by Joe Slade
‘This better be damn important,’ he growled at the deputy who stood there.
‘Trouble at the Stanford house, Sheriff. Reports of a fire and at least two dead.’
Anderson kissed his wife on the cheek. ‘Don’t expect to see me back tonight,’ he told her.
The scene at the house baffled him, despite his many years as a lawman. Thankfully, the room was mainly intact although that didn’t help him much. The fire had been brought under control before it did much more than burn a rug and some blankets. The rest of the room seemed untouched. There was no sign of a break-in, no drawers flung open, nothing taken as far as the servants could tell him. Outwardly, there appeared to be no motive for the killings.
And no suspect.
As several men carried out the bodies, the only conclusion Anderson was able to draw was that George Stanford had put up a struggle and that’s how the lamp had been knocked off the nightstand and set fire to the rug. It seemed likely his wife had disturbed the murderer after the event. The shot that had drawn the household had cost Mrs. Stanford her life and caused the intruder to panic at which point he escaped out of the window.
At least that’s the way it looked.
Anderson picked up the brass lamp where it lay partly hidden beneath the bed. Turning it over in his hand, he examined it, rubbing his thumb absent-mindedly over a small dent in the body. Something was bothering him, but he couldn’t say what it was, just some instinct honed from years as a lawman.
‘I’ve finished questioning the servants,’ Deputy Pingle said coming up behind him. ‘What do you want me to do now?’
The door to the dressing room was open and Anderson pushed it wide. Inside, the scene was what he expected for the most part. A marble topped washstand, a copper bathtub, a straight-backed chair with towels laid over it, fancy rugs covering the polished floor. Still, he frowned. Hanging from a rail that spanned the length of one wall weren’t the suits and attire that he expected to see. Instead, a dozen dresses hung above several pairs of shoes and boots.
‘Didn’t someone say that the wife’s room was at the back of the house?’
‘I believe so, Sheriff. Is there something wrong?’ Pingle asked.
‘Is the nurse still around?’
‘She’s in the kitchen waiting for Cavanaugh.’
‘Cavanaugh?’
‘Her fiancé. She was one of the first into the room and she’s pretty shook up.’
He found her where the deputy had left her, sniffling over a cup of hot milk. Despite the warmth given off by the stove, she had a blanket wrapped around her shoulders. He could see that underneath she was wearing a nightdress.
She looked up at him through red-rimmed eyes that contrasted starkly with the pallor of her skin and loose dark hair. ‘It’s awful, isn’t it?’ she said.
Anderson disliked dealing with hysterical women. Whether this female was that type, he didn’t know. Vaguely, he remembered seeing her in town a few times but they had never spoken and she wasn’t anyone his wife had mentioned. He made a mental note to ask her about the woman.
‘We’ve secured the door to the bedroom,’ he said keeping his tone brusque and businesslike. ‘No one’s to go in there.’
She nodded.
‘I just have one more question that I hope you can answer for me. The incident took place in Mr. Stanford’s room but the dressing room only contains women’s clothing. It’s my understanding that Mrs. Stanford’s room is at the back of the house.’ Deliberately, he left the actual question unasked, not sure exactly what it was he expected to find out.
Emma blew her nose. ‘Since he became ill, Mr. Stanford had taken to sleeping in his daughter’s bedroom. Those were her clothes.’
‘I wasn’t aware he had a daughter.’
‘Yes. Margaret.’ She sipped her milk. ‘She was kidnapped several years ago.’
He frowned as he digested the information.
‘Archie would be able to tell you about it. George Stanford has—had—him on a retainer for years looking for her.’ She started crying and the sheriff shifted uncomfortably. ‘It’s so sad. Just when things were all starting to fall into place.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, Archie finding her and now this.’ She stood up and flung herself against him, sobbing loudly against his chest.
He cleared his throat and eased free. ‘Thank you, miss. I’ll speak to Archie about it in the morning. You best take yourself off to bed.’
‘I don’t think I could sleep after what’s happened. Besides, Archie should be here soon. You could wait for him.’
‘No. I’ll see him in the morning.’ He headed for the door that would take him out into the garden.
‘You don’t think this has anything to do with the O’Bannen gang, do you?’ Emma asked as his hand touched the doorknob. ‘Archie told me there are rumors they’re in town.’
‘Now why would you think they might be involved?’
She looked surprised. ‘Don’t you know? It was Frank O’Bannen that took Maggie—Margaret, I mean.’
From his hiding place behind the servants’ outhouse, Latimer watched the sheriff leave then waited for the house to fall into darkness. Only later, when a faint glow showed at the kitchen window, did he approach and give a soft uneven knock.
‘It’s Latimer,’ he whispered.
A shaft of light appeared as the door opened a couple of inches. ‘You took your time,’ a low voice said.
‘I had to wait for the sheriff to leave.’ He pushed against the door, feeling resistance. ‘Aren’t you going to let me in? I don’t bite the hand that feeds me, you know.’
He heard a dry chuckle but felt no let-up. ‘You don’t worry me. I’m just thinking how it would look if any of the servants found you here.’
Latimer cast a furtive glance over his shoulder. ‘I’m sure you’d find a way to explain it.’
‘Why risk raising suspicion?’ There was no pause for an answer. ‘Now, we’ve got that out of the way; is she dead?’
Latimer frowned. ‘I put a bullet in her, for sure.’
‘But?’
He pulled in a deep breath, let it out reluctantly then eased away from the door. ‘I couldn’t find the body.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘She fell down that damn bank at the side of the road, you know, where the old McIntyre cave in is. In the dark, I couldn’t find the body.’
‘Jesus, Latimer. You and Spencer told me you could take care of her. Now he’s dead and you tell me you don’t know whether she is. Well until I know for sure, you don’t get another dollar. Understand?’
He regretted not getting payment in full upfront, but he understood the reason why the terms had changed. Damn Brady. If that idiot had done what he had been paid to do in Flitwick, Latimer wouldn’t even be in this situation.
‘A deal’s a deal, I guess,’ he said, grudgingly.
‘Guess again because if she talks to the sheriff, the only deal either of us will be making will be with the Devil.’
The door shut, a key turned in the lock. The interview was over and with a shake of his head, Latimer started back towards town.
Chapter Eleven
Doc wasn’t sure if the banging was in his head or not but he wanted it to stop. And he wanted the light turned down, despite the fact he hadn’t yet opened his eyes.
‘Doctor Simpkins, are you in there?’
He didn’t recognize the voice. ‘What is it?’ he croaked.
‘The sheriff sent word that he needs to see you at the jail—in your professional capacity, he said.’
‘Now?’
‘That’s what he said.’
He threw back the tangled sheet. ‘Tell him I’m on my way.’
Beside him, Rick was asleep, sprawled half off the bed wearing only his long underwear. Leo was curled up on the floor under a pile of blankets and muttering into his pillow. Neither of them stirred. Quickly, Doc splashed water on his face then dressed and headed ou
t without even a sip of coffee to settle his stomach.
When he walked in the door of the large stone built jail fifteen minutes later, the sheriff picked up his hat and his ever handy shotgun and turned him straight around.
‘Sorry to get you up so early, Doc, but I wanted to get everything straightened out sooner rather than later.’
Despite his headache, Doc tried not to sound testy. ‘What can I do for you?’
The sheriff locked his office door and looked both ways along the street. ‘I understand you’d recently seen George Stanford as a patient.’
Doc nodded.
‘That’s why I called you. There was a break in at the Stanford house last night.’
Doc followed Anderson as he strode off. The town was starting to wake but at this early hour few people were on the street. Those that were, seemed to be still half asleep.
‘What can I do to help?’
‘I need you to confirm how the victims died for the official record and issue the death certificates so the bodies can be buried.’
By now they had reached the undertaker’s office, a large square building set back off the street with a couple of empty coffins standing outside and a selection of wooden crosses and stone markers waiting for inscriptions. Anderson knocked, looking ill at ease as he ran a finger around the inside of his shirt collar. When he spoke he seemed to be answering some unasked question.
‘The old man’s nurse says she saw a man outside just before midnight. Average height, average build was about all she could tell me. There was some shooting beyond the grounds and we found blood but no body. Whoever he was, he took a bullet. My deputies are going up there again now that it’s light to take a better look around. It shouldn’t be too hard to track him.’ He shook his head. ‘It’s a bad business. The Stanford’s were well liked.’
The door opened and a thin man wearing thick spectacles and holding a chisel, squinted at them. ‘Come in, sheriff. The bodies are in the back.’
He showed them through a large workshop littered with coffin panels and into a cool windowless room at the rear of the building. Two lamps hanging from the walls provided adequate illumination. The bodies had been covered.
‘Three bodies,’ Doc noted. ‘Who are they?’
The sheriff shielded his nose against the stench of death that hung in the air. ‘George Stanford. A man by the name of Karl Spencer and…’ He pointed to the table nearest to Doc. ‘Mrs. Stanford. I’ll warn you, it’s not a pretty sight.’
Doc pulled back the sheet where it covered her face—what was left of it.
Back on the street, Sheriff Anderson stood alone outside the undertaker’s office gulping in fresh air while he surveyed the town and decided what to do next. The image of Lucille Stanford’s mangled face stuck with him and he shifted uncomfortably as a shiver ran down his spine. He lit a cigarette and started walking back towards the jailhouse, mulling over what he knew.
After a preliminary examination, the doctor had confirmed that Mrs. Stanford had been shot from behind, probably from a few feet away. Stanford, he said, had been dying from arsenic poisoning but his actual cause of death was asphyxiation. The third victim, a man named Spencer, had died from a single shot to the stomach. The servants at the house had told his deputy that the man had still been alive when they found him, but not lucid enough to identify his killer.
As he unlocked the jailhouse door, Anderson heard footsteps behind him. In the reflection of his office window, he saw Archie Cavanaugh.
‘Thanks for coming over so early,’ he said, preceding him in.
‘I haven’t really been to bed. Emma was pretty shaken up. She knows it could easily have been her instead of Mrs. Stanford. She’d only stepped out of the room for a few minutes to fetch some water.’
Anderson secured his Greener on the gun rack behind his desk. ‘Well, I suppose we should be grateful for that, at least.’
The law office was a square room with two desks, a gun rack, a couple of file cabinets, a black pot-bellied stove in the corner and a large notice board covered with dodgers. A heavy door with a sturdy lock led to a cellblock at the back. The detective was no stranger and it showed as he shook the coffee pot and took down two enamel mugs hanging from hooks on the wall. He filled them both and handed one to the lawman before pulling a chair up in front of the sheriff’s cluttered desk.
‘So what is it I can do for you, Sheriff?’ he asked, reclining on a hard chair.
Anderson blew into his cup to cool the strong black coffee and stared at the man opposite. The two of them had worked together before. Archie was a superb investigator, like a dog with a bone when he was on to something, but he knew when to back off and leave it to the law. There was a decent amount of respect between them and Anderson hoped that would stand him in good stead now.
‘I want to know who stands to benefit from the deaths of George Stanford and his wife,’ he said, bluntly.
‘You should probably ask Attorney Philips,’ Archie said.
‘I probably should, but I’m asking you, because I think maybe you know more than he does in this instance.’
Archie’s gaze dropped to his cup, surprising the lawman. Usually, the detective was a straight shooter but now he seemed reluctant to answer.
‘Let me make myself clear then,’ Anderson said, feeling suddenly tired and irritable. ‘Specifically, I want to know about Maggie O’Bannen and her connection to George Stanford.’
Chapter Twelve
Doc returned to the hotel around mid-morning to find himself alone. An enquiry with the young bald headed desk clerk suggested that Rick and Leo had gone out to eat. Maggie’s whereabouts seemed to be a mystery, the clerk not having seen her since the previous day.
Doc found the boys at the eatery they had used the day before, tucking in to steak and eggs with the appetite of starving men. He ordered coffee from the stringy waitress who smiled sweetly at him, then joined them at a table near the back of the room.
‘Where’s Maggie?’
They both shrugged.
‘What did the sheriff want?’ Rick asked.
‘There was a break in at the Stanford house last night. George is dead, so is his wife and one of the servants. He needed me to look at the bodies.’
Rick stopped his chewing. ‘What happened?’
Doc explained what he had been able to ascertain. Leo dropped his fork halfway through, looking ever paler as, with his usual precision, Doc left no detail untold.
‘And now Maggie is missing,’ Doc concluded. ‘I was just over at the jail and she wasn’t there, so that’s something, I guess, but I can’t help thinking that her going missing now is a bad sign.’
Rick threw a few coins down on the table. ‘Leo and I will start looking in the saloons. You check the stores. Maybe she needed something.’
Doc knew as well as Rick that the last suggestion was a long shot. Nevertheless, they left the eatery together, splitting up outside to cover both ends of town. After visiting half a dozen stores without success, Doc stood on the street, his eyes searching the hordes of people that passed by. He saw Leo running from one saloon to another, but no sign of Maggie.
‘Are you Doc Simpkins?’ a high, childish voice asked as someone tugged at his sleeve.
He looked down into the dirty face of a tow-headed kid. ‘I am.’
‘The sheriff needs to see you right away.’
‘Not again!’ Doc groaned.
‘He said it was urgent and that you should meet him at Doc Peters’.’ The kid ran off.
A few minutes later, Doc arrived at the house. The sheriff was waiting for him at the gate and two men were just entering the front door carrying a covered stretcher. Inside, he could see Martha Peters, still looking pale and harassed but giving orders with the authority of a general.
‘The town’s going to have to put me on a retainer at this rate,’ Doc said to the sheriff without humor.
The lawman grunted and led him inside where Martha took their hats and ush
ered them towards her husband’s office.
‘I told them to put her in there.’ She seemed reluctant to make eye contact. ‘I’ll bring hot water as soon as it’s boiled. You should be able to find everything else you need.’
Doc didn’t put much stead in random feelings but he had a bad one now. It didn’t improve when he pushed into the office and saw Maggie lying on the examination table, covered in blood. She was unconscious—at least, he hoped that’s all she was. Pushing his trepidation aside, he peeled back the edges of the blood-soaked shirt, partly relieved when he found the blood wasn’t hers.
He felt for a pulse. It was weak. Her eye patch was gone and a gash started near her left eye, creased her temple and nicked the top of her ear. Her pasty complexion contrasted sharply with the blood plastered in her hair and caked on her face. An egg-sized lump had already developed an angry bruise on her forehead.
‘It looks to me like she was shot,’ the sheriff opined. ‘Do you know who might want her dead?’
Doc ignored him and the sheriff backed away awkwardly. As Doc rolled up his sleeves, Martha brought hot water and towels in then physically removed the sheriff from the room. The lawman didn’t bother to argue.
Maggie didn’t move or make a sound as Doc examined her injuries—and there were a lot of them. Her hands and face were scratched as if she had been through a thorny hedge. Her arms, legs and torso were covered in developing bruises of varying shapes and shades. If Doc had to guess, he’d say she had fallen from a great height. That she appeared to have no broken bones seemed like a miracle.
‘Is she going to live?’ the sheriff asked later when Doc carried her out and up the stairs to a room Martha had prepared.
He laid her down gently on the large bed and stepped aside, allowing Martha to fuss with pillows and blankets.
‘Will she live?’ the sheriff asked again more forcibly.
‘A head wound is a serious thing,’ Doc said, deliberately omitting the other injuries from his assessment. ‘There’s no blood in her ears so I have to assume that there are no fractures. All we can do is wait and hope.’ He dragged his gaze away from Maggie and fixed the sheriff with a hawk-like glare. ‘Do you know what happened? Where did you find her?’
