Chapter 5 #2
I stared at him, my mouth ajar, until I realized why he was being so cavalier about the death of his biographer.
He didn’t know. Of course he didn’t. How could he?
Unless he was the killer, of course. “I’m not here about the treasure, Mr. Arkwright.
Perhaps I am, indirectly, but…” I paused to gather myself to break the dreadful news to him.
“I’m so very sorry to tell you that I’m investigating the murder of Chester Bradbury. ”
He blinked slowly at me, then simply stared for a long moment. “Bradbury? Murdered?” His voice had been thin before, but now it sounded frail. “I don’t understand. I saw him this morning, in this very room.”
“He was stabbed with a letter opener at his desk.”
“Good lord,” he murmured. “Poor man.”
“I need to get a better understanding of him. May I ask you some questions?”
He nodded.
“Why did you hire him to write your biography? Why not write it yourself?”
“Because I want it to be honest, and one cannot write an honest autobiography. We lie to ourselves, you see. We tell ourselves we are right, that we are normal, and it’s the world that is strange.
A good biographer looks beyond what his subject tells him, and does his research, as you put it.
Bradbury was the right man to write my story.
It will be published after my death, so any difficult truths Bradbury included won’t matter to me. ”
I hesitated, not sure I wanted to ask the next question. But I had to. “Is one of those truths the fact that you lied about Blackheart’s treasure in your book about him?”
He huffed a humorless laugh. “You will have to wait to read my biography.”
“What will happen now that Bradbury is dead?”
“I’ll find another biographer, although I am sorry to have to do so.
I chose Bradbury specifically for his honesty and bravery.
He had a reputation for the truth when he was a journalist, and that was confirmed when his last book came out.
Apparently the subject was very unhappy about some things he included, but that’s precisely why I wanted him writing my biography. ”
“Did you tell Bradbury where Blackheart’s treasure could be found?”
“You’re quite fixated on the treasure, Miss Fox. Many people are, so it’s natural for you to become obsessed, too. But are you sure that’s not the real reason for your investigation?”
It had been a long day, and his elusive responses about the treasure were beginning to try my patience. “I want to solve Mr. Bradbury’s murder, and it’s possible the motive is related to the location of the treasure.”
“I see. Well, I did not tell him where to find the treasure.” I got the feeling he was choosing his words carefully.
“Did you plan to?”
He merely shrugged.
“Apparently he’d boasted that he knew its location,” I said.
“He didn’t learn it from me.”
“Are you suggesting he lied?”
He lifted his thin shoulders in another shrug. “I believe he was studying my book closely as part of his research, so perhaps he worked out the clues I left in it.”
I felt like I was pedaling hard and getting nowhere. It was all rather pointless and a waste of time. Yet I persisted. “So the clues in your book lead to a real treasure?”
“There is a very real treasure. I was young when I met Blackheart. Only twenty. He was an old man.” He smiled wistfully and his gaze took on a faraway look. “There’s a sort of symmetry with my current situation, don’t you think?”
Although it had nothing to do with the murder, my curiosity was piqued.
Blackheart had been a titan of the seas, a feared pirate and yet a hero to some who enjoyed reading about his adventures.
“I haven’t read your book about him, but I plan to.
You wrote that many years ago. Would you describe him any differently if you’d written it now? ”
“That’s a good question. We do often see things differently as we age. Where once we saw an adventurer, now we see a thief and murderer. But I wouldn’t change my opinion of Blackheart. He was not a complicated man.”
“Yet he devised very complicated clues to the location of his buried treasure.”
Mr. Arkwright hesitated before answering. “The treasure was his, yet I confess the clues laid out in the book are of my devising.”
“Is it still there in the original location? Someone reading your biography about Blackheart can still follow the clues to find it?”
“How is that relevant to your investigation into the murder?”
It wasn’t. It seemed I’d become caught up in the treasure hunt too. “You mentioned the previous biography Mr. Bradbury wrote upset the subject. Do you know how upset Miss Gainsborough was?”
“Upset enough to tell him she was going to engage a lawyer, so he told me.”
“What else did he tell you? I know so little about his life. Can you shed any light on his family or friends?”
“I don’t know much. His family live up north.
He hardly saw them. As far as I know, he had few friends, but there was a love interest, I believe.
He mostly kept to himself. He was rather bookish and quiet, which is why he left the journalism profession to write biographies.
He was rather good at it. He asked questions that others wouldn’t, and somehow I found myself telling him things I’d not told anyone. ”
“Things you regretted telling him afterwards?”
“Like Miss Gainsborough did? No. Nothing.” He seemed to deflate with his deep sigh, making him sink further into the pillows. “I have to find someone else now and repeat the entire process. I’m not sure I have the energy.”
I suspected he may not have the time, either, but didn’t say so. “Perhaps some or all of the manuscript was already written.”
“Perhaps. If not, my interviews are written up in Bradbury’s notebook. I’ll have to speak to his beneficiary about purchasing it so that I can pass it on to my new biographer.”
“So he did have a notebook? None was found, although I don’t think an extensive search has yet been—” I cut myself off and leaned forward. Mr. Arkwright looked rather ill. “Is something the matter?”
“That notebook went everywhere with him. He kept it on his person at all times. If it’s gone…”
“The killer must have taken it,” I finished.
He fixed his gaze on me. “You must find it. Please, Miss Fox. The interviews Bradbury conducted with me contain sensitive information.”
I frowned. “I thought you weren’t worried if your secrets came out. You said it was all right with you if Bradbury included them in your biography.”
“Only after my death. I don’t want them spread about now.” A shaking hand rubbed his forehead. “It’s too soon.”
His concern seemed genuine, which meant it was very unlikely that he’d killed Bradbury in order to get the notebook back after he regretted confiding too much to his biographer.
And yet, it was a motive I couldn’t dismiss altogether.
What if Arkwright killed Bradbury only to discover the notebook wasn’t there, and this was all an act to get me to look for it?
I loathed myself for asking my next question, but it needed to be asked. “I’m afraid I have a rather vulgar question for you, Mr. Arkwright. Given the gravity of the crime, I must consider everyone as a suspect until proven otherwise. So, where were you after Mr. Bradbury left here?”
“In this very bed.”
“Can Sister Meersham vouch for you?” I indicated the open door that led through to the sitting room.
“She can. She’s very devoted and was here the entire time.
” He folded his hands together on his lap, the papery skin on the backs peppered with age spots like his head.
“You want to know what ails me, don’t you?
You think I look well enough to leave my bed, catch a taxicab to Bradbury’s lodging house, and murder him. ”
“To be frank, yes. I know you’ve called on him there.”
A flicker of surprise flashed in his eyes.
“I like your honesty, Miss Fox, so I’ll be honest with you.
My doctor doesn’t know what’s killing me, but he is quite sure I’ll be dead by the middle of next year if I don’t improve.
I’m losing weight despite eating, have an erratic heartbeat, and a number of other complaints that are too delicate to mention to a young lady.
I’m quite weak, hence Sister Meersham comes every day, although I mostly nap when she’s here.
While I could get to Bradbury’s place, he probably would have overpowered me if I tried to strike him with the letter opener. ”
“If he saw the attack coming.”
“You make a good point, Miss Fox. No wonder everyone here seems to admire you.”
I suspected he was attempting to flatter me to wriggle out of any more difficult questions I may have. I wasn’t going to be distracted, however. “Why did Mr. Bradbury leave here early?”
“He didn’t say.” He lowered his gaze to study his hands. “Poor fellow.”
“I’m sorry to have brought such terrible news,” I said, rising. “I have no more questions.”
He lifted his head. “The notebook…please find it, Miss Fox.”
“I’ll do my best.”
My promise didn’t seem enough for him, going by his frown.
I thanked the nurse on my way out. I felt unsettled as I walked back to my suite, and then as I got ready for dinner.
The violence and bloodiness of Mr. Bradbury’s murder was finally catching up to me, making my stomach roll at the thought of it.
But it was more the conversation with Mr. Arkwright that left me discombobulated.
He had mere months left to live, yet he was here in the hotel, surrounded by strangers paid to care for him, and only a paid biographer to confide his secrets to.
What had led him to this point? Why did he have no family?
And why did he care so much about his secrets being exposed before his death, yet was accepting of them being revealed after? What could those secrets be?
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