I am sure you saw the headline:
J. HARDWICK KILLED IN FIRE
Aside from my growing dislike of the engraving itself, the two articles on the front page were all I could want them to be. I studied the article on the fire first. Although the pumping crew had arrived in time to douse the fire before much damage was done to the factory itself, the laboratory was destroyed. The fire was thought to have been the result of some experiment gone awry. The body found within the laboratory was burned nearly beyond recognition. (More thoroughly than I had hoped.) My coat had been found in the undamaged entry, still hanging on the hall tree. On the body, an object believed to be my watch was also found. But the prime piece of identifying evidence was supplied by Higgins, who indeed remembered that I had counted out $1.53-exactly the amount of heat-damaged coins found on the deceased.
Blessing Higgins, I moved to the other article; a touching tribute to my achievements that nearly had me weeping over the loss of myself.
And so I went on to San Francisco, and booked a room at this establishment, the Linworth Hotel, which is neither mean nor luxurious. For the better part of two days, I slept, exhausted by events and emotions.
Last night I went out to obtain a simple dinner, and as I made my way back to the hotel, I purchased a newspaper. This I took to my room, and feeling much alone, began to read.
The article which prompted this letter to you was on page ten.
The story of a fire in a northern city might not have been worthy of the attention of the San Francisco paper, but in this case, there were large insurance premiums which might have been paid upon Jenkin Hardwick’s death. Might have been paid, except for one curious problem-the body of Mr. Jenkin Hardwick was two inches shorter than it should be.
Two inches shorter? But Fontesque had stood next to me in that saloon, walked next to me, and always at my exact height! Our boots, though of a different quality, did not differ in the size of their heels. What had gone wrong?
I frantically searched my mind for some explanation, and found myself staring at Hardwick’s satchel. I opened it and spilled the contents onto the bed.
The two strange wooden objects clattered together like castanets. They were easily identified now: lifts. The damnable man wore lifts in his shoes!
To be undone by something so small as a vain man’s attempt to hide his lack of stature is more than I can bear at this point, Augustus. Sooner or later, even a man like Fontesque will be missed, and when accusations of fraud are raised and his likeness to me is recalled by the patrons of that saloon, the truth will be known. Emma’s nature will not allow her to lie to the police; neither is there any wiliness in her-I cannot hope she will think to mislead them by saying that I, too, wore lifts.
And Augustus, although others may not believe it, Emma was at the heart of this, as she owns my own heart. Please, I beg of you, do all you can to shield her from what is to come.
I, for my part, will have made better use of my knowledge of chemistry by the time you receive this. In my room, an effective potion awaits me, a strong poison-one which will not allow me to fall short of my current goal.
Farewell, Gussie, from the world’s biggest fool.
About the Author
National bestseller Jan Burke is the author of a dozen novels and a collection of short stories. Among the awards her work has garnered are Mystery Writers of America’s Edgar® for Best Novel, Malice Domestic’s Agatha Award, Mystery Readers International’s Macavity, and the RT Book Club’s Best Contemporary Mystery. She is the founder of the Crime Lab Project (CrimeLabProject.com) and is a member of the board of the California Forensic Science Institute. She lives in Southern California with her husband and two dogs. Learn more about her at JanBurke.com.
