Stephen returned a few minutes later. “Tom said he’s feeling a little queasy,” he said. “He’s lying down. He told me to tell everyone to continue enjoying themselves.”
“Not that we were exactly enjoying ourselves,” Claudia said.
“This has been such a strain on him,” Margo said. “Maybe I should go see how he is.”
“Leave him alone, Margo,” Stephen said.
“I’ll have a cordial, Godfrey,” Daisy said, “and pour one for Margo, too.”
“Coming right up.”
George’s cell phone sounded. I followed him to the corner where he took the call. “Yes, that’s good news, good news indeed. Fast work. Well done. What? Yes, hold until I arrive. Many thanks.”
“They found Adam?” I said.
“Yes. He was at the dock trying to start the boat. Good thing it wouldn’t kick over. They’re bringing him to police headquarters in Hamilton.” He lowered his voice and asked, “Why is it important that he be retained, Jessica?”
“I’ll fill you in on the way. You have your car outside?”
“Yes, I do.” I turned to the others and said, “The inspector and I are leaving.”
“I would suggest that you all remain here on the property for the interim,” George said.
“Why?” Daisy asked. “Tom said that we were all free to go.”
“And I say that everyone must remain here,” George said, his voice steely.
“But—”
“Calm down, Daisy,” Godfrey said to her. “We’re not going anywhere in this storm anyway.”
“Kindly inform the judge of my order when he awakens,” George said, “and thank him for dinner.”
The drive to Hamilton was treacherous, and there were times when I thought we might skid off the road into a ditch. Rain pelted the windshield, lowering visibility to almost zero, and the gale-force wind kept threatening to blow us off the pavement, but George skillfully handled the vehicle and we eventually arrived safely at headquarters.
“Where is he?” George asked the desk officer the moment we were inside and he’d shown his credentials.
“We’ve brought in more than one fellow tonight, Chief Inspector. Who are you looking for?”
“His name is Adam Wyse,” I said.
“That fellow the Marine Unit brought in? He’s in a holding cell in the back. What’s he done?”
George looked at me. I’d told him during the drive of the conclusion I’d come to, and my reasons for having reached it.
“We’ll know more after we question him,” George told the desk sergeant. “Lead the way.”
Adam was huddled on a bench in a corner of the cell, his soaking wet clothing leaving puddles on the metal seat. He sat up upon seeing us and came to the bars. “Am I glad to see you,” he said to me.
“I can’t imagine why,” I said.
The officer opened the cell door and we joined Adam inside. The door had no sooner closed behind us when Adam said, “I didn’t kill her. I swear it.”
“Then why did you run?” George asked.
“Because I knew I’d be accused.”
“You would be?” George said. “By whom?”
“The judge.”
“Why would Judge Betterton accuse you of killing his niece?” George asked.
Adam fell silent, so I answered for him. “Tom Betterton would accuse Adam of the murder because he’s the one who killed her.”
Adam brightened. “Not me. Not me,” he said. “It was the judge who slit her throat.”
“That’s not true,” I said, “but Tom did commit the murder. He strangled her.”
“Please remind me how you know this,” George said to me.
“When I spoke with Margo this afternoon, she told me how Tom cried in her arms, moaning about Alicia’s death, saying, ‘How could she do this to me?’ Margo didn’t remember if the police were already there when Tom woke her. But the police questioned each of the family members separately before letting them come together in the library. They wouldn’t have informed Tom of Alicia’s death and then allowed him to wake Margo. They kept everyone apart until after the initial interviews.”
“So Tom knew Alicia was dead before the police came,” George said.
“Yes. And tonight Tom kept denying that he slashed her throat. And he didn’t. Alicia was strangled to death. However, that piece of information was never released.” I turned my gaze to Adam.
“I had nothing to do with Alicia’s murder,” he said.
“That isn’t true either, Adam,” I said. “Oh, I’m not suggesting that you killed her. Tom is responsible for having taken her life. Her throat was slit after she’d died to make it appear that she was the victim of the Jack the Ripper killer. Her throat was slit to shift suspicion away from Judge Betterton. And that’s where you come in, Adam. Was it your suggestion?”
He sat on the cot and hung his head.
“You’re handy with a knife. Everyone knows that,” I said. “You recently bought a new knife at the marine store in town. Was it to replace the one you used on Alicia? Did you throw the old one in the ocean to get rid of the evidence?”
He didn’t answer.
I continued. “Ever since Alicia was killed, you’ve been repeating that she was a victim of Jack the Ripper. You’ve said it over and over, which caused me to wonder why you were so certain—unless it was because you wanted to reinforce the lie in order to protect your boss.”
“Is Mrs. Fletcher correct?” George asked.
Adam nodded.
“She was about to blackmail him, wasn’t she?”
Adam shrugged. “I guess. I overheard her calling that Barry Lovick guy, the one the judge fired. I figured they had a thing going, but maybe I’m wrong. She would hang up every time she thought I was listening.”
“Did you actually see the judge kill her?” George asked. “Or did he tell you what had happened?”
I answered for Adam. “He saw it happen.” I looked at George. “Remember when you told me the telescope was locked? It was focused on the scene of the crime because Adam had been watching when Tom killed her.”
“I didn’t know it was going to happen, though,” Adam said. “I was just looking at her through the telescope.”
“You were spying on her, you mean,” I said.
“I was watching her, but she knew it. I’d watched her before. She liked having me watch her. She knew I was thinking of going down there to talk to her, maybe even get something going between us. I kind of think she wanted it. And I was getting up the nerve to go. But then I saw the judge come up behind her, and I was glad I hadn’t gone down there.”
“Then what happened?” George asked.
“They argued,” Adam said. “That wasn’t new, but this time he was really angry and he grabbed her by the neck. I couldn’t hear anything, but it was obvious that he was yelling at her. I don’t think he meant to kill her, just wanted to shake some sense into her. I didn’t know what to do, so I just kept watching until I saw her fall to the ground. The judge, he just stood there for a moment, and then he came back to the house.”
“And he was aware that you’d seen it happen,” George proffered.
“He was shaking like a leaf when he walked in,” Adam said. “He saw me sitting next to the telescope and asked me what I thought I was doing. I could have lied, but he never would have bought it. I told him I was waiting for him. I said I saw him kill her. He started to cry and said he didn’t mean to squeeze so hard, asked me to help him. I asked him what I could do. He didn’t have an answer, but then I thought of all the Jack the Ripper talk and the fact that the victims had been pretty young girls, so I suggested that we make it look like she was just another victim.”
“And?” George said.
“And he agreed.”
“So you went down to the beach and slashed her throat,” I said.
“I didn’t want to, believe me. I almost got sick after I did it. I tossed the knife into the ocean and was leaning
against these rocks trying not to throw up. Then I heard you. I waited until you left and ran back up to the house to tell him it was over, but I got delayed.”
“Because Godfrey Reynolds was following you,” I said.
“You knew about that? Yeah. I had to wait for him to go back to his cottage before I could talk to the judge. By that time, you had already called the cops, and they were knocking on the door.”
“Did the judge pay you to help cover up his crime?” I asked.
Adam replied sheepishly, “Thirty thousand dollars. In cash. I told him I wasn’t blackmailing him; I just wanted some acknowledgment for taking such good care of him. Believe me, I’d never kill anyone for money, not even a million bucks. But she was already dead. I needed the money to set me up for a while. I’m tired of being a PA. I don’t want to have to run errands anymore for some fat cats who treat me like a servant. ‘Adam, do this. Adam, do that. Adam, get me a drink of water. Adam, get my slippers.’ Even, the judge. It was more of the same. I want a new career.”
“I think I’d better have the local chaps grab hold of Judge Betterton before he decides to take off,” George said.
“A good idea,” I said, “although, with the flights canceled, he won’t be able to leave the island, at least not until the storm abates.”
“I can go, then?” Adam asked. “I didn’t kill her, so—”
“You may not have killed her, young man,” George said, “but you’re an accessory to murder. I’m sure the local constabulary will decide you’ve committed some very serious offences, including hindering a police homicide investigation, lying to authorities, defacing a corpse, blackmail, even though you don’t want to call it that. I’m sure they’ll think of others. You’ll not be trying out a new career until you’ve paid for those crimes.”
“I’m sorry it’s ended this way, Adam,” I said. “It didn’t have to.”
Chapter Twenty-seven
“I was so sure it was Claudia,” Agnes whispered to me. “She was the evil stepmother. I never would have suspected Tom. Margo must be crushed.”
“She flew home yesterday,” I said. “She took Madeline with her.”
“She did?”
“I think Margo’s going to help her find a job.”
Madeline had been distraught when the police arrested Tom three days earlier. She had taken to her bed and refused to get up. Margo had been the one to comfort and mother her, even though there was less than ten years between them. Margo had surprised everyone by rising to the moment and taking charge of the family’s needs. She had given Norlene a glowing recommendation, made sure her salary was up to date, notified Tom’s lawyer of his situation and that of Adam, secured permission from the police to leave the island, packed up Madeline’s clothes, and accompanied her back to New Jersey.
“Poor Madeline. Now she won’t be able to win the laziest girl in the world contest,” Agnes said, neatly inserting Claudia’s assessment of her former stepdaughter into the conversation, as I’d known she would.
“She’s led a very sheltered life,” I said. “She has a lot of growing up to do, but I think with Margo’s help, she’ll make it.”
“Did you see the headlines? The island is all abuzz.”
“I heard about it,” I said. “Do you have the newspaper?”
“Over there on the sideboard.”
I picked up the paper and turned it over. The news that Tom had been taken into custody had been reported days earlier. This headline read: “At last! Jack the Ripper Killer Arrested.” Beneath the giant letters, the subhead read: “Bermudian Police Service nab culprit hiding out in Pembroke Marsh.”
Freddie had been elated. He’d danced me around the team’s office when I’d gone there to congratulate them the prior evening. George looked on proudly.
“It was you, Jessica Fletcher,” Freddie said, twirling me around. “You gave me the key to the solution.”
“How was I responsible?” I asked, laughing.
Freddie stopped dancing and caught his breath, mopping his brow and his red mustache with a handkerchief. “You reminded me that the murderer was following in the footsteps of the real Ripper, who had taunted the public with postcards and letters sent to the newspapers. I went down to the news office. The publisher said they’d just turned over another pile of unprinted letters to the police. The local chaps had gone through them, but couldn’t make heads nor tails of what was important and what was simply a sham. They’d bundled them up for us. We collected all the missives they’d received having to do with the case and we combed through them looking for signs.”
“And how did that lead you to the killer?” I asked.
“There was a postcard from ‘Saucy Jacky,’” Gilliam said. “Freddie knew that name had been used in one of the 1888 communications. In it, the writer mentioned details only the killer would know.”
“We never give out all the information to the public,” George said. “It’s important to hold back particulars pertinent to the investigation.”
“But how did you know who wrote the card?” I asked.
“We compared the handwriting to all the other correspondence,” Macdonald said, “and found several pieces by the same person.”
“These kinds of killers are often proud of their accomplishments,” Gilliam said. “They may be a solitary, secretive type, but the impulse is not one they can hide forever. They need to boast about their prowess. It adds to the satisfaction.” As the team’s profiler, he had put together an assessment of the murderer’s personality, which had proven correct.
“The laboratory was able to lift unknown fingerprints—not from the letters themselves but from one of the envelopes,” Macdonald added. “He’d gotten sloppy with that one.”
“It only takes one,” Freddie said gleefully. He hauled his battered suitcase up onto a desk and opened the leather straps. “Voila!” he said. “My traveling criminal library.” He lifted out a laptop computer that was nestled amid a profusion of technical equipment and cradled it in his arms. “This little love contains the latest satellite interface and a complete set of crime-mapping software.”
George smiled. “Freddie can track criminal patterns in participating police districts around the globe.”
“It creates an actual crime map of antisocial behavior,” Gilliam added, “to alert police to criminals who’ve committed similar crimes elsewhere in the world.”
“Our man had been questioned about serial killings in South America in his younger days,” George said. “He’d been released for lack of evidence.”
“What evidence do you have now?” I asked.
“His record was relatively clean,” Freddie said, “making it more difficult, but he’d been pulled in for a civil disturbance several years back, when he’d been protesting the Bermuda Immigration and Protection Amendment Act. Once we identified him, the local men were able to get authorization to search his quarters and found just what we needed.”
“One room was decorated with photographs he’d taken of his victims,” Gilliam said. “Those were his trophies; now they’re our evidence.”
“And his fingerprints matched those on the envelope,” Macdonald added.
The newspaper article had given most of the credit to the investigative expertise of the Bermuda Police Service, but acknowledged that a suggestion from Scotland Yard had led to the arrest, restoring the Yard’s good name.
“Is Stephen living in the house all by himself?” Agnes asked.
“I believe so,” I said. “The Reynoldses flew to London yesterday, and I’m staying in town at the Hamilton Fairmont Princess Hotel until my flight home.”
“You could have continued on in the cottage.”
“Under the circumstances, I thought it more prudent to move to a hotel,” I said.
“Stephen was here yesterday, you know,” Agnes said. “My nephew, Charles, has commissioned my portrait and Stephen came by to take photographs and make some preliminary sketches.” She patted her white hair. “I
never thought I’d be immortalized with a portrait,” she said, smiling. “I wish my husband, Stubby, could see me now. I’ll be famous.”
“I’m sure Stephen will do a beautiful job,” I said. “He’s very talented.”
“Claudia said that she’s going to make arrangements for Richard Mann to hang the finished painting in his gallery for a while before Charles takes it home. She said that way Stephen will get more commissions on the island, maybe even from some tourists.”
“That was nice of her,” I said.
“Are you ready now, lass?” George asked. “We don’t want to be late.” He had been waiting patiently while I said my goodbyes to Agnes.
“Yes, George.” I gave Agnes a hug and told her I’d be in touch.
“You make sure to let me know when your next book comes out,” she said. “I just know you’re going to write about this case.”
George held the door for me and I climbed into Freddie’s little yellow car. We’d been invited to a celebratory luncheon with Bermuda’s governor and officials of the Bermuda Police Service, after which we would be taken to the airport for our respective flights home.
“It’s always good to be with you, Jessica,” George said, “however briefly.”
“Yes,” I said, smiling at him. “It’s always good.”
Trouble at High Tide Page 22
