Ring-A-Ding Dead!

by Claire Logan

  “Now, Bertie,” his wife Cordelia said. “Monty means well.”

  “I wouldn’t put it past him to take out my gardens, just to spite me.”

  “Well,” Mr. Jackson said. “I don’t know if you knew, but he and his wife invited us to dinner the other day. He did mention something about the gardens. Just in passing, of course.”

  Albert’s face darkened. “You see?”

  Mrs. Jackson said brightly, “Who knows? Perhaps he wants to expand them.”

  “But where? Would he move them? Some of those plants don’t do well with moving.”

  As if on cue, a desk clerk came up to Albert with a note.

  Cordelia said, “What is it, Bertie?”

  “He wants to meet with us both tomorrow, by my tree at noon,” Albert said. “About ‘the future of the gardens’.”

  “I wonder what that means,” Mr. Jackson said.

  “I’m sure it’ll be fine.” Cordelia put her hand on his and said firmly, “I’ll make sure no harm comes to your gardens — I promise you that.”

  Albert abruptly rose. “I need some air.” He hurried off, leaving the entire table staring after him.

  “Talk of change always upsets him,” Cordelia said. “He’ll be fine.”

  Mr. Jackson rose. “Let me see to him.”

  Following out to the lobby, he glimpsed Albert moving towards the front doors from the direction of the front desk. He hurried across the wide lobby and through the doors. Albert turned left and rushed up the street.

  “Mr. Stayman!”

  Albert glanced back but didn’t stop.

  Mr. Jackson ran to catch him. “Mr. Stayman, please.”

  Albert snapped, “What do you want?”

  “What’s wrong? What troubles you so?”

  “What troubles me, young man, is that the shop I wish to visit closes at nine, and the clock just struck half past eight. So if you’ll excuse me?” He hurried off, leaving Mr. Jackson gaping after him.

  What could the man possibly need to purchase in such a hurry? The front desk could order anything needed immediately, or he could wait to order it tomorrow.

  Shaking his head, Mr. Jackson returned to his dinner, which had gone cold.

  ***

  The next day dawned stormy. Thunder boomed, rain beat against the windows. Mrs. Jackson turned from the balcony, closed the glass doors. “Do you think your plan will work with all this noise?

  Mr. Jackson held up the paper. “The storm will pass before breakfast. One thing they say here: Don’t like the weather? Wait an hour.”

  She grinned at him, amused.

  Their servants arrived, and Mrs. Jackson went for her bath. “Your arm is looking much better today,” Mrs. Knight said. “How does it feel?”

  “Improved,” Mrs. Jackson said. The pain was improved, true, but the arm didn’t wish to entirely straighten.

  But she didn’t despair. After all, the doctor said that her arm hadn’t been sewn correctly — perhaps the specialist would be able to help.

  Mr. Jackson had been right: by the time she came out of her bath, the storm had passed. After Mrs. Knight fixed her hair, Mrs. Jackson felt chilly, and went to fetch her shawl. When she lifted the shawl from the dresser drawer, her holster sat empty.

  She stared at the empty holster, shocked. Where was her gun?

  “Is something wrong, ma’am?”

  Her mind raced. Her heart pounded. “Have you spoken to anyone about my gun?”

  Mrs. Knight came up beside her. “No, ma’am — oh, good gracious!”

  Mrs. Jackson closed the drawer. “This is bad.” She looked at the maid, who’d gone pale. “Please call your next client and let them know you’ll have to cancel.”

  “Cancel, ma’am?”

  “The police will wish to speak with you.”

  23

  Sergeant Nestor was not happy. “Why did you have a gun here in the first place?”

  She’d never noticed how dark the carpet was until now. “It was a gift from a friend. I don’t even have bullets for it. I had need of it when I was a private investigator, but now ... I keep it for sentimental reasons.”

  The sergeant squinted at her for a moment in a frowning sort of way, then pointed to the open drawer. “Yet here sits a well-used calf holster.”

  She shrugged. “It seemed the best way to carry it.”

  “Who knew it was here?”

  “Mrs. Knight,” she frowned, trying to recall. “That’s all.”

  Mr. Jackson stood a few paces away, hand to his chin. “I never knew she had it with her. Although I should have guessed.”

  The sergeant let out a breath. “If it sat in your drawer, half the maids in the hotel knew it was there.”

  He shook his head. “The hotel has a safe in it for a reason.” He turned to Mrs. Knight. “You can go.”

  Mrs. Knight looked devastated, and Mrs. Jackson felt compassion on her. “I’ll see you at seven tonight, then?”

  The color returned to the woman’s face. “Yes, of course, ma’am.”

  Once she’d left, Sergeant Nestor said, “When did you last see it?”

  “Several days past,” Mrs. Jackson said. “The first day we arrived. I put my shawl atop the holster, and I haven’t needed either until now.”

  The sergeant turned to Mr. Jackson. “Now there’s a good chance our culprit is armed. Are you sure you want to continue with your plan?”

  “I do,” he said.

  Mrs. Jackson thought it best to say nothing.

  The sergeant looked at her, then at Mr. Jackson. “Well, I suppose we best start questioning the staff.”

  24

  At breakfast, the dowager Duchess seemed even less amused than the sergeant. Her husband looked a wreck. Circles lay dark under his eyes, and the old man’s hands shook so that he could hardly keep his food upon his fork.

  Mrs. Jackson said, “I hope you’re well, sir.”

  The old man gave her a level look. “Thank you. I only wish this day to end. And it will, one way or another.”

  His wife patted his hand. “All will be well, my dear, never you fret.”

  Mrs. Jackson said, “All days end, sir. I hope that today yours becomes more pleasant.”

  To her surprise, the old man’s eyes reddened. “Such a sweet girl you are.”

  “Why, thank you, sir.”

  ***

  As they left the dining hall, the lobby was in a commotion. Preparations were being made for the owner’s tour, and reporters had begun to arrive.

  The couple went for a stroll in the park after breakfast, discussing their plans. As Mr. Jackson had predicted, the day was now sunny, if cool.

  Mrs. Jackson said, “Are you certain this will work?”

  Mr. Jackson shrugged. “The sergeant seemed to believe so.”

  “But what if our culprit is armed?”

  “It’s unlikely the same person took your gun.” But although Mr. Jackson intentionally made his words sound convincing, he wasn’t so sure. “Even so, do you really think this will end in violence?”

  Mrs. Jackson nodded. “It is unlikely.”

  He hoped for all their sakes that this was true.

  The couple returned to the hotel as the clock struck noon.

  “I could fancy a stroll in the garden right now,” Mr. Jackson said. He turned to his wife. “My dear, let’s give the Duchess and her husband some moral support. Albert in particular may have need of us.”

  The garden was empty but for the fish in the pond, a bird here and there, and at the back by the snake-wood tree, Albert and Cordelia. A freshly-turned patch of dirt lay near the tree, neatly tamped down.

  Cordelia sat on a bench. Albert paced, wringing his hands. He stopped to stare at the couple when they moved into view. “What are you doing here?”

  “Now, Bertie —” Cordelia said.

  “We just fancied a stroll,” Mr. Jackson said. “And we wanted to offer our support. I hope you’re well?”

  Albert let his hand
s drop to his sides. “How did it ever come to this?”

  “Let’s sit down,” Mr. Jackson said. “We’ll wait here with you.”

  Albert sat beside Cordelia. Mrs. Jackson sat next to her, while Mr. Jackson sat beside Albert.

  A slight movement ruffled trees in the distance.

  Mr. Jackson said, “You’ve been upset many a day, sir. As your friend, I’d like to help.” He glanced at his wife, who nodded. “We both would. Please, tell us what’s wrong.”

  “How can I?” Albert put his face in his hands.

  “Well, then,” Mrs. Jackson said. “I suppose we’ll have to share what we’ve observed.” She gazed down, hesitant. “But we have a confession to make.”

  This captured their attention at once. Cordelia said, “Confession, dear?”

  “Indeed,” Mr. Jackson said. “You were right,” he said to Albert. “We are on our honeymoon.” He grinned at his wife. “But I wasn’t entirely honest with you on another matter.”

  Albert seemed subdued. “What matter is that?”

  Mr. Jackson took a deep breath, let it out. “Before we came here, we both worked as private investigators —”

  “Oh,” Cordelia said, impressed.

  ”- and we’ve been helping the police find this killer.”

  “Oh,” Albert said, dismayed. “Somehow, I knew it!”

  Mrs. Jackson turned to Cordelia. “My dear Lady, I must ask: why did you do it?”

  Cordelia blinked. “Do what?”

  “Kill all those people.”

  Albert’s face turned outraged. “What?”

  Cordelia laughed. “I could never —”

  Stern-faced policemen moved out from behind the trees, hands on their holstered guns. Sergeant Nestor was with them.

  Cordelia looked horrified. “Why — how?”

  “I’m sorry, My Lady,” Mr. Jackson said. “I truly am. But if you promise to go quietly, they won’t have to use the handcuffs.”

  Albert said, “No!” His eyes turned red. “You can’t be serious. Not Cordelia! She didn’t do it!”

  Sergeant Nestor said, “Then who did?”

  Albert peered at his hands. “It was me.”

  25

  The dowager Duchess looked as shocked as her husband had moments before. “But Bertie, why?”

  Sergeant Nestor took out a notepad and pencil. “Sir, let’s start from the beginning.”

  “Very well,” Albert said, still peering at his hands. “But you must believe me: I didn’t kill the clerk.”

  “I know,” Sergeant Nestor said. “I’ve just heard from the coroner: it was entirely natural. An aneurysm burst in his brain. Poor fellow died at once.”

  “I suppose that’s a relief,” Albert said. “But him dying got me thinking it was a good time to begin.”

  “Begin?” Sergeant Nestor seemed confused.

  “Yes! I hated that fool manager, always sneering at us, calling us ‘tenants’. Like my darling Cordelia was a servant! And once he even called me a four-flusher! As if I was only with my wife for her money. The idea! So I sent Agnes with the sauce for the manager’s cake.” At that, his face crumpled, his eyes reddening. “But I told her — I told her not to eat it! She must have tasted it anyway.” Tears stood in his eyes. “Oh, the poor girl!”

  “Why do you care so much?” The sergeant put his foot up on a rock. “Who’s Agnes to you?”

  “Oh, Bertie,” Cordelia said, horrified realization dawning in her face. “No.”

  But Albert seemed not to hear her. “Cordelia always tried to match us, me and Luella. She never thought it worked. But we were mad for each other, though we could never stand being in the same room for more than an hour.” He shook his head. “It makes no sense, when you say it that way.”

  Mrs. Jackson said, “What happened?”

  He gave out a self-mocking snort. “What usually happens. She came with child and was dismissed.

  She moved away. It was either that or marry me, I suppose, and we both knew that would have been a disaster.”

  Sergeant Nestor said, “When did you learn Agnes was here?”

  “Soon after we moved here,” Albert said. “Her mother — our daughter, I suppose — had passed away. I knew that, but I never knew of Agnes until I saw her. I knew her when I saw her, though: she looked just like Luella did when she was young.” He shook his head. “Luella had the poor girl almost a slave. I went to call on her and Agnes was out front, beaten up and scared. I took her out to eat and she told me of it all. I told Agnes come with me, I’ll get you some place better.”

  “So that’s how she got the job here,” the sergeant said.

  Albert nodded. “I never told her who I was, and Luella never saw me. But I think she must have heard Agnes was here, because she showed up a few weeks back.”

  “Now that’s odd,” Mr. Jackson said, “because the desk clerk said she came often, and spoke of your tree.”

  “Oh! I remember,” Albert said. “I’d written Luella about the tree when we went to India, before we moved here. She always loved plants; it was the only thing we had in common.”

  The whole time, Cordelia had been staring at Albert, mouth open. “Agnes was your granddaughter?” The dowager Duchess seemed appalled. “Oh, my poor Bertie.” She wrapped her arms around him.

  The rustle of the waterfall was all one might hear, at least for a while. Finally, Sergeant Nestor said, “And the waiter?”

  “I didn’t know Agnes was dead,” Albert moaned. “But when the manager didn’t die, I thought I’d done something wrong. Not put enough in. I heard the owner would be staying here, and —”

  “You put poison in his lemon-cake,” Mrs. Jackson said.

  Albert nodded.

  Mr. Jackson said, “But why kill the librarian? He’d done nothing to you.”

  “You saw my seeds! And my drill! I couldn’t let you get the book, too — once you saw the drawing of the seeds, you’d have known everything.”

  Sergeant Nestor said, “The seeds and the drill was for —”

  “It’s how I got the poison,” Albert said mournfully.

  “Bertie,” Cordelia said, horrified. “Was it you that knocked me down?”

  “I’m so sorry,” Albert moaned. “But I had to get everything out! And I couldn’t let you see me in there — you thought I was at her funeral. I didn’t mean it.” He took her hands. “I’d never do anything to harm you, not on purpose.”

  “I know,” she said.

  “So you took advantage of the desk clerk’s natural death to kill the manager, and on failing to kill him, you tried to kill the owner,” Mr. Jackson said. “And when you thought I might learn the truth, you killed the librarian as well, to keep me from it.”

  “Yes,” Albert said.

  Mrs. Jackson said, “But why?”

  “Yes,” Sergeant Nestor said. “You said the manager sneered at you. But the owner lets you live here free of charge. By all accounts from the staff, you’ve seemed happy. Why try to kill him?”

  “I spent my life tending the Duke’s estate. His gardens. Once he died, though, we had to sell the properties to afford a funeral fit for a Duke. I couldn’t help her, not really. She was in such a state. And I knew nothing about such matters.” Albert’s head drooped. “All that — the mansion, the gardens — everything I’d worked for my entire life, gone.”

  “Surely the new owners enjoy your work,” Mr. Jackson said.

  “Carlo bought the estate.” Albert shook his head. “Claimed all would be cared for. But not ten minutes after my wife signed the papers, he told us he’d changed his mind. He planned to turn it into another of his hotels. My poor plants! He ripped out my entire flower garden to put in,” at this, he faltered, “tennis courts!”

  The sergeant looked up from his notepad. “Was it then you decided to kill him?”

  “Yes, but only with the vaguest of idea as to how, until I saw the seeds in a shop and learned of their properties.”

  Mr. Jackson said, “
But why not just kill him then? Why wait until now?”

  “We had nothing.” He shook his head, spoke with fierce anger. “We were sent packing like tramps. My wife wept so bitterly when we left that day. And on that day, I made my plan: I wanted Montgomery Carlo ruined, utterly ruined. I wanted him disgraced. I wanted him to fall into scandal and bankruptcy, to lose everything he had, just as she did. I wanted everything taken from him, just as he’d taken everything from her.”

  The dowager had sat quietly, sadness in her eyes. “Oh, Bertie. That day, I wept for my husband. I wept for the memories there. Not for the house. Not even for the properties or the money or any of it.”

  He looked appalled at this. “Was I not good enough for you, then?”

  “I have always loved you. Yet I also loved him. I still had to grieve.”

  “But I did it for you!” Tears stood in his ancient eyes. “And when the value of the hotel declined, I had enough saved to buy it for you! So you might have property again. Be respected. Have an income.”

  She clasped his face in her hands. “Whatever would I do with a hotel, Bertie? How would I manage it? I know nothing of such things.” She let her hands fall to his shoulders. “And now we’re to be separated yet again, after all we’ve been through.”

  “I know,” he said. “I’m so sorry.”

  Sergeant Nestor closed his notebook and went to Albert, who stood. “Albert Stayman, you’re under arrest for murder.” The sergeant patted Albert down, taking something from the old man’s jacket pocket. “Your gun, ma’am,” he said to Mrs. Jackson, and handed it over.

  Cordelia stared at her husband, appalled.

  Mrs. Jackson — much relieved — put the gun in her pocket. “How did you know it was in my room?”

  “I overheard the maids talking.” He shrugged, head drooping. “I’m sorry I stole it.” Albert sounded defeated. “I think I went a bit mad at the idea of Monty ruining the garden here — I thought I’d kill him at last.” He looked around. “He’s not coming, is he?”

  The sergeant handed Albert off to a couple of uniformed men. “No, he never was.”

  The policemen brought Albert a few yards away, and his wife followed. Mr. Jackson pointed to the freshly turned patch of dirt by the snake-wood tree. “I believe you’ll find all the things Mr. Stayman took from their rooms there.”