Judge Harley seemed to find the conflict amusing as well. “Looks like we're going to have a fight on our hands,” he said. “When do you plan to hold it?"
Father Murphy shrugged. “I'm not this man's manager, but I would guess that he'd be amenable to holding a match on the weekend. What do you say, Callaghan?"
"I'm not waiting until the weekend to beat this man!” English Bill shouted.
The judge lost his sense of humor. “We can't very well do it before then, English. Did you forget what's happening tomorrow morning?"
The levity drained out of most of the crowd, but English Bill appeared pleased by the judge's words. “I guess I can wait after all,” he said. “Just think,” he pounded his right fist into his left hand, “I'm going to get to see two Irishmen laid out in two days."
The judge frowned and an unpleasant murmur rolled through the small crowd. “I don't like that kind of talk, English,” the judge told him. “A hanging isn't cause for celebration."
Patrick chose that moment to come out of the rectory, the loops of his suspenders not yet fastened over his shoulders. “Did I hear correctly, are we setting up a match?” he asked.
Father Murphy nodded grimly. “We're talking about Saturday. Does that work for you?"
Patrick rubbed his hands together at the thought, then remembered to look less enthusiastic. “Well I suppose that could work for me,” he said. “Of course, my fighter needs a little incentive if he's going to put on a show for you all. Perhaps some of the town's leading citizens would like to contribute to a purse?"
Father Murphy laughed. “Let me introduce you to Judge Harley, Patrick. The man we hope will referee your fight."
"I'm honored, Judge,” Patrick said as he offered the man his hand. “Now about that purse..."
The judge barely smiled. It was a very thin twisting of the lips that gave the distinct impression that he felt smiling was against his dignity. “I suppose I could speak to some of our more prominent citizens and see if we can come up with an enticement for your man."
"And me!” English Bill added.
"Yes, of course, English,” the judge amended his statement, “and an enticement for you as well. The Lord knows that this town will need a little enlivenment after the solemn events that face us tomorrow."
* * * *
Corey followed Patrick, Miss Parson, and Father Murphy back into the rectory and seated himself at the dining room table to await breakfast. Mrs. O'Leary already had a pot of coffee brewing, and the sound of flapjacks frying on the griddle accompanied the strong scent.
"I didn't expect the morning to start out with such excitement,” Father Murphy admitted, “but I guess that some good has come of it."
Patrick made no effort to hide his enthusiasm. “This one's going to be easy, Corey me lad. What did you say to English that got him so hot under the collar?"
Corey shrugged. “Nothing much. It was just ordinary banter."
"English Bill has a reputation for being more than a bit hot tempered,” Father Murphy noted.
"That won't help him in the ring,” Patrick chortled. “Hot-tempered men get frustrated when a fight doesn't go their way, and frustrated men get careless. A fighter like Corey makes mincemeat out of careless men."
"Well I'm happy you're pleased by it,” Father Murphy said.
"Why do they call him English Bill?” Corey asked. “He didn't sound English."
"His name is really Bill English,” Father Murphy explained. “When he started boxing people changed it around, sort of like your Rock Quarry Callaghan."
"Giving him the English?” Patrick mused. “I like it! It has a certain ring to it."
Father Murphy turned to his female guest. “And what about you, Miss Parson? You were very unhappy when you retired last evening. Has a night's sleep altered your disposition?"
Miss Parson frowned. “Not really, Father. Oh, I'd like to tell you differently, but I still don't see how we can hope to help this young man. Essentially we need someone who has been quiet since the murder to come forward and say, Oh, by the way, don't know why I haven't mentioned it before, but I saw John Smith smash a big rock into Bert Windsor's face.’ Even if it happened no one would believe it."
The four of them sat silently around the table thinking about what Miss Parson had suggested. Father Murphy finally broke the silence. “I guess when you say it like that it does all sound rather hopeless,” he admitted. “It's just that—"
Mrs. O'Leary entered the room from the kitchen, interrupting him. She had the coffee pot in her hands and four cups looped through her fingers. She set the cups down on the table with the dexterity of a circus acrobat, then filled them with steaming coffee. “I'll have your breakfast served in a few minutes, Father,” she announced before staring pointedly at Miss Parson. “I'd have it even sooner if someone here would help me."
Miss Parson ignored the older woman's suggestion. “I suppose it wouldn't hurt,” she said, “to speak with young Mr. Greene and this gentleman he spoke with after discovering the crime. What was his name again?"
Hope blossomed in Father Murphy's eyes. “Alan Beech,” he said.
"And perhaps we could learn if there was anyone else at the stables at that time and whether a train had either recently passed or was expected shortly."
"That's me lass,” Father Murphy encouraged her. “What else can we do?"
"That's enough to start,” Miss Parson decided. “Perhaps we'll get lucky and learn enough to guess what questions we should be asking."
* * * *
"It doesn't seem proper,” Marshal Tucker complained, “letting this woman down by the cells. She ain't the prisoner's wife, or his sister, or anything."
"She won't be alone with him,” Father Murphy reminded the lawman. “The three of us will be with her, and unless I miss my guess, you'll be within easy hearing distance as well."
"It still doesn't seem proper,” the marshal grumbled, but he got up from his chair and led them back to see the condemned man.
"How are you this morning, Brian?” Father Murphy asked as they came into sight of the cell.
At six foot, Brian Greene was substantially taller than his father, with good shoulders and the beginnings of well-muscled arms. Lingering on his face was an expression of perpetual shock, as if he couldn't quite believe everything that had happened to him of late. That unconscious expression immediately reinforced Father Murphy's assertion that the young man was innocent. He looked too puzzled by his circumstance to be guilty.
The younger Mr. Greene approached the bars of his cell to greet the priest and his friends. Hope briefly battled with the confusion on his face, but he was evidently smart enough to realize that Father Murphy would look a lot happier if he was bringing truly good news. “Hello, Father, what brings you around here this morning?"
"I brought some old friends by to talk to you,” the priest answered.
The puzzlement in Brian Green's expression intensified, but he did not contradict the priest. Marshal Tucker interrupted, pointing toward a single chair set out of reach of the cell. “Only got the one chair for visitors."
Father Murphy's answering smile hinted at his irritation with the man's continued presence. “That's quite all right, Marshal. We men can stand."
Miss Parson took the priest's hint and claimed the chair. Marshal Tucker lingered a few moments longer and then returned to the front of the jail. Brian Greene watched the interaction silently, obviously wondering why Father Murphy had brought three strangers to meet him.
Father Murphy began immediately to clear up the young man's confusion. “Brian, these are my good friends Pandora Parson, Patrick O'Sullivan, and Corey Callaghan."
"Pleased to meet you,” Brian said from long-ingrained habit. Then his eyes widened in recognition. “You're those boxers that Father Murphy is always talking about and you must be that pretty lady gambler."
Miss Parson's eyes twinkled as she turned her attention to the priest.
Father Murphy
colored slightly. “Well, you are awfully pretty,” he said by way of defending himself.
"Why thank you, Father,” Miss Parson said. “It's very kind of you to say so."
Father Murphy cleared his throat and turned back to the prisoner. “Brian, I don't know how to ask you this without raising your hopes, but I'm wondering if you wouldn't mind discussing what happened between you and Bert Windsor with my friends here. It's most likely nothing will come of it, but you know I don't believe you're guilty, and frankly, I don't see how talking to them could hurt."
Brian nervously licked his lips. “Of course I'll do it if you want me to,” he told the priest. “What do you want to know?"
Miss Parson took the lead. “Would you begin by describing what precisely happened to precipitate your fight with Mr. Windsor?"
Brian's look of puzzlement grew stronger.
"She means, lad,” Father Murphy explained, “that she'd like to hear about the argument in the store that led to your fight."
Sudden understanding flashed in Brian's eyes. “Oh, I wasn't there for the beginning,” he said. “I was out back of the store chopping firewood. Mom was inside with Meg—she's my wife—and Pop was upstairs working on the books. I didn't know there was any trouble at all until I heard Mom start shouting that you can't eat those crackers without paying for them.
"So I dropped the ax and ran inside. Mr. Windsor had just left the store and Mom was standing in the entrance shouting after him. So I stopped to find out what had happened and then ran after him. He was always doing something like this—breaking something or stealing something and the marshal wouldn't ever do anything about it."
"So you were going to stop him?” Patrick asked. The simple approval in his expression reinforced the young man's confidence even as the interruption irritated Miss Parson.
"Well, yes,” Brian said. “What he was doing is wrong! And Mr. Brady has been training me to fight with my fists like a professional so I could stand up to him."
He faltered in his storytelling for a moment as if Patrick's brief interruption had caused him to forget what he had been doing.
"So you pursued him,” Miss Parson prompted.
"What? Oh, yes, I ran out of the store and looked around, but I didn't see him immediately, so I ran up the street, and when I finally caught up to him, he was filling his pipe over by the stables."
The young man paused again.
"It's all right, Brian,” Father Murphy encouraged him. “We're all friends here."
Brian Greene looked at the priest a moment longer and then began to talk, his words coming out faster and faster with each passing sentence. “Well, I told him he couldn't just take things without paying for them, and he asked me who was going to stop him. I told him I would do it, and he said, You and what army?’ So I put up my fists and told him I didn't need an army. Mr. Brady had been training me to fight. And that was when I got really mad because he just started laughing at me and Mr. Brady. He said, Didn't I know that he was the one who drove Mr. Brady out of the ring?"
He stopped speaking, his chest heaving as if he'd just been in another fight. Then he mustered his resolve and said. “So I hit him! I had to stop him laughing, and so I threw a punch just like Mr. Brady taught me and landed it square upon his English nose. It sprayed lots of blood and knocked him on his backside, and I thought the fight was over."
"It wasn't over,” Corey observed. No fighter worth his salt would let a broken nose—however painful—put him out of a fight.
"No,” the young man agreed. “It wasn't over. Mr. Windsor got up, and after the first couple of punches I really couldn't even see his fists coming anymore. I tried to hit him back. I may even have done so a couple of times, but Mr. Windsor was so mad that nothing I did came close to mattering. I don't remember much after that, until I came to my senses and found him laying near me with his face all caved in."
The young man's voice trailed off and everyone stayed quiet for a minute, thinking about what he had said. Finally Miss Parson turned to the priest. “What was the prosecutor's theory of the case?” she asked.
Father Murphy's fingers fidgeted as if he wanted to get the flask from his pocket and take a stiff drink. “He suggested that what really happened was that Brian knocked Windsor down and then picked up the rock, and hit him with it before he could get back to his feet."
Miss Parson nodded. “I see, but it brings up the question of the charge of murder versus manslaughter again. I guess that matter is irrelevant now."
She turned back to the prisoner. “Can you explain to me why you told Mr. Beech that you had killed Mr. Windsor?"
The young man looked flustered. “Well, no, I can't rightly do that. I mean, I don't really remember running into Mr. Beech at all."
His answer seemed to intrigue Miss Parson. “Really?"
"Yes, I mean, it's all a blur. Mr. Windsor was all bloody and he needed help, and the next thing I know the marshal was leading me to jail."
Miss Parson turned back to Father Murphy. “And did this come out in the trial?"
The priest shook his head. “No, it didn't. As I recall, when Brian took the stand and the prosecutor asked him if he said something like Come quick, Mr. Beech, I just killed Bert Windsor,’ Brian said: I guess so.’”
Miss Parson shook her head. “Who was Mr. Greene's attorney?"
"He didn't have a lawyer. Sam Nell, the prosecutor, is the only one in town."
"And the judge?” Miss Parson asked.
"He's got a college education and everyone respects him,” Father Murphy explained, “but that's all."
"Then who defended the lad here?” Patrick asked.
"I volunteered to stand up for Brian,” Father Murphy said, “but I'm new in town and the family decided to have Tim Brady do it instead. Everyone knows Tim and he's pretty well liked."
Miss Parson kept shaking her head in disbelief. “They sentenced a man to death without even a lawyer to give him counsel?"
"Small towns,” Father Murphy reminded her, “often like to believe that justice is a matter of common sense."
Miss Parson's eyes flashed with anger and she rounded on the priest. “I can't believe you asked me to do this!” She leapt to her feet and started away. “Are you coming, Mr. Callaghan?"
"Of course,” Corey agreed, but Patrick put a hand on his arm and held him up.
"Wait a minute you two, I've got a question that needs to be asked."
Miss Parson glared at Patrick, angry tears wet in her eyes. “What is it?"
Corey turned to the prisoner. “Brian, lad, would you mind showing me some of the moves that Mr. Brady has been teaching you?"
The young man got to his feet. “You mean box the air a few times?"
Patrick nodded.
The prisoner struck a pose, hands high in the air, and snapped a few punches in the direction of the cell door. Corey felt appalled by what he saw. The young man's balance was terrible, his footwork nonexistent, and the striking motion amateurish at best. He'd had practically no training at all.
Patrick exchanged a glance with Corey.
"Thank you, Mr. Greene,” Corey said.
He turned back to Miss Parson, who had taken the few moments to get better control of herself. Anger still flashed in her eyes, but the moisture was gone.
The marshal appeared beside her. “Have you learned everything you came for?” he asked.
Miss Parson turned toward him, her voice showing none of the emotion that her eyes displayed. “I think we have, Marshal, thank you ever so much for your hospitality."
The marshal touched his nonexistent hat. “My pleasure, Miss.” He turned to lead them away from the cell as Father Murphy said quiet farewells to the prisoner. “Can I do anything else for you?"
Miss Parson slipped her arm into the marshal's and let him lead her back toward the front door. “Just one thing, Marshal: Is Mr. Greene correct when he says that Mr. Windsor was involved in petty theft and vandalism at the grocery?"
The marshal nodded. “I'm certain he was. I'd talked to him several times about it, but his sister is married to a big man around here and that gave Bert some extra room to throw his weight around. I couldn't really do anything until things got bigger."
Corey thought that he detected a note of resentment in the marshal's voice. “Did anyone actually like Mr. Windsor?” he asked. He kept his voice lighthearted, as if he were making a jest.
The marshal's voice tightened. “I don't like to speak ill of the dead,” he said, “but I think it's fair to say that the only person genuinely fond of him was his older sister, Mrs. Blake."
* * * *
English Bill was loitering outside the marshal's office when Corey, Miss Parson, Patrick, and Father Murphy exited to the street. He stood straight when Corey appeared. “Callaghan!” he called out. “I want a word with you!"
"That's already seven words,” Miss Parson whispered. The appearance of English Bill seemed to place her in better spirits.
"What seems to be your problem, Mr. Bill?” Corey asked.
The question caused one of a handful of youths playing in the street to laugh. “That ain't his proper name,” the boy called out.
English Bill turned and glared at the boy, then thrust a finger toward Corey's chest. “What are you doing talking to Brian Greene?"
The question surprised Corey. He couldn't see any reason for English Bill's interest.
"Was Mr. Windsor a friend of yours?” Miss Parson asked. Her quiet voice pulled everyone's attention toward her. “If so, you have our sympathies, it is a terrible way for a boxer to die."
Miss Parson's interruption off-footed English Bill so that he started to pull the cap off his head. He thought better of the action and said somewhat angrily, “No he wasn't my friend! We both work for Mr. Blake. And I want to know why this man—” He jerked his thumb in Corey's direction. “—was talking to him."
"What possible difference could it make to you?” Father Murphy asked.
AHMM, October 2010 Page 7
