleasantness last night. It’s entirely unnerved him!” She looked to Mr. Jackson. “He learned last night of the young lady’s death — Agnes, I believe her name was. She used to run errands for us. He was very fond of her, and of the young man who fell ill last night. Poor dear, he hasn’t slept a wink. I thought for certain you might be able to help — he’s quite taken with you.”
“Why, certainly,” Mr. Jackson said. “What room are you in?”
“Thirty-two twelve,” she said, rising, “just down the hall and around.”
Mr. Jackson stood, tightening the belt on his striped robe (courtesy of the hotel). “Well, then,” he said, “let’s see what this is about.”
***
Mr. Jackson followed Duchess Cordelia down the hall and around the corner to Albert’s rooms.
On the walls hung artifacts and souvenirs from around the world. Books sat on every surface possible. In the parlor, a small hand drill with a wooden handle sat upon a bookcase full of books on plants, along with a dark blue mortar and pestle. A row of three satiny gray buttons a bit larger than a nickel hung down a strip of red cloth the size of a bookmark pinned to the wall behind them.
On going into the bedroom, they found the old man weeping on the bed. But when he glanced up, he began to berate his wife. “How dare you bring him here!”
“But Bertie,” she said, “you’re so upset! I thought he might be able to help.”
The doctor who’d seen Mrs. Jackson the day earlier stood by. “Merely overwrought — I’ve given him a sedative. He should feel better once he wakes.”
“Thank you, doctor,” the dowager said. She turned to her husband. “Don’t be angry, dear — we’re just concerned for you.”
“I don’t want your help. The situation is catastrophic! Intolerable!” He put his face in his hands. “Ohhh,” he moaned. “Why has Fate cursed us so?”
“Well, if you do need anything, sir,” Mr. Jackson said, “I’ll be right around the corner for the next hour. But we planned to go sightseeing. Should we delay?”
Albert’s face took on a sudden chagrin. “No, you go. I’m sorry for being such a bother.”
“Not at all, sir,” Mr. Jackson said. “I hope you feel better.” He turned to the dowager. “Poor fellow. Overwrought indeed. I’d stay with him if I were you.”
“As I intended. Where did you plan to go today?”
“We might visit the young man in the hospital. But after that, I thought to take my wife to the Main Library. She does so love books.”
“Splendid! Well, you just have a marvelous time.”
***
The couple went out for breakfast at a little pastry shop nearby, and Mrs. Jackson treated herself to a jelly donut with whipped cream.
“You know,” Mr. Jackson said, “when we do visit the specialist surgeon, we must send mail.”
“Of course.” That would be the perfect opportunity. Anyone investigating where the mail came from would have a jolly time searching in the wrong city. That thought made her smile.
“Where would you like to go afterward? You’ll need somewhere quiet to recuperate. I have a lovely little property in Tuscany.”
She gasped at the idea of traveling overseas. It was what she’d always dreamed of. “That sounds wonderful!”
Mr. Jackson gave her a fond smile. “I’m so glad you think so.”
A man wearing a brown work uniform walked in, going to the counter. The woman behind the counter lit up when she saw him.
Mr. Jackson turned behind to follow her gaze, and smiled at them.
“Someone you know?”
“A man I met at the docks.”
The man and woman stood flirting for a few minutes, then the woman handed over a bag. He paid and left without noticing them at all.
The woman came over to their table. Her name-tag read: Helen. “Did you need something?”
Mr. Jackson smiled up at her. “Just saw someone I know, that’s all.”
Her eyes grew wide. “You know Eugene?”
“Just met the once,” he said. “We’re staying at the hotel.”
“How wonderful! Then I suppose you know the dowager Duchess. She knows everyone.”
Mrs. Jackson felt surprised at this. “You know Duchess Cordelia?”
She giggled. “Of course. Me and Eugene play dominoes with her and Mr. Stayman in the evenings sometimes.”
Mrs. Jackson said, “I don’t believe I’ve ever played that!”
“Well, next time you’ll have to join us,” Helen said.
“We wouldn’t want to impose,” Mrs. Jackson said.
“No! Not at all,” Helen said. “Whoever wants to come is welcome. The maids come play with us too from time to time.�
� She smiled at Mrs. Jackson warmly. “We’d love to have you.”
Mr. Jackson said, “How are you and Eugene acquainted?”
“We’re to be married,” she said, showing a cute little engagement ring.
Mrs. Jackson took Helen’s hand, admiring the ring. “It’s lovely! Congratulations.”
The woman beamed. “Thank you.”
Mrs. Jackson said, “What does your fiancé do there?”
“Maintenance,” she said. “Clearing drains, mostly. They’re giving him the dirty work still, but he hopes to move up soon.”
“That sounds good,” Mr. Jackson said. “Does he like it there?”
Helen shrugged. “All but the manager. Constantly in everyone’s business. ’Just let me do my job,’
Gene says, about every time he comes home.”
Mrs. Jackson felt surprised. “Really.”
“Yes!” Helen dropped her voice to a whisper, leaning over to speak privately. “Everyone hates the man. Wouldn’t surprise me at all if the next bit of poison went to him!”
13
After the couple ate, Mr. Jackson flagged down a taxi to take them to the hospital. There they found the young waiter abed, his parents beside him.
When George saw them, he smiled, reaching his hand out. “Here they are! My benefactors.”
His parents stood, turning to the couple. Going past them, Mr. Jackson took the young man’s hand and shook it. “I hope you’re improved.”
Their eyes met, and to Mr. Jackson’s surprise, George’s cheeks reddened. “Much.”
“We’re much obliged to you, sir,” George’s father said. “The hotel doctor told us your quick thinking saved him.”
“It was entirely my wife,” Mr. Jackson said, looking into George's eyes. “I must admit the suddenness of his malady took me so aback, I hardly knew what to do.”
The older man turned to Mrs. Jackson then, taking her hand in both of his. “Then I am forever in your debt. He’s my only son.” He stopped for a moment, head turned away.
Mrs. Jackson smiled at him. “You’re most welcome.”
There were other chairs in the room, on the other side of the bed, so Mr. Jackson said, “May we join you?”
“We insist.”
The couple sat then, Mr. Jackson towards the head of the bed. “What happened? It was all so sudden.”
“It was,” George said. “I broke a lace, so I’d gone in to take a break. There was a long row of room service trays to go up, and the kitchen girls were busy putting lemon-cakes on them. I sat down off to the side to thread a new lace in. I couldn’t see the trays from where I sat, but all the girls went past me to get back to their work. I got done threading my lace, and I got up to go. The trays to go out were still there. Right then, Miss Goldie Jean went down the row and said one of the cakes had a bubble — did I want it? She was a-swapping it out and other than the bubble, it looked fine. Well, of course I said yes!”
At that, he faltered. “Is it true? Did she poison me? I’ve never done her a wrong, ever.”
“I don’t believe so,” Mrs. Jackson said.
The older man’s face darkened. “Young lady, why don’t we let the courts determine such things?
She gave him the cake, and now he lies here.”
Before she might speak, Mr. Jackson put his hand upon hers. “My wife means no disrespect, sir.” He clasped her hand and rose. “We’ll let your son rest now.”
Once they were outside, Mrs. Jackson said, “I hope I’m wrong.”
“I do too,” Mr. Jackson said. “But I don’t think you are.”
Mr. Jackson took his wife to the pharmacy there at the hospital to fill her prescription. The pharmacist puzzled over the paper Mrs. Jackson presented him. “Too much of a dose to fit into a pill.”
“Oh, I just take it with water,” his wife said.
The pharmacist, an attractive older man with brown hair, grimaced. “This must be so bitter!”
“It is,” Mrs. Jackson said. “But it’s always been. Is that unusual?”
The man blinked in confusion. “No, I suppose not.” He peered at the script. “It’s essence of tea!
Among other things, of course.” He mumbled as he went down the list. “And you’re to steep this how long? My word! The tannic acid alone would pucker you for sure.” He chuckled. “Well, if this is what you’re prescribed —” He glanced up at her. “And you feel well?”
“Entirely, other than this,” she said, holding up her arm. “And the surgeon just checked me yesterday.”
The pharmacist chuckled. “I presume you’re supplied with medication for that.”
“Oh, yes,” she said. “I have plenty.”
“Very well. Have a seat, and I’ll get this for you.”
As they waited, Mr. Jackson felt sure his wife was right. “Not only is the cook innocent, but more deaths are sure to follow.”
Mrs. Jackson said, “The poor woman! Slandered, led off in chains to sit in some cell. How will she ever find employment again?”
“We’ll help her, my dear,” Mr. Jackson said. “If we can prove she didn’t do this, they’ll have to reinstate her.”
“Unless they plan to make her an example.” Mrs. Jackson sounded bitter. “It’s unjust.”
Mr. Jackson put his hand on hers. “It is. But let’s put that aside for now and try to enjoy the day.”
“I’ll try. But we must prove her innocent,” his wife said. “I won’t be able to rest until we do.”
After some time, they were presented with a paper sack full of smaller sacks, along with an instruction page. Then they took a taxi to the Main Library.
His wife seemed enthralled with the sheer number of books in the building, and for a long moment stood staring in joyful astonishment. The look on her face held Mr. Jackson’s gaze so that for a while he forgot all else.
Then she met his eye and gave him a real smile, the first since they’d come here. “Let’s look around.”
They passed row upon row of novels, then factual books on every subject imaginable. They came to the books on plants. There were so many!
His wife stood peering over them. “This is what you wanted, is it not?”
“It was,” he said, “but we may look at any you wish. We have no schedule to keep.”
A red-haired man stood behind a cluttered counter perhaps ten yards off. A sign hung from the counter’s front, labeled “Natural History.”
Mrs. Jackson approached the man. Curious, Mr. Jackson followed.
“Thank you,” his wife said as he approached. Then she turned to him. “I’ll return shortly.”
The librarian said, “Your wife?”
Mr. Jackson watched her as she went. “Indeed.”
“Lovely lady, I may say.”
Mr. Jackson chuckled. “Thanks.”
The man poured himself coffee. The cup still had sugar in the bottom, yet he put in more.
“You must like sugar,” Mr. Jackson said.
The librarian grinned. “I guess I do.”
Then Mr. Jackson recalled what he came here for. “Do you have any books on the snake-wood tree?”
“Let me look.” He went to an array of small drawers behind him and pulled one out. Inside were dozens of cards, which he began to page through. “We do have one, but it’s been checked out. But we have more general ones on trees which may be helpful.” He took the card out of the drawer. “This way.”
Mr. Jackson followed the man down a row of books. The man stopped, peered at the numbers on the spines, squatted to retrieve a thick one on the second shelf from the bottom. He presented the book, which read “Trees of the World.”
“Thank you, sir,” Mr. Jackson said.
“Put it on any of the carts when you’re done.” The man returned to his desk, putting another spoonful of sugar into his cup before drinking his coffee.
Mr. Jackson found a table in view of the desk and sat to read.
“There you are.”
Mr. Jackson loo
ked up as his wife set a volume on the table across from him. Glancing at the book, he exclaimed, “I didn’t know you’d read Emerson. I once knew a man who was a great admirer.” The memory left him melancholy, so he focused again upon his page. “Did you know there are three trees at least called snake-wood? But one of them is where strychnine comes from.”
Shock crossed his wife’s face. “Really?”
“The seeds, apparently.” He picked up another book he’d found called “Poisons from Plants,” which unfortunately had no drawings or descriptions of the tree itself. “And they’re devilishly hard seeds — very difficult to get the poison from.” He considered the matter. “But that little thing planted in the hotel conservatory won’t make seeds for twenty years, if what Albert Stayman says is true.”
“Albert Stayman?”
“The husband of the dowager Duchess.”
“Oh, yes,” Mrs. Jackson said. “Now I remember. Does your book say anything else?”
Mr. Jackson shook his head. “Just a few lines. The book about the poisonous tree has been checked out.” He sighed. “I suppose we’ll have to wait until it’s returned.”
“That’s quite a coincidence, isn’t it?”
“That Mr. Stayman planted a snake-wood tree?” Mr. Jackson shrugged. “I’m not even sure the tree at the hotel is the poisonous kind.” He thought about poisons for a moment. “But you can get strychnine at any grocery in the city. Sounds as if it’d be quicker just to go to the store and buy rat poison.” He got up, went to the desk. “When will the book I wanted be returned?”
The man checked the file again. “Next week.”
“Thanks, I’ll come back then.”
“Or I can get your number and call when it’s here.”
“Splendid!” Mr. Jackson gave him the number for the hotel. “Thanks ever so much.”
His wife checked out the book she’d picked up and the couple went out to lunch. Afterward, they returned to the hotel for her pain medicine.
“I’ll just take a drop,” she said. “That way I won’t sleep the rest of the day away.”
A knock at the door, and Mr. Jackson went to answer it. A busboy stood there. “Good day, sir. The Myriad Hotel’s owner, Mr. Montgomery Carlo, requests you and your wife dine with him at his residence this evening. A car will come for you at eight.”