“We will do our utmost. And ah, yes, I almost forgot…I must ask one more favor of you for protocol’s sake.”
“If I can…”
“Please sign our registry book and fill in the other pertinent information prior to leaving. Again, thank you.” He turns away, barely taking a step back in my direction.
“Detective,” she calls softly. “I would sorely like to return to my home now. Cold comfort though it is, I hope you understand, it has been a trying few days. I am very tired. Besides, you already have my particulars, do you not?”
His voice takes on a deeper, softer tone; teeth set, the line of his jaw rigid with distaste at having to resort to false flattery. “With everything else you must bear at this time, I do apologize for asking…”
She looks up at him with doe eyes, tilting her head to one side, blinking ever so slowly as she fans at the modest collar of her mourning gown. Apparently, she thinks he is sending her signals, and she is merely flirting back. Now, I would say two days since becoming a widow is too soon. Wouldn’t you?
“I fear I cannot take the strain much longer,” she says. “I am not feeling at all well, and still I need time to recuperate, sir, to gather my strength to make the necessary preparations for Mr. Boyd’s funeral as you say—”
He glances down at the hand resting lightly on the rolled up cuff of his shirtsleeve, fingertips touching his bare forearm. “Uh, my sympathies, Mrs. Boyd, although it has been several months since our fire happened, the entire city is yet in a state of chaos. Complete recovery from such a catastrophe is sure to be slow. You only have to walk down the street to know that; it is as though the inferno happened just yesterday. And regardless, we must manage the workload of several neighboring stations destroyed as well. So, for the moment, we are logging all activity in an attempt to stay on top of things, to properly do our duty for the citizens of Chicago.”
She turns to face him, raising the back of a hand to her temple, the other still resting on his arm. “Inspector, I am not of a robust constitution even generally. If you will detain me for much longer, I may fall faint right here. I pray you are at the ready to catch me. Truly, I feel quite heated…” she says, hinting with her eyes. From this distance, it also appears as though she added “in your presence” under her breath. To be fair, the striated column of her neck does appear to be somewhat flushed.
A priceless moment, this; I wonder at her aplomb. Of course, one only has to bats one's lashes and affect the damsel in distress ruse to twist Archer around her little finger. Any woman worth her salt can see that. I am guessing it would be rude to burst into laughter. Seems a bit much to go into for a measly entry in a log book.
Archer plasters a kind smile on his face, now disregarding the hand that has dropped to his chest but knowing well enough not to touch her in return. Were her delicately swirling fingers bared of that gauzy slip of fabric, such innuendo would be enough to call her Christian chastity into question. How Victorians could think sin is confounded so easily is beyond me. Of those watching, Sergeants Abe Farrell stands aghast behind the counter, Theodore Dent looks uncomfortable, Tanner Adams grins in the sidelines, and Constable Robert Neumann appears slightly stunned by the interchange.
“It will take but a tiny bit more of your time. I promise.”
“If you insist, sir.”
“Much obliged, ma’am. Oscar will help you,” he says, raising his voice and gesturing toward the young constable positioned at the station’s front door as though he’s a hotel porter instead of an officer of the law. For a minute longer, he stands there to make sure she completes the task. And as she turns to leave, she glances back at him with a scanty, come-hither smile. “Do let me know if I can help any further, Mr. St. Clair,” she adds before passing through the doors. Only then does he spin around, stalk over, and say to me under his breath, “She could have been home by now, prostrate on her sofa if she skipped the theatrics. Grieving widow my ass.”
“Now, now, Archer, you did pretty blatantly caress her, and I think the proper term for a man of your station to use when referring to the posterior anatomy of the gluteal musculature would be ‘fundament.’ Do try to refrain from being so coarse as to swear,” I chastise nasally.
“Caress—my ass. I barely touched her.”
“That’s not how it looked to them. To them, you got to first base, brother. Anyway, I’m guessing you won’t be needing my assessment of the lady then, hmm?”
He gives a short laugh. “No. Thanks for being on standby.”
“I didn’t hear you offer your condolences.”
“If ever I saw one, that woman is not in mourning. Come. We’ll talk in my office.” As we pass the idle officers, he stops at the front desk. Taping on the duty roster, “Abe? Never tell me there is nothing for them to do,” he says thumbing the lads scattered behind us. He grabs hold of the registry Mrs. Boyd signed and tucks it under his arm.
We enter his office, and I shut the door behind me. “Archie, I’ve completed the autopsy and can confirm cyanide toxicity as the cause of Arthur Boyd’s death. There is nothing more to add to my initial diagnosis.”
“Archie? Really? No.”
“You’re too serious,” I say, holding back a smile. “It’s a popular name hereabouts. Short for Archibald actually. But it could work—”
“River,” he says with a hint of a smile, eyes glinting with warning. “Honestly, I don’t know how Reid put up with you by his side all day, every day.”
“I know,” I say looking down at the feet clad in boy’s oxford shoes. “He was a good man, our saint St. Clair; I’m barely bearable.” I look up at my big brother with a sidelong glance and a crooked grin. Uncontrollably my throat begins to tickle, and my vision becomes a touch blurry.
“The paterfamilias always knew what he was doing when it came to the family business, and Reid took after him. In case you didn’t know that adopting you was a professional move on the part of the Division,” he teases seriously, stepping closer to me, the glaze of our mutual loss in his eyes.
I hold up a hand to stop him, shaking my head as I take a cautious peek through the wall of glass panes separating Archer’s office from the precinct hubbub. “Hugs in public are out of the question. It’s bad enough Victorians are homophobic. I think people would skewer me alive if they thought I was more twisted than even that. Damn their reinforced spines and haughty noses.”
Chapter 3
WE ARE, AS Archer explained, still in the aftermath of the disastrous fire that took the lives of thousands, destroyed countless homes and commercial properties, and left so many destitute. I was among the homeless for several weeks, although I was not aware of the fact at the time—having lost my memory.
However, let us get back to the case. Whether because there were fewer avenues now whereby a person could get himself into trouble or we were being given a reprieve from crime-fighting, the street criminals seem to be on hiatus. Thus, we have had plenty of time these past few days to piece together the how and the who with regard to the murder of Arthur Boyd; all that is left to ascertain now is the why of his death. Why did the killer want the local businessman dead and why now?
As the perfect suspect, Charles Washburn nearly fit the bill—we were looking for a person of a fastidious nature with probable cause. Only cause is what he lacked. He might have had reason to kill his business partner if there had been any evidence of the arrangement of which he and the deceased had supposedly spoken. But no such proof was found amongst the victim’s effects. And Washburn had an irrefutable alibi. He was with Dr. Walter Steinman the entire afternoon, having an abscessed tooth removed. I cannot even bear to think how I will rally the courage to see a nineteenth-century dentist if that becomes necessary at some point in this adventure.
As I was saying— We then wondered if the daughter’s motive could have been a defensive one. Perhaps it was an act of rebellion against her father. Was the pressure to marry his business partner, though that was not what she too wanted, too mu
ch for her? A valid line of inquiry, one would think, but that vessel also didn’t hold water for long. An interview with the twenty-year-old proved such a theory implausible. Agatha Boyd was far from an obedient, passive woman; at least, she gave off the impression of being more of a hoyden than daddy’s little girl. While her father may have wished that she wed Mr. Washburn, even so far as to believe she might consider it, Miss Boyd had alternate plans of her own, with someone else.
In addition, after speaking with the heir, the youngest of Arthur and Harriet Boyd’s offspring, immediately we knew he would not have killed his father in order to gain control of Boyd & Sons. He was not at all thrilled with the prospect of taking on the burdens of the family’s economics in the first place. Like his sister, he too envisioned an entirely different future for himself—life aboard a ship, sailing the high seas forever, unbound by anyone or anything.
So, finally, we have the dead man’s wife who also seemingly had little reason to want her husband dead, but it was she who committed the crime after all. While we do not make a habit of jumping to conclusions, from the onset, as soon as I mentioned the victim had been poisoned, Archer’s instincts told him the killer was female. It is common knowledge, I think, if a murder is to be committed at all and if it is premeditated, women opt for a less gruesome route to that end whereas men often choose more violent means.
Furthermore, Arthur Boyd could have been poisoned anywhere. He could have slipped away in his sleep, choked on his crumpet and tea at breakfast, had a sudden epileptic fit after a drink at a dinner party, or a number of other scenarios could have been contrived. But no, the murderer had made a point of staging the scene of the crime in the victim’s very own study, a place where he had dealings with other men and worked daily with one man in particular.
Make no mistake; I disliked the look of Harriet Boyd the moment I set eyes on her and her fake grief. But we could not very well clamp her in cuffs simply because she did not love her husband. The stronger evidence lies in the facts I’ve just detailed—she purposely set out to frame a man, if not specifically Mr. Charles Washburn himself.
“But again,…why?” I ask, leaning forward, my elbows on Archer’s desk. He is silent and thoughtful. I look around askance on the off-chance we’re being observed by anyone before scratching at my upper lip under the mustache. I cannot wait to go home and scrub the glue it off. Resuming my position, willing myself not to scrape my stubby fingernails along my side-whiskers, I fold my hands under my chin and cradle my head.
“Not sure. It’s just there beyond reach; I can’t put my finger on it.”
“We know she doesn’t like Washburn.”
“Right. What do you think of the daughter’s comments about her father’s jealous nature? Do you remember?—she said, ‘Papa is a steady sort, except when it comes to Mama. Nothing riles him as does another man’s roving eye. He’s ever anxious Mama will be swept off her feet.’”
“Oh! Here’s a thought then…what if there’s someone else in the picture, someone we haven’t discovered yet?—an acquaintance interested in Mrs. Boyd, maybe we can dig up some history.”
“Wait. A. Minute. Didn’t the daughter also mention Washburn’s constant presence being tiresome; that he was there ‘at all hours,’ even when Mr. Boyd wasn’t at home? It must not have been the irrational kind of jealousy if he trusted his partner to be alone with his wife.”
“Jealously is never completely rational.”
“Mm-hm. What exactly did you see in Mrs. Boyd’s expression or manner that made you think she despised the partner?”
“The look of bridled disgust at the mention of him.”
“And when exactly?”
“When you asked if she would honor the marriage agreement between him and Agatha.”
“So, not when I first brought him up in the conversation, hmm? I think an interview with Mrs. Boyd and Mr. Washburn together would be enlightening. What do you think?”
“Archer! That’s it; you’ve cracked the case,” I say wide-eyed. “Give me a minute to think this through,…but I think you’re right.” He leans back in his chair and waits. “Uh, she became perturbed when the topic turned to that prospective union. She was trying to frame Mr. Washburn because for a fact she knew it wouldn’t stick—”
“What you’re saying is Mr. Washburn and she are involved. But, why try to pin it on him in the first place, why set that scene?”
“It couldn’t be helped that both men worked mostly from Mr. Boyd’s home office, could it? It also couldn’t be helped that if her husband died, Mr. Washburn would be the primary suspect. That’s just a fact that had to be gotten out of the way.”
“Ah. She would have known his alibi would acquit him. It isn’t as though he could excuse himself from the dentist’s chair just to go have a drink with the boss.”
“Exactly. By staging the crime so close to home, she was trying to cast a shadow of doubt away from it, you see? But the plan still had to draw in the possibility of the assailant as being a business contact, obviously in this day and age, a man.”
“Lure in the easy fish first and then cast the net further, I get it. Still, why go out of her way to arrange things the way she did?”
“I’ve been studying men for a month now, yeah?” Archer’s eyes widen and one corner of his mouth lifts, he knows where I’m going with this line of thought. “I would guess that Mrs. Boyd didn’t set out to implicate a man as much as she was doing her best to impersonate the psyche of one, to disguise herself.”
“Okay…”
“Well, she’d planned just two details, the day the deed would take place and the means by which her husband would die. She had possibly considered what would happen afterward, but not thoroughly. Maybe she took that part for granted, thinking it would be easy. When in fact the subtleties of male behavior are harder to mimic than they appear. I imagine it happened like this: The night before, she poisoned the whiskey. Mid-afternoon she went into the room and arranged things just as we saw as if her husband had had a guest. She then found him in his study, to which the servants have vouched.”
“And there you have it. I’d be interested to know how she persuaded her husband to dip into the hard liquor in the middle of the day without actually being present, though. We’ll get the whole truth in no time at all now.”
“I think you suspected her from the very start.”
“I did, almost from the beginning, yes. When I asked her to jot a few things down in the log book, and she blew the situation so out of proportion, it made me even more suspicious. To ask in the first place was just a hunch I thought I’d try—to see how she reacted and also to compare the handwriting on the note with hers, not that I expected much would come of it. I couldn’t tell if the note was written in her hand after all. You saw; her penmanship borders on calligraphic. There is still a possibility they were in on this together, no—that he wrote that stupid note?”
“The note, in particular, was a silly move, written in all caps, placed in the cigar box; but really all of it was a desperate hodgepodge of clues.”
“I agree, no blood but sloppy nonetheless.”
“Mm. But no, to answer your question, not only do I think that he knew nothing about the murder plot itself, I think Mr. Washburn was oblivious of his part in the fantasy Mrs. Boyd’s concocted in her head. In the same way she suddenly became feral with you at a mere caress—”
He squints at me and utters, “River…”
“You really should lighten up, Archer.” I wink at him and nod. “Anyway, I imagine she thought Charles Washburn worked so many long hours under her roof to be nearer to her. Think about it. In each interview, the talk of Miss Boyd’s and Mr. Washburn’s wedding came up, and still, no one except Mrs. Boyd gave any indication of something else going on between that eligible young man and the woman old enough to be his mother. I’m almost positive that sort of match is rarer than rare around here.”
Titles by Ellison Blackburn
The Watchers:
If There Be Giants and Second Son
The Fountain:
Flash Back, Second Nature, and Being Human
by Ellis Blackburn
The Chicago St. Clairs:
The Ashes of Aubrey Milner (coming soon)
About the Author
Ellison Blackburn is the author of several works of fiction, including The Fountain trilogy and The Watchers series. Writing as Ellis Blackburn, her upcoming book is a time-travel mystery set in Victorian-era Chicago.
Unlike other writers who knew what they wanted to be when they grew up, Ellis came into her creative own only a few years ago. And despite earning degrees in Biology and English Literature, for many years, she traveled a career path unrelated to either field of study. It was not until she authored her first Sci-Fi book did her education and work backgrounds mingle sensibly.
In addition to storytelling, Ellison enjoys painting, traveling, watching documentaries and movies, as well as reading novels and tales of mystery and suspense. Learn more at EllisonBlackburn.com or join her Facebook group. You can also follow her on Amazon, BookBub, and Facebook.
The Angst of Arthur Boyd [short story] Page 2
