The Formula for Murder (15 page)

“Rather convenient?”

He shrugs. “To some it plays that way, but we were shown proof that the trip was planned well before her ladyship passed. We have questioned Lacroix’s partner, Dr. Radic, and he gave a list of what she had ingested. Basically the same as everyone else.” He eyed me some more through the smoke. “You understand that this matter is being given very special attention, not ignored.”

I nod. “Lord Winsworth is a very important man.”

“Quite so, but there are also plenty of other high-muckety-mucks who swear by the spa and believe what they drink and bathe in there relieves their aching old bones or will turn them young and beautiful again.”

“Which means from the standpoint of the coroner’s office, it’s a hot potato and no decision will be made until the medical examiner is absolutely certain.”

More blank stares through the smoke screen tell me that I have gotten all I am going to get from him about the death of the woman, so I change tacks.

I ask, “Is it possible to see the coroner’s report on the death of a child at the spa, a little girl named Emma? I don’t know the last name.”

“Another customer died at the spa?”

“She wasn’t a customer. She had apparently been used at the spa for some reason, her youthfulness rubbing off on people, maybe, I’m not exactly certain. Her mother is an, uh, underprivileged woman.”

“Meaning a prostitute, I take it. How did the child’s youthfulness rub off on people?”

“It’s a puzzle to me, but that’s what I was told by the mother. Dr. Radic told her that the child died of brain fever while at the spa.”

“She received medical attention before she passed?”

“Yes, I suppose—”

“Then there wouldn’t be a coroner’s inquiry or any reason for the medical examiner to make an examination because there is a known cause of death certified by a medical doctor.”

“I found it rather strange, a child at the spa, brain fever—”

“Miss Bly, you are a newspaper reporter looking for a story, the more sensational the better. I have to deal with not just the sensational but the mundane. Look around you. All of these papers deal with crimes, some with murder most foul. If I investigated even one tenth of the deaths of the mudlarks on the streets, I would spend my entire time at it. Now, if you’ll excuse me…”

“One more question, please. Did Hailey McGuire, one of our reporters, contact you about the Winsworth matter?”

“No.”

The answer is snapped at me and I snap back. “Are spas like Aqua Vitae so important to the economy of Bath that the local officials look the other way rather than probing too deeply into their operations?”

“Madam, you have overstayed your welcome.”

26

I leave the chief inspector knowing little more than when I arrived except for one important fact: Hailey had not contacted him.

I find that strange and mull it over as I slowly make my way back to my hotel.

Contacting the police to get as much information as possible is usually the beginning and end of a reporter’s duties in researching a crime story. Since Hailey considered this story to be very big, interviewing others concerned would be also be in order, but again, the police would most often be the starting point to gather as many facts as possible before approaching others.

Hailey was an experienced crime reporter. In fact, almost all of her experience was hanging around the courthouse, talking to police, prosecutors, and witnesses.

So why didn’t she contact the police immediately upon arriving in Bath? That she didn’t was so out of character, it left me puzzled.

The only other significant information I got from the chief inspector was that he isn’t convinced that Lady Winsworth’s death is suspicious. It is out of the realm of possibilities that he would look the other way if the death is suspicious—besides ethics, and I’m certain the man has high standards, while spas may be an important source of revenue for the city, Lord Winsworth is rich and powerful. For sure, he is exercising pressure on the police and coroner to solve his wife’s death.

I arrive back at my hotel to freshen up and check for messages before I go for my “audience” with Lady Chilcott.

The stuffy clerk at the front desk gives me a stiff frown as I approach.

“A
person
inquired about you earlier.”

He left out the word “undesirable” but his tone implied it.

“What
person
inquired about me?”

“A woman of the streets.”

Ah, Sarah, Emma’s mother. Terrific. “Did she leave a message?”

“She was asked to leave by the manager. The presence of that sort of woman in our establishment would create the wrong impression.”

“Did she say anything before she was ushered out?”

“She said she would be at the Albert Bridge trolley stop tonight at eight.”

“Is that all?”

“We do not permit—”

“Yes, I got that. Thank you.”

*   *   *

L
ADY
C
HILCOTT’S
B
ATH ESTATE
is a redbrick Georgian manor house with white window trim and black shutters. I have the cabbie stop at a florist on the way to purchase a bouquet of flowers as a “thank you” for seeing me and inviting me to tea. It’s the sort of expenditure that the Draconian cashier at
The World
will refuse to reimburse me for when I submit my expenses.

My appointment with her is for two o’clock which I know from my travels around the world on British ships means we will have low tea rather than high tea. The names arose from the difference between the height of the tables and food served: Low tea, also called afternoon tea, is often served on a low table, like a coffee table in a living room, and is accompanied by cake and the cookies and flat bread the British call biscuits, while high tea, or “meat tea,” is served later, in the dining room around five to seven with heartier foods such as cold cuts, boiled eggs, or sandwiches.

I am escorted by the butler to the garden where her ladyship is clipping roses while she waits for me.

I have never really comprehended the British designation of what the title “Lady” means, even though Oscar has explained it in great detail to me. All that seems to stick in my mind is that the woman’s husband or father is most likely a knight or nobleman.

We sit in comfortably padded wrought-iron lawn chairs as tea and cookies are served on a low glass-topped table.

The butler supervises a maid who serves us tea in an exquisite pink porcelain tea set that has delicate flowers hand-painted on it. The cups are almost as small as a doll tea set—so petite are the cups, I will have to be very careful picking mine up, out of fear of breaking something that probably cost more than my month’s salary.

Lady Chilcott is about forty years old, a bit on the sagging side, with treated blond hair. She wears jewelry and brightly colored clothing that convey to me a woman who is trying to subtract years from her chronological age by directing attention to things other than her own features. All in all, definitely a “patient” for the spa.

I thank her for seeing me and comment about the nice weather the afternoon has brought before we chat a moment about Oscar.

“Such a wonderfully irreverent gentleman,” Lady Chilcott says. “He keeps us all amused by his wit and scandals—unless one is the target of his sharp tongue, of course.”

I dodge the bullet as she tries to pump me about Oscar’s current dilemma on the grounds I’m not familiar with the people involved and ask her about the spa.

“Marvelous place and Anthony—Dr. Lacroix is a genius. I understand that Dr. Radic is as competent, but I find his foreign manners less appealing than Anthony’s.”

“What does Dr. Lacroix look like?”

“Tall, a fine figure of a man, well-spoken, midthirties. Some women find him charming. Of course, the only thing of importance about him is his medical knowledge.”

Uh huh.

“Frankly,” she says, “when it comes to one’s health and preserving one’s vitality, Dr. Lacroix’s treatments are considered the Fountain of Youth.”

“So I’ve been told.”

“You’ve been to the spa?”

“Yes.”

“Then you’re familiar with the peat bog preservation treatment that Dr. Lacroix developed.”

“I was under the impression that Dr. Radic had developed the treatment.”

“Dr. Radic had done work with peat moss at a spa on the continent before partnering with Dr. Lacroix here in Bath, but it’s peat moss from a bog source Dr. Lacroix obtains in Dartmoor that is considered the most effective in the world. I suppose if the foul stuff can preserve a dinosaur for a million years, it can help keep us women from prematurely aging, wouldn’t you say?”

I join her in a small laugh.

“You see the painting over there?”

She indicates a framed oil painting on an easel.

“That’s a painting Dr. Lacroix commissioned the famous Dartmoor artist Isaac Weekes to do of the bog in the moors where he obtains the peat moss for the treatments at the spa. The location of the bog is a secret, but he had the painting done for me in appreciation.”

She explains that she had the frame repainted because she didn’t care for the color and had it placed on the easel to dry in the sun. She doesn’t say what “appreciation” meant but I’m sure it means she gave him money for his “medical” research.

“Is Dr. Lacroix from Dartmoor?”

“Actually, my dear, I don’t think anyone that matters is from that wild, isolated place. I’ve been told all of Dartmoor is of volcanic origin, and on many tors one can see the awful stabs which are inflicted on the still unhardened rock by the swords of subterranean fires. They say one almost feels like they have stepped onto the moon. Scattered throughout are nothing but gorse and blackthorns.”

“Gorse?”

“Oh, it’s a spiny, yellow-flowered shrub. Quite ugly, as are the blackthorns. Nothing like my roses.”

“They are beautiful.” And I mean it. Her rose garden is gorgeous—reds, pinks, whites, yellows. And the scent they give is heavenly.

“Thank you,” she says, obviously pleased by my admiration of her roses. “I’ve won awards. Anyway, where were we … oh yes, Dr. Lacroix. He is of French descent on his father’s side, but his mother was English and he was raised here.”

“I’ve always wanted to visit the moors and see the bogs and tors and such.”

“Why? They are gloomy, silent, desolate—nothing pretty about them and nothing to do.”

“Oh, I’ve heard the moors can be quite beautiful—in a mysterious, unique way. Do you know what area his bog is in?”

“No, my dear, I haven’t the foggiest. But Oscar said you are doing a story about the spa. I would hope it isn’t a scandal piece about the Lady Winsworth incident.”

I give her a smile that is meant to reassure her that I wasn’t a scandal monger.

“I’m doing a piece on the rejuvenation effects of spa treatments, but frankly it’s not possible to do without mentioning the incident.”

“Your American readers must love tittle-tattle. Another young woman asked about the incident.”

That gives me a jolt. “Hailey … Hailey McGuire.”

“Yes, that might have been the name. Appeared rather young to be a newspaper reporter—as you do, my dear, although I’ve been told you’re an accomplished one. Though I won’t ask
why
a woman of any age would wish to do a man’s job.”

Because I like to eat and have a roof over my head, would have been my caustic reply if I didn’t want information from her.

“Hailey spoke to you about the Winsworth incident?”

“Not to me in particular. Some other ladies and I were taking a stroll in the park across the street from the spa early in the evening after our treatments and the young woman approached us. I’m afraid her approach was not as professional as I find yours, nor did she come with the recommendation that you have. She was rather an excited type, much too anxious for information than any of us wanted to deal with after our relaxing therapy, so we politely dismissed her. That’s about all I can tell you.”

“Did she actually ask about the death of Lady Winsworth?”

“As a matter of fact, she did. We advised her that any questions should be posed to Lord Winsworth’s solicitor.”

The fact that I now knew Hailey came to Bath to investigate the Winsworth death made my heart beat like a drum. I also realize why Hailey approached the women first rather than the police—“early in the evening” meant that the chief inspector would have most likely left for the day.

I sipped tea to calm myself and get my mind on the right path again. “So, uh, none of the ladies at the spa are worried about the mineral waters or peat treatment despite whatever effect they might have had on Lady Winsworth?”

“You are obviously not well informed. Lady Winsworth wasn’t receiving those treatments. Dr. Lacroix was giving her his new therapy.”

“Which is?”

“I really can’t say, because it’s very hush-hush. Dr. Lacroix has developed a new course of treatment that is said to be revolutionary in terms of revitalizing people.”

“Also rejuvenating?” I ask, because I’m certain Lady Chilcott and her lady friends are much more interested in taking off years than boosting their energy.

“Naturally, there are those interested in looking younger. But we’re told the treatment is in the experimental stage and those who have been permitted to partake are sworn to secrecy.”

“I see,” the blind man says. I see nothing except that the spa has something new that Lady Chilcott and her friends are all dying to try—perhaps literally. Shades of Dorian Gray! Oscar hit the nail of middle-aged angst right on the head.

“Does the new treatment in any way involve children?”

“Children? What an absurd notion. Wherever did you get such an idea?”

I don’t tell her it came from a prostitute. “I learnt through a source that a child, a street child, had died of brain fever after being at the spa.”

“Miss Bly—I certainly hope that you are not insinuating that the staff of the most respectable spa in Europe, or the ladies and gentlemen who receive treatment at the spa, some of whom include the most prominent names in the British Empire, would harm a child.”