Trouble at High Tide Read online

  “Did she go somewhere else when your mother died?” I asked.

  Madeline shook her head and sighed. “No. She stayed through two more wives, and got worse and worse. I think those women left Tom because of Alicia. Claudia changed all that.”

  “How did she do that?”

  The beginnings of a smile played around Madeline’s lips. “She sent her off to a boarding school.” Madeline’s eyes met mine. “We were all glad to be rid of her. Tom, too, I’m willing to bet. Not that he would ever admit it.” She closed her eyes and covered a yawn with her hand.

  “Tom wanted me to ask you to come downstairs,” I said. “What shall I tell him?”

  She sighed. “I’ll be down in a few minutes.”

  As I left, she still sat with her arms embracing the pillow, a vacant, distant look in her eyes. She’d given me a snapshot into the Betterton family, and not a very pretty one. You never know about families. You view them from afar and all appears to be well. But within many there are jealousies, frustration, turmoil, ambitions, and egos at work that outsiders seldom see. I wasn’t sure that I was pleased to be allowed into the Betterton family’s inner sanctum, and under ordinary circumstances, I wouldn’t have wanted to know anything.

  But this wasn’t an ordinary circumstance.

  This was murder.

  Chapter Six

  Apart from the family and those who worked for them—and, of course, the police commissioner—I hadn’t seen anyone else during the day who’d been present at the party the night before. I knew that Tom’s British publisher, Godfrey Reynolds, and his wife, Daisy, who were guests in the other cottage, were among those asked to remain in Bermuda. But they had opted to go out to a restaurant rather than join the family for dinner. I didn’t blame them. The meal had been a somber affair, and I had made my exit as soon as possible.

  I hadn’t had a chance to examine the scene of the crime in the daylight; policemen posted on the beach kept the curious away. When I returned to my cottage after dinner, the security guard Adam had hired cautioned me not to go down to the beach for a few days. It was a difficult instruction to follow with the sound of the waves rolling up the sand like a siren song.

  I sat on the swing on my porch and replayed my discovery of Alicia’s body over and over in my mind, trying to remember every detail. There had been a flight of stairs from the Jamisons’ property leading down to the beach not far from where I’d stumbled on Alicia’s body. The shoes that the police thought might be hers had been found at the top of those stairs. Daniel and Lillian Jamison were sparring with Tom over a building he wanted to construct that, according to them, would mar their view. If the shoes were indeed Alicia’s, why would she have been at the Jamisons’ house? She had direct access to the beach from her uncle’s home.

  Had Tom sent her over to their house to convince them to drop their suit? It seemed unlikely, particularly at that hour, and given that the last time I’d seen Daniel Jamison, he was drunk and trying to pick a fight with Tom.

  Could Alicia have been planning to meet someone in secret? If she didn’t want anyone at the Betterton house to see her go out so late at night, she might have walked over to the Jamisons’ and used their access to the beach. That sounded like a more plausible scenario to me.

  Of course, she could have walked down to the beach from Tom’s house with one of the other guests and I might not have heard them. I was fast asleep on the swing. That was also possible.

  The killer was either an acquaintance or a stranger, someone she planned to meet or someone who surprised her. Not much help there. But the killer had attacked her from behind. That much was certain. He or she would have had to move swiftly to catch Alicia off guard. There had been no indication that I could see that she’d fought off her assailant, although it had been dark when I discovered her.

  I eventually climbed into bed with Alicia’s book and paged through it, paying particular attention to the parts she had underlined.

  The original “Jack the Ripper” was a product of late-nineteenth-century England. He’d operated in the Whitechapel district of London where poverty, crime, and violence were commonplace. Five grotesque murders sharing similar characteristics are attributed to this otherwise unnamed killer, although another six with variations on the distinctive features are thought to have possibly been his as well, but may have been the work of imitators spurred on by sensational news coverage.

  In a typical case, the victim was a poor woman from the slums, most likely a prostitute. She would be found with her neck slashed and her body mutilated, in some instances with an organ removed. The crimes took place at night, within a few streets of one another, either at the end of one month or the beginning of another, and on or near the weekend, leading criminal profilers of the day to speculate that the murderer may have worked during the week and/or lived nearby. Others—including Queen Victoria—suggested that he may have been employed on a cattle boat, since Whitechapel was near the London Docks and cattle boats docked on Thursday or Friday and went out again on Saturday or Sunday. Those theories were never confirmed, nor was the one that suggested, given the killer’s interest in the body, that he was either a butcher or a surgeon.

  The investigation was shared by two police divisions—Whitechapel and the City of London—as well as the central investigating unit of the Metropolitan Police Service, or Scotland Yard as it’s known. Although thousands of people were questioned, hundreds investigated, and nearly a hundred jailed for varying periods of time, the killer had never been apprehended.

  Alicia had highlighted a paragraph that referred to a volunteer citizen effort that arose when local businessmen, impatient with the authorities’ progress, took matters into their own hands, patrolling the streets searching for suspicious individuals. Using the newspaper to advance its agenda, the Whitechapel Vigilance Committee hired private investigators to question witnesses, and encouraged the government to offer a reward for information, but was no more successful in identifying or capturing Jack the Ripper than the police.

  I closed the book, intending to finish it the next day, and placed it on my nightstand. As I turned out the light, my mind ricocheted from fact to fallacy, from what I thought I knew to what was still a mystery.

  The unsolved crimes of Jack the Ripper had inspired hundreds of fictional and nonfictional accounts in print, on film, on stage and television, in songs, poems, and games. Was this Bermuda killer a modern-day copycat? Could he have been reading the same book to learn the ways of his eighteenth-century predecessor? How were the Bermudian police going to track him down? According to the press conference, the police were already getting outside help, but what could someone who wasn’t familiar with the island contribute? I was also curious about the beautiful woman whom the police commissioner had indicated when he spoke about help coming from Scotland Yard.

  I must have dozed off during my reflections on the crime, but something interrupted my sleep. I opened my eyes and lay quietly trying to summon up what had awakened me. It was probably unwise to read stories about Jack the Ripper before trying to sleep, I chided myself. The images Alicia’s book aroused were not the stuff of lullabies or sweet dreams. But I hadn’t been having a nightmare. I knew that. I hadn’t dwelled on the details of Alicia’s death or the death of the other victims of a serial killer. No. Before I’d fallen asleep, I’d been thinking about the beautiful woman I’d seen at the police press conference. Was she really from Scotland Yard? What was her specialty? And did she know my dear friend George Sutherland, who was a chief inspector in the London office? It was likely that she did; I’d ask her if we had occasion to meet.

  As I was reviewing my thoughts and recapturing my bedtime musings, I realized that someone was walking on the gravel path outside my window. Whoever it was made no effort to soften his or her footfall, or perhaps was unsuccessful. But what struck me was that he or she was still there. The footsteps hadn’t faded away, neither moving toward the main house, nor down to the beach. Instead, it so
unded as if someone was pacing in front of the cottage, or perhaps walking around it with a view to gaining entry.

  I slid up to a sitting position, leaned against the pillowed headboard, and squinted at the door to see if I’d locked it before retiring. It was too dark to tell. The moon illuminated the landscape outside but left the details inside the cottage in shadows.

  The sound of shoes on gravel stopped. While the knowledge that someone was walking nearby was unsettling, the silence that followed was worse.

  I held my breath, reasoning with myself that this person was simply the security guard Adam had hired carrying out his patrol. But where was he? Why had he paused in his rounds right outside my cottage? And what if this wasn’t the guard? What if it was the person who had murdered Alicia? What if he had indeed been in the vicinity when I discovered the body the night before? Was he worried that I might have had a glimpse of him? Had he come back to ensure that I wouldn’t be able to identify him? Or was he just eager for another victim?

  I groped around the nightstand for my cell phone, but when I opened it, no light came on. I’d left it on after notifying the police in case they needed to reach me, and had forgotten to charge it.

  I heard a heavy step on the porch and had to stifle a gasp. Was this the way I would die? After all the danger I’d faced in my life, all the risks I’d taken, would my life end because I was trapped in a building with only one exit? No matter how fast I was, if I tried to flee through the door, chances are I would end up in the arms of the intruder.

  I quickly debated my choices. Should I pretend to be asleep? Challenge him? Hide? There weren’t many places to conceal myself in the cottage. Perhaps under the bed, assuming I could squeeze into that narrow space without making a racket. But what would that do if someone were determined to get in and attack me?

  Was there time for me to barricade myself in the bathroom and yell for help? Confronting the intruder was out of the question. I was unarmed, and while in good shape for my age, certainly not up to doing battle with a man wielding a knife.

  I slowly pushed the covers off my legs, trying to make as little noise as possible. I twisted toward the edge of the bed, catching one foot in the sheet and nearly toppling over. I forced myself to slow down and concentrate on extricating myself from the cotton snare, all the time listening closely for evidence of his next move.

  The person on my porch shuffled forward. I caught sight through the window of the outline of a head and shoulders. I froze. Was he trying to see inside? Then I heard a little squeal from the springs on the swing as he dropped into it, and a thud as he put something down.

  Cautiously, I put my feet on the wooden floor and stood, crouched over. Behind me in the corner was a golf umbrella. But to retrieve it, I’d have to climb over the bed and risk alerting the intruder to the fact that I was awake and aware of his presence.

  Instead I decided on an alternative tactic. Creeping forward, I made my way toward the counter where the kitchen appliances were, stepping gingerly and praying that I didn’t find a loose board to give me away. My target was the frying pan I’d seen on the shelf under the counter. If I could reach that, at least I’d have something with which to defend myself.

  As I approached the door, I could see that the latch was engaged—one thing in my favor. The figure on the swing shifted his weight and drew in a lungful of air, wheezing as he let it out again. I pulled myself back against the wall out of any line of sight, even were this person able to see into the dark recesses of the cabin. My breath was shallow and the pounding of my heart was loud in my ears. Could he hear it?

  I waited in the dark, deliberating what to do. I would need to cross in front of the screen door to reach the counter. He would surely become aware of me then. While we humans do not have the sharp senses of hearing and smell of the four-legged animals who share our world, we usually can sense when there is another person around. Even a slight motion might tip him off.

  I heard someone coming in the distance, the crunch of the gravel a telltale sign. My intruder bolted from the swing and hurried down the path toward the beach. I swung around so I could see through the screen door as he ran off. The moon shone down on the retreating figure, his gait lumbering from the heavy suitcase that he carried and the thick woolen suit that hampered his speed.

  It was the redheaded man.

  Chapter Seven

  The sun was shining the next morning and the sky was a spectacular blue. I was awake early, having barely slept the night before.

  After my intruder had run away, I’d waited for the security guard to pass by my cottage but he never materialized. Twenty minutes later, I gave up listening for him and closed the outer door, securing it from inside. I pulled the shades on all the windows, plugged in my cell phone to charge, left the frying pan next to my bed, and made another attempt to sleep. I’d managed a couple of hours, but when the sun rose, so did I. I made a mug of tea in the cottage’s efficiency kitchen and took it out to the porch.

  This time, when I heard the sound of footsteps on the gravel, it wasn’t disturbing. If anything, I welcomed the company.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Fletcher. I thought you’d like to see this morning’s newspaper.”

  “Good morning, Adam,” I said from my perch on the swing. “That was very thoughtful of you.”

  “The judge sends his apologies.”

  “Whatever for?” I asked, looking up at the concern in Adam’s eyes. I unfolded the newspaper. “Oh,” I said. “I see.”

  There on the front page was my picture, one that had been taken for the back of my most recent book and which my publisher had posted on its Web site. I read the headline aloud: Mystery Author Stumbles Upon Ripper’s Latest Victim. “Makes me sound a bit clumsy, doesn’t it?” I perused the article and put the paper down, letting it rest in my lap.

  “The judge is upset that you’ve been targeted by the press in this way,” Adam said, carefully watching my expression. I imagined that he was trying to determine what he could report back to his boss.

  “Please tell the judge that this is neither his fault nor anything he could have prevented.” I sighed. “It’s not the first time it’s happened. I can’t say that I’m used to it, but I’ll make every effort not to embarrass the family further.”

  “Oh, no. He’s not worried about the family. His concern was you, that you’d be distressed to be a focus of the press because of this Jack the Ripper business.” Adam paused, a thought coming to him. “Unless, of course, the extra attention is more positive than negative.” He cocked his head at me.

  I felt a wave of heat rise in me. “Good heavens! What are you thinking? That I’d want to use Alicia’s death to sell more books?”

  “No. No. Of course not. You couldn’t have known that you’d find Alicia’s body. Who could have imagined that Bermuda would have its own Jack the Ripper? I regret if you took it the wrong way.”

  “It wasn’t I who took it the wrong way, Adam. The last thing I’d want to do is take advantage of such a tragedy.”

  Our conversation was mercifully interrupted by the sound of my cell phone ringing from the cottage. I excused myself and went inside, hoping Adam would make a hasty retreat. I looked at the screen on the phone and took a deep breath to calm myself before answering the call.

  A familiar voice came on the line. “Hello, lass. I see you’re up to it again.”

  “George! How nice to hear from you. How are you?”

  “To tell the truth, I’m feeling a wee bit wabbit.”

  “Wabbit?”

  “Sorry, lass, that’s Scottish for tired.”

  Chief Inspector George Sutherland of Scotland Yard was a dear friend of many years. Our relationship teetered on the edge of something more, but never quite advanced. We were both busy, independent people at the top of our games in our professional careers, our lives filled with responsibilities, activities, and friends. Perhaps most important, our beloved homes were across an ocean from each other. Still, we held each ot
her in great esteem and affection, and rejoiced when we had the opportunity to spend time together. Maybe someday… but not now.

  “Have you been working late?” I asked.

  “Late and long,” he replied, “but I had a nice jolt some hours ago when I saw your face.”

  “Oh, dear. Was my picture in your newspaper, too?”

  “Afraid so, lass. I imagine you’re a bit of an international sensation.”

  “I’m sorry to hear it.”

  “Nothing you can’t handle. You know that we’ve a team in Bermuda working on the case?”

  “So I understand.”

  “The Bermudian police are doing a thorough job, but the governor is worried that if the case isn’t solved quickly, the island will suffer economically.”

  “I don’t doubt it,” I said. “Having a serial killer roaming around isn’t good for tourism.”

  “Precisely. I’ve got a strong trio of inspectors on it. Macdonald, one of our forensic experts, and Freddie Moore, a good lad, very knowledgeable, plus Gilliam, a profiler. Would you mind terribly if I told them to contact you? I’m overseeing from here, getting reports from those on the ground, but I’ll always be happy to have your take on the situation, particularly with your intimate knowledge of this latest victim and her family.”

  “That’s very flattering, George, but I only arrived on Bermuda the day before yesterday. I just met the girl and hardly know the rest of her family. And anyway, do you really think her murder is related to the others?”

  “Tell me about the young woman.”

  “Well, she wasn’t poor or a prostitute for starters, nor was she killed in an alley. She was a bright, very pretty twenty-two year old, well off, the niece of a judge, who was just learning how to be attractive.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, she didn’t practice her wiles on me, but apparently she was interested in drawing masculine admiration but not always happy when she got it. Her family loved her, but I have the distinct impression that some of them didn’t particularly like her. Let’s just say they were impatient with her behavior. Does she sound like any of the other Jack the Ripper cases?”