The Formula for Murder

by Carol McCleary

  “That analysis of my methods is from my friend Hailey to James to you?”

  “Yes, though I did do a bit of reading about you. What would you have done if I had contacted you in London? From what I’ve learned, you would have picked me clean of what I know and gave me nothing, like you are doing right now.”

  It’s my turn to smother a grin. He’s right. I’m wringing him dry of information and have told him nothing.

  “How did you find out I was going to Bath? I never told James.”

  “I was waiting in your hotel lobby, arguing with myself as to whether I should approach you, when you went into the telegram kiosk and sent off two.”

  “That was you with your head buried in a newspaper?”

  “Once again guilty. Anyway, I used an old schoolboy trick to read one of your messages—pretending to write out a message myself, I took the blank pad of sheets you used and rubbed my lead over the imprint your pencil left on the top sheet.”

  “Good lord, and you accuse me of being a secret operator? You could go to work for your government as a spy.”

  “Why, thank you.” He smiles broadly. “I have taken quite a fancy to this detective work. I must say the procedures are not unlike chemical experiments. You keep trying different things until something works.”

  I don’t bother asking him how he traced me to the westbound train. The clerk and porter at my hotel knew I was taking this train.

  I turn and look at the passing scenery to get my thoughts organized. He is an intelligent man, but in terms of what it takes to deal with violence and criminals, he is a babe in the woods. He’s a book learner and dealing with the likes of Radic and Burke takes skills that are learned on the street—where I learned them. That’s where my guts got honed to deal with undesirables—sometimes by having my face rubbed in the dirt.

  Bottom line: We see the world in two radically different lights and would be at odds at almost everything if I let him come along with me.

  “Are you an artist?” I ask in reference to his comic doodling.

  “Not at all, though I write a bit. Articles on science.”

  It is easy to see from his clothes that neither his teaching nor his writing has brought him much financial reward. He dresses respectfully, but modestly—not unlike a counter jumper.

  It is time to brush him off. “Well … I must say, I am very impressed with your efforts at getting information, very much so.”

  “But not enough to share information with—or team up with me.”

  He doesn’t pose the remark as a question. He has already decided upon an answer.

  I smile demurely. “I’ll give some thought to that.”

  He chortles at my vague and evasive response. “Well, I suppose I deserve that for permitting you to cross-examine me, turning me upside down, and shaking all of the thoughts out of my brain. However, I’ll respect your decision. But do watch yourself with that other reporter.”

  “What other reporter?”

  “Why, your Mrs. Lambert, of course.” Like the Cheshire cat in Lewis Carroll’s Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, he gives me a triumphant grin. “You are aware, I’m sure, that she works for the most contemptuous newspaper in the entire empire, a gossipmonger that prints anything but the truth.”

  A chuckle starts deep in his belly and rumbles like distant thunder as he delivers yet another blow. “But, of course, a smart woman like you knew you were being had—didn’t you?”

  32

  I make a quick check with the conductor about train schedules out of Bristol before returning to the car that holds Mrs. Lambert and my valise.

  “Mrs. Lambert…”

  “Yes, dear…” She looks up from her crocheting. “Is everything all right?”

  “Well … not quite. Could you join me at the back of the train car? We should take our belongings with us.”

  “Why, of course, my dear.”

  The train is just pulling into Bristol as she packs up her stuff and I grab my valise.

  “I’m afraid I won’t be going on with you to Exeter,” I tell her in a confidential tone. “I’ll be leaving the train here in Bristol.”

  “Really? That man you spoke with, the one I kept from getting into your luggage must have told you something. I hope he’s not tricking you. I know you can’t confide in me, but I’ve come to think of you as a sister. As a woman, I am proud of you and your accomplishments. Why what little you’ve told me, simply thrills me.”

  “Well…” I glance around to give the affect that I’m making sure no one is listening and tell her in a confidential tone, “I must have your word of honor that you won’t speak a word to anyone.”

  “Of course, my dear. My lips are sealed.”

  “I’ve learned something from an absolutely reliable source. But remember, you must keep this a secret.”

  “Yes, yes…”

  “That doctor I told you I’m investigating—I’ve learnt that he isn’t in Exeter, but is staying at a manor house outside of Worcester.”

  “No! Are you certain?”

  “Absolutely. The man I spoke to was there and he spoke to him. The problem is the moment this train stops in Bristol, I have to make a mad dash for the northbound Worcester train. It’ll be leaving almost at the same time we arrive. I’ll have to buy a ticket on board. No time to waste.”

  We hug and I promise to write her, already having exchanged addresses during our previous trip together.

  “I shall not forget this little journey we’ve had together,” she says, as we are pulling to a halt and I get ready to disembark and run for the train on the opposite set of tracks. “You don’t know what you have done for me—adding excitement into my drab little life. Thank you, my dear.”

  “I won’t forget you,” I say as I dash off. And I doubt you’ll be thanking me later. What a con artist. I could kick myself for falling for her words. Never again.

  “You’ll be hearing from me,” she yells.

  I seriously doubt that.

  As I go up the steps and onto the northbound train—and down the steps out the other side—I move quickly to get out of sight.

  Once both the northbound and southbound trains clear the station, I come out of hiding and make my way to the ticket office.

  “Excuse me, sir.”

  Behind an open wooden booth, a ticket officer looks up from a mess of paperwork. He takes off his glasses and rubs his eyes. “Yes, Miss, what can I do for you?”

  I hand him my ticket. “Is this still valid to Exeter?”

  He puts his glasses back on. “Yes, it is.”

  “When will the next train be arriving?”

  “In an hour.”

  “Thank you. Can you recommend a café for lunch?”

  “There’s one across from the station. Food’s good; tell Mary I sent you.”

  As I enter, a waitress approaches me. “Your gentleman is waiting over there.”

  “Excuse me?”

  She points to H. G. Wells who grins and waves from where he’s sitting.

  I take a deep breath and stand perfectly still for a moment.

  He obviously is not as gullible as the scandal press reporter. I still need information about Dr. Lacroix from him, so I might as well give up the ghost in terms of getting rid of him and join him for tea and clotted Devonshire cream with scones.

  With my best smile, I approach him.

  “Wells, I have to admit that you are as hard to get rid of as poison ivy. And just about as welcome.”

  “Nellie, you will not regret your gracious invitation to have me join you in this quest. I will always be there for you.”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

  33

  On the train en route to Exeter, I am in an aisle seat facing Wells. Next to him is a man engrossed in a newspaper. The seat next to me is empty.

  I remind myself to make the best of the situation. Wells outsmarted me, but the game is not over yet. And I do find his comments about the situation keen.r />
  Earlier over lunch, after I told him about my growing suspicion that Hailey had discovered something about the death of Lady Winsworth and had been killed to keep her silent, he made a salient point: Dr. Lacroix is very much a ladies’ man.

  “That’s the main reason Radic wanted him as a partner. Radic is a shady businessman with all the charm of a viper, but Lacroix attracts society women. There are rumors that he was having an affair with Lady Winsworth.”

  “I had already presumed that he was romancing rich women for their money.”

  “That might be true, but if it is, it wouldn’t be for personal gain. The man is a true fanatic when it comes to his research. I understand he puts every dollar into it and I don’t doubt that some of the money comes from older women who are captivated by his attention. Lacroix had a society medical practice before he went into partnership with Radic and created the spa. But don’t confuse the knowledge of the two. Radic claims to be a licensed doctor in Romania, but he’s not one here, which makes me doubt his claim. Few people doubt that Lacroix is a brilliant doctor and scientist, but almost everyone in the medical profession and scientific community rejects his hypothesis.”

  “Which is?”

  “Lacroix is trying to find a way for the human body to rejuvenate.”

  “To get younger?”

  “A universal dream of man since Eve grew old and Adam started looking around for someone younger and prettier.”

  “But found his male virility had gone the same place as Eve’s lovely skin,” I counter. “I’m certain that every search for the Fountain of Youth has been based upon fraud and humbug.”

  “Your comments are the same as almost any medical man in London, but few people understand—or even care to understand—what Lacroix means by rejuvenation. It was even a standing joke at the college where he taught; students and faculty called him Dr. Ponce and referred to his class as Bimini, which was the mythical island where Ponce de Leon thought he’d find the Fountain of Youth.

  “But Dr. Lacroix isn’t advocating some hokum about turning back the clock, making a forty-year-old twenty again—reversing the biological clock that takes us from infants with perfect skin and organs to ripe old age with wrinkles and worn-out hearts and lungs. Instead, he is selective, focusing on skin. Just as a woman’s jar of cold cream can delay or even get rid of wrinkles, he is seeking a natural substance that will revitalize the skin.”

  “Sounds more like alchemy than science. Don’t alchemists search for some sort of universal remedy called a Philosopher’s Stone?”

  “In matter of speaking. Some alchemists seek a substance capable of transmuting common metals into gold, others an elixir of life that can reverse or stop aging. But you have to appreciate that their fruitless quests for things today we call magic, created a great deal of scientific knowledge and the scientific method used by modern researchers.”

  “You did research on this rejuvenation theory?” I’m curious. Wells doesn’t strike me as someone who would be involved in fraud or hogwash, so I am very interested as to what he actually did for “Dr. Ponce.”

  “I did research on salamanders.”

  “Salamanders? Those lizards that live in water?”

  “They’re not actually lizards, even though they look like them. A salamander has some rather interesting characteristics. It can lose a leg or other body parts and regenerate them, but it’s not the only creature that can do it. Some worms, shellfish, and insects also have this ability. We humans can do it in a very limited way—when our bodies form scar tissue over wounds, it’s regenerating flesh.”

  “Have you found out why salamanders can regrow an arm and a leg?”

  “No. Lady Winsworth’s death put a halt to the research.”

  “The scandal and all.”

  “Not just the scandal—she was financing the research.”

  “Oh, I see, by putting up the money she got first claim on a new arm or leg or face or—” I shut up because the look on his face is not pleasant. I know, I’m being catty, but it really sounds like a lot of bunk to me.

  He leaves without a word and I glance over at the man wondering what he thought of the conversation. He is crunched up in the corner next to the window, asleep behind his newspaper, his hat pulled down over his eyes.

  I wait patiently for Wells to return … well, I’m not sure if that’s true. Even though I have always considered myself a patient person, no one else I know would agree with me. When I am forced to sit still, I have a habit of shaking one of my legs, sometimes tapping it against something that causes others to ask why I’m kicking the object. And I have been accused many times of being afraid of silence, because when a conversation dies down I tend to pick it up again.

  My other fault, one my dear mother says I have, is my dire need to make amends; that is I react badly to any sort of rejection. So, instead of sitting with my foot nervously shaking, I get up to find Mr. Wells and soothe over whatever feelings I have inadvertently ruffled.

  This is why I don’t care to work with a partner—I don’t want to deal with the baggage that comes with working closely with someone else. I frequently find myself having to tiptoe around the other person because they are not keeping up or want to go in a different direction than me or I have in some way offended them and have to soothe the waters. And in the newspaper business, a partner almost always means a man. And they say women are moody.

  I find Wells in the gangway between cars, leaning on the wall next to the door. The top half of the door is open and he is letting the wind soothe him.

  “I’m sorry,” I tell him, “I didn’t mean to belittle your work.” With that statement, I am being honest.

  “You are a very intelligent woman, Nellie. More importantly, you know how to think. I admire that.”

  The compliment catches me by surprise and I don’t know how to respond.

  “Most women,” he continues, “even those with intelligence, spend their lives in a dark, intellectual closet, trained from infancy to let the man in their life, first their father, then their husband, do their thinking for them.”

  “I suppose because my father died when I was a child and my mother never recovered from the loss of him, I didn’t have anyone else to do my thinking.”

  “That may be. But even though you have a quick mind and are intelligent, you also rely almost entirely upon your instincts and evaluations of people rather than information derived from research or analysis.”

  The man certainly knows how to turn a compliment into a lecture and personality assassination.

  “May I ask how you derived at this brilliant assessment?”

  “Listening to you. You have learned everything you know by talking to people. You talked to your friend Oscar in London, a prostitute, eavesdropped at the spa—”

  “That’s how you get information when doing a criminal investigation. Criminals don’t write their actions down in a book for us to peruse. Talking with people is the only recourse I have and that puts me miles ahead of you and your book learning. Reporters are not teachers and bookworms. We work in the real world.”

  I leave steaming. The gall of him.

  Once again I find myself in the same quandary about Mr. Herbert George Wells as I did when I first caught him surreptitiously observing me. I am attracted to him, but I don’t appreciate him dissecting me like I am one of those lizards he cuts legs off of to see if the limb grows back.

  I end up in the dining car and order tea to soothe my irritation. I know why it hit me so hard—because it’s true. I don’t have as much education as other newspaper people and rely upon my instincts—very successfully, thank you.

  Wells is suddenly standing next to me.

  “My apologies.”

  He sits down across from me. I give him a blank stare. His comments have no meaning to me, I decide. I’m not going to let him affect me anymore. I hate emotions that drain precious energy from me.

  “I was being analytical to a ridiculous extent. Your met
hod of relying on your gut and going straight for the jugular has made you renowned in your profession.”

  “Fair enough.” I set down my tea. “And I will admit that a little book learning never hurts anyone—until it gets in the way of real life. I don’t know anything about salamanders, but I did notice a little while ago you took offense when I made a remark about Lady Winsworth. Is that because she supported the research you and Dr. Lacroix conducted?” My suspicion is that it goes beyond financial support for Wells, but I start with a bit of circumspection to throw him off guard—then I’ll go for the jugular.

  “Lady Winsworth wasn’t just a benefactor of Lacroix’s, she was extremely kind to me. I didn’t know the man before she began supporting his research. She introduced us and encouraged him to permit me to conduct the research despite the fact I don’t have the advanced degree in chemistry that he desired in a researcher. My degree is in teaching rather than pure science, but her sponsorship was satisfactory enough to get me the work, especially at a time when I was in desperate need of it.”

  In other words, Lady Winsworth controlled the purse strings and would have pulled them tight if Lacroix had not accepted her candidate. For sure, Lacroix wasn’t going to bite the hand that fed him. I still get the hint of deeper currents, ones Wells keeps concealed. Recognizing a NO TRESPASSING sign, I keep smothering my natural intention to hit him with the big question.

  “Your gratitude toward her is the reason you are searching for Lacroix?”

  His eyes meet mine and I see smoldering anger. “I want to know what he gave her.”

  “So you do believe that some potion he gave her killed her?”

  “I don’t know what else to believe. She was a healthy woman of forty-five. Her one fault, if I can call it that, was that she didn’t want to lose her beauty. She didn’t realize that the more mature she became, the more beautiful she truly was. She would have taken any treatment he gave her.”

  “Even an unproved or untested one?”

  “That is what I’m thinking—that he gave her a potion before thoroughly testing it. Lacroix is a risk taker. He’s a mountain climber and has ascended the deadly Matterhorn.” Wells gives an appraising look. “How much do you know about him?”