by C. A. Asbrey
Chapter Twenty
Abigail nodded and perched on the edge of the desk.
“So back to the point. Rigby was caught searching the wrong room suspecting he’d brought him to Bannen. Mr. Dunbar was not his erstwhile employer. He was barking up the wrong tree there, just as he was about Dora’s husband still being alive.” She turned her attention to the Davieses. “In his second marriage Benson had a daughter called Ruth, she’d be about four now, almost five, but her parents married after her birth. That is the key to this. Isn’t it, Mrs. Davies? You’re called Mary by your present husband, but Mr. Benson married a Rose. They’re both correct, aren’t they? Your name is Rosemary. Now you’re married and you are Rosemary Davies. R.D.”
“What, me? No.”
Nat fixed her with a hard stare. “What is your name, ma’am?”
“It’s Davies. Mary Davies. I have nothing to do with this.”
Nat stepped forward, peering at the face in the shadows of the wide-brimmed bonnet. “Well, that’s strange, because you told my partner and me it was Hislop.”
“And you also told the orphanage your name was Mellor. Do you want me to get the superintendent in here to identify you? It’s the easiest thing in the world to prove who you are and who you claimed to be. A few visits to your surrounding neighbors from Pinkertons bearing photographs will easily confirm your real identity, too. The telegraph company has already informed us about the contents of the telegrams and who sent and received them. It was you communicating with Dora, wasn’t it Mrs. Davies?”
“So what?” she snapped, aware her subterfuge wouldn’t last. “The boy is just lovely. When I heard how poor she was and he went into an orphanage, I wanted to help. I’m too old to have any more children and I wanted a son. I also thought she might have done something to stop us from approaching under our real names.”
“Or you wanted to have complete control over these people threatening your plans. When Dora was dead, Ben Middleton may not be able to prove his claim because he had been living under another name for so long and was seriously disfigured. You holding the child was a way to make sure.” The woman glared at Abigail. “Except the orphanage didn’t want to give you the boy. Someone else had already applied and a deal had been struck with a man called Andrew Burton, also from Boston, who appeared to be wealthier than you and made a donation to the orphanage. The deal could have been broken, but you annoyed the superintendent by browbeating him and he stuck to the original adoption. Mr. Andrew Burton claimed to be a very successful business man with a very loving wife. You had to steal the boy.”
Abigail examined Pearl with a smile. “Was it your idea to get the boy adopted or was it the pianist’s?”
“Me? I don’t know what you mean.”
“Your security man, sitting next to you. He has a white moustache and his middle finger is missing, just like the man described by the head of the Juvenile Asylum. He’s not as tall as described, but people often get things like that wrong. You’re, what? Six-three?”
“Six-three-and-a-half,” muttered the security man.
“And the missing digit is on the correct hand and is the same unusual amputation, right up to the knuckle with no stump. There can’t be many of those around one small town. He fits the description, other than the height. I’m guessing the superintendent of the Juvenile Asylum is a very short man?”
“Yeah, he’s about five-foot-two—” nodded a deputy.
“So the man towering over him would not only look daunting, but it’d be hard to assess with nobody else in the room to measure him against. That explains the height error.”
“We don’t know what you’re on about,” snorted Pearl.
Abigail stared at the security man’s hand. “I knew who it was the minute I heard the description. I saw you at Pearl’s place when you evicted the fake Innocents from the premises, and I noted the missing finger. It was a very kind and open-hearted gesture from an employer. One of your employees died, leaving a child an orphan and you weren’t going to leave him in a home. They weren’t going to give him to a woman who ran, shall we say, a house of hospitality. Nor would they give him to a blind man already living in penury, so you invented a businessman from Boston and sent your head of security to fetch him dressed in his best suit. I like it. It speaks of a very kind woman, Mrs. Dubois. It also probably saved his life, too. It stopped Mrs. Davies getting to him first. I am very glad you acted the way you did.”
The enormous man spoke at last, his moustache mobile with his emotions. “I lost the finger in the mine. I worked with both Phil Benson and Ben Middleton. Ben didn't tell me he lost his brother. I thought they were close friends, so I wanted to help him get the boy.” He stared over at his friend. “Why didn’t you tell me, Ben?”
“I thought I’d be arrested,” Middleton replied. “I couldn’t risk it. I’d never survive in jail like this.”
“And that’s when you tried to take the boy from school,” added Jake, staring into the woman’s wide-brimmed bonnet, holding her guilty eyes hostage with his glare. “Keepin’ your head down won’t help. We were both there, ma’am. We saw you.”
“Yes, she raised my suspicions when she refused to be anywhere near you two,” Abigail agreed. “First it was megrims, then it was eating out, or hurrying out of the room while her husband acted as a diversion. I noted she was happy to see me, but not the men who confronted the woman who tried to take David Benson from school. That made me suspicious.”
“Yeah,” Nat reflected. “She did do that. I never saw her face the whole time we were at the hotel.”
“Because she saw you first,” she continued. “Mr. Middleton, or should I say Burton? You had a hand in the adoption attempt. Your father left all his money to be shared equally amongst his surviving children, thinking both his sons from his earlier marriage were dead and gone. He specified no other names or conditions. A total of over forty thousand dollars, two houses, and a business which is growing by the day as people take to indoor plumbing. He left only a small income for his wife, but then he was quite a misogynist.”
“Misogynist? What’s his religion got to do with this?” demanded the sheriff.
Abigail stared at the woman. “You wanted it all. An income wasn’t good enough for you. You were incensed to learn Dora was enquiring about the will, and when you investigated, you found the survivor from the mine had been blinded and didn’t question what Rigby came up with. You assumed Phil Benson was still alive and was eligible to inherit his father’s share because he’d swapped identities with the dead man to get the payout from the mine. You’d lost the money. It didn’t cross your mind to worry about Michael. You all believed he was long dead.”
“You can’t prove a thing,” snapped the woman.
“I can. R.D. also met her on the day she died.”
“That doesn’t mean I killed her. I didn’t even arrive in town until days after the murder.”
“So you say, but I think you stayed in the next town along the line until after the murder, and then quietly left by train again. All you had to do was take a forty-minute journey. It also accounts for why Rigby was told to collect something from the railway station on the day you arrived and why you made such a fuss about your hat box. You wanted to be remembered arriving from the west. I think a check will soon reveal you stayed there before the killings.”
“It’s feasible I can be of assistance,” ventured Tibby. “Mr. and Mrs. Davies were on the same train as me from the east. The one which was held up by the fake gang. I had a conversation with her when she complained about the way they handled the women, and she was wearing the bonnet she’s wearing now. They absolutely did travel west at the same time as I did.”
“Why didn’t you say something before?” Jake demanded.
“People lie for all kinds of reasons. It’s none of my business until it becomes important. I’m a journalist, not a policeman. I merely report.”
Abigail’s eyes lit up. “And you’re willing to swear to that in
court?”
“Of course. I always tell the truth. It’s one of the many things people hate about me.” Tibby inclined his head, displaying complete indifference to public opinion. “I was hiding behind the tree and she was complaining bitterly. I remember her well.”
“You were hiding behind a tree?” the sheriff’s incredulous gawk did nothing to shame the little man.
“Of course,” Tibby’s mouth firmed into a line. “I find bravery greatly overrated. People get killed that way.”
“None of that proves we murdered anyone,” Mrs. Davies protested.
“No. But there was a witness. Someone followed them out to rob them. Someone who later blackmailed you, Mrs. Davies. Wasn’t there, Kurt?”
The German boy stammered and stuttered to a standstill but Abigail pressed on. “Kurt. She’s got no money, she’s going to prison, and she’s trying to set you up for this murder. Tell the truth, for heaven’s sake.”
“I—”
“Kurt. I think they killed your father when he tried to get more money out of them. Now, they’re trying to hang you and your sister for their crimes.”
The Schmidts said nothing, an upbringing of mistrust taking its toll. Their refusal to help was infuriating, causing Abigail’s hands to harden into little fists of frustration. “Please. Don’t let her get away with this. They’ll blame you and they’ll hang you for her crime.”
“Nobody’ll never believe us anyway,” Anna murmured. “What’s the point?”
“Does this help?” Nat reached inside his hat before he unfolded a collection of rings and lustrous pearls from a cloth and placed them on the table. He picked up a ring, a ruby and diamond cluster. “This one’s got an inscription, ‘to Mary from Robert’. It’s got a date, too. I’m guessing it’s your wedding or engagement ring. When did you get married to Mr. Davies, ma’am? Kurt sold this and it connects you to the Schmidts.”
Abigail glared at him, left speechless as he beamed his most dazzling smile. There was only one way he could have possession of the jewelry. He had broken into the safe in the jeweler’s shop where Kurt had sold off the goods. He also hadn’t said a single word about it until forced to do so.
Nat buried his slippery grin under a mask of faux professionalism. “Have you got photographs at home, ma’am? I bet you’re wearing your jewels in them? Or we can trace the jeweler who made or sold them. The boy, here, took these to Paris and sold them. We can prove these are yours. These link you to the Schmidts, and you didn’t report a robbery. That means you voluntarily handed over your precious property. Were you buying their silence by any chance? It’s the only logical explanation.”
The woman went puce as her husband declaimed his innocence. “I had nothing to do with it. I was there, but she shot the big one, and Dora fought, so she strangled her.”
“Shut up!” yelled Mrs. Davies, lashing out at her husband. “We were robbed. That’s how he must have gotten them.”
“The bodies don’t agree with that account, sir.” Abigail cut in, ignoring the woman’s attempt to prevaricate. “Bessie’s nails were broken on one hand. She fought for her life. I’d say someone shot her because she fought too well. One woman couldn’t do that alone. Not with another woman fighting, too. She fought. Even with decomposition those things can be found on a body. Dora scratched with both hands.”
“She shot her.” Anna Schmidt pointed at Mary Davies. “He strangled the young one when she wouldn’t tell them about a man called Philip. They gave us what they had to shut us up; everything valuable that woman was wearing, and promised us more. They didn’t know we were watching them or that we’d followed the women from our place. I’ve never seen anything like it. We don’t kill. I guess they would have killed us, too but we were armed and outnumbered them.”
“Did she expect to meet you out there on the plain?”Abigail asked Robert Davies.
“We wanted to pay Dora a small sum to disappear, but she’d done her homework and thought someone was entitled to a cut of the will. Then we found out it was even worse—he'd get it all because Ruth was illegitimate. She was smarter than we thought and we couldn’t let her follow it up with a lawyer. We had to deal with her. A woman at the brothel told us where they’d gone and we rode out to meet them before they got back to town.”
“Shut up!” cried Mrs. Davies.
“I will not, woman. You already put a noose around my neck.” Robert Davies stood. “I haven’t been able to eat or sleep since it happened. It’s a nightmare.”
“It begs the question. What did you intend to do to the boy?” demanded Abigail.
“Nothing. I’m not an animal.” The woman clamped her jaws shut and stared off at the wall, refusing to expand any further.
“That’s a matter of opinion, ma’am.” Jake’s eyes burned into the woman. He had sworn to kill Dora’s killer but what could he do to a woman? Especially when the law was already taking care of things for him. Perhaps Abigail’s way was better, but what if the court let her off?
“He’s disappeared. What have you done to him?” yelled Sheriff Thompson.
“The boy’s fine. In order to stop him being taken we had our people remove him to safety,” said Abigail as she glanced at Nat and Jake, hoping her next words were true. “He’s with a trusted family.”
The sheriff’s eyes glinted at Abigail. “The way the law is in this country, ma’am, you can’t override the authority of an elected lawman as long as he’s keepin’ to the constitution. What do you think you’re playin’ at?”
Abigail smiled the smile of one used to handling angry people. “I overrode no one, Mr. Thompson. You did nothing. The boy came of his own free will and has been kept safe and well with a trusted family.” She spoke with calm authority. “If you can be clear about what investigation of yours I hampered, I’ll be happy to answer in any court of law. I don’t intimidate easily, and I would like to point out you still haven’t even visited the Juvenile Asylum and you only sent a deputy to ask the questions as I directed. The boy has now been away from there for almost a week. You did nothing.”
“You can’t prove we weren’t robbed,” ranted the woman. “Those Germans are criminals by their own admission. They’re blaming us for their crime. We’re innocent victims!”
“Except for one thing, Mrs. Davies,” Abigail strode over and grasped her arm, pulling back her sleeve, revealing track-like scars on her forearm and on the backs of her hands. “Cuts heal quite quickly, but deep scratches will leave scars that take much longer to disappear. I believe that if we search your husband he will have scars, too, as he dragged Dora away to let you deal with Bessie. I examined the bodies. They were too badly decomposed for me to identify defensive injuries, but their nails were broken where they fought and scratched for their very lives. Human skin was under their nails. They never stood a chance. Bessie was bigger than you but you not only had the element of surprise, you had a gun. Dora? Well, women just aren’t a strong as men.”
She dropped the woman’s arm and smiled at the dignified gentleman in the gray suit who had been sitting throughout the discussion. “Dotair Mac Íomhair? Ciamar a tha sibh?”
The man nodded and replied in their native Scottish Gaelic. “Tha gu math, tapal leibh.”
“This is Doctor MacIvor. He is countryman of mine and a very eminent surgeon who works for the Pinkerton Agency. Some of you may have met him when he assisted the local doctor with the Clark family. He studied with Dr. Joseph Bell in Edinburgh who has used medical science to solve many murders in a way which has influenced the world and is changing detection very dramatically. He is a brilliant man with an eye for detail in the new scientific method,” she smiled at him. “I’m very lucky to have him here, but he was passing through on his way out west for another case and was kind enough to take a detour to check up on me.”
“Always happy to help, Miss MacKay,” the doctor spoke in a singsong highland accent. “I thought the doctor might be the best way to find you, as they tend to hear all the gossip in smal
l towns. It was most fortunate I chose the same evening you brought in the Clark family.”
She paused, watching Nat and Jake wonder how many more Pinkerton employees were in this town as their spirits sank before her very eyes. “He has examined the bodies. He can explain how hard they fought and scratched and he can state how long ago those marks on your arms were made. We can prove you are the only ones connected with the deceased there who were scratched. He has examined all of the Schmidts, including the father’s body. They weren't scratched but those women clawed at their killers. I took skin samples from both of their nails myself. The absence of scratches on any of the Schmidts will also show they are unlikely to have murdered those women. When you couple that with proof of when you journeyed here, and those marks must have been made in the vicinity of Bannen, it looks very suspicious when the people who were scratched handed over their valuables to the Schmidts. It smacks of buying silence and, well, it really couldn’t have been anyone else.”
“I got scratched by my roses!” raged the furious woman.
Abigail shook her head. “It’s November. You don’t prune roses in November, and you claim to be an enthusiast on them. You would know that.”
The sheriff stepped forward. “I’ve heard enough. Mr. and Mrs. Davies, you are under arrest for the murder of Dora Benson and Bessie—Bessie—” he floundered.
“Mann,” yelled three deputies simultaneously, as they eyed each other.
“Bessie Mann,” the sheriff completed the sentence.
“I want a lawyer,” bellowed Mrs. Davies as tears ran down her face.
“You’ll get one. But in the meantime, you go in that cell alongside that girl and her mother you tried to set up for murder. It’s the only place I got to put you. If you get scratched, there’s a doc here who can measure them for us. It’s the best I can do for you.”
♦◊♦
