Cupboards All Bared, page 16
It didn’t take long for the reporter to whip out his pad and start peppering Archie with questions.
“So, tell me,” he said, and again Archie thought he noted that slight intake of breath before he began, “how did you feel when you learned your patroness had been butchered by a mad-woman?”
Archie felt the blood drain from his cheeks and get lodged somewhere in the region of his tie. He could still see that terrible red stain...
He shook his head and realized the reporter was writing something down even though Archie hadn’t said anything in response.
“May I ask what you’re writing?”
The man looked up quickly and smiled beneath his Roman nose. “You may, but it is a reporter’s duty to keep his notes to himself until the article is published. I am sure you understand. You are a clockmaker, yes?”
Archie nodded slowly.
“You would not want someone to see the insides of your pocket watch before it was complete—they might not understand the chaos required for creation.”
Archie pushed his glasses up his nose. “Actually, the design of a clock relies rather more on order than chaos—”
“Of course, of course,” Bach said, waving the hand that held the pencil. “As I was saying, I imagine you were quite distressed, so I find it quite interesting that you have since taken up residence in your late patroness’s home.”
Archie shrugged. “I have to stay in Spokane a couple more months to complete my plans for the Great Northern depot clock. It made the most sense to stay with Mr. Matsumoto, since he was lucky enough to inherit the mansion. In some ways, Miss Mitchell is still our patroness even in death, as she’s enabled us to continue our work.”
“Ah, yes, I find that most curious.” He tapped the end of his pencil against his luxuriant, most-likely-fake beard. “Why him? No other family, or perhaps dutiful servants, she might have left it to?”
Archie’s eyes widened and he had to push his glasses back up his nose again before they slid down. Was that why Jennings was playing a reporter? Was he hoping to dislodge Matsumoto from his inheritance? Did he plan to fight Mr. Westfall’s attempts to uphold Miss Mitchell’s dying wish? Perhaps he’d suggest she made the new will under duress since she’d been blackmailed at the time, even though it wasn’t by the Japanese inventor?
Archie felt his stomach clench. He dearly hoped this wasn’t the case, but what other reason would Jennings have for dressing up as a reporter with a fake beard and following Archie up to the House?
In fact, it might not even be for himself that he was fighting the will. The most “dutiful servants” to Miss Mitchell had been Mr. and Mrs. Sigmund—Eleanor Sigmund, whom he was certain Jennings had also visited as a nun. Had he snuck in to tell her he wouldn’t let this rest? That he would somehow give her the inheritance she deserved and spring her out of jail at the same time?
The reporter’s hand was flying across his pad as he watched Archie’s face. Meanwhile, Archie tried to decide on his next move.
He should’ve told the Carews what he suspected back at their house, not allowed himself to be cornered by the masquerading Jennings. Alone. What was he supposed to do?
“Why are you so interested in the Baker?” The question popped out without his meaning to, but once it was out, there was no reeling it back in. “Eleanor Sigmund, I mean?”
“Who is not interested in the Baker?” the reporter countered with a shrug, his pencil pausing once again. “It is the most interesting story to come out of Spokane since—”
“It’s pronounced ‘spo-CAN,’” Archie corrected. He may be the one to often trip over the wrong word, but he knew from experience that “spo-CANE” would get you nothing but dirty looks around town. “How long have you been in town?”
“A couple weeks, I guess,” the reporter shrugged again.
Archie nodded. It’d been a month since the closing of the Baker case, so it was conceivable that Jennings had simply come up with a backstory to support his sudden “appearance,” which neatly coincided with the butler’s disappearance. He’d even mentioned at lunch a cousin who’d gotten him the job at The Spokesman—most likely a partner in crime, if the man even existed in the first place. He’d heard before how conmen would often create elaborate backstories and live them so completely it was difficult to tell where their reality ended and their lies began.
He really had to give it to him. When Jennings inhabited a role, he went all for it, even down to buying a massive beard to cover his face—a face that must be kept clean-shaven in order for him to also play his role as a nun.
It occurred to Archie that if Jennings ever decided to become a spy rather than a conman, he would make quite an admirable one. Archie shivered to himself at the thought. If Jennings became a spy, he hoped it was for their side—whatever side that was.
Jennings had given every indication of being a butler, too. He’d boasted of his past to Bernard and convinced the entire household he was who he said he was. So why not a bearded reporter? Why not make the next identity so completely the opposite of the first as to throw off the people around him? After all, he’d have to get very cozy with the same people, and yet they couldn’t think they’d met him before.
And there was the breathing thing. He definitely took a small breath sometimes before he spoke. And he smoked like a chimney.
Archie distinctly recalled Jennings leaning against the wall outside the kitchen as he and Thomas approached from the workshop a month ago. The way he’d tilted his head back and looked down over that aquiline nose of his and sneered. Just like Bach had done before they’d boarded the streetcar.
But perhaps what Archie saw as a marvelous performance was not good enough to fool those he knew well. Archie, Bernard, and Thomas were less familiar with the butler, whom they’d only met a few times, and then under strained circumstances. Whereas Matsumoto and Mrs. Curry had known him for six months. He looked forward to hearing their opinion when they met up at the House.
“You came to Spokane to write about the Baker?” Archie asked.
“Yes. And then there’s this new murder.”
“Another murder?”
“Yes, the body at the bottom of Hangman Creek.”
Archie wondered why this hadn’t come up at lunch.
“Did you not see it in the paper? There was a most excellent article on the front page, right beneath the announcement that Mrs. McKinley took a bad turn overnight.”
“I’m afraid I didn’t have the pleasure this morning. I was distressed...distracted by other thoughts.” About a nun with an aquiline nose, quite similar to the overly bearded reporter who now strutted his supposed writing capabilities. But as the articles in The Spokesman did not include its writers’ names, anyone could claim to have written the words—even Jennings.
“Here. I have a copy on me.” And the man pulled out a type-written sheet headlined “Hangman Creek Claims Another.”
Archie had to admit this made it a little more difficult to suggest the man hadn’t written the article himself.
PETER WATCHED AS THE clockmaker read his thrilling version of events. This Mr. Prescot was a marvelously easy person to read, now he’d gotten him alone. He still couldn’t be certain why the man had been staring at him so confoundedly in the Carews’ parlor, but perhaps he’d just never seen such a perfect beard before. It was clear he couldn’t even grow the simplest mustache.
Peter wondered if Prescot could tell he was new at being a reporter, even though he thought the role fit him like a glove. He expected the clockmaker to ask him something when he finished with his read, but the first question was not what he’d anticipated.
“What did the hobo look like?”
Peter took back the proffered piece of paper and shrugged. “I don’t know, I didn’t see him.”
“Of course you didn’t.”
“What do you mean?”
“Nothing. Just...a feeling.”
“You are thinking the hobo killed London accidentally, reported the murder, and then left town? We already thought of that.”
Prescot’s eyebrows furrowed irritably at this statement.
Ah, how Peter loved figuring out what triggered people. Each person was so unique. It was like a game, finding the one thing they didn’t like pushed in their face, and then pushing it right in.
Peter flipped open his pocket watch to check the time, being sure to let Archie see it clearly. He had a feeling one glimpse of his Martens 18K gold watch, engraved by Jess Hans Martens for his successor Georg Wessel, would be the push Prescot needed—
The clockmaker’s eyes lit up at the sight and he leaned forward slightly, his mouth open. But just as quickly he sank back into his seat, his shoulders sagging and his entire body deflating as he turned to look out the streetcar window.
“We’re almost there,” he said sulkily.
Peter shook his head again and placed the watch back in his pocket. He’d find the thing that pushed Mr. Prescot into action, or he was done as a reporter.
Peter replaced his notepad and pencil and reached for his cigarette box, but then Prescot announced they’d arrived at the end of the line and Miss Mitchell’s house. They disembarked and Peter started to ask if they might begin where the murder took place—in the workshop.
The clockmaker beat him to it. “I thought we’d start at the house,” he said, leading the way up the long drive to the impressive front door.
The house reminded Peter of the Campbells’, and he wouldn’t have been surprised if they were designed by the same architect: Kirtland Cutter, whose homes he’d often admired in the Tacoma area, as well. The Tudor style was offset by a white-columned front porch, similar in look to the house a couple doors down from the Campbells’. The stained glass windows were completely unique, however, complete with cherry blossoms adorning the windows beside the front door.
They entered the front hall, but before Peter could take in his surroundings properly, the broad form of Bernard Carew came stomping up to them, his thick eyebrows raised at the sight of Peter.
“Detective Carew, I’m glad to see I’ve found you,” Prescot said, shaking the policeman’s hand.
“Me, too,” Bernard said, then flicked his eyes toward Peter. “May I ask why you brought Mr. Bach with you?”
Peter smiled congenially, enjoying the obvious struggle Bernard had gone through to phrase his question as politely as possible.
“Mr. Prescot kindly offered to give me a tour of the place where the Baker’s story began,” he offered.
Bernard looked to Prescot, who nodded, but then seemed to be rethinking his decision as he shrank, nervously pushing his glasses up his nose over and over again and shifting his feet.
“I mean, only if you...that is if you...I mean...”
“No,” Bernard said firmly, and motioned toward the front door.
“Excuse me?” Peter asked in mock surprise. “This isn’t a crime scene anymore, Detective Carew. You have no right to bar my entry.”
“You’re absolutely right,” Bernard said, turning to the clockmaker. “Mr. Prescot, I have been waiting all morning for you to return to your home so I could speak with you about a rather important matter. I would find it very considerate of you and be most appreciative if you would do me the honor of taking the time to speak with me before entertaining.”
Prescot pushed his glasses up his nose yet again. “Of course, Detective Carew. I’d love to be of assessment...assemblance...assistance,” he finally choked out.
For a man of supposed intelligence, he certainly had a difficult time with finding the right word sometimes.
“I understand,” Peter said, with a tip of his hat. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Prescot. I will return another day. I enjoyed our conversation on the streetcar, if nothing else.”
There was no way Peter was going all the way back down the hill without a fair bit of snooping, but when he glanced over his shoulder he could see Bernard watching him from the front porch, his arms crossed.
Perhaps, now that he knew how to get here, he could return at a later time to make his own unimpeded investigation. With a jaunty wave at the detective, he turned and made his way toward the streetcar stop.
AFTER ENSURING THE reporter really had left the House grounds, Bernard finally rejoined Prescot in the Japanesque parlor, pulling out the pocket watch for the clockmaker’s perusal.
“Thank you, Mr. Prescot. Now, what can you tell me about this?”
Prescot took it gently into his hands, his large fingers at once becoming nimble and delicate. “14K gold, 48 mm case, enamel dial, Patek Philippe, Swiss, 1880 I’d guess...”
Bernard wrote down each word Prescot said, though he couldn’t be certain of their importance just yet. Something told him it was a rather nice watch for London, though.
“Would you say this is the usual watch one might find on a personal assistant?”
Prescot continued to turn the watch over in his hands. “Perhaps. It might have been gifted to him by a family member, I suppose, but it seems to be in too fine a condition to be something carried about and used on an everyday basis by someone of the working class.”
Bernard nodded. He needed to do some digging into London’s past, and for that he could sure use Thomas’s help. With a stab of guilt he thought again of asking for Thomas’s help last night only to abandon him this morning. And still the reporter had managed to contrive a way up to the Baker’s territory. At least Thomas hadn’t let him see her in the jail... Right?
Prescot had popped open the back where one could access the inner workings of gears and whatever else it was that made clocks tick.
“There’s an engraving here.”
Bernard perked up and leaned over as Prescot held it out for him to view.
He grunted. “I missed that before.”
“Watch repairmen usually leave their mark here on the inside to note their work. Looks like it was fixed by someone on 5-3-1901. So, earlier this month.”
Bernard nodded. “That might be helpful if it was done locally and I could track down the watchmaker. Maybe they could tell me something about London.”
“London? Is that the man they found at Hangman Creek?”
“Yes. Be glad you weren’t there for this one. Even I had difficulty stomaching it.” His mouth twitched beneath his mustache.
Prescot’s cheeks reddened. “Is Thomas assisting you again?”
Bernard’s almost-smile disappeared completely. “In a way. When he’s not distracted by...other things.”
Prescot’s redness spread to his forehead and his throat, which he cleared nervously before closing the watch with a forceful snap. “I think that’s about all I can tell you on my own. Sorry I couldn’t be more help.”
“That’s all right. You helped plenty. Too bad you’re not more familiar with the watchmakers of Spokane.”
“You know, I might be able to assist you with that. I don’t know them personally, but they’re more likely to spill to a fellow tradesman. I could ask around if you like.”
Bernard’s eyebrows rose. “Thanks, Prescot. That’d be incredibly helpful.”
Prescot placed the pocket watch in his jacket pocket.
“Did you have anything you wanted to ask me?” Bernard asked.
“What?” Prescot furrowed his brow.
“You went down to my house to ask me a question while I came here to ask you a question.”
“Ah.” Prescot blushed again. He opened his mouth and then closed it again.
Bernard shook his head and patted the large man on the shoulder.
“It’s all right, Prescot. You’re not the only one who’s noticed my wife’s new companion.”
Prescot’s face grew even redder.
Bernard shook his head again. He was glad he was no longer on the hunt for a wife. He didn’t miss the days of fighting his brother for a woman, though he was still eternally grateful he’d won Roslyn’s heart in the end.
THOMAS SANK ONTO THE Chesterfield patting his belly, as contented and satisfied as Bagheera after an entire wild boar.
He had never eaten such incredible Italian food, which, if this meal was anything to go by, was going to be his meal of choice in future. No more meat and potatoes for this guy. Fresh, homemade noodles with tomatoes, olives, and mushrooms, bread that was crispy on the outside but chewy on the inside and slathered in garlic butter, garlicky green beans that still had some snap to them, and cornbread—because Roslyn was crazy sometimes. All of it finished off with a cake that had been soaked in coffee with this delicate caramel on top... And this had just been lunch!
He wondered if it was dinner time yet...
He closed his eyes and drifted off into a happy daydream where he imagined eating such a meal every day...
Roslyn wheeled into the front parlor, pushed by Marian, who placed her next to the fireplace. This was her customary spot, where she could be warm and command the attention of anywhere in the room.
“Well, I vote she stays.” Thomas was attempting to sit up a bit more properly, even though his belly really didn’t care to be in an upright position at the moment.
“I second that,” said Roslyn.
“I agree,” said Marian. “I’m so glad we didn’t settle for my sad attempts when there were miraculous fingers just waiting around the corner.”
“Amen,” said Thomas. Then he realized the comment might be misunderstood and apologized. “Not that your attempts were sad by any means—I mean, wasn’t the bread yours?”
“I suppose it must have been, though I can hardly believe it! My bread never turns out so perfect! I’ll have to ask her what she did to it... Though it’s probably all down to the baking. I have a tendency to forget bread in the oven, so I end up with a loaf better suited to holding doors open.”
Thomas laughed at the image.
“Well, I think I’ll turn in for a short nap,” said Roslyn with an obviously faked yawn, and Marian immediately stood to take her to her room. “Oh no, no, you two stay out here and don’t mind me. After such a wonderfully delicious meal I feel the need to rest for a little while.”
