It was an early fall morning as I walked into the factory; the usually erratic floors now void of life. The machines stood still, and I could see their operators queuing outside of the factory. Some of them were beginning to wander off, thinking of what to do to enjoy their suddenly freed day. But for me, the day was just beginning.
This is the investigatory log of Detective William Howard Springs, of the newly formed Atlanta Police Department. I’ve been called down to the small industrial boomtown of Townsville, a small bubble of production along the Chattahoochee River. Mixed in with the bustling pencil factory of Noah J. Rockwell’s, was pastures of grazing grass and fields of peanuts and cotton, with trees growing in large arborist plots where farmland and grazing plains weren’t found. I was called in by the local law enforcement to help with the investigation of a peculiar death, one of possible foul play.
The victim was Noah James Rockwell, the owner of the before mentioned pencil factory. He was found dead this morning in his office, at around 4AM. The body was found by one of the factory’s janitors, who was on his final rounds before the production day started. He was coming to clean out the late Rockwell’s trash bin. The man claims that upon finding the corpse he ran out of the factory to find an officer, and by the time one had been found and arrived at the scene around an hour had passed. It was then 5AM.
By the time I had been called from Atlanta and arrived at the scene, making my way there on continuous horseback, a day had passed.
Making my way past the still machines and up the floors of the pencil factory, I found myself in the office of the deceased Noah J. Rockwell. His body was still slumped over in the desk, back curved over and face resting on top a ledger, wide opened with number visible, a feather and ink nearby for what I assumed was writing purposes. On the desk, beside the ledger was a tin mug, the initials of N. J. R. stamped onto the face, the mug filled halfway with dark brown coffee, a stack of more books and ledgers, a small wooden box filled with loose papers. Most peculiarly was a plate of more or less untouched food, flies sitting on the meat and potatoes now after days of sitting in the open. There was a single cut in the pork, but besides that the food had no visible marks. It was a sudden death, I assumed, striking him in the midst of his late night dinner.
“How odd.” I said to myself, “He appears in perfect health.” I turned down to my notebook, jotting down with a pencil details of the scene.
Search for possible witnesses and people with possible leads
Find who prepared Rockwell’s food
Determine if foul play
I shut the notebook, and placed it back into my pocket along with the pencils.
I shut the door behind me, and started to go over the body. No stab wounds, or any bruises that would indicate a bludgeoning. This meant that the utensils by the plate were out of question, not making this scene any easier to figure out. The air did not smell of gunpowder but rather it smelled faintly of garlic. There were no signs of bullet holes in his clothing or head that would have indicated a shooting, so another possibility ruled out. I tapped my fingers on the desk, and scratched the back of my head. “Perhaps it was a natural death,” I thought to myself. The body had gray hairs, the face having long wrinkles crawled across it’s static expression. I didn’t know much about Mr. Rockwell, but I had heard he was nearing 70. It was not entirely impossible for a random heart failure or other sudden cause of death to have happened.
Visit Doctor
I jotted onto my notepad. He’d know more about Rockwell’s condition than I currently did, perhaps he could lead me to a break in this investigation. I shrugged, and put up my notepad again. I left the room as I had found it, and told one of the officers outside to let no one in. The person who prepared his food would likely of been the last person to have seen the late Rockwell alive, and I knew one person who would likely know where they could be found.
The janitor who found Rockwell complied easily, telling me that his employer had also hired a maid to prepare him his meals while he was at the factory. We chatted a bit more over the circumstances, but besides for restating what had previously happened the janitor offered no more information on what happened to Noah J. Rockwell. He wrote down on a scrap of paper the address of the maid, and sent me on the way to her house. She lived no more 20 minutes away by horse, I assumed by no more than just over a half hour by foot. She lived in a small one story square house. It had white paneling on all sides, with black roofing coming up in a pyramid roofing top, an odd design in contrast to the conventional houses surrounding it. The house had with it two windows, each round with mint green shutters, both being an equal distance from the mint green front door. The lawn was kept to some degree, with occasional weeds cropping up every patch or so.
I knocked on her door, and after a few moments she came and answered it. She had reddish hair with brighter orange stripes in it, all tied up in a bun with a few bangs falling down into her eyes. She had sea green pupils, in stark contrast with her red hair. Judging by her freckled face she was only passing her mid 20’s, her early 30’s at the most. She smiled as she talked to me, her eyes drifting to the APD badge on my left breast.
“Hello, sir. This is about Mr. Rockwell I assume?” She said in a confused tone, her accent confirming my suspicion of her Irish descent.
“Yes, you’re his maid? It’s what the janitor from the factory told me.” I responded in a stern voice.
“Yes, I was Mr. Rockwell’s maid, but…. Feel free to come in, let’s not discuss this in the doorway.” She motioned for me to follow her, and I did. We moved past the entryway, a drab painting droning on the wall. The house was a monotonous tan wallpaper with slightly darker brown vertical stripes. She sat me down at a long wooden table, sitting me at the head with her taking a chair on the corner next to me. There was a candle holder with three wax cylinders in its grasp, all three of them burning slowly. Besides the candle holder, the table was bare, no placemats or flowers on it’s face.
“Sorry for the drabness, don’t have much in the ways of comforts.”
“I can see…” I said meekly, searching for my notepad and pencil. “I’m William Howard Springs, of the Atlanta Police Department. I’ve been called down here to Townsville to investigate the death of Noah James Rockwell, your employer. I’m sure you’ve already heard of it.” I moved to write down onto the notepad, preparing to get an interview started. “May I have your name for the record?”
“My name? I’m Mary Dayls.” She responded quickly. “Why do you need it?”
“For the interview, ma’am.”
“An interview? Am I suspect?”
“No ma’am. You’re just the last person who would of seen Mr. Rockwell alive, we assume. Just want to ask you a few questions about him, see if you have any tips or advice.”
“Oh well……… Okay then. What do you need to know?”
“The janitor said you prepared his food. Where did you cook it?”
“There’s a small kitchen down the hall from Mr. Rockwell’s office, it’s not hard to miss, has ‘Kitchen’ on the door in brass letter. You won’t find anything in there though, the stock ran out the night Mr. Rockwell died. Just some apples and burlap sacks in there now.”
“And is there anyone you know of who’d want to cause harm to Noah Rockwell? Want him dead, driven out of business? Anything?”
“Well no, Mr. Rockwell had the only factory in town. So no one in town wanted him dead for business, and there aren’t any pencil factories out of town around here either. Perhaps one of his employees did it, but he was generally well liked. He always treated us nice, gave out good pay. Tried to make working here best as possible, really stand up boss.”
I jotted down into my notebook her comments, crossing off rival businessman from the list of possibilities. I turned back up to face the girl, who was now lying with both arms on the table to look towards me. I cleared my throat, moving to write more notes. “Do you know why he was up so late? Not many people order a pork chop with potatoes near midnight.”
“Oh, Mr. Rockwell said he was going to be going over pay ledgers, taxes, bills, personal finance, all sorts of
stuff. He says…. Said he worked poorly on an empty stomach, and wanted to be fully awake if he was going to be up all night doing finances. So I boiled him up some coffee, one spit cream, two spoons sugar, and a drop of alcohol. How he always liked it.”
“Sugar, cream, and drink, that’s all? Nothing more?” I asked meekly. An odd question, not likely to go anywhere, but it was worth a shot.
“Well uh,.. Nothing that I can think of. Occasionally he’d put his medicine in with it, but he was in perfect health when I last saw him.” She moved the bangs out of her eyes, and sat back into her chair. “Is that all?”
“Just a few more question, then I can leave ma’am.” I noted down the comment about medicine, deciding I should go see the doctor next. “Do you know any of Mr. Rockwell’s family? Would they know anything of this? I assume you being his maid, you would of met some of them occasionally.”
“Actually yes, I uh, I do know some of his family. I’m dating his nephew right now, Phillip Rockwell. But Phillip wouldn’t ever do something like that, no he’s nice.”
I raised an eyebrow, and wrote down to find Phillip, and interview him too. It was a growing ‘To Do’ list, and one that wasn’t going to be getting shorter anytime soon.
I got up, and straightened my jacket. “Well Ms. Dayls, that should be all for now. I’ll keep you in the loop about the case if you want. Thank you for the cooperation.” She looked up to me and smiled, getting up with me to show me to the door.
“Of course officer, anything to help find out what happened.” She closed the door behind me, and I made my way to my horse. Phillip Rockwell, nephew of Noah J. Rockwell. Perhaps he’s involved with the case. But first, the doctor. He could give me some insight into the late Rockwell’s health prior to his death.”
As I rode my way into town toward the pharmacy, I saw clouds pooling overhead. Gray and dark, it seemed rain was headed my way. I corralled my horse under a tree, tying it to the trunk with a loose piece of rope. “This shouldn’t be long.” I muttered to the animal as I got off him, walking towards the pharmacy with the red wooden Rx above its door. The pharmacist was tall man, in a white smock smock with a blue undershirt, and cashew-gray jean-wool pants. He had a tuft of gray hair, with a small green visor wrapping around his head. He was currently organizing some drugs behind the counter, and looked up at me and smiled as I entered. He had a clearly northern accent, indicating he hailed somewhere from Boston, or New York. “Headache? Sore throat? Vapours?” He chimed as I entered his shop.
“No, no, none of those actually. I’m here investigating the death of Noah. J. Rockwell, I was told you were his doctor and drug supplier, Mr?”
“Mr. Renwall James, druggard of Townsville, seller of cures for all afflictions and ailments!” He smiled cheerfully at the last line. “All ailments except death, but I heard of a seller coming this way with a revolutionary oil that can help those on the brink! But it sounds like Mr. Rockwell is long past that.” He straightened his visor, before putting his hands behind his back and bowing his head solemnly. “Of course, now is not the time to joke. You’re an officer?” He points to the APD badge on my left breast. “I’ll be glad to help however I can. What is it you need?”
“Well, it’s about Mr. Rockwell’s health. Before he died, did he come to you for anything? He looked, given all circumstances of my seeing of him, rather healthy. No signs of any bloodletting, or leeches. Was he on any medicines?” I asked, moving once again for my pen and paper. Renwall c***ed his head as the thought, the tuft of hair on his head shifting over to the lower side of his head as he moved it.
“Yes, actually. He had come in a few days ago about a nasty cold he said he had felt creeping up on him. I said give it a days rest, and then when he came back I’ll help treat it. Well he came back the next day, still saying he felt the presence. I decided to prescribe him some medicine, they call it ‘Fowler’s Solution.’ It’s said to help all kinds of illnesses, and I learned that it’d help treat a common cold.”
I jotted into my notes the condition of the man, and the medicine. If I could find the prescription for the solution, it would prove helpful. I spoke up to the northerner, a skeptical tone in my voice. “And in this Fowler Solution, is?”
“Oh, normal medicinal stuff,” He chimed in response, “Arsenic Trioxide, Potassium Bicarbonate-” I cut him off, raising an eyebrow.
“Arsenic?”
“Mhm, arsenic. In smaller doses, helps rid the body of bad vapours, clear you up and make you healthy.”
“But it can be lethal in large doses, right? Used in rat poison?”
“Well of course, that’s why the prescription says only use a few drops of it.”
“And if the afflicted uses more than a drop of it?”
“Oh well, nasty stuff. Vomiting, sickness, death in some cases. But certainly not what happened to Noah, no no he was responsible with his medicine. So it couldn’t of been overdose. Besides did you know how old he is? 68! Older than me, he probably just ran outta time.”
I nodded slowly, writing this newfound information into the notebook. I think I may of located the murder weapon, in the form of Rockwell’s medicine. But it wasn’t a suicide, the meal wasn’t touched… I shrugged, and continued to question the pharmacist. “Anything else you can tell me about Mr. Rockwell?”
“Other than his money? Nothing. You know now that he’s gone, his money is up in the air. Doesn’t have a wife or kid apparently, no idea who he’s going to give it to. And his brother died years ago, during the war. Maybe he’ll donate the money to the employees!” Renwall chuckled, before continuing on. “No, Noah wasn’t
generous. Maybe his nephew will get it, lucky boy.” He moved to lean on the counter, putting some drugs to the side. “If that’s all?” He asked, pushing of the counter and walking to the register. I nodded in conclusion,and began making my way to the exit.
“Thanks for your cooperation Mr. James. I’ll keep you in contact with the case. And mind telling me where the nearest telegraph office is? I need to wire to Atlanta.”
“Of course officer! Just go down the street, should be a block down, building on the corner. Will have piles of wires coming out of it, can’t miss it.”
“Alright, thank you again for your help. Have a nice day.”
As I walked down the street, the clouds grew thicker and I heard the rumble of thunder off in the distance. ‘After this telegraph, I’m going to have to find a place to stay’ I thought to myself. The office was empty, as it was growing late. There was no one there, besides the messenger boy with his bike, and a translator for Morse Code, for those who could not read or send it. I flashed my badge to the translator, who showed me the way to a messaging booth. He plugged me into the Atlanta Police Department and sent me on my way. I started to send the message, which read as follows.
“To APD Chief Thomas Jones
The investigation is going smoothly STOP I have a possible cause of death and a good idea of who caused it STOP Will be back by weeks end STOP Keep a cell open maybe two
Detective William H. Springs”
I went back to gather my horse, and rode it to the nearest hotel. As I walked into the lobby to rent a room, I heard the rain begin to come down lightly at first before becoming a full blown torrent of water. I smiled to myself, being luckily inside and away from the deluge that was forming outside.
I woke late, at around 10AM. I got dressed in my black jacket top, pulling it over the white undershirt with brown vest. I pulled on my brown jean-wool pants, and slipped on the worn leather boots the APD issued to me. I made my way to my horse, dry from the rain now, and trotted onto the main street. The cobblestones were wet, their clanking against my horse's hooves dampened by the rain. I stopped by a local eatery, grabbing a breakfast of coffee and fried sausage, and asked around for the location of Phillip Rockwell’s housing. The innkeep told me that he lived a ways out of town, an hours ride by horse. I paid the man, and made my way to the house.
It was a large house, two stories and made of brick. It had a multitude of windows on it, each rectangular in fashion and equipped with white shutters. The roof sloped upwards to one side, mimicking a factory, it’s black tiles sloping uniformly downward. There was a system of vines crawling up one of the faces of the house, and the door was a dark mahogany. I tied my horse to the gate of the house, and walked up to the door. Knocking it, I was greeted almost immediately by a servant, wearing a red vest and white shirt, with black pants. He bowed his head, noticing my badge, and spoke up in a southern accent. “Here for Master Rockwell’s nephew?”
“Exactly that. Is he available?”
“I’m afraid not, as of now he’s out back riding his horse. Will you be able to wait for him?” He the servant asked, guiding me inside. I sighed, and nodded. “Yes I can wait for him.”
“Then I shall give you some refreshments in the meantime.” The servant went away, and a few moments later he returned with a pitcher of sweetened tea, a lemon slice on the rim along with a glass of ice and an empty glass. “May I a name to inform Sir Rockwell who’s waiting for him?”
“Of course. I’m William Howard Springs,
William Howard Springs. Tell him to come as soon as he’s available, if that’s possible.”
“Yes sir, I shall relay the message as soon as possible.”
The servant left the room again, and alone I sat for the better part of an hour. I sat there drinking tea, and going over my notes. I’ve firmly decided that the case was not a natural death, there was foul play involved. My best suspects were Miss Mary Dayl and Mister Phillip Rockwell. There simply was no other parties that could of done it, unless the doctor had somehow managed to slip in poison into a coffee cup an hour away under the eyes of the maid. But why, I thought. Why would Phillip do it? And then it clicked. Money. Doctor Renwall had mentioned the inheritance and he made it sound like it was quite a large sum of money. I knew I had to prove Phillip guilty of setting the murder of his uncle. But how could he of done it? But as I was starting to jot down my speculations into my cramped notebook, I was interrupted by a southern gentleman’s voice.
I looked up and saw him, Phillip Rockwell. He was in a golden wool vest with a white undershirt, and british khakis for pants. He had on tall black riding boots, and looked down at me in my chair. He had a thick black beard in contrast to his short well cut hair. He looked to be in his late twenties. By his side was the red headed Mary Dayl, who gave a short nod to me. She was dressed in mostly the same as her lover, oddly enough, and lacked any sign of a skirt. They both walked towards the couch opposite of me, and sat down, Mary crossing her legs and placing her hands on her knees, Phillip placing an arm around her. He spoke in a southern baritone.
“You are Detective Howard I assume?”
“And you are Phillip Rockwell, I assume?” I said back to him, pulling out my pencil once again. I needed to get verifiable proof that Phillip wanted his uncle gone, or at least enough evidence to prove that further investigation was necessary.
“Yes, I am.” He shifts to sit upright, and places his left arm across his lap. “Now what’s this about?” As he finished his sentence, Mary looked towards him, and gave a bit of a half smile as she started to speak in her Irish accent. “Honey, I think it’s about your uncle. This is the same man I talked to you about earlier today. The one who came to talk with me after he arrived in town?”
“Oh? Yes! I remember Mary talking about you, welcome to my house Detective. I’d say make yourself at home, but you seem to be already doing that.” He motioned towards the now half empty pitcher of tea, as I moved to pour myself another glass.
“Hospitality is always a good thing when working with official.”
“I know, Detective. Now what is it that you need?”
“I have questions about your uncle. I’m sure you’ve known that he perished, and I don’t how well you knew him. But you're the closest thing he had to family, living family at least, seeing as your father, his brother, is dead. This means the inheritance is inline for you. That wouldn’t of had any effect on how you feel about your uncle, would it?”
“What? No! Of course not! He was my uncle, true I didn’t talk to him much… but the fact that I was next in line for an inheritance wouldn’t change how I felt towards him. Why are you asking?”
“Just curious.”
“Okay… well he was getting old. He had told me he was sick, said that I was the only one who knew.” Phillip turned to Mary, moving to hold her hand. “And she was told too that he was sick, even though uncle never said to tell anyone.”
I straightened forward, and looked back over my notes. ‘Odd’, I thought to myself, ‘Mary said that Rockwell was in perfect health last she’d seen. ‘A hole in her story,’ I wrote down next to her testimony. The two looked at me scrutinously, their eyes on my pencil as it skittered across the paper, turning away from it as I looked back up to continue the questioning. Just a bit more of investigation, and I’d have it.
“And you were aware of the medicine your uncle was taking, correct? Let’s see his doctor said it was,” I flipped through my notes, finding the prescription, “Arsenic Bicarbonate?”
Phillip nodded, speaking up as I finished my turning. “I wasn’t aware of the contents of the medicine, just that it looked like a regular bottle of alcohol.”
“Alcohol?”
“Yes, clear liquid in a brown glass bottle.”
“Do you think perhaps he could of accidentally overdosed on it while preparing the medicine?”
“No, that… that doesn’t sound like him. He was a really organized man. In fact Mary says the last thing he was doing before passing was getting all of his financial records in order for taxes.”
Now Mary chimed in, smiling at Phillip. “That’s right darlin, he had me prepare a meal for him so he could stay awake and attentive while doing it. Made him coffee and pork, potatoes too I think.”
“And Mary, you said earlier he only ever put sugar and cream in his coffee, did he ever once put medication in with it?”
“Well uh….” She looked around nervously, tapping her fingers on her knee timidly. “Yes, I should've said that earlier. Sorry.” A few moments of awkward silence passed as I jotted some some more notes into my pad.
“Yes well, Mary were you aware of the inheritance?”
“Indeed, I was. Phillip had mentioned it from time to time, but I never would of done anything to… accelerate it’s passing down! No no, I’d never kill him Mr. Rockwell.” She spoke increasingly fast, as she put herself on the defensive. “You’re not suggesting I killed him, are you?”
“No no, miss Mary, of course not”, I replied calmly. “I’m just asking if you knew of the inheritance.” I moved back to my notes, making a comment on how defensive she got at the prospect. Perhaps the Irish maid knew more than she was letting me in on.
“Mary, do you know where Mr. Rockwell would of kept his medicine at the factory? If he kept it there at all?”
She sat for a moment thinking, before nodding and speaking back to me quietly, “His office, most likely. He didn’t want other people knowing according to Phillip, so it would make sense he would keep it somewhere private like that.” She tapped her knees again, and shifted to sit up straighter. “That’s all I know, sorry.”
“That’s alright”, I said, turning towards Phillip. “And do you know anything more?”
“No detective, don’t know anything more.” He gave a genuine solemn look towards me, and I sighed silently to myself.
It seems that Phillip wasn’t the killer, he seems like someone who truly had no strong feelings towards his uncle. He didn’t care about the inheritance, he already had enough money. Then who could it be? There was the pharmacist, but he had nothing to gain, and then… Mary. She had the money to gain, perhaps she was thinking Phillip would split the inheritance with her. This makes sense, a poor girl of immigrants wanting to move up the ladder and get some more money into her pockets. Apparently Mr. Rockwell’s generosity wasn’t enough for her. But I couldn’t arrest her on suspicion alone, I had to go back to the crime scene. If I could find any of the Fowler’s Solution in her kitchen, it’d be enough reason to arrest her. Maybe not enough to convict her of  doing the crime, but enough to get enough evidence to arrest the girl.
“Well detective, is that all?” Asked Phillip, “I’ve got another round of riding in about half an hour, and don’t want to be late. You understand, don’t you?”
I nodded, and got up, finishing my glass of tea. “Of course Mr. Rockwell. I’ll keep you updated on the case. Do you have a telegraph?”
“I do in fact, send me updates through the wire.”
“Will do then. Thanks for your cooperation, again. Have a lovely day.”
I made my way to my horse, and headed back to the factory as quickly as I could. I knew what had happened, I had a feeling in my bones on what had happened. If I could just find any Fowler Solution in the kitchen, I could easily prove that Mary had poisoned the deceased Rockwell’s late night coffee. My mind raced with wild thoughts and speculations as I galloped my way through the mainstreet of Townsville, past the pharmacy and telegraph office, and finally made my way to the pencil factory. The machines were operating, judging by the thick plumes of smoke drifting out of the two parallel smoke stacks on the roof. I placed my horse at a pole in the front of the factory, a trough in front of it for water. Quickly I ran inside, up past the busy machines which were whittling wood and molding powdered lead, and onto the third floor where the kitchen and Rockwell’s office was founded. I hurried into Rockwell’s office, and looked around. The body had been moved, presumably to a funeral parlor or already into a grave, but the food and coffee still stood there. The pork chop was beginning to go bad judging by the smell, but besides that the scene had been near perfectly preserved. I began to go through the box of records that was lying on Rockwell’s desk, and found nothing of relevance. I looked through the financial ledgers, and beneath their flaps, and again found nothing of note. ‘The drawer’s!’ I thought as I opened them. One of them was empty, save for a small piece of yellowed paper. On it was an ‘Rx’ symbol, and the signature of Renwall James. This was the prescription I was looking for. Turning it over, the back read ‘Fowler’s Solution, two bottles, 16fl oz’. If the bottles weren’t here, then where could they be? If they were found in the kitchen, it would be the most damning evidence towards Mary Dayls.
Hurriedly I ran down the halls, the yellowed scrap of paper thrust into my pocket between the notepad's flap and it’s first page. I opened the door into the kitchen, and looked around. Mary was telling the truth about one thing, all the stocks were bare save for a burlap sack containing what looked to be a few pounds of apples, and another sack with a few pounds of carrots. There was a small cast iron stove in the corner, an exhaust pipe reaching out to the roof. I rummaged through the kitchen, finding only basic utensils and and a few stray plates.
“Where could it be?” I said aloud as I ran around the room frantically. After an hour of searching had passed, I made my way to the door. Just as I was leaving, I stopped and turned back around. Staring back at me were the two sacks of carrots and apples. I’d forgotten to go through them. I walked back towards the apple sack, and turned it over. There was a loud clattering sound as a couple pounds of apples tumbled to the floor, and then a hollow clunk as something clearly not fruit in nature escaped the sack. I walked over to grab it, bending over and looking over the label. ‘Fowler’s Solution, 16fl oz’. It was half empty, and clearly more than just one day's worth had been emptied from the vessel, into Rockwell’s coffee I assumed. I had found the murder weapon, in a spot where only the primary suspect had worked. I had my evidence. I had enough reason to arrest Mary Dayles.
I placed the apples back into their sack, and put the bottle of Fowler’s Solution into my frock coats interior pocket. I made my way back outside, and saw the sky was falling. The sun was beginning to go down, casting orange twi’light across the pastoral south. I saddled my horse again, and made my frantic gallop across Townsville again, grinning as a madman would. I had the proof of the deed, I knew what happened.
By the time I reached the estate of Noah Rockwell, it was well into the night. The moon was high, and blue light lit the night. When I knocked on the estate’s door, there was a delay in an answer. A servant appeared in front of me again, a different man but donning the same outfit as the one before. I spoke frantically, pleading to the servant, “I need to see you master immediately, is he available?”
“He is, but he’s currently preparing for rest. Shall I get him for you?”
“Yes, as soon as possible. Can I come in?”
“Of course, officer.” The servant lead me back into the living room, the pitcher of sweet tea now gone and consumed hours ago. I sat there for a few minutes, tapping the bottle of Fowler's Solution as Noah Rockwell made his way into the room.
“Detective! It’s late, I didn’t expect to see you again, sorry for my messy state,” said Noah in his southern baritone. He was far from a messy state, especially in contrast to me. He was in a silver silk night robe, with what looked like green-blue plaid felt pants. “What’s this about?”
“I need to know where Mary is, it’s urgent.”
“Mary? Well she left after we rode around the track after you had left. She should be at her home now.” Noah gave me a charming smile, and I felt a pain of regret go down into my heart. How could I break it to this naively in love boy that his lover was wanted for the murder of one of his family members? I sighed, and rolled my shoulders preparing for the delivery.
“Thanks for the information. Now… She’s wanted for murder. I believe she is the one who killed your uncle.”
“Mary? A murderer?” Noah threw his head back and laughed, chuckling to himself for the better part of a minute. “No way, she wouldn’t of killed my uncle, let alone her boss! Are you sure about it?”
“I’m not sure about it, but I have enough evidence to justify an arrest. I just want you to know I’m sorry you’re going through this, and… I’ll keep you in contact by wire.” I got up to hurriedly leave, before being stopped by the Rockwell, he looked at me in confusion. “Could you at least tell me what you think happened?” I nodded, and moved to get the bottle of Fowler’s Solution from my frock coat.
“Your uncle was taking this to cure a persistent cold, according to his doctor. It’s made partly of arsenic, and although it helps with vapours, it can be lethal in larger than prescribed quantities. I believe your lover mixed it in on purpose with his coffee in place of the alcohol that Noah Rockwell enjoyed with his coffee. She may of killed him for the inheritance, so that you two would have more money, perhaps money she thought you would split with her. She may of loved you, but it’s clear she loves your money more. I’m sorry.”
Noah sat there in defeat for a moment, blinking to gather himself together. “Go….. go do what you must then. I won’t interfere with the law.” I patted him on the back, and sent him back into his house as I got onto my horse again. I galloped towards the telegraph office once more, stopping by and sending a late night request to the APD, it read as follows.
“To APD Chief Thomas Jones
Requesting an arrest warrant for a Mary Dayl’s of Townsville, GA STOP I have enough evidence to garner reasonable suspicion STOP Requesting approval as soon as possible STOP Please work hurriedly
Detective William H. Springs”
I sat in the office for what seemed an hour, before receiving a telegram that merely stated
“To Detective William H. Springs
Granted
Judge Henry Kent McCay”
I took the telegraph, mounted my horse yet again and galloped to the Dayls’ residence.
There was candle light coming through the mint green shutters, rays of golden light breaking the midnight darkness. I knocked on her door, and sat there waiting, preparing some cuffs to arrest her. She was in a white nightgown, and had ink on her hands from penning something. Her eyes bolted down to the handcuffs in my grasp, before turning around to run. I chased after her, pulling up the warrant that the judge had issued me.
“Mary Dayls, you’re under arrest for the murder of Noah James Rockwell!” I belted out, running after her through the drab monotonous halls. She had ran herself into the corner of the room where just a day before we were cordially talking about the case, and she was lying through her teeth about the events. I grabbed her wrists, and put her against the table before putting the heavy iron cuffs on her arms and locking them. I carried her out to my horse, and put her on the back. She kicked and complained as we rode into Townsville, heading towards the small jail they had there. I placed her into one of the cells, and prepared to move her to Atlanta in the morning.