Cupboards All Bared, page 25
Then again, the House was so far out of town, and Miss Mitchell hadn’t entertained often, according to Mrs. Curry, so maybe Jennings could just hide in the sea of faces.
Archie flipped over again, this time onto his left side, crossing and uncrossing his arms, trying to get them into a comfortable position.
It was no use. The dim purple of dawn was peeking through the curtains and it was time to start a new day.
With a huff of reluctant acceptance, he hauled himself up and out of bed, pulling his glasses on as he did so and picking up his pocket watch to wind it and examine the time—5:07.
A knock at his door startled him into greater wakefulness.
“Who’s there?”
“It’s Mrs. Curry. Are you awake?”
Archie grumbled to himself that he’d been awake all night, but he dutifully pulled on his robe over his striped pajamas and opened the door.
“Read this,” said the older woman, thrusting a folded Spokesman-Review into his hands.
Archie pushed his glasses up his nose and read the headline Mrs. Curry had pointed to.
“‘Pavoni Murdered: Police Cover Truth,’” he read aloud, then looked up with alarm at Mrs. Curry.
She shook her head. “Oh, it gets worse.” She tapped the newspaper.
“Witnesses can now confirm that the police have misled the public by reporting that the body found in Hangman Creek on Friday morning belonged to a Mr. James London when it was in fact the body of Antonio Pavoni, the State Labor Commissioner from Tacoma. Should anyone have any information regarding the location of Mr. London, they are encouraged to contact the police immediately. London is described as a tall, white male, mid-thirties, dark hair and eyes, with a large, Roman nose. He was last seen wearing round-rimmed spectacles and a gray suit. London is wanted for questioning in regards to the murder of Antonio Pavoni, and should be regarded as dangerous. Any and all information should be brought directly to City Hall.”
“Do the Carews know about this?” Mrs. Curry asked, when Archie glanced up and puffed air out of his lips in response.
“They do now.”
“Did you read the article beneath the one about Pavoni?”
Archie looked back at the newspaper and moved his thumb, which was covering the article below the first one.
“Information Sought: Police seek information regarding a man of the following description who answers to the name Reginald Jennings, but may be known by another name. Roughly 6’1”, broad-shouldered, wide face with an aquiline nose, dark hair and eyes, age about 35. Any information should be brought directly to Detective Bernard Carew at City Hall.”
Archie’s eyes widened. “Wait a minute, that description sounds just like the one of London.”
“I thought you’d be interested. I’m certain the Carews have noticed, as well, seeing as they’re intelligent gentlemen like yourself. But it sounds like you were on to something when you said how you thought our Mr. Jennings may have taken on a new identity in order to stay near Eleanor. Seems to me our missing Mr. Jennings may be their missing Mr. London.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Curry!” cried Archie, handing the newspaper back to the cook and then leaning forward to give her a quick peck of thanks on the cheek.
He closed the door and dressed as quickly as possible, eternally grateful the cook could 1) read, and 2) liked to read the newspaper first thing in the morning after starting breakfast.
He was down the drive and on the first streetcar of the morning as his pocket watch dinged to tell him it was six o’clock.
THOMAS SHOOK HIS HEAD as he read. Nonsense. It couldn’t be. And yet, there it seemed to be in black and white. Mr. Bach had gone and done it again.
“You’re not going to want to read that,” Thomas said, handing the newspaper to his brother and filling his empty hand with another buttery scone. He was grateful the ladies of the house had not risen as early as he and Bernard had, so there would be no need to share all the scones piled high on a plate before him.
Bernard took the paper and his eyes scanned quickly over the news. “That little imp took my description and used it in another libelous article! ‘The police have misled the public’—rubbish!”
Before Thomas could reply, someone knocked at the front door.
“Who could that be first thing in the morning?” Bernard grumbled as he wiped his mouth and stood to answer it.
He reappeared quickly with a very tired-looking Prescot.
“Good morning, Prescot, care for a delicious scone?” Thomas offered, finishing off his current scone and reaching for another.
“No, thank you. Have you read the paper this morning?” The clockmaker shifted from foot to foot nervously.
“Yes, we were just discussing it,” said Bernard.
“What do you think?”
“If I had the ability, I’d sue that damn reporter for all he’s worth.”
“No,” said Prescot, pushing his glasses up his nose. “I meant about the similarity between the descriptions of London and Jennings.”
Both brothers looked at him blankly, then each grabbed for the paper at the same time, wrestling over it a moment before each taking an edge as they read together.
Thomas and Bernard had each sent in an article to The Spokesman. Thomas’s article described Jennings, since he’d had more interaction with him over the course of their last case. Bernard’s article described London, based on the notes he’d gathered from the Campbell household, though they’d been printed along with Peter Bach’s very biased thoughts.
Prescot pushed his glasses up his nose. “I think London is Jennings.”
“You think everyone is Jennings,” Bernard said unkindly.
“Nonsense. Just the shifty ones,” said Thomas, before shoving another bite of scone in.
“It can’t be a coincidence,” said Prescot. “Jennings disappeared a month ago; London began his job a month ago. They both are described as tall, with dark-blonde hair and eyes. How simple would it be for Jennings to add spectacles and a nervous attitude to hide the pompous butler he played before? No one he interacted with would ever have known him as the butler.”
“But why would Jennings pretend to be London?” Marian asked, wheeling in Roslyn just in time to complicate the conversation. “Conmen don’t con without a motive.”
“Yes, I’ve been considering that my entire ride down,” said Prescot with a blushing glance at Marian. “I really think it comes down to love—love of Eleanor.”
Thomas glanced at Marian, too. “What do you think, Marian?”
Her cheeks reddened at being put on the spot, but he could tell she already had an opinion ready to share.
“Well, if Jennings was looking for a way to stick around Spokane until he could figure out a way to get Eleanor out, taking on the role of a temporary personal assistant would be ideal. He’d be able to slip in and out without causing a huge fuss, and no one would be the wiser.” She came around to Roslyn’s side. “And if he really loves Eleanor, there’s always the possibility he thinks she’s innocent.”
“After talking to the Baker a couple times he must know the truth by now,” said Thomas.
Marian frowned unhappily. “Yes, I suppose so. But it’s also possible that his love has blinded him.”
“He must have known Pavoni, though,” said Bernard. “The reference letter given to Mr. Campbell bore a realistic-looking signature from Pavoni, and London was seen speaking with Pavoni on several occasions.”
“And there’s the fact that London’s name is all through the assassination plot documents,” added Thomas.
“Assassination plot?!” Prescot cried.
“Anyone else you’d like to let in on all the facts? The cook, perhaps?” Bernard growled.
Thomas shrugged and grabbed another scone.
THE FIVE OF THEM ADJOURNED to the front parlor, where they closed the doors once again against prying ears while Thomas brought Prescot up to speed.
“So,” said Bernard, ready to bring the conversation back to where they’d left off, “I think we can conclude that Pavoni wanted Jennings-London to get the job with Campbell in order to give him an inside man to the house plans in regards to the President.”
Four heads nodded in agreement around him, though Prescot still had a quite baffled look on his face.
“And Pavoni clearly outlined what London’s role would be in the plot,” continued Bernard. “The question is: How much did Jennings know about it?”
“I don’t think you’ll be able to deduce that,” put in Roslyn. “You’ll have to ask him.”
“And how, pray tell, are we to find a man who can shift personality and appearance so well he’s gotten past two of us already?” Bernard asked, nodding toward Thomas and Prescot on the couch.
“The same way Prescot worked out he was the nun,” said Thomas. “Start with the nose and breathing.”
Bernard almost shook his head, but then he stopped himself. He suddenly recalled a hobo with red, watery eyes over a large, Roman nose. The dirt and grime that had covered the face, as well as the incredible stench enveloping the man, had caused Bernard to not pay close attention to the details of the man’s features. He’d simply wanted to get the information, verify it, and let the hobo move on to his next manure-filled bed.
He swore.
“Bernard!” Roslyn cried.
Bernard’s face warmed. “I apologize, Roslyn, Marian. I just realized Jennings conned me, too. And you, twice,” he said, looking at Thomas with a grin that reduced some of the shame filling his chest.
“Who?” Thomas asked.
“The hobo.” Bernard laughed. He couldn’t help it. The ridiculousness of it all. And yet, it fit. “The hobo that came to me Friday morning to report the body, smelling of the sewer and gin so much so that I never took a good, long look at him. But what I did see included a nose I’d never forget, if placed on a cleaner face.” He slapped his knee. “By golly, he’s good. I mean, he’s really good. When he switches characters he goes all for it. He must’ve lain in the dirtiest pile of trash in the city for half the night before coming in to see me.”
“You mean Jennings has now played a butler, a hobo, a personal assistant, and a nun?” Prescot listed off.
“What can’t the man do?” Thomas said, laughing with his brother now and shaking his head.
“Once you two have finished chuckling at the acting capabilities of a criminal,” interrupted Roslyn, “we still have a more pressing matter to attend to: namely the murder of Mr. Pavoni.”
“Right you are, Roz,” said Thomas, straightening his features and his tie.
Bernard nodded. “We need to speak with Jennings. We need to find him.”
“You could always wait for him at the jail,” Prescot muttered.
“The jail?” Thomas repeated. “You think he’ll go back?”
Prescot pushed his glasses up his nose. “I think a man who has risked everything—including somehow getting involved in an anarchist plot—in order to see the incarcerated woman he loves, will not be leaving town without saying goodbye.”
Thomas nodded and looked at Bernard. “I’m still suspended, so it’s your call, Detective. Do we lie in wait for our criminal?”
Bernard nodded perfunctorily. “I think it’s all we can do now to get the answers we require.”
HE’D BEEN BORN ANDREW Jackson—a name that wasn’t his own from the very beginning, as it had belonged to a President before him. He’d grown up on the streets, a nobody. He’d wanted to make his own name for himself.
So he’d made several.
Now he could be anyone he put his mind to.
Even a nun.
The first time he’d put on the habit, he’d worried he couldn’t pull it off, that the jailer would notice his rather obvious masculine features. But if there was one thing he’d learned in his years as a conman, it was that they were called confidence tricksters for a reason.
All it took was confidence.
Confidence he was who he said he was, that he had a past, a present, and a future. Confidence that he was where he was supposed to be, doing what he was supposed to be doing. Confidence, or lack of confidence, as the character called for: the greatest acting role any man could ever fill.
But all his confidence had gone out the window the first time he’d laid eyes on Eleanor in that cell. So cold, so lonely. Even in prison brown he’d still thought she looked beautiful.
Until she turned on him.
“Come to pray for my soul?” she’d said, her voice scoffing and cold. “I’m afraid mine’s well past its expiration date. There’s no use trying to save it any longer.”
She’d never spoken to him like that before, but he’d known it was just a mask, like the ones he put on. And so he’d removed his habit and revealed himself, thinking maybe she just didn’t recognize him, but that’d only made her comments more personal.
“Reginald Jennings,” she’d said, her eyes somehow a more piercing blue. “How kind of you to visit. I hope you didn’t come all this way to speak to Eleanor. I’m afraid she’s been detained.” A cruel yet pleased smile had spread across Eleanor’s face. A smile that practically had fangs it was so unlike his sweet Eleanor’s.
And yet he’d still refused to think his dear Eleanor had disappeared completely behind this mask. For it had to be just a mask. Like himself, Eleanor must have once known how to switch out her personalities, and she’d just gotten stuck in one. It sometimes happened even to the best. She obviously had forgotten how to take the mask off.
Only he could save her. Only he, who understood what it meant to be multiple people. To carry the burden of the lies that came with multiple identities.
But when he’d returned on Sunday, she’d only been worse. She’d spoken in nothing but rhyme with a terrible sing-song swaying of her head back and forth, back and forth.
He hadn’t stayed long then.
And now, this morning, after reading The Spokesman and realizing it wouldn’t be long before the police made the connection, before they realized they were looking for one man instead of two, he’d come.
It was time.
Jackson dropped the spent match, adjusted his habit, and got his heart racing. He told himself the fire in the alley before him was growing larger by the second. He must get help.
He rushed to the nearest door, which just happened to be the entrance to the jail cells.
“Fire!” he cried, letting his voice carry higher than usual. “Fire!” he cried again, widening his eyes in fear.
“Where?” the jailer asked, leaping to his feet.
“Just there, in the alley. Get the firemen!”
The jailer leapt out the door without thinking, no doubt figuring the nun was trustworthy. Jackson lost no time in grabbing the keys he’d left hanging on the wall and entering the back hall lined with cells.
Eleanor was waiting for him.
“What are you doing here?” she asked, her voice her own.
He knew he could count on her.
“I’m getting you out,” he said, pulling a second habit from underneath his own and thrusting it to her through the bars. He started trying keys in the cell door.
“You can’t save me.”
He looked her in the eyes. “Yes, I can,” he said confidently. “We’ll go to Colorado Springs. There’s great sanitariums there and healing waters. They’ll fix you.”
She shook her head as the door to her cell swung open.
“They can’t. Nothing can fix me.” Tears filled her eyes.
Jackson wrapped his hands around her face and pulled her to him, kissing her, passionately, a kiss to heal all ails.
“I love you,” he said.
She laughed through her tears. “I know. You’re crazier than I am!”
He kissed her again.
Then he helped her into her habit, throwing it over her prison garb easily.
He took her hand.
“Let’s go.”
They raced down the hall, threw open the first door, and—
“Hey, wasn’t there just one nun?” he heard the jailer say.
Standing in the door to the outside, blocking their escape, turning his plan from brilliant to impossible in one stance, were three men.
“Good day, Sister,” Detective Carew intoned. “I think it’s time you told us about Mr. Jennings.”
BERNARD SAT ACROSS from the defrocked Jennings, or Andrew Jackson as he’d revealed himself to be, and patiently waited with fountain pen and paper to write down his confession.
He wished Thomas could be here for this, but he was still suspended, pending this interview. So he was doing it by the book, bringing the conman upstairs to the small room they used for interviewing suspects. A spot of blood still marked the wall where one of his colleagues had taken his questioning to another level entirely.
But Bernard didn’t believe in that kind of police work, though he realized with a grimace he’d come awfully close a couple times with Bach. Maybe he owed the man an apology.
Bernard believed that all he needed to know would be found in evidence, facts, and conversation, much like his beloved Holmes. Bernard hoped the chief would be pleased with whatever this man confessed to him now, enough to pardon his brother and prove Campbell’s innocence.
Bernard was surprised by the man who sat before him. He was not the pompous butler he’d first met over a month ago, nor the shameful hobo he’d met second, nor the nervous, bespectacled assistant described to him so often these last few days. He was simply a man. A man who, if he was not mistaken, had finally come to the realization that he’d lost the love of his life forever. And not just behind bars.
Bernard did not say anything. Instead, he waited.
Sure enough, Jackson eventually began his speech, but that was what it sounded like: a practiced speech. It was like he’d been anticipating this moment and preparing for it. Bernard wondered if that meant he shouldn’t believe a word of it, but for now he listened.
“I suppose you want to know the truth,” Jackson began, “but it’s rather difficult for me to tell it, when I’ve been living lie after lie for years now, so you’ll excuse me if I don’t make much sense. Perhaps you can make more sense out of it than me.
