Innocent as Sin

by C. A. Asbrey

  “Baltimore.”

  “And you, Tommy?” She turned to the boy. “Where did you come from?”

  “New York. We came from Tipperary when I was two. I don’t remember it.”

  “Why’re you askin’ him?” MacGilfoyle demanded.

  “I’m trying to include everyone,” Abigail said. “What brought you to Pettigo?”

  “I worked on an estate back on the old country. I’m a trained gardener. I served my time there and specialized in roses. Mrs. Williams advertised for a proper gardener, and I was what she wanted. I’ve been here ever since. It’s got to be, oh, ten or more years now. What do you say, Tommy?”

  “About ten-and-a-half, I reckon. I was nearly seven, pa.”

  “What newspaper did she advertise in?”

  “I can’t remember. It was in San Francisco. I was working there for about two years before I came here, for a company who maintained the private squares. I left with great references. Ponderdine and Sons. You can check. There were more chances for an Irishman out West, so I headed there almost straight off.”

  “Did you know Lymen Cussen? He came from San Francisco?”

  “Me?” snorted MacGilfoyle. “The whole hotel is talkin’ about him, but that’s all I know of him. How would an Irish gardener know a protestant banker? I didn’t even go to the same church. I’m Catholic. No, Miss MacKay. I don’t know him and never did. I’ll swear it on a stack of Bibles if it makes you happy.” He placed his hand over his heart. “Bring a priest. I swear I never met the man the whole time he walked on God’s good earth, ma’am. May the Good Lord strike me dead on the spot if I say a word of a lie.”

  “I see.” she paused. “Can you tell me where you were on the night of the eighteenth of December and the day of the nineteenth?”

  MacGilfoyle snorted. “Here. What exactly I was doing I can’t say as one day runs into another, but I was here or hereabouts on hotel business. I’m only ever here. So’s Tommy.”

  “And you, Mr. Schuster?”

  Schuster played pensively with his handlebar moustache. “I honestly don’t know. I’ll work as night porter here at the beginning of the week. You know the type of thing: watch the desk in case anything happens. On top of that, I work at the saloon three nights a week. What day was it?”

  “The eighteenth was a Saturday. The nineteenth was a Sunday,” she answered.

  “Saturday I work until about two in the mornin’ in the bar,” Schuster replied. “On Sunday, I don’t do nuthin’. I maybe have dinner out if’n I fancy it. I can’t remember.”

  Abigail chewed her lip as she processed the information. “Thank you, gentlemen. You’ve been helpful.”

  “We have?” MacGilfoyle grinned. “I didn’t think we’d told you anything.”

  A smile tugged at her mouth, not reaching into her eyes. “All the little details build to the truth. One more thing, Mr. MacGilfoyle. Are you familiar with sloinneadh?”

  He frowned. “Of course I am. What does it have to do with anything?”

  “What?” Schuster asked.

  “It’s the Gaelic way of identifying your lineage from father to son. For instance, you may have several John MacDonalds as it’s a common name, Mr. Schuster, but they will all have different sloinneadh; a different father, a different grandfather, great-grandfather, and so on. It’s your unique identity. It’s who you are connected to, and who is connected to you. As the names are translated from the Gaelic, they can also be spelled differently in English. Our people can tell exactly who you are, and your lineage, right back to medieval times or before.”

  “So?”

  “MacGilfoyle. There are a few English versions of that name aren’t there? Mac Gilla Phoil? Sons of the followers of Saint Paul. There are many spellings and versions. Why did you choose yours?”

  “Choose it? We have English names and our Gaelic names. You know that. I spell it the way I was taught. Why do you spell yours the way you do?”

  “It’s the accepted way for us to spell it in English in my family. We all spell ours the same.” She persisted. “Do any of your family spell your name differently, Mr. MacGilfoyle?”

  He frowned. “Tommy spells it the way I do. He’s all I’ve got but for a few distant relatives back home.”

  “It’s originally Welsh, isn’t it?”

  “Some say it was, way back about the eleventh century.” MacGilfoyle raised one brow. “I’m an Irishman in blood and bone, miss. I’ll never be anything else.” He grinned. “I couldn’t. I can’t do any other accent.”

  “I’m sure you are, sir.” She nodded and pulled her snood back over her head and walked to the door. “Thank you, gentlemen. I’ll leave you to your work. I’m sorry to take up your time.”

  ♦◊♦

  Jake’s foot rattled back and forth in impatience. He’d been waiting all day for Abigail to get back from wherever she had gone for hours. The need to talk to her burned a hole in his heart. The house was silent. Mrs. France had been escorted home because of the storm, Clancy was on his rounds, and the top of Nat’s head was obstinately on show as he played wordless solitaire at the table. The flick of the cards crowded the thick silence with an irritating thrum, broken only by the crackling fire and the clock marking off the sluggish passing of time. Jake stood and walked over to the window.

  The snow was getting heavier and the wind whipped it into a blinding dance of dazzling white. A dark figure struggled against the wind, leaning forward, and encrusted in ice. The man was mottled in snow as the gale whipped at his scarf and slammed the gate against the picket fence. The path was treacherous and he slithered over the steps until out of sight and a key was heard rattling in the lock.

  “Hello!” Clancy banged the snow from his boots and shook off his coat. “I’m back. Who’s here?”

  “Good, I was worried about you.” Jake wandered out into the hall. “I escorted Mrs. France home. This weather was getting so bad I was worried about her getting stuck here. She left us a pie and full instruction on how to cook everythin’. Real full instructions. She seems to think we’re idiots.”

  “That’s how men in the kitchen seem to her.” Clancy grinned. “Thanks for that. She’d find it hard to walk at all now. What about Nat and Abi?”

  “Nat’s here. I’ve no idea where Abi is.”

  Clancy frowned and blew in his hands, heading for the fire. “Hmm. I hope she’s okay. Don’t you know where she went?”

  Nat didn’t even look up from his game. “She was heading to the hotel this morning. I haven’t seen her since.”

  “Didn’t you want to go with her?” asked Clancy.

  “I sure did, but she was most particular about doing this on her own.” Nat gathered his cards back into a pack and shuffled them. He frowned at Jake and looked back at the cards. “Most particular.”

  “She’s still upset?” Steam drifted from the seat of Clancy’s pants as he dried out by the fire. “I thought you were going to speak to her, Jake.”

  Nat banged his cards on the table and glared at his uncle. “You told him?”

  “Yeah, he guessed. He deserved an explanation. This is his house.”

  Nat gaped in disbelief. “Everything? You told him everything?”

  “No. Not everything,” Jake snapped. “He’s got a way of drawin’ a man out.”

  Clancy glanced from one to the other in confusion. “What didn’t you tell me?”

  Nat glowered at Jake, challenging him to disclose exactly what had gone on. “Yeah, what?”

  Jake dropped his head. “I called Abi a whore.”

  Clancy’s brows arched. “You did? Hmmm… That’s harsh. You called her that for laughing?”

  “They were havin’ a snowball fight,” Jake said, as though it explained everything. “I know how bad it is, you don’t need to tell me. I’ve been waiting to apologize all day.”

  “Good luck with that,” growled Nat. “She’s not talking to either of us.” He stood. “I’ll get you some coffee, Doc. You must be freezing.�
��

  “Thanks, I am. Mrs. Hamilton’s baby came at last. I can’t tell you how relieved I am I can relax and not worry about getting out to her place for a delivery in this.”

  A loud thumping at the door cut off their conversation. Nat turned to answer it, the blizzard following Sheriff Gibson in with an angry flurry until the door was slammed shut. “Phew! It’s fierce out there.”

  “Coffee?” Nat walked over to the kitchen door. “I’m getting some for Clancy.”

  “I ain’t stayin’. I’m on my way home.” Ben flapped his hat to remove the melting ice which had begun guttering down his neck. “I came to tell you Miss MacKay’s at the hotel. She’s gonna stay there and sleep on the floor. I offered to help her back here, but she said she still had too much to do and it’ll save her fightin’ her way back in the mornin’.”

  “She ain’t comin’ back?”

  Gibson smiled at Jake’s concern. “She’s fine. She’s bein’ well-looked after. You don’t have to worry about her.”

  “Yeah, I do. One of their guests was murdered.”

  “Oh, you heard about that? It looks like he was done in right in the Williamses’ livin’ room. She wants me to bring her bag of kit first thing in the mornin’. There’s blood between the floorboards and on the carpet. Someone hid it by turnin’ it so it was under the sofa.”

  “Blood?” Jake’s jaw dropped open. “No. I didn’t know that. Forget the kit, Ben. I’ll take it to her now. I’m goin’.”

  Clancy watched him pull on his boots. “You can’t go out in this.”

  “Why not? You just did.”

  “It was life or death.”

  Jake turned simmering eyes on the doctor. “So is this. There’s a murderer on the loose, and she’s diggin’ him out.”

  “I wouldn’t have left her if I thought it was dangerous,” Gibson said. “She’s fine.”

  Jake thrust his arm into his coat. “I know you wouldn’t, but that woman has a way of findin’ trouble wherever she goes. She could find a shark in a bathtub.”

  He wound a scarf around his neck and mouth, closing his sheepskin coat up to the neck and opened the door. “Don’t wait up, Doc. I have no idea when I’ll be back.”

  ♦◊♦

  The clerk hung a sign on the handles of the lounge door bearing the legend ‘private’ in gold lettering. “Here you go, Miss MacKay. The guests will have to use the dining room to socialize. This will be reserved especially for you. It’s no hardship. They’ve used it all day and most are turning in themselves, now.”

  She looked around the lounge, and more particularly at one of the sofas already made with blankets and pillows for her. “Thank you. It looks cozy.”

  “I’ve sent for hot chocolate for you too.” The clerk smiled. “Now, about nightclothes—”

  “Oh, there’s no need Mr. Nash. I won’t be wearing any.” He flushed bright red as she hurriedly continued. “I mean I won’t be undressing at all. This is like camping, or a nap in the middle of the day.”

  He shrugged. “If you say so. I don’t mind trying to borrow something from one of the maids for you.”

  “There’s really no need to make a fuss, Mr. Nash. I’m quite used to roughing it. This is positively luxurious compared to what I’m used to.”

  “There’s no need to be so formal. We’re all working here after all. Everyone calls me Dick.”

  She arched one brow. “They do? That’s mean of them.”

  “No, my name is Richard. It’s Dick for short.”

  “Oh, I see.” Abigail walked over to the fire to hide her smile. “Thank you, Dick. You have been helpful.”

  A knock at the door brought a maid with the promised hot chocolate. The clerk took it and placed it on the side table next to the sofa. “There you go. May I presume to call you Abigail?”

  “If you like. If it helps you to tell me everything you know about Lymen Cussen.”

  “Me? All I did was check him in and out like any other guest. I don’t remember anything about him. If he left on a Sunday I wouldn’t have seen him at all. Mr. Williams does Sundays.”

  Abigail lifted her chocolate as he sidled onto the sofa beside her. “You work right in front of the private quarters. Don’t you remember any fuss or disagreements?”

  “I can’t say I do.”

  She sipped at the delicious concoction. “Do many guests at the hotel visit the owners in their rooms?”

  “Not many.” Abigail’s eyes slid sideways to watch him stretch out an arm and drape it along the back of the sofa behind her. “It’s mostly local people who come to see them.”

  “And Lymen Cussen wasn’t one of them?”

  “Not that I remember. I can’t even remember him leaving, but he must have.”

  “Do you work on Saturdays?” she asked.

  “Eight until eight. Monday to Saturday.” He leaned in. “Do you ever get lonely doing this work?”

  “Chance would be a fine thing.” She stood, warming herself in front of the fire. “So you didn’t see Mr. Cussen go back there at all,

  Nash stood. “You know I didn’t. I’d have told you.”

  Abigail’s brow creased. “I know nothing of the sort, Mr. Nash. Our acquaintance is short.”

  “You could get to know me better. And I told you to call me Dick.”

  “Mr. Nash, you are in great danger of being called any number of things. Can we keep this relationship on a purely professional standing, please? Mr. Williams deals with guests?”

  “Yes. Every Sunday. Not that it’s busy on a Sunday. There’s only one train in and out. It’s dead.”

  “What about evenings. Who covers nights?”

  “That’d be either Tommy MacGilfoyle or Otto Schuster. They have a camp bed behind the desk. They share it. There isn’t much to do at night other than give a few people their keys or messages.”

  Abigail paced. “Thank you, Mr. Nash. You’ve been helpful.”

  “Don’t you want me to stay and keep you company?”

  She turned to the rotund little man with a thick dark brows meeting in the middle. “No, thank you, Mr. Nash. You have been most kind, but I must insist you leave now. I really must get some rest.”

  The desk clerk’s face fell. “If you insist.”

  “I do.” She crossed over and opened the door. “I insist most strongly. Good evening, and thanks for the bedding and chocolate. That was thoughtful of you.”

  He nodded silently and stalked from the room. “Just let me know if you need anything.”

  “You’ll be in bed. It’s after your finishing time. You told me you finish at eight. I wouldn’t dream of bothering you. Sleep well, Mr. Nash.”

  His brows peered in through the gap in the door as she pushed it closed. Her fingers felt around the handle and she grimaced at the discovery there was no lock. She turned back to the fire and what was left of her chocolate, rubbing her temples. She was tired. She hadn’t slept well after Jake’s comments yesterday. She was ready for a deep sleep and was extremely grateful for the hiatus away from Clancy’s house. The storm had been perfectly timed. If she could just find some of that calm everyone said came after it, she might get some sleep.

  ♦◊♦

  Jake practically fell through the door to the hotel. His body was encrusted with ice and snow from head to foot. The walk from the doctor’s house generally took about twenty minutes, but it had taken over an hour, and Jake was a fit, muscular man. It would have been dangerous for anyone less prepared to be out in that blizzard. Jake shook the pile of snow from his hat and stripped off his coat and scarf, scattering frozen chunks over the large, woven rope mat which served to take the worst of the debris from the public as they entered the building.

  The blue eyes scanned the dimly lit reception area. The desk was empty and there was nobody to be seen, so he strode over to the desk and whacked the button on top of the butler bell enough times to vent a little of his excess adrenaline and sprinkle glistening spots of melting snow on the counter. The boy
he’d seen talking to Abigail in the bank wandered out from the kitchen. “Can I help you, mister? We ain’t got no rooms, but I can let you wait out the storm in reception. We wouldn’t send a dog out in this weather. ”

  “Tommy? You’re the handyman’s son?”

  “Yeah, I’m Tommy MacGilfoyle. Pa’s a gardener. How’d you know my name?”

  Jake smiled and showed his badge. “I saw you at the bank a couple of days ago. I’m lookin’ for the Pinkerton lady. I’ve got the bag she wanted.”

  “I don’t know nuthin’ about no bag, but she’s sleepin’ in the lounge, mister.”

  He followed the boy’s pointing finger over to the closed double doors. A sign hung on the handle declaring it private.

  “She’s in there.”

  “She is?” Jake bent and picked up the bag at his feet. “Great.”

  Tommy scampered out from behind the desk and blocked his path. “You can’t go in, mister. I’ve got orders.”

  Jake inclined his head to stare at the lad obstructing his way and grinned. “And do you really think you’re gonna stop me?”

  The boy gazed at the wall of muscle before him, tempered only by the twinkle of humor in the eyes.

  “Well, I’ve gotta be able to say I tried.”

  “Great work. You tried. I’ll shout it from the rooftops for you.” Jake indicated back toward the kitchen with his head. “Go back to your supper.”

  Tommy shrugged the shrug of the pragmatist. “Just don’t disturb any of the guests, huh? We’ve got all the women and children here. When one baby starts hollerin’ they set the rest off. Then they starts poopin’. It’s a nightmare. I can’t wait till we get back to drunks and gamblers. They only cry when they lose.”

  “We’ll be as quiet as mice,” said Jake, moving the lad aside before adding under his breath. “Although, knowin’ Abi, it’ll probably be more like the kinda noise a granny makes when she steps on one in the dark.”

  He tapped gently on the door with his knuckles. There was a pause before a female voice called out. “Who is it?”

  There would never be a good time to face her, so he braced himself and called out. “Make yourself decent, Abi. I’ve got your bag, and I’m comin’ in.”