Fair Play’s a Jewel (Harry Reese Mysteries Book 5)

by Robert Bruce Stewart

  “Are you saying your wife’s as loony as Nan?”

  “Constable Peabbles, believe me when I tell you, you don’t know the meaning of loony. What you have with Nan is a mere eccentric. A curious sort, certainly. But has she ever hopped a canal boat to Lake Champlain?”

  “Lake Champlain? No, I doubt she’s been further than Boston.”

  “Then I don’t suppose she’s had time to get kicked off a train for dealing from a cold deck.”

  “Dealing from a cold deck? No….”

  “Has she ever been pursued by a Chinese tong? Or matched wits with a ruthless German countess-cum-jewel thief who seasons her husband’s dessert with chicken bones?”

  “Not to my knowledge…. But she does have a temper.”

  “A temper? Have you ever had to restrain her from bludgeoning a fellow drowning in a canal lock?”

  “Your wife…?”

  “Just the one time. Down in Washington. But I’ve barely scratched the surface.”

  “You know, Nan only became this way when she took up writing.”

  “Yes… a dangerous profession. Be careful or someday you’ll answer the door and find one of her fictional creations calling on her.”

  “Oh, we’re just neighbors.”

  “Yes, but you have hopes.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “Why else would you have asked my opinion of her? Peabbles, what you have is a girl just odd enough to keep the long winter evenings from being dull—but not so odd she’ll present you with a corpse in an opium den as an anniversary present.”

  “Opium den?”

  “Sham opium den. But that’s too long a story to go into now. No, my advice is you ought to grab her before some other fellow does.”

  I’d developed a brotherly affection for Nan, and now, being family, I felt compelled to interfere in her love life. Besides, a constable would be an advantageous match for a woman who sold things that didn’t belong to her.

  At the hotel, we found Branscombe in his office.

  “How goes the investigation, Constable?” he asked.

  “The girl was poisoned, Mr. Branscombe. And I need to find out how. I’d like to go through her room.”

  “I thought you already had?”

  “Yes, but I might have missed something. Mr. Reese here has agreed to help out.”

  “Surely you aren’t thinking there’s a connection between her death and the arson?”

  “Any reason to assume there isn’t?” I asked.

  “Why, no, I suppose not.”

  He got the key for Peabbles and the constable and I went upstairs.

  “He seemed kind of uneasy about you coming along,” Peabbles said. “Her room’s on the fourth floor. With the help.”

  “Why’s that?” I asked.

  “Branscombe says it was all she could afford, being an actress. From what I heard, she hadn’t been doing much of that the last few weeks.”

  It was a tiny room, hot and stuffy. The bed had been moved so it was directly under the sole window. A small table held a framed picture—a little girl in the lap of her father—surrounded by the bottles usually found in a woman’s bath. The drawer held a pencil and some paper, thread and needles, and three postcards sent from New York the previous month. Friendly notes from a brother named Lenny. The first just told of his arrival by steamer, presumably from Britain. The second complained about the difficulty in finding work and included a thinly veiled plea for money. Which seemed to have worked. The third read, “Thanks for the century, May. Arrived just in time. And thank Aunt Kate!”

  A wardrobe of rough pine held a few casual skirts and shirtwaists, and two pairs of old shoes. In addition, there was a single chair and, tucked under the bed, a small trunk. Peabbles took out a key and unlocked it. Inside were some letters from Britain, a money box, and more apparel of a finer sort. But no medicine of any kind.

  “I found the key on May, then matched it to the trunk. There was almost three hundred dollars in the box. I turned that in to the clerk at the courthouse.”

  He went back to the wardrobe. “Someone’s been through here since I was last.”

  “Something missing?”

  “A new pair of patent leather shoes, and I remember a red skirt.” He took out a small pad and was checking the contents against his notes. “And two print dresses.”

  “What about the bottles on the table?”

  “Seem the same. Nothing you’d put inside you.”

  I could hear women’s voices in the hall, one of which I recognized as Bridget’s. I poked out my head and asked them to come in.

  “The constable thinks someone’s been in this room since he was here earlier. It seems some items of clothing are missing.”

  Bridget blushed and looked down, but the other girl, a blonde wearing a red skirt, laughed.

  “And why not? Turn about’s fair play.”

  “Not when it might be evidence,” Peabbles told her, then lowered his eyes toward the skirt.

  She pointed to the open wardrobe. “You see that waist there? I swear that’s mine. She cut the mark off it. Always taking things that weren’t hers. Isn’t that so, Bridge?”

  The latter nodded. “She did borrow things sometimes.”

  “Anything taken from this room needs to be returned,” Peabbles insisted.

  The blonde issued an oath. Then, in one graceful movement, she removed the skirt, tossed it over Peabbles, and slammed the door behind her.

  While Peabbles retrieved the skirt and a semblance of his pride, I asked Bridget if she’d been in the room before.

  “I cleaned it for her,” she said. She was fiddling with the sash at her waist.

  “Was it anything besides clothing?” I asked. “I mean, do you think anything else was taken from the room?”

  She made a cursory look around, still fiddling with the sash. “No, not that I notice.” She asked if she might go.

  “All right, thank you,” I said.

  When she’d left, Peabbles closed the door.

  “What do you think she was hiding?” he asked.

  “Not sure. Of course, some people act that way whenever around policemen.”

  “Maybe, but I’d wager she knows something.”

  It wasn’t much later he was proved correct. We’d started downstairs when Peabbles asked if he could wash up in my room. Just as he turned off the faucet there was a light knock at the door.

  “Why, hello, Bridget. Feeling better?”

  “Yes, thank you.” She came in and silently closed the door.

  “Did you remember something?”

  “I didn’t need to remember it.”

  “There was something else missing from the room?”

  “Yes. Some… medicine.”

  “What sort of medicine?”

  “You know how she was?”

  “Carrying a child?”

  She nodded. Her eyes were closed and she was crying. And back to fiddling with her sash.

  “The doctor said she might have been three months along. Was she taking something for the morning sickness?”

  She shook her head.

  “Something to end the pregnancy?”

  She nodded, then let forth a Niagara.

  “What was it?”

  “Pennyroyal. I told her that was a wicked thing, but she just laughed.”

  “When did you last see it?”

  “It was there evening before last. That was the last time I was in her room.”

  “Pills?”

  “No, oil of pennyroyal. In a blue bottle.”

  “Any idea who might have taken it from the room?”

  “No, but it was gone this morning.”

  “You went in to clean the room?” I asked.

  “When I heard she’d died, I went to take it away, before anyone else saw it.”

  “So no one would know she’d done something wicked?”

  She nodded.

  “But it wasn’t there?”

  �
�No, someone else must have taken it.”

  “Did she always leave it in her room?”

  “Yes, right on her table there.”

  “Do you think one of the other girls might have taken it?”

  “I went up as soon as I heard. Her room was locked.”

  “How many other people have a pass-key?”

  “Anyone working here could get one.”

  “Do you have any idea where she got the pennyroyal in the first place?”

  “No, but it’s not hard to find.”

  She dried her eyes and went off. Then Peabbles emerged from the bath.

  “You heard all that?” I asked.

  “Sure did. Not surprised. A girl like that.”

  11

  No sooner had Peabbles left than Ed arrived. He looked worried. Seeing a waiter in the hall, I asked him to bring up a couple blue pigs just to ease the burden all around.

  “Annie still giving you trouble?”

  “She’s been following that Field fellow about all afternoon.”

  “How can you be sure of that?”

  “Because I’ve been following her all afternoon.”

  “I thought you went into town to find a chemist’s?” I asked.

  “This morning.”

  “Did you get what you needed?”

  “Most of it, rest needed to be ordered.”

  “Care to tell me what that’s about?”

  “Not yet, Harry. Have you learned anything?”

  “May Goodwin was poisoned with digitalis.”

  “Oh. Does that have anything to do with the arson?”

  “It might. Mrs. Field told me that May confided she knew who set the fire. Mentioned the name Jolly.”

  “Mrs. Field?”

  “Yes, though how reliable a source she is might be open to question.”

  “So you think this May Goodwin was poisoned by whoever set the fire to keep her from revealing his name?” he asked.

  “Possibly. The doctor said neither the chowder nor the wine she had last night were poisoned. But remember she was pregnant. Apparently she was taking pennyroyal….”

  “Annie took pennyroyal pills when she was expecting our little boy. They’re supposed to regulate things.”

  “Which things?”

  “Women’s things.”

  Our blue pigs arrived and Ed downed his in a moment. Not wanting to spoil his mood, I left the topic of pennyroyal’s medicinal applications unexplored.

  “I also spoke to that beachcomber, Stanley Chambers. He suggested we speak with a lawyer by the name of Nathan Libby.”

  “What’s he have to do with it?”

  “He didn’t say. But Libby’s one of the people building that other hotel. He lives just up the road. Maybe we can go up there after dinner. In the meantime, how about a game of pool?”

  As we passed into the lobby, we came upon Emmie walking arm in arm with Mrs. Field.

  “Miss Meegs, you must meet my dear friends Mr. Ketchum and Mr. Reese.”

  “I’m pleased to meet you, Mr. Ketchum. Mr. Reese I know only too well. He’s the… person… I’ve been telling you about, the one with whom I’ve been forced to share my bath.”

  With that, Emmie excused herself and went upstairs.

  “I’d like to share the mort’s bath,” Mrs. Field confessed.

  Ed spotted Annie on the porch and stumbled out after her.

  “Come for a walk, Mr. Reese.” Mrs. Field had taken my arm and was leading me outside. “I’d like to hear what you know of this Miss Meegs.”

  “Not much. Seems rather unfriendly.”

  “She doesn’t seem to like you.”

  “No? That’s probably on account of my surprising her in the bath.”

  “And what came of that?”

  “Well, I now know about the birthmark.”

  “Do tell. Where might I find this birthmark?”

  “Let’s just say I wouldn’t have seen it if she’d been sitting down.”

  “I must have a look for myself…. She’s just been telling me the most fantastic story.”

  “How fantastic?”

  “Too fantastic to be believed….” She sat down on the grass, then pulled me down beside her. “…But most entertaining. I met her in Portland waiting for the car back here. She told me she recognized me from the hotel and asked if I was Mrs. Field. I said yes, and she told me she was Miss Meegs. I then asked her what she had done with her husband.”

  “What she had done with him?”

  “She still bore the scar of a wedding band.”

  “Yes, of course. And what had she done with him?”

  “She told me he was an abusive tyrant, who left her no identity of her own. He spied on her every movement, and interfered with any attempt she made at establishing her own life.”

  “Did he beat her?”

  “She didn’t mention that, but I took it for granted he did.”

  “How’d she escape him?”

  “Oh, she didn’t escape him, exactly. She prepared his favorite meal, roast duck with olive sauce, and poisoned it with strychnine.”

  “I don’t believe that.”

  “Oh, strychnine’s quite easy to come by. It’s the first choice of poisoners.”

  “No, I mean I don’t believe she’d bother with the roast duck with olive sauce. I know my wife wouldn’t. She might poison the overcooked scrambled eggs, or the undercooked biscuits. But she’d never go to the trouble of roast duck with olive sauce.”

  “You suspect she was boasting?”

  “At least about the roast duck with olive sauce. But how’d she dispose of the corpse?”

  “Chopped him into small pieces. Starting with his essentials….”

  “Essentials?”

  Her reply was to place a hand on my thigh.

  I made a feeble effort at sliding it away. But this time physiology took a stand. “Sounds like a lot of work.”

  “I said the same thing, but she claimed it was a labor of love. Once she had him nicely cubed, she ran him through a meat grinder and stuffed him into sausages, which she then boiled and distributed to whatever stray dogs she happened to come across.”

  I doubted Emmie knew one end of a meat grinder from the other, but just to be safe, I made a mental note to dispose of any found back at the apartment. “By the way, there’s something I wanted to ask. Have you by any chance visited May Goodwin’s room?”

  “Her room?”

  “Yes, I thought you might have borrowed a pass-key from your country wife.”

  “My country wife? Oh, you mean Bridget.” Her tone had become almost serious, and her hand slipped away.

  “Yes, the Teaguelander.”

  “I never met Miss Goodwin until last evening. And certainly haven’t been to her room. Am I some sort of suspect?”

  “No. It’s just that something’s been misplaced. I thought you might have seen it.” She looked at me suspiciously, so I changed the subject. “Did you ever put on your play?”

  “Play?”

  “The one May Goodwin was going to play the lead in.”

  “Oh, yes. Yes, of course. It’s… a dramatization of Aucassin & Nicolete.”

  “Aucassin & Nicolete? I have a copy of that, bought it at a shop in Portland.”

  “Not Mr. Mosher’s shop?”

  “Yes. Do you know it?”

  “Michael is passionate about Mr. Mosher’s editions of his work. But I had no idea you had such depths, Mr. Reese.” She was back to her usual self now.

  “Well, I haven’t actually read it.”

  “You must show it to Michael.” She gave me one of her roguish smiles, then added, “And you’d be perfect for the part of the king of Torelore.”

  “Sounds like an honor.”

  “We’ll see if you think so after you’ve read it. Perhaps we can hold a rehearsal this evening.” Then she stared into the distance, bemused. “Do you think she really killed him?”

  “Who?”

  “This Miss
Meegs. I wager she tells that silly story just to obscure the fact she did kill that husband. Why else would she be so bobbish?”

  She smiled to herself, then hopped up and walked off. This was my first hint that insightfulness did not number among Mrs. Field’s diverse gifts.

  Back upstairs, I saw Naggie carrying a menu.

  “I’ve invited your woman to dine with me. Come and join us. There’s a lovely view from my room.”

  “I wouldn’t want to intrude.”

  “Oh, you won’t be intruding. Come along.”

  She showed me into her room and a minute later Emmie appeared.

  “Harry, what are you doing here?”

  “It’s all right, love,” Naggie assured her. “I asked him in.”

  “It’s only that I was hoping to see a good deal less of him this trip.”

  “I’ll render myself as inconspicuous as possible,” I told her. Then tripped over the sleeping chow on my way to a dark corner. He showed me his teeth again.

  Naggie went and comforted the dog, then asked Emmie about her foray into Mosher’s office.

  “I found three letters from Fiona Macleod.” She reached in her bag and offered up an envelope. “But I believe the woman who runs the office suspects.”

  Naggie put on a pair of eyeglasses and started reading. “Oh, aren’t you the fly donah. You’ve done me to rights, you have.”

  “What about your search for the potential assassin?” I asked.

  “There was a dispute relating to a former business associate of Mr. Mosher’s, but it seems to have been resolved. And there were some exchanges with English authors who felt Mr. Mosher had taken liberties by publishing their work.”

  “Well, they don’t call him the pirate publisher of Portland without cause,” I told her.

  “Who calls him that?”

  “English writers whose work he’s taken. Apparently, if a foreign author hasn’t secured a copyright in the U.S., anyone can publish his work, and without paying him a cent. Who were the authors he had scraps with?”

  “They were all from several years back—I didn’t bother writing down the names. Only one I recognized, but I can’t remember it now. He writes those fairy books. You know, The Red Fairy Book, The Blue Fairy Book, and so on. Old folktales. Like the Grimms. You must know who I mean, Naggie. It begins with an ‘L’.”