by Claire Logan
Mr. Carlo said, “It’s nothing, my dear.”
“Mrs. Carlo,” Mrs. Jackson said, “we believe the cook to be innocent of these crimes.”
Maisy Carlo turned to her husband. “Monty, what’s going on?”
Mr. Carlo didn’t look happy. “Madam, I’d rather you hadn’t told her that.”
“Why? She’s a grown woman. She deserves the truth. I said as much to your cousin’s father, and he dismissed it out of hand. But I tell you,” she pointed at Mr. Carlo, “there’s sure to be more murders.
And I believe whoever it is targets you.”
The man raised an eyebrow. “Me? Whatever for?”
“I have no idea,” Mr. Jackson said. “But last night’s poisoned lemon-cake may have been meant for you.”
Maisy Carlo gasped. “Well, then, you must find this killer!”
Mr. Jackson’s shoulders slumped. “The police have forbidden us to do any real investigation. I’ve spoken with some of the staff, at your manager’s request, but —”
“Continue to do so,” Mr. Carlo said. He stood, went to a set of cabinets, where he took a pad and wrote upon it. He folded the paper in half and handed it to Mr. Jackson. “Call me if you need anything.”
It seemed then — just like that — the visit was over.
***
The couple had never used their parlor as yet, but it had the largest table. Once they returned to their suite, Mr. Jackson went to walk Bessie. On his return, he found that his wife had collected stationery, note pads, and fountain pens from every room. Lists were placed at intervals along the table, with the pens standing in a water glass in the center.
Dismayed, Mr. Jackson watched her write another list. “Doesn’t all that writing hurt your arm?”
She shrugged. “If it gets too painful, I’ll take my medication and go to bed.”
“But the doctor said you needed rest.”
She set the pen down. “I fail to see how that’s your concern.”
“All I care about is your welfare.” Mr. Jackson said. “What if you re-injured it? For all you know, you may be prolonging the process.”
She gave him a piercing glance, full of doubt, hope.
She still doesn’t trust me.
“This is what we know about the first death,” she muttered. Her black and brass pen flashed reflections from the lamp as the pad jostled it. “He lay facing towards us, cup in hand. Yet the cup had not one drop in it.”
Across the room, Mr. Jackson leaned back in his overstuffed chair, seeing nothing but his own remorse at how he’d hurt her. “Perhaps he’d just washed it, and liked to keep it at his post.” He pictured the scene. “Perhaps he sensed he was dying, and tried to get help, without even time to lay the cup aside.”
His wife’s eyes turned red, and he instantly regretted speaking. “Forgive me.”
She let out a soft snort, smiling to herself. “For inspiring me to compassion?” She sat staring at the table.
He didn’t know how to reply. She’d said nothing of what happened the night before they wed. He knew the outcome, of course, but not how or why. Until now, he’d thought it best to let her speak of it when she was ready.
“For all my life, I’ve been a hard woman. Focused, driven. And everyone around me has paid for my pursuit.” She raised her eyes to his. “It’s likely that more compassion is what I need.”
He leaned forward, feeling uneasy. “First have compassion on yourself! What’s likely is that the police will find this killer, or if not, perhaps I will. In any case, you’re allowed to rest, to enjoy safety.
To let yourself heal.” He let out a bitter laugh. “You don’t need to save everyone.”
Her gaze dropped. “I remember telling my husband that once.” She shook her head, her eyes reddening once more.
He moved to sit on her left side. “I know I can never replace him. Or your son.” He felt lost. “I don’t even know where to start.”
“You don’t have to.” She grasped his hand tightly. “Don’t give up on me.”
A laugh burst from him. “All I ask is the same.” He enveloped her in an embrace, kissed her hair.
“How did we — of all people — end up here?”
Her arm moved warm around his waist, and when she spoke, he heard the smile. “You know as much as anyone.”
16
After his wife left for her bed, Mr. Jackson lay upon his, feeling drained yet unable to sleep. How was he to find this murderess? It seemed all he could do to protect his wife and keep her from harm.
He’d told the sergeant he’d been a private investigator, but amateur was too strong a word for it.
I don’t know what I’m doing.
He didn’t know what he was doing, in either this investigation or this marriage. Yet in the past he’d always had friends, family to rely on. To ask for advice and help.
Albert Stayman and the dowager Duchess seemed happy in their marriage. While they’d be no help with investigating a murder, perhaps they might be able to give advice on other matters.
***
Early the next morning, Mr. Jackson left his wife sleeping, a note on the table as to where he’d gone, and went to the gardens.
He found Albert Stayman slowly sweeping the stone walkway beside the pond.
“My gracious me!” Albert seemed astonished. “How grand to see you here!”
“I did say I might visit,” Mr. Jackson said. “And I thought you might be here now. I’m glad you’re feeling improved.”
The old man gazed over the water. “My favorite time of day.”
He followed Albert’s gaze. Toads croaked, small birds chirped, and the water gurgled along. “It’s quite peaceful.”
Albert smiled to himself, scooping up his pile of leaves, which he deposited off of the path with trembling hands. “First spat?”
“What? No, I mean, not the first. But how did you know?”
“Cordelia saw your lights on late when she got in. Couple on their honeymoon wouldn’t have reason for lights that late unless they were set to discussion.” He winked. “Then here you are.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Only been married the once, and not yet four years at that.” He shrugged. “But I’m glad you came by.”
What could he say which wouldn’t reveal too much? “Well, my wife’s a widow, and —”
Albert nodded. “I see.” He let out a breath. “I remember how Cordelia cried, after he passed. About broke my heart.” He bit his upper lip, nose reddening. “It’s a difficult matter, coming after a marriage, even when she loves you. As she said it, nothing’s the same. For a while it seems she’ll never be happy again. And you love her, so you’ll do anything to make it right. But you don’t know what, or how.”
Mr. Jackson felt unsure right then which of them Albert referred to.
Albert glanced up and sniffled. He got out his handkerchief. “I’ll have Cordelia talk to your wife, see what she can do.”
“I’d be much obliged, sir.”
Albert laughed. “Don’t ’sir’ me. Makes me sound old and much more important than I am. Please, call me Albert.”
“All right, Albert. And I’m —” It’d been years since he’d said it, but all of a sudden he came too close to giving his real name. “Hector.”
Albert gave him an amused smile. “Pleasure’s all mine. Come on, let’s find some flowers for our young ladies.”
***
Mrs. Jackson woke at a knock on the door. She struggled into a robe and answered it: Mrs. Knight stood there.
The lady’s maid bustled in. “Good morning to you! Did you sleep well?”
“I did. What time is it?”
“Nine, ma’am.”
“Oh! Well,” at this, she laughed at herself. “I suppose we best get started.”
Her arm ached from her writing exertions the night prior, and as she soaked in the hot water, she considered what Mr. Jackson had said. You don’t need to save everyone.
“It’s twenty to ten,” Mrs. K
night said.
She felt amused by this. “Up I go then.” She rose, took the towel the maid held up for her. On the side of the maid’s right thumb lay a pale patch of skin, which reminded Mrs. Jackson of the young dead man’s face. “What’s happened there?”
The maid let out a short laugh. “My daughter’s got this new cream for clearing the skin. Asked me to put it on her. I used gloves, but it must have soaked through there.”
“My word,” Mrs. Jackson said. “What sort of cream is it?”
“For blemishes,” the maid said. “I might have it in my purse here.” She left for the other room, returning with a small metal tube, which read, “Doctor Smith’s Facial Brightening Cream.” She handed it to Mrs. Jackson, saying, “My daughter says it’s all the rage these days. You know how kids are. They constantly say, ’All the young people are doing it,’ as if that means it’s safe. I didn’t want her to use it until I’d investigated, but apparently it’s true. Makes your skin ghastly pale for a day, then it peels, and your skin is ever so much clearer.” She chuckled. “Only problem is you look ghastly pale for a day, then your face peels. Most people take a few days off work.”
Mrs. Jackson turned it over, where it read, “Contains Phenol“. She let out a laugh. “So that’s what I smelled!”
“Smelled, ma’am?”
She recalled a sick room, long ago. “Oh, nothing. Just talking to myself.” She felt happy to have solved this particular mystery!
***
Mr. Jackson hurried upstairs to ready himself for the day, a bouquet of azalea blossoms in hand. His valet stood waiting. As he was being dressed, Mr. Vienna said, “There’s not time to shave you before breakfast, sir. I have another appointment across town at half past ten.”
He shrugged. “No matter. One day shouldn’t make a difference.”
Mr. Vienna helped him into his jacket. “Sir, I did want to speak with you briefly on a private matter.”
Mr. Jackson felt surprised. “How may I help?”
Mr. Vienna seemed hesitant. “Well, sir, I’ve asked my sweetheart to marry me.”
“Congratulations! Will you need time off so soon?”
Relief passed over the man’s face. “It’s just — I mean — I thought you might be angry, sir.”
Mr. Jackson chuckled to himself. “Not at all. You’re a fine young man, and I wish you the best.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“What will you do once you’re married?”
“Oh, I’ll continue with the agency.”
“Splendid! We should be here at least a week longer, I’d think, then we might take a trip abroad. But when we return, I’ll ask for you.”
A soft knock. Mr. Vienna extended his hand with a real smile. “Thank you very much, sir.” He went to the parlor door, opened it.
Mrs. Jackson stood there. "Sorry to intrude."
"No, not at all," Mr. Jackson said. He took up the bouquet. "For you."
"How lovely!" His wife rushed out with the flowers.
"I'll be leaving now, sir," Mr. Vienna said.
"And I'll see you this evening?"
"Of course, sir."
Mr. Jackson went into the parlor, where the flowers stood, his wife having pressed a water carafe into use as a vase. “Where would you like to have breakfast today?”
“Let’s go down to the dining room,” his wife said. “Perhaps this new cook is better at breakfast than luncheon.”
So the couple went down to eat. The dining room was only half as full as it had been the first day they arrived, and very few new faces lay among those there. As Mr. Jackson sat with his wife to wait for their meals, he considered of the conversation he’d just had with his valet. How long had the young man worried over what he might say? Did he fear being given a bad report, or even fired?
How difficult the life of a servant must be, he thought.
But Mr. Jackson felt quite pleased when his wife gave him the news about the facial cream. “So that’s why the man’s face was so pale. How extraordinary! But how appalling! Your face peels? And people actually use this?”
“They do. Apparently it’s quite well known.”
He shook his head. “What people will do for appearances.”
She let out an ironic laugh, and he grinned at her.
The stout little maid, Maria, who’d found the first man’s body when they arrived, came to the table.
“Care for something to drink?”
“Just water, thanks,” Mrs. Jackson said.
“Coffee with heavy cream, no sugar,” said Mr. Jackson.
“Right away,” Maria said, disappearing into the crowd.
Just then, the doors opened and the clerk he’d met earlier came in. “A message for you, sir,” he said, handing over a slip of paper.
Mr. Jackson took the slip from him, got out a tip. “Mr. Francis, is it not?”
The man beamed. “It is, sir, thank you.”
“Give my regards to your wife.”
“Yes, sir. I will, sir.” The man hurried off.
Mr. Jackson unfolded the note: the librarian reported that the book had been returned early, and could be picked up at his convenience. “Wonderful!”
Mrs. Jackson said, “A new clue to report?”
“Not particularly.” He handed over the slip for her to read. “But it just occurred to me that the back entry to the kitchens has no door.”
“Is that so?”
“Indeed. Anyone could simply walk in.” He considered this for a moment. “In fact, they wouldn’t even have to enter the building through the front. The exit to the dock lies not ten yards away.”
“That’s disturbing. I wonder if the good sergeant has put a guard there.”
“Hmm,” Mr. Jackson said. “It’s likely he did. But I’ll take a look later on.”
“Good thinking. No need to stir that hornet’s Nest-or —”
At that, he laughed.
“- unless need be.”
“You are incorrigible,” he said, quite amused at the comparison.
The dowager Duchess and her husband came to the table. “It’s so good to see you smiling,” Cordelia said.
Mr. Jackson stood. “Please join us!”
Mrs. Jackson said, “Why smiling?”
Cordelia sat beside her. “My dear, dear girl. Your Mr. Jackson told my Albert about your predicament —”
Mrs. Jackson turned to Mr. Jackson, face alarmed.
“Now, now,” the dowager said. She lowered her voice. “He merely told him you’d been widowed.
As I was widowed myself, I completely sympathize.”
From the set of her jaw, Mr. Jackson felt certain his wife would have words with him later on. “It’s true,” she said. “But —”
The dowager patted Mrs. Jackson’s hand. “Nothing more need be said.” Her tone turned bright.
“After breakfast, would you like to sit with me here in the library? We can find a nice corner where no one will be bothered by our clucking.”
Mr. Jackson tried very hard not to laugh at the look which crossed his wife’s face. Being compared to a chicken did not amuse her in the slightest. “Very well,” she said. “I did want to spend time there. Reading.”
“Well, my dear, we can do whatever you prefer,” the dowager said. “I don’t want to be a bother. I just know how hard it is to lose a husband.”
Mrs. Jackson nodded, eyes on the tablecloth.
“Well, that’s perfect,” Mr. Jackson said. “You’ll be entertained while I’m off to the Main Library.”
He brandished the slip, then turned to Cordelia. “A book I very much wanted to read has come in.”
“Your drinks,” the maid Maria said, placing them.
Albert said, “Which book?”
“You might like it as well,” he said. “It’s the only one they have on the snake-wood tree. Want me to check it out and bring it by once I’m done reading?”
“That won’t be necessary,” Albert said. “I’ve read it be
fore.”
Maria turned to Albert and Cordelia. “What would you like?”
“Tea with lemon for us both,” Albert said. “Steep it well.”
“Yes, sir, I remember,” she said in reply, but as if she’d said so a dozen times already.
“We’re ready for our meals,” Mr. Jackson said.
“Right away, sir.”
It seemed Maria was the only one taking care of the huge room, and it was some time before their meals arrived. “So sorry for the wait. We’re short on staff today.”
Mr. Jackson said, “I hope no one’s ill.”
“No, sir. Today’s the funeral for the two who passed away. Miss Agnes and ... that new man. I’ve forgotten his name.”
Dismay crossed Albert’s face. “That’s today? Right now?”
“At noon, sir. Trips Cemetery.”
Mr. Jackson said, “Does the girl have family?”
Maria shook her head. “Just us at the hotel.” She glanced towards the room. “Enjoy your meal.”
She moved off, but Albert rose. “Wait!”
“Now, Bertie,” Cordelia said. “Let the woman get to her work!”
The maid returned. “Is something wrong?”
“Who’s taking care of the expenses?”
“The owner —”
Albert flinched, and his jaw tightened.
“He’s offered a back room for lunch afterward.” She glanced behind her. “Please excuse me.”
Mr. Jackson recalled what the dowager had said about Albert employing the young woman for errands. “Did you know her well?”
Albert said, “What? No. Not really.”
They ate in silence. A woman shouted from far off, and pots clattered. All the while, Albert picked at his food.
Mr. Jackson said, “Is something amiss, sir?”
Albert said, “What? No.”
Why was Albert so cross all of a sudden? “It seems kind of the owner to foot the bill for his employees’ funerals.”
Albert scowled.
Cordelia patted Albert’s hand. “Monty’s a good man, once you get to know him.”
“Oh,” Mr. Jackson said, “you know Mr. Carlo well, then?”
“He’s her former brother-in-law,” Albert said sourly. “Husband’s sister’s husband. That is, until he ran off with that girl. Not much older than his daughter!”