The Cowboy's Crime

by Evelyn James

  Everything had become topsy-turvy for the unfortunate gunslinger and he needed a reason for this madness, he needed to know why over a decade of his life had simply disappeared.

  Clara made up her mind.

  “Let me show you what we think started all this,” she took Clark’s arm again and led him to the cliff steps.

  They descended carefully, the wild waves had splashed the steep stairs and made them wet and treacherous. Clark held tight to Clara’s arm, as if she was the only real thing he had left. The tide had come in since they were last down on the beach and it was harder to work their way along the cliff face. At points where the rocks, or a fall of stones reached down the beach, the tide was lapping at them and made it almost impassable. As it was, Clara had wet feet by the time they were drawing near to the tragic Gung-Ho.

  The horse had fallen to a spot where the cliff face ran in a semi-circle back from the sea and so had not been touched by the rising tide. The still corpse was difficult to see at first, just another series of lumps and bumps on the shore that could have been washed up debris or a cliff fall. As they came closer, Clark’s hand tightened on Clara’s arm.

  “What is this?” He demanded. “Indiana?”

  “No,” Clara reassured him. “This is another horse. We think the death of this horse might have been the catalyst for your memory loss.”

  They were almost upon the animal. Clark pulled his arm from Clara’s and walked up to the horse, touching it very gently on the flank as he moved around to the head. He saw the knife and stood very, very still. O’Harris was getting twitchy, worried about how this might affect Clark, but Clara hoped this might prove the key to his recovery. If the death of the horse had started the ordeal, then maybe facing up to that would help Clark recall what he had forgotten.

  “Someone stabbed him,” Clark said in a hollow voice. He touched the horse’s forehead with a sort of reverence. “Who would do a thing like that?”

  Clara and O’Harris joined him at the head of the animal.

  “Up there is your tent, Clark,” Clara pointed skywards, to where a triangle of white marked the roof line of Clark’s tent. “That is where it happened. Someone killed this horse, your horse, and then pushed the creature over the cliff to hide the evidence.”

  “Did I kill it?” Clark said with a terrible look of fear on his face.

  Such a thought obviously filled him with horror.

  “I don’t think so,” Clara promised him. “That is not who you are. I think someone did this as an attack on you. I think they were attempting to harm you and they achieved their desire. Because of what they did to this horse, you have lost over a decade of your life. I want to find this person; I want to find out why they did this and prevent them doing anything worse.”

  “Worse?” Clark seemed to be struggling to comprehend all this.

  “The horse may have just been a warning. Maybe it was a threat. I don’t know. Supposing they intend to harm you next? Because you can’t remember what happened, we have no answers and we can’t say what danger you might be in.”

  Clark pressed a hand to his forehead and gulped in cold sea air.

  “I need to sit down. I can’t take this all in.”

  He stumbled away from the horse, back the way they had come. Clara went to follow, then realised O’Harris had fallen behind. She turned and saw him looking at the horse’s head, then he pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, leaned down and yanked the knife free. He caught Clara’s eye as he folded the knife in the handkerchief.

  “Could be important.”

  Clara agreed and wondered that she had not thought of it herself. Brushing aside thoughts of the knife, she chased after Clark. She didn’t want to let him out of her sight, not just because of his mental state, but because she had not been lying when she said he could be in danger.

  Someone had acted against Clark and that someone might not stop with killing a horse.

  Chapter Five

  They escorted Clark back to his caravan, intending to settle him there and make sure he got some rest. They did not expect to find a woman stood inside. She was in her fifties but dressed as if she was in her twenties. She was heavily made up with make-up and her hair was bleached blonde and set in a very elaborate style. Clara guessed she was another of the funfair performers, though she could not see a costume beneath the long, woollen coat the woman was wearing. It dropped to her ankles and she hugged it around her, partly to keep herself warm and partly as it seemed to comfort her.

  “Clark!” She declared the moment she saw the distressed cowboy. “Where have you been? Maven said you weren’t well and had to miss your show, so I came here as quick as I could, but you were nowhere to be seen.”

  The woman was English, but her accent was a muddle of regional dialects; as if she had been in so many different places over the course of her life, that she had ended up acquiring the nuances of numerous accents. The result was a voice with a strangely nondescript lilt to it.

  Clark stared at the woman with bulging eyes, he looked as if he could not handle anymore shocks tonight, and certainly not the appearance of this stranger who knew his name and was demanding answers from him. Captain O’Harris tactfully intervened.

  “Mr Maven was not mistaken when he said our friend Clark, here, has been unwell. He has endured a nasty shock that has left him feeling out of sorts. He needs to rest.”

  “Who are you?” The woman narrowed her eyes at O’Harris and her tone was accusing, as if she considered him the enemy.

  Clara was annoyed with her, and nearly interjected, but the captain was able to speak up for himself.

  “Captain O’Harris,” he explained. “I happen to have been present when Clark was taken ill, and I also have knowledge of the problem he is suffering from. Mr Maven has asked me to help him.”

  “A doctor?” The woman asked suspiciously.

  “No, not like that. I deal with people’s mental states.”

  The woman looked even more sceptical, if that was possible.

  “Clark, tell me what this is all about?”

  She turned plaintive eyes on the cowboy, who was still looking at her as if she was a fiend that had emerged from the night.

  “I… I don’t know you,” Clark said suddenly. He pushed past her to reach the bench he had been resting on before and sat down. He stared pointedly at the pictures on the opposite wall, pretending not to notice anyone else.

  The woman was obviously astonished by his reaction, this was rapidly followed by anger and Clara hastily intervened.

  “Clark has lost all memory of the last ten years of his life,” she told the woman quickly. “He doesn’t remember anyone here, or even coming to England. He is very confused and frightened right now.”

  “I ain’t frightened!” Clark snapped, though the way his fingers dug hard into the cushion of the bench denied his statement.

  The woman turned a dark scowl on Clara.

  “And who are you?”

  “Clara Fitzgerald,” Clara introduced herself. “I am a private detective. The trauma Clark experienced was the direct result of someone launching an attack against him. While he was not physically hurt, the psychological consequences are apparent. Mr Maven has asked me to discover who was behind this and why they wish to harm Clark.”

  The woman’s anger dissipated as she listened and realised Clark could be in danger. She glanced back at the cowboy once, then motioned that she and Clara should go outside. They left the caravan and shut the door behind them, before sitting on the steps.

  The temperature had dropped considerably, and the steps were a little damp from the beginnings of a hard frost. Clara felt the cold seeping through her and imagined her companion felt the same. They sat in silence for a moment, gazing out over the lights and noise of the funfair.

  “I’m Polly,” the woman said at last.

  “You and Clark are friends,” Clara observed.

  “Something like that,” Polly snorted, a faint smile crossing her
lips.

  “Are you a performer too?”

  “Yes,” Polly pulled the sleeves of her coat down a little further to protect her bare hands from the cold. “Once upon a time, I was an acrobat. I flew about on the trapeze. I was good, too. But I got older, lost my flexibility. Now I am reduced to being the magician’s assistant.”

  Polly gave a slight snort; it was like a bitter laugh that she did not care to say too loud.

  “The funfair is not a great place to grow old,” She tucked her hands into opposite sleeves of the coat to warm them, creating a sort of muff. “Clark makes it bearable. When he said he did not know me…”

  Polly shook her head.

  “How can a man lose his memory like that?”

  “Captain O’Harris is in a better position to explain it than me,” Clara said. “But the simple answer is that sometimes, when something truly disturbing happens to a person, their mind cannot cope with that situation and they lose their most recent memories. I think losing ten years is quite dramatic, but not unheard of. It is an act of self-protection.”

  Polly frowned as she considered what Clara had said. Clara could not blame her for being confused, she was still struggling with the idea of what had happened to Clark herself, and how he had lost so much of his recent past.

  “How do we get him to remember?” Polly asked.

  “I don’t think it is entirely clear cut. We had hoped that taking him around the funfair would trigger his memories of being a part of it, but he seemed to only get more confused. Captain O’Harris will do his best.”

  “What could have happened to him, to make him forget so much?” Polly’s eyes sparkled with unshed tears.

  “Someone killed his horse. I’m guessing right in front of him.”

  “They killed Gung-Ho?” Polly whistled through her teeth. “Damn, that would mess Clark up all right. He dotes on that horse. You’ve seen the photographs in his caravan? Clark is a horse man, and no doubt about it. Typical cowboy. Spent most of his life on a horse and with few human friends. You live a life like that, you develop a bond with that horse that most people could not understand.”

  Clara nodded. She could vaguely appreciate the connection Clark had with his horse, she certainly knew how bonded people could become to animals and the shock that could ensue when they died.

  “Has Clark forgotten Gung-Ho too?” Polly asked.

  “He seems to have gone back to a time before he had that horse. He remembers a previous horse, Indiana. I suppose that is the mind protecting itself, eradicating all trace of Gung-Ho. You can’t grieve over something you can’t remember.”

  “But in the process, he has lost all memory of the last ten years?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Damn!” Polly swore again. The heels of her shoes clacked on the wooden steps as she brought her feet a little closer together, and she gave a shivery breath into the collar of her coat. “That doesn’t bode well for him remembering me.”

  “Do you know of anyone who wished Clark ill?” Clara asked her.

  Polly tucked her chin deeper into her coat, trying to hide up from the cold.

  “I don’t think he had enemies within the funfair. Clark’s a good guy, kind and uncomplicated.”

  Clara stared out upon the lights of the stalls and rides. It was getting late and the crowds were beginning to thin out. The tug of sleep was pulling at her and she realised just how tired she was.

  “Do you know why Clark left America?” She asked Polly. “From what he said to us, he seemed to have been disinclined to leave his homeland. He acted as if the thought of coming to England was the most ridiculous thing he ever heard.”

  “I don’t know,” Polly admitted. “I joined this funfair after Clark. You see, I was part of a circus, as I said, flying about on the trapeze. But I was finding it harder and harder to perform the nightly routines and then my back went. The circus had no place for me, but luckily I knew the magician at this funfair and he took me on as his assistant. Clark was already here doing his gunslinger act.”

  “And he has never talked about what prompted him to join this fair?” Clara persisted.

  Polly simply shrugged.

  “Clark has always struck me as a person who likes to live in the now, if you see what I mean. He doesn’t dwell on the past, that is why it is so… bizarre that he has lost his memory,” Polly sighed into her coat. “He never talks about America, though I have asked him. He is homesick, I know that much, and he hates the cold, wet English winters. Once I suggested we could save our money, buy tickets and head back to the US, but he wouldn’t hear of it.”

  Clara thought that interesting. It seemed something had driven Clark from America and prevented him from going back. Whether that was relevant to what had happened that night was hard to say.

  “What can I do for him?” Polly asked Clara, her voice taking on a note of sadness.

  Clara hesitated, then she spoke.

  “He needs someone to keep an eye on him. Make sure he rests and eats and drinks. Try to prevent him from becoming upset about what he has forgotten. Act as if you only just met him and don’t expect anything of him in terms of remembering you. Can you do that?”

  Polly blinked back tears, more broken-hearted than she would ever care to admit.

  “Yeah, I can do that.”

  “He needs a good friend,” Clara continued. “Someone might still be out to hurt him.”

  Polly startled at this information and glanced at the caravan door.

  “I’ll guard him with my life,” she said firmly, wiping at her eyes with the sleeve of her coat. “No one is going to get to him without coming through me!”

  The firmness of her tone gave Clara confidence. She smiled at Polly.

  “I’ll be back tomorrow to work on this, in the meantime, he needs to rest plenty.”

  “I’ll get the stove going, make sure he is warm,” Polly was speaking aloud, but it was plain her words were not really intended for Clara, she was just verbalising her thoughts. “And something to eat, yes, I’ll make his favourite Cowboy Beans.”

  Clara felt that Clark was in safe hands. She rose at the same time O’Harris emerged from the caravan.

  “Ladies,” he nodded to them. “Clark is feeling a little more… accepting of his circumstances.”

  “I’ll look after him,” Polly said firmly, politely moving O’Harris aside so she could enter the caravan. “He needs a woman’s touch.”

  Clara and O’Harris walked away from the caravan, silent for a while. The captain reached out for Clara’s arm and drew her close. Clara relished the warmth of his presence and rested her head on his upper arm.

  “What a strange evening,” she said.

  “I shall speak with the doctors at the home and see what they can tell me about these sorts of cases,” O’Harris replied. “I take it you will be coming back here tomorrow?”

  “Yes and remember you have been employed to ‘fix’ poor Clark.”

  O’Harris pulled a face.

  “Maven has no concept of how complicated these things are. If the man had broken his hand, you would not expect it to just be ‘fixed’ overnight.”

  “People don’t perceive the problems of the mind in the same way,” Clara pointed out, her own tone sad at this revelation. “You are supposed to just ‘snap out of it’.”

  “Worst nonsense I have ever heard,” O’Harris snorted. He slipped his arm around her shoulders. “Makes me so angry.”

  “I know,” Clara told him in a soothing tone. “We shall help Clark, as best we can. You give him strength and I shall give him hope by finding who was behind this. You still have the knife?”

  “In my pocket,” O’Harris concurred. “Can’t help wondering who our gunslinger upset so badly they decided to attack him in such a blatant fashion. Someone could have heard the horse being killed, or Clark might have shot the assailant, I figured he was not one for being slow to pull a trigger on a person. Then there was the mess of pushing the horse over t
he cliff, obviously to hide the evidence. The killer could not know Clark was going to lose his mind.”

  “Someone very angry did this,” Clara said quietly. “Someone who had nothing to lose.”

  O’Harris shuddered at the thought.

  “There is something about this all that makes me feel a little queasy.”

  “Because of the trauma it has caused Clark?” Clara looked up at his face, trying to read his mind.

  “No, not exactly. I mean, that is horrid, but I think what really makes me feel sick is that someone killed that horse to hurt a man. That somehow feels so very wrong,” O’Harris twitched at the thought and Clara felt his arm tightening around her, as if he was drawing strength from her presence so close to him. “What did the horse do to deserve that? Someone struck Clark where they knew it would hurt the most. They didn’t just want him to die, they wanted him to suffer. That surely implies a level of hatred for the man I don’t want to consider.”

  “It does,” Clara agreed. “And so far, no one can suggest what Clark might have done to deserve such strong feelings from someone. I have a hunch though, that this stems back to his days in America. I could be wrong, but there is something of a mystery about why he left the country he loves to come to England.”

  “As if he was running from something?” O’Harris said.

  “Maybe,” Clara watched the stars overhead as they seemed to twinkle in the night sky. Just when she had made the decision to go after the local gang that was upsetting Brighton, a case was thrown her way. It was as if fate, if you believed in fate, did not want her messing about with this gang business and was keeping her distracted.

  Well, fate or no fate, she was not going to forget this gang trouble. She could work two cases at once, she had managed it before.

  Chapter Six

  Clara had meant to return to the funfair first thing that morning, but her plans were put on hold when there came a knock on her front door and she answered it to find five, slightly disreputable-looking, individuals on her doorstep. Clara did not recognise a single one of them, but they were all standing before her, caps in hands, trying to appear as non-offensive as possible.