Holmes on the Range

by Steve Hockensmith

  “No.”

  “No?”

  “No. I em in sausage up to my elbowce, end I em tinking, ‘Ahhh, dat Brackwell. One day he is shooting soomebooty when with those fancy gunce he is playing.’ ”

  “Had you seen Brackwell?”

  “Well, no.”

  “Had you seen anybody when you were outside?”

  “No.”

  “How about in the house? Any sign folks were up?”

  “Not yet. Dat Eem-ily—always overlate she iss sleeping. Never em I seeing her out of her room before de sun. End den de—” The Swede hooked a thumb at the ceiling again. “Dey are not getting up fur anoother hour.”

  “Now this is very important, Swede,” Old Red said, speaking extra-slow to drive home his seriousness. “How much time passed between your knockin’ on the outhouse door and your hearin’ that gunshot?”

  “Five minutes, I em tinking.”

  “Five minutes?” my brother mumbled. “Five minutes. Just enough time for someone to—”

  Just who might be doing what I didn’t learn, for some other who came barging through the door behind us. My hand shot down to the hogleg at my side, bringing it up and cocking it as I whipped around.

  What I found at the end of the barrel wasn’t the steely-eyed McPherson I’d expected. It was a wide-eyed, terror-stricken maid.

  “Jesus, I’m sorry, Emily,” I said, holstering my .45 before she could scream.

  The girl had been so shocked to find a peacemaker jammed in her face, for once she couldn’t put words together. “B-bloody. . . h-hell. . .,” she panted.

  “Hold that thought,” Old Red said. “I’ve got one more thing to ask our friend here.”

  He was talking at a streak, as if he had to hustle out the most important question of all before Emily grabbed us by the seat of the pants and tossed us from the castle.

  “Swede,” he said, “did you pack a picnic for Mr. Edwards just now?”

  I had to clinch my jaw to keep it from dropping to my chest. Here we were tracking a killer, the McPhersons on our tails, and my brother was curious about Edwards’s lunch?

  The Swede nodded and shrugged at the same time, looking as perplexed by the question as I felt. “He iss coming into the kitchen soon ago, fur bret end cheece asking. So I em giving him dese things.”

  “But not packin’ ‘em yourself? Just puttin’ ‘em out for Edwards to take?”

  The old cook nodded again. “He is de food in hiss basket putting, yes.”

  “Thank you, Swede.”

  Emily cleared her throat. “Your presence. . .,” she began, taking on the stiff, brittle tone she used when she was talking like a nobleman’s maidservant and not a giggly girl.

  Old Red spun around to face her almost as quick as I had a moment before. “You told us you heard the shot around midnight or one o’clock. You sure about that?”

  The snap in Gustav’s voice—or perhaps the chance to trade in more gossip—seemed to drag the real Emily out of her servantish shell. “I’m sure,” she said. “I should think I know what the dead of night looks like, and this was the dead of night.”

  “No, no,” the Swede butted in. “It was mooch later.”

  “Oh, don’t listen to him.” Emily rolled her eyes, then leaned in closer to Old Red. “And I’ll tell you something else, Mr. Detective—that dead darky wasn’t just creeping about outside last night. He came right into the house.”

  My brother perked up like a hound catching the scent of something rotting and ripe. “How do you know?”

  “Because I went into the linen closet upstairs not ten minutes ago, and an iron and some pillows were missing.”

  Gustav squinted at Emily as if she were a mirage shimmering in and out of view. “Pillows and an iron?”

  The girl nodded. “And that’s not all. He also took Lady Clara’s—”

  As those last words left her lips, Emily sighed and sagged. She quickly straightened up again, and I knew what was coming next. She’d remembered what she’d been sent after us to do—throw us out.

  “Your presence. . .,” she said, launching back into the sentence she’d begun a minute before.

  . . . will no longer be tolerated in this house is what I expected to hear. What actually came out was very different indeed.

  “. . . is requested in the parlor. Lady Clara wishes to speak with you.”

  Twenty-four

  MY LADY

  Or, An Angel Pleads for Mercy, and Old Red Plays Devil’s Advocate

  Lords and ladies are not accustomed to waiting for anything, let alone a pair of no-accounts with dirt under their fingernails and dung on their boots. Yet by sidetracking Emily with his questions, Old Red had put Lady Clara in just such a position, and when we entered the parlor I feared we’d find my dream girl’s shimmering hazel eyes aboil with indignation. I needn’t have worried, for she graced us with a heavenly smile as we entered.

  But that smile couldn’t conceal the lady’s obvious anxiety. There were lines around her eyes and mouth I hadn’t noticed before, and her proud, perfect posture had drooped, causing her to sag like a dying flower bent by the weight of its own beautiful petals.

  “Gentlemen,” she said. “Please sit down.”

  These four words showered upon us an honor I would never have dreamed possible. We had been invited to seat ourselves in the presence of a bona fide aristocrat. As Old Red and I brought our denim-clad backsides down upon the divan, I was overcome by such an intoxicating mix of humility and pride that my head felt light as a leaf on my shoulders. I stole a glance at Gustav, but he appeared to be little moved by the uncommon courtesy being afforded us. He seemed to have overcome his shyness around females, as well, for he looked more curious than bashful.

  “Amongst those of my country and class, there are subjects that are regarded as unsuitable topics of discussion for a respectable woman,” Lady Clara said. “But as Americans of the frontier have a reputation for . . . relaxed attitudes in matters of propriety, I hope you won’t be shocked if I speak plainly.”

  I nodded vigorously, while beside me Old Red stayed perfectly still.

  “As my father can attest, I have always spoken my mind on finance, politics, and other matters that supposedly fall outside the feminine sphere,” the lady continued. “Murder would be one such topic—especially murder of the sort discovered here today. A Negro found dead in an outhouse? Some would say it’s beneath my notice. But I feel that a man’s death is never beneath one’s notice. Nor should it be the subject of jokes or idle amusements. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  This question was directed at me, perhaps because Lady Clara saw that I wouldn’t dispute any statement she should make, whether it be to criticize her father’s bet or to insist that the sky is red, blood is blue, and my own hair green as grass. Old Red wasn’t under such sway, however.

  “My investigation ain’t no joke,” he shot back.

  “And we couldn’t agree with you more, my lady,” I added quickly, trying to smooth things over. “Why, my brother said much the same thing to Mr. Edwards not twenty minutes ago. ‘Ain’t nothin’ funny about death,’ he said. ‘Serious it is, and serious it oughta be treated.’ ”

  “Then you’ll both understand why I find this wager between my father and Mr. Brackwell so distasteful,” the lady said.

  I nodded again, but Old Red just sat there like he was carved from wood.

  “I’m told the proper authorities should arrive no later than noon tomorrow,” Lady Clara said, her warmth toward us starting to cool. “Surely any investigating can wait until professionals are here to pursue it.”

  She paused, giving my brother another opportunity to do the gentlemanly thing and put a bullet in the bet—by giving up his detecting. Instead, he made use of that pause to take himself off the spot and put the lady there in his place.

  “If you’re as partial to plain-speakin’ as you say, you won’t mind if I ask you a question of a personal nature.”

  The worry lines o
n Lady Clara’s face appeared to grow deeper before my eyes. But true to her breeding, the lady remained unflustered.

  “You may ask.”

  “Thank you,” Gustav said, his voice softening up a touch. “As you’re a woman who don’t let notions of propriety stand in her way, I find it strange that you’d object so strongly to the Duke’s wager on moral grounds—callous though that wager may be, I grant you. It makes me think there’s another reason you wanted to talk to us. . .and maybe it has somethin’ to do with that hunk of money your father put up for grabs.”

  The lady stared at my brother for a moment as if she were still waiting for him to ask his question. Then she nodded slowly and sadly.

  “It shames me to admit it, but it is the money that concerns me.”

  “Two hundred pounds is a lot of cash, I gather. And cash is some-thin’ your family ain’t exactly flush with anymore, is it?”

  I blushed with embarrassment, horrified that Gustav should rub Lady Clara’s dainty nose in the gossip we’d heard from Emily and Brackwell.

  The lady sighed and sank into an even more pronounced slump. “Do even the Red Indians know of our troubles by now? Yes, our fortune is not what it once was. The two Cantlemeres—this one and our estate in Sussex—are all that remain. As you know so much already, there’s no reason not to tell you what brought us down so.”

  A ripple of emotion spread across Lady Clara’s usually placid features, revealing an anger that lurked just beneath the surface.

  “It was gambling,” she said. “On cards, on horses, on whether a fly would alight on a lump of sugar. Between my father and my brothers, it’s a wonder my family has anything left.”

  “The ranch here don’t bring in enough to keep you afloat?” Old Red asked.

  The lady tucked away her bitterness behind a wry smile. “The Cantlemere Ranche is what men of finance would call a break-even proposition—with the possibility of failure hanging over it at all times. Sometimes I think that’s why my father remains committed to it: It’s his last grand gamble. He has great hopes that things here will take a sudden turn for the better.”

  My brother cocked an auburn eyebrow at that. “Based on what exactly?”

  “As I’ve said,” Lady Clara replied with a shrug, “he is a gambler.”

  “Which is why he wouldn’t give up on the bet he made this mornin’—even though you’ve asked him to.”

  “That’s correct. William—Mr. Brackwell—is a gentleman and a friend, and of course he was willing to renounce the wager.”

  Old Red’s gaze turned iron-hard, but the lady didn’t seem to notice.

  “Unfortunately, the Duke refused to release him from his bet,” she went on, her smoldering resentment again burning its way through any attempts to smother it. “If my father wins, he means to collect. And if he loses, he means to pay. The Duke of Balmoral won’t have it said that he isn’t good for his debts—if those debts are incurred through gaming. After all, a man who reneges on one foolish wager might be denied the privilege of making more. And the Duke can’t have that.”

  My instinctive dislike for the old man had now been fanned into outright hatred, and I was ready to hop up, seek him out, and box his ears. Old Red, on the other hand, simply leaned back and shrugged.

  “I’m sorry to say it, ma’am, but your father’s bet ain’t my concern. I’m anglin’ to catch a killer. Whether money changes hands is beside the point, from where I sit.”

  “I understand entirely,” Lady Clara said, instantly regaining her natural poise. “I must seem like a selfish old harridan to think of my own petty problems at such a time.”

  “Oh, no! Not at all! It’s only natural you should be concerned for your family,” I assured her. “Why, it would just break our hearts to pieces if we should bring any misfortune upon you and your kin. Ain’t that right, Gustav?”

  Old Red took a deep breath that might have been a stifled sigh.

  “Yup,” he said. “Break our hearts.”

  Lady Clara gave us a small, almost wistful smile. “You’re very kind. I can see that.”

  She looked back and forth between Gustav and myself as she said it, but I fancied her words were intended for me alone. This was about to draw from me some hayseed ejaculation on the order of “Awww, shucks,” but fortunately the lady spoke again before I could embarrass myself.

  “Since you’re moving ahead with your investigation, I may as well offer my assistance. As you say, the wager should be a secondary concern. There’s a murderer loose, and it would be heartless indeed for me to stand in the way of his capture, no matter what the price. If I can aid you in any way, you have but to ask.”

  At that moment, I came to understand how women in romantic melodramas can be made to “swoon” by the mere sight of their beau’s heroic deeds. I felt like swooning myself. This was proof positive for me: Lady Clara had not only the face of an angel, but the soul of one, too.

  “As it so happens, you can help me,” Old Red said, and I knew exactly what words would leave his mouth next. “Tell me—did you notice anything out of the ordinary last night or this mornin’?”

  “Actually, yes. Two things. First, I heard a noise last night—from my conversations with the others, I gather it was the gunshot that killed that poor man.”

  “Did you make note of the time?”

  I leaned forward, anxious to have the dispute over the timing of Boo’s killing resolved at last. Anytime, Swivel-Eye, and the Swede disagreeing with Emily—well, that was something to think about. But if Lady Clara disagreed with Emily, why, then the matter was settled, far as I was concerned. In fact, if the lady disagreed with everyone and said the shot had been fired thirty seconds ago, I would’ve been inclined to believe her over all the others.

  “It was pitch-black, that’s all I know,” she said.

  “So it was the middle of the night?” Old Red persisted. “Midnight maybe? One o’clock?”

  The lady shook her head. “I really couldn’t say.”

  My brother and I both sank back into the cushions. The when of Boudreaux’s death was still a mystery.

  “And you didn’t get up to investigate?” Old Red asked, forging on.

  “No. I went back to sleep. I assumed someone had merely bumped into something in the dark.”

  “Oh? There’s been a lot of sneakin’ around at night, has there?”

  “No,” Lady Clara said, her tone turning a tad snippish. “I simply meant that I had no reason to assume it was anything sinister.”

  Old Red conceded the point with a nod. “And the other thing you noticed?”

  “I wasn’t the one who noticed it, actually. It was Emily. Just a few minutes ago, she discovered that my valise had been stolen.”

  Gustav sat up like a man who just felt a strike on his fishing line. “Your valise? That’s a handbag, am I right?”

  “Yes, though a little bigger.”

  “More like a carpetbag?”

  “I suppose they would be similar in size, yes.” The lady’s expression soured ever so slightly—carpetbags being for people who couldn’t afford luggage made from more tasteful material. “I had no use for the valise while we were here in the country, so it was stored with our luggage in the upstairs linen closet. Emily noticed an iron and some pillows missing, so she conducted an inventory. The only other missing item was my valise.”

  “What was in it?”

  “Only what one would expect—a small amount of money, a few personal items of the sort women carry with them.”

  “I see,” Gustav said, though I doubt he really knew much about what “personal items” ladies tote about. “And you think Boudreaux—that’s the dead feller—you think he took this valise of yours?”

  “That was Emily’s assumption.” Lady Clara shrugged, imbuing even such a mundane movement as that with grace and refinement. “I’m not so sure, myself. Perhaps this Boudreaux encountered the thief and tried to stop him. I hope that’s not the case, however. I hate to think of an
yone losing his life over some meager possessions of mine.”

  “Um-hmm, um-hmm,” Old Red mumbled absently. His eyes went fuzzy, losing their focus as they will when his vision turns inward.

  “Is there anything more you wish to ask?”

  “Well, yes and no, Miss St. Simon,” Old Red said slowly, pulling himself back to the here and now with visible effort. “I ain’t got more questions for you, but I do have a request.”

  “And that would be?”

  “Could you fetch your father for me? I’d like to ask him a few questions, too.”

  You might have thought my brother had just requested a peek at the lady’s petticoats, her eyes shot open so wide. I couldn’t blame her, for my eyes did a little popping themselves.

  Men like us aren’t meant to speak to men like the Duke lest it’s to say “Dinner is served” or “Yes, sir—right away!” I couldn’t see the use of pestering the old man with questions. He was a hive of bees I preferred not to poke.

  Lady Clara recovered more quickly than I, effortlessly smoothing her lovely features back into a mask of composed gentility.

  “Wait here.”

  She rose and left the parlor, heading across the foyer to Perkins’s office. When the door shut behind her, I turned to my brother.

  “What’re you playin’ at? You know that tub-gutted son of a bitch is just gonna stomp out here and holler at us—if he comes out at all.”

  “I’ve got my reasons,” Gustav replied calmly.

  “Well, I’ll be damned if I can see ‘em. Why you’d persist in houndin’ every soul in the castle instead of sniffin’ after the McPhersons or maybe Anytime is beyond—”

  The office door opened wide, and Lady Clara stepped out again. She was followed by the Duke and Young Brackwell, who’d traded in his buckskin finery for a dark frock coat more suitable for a junior nobleman. While I was impressed by the lady’s power of persuasion in convincing her father to grant us an audience, that wasn’t what set my heart to pounding and my brain to racing.

  The office window was opened wide, and a breeze blew through it, sweeping past Lady Clara and the others to bring the smell of smoke into the parlor. And not just any smoke. It had a scorchy, sulfurous aftertaste about it that I knew well.