by Evelyn James
More’s the pity.
Chapter Nineteen
“I wish I knew an American,” Clara moped when they arrived back home tired, cold and feeling dejected over their failure to protect Clark’s friends from danger. “In particular, I wish I knew an American from the west, who was familiar with cowboys and outlaws. Sadly, such a person is woefully absent from Brighton.”
Clara sunk into a chair in the parlour and glared at the empty fireplace, as if such an action might spark it miraculously into life.
“This would all be a lot easier if Clark could remember something,” Annie said, also descending into a chair with a sigh. “I thought I had left the fire smouldering just enough that it would still be warm now.”
“No matter Annie,” Tommy told her, leaning on the back of the sofa Clara was sitting on. “First thing tomorrow I shall send-off that telegram and see if that gives us any insight. Meanwhile…”
He disappeared for a time and they heard him heading up the stairs. When he reappeared, he had a large world atlas in his hands. It was the sort you might buy from a book club, being very large and with an ornate leather cover. It contained a multitude of maps in exquisite detail, far from necessary for most armchair travellers, though a person keen on exploring the world would appreciate the tiny script labelling every place, town, village, region, stream and mountain the map compilers had thought relevant.
Tommy laid it on the table – it was not a book you could comfortably perch on your lap – and opened it to the index of place names. He scanned the list and then shook his head.
“There is no Buffalo Rock listed. There is a Buffalo Valley, Buffalo City, Buffalo River and a Buffalo, New York. But no Buffalo Rock.”
“Perhaps it is a very small town,” Annie suggested.
“Or a landmark,” Clara added. “The sort of place you know of if you are familiar with an area, but that does not warrant being drawn on a map.”
“That is disappointing,” Tommy closed the book a little roughly. “I had hoped that would give us an idea.”
“Fancy calling a place in New York Buffalo,” Annie yawned. “That would be rather like calling a place around here Cow or Bull.”
“Not quite the same, considering Buffalo are a wild animal and very remarked upon once for their vast numbers,” Clara pointed out.
“Well, we don’t have a place called Rabbit, and rabbits are wild and found in vast numbers,” Annie replied defiantly.
Clara decided not to argue. She was too tired.
“The real trouble is that I don’t have the resources I am used to for this case. Normally, I can talk to people who know the victim, or go to the police and search their archives. Worst case scenario, I can ask Park-Coombs if he could make enquiries through the Metropolitan police. Here I have none of that. Anyone who might know something is miles away across an ocean.”
Glumness fell over them once more. Annie was still fixating on the vision of David with blood on his temple from the blow from the gun. It was an image that would not shake, and it did not help that she felt guilty about leaving him.
Tommy was sombre because he was as stumped as Clara was. No one seemed to be able to offer any clue as to what was going on, and the only person who might know something was suffering from extensive memory loss. Tommy wanted to help his sister; he just didn’t know how.
And Clara was gloomy because whenever a case reached an impasse she felt that way. She knew she would find a way through it somehow, but until she did, she was down in the dumps, pondering the possibility of failure.
“We should go to bed,” she declared at last.
Annie and Tommy were in agreement, there was nothing more to be done sitting before a dead fire and moping. They said goodnight to one another and headed to bed.
~~~*~~~
Clara was back at the funfair bright and early. Tommy had headed off to send his telegram to the American publishers of the book on the wild west and had said he would meet her up once he was done. A stone of dread sat at the bottom of Clara’s stomach as she entered the funfair, wondering what might have occurred while she was in her own bed. But the lack of commotion or any sign of trouble made her relax.
She headed first to Clark’s caravan, where she found Gunther wrapped in a blanket on the cowboy’s steps. He was sound asleep, his head thrown back and precariously balanced against the woodwork of the caravan door. His mouth was wide open, and he snored with the steady precision of a steam train.
Clara tapped his foot with her own.
“Good morning.”
Gunther choked on his last snore, snorted, coughed and then woke up as if the caravan was on fire. With panicked eyes he looked at Clara, realised who she was, and groaned.
“Why did you do that?” He complained, rubbing at his neck which was stiff from the way he had slept.
“I need to see Clark,” Clara explained. “What happened after I left last night?”
“All was quiet,” Gunther muttered.
Clara had expected as much. The assailant was enjoying their game and taking their time. Building up the tension was all part of the fun, as well as helping to make people paranoid.
“It must have been cold sleeping there,” Clara said to the Austrian, nodding at the steps.
He shrugged.
“I have slept in worse,” he said darkly. “During the war.”
“Hmm, yes, I suppose that is true enough. Trenches are not exactly luxury accommodation.”
“Nor are shell holes,” Gunther grimaced.
“How did you end up in England? The country of your enemy, so to speak?”
“I was a prisoner of war in this country,” Gunther told her bluntly. “I had no family left alive in Austria. When I was released, it seemed as easy to stay here as to go home. At least England does not bear the scars of war like my homeland.”
“Not so obviously, perhaps,” Clara murmured. “But they are there, all the same.”
“I found work in docks and places where they needed someone big for heavy lifting. Then one night I went to the funfair and there was a notice that Mr Maven was looking for a big man to help with security. I liked the idea of travelling around the country, so I offered myself.”
“And the rest is history,” Clara nodded. “What do you make of Maven?”
“Crass, obsessed by money, but generally honest,” Gunther replied. “I have met worse.”
He rose from the steps, stretched his neck and arms, rolled his shoulders and then started to stride away. It was when Gunther stood that Clara was remind how considerably taller than her, he was. He paused after a few paces.
“One thing I think of,” he said, turning. “David was hit with revolver to knock him out. He says he saw no one, so they must have struck from behind. When you strike a man from behind with a gun, you naturally hit across the back of the head. Very hard to hit the temple and why would you? But David was struck here.”
Gunther pressed a finger to a spot just over his eye.
“That is the way you hit a man if you are facing him, and that means the attacker must have been carrying the gun in his left hand.”
Clara followed this train of thought and saw that Gunther had a point. The only way the assailant could have landed a blow on David’s temple like that was if he had been facing him and had swung the gun with his left hand.
Clara frowned. David had claimed he never saw his attacker, yet here was evidence the man had been right in front of him when he was struck. Then again, the wagon had been very dark, and David may have been surprised.
Gunther gave another shrug of his mountainous shoulders and then stalked away.
“I need some breakfast,” he remarked to the air as he disappeared.
Clara went up the caravan steps, still pondering this insight from Gunther and knocked on the door. A gruff voice called her to enter. She found Clark inside, half dressed, though his bed was still down, and the blankets rumpled. He was prodding at a pan of scrambled eggs and bacon, all fry
ing together on his little stove. As Clara entered, he shuffled to one side to give her space.
“Morning,” he said, his voice like sandpaper. He gave a hearty cough. “I spent a lot of the night smoking.”
“You were worrying?” Clara asked.
“Kinda,” Clark took the pan off the heat. “I kept trying to remember where Buffalo Rock was. Every now and then it almost seemed in reach, like a memory right at the back of your mind, but it always slipped away. I am not blind to the fact that two people have been hurt because of me.”
Clark deposited the bacon and eggs onto a plate, he raised his eyebrows at Clara to ask if she wanted any. She politely declined.
“Clark, this is not your fault. Whatever happened in the past, it does not give this man the right to attack your friends, or you for that matter.”
“Yeah, but it feels like it is my fault,” Clark cleared his throat again. “That’s why I am trying to remember something, anything. To make it better.”
“I don’t think memory works quite like that.” Clara said. “You can’t force it.”
“Well, it isn’t exactly coming back of its own accord,” Clark grumbled.
He sat down on a stool next to the stove.
“Sit on the bed, Miss Fitzgerald, I don’t mind.”
Clara perched on the edge of the bed, watching Clark shovel his breakfast into his mouth as fast as he could.
“Is there anything about the three bounties this mystery man had souvenirs from that could link them?” She asked.
“They were years apart,” Clark said. “Don’t think the men were ever buddies.”
He paused to think for a moment.
“Hook-Tooth worked with Mad-Jack once on a jail breakout. I think they had a girl in common. That was it, they both liked this girl and she played them both to help breakout her man from the county jail. The pair didn’t take being tricked well. They didn’t work together out of comradeship, however.”
“Maybe they were connected in another way? Through a place or a person who you knew?” Clara suggested.
“Not that I can think of. Sure we all ran in the same circles, the west is not as big as everyone thinks. You all come through the same towns at some point to restock and rest your bones. That’s how I tracked my bounties, following the routes I knew all the cowboys took. Got to remember, these boys made their livelihood robbing people, and so they got to go where the people are,” Clark seemed to enjoy reminiscing about the past. “A lot of the west is barren desert, or rocky mountains. You lose the road and you can end up dying of thirst, heat, cold or hunger, if the Indians don’t get you first. Though, to be fair, they ain’t as much a problem as folks make out. I knew some really nice ones.”
“I was just hoping that there might be a connection that could lead us to understand why someone is using these men’s old weapons symbolically,” Clara explained.
“Yeah, I see that. But maybe the only connection is that I caught them? Those men were feared, their names conjured up dread in people, and they fell to me. That is something, ain’t it?”
Clark was as proud as a peacock about his bounty hunting success. Clara felt he was losing track of the seriousness of the situation.
“Well, what matters most now is keeping Mary safe. She seems the logical last victim your attacker will go for,” Clara said.
“Mary?” Clark raised his eyebrows at Clara. “Who is that?”
“The Painted Lady,” Clara explained.
Clark envisioned the woman in question and whistled through his teeth.
“She is a fine woman, in many regards. Did she really once hang around with me?”
“Before Polly,” Clara nodded.
Clark seemed dumbstruck.
“What did I do to lose her?”
“You threw her over, for Polly,” Clara explained.
Clark whistled again.
“Whatever did I do that for? A woman like Mary, well, that’s the sort a man could build a ranch around.”
The cowboy had drifted into daydreaming about himself and Mary, Clara gave a polite cough to try to draw back his attention.
Clark was still thinking about Mary, his eyes big and shiny.
“I gave her up? What was I thinking?”
“I suppose you fell in love with Polly,” Clara suggested.
“Polly?” Clark pulled a face. “She is just a stick in a dress. I ought to go see Mary, see she is all right.”
Clark rose and put aside his breakfast plate. He grabbed his shirt and waistcoat, before taking his cowboy hat off a hook.
“If you will excuse me, Miss Fitzgerald, I am going courting,” Clark adjusted his hat with care. “I owe that fine woman Mary an apology. Who could ever think of capturing such a creature’s heart and then letting it go?”
“Oh, yes…” Clara said, trying to envision Mary through Clark’s eyes and failing. Most men would have found Polly the more desirable out of the pair, for sure.
“I shall keep thinking about things,” Clark told Clara. “If that memory is in here, I shall find it and pull it out.”
He tapped his head and then departed the caravan. He did not seem concerned that he had left Clara inside. She followed him out, closed the door and wondered what to do next. Maybe if she spoke to David he would remember more about the previous night.
It was worth a shot, at least.
Chapter Twenty
Clara wandered across the frosty grass, feeling the cold seeping through her shoes. There must be snow coming soon, it seemed just right for it. Snow for Christmas would delight children, though fill their parents and any other adults forced to work through the weather with misery.
She found David’s tiny caravan tucked right at the back of the funfair. It was so small, it might have been mistaken for a two-wheeled hackney cab, or the sort of simple carriage a lady of leisure might drive around.
A knock on the door was greeted by an entreaty to enter and Clara found herself inside the small construction, which was nearly completely consumed by a bed that stretched across the back portion and contained the forlorn coffee seller. There was no room for a stove or even an extra chair, the caravan was quite literally and simply a roof over David’s head. No doubt the bed would fold up and turn into a pair of bench seats and perhaps there was a plank fastened to the wall that could be lowered to form a table, but there was nothing else in the way of luxury, there wasn’t even any cupboards to store belongings.
David propped himself up weakly in his bed, looking embarrassed that Clara had found him in such a state.
“I thought you were Abbey, bringing me some breakfast,” he said, twisting his fingers together with the flushed look of a man alarmed at being caught in bed by a visitor, a female one at that.
“Abbey works with the cook,” he added, looking worried Clara might think he was suggesting something else. “Clark instructed her to bring me breakfast this morning.”
“That was thoughtful of him,” Clara said.
“He has been very kind,” David looked awkward, finding it hard to express his gratitude to Clark. “Maven is angry with me, though.”
“It strikes me that Maven is always angry at someone,” Clara said reassuringly. “Don’t take it to heart.”
“I promised him I would be back on my stall in time for when we open,” David’s voice was urgent, he moved in the bed to face Clara better and winced. He placed a hand to his temple. “Who would have thought a little bang to the head would make a person feel so rough.”
“You should take time to recuperate,” Clara told him firmly, her voice naturally returning to the commanding, authoritative tone of her nursing days.
“I don’t have the time,” David shook his head and instantly regretted it. After the world had stopped spinning, he gave Clara an abashed smile. “I mustn’t do that.”
“David, do you recall anything about the person who assaulted you last night?” Clara asked him.
David frowned and was very close to shaking his hea
d again, before he remembered himself.
“No, they came up from behind.”
“Are you sure about that?” Clara asked, thinking about what Gunther had said concerning the angle of the blow.
“Yes, I never saw them,” David insisted. “Maybe I heard them behind me… I think there was a footstep, light, but there all the same.”
“So maybe you started to turn towards the sound?” Clara suggested, wondering if that could explain the way the blow had fallen.
“I don’t really remember,” David apologised. “Honestly, it is all rather a blur. I suddenly understand how Clark must feel, being unable to recall a thing about the attack on Gung-Ho.”
“You were lucky, in many ways,” Clara informed him. “The attacker did not want to seriously hurt you.”
“That does not feel like much consolation at the moment,” David gave a sheepish smile. “My head throbs like a drum is going off inside, I swear I can actually hear the pain.”
“Then you must rest.”
“Maven would never forgive me. I am not as important to this funfair as Clark or Polly,” David managed a shrug without affecting his head. “My only purpose is to sell good coffee, and Maven will tell you swift enough that he can find a dozen men like me.”
“But only you know how to make coffee the way Clark likes,” Clara reminded him.
David’s smile became wistful.
“That was good fortune, one of those twists of fate. Who knew my coffee making skills would prove so useful. Miss Fitzgerald, are you any closer to working out who is behind these attacks?”
“Not at the moment,” Clara admitted with a slight sigh. “I can’t fathom the connection between Clark’s old bounties and these present attacks. The assailant obviously is trying to tell us something, but what that is eludes me. Clark can offer no link between the three men whose weapons have been used in these attacks to suggest why they are important. I suppose it is something to do with revenge.”