Four Furlongs

by C. K. Crigger

  “Les is his name.” Neva gave a skip, ducking her head when everyone looked at her again.

  “Yes. Les, thank you, Neva. Unless he’s managed to get away, he’s lying in the shed where they were holding us. Last I saw he was crying his eyes out because a girl beat him up with a stick.” I took great pleasure in saying those words.

  “You?” Monk asked.

  “Not me. Neva. You should have seen her. She was wonderful, so brave and strong.”

  Lorenzo whispered something to her. Something which drew a blush into Neva’s pale face. A blush and a real smile to her lips. The first from her I’d ever seen.

  Meanwhile, Murphy kept protesting his innocence as if he thought somebody there might believe him. In between, he whined over and over for a doctor. An idiot, just like his boss had said.

  “Shut up,” Grat told him, even as Porter jerked his wounded arm, eliciting a yelp. Personally, I hoped it hurt a lot.

  “I wonder,” Poole started, a frown creasing his brow, “how these two ended up on this piece of property. I don’t suppose you know who lives here, but—”

  I interrupted. “Of course we do. Lloyd Branston lives here. We’ve met.”

  Monk’s face wore an unhappy expression as he chewed on the ends of his mustache— mustache chewing being totally out of character. “Yes,” he said, but tentatively, as though unsure of his ground, “I remember you meeting. He came by the office and talked with us yesterday morning.”

  “Oh, I’ve talked to him since then.” I looked down to where my watch should’ve been pinned to my blouse, only to find it missing. My skin gave a shudder, like a horse shaking off flies. One of our kidnappers had touched me. Touched my breast. The thought almost made me swoon. Almost. I had no time for such things.

  Breathing deeply, I announced, “We spoke only an hour or so ago.” And then, just to make it clear. “In the shed, where he gave his men permission to kill us, Neva and me, if we didn’t tell him what he wanted to know. He’s looking for a certain item, you see, and wants it back at any cost.”

  Murphy twisted his good arm, trying to throw off Porter’s grip. “She’s a liar,” he shouted. “Don’t listen to that little bitch. She’s lyin’ through ’er teeth.”

  Poole stared down his long nose. His lips thinned. “Tell him what he wanted to know, Miss Bohannon? You mean about the horse? You are obviously mistaken. I beg leave to doubt Lloyd Branston ...”

  “No,” I interrupted again. I can recognize a denial in the making when I hear one. Dare I say my temper simmered, ready to boil? Did Poole think to refute what Neva and I had suffered? Now who was the idiot? My voice shook with anger. “Mercury is only an excuse. As far as I can tell, none of these scoundrels have made up their minds whether they want the horse to win or to lose. No, Branston is after something entirely different. You see, Neva’s mother ... you tell them, Neva. It’s your story.”

  Haltingly, Neva complied. I can only imagine what it cost for her to recount her mother’s and her grandfather’s collaboration in a plot to rig races and bilk the betting public. Add in Robbie’s death and it was enough to turn a grown man’s stomach.

  Poole’s stomach certainly, as he was forced, not without protest, into belief.

  My word, I wish I’d had a picture of his face when everyone heard the story of how Hazel O’Dell had picked his pocket for the money to pay Mercury’s entry fee into the derby.

  “But it was the notebook Mr. Branston really wanted,” Neva said, then went silent.

  Gratton cleared his throat. “Notebook? What notebook, Neva?”

  “Oh, didn’t I say that part?” Neva chewed on her lip before admitting, “My mother took the papers that prove Mercury belongs to Robbie and me. She took his race earnings, too, and hid everything in our wagon. I watched her, though, and figured out where she put them. The other night when she was sleeping, I opened her cache and took the bag. Then I sneaked off and took Mercury over to Lorenzo’s camp and hid him in among the other horses. It wasn’t until the next day I discovered she’d taken more than just money and Mercury’s papers.”

  Poole snapped his fingers as though to hurry her along. “Well? What else did you find?”

  “A notebook with lots of names and amounts of money. Me and Lorenzo, we finally figured out what it all meant. Sort of. But that’s what Mr. Branston wanted me for. He wanted to get it back. You see—” She looked down at the road and rubbed the toe of her boot in the dust. At last, she raised her head. “My mother lifted the book off Mr. Branston one day.”

  “You mean your mother picked his pocket, too?” Gratton’s eyes flickered. “She must be good.”

  I wasn’t surprised. I doubt Poole was either, considering his own experience with Hazel O’Dell.

  Neva heaved a gigantic sigh. “Yes. She meant to take his wallet and got the book by mistake, but when she figured out what it all meant, she was glad. She wanted Mr. Branston to pay her some money, on account of all those names and dollars. A lot of money. Five hundred dollars. But then she got scared. I think she got beat up. And she told him, or maybe this guy”—she indicated Murphy—“that I had the notebook. Me or Miss Bohannon. So that’s when they came after us both, because they thought I might have left those things with China.”

  “Blackmail.” Poole breathed the word, apparently much more concerned with Branston’s predicament than the fact Neva and I had been meant to die. “But why—”

  “Easy answer,” Grat cut in. “Branston’s got gambling debts. Big ones. I expect the book is the list of his IOUs. Who and how much. How it all adds up. Sawyer Kennett, owner of the Flag of America, got put on that list the other night. If I’m not mistaken, your name is there, too. Bottom line is, Branston’s in over his head.”

  Poole stared at him. “How do you know? He—”

  Grat’s upper lip curled. “Word gets around. People are saying his bank is in trouble.”

  Monk snorted. “We asked Bill Jackson, a retired investigator, to look into it for us.”

  Poole spoke so quietly I strained to hear. “Yes. I’m afraid so. He’ll be ruined if—when—this gets out. There’ll be a run on the bank, just when business is starting to pick up after the recession.” Poole leaned against the body of his carriage as if he were tired. He appeared to be thinking. “I’m sure you young ladies never planned to open such a can of worms, but you certainly have. Trouble began the moment the coroner found that note on his autopsy report inquiring about Robbie O’Dell’s cause of death. He brought the results to the mayor’s and my attention. You may also be interested to learn a body turned up this morning, in a shallow grave down by the river. A boy and his dog found him. He had a broken arm, but he died of stab wounds. A jockey’s riding whip was buried with him.”

  “Billy,” Neva breathed.

  Somehow, I felt better knowing we could account for Billy Banks.

  “The police chief know about it?” Monk asked.

  “Couldn’t risk it,” Poole said, “although I don’t think he’s part of the conspiracy. As I imagine you either know or guess, some of the higher-ups in the SPD are involved.”

  “Hansen, for one,” I said, quietly, but clearly enough. “And forgive me if I don’t feel guilty for helping bring them to justice.”

  “Yes. Well.” Unhappiness on his face, Poole nodded. “Lloyd has made his bed, I fear. Nothing to be done for him now. He has to face what he’s done.”

  He studied Murphy a moment then huffed out a sigh and said, “Too bad you didn’t have your little dog, Miss Bohannon. You could’ve turned her loose to savage this fellow.”

  A joke? Really? I nearly collapsed on the spot! I even rubbed my ear to be sure it was working correctly and I wasn’t hearing things.

  All good, I suppose, if only my inner eye had stopped short of seeing Nimble bloodied and dead right alongside my own body. Because Murphy and Foghorn were that kind of men. And their boss Branston, too, at the head of the line.

  Poole’s carriage, parked in a rather-too-
obvious position alongside the road, became Murphy’s temporary cell. Monk, with Lorenzo’s help, drew guard duty over him, while Gratton and Porter went off to collect Foghorn—or Les, I suppose I should call him.

  Meanwhile, Mr. Poole, Neva, and I stood along the road’s verge, out of danger in case Murphy were to break free. A highly unlikely happenstance, I might add, with my uncle on guard.

  Besides, I still had two bullets in the .32.

  The sun, bright on such a pleasant autumn day, lent a welcome warmth. Doves cooed from the trees along the verge. One of the horses drawing Warren Poole’s carriage whickered softly and flicked its tail. The frail old man at the reins dozed. All calm and peaceful after being kidnapped, shot at, and rescued. So why did I have an inner chill wending a way around my innards?

  After a silence that became oppressive, I felt compelled to generate a new conversation.

  I’d noticed a gaping hole in the progression of our case, one nobody apparently wanted to address. But I couldn’t help feeling, by this time, the menfolk were not paying nearly enough attention to what Neva and I had gone through. Considering what might have happened if we hadn’t broken free, it didn’t seem right.

  And I wasn’t going to stand for it.

  “Tell me,” I said to Mr. Poole, “now we have Branston’s henchmen under control, what are we ... are you going to do about their boss? Branston, I mean.”

  “Hmm?” he murmured as if he couldn’t think what I meant.

  I didn’t take the hint. “He’s the one who gave these men their orders. He’s the one who told them to dispose of Neva and me.”

  “My dear—” Those two words may have been intended to sound avuncular, but the expression on his face was anything but. “—I’m sure you misunderstood. Branston may be guilty of ... of siphoning funds for his own temporary use, but he is not a murderer.”

  Siphoning funds? Is that what he called embezzlement?

  “No,” I said clearly, “I did not misunderstand.”

  “We both heard him, plain as day.” Neva backed me up.

  Poole hesitated. “Well, I believe that’s a question for the proper authorities to decide. We’ll talk to them about it when we turn in Murphy and this other man, Les, then leave it in their capable hands.”

  “What proper authorities?” My stomach tightened. Surely he didn’t mean—

  “We’ll take your concerns to the prosecuting attorney. He’ll be the one to organize the ... the—”

  I sucked in so hard a breath I nearly rose up like a balloon. “In other words, if I’m reading you correctly, you intend to let Branston get away with his crimes. Maybe a slap on the wrist. Why? Because of the bank? Are you going to help cover up what he’s done?”

  A tide of red painted his neck and face. “Now see here, Lloyd Branston is an important man in Spokane. We need more proof than the accusations of a couple overwrought girls. After all, no one has been hurt.”

  “I beg your pardon?” Anger infused me.

  I barely heard Neva whisper, “What about Robbie? And you and me? Doesn’t he believe us?”

  Poole had heard what she said. I wouldn’t have thought it possible, but his neck got even redder. Turkey gobbler red. I took pleasure in visualizing him in that guise. With his neck stretched across the chopping block, no less.

  “Oh, he knows, Neva, but he’s going to ignore us.” I paused, catching his eye. “Or he thinks he is. He’s wrong.”

  I really don’t know what came over me. Fury infused my brain into a flaming torch. All the men, even Monk and Gratton, seemed almost unwilling to take Lloyd Branston on. Well, I wasn’t unwilling. I wasn’t afraid either.

  Neither was Neva.

  I spun around, marching back the way we’d come. The long drive branched off toward the mansion I’d seen from the shed. Branston’s house. That’s where I headed.

  “Here,” Poole said. “Wait. You can’t—”

  I ignored him.

  I didn’t realize Neva had followed me until she caught up just as I turned onto the other drive, avoiding Grat and Porter with their prisoner on their way down to the main road.

  “You should go back,” I told Neva, never pausing.

  “No.” That’s all she said.

  Behind us, I heard Poole calling—well, bellowing, actually. He sounded angry. “Miss Bohannon,” he yelled. “Where are you going? Get back here.”

  I pretended not to hear.

  29

  Neva and I approached the Branston home, striding up the drive as if we owned the place. A bit of an act, I must admit, since my heart pounded in my chest until I felt dizzy. Judging by Neva’s white face, she felt pretty much the same.

  Branston’s estate showcased great wealth and status. Imposing in the extreme, the mansion rose three stories beneath a steeply pitched roof. A round turret rounded off one corner; brick and stone porches surrounded the ground floor. The house towered in the midst of a cultivated expanse of grass and a judiciously thinned stand of Ponderosa pine. To one side, even this late in the year, a rose garden bore a myriad of blooms, red and yellow, pink and white. Several impeccably tended topiary shaped into fantastical creatures menaced all who visited the grounds.

  Neva caught my hand and tugged. “What are those things?” She pointed a shaky, and rather grubby, forefinger at a rearing green horse.

  The shrubbery only interested me because of the potential for ambush. “Just bushes. They’re called topiary.”

  She frowned. “Do they grow like that?”

  “Not naturally. They’re trimmed and trained.”

  We passed one shaped like a unicorn.

  “Why would anybody bother?” Her head turned to gaze at it from the other side.

  I didn’t answer. Walking beneath a broad portico, we reached a well-swept set of dark gray stone steps—very much the color of Gratton’s eyes—which led to a double-doored front entry. Our shoes clicked on the stone as we mounted the steps. It would’ve been daunting if I hadn’t been too mad for such things to matter.

  A brass—or maybe gold—knocker beckoned.

  I hammered it down. Once, twice, thrice.

  “Stay behind me,” I told Neva. “He may have another thug in there with him. If there is, I want you to run to Porter or Grat.”

  “Wish I had my club,” she said, her face set and fierce.

  “I wish you did, too.” We’d be in serious trouble if Branston did have someone with him. Drawing the little revolver from my pocket, I hid it in the folds of my skirt. I had only two bullets left, all the others expended on subduing Murphy. These two had to count.

  I banged the knocker again. Not gold. Gold would’ve been too soft, unable to stand up to the abuse.

  A muted voice, male, spoke from behind the doors, and all such errant thoughts faded into nothing.

  “I’ll get it myself, Esther,” it said. “No need for you to come down.”

  The voice belonged to Lloyd Branston.

  I held my breath as the door opened, ponderous and heavy.

  “Who is it?” I heard a woman say, even as I pushed on the door, hard and fast, and entered the snake’s den.

  He hadn’t been expecting us, I daresay. The look on Branston’s face was beyond price. Frightening, too, in a way. Surprise may have been uppermost, but I thanked providence—or Monk and Grat—for the gun I carried in my hand.

  “You,” Branston said, sounding shaken. “I heard gunfire. How did you ...”

  “Get loose from your thugs?” My smile must’ve been vicious. “Brute force, Mr. Branston, more of which I’m not at all adverse to using against you.” I allowed him a peek at the .32. “Try me. Do.”

  His eyes snapped with fury. His jowls quivered. Scowling, he stepped aside as his wife descended the mahogany staircase rising from the far end of the foyer. One of her delicate hands slid along the beautifully polished rail. Her other lifted the lace overskirt she wore just high enough over her kitten-heeled shoes to avoid tripping. She smiled as she caught sight of m
e, a smile that turned to puzzlement, then worry.

  “Why, Miss Bohannon! What on earth has happened to your face? To your frock? Have you been in an accident? Can I help?”

  She reached the bottom step, a wave of Jicky perfume preceding her. I recognized the same fragrance that had scented the note pushed under Porter’s door. The note stating Neva would be blinded if—

  “And who is this?” she asked, smiling kindly at Neva.

  Smiling, yes, but there was something—

  My thoughts seesawed up and down like a child’s plaything. The perfume, the smell of it, stopped me cold.

  Who had first conceived and then scribed the threat laid out in that note? Had Branston used a sheet of his wife’s stationery, perhaps so accustomed to the scent he no longer smelled it as separate from her and therefore got careless?

  Or had she written the message herself without giving her signature scent a moment’s reflection? But she seemed so kind with the concern on her face. And there’d been the incident the other day with Warren Poole, when she’d saved Nimble’s bacon and incidentally, mine.

  To tell the truth, I wished she’d stayed upstairs every bit as badly as her husband appeared to do. If he, and she, too, weren’t just consummate actors. Worse, I found it hard to watch both of them at once. Which was the greater threat?

  I dared not risk letting my confusion show.

  “Come in and sit down,” Mrs. Branston cooed, although I was already in. “Let me fetch you some tea. Or coffee. Would you prefer cocoa? Perhaps a tiny glass of sherry?”

  She rushed forward, her hands out, the epitome of easy conversation and gracious hospitality.

  I flicked Neva a quick glance. Had time to see her letting down her guard in response to the woman before I resettled my attention on Mr. Branston.

  And just in time. He was already sliding to his right, slick as a snake, where a console table stood. On top of the gold-leaf-decorated stand and incongruous in the elegant surroundings, a blued-steel derringer pistol sat on a silver tray.