by C. A. Asbrey
That wasn’t too unusual, but it did provoke curiosity. Many poor people had nothing of value to hold onto and couldn’t afford to get photographs done on a routine basis. It was something reserved for major occasions like weddings, or even a momento mori of a loved one before they were buried. Sometimes a picture after death was the only picture of a child at all.
Without other information it was fair to assume Kathleen Williams may have been poor. None of her jewelry was hallmarked which indicated it was probably from the United States. Europeans had hallmarked theirs for a long time, some countries for hundreds of years, but it meant she couldn’t get a date of manufacture. So, the next thing to establish was whether the assumption of poverty was correct, and if so, where was she from? Could she have encountered Cussen before?
She paused on the way to Constance’s room and glanced at the sad scene of Mrs. Williams’s hat on the stand, still complete with the extravagant hatpin Abigail had admired at their first meeting. It was rather beautiful, but it looked like no more than colored glass and base metal formed into a ball. No hallmarks there, either.
Constance’s room yielded little. There were a few billets-doux between her and various local admirers, including Clancy. She had jewelry and one wedding ring with a London hallmark from 1820. As one of the initials was A.W., it seemed this came from her father’s side of the family as her name was Williams. A grandmother perhaps, or an aunt? It all added to Abigail’s list of questions.
She walked back into the lounge, where the sheriff had started on Mr. Williams’s desk. “Find anything?”
“There were a few books with notes. I left those out for you.”
“Where did Mrs. Williams come from before they came here?”
“Back East somewhere.” Gibson rifled through a stack of bills. “Near Boston, I think.”
“Thanks.” She walked over to the stack of books and flicked them open, looking at the inscriptions on the endpapers. There were dedications from each member of the family as a gift for Christmas or birthdays, but one small, black Bible was far more interesting. It was dog-eared and well-used, and the gilded lettering had almost worn off. Abigail opened it and read the now faded copperplate writing, ‘To Kathleen Anne Powell on the occasion of her First Communion, July 1824.’ A scrawled signature sat underneath, but it was indecipherable.
Abigail raised her head. “Was her maiden name Powell?”
“I dunno. I reckon her family will be able to say.”
She snapped the Bible closed and tapped on the spine, deep in thought. “What did you say the gardener’s name was again? Eugene MacGilfoyle?”
“Yeah. That’s him.”
“I think I’ll go speak to him next.” She paused, scrutinizing at the rug. “Has someone moved the furniture in here?”
“I never moved anything.”
“Are you sure?” She tilted her head looking at dents in the carpet. “Have you been in here before? Is the furniture always arranged like this?”
Gibson turned. “A couple of times.” He scanned the room. “Yeah, it looks pretty much like it always does.”
Her brows met. “There are dents on the carpet where there’s no furniture on it.” She cleared the chairs and side tables. “So if the furniture hasn’t been moved, it means the rug has been turned. Those marks match the sofa legs, but they’re on the opposite side of the room. Help me with this settee, please?”
They heaved the heavy couch aside and Abigail’s eyes scrutinized the floor, scanning the patterned rug. She gasped and fell to her knees. “Look!” Her fingers traced out dark brown stains on the heavy Persian pattern. She pulled it up to look at the backing, where the stain was more visible. “I think this might be blood.”
“How can you tell?” Gibson asked.
“I have chemicals in my kit which react to blood. We need to get this rug to Clancy’s so I can test it.”
“What do we tell the family?”
Abigail shrugged. “Evidence? Specialist cleaning? You tell me, but I need this carpet.” She stood, inverting the mat in her mind. “So, if this was the other way around, the stain would be near the door to the private quarters. She knelt once more, crawling along the floor, peering at the wooden floorboards. She squinted in the gaps between the planks. “Is there a magnifying glass on the desk? May I borrow it?”
Gibson handed the brass instrument over and she peered at the floor, one eye appearing giant and distorted by the refraction of the lens. She reached into her hair and pulled out the lock pick she always carried there. She carefully inserted it, picking at a mark, until a flake came loose. “May I have a piece of paper?”
It was handed to her, and she dropped the flake on the page, poking at it and trying to smear it over the surface. Serious brown eyes turned to the lawman. “I think this is dried blood. They’ve tried to clean it, but it’s still there between the floorboards.” She scrambled to her feet. “You need to send those women home for today. I’m going to get my kit to test and determine what it is and what the distribution pattern is. Something happened here.”
♦◊♦
Nat turned and walked wearily back to Clancy’s house, his heart beating like the gavel of an angry judge. Somehow, the wind bit right through his clothing and the way was more treacherous than on the outbound journey. That had been alight with hope, even if it was fragile. He was walking back to nothing, and to make things worse, it was starting to snow again.
Huge feathery flakes drifted from a sky so pregnant with fractals the gray clouds were tinged with a hint of purple. They hung low over the town like a purple-tinged pall. His eyes narrowed at the sight of the approaching figure in a sheepskin coat, masked in swirling snow as a blizzard set in. Nat’s shoulders stiffened and he continued to walk, weaving a wide berth around the approaching man.
“Nat.”
He continued to walk.
“Nat!”
He had now overtaken Jake and was striding ahead.
“Ignatius Ebenezer Dunraven Quinn! You stop and get your ungrateful ass right back here.” Nat stopped dead at his rarely-heard full name. It was a name he had always hated, one which caused ridicule at school, but it still held power. It was the name bellowed in full by his Irish mother in the throes of maternal exasperation, and a name he had disguised since he was four-years old. A heavy hand landed on his shoulder. “We need to talk.”
“Go to hell, Jake. And stop using my real name. Do you want to put me in jail?”
Determined blue eyes confronted Nat. “I needed to get your attention. I know you hate it. You go around bein’ ‘Nat’, but not many know it’s short for Ignatius. They think it’s Nathan or Nathaniel. Does Abi know you got an old man name?”
Nat pulled away. “Does it matter? She’ll never talk to me again.”
Jake’s eyes glittered with contrition. “Nat, I’m sorry. I was every kinda wrong. I’m gonna do whatever I can to put it right.” Nat scowled and made to walk away, but Jake continued, desperation lacing his voice. “Her head was split open. My mind went—well, if it went black, it’d be great, but it was more like fireworks goin’ off. The pictures kept appearin’ over and over like flashes, and they got mixed up with the sight of Mary lying in the street with her brains fallin’ out. I walked about in the snow tryin’ to clear my mind. When I came across you two in the street, I was right back there; in Philly, with a sister lyin’ dead and a family burnin’ to death before my eyes—while you were laughin’. I cracked. I’m sorry, Nat.”
Nat glowered at his uncle under beetled brows. “That’s not an excuse, Jake. This doesn’t only concern me.”
“No. It’s not an excuse. It’s a reason; not a good one, but a reason. It’s still wrong. I’ll do whatever I can to put it right. Just name it.”
“It’s too late.” Nat shrugged off the hand reaching out to him. “She’s finished. It doesn’t matter how sorry you are. She’s not prepared to listen to it. You’ve ruined my life with your tantrum.”
“Nat, I’ll
get her to listen—”
“Wild horses complete with a marching band couldn’t get that woman to listen to you. She ain’t usual. You can hurt anythin’ but her pride, and you pushed her too far.” He turned, walking along the wide main street. “You called her a whore. Her? It’s ridiculous. I’ve never worked so hard for a woman in my life.”
Jake cursed under his breath and stomped after his nephew. He grabbed at his left arm, backing off when Nat whirled around with a raised fist.
Jake raised appeasing hands. “What’ll it take? Name it. Will you forgive me if I can get her to see sense?” Jake stared into the uncompromising dark eyes. “Would it help to punch me in the mouth?”
“It’d help me,” Nat growled, “but it’d confirm to Abi we’re the animals she thinks we are.”
“Then what? What can I do?”
A muscle flickered in Nat’s jaw. “There’s only one thing. Make her understand. If you don’t, I’m gone.”
Jake nodded, his pensive eyes searching for forgiveness. “I’ll do it. I’ll make her understand. Jees, if she forgave me for half-stranglin’ her, she’ll get this. But you, Nat. What about you?”
His eyes closed slowly and the brown gaze dropped to the ground, the lashes spangled with melting snow. “Give me time, Jake. If you can sort this, yeah. If not?” He shook his head. “I don’t know what to tell you.”
Chapter Eighteen
Abigail flexed her fingers as she pulled on her leather gloves. She gazed out at the swirling snowstorm with dismay, but she had to get her kit from Clancy’s if she was to establish what had gone on in the living room of the private quarters.
The desk clerk arched his brows. “You aren’t going out in that, are you?”
“I have to.” Her dark eyes scanned the arctic wasteland with growing reluctance. “It can’t really wait.”
“If I was you I’d leave it,” Sheriff Gibson said. “I ain’t goin’ out in it unless there’s a murder.”
“There has been a murder. A man was dumped in the church hall.” She paused, peering out at the gathering tempest, and sighed. “I suppose I could speak to the staff. Is Eugene MacGilfoyle around?”
“He’ll be in his workshop,” the clerk answered. “He does a lot of woodwork in the winter. He’s turning spindles to make chairs. Go through the kitchen and head left. Walk right to the end of the stables and there’s a long shack painted dark green. That’s his place. You’ll see the smoke. He’s got a potbellied stove in there to keep warm.”
She left the warmth of the hotel and struggled through the snow, the chilled wind robbing her of her breath and beating her back with swarming flakes of ice which chipped into her flesh with biting cold. The storm had almost become a whiteout, but she could make out the edge of a building through the speckled tempest blurring her vision. Her right arm stretched out, feeling her way along the barn until she reached the end. She gasped at the frigid wall of cold air blasting around the corner, but fought on, her coat and skirts flapping angrily behind her.
Her hand fell onto a wall, the horizontal wooden slats feeling furrowed beneath her fingers. Abigail felt along, hand over hand, blinded by the driving wind and snow until she reached a door jamb. Her gloved hands groped the door for a handle, reaching a knob which she rattled and turned, bursting into the building without knocking. She gulped for air and shook off the confusion of the storm which swarmed around her until she leaned against the door and closed it behind her. When she pulled the snood from her head and looked around, all eyes were on the woman who had made such a dramatic entrance. A wiry man with sandy hair watched her with wry amusement. When he spoke it was in the sing-song brogue of the Irish.
“You’re in the wrong place, missy. This is an outbuilding.” He pointed. “The hotel is thataway. Maybe young Tom could help you over there?”
The boy stood, happy to oblige. She smiled, hoping he didn’t recognize her from their conversation at the bank. “No, I’m looking for Eugene. Are you him?”
He frowned. “Yes, miss.”
She turned to the burly, balding man in the corner. “Would you be Otto Schuster?”
The man stood, eyebrows like steel wire meshing together in curiosity. “How’d you know?”
“Jethro Walters told me you three handymen hung around together.”
“Jethro?” MacGilfoyle’s brow creased in surprise. “Walters has been holding out on us. Where would he get to speak to a lovely young woman like you?”
“My name is Abigail MacKay and I’m a Pinkerton Agent, Mr. MacGilfoyle. In fairness to him I had adopted a role, and he didn’t know who he was talking to.” She suddenly detected a new chill in the air which had nothing to do with the weather. “I’m looking into a murder. A Mr. Lymen Cussen, who was dumped in the church hall.”
“What has this to do with any of us?” demanded Shuster.
Abigail scanned the men in the room. “Och, now, don’t let’s waste time playing coy. Jethro will have told you he had to change his beloved fur-trimmed coat because we recognized it. He led us to the bonfire where you drink and talk. Would I be correct in thinking your meeting around the fire is really a séibín, Mr. MacGilfoyle?”
“You speak Irish?” MacGilfoyle demanded.
“What’s a séibín?” asked Schuster.
“I’m Scottish and a Gael if it answers your question, Mr. MacGilfoyle. The languages are related, so I think we understand one another. And a séibín is a drinking den, Mr. Schuster. People build their own still and sell alcohol informally.” She walked in and sat on a barrel warming her hands on the stove. “I’m not interested in any way in your social arrangements, I assure you. It’s no concern of mine if you brew your own moonshine. I’m here because a man was killed and his clothes were found on your bonfire.”
“Well, that could’ve been anyone,” MacGilfoyle said. “It’s a public place.”
“Technically, it’s not. It actually belongs to the hotel, and you are rather particular about who trespasses here. They have to pay for the drink you make, don’t they? We brought these stills from the Old Country where we avoided the tax.”
MacGilfoyle scowled. “How did you know about that?”
“I didn’t. I guessed from long experience.” She tilted her head. “But you just confirmed it.”
“It doesn’t matter. Anyone could’ve dumped them clothes on the fire before I saw. It doesn’t mean a thing.”
Abigail nodded. “Indeed. I actually wondered if you’d seen anyone, but you jumped straight into being defensive.”
MacGilfoyle placed his hands on his hips. “I’ve got a long legacy of dealing with the Brits and their laws.”
“I’m sure, Mr. MacGilfoyle. However, we are all Americans here now, regardless of our accents. I’m not after you. I’m simply trying to answer the questions the man’s family will ask. I agree. Anyone could have dumped those clothes there. Can I take it from your answers you didn’t see anyone?”
“No, ma’am. We didn’t.” Schuster said. “We really didn’t. I’ll swear on a stack of Bibles, ma’am.”
“Thank you. That’s really what I came here to find out.”
“That’s it?”
“Yes, Mr. MacGilfoyle.” She fixed him with curious eyes. “What else would I be here to find out?”
“I dunno. How am I supposed to know?”
She stood and walked over to the ornate wood in the lathe. “Beautiful workmanship, Mr. MacGilfoyle. You are skilled. My father used to work wood for fun, but it was nothing like this.”
“Thank you. What does your father do?”
A smile played around her lips. “He was a distiller. Maybe I could give you a few tips for that still of yours?”
“Was?” MacGilfoyle tilted his head sympathetically. “I expect that’s why you have to work? My sympathies.”
“Sort of,” she answered. “He was murdered, and the authorities weren’t working hard enough on his case. Alan Pinkerton found my meddling in the investigation easier to control when he
employed me. I now try to bring the comfort of resolution other bereaved families.” She fixed MacGilfoyle with an intense stare. “It’s not so unfeminine to want to bring comfort, you know.”
MacGilfoyle’s rugged features softened. “I’m sorry for your troubles, Miss McKay.”
“And for yours, Mr. MacGilfoyle.”
His brows rose. “Mine?”
“Your mistress has died, hasn’t she? I understand you and she got on well. It must be a sad time for you?”
“It’s a sad time for the whole hotel. She was a good woman, and well thought of by everyone. She gave everything she could to help others. There aren’t many left like her.”
“So I understand. Her daughter is distraught. It’s a terrible business.”
“It is, indeed.” MacGilfoyle nodded. “A terrible accident. Her husband blames himself for leaving it there.”
“Yes, it’s terribly sad.” Abigail examined the Irishman. “How tall are you, Mr. MacGilfoyle? Five-foot-eight?”
“Five-seven-and-a-half. What does that have to do with anything?”
“And you, Mr. Schuster? What height are you.”
“I’m five-six? Why?”
“Nothing for you to worry about,” Abigail answered. “I’m eliminating some things from the enquiry. Tommy? How tall are you?”
The boy frowned. “I ain’t reached my full height yet, but I’m five-six. I reckon I’ll be at least as tall as my pa when I finish growin’.”
She ran a long finger across the grooves and gouges of the spindle. “How well did you know her? How long have you been in Pettigo?” She looked at both men in turn, making it clear she wanted to both to reply.
“Me?” Schuster shrugged. “I’ve been here fifteen years now. I only knew Mrs. Williams to tip my hat to. She looked like a nice enough lady, but she didn’t mix with the likes of me.”
“Were you born in the United States, Mr. Schuster?”
“Bavaria,” he answered. “My folks came when I was little.”
“Through which port?”
