Frail Blood

by Jo Robertson

  "No."

  "She can help you," Knight cajoled.

  Malachi snorted in disbelief. "I doubt that."

  "Although my niece has much to learn, she has a fine and curious mind. She had experience in journalism at Wellesley. Well, a little," he admitted with a smile. "But she's very good at engaging people in conversation. If there's any information you want to know about someone, she can wrangle that information out of them. She's damned good at that."

  Malachi began shaking his head.

  "Don't decide out of hand. Think about it," Knight urgede. "Please." He paused before adding, "Consider that you'd be hiring me, rather than my niece."

  Malachi jammed his fists in his trouser pockets. "I won't change my mind."

  Knight's voice took on a conspiratorial tone as he glanced around him. "I am acquainted with a great number of people – important people – and possess a prodigious amount of resources. It's no small thing to have a man like me in your debt."

  Malachi's eyes narrowed even as he worked to control the smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He had to admire the man's perspicacity. "That sounds very much like a bribe to an officer of the court, Stephen. For your sake, I hope it isn't."

  Knight chuckled. "By God, I like you, young man." He clamped Malachi hard on the shoulder, shook his head, and walked away, still laughing.

  Chapter 4

  "The first thing we do, let's kill all the lawyers." – Henry the Sixth, Part 2

  Malachi took a long route back to the courthouse. He headed across the street, down by Mary Belle's Tearoom, around the corner, and up the gently sloping hill toward several merchant shops whose store fronts were now dark.

  Around the next bend were the offices of The Placer Gazette. He paused at the window, mulling over Stephen Knight's odd request. No benefit lay in working with Emma Knight. On the contrary, she presented a world of potential disaster.

  Through the wide window, the front of the newspaper office was dark and empty, but he made out a dim light at the rear. He'd just turned to start back up the hill to the courthouse where he'd hitched his horse Blaze when he spied Emma Knight exit from the back room, her arms laden with a stack of newsprint. Dirt smudged her nose and cheek and the scraggly strands of her auburn hair struggled to escape their knot.

  Desiring nothing less than another encounter with a Knight family member, Malachi hesitated, wanting to duck back around the corner, but those too quick, brown eyes locked with his through the dusty pane.

  Too late.

  He inclined his head in acknowledgement, but knew he'd be well off if she returned to the back room without further engagement. However, as if weighing a momentous decision, she hesitated a moment before she gestured with a regal wave that he should come in. There was nothing for it but to bid her beckoning and face the inevitable sparring.

  A tiny bell jangled as he entered and Malachi took the initiative by speaking first. "Miss Knight, you're working late. Is that the usual schedule of a newspaper woman?"

  He braced himself against the long wooden counter where she'd dumped the papers and behind which she stood, arms crossed over her chest. She looked sharply at him as if wondering whether he joked, then apparently decided he did not.

  "As a new owner, I have much to do." She waved helplessly around the disordered room. "Nothing a brisk cleaning won't fix, however."

  "Several sisters among the Strickland family would welcome the work," Malachi suggested, knowing this particular family could make good use of the extra income.

  Surprise registered in her voice. "Why, thank you."

  Several awkward moments passed after which both spoke simultaneously.

  "Were you leaving now?" he asked.

  "Are you going home?" she said and then laughed a musical sound like the sweet high tones of a bell.

  "Yes," he answered. "Trial work to prepare."

  She nodded seriously. "Alma Bentley. Poor woman."

  He smiled wryly. "Because she's accused of murder or because she has me, a mere man, for representation?"

  She had the grace to look chagrined. "I misspoke earlier." Again, he felt it cost her some pride to make the admission. She hesitated, then ploughed on. "I suppose I should formally issue that invitation to dine with us tomorrow evening."

  "No obligation," he said. "I know my way around a kitchen and am quite capable of preparing my own supper."

  "Uncle Stephen insists." She shrugged her slender shoulders. "And you must eat at any rate."

  He wondered if she realized how graceless the comment sounded. "In that case, I'd be delighted to sup with you."

  She frowned, a tiny line drawing her brow down as if she suspected he'd somehow outmaneuvered her.

  With a smile and a tip of his hat, he left, ambling toward his horse and feeling partially redeemed. He might rather enjoy verbal dueling with the eminently flappable Miss Knight.

  #

  "Is that the murder weapon?" Emma whispered to Mr. Spencer, nodding toward the evidence table. Today the courtroom was jammed. The notoriety of yesterday's events had spread like wildfire and drawn even more curiosity seekers.

  "Not until someone proves it," Spencer snorted. The Sacramento Union reporter turned to gaze at her, evidently liking what he saw, for he clarified more amiably. "You see, the pistol was found near the body, but who's to say it belongs to Miss Bentley?"

  "But she admitted her guilt," Emma protested.

  "That's the trouble you see," Spencer explained. "The defendant said she did it, but she pled 'not guilty.' She could have been mad with grief and confessed out of her confusion."

  "I see," Emma said, not seeing at all.

  She hardly thought Mr. Spencer's logic made a great deal of sense. Joseph was dead. Alma was found in the woods near his home. She confessed to the deed. Emma stared at the back of Mr. Rivers' head. Was his plan to claim Alma was insane?

  Almost as if he'd felt her eyes on him, Mr. Rivers turned around as Mr. Spencer leaned closer to Emma. Too close for propriety, she thought and shifted slightly to her left.

  "If they connect the weapon to her," Mr. Spencer continued and pressed his arm against hers, "that makes the confession more valid, d'you see?"

  Emma dropped her notebook and, while Mr. Spencer fetched it from the floor, she moved even farther away. Mr. Rivers lifted one brow. She widened her eyes and tilted her head in silent question. An amused expression played around Mr. Rivers' lips although Emma saw nothing humorous in the situation.

  The audience had buzzed with salacious curiosity at the sight of the weapon, but after the initial flurry, no further drama occurred for several tedious hours. Mr. Fulton continued to pontificate. Mr. Rivers continued to lounge rather lazily next to his client. The magistrate continued to chomp on a sodden-tipped cigar and peer over his spectacles at the primaries as if they would at any moment commit a court infraction.

  And Emma continued to twist her pencil idly in her fingers.

  By noon Charles Fulton had called three additional persons to malign the character of Alma Bentley. Emma was sure some of Mr. Fulton's questions required at least a feeble protest from Mr. Rivers. But no, he'd remained seated throughout.

  From time to time he jotted notes on a yellow pad, patted his client's hand reassuringly, and ever so often glanced at Emma. She made a point of glaring back at him to show her disapproval of his lackadaisical tactics.

  Right before the midday break, Mr. Fulton called Nathan Butler, the Bigler County Sheriff, to testify. Mr. Fulton picked up the firearm from the evidence table.

  Emma felt a chill creep into her marrow. This object dangling carelessly from his hand must be the murder weapon! The short-barreled, small pistol appeared to her untutored eyes just the kind of weapon a woman would use to commit murder.

  Sheriff Butler quickly testified that he'd discovered the pistol lying on the Machado kitchen floor several feet from the victim's body, that it had been fired, and that the bullets recovered from the body belonged to the pist
ol. Then he stepped down from the stand. An expectant hum ran through the gallery.

  Mr. Spencer touched Emma's forearm and winked at her. "But does the pistol belong to Alma Bentley?"

  Exactly, thought Emma. And why the devil doesn't Mr. Rivers object or cross-examine Sheriff Butler? But he didn't.

  Judge Underwood glowered at Mr. Rivers.

  A hush descended on the courtroom as Mr. Fulton turned to the bench. "Your Honor, I'd like to call one last witness before we adjourn."

  The judge eyed his pocket watch. "Be brief, Mr. District Attorney. I become disgruntled over any delay to my noon meal."

  Emma saw Mr. Rivers begin to rise, but apparently he changed his mind and sank back into his chair. Alma looked as if she'd burst into tears at any moment, and he whispered something in her ear. Over the arm that he rested on the back of Alma's chair, Mr. Rivers caught Emma's eye. For the first time, she detected a hint of worry on his face.

  The prosecutor then called Jeremiah Woods, a Placer Hills gunsmith. After being sworn in and stating his name and occupation, the witness sat down with an air of officiousness that suggested he might have something significant to say.

  Mr. Fulton brandished the pistol just identified as the murder weapon. "Mr. Woods, would you please tell the court what I hold in my hand?"

  The gunsmith reached for the pistol. "This is a firearm, sir, specifically a Philadelphia Deringer."

  "And where is this type of Deringer currently produced?"

  The gunsmith's round, baby-cheeked face flushed with importance. "Nowhere. Henry Deringer stopped production of this design back in '68."

  A specious look of surprise crept across Mr. Fulton's face. Of course, he'd known the answer long before he asked the question, Emma realized.

  "Really? No longer produced?" Mr. Fulton said. "Well, then, for how long did Mr. Deringer produce this pistol?"

  "From '52 to '68."

  "How can you be so sure he ceased production in 1868?"

  The man blinked nearly lashless eyes and raised sparse brows to meet a receding hairline. "Why, Mr. Henry Deringer died that year. Yessir, died in 1868, he did."

  "And this particular weapon was no longer made?"

  "No sir," Woods answered emphatically.

  "Thank you, Mr. Woods. Now, please examine the weapon."

  Fulton leaned against the railing while Mr. Woods turned the pistol over in his wide hands, peering down the barrel and sliding his broad thumbs over the walnut stock for long minutes.

  "Can you identify the owner of this weapon?" Fulton asked.

  Emma held her breath. Mr. Woods couldn't possibly identify a single firearm from among dozens made over a sixteen-year period. And surely Mr. Rivers would object at last.

  "That I can, sir," Woods answered decisively. "This pistol belonged to Mr. John Bentley."

  A clamor went up from the gallery while Judge Underwood hammered his gavel with the intensity of a Sousa percussionist. Gradually the noise subsided and the judge scowled at the defense. Emma willed Mr. Rivers to rise and object to ... something, anything.

  But he remained as mute and unmoving as a lump of coal.

  After a moment or two Underwood growled, "Continue."

  Mr. Fulton cleared his throat and waited for absolute silence. Emma's pencil broke in her fingers.

  "Many such pistols must be in existence, Mr. Woods," the prosecutor said at last. "How can you be positive that this particular firearm belonged to John Bentley?"

  "See this nick on the stock?" Woods pointed to a scratch mark on the walnut handle near the finger guard. "John Bentley complained like a whoreson about that tiny scratch!"

  A muffle of nervous laughter trickled through the room. Underwood frowned at the audience, but didn't pound his gavel.

  Mr. Fulton allowed the information to sink in before continuing. "When did you sell this Deringer to Mr. Bentley?"

  Woods scratched his head and thought a moment. "Uh, probably back in '75 or '76, give or take."

  "What happened to the weapon when Mr. Bentley died?"

  "Oh, don't know as I can rightly say," Woods answered slowly, clearly drawing out the notoriety the trial afforded him. "Lemme see. John passed 'bout ten years ago, guess his property would've gone to his wife Jenny."

  "And did Jenny and John Bentley have a daughter?"

  Judge Underwood aimed a scathing look at the defense.

  "Sure did. I met her once or twice," Woods said.

  Emma clamped down hard on her lower lip and wanted nothing more than to shake Malachi Rivers senseless.

  "A tiny little thing she was, about twelve, thirteen when John died. She's sittin' right over there." Woods pointed his thick finger at Alma Bentley, whose shoulders suddenly sagged under the accusatory weight of the man's declaration.

  Nearly ten minutes passed before the clamor of the crowd settled to a manageable din.

  Fulton continued his questioning of the gunsmith, until at precisely half past noon, the judge thumped his gavel on the podium right in the middle of an incipient remark by the district attorney.

  "Court's adjourned for the weekend," Underwood growled, hammering his gavel with a resounding assault as though the day's occurrences were a personal affront to the court. "We'll resume Monday morning at nine o'clock."

  The prosecutor protested half-heartedly, but Emma knew it didn't matter. Mr. Fulton had won. His smirk clearly demonstrated his satisfaction with today's victory. Streetman rose and dismissed the court. The damage of Woods' testimony was absolute.

  Sheriff Butler had identified the Deringer as the murder weapon, and now Mr. Fulton had tied the pistol inextricably to Alma Bentley's father – and by extension, to Alma herself.

  The argument was thin. Any number of persons could have acquired the gun from Jenny Bentley during the last ten years. But Emma had scanned the faces of the jurors during the last few minutes, and she had no doubt the gentlemen had convicted Alma already in their hearts.

  Chapter 5

  Though this be madness, yet there is method in't." – Hamlet

  Hurriedly descending the courtroom steps, Emma fairly ran down the stairs to the grassy lawn. She had intended to write about Mr. Rivers, the contrast between defendant and defender, but now that seemed insignificant.

  After the day's testimony it was imperative to run an article about Alma herself, something poignant about the woman, with her rude-looking clothes and frayed bonnet. Something to wrench the hearts of her readers and foster community sympathy for the poor woman. In spite of her confession.

  In spite of her guilt.

  Emma didn't question her change of heart toward the defendant. Her contention had never been with Alma herself, a poor, desperate creature caught up in her own passion. Her argument was with the method of Alma's defense.

  She believed the woman must stand accountable for her actions however wrenching her situation. She must not be exonerated simply because she was a woman. But Emma also wished to demonstrate that the defendant was someone who should garner the jurors' compassion.

  So intent was she on rushing back to The Gazette office that she failed at first to heed the voice behind her.

  "Miss Knight, wait!"

  She turned to witness Mr. Rivers pursuing her with long-legged strides, his hair ruffling in the mild breeze. Really, why didn't the man simply wear a hat? He flaunted his uncovered head as carelessly as a working-class man.

  Unconsciously she tugged at her own tendrils escaping from their usual tidy knot. The stark contrast between her own reddish curls and Mr. River's dark, ferocious mane startled her. She didn't recognize the embryonic stirring of attraction as an unexpected shiver ran through her.

  Good grief! She shook herself mentally.

  "What do you want, Mr. Rivers?" she asked when he was close enough to hear her.

  An amused look flitted across his lips, drawing her attention to his mouth and causing another sting of emotion unfamiliar to her.

  "Perhaps it is I who can help you, M
iss Knight."

  She stiffened. "I hardly think so."

  He raked a thick strand of hair out of his eyes. "Let's speak in your office," he answered, giving her no option to refuse. Tucking her arm through his, he escorted her in silence the remaining blocks to The Gazette.

  Inside, away from the wind, he smoothed his fingers through his unruly hair. Her eyes followed his gesture, the large, powerful hands intriguing. She blinked slowly.

  Goodness, when had she developed a hair fetish?

  "You apparently find the cut of my hair fascinating, Miss Knight," Malachi said wryly. "Perhaps you would like the name of my barber?"

  "Why don't you simply wear a hat?" she groused, feeling provoked. No doubt he'd noticed each girlish glance she'd darted his way.

  He grinned in answer. "Because I enjoy the unexpected disturbance of the wind in my hair and on my face," he answered candidly. "It makes me feel alive."

  "How silly," she rejoined.

  "If you say so." He shrugged. "Would you like my barber's name then?"

  "Don't be ridiculous. I have a perfectly excellent hair dresser." Removing her gloves and broad-brimmed hat, she positioned herself behind the counter – a safe barrier – before she smiled sweetly. "Besides, I'm sure such a short cut on a woman would set our small community on its ear."

  He laughed heartily. "Touché, Miss Knight! I expect Placer Hills is too backward yet for any fashion change you intend to report in your newspaper."

  His eyes traveled over the latest design of her fitted-bodice suit and shirt-waist. His meaning was clear – that she was concerned with little besides boots, skirts, and hats.

  She frowned. "On the contrary, I'm far more interested in serious issues than the frivolity of women's clothing."

  And yet, wasn't that exactly the piece she'd originally intended to write – one about Alma's poor attire and ill-fitting boots in contrast with Malachi's immaculate sartorial makeup?

  Except for the lack of hat wearing, of course. For a moment she felt ashamed.