by Zina Abbott
Kendrick spread his hands. “Who would know more about this matter, Miss Womack? Do you have any idea?”
Eva Mae nodded. “If I were you, I’d talk to Madam’s attorney who’s handling the estate. His name is Charles Tinsley. The best place to find him after lunch is at the courthouse. He’s also the court clerk and county recorder.”
Chapter 19
A fter finishing a bowl of stew that tasted worse than what he usually threw together, Kendrick rose from his seat in one of the modest restaurants in Sonora. He stepped outside and, judging from the position of the sun, decided the courthouse on Green Street should be open. Hopefully, Miss Womack was correct, and Mr. Charles Tinsley, Esquire, would be at his desk in the clerk/recorder’s office.
Kendrick found himself pacing the hallway of the two-story clapboard Tuolumne County courthouse built just the year before. After what seemed like a half-hour, a pimply-faced young man in a suit that appeared to be two sizes too big opened the door and announced Mr. Tinsley was ready to meet with him. He smiled and nodded his thanks to the young man, wondering whose relation he was to be hired as a clerk in the courthouse at such a young age. He followed until the clerk waved him into the office and closed the door behind him.
Approaching the desk of a thin man with dark blond hair and light gray eyes, Kendrick removed his hat. His steps slowed as he waited to be acknowledged. When several seconds of silence passed, he took the initiative. “Mr. Charles Tinsley? I’m Kendrick Denham. I appreciate you taking the time to see me this afternoon.”
The man nearly jumped out of his chair as if startled by a large woodland creature. He lifted his face until his gaze met Kendrick’s. “My apologies, Mr. Denham. I was still reviewing some information I suspect you have come to see me concerning.” He gestured toward a bent wood hat rack. “You may put your hat there, if you wish.” He next pointed to the wooden chair in front of the desk. “Please, take a seat.”
After sitting, Kendrick studied the man who had returned his focus to a ledger before him. “I hope it is appropriate to meet with you here, sir. It’s regarding your position as Miss Margaret Mayfield’s attorney instead of your other job with the county.”
The man looked up once more. “This is fine, Mr. Denham. As soon as I heard your name, I guessed as to the reason you wished to see me. Part of the records are here, rather than at my other office.” He cleared his throat. “I heard from the sheriff that he successfully located you and delivered the child. Everything is going well, I assume?”
Kendrick slowly nodded. “So far, so good. It did take me by surprise, especially since I know I did not father the child. But, then, I suspect that, as Miss Mayfield’s attorney, you are aware of that fact.”
Without making eye contact, Charles Tinsley couched into his fist. “No, Mr. Denham, I am not aware of that. All I know is what my client told me regarding the situation. As her attorney, she understood there was attorney-client privilege that would continue beyond the grave. There was no reason for her to withhold information.”
Kendrick stared at the man. Attorney-client privilege beyond the grave? That means, you’ll take her lies to your grave. “I wish to know how the information came about regarding me being the father of the child. I was told there were records. What records, and when were they created?”
The man spun the large journal book he had been studying around. He stood and pointed to an entry. “Although it is common for someone to devise a will on a separate document, Miss Mayfield met with me regarding such matters. We decided, with me also being the county clerk, to follow the practice of old of recording it in the county records themselves. This journal is dedicated to last wills and testaments, as well as probate matters. As you can see, Miss Mayfield dictated her final wishes regarding her estate and it was recorded here. It is signed by her, with my signature as the recorder.” He pointed below a legal-appearing notation. “Here you can see the signatures of two witnesses.”
Kendrick leaned forward. His gaze first settled on the signatures of the two witnesses. Neither were names he recognized. He next pulled the journal toward him. “I’d like to read the entry, if you don’t mind.”
Tinsley settled back in his chair and folded his hands. “Be my guest, Mr. Denham. If you have questions, please let me know.”
After Kendrick finished reading the entry—his eye double-checking a few areas—he looked up. “Mr. Tinsley, I notice this entry is dated in February. I did not even meet Miss Mayfield, or know she existed, until around the middle of March. I also noticed in the only place where she named me as the baby’s father, there is more space between my name and the words surrounding it than in the rest of the will. It also appears my name is written with ink slightly darker in shade than the ink used to pen the rest of the document.” He watched as the shoulders of the other man stiffened.
Tinsley picked up the journal and turned it around so he could review the entry. “I disagree regarding the entry of your name, Mr. Denham. If questioned in a court proceeding, it will hold up as written.”
“I have a witness to that meeting, Mr. Tinsley. One of my customers was there and saw her. He recognized her and Mr. Womack. Since Miss Mayfield did not share her name with me—either her legal name or working name—my customer told me who they were.”
“As for the date of your first meeting with the deceased, it is your word alone that this meeting took place between you and Miss Mayfield in March. As it states here in an official record, it is Miss Mayfield’s testimony that she had been seeing you for ten months before the birth of her daughter, and almost exclusively during the month in which the child would have been conceived.” Tinsley cleared his throat. “A dying woman’s word regarding paternity of her child is pretty hard to refute, Mr. Denham.”
“How hard, Mr. Tinsley? What about the real father? The sheriff mentioned there will be funds put in trust for the baby. If someone comes along and claims to be her father in an attempt to gain control over the money due to her, how easy will it be for him to disprove Miss Mayfield’s declaration in court?”
Tinsley leaned back in his chair and interlaced his fingers before pressing his hands against his stomach. “Such a claim will not hold up in court. As I worked with Miss Mayfield, we discussed this possibility. I have statements on file—statements which I cannot share with you due to attorney-client privilege. They include details that, due to her illness, Miss Mayfield had limited her time with clients during the weeks the child would have been conceived. Within a period of three months, there were four men beside you, Mr. Denham…”
“Except I was not one of them.”
Tinsley held his gaze. “That cannot be proven in court.”
Kendrick stared at him. And that is how it works with lawyers. It is not what is real; it is what they can or cannot prove in court.
The attorney cleared his throat. “Now, if you’ll allow me to continue, there were four beside you. Once Miss Mayfield realized she was with child, she contacted all the men to make them aware of their possible paternity. One man, a gambler whom Miss Mayfield confided to me she entertained only because he amused her, immediately left town. He has not been located. Of the other three, none were in a position to marry her to provide legitimacy to the child because they were all already married. Two had wives still back east, and one…well, that is neither here nor there.”
“She contacted four men once she knew she was with child, but she didn’t contact me until months after the baby was born.”
“That is your word against that of the deceased.” He tapped on the page of the open journal. “This affidavit is official, and will not be interpreted as hearsay in any court.”
Kendrick fumed. The sheriff said Miss Mayfield was with men so seldom then, she had been able to pinpoint him as the father. Yet, Tinsley now admitted it could have been one of several men. Unable to keep his disgust from showing on his face, Kendrick glared at the man. He felt small satisfaction as Tinsley turned to look off to the side, apparently un
comfortable over the disclosure. He watched the man swallow and nervously tap a finger on the desk.
A knock sounded on the door. Upon being told to enter, the young man Kendrick had seen earlier, now out of breath, opened it and stuck his head inside. “Sir, I brought that package you asked for from your other office.”
Tinsley stood and, hand outstretched, reached for the package. After the young man left and closed the door once more, the attorney unwrapped the parcel to reveal a black, leather-covered Holy Bible. He handed it to Kendrick. “This was Miss Mayfield’s. She made entries in it regarding the birth of the child. I understand Mr. Womack or his sister filled in her death information.”
Kendrick reached for the book and fingered the front flyleaf. Across from the title page, he found an entry for Margaret Pearline Mayfield listing her birth year and death month and year. Below it, he found the listing for Madeline Marie, with Margaret listed as the mother, and beneath her name, Kendrick Denham listed as the father. Don’t they usually list the father first? He searched through the book and found no other handwritten names. “This is not a family Bible, Mr. Tinsley. If it were, there would be earlier generations, including the names and dates regarding her parents, siblings, perhaps her grandparents. The information in here starts with her and could have been entered at any time.”
Tinsley cleared his throat. “This is true, Mr. Denham. However, my client told me of the Bible and that it would be given to me after she died to pass along to her daughter. I have no reason to dispute the accuracy of her entries. You may wish to keep it for the child so, when she is older, she will know somewhat of her origins. Then again, perhaps you won’t. That will be your decision.”
He does not know about the letter Madeline’s mother gave me. Kendrick spoke with a quiet anger. “These other three men—the ones you say are married—I find it convenient for them that they visited a woman other than their wives, and when a child resulted, they remained untouchable while the baby was foisted off on another man.”
The man looked up, caught Kendrick’s expression, and looked away again. “Yes. It is unfortunate, except—based upon my client’s claim, you were one of those men…ah…the man—the one most likely to have fathered her. Mr. Denham, My client was very selective in the men with whom she associated professionally. She expressed a determination to provide a good life for her child by naming the one man of the group who was available to raise the baby. From the other three, she insisted on commitments from them, on their collective words of honor, that they would help her set up trusts and, once she died, manage her assets so her estate would go to her child.”
The truth comes out. “A child that could also be theirs.”
“Correct. Ah, no. Your child. And, as you already pointed out, she needed those assets for her daughter to be protected from the grasp of unscrupulous men—men such as the gambler I mentioned earlier, or any other opportunist who might learn of the child’s inheritance and try to gain control of it for themselves.”
Kendrick slouched in his chair as he glared the attorney. This man is in on the conspiracy. “There is obviously much in dispute over this situation. One thing that is not is that she is illegitimate. I thought the law forbade illegitimate children from inheriting.”
Tinsley cleared his throat. “That is true as far as the father’s estate or the mother’s future husband’s estate is concerned. However, such a child may inherit the assets her mother possessed prior to any later marriage that did not go to the husband upon marriage. Since Miss Mayfield never married, she was free to dispose of her estate as she thought fit.”
As Kendrick stared at Charles Tinsley, who slowly raised his face until their gazes met, he felt the stinging of a thousand fire ants marching up his back to the top of his head. The man sitting on the opposite side of the desk from him was one of the three who spent time with Miss Pearl. He could be Madeline’s natural father.
Kendrick studied the man’s features: his thin-boned frame, the shape of his head, the color of his hair and eyes, his nose and chin. No. Charles Tinsley had not fathered Madeline. A sense of relief coursed through him but left him wondering, who did? No, I don’t want to know.
Especially after finding the news article under the false bottom of Madeline’s trunk, Kendrick knew he must try to discover one more piece of the puzzle. “Another thing, Mr. Tinsley. What about Miss Mayfield’s birth family? Has any attempt been made to contact her parents or siblings?”
Tinsley pursed his lips and shook his head. “Miss Mayfield insisted her parents are dead, as is her only sibling—a sister. She made it clear she was disowned prior to traveling west. She wished no attempt be made to locate any distant relatives. Her child is to be raised by the baby’s father—you.”
Kendrick stood and, his palms on the desk and elbows locked, he leaned forward and towered over the seated attorney. “I have decided to keep the baby and raise her as my own.” Kendrick watched as the attorney exhaled a sigh of relief.
Determined to convince the man to tell all he knew, he moved his face closer to that of Mr. Tinsley. “However, I do not want to be caught off-guard.” Disowned and dead aren’t the same thing. “Are you sure you have no knowledge of who her family is or where they live? If there is someone who might turn up later and threaten to take her away, I want to know. Tell me now about Miss Mayfield’s parents and extended family.”
Tinsley vigorously shook his head. “Mr. Denham, I do not know anything about there being any members of Miss Mayfield’s family still alive.”
Kendrick narrowed his eyes and tightened his jaw. Tell me about the Crandalls. “What about family members by another last name?”
His forehead wrinkled with confusion, Tinsley leaned back in his chair and stared at Kendrick. “None. Miss Mayfield insisted there is no one.”
Kendrick raised an eyebrow. Did she fool them all? He wrapped up his meeting with the attorney and collected his horse where he had tied its reins to a bush under a shade tree. It had patiently cropped the courthouse lawn while it waited. The tie off his neck and collar button undone, his coat tied to the back of the saddle with the Bible folded inside, Kendrick turned his mount toward Columbia after allowing it a short drink from Woods Creek on their way out of town.
As he rode, he thought through all he had learned this day. He needed to watch Madeline for any signs of consumption. He had a family Bible he might or might not give her. As long as Charles Tinsley told him the truth, and no one in on the conspiracy to name him as Madeline’s father knew about the Crandall family, he might be able to keep her and raise her without worrying about future legal challenges.
Chapter 20
Columbia, California – Tuesday, May 30 , 1854
A fter dropping the horse off at the livery, Kendrick turned upon hearing someone holler his name. Upon seeing Jeb’s lifted arm as the man trotted toward him, he stopped and waited.
Breathing heavier than usual, Jeb stopped next to Kendrick. His gaze met Kendrick’s and he shook his head. “Hope you don’t mind, Rick, but I finished up that baby-changing counter and the bench. I took them over to your shop this afternoon on the chance you were there. I found Mrs. Meyer with the baby instead. Since she had her chaperones there—you know how those Thompson twins are—she let me in to make my delivery. I hope that’s all right with you.”
Kendrick shrugged. “Sure, Jeb. Things have been rather hectic for me lately, so I appreciate it. I’ll be gone tomorrow, but if you want to settle up tonight, come back a little later.” He grew uneasy as Jeb continued to stare.
Jeb shook his head. “I think I’ll wait. I better warn you, Rick, you’ve got a situation on your hands.” He raised his eyes to the sky. “You thought it was something when the sheriff stopped by and dropped that baby on you? All I can say is, you need to marry that woman. She needs a husband. You don’t believe me, take a good look at her face.”
During the walk back to his shop, Kendrick puzzled over Jeb’s cryptic remark. He reached his front door an
d knocked. I need to get a second key to this place. While he waited for the key to turn in the lock, he wondered why Lydia took so long. The door finally swung open, and he stared down into the face of a young boy. His eyes wide with a lost look, the boy stepped aside. Kendrick entered and closed the door behind him, pocketing the key after he locked it.
Next, he felt his gaze drawn to the right by the sight of Lydia in the rocking chair holding a sleeping Madeline. Her face held the same look of being lost as did that of the boy. A second boy, who appeared to be a few years older, stood from where he had been sitting on the bench and moved to stand next to Lydia. Along with his body language revealing his uneasiness, his face wore the expression of one trying to act tough enough to handle any situation thrown his way. A glance around the space behind the rail set aside for Madeline revealed that, in addition to the changing counter and bench Jeb told him about, the floor now held a trunk as well as an unfamiliar canvas sack and a valise Kendrick did not recognize. The cryptic remark Jeb had made earlier began to make sense.
Lydia softly cleared her throat. “Mr. Denham, I would like to introduce my sons. Will, my youngest, opened the door.” She reached over and patted the arm of the boy standing next to her. “This is my oldest, Cole. I…um…I have a situation, and I hope you can give me some information.” She looked in turn at each of her sons. “Boys, please go in Mr. Denham’s kitchen and close the door. I’d like to speak with him in private.”
