by Barbara Goss
The following day, he returned to the police station and asked to see his wife. One of the suited men came over and said, “You were here yesterday. Are you Fiona Sullivan’s husband?”
“I am,” Sam said, “and I’d very much like to see her.”
“I’d like to talk to you first, if that’s all right,” the man said. “I’m detective Nathan Hall, and I’m investigating the case. Come into my office.” He swung the half-door attached to the front counter open and let Sam in.
Sam followed him into a small office with a table in the center of it. Chairs had been set on either side of it.
“Have a seat,” Hall said.
Sam sat.
“What’s your name,” Hall inquired as he took out a paper and pencil.
“Sam Jordan. My wife’s name is now Fiona Jordan.”
“Has she ever mentioned her crime to you?”
“Never. I read about it in the newspaper.”
“Hmm. That’s odd for her to marry and keep such a huge secret from you. Earlier this year, she fled Boston after killing a man and you knew nothing about it?”
“Not even a hint of it.”
“How did she come to return to Boston?” Hall asked.
“We had a sort of…quarrel, and the next thing I knew, she had boarded a train for Boston. I arrived the day before yesterday to find her. I happened to see the newspaper headline the following day and was shocked. I had no idea, but I do know one thing.”
“What’s that?” Hall asked.
“Whatever she told you is the truth. Fiona may have kept this secret from me, and I’m sure she had good reason, but she doesn’t lie…ever.”
“She told us she did indeed clobber the man over the head several times, but she won’t admit to stabbing him to finish the job.” Hall tapped his pencil on the desk. “She claims the man was trying to…um…steal her virtue. Mr. Littlefield was known for philandering, so she might be telling the truth about his advances, especially since his wife was out of town.”
Sam shook his head. “Hitting a man in self-defense isn't a crime. If she stabbed him, which I doubt, she’d have every right to fight back.” Sam stood. “I’m on my way now to get a lawyer.”
“Hold on,” Hall said. “If, as you say, Fiona’s telling the truth, then who stabbed Mr. Littlefield? He was found on the floor in her bedroom with two stab wounds to the chest.”
“I don’t know, but I’m going to find out,” Sam said sternly. “If I can’t see my wife, then I’m sure the lawyer will be able to. Good day, Mr. Hall.” Sam turned toward the door.
“Wait,” Hall said. “I’ll let you see her, but you’ll have to talk through the bars.”
“If that’s the best you can do, I’ll take it,” Sam said.
The police and a detective had drilled Fiona for hours and hours, and she was exhausted. Had they expected her to do lie and say she'd stabbed Mr. Littlefield when she hadn't? How could she when she had no access to a knife? Hitting someone over the head had been easy, but she didn’t think she'd be able to stab anyone, even if she did have a knife.
She lay on her cot and thought about Addie, Martin, and of course, Sam. When she thought about her husband, her chest ached. She didn’t know what was worse: the situation with the law, or the one with Sam. The situation with the police and the detective had made her angry, but her problem with Sam hurt deeply.
Fiona sat up when she heard keys jingling and the door to the jail area being opened. She hoped they weren’t coming for her again—she didn’t know how many times she could repeat the same story.
She looked up and saw the face of a bewildered Sam. “Sam!” she cried. She was so glad to see him at first, but then she remembered his betrayal and turned her head away from him. “Why are you here?”
“Come over by the bars, Fiona. Talk to me,” Sam said.
“What’s the use now you know my past and I know about Abby,” she said.
“Listen,” Sam said, “when you were brought here, you wanted a chance to tell your story, right?”
Fiona nodded.
Now I want you to hear my story,” he said. “Then, I want you to help me so I can get you out of here.” More softly, he said, “Come here, Fiona.”
Fiona walked over to the bars.
Sam reached through the bars and took hold of both her hands. “You have it all wrong, Fiona. I haven't had relations with anyone since I've married you. I swear on the Bible.”
Fiona simply stared at him.
“Remember the day you tried on the swimming costume and I kissed you? That was the day I went to Abby and broke-off our relationship. I felt something deep inside after kissing you, brief as it was. That sweet, innocent kiss made me feel guilty for the way I'd treated you that day, and all because I’d stooped so low as to have an affair with a saloon woman and had become used to touching a woman where I shouldn’t. It woke me up to just what kind of man I’d become.
“Abby wasn’t happy when I broke it off with her, and though I never went back to her, she kept writing me letters. I read them at first, but then I stopped and just tossed them into the garbage bin at the general store. One day, the bin was missing from its usual spot, so I shoved the letter into my pocket to discard later and forgot about it. That’s the letter you found.”
“But I saw you—”
“Let me finish, sweetheart,” Sam said gently. “The day after you found the letter, I knew I had to put a stop to them, so I went to her flat to have it out with her. I told her, point blank, that I loved my wife, that I’d never go back to her, and that she should leave me alone.”
Had he just said he'd loved her? Fiona felt warm all over.
“I do love you, Fiona.” He squeezed her hands. “You’re all I’ll ever want.”
Fiona felt glad and a bit embarrassed that she’d thought he could ever do something with Abby after what they'd had together.
“I love you, too,” she murmured. “I’m so sorry.”
“Come closer,” he said. When she obeyed, he kissed her lips. “I’m going to get you out of here. I've wired Martin for money so I can hire a lawyer, but I need you to tell me a few things about what happened first. I know you didn’t stab that man. Tell me exactly what happened.”
When Fiona relayed the story, he frowned and squeezed her hands again. “That animal!” Sam growled. “He got what he deserved.”
“I didn’t stab him, Sam. I didn’t have a knife or even have access to one. I didn’t know he would attack me while I pulled linens from the bed, so why would I have a knife in the first place?”
“What were their full names?" Sam asked. "Both of them.”
“Mary and Chester Littlefield. Chester owned a few ships. They were very rich.”
“Do you recall where they lived?” Sam asked.
“No, I don’t, I’m sorry.”
“I’ll get to the bottom of this. I have a feeling you knocked the man unconscious and someone else finished him off. We need to find out who that was,” he said.
“What will you do?” she asked. “How will you find anything out?”
“I don’t know, but I’ll do anything to get you out and back home where you belong.”
After Sam left, Fiona felt such a longing to be held in his arms once more and kissed properly. She wanted to go home. If only the police would believe her. If only they'd either punish her or let her go. She hadn’t a hope Sam would be able to help her, but it was wonderful he'd wanted to try. She kept wishing the assault on Mr. Littlefield had never happened. Still, if it hadn’t, she’d never have run to Kansas and met Sam. She decided to keep praying. She needed a miracle.
Sam finally got the money Martin had wired to the State Street Bank, and he began his hunt for a lawyer. He asked the clerk at the hotel for a recommendation and that’s how he found Tom Hamilton. Sam visited his office the very same day.
“What can I do for you, Mr. Jordan?
“My wife has been accused of murder, and while she did beat the man s
enseless, she didn’t kill him. Someone else finished the job,” Sam explained.
“Why don’t you tell me the whole story, and then I’ll visit your wife and see what I can do. I don’t come cheaply—my fee is one hundred dollars up front and another hundred when I get your wife out of jail. I’ll make sure I’m present when the police question her, too.”
Sam told him the story, and Hamilton made notes.
“May I accompany you to visit Fiona?” Sam asked.
“Fiona? Good grief—not Fiona Sullivan?”
“Yes, that’s my wife.”
“Her case has been splattered all over the Boston Globe. Opinions have already been formed, and it’ll be tough to find a fair jury. This'll be harder than I'd imagined. We might have better luck trying to find out who did kill the man, rather than throwing Fiona on the sympathy of the jury in a courtroom. Yes, she may have been defending herself when she’d hit him senseless, but not when she allegedly stabbed him.”
“She was up on the third floor collecting laundry, stripping a bed. She had no knife with her as she had no idea Mr. Littlefield would go up there to attack her. She didn’t have access to a knife,” Sam said. “Why would a maid carry a knife to strip linens from beds?”
“Good point, but I think we still may need to try to find out who did kill him. That would let her out of jail immediately,” Hamilton said.
“How would we go about doing that?”
Hamilton closed his notebook. “I’ll work on it. Let’s go visit Fiona.”
After Fiona once again repeated the story to Hamilton while he scribbled on his pad, Sam went back to his hotel. As he passed the front desk, the clerk called out to him, “Mr. Jordan, a telegram's arrived for you.”
Sam stopped, took the paper from him, and continued to his room. He knew the wire had been from Martin, since he’d told him where he was staying and how to reach him. He sat on the bed and opened it.
Martin didn’t say much, except that it was Mrs. Littlefield who’d paid for the newspaper ads. He'd included her address, which he'd received from the Hays Newspaper office.
Sam wasted no time. He called a cab and gave the driver the Littlefields' address. He had no idea what he’d say or do when he got there, but he prayed the whole way.
When Sam had packed for the trip, he’d included his Sunday suit, which he’d worn to visit the lawyer, and he wore it to visit the Littlefields, as well.
The cab stopped in front of what Sam could only describe as a mansion, complete with turrets and a brick sidewalk leading to ornate front doors. He paid the cab driver, asked him to wait, and made his way to the front door.
A maid in a black and white uniform swung the door open. “You’re late,” she growled. “Come in.”
Sam wondered what she'd meant, but he kept silent.
“Mrs. Littlefield will see you now, but she isn’t happy about your tardiness,” the stoic maid said as she led him down the hall.
“What time was I expected?” Sam asked, playing along.
“Eleven sharp, and now it’s almost noon,” the maid said as she knocked on a closed mahogany door.
“Enter,” said a voice from inside.
Sam walked in, not knowing what he’d find. He was surprised to see an extremely attractive woman sitting behind a large desk, tapping her long fingernails on its surface.
Chapter 15
If your punctuality is any indication of your work ethic, I think we’ll conclude this interview.” She stood as if to dismiss the meeting.
Sam thought fast. Evidently she'd been expecting someone else. Most likely, she was filling a job position.
“I’m sorry. I was in a slight accident on the way. My cab collided with a wagon and…well, it was a mess. My driver was injured, and I had to find another cab to get here, but the other cab driver had the address in his pocket…and well, I’m here now, and I apologize.”
“Oh, dear! Are you sure you’re all right?” she asked, taking her seat again.
“I’m fine.” Sam figured if she resumed her seat he was still in the running for the job.
The woman was eying him from top to bottom. “Well," she said, "you certainly have the appearance I was looking for.” She smiled. “I’m looking for a butler who can also lend a hand wherever needed."
“I’ve never done it before, but I really need a job. I’m a fast learner, and I’d do my best,” Sam said.
“I’ll give you a try,” she said, standing again. “Where are you from?”
“Kansas.”
Mrs. Littlefield nodded. She had a full figure, somewhat like Abby’s, but he preferred his slim, but curvaceous, Fiona. Still, it might be to his advantage to pretend he was attracted to her. He’d do almost anything to get Fiona freed, except break his marriage vows.
“By the way, as you probably know from the employment agency, I’m Mary Littlefield, and I’m a widow.”
Mary had eyes that were neither brown nor blue but sort of hazel, as far as he could tell from the distance. She had dark brown hair, which she'd twisted up into some kind of bun. She wore expensive jewelry that matched perfectly with her looks and her surroundings. Mary appeared to be in her late thirties, but she was well-maintained.
“I’ll show you around,” she said, walking to the door, opening it, and leading him down the hall to the front of the house. “You’ll answer the door, of course, and then announce the visitor to me, and I’ll tell you if I’ll see them or not.
“I understand,” Sam said.
“There might be some police officers or detectives coming to see me, since my husband has recently been murdered. I’ll always see them, of course,” she said.
“No!” Sam said. “How horrible. I’m so sorry. Do they know who did it?”
“Yes, and she’s in custody. I was shocked when I'd discovered who’d done it. And I'd always thought her to be such a sweet and meek girl,” Mary said as she led him on a tour of the house. When they arrived in the kitchen, several maids were busy cooking there, polishing silver, and scrubbing the floor. None of them looked up but continued on with their work.
“If we have a dinner party or one of the girls is sick, you may be asked to help out, but don’t worry, you won’t be scrubbing floors—maybe just some extra cleaning or polishing. This is my cook, Mrs. Chandler." The woman turned and nodded to Sam.
“Well, that’s it,” Mary said.
“What are my other duties?” Sam asked.
“Oh, I forgot—you’ve never done this before. I don’t have a house manager, so you’ll supervise the staff and keep things running smoothly. When I entertain, you’ll always be available but practically invisible. You’re in charge of making sure all china is clean and sparkling and all the silver is polished until you can see your reflection in it. You will contact the stables when I need a buggy and just be an all-around person who makes the household run smoothly,” she said.
“I've never had a butler before. I've always hired female house managers, but they've always squabbled with the maids and cooks. I thought perhaps if I hired a man, things might go more smoothly.” She moved close to him and straightened his tie. “I’ll have a tailor come and measure you for a proper suit; but this will do until he can come.”
Mary’s hands lingered on his neck long after she’d straightened his tie, which made him wonder what other personal duties she expected him to perform.
She suddenly laughed. “Well, Arthur Benson, if I need you, I’ll call you.” She walked back toward her office.
Arthur Benson? He could be Arthur for a while.
Sam turned and looked around him—where should he begin?
He walked into the kitchen to see Mrs. Chandler struggling with a rolling pin and a piece of pastry.
“Here," he said, "let me help.” He took the rolling pin from her. “How thin do you want it?”
“Oh,” Mrs. Chandler exclaimed, “I’ve been a cook for years, but can’t seem to get my pie crusts thin enough for her highness. Mrs. Littlefield's
always watching her figure and she wants the crust as thin as I can get it. It’s quite the job to do because it inevitably tears in the process, and I have to trash it and begin again. This is my third try today.”
“Just let me know when I should stop,” Sam said.
“How did you learn to do that so well? You make it look so easy.”
“I used to watch my mother and later I helped her. I enjoy working in the kitchen.”
“Are you married?” she asked.
“Yes, I am.”
“Well,” Mrs. Chandler said, “don’t let Mrs. Littlefield know that.”
“Why not?”
“She’d have you in her bed, Mr. Benson. You’re a handsome man, but she only messes with married men. She doesn’t want any attachments. That’s what her personal maid, Molly, told us.”
“Well, then,” Sam said, “I won’t tell her. I happen to have a very happy marriage.”
“That’s wonderful! See that you keep it that way. It seems these days there’s too much fiddling around. The men don’t seem satisfied at home anymore. I can’t tell you how many married men have visited Mrs. Littlefield since Chester's passed,” she said, gazing at the pastry. “Oh, stop! I think that’s thin enough. Now, to pick it up without it tearing.”
“I’ll try. Where’s the pie pan?”
“Right here.”
Sam picked the pie crust up and carefully placed it into the pie pan.
“My, you did that beautifully. I could actually see through the crust,” Mrs. Chandler said.
“Now, I’ll need to pinch the edges—oh, my! You even do that so well! Perfectly beautiful. Thank you, Mr. Benson.”
You can call me Arthur.”
“I’m Betsy, and you’re welcome in my kitchen any time.” She gave him a broad smile.
“Tell me,” he said, “what happened to Mr. Littlefield?”
“He was murdered right here, in this house,” she said as she blended a chocolate mixture in a bowl.