The Formula for Murder (11 page)

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.

*   *   *

A
S 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.”

The bartender sets down the pint in front of him.

“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.

*   *   *

A
S
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.

*   *   *

“
M
Y 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.”

“Oh my!” Mrs. Lambert puts her hand to her chest.

“Are you okay?”

“Oh yes, yes, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you, but it’s just that my sister, bless her heart, insisted I get out of the house. My dear husband of twenty-one years, bless his soul, passed away ten months ago and well … I’ve kind of become a recluse. She has been dying to go to
that
fancy spa, so I’m her reason to go. Are we going to be okay, because now that you mention it I remember reading something about that poor lady and how the police are investigating it, but they aren’t certain if the spa has anything to do with her death. Silly me, I just didn’t put two and two together.”

“I don’t know that the spa actually has a connection to her death.” I lean over and pat her hand. “You and your sister will be fine.”

“Well, according to my sister it is the most desirable spa in Europe. Very wealthy and notable people from all over the world come to it, so that has to count for something, wouldn’t you think?”

“Of course.”

She laughs and shakes her head. “My dear sister says this place will do miracles for me, I just hope it doesn’t do me under.”

So do I.

“So tell me more about this mysterious venture you’re on,” she says with such delight.

PART II

Bath, England

20

Bath, England

The Aqua Vitae spa sits on a slope at a higher level than the Roman ruins.

The ruins are what is left of a spa built nearly two thousand years ago when the town was called Aquae Sulis and the region was the Roman province of Britannia. Mrs. Lambert told me on the train that the baths are still in use, but the moneyed crowd naturally frequented luxurious private spas like that of Dr. Lacroix’s.

I have the cabbie drop me off at the ancient ruins and I walk slowly up to the spa, gathering my thoughts. I can’t barge in and ask the first person I meet if the doctor in charge is involved in the death of Hailey McGuire.

Not able to think of a clever approach to getting information, I do what I always do when I am in doubt: force myself to put one foot in front of the other and go forward and play it by ear.