The Miser of Cherry Hill

by Scott Mackay

  Later, when we had finished with an afternoon of patients, and Henny was in the surgery restocking dressings, bandages, exam-table paper, and the like, I went upstairs to the spare room where she was staying, spied her address book on the secretary, opened it, found the Wisconsin address of Mr and Mrs Booth, scribbled it down, and returned to the surgery before my nurse knew I had committed this small burglary. For I had decided that I was going to have to write a letter of advocacy to the Booths on the poor girl’s behalf.

  When I went back downstairs, Henny came up to me with a puzzled look on her face. ‘I phoned the Sisters of Charity Hospital in Buffalo in regard to the Marigold Reynolds consult note? The clerk told me she couldn’t immediately place her hand on the chart, but would call us when she had. They’re in the middle of reorganizing their filing system.’

  ‘But they have a record of Marigold’s admission, don’t they?’

  ‘She was going to put in a call to Admitting and get back to me.’

  I sighed.

  Why not send my consult note off on a hunting expedition to the Adirondacks for all the difficulty I was having in obtaining it.

  Before Miss Gregsby and I set off for Dr Pritchard’s Christmas party the next evening, Munroe pulled me aside while Henny was getting dressed.

  My man looked at me with earnest blue eyes and said, ‘Is Miss Wade going to be at the party?’

  ‘I imagine she is.’

  Munroe shifted with sudden agitation. ‘Mind you, it’s not my place to give you advice. I’m just happy to be part of a doctor’s household.’

  I paused. ‘And I’m happy to have you as my man, George. You’ve been an invaluable help.’

  He peered at me cautiously, assessing my words.

  ‘So if I gave you any advice, you wouldn’t think I was overstepping? Especially because you know Miss Wade a lot better than I do? You’d think I was just trying to help you, like I always do?’

  I could see that he was working himself up to something, but that he wanted to test the waters first. ‘George, if you have some advice to give me, or something you wish to say in regard to Miss Wade, you’re more than welcome to say it. You might be an employee in my household, but that doesn’t mean you don’t have the right to speak.’

  ‘Well, sir, I’m just wondering about you bringing Miss Gregsby to this here Christmas dance. I hope you don’t think I’m being bold.’

  ‘You object to it?’

  ‘I don’t object, sir. But a man brings a woman to a dance and it usually means something. If Miss Wade is there, and she sees you coming through the door with Miss Gregsby, she’s going to be thinking it means something, too.’

  Though I could see his point, I raised what I thought was my chief problem. ‘So you think I should just leave Miss Gregsby here at home when we both know how she has her heart set on going, how lonely she is, and how she doesn’t have any family in the whole world but us?’

  Munroe took a moment to recast his argument. ‘Miss Wade’s going to see you coming to that party with Miss Gregsby, and after the sleigh-ride incident, it won’t matter what you tell her. She’s going to see what she’s going to see. No amount of explaining’s going to change that. And things are going to go from bad to worse as far as you and Miss Wade are concerned.’

  He was, of course, raising a legitimate concern, one I had considered myself; and while I found Munroe’s earnest advice touching, I now explained the moral dilemma I faced so that he would better understand my present course of action.

  ‘As a doctor, George, I’m every day faced with the same unalterable equation whenever I prescribe treatment. I must measure risk against benefit. I know I’m taking a risk bringing Miss Gregsby to Dr Pritchard’s party. I know I might even jeopardize any future chance I have at an intimate alliance between myself and Miss Wade. But Miss Gregsby has recently lost somebody who was extremely dear to her. Over and above that, her poor late fiancé’s family has rejected her for reasons that are tragically misguided. The girl needs kindness. And it’s my duty – nay, my moral obligation – to be kind to her. I know what it’s like to lose someone. I know what it’s like to spend your first Christmas alone. And as much as I’ve grown to love Miss Wade, and even hope to marry her one day, I can’t abandon Miss Gregsby in her hour of need. It would be wrong of me, no matter how much I personally stand to lose.’

  Yet as I had Munroe bring the sleigh around, I couldn’t help thinking I was being obstinate on purpose. Was it because I wanted to teach Miss Wade a lesson? Maybe it was. After all, what right did she have to doubt me after Everett Howse? And after the man from Boston? I was going to be kind to Miss Gregsby. And Miss Wade was just going to have to accept – and trust – that there was nothing more to it than that.

  SEVENTEEN

  Miss Gregsby’s dress was of considerably greater sophistication than the dresses I saw on many of the local Fairfield damsels later on at the party – she was, after all, from the much larger metropolis of Rochester, where shopping was better by a factor of ten.

  As we entered Pritchard’s ballroom, I saw that the only woman who might possibly outshine Henrietta Gregsby was Olive Wade.

  Olive spotted us as we entered, her large blue eyes like sapphires in her fair face, her red satin ball gown wonderfully set off by the Christmas tree she was standing next to. She held my gaze for several moments, then turned to Henny. I suppose Caesar seeing Brutus with a knife would have had a friendlier expression. Then she grew upset. She turned from us, knocking a present wrapped in silver tinsel with her toe, and made her way to the dining room without giving us so much as a trace of a greeting.

  I again felt a lover’s irritation with her. She shouldn’t be behaving this way. I had done nothing to induce her mistrust. I thought it was unfair of her to so badly misinterpret appearances. Furthermore, I felt it wasn’t up to me to explain. After all, I had never asked her to explain her summer away with the assemblyman or her history with the married man from Boston. So I let her be. She could learn her lesson in peace somewhere.

  I broached the whole miserable matter with Stanley fifteen minutes later.

  He wasn’t in a tuxedo, just his Sunday best. He said, ‘It’s a woman’s God-given right to misunderstand, Clyde, so let her misunderstand awhile. A man can have his diploma in rhetoric. He can even be the president of the best debating club in the country. But if a woman has her mind set on misunderstanding, she’s like a mule set on not budging.’

  ‘She ran away. Like I had yellow fever.’

  ‘If that’s the case, you should ignore her and do what you came here to do. Make Henrietta Gregsby happy.’ He motioned across the ballroom floor. ‘Look at her standing there. Everybody’s dancing. Not her. She’s waiting for you. She doesn’t know a soul. Maybe you better go over.’

  ‘What if Olive comes back?’

  ‘You’re going to leave Miss Gregsby a wallflower all night just because you’re afraid Olive’s going to come back? Show the girl a good time, Clyde. After what she’s been through, it’s the least you can do.’

  He had a point. It was my Christmas duty to take a beautiful young woman in my arms and dance her off her feet, no matter how miserable it made me.

  Accordingly, as the band finished their current number and struck up ‘The Sidewalks of New York,’ I walked over to Henny, took her in my arms, and swung her around the dance floor, determined to give her happy memories despite the way I kept a lookout for Miss Wade.

  ‘You’re rather good, aren’t you?’ said Henny.

  ‘With these older dances, yes. My mother made sure I learned how to dance when I was a boy. It’s what southern gentlemen do.’

  I danced the next three numbers with her, then introduced her to a young sport, Harvey Hamish, son of Marvin Hamish, the county chairman.

  Soon the pair were inseparable on the dance floor.

  With this Christmas mercy accomplished, I found myself relenting toward Miss Wade. Maybe it wasn’t fair I let her learn her lesson in p
eace. Maybe I should seek her out, even if she hadn’t accepted the Jean Nedra hat from me.

  With my sentiments softening, I set off like an icebreaker in search of the Northwest Passage.

  I knew there was going to be a lot of ice to get through.

  I was about to check the study at the front of the house when Mr Purcell’s lawyer, Ambrose Johnstone – he of the ingrown toenail – approached out of the throng with another gentleman, one I recognized as my victim’s brother, Professor Herschel Purcell.

  ‘Dr Deacon. Can we have a word?’

  I stopped my search for Miss Wade, even though I realized I was now becoming exceedingly anxious to find her. ‘Of course, Johnstone. Merry Christmas.’ I looked inquiringly at his companion. ‘This, I take it, is Professor Purcell. I saw you at the funeral, sir. Unfortunately, I couldn’t attend the wake, as I had surgery business to attend to, and so I don’t believe we were formally introduced.’

  ‘Merry Christmas, sir,’ said the professor. ‘A pleasure to meet you.’

  ‘The pleasure’s mine. My deepest condolences about your brother. I’m doing everything I can to apprehend his killer.’

  Sorrow flashed through his eyes. ‘Yes . . . well. I’m glad to have a man of your stature – a presidential physician, no less – looking after the case.’ Herschel was younger than Ephraim by about ten years, and a lot thinner. He wore a clubhouse tie, an eccentric Persian-design bosom-shirt, and a brown twilled Melton suit. He had a scholarly look, as one might expect from a professor of history, especially with the pince-nez eyeglasses poised over his nose. ‘And in fact, it’s on this subject Ambrose and I wish to speak to you, doctor. We understand you’ve captured my brother’s killer. This is most splendid news!’

  The corners of my lips tightened. I looked at the younger Purcell brother, then at Johnstone, then turned back to the professor. ‘If you’re referring to the arrest of William Fray, he’s currently being detained for assaulting a police officer, not for the murder of your brother. No murder charges have been laid.’

  This intelligence produced some disappointment in Professor Purcell, a reaction I could readily discern in the drooping of his Franz Josef-style mustache. ‘But I understand he was seen at the Grand Hotel on the night of the murder with a rifle.’

  Blast! I had to wonder who had leaked the details of my investigation, and who, particularly, had told him about Alvin Jensen’s witness account. I couldn’t help thinking it was Jensen himself.

  ‘I admit that certain facts point to Billy Fray’s possible involvement in the crime, but there are a number of other suspects I still have to exclude, as well as some discrepancies of a physical nature that need to be addressed.’

  Professor Purcell’s disappointment turned to distress. Grief, raw and spontaneous, shone from his eyes. Underneath his mustache, his lips trembled. Having lost my own brother, Wyatt, in 1880, to typhoid fever, I knew exactly what he was going through.

  Professor Purcell finally got himself under control. ‘Mr Johnstone assured me that your other suspects were tangential at best, and the proof against them fragmentary and confused. I’ve urged him to immediately launch criminal proceedings against Mr Fray. I don’t understand why we should delay. I’m hoping to get the matter settled before Christmas, especially now that we have an eye witness.’

  ‘If you’re referring to Alvin Jensen, please remember that he is an eight-year-old boy, and that his father is also a suspect in this case.’

  This startled him. ‘Isaac is a suspect?’ Professor Purcell’s familiarity with Mr Jensen’s Christian name told me that they must know each other.

  ‘He is under investigation.’

  The professor turned to Johnstone. ‘You didn’t tell me about Isaac.’

  The lawyer hesitated. ‘Yes . . . well . . . he was your brother’s good friend for many years. And yours.’

  ‘Oh, dear, I had no idea. We all used to be such great chums together back in New York.’

  I cocked my brow and confirmed. ‘So you know Isaac Jensen?’

  ‘Heavens, yes. We were a tight little circle back in our Manhattan days. Me, him, my brother. Ben Whitmore. Hattie Whitmore. Oh, dear, this is terrible news.’

  I turned to the lawyer. ‘Mr Johnstone, if you’re acting for Professor Purcell in this matter, I urge you to have him defer criminal proceedings.’

  Mr Johnstone motioned at the academic. ‘Yes, but Dr Deacon, Professor Purcell isn’t the only one in town who wants to see swift justice. Ira Connelly of the Newspacket was talking to me just yesterday about the case, and he says that much of Fairfield would like to see Billy Fray executed for the crime. Mr Connelly can’t understand what the hold-up is. And I was also talking to Judge Norris, and he admits he’s mystified by your current restraint. Mr Purcell was an important man.’

  Infernal town! How was a deputy to maintain the integrity of his case if prejudice was allowed to fester?

  Calming myself, I said, ‘I would hate to see justice done to the wrong man, that’s all, Johnstone.’ Then I hit upon an idea. ‘Maybe I could take Professor Purcell away from you for a few moments. Why don’t you allow me the opportunity to give him some perspective on the case?’ I patted my breast pocket and took out my cigar case. I turned to the professor. ‘I invite you, Herschel, to take a seat with me in the smoking room and have a cigar. I’ve got a couple fine Imperators here. And Dr Pritchard has a wide range of spirits.’ I spied Ira Connelly looming nearby. ‘We could talk there more privately.’ I motioned toward the smoking room. ‘If you’d be so kind.’

  The professor and Johnstone looked at each other.

  After a moment, Johnstone said, ‘I should say hello to Dr Pritchard and his wife anyway. You two gentleman run along. Herschel, we’ll speak later.’

  The lawyer left us.

  I ushered the bereft brother toward the smoking room, getting him away from Ira Connelly as quickly as I could.

  EIGHTEEN

  ‘I understand you’re a professor of history, Herschel.’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘In any specific field or discipline?’

  ‘Antiquities.’

  ‘How fascinating. Do you ever do field work?’

  ‘Yes. Most recently in Egypt. I was on a three-month dig.’

  ‘So I’m sure you understand how history and murder investigation have many things in common.’

  He didn’t respond immediately. In the interval, we successfully navigated our way into the smoking room, where a number of other gents were pursuing the pleasures of strong spirits and cured tobacco. We found comfortable chairs in the corner. I went to the bar, got two bourbons, returned to our pleasant bivouac, and set the drinks on the table.

  Professor Purcell said, ‘I perhaps see how history and murder investigation might have a little in common, sir. But enlighten me further.’

  I nodded, ‘In history, you piece the facts together using clues, either in the form of recorded witness accounts or physical artefacts. In a murder investigation, you do much the same. I’m sure in Egypt you had to analyze fragments, and correlate them to other fragments, and put them in their proper historical context, and measure them against everything else you’ve learned about Egypt. That’s what I’m doing with your brother’s murder case. What I have now are a lot of clues, and some of the clues point in one direction, and some in another. Until I’m confident the clues point to an ascertainable fact, I continue to analyze, just as I’m sure you do with the material you unearthed in Egypt. One of the clues I’m curious about, and which has given me a sleepless night or two, and which may be the thing that either exonerates or indicts poor Billy Fray, is your brother’s whisky flask.’

  His eyes widened over his pince-nez. ‘My brother’s whisky flask?’

  I nodded. ‘I’m wondering if you know anything about it.’

  His brow rose. ‘What on Earth would Ephraim’s flask have to do with his murder?’

  ‘So you know of his flask?’

  ‘Yes, of course.
He won it in a bet from Isaac Jensen. He was proud of it, and of the bet. He said it was proof of how shrewd he could be.’

  Won it in a bet from Jensen? I gave myself some time to process this new and possibly vital piece of information.

  The professor apparently took a moment to consider it as well, for he presently said, ‘Oh, dear. Isaac Jensen. Again.’

  ‘You see?’

  I took the Imperators out and used my cutter to snip off the ends. I handed one to Herschel, put one in my mouth, offered a light, then took one for myself.

  Once we had puffed for a few seconds, I said, ‘I understand your brother carried the flask around with him at all times. Yet it wasn’t on his person when we found him deceased in Tonawanda Road. We’re now beginning to think the murderer may have taken it from him. Perhaps as an afterthought. Yet he didn’t take anything else. Odd, isn’t it? Now you tell me your brother won it in a bet from Isaac Jensen. If the flask had originally belonged to Isaac, and it was not on your brother’s person when we found him, maybe Isaac wanted it back. If that’s the case, you might see why I’m reluctant to go ahead with further prosecutorial action against Billy Fray. Perhaps Isaac took it from your brother. Even though there are certain mitigating facts that confuse the issue of the flask, it certainly makes Isaac Jensen a stronger suspect in the case. Can you tell me about the flask at all?’

  The professor cast around. ‘The flask . . . the flask.’ His expression grew more certain and he nodded. ‘By the time my brother won it, he and Isaac were trying to best each other any way they could. So they made a bet. On the 1896 Presidential election, of all things. Ephraim was convinced McKinley would win. Jensen was a staunch Bryan supporter. You wouldn’t take Jensen for a fool, but everybody knew Bryan didn’t stand a chance. Isaac just gets so pig-headed when it comes to my brother. My brother goaded him. The flask was extremely important to Jensen. I don’t know why he wagered it.’

  ‘And why was it important?’