by Barbara Goss
“You don’t say?”
“Yes, siree, right up on the third floor. In a maid’s room, he was.”
“Why would he be up there, do you think?”
“Oh, he had an eye for the women and the maid was a pretty little thing. Martha told me he was eying her all the time,” Betsy said.
“Was he a womanizer, then?”
“The biggest. He had several mistresses.”
“I just don’t understand it,” Sam said. “His wife is beautiful—what more could a man want?”
“I think Mrs. Littlefield knew, but she chose to look the other way,” she said.
“I wonder why,” Sam said, thinking about what else he needed to know. This was a golden opportunity.
“Mrs. Littlefield must have been devastated,” Sam said.
“You said it! She was the one who found him!”
“She was?”
“Oh, yes. We heard her scream clear down here,” Betsy explained. “She’d returned from New York early since her mother had recovered.”
“How do you suppose she knew where her husband was?”
“She claims she called and called for the maid, the one who killed him—I’ve forgotten her name—and when she didn’t respond, she went up to the third floor looking for her, and that’s when she saw Chester.”
“What a horrible shock for her.”
“Fiona! Yes, that was it. We all liked her.” Betsy moved closer to Sam, “You know what we think?”
“No, tell me.”
“The other servants and I think Mr. Littlefield followed Fiona, and tried to…to…” she lowered her voice to a whisper, “seduce her.”
“I see. And of course the girl fought back.”
“Yes, that’s what we think. If that was the case, the ol’ beggar deserved to be stabbed to death.”
“But is it normal for a woman to carry a knife around while she’s working?” Sam asked
“No, but it did happen in her room, and she might have had one under her pillow or something.”
“Hmm, did they ever find the knife?”
“No. We assumed she took it with her when she ran out of here and off to who knows where.”
“It must have been a while before things settled down. Mrs. Littlefield seems to have gotten over it,” he said.
“Faster than we thought she would.” Betsy picked up the pie pan and put it into the oven. “Thank you for the help.”
“What would your house manager have done next?” Sam asked her.
“Maybe help Sally with polishing the silver or just going around making sure pictures are hanging straight and are dusted, that sort of thing.”
“Thank you, Betsy.”
Betsy helped him set the table for dinner, so he’d know how to do it the next time. He hoped he could remember on which side of the plate the knives had been placed so he'd be sure to put the glasses in the correct place.
Around eight, when the kitchen had been cleaned and most of the maids had scurried off to their rooms, someone knocked on the door, and Sam finally had the chance to practice being a butler.
He opened the door. “Yes?” he asked a gentleman with a mustache.
“Please inform Mrs. Littlefield that Benjamin Taylor is calling.”
“Won’t you come in, Mr. Taylor. You can await her reply in the receiving room.” Sam led the man to the room, went up the stairs, and knocked on the door to Mary Littlefield’s suite of rooms.
“Enter,” she called.
Sam opened the door and entered. He found her lying on her bed in a frilly, low cut, white cotton nightgown, so sheer, he could almost see right through it. He acted totally professional by looking directly at her face, praying she wouldn't stand up. “A Mr. Taylor is here to see you,” he said.
“Oh, send him up. He knows the way…and Arthur, you can put out all the lamps and turn in for the night. I won’t be needing you anymore until morning.”
Sam bowed and left the room, closing the door behind him. Now he knew why Mr. Taylor was here.
After he'd sent the man upstairs, he put out all of the lamps and went to the room they’d given him at the back of the first floor.
Sam felt exhausted and he missed not seeing Fiona that day, but he’d sent her a message telling her he was working on freeing her and may be tied up for a few days. He also told her he loved her. He’d never forget to tell her that again.
After about three days of bungling, Sam finally had a handle on the job. He was pleased the kitchen staff liked him, and they often sneaked him sweets and extra helpings. If anything ever happened to his cattle ranch, at least he knew he could make a living as a butler. The thought made him smile.
Every night that week, Mr. Taylor visited. He answered the door to numerous salesmen but nothing else too remarkable happened.
What had interested Sam most was that it was Mrs. Littlefield who’d found Chester. Could she have stabbed him to death? She seemed like a nice lady, but if she knew Chester was a philanderer, she might have wanted to be free—and rich as well. As far as he knew after talking to the servants, no one else had a motive to kill Chester Littlefield.
As Sam was folding napkins in the dining room, Mrs. Littlefield’s maid, Molly, approached him. “Mrs. Littlefield would like to see you,” she said.
“Very good,” Sam said. “Where will I find her?”
“In her rooms,” Molly said.
Sam laid his work aside and went up to see what Mrs. Littlefield wanted.
“Yes, Mrs. Littlefield, how may I serve you?”
“I just wanted a word with you,” she said. “How are you doing on the job?”
“Very well. Things are going smoothly.”
“Are you married, Arthur?” she asked as she lounged on her chaise chair.
Sam remembered what Betsy Chandler had told him. “No, I’m single.”
Had Sam imagined she looked crestfallen? “Oh, well, you’re excused. When Mr. Taylor comes, just send him up, will you?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Sam said and left the room.
A few hours later, Mr. Taylor came and Sam let him go up to Mrs. Littlefield’s rooms. He was going from room to room putting out the lamps when another knock sounded at the door, which was highly unusual. Sam hurried over to answer the door and opened it to find a woman standing there who pushed her way into the house and started for the stairs.
“Excuse me, ma’am, but you can’t go up there!”
She turned and smiled. “I’m Mrs. Littlefield’s sister. I always barge in on her. She’s used to it.” She continued up the stairs.
Sam shrugged. He'd just finished extinguishing the lamps when he heard an ear-shattering scream and then an equally loud gunshot. Sam ran to the foot of the stairs, trying to decide if he should interfere, when the woman who'd claimed to have been Mary Littlefield’s sister came running down the stairs and out the front door. Right behind her was Mr. Taylor, buttoning his britches as he ran. He opened the door yelling, “Thelma! Thelma, stop this instant.”
Sam decided he no longer liked this job. He ran up the stairs and found the door to Mrs. Littlefield’s rooms open. Sam peeked in and gasped when he saw Mary Littlefield, sprawled across the bed, naked and with blood streaming down onto the floor. He took her robe, covered her with it, shook her gently, and called her name, but she didn’t answer.
Good grief—Sam didn’t know what to do. Was Mary Littlefield dead?”
Chapter 16
The Littlefield house was in an uproar: servants ran helter skelter, screaming and crying, the police were stomping through the house, and doctors were running up the stairs carrying medical bags.
Sam felt like he was a garment being put through the mangle he’d bought for Fiona. What was he to do?
The police put him into a room and said they’d be back to question him. He'd have to tell them his real name—how would he explain why everyone there thought he was Arthur Benson?
Was Mary Littlefield dead? Who had shot her—Mr. Tay
lor or the woman claiming to be Mary’s sister?
Finally, a man in a suit, carrying a pad and pencil, walked in. “You!” he said in surprise.
“Yes, it’s me, Detective Hall—Sam Jordan, Fiona’s husband.”
“They told me I’d find Arthur Benson, the butler, in here. Am I in the wrong room?” Hall asked.
“No, I’m also Benson,” Sam mumbled.
“I think you need to explain yourself, Mr. Jordan…or Mr. Benson…or whomever you are.”
“I’m Sam Jordan from Hays, Kansas. I came here to talk to Mrs. Littlefield about the case and she'd assumed I was the applicant, Arthur Benson, so I went along with it to try to find out more information. Then, days later, this happens.”
“Indeed.” Hall opened his notebook. “What did you discover?”
“Chester was a philanderer, and Mary Littlefield was the one who had found him. Since their marriage wasn’t a good one, I think you need to question her further—that is, if she makes it,” Sam said.
“We’ll get back to Fiona’s case later. Right now, I want to know exactly what happened here tonight,” Hall said.
“Mr. Taylor comes to visit Mrs. Littlefield each night about eight, and stays until about five in the morning. I hear him leaving as I’m dressing in the morning.
“I usually turn in myself after he arrives, but tonight, as I was putting out all the lamps, another visitor knocked on the door. It was a woman, and she pushed herself inside and started for the stairs. When I tried to stop her, she said she was Mary’s sister and that she always barged in, so I let her go up. Minutes later, I heard a scream and a loud gunshot. Before I could reach the stairway, the woman flew down the stairs and out the door with Mr. Taylor on her heels, yelling for her to stop.”
“So, it wasn’t Mrs. Littlefield’s sister?”
“No, I don’t think so,” Sam said. “Taylor had called the woman Thelma as he chased her out the door. I remember thinking that she’d lied about being Mrs. Littlefield’s sister.”
“Thelma.” Hall scribbled in his notebook.
“You can go to bed, Mr. Jordan,” Hall said. “I’d like you to stop by the station tomorrow about ten, if you would, to make an official statement.”
Sam nodded his assent.
When Sam had been seated across from Hall at police headquarters, Hall offered him coffee, which he gratefully declined. He felt nervous enough being in the middle of a murder—things like that never happened in Hays. There were shootouts and deaths, but he'd never been witness to any of them. The events occurred mostly at night, when the saloons were full.
“Well, Mr. Jordan, I have good news. You gave us the most important clue, and we’ve already closed the case. Thelma Taylor shot Mrs. Littlefield. She’d been following her husband for several nights, and she knew what he was doing. She aimed at her husband but hit Mrs. Littlefield instead. She claims it was the first time she’d ever fired a gun,” Hall said.
Sam asked, “How did you find all that out so quickly?”
“After we left the Littlefield’s, I went directly to the Taylors’ residence where they were having a shouting match, and I just stood at their door and listened. It was the same as a confession,” Hall said, “and when they found out I’d heard it all, they confessed again.”
“How is Mrs. Littlefield?”
“We aren’t sure if she’ll make it or not, but surprisingly, she’s asking to see Fiona, and I’m not sure what to make of that. Do you happen to know why she’d want to see your wife, Mr. Jordan?”
“No, I don’t. I do know it was Mary Littlefield who had the ad published in newspapers, looking for Fiona. I have no hint as to why she’d ask for her if she thought she’d killed her husband,” Sam said.
“She told me about that. It seems she didn’t feel we were doing enough to find Fiona, so she hired a private investigator, and he sent out the ads in her name,” Hall said.
“What could she possible want Fiona for now?”
“I don’t know, but it’s up to you and Fiona. I’ll go along, of course,” Hall said.
“What if she just wants to throw accusations at my wife?” Sam asked.
The detective stood. “Well, we won’t know unless we visit her and find out.”
Two uniformed police officers and Detective Hall escorted Sam and Fiona to the Littlefield house. Hall knocked on the door of her rooms and a man answered.
“We’re here to see Mrs. Littlefield,” Hall said.
“I’m her doctor, and she’s in a very fragile condition, but she won’t stop asking for Fiona Sullivan,” the doctor said. “Is that her?” He pointed at Fiona.
“Yes. We all need to accompany her since Fiona’s under arrest,” Hall explained.
“All right, but please don’t create a scene or get her excited. She’s still in serious condition, as the bullet hit close to her heart, and I’m not sure she’ll make it. I won’t even attempt to remove the bullet, as it would probably kill her.”
They all walked in and stared at the woman lying on the bed, as pale as the sheet that covered her.
Fiona was pushed forward by Detective Hall. “Mrs. Littlefield,” he announced, “Fiona Sullivan is here.”
Mary Littlefield’s eyes fluttered, and she turned her head and squinted at Fiona.
Fiona’s heart seemed to skip a beat. Would she start to accuse her and call her a murderer?
“Fiona?” Mary said weakly. “Come closer.”
Fiona went a bit closer, but she was wary since she didn’t know what to expect.
“Did Chester try to…did he attack you?” Mary asked.
“Yes, he did. I’m sorry, Mrs. Littlefield. I was frightened, and I panicked and hit him with a chamber pot. When he continued to grab me, I hit him again, and again until he stopped. I thought I'd killed him, so I ran. I've never been so scared in my life.”
Mary gave her a slight smile. “That sounds like Chester, and I’m sorry.” She spoke softly and haltingly. “I should have warned you. Are those men the police? I need them to hear this as well. I don’t want to die with this on my conscience. It’s not fair to ruin your life, too.”
“Yes, they’re police,” Fiona said.
Mary sighed, looked at the detective, and said weakly, “I killed Chester. I knew he had mistresses, but when I saw him out cold and on the floor in Fiona’s room, I was furious. I went back down to my room where I kept a knife in my bedside drawer. I don’t like guns, but I had to have something for protection. I went back upstairs and stabbed him through his cheating heart.” Mary Littlefield looked directly at the detective. “Fiona is innocent.”
Fiona let out the breath she’d been holding. “Thank you,” was all she could think to say.
Mary cringed in pain, and the doctor shooed them out of the room. They all went downstairs to the sitting room, where the detective told the uniformed police they could leave.
“Well, Mrs. Jordan, you’re free to go.”
Fiona smiled and flew into her husband’s outstretched arms. Sam squeezed her to him.
Mrs. Chandler came into the room and said to Sam, “Arthur, I could use your help with another pie crust.”
Sam released Fiona and pushed her toward the cook. “Mrs. Chandler, I’d like you to meet my wife, Fiona.”
“Oh, so you’re the lucky wife. This man really knows how to wield a rolling pin,” Mrs. Chandler said. She squinted at Fiona. “Say, haven’t I seen you before?”
“Yes. I once was a maid here. Fiona Sullivan, now Jordan.”
“And I’m not Arthur Benson, Betsy. I’m Sam Jordan. There was a slight mix-up when I arrived and…well, it’s a rather long story, but Fiona has just been cleared. She did not murder Chester. Mrs. Littlefield has just confessed to stabbing him to death.”
The doctor came down the stairs and joined them. “I have sad news: Mrs. Littlefield's just passed on.”
Everyone gasped.
Fiona thanked God she’d arrived in time for Mary Littlefield to vindicate her. Had
she died beforehand, Fiona would never have been freed.
“I’m truly sorry,” Fiona said. “She really was a kind woman.”
Betsy Chandler wiped a few tears from her eyes. “Oh, no! That’s so tragic. I’ll let the other servants know.” She left the room murmuring, “Poor Mrs. Littlefield.”
Sam took Fiona back to his hotel room, where the two of them made love and then slept in each other's arms on the single bed, but they didn’t mind the close quarters one bit.
In the morning, Fiona lay there, gazing at Sam. “I’m sorry I doubted you, Sam. I should have trusted you.”
“Those were difficult circumstances, sweetheart. Under the same conditions, I would have thought the same thing,” Sam said stroking her face. “It’s really all my fault. I should've told you about the letters. I don’t know why I didn’t. I practically broke my back each day trying to fetch the mail before anyone else could get it. I don’t know why I did it, except that I was so ashamed of myself for getting into such a situation.”
“It’s over, and we can trust each other now. I love you with all my heart, Mr. Jordan.”
“And I love you with my heart and soul.”
Fiona threw her head back and laughed. “You had to go one more and top my statement, didn’t you, love?”
“It’s the truth and exactly what I told Abigail. I’m not calling her Abby anymore. She isn’t even a friend to me,” he said. “I just want to forget that part of my life. Thank God, that Jesus died on the cross so that I could have my slate wiped clean of the dirty life I’ve led.”
“From now on, we should tell each other everything,” Fiona said.
“I agree. I’ve learned yet another lesson.” Sam kissed her tenderly.
“I love your kisses, Mr. Jordan, but I have a question,” Fiona said. “What happened to our barn raising?”
“I don’t know. Martin said he’d take care of everything. I can’t wait to get home. How about you?”
“Me, too. I love our cabin, and I miss Mother and Martin, too.”