by R. J. Koreto
I shook my head and headed back to the dining room.
Alice introduced the captain to Miss Meadows from the Herald, with each party wondering what the other was doing there.
“Captain O’Hara is here to coordinate security for the Gadsden ball,” said Alice with so much sincerity I think she almost believed it herself. Just as well because there was no point in sending a still-curious reporter out the door, wondering why a city police captain was calling on the president’s daughter.
“I think we’re done here,” said Miss Meadows. There were thank-yous all around, and I offered to show Miss Meadows out, even as Alice was encouraging Captain O’Hara to have some breakfast.
I opened the door for her, and she turned before leaving to give me a look with just a hint of mischief. “Your Miss Roosevelt has involved herself in a lot more than I realized.”
“She’s not my Miss Roosevelt. But yes, she has.”
“She’s going to be a piece of work when she grows up.”
“You don’t know the half of it,” I said.
“And yet, I sense behind it all, you’re keeping her safe, which is pretty impressive considering what she’s up to. I think you pretend to be a lot dumber than you are. You’re not fooling me.”
That’s just what Mrs. Cowles told me. I may have to work on my act. At any rate, I didn’t much think about what I said next, showing that I might not be faking my stupidity. “Maybe, Felicia, but I was watching you in there, and you’re not hiding anything. You’re smart as a whip, and anyone can see that.”
It was worth saying something that dumb just to see that lovely smile. “Joey, you Western boys sure know how to turn a girl’s head.” And with that, she left.
Just a little dizzy, I made my way back to the dining room.
“How long does it take to see someone out?” asked Alice, a little annoyed. But she didn’t seem to expect an answer. The captain had grabbed the last two pieces of bacon and the last waffle and emptied the coffee pot into a clean cup. He was lost in his own thoughts and looked moody.
Alice turned her attentions to him. “What, besides our coffee, brings you to the Caledonia?”
O’Hara sighed. “I don’t like to do this, but we have more problems with the Brackton killing. His widow was sent a package with a bottle. Inside was apparently that punch they had at the ball. She called me, and I went over, but she wouldn’t talk to me. She’s just hysterical. Her maid is taking care of her, and I have a couple of men over there. Anyway, if you wouldn’t mind, Miss Roosevelt, maybe you could come along and talk with her, as you know her.”
“Ooh, a development,” said Alice with just a little too much joy.
“I think she means that we’d like to know if you have any more details,” I said.
“Not much. A maid found it left at the kitchen door in a box. The area is hardly secured. Anyone could’ve left it. There was no note. The maid brought it to Mrs. Brackton, who saw it was the punch. She had the police summoned. We took the bottle, and we’ll have some chemists look at it, but you could actually see little pieces of the wolfsbane floating on top.”
Alice considered that. “It seems ridiculous. Even if she hadn’t already been frightened by her husband’s murder, she still wouldn’t drink something left by the door. And with the poison visible. No one could possibly think she’d end up drinking it.”
“It was a warning,” I said.
“Yes. Designed to frighten her,” said Alice.
“I thought so, too,” said O’Hara. “If that was the purpose, it worked. It worked very well. But they killed her husband, so why is this continuing with her? There was just one more clue—and I think you’ll see that there’s something that may show I was right all along.” He looked a little pleased with himself. “There was a label on the box, meaning someone didn’t just deliver it directly. They wanted to hide themselves. So they wrote the Brackton address on a label, put the label on the package, and then gave it to a street kid to deliver. I peeled the label off.” He pulled an envelope out of his jacket pocket and produced the label. It was cheap, available at stationers throughout the city. We could see the penmanship was awkward, like it had been written by someone who didn’t have much experience with a pen.
“I don’t see how far this gets us,” I said.
O’Hara looked a little smug. “Because you didn’t see the label on the box Delilah Linde got.” He produced that one from a pocket, as well, and put them down side by side. It was obvious the same person had written both.
“So now we know that one person is out to get both of them,” said O’Hara. “Also, these labels look like a servant’s writing—probably a woman. It looks like a feminine hand. I knew it. I bet in the end we connect it to someone who worked in the Rutledge house.”
“That the labels match is very interesting, but we can’t assume that a Rutledge servant was in on it,” said Alice.
“I don’t know what else to think,” O’Hara said. “Do you have any ideas?”
“A question. Was the note for Mrs. Linde also in the same hand as the labels?” asked Alice.
“That’s a good question. No, it wasn’t. At least, not obviously. Maybe they disguised that hand so it would look like a man wrote it—perhaps to frame Mr. Rutledge. Or there are two people in on it. We just don’t know yet. Anyway, Mrs. Brackton isn’t saying much. Maybe you can get more out of her.”
“We’ll follow you there shortly,” said Alice.
“I’d appreciate it. I have to get back there, and I’ll wait for you. Thanks again for the coffee.” I showed him out, and when I got back to the dining room, Alice was standing and ready to go.
“I hope the motorcar is gassed up because it’s going to be a busy day,” she said, and her eyes were glittering. I grabbed my Stetson, Alice went back to her room to get her hat, and we were out the door.
* * *
“You know what impresses me most of all, Miss Alice? Not that you can lie so well. I mean, I know you’re a great liar. It’s that you can keep track of them all. Telling Mrs. Cowles why you’re meeting with all these people over breakfast, not telling Miss Meadows all the details of the XVII, not telling Captain O’Hara that Mrs. Brackton was really the target. I’m full of admiration.”
“You can keep the sarcasm out of your voice,” she said. “It is very difficult keeping all my prevarications consistent, but the more time I spend in Washington, the easier it gets.”
I laughed. “I’m sure it does. Anyway, I agree with you about this latest poisoning attempt. I don’t think someone necessarily wanted to kill Mrs. Brackton. They missed their chance, at least for now, and they want to scare her into keeping quiet.”
“But about what?” asked Alice.
It was a short drive to the Bracktons’, and the cop outside waved us in. “The captain is upstairs,” he said.
A maid saw us into the parlor, and we saw O’Hara sitting in a chair and still looking unhappy. Opposite him was Mrs. Brackton in an elaborate black dress, quietly crying and being comforted by an older, motherly-looking maid, who was addressing the captain.
“… and I am sorry, Captain, but madam’s doctor says she needs rest and you’ll have to leave. You can come back later.” I had learned a bit about the way the rich in New York had things set up with servants. Wealthy ladies had personal maids. You had to be somewhat older to get a job like that, and it was considered a pretty good deal. You didn’t cross women like that.
They saw we had arrived. The maid recognized Alice, and the president’s daughter was a lot more welcome than an Irish cop. She got her mistress’s attention.
“Oh, Alice. I am so glad you’re here.” Mrs. Brackton smiled through her tears, and the maid slid over to make room for Alice next to her.
“Captain O’Hara told us the story. It must’ve been a terrible shock,” said Alice.
“I did what you said,” said Victoria Brackton. “I was on the lookout for anything suspicious and called the police as soon as it arr
ived. And then I told them to get you. What is this all about?” That led to a fresh wave of tears, and I was pleasantly surprised to see Alice, for whom patience was not a major virtue, quietly soothe her while the maid fetched some water.
Eventually, she pulled herself together, and then Alice said, “Victoria, this officer is Captain O’Hara. He was a close associate of my father’s when he was commissioner. You can trust him. We have to tell him the whole story. It’s become too dangerous not to. I think you know that, and that’s why you asked for me.” Reluctantly, Mrs. Brackton nodded.
“The full story?” asked O’Hara.
“Yes,” said Alice. “We’ve concluded that Lynley Brackton was not the intended target. It was Mrs. Brackton all along. Victoria, tell Captain O’Hara the story.”
Haltingly, Mrs. Brackton told the captain the story, just as she had to Alice and me, about how she had taken the glass and passed it to her husband at the last minute. O’Hara listened carefully. He asked a few questions to confirm the details.
“Victoria, I know you want to lie down. Just a minute more of your time,” asked Alice. She leaned in close to Mrs. Brackton and laid a comforting hand on her shoulder. “I think someone thinks you know something, something that could threaten them. Did you know anything embarrassing about anyone in Society? Anything about Lynley’s business?”
She just shook her head and sniffled. “Lynley never discussed business with me. And what would I know about gossip? Just what everyone else knows. I don’t … I mean…”
It did seem odd, and Alice realized it, too. It was hard to believe that someone—that anyone—saw this vague, simple woman as a threat. But someone was trying to kill her—even frighten her to death.
Alice had nothing else to ask and so remained silent.
“If that is all, sir, I’d like to see madam to bed. This has been most distressing,” said the maid. O’Hara absently nodded, and the two women left. The captain then turned to us
“If you two knew this, you should’ve told me. We’ve wasted valuable time and put Mrs. Brackton at risk.”
“She was terrified and didn’t feel she could trust anyone in the police,” said Alice. “I knew she’d come around eventually, and meanwhile, I told her to be careful.” She wasn’t going to admit to any wrongdoing, so he turned to me.
“St. Clair, you carry a badge. You should’ve known better.”
But Alice’s small store of patience had been exhausted. “Oh God, do stop fussing. No harm done, and you know now. The question is why someone wants to kill this rather nice, not terribly bright woman. Mr. Brackton was an unrepentant womanizer, exceedingly unpleasant by all accounts. But why her?”
“I think it’ll come down to an angry servant … or your friend Carlyle,” said O’Hara.
“You’re just saying that because you can’t easily question the members of Society,” said Alice.
“You’re right about that. If I had a hard lead, I could lean on someone, but as it stands, I start bothering too many important people, and the next thing you know, I’ll be getting calls from the mayor. Listen, Miss Roosevelt, I don’t know what you’re doing. I don’t want to know what you’re doing. If you’re with St. Clair here, I’ll assume you’re staying safe. But if you don’t find out something soon, I’m going to have to arrest someone. They’ll insist on it.”
“We’re making progress,” said Alice loftily.
“Very good then, but don’t keep any more secrets from me.”
Alice rolled her eyes and then stood. “I will keep you fully informed, Captain. Anyway, there’s nothing more we can do here. Mr. St. Clair, we have people to visit. But first, I want to talk to Victoria’s maid about how she’s caring for her mistress.” That maid seemed competent and hardly in need of Alice’s advice. I think O’Hara knew, as well, that Alice had something up her sleeve, but there was nothing to be done, and I followed Alice out of the room. Apparently, servants in these houses always lived in small rooms at the top, and that’s where we found the maid, who had already gotten her mistress to bed.
Alice knocked, and we heard “come in.” The room was no bigger than mine in the Caledonia. It was the neatest room I had ever seen, nothing out of place and not a speck of dust on the few pieces of furniture. The maid was sitting on her chair reading a Bible. There was nothing on the wall except a cross. She stood when we entered.
“May I help you, Miss Roosevelt?” she asked. She seemed a little wary. I doubted if anyone had ever visited her except another servant. I had seen her be motherly with Mrs. Brackton, but alone now, she seemed younger than I had thought, probably under forty, with a pleasing face and a nicely round figure. I imagined what it did to her, being a maid to a lady whose husband had been murdered, a lady who had almost been murdered herself. Heck—being a maid for the Bracktons in the best of times. In another time and place, I’d have called her pretty.
“I wanted to talk about your mistress—not gossip,” Alice said, reassuring her. “You and I have her best interests at heart, and I don’t think there are many of us who do.” That softened the maid, who would be inclined to trust the president’s daughter. “First, may I have your name?”
“Elspeth Whatley, miss,” she said.
“Very good. This is Mr. St. Clair. He is not a cop.” Alice said that with a lot of meaning: “It’s all right, he’s not one of those heavy-footed Irishmen walking all over the good rugs.”
“He’s my protector and an important friend and advisor to my father.” That was pushing it. The only thing I had ever advised the president on was choosing a horse.
Miss Whatley sat down as Alice took a seat on the bed. Since there wasn’t another chair, I remained standing. “I see you’re reading the Good Book. May I ask which church you attend?” asked Alice.
That surprised Miss Whatley, but she saw no reason not to answer. “The Dutch Reformed Church. I believe the Roosevelts are also members.” However, the president was just as likely to show up with his wife at her Episcopal church, when he bothered going at all. From what I knew, the Dutch Reformed Church was for people who took their religion seriously.
“Yes, we are,” said Alice. “I bring this up because when something like this happens, the police ask all kinds of impertinent questions, and as I see you are a good churchgoing woman, I can trust you to talk with me.” She lowered her voice to show what was coming was a secret. “If you talk to me now, I can help you and your mistress avoid unpleasant police questions later.” Alice knew just what to say—Miss Whatley sat up straight, with shoulders back, proud as anything to be entering into a conspiracy with the president’s daughter.
“Whatever I can do to help, Miss Roosevelt,” she said.
“Very good. Has Mrs. Brackton been out of the house since the death of Mr. Brackton?”
“No, miss.” She raised the Bible in her hand to indicate she was making a holy oath.
“Which other servants does she talk with?”
“When he was alive, Mr. Brackton handled all matters with the servants. Now I do, on madam’s behalf, and will continue to do so until matters are more settled.”
“I don’t like asking this, but again, to keep the police from bothering you, would it be possible for Mrs. Brackton to have slipped out without your knowing?”
“Impossible, miss. I am her constant companion and give her a sleeping draft at night, which I personally make up according to the doctor’s instructions.”
Alice nodded. “Has your mistress sent any packages recently? Perhaps to a friend?”
“She is not accustomed to making up her own packages,” she said.
“Of course not,” said Alice patiently. “But if she did, would she leave it for you to send out?”
Miss Whatley, still holding her Bible, said, “Mrs. Brackton puts all personal mail to go out on the table in the front hall. The butler sees they are given to the postman. She has not put any packages on the table in weeks. I would have noticed.”
“I see. Thank you.”
Alice thought for a few more moments while Miss Whatley looked at her expectantly. “Just one more thing. Are you sorry about the master’s death?”
It was like a mask came down. It was only for a few moments, but I saw in those eyes something I didn’t see often—pure and total hatred. Then it was gone.
“Of course,” Miss Whatley said.
“That’s all the questions I have. Thank you for being so honest and for taking such good care of my friend.”
Miss Whatley stood as we left. I found myself glad that Mrs. Brackton had someone in her life who cared for her.
“Nicely done, Miss Alice,” I said as we headed back downstairs. “She sure hated Mr. Brackton. Why didn’t you ask more about him?”
Alice just shook her head. “A lot you know about maids like Elspeth Whatley. You’re right that she hated Lynley, but we still weren’t going to get any more. Your loyalty to my father as a sergeant in his regiment was nothing compared with the loyalty of someone like her to her employer. We managed to get some descriptions of behavior, but nothing would get us any shared confidences. I was hoping to find a way for Victoria to have poisoned Mrs. Linde, which might’ve meant she also poisoned her own husband. But I just don’t see how that could’ve happened. Miss Whatley may be loyal, but a religious woman like that wouldn’t lie to me with her hand on the Bible. Oh well, it was worth a shot—although.” She smiled. “I’d like to think Miss Whatley killed Mr. Brackton for making Mrs. Brackton so unhappy. Could she have slipped into the Rutledge house…”
“But she’d have plenty of opportunity to kill him right here,” I said.
“I suppose you’re right. The problem is that everyone had a reason to kill Lynley Brackton, including his wife, although if she was going to do it, you’d think she’d have done it years ago.” Then she shook her head. “But I’m dealing with some ruthless, powerful men here, and all I can do is try to pin this on a beaten-down widow and a religious-fanatic maid. Let’s not get derailed.”