The Innocents (The Innocents Mystery Series Book 1)

by C. A. Asbrey

  The Innocents

  The Innocents Mystery Series

  C.A. Asbrey

  The Innocents

  Copyright© 2018 C.A. Asbrey

  Cover Design Livia Reasoner

  Prairie Rose Publications

  www.prairierosepublications.com

  All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of the author's imagination and are not to be construed as real.

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  Dedication

  To Kit Prate. My adventure simply wouldn't have been the same without her support.

  Chapter One

  Wyoming 1868

  The knife slipped through the skin, twisting and gouging over and over again until the soft flesh was mushy and yielding to the blade. Abigail MacKay’s mounting anxiety showed in her clenched fists whitening her knuckles to pearl. She frowned at the hirsute man selling baked potatoes from the charcoal oven on the platform. “My train will leave in a minute. Please, stop chopping at it. I need to get back on board before it leaves.”

  He rolled his eyes and thrust it in greaseproof paper. “You’ve plenty of time, missy. I do this every day.” He dolloped on butter, stuck in a tiny wooden paddle, and collected a few coins before he moved on to the next in line.

  She coddled the warm oval shape in both hands, feeling the heat penetrate her stiff, cold fingers and swung around, straight into a man striding toward the gate. Her stomach sank as she felt the hot buttery mass mush into the stranger’s abdomen. A deep mellifluous baritone exclaimed in dismay as she felt strong hands grasp her by the top of her arms.

  “Hey, mind where you’re going.”

  Her eyes widened as she connected with a pair of warm chocolate eyes above chiseled cheekbones. The low sun glinted on his golden brown hair, warming the auburn highlights into a glowing halo as his cheeks dimpled into a ready smile. Her discomfort switched to an uncharacteristic speechlessness as his sheer presence robbed her of the ability to articulate. He frowned at her, but she doubted his analysis of her would be more in depth than the one she was already running. Confusion already melded with the fluttering breathlessness which spiraled in her chest. What was wrong with her? She was normally so logical, unemotional, and practical.

  “I’m sorry,” she spluttered. “I’m in a hurry to catch my train.”

  She reached out, patting away the greasy mess on the bottom of his waistcoat, but all she was doing was spreading it around. She retracted her hand in horror as she got too vigorous and stroked his groin. “Oh!”

  His grin widened. “It’s fine. Just leave it.”

  She looked away, preferring the slimy mess to the penetrating stare and pretended to be struck by his watch fob. It was a lustrous round moonstone, carved to resemble the face of the man on the moon. “That’s lovely,” she colored from the neck up as he looked down to where her hand had just been. “The little man. The moon,” she garbled. She stepped back and pulled herself together. “Well, it would be lovely—without grease all over it.”

  A whistle blew, cutting through the awkward tension. She shook herself back to reality, smiling at the man and acknowledging his companion. “That’s my train. I must go. I’m sorry.”

  The dishwater-blond in the long coat at his side chuckled and bent to pick up the hat knocked off in the collision. He nudged his companion and handed it to him. “Yeah, we need to get on too. C’mon.”

  The handsome stranger turned back, following the older man along the platform. “I’m sorry about your food. I hope it’s not ruined.”

  She dropped her head to gaze at the mess in her hands in dismay and walked over to the trashcan. It hit the bottom with a thud as she bustled back to the train, pulling herself together. She wasn’t given to schoolgirl fancies, and more importantly, she didn’t have time for this. There was work to be done.

  ♦◊♦

  Wisps of smoke and steam drifted past the windows, covering everyone in soot and wrapping the boarding passengers in wraith-like veils of dissipating mist. It was another day and another journey, and she occupied the back row of the railway carriage, half-alert as to who might occupy the empty seats opposite. She was discreet enough not to make eye contact or appear to invite anyone to invade the little space she had carved out for herself.

  Abigail’s brown eyes rose over the cover of her book, looking around to see who might join her on the next leg of the journey, and was still examining what had set her heart pounding so hard yesterday. She had admonished herself for her behavior. She hadn’t so much as thought about another man since Alistair had died. It felt—well —disloyal. Was this how mourning ended? Did someone fill the gaping maws of loneliness in an instant, or did life creep back by inches? Work didn’t do it, but for the first time in ages, she suddenly lived in the moment again. It was only for a bright, blinding instant, and it was disturbing. She had accepted her lot; bidding farewell to motherhood, a position in society, and marriage. It had been exchanged for hard work, a degree of derision, and marginalization, but at least she made a difference to the world. Yesterday made her wonder if there were more surprises in store.

  She shook herself out of her mood. Maybe she’d just been sitting on trains for too many weeks and was desperate for something to break the impenetrable sameness? Without warning, a small boy barreled onto the empty seat, waving with both arms. “Ma! Over here. I bagged a window seat. Can I sit here? Can I?”

  A harassed young woman bustled up, a fair-haired little girl in tow. “Tommy, will you please keep your voice down? And stop jumping on the seat. Sit down proper-like.” She turned to Abigail. “Are these seats free?”

  “Yes, help yourself.”

  The boy bounced on his backside. “Can I get the window seat? Can I? Can I?”

  “It’s your sister’s turn. You had the window on the way here.”

  “Please.” Abigail gathered her skirts and shifted over to the aisle seat. “Let them both have one. I’m reading anyway.”

  Gratitude crossed the flustered woman’s face as she dropped into the last seat and settled her excited charges. “Thank you. It’s no fun with two young ’uns. Are you travelling alone?”

  Abigail nodded.

  “I bet you’re glad you didn’t get some rough cowhand pushing their way in, huh? They’d have been bothering you all the way.”

  A smile tugged at Abigail’s lips. “I suppose so.”

  “Don’t you hate it when someone keeps annoying you and you’re not interested?” she asked without a trace of irony. “Is that a Scottish accent?” The woman noted Abigail’s nod of agreement. “I thought so. My grandpa was Scottish. He came over here way back, about eighteen-fifteen, as a young ’un. He died last year. Dropped dead in a thunderstorm when his heart gave out, he did. It was like God took him with a bolt from the blue.” She giggled. “Grandma always said it should have been the devil opening the ground beneath his feet.”

  Before Abigail could offer her condolences the woman turned back to her son. “Tommy, get your finger out of there.”

  The boy slumped back in his seat displaying an impressive pout, leaving Abigail to wonder where it had been inserted.

  “Where are you from? Grandpa was from Inver-somewhere and then he went to Glasgow. Are you from Glasgow?”

  “No, I’m not. I lived there for a bit before we came to the States though. We sailed from there.” Abigail tried to return to her book once more.

&nbs
p; “I’ve never been anywhere. Lived in Wyoming all my life and seen no more’n four towns. I’ll probably die here, too,” said the young mother with an air of cheerfulness. “My grandpa told me it’s always freezing in Scotland. Is it true?”

  “Sometimes, not always.” Abigail noted the jolt of the train pulling out and tried not to show too much vested interest in her next question. “Are you travelling far?”

  “Just to the next stop. My husband is meeting us there. We’ve been visiting my mother for a couple of days.”

  “How lovely for you. I expect he’ll be glad to have you all home again.” Abigail dropped her head to return to her book, trying to hide the tenseness caused by the stream of unwanted small talk. “Only about an hour to go.”

  Abigail tried to bury herself in Jane Eyre once more, allowing the train to chug and chuff its way through the mountainous terrain to its next destination amid a barrage of questions and gossip from her travelling companion. The book wasn’t getting read on this stage of the journey, but it might slow the cross examination. This continued for what seemed to be an interminable time, but in reality, couldn’t have been more than half-an-hour. The train slowed, the whistle blasting out until the train creaked and stilled to a complete halt.

  “Why are we stoppin’, Mommy?”

  “I’ve no idea,” the woman peered out of the window. “We’re not even halfway there.”

  The boy kneeled on his seat and peered out of the window, his nose squashed against the glass. “There are men, Mommy, and they’ve got guns.”

  Abigail snapped her book closed and headed for the window. “Guns?”

  “Oh, my,” exclaimed the young mother. “It’s a robbery. Get down, Tommy. Get away from the window.” She pushed both children to the safety of the floor.

  “Hands up, everyone.”

  Abigail swung around to see a stranger striding into the aisle from the open door at the end of the carriage. He had a gun in his hand and his lower face was covered by a bandana. She pushed the children under the benches and blocked them in with her feet. “Stay there,” she hissed.

  “My name is Nat Quinn,” the stranger said and then indicated the fair man by his side, “and this is Jake Conroy. You’re being held up by The Innocents. Everyone get your hands in the air where I can see them.”

  The two men occupied the aisle, owning the railway carriage in an instant. Quinn stopped a few rows away and glowered at a passenger. “Madam, will you please stop sticking your jewelry into your bosom. We have no interest in robbing the passengers, and it’s never a good idea to do anything to encourage criminals to go rooting around in your cleavage.”

  “You have been held up by a gang called The Innocents,” Jake announced. “They gave us that name because we rob only the banks and the railroads. We don’t steal from ordinary people, so as long as you all cooperate, we’ll open the safe in the baggage car and you can all be on your way.”

  The announcement met with a ripple of relief. The gang’s reputation was obviously well-known and well-received. Abigail frowned, staring at the two men. They were not your average criminals. They were charming and articulate. In smarter clothes, they could pass for intelligent, professional men, and unless you looked very hard, it was easy to miss the shifting devilment in the eyes.

  Nat gestured to the grassy bank outside. “Please file out one by one with your hands up, where you’ll be allowed to sit outside once we’ve established you’re not armed. You’ll be on your way before you know it.”

  Abigail felt the boy’s inquisitive head pop out around her legs and pushed his head back. A male voice drifted over her shoulder.

  “I told everyone to get their hands up. That includes you, miss.” His blue eyes twinkled in surprise at the rebellious glare she flashed in response. His eyes hardened. “Hands up.”

  She complied with a show of reluctance and watched the people at the front of the carriage file off the train, men being patted down for weapons, and women having bags searched. The criminals exchanged a look of amusement as little Tommy thrust his arms straight up, striding out into the aisle. “It’s alright, ma’am,” Nat nodded toward the young mother. “You can put your hands down. You’ve got two young ’uns and they’re hard enough to keep hold of even when you can use your hands.”

  She gathered her brood about her. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome. Get your bag checked at the door. Our men will help you off.”

  Abigail stepped out into the aisle; the last to leave. Jake frowned at her and stepped in her way. “I thought I told you to get your hands up.”

  She pointed at Nat. “But he said—” She froze. Her eyes caught the ornate watch fob hanging on Nat Quinn’s waistcoat, carved to look like the man in the moon. She had seen it before when she had crashed into its owner on the railway platform. She forced herself not to react and turned back to Jake, hoping Quinn didn’t realize she had not only seen him unmasked, but remembered him well.

  “He said that to a woman with children. Not you. Hands up, and keep them up until you’re told different.” The coldness in his tone reached into his eyes. “Please do as you’re told and it’ll make all our lives easier.”

  “You expect me to make your life easier? Have you ever met any Scottish women? It’s not something we’re famous for.”

  “A feisty one, huh? And she’s in no hurry to leave, either.” The crinkled lines of his smile etched Nat’s brown eyes with roguish charm. He looked her up and down with an admiring stare. “We don’t have time for you today. I’ve got a safe to crack and time waits for no man. Time is obviously both Scottish and female.”

  She arched a brow, holding his gaze. “May I take my book?”

  “Sure,” Jake handed it to her. “Now, sit nice and quiet on the grass. It’s for your own good.”

  “Yes. This is all for my good. There’s nothing in this for you at all.” She held her book high along with the empty hand, strolling over to the henchman by the door. He leaned on the wall picking his nose under his mask. She scowled at him. “Don’t you dare touch me with those fingers. I’ve left my bag at my seat, so there’s nothing for you to search. There’s no money in it, anyway.” She glanced over at the two criminals. “I’m hoping our Robin Hoods over there could put money in.”

  A couple of men helped her down and she strode to the grass to watch Quinn leave the passenger carriage and climb into the baggage car. Jake oversaw the passengers and the rest of the gang, keeping everyone where they should be and stamping on the slightest challenge. They were a tight team, and worthy of their formidable reputation, but she wasn’t here to gawk, she had work to do. She sat on a fallen tree and reached into the spine of her book, pulling out a thin pencil. Abigail turned to the blank endpaper and took notes.

  She paused, pulling down her skirts in what looked like an act of propriety, but she had an ulterior motive. It wouldn’t do to let anyone see the Derringer in her ankle holster. No, that wouldn’t do at all.

  ♦◊♦

  The man at the desk raised his head in surprise. She was used to this, as women visiting the Pinkerton Offices were sobbing witnesses or hostile criminals facing capture. A composed, serene, unaccompanied female was unusual. “I’m looking for Mr. Robertson.”

  “Do you have an appointment?”

  “I believe Alan Pinkerton told him to expect me.”

  “He did?” The man’s mutton chops bristled as he opened another book. “Your name?”

  “Abigail MacKay.”

  He frowned, running a finger down the page of a ledger. “Mac—eye?” He imitated her pronunciation. “Nope. He ain’t expectin’ anyone of that name.”

  “He must be. Mr. Pinkerton sent a telegram himself.”

  “How’re you spellin’ that?”

  “M—a—c—k—a—y.”

  “That spells MacKay. It ends in ‘Kay’.”

  “It's spelled that way, but it’s not pronounced that way. It isn't English, so it doesn’t follow English rules.�
��

  “Then why spell it k—a—y? Spell it the way it sounds.”

  Abigail rolled her eyes. “Is Mr. Robertson expecting someone with a name ending with k—a—y?”

  “Sure, but it ain’t you. It’s an agent.”

  “That’s me. I’m Abigail MacKay, and I am an agent.”

  He laughed and turned to the men working at their desks behind him. “I ain’t fallin’ for this one. Bob, Tubbs, which one of you set this up? A woman? Where’d you get her? The burlesque?”

  Her voice hardened. “My name is Abigail MacKay and I want to see Mr. Robertson. Please tell him I am here.”

  “Don’t you go raisin’ your voice at me, missy, or you’ll end up in a cell. I can take a joke as well as the next man, but this is gettin’ stupid.”

  “Please fetch him—”

  The man waved his pen at her. “Enough. A joke’s a joke.”

  Abigail sucked in a breath and filled her lungs, shouting at the top of her voice. “Archibald Robertson. Come out here, now!”

  A red-bearded, bear of a man strode out of an office, his Northern Irish brogue cutting through the hubbub. “What’s going on here?”

  “Sir, there’s a woman here who says her name is spelled wrong.”

  “What?” He darted a dismissive glace at her. “Tell her to go away. We don’t deal with rubbish like that. I’m a busy man.”

  “Mr. Robertson,” Abigail stood on her toes to peer over the high desk blocking her view. “Alan Pinkerton sent me to see you and this fool won’t let me through.”

  “Is that right?” Robertson frowned. “Bill?”

  “What am I supposed to do? Believe every joker who says they’re an agent?”

  “I’m Abigail MacKay, and Alan Pinkerton told you to expect me. He sent a telegraph.”

  “A woman? He said he was sending someone expert at assuming roles.” Robertson paused, looking at her before his eyes widened in shock. “Nah, that’s not natural. A man should be locked up for looking like that. It’s obscene, even if it is a disguise.” He looked her up and down. “Mind you, when I was in the British Army there were these men out in India who were real feminine. They lived like women, dressed like them, danced like them and everything. They called them the Hijra. We used to warn the newcomers about them. You’re kinda dark. Are you—?”