Trouble at High Tide

by Jessica Fletcher Donald Bain

  “I have no intention of speaking to the press on any matter,” I said. “My intuition tells me a denial will only inflame them more.”

  “Very wise, Mrs. Fletcher,” Tedeschi said. “They’ll only see it as ‘the lady doth protest too much.’”

  “Are you quoting Shakespeare again, Tony?” Superintendent Bird said.

  “Hamlet, act three, scene two,” he replied. “Comes in handy.”

  “Thank you for your time, gentlemen,” I said. “I appreciate your seeing me.” I started to rise, but the commissioner put a hand out to delay me.

  “Before you go, Mrs. Fletcher, do you have information on the Betterton murder that you can share with us? Like who the killer might be?”

  He released my arm and I sat down again.

  “We are not unaware of your reputation, you know,” he continued. “The police are always happy to have more information.”

  “The only new information I’ve uncovered,” I said, “is that the shoes found at the top of the stairs on the Jamison property belong to Claudia Betterton.”

  “Isn’t that just like a woman to concentrate on the shoes,” Bird said, smirking.

  “We were hoping for information more in line with identifying the person behind the crime,” Hanover added.

  “I can’t deny I’ve been talking to people and trying to figure out why Alicia was killed and who her murderer might be, but I wouldn’t say I’m ready to accuse anyone.”

  The commissioner rose from his seat and I stood as well. “You be sure to let us know when you can pinpoint the culprit,” he said. He winked at his fellow officers as he escorted me to the door.

  Perhaps he thought I hadn’t seen his expression, or maybe he didn’t care that I had. As he closed the door behind me, I heard Tedeschi say, “All’s well that ends well.” The men laughed.

  Constable Andrews was waiting for me in the hall. “Get what you need?” he asked.

  “Not exactly,” I replied. “Would you mind if I stopped in to see the Scotland Yard team before I leave?”

  “Have a go,” he said. “Know where their office is?”

  “I know where I met with them before.”

  “Let’s see if they’re still there,” he said. “If not, I can sneak you out the back door where you’re less likely to be accosted by those fellows out front.”

  We descended the stairs to the first floor and I walked ahead of him to the room where I’d been interviewed by Inspectors Macdonald and Gilliam. It was empty.

  “Do you mind if I wait a little while in case any of them return?” I asked Andrews.

  “I don’t mind, as long as you don’t wander about.” He looked at his watch. “They may be out for lunch. I’ll give you fifteen, twenty minutes before I come to collect you. Is that enough?”

  “I hope so,” I said.

  Andrews left and I grabbed a chair, arranging it so that I could look out into the hall, but wouldn’t be immediately seen unless someone came into the room. I dug in my shoulder bag for something to read—I am never without some kind of reading material—and found Alicia’s book on Jack the Ripper. I started from the beginning again, reviewing the information on the “canonical five” Freddie had told me about, looking for Alicia’s highlights and underlines. There were six more victims who’d been killed either by the Ripper himself or someone imitating his style. There was a footnote at the end of the sentence that discussed the eleven victims, and I turned to the back of the book to find the reference. Alicia had put a little star by it.

  In one case, it is unclear whether or not the Ripper attacked the victim. The murder was alleged to have taken place the day after Christmas 1887, yet Whitechapel police have no record of a murder on that date. Nevertheless newspapers gave the mystery victim a nickname, “Fairy Fay.” Most authorities agree she never existed.

  “Good grief!” I said aloud. “She never existed?”

  Chapter Twenty-one

  “Ah, Mrs. Fletcher. How wonderful to see you,” Freddie said, coming into the room lugging his battered suitcase in one hand and juggling a pile of letters and a package in the other. “I was afraid we’d lost your assistance.” He parked his suitcase under a table, put his mail down on top of it, and said, “I heard your voice just now. Who are you saying never existed?”

  I looked up at him. “Fairy Fay.”

  “Quite right,” he said, stroking his red sideburns. “She was a figment of the press’s imagination. Possibly they meant Emma Elizabeth Smith, who was attacked the prior Christmas in 1886, but she lived. Why does she interest you?”

  I opened the back cover of Alicia’s book and showed Freddie the note in her handwriting. “I took it to mean Alicia had an appointment with this Fairy Fay. I went to Gardner’s Deli in Hamilton yesterday at two o’clock looking for her. No wonder no one knew the name.”

  “That’s a fairly cryptic message,” he said. “Interesting how you worked it out. Perhaps she played a game with a friend where they traded the victims’ names.”

  “From what I’ve learned about Alicia, she was flirtatious, provocative and at times capricious. I’m not surprised she would choose the name of a nonexistent victim if she were playacting. I’m just not sure that’s what this is.” I closed the book and returned it to my shoulder bag.

  “Well, I’m delighted you’re here, whatever the reason. And by the by, what is the reason? Oh, sorry to be so gormless. Chief Inspector Sutherland, of course. Dreadful piece in today’s newspaper. Don’t take it to heart.”

  “I came here hoping to prevent the commissioner from thinking poorly of George, only to find out the police service is actually happy to have reporters move their focus onto someone else.”

  “Isn’t that always the case?”

  “Was he very distressed about the piece?”

  “Chief Inspector Sutherland? I would say he was more concerned about how you would react than how he was portrayed, although, I must say that it’s not a good image for the higher-ups in London to happen upon. Doesn’t reflect well upon him.”

  “Oh, dear. That’s what I was afraid of. Where is he now?”

  “I believe they were stopping at the laboratory after lunch. Should be back soon.”

  “Have you made any more headway on the case?” I asked.

  “Not enough,” he said. “I keep thinking there’s something I’m missing that would help break it open, but I can’t think of what that might be.”

  “If the murderer really wants to be taken for a modern-day Jack the Ripper,” I said, “what elements of the nineteenth-century investigation have not been replicated yet?”

  “Many, I would say. While we have the misfortune to see volunteer citizens patrolling the streets at night—and there have been quite a few false leads we nevertheless must pursue—no one has come forward claiming to be Jack the Ripper reincarnated. We haven’t seen any taunting letters in the papers. Lots of complaints about the lack of arrests, however. That we have seen.”

  “No postcards claiming to be the killer?” I asked.

  “None that have been published to date.”

  “What about those that haven’t been published? Were they turned over to you?”

  “We’ve asked for them, but I don’t know that we’ve received them all. That’s another avenue to pursue.” Freddie took out his pad and made a notation on it.

  We heard voices down the hall and moments later, Veronica Macdonald walked into the room, followed by Jack Gilliam and George.

  Gilliam greeted me warmly; Macdonald simply nodded. George came over and took my hands, his eyes full of concern. “Are you all right? I’m terribly sorry to have caught you up in this mess. I should have been more sensitive to how my visit would be perceived.”

  “No harm done, George,” I said. “I’m a big girl. I can protect myself, although I was very grateful for the assistance of one of the constables today.” I gave him a crooked smile.

  He sighed. “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be,” I sa
id. “I can’t say that I appreciate the attention from the press, but it comes with the territory. I only hope that all of our combined efforts will result in something that gives the press a real story to cover instead of the one they’re making up.”

  There was an awkward silence and Freddie jumped in, holding up an envelope. “While you gents and this lady were enjoying your luncheon,” he said, waving the envelope at George, Gilliam, and Macdonald, “I went to the post office general delivery to retrieve our post.” He sniffed the envelope. “I believe this is a billet-doux for you, Ronnie. Didn’t know you had a beau.”

  “Oh, don’t be daft,” she said, reddening. She swiped the letter from his hand and put it in her handbag.

  “Something from the home office for you, Jack,” he said to Gilliam. Freddie continued passing out the items he’d picked up at the post office and opened the package addressed to him. “Here’s my new mini-motherboard,” he said. “And look!” He held up what looked like a fountain pen.

  “Is that your nineteenth-century writing implement?” Gilliam asked. “Are you going to carry around an inkwell now?”

  “So you assume,” Freddie said, grinning. “This is a camera, my friend, the latest twenty-first century technological achievement, capable of capturing an image from five hundred meters.” He tucked it in his breast pocket.

  “Don’t lose that,” George said. “It took a big chunk of my budget.”

  “I will guard it with my life.”

  George turned to me. “Jessica? Something wrong, lass? You appear upset.”

  “The opposite, George. I just thought of something. Freddie, I can’t thank you enough.”

  “Well, I always hope my contributions will be helpful,” he said, “but I must admit, I’m a bit at sea about what I’ve done.”

  “I’ll let you know later if I’m right.” I turned to George. “Can you give me a lift into town?”

  “Right now?”

  “Yes, please. I’m not sure what time it closes.”

  “What time what closes?”

  “The post office, of course.”

  Chapter Twenty-two

  George circled the block several times but was unable to find a legal parking space and refused to take a spot designated for the handicapped.

  “You go in and I’ll wait out here,” he said. “If something opens up, I’ll meet you inside.”

  Unlike the quaint Perot Post Office, Hamilton’s General Post Office was an imposing white building, its cool air a contrast to the warmth outside. I pulled Alicia’s book from my bag and checked her message again. “Fairy Fay, GD, 2, Tuesday.”

  GD hadn’t been Gardner’s Deli. That had been a good guess, but not the right one. I was still trusting that GD was a location, however. Crossing my fingers that I was right this time, I looked around for a sign saying “general delivery.” There wasn’t one.

  A little less sure of myself, I reread Alicia’s note. If the figure “2” didn’t refer to a time of day, what could it mean? My eyes roamed the open space and noticed that clerks were stationed behind numbered windows. I found window number two and joined the others in line waiting to pick up their mail. “Excuse me,” I said to the woman in front of me. “Is this the window for general delivery?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” she said. “And there’s always a wait.” She sighed.

  And so did I, but mine was a sigh of relief, not impatience. It was Wednesday, not Tuesday, but if my luck held, no one else would have picked up Alicia’s mail, assuming that this time I’d interpreted her note correctly.

  When it was my turn to approach the window, I asked the postal employee behind the cage, “Do you have anything for Fairy Fay?”

  He looked me up and down and said, “Wondered who had such a strange name. You don’t look like a fairy to me.”

  “Fairies come in all shapes and sizes,” I told him.

  He picked through a bin of packages and boxes and retrieved a large, padded manila envelope, which he passed through a barcode reader.

  “When did it come in?” I asked.

  “Was on yesterday morning’s plane, I believe. Sign here.” He pushed a form through the slot at the bottom of the window. “I need to see some identification.”

  I hesitated, wondering if after finally discovering the meaning of Alicia’s note to herself, I wouldn’t be able to see what she had been sent. I signed the name of “Fairy Fay” on the form, put my own name next to it, and slid the form and my passport under the window to the postal clerk.

  “Not your real name, huh?”

  “I shook my head. A friend is fond of playing jokes on me,” I said.

  “Well, tell her to cut it out. This is an official government department. If you hadn’t given me your passport, I could have decided your ID was not sufficient.”

  “I’m happy you didn’t,” I said. “Thank you very much.”

  “Enjoy your day,” he said, shoving the padded envelope under the window. “Who’s next?”

  I clutched the envelope to my breast, excited to see its contents, but nervous at the same time. Thank you, Freddie Moore, I thought. If you hadn’t talked about general delivery when you brought in your mail, I might never have learned the meaning of Alicia’s message.

  George was behind the wheel of the car, sitting in an open parking space with the engine running. I walked into the street, opened the passenger door, and climbed inside. I couldn’t keep from smiling. Every now and then, the things you work hard for actually come to fruition, and this was one of them. The “GD” in Alicia’s note had temporarily led me astray. Gardner’s Deli had been the only establishment to fit those initials, but it was merely a misstep along the way. Freddie’s visit to the post office had put everything in focus and pointed me in the right direction.

  I had a feeling Alicia would have enjoyed hearing about my interpretation of her note. After all, she loved a mystery. What would she have thought of my investigation into her death? Did she have a premonition that her life was in danger? Had she left the note at the back of the book for someone to discover? If so, who had she hoped would find it? Stephen? Madeline? Tom? Certainly not me. However, I was the one to find her puzzle—and pursue it. And now that the case of the mysterious message had been solved, and the prize for solving it was in my hands, would the work have been worth it? Would the contents of this envelope somehow lead me to her killer?

  “What’s so special about this package?” George asked, breaking into my musings.

  “I don’t know,” I said, turning it over. “I don’t know what’s in it.”

  The envelope was hand addressed, and there were initials written on the top left corner where the sender’s address would be. But there was no address, just the letters B and L.

  “Why don’t you open it?” George said.

  “I’m not sure if I should,” I said, suddenly overcome with doubt.

  “Why not?”

  “It’s not mine. Is it even legal for me to have it? I’m not a member of Alicia’s family. It may be something very private.”

  “What do you want to do with it, then?”

  “Perhaps I should just give it to Tom. She was his niece, after all. He’ll know what to do with it.”

  “Jessica, are your scruples making you hesitate to open this mail because it wasn’t addressed to you?”

  I nodded.

  George took the envelope from my hands. “As a duly appointed member of the Criminal Investigation Division of the Metropolitan Police Service in Great Britain, I believe this package is a piece of evidence in an unsolved murder.” He pulled the tab on the back of the envelope and ripped it open.

  I leaned over to see a sheaf of papers, protected by a plastic sleeve. A sticky note on top of the sleeve read: “A, Here’s what you asked for. Be careful.” It was signed “B.”

  “Do you know who ‘B’ is?” George asked.

  “I have a pretty good idea,” I replied.

  “Then let’s take this to headquarters and ha
ve these papers copied. I don’t want to contaminate them with our fingerprints. We can put the documents back into the sleeve and into another envelope. I’d like to hold on to the copies in the event it turns out this envelope actually contains evidence, but you may examine them whenever you like. That agreeable to you?”

  “Yes, of course,” I said.

  “If you decide the proper owner of this envelope is the judge, I have a favor to ask.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I’d like to be there when you deliver it to him, not in any official capacity, but as your friend. Would that be all right? Can you think of an excuse to have me there?”

  “After today’s article, they would assume you and I are a couple. I’d say that’s excuse enough.”

  George smiled. “If only it were so,” he said.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  It took an hour for the copies to be made and returned to us. In the meantime, Veronica Macdonald scoured headquarters for a padded envelope similar to the one the papers had been sent in and brought it to us. Freddie Moore peeled off the bar code on the original envelope and affixed it to the new one. Jack Gilliam carefully copied the handwriting in the address and the initials of the sender, and we passed around the new envelope, trying to make it appear as if it had been wrinkled in its transit through the mail.

  When the documents and the photocopies of them were returned, we slipped the originals into the plastic sleeve, made sure the note to “A” from “B” was still affixed, and slid it all into the new envelope, sealing it so it would appear as if it had never been opened.

  Then we took the time to see what we had. George gave his team the photocopies, directing them to spread the pages out on the long table.

  “Try to arrange them in sections of a similar nature,” he instructed.

  The five of us circled the table, examining the papers that Alicia had taken such extreme measures to keep hidden—having them sent to her via general delivery so that they wouldn’t arrive at the house, and using a false name to disguise who the actual recipient was.