Trouble at High Tide

by Jessica Fletcher Donald Bain

  “What makes you say that?”

  “No evidence to the contrary at the moment. And we have yet to identify the owner of the shoes the constables found at the top of the flight of stairs. Apparently the woman of the house up there doesn’t claim them, and the family of the victim was unable to identify them as hers. Ronnie—uh, that’s Macdonald—was going to run some tests to see whether the soles held on to anything helpful, such as sand, grass, seeds, etcetera.”

  “If they were the killer’s shoes, and she fled up the stairs, wouldn’t she have picked them up when she got to the top?”

  “Panic does not always lead to logic,” he said. “Despite the attempt to put the blame on the serial killer, I do not believe that this perpetrator is experienced, nor a professional.”

  “Why would you say that?”

  “He or she used a blunt knife.”

  “Blunt? Do you mean dull?”

  “Dull means boring,” he said with a twinkle in his eye. “I don’t know that I would apply that to a knife. The murder weapon wasn’t sharp.”

  I laughed. “I thought we were speaking the same language, but every now and then, I wonder.”

  “Perhaps we should invest in a British English to American English dictionary.”

  “It would be a help.”

  “Please stop me if there’s anything I say that’s not clear,” he said.

  “All right. Getting back to the Jack the Ripper killer’s knife, is it always sharp?”

  “Always. Or, I should say, it has been three times. And unlike the cases of the other victims, the blade used on Miss Betterton was not serrated—possibly a kitchen knife or a hunting knife, and perhaps one that was not used very often. They’ve found a bit of rust in the wound.”

  “Rust. Well, we’re on an island surrounded by water,” I said. “If a blade isn’t water resistant, I imagine it could rust pretty quickly. The one I use for fishing does.”

  He shrugged.

  “Did you have a chance to see all the Bettertons’ household knives that the constables removed following the murder?” I asked.

  “Wasn’t one of them,” he replied, waving his hand in front of his face. “The constables were working on the theory that the killer may have washed off the knife and replaced it in the cupboard.”

  “And you don’t think so?”

  “My hypothesis has the slayer flinging the murder weapon into the surf, probably not right in front of the scene itself. It may turn up, but by the time it does, it will likely be scoured of all trace evidence. Between the salt and the sand, the ocean can be a very efficient cleaner.”

  “Would it clean off fingerprints, too?”

  “Hard to know. Plus, the killer may have worn gloves. I would have liked to have found the weapon, but it’s a moot point now. It doesn’t bear on my duties here. I’m looking for a different person.”

  “The Jack the Ripper killer,” I said.

  “Yes.”

  The waitress returned, temporarily interrupting our conversation. She took china cups and saucers from her silver tray and set them down on the small table in front of us, along with a pot of steaming tea. “Would you like me to pour?” she asked.

  “I’ll pour,” Freddie replied.

  The waitress left but was back moments later with a multitiered serving piece holding an assortment of finger sandwiches and, under a silver dome, two scones with Devonshire clotted cream. I remembered from my visits to London that afternoon tea is a meal in itself, and a wonderful one at that. Freddie poured the tea and we helped ourselves from the selection.

  Despite the fact that the topic of conversation would discourage the appetite of most, we ate heartily. The first sandwich I tried was ham and cantaloupe, an unusual and refreshing combination, but my favorite was minted cucumber and goat cheese on a tiny onion roll.

  Freddie concentrated on the plate in front of him, every now and then raising his head to roll his eyes and nodding to show how much he relished the food. I got the impression that considering his odd attire and distinctly special interests, here was a man who threw himself into whatever activity was at hand, which at this moment was enjoying the refreshments that were part of afternoon tea at the Fairmont Hamilton Princess.

  Apparently he also threw himself into the role of Jack the Ripper expert, right down to dressing the part of a gentleman who lived in the nineteenth century. Still, he was not above using twenty-first-century technology as an aid, though he stored whatever it was in an ancient valise. I wondered what had inspired this passion, and proceeded to ask.

  “Interest, mainly. Anyone can become an expert on anything if they stick to it and do all the necessary research. I did have one advantage, though. My father was a Ripper follower, had a whole library on the subject. Even named me after the chief inspector on the case, Frederick Abberline. Used to read to me about the investigation when I was a lad.”

  “That’s certainly unusual.”

  “I guess it was fated that I’d become a policeman and work in the CID. That’s the criminal investigation department.”

  “I know that London’s Jack the Ripper was never found, but did the inspector you’re named for have a likely suspect?”

  “He did. Abberline was certain Jack the Ripper was actually George Chapman, the name taken by a Polish immigrant who had been apprenticed to a surgeon in his native land.”

  “Why him?”

  “Well, for one thing, the early Ripper murders were assumed to have been perpetrated by an expert surgeon. Chapman had the requisite training. Perhaps more compelling, the murders coincide with Chapman’s arrival in London and ceased when he emigrated to America, where oddly enough, a similar murder occurred at about that time.”

  “I didn’t know that!”

  “Further, Chapman was a true misogynist, having multiple wives and lovers, all of whom he abused terribly, perhaps revealing a motive. And he had opportunity; he worked as a barber in London at the time of the killings, in Whitechapel in fact, where the Ripper murders took place.”

  “And barbers don’t use blunt blades in their work,” I put in.

  Freddie smiled. “We’ll make a Brit of you yet.”

  “Do you agree with Abberline?”

  “About Chapman? Sadly, I don’t. Chapman killed three of his wives and was hanged for his crimes. But he poisoned them all. We don’t only know a lot more about forensics these days; we’re also more informed about psychology than when Abberline was investigating.”

  “Ah, so you believe that a man adept at poison wouldn’t be likely to change his manner of killing,” I said.

  “I do, yes, although Abberline did not agree. He argued that Chapman was known to be a serial killer, and that fact was more important than the manner he may have used. He saw no reason why a man with professional knowledge, as Chapman surely had, would not be capable of changing his methods. Plus, since the wives he eliminated were of a different class than the Ripper victims who were prostitutes, Abberline postulated that Chapman may have fancied that they required a different method of dispatch.”

  “Interesting theory.”

  “I still cling to the idea that a killer with so specific a manner as the Ripper followed would not be likely to change his technique, so to speak. There were eleven women killed at the time the Ripper was operating, but only five of them—the ‘canonical five,’ they’re called—share all the distinctive features he was known for. I don’t want to go into the details. We’re about to be served our sweets.”

  While we’d been speaking, the waitress had cleared our sandwich and scone plates and replaced them with fresh ones. The desserts, a selection of petits fours, came accompanied by sorbet. I chose a tiny pear amandine tart, while Freddie went for the black forest chocolate cup.

  He smiled as the waitress poured more tea, waited for her to leave, and then continued. “The murders here are striking in their similarity to the Ripper cases. It’s possible the Bermuda three, as I call them, may have been followed to the
island by their killer, but I suspect he’s home grown.”

  “How did you come to that conclusion?”

  “Several things. All three were found in Hamilton, and the city is covered with CCTV cameras.”

  “Closed circuit television cameras?”

  “Yes. Sorry. The jargon comes too easily.”

  “If there are surveillance cameras almost everywhere, the killer would have to be intimately familiar with Hamilton to know where he wouldn’t be recorded during the murders,” I offered.

  “Bravo, Mrs. Fletcher! Even your sterling reputation doesn’t do you justice. That’s exactly my reasoning. And given the high alert the island went on following the second murder, it seems to me the man has to be knowledgeable about Bermuda’s daily social and business schedule to have committed the crimes without anyone noticing anything out of the ordinary.”

  “The original Ripper crimes took place on or near the weekend. Has that been the same here?”

  “Within a day or two either side.”

  “Do you have a theory as to why these women were targeted?”

  “I do,” he said, leaning forward. “See if you agree. What we know is that the women all originated from the Dominican Republic.”

  “What’s the connection?”

  “There’s been quite a bit of romantic tourism to that country on the part of older Bermudian men. There are even Web sites promoting ‘dating vacations,’ as they’re labeled. For the men, it’s enticing to think that a beautiful young Latina admires them. For the young women, marrying these men offers a way for them to escape poverty.”

  “Are there a lot of marriages?”

  “The government is trying to crack down on them, making the newcomers apply for visas. It’s a volatile issue. There have been articles in the press and letters to the editors. Yet they continue. The ladies come here on the promise of a good life, but when they arrive, their men find they can’t communicate with their new fiancées or wives.”

  “Who only speak Spanish,” I inserted.

  He shook his head sadly. “A few women have even been abandoned at the airport. Without any means of support and no way to return home, they turned to what they viewed as their only option.”

  “But surely the men knew these women didn’t speak English when they met them in their homeland,” I said.

  “They did, but perhaps they were blinded by the idea that an attractive young woman would be willing to marry them and bear their babies. So these sham marriages take place and after that, things go pear-shaped.”

  “Is that the same as downhill?”

  “The very same. And while one can argue they should have known this would happen, people who are desperate to change their lives—and that goes for both the men and the women—will take desperate measures.”

  “And the three victims, did they follow this pattern?”

  “We believe so. We are cooperating with the police in Santo Domingo to trace their backgrounds.”

  “If they all share this background, the killer must have a reason for why he chose to act now,” I said. “What do you think triggered the crimes?”

  Instead of answering my question, Freddie posed one of his own. “This is really Gilliam’s specialty; he’s the profiler amongst us. But put yourself in the mind of the murderer. What could his motives be?”

  I mentally reviewed what I knew from reading the local newspapers and the little I had seen on the Internet. “The women are vulnerable, probably alone, definitely without the support system they would have had at home. That makes them an easy target,” I said, thinking aloud.

  “Yes. And they’re on the lowest rung of society. They’re street walkers, not upstanding citizens.”

  “The killer could be attacking them on moral grounds, trying to eliminate an element he sees as corrupt. He’s angry—”

  “Anger often plays a part in these scenarios.” A small smile played on his lips.

  “This person may have had homicidal tendencies to begin with,” I said, “but circumstances have conspired to focus his anger on these young women. As outcasts, they are easy to dispense with. He rationalizes that no one will miss them.”

  “He thinks: Who in Bermuda really cares what happens to them? They’re outsiders. Immigration is a hot topic in all countries that attract foreigners. Bermuda is no exception.”

  “I think I see your theory,” I said.

  “Go ahead.”

  “He’s furious that foreigners are coming in. He thinks they’re ‘ruining’ his country. And he not only kills them,” I said, “he marks them in a way that serves as a warning to other potential immigrants to stay away from his land.”

  Freddie sighed. “You have it spot on. I’m impressed. Would you like to accompany me on some of my rounds?”

  I smiled. “I’m supposed to be here on vacation,” I said.

  “I would adore having you work with me, Jessica Fletcher. Together we could solve all the cases in the world.”

  We both laughed.

  “That’s very flattering,” I said, “but I’m already committed to my other work.”

  The waitress approached us again. “Are you Inspector Moore?” she asked Freddie.

  “Yes.”

  “There’s a telephone call for you at the bar,” she said.

  Freddie patted his pockets. “Cor! I must have left my bloody mobile in the car. Would you please excuse me?”

  “Of course,” I said.

  He followed the waitress across the room to the bar where a young man handed him a telephone. When he returned to our table, his expression was somber.

  “Is something wrong?” I asked.

  “Yes,” he replied. “They’ve found another victim.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  A crowd had already formed outside the yellow tape that the constables had strung across the alleyway at the latest crime scene. The victim’s body had been covered to shield it from prying eyes, but the edges of the pool of blood in which the corpse lay were visible. The police had put traffic cones around the stain to prevent investigators from treading in the blood.

  Gilliam and Macdonald were already there when Freddie and I pushed our way through the throng to gain admittance to the cordoned-off area. The Scotland Yard inspectors were standing apart from the constables, talking to the police commissioner.

  Commissioner Leonard Hanover’s eyebrows rose when he saw us walk into the crime scene together, but he greeted me cordially. “Mrs. Fletcher, I believe we met at Judge Betterton’s the other evening.”

  I shook his hand.

  “I must apologize, Mrs. Fletcher,” he said. “You’re not seeing the best side of Bermuda at this unfortunate time.”

  “No need for apologies, Commissioner. Bermuda is always beautiful. I’m sorry you’re having to deal with such terrible crimes, and I’m sorry these poor women have been targeted by a madman.”

  “Who found her?” Freddie asked.

  “Some men from Works and Engineering,” the commissioner replied. “They were collecting trash and moved those bins.” The commissioner pointed to a row of large-wheeled garbage containers. “Her body was behind them.”

  Freddie addressed Inspector Macdonald. “Was she killed here or was the body dumped here?”

  “From the volume of blood, I’d say this is the site of the murder,” she replied.

  “Same perp,” Gilliam added. “Same MO.”

  “Do we have an ID?” Freddie asked.

  “Not yet,” the commissioner said. “My boys are tracing her. She’s wearing some kind of fancy bracelet. They’re checking jewelry merchants. If she purchased it here, we may get a make on her. Superintendent Bird’s team is inquiring with its undercover officers to find out if any of the prostitution ring bosses and madams are missing a girl.”

  “Anything from the Dominican community?”

  The commissioner shook his head. “Nothing.”

  Gilliam turned to me. “It’s a very touchy subject, as you might
imagine. The Dominicans who work here are sensitive to any talk of prostitutes coming from their country. They’re afraid they’ll all be tarnished with the same label.”

  “I’m ready to take a look,” Freddie said, his face grim. He put on latex gloves and walked over to the body, gingerly raising a corner of the tarp high enough so he could see the face of the victim. He circled the corpse, carefully avoiding the puddles of blood, and checked under the covering at intervals before discarding his gloves and returning to us.

  I wavered between curiosity about what he was seeing and relief that he hadn’t invited me to view the remains. I was grateful that he’d made the decision for me, but I wondered if I should have asked.

  “No need,” Freddie said, reading my mind. “It would just upset you, and I don’t see anything new to change the picture we discussed today.” He wandered away to consult with an officer, leaving me standing with his colleagues and the commissioner.

  A flash of light from behind the yellow tape alerted us to the fact that the press had arrived and were taking pictures. The commissioner excused himself and walked over to confront the photographer. I heard him say, “We have scheduled a briefing for eighteen hundred hours. We ask that you please allow the authorities to complete their work unimpeded.” He signaled to some officers in police vests and tall helmets and they pushed back the crowd.

  A reporter called out to me. “Mrs. Fletcher! Mrs. Fletcher!”

  I turned at the sound of my name and the photographer’s flash went off again.

  “It’s Larry Terhaar, AP.” He beckoned to me. “We met earlier. Can we have a word with you?”

  I ignored the appeal, and the constables began lining up the garbage bins in a row across the alley entrance, effectively obscuring the scene so the crowd couldn’t see us, and we couldn’t see them.

  “You have to stay away from those fellows,” Veronica Macdonald said, not bothering to lower her voice. “We can’t have information about the investigation leaking out to the press.”