by Cameron Judd
Fiona looked quickly around, as if Gunnison had touched on a delicate matter. She drew closer—which brought no protest from Gunnison. “That is Mrs. Chrisman’s daughter, Roxanne.”
“Why did she not dine with us?”
Fiona seemed uncomfortable with the question but unable to resist answering. “If I might say so privately, sir, she and her mother have differences. Miss Roxanne keeps often to herself, especially when the Missus is taking on particular hard about poor Jerome, as she has lately.”
“Jerome?”
“Yes.” She spoke even more secretively. “Mrs. Chrisman’s son. That room in there, beyond the oak door is where—”
The library door opened, and Gableman called for Fiona. She quickly turned on her heel and left Gunnison alone, never finishing what she had started to say.
Sipping the coffee, he leaned against the balcony rail and listened to the sounds around him. Back in the hallway, Gableman was giving some sort of instruction to Fiona; from below, he could hear Kenton and Ella talking, their words indiscernible.
When he had finished the coffee, he took the cup back into the library and set it on a desk. Noting the door to the room Fiona had indicated, he hesitated, went to it, and reached for the latch. It was unlocked. The door creaked open into a small room lined with more books, stacks of newspapers, photographs, old but well-dusted toys. Gunnison picked up a lamp and walked inside.
A rocking chair sat near a coal grate. Above the mantelpiece hung a large photograph of a young man in a Union uniform, a pistol in his hand and laid across his lap and turned up for show. On a little gold plate at the bottom of the frame was the soldier’s name: Jerome Marchbanks.
Marchbanks…but Fiona had said Jerome was Mrs. Chrisman’s son. Why was his surname different from hers? Perhaps she had been previously married.
As Gunnison looked around the small room he had the sense of standing in a shrine. There were other photographs, all obviously of Jerome. They showed him at different ages. There were three pencil sketches of a baby that Gunnison assumed was Jerome. The toys must have been Jerome’s. The books around the room, when followed from left to right, represented a typical boy’s advancement in literary interest, from nursery volumes to folk tales to biographies on up to Dickens. On a separate shelf stood books on military history, the science of warfare, and the speeches of Lincoln.
“Mother sits in here, you know,” a voice said. Gunnison wheeled. A striking girl with long blond hair was standing in the door. “Sits in here, rocks, and broods over Jerome, as if doing that could change anything. It’s what finally drove Father away.”
She came forward, thrusting out a small beautiful hand. “I am Roxanne Chrisman. You are Mr. Gunnison, I believe?”
“Yes. I’m honored to meet you, Miss Chrisman. I’m sorry you didn’t dine with us.”
“Mother and I usually dine apart. I dined earlier, in my room.”
Gunnison indicated his surroundings with a wave. “I’m also sorry you’ve caught me where I probably should not be.”
“As I said, it doesn’t matter. This room is Mother’s obsession, not mine. I wish she would close this door forever.”
“Jerome was your brother?”
“Half brother. He was born to mother before she married father. That’s right—he was illegitimate.”
“I see.”
Roxanne smiled, a sight worth seeing. “You react more casually than most to that information. Some are far more…shocked, maybe? But Mother has never worried about it, so I don’t either. Even before Father divorced her, she was accustomed to being perceived as a woman of scandal.” She placed an almost mocking emphasis on the last words.
“I take it that Jerome is dead.”
“Yes. He was killed during the war. It’s been seventeen years, and Mother feels the loss worse now than ever. Time usually heals. In this case it didn’t.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, Miss Chrisman.”
“Please, call me Roxanne.”
“Gladly. And you may call me Alex.”
Roxanne walked past Gunnison and looked at the picture of Jerome Marchbanks. “He was handsome, wasn’t he? Much like his grandfather.”
“His name seems familiar to me for some reason.”
She turned away from the picture. “Jerome was his grandfather’s namesake. It’s the grandfather you’ve heard of. Doctor Jerome Marchbanks was a Boston surgeon. Very noted. He had a special interest in diseases of the heart. He taught much of what he knew to Mother. With what she knows, she is qualified to be a doctor. But she never took formal training.”
“Yes—I have heard of Dr. Marchbanks. I read about some of his work.” A thought came to mind. “Roxanne, was Mrs. Chrisman’s knowledge of heart trouble the reason she asked for Mickey Scarborough to be brought here after he collapsed?”
Roxanne smiled, but rather sadly. “That’s a sufficient enough explanation, I suppose.”
Suddenly Gableman strode into the library, looked around, and headed straight for the room the two were in, a very dour look on his face.
Chapter 30
Gableman fired a harsh glance at Gunnison and then a second, longer round at Roxanne.
“Miss Roxanne, you know this is Mrs. Chrisman’s private room. You should not be here, and certainly this young gentleman should not.”
“This is my house too,” Roxanne said with a trace of defiance.
“Yes, but your mother is the owner and mistress of it, and all of us must abide by her direction, as you know,” Gableman returned. He had a voice rich enough to sprout seed. “Come now, both of you.”
If Gableman was a servant, he nevertheless carried a tone of authority that made others tend to obey him. Roxanne walked out into the library, and Gunnison followed. Gableman closed the door and locked it with a key hanging from his watch fob. Gunnison set the lamp he had been carrying on the table where it had been.
“Mrs. Chrisman obviously forgot to lock the room herself,” he said. “I will hope, Mr. Gunnison, that you will not take all unlocked doors you find as invitations for entry.”
“I was in the wrong, and I admit it. I’m trained to be curious, and sometimes I give in to temptation.”
“There is no harm done, I’m sure. Now, sir, if you would like a drink, or more coffee…”
What Gunnison really wanted was Roxanne. “Perhaps I can just sit down here and read,” he said, indicating a chair beside the lamp table. He hoped Roxanne would remain.
Gableman said, “As you wish. Feel free to select any volume.”
Gableman left, and to Gunnison’s displeasure, Roxanne followed, giving one backward glance. Gunnison experienced another flash of doubt about his upcoming though still-unscheduled marriage to Glorietta. Was he making a mistake? With girls such as Roxanne in the world, did he want to tie himself down for life just yet?
He got down a copy of A History of New York, by “Diedrich Knickerbocker,” and tried to convince himself he was reading it when he was just scanning words. Finally he gave up the pretense and put the volume down. He wondered what Kenton and Ella were talking about. Garrett, maybe.
The French doors rattled in a burst of wind, and Gunnison walked over to make sure they were closed. One of them blew open as he approached it, and he noticed again the little house at the end of the long backyard. This time, a woman stood at the door, her form backlit by the interior light. She was emptying a teapot on the ground. She seemed familiar, so Gunnison stepped out onto the balcony for a closer look.
Of course! It was Kate O’Donovan. Obviously the little house was where Ella was putting up the family.
Kate O’Donovan glanced up as he came onto the balcony and studied him for a moment. Gunnison wondered if she had recognized him; probably not, as he was likely too shadowed for her to see.
An exterior staircase on the far end of the balcony led down to the yard, and he descended. Passing a lace-covered window, he noticed Kenton and Ella seated inside in facing chairs, talking intently over g
lasses of red wine. Neither saw him as he went down the stairs to the yard.
Kate O’Donovan had seen him descend and waited, cautiously, in the doorway, the teapot still in hand.
“Hello, Mrs. O’Donovan.”
“Hello, sir,” she said. He could tell that she now recognized him. “I was not expecting to see you here.”
“Kenton and I are now guests of Mrs. Chrisman, just like you. We lost our other quarters.” Gunnison smiled in a friendly way. “It was kind of her to see to your safety, I must say. This seems a hidden enough place.”
“Aye, it surely is, though safe I cannot feel anywhere, since the fire.”
“You do know that the man who set the fire is dead, don’t you?”
“Yes. The marshal told me. For that at least, I’m thankful.”
“May I come in?”
She seemed uncertain but nodded after a moment. “Do not be thinking me unfriendly for my hesitation, sir. It’s just that Lundy is still such a frightened boy. It’s so hard a time now that I think even Old Papa knows something is not right.”
“I don’t want to disturb Lundy, but I do wish to speak to him. I’d like him to know I still consider him my friend and that I understand why he was slow to tell the truth.”
“I suppose you’ve got the right to see him if anyone does.” She stepped aside, and Gunnison entered.
The O’Donovans would surely have preferred to be safe in their former house, but there was no denying their new arrangements were superior. This little cottage was a tightly constructed, well-decorated place, cozy as an oversized dollhouse. Gunnison figured it was Ella’s guest cottage.
Lundy appeared at the door leading to the little kitchen on the west end of the rectangular cottage. He looked like someone who had been deprived of a week’s sleep. The grandfather was not to be seen, but Gunnison heard a guttural voice from one of the two tiny bedrooms and knew he was there.
“Hello, Lundy.”
“Hello.” He spoke in a near-whisper.
“It’s been quite a rough time for you since we took that walk out to the mine.”
“Yes.”
“For me too. You heard about the man who tried to kill me—the same man who burnt down your house? He’s gone now, you know. Shot to death by a policeman. His name was Johnson. He’ll never bother you again.”
No words this time, just a nod.
“I want you to know I consider you my friend, Lundy. Mr. Kenton and I are staying in the big house there, for now. If ever you want to come see us, please know you’re welcome.”
He nodded shyly. Gunnison noted silently how the turmoil of the ordeal had muted the boy’s normally exuberant manner.
“I’d best get back to the house now, Lundy. I hope you and your family have a good evening.”
This time Lundy grinned, and it was good to see.
Kenton tossed his tie on his bed and rubbed his throat.
“It was a rewarding evening, in two ways,” he said, “the first being that Ella is quite a lady, most remarkably attractive.” He looked wistful. “A woman like one too seldom meets in the sort of life we lead. Did you know she has as much medical know-how as the average doctor? Her father was a crack surgeon.”
“I know,” Gunnison said. “I also know Ella Chrisman is at least five years your senior.”
“And what is wrong with maturity? Besides, all I said was that she was attractive. I’m not talking about marrying the lady.”
“So what was the second rewarding part?”
“Hmm? Oh—simply that I’ve concluded Ella didn’t invite us out of any obsession to find out about Briggs Garrett. It doesn’t even seem it was Mickey Scarborough’s raving about Garrett that caused her to have him brought to her house. It was just that she realized from the audience that he had suffered a heart seizure and knew she was the most qualified person in Leadville to deal with it. Refreshing, isn’t it? You go expecting to find an obsessed woman and wind up meeting one of the most sane persons you’ve encountered in years.”
“To tell you the truth, Kenton, I’m surprised you’re not disappointed not to have found more answers about Garrett.”
“Well, maybe I am a little disappointed. It’s just that it was such a prime evening and a welcome break from all this trouble…. What a woman she is! I swear, she’s almost as smart as I am!”
Gunnison usually gave scornful replies to Kenton’s occasional shows of ego, but this time he let it pass. He knew from having talked to Roxanne that Kenton was wrong on at least one score about Ella Chrisman: She was, contrary to his opinion, an obsessed woman. Her obsession wasn’t with Briggs Garrett, maybe, but the idea of her rocking for hours in a room enshrining a long-dead son did not seem all that sane or healthy to Gunnison. He thought about saying something about it to Kenton, but the man seemed so happy that he decided not to. “So she asked you nothing at all about Garrett?”
“Oh, of course she did. We talked about it quite a lot, in fact. It would be almost impossible to hold a conversation in Leadville at the moment without Garrett coming up. But if she was obsessed on the subject, she covered it well.”
“If she’s as intelligent as you say, then I’d say she could cover pretty well.”
“You’re a cynic, Alex.”
“You’ve taught me to be. Right now, you seem to have your eyes full of stars.” Gunnison wasn’t sure why he was, in fact, speaking so cynically. Since his visit to the “shrine” for Ella Chrisman’s son, he had felt doubtful about the woman. “Did she ask if you knew who in Leadville is really Garrett?” he asked.
“Yes…and she asked specifically about Squire Deverell. That shows that the incident with Mark Straker this morning has made it into the local gossip. I was afraid of that—Straker was a fool to say what he did. He probably sparked a lot of speculation about Deverell being Garrett when he yelled his accusation in public. It was almost as if he wanted—” Kenton cut off suddenly, a strange expression on his face. “Merciful heaven, Alex, merciful heaven! Maybe that’s it! Maybe Straker was trying to do exactly that!”
“What are you talking about?”
“No time now, Alex. Get dressed again. I’ll try to explain it on the way.”
“On the way to where?”
“To Squire Deverell’s house. We need to have a talk with him, and with Mark Straker. I think I’ve figured out what’s going on here.”
Chapter 31
Someone had tacked one of the broadsides to a post on the street outside Ella Chrisman’s house. Kenton was the first to see it, and something about it drew him to it. He read the title line, swore beneath his breath, and yanked the cheaply printed paper from its nail.
“What does it say, Kenton?”
Kenton read for a minute, ignoring the question, then wadded the broadside and tossed it down. “Now there’s no question that someone is manipulating this situation. I’ll bet my life it’s Straker. That blasted broadside is made to look like I wrote it. Straker must be trying to get Deverell killed.”
“Why would he do that?”
“Inheritance, if I had to take a guess. And if that’s right, that means he’ll have to get Mary Deverell out of the way, too.”
Kenton explained his suspicions as he and Gunnison continued on a near run toward Deverell’s.
Gunnison was awed by the theory, but had to admit it made great sense.
As they progressed, Gunnison began to notice something unusual about the town. The streets were relatively empty, and in the atmosphere was a spark of tension and danger. Gunnison wondered if he was imposing his own feelings on the situation or picking up on something objectively there.
A man approached with a copy of the broadside in hand. “A good service you’ve done here, Mr. Kenton, if I must say so,” he said, waving the paper. “I knew that eventually the truth about Briggs Garrett would come out. ‘The truth will out,’ that’s what I told the Missus. ‘The truth will out,’ I says.”
“It hasn’t outed yet,” Kenton responded.
<
br /> The man heard that but didn’t seem to grasp it. “There’s no name signed to this story, Mr. Kenton—but you’re the man who wrote it, right?”
At that, Kenton whirled and faced the fellow, shooting lightning from his eyes. “You are not right. Far from it. That paper is the damnedest, most dangerous lie I’ve had the misfortune ever to see. You spread the word, friend: Brady Kenton had nothing to do with that broadside, whatever you think you’ve read between the lines. That paper represents an effort to get an innocent man killed.”
The man still didn’t seem to understand, but there was no time to waste with him. The journalists went on, leaving him blinking after them.
“Blood may flow because of this,” Kenton said. “Let’s just hope it hasn’t already.”
Deverell’s house was dark when they arrived. Neither was there light in Straker’s quarters at the top of the stairs. Kenton knocked on the main door but received no answer.
“This is dangerous,” Gunnison muttered. “There’s probably people watching the house.”
“I know. Come on, let’s check the back. Maybe they’re hiding out in there. Lord knows Deverell has reason to hide, if he’s seen this.”
They found the back door locked as well, and the rear of the house as dark as the front.
“Maybe he’s gone to safety. We can only hope so,” Kenton said.
There was a heavy, crashing sound from inside the house.
“Kenton—”
“I heard it. Stand back. I’m going to break in this door.”
It took only one run and heave for Kenton to pop the lock and hammer the door open. The journalists went inside. Kenton struck a match and by its light found a lamp, which he lit. They heard a bumping noise from the front room and carefully edged that way.
Lamplight spilled in and revealed a body on the floor, lying beside an overturned china cabinet. The face was turned away, but both could see it was not Deverell. They went to the prone man and rolled him over. The man, still alive, let out a groan. There was blood beneath him, leaking from a bullet wound.
