He guided her down onto his coat, trailing kisses along her cheek, to the shell of her ear and to the column of her throat. She ran her fingers through his hair and kissed his cheek, his strong jaw and his brow. He continued his onslaught of hot kisses as he pushed aside her scarf and worked at the buttons of her jacket. It fell open, she felt the cool air on her breasts through her chemise. She felt the caress of his warm hands and all common sense abandoned her. Her full breasts were straining against the bodice of her chemise. He could see her nipples through the thin fabric. He pressed his advantage, his hot mouth came over one areola. He suckled hard, right through the fabric, leaving her chemise wet from his ministrations and sending her wits flying. He heard her sigh as he gave equal attention to her other straining breast. He moved over her and she felt his heavy erection against her thigh. It was too much.
“Edward, we must not…”
“I never told you how I felt about you, Susannah, how I have always felt. When you left Larkspur, when you married another, I thought I had missed my chance. I have always wanted you. You must know that,” he whispered. “I burn for you, Susannah.”
“I never knew,” she said softly, believing him, as he insistently claimed her lips again.
It would be so easy to take her right here, right now. But no. She might have regrets later; regret this, regret him, resent him. He sensed her indecision, could feel her pulling back. Best to call a halt. “My darling, my Susannah,” he whispered possessively. “I do not want to stop, but I think we must,” he said as he continued to kiss her and fondle her heaving breasts. He was being a gentleman, pulling back from their indiscretion before the tide of passion carried them too far. Her senses were overwhelmed. “Edward,” she whispered, but he silenced her with a kiss once more. Susannah had always liked Edward; she had developed a deep admiration for him over the years of their association. She trusted him. She could even hear her grandmother’s approving voice. He was an honorable man. That was the most important consideration, wasn’t it? What about Jack? He was honorable. What was wrong with her? What was she doing? She had to stop this.
“We must stop, sweetheart,” Edward then insisted, surprising her and showing himself to be the sensible one. “I want to make love to you, but I do not have the right,” he continued. He kissed her supple lips once more and then sat up before she managed to poleax his willpower and derail his ultimate plan. He had accomplished enough. Very soon he would have her in his power. The next time they were completely alone, she would be begging him for it.
Days passed. The social engagements between Edward Mansfield and Susannah continued on, unabated, deep into December.
Chapter Twenty-Five
By late December the snowpack in the high country was already considerable and with the mines in the area now closed, the little town of Pine Creek clung precariously to life on the side of the frozen mountain. As the narrow gauge train approached the depot, it no longer blew its whistle – the danger of setting off an avalanche was far too risky.
Although the timing of his visit to Pine Creek seemed unlikely to produce any viable leads, Daniel Cookson was nonetheless on a quest. He had kept an ear to the ground for any further developments, and although many threads of this investigation had led nowhere, Cookson had one more question in need of an answer. He had long wondered how the well-dressed gentleman who paid Brophy that night knew he would find him at the brothel. By all accounts, their mystery man was staying somewhere in Denver. Brophy had worked steadily at the mine all week without time enough to make a trip to Denver himself. This left only one possibility. Brophy must have somehow gotten a message to the man who was paying him. And the only practical way to send such a message was through the telegraph office. Cookson knew the office remained open all year with an operator on duty to tap out messages and receive them. Although a long shot, his belief that Brophy had perhaps sent a telegram from Pine Creek was too important a detail to be overlooked.
The office at Pine Creek was conveniently located near the depot. Cookson stepped from the train onto the icy platform, deeply inhaled one last puff and tossed his cigarette. The grey, unsettled day matched his mood. His breath fogged out in front of him. He checked his timepiece – 2:15. No time to dawdle. He needed to get the answers he sought and catch the four o’clock train back to Denver. Cookson buttoned his greatcoat and adjusted his scarf and hat against the bitter cold.
The wooden telegraph shack was tiny enough, but was sufficiently heated by a Franklin stove which held a coffee pot. The room was illuminated by two windows but there was also an oil lamp on the desk. Nearby, a large cabinet held a stack of heavy ledgers. The key operator, a Mr. Prescott was seated behind his desk and seemed surprised to have a customer.
“Good afternoon,” said Cookson, closing the door behind him.
“Good day to you,” said the man. “Need a message sent?”
“It is information I need,” was the reply. “My name is Daniel Cookson. I am a detective,” he said, handing over his card. “I am trying to find someone…someone who has disappeared. We now believe one of the last things he did was to send a telegram from this office.”
“Foul play?” asked Prescott.
“Maybe,” said Cookson evasively.
“And the name?” Prescott inquired.
“John Brophy.”
“And the date?”
“We reckon it would probably have been around July 27th or 28th,” said Cookson.
“That far back? Just a minute,” said Prescott turning to the stack of dusty ledgers.
“We calculate the fee based on the number of characters and keep receipts of transactions for the company,” he supplied helpfully as he selected a bulky ledger and moved it to the desk. Prescott turned several pages in the record book, scanned his fingers down one page and turned to the next.
“Brophy, Brophy, Brophy,” he repeated as he searched through the entries. We are very busy here in the summer, when the mines are all up and running.” He turned a few more pages. “July 28th,” he announced. “Brophy, Brophy,” he said as his fingers slowly trailed down another page and then yet another.
“Ah! Here we are!” Prescott said triumphantly as his finger landed on an entry.
Well hallelujah! Cookson’s eyes went wide. He bent to look at the ledger book as Mr. Prescott read aloud.
“July 28th, 4:35 pm, John Brophy to Mr. Edward Mansfield, 56 Grant Street, Denver.”
Finally, a break! The devil was indeed found in the details. The name sounded familiar to Cookson, so did the address: 56 Grant Street. Someone’s residence. But whose? His mind raced ahead as he tried to place it. He pulled a small notebook from his coat pocket and scribbled down the information he had been given.
“I think this may be exactly the clue we needed,” Cookson said. “Are there any other entries for Brophy? Perhaps the next day?”
Prescott scanned further, turning several more pages with painstaking slowness. “It doesn’t seem so,” he finally said. “That takes us to the 30th,” he added.
Cookson closed the notebook and slid it back into his pocket. “Your help has been invaluable. Thank you,” he said, with a handshake. “We hope to find this man. He disappeared without a trace. At least now we have the name of someone who knew him.” Cookson had what he’d come for; it was time to catch the train.
*****
Back in Denver the next morning Jack Simmons was sipping his coffee and reading the paper. There were the usual stories of intrigue: cattle rustling, barroom brawls, an unscrupulous merchant caught thinning down the milk he sold with water, even a hanging. Tomorrow would be New Year’s Eve. It had been quite a year – he would not be sorry to see it go. It seemed that the more things changed, the more they stayed the same.
The big news, of course, continued to be the raging debate about the new design for the American Flag. When Colorado officially became the 38th state, artists began thinking how to rearrange the stars on the flag. The new design had to be ready b
y the next July 4th. One idea was to have five rows of stars, alternating between eight stars in one row and seven in the next. Or six rows of stars with seven stars in the first and sixth rows and only six stars in the other rows. Another popular design had the stars arranged to spell out 1776 and 1876. Colorado’s entry into the union had caused a flag problem.
But Jack was only half interested in reading the paper. His thoughts were always of Susannah. There had been so little news. Only a few telegrams had been received by Mrs. Sheppard. He had only received two – the first arrived shortly after she made it safely to Larkspur, and the second came a few days before Christmas wishing him a pleasant holiday. He knew she was busy with her grandmother, and yet he worried about her. He missed her company. With the mine now closed for the winter, he had no business-related information to communicate. But what about their personal relationship? What about them. Maybe he was assuming too much. It was torture not knowing what she was thinking. He wanted desperately to kiss her sweet lips again. Would she welcome his kisses? Did she think about him at all? Would she accept him as a suitor?
Then came an insistent knocking at the door to stir him from his musings. Who could be calling at this early hour? The housekeeper greeted someone. He then heard footfalls drawing closer to the breakfast parlor. In a moment, the housekeeper was at the doorway and announced Daniel Cookson. Jack’s heart skipped a beat; he dropped the newspaper. Cookson looked worried.
Jack’s face clouded. “You have something,” he said.
“Yes, I have something,” Cookson replied.
“Please sit. Coffee?”
“Yes, thank you,” said Cookson. The housekeeper poured him a cup and then excused herself.
“Well?” said Jack, impatiently.
“Yesterday afternoon I visited the telegraph office in Pine Creek. I had a hunch that Brophy may have sent a telegram so the man paying him would know where to find him. He did send a telegram, on July 28th, to one Edward Mansfield at 56 Grant Street. The ‘man with the mustache’ whom we speculated about. You see, you were right all along, it was him.”
Jack looked like he had seen a ghost. His face paled, then came the rage. “Shit!” he yelled, his fist coming down so hard on the table it rattled the dishes. “God damn. That stinking bastard! It can’t be.”
“But it is. I checked further, the address, 56 Grant Street is…” but Jack interrupted him. “The home of my late partner and his widow, Susannah,” Jack finished for him.
“Yes,” said Cookson. Jack tried to absorb the news. It was the worst possible news. He felt like someone had punched him in the gut.
“He was visiting from England, for the statehood celebration,” he explained. “They are friends, he and Susannah. I think I mentioned it.”
“And you are certain they are merely friends, not co-conspirators?” Cookson asked.
“Certainly not!” shouted Jack. “Never!” he reiterated, pounding the table again.
“Simmer down!” said Cookson.
Jack rose from his chair and started to pace. “You know what is really galling is his audacity. The night I delivered the terrible news to Susannah, he practically accused me of negligence! But he knew it all along, planned it all along. He played his part so convincingly. He managed to plant seeds of doubt about me right away. He is a smooth one. If I had him in the room right now I would break him in two! It is laughable really. He ordered someone executed and painted me as the villain. He fooled us all.”
“What is the nature of Mansfield’s relationship with Brophy?” Cookson wondered.
“I have no idea, but perhaps there is someone who may be able to tell us,” Jack suggested.
Within the hour they made their way with some urgency to 56 Grant Street and were soon interviewing Mrs. Sheppard. She was confused by all their questions if not shocked and alarmed, but tried to remember everything she could to be as helpful as possible.
“Oh yes, I met Mr. Brophy,” she confirmed. “He was only here very briefly. He arrived with Mr. Mansfield. We were told he was his bodyguard. Mr. Brophy disappeared within days of his arrival. After about a week, he turned up again, but left for good later that very same day.”
“What else to you remember, Mrs. Sheppard?” asked Jack.
“Catori did not like him at all. She saw him kick the cat,” was the answer.
“Yes, an unpleasant man,” Cookson agreed, careful to keep the true nature of Brophy’s violent, felonious behavior from her.
“Anything else?” Jack probed.
“Right after everyone arrived here from the train station, Mr. Brophy kept to his room, out of sight. We were told he was ill. I sent up a tray,” she said helpfully.
“So it is possible that Thomas never even met him, despite the fact that he was sleeping right under his roof,” said Jack, as he continued to piece together the expanding puzzle. “Thank you, Mrs. Sheppard, you have shed more light on our mystery,” he added.
“Yes,” echoed Cookson. “This is still a very active investigation,” he said. “We would appreciate it if you would keep our meeting today confidential.”
“Of course,” she said agreeably, as the men took their leave. “Is Susannah in any danger?” she finally asked.
“It is very possible she may be,” said Cookson honestly. “We will keep you informed and if you have any further news from her, please notify me right away. Here is my business card, Mrs. Sheppard. Send word around to my office, they will know where to find me,” he added. “Thank you for being candid with us.”
“It all fits,” said Jack thoughtfully once he and Cookson were back in his study. “Thomas invited Mansfield to take a tour of the mine on the 29th. Before returning to Denver on the train that night, he evidently looked for Brophy at the brothel and paid him. Thomas died in the explosion the following afternoon.”
Cookson lit a cigarette. It was clear that Mansfield had wanted Thomas killed and had Brophy carry out the plan. But why was still the unanswered question. “It has to be her money he is after,” said Cookson. “I know an agency in England that may help us by looking into Mansfield’s finances. But honestly, we don’t have the luxury of time.”
“I agree. The situation is far more urgent,” said Jack. “I fear for her safety. Besides, what can we do about it? What can we do about a crime we are convinced has happened when the evidence is circumstantial and our culprits are conveniently living in a sovereign country? If we inform the authorities the most we can hope for is that they might look into it. Examining his finances only gives us more circumstantial evidence.”
Jack was right. Cookson had no standing with the British authorities, nor did Jack. By all accounts, Mansfield was a highly-regarded Englishman with credentials, a Cambridge man, no less. If there were an investigation, it would involve diplomats at the highest levels. There was no time to be wasted. Ultimately, their greatest concern was what immediate plans Mansfield might have in store for Susannah. Her personal fortune coupled with that of her late husband made her an irresistible target. They both sensed she was in great danger. Mansfield’s weapon was his own desperation. The timing of Lady Alice’s unexplained illness caused them to speculate further that this event, which effectively called Susannah home, may have been no accident. It was too convenient. The situation was alarming. They would have to take corrective measures on their own.
“I think we are of one mind then,” said Cookson. “When do we leave?”
“First thing tomorrow,” was the reply.
“New Year’s Eve. First thing tomorrow it is,” Cookson agreed. “Send her a telegram. Warn her she is in danger and that things are not as they appear to be. Plant some seeds of doubt of your own into her mind for a change.”
“I will do it, but she will be unconvinced. You don’t know Susannah. It is not in her nature to be suspicious or distrustful, especially of someone she imagines is her friend. I have to say Cookson, your idea, to check the telegraph office I mean, well, it was a stroke of genius,” said Jack app
reciatively. “It has turned the tide.”
“A lucky break,” said Cookson with a shrug. “Mansfield thought he had it all figured out. In this business there is no such thing as ‘the perfect crime’. One overlooked detail can blow a case wide open.”
“You know the old saying, ‘give someone enough rope and he will very likely hang himself,’” said Jack.
“He is a smart one though, I’ll give him that, and not someone to be underestimated. What we have learned about him might not matter if we don’t get there in time.”
Jack felt helpless, powerless. Susannah was thousands of miles away – a journey of three weeks at least, with winter weather further slowing whatever travel plans they made. The fates were working against them. He remembered his time spent with the cowboys – they called this helpless feeling ‘ledged up’. Driving cattle across the plains was a dicey business. There was a constant need to supply the thirsty beasts with adequate water. Sometimes the arroyos had walls too steep for the cattle to make it safely to the bottom to drink. The cowboys could see the water, but had no way to guide the animals to it. The resolution was clear, and yet frustratingly unattainable, they were ledged up – much like Jack was now. He could see Susannah in his mind’s eye, could see and feel the dangerous situation she was in, but for the moment at least, there was not a damn thing he could do about it.
Chapter Twenty-Six
The morning light was dim. The weather had taken an ominous turn. Susannah stood at her bedroom window overlooking the back garden. Another heavy and grey day pressed in on her from the other side of the cold glass. She drew her wrap around her more securely. She hadn’t slept, her mind too occupied with thoughts of Edward’s amorousness and its obvious implications. His interest in her was unmistakable. It was complicating their association.
The Gold Miner's Wife: A Young Woman's Story of Romance, Passion and Murder Page 17
