Black Moonlight (12 page)

“Patrick Noonan, Philip Nettles. Roger Jackson, Robert Jameson.”

“Oh, that
is
strange.”

Marjorie nodded. “So, I’ve been working with Nettles on the investigation.”

“Naturally. He’s Jameson in this whole thing,” Creighton remarked.

Marjorie gave Creighton a mock snarl. “There are lots of things that don’t quite add up.”

“It’s a murder investigation. I expect there would be.”

“Do you get a phone call?”

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“In the movies, when a person is arrested, they get one phone call. Do you get one?”

Creighton shrugged. “Jackson asked me if I wanted to call my solicitor, so I imagine so.”

“Good. But we’re not calling your solicitor,” she clarified.

“I’m not? Then who am I—pardon—‘we’ calling?”

“We’re calling Jameson,” Marjorie said flatly.

“Why, are you lining up a replacement in case I get sent to the gallows?” he smirked.

“What, and go on another honeymoon? No thanks. I’m calling Jameson to ask him to do some research for me—um, us.” She flashed a brilliant smile.

“You’d better not be bringing him here. Legend has it that if a person meets their doppelganger, they die.”

Marjorie pulled a face. “Of course, I’m not bringing him here. I need him to make some phone calls to some people in the States.”

“Phone calls?” Creighton repeated with distaste. “Excuse me if I seem ungrateful, but couldn’t you make those calls from a payphone and save ‘our’ phone call for a solicitor?”

“A solicitor will defend you when you go to court in a few months. A call to Jameson could help me to exonerate you completely.” She glanced at the grimy bearded man sleeping in the cell next to Creighton’s. “Not to mention immediately.”

Creighton followed her gaze and sighed. “All right, call Jameson. But if he wants us to name our first born after him in return, all bets are off.”

“More Perfection Salad, Detective?”
Louise Schutt offered sweetly.

“I’ll take some, dear,” requested the timid voice of Walter Schutt from the opposite end of the table.

“I wasn’t asking you, Walter,” Louise replied sharply. “I was asking Detective Jameson.”

Jameson dabbed at the corners of his mouth with his napkin. “That would be terrific, Mrs. Schutt. Thank you.”

“Never any trouble,” Louise assured as she placed a wedge of gelatinized salad daintily on his plate.

Walter, meanwhile, held his plate out in hopes of receiving the next serving.

“And you, Sharon?” Louise asked her daughter who, despite the presence of a fifth guest, was conspicuously seated at the same side of the table as Jameson.

“Oh, I shouldn’t, Mama,” she refused, “I have to watch my girlish figure.”

Jameson glanced at Sharon. He was willing to bet that, in her twenty years of life, the only thing she had watched her figure do was to expand.

“Don’t be silly, Sharon,” Louise goaded. “Men like a woman with a bit of meat on them. Don’t they, Detective?”

“Oh, um,” Jameson answered, completely disinterested in anything but the roast chicken on his plate. “Yeah, of course they do.”

Sharon emitted a high-pitched titter punctuated by a loud snort of delight.

Louise, in the meantime, portioned some Perfection Salad onto Sharon’s plate and then absently put the serving platter back onto the table.

“Ehem,” Walter cleared his throat and pushed his plate out farther.

“Oh, I’m sorry, dear,” Louise stated. She picked up the platter and, with a flick of her wrist, flung a piece of salad onto his plate with an unappetizing “plop.”

Walter gave a hurt glance in his wife’s direction before conceding with a shrug. “So,” he started as he put the dish down in front of him, “I hear there’s a suspicious character on the loose.”

“Hmm? Yes, one of my men, Officer Noonan—perhaps you remember him?—saw someone lurking around the green the other day.” Jameson put a piece of boiled potato into his mouth, chewed, and swallowed it. “I wouldn’t worry, though. Noonan’s one of my best men. He probably has it all wrapped up by now.”

“Mrs. Wilson said Officer Noonan slept on Emily Patterson’s porch last night. That doesn’t sound ‘wrapped up’ to me,” Walter Schutt spoke out.

“What does this person look like?” Mrs. Schutt asked.

“Six foot tall, graying hair, green eyes, and a ruthless jaw,” Schutt described.

“Six foot tall? Ruthless jaw?” Jameson repeated incredulously. “Where did you hear that?”

Louise Schutt gasped. “Sounds dangerous. Maybe we should put an extra lock on the shop door.”

“I’m sure your shop is fine,” Jameson reassured.

The Schutt family, however, would have nothing of it.

“I’ll take care of the shop door first thing in the morning,” Walter stated.

“I’ll make sure all the doors are locked after Detective Jameson leaves tonight, Mama,” Sharon proposed.

“Good idea, sweetheart,” Louise praised her daughter. “And until this fellow is caught, I don’t think it’s safe for you to go out alone. What do you think, Walter?”

“Definitely not,” Schutt agreed as he snuck more chicken and potatoes onto his plate.

“Your father’s right, Sharon.” Louise warned, “You never know what’s on young men’s mind these days!”

“Young? The suspect has gray hair,” Jameson pointed out.

“Oh, I’m sorry, Detective Jameson,” Louise apologized, oblivious to anything but her own family’s fear. “I wasn’t including you in my statement. I was talking about other young men who weren’t brought up as well as you were.”

“I didn’t think you were including me,” Jameson stated.

“What’s that?” Louise feigned deafness. “You think you should escort Sharon on errands until this fiend is captured?”

“No,” Jameson shook his head vehemently. “I didn’t say that.”

“I think that’s a splendid idea!” Louise proclaimed. “What do you think, Walter? Should we let this young man take care of our Sharon?”

Walter shrugged and stole a second piece of bread from the basket.

“I agree,” Louise affirmed. “And what do you think, Sharon? Would you feel safe walking about with Detective Jameson?”

Sharon looked up from her plate, a piece of potato adhered to her pig-like nose. “Oh, I’d feel safe, Mama. I’d feel
very
safe,” she assured and then smiled broadly at Jameson.

As the Detective stared in horror at the piece of shredded cabbage wedged between Sharon’s two front teeth, Noonan’s words of warning came flooding back into his memory. His heart skipped a beat as he realized that he was, indeed, the “Express Train to Marriagetown.”

Just then the telephone rang.

Louise Schutt lifted her Hooverette-clad posterior from her chair and moved deliberately to the phone, which rested upon a small living room end table. With an overly sweet telephone voice, she lifted the receiver and said, questioningly, “Hello? Yes, he’s here … oh, my, how exciting! … yes, just a minute.”

With a girlish spring in her step, Louise hurried back to the dining room. “Detective Jameson,” she addressed, “it’s for you. Long distance from Bermuda. The operator said it’s urgent. It must be a case. How exciting!”

Jameson took the napkin from his lap and sprinted to the living room, happy for the opportunity to end all talk of six-foot-tall marauders, door locks, modern men’s morals, and, most of all, marriage.

He lifted the heavy black receiver to his ear. “Hello? … Yes, this is Detective Robert Jameson. Yes, I’ll accept the call.”

The voice that came on at the other end of the line was soft and familiar. “Hello? Robert?”

“Marjorie?” he said in disbelief. “I thought you were on your honeymoon.”

“I am. I was. Look, I need your help. Creighton’s in jail under suspicion of murder.”

“Someone died on your honeymoon? Do people drop dead everywhere you go?” he asked, in jest. Still, part of him did wonder about Marjorie’s ability to act as a murder magnet.

“I already heard that joke once today,” she quipped. “It was stale then, too.”

“Sorry,” he apologized with a chuckle. “So Creighton’s in jail. How is he? And how are you? Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. Just looking forward to the day when he and I can get back home.”

“Mmm. How’s the investigation going?”

“Why it’s—” She paused. “How do you know I’m involved in the investigation?”

“Intuition,” Jameson grinned.

The sarcasm of his comment completely eluded her. “Really? Good for you! I always said you didn’t listen enough to your gut instincts.”

“Uh huh. So, what can I do from one thousand miles away, to help you?”

“I need you to do some research for me,” Marjorie stated. “Do you have a pencil and paper handy?”

Jameson opened the end table drawer to find a small notepad and a red grease pencil. He sat on the sofa and, with legs crossed, balanced the pad on one knee. “Yep. I’m ready.”

Marjorie listed the items requiring investigation, and then asked Jameson to read them back to her.

“That’s right,” she confirmed when he had finished.

“When do you need this information?” he asked.

“As soon as possible,” she stated. “And as soon as you learn something—anything—call here at the station. I’ll take care of the charges when I get home.”

“You have the number for me?” As Marjorie recited the number, Jameson marked it, in grease pencil, on the small yellow pad. “Okay. I think that does it. I’ll get on this right away.” Jameson glanced into the dining room, where the Schutts, like vultures, were eagerly awaited his return. “In fact,” he said in a voice loud enough for the Schutts to hear, “I’ll head down to the station and get on that right now.”

“Now?” said the voice on the other end of the phone. “Who are you going to contact now? It’s nearly six o’clock there, isn’t it? We’re only an hour ahead of you. I’m quite certain we are.”

“Yes, you’re right,” Jameson agreed loudly. “But important police work like this can’t wait.”

“Oh, well, thank you, Robert,” she said appreciatively. “I can’t tell you how much it means to know you’re willing to help us out like this. Next time you’re in a pickle, be certain to call the Ashcrofts, because we’ll owe you one.”

Jameson turned around and watched as Sharon picked up her plate and began slurping the Perfection Salad. “No, that’s not necessary,” he assured Marjorie as he anticipated his escape. “I think we’re square.”

His primary suspect safely
behind bars, Sergeant Jackson returned with Marjorie and Inspector Nettles to Black Island. Weary from the day’s events, they passed the boat ride in silence. The silence was broken by the constable, who met them at the Black Island dock.

“Sergeant. Inspector,” the tall, thin constable saluted. “The boys from the morgue are gone. Took the bodies with them. And the lads doing the grounds search have left for the day.”

“They find anything?” Jackson inquired.

“A necklace, sir, in the stables. They believe it belonged to the dead woman. Constable Worth can show it to you. He’s up at the maid’s cottage.”

“Is she awake?”

“Yes, sir. Worth’s been keeping guard at the cottage until you or Inspector Nettles could question her.”

“Good work, Smith,” the Sergeant addressed the constable before making his way up the cliff-side staircase.

With a tip of his hat, Inspector Nettles followed the Sergeant up the stairs and across the grounds to the front door of the cottage. Marjorie, uncertain as to whether or not she was welcome during this round of questioning, followed closely behind the men.

“Sergeant Jackson,” Worth welcomed. “Inspector Nettles.”

“Constable Worth,” Jackson greeted in return. “Constable Smith said you have something for me.”

“I do,” Worth confirmed as he pulled a cloth-wrapped packet from the pocket of his uniform and passed it to Jackson.

Marjorie and Nettles each peered over a shoulder as the Sergeant unfolded the handkerchief to reveal a green teardrop necklace. “This was found in the stable?”

“Yes, in the stall behind the body,” Worth clarified. “We believe it belonged to the dead woman and was knocked loose by either the blow to her head or the fall afterwards.”

Jackson nodded and carefully turned the pendant over. In the golden rays of the low-hanging sun, the trio could distinguish a series of symbols engraved upon its back. “What’s this? Hieroglyphics?”

“No,” Nettles dismissed. “It’s something else.”

“It’s Cyrillic,” Marjorie identified. Seeing the vacant expression on Jackson’s face, she then paraphrased, “Russian. Judging from the light color of the jade, I’d guess that it’s also Russian, most likely from the Lake Baikal region.”

Simultaneously, the three men turned their attention from the necklace to Marjorie.

“The heroine in my novel,
Slaughter in Samara
, wore a ring made of the stuff. It was a great story, but since Samara isn’t Samara any longer, my publisher pulled it from the shelves. Shame, really. I consider it one of my best.”

“Miss McClell—er, Mrs. Ashcroft!” There was a sharp edge to Jackson’s voice. “What are you doing here?”

“You mean what am I doing, aside from sharing my depth and breadth of seemingly useless information which has, so far, saved you and your men countless hours that might have been spent analyzing crime scene evidence? Nothing. Absolutely nothing.”

Jackson quietly passed the necklace back to Worth and, with an exaggerated smile and a wide sweep of his arms, motioned toward the door. “After you.”

Marjorie curtsied slightly and proceeded through the cottage door.

As Marjorie sashayed past him, Jackson lifted his leg to kick her in the rear, but, thinking better of it, stepped over the threshold instead.

“Hello?” Marjorie called into the dimly lit dwelling.

“Mrs. Marjorie?” a weak voice answered.

She followed the sound to a small back bedroom. There, they found Selina, lying in a single bed, her head propped against two cotton-encased pillows.

“Hi, Selina,” Marjorie greeted. “How are you feeling?”

Selina reached for the younger woman’s hand. “I’m all right, child. I’m just sorry to have put everyone to so much trouble. I remember screaming and Mr. Creighton trying to calm me. He gave me brandy. Lord, now I know why I stick to rum. It’s suppertime and I’ve only just woken up.” She shook her head. “And all you poor people fussing over me.”

“We liked fussing over you for a change. And you weren’t any trouble. You were shocked and scared,” Marjorie said softly. “Anyone would have been, given what you had seen.”

“I went to the dining room that morning to clean up the dishes from the night before. I didn’t pay much attention to anything else around me. When I had finished with the dishes, I swept up the broken glass and came back with a mop to clean up the wine. That’s when I saw the blood,” Selina recounted. “Lots of blood. I should have left the lid closed … I should have …” She covered her eyes as if doing so would block the memory of her gruesome discovery.

“Don’t think of it,” Marjorie instructed as she clutched Selina’s hand with both of hers. “Put it out of your mind now.”

Selina closed her eyes and grasped Marjorie’s hands tightly. “I will, child. You’re a good soul. No wonder Mr. Creighton loves you.” She opened her eyes and scanned the faces of the two men in the room. “Where is he? Where is Mr. Creighton?”

“Sergeant Jackson here has him locked up under suspicion of murder,” Marjorie punctuated the statement with a dirty look in the sergeant’s direction.

“Why? Because he was so angry? That boy and his father …” Selina shook her head ruefully. “Now that Mr. Ashcroft is gone, I need to talk to you about that, child. All the pain in Mr. Creighton’s heart, it’s all over nothing.”

“Well, we can talk later,” Marjorie assured. “But right now Sergeant Jackson and Inspector Nettles need to speak with you.”

“All right Mrs. Marjorie, I’ll talk to them, so long as I can talk to you in private later. Because you need to tell Mr. Creighton that not everything he thinks about his father is true.”

“It isn’t, eh?” Jackson goaded. “I suppose that’s why you were so in love with the man.”

“I was in love with Richard … Mr. Ashcroft, yes,” Selina admitted. “But that was years ago. Before he pushed love aside in the name of making more money.”

“Pushed love aside? Mr. Ashcroft just remarried, didn’t he?”

“Oh,” Selina waved the notion aside in annoyance. “He didn’t marry her for love. He married her for the same reason a man buys a pair of diamond cuff links. To prove that he can.”

“Sounds to me like you were jealous of the new Mrs. Ashcroft,” Jackson surmised.

“When I first heard of his marriage to Mrs. Griselda, I must admit my heart did sink. It’s nice, after a love affair, to believe that your beloved could never find another soul to replace you. I lived under that belief for eighteen years,” Selina frowned. “But when Mr. Ashcroft arrived here in April, and he announced his upcoming marriage, I was not sad. I was not jealous. He was no longer the same person I fell in love with years ago; he had changed. And so, I suppose, had I.”

“Oh?” Jackson prompted Selina to continue.

“I had raised a child on my own. Of course, Mr. Ashcroft paid me my wages and gave me a stipend for George’s clothes and shoes, but I handled the day-to-day living: the illnesses, the bullies, the schoolyard fights, the homework, the chores. And there were the small celebrations too: the good report cards, the first school dance, and now, his graduation.” Selina smiled proudly. “Nothing takes away your romantic notions faster than raising a child alone, but nothing else makes you realize that, apart from giving you a beautiful boy, perhaps you didn’t need that man around in the first place.”

“You may not have needed that man around,” Jackson prefaced, “but you needed his money, didn’t you? You needed his money to send that ‘beautiful boy’ to university.”

“I didn’t
need
the money,” Selina said defiantly. “I would have found a way to get it … eventually. But I didn’t want George to wait. All his friends were making plans, moving forward with their lives. Why shouldn’t he? Those children are no better than my son.”

“So you asked Mr. Ashcroft for the money,” Nettles put forth.

“Yes. He was always proud of his boys’ education. He had sent both Mr. Creighton and Mr. Edward to some of the finest schools in England and the United States. Expensive schools. So, I didn’t think that paying for George to go to university—a less-expensive, colored university—would have bothered him so much.”

“But it did,” Marjorie stated.

“Yes, it did. He was outraged. He felt that he had already done enough for me and a son he … he … never wanted. He said that sending a bastard to university didn’t make him any less of a bastard,” Selina broke down.

Jackson offered her a handkerchief from inside his jacket.

Selina took the handkerchief and blew her nose loudly. After a few seconds she continued her story. “I went mad, I think, when he said that. I became possessed. I started hitting him, pounding him on the chest. I swore I would tell everyone that he was George’s father.”

“How did he react?” Marjorie asked.

“He smiled. Not a nice smile, but the smile someone makes when they are up to something. Then he took me by the wrists, pushed me away, and left the room.”

“And when did this occur?” Nettles questioned as he jotted notes into his notebook.

“Day before yesterday. George had picked them up in Hamilton that morning and, during the boat ride over, Mr. Ashcroft offered him a permanent job here on the island. While Mrs. Ashcroft unpacked their things and got settled in, Mr. Ashcroft came to see me here at the cottage. He wanted to tell me about the generous offer he had made,” Selina gave a wry laugh.

“Did you speak of the incident again?” Jackson inquired.

“No, not until last night, at dinner, when Mr. Ashcroft made his announcement. Despite my threats, he knew I wouldn’t have told anyone. I’ve spent the past eighteen years keeping that secret, telling everyone that I married a boat captain and that George was a product of our wedding night. I’ve spent the past eighteen years lying to my boy, because I didn’t want to disgrace him. Mr. Ashcroft knew that and he used it to punish me.”

“How did you feel?”

“I was furious,” Selina answered frostily. “To tell it to the family that way was bad enough, but for George to find out like that—in front of everyone—Richard may as well have stabbed me in the heart.”

“And so you wanted to stab him in his heart,” Jackson proposed. “Or perhaps just grab the closest heavy object and hit him over the head.”

“I did not!” Selina sat upright. “I swear to God I did not kill that man.”

“No? But you wanted to,” Jackson provoked.

“Yes, I wanted to,” Selina admitted. “Wouldn’t you? George is all I’ve ever had. I put my whole life into that boy and with a few words he had taken it all away.”

“So you killed him,” Jackson hypothesized. “You were filled with rage—not yourself. You stuffed him into the trunk before someone saw him there and then went to bed for the night. When you awoke you wondered if it had all been a dream; a terrible dream. But then you walked into the dining room and saw the blood. You screamed with the realization that it was all true. You
had
murdered Mr. Ashcroft. You
had
stuffed his body into the—”

“Sergeant Jackson,” Marjorie interrupted as she jumped from the edge of the bed and onto her feet. “I will not listen to you berate this woman any longer.”

“It’s alright, child.” Selina patted Marjorie’s hand and urged her to sit down. “A braver woman might have taken the course of action you described, Sergeant Jackson. But I am not, and have never been, brave.”

“Really?” Jackson replied skeptically. “Then where did you go after dinner?”

With that, George’s voice came from the front door of the cottage, followed by the sound of Constable Worth trying to restrain the young man.

“Mum!” George called. “Mother, you don’t need to say anything. I didn’t tell them.”

Jackson gave a questioning look to Nettles, who nodded his reply.

“Let him in, Worth,” Jackson called.

An out of breath George appeared in the bedroom door a few moments later. “They questioned me, Mother. But I didn’t say anything.”

Marjorie rose from her spot on the bed and gave it to George, who accepted the seat without missing a bet. “I couldn’t tell them. I wouldn’t—not until I spoke to you first.”

Selina’s eyes welled up with tears. She leaned forward and threw her arms around her son. “Then I haven’t lost you,” she cried.