Chapter 24 #2
The ink had run, making the passenger information difficult to read. But not impossible.
“Mr. W. Valentine … thirty-two years of age. Oh! He’s much older than I had assumed.”
And where had Marigold made that incorrect assumption—from Professor Currier’s calling him a young man?
“Mrs. Olivia Valentine … well, I suppose that shows he was sincere about the idea of marriage,” she commented as an aside. “And age … twenty two.” Marigold drew back. “She was only seventeen!”
“Which shows that Valentine likely knew the age of consent for the Commonwealth of Massachusetts is eighteen years of age,” Cab noted.
“But you’re right—it does show that the plan to elope was well thought out in advance—not just something he made up to cover the fact that he had already murdered her. ”
“A plan that she thwarted?” Marigold theorized.
“Because here she was in Wellesley on Sunday, arguing, or at the very least struggling with him, on the path by the lake, with this ticket for that next day in her pocketbook—and no evidence that she had a suitcase with her to suggest a different intent.”
“And the ticket was lost to the lake when he killed her,” Pratt observed. “Forcing him into the necessity of buying more—third-class—tickets.”
“He didn’t just kill her,” Marigold felt compelled to say. “He strangled her. With his own two hands.” Marigold refused to use euphemisms. Violence had been wrought upon Olivia Thayer and violence ought to be described unflinchingly.
“Just so,” Pratt agreed. “Perhaps as a direct result—” He reached into the pocket of his long blue uniform frock coat and brought out Marigold’s first artifact, a small, sand-flecked velvet box held closed by a bright gold metal hasp.
“Y’all?” Ethyl immediately began to blot the sand off the box with her own wrinkled but clean handkerchief. “That looks to me like it’s going to be a ring.”
Detective Pratt carefully thumbed the hinge open. “Just so. It is a ring.”
“Well.” Marigold’s head was full of conflicting thoughts as she gazed in astonishment at the beautiful, old-fashioned rose-cut diamond ring. “If I have nothing else in favor of a murderer, I can at least allow that he had taste. Or he inherited this from someone with taste.”
“And some money,” Cab added. “Enough to buy both of their steamer tickets and that ring, and the replacement liner tickets? All of which would have set him back a pretty penny.”
A new thought occurred. “I never thought to ask the Thayers—or Professor Currier—if Olivia Thayer could be expected to come into any money on her majority?” The Thayer house on Blossom Street had looked prosperous, in a subdued, old Yankee sort of way, but gave no indication that there were untapped buckets of money available to underage girls.
“Professor Currier said that Valentine was a ne’er-do-well with no apparent profession.
But clearly, he must have had some ready cash—one can’t buy trans-Atlantic liner tickets on credit. ”
“No,” Cab agreed.
“But does this show that she likely had no intention of marrying him—that she was likely carrying the ring to give it back?”
“From where it was found,” the detective answered, “I would venture that she either had it in her bag and it fell out when she went into the water—”
“Or she threw it in, to show him what she thought of his proposal.” Marigold supplied a narrative that better suited her aggrieved feelings.
“But no matter which it was, he wouldn’t take no for an answer.
” Marigold could see it in her mind’s eye, starting back on the path where there were signs of a struggle.
Olivia would have told him her answer and perhaps held out the ring box to him for the first time.
Did he swat it away or push it back at her before he stalked off in the direction of the boathouse?
Did he start formulating his plan to kill her there?
Either way, Olivia held on to it, even as he dragged her by the wrists until she was in the boathouse.
Perhaps she was still holding it tight when he broke her neck and pushed her into the water.
“What does it take to do something like that—to kill the person one has professed to love, just because they said no?” Marigold’s question was rhetorical—she could fathom no answer that might suffice. “What kind of a person must they be?”
“I have no idea.” Thankfully, Cab seemed as baffled as she.
“And I frankly think the whole idea—that she would elope with him—is legally nearly impossible. The county and city clerks are generally sensitive to matters concerning the age of consent and ought to have refused to grant a license in the first place.”
“Talk about your poison apples,” was Ethyl’s summation of the man.
“Indeed,” Marigold agreed. “He is a damned strangler and murderer. And he’s sailed off into the sunset and gotten away with it.”
“Not yet.” Detective Pratt began to collect the items on the table, carefully stowing them in his pockets. “We’re on to him now. Mr. Cox, if you could accompany me to the courthouse, I think we may get our warrant as soon as may be.”
“Of course.” Cab was immediately at the policeman’s disposal.
“And once we have the warrant, I’ll do what I can through official channels to see what can be done to arrest Wilkie Valentine before he debarks in Liverpool.
This should be enough evidence to convince a grand jury.
Oh, wait, Marigold, do you still have the telegram delivered to the Thayers?
Thank you. Along with this, we should have more than enough to indict him.
If so, he can be taken no matter where he might be.
Unless he has a false passport—which I somehow doubt, or Mrs. Valentine, whoever she is, would not have voiced her concerns about her passport to the stevedore. ”
“Thank you, Cab.” Marigold finally felt some small measure of relief.
“Don’t thank me yet. Extradition is a complicated matter, but I will definitely give it my all.” Cab stood. “Which means I must return to Boston with Detective Pratt as soon as possible to find out.”
“There’s a five-fifteen train at the Wellesley station.” Marigold glanced at the clock. “Mr. Griffin should be able to take us in the Barge—that will be the quickest.”
“Not us.” Cab’s tone would brook no argument. “You’re staying here where you’re warm. You need more than a sherry to recover from such a dousing. You may have the constitution of a moose, but you need a hot bath. And a good hot dinner.” He turned to Ethyl. “You’re in charge of her.”
“Oh, sure,” Ethyl laughed. “Marigold Manners is just the type to let other people take charge over her. I’ll just force her to take that bath, sure. Sure.”
Marigold could only laugh. And be thankful for such friends.
“Thank you, Cab, for your vote of confidence in my constitution. I will at the very least walk and sign you out—or face the wrath of Miss Burke, who guards the door like a sentinel.” She linked arms with Cab.
“Come on, Ethyl—chaperone us all the way so we stay in Miss Burke’s good graces. ”
“What’s in it for me?” Ethyl asked.
“A bumper of sherry on our return. And a very nice claro cigar I’ve been saving for a bribe.”
Ethyl took a very surprised-looking Detective Pratt’s arm on the other side. “Chaperone at the ready.”
Thus, they proceeded through the corridors and stairwells, unremarked by anyone—not even Miss Burke, who merely nodded at them with satisfaction when Marigold formally signed the two gentlemen out.
“Mr. Cox, Detective Pratt. It was a pleasure discussing the distillate of manchineel with you.” Ethyl stuck out her hand. “Good luck in Boston, boys.”
“Miss Ethyl.” Detective Pratt shook first her hand, then Marigold’s. “A pleasure to work with you, Miss Manners. Rest assured you can leave the matter safely with me.”
“Thank you, Detective.”
And with that, Ethyl and the detective left Marigold alone to make her own goodbyes to Cab. “Thank you for your assistance today. And your … support.”
Cab tucked his chin, even as he smiled. “That’s a strange way to talk about a kiss, Marigold.”
“It is,” she admitted. “But it does make it easier to ask for more … support.”
Cab took a quick glance around the empty entry hall before he ducked his head and kissed her lingeringly, but entirely discreetly, on the corner of her lips.
It was not the kiss she wanted, but it would do. For now.
“Wire me with any news,” she asked.
“I will.” He squeezed her hand one last time. “And for God’s sake—if not for your own—be careful.” And with that he jammed his hat on his head, turned on his heel, and was gone.
“I will,” she promised anyway. “Always.”