The Formula for Murder (17 page)

Hailey probably spent most of her last day here, in Bath. Then she would have returned to London depressed and killed herself. But if she returned to London, which is east of Bath, why would she instruct her luggage be sent to the westbound platform?

The bellman also confirmed what both the boardinghouse maid and James the gatekeeper had said—she wasn’t sad or depressed.

I realize I don’t know which direction Hailey went because no one I’ve spoken to actually saw her at the train station. No one took the order directly from her as to where her luggage was to be sent.

So where did she go? Back to London without her luggage? Or west with her luggage?

Logically my next move should be to return to London and advise Inspector Abberline of my findings and ask him to check further into the matter. I would then board a ship for the return trip across the pond.

Logically … of course, but I have no intention of doing that. Instead, I return to my hotel.

“May I have a porter get me a ticket to Exeter while I get together my things to check out?” I ask the concierge.

“Of course, madam. Is there anything else we can do for you?”

“No, that shall do. Oh, are there any telegrams for me?”

He looks in the slot for my room. “Here you are.”

It’s a telegram from Oscar: “My dear Nellie, it’s getting quite warm if not hot in dear old London. I’m thinking of leaving. How’s your quest going?”

I immediately respond back: “Off to find the Fountain of Youth in a mud hole in Dartmoor. Next stop Exeter. Why don’t you join me? We can be partners in crime, just like the old days.”

That done, I go to my room, pack my valise, and freshen up for my trip westbound. I haven’t the foggiest idea what direction Hailey went when she left the Fontaine Hotel, but I am fairly certain that for some reason, her luggage went west—perhaps as far southwest as the gateway to the moors.

The same moors where Dr. Lacroix gets his magic mud.

29

I love a journey and am usually up early and head out with vigor. Today my feet are dragging because I am unsure of whether I am doing the right thing. Hailey’s body was found in London, yet I am setting out in the opposite direction without any good reason other than I suspect her luggage went in that direction.

Why would anyone want her luggage? For the same reason her office was cleaned out, papers burned, and her room at the boardinghouse searched. She had come into possession of something, probably information she had written down, that someone wanted destroyed.

Up to now I have been concentrating on her lover as the culprit but Dr. Radic and his cutthroat enforcer are crowding the field of suspects. Radic is a high-class, polished crook, but of the most dangerous variety—the fact he employs a man like Burke shows that he is not above cracking heads to get what he wants.

And the elusive Dr. Lacroix—where does he fit into the puzzle? Partnered with Radic and linked to the death of the little girl Emma and the high-society woman makes him a likely candidate for any number of high crimes in my mind.

At the station I speak to a porter who is assisting westbound passengers with their luggage. He wasn’t on duty that day, but suggests I talk to the baggage master in the baggage room. Since the train will be departing shortly, I leave my valise with him and go to inquire at the baggage room.

“I don’t recall a young American woman,” the baggage master tells me, “but unless she spoke to me, how would I know she had a colonial accent?”

Good point. He smirks at referring to Americans as colonials. I’ve heard it before.

As I swing back around to return to the train before it leaves without me, I spot a familiar figure—the blue-eyed young man on the London to Bath train who had stared at me so rudely and took an unhealthy interest in my luggage. And only spoke German.

He hands a coin to the porter and heads to board the train. He must have considerable luggage because he is carrying a valise larger than mine and doesn’t leave it with the porter. I assume the gratuity is presented for luggage handling.

I retrieve my bag and am about to board when I see someone else I know and exclaim, “It’s old homes week!”

“Well, I hope whatever that means, it’s an indication you are pleased to see me.” Mrs. Lambert, the widow who protected my valise on the London-Bath train beams at me.

“Very pleased, but surprised. Can you imagine—I just saw the man that had been eyeing my luggage on the train from London board this one.”

“You don’t say! What a coincidence. But you know, my dear, they say that the steam engine has shrunk the world.”

“Having raced around the world in seventy-two days on steam-driven ships and locomotives, that’s an observation I wouldn’t contest. But as you say—what a coincidence.”

She explains that she finished her visit with her sister in Bath and is onto Exeter to see another sister.

“Unfortunately, we might find the train a bit crowded ’til Bristol, where most people will get off,” Mrs. Lambert says. “After Bristol, the route south all the way to Exeter is a slow milk run because there are many small places and no big towns along the way.”

Once aboard we discover she’s correct. The only seats available are in the open day coach and only a few are left. I insist she take the first one we spot to ensure she won’t end up standing.

“But what about you?” Mrs. Lambert proclaims. “I so wanted us to sit together, I’m dying to find out how your investigating is going.”

I see another empty seat down the aisle and tell her I’ll take it. “Well, I guess we’ll have to wait ’til after Bristol to chat.”

In some ways I’m glad we won’t be sitting together. As much as I enjoy talking with her, I need time alone to get my thoughts organized and plan what I am going to do next formulated in my head. I find a seat quite a few rows farther down next to an older gentleman, who is completely engrossed in his newspaper.

As I lift my valise to place it in the overhead luggage net, I notice a folded sheet of paper that has been slipped into a side pocket I rarely use because my bag is usually packed so tight I can’t get anything thicker than a hairpin into it.

I pull it out and after I’m settled into my seat I unfold it.

It’s a pencil drawing—a humorous sketch of a man sitting at a table with pencil and paper watching a woman with a valise walking away from him. She appears to be hurrying away.

The woman is me. The man is the individual who had an unhealthy interest in my luggage.

Scribbled below the caricatures is
I’ve learned Ang-lish.

30

Now I know why the man tipped the train porter—he had the porter slip his caricature in my valise. Obviously, he has given up whatever pretense he has been operating under and wants to meet with me. Why? Because there is no way I would consider his presence on the train as a coincidence after he showed an interest in my luggage. And he must know that the woman who chased him away reported his attempt to me.

He has blue eyes. So did the man who tried to get into Hailey’s room and who I assumed was her lover.

“Well, we will see about this,” I tell the older gentleman next to me as I set out to find the man who has been playing games with me.

The caricature and his pretense at speaking only German also show he has a sense of humor. But I’m not amused.

As I pass by Mrs. Lambert it occurs to me that I might invite her along for my confrontation with the mystery man, but decide against it. Instead, I give her a pleasant smile at her inquiring look. I don’t feel the need to share any more information and already regret that I shared a few tidbits about my quest with her because I usually find it bad luck to talk about a story I’m investigating, especially to strangers, no matter how kind they are—you can’t trust anyone. I’m ashamed to admit that I was drawn in by her being so in awe about me being a female reporter and she was just plain kind, so I let my guard down.

Normally I keep matters close to my chest—that is how I have survived years in a dog-eat-dog atmosphere of reporting. I will never forget the best piece of advice I received from my first boss, Mr. Madden, at
The Pittsburg Dispatch,
“If you believe you have a lead to a headline story, keep it under wraps like a treasure map—don’t show nor tell anyone.”

Well, Mrs. Lambert is just a sweet widowed lady, so no harm has been done.

I should have little to fear from the man physically because the train is crowded. Besides, this man didn’t appear, on the surface at least, to be the type to resort to physical action. Unlike the thug who mugged me in broad daylight on a London street or Burke at the spa, the drawer of the comic picture is smaller built and as Mrs. Lambert put it, appeared pretty much like a counter jumper—a clerk in a retail store. However, I sensed a scholarly air about him.

He strikes me more as the type who would slice one to ribbons with pen and paper than with a knife. Then again, I once interviewed a quiet scrivener, a copyist, for an accountant who killed three people with an ax.

Whoever this man is, why he is following me, and why he has now made contact with me are matters I can’t fathom, except that he has an interest in this matter and very well could be Hailey’s lover.

Also puzzling is why he has chosen such a circumspect way of contacting me. Simply walking up to me and introducing himself would have done the trick. But instead, he started out sneaky and even tried to get a peek at my valise—probably for the diary he didn’t manage to find in Hailey’s room. For certain, he wants me to contact him and has chosen a rather unusual way to communicate his desire.

Miffed and puzzled at the same time, I must admit I’m excited for our meeting. One way or another I am certain that somehow, in some way, he has a connection to Hailey. There can’t be any other explanation for him contacting me.

I have to wonder—did his tip also allow him a peek into my valise back at the Bath station? Not that it would matter, unless he had an unhealthy interest in female garments.

The notion that he is the man Hailey was romantically involved with gets cemented into my thoughts as I go through the train to find him. He’s not unpleasant to look upon and has an air about him that conveys a certain intelligence—a quality in a man that is appealing, at least for me. I have no idea what are the qualities in a man that attracted Hailey.

Two cars down is where I find him. He’s at a writing table engrossed in making entries in a journal and has an unlit pipe clenched in his teeth.

He looks up, not completely surprised to see me.

“I’m not amused by you or your antics,” I tell him.

“I don’t blame you. Sometimes I don’t like me much myself, but I’m saddled with me.”

“Self-immolation is not an excuse for rudeness or spying on me. You have some explaining to do before I call the conductor and have him take charge of you so you can be turned over to the police at the next stop.”

He takes the pipe out of his mouth and gives me a long, appraising look. “I can see why you are a success in your career. You give no quarter.” He gestures at the seat across from him. “Please join me. Perhaps I can offer some extenuating circumstances before you have me arrested for whatever crimes you believe I’ve committed.”

“Someplace where people can breathe.” The smoking car is my least favorite place on a train and I refuse to sit here with him and talk.

He puts his writing materials in his carrying case and follows me. We stop in the gangway between the cars. The window on the door is open, allowing in breathable air, along with the sound of wheel over rails.

“Explain yourself,” I snap.

“We need to start with a change of attitude on your part. I don’t take well to bullying, even if it comes from an attractive young woman.”

An unexpected answer, but one I can deal with. “Fine. If you’d rather not talk to me, you’ll be doing your talking to the police.”

“For what? Drawing a picture? Is that a crime in your country?”

“In my country, this country, and all civilized countries I have been in, the police frown on strange men stalking a woman. We’ll see how the Bristol police deal with a man who has been giving uninvited attention to a woman.”

I turn to leave and whip back around when he says, “Wait.”

“You have exactly one minute to convince me not to have the conductor take you into custody and turn you over to the police at the next stop.”

“You are a humdinger, Miss Bly. But don’t push it. You’re not going to say anything to the police.”

“I’m not? Is that what your crystal ball tells you? Perhaps you’d like to share with me your vast knowledge of my thought processes.”

“Because it would delay you. You are trying to find Dr. Lacroix before time, money, or the demands of your job cut off the search.” He pauses and locks eyes with me. “I am also looking for him. Maybe we can join forces.”

H. G. W
ELLS