by Claire Logan
“Bertie!” Cordelia looked horrified. “I know you two don’t get along, but you shouldn’t speak of such things in public.” She turned to Mrs. Jackson. “They were so unhappy — it doesn’t surprise me that —”
Albert drained his teacup and rose, leaving his plate half full. “I have errands to run.”
Cordelia blinked. “You do?”
“I’ll be back shortly.” He turned to Mr. Jackson. “Enjoy your book.”
Cordelia frowned as he went off. Then she sighed. “He was ever so fond of Agnes. I bet he’s gone to cut flowers for her grave.”
“Perhaps so,” Mr. Jackson said. Yet he felt something more was going on.
“I’m going up to get my shawl,” Cordelia said to Mrs. Jackson. “Would you like to meet in the library?”
“That would be fine, thank you.” Once she’d left, Mrs. Jackson said, “Why did you tell her I was a widow?”
He looked at her, feeling sad.
Her eyes reddened. “I know I am. A widow. But this is the second time you’ve told them things about me. You didn’t even ask! I know you like them, but can we trust them? The woman’s mouth runs on about anything. If she tells the wrong person something —”
He put his hand on hers. “What might she tell? That you’re a widow? That I saw your legs once?”
At that, she went crimson.
“Look at me.”
She turned to meet his gaze, chin held high, defiant tears in her eyes.
“All will be well.” He felt compassion, and resolve. “I meant what I told you on the way here. Literally. I would give my life before I let anyone harm you.”
Her shoulders slumped, then she glanced at Albert’s plate. “The meal wasn’t so bad as all that.”
Perhaps it wasn’t acceptance, but it was enough. “Something troubles him, that’s clear. I suppose he’ll tell us when he’s ready.” He leaned over to kiss her cheek. “Let me collect this book, then I’ll look behind the kitchens.”
He could tell she’d forgotten by the way her face changed. “Oh! Yes. I’m glad you remembered!”
She chuckled, wiped her eyes with her napkin. “Hopefully everything will be in order.”
“I do hope so, for all our sakes.”
***
Mr. Jackson caught a cab to the Main Library. As it was well after eleven, the streets were busy. The day was breezy and bright, perfect for an outing.
He still didn’t know how they were going to find this killer, but for a moment, it didn’t matter. The police were ever so busily on the case, and his wife would be in the hotel’s library with the dowager Duchess, as safe as she might be anywhere. Surely a short detour to read a book for pleasure’s sake wouldn’t hurt anything.
As Mr. Jackson climbed the steps to the Library, he thought: Albert was right. What Mrs. Jackson needed was a kindly, sympathetic ear, which Duchess Cordelia Stayman could certainly provide.
Mr. Jackson felt glad they’d found friends here. The dowager Duchess was a bit nosy and at times lacked tact, but he enjoyed being with Albert. The old couple could show them around the city once his wife was well enough.
And he hoped once young waiter George was well, they could go boating together — with his wife, of course. It wouldn't be quite proper otherwise, under the circumstances.
But did she like boats? He didn’t even know.
It’d been a while since he’d sailed the river in his yacht back home. Of course, his men were caring for the boat, but it was unlikely he’d ever sail it again. Perhaps his sister might like it.
Yes, he decided. He’d give it to her, the next time he wrote.
He went through the enormous main hall and up a small flight of wide steps to the non-fiction section. A crowd of people milled around up ahead near the Natural History desk, and as he approached, he saw the uniforms of police. Men carried away a body covered in linen.
Mr. Jackson hurried to the desk, alarmed. “What happened?”
Sergeant Nestor turned to face him, then frowned. “You again.” He gestured at the body with his chin. “The librarian’s dead.”
17
Mr. Jackson leaned on the desk, feeling unsteady. “Dead? How?”
“The same as the rest, sir. Poison.”
For a moment, Mr. Jackson was too astonished to speak. “This is incredible.”
The sergeant peered at him. “What are you doing here?”
He felt as if in a fog. The man had just been alive! “I — I got a message from him. The librarian. My book was ready.”
Sergeant Nestor grabbed his arm. “Let’s sit down.”
Mr. Jackson was led to the very table where he’d sat during his last visit. “It doesn’t seem possible. How could this be? Who would kill a librarian?”
The sergeant’s eyes narrowed. “Who knew you were coming here?”
“Um ... the desk clerk. What was —? Oh, yes. Lee Francis was his name. He took the message.
Then, let’s see. The dowager Duchess and her husband were having breakfast with me and my wife.”
He glanced at the sergeant. “I mentioned it to them. I don’t know who else.” His head felt all a mush, and he rubbed his temples. “A maid waited on us — Maria — the same one who found the first body!”
Could she have done this? “Perhaps she overheard us, I don’t recall.” He tried to focus. “I’m sorry. I can’t think of who else might have known.”
“What book were you here for?”
“A book about the snake-wood tree.”
The sergeant laughed. “A whole book about a tree?”
Mr. Jackson shrugged. “One’s growing in the Hotel gardens. A tree, not a book.” He felt flustered, tried to collect himself. “I think it’s the same one. Same tree, I mean. The book would have told me for sure. The book’s about the tree that makes strychnine.”
That got the sergeant’s attention. “Is it now?”
“Well, not that little tree — I guess it takes twenty years or so to get the seeds. If it’s the same tree.
That’s where the poison is.”
“Didn’t that strike you as odd, though?”
“I suppose. But I read that the seeds are incredibly hard and tough, so it takes a great deal of effort to grind them. It seemed to me that it would be easier to just buy some strychnine at the grocery. If you wanted to kill someone, that is.”
“And did you want to kill someone?”
Mr. Jackson stared at the sergeant, shocked. “Of course not! What kind of man do you take me for?”
Sergeant Nestor let out a sigh. “The common factor in three murders and one attempted murder has been you. I don’t know if you’re doing it, or if it’s possible someone’s trying to frame you. But you have to admit it’s disturbing.”
A laugh burst from him at the absurdity. Then he sobered. “Well, yes, you’re right — it’s quite disturbing.” Especially the idea that someone might be doing all this to frame him. No one of any real importance knew he was even here. “Who’d want to frame me for murder?”
“You got me on that one.” Then his eyes narrowed. “I still don’t know who you even are.”
Mr. Jackson raised an eyebrow. “I recall telling you all about myself.”
“You’re on your honeymoon, you’re rich, and you arrived the morning of the first murder. But from where?”
“You never asked! Do you want my ticket stubs? My itinerary? I’ve been to a dozen cities in the past month. As I told you, my business takes me all over the country.”
“I want you to level with me.”
“I have. I’ve answered all of your questions. My property holdings here in Chicago are public record. I’m not sure what else you want me to say.” He felt more than a bit annoyed at this man. “Am I under arrest?”
“No.”
“Then I’ll get my book and go.”
But when they searched for the book, and the card on file listing who had it before this, both were gone.
***
W
hen Mr. Jackson returned to the hotel, reporters were everywhere. Yet his wife and the dowager Duchess weren’t in the library.
He went to the front desk, where Mr. Lee Francis still stood. “Have you by any chance seen my wife?”
“I imagine she’s up with the Duchess, sir.”
“In her rooms?”
“Yes.” He shook his head. “Terrible thing to happen.”
Alarmed, Mr. Jackson said, “What happened?”
“Someone’s attacked the Duchess!”
Mr. Jackson stared at the young man, horrified, then dashed for the elevators.
The wait seemed interminable, and he pushed his way in. “Thirty-two, please.”
The elevator seemed to take forever to climb, and every time it stopped his dread mounted.
Who would attack Cordelia Stayman? Was this related, or was it a coincidence? Had his wife been with the Duchess during the attack, and if so, had she been harmed? If a Duchess wasn’t safe, were they safe here?
Finally, the elevator opened, and he ran to Albert and Cordelia’s suite. Uniformed police stood in the hall, yet let him pass without so much as a glance.
Duchess Cordelia lay upon a sofa in her parlor, a pack of ice on her right temple. Albert sat beside her, holding her hand, while Mrs. Jackson stood pacing the room.
When Mr. Jackson entered, out of breath, his wife rushed to him. “You’re here at last!”
He held her in his arms. “I came as soon as I heard.” He squeezed her tightly, heart pounding, eyes stinging. Then he let go, grasped her arms. “How could such a thing happen?”
His wife shook her head. “I went to the library and she wasn’t there. I waited quite some time, then came up here. Mr. Stayman had found her on the floor,” she pointed to a spot by the coffee table.
She lowered her voice to a whisper. “Poor man was so upset he couldn’t think straight. He didn’t want any scandal, and she kept insisting she was fine. But a woman of her age suffering a blow to the head? A robber in the hotel? I called for the police and a doctor straightaway.”
“You did exactly right.” He turned towards Cordelia, trying to consider what best to say. He finally settled on, “How are you?”
The dowager chuckled. “As well as can be expected. And before you ask, a man was in my suite. I didn’t see him — he pushed past from behind and knocked me down.” She considered this. “I must have hit my head on the table; the next thing I remember is Bertie putting me on the sofa.” She rubbed her husband’s hand with her thumb and smiled up at him.
Albert’s face was set in stone, wet with tears. “I almost lost you through my foolishness!”
“Oh, Bertie,” she said, “flowers for a grave is never foolishness. Besides, nothing like this has ever happened before! How could you have expected it?” She pressed his hand to her cheek. “You mustn’t blame yourself.”
Mr. Jackson turned to his wife. “And the doctor?”
“Come and gone. He said we must keep watch over her, but he’ll be back in an hour or so.”
It was then Mr. Jackson noticed an empty spot on the bookcase. “Was anything taken?”
Albert looked dazed. “I don’t believe so.” He turned back to Cordelia. “Perhaps she surprised him before he might make off with anything.”
“We don’t have much worth taking,” Cordelia said. “Everything was sold with the estate when my first husband died.” A hint of sadness crossed her face. “Most of the jewels. What I have might fetch a few hundred dollars, that’s all.”
Mr. Jackson said, “What do the police say?”
He heard Sergeant Nestor’s tread before the man spoke. “I say, Mr. Jackson, that you do get around.”
18
Mrs. Jackson felt horrified. “What’s this about?”
Mr. Jackson turned to her. “This man,” he said, pointing at the sergeant, “believes I am the — how did you put it? The ’common factor’ in three murders and one attempted. And, I suppose now, this assault?”
“That’s absurd,” Albert said. “Why would anyone blame him for this? He wasn’t even here when it happened.”
Mrs. Jackson felt confused. “Three murders?”
That was how she learned of the librarian’s death.
It frightened her. Could someone know they were here and be trying to bring their presence to the attention of the law without the two of them knowing? They were doing a fine job of it. She turned to the sergeant. “Is that really what you think? Or is this some play to see what we’ll do?”
Sergeant Nestor’s face hardened. “I need to solve these cases! And as yet, we have no real idea who’s doing them.”
Mrs. Jackson felt bitter. “And yet you hold an innocent woman behind bars.”
Albert flinched.
“That said,” Sergeant Nestor replied, “we have no proof she didn’t do the poisonings in the hotel, and a great deal of evidence she did.” He glanced at Mr. Jackson, then back at her. “Since the two of you feel compelled to insert yourselves into this investigation, I’ll tell you. Lunches are provided as an employee benefit. They’re set up each day by the Hotel under the direction of the cook. Each lunch-box is labeled with the employee’s name, so someone wishing to kill a particular person had the exact means to do so. On the day the young woman died, one person’s lunch had an icing on the dessert that the others did not. Can you guess what was in that icing?”
Mrs. Jackson gasped in horror.
Albert pressed his face into the cushions beside Cordelia.
Mr. Jackson said, “So the target was the young woman.” He turned away, shaking his head. “I suppose that unless we catch this killer, we’ll never know how she offended him. Or her.”
Mrs. Jackson blurted out, “Who would want to kill a young woman? This is monstrous!”
Without turning from the cushions, Albert snapped, “Would you take this discussion elsewhere? My wife needs her rest!”
Sergeant Nestor said, “Of course, sir, you’re absolutely right. My apologies.”
The three of them went into the hall.
Mrs. Jackson leaned against the wall, eyes closed. How could they possibly find this killer? They had so little information to go on. Yet it would be wrong to sit idly by while people died around them.
She felt weary, and her arm ached. She’d need her medication soon.
A hand rested on her shoulder; on opening her eyes, she saw it belonged to Mr. Jackson. His dark eyes looked concerned, and she smiled at him. “I’m just tired.”
Sergeant Nestor stood peering at them both. “Perhaps we might go to your suite, sir. Then we can continue this discussion while your wife rests.”
The relief on Mr. Jackson’s face touched her, and she clasped his hand, feeling a surge of emotion.
He cared about her, more than just any promises he’d made. Why, she didn’t know, the story of her legs notwithstanding, but that didn’t matter. More than anything, she wanted to be safe, with someone she could trust, at least until she got well.
And he wanted to take care of her.
Perhaps she’d made the right decision to let this man into her life.
***
As they walked to their suite, Mr. Jackson considered what the sergeant had told them. Not only that, how he’d told them, in front of the old couple.
Once he got his wife settled in her room, he went back to the parlor, where Sergeant Nestor still stood. “What aren’t you telling us?”
The sergeant gave him a quick glance. “You’re good, I’ll grant you that. Sit down.”
So he sat, wondering what could have possibly happened that the sergeant couldn’t just come out and say. Bessie trotted over, curled up at his feet.
Sergeant Nestor settled himself upon the sofa. “The first rule — well, a first rule — of homicide is that the prime suspects come from those who ‘find’ the body. So of course, I suspected you two at once.”
Mr. Jackson nodded. That seemed fair.
“Especially when you inserted yours
elves into the investigation.” He glanced aside, then back. “But you’ve never acted like suspects. You’ve volunteered information which killers wouldn’t want known.
You’ve shown concern for the victims. It’s become clear to me that you’re trying to solve these cases,” he let out a short laugh, “whatever your reasons, rather than perpetrate them.”
This surprised Mr. Jackson. “I’m glad of that.”
The sergeant peered at him. “Besides, it’s unlikely you managed to appear in two places at once.”
“Sir?”
“The interesting thing about strychnine is that while it acts quickly, it doesn’t act instantly. The body must take it in first. So we have a fairly precise time of action for each poisoning. You were in a taxi at the time of the first death, seen walking the park with your wife at the time of the second. You and your wife were at dinner when the waiter was poisoned. You and your wife were seen at breakfast by numerous people when the librarian was poisoned. And you were with me when Duchess Stayman was attacked.”
Mr. Jackson chuckled. “There is that.” He remembered something. “Do you have the back way into the kitchens guarded?”
“Of course.”
“Good.” Mr. Jackson felt relieved. Then he felt startled. “The first death, you say. Have you learned the cause of it?”
The sergeant shook his head. “Only that it wasn’t strychnine. The man’s stomach was completely empty, and no signs of poison were in his body.”
This was an entire surprise. “So what caused it?”
Sergeant Nestor shrugged. “The coroner is as puzzled as anyone. He’s doing another, more detailed autopsy. But the rest surely are related.” He hesitated, just an instant. “You asked several very good questions back in the dowager’s suite. What you don’t know is that the young lady’s lunch wasn’t poisoned.”
Mr. Jackson peered at the sergeant, trying to understand. “It wasn’t?”
“Nope,” the sergeant said. “The one being poisoned — who you saved, by the way — was the manager.”
***
Sergeant Nestor watched as Mr. Jackson’s face went from confusion to astonishment. Unless he was a better actor than any other, it was unlikely this man had anything to do with the poisonings.