by Ann Parker
Inez couldn’t help it. She snorted in derision. “There are few I can think of who would believe me a weak woman,” she said. “As for those wifely virtues and responsibilities, what about a husband’s? Shouldn’t he have been here for me? If there is to be blame, who has the greater share?”
He raised a hand and pointing upward said, as if speaking to a larger audience, “That man was made for God, and woman for man; and that the woman was the weaker vessel, is meant to be under the protection of the stronger vessel, man. The forfeiture of that supremacy is as much an infraction of the husband’s right as though it was the infliction of violence upon her or him.”
He paused in his oratory and added matter-of-factly, “From John Graham’s closing of the McFarland-Richardson trial. He ended this part of his closing by summarizing ‘the law of the Bible.’ Needless to say, some of the strong-minded ladies present at the time were heard to hiss.”
A bit of memory stirred at his mention of the trial. She thought she might have read something about it in newspapers, long ago.
“Was this a divorce case?” she asked.
“Abby Sage married, then left, Daniel McFarland. She was seeing a journalist, Albert Richardson.”
“The New York Tribune,” she said softly. “I remember some of the story.”
He nodded. “McFarland sought out and shot Richardson. He began a habeas corpus action to recover the children. He also brought suit against Richardson for alienation of affections. Mrs. McFarland relocated to Indiana, obtained the divorce she sought on the grounds of failure to support, drunkenness, and extreme cruelty. She then returned to New York with the intent of marrying Mr. Richardson.”
“Mr. McFarland shot Richardson,” Inez whispered. “There was a deathbed marriage, and Richardson died. It was all over the newspapers.” She sat back in the chair, remembering the lurid headlines that had fascinated her at nineteen, mere months before she met Mark. Once Mark had entered the picture, the fate of the doomed couple was no longer an item of interest to her as she lived out her own story of sudden passion and impulsive elopement. “I don’t recall,” she finally said. “What happened to Mr. McFarland and Mrs. Richardson?”
Casey settled back, hands clasped across his waiscoat. “The jury acquitted McFarland. Mrs. Richardson is still involved in literature and her dramatic pursuits. As to what became of McFarland…” He raised his shoulders in a shrug, then straightened up, returning to his more formal bearing. “All this, Mrs. Stannert, is by way of explaining what may lie ahead. For surely as the sun rises, if I were employed by Mr. Stannert to be his attorney in this matter, I would begin by looking for someone to blame for alienation of affections. For a wolf dressed in sheep’s clothing. Or, to speak more bluntly…” He set his elbows on the desk and leaned forward. His chair emitted a warning squawk. “I would look most particularly for a seducer dressed in a clerical collar.”
She found it hard to move, to breathe. For once, words failed her.
The grandfather clock in the entryway ticked loudly in the silence.
“You must,” Casey continued in a gentle but firm tone, “be honest with me. I cannot prepare for a defense against tactics such as these unless I know about the circumstances.”
The clock emitted a faint whir, the sound blunted by the closed office door, and struck one.
Casey pulled a pocket watch from his waistcoat, clicked it open. “I have appointments this afternoon and must take time to prepare for a court appearance as well. I’d like you to ponder my words. If you decide to move forward on this, with me as your legal representative, then you must gather the necessary papers. That includes any contracts regarding property and or other agreements of a legally binding nature signed before or during your husband’s absence, any letters that can shed light on the current situation vis-à-vis your son. You must also begin a reckoning of personal and real property, any debts, and so on. I should add that this would not be a good time to dispose of or hide any assets, material goods, etcetera etcetera. We must keep everything crystal clear and on the up-and-up.”
Inez felt as if the world, which had paused during the long conversation, was now beginning to spin again, but at a faster and more urgent speed.
“Is there any way to avoid a circus over this?” she implored.
“You could drop the suit.”
She shook her head.
He held up a placating hand. “You did ask for choices. There is another possibility.” He stood, came around the desk, and held his hand open to help her out of the chair. “Talk with your husband. Listen to his story, and report to me what he says. We will see if we can discover where the truth lies. We can then explore whether there is some way to fashion a dissolution without acrimony.”
Chapter Fifteen
Inez sat on the bench alone in the quiet green of Lovers’ Lane, willing the painful memory of the conversation with her Leadville lawyer to be washed away by birdsong and the dry rustle of leaves. She would have tried to outwalk the memory, but after she had helped Mrs. Pace, if she could, Mrs. Pace had extracted a further promise.
“If you could wait here by the bench for a while, so we are not seen leaving the lane together, that might be best,” said the widow. “There’s no reason for anyone to look askance at us, but it’s best if we aren’t seen talking together in situations that could be considered conspiring.”
“Seen by whom?”
Mrs. Pace’s expression had been next to invisible behind the dark veil. “I am not altogether certain, which is why we must be even more circumspect. I have pondered who would have anything against my husband or me. Dr. Prochazka, perhaps? But he seems so uninterested in anything not having to do with the medical realm. I was not in favor of some of Edward’s plans, but although he listened to me, he was always a man to make up his own mind. I don’t know,” she concluded, her voice bleak. “But you should talk with Mr. Calder. I will also make a list for you of the people that my husband spoke of, in case there is some connection.”
After Mrs. Pace had left and Inez had shaken off the memory of her ordeal in Casey’s office, she sat a while longer and stared at the little creek, rolling over stones red, gray, and brown. “I cannot get involved in this,” Inez whispered to herself.
She stood up, determined to deal with events one at a time. If she could help Kirsten Pace, she would, but not at the expense of her family. She vowed that, furthermore, she would not get involved in a wild-goose chase. Her own problems loomed large enough. Mark, William, and Aunt Agnes would all have to be dealt with in one way or another.
Her feet carried her out of the green tunnel, past the Cliff House, and to the back of the Mountain Springs House. She thought to head inside, to see if she could find a cup of coffee and something to tide her over until the next meal.
But her feet proved traitorous to that intention.
Instead, she skirted the winding paths of the garden and continued to the far side of the building complex. Straight ahead, some distance from the hotel—although, if the sounds of braying donkeys that morning had indicated, not far enough—was the hotel’s stable and livery. On the near side sat the coach that had carried them all from Leadville to Manitou.
Why am I doing this? What can I possibly hope to find? Certainly nothing that will challenge the findings of a physician. Besides, the marshal isn’t interested in hearing anything other than what he’s already heard.
The argument she carried on with herself did nothing to stop her forward motion. As she approached, she saw the stagecoach driver come around the back of the buildings, buckets in hand. Behind him, a smaller figure carried a rolled-up canvas.
Inez hurried her steps until she was within hailing distance. “Mr. Morrow! A moment, if you please.”
Morrow and the boy stopped by the open coach door. Inez approached, nearly at a trot. It was as if her body, and by extension, her feet, were afraid that, if she slowed down, she’d stop. And, with the cessation of movement, the mind with its ceaseless argumen
ts and logical constructs would take over.
“Excuse me,” she wheezed, setting a hand on the side stitch under her ribs and thinking that she should have worn something a little less constricting to accommodate the healthful precepts of hotel and clinic. “Mr. Morrow, have you done anything to the coach since we arrived last night?”
“No ma’am.” He looked curiously at her. “Me and Billy here were just getting ready to sluice it out for tomorrow’s run to Pueblo.”
Billy. Yet another William. She pushed the mental whisper aside.
“Has anyone examined the compartment since Mr. Pace’s death?” she continued.
Now his querying expression turned sober. “The marshal was here early this morning, but he mostly just poked his head in and gave a quick gander. Truth to tell, it needst a good scrubbing out.”
Inez remembered the state of her traveling costume and the mess of vomit on the floorboards. The previous night, Morrow had given it the most cursory of wipes before wedging Mr. Pace’s body into a sitting position on the coach seat.
She glanced at Billy. Stable boy though he was, no doubt used to shoveling manure and soiled bedding from horse stalls and burro pens, even his nose was screwed up in distaste.
“I’d like to take a look if you please. Particularly under the seats.”
“Lose something last night?” Morrow asked. “Billy here can keep an eye out whilst he’s scrubbing.”
Billy looked none too thrilled by the idea.
“I’d like to look myself.” It certainly can’t be any worse than the alley behind the Silver Queen on a Saturday night.
Morrow took in her outfit. “Well, ma’am. It’s not my place to say no.” He turned to Billy. “Help me put this here canvas on the floor. Gives Mrs. Stannert something to kneel on.”
Once the fabric was laid out, Inez clambered into the coach and set her knees on the coarse brown material. Placing her gloved hands gingerly on the tarp, she leaned down, holding her breath. The wide brim of the borrowed straw hat brushed the floor, keeping her from bending down any further. She straightened up, removed the hat and handed it to Mr. Morrow, who hovered outside the door to one side.
She looked first under the seat where the Paces sat. Nothing but normal detritus lurked in the darkness. Crumpled wax papers discarded from sandwiches and other victuals loitered in the shadows, along with an empty snuff tin or two, pages from newspapers or circulars, and what might be very old bread crusts and a couple of apple cores.
Turning her head, she checked under the other seat where she, Susan, and the nanny had sat. Mixed in with the common trash of travel, a faint gleam of a small shape—smooth, shiny, dark drew her eye. Reaching under the seat, she smiled as her fingers closed around the shape of a small bottle. Still on hands and knees, she held it in to the light filtering into the carriage. It was identical to the tonic bottles for Harmony and William. Turning the bottle over, Inez read the small, spidery script: Kirsten Pace.
Chapter Sixteen
“Eureka!” she said triumphantly.
“Ma’am?” Morrow’s voice outside distracted her from her examination.
She tipped the bottle this way and that, delighted to see it still contained a few drops of some oily liquid. Careful to hold the small rectangular bottle upright, she reversed over the coach, setting an experimental foot out searching for solid ground. “I believe I have found something, which makes this exploration not in vain.” Contact made, she backed out, trying to keep her skirts down around her ankles, which was a losing proposition. “I’m thinking it might make sense to do a more thorough exploration.”
Inez straightened, turned, and stopped at Morrow and Billy’s expressions. Morrow looked patient, but pained. Billy’s thoughts were much more transparent. “Is she crazy?” was plainly stamped across his features.
She added hastily, “I know it sounds a little odd. But recall a man died in here yesterday. I believe it would be wise to examine all and anything that might have been dropped in the coach. I ask on behalf of the widow, Mrs. Pace. Anything we can do to help preserve her mental balance during these difficult times is, of course, important to her health.”
Morrow said, “Sure, Mrs. Stannert, ma’am, if you think so. But, wouldn’t you rather Billy or I be a-doin’ that?”
Up on the second-story veranda, several couples lingered at the rail, staring in her direction. Warmth climbed up her face from the realization of what a spectacle she must have presented to viewers as she hunted under the seats, half in, half out of the coach.
“Perhaps your idea of having Billy pull out everything he finds in here and set it aside for me to look at is a good one,” she acceded.
Billy looked less than thrilled at the prospect, but Morrow seemed relieved to have her out of the coach. He said, “It’s powerful warm and just going to get warmer today. I can testify the rockers on the porch are right comfortable,” he pointed with Inez’s straw hat toward the hotel, “and the hotel’s lemonade is first class.” He held the straw hat out to her, adding, “I’ll find you oncet we get the coach all cleaned out.”
“Thank you,” Inez said with all the dignity she could muster. She took the hat and tied the strings under her chin, hoping no one up on the second story recognized her.
Once she reached the shelter of the hotel, she examined the bottle more closely. It was unmarked, except for the paper label glued to the outside and a ring of wax still clinging to the rim. She tipped the vial this way and that, observing the liquid slide greasily along the inner surface and slowly puddle in one corner. I should stopper it, so as to not lose any. Her hand froze mid-tip. Where was the stopper?
Most likely, the cork had been swept out and into the road by the hem of a long dress or scuffed out by a shoe. A dark mood sifted over her, coloring her thoughts a deep sepia, like a scenic vista obscured by dust.
If something were amiss with the contents, how would I know? Even a skilled physician might not be able to tell. Who am I to think I can bring peace to Mrs. Pace and her children or justice to Mr. Pace if foul play was involved, and that is a sizable “if.”
Perhaps it was the heat that pushed her thoughts into the dark. Indeed, the higher the temperature climbed, the more imprisoned she felt in the narrow Manitou valley, trapped between the foothills before her and the cliffs behind. Lemonade, she decided, would not do. A libation of a more definitive nature was needed.
She rounded the back of the hotel and mounted a wide set of stairs to the lower porch. The manager Epperley—neat in a summer suit, blond hair combed to a near-white silk—was holding the door open for a trio of ladies who were entering in front of Inez. He smiled, teeth gleaming beneath a mustache twisted and waxed to an uncompromising fare-thee-well. “Will you be joining the others in the dining room, Mrs. Stannert?” The sounds of diners at noon meal echoed to the left.
“In a while,” she said evasively, sorely aware that she’d missed breakfast, but having no desire to plunge into what would no doubt be another painful encounter with Aunt Agnes and not yet ready to face her sister after the humiliating reunion with William. Instead she proceeded straight ahead, then turned to the right, seeking a moment’s silence and liquid solace—if discreetly available.
Heading away from the music and dining rooms, she plunged into a hall from which the strong whiff of cigars blended with higher notes of alcohol. She hesitated at a partly closed door, then pushed it open and peered inside. Yes, it was the gentlemen’s parlor, a wood and leather equivalent of the room she had been escorted to the previous night. It was vacant.
She spied a sideboard, with a number of bottles reflecting the subdued light that crept around the heavy velvet curtains over the one window. I’m certain they offer the gentlemen something more than mineral water. She entered the room, nudging the door back to its halfway position. Hurrying to the sideboard, she was gratified to find two bottles of scotch—one a decent brand, the other most definitely top drawer—and crystal glassware. Her hand had just closed on t
he preferred bottle when the parlor door swung open. Startled, she hid the bottle in her skirts and turned to find the manager standing at the entry, eyebrows raised.
“Pardon, Mrs. Stannert, are you lost?” It was a polite inquiry, providing her with an easy way to dissemble and demure.
She recalled the moment of collusion over the brandy the previous evening, the feeling that this Epperley fellow and she understood each other. She made a quick decision to take a chance on the truth.
“Not at all,” she said. “I found what I was looking for.” She displayed the bottle that she’d been concealing. “All I need, Mr. Epperley, is a few moments to prepare a glass, and I will retire to a more seemly location.”
“Ah.” A single syllable, which could have been a question or a statement, said it all. There was no condemnation in his tone, rather approval and understanding.
Still at the threshold, he looked up and down the hall, then added, “Most of our guests are dining at the moment, but there’s always the chance that some gentleman, tiring of the company of wife, daughters, squalling babes, mother-in-law and so on, could appear seeking a moment of solace and a good cigar.” He held the door open wider, and said, “Madam, if you would allow me, I believe I can mix you something that will meet with your approval.”
Inez reluctantly set the bottle aside and followed him out of the room and down the hall. As he walked beside her, he pulled a cigarette from a case, and glanced at her, “Do you mind if I smoke?”
“Not at all.”
He smiled. “Lovely. It’s incumbent upon me to always ask the guests. Some of the ladies can be quite vociferous in their objections.”
