Trouble at High Tide (23 page)

“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 said. “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.”

G
eorge 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 have 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.

I
t 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.

“So, what do you think we have here?” George asked.

“Most of it looks like personal correspondence,” I said, lifting a printout of an e-mail and showing it to him. The message had been addressed to a Barry Lovick, instructing him to pick up a package on a particular date and deliver it to “your boss.”

“Who’s Barry Lovick?” George asked. “Is he the B.L. who sent these papers to Alicia Betterton?”

“I believe so,” I said. “He was Tom Betterton’s law clerk until about six months ago when he was fired.”

“Why was he fired?”

“Tom told his personal assistant, Adam, that he let his law clerk go because he liked doing his own legal research.”

“And does he?”

“Do his own research? I highly doubt it,” I replied. “Tom, himself, told me that he’s in the process of hiring another clerk, one of two he normally maintains. He bragged about how many wanted the job and said a judge needs his clerks not only to research case law, but also to write bench memos, among other duties.”

“So he lied to Adam about the reason for the firing. Why would he do that?”

“Perhaps to cover up the real reason,” I said. “Adam heard that Lovick had been copying papers and taking them home from the office. I don’t know who he heard that from, but he assumed they were legal papers—‘party-of-the-first-part stuff,’ he said—but maybe they were more personal than professional.”