Dear Miss Kopp

by Amy Stewart

  Fortunately, there were all manner of receipt-books, ledgers, recipes, and so forth in the bakery, which was once again being operated by Monsieur Bertrand’s old friend, Fernand. Norma was able to persuade him to show the receipt-books to the town constable, so that the signature in the hotel register might be compared against Madame Bertrand’s own handwriting.

  And only after she had done that—only after she was entirely certain herself, and the constable was likewise satisfied—did she tell what she knew, and explain what it meant.

  If Madame Bertrand arrived before Monsieur Bertrand died, then it was almost certainly she who killed him.

  I don’t know how Norma managed to convince the constable and the coroner—well, I do know, it’s because she’s absolutely indomitable in three languages, only one of which was necessary in this case—but she put the evidence before them and insisted that they take another look at the circumstances surrounding Monsieur Bertrand’s death.

  The coroner in this village serves also as a justice of the peace, druggist, and a few other small official roles whose exact meanings are obscure to me. He hasn’t had a great many suspicious deaths on his hands over the years, and his records are, as Norma puts it, insufficient. Nonetheless he did agree to open his files and even permitted Norma to look over his shoulder.

  The coroner’s notes, of course, gave no suggestion of foul play. The baker was found dead in his shop at eight o’clock on a Tuesday evening, after he failed to meet his friends for their usual game of crapette. Fernand and another man went over to the shop and found it locked and dark within. Fernand saw, through the window, that Monsieur Bertrand had collapsed on the floor behind the counter. After some frantic fumbling for a key, he rushed inside but was unable to revive him.

  The coroner arrived ten minutes later and declared that the baker had been dead only a few hours. There were no marks on him nor any sign of a break-in or any kind of struggle. His difficulty with diabetes being well-known, the corner made the entirely reasonable conclusion that he’d slipped into a diabetic coma from which he did not recover.

  There was only one line in his report that might mean anything at all. The coroner had noted that it was possible that an attempt had been made to bring him around with frangipane. Norma asked what led him to make that remark. The coroner could not at first remember, but then said that he’d noticed the sweet smell of almonds and assumed Monsieur Bertrand had taken a bite of some small delicacy, in an effort to save himself.

  It was immediately apparent to both Norma and the coroner what he’d missed—although it was not so apparent to me, when Norma told me about it later.

  That almond scent could’ve been cyanide.

  The thing to do would’ve been to examine the body more closely. There was, perhaps, a test they could’ve run at the chemist’s.

  Or, at the very least, someone that night could’ve looked in the bakery case to see if anything made with almonds had been on offer.

  But nothing of the kind was done. There had been no reason at all to suspect a murder. And in case you’re wondering, Monsieur Bertrand has been buried for over a year and there is no talk of exhuming him.

  You can only imagine the lecture Norma gave those two Frenchmen. Always suspect! she said. Toujours! They’ve never had such a scolding, I’m certain of it.

  The plan—hatched between Norma, the coroner, and the constable, in secrecy—was to notify those parties now engaged in trying Madame Bertrand for treason that she was under a further cloud of suspicion. It seems entirely likely that the treason charges will punish her for life, if not put her to death. None of us are sure if a murder charge makes any difference at all at this point. But the evidence has been put forward, and we hope that justice will be done.

  I said that they hatched this plan in secrecy. Norma, the constable, and the coroner all thought it best to never reveal what they knew, so as not to agitate the villagers or cause further heartache to Fernand and Monsieur Bertrand’s many other friends. Besides, they can’t be certain, and perhaps they never will be.

  There might’ve been some idea, on the part of the coroner and the constable, that they would like their own reputations protected as well. After all, the murder had happened on their watch, and had only been uncovered through the efforts of an American girl. Quel embarras!

  Nonetheless, there are no secrets in a village this size. Within a day or two, everyone knew. Even in the midst of this war, with so many unjust and cruel deaths, they’re taking this one especially hard. There’s quite a bit more outrage over the possibility that Madame Bertrand murdered their beloved baker than there was over the very real, demonstrated fact that she’d been smuggling supplies to the enemy. What does it matter to the people of this town if a few Germans get vaccinated? But to think that Monsieur Bertrand might still be here today, beaming from behind his counter, dusted in flour, the name of every customer on his lips and a kind word for all—in these terrible times, that is too much to bear. They are in mourning all over again.

  And quite honestly—I am not exaggerating—they put your sister just below General Pershing on their list of favorite Americans. You wouldn’t believe the dinner invitations we’ve had! Norma tries to decline them, but if I have anything to say about it, we go. In the last few nights, we’ve feasted at a dozen tables. For the first time I think I might return home stouter than when I left. Who can say that, after a year of war rations?

  Norma has just returned and is horrified to see how many pages I’ve written. Must close—

  Tendrement—

  Aggie

  Constance to Norma and Aggie

  October 20, 1918

  Dear Norma and Aggie,

  I had four letters from you all at once yesterday. What a time we had at Francis’s house, reading through each thrilling installment of the cake shop mystery! Fleurette saw the theatrical possibilities at once and jumped to her feet, brandishing the first letter of the bunch, and reading it aloud in the most dramatic fashion. The children were all too eager to play the parts of the town drunks. Bessie tried to put a stop to that, it being an entirely unsuitable sort of play-acting for children, but they were so charming and quick-witted about it that we all succumbed. Frankie Jr. teetered around dizzily, offering aspirin bottles to Fleurette, and Lorraine played the other one—the talkative one—bickering in the corner with a houseplant. The plant was meant to represent the one who didn’t speak at all except for the occasional “incoherent shouting.” (The shouting was, fortunately, left out of the performance.)

  In the next act, Bessie took the part of Mrs. Clayton, and I was conscripted to play Madame Bertrand. No cakes were knocked to the ground in our reenactment, however. A stack of pillows had to do.

  Well done, both of you! It’s an absolute triumph of investigative work, what you’ve accomplished. Justice has been served, and a mystery solved. The fact that you provided us with an evening’s entertainment is merely—I’m sorry, but Bessie insisted that I put this in—the icing on the cake.

  Encore, encore!

  Constance

  Constance

  Paterson, New Jersey

  Constance to Bielaski

  October 22, 1918

  Dear Mr. Bielaski,

  You’ve heard from the police already, but their report is incomplete.

  Early Monday morning, at 4:10 a.m., Mrs. Wilmington left her apartment and I followed. She wore a heavy cloak over her coat, which is not her custom.

  She walked briskly and intentionally to the stables next to the train station. As you might expect, the stables are hardly in use any more, but a few horses remain. The stable was dark and unguarded.

  Mrs. Wilmington stood across the street for some time, watching the entrance, which consists of three wide barn doors with nothing but a half-gate across each.

  All was quiet. One could dimly see the horses in their stalls, perhaps five in all.

  After standing for some five or six minutes, she walked around to the back of the
stable, and I followed. As there was no moon, it was easy enough to stay in the shadows. There was a rusted rail-car nearby, where I could linger undetected.

  The rear of the stables faces onto the train tracks. It’s not unusual for horses in the back stalls to push their heads out of a row of rough-cut windows and observe the rail-cars going by. When they heard her coming, a few of them staggered to their feet and looked around for her, perhaps expecting a treat from a stable boy.

  There Mrs. Wilmington stopped. She patted the nose of one horse and walked on. At the next, she held out a gloved hand and allowed the horse to sniff it.

  She then proceeded to the third—a heavy chestnut draft horse, from what I could observe—and reached under her cloak. I had to inch a bit closer to see, but there was no mistaking the object she withdrew.

  It was the ceramic figurine.

  I couldn’t believe she would risk smashing it and attracting attention, but there was no one around. The freight trains run at all hours of the night, and there’s always a whistle or a rumble of a train on the tracks. Mrs. Wilmington did just as I would have done and waited for the next train to approach. With the noise of the engine as cover, she dropped the figurine and smashed it, gently, against a rock. It fell easily apart, disgorging its stuffing of sawdust.

  She already wore rubber gloves—she must’ve left the house wearing them. She bent over carefully and picked two glass vials from among the sawdust and broken bits of ceramic.

  I’d seen enough. I couldn’t wait any longer. Once the vials were open, I had no idea what poison might be released.

  There was no way to sneak up on her. Speed and surprise were my only advantages. I ran as swiftly and silently as I could and grabbed her from behind. She gasped in surprise but kept hold of the vials.

  “Drop them,” I said, and was rewarded with an elbow to my gut.

  I squeezed her a little tighter and moved one arm up around her neck. “Federal agent. I’m arresting you.”

  She stomped on my foot—a smart trick, ordinarily, but her boots were no match for mine—and I kicked her in the back of the knee and threw her down. She did what any good saboteur would do and tossed the vials as far as she could. In the struggle she had little choice as to her aim. It was my good luck that both sailed right into the barn and I heard no sound of breaking glass.

  I kept a knee in her back and put her in handcuffs. She groaned and complained, in German, about her shoulder. I spoke directly back to her in her mother tongue.

  “Um was für ein Gift handelt es sich?” I asked. (“What’s the poison?”)

  She only sputtered. I’d given her a face full of dirt and she couldn’t wipe it off. I twisted her arm as hard as I dared, but she only gritted her teeth.

  “Never mind, we’ll test them ourselves,” I said. I had with me a box of matches. I expected to find a lantern within the stable and I did. It hadn’t been lit in some time and the oil was nearly gone. Mrs. Wilmington didn’t make it easy for me—she struggled and kicked and fought to get away, until I was obliged to push her to the ground and put her face-down on the stable floor. It’s an undignified position, but one she could’ve avoided had she been more co-operative. I then settled myself on top of Mrs. Wilmington’s recumbent figure and went to work on the lantern.

  Once I had a little light, it didn’t take long to find the vials. Both had landed softly on a bed of straw, and neither had been trampled by a horse. (The horses, by the way, observed all of this in stoic silence. A New Jersey carriage horse is not surprised by anything, not even an attempt on its life.)

  I didn’t like to carry the vials and had no secure case in which to transport them. With great trepidation I wrapped them in Mrs. Wilmington’s rubber gloves and put them in my pocket, then pulled Mrs. Wilmington to her feet. I worried all the way back to her apartment that she would throw me off my feet and smash the vials, but covering her in manure and moldy straw seemed to subdue and humiliate her sufficiently. She gave me little trouble as I marched her home.

  Miss Bradshaw was rooming not far from the train station, so along the way I stopped to rouse her. (Fortunately, her room faces the street. A few pebbles tossed up to the window woke her.) She dressed quickly and came along. It wasn’t until we rounded the corner and the Wilmingtons’ residence came into view that Mrs. Wilmington put up a fight again, digging her heels in so that I was forced to drag her. She began to shout, obviously hoping to wake the neighbors.

  “Get your hands off me!” she yelled, followed by “Where are you taking me?”—intending, perhaps, to give the impression that I was carrying her off, not bringing her home.

  When we gave no answer, she tried again. “My husband will have you arrested!”

  That was enough to cause the lights to come on in a few windows. We were in front of her apartment building by now. I rummaged around in her pockets for a key.

  “Mrs. Wilmington, I’m an agent of the Bureau of Investigation,” I said, as quietly and calmly as I could under the circumstances. “You’re under arrest. Shouting will do you no good.”

  Apparently I failed to convince her, because she screamed, “Thief! Help! Thief! Police!”

  I will never understand a criminal who screams for the police, but as you know, they sometimes do. By now the neighbors were awake, and I knew the police had been summoned.

  Officer Sweeney’s report begins here. It’s accurate insofar as he claims that I refused to relinquish Mrs. Wilmington. She was in my custody and I wasn’t about to hand her over until he understood the situation, which he did not. Miss Bradshaw had by then produced our badges, but he refused to look at them and was treating us like three disorderly ladies in a late-night brawl.

  It is not true, however, that I assaulted Officer Sweeney. I merely prevented him from placing Miss Bradshaw under arrest. He might have stumbled backwards into a brick wall in the process, but I hardly put a hand on him.

  We had by then located Mrs. Wilmington’s key. I persuaded Officer Sweeney to accompany us upstairs, where Mr. Wilmington waited. The possibility that another man might sort out this mess seemed to appeal to him. The four of us went upstairs fairly calmly.

  As you know by now—and of course, I did not know, or I would’ve pulled Fleurette out of the house—Mr. Wilmington had been lying abed for two days with aches, fever, and a cough. Fleurette suspected influenza but didn’t think to mention to me that she’d been looking after him, as Mrs. Wilmington paid him little attention.

  He was hardly able to speak or to understand questions put to him. I was of course worried that Mrs. Wilmington had poisoned him before she went to the barn. I sent Miss Bradshaw into the hall to call for an ambulance.

  Officer Sweeney had by then examined our badges in the light and begun to wonder if we were telling the truth. When Miss Bradshaw returned, he went out to telephone the station. That’s the call that eventually made its way to you. I apologize for disturbing your sleep, although I don’t suppose you get much rest these days. Under your orders I kept possession of the vials until your agent was dispatched to retrieve them.

  By then, two more officers had arrived, followed shortly by an ambulance for Mr. Wilmington. Mrs. Wilmington was detained in the hallway by another officer. Miss Bradshaw and I insisted on accompanying the police on a thorough search of the apartment. That took some convincing. Officer Sweeney, still nursing a grudge and a bruised elbow from our tussle in the street, insisted that his men were more than capable of searching for evidence.

  “That’s fine,” I said. “I suppose you’ve already put your hands on the book, then.”

  “This place is full of books,” he said. “I’m not hauling off a library.”

  “She’s a spy,” I told him. “She wrote her codes in book cipher. Do you know the book?”

  He wouldn’t admit it, but he did not.

  “And certain of her undergarments are soaked in secret ink. Have you been through her lingerie?”

  “I most certainly have not,” he said, with so
me pride. Apparently even lady criminals deserve their privacy in Paterson.

  With that, Miss Bradshaw and I simply pushed our way past him and proceeded to search the house, gathering up Dr. Chase’s Recipes, along with a dictionary, an atlas, a guide to the trees of New England, and a few other titles that seemed unusual, in case she used more than one book for her messages. We also collected notes and papers of all kinds, many of which were in Mr. Wilmington’s hand, but I would not put it above Mrs. Wilmington to use her husband’s correspondence as cover for her own secret messages.

  We looked inside every kitchen canister and shook any object, however small, that might conceal a vial within it. As we were looking for anything that might contain messages written in secret ink, I seized three old cookbooks with notes jotted down between the recipes—some in English, and some in German. I can only assume that they come from both Mr. Wilmington’s family and his wife’s. If I wanted to put a note in a place where it would not be disturbed, I’d choose an old family cookbook.

  At the conclusion of our search, we accompanied the officers to the police station to see for ourselves that Mrs. Wilmington was to be locked in a cell. (She was by then loudly protesting her innocence and claiming that I’d planted the vials myself, although she was unable to explain what she was doing at the stable.)

  Once assured that she was in custody, Miss Bradshaw and I went to the print shop to make one last search for good measure. We found nothing out of the ordinary. It was by then six in the morning, so I stopped in at home to tell Fleurette that she wouldn’t have to report to work at the Wilmingtons’.

  I found her feverish and shivering under the covers. It was then that I learned that she’d been nursing Mr. Wilmington.

  Both are in the hospital now. I write to you from an uncomfortable wooden chair in the hall that is to be my home until she’s released. Both she and Mr. Wilmington are under quarantine, as the vials were found to contain anthrax and glanders, and we don’t know if they were exposed. As you know from your call to Dr. Hatch, there isn’t a great deal to be done for either disease, short of excising pustules if they appear (and they haven’t).