by Claire Logan
The coroner was convinced the poisonings were related — the man had tried to explain the science of it to him, but Sergeant Nestor didn’t really understand. What mattered was that someone was poisoning people in his precinct, and he wasn’t going to stand for it. He no longer believed this Jackson fellow was involved. Yet somehow, the man kept coming to the center of it all.
But how much to reveal? Sergeant Nestor honestly had no idea who was perpetrating these crimes — if they were indeed related. And he couldn’t keep the cook in jail forever. Her family had hired a lawyer, and were threatening to go to the papers if they didn’t either release her or show proof of her guilt.
Sergeant Nestor had never accepted unqualified civilians onto an investigation. Not only did it put them at risk, it made it near impossible to convict later on. He’d heard horror tales of rules broken, evidence damaged, chain of custody ruined.
But these people seemed determined to assist, and if he didn’t at least let them think they were, they were likely to ruin things. “I’ll allow you to help. But it’s going to be done my way. And you’re going to — right now — tell me everything you know about these murders.”
While he was speaking the last sentence, something changed in the man’s face. He knew something, but not about the murders. Something else was going on that he hesitated to share. “Look, I’m not interested in your personal life, or whatever nonsense is going on in the hotel, unless it has to do with these murders! But let me be the judge of that.”
The man gave him an odd glance — deciding whether to talk, perhaps — then he relaxed. “Very well, then.”
In truth, it was a sad story. Mr. Jackson’s closest friend (but not lover — the man was horrified at the idea) was in love with a woman not his.
On his deathbed, the friend made Mr. Jackson take a vow to care for the woman he loved. When the woman became a widow, Mr. Jackson found that the only way to keep his vow was to marry her himself. They arrived here, found the body. The rest seemed a curious chain of events, the two blundering into one crime scene after another.
It explained much. “What do you think of this latest death?”
For an instant, Mr. Jackson seemed confused. Then he said, “The librarian.”
“Yes.”
“If it’s not related, it seems a terrible coincidence.” A knock at the door, and Mr. Jackson went to open it. “Yes, he’s here. I’ll give it to him.”
Sergeant Nestor took the slip of paper from Mr. Jackson’s hand and read it. “I don’t believe in coincidence.” He held up the paper. “The old lady we found dead, the one this dog belonged to? We’ve finally identified a next of kin. Not that it’ll help much.”
“What do you mean?”
“She was our dead maid’s grandmother.”
***
Mr. Jackson looked down at his wife’s dog, who now nestled in his lap. “Today is full of revelations.”
“Indeed,” Sergeant Nestor said. Then he rose. “May I use your phone?”
Mr. Jackson gestured towards where it sat on its stand. “I insist.”
While the sergeant got connected to whoever he called, Mr. Jackson pondered the news. How was this old woman’s death related? It happened weeks ago.
“Yeah, get them both up here,” Sergeant Nestor said. “3205, parlor door. And bring a portrait of the old lady with you.” He put down the phone.
The dog began to whine, and Mr. Jackson called down for someone to walk her.
Soon after little Bessie trotted off with the groomer’s boy, the others arrived: an officer with the old woman’s portrait, the stern head valet, and the manager.
“Yeah, I remember her,” the valet said. “Walked down here almost every day for a while. I wondered why the dog seemed familiar.”
Mr. Davis, the manager, didn’t remember her. “Was it about an application?”
“No,” Sergeant Nestor said, “she was the grandmother of the young lady. Miss Agnes.”
“Oh! Well, I don’t deal with family. Shouldn’t have been allowed to visit the girl at work in the first place. If she’d been coming down here, I wouldn’t know of it.”
So they all went down to see the desk clerk. Mr. Lee Francis was fortunately still at his post, as he’d been here as long as any. “I do remember her. Not right in the head; would tell me the same story every day.” He frowned. “She’s not been by for weeks now.”
When told she’d been found dead, he appeared shocked. Even more so when he learned she was the young lady’s grandmother. “But she never asked for Agnes — she’d just come by. Been coming by for years now, every day at the same time like clockwork. How strange.”
Sergeant Nestor said, “What story did she tell?”
“About some plant that would kill you. She said even the bark would kill you. ʻStop your heart dead,’ she said.” He laughed. “It was strange, but every hotel’s got a story like that. The things my buddies tell me about!” He stopped then, sobered. “Then one day she quit coming. I didn’t think anything of it until a few days later. I asked, but no one knew where she lived.”
“Now that is strange,” Sergeant Nestor said. “And you’re sure she never mentioned Agnes?”
“She never asked for anyone. She’d just come up and start talking. Then when she was done, she’d leave.”
A line was forming, presumably people waiting to check into the hotel. “Very well,” Sergeant Nestor said. “I’ll let you get back to work.” So everyone left.
But Mr. Jackson thought this sounded too much the coincidence. So he waited.
Finally, the clerk had a moment. “Did you need something, sir?”
Mr. Jackson smiled. “I wanted to see how your wife was faring.”
Mr. Francis shrugged. “Sick in the mornings. The doctor says that’s normal.
“And I suppose you’re rather busy here.”
“About the same, tell you the truth. Some have quit, but we have fewer visitors these days. So I’m not getting any overtime.”
“Sorry to hear that.”
“Well, sir, I’d rather not anyway. I like the money, but it’s better to get home to my wife.”
“Good man. Listen, I’m still curious about that old lady. She never had anything to do with anyone here but you?”
His eyes widened. “Not that I recall. Strange, that you put it that way.” He seemed to consider this.
“Now that you mention it, I do remember once. It was one of the last times I saw her, I guess.”
“What happened?”
“Well, she was here, talking like usual, and the dowager Duchess came up and greeted her! They talked like they were old friends. Then the Duchess says to me, ʻWe’ll walk her home.’ Then her husband comes up and off they go. Didn’t think anything of it. I saw her again the very next day, and at least three or four more after that, too. Same time as always.”
“And you never asked the Duchess about her? Where she lived?”
The young man paled. “I never thought to ask, sir.”
“Busy as you are, with a wife and a child on the way, it’s not surprising it slipped your mind. You mustn’t blame yourself.”
Lee stared at the desk. “Yes, sir.” Then he raised his head. “What does it mean?”
Mr. Jackson thought about this. “It’s not likely to mean anything. But I’ll give them the sad news.”
He shook his head. “On top of everything else.”
“How is the Duchess, sir?”
“She’s as well as can be expected.”
“Terrible shock. I hope they catch the man. Who would come into a hotel like this and attack an old woman?”
Mr. Jackson shook his head. “I honestly don’t know.”
When Mr. Jackson returned to his suite, he was pleased to discover his wife had ordered luncheon.
She’d had it set up in her room.
“I thought you might be hungry after all that running about,” she said.
While he was gone, Bessie had returned, and
was now excitedly running from him to her empty food bowl. So he filled her bowl, and as the three of them ate, he told his wife about the old woman.
“How strange,” she said. “The dowager knew this woman. And where she lived. Yet no one visited her for weeks?”
“Yes,” he said. “I haven’t told them yet, what with the attack and all. But it’s very odd indeed.”
“And she spoke of the poison tree. It sounds very much like the one you read about.”
It did, and this bothered him, yet he didn’t know why. He still had no proof that the tree in the conservatory here was the poison kind. “If this is the same tree, might Albert Stayman have told the old woman about it? The desk clerk said she’d been coming by with the same story for years. That would correspond with the time Albert and the Duchess have lived here.”
Mrs. Jackson nodded slowly. “If they’d known each other in the past, perhaps so.”
“But why come here every day, with the same story? And why never ask after her granddaughter?
Or ask about her friends?”
“Old people do strange things. Perhaps she came here to see the girl, or the Duchess, then forgot. The only thing which impressed itself upon her mind was the tree.”
He drank his coffee, not really thinking of anything. Then he rose. “Let me see if the Duchess is able to take visitors. She shouldn’t hear of her friend’s death from a desk clerk.”
19
When he went to their suite, Albert answered the door. “We’re eating luncheon at present. Would you care to join us?”
Mr. Jackson stepped inside the room, speaking in a whisper. “How is she?”
Albert nodded. “Come see.”
The dowager Duchess sat in their parlor at the table, looking much less pale. A bandage lay on her right temple. “Oh, my dear sir! Please, come join us.”
Mr. Jackson went to her and knelt, kissing her hand. “My Lady, I’m pleased to see you improved.”
She laughed. “Goodness me! No one’s called me ‘My Lady’ in ages. Sit down! I insist. Have you eaten?”
“Just now.” How could he possibly say this? “Unfortunately, I come with sad tidings.”
Albert leaned forward. “What’s happened?”
So Mr. Jackson told them about the old woman. “No one had any idea you knew her.”
“Poor, poor Luella,” the dowager said, wiping her eyes. “To end like that! Yes, I’ve known her since childhood. Her mother was a maid in our household. You might say we all grew up together.”
Albert’s face soured.
Cordelia glanced over at him. “Now, Bertie, I know the two of you never got along, but —”
He nodded, not meeting anyone’s gaze. “So how did you learn of all this?”
Mr. Jackson told them of the dog, and how it brought them to Luella’s home. “So I suppose something good has come from this. My wife adores her little Bessie.”
Cordelia said, “I remember the dog. She had it when we brought her home that once. She never let us in, which seemed unusual. But she was spry, and alert.” She shook her head. “Such a pity.”
“And you never went back to visit?”
The dowager’s eyes widened. “Goodness, no! Not without an invitation. There are rules for the higher classes, sir.” She smiled then. “Which you should well know.”
Albert said, “She didn’t seem ill at all. Although from what you say, she must have been.”
At this, Cordelia rose. “Excuse me, sirs.” She went to her room.
Albert said, “May I ask something personal?”
“Of course, sir. Anything.”
A brief smile touched the old man’s lips. “What did the sergeant mean, when he said you’d inserted yourself into the investigation?”
Why ask this? Mr. Jackson felt uneasy. “We’ve merely asked questions. The sergeant seems quite prickly when it comes to his case.”
“I see. It just sounded odd to me. You’re on your honeymoon, right?”
Mr. Jackson chuckled. “Of course we are! And I do say, enjoying ourselves, in spite of the difficulties. My wife’s arm is improving, our room is splendid, and we’re so happy to have found friends here.” He studied Albert for his reaction.
But the man seemed distracted. “What? Oh, yes. Of course.” He smiled back, but it never reached his eyes. “I feel honored to have you call me friend.”
Cordelia returned, sat down, then peered at him. “Are you planning to grow a beard, Mr. Jackson?”
He laughed. “You’re entirely correct, my Lady. I neglected to shave in my enthusiasm to trim trees with your husband this morning.” He rose. “Perhaps I should visit the barber.”
Cordelia grinned. “I’m only teasing.” She held out her hand. “Must you go?”
“I should. Enjoy your luncheon.”
He left, going back towards his rooms. After letting his wife know he planned to visit the barbershop, there he went. But the scene nagged at him. Something felt off about the whole exchange.
The barbershop had one other man in it, a portly fellow who wished his thick curly hair cut. A talkative one; while Mr. Jackson waited with a hot towel on his face, the man went on and on about the scene two nights earlier. “As soon as they called for a doctor, I knew the police would arrive. I knew it.”
“Seems reasonable, sir,” the barber said.
“Yes! I thought so too. But my wife wouldn’t leave! Said it was her duty to stay, but I was sure she just wanted to see the scandal. Well, I said to her, I’m not staying here half the night just to see a scandal! I told her, if we don’t go now, we’ll be there until close to midnight. The very last thing I wanted was to be questioned by police. So I went out of the back way and to my room. She didn’t get upstairs until close to midnight! She’s still cross with me for saying it, but I told her so!”
Mr. Jackson held the towel on his face, moving it aside enough to say, “What back way?”
The man glanced over, eyes wide. “You didn’t know? There’s a back way from the dining hall! It’s the same color as the walls, the handle too, so it’s not very noticeable. But we got seated nearby the first time I came here. Goes right out to that hallway. You go right and the kitchens are just there! You can just walk right in. Of course, I wouldn’t. Full of grease, and busy as all get-out. But you could go right in, if you wanted to. Not even a door!”
“Really,” Mr. Jackson said.
“Yes, really! I was astonished the first time I saw it. Right into the kitchens! If you go left, it leads to the docks and all, but you can go round to your right after that and straight to the elevators.” He gave a sharp nod, the barber jerking his scissors back in alarm. “You go that way, you don’t have to push through the crowds after dinner. It’s much faster to get to your room.”
“Keep your head still, sir,” the barber said, “and this will go much faster.”
Mr. Jackson felt impressed. This answered a question he’d had all this time. “Thanks for the tip.”
The man beamed. “My pleasure, sir. No trouble at all.”
***
While Mr. Jackson was at the barbershop, Mrs. Jackson decided to look in on the dowager Duchess.
Bringing Bessie with her, the two found the Duchess and her husband sitting in their parlor over the remains of luncheon. “Come in, my dear,” the dowager said.
The dowager’s husband seemed less pleased, but said nothing, so Mrs. Jackson came in and sat at the table with them. “I hope you’re well?”
“Oh, I’m just fine,” she said. “I do wish they’d bring the old cook back.” She pushed her plate away. “This new one’s just not up to snuff.”
Her husband rose. “Will you be here a while? I have something to do, and the doctor said she must be watched.”
“I’d be happy to remain,” Mrs. Jackson said with a smile. “You go about your business.”
The dowager beamed. “I’ve ever so wanted to just sit and talk with you.”
Mr. Stayman said, “I’ll be ba
ck soon.” He disappeared into his rooms.
When he said this, the dowager was in the midst of drinking her tea. “Yes, dear,” she called out. “Hurry home.”
The old lady turned to Mrs. Jackson. “How have you been?”
How had she been? “I’m well,” she said, yet wasn’t sure.
“Such enthusiasm!” The dowager patted Mrs. Jackson’s hand, her tone somber. “I recall very well what it was like on our honeymoon. I loved Albert something terrible, I always have. But everything — a word, a kiss — reminded me of my first husband.” She shook her head, glancing away, and Mrs. Jackson wondered if it would be the same way for her, four years from now. “You just want to do something, anything, to not remember,” the dowager said, “yet, you never want to forget him either. It seems disloyal.”
Mrs. Jackson nodded, eyes stinging. “Even being happy seems that way at times.”
“Yes! Especially at first.” The old dowager took Mrs. Jackson’s hand in hers. “But you must focus on today, find a way to become ... I don’t know. A new woman.” She rubbed Mrs. Jackson’s hand, then let go, sitting back. “Oh, it sounds all a foolishness —”
“No,” Mrs. Jackson said, feeling hope for the first time and wanting to hear more. “Not at all.”
The dowager smiled warmly. “I’ve been watching your young man. He’s a good one.”
“It’s just ... we married so soon.”
The dowager smiled to herself. “I had the same fears as you. Love can come to you in an instant, without warning. How long it stays is entirely up to you.”
Mrs. Jackson nodded. It had happened that way before, and ended with so many regrets. “Death follows me wherever I go.” She shook her head. “How can I allow this to go on?”
The dowager smiled to herself. “Do you love him?”
Mrs. Jackson peered at her hands. Did she? “It’s complex.”
The dowager chuckled softly. “As is all of life worth having.” She took Mrs Jackson’s hand in hers. “Dear girl, when you find someone who loves you, even for a moment, it’s a gift! Seize it.” She gave her a knowing smile. “Enjoy it. You don’t know how long it’ll last.”
Could she possibly love this man, in the midst of such crushing grief? “I wish I knew how to proceed!”