I shake my head. “I don’t think I will be pursuing the story.”
“I just rained on your murder theory.”
“No, not at all, you merely narrowed down my theories. I don’t see a connection between Hailey and the Bath doctor. If Bath and the Fountain of Youth are out, there is still the wealthy man who would kill to hide an affair with an American woman that produces an illegitimate child.”
I meet Oscar’s eye. “He’s out there and I’m going to find him.”
I like hearing myself talk. It is one of my greatest pleasures. I often have long conversations all by myself, and I am so clever that sometimes I don’t understand a single word of what I am saying.
—OSCAR WILDE
17
By the time I leave Oscar I have a headache. Despite his many funny stories and perfectly outrageous observations of people and society in general, the pain in my head comes from my confused state of mind.
After I kiss Oscar good-bye in the French cheek-and-cheek fashion—he spends a great deal of time in Paris—and board a hansom back to my hotel, my thoughts are muddled. I’m basically at a loss as what to do next.
If it wasn’t the dead of night I could let the sights of the city occupy my mind, but there is nothing to see after my cab leaves the glittering West End. Everything is dark and shut down, with an occasional gaslight glowing in the mist. The wet city streets are rolled up for the night, so I lean back, shut my eyes, and listen to the clip-clop of the hooves on cobblestones and the heavy breathing of the hansom cab driver from his elevated seat above me.
What a day. What a life! I am exhausted, fatigued, ready to drop.
I have hardly stopped running since I broke the madhouse story three years ago. A doctor told me I am suffering from fatigue, “pure exhaustion” is what he labeled it, and said I should slow down, but I never seem to have the time nor the opportunity.
If I let sleeping dogs lie and give up my chase for Hailey’s killer—and I have not a clue about her rich man except that he might have blue eyes—I can go home, take some time off, and get the much-needed rest my body craves before deciding what I want to do with my career.
But then I would be deserting Hailey. And everyone would continue believing she killed herself. How can I do this when I’m not convinced that she did? And even if I had absolute proof that she had taken her own life because she was betrayed by her lover, my attitude toward those who harm others is definitely Old Testament—an eye for an eye. The biblical phrase has been called the law of retaliation and even though it is unladylike and lacking in Christian charity, as far as I’m concerned the lover can burn in the hell of public ridicule with his reputation sullied.
Or am I just fooling myself because I desperately want to believe she didn’t commit suicide, as Inspector Abberline so adequately told me not once but twice?
Even dear Oscar who loves a good chase said, “Give up the ghost and go home, Nellie.”
My cab stops and I open my eyes. Somehow I must have dozed off for it seems like I just left the Langham and now I’m in front of my hotel.
I give the doorman a grave smile as he helps me out. All I want to do is get in bed and forget everything. Maybe sleep will bring answers.
“Rats!” I’m just about to enter the lobby when I realize I didn’t tip the doorman. I reach into the pocket of my coat where I keep a small hoard of coins for taxis and pull one out, along with a small scrap of paper.
As I walk across the lobby, I glance down at the piece of paper.
My feet come to a screeching halt.
It’s a ticket stub for a train to Bath.
18
Bath. The Waters of Life. Dr. Lacroix and the wealthy noblewoman seeking eternal youth.
I sit in my room, on my bed, examining the train ticket stub for the umpteenth time. No matter how I look at it, how I read the words and numbers, it is obvious that the ticket is one to Bath—issued the day before Hailey killed herself.
It must have been in the diary and slipped out when I stuck the book in my pocket or as I pulled the book out to put in my purse.
So many stunning pieces to the puzzle have fallen into place that I am quietly contemplative, rather than wildly excited.
No longer do I have the slightest doubt that Hailey, her lover, and the news story are intertwined. I don’t know how they relate, but shortly before her death, Hailey had set off for Bath. It may have been just one trip of several to research a story about the death of the baronet’s wife.
Now, not by choice, but by necessity I am going to Bath.
It makes no difference that it’s after midnight, I make my plans right away and prepare a telegraph for both Oscar and Inspector Abberline, informing them I am going to Bath and requesting their assistance.
Wasting no time, I go down to the telegraph kiosk in the hotel lobby and prepare wires.
In my telegram to Oscar I ask for an introduction to the society matron, Lady Callista Chilcott, who he said has had treatments at the Aqua Vitea spa. I also tell Oscar to tell the woman that I am doing a story about the spa and not to mention Hailey. If she is a patron of the spa, I doubt she would not be cooperative about intentionally revealing a scandal.
From the police inspector I request the name and an introduction to, if he would be so kind, the police official in Bath who is in charge of the death of Lady Winsworth at the spa, wording the request as if I were simply researching a story as opposed to sticking my nose in a police investigation.
The police inspector would not appreciate a knock on his door this late, and I’m sure Oscar will not be in for hours, so my instructions are that the two missives be delivered first thing in the morning with a request that the messenger boy take an immediate reply.
I don’t know how people communicated before the telegraph wire revolutionized communications. I can hardly function without it. Getting mail delivered to the office three times a day in New York is simply inadequate, especially since it took days or even weeks to get there! Sending a telegraph across town or around the world, then having a boy rush it by foot or bike to the recipient, the feat often accomplished in less than an hour from almost anywhere, has brought the entire civilized portion of the world into contact.
As I leave the cable kiosk in the hotel lobby I can’t help notice, only because of the lateness of night, a man sitting in one of the lobby chairs, with his head buried in a newspaper. Poor fellow, I hope he hasn’t been stood up, for he appears to be waiting for someone—dressed in a raincoat, hat, with an umbrella, all ready to leave.
On my way up the elevator back to my room, a chilling thought follows me: What if Hailey was killed because of the story?
Maybe her married lover killed her to stop a scandal that would ruin his reputation. I’m unsure whether he has anything to do with the news story she was working on. Perhaps that was how they met.
Another angle is that Hailey had been killed because of what she found out about the story and her lover had nothing to do with her death.
My head is pounding, so before I leave the lobby I request a glass of hot milk, a cookie, and headache powder be sent to my room. I hate milk, but my mother always insists that it helps put me to sleep. She’s right, but I’ll still have to force it down as bitter medicine.
* * *
AS SOON AS Nellie left the lobby the man with his face in the newspaper gets up and goes to the telegraph kiosk. Taking the pad he had watched Nellie Bly write two telegrams on, he tears off the top sheet.
“Wish to send a wire?” the attendant asks.
“Need to think out what I want to say.”
He puts the blank sheet in his pocket to keep it dry and leaves the hotel. Ignoring a waiting taxi, he heads down the street to a pub.
After ordering a pint, he removes the blank sheet and begins to lightly run a lead pencil over the imprints Nellie’s messages had left on the paper.
Holding it up to the light, he says to himself, “Let’s see what you’re up to.”
“Got a problem with your lady?” he asks.
“Pardon?”
The bartender nods at the telegram message the blue-eyed man is trying to read.
“Pal of mine did that once, caught his missus sending off a wire to her lover.”
“Ah, yes, yes, quite, very perceptive of you. Yes, I’m checking out where my, uh, friend is off to.”
“See anything on the paper?”
“Yes, she’s going to Bath.”
19
The next morning a discreet tap on my door by a bellman brought replies to my wires.
Nellie dear, I have notified Lady Callista Chilcott of your wish for an audience and she has consented. I told her you are a dear friend of mine and I would appreciate her assisting you in any way possible. If I wasn’t in hiding, I would join you. Please keep me posted. I’ll be incognito at the hotel that is 95 ft above the Thames. I wish you the best and take caution.
Your loving, devoted friend, Mr. Earnest
An “audience.” No doubt the dowager loves Oscar treating her as royalty. But then again, I’d do more than curtsy for information.
I dread opening the inspector’s response. I know he’s already not happy with my reluctance to accept that Hailey committed suicide. He believes I’m not willing to face the “sad truth” as he calls it and therefore looking to find a reason for murder. I also know he’s doesn’t like the idea of me interfering with police business.
Chief Inspector John Bradley will be available to answer questions and help you in any way in regards to your research.
Your Faithful Servant, Inspector Abberline
PS: Do I smell something more than a story with your quest?
All right! My soldiers are lined up. It is time to cross the Rubicon.
* * *
AS I WAIT to board the train to Bath, I can’t help staring up at the glazed roof and massive wrought-iron arches of Paddington Station.
“Absolutely amazing…” I say to myself.
“Yes, it truly is.”
An elderly British gentleman wearing a top hat, a thick, black, wool winter coat, with a white, silk scarf wrapped around his neck, approaches me.
“Please, excuse me.” He tips his hat. “I normally don’t eavesdrop…”
“Oh … no … it’s just that I’m from America and we don’t have anything like this.”
“Nobody does. It is the first underground railway system in the world and the original western terminus of the Metropolitan Railway.”
“Really…”
“The roof that you’ve been admiring is six hundred and ninety-nine feet long and the gigantic arches supporting it span sixty-eight feet.”
He looks up at it and I can feel his pride. Can’t blame him; it’s definitely an incredible feat. He tips his hat and is off to catch a train.
Finally, my train comes. It is midday and the train ride will take about two hours or so to reach Bath.
As soon as we are rolling, I leave my valise on my seat and make my way to the dining car. I had rushed out of the hotel too late to grab a bite.
The dining facilities are pleasant; tables have linen tablecloths, china, polished silverware, and there’s even a vase in the center of each table holding a pink carnation.
At the end of the train car is a table for one—perfect for me.
As I make my way toward my table I notice a young gentleman looking down at a newspaper on the table across from the one I am heading for. He sports a mustache that isn’t overpowering and light brown hair. I would venture to guess he is in his midtwenties, close to my age.
Something about him is vaguely familiar to me, but I can’t place it.
He lifts his head and I inadvertently meet his eyes and get a jolt—his eyes are blue.
His countenance is rather grave and stoic but his striking blue eyes almost cause me to miss a step.
I focus straight ahead and take my seat. Quickly grabbing a menu, I pretend to be absorbed by the sparse offerings while thoughts whip through my brain.
The man with his head buried in a newspaper was in the hotel lobby last night. I couldn’t be certain it is the same man, I didn’t see his face at the hotel, but the general form of his body …
I am dying to take another peek at him and force myself to pretend to just be casually looking around as I turn—damnit I meet his eye again.
Embarrassed at being caught, I do what comes natural to me. I attack.
“You were in the hotel lobby last night.”
He smiles and shakes his head. “Ich bin, Fraulein, traurig, aber ich spreche nicht Englisch.” He smiles. “No Ang-lish.”
Oh, lord, how embarrassing. I don’t speak German but caught the fact he doesn’t speak English. Now I am even more embarrassed.
“Sorry.” I turn away from him and try to bury my head in the small menu. I’m mortified. He must think that I’m some sort of hussy, approaching him in public. Oh no, did he understand the word “hotel”? Could I have left him with the impression that I—I—
I turn back around to try and get across to him what I meant by speaking about a hotel but he rises and leaves and I close my trap rather than sticking my foot in it again.
How asinine of me. Even if he had been the man I saw at the hotel last night, bumping into him on the train the next morning would be perfectly natural.
I order tea and a roast beef sandwich and sit back with a sigh, a little weary, a little lonely. He had been a reasonably attractive man and appeared intelligent. It would have been nice to wile away the time it took to get to Bath just talking to him about everyday things that didn’t include murder and suicide.
However, there had been no romantic interest in his look, not that there should be, but I find it strange and get the feeling in that brief encounter that he was analyzing me, more like a scientist observing something of professional interest rather than as a man looking at a woman he might find attractive. Not a cool dispassionate look, but a probing one.
Maybe he’s a scientist. The Germans are so clever about that sort of thing.
My cheeks burn again at the embarrassing notion I might have left him. One thing for certain—I will be happy never to see the likes of him again! Not only because of my slip, but thinking about it, I wonder why he didn’t at least try to start up a conversation even with the language problem. In other words, what’s so wrong with me that the man only looked at me like I am a bug under a microscope?
I know thoughts like that are my inadequacies acting up. I don’t think I’m attractive and react poorly when I believe a man doesn’t find me attractive. Sort of a lose-lose attitude. Even if a man finds me interesting, as a lady, I am forbidden by convention to show that I am attracted to him. Whoever made up that rule forgot that women have a need for intimacy just as a man does and perhaps, in a less frantic manner, even a greater need.
Am I lonely? Yes. And when women commonly are married by eighteen, I am bordering on being an old maid. It’s not that I dislike men—to the contrary, I just haven’t found the man I want to share my life with.
And I must say, the rule that women are supposed to marry early and whether or not they want to annoys me. I will marry when I please and if I am old and ugly—uglier than I already am—then I will just have to find a man who loves me for who I am. Of course, shallow as I am, if there really is something that would keep me young, I’d buy that, too.
* * *
“MY VALISE IS GONE!” blurts out of my mouth when I return to my seat after lunch.
“It’s all right, dear, I have it.”
A middle-aged woman doing needlework across the aisle nods at the seat beside her feet. She sets down her needlework and hands the valise to me.
“I’m afraid I may have stuck my nose in your business. I saw a man eyeing it a while ago and I took the precaution of safeguarding it. I’m sure I was just being silly, but I hoped you wouldn’t be offended.”
�
�No, not at all. I really do appreciate it.”
“It’s my pleasure, Miss…”
“Cochran, Elizabeth Cochran.” I decide to use my real name.11
“Nice to meet you Elizabeth, I’m Mrs. Lambert.”
Mrs. Lambert is a frumpish forty, wearing widow’s black from head to toe. Rather stout with wide shoulders, she looks capable of thrashing a thief, especially with those crochet needles, they look lethal.
“Nice to meet you. And thank you for aiding me. Could you tell me what he looked like?”
“Not like a mugger, for certain. Rather a pleasant chap with striking blue eyes, looked like a clerk or a teacher, perhaps, but you never know, do you, my dear? Trouble can come from the most unexpected directions.”
“If that isn’t the truth.” Blue eyes, huh. “Did he by chance have a German accent?”
“An accent? Why, I don’t know, he never spoke. Are you expecting someone with a German accent?”
“No, just a shot in the dark.” On that I hit the bull’s-eye, I’m sure.
“So, my dear, what brings you across the ocean? You are American, right?”
“Yes…” I hesitate for a moment. For once, my liquid tongue is dry.
“Is everything all right?”
“Yes. Just, uh, tired.”
“You do look worried. I’m a great listener, what’s bothering you, my dear?”
I don’t know if it’s her kind voice or just that she reminds me of my mother, only younger, but I start talking. I tell her how I’m a reporter, which she can’t get over and says more than once, “I’m so impressed. What an accomplishment for such a young lady!” and about Hailey—not everything, just tidbits here and there. She’s very sympathetic. I must admit it feels good to speak to another woman.
“So, why are you going to Bath?”
“I’m just tracing Hailey’s steps, and, I believe, she was investigating the Aqua Vitae spa and a Dr. Lacroix—something to do with the death of a Lady Winsworth.”
The Formula for Murder Page 8