The Gold Miner's Wife: A Young Woman's Story of Romance, Passion and Murder

by Creek, Amethyst

  The breeze was disturbing some of the papers on his desk. He moved the deck prism to anchor them all in place. Another variable had to be considered. What had the murderer accomplished in committing this bold crime? Two young women were now widows. Was a jealous suitor waiting in the wings? Was that the motive? Love has the power to make fools of us all, Cookson thought. It makes us slaves to sentiment. Was this a crime of passion? Although this concept seemed unlikely, it was an avenue that would be explored.

  Cookson had now completed his interviews with the other mine workers. He wanted to rule out sabotage as a motive and found no evidence of disgruntlement or unhappiness among the laborers. The men were paid on time and received a competitive wage. He had also visited the Federal Land Office on Fifteenth Avenue in Denver to check on the validity of the claim. Everything was in order.

  So many leads had dissipated, like smoke in the breeze. Cookson returned to his seat at the desk and glanced at his notes, now focused on the numerous unresolved questions he had regarding the enigmatic Mr. Brophy. The sinister proof he was seeking would in some way be connected with this man, he was sure of it, but he had yet to ferret out what it was.

  The mine managers affirmed what Jack had asserted previously. Brophy simply walked into the mining camp that late July day and was put to work almost immediately. He labored steadily for nearly one week without complaint. The high altitude which forced some workers to move on, evidently did not bother him. After several days, Mr. Quinn had instructed Brophy in the use of the auger. The two established something of a camaraderie owing to their common roots from County Tipperary. Brophy now knew how to use the auger and where he could find one. Quinn and two others were experienced in laying charges and Brophy, now having gained their trust, had observed where the blasting caps were safely stored. Like any other worker, he moved about the camp freely. He had knowledge and he had opportunity, but what would be his motive?

  It was equally mysterious that someone who had labored diligently for a week at physically demanding work, would neglect to ask for the wages he was due before he left. There could only be one explanation – someone else was paying him. But who? And why? Cookson tried to imagine what sort of man would be willing to carry out another’s dark wishes. Was not a person’s character his most precious commodity? By luck or by design, Brophy was an outcast, a loner, someone’s minion, and in Cookson’s experience this was the most dangerous type of ruffian.

  The timing of his disappearance was another puzzlement. Brophy worked the morning of the explosion and evidently slipped away unnoticed sometime that afternoon. With the crisis at hand, everyone was focused on saving lives. In a frantic race against time, the workers whose brass checks were hung on the board outside the mine entrance were the ones needing to be accounted for.

  In the aftermath of that tumultuous day, Jack had asked his managers to get the word out in Pine Creek and the surrounding mines that they were looking for Brophy. He was wanted in connection with his alleged assault at the brothel. But Brophy seemed to have disappeared without a trace. Cookson was back to square one.

  There was yet one person who had not been interviewed, a person with knowledge of Mr. Brophy, and that person was Mary Dempsey…Jade. Cookson knew that such an interview would cause her considerable disquiet, but they were on the same side in this. He needed to find out more about what Brophy may have said to her. If she labored under the belief that he might be caught and brought to justice for his brutality, she would probably cooperate. She need not know that he was looking into Mr. Brophy for other reasons. Cookson jammed the cigarette butt into the ashtray more forcefully than was needed and reached for his revolver. He would be ready if trouble came his way. It was time to return to Pine Creek.

  As Jade recovered from the brutal treatment she received at the hands of Mr. Brophy, she contemplated her grim situation. It could only be characterized as execrable. Life had brought her to a very low place indeed. It had taken a full week after the event for Jade to find the courage to peer into a looking glass. She had been terrified by the whole ghastly business and although the nightmares were fewer, the headaches subsided, and her face was now healed, to continue on at Madam Delilah’s was a reality she would not countenance.

  The one hundred dollars received from Mr. Simmons had allowed her to think about other avenues. It often happens that significant events in life will conspire to lead us in a new direction. She now had an opportunity to rescript her path. No one else could save her, she wanted nothing more than to save herself. It was time to forget her past life; she was no longer Jade. She would begin anew as Mary Dempsey. With the diligent help of Madam Delilah and the others at the brothel house, a low-paying position was found at a boarding house in Colorado Springs where Mary would be out of sight, banished to the scullery to clean the pots. The prospect suited her. With nothing to recommend her, Mary Dempsey was grateful for a new beginning that would keep her out of harm’s way.

  It was David Cookson’s good fortune to find Mary Dempsey still in Pine Creek as he called on her just on the eve of her departure. He handed his card to Madam Delilah and introduced himself as the detective hired by Jack Simmons to find out more about Mr. Brophy. Mary Dempsey was then called to the parlor. She wore a simple brown day dress with long sleeves and a high collar. Her auburn hair was pulled into a neat chignon at the nape of her neck. She was very young, barely a woman. In light of all she had endured, Cookson was loathe to interview Miss Dempsey, to force her to dredge up the awful memories and relive it all again. At the same time he was committed to solving the mystery. The reality was that Brophy might also be guilty of murder. He had to find him.

  “Miss Dempsey,” Cookson began, “I know you do not wish to revisit that painful day. However, Mr. Simmons has sent me because we would like to apprehend Mr. Brophy. It would help our investigation if you would tell me anything you remember.”

  She eyed him warily. “He will kill me,” she said fearfully, looking like a cornered mouse. “He made that very clear.”

  “No one is going to kill you,” said Cookson with authority. “Brophy has fled the area. He knows we are looking for him. Why would he want to kill you? What can you tell me?”

  Mary flinched and turned her head away for a moment. The image of those large fists hitting her assailed her. Then came the terrifying memory of searing pain and the taste of blood.

  “Not very much, I am afraid,” she answered quietly. “Someone came to the door. He had an accent like Brophy, only different. He was dressed like a gentleman, not a worker. He asked Brophy ‘is it done?’ was all.”

  “To clarify, Mr. Cookson, one of my girls showed the man where to find Brophy,” said Madam Delilah.

  “And what did Brophy say to this man?” asked Cookson.

  “He said ‘yes, tomorrow’ was all.”

  “And then…?”

  “Then the well-dressed man handed Brophy a big wad of money and said he would be in Denver waiting for further news,” she added.

  “And when did he attack you?”

  “Later I asked Brophy if the man was someone from the mine. He answered by using his fists,” she said. Mary looked down, her hands were anxiously twisting the handkerchief. Her nerves were starting to fray. Her delicate lashes dusted her cheeks; then the teardrops came.

  “Brophy wanted you to forget the man you saw,” supplied Cookson. “I do not wish to upset you further. Just one thing,” he added, “can you tell me anything else that would help describe the well-dressed man?”

  “I only got a brief glimpse of him,” she said honestly. “He had brown curly hair and a thin mustache. I think he had a mustache, the hallway was dark. He was tall, I mean taller than Mr. Brophy.”

  “Thank you, Miss Dempsey. I appreciate that it has been very painful for you to be asked to recall these events. You have helped our investigation tremendously. I can assure you, he has now left this area. No one has seen him. Brophy is an evil man and he knows we are trying to find him,” s
aid Cookson in an effort to reassure her.

  “If he ever finds out that I spoke with you, he will surely kill me,” she insisted, her voice cracking.

  “He will never find out,” said Cookson quite firmly. “And thanks to you, our prospects are even better that we will be able to prevent him from harming other women.”

  “What will happen if you catch him?” she asked, as she dabbed her eyes with her handkerchief.

  “When we catch him, he will hang,” said Cookson without mincing words.

  “Hang?”

  “We have reason to believe he is the culprit in other crimes, Miss Dempsey,” said Cookson with further elaboration. “Thank you again for aiding in our investigation.”

  Cookson stood, picked up his hat and bade the ladies good day. Finally, some real progress was being made. His hunch about the slippery Mr. Brophy had been correct all along. He was paid by someone, evidently a well-to-do Englishman, to commit premeditated murder. This was progress. He would report his findings to Jack Simmons and consider their next move.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Thomas Sprague’s unexpected death had caused Professor and Mrs. Purfield to delay their planned return home to England. The Purfield’s had arrived in Denver in 1873 and rented a comfortable home on Lawrence Street, intending to stay for only one year. While Professor Purfield devoted his considerable talent as a chemist to the building of smelters used in the extraction of gold and silver, one year became two, two became three. By 1876, his involvement had finally diminished, he and his wife were increasingly homesick, and there was no longer a compelling reason for them to remain in Denver. The decision was made to return to England after Colorado Statehood festivities concluded on August first.

  But Thomas’ death had changed all that. The Purfield’s had established a close and abiding affection for Susannah and Thomas, almost like family. Their personal grief, coupled with concern over Susannah’s welfare, made it impossible for them to entertain the prospect of leaving as planned. However, by mid-September it seemed to the Purfields that Susannah had regained her equilibrium sufficiently for them to resurrect their plans to return home and the arduous task of packing their belongings soon commenced.

  Susannah, in her continued effort to focus on remaining busy and occupied, volunteered her services in assisting with the packing of some of Ella Purfield’s more fragile items such as porcelain figurines, crystal and her prized brass Argand oil lamp. And so, on the very afternoon Jack Simmons came to visit Susannah at her residence on Grant Street, he was redirected to the home of the Purfield’s on Lawrence Street.

  It had been over two weeks since Jack and Susannah had called on Gerta Schultz. He told himself he wanted nothing more than to see Susannah, assess her well-being and offer to assist her in any way. She was never far from his thoughts. Under the circumstances, he believed he had an unspoken obligation to protect her. But the truth was, he had formed affectionate feelings for Susannah that were quite personal and could no longer be denied. Taking refuge in the solitude of the mountains and the mining camp offered him no relief. She even visited him there in his dreams. With no hope for it, Jack acted impulsively and made his way over to Lawrence Street thinking maybe he too could lend the Purfield’s a helping hand.

  “Come in, come in, Mr. Simmons. It is always nice to see you,” said Mrs. Purfield effusively. “We are all in a state of disarray in the midst of our packing. But please come in. You will be surprised to learn Susannah is here helping us. The more the merrier I say!”

  “When will you be returning to England?” Jack inquired.

  “On Monday next,” was her reply. “I do not know if we shall be ready. There is so much to do!

  “I understand. You are moving an entire household, after all, Mrs. Purfield, and it is a daunting prospect,” Jack observed. “I am sorry to see you and the Professor go. Please know you will always have many friends here, myself included.”

  “We shall miss the friends we have made here as well, and the mountain vistas, and the sunny weather, and the hummingbirds and the Ladies Aide Society. But not the rattlesnakes,” she teased. “I have many memories to take with me, mostly happy ones, and at the end of the day, Mr. Simmons, what do we have to cherish but our memories?” she said wistfully.

  “You have hit the mark, as usual, Mrs. Purfield,” Jack agreed.

  “If you are looking for the Professor, you will find him in the library. He is supervising the packing of his delicate scientific instruments.”

  “I will be sure to pay my respects. Actually I am here on another matter,” he said honestly. “I wish to see Susannah. Catori told me I would find her here.”

  That revelation diverted Mrs. Purfield’s attention away from the madness. She raised a brow. “Oh?” was all she managed to say, unable to hide her concern. “Not more trouble I hope.”

  “Not at all. An added reason for my coming here is that you can use an extra hand. So put me to work, Mrs. Purfield,” he said brightly. “I am at your service.”

  “That is most generous of you, Mr. Simmons,” said Mrs. Purfield, regaining her composure. “Please follow me this way. I believe you would be of great assistance in the dining room.”

  When they entered, Susannah was sitting on the floor amidst wooden crates and stacks of newspapers, carefully packing some of Mrs. Purfield’s precious figurines. For added comfort she had removed her shoes. With her ankles exposed, the hem of her dress turned up and her petticoat askew, she was flummoxed to be caught in such an immodest and unladylike manner. She bolted upright with nearly with the speed of a wet cat. “Mr. Simmons!” she exclaimed.

  Jack was nonchalant. “How are you today, Mrs. Sprague?” he asked rather formally. He shrugged off his frock coat and rolled up his sleeves, exposing those muscular arms again and went to work immediately. Susannah’s mouth went dry; she looked away. With a hammer and nails, he secured lids onto the crates that were packed, then neatly stacked them to one side.

  “Catori told me I would find you here,” he confessed. “I was interested in knowing how you are getting along.” Her skin was creamy white with the faintest touch of pink and tendrils of her soft curls had escaped their pins. Her black day dress was less severe today and had a scooped neckline, the swell of her breasts strained against her bodice. He pounded another nail in place.

  “You must not worry about me Jack,” she said kindly. “Each new day is much like the last. I try to keep myself busy.”

  “If you ever require assistance, for any reason at all, you need only send a note around,” he reassured her.

  “You are most considerate and I thank you,” she said as she continued working. “I have heard from Edward. Only a brief telegram, but that is something,” she said brightly. “It relieved my anxiety to know they arrived home safely.”

  Jack did not want to be unkind, but the last topic he wanted to discuss was the tedious Edward Mansfield. “I am glad to hear it,” he said, and then changed the subject. “Susannah, I would like to invite you to visit the mine, your mine, if you feel you are ready. Once the weather turns, we will find it more difficult to gain access, and by winter the operation will be shut down entirely. As you know, our new Cornish Stamp Mill is up and running. Perhaps sometime next week?”

  “My countrymen will be relieved to know you purchased a Cornish Stamp Mill,” she teased. “I will be all sixes and sevens until I get to see it myself!”

  “You will come with me then?” he asked hopefully.

  “Yes, I will come with you. Would Thursday suit?”

  “Of course. It is settled then. I will call early, say 9:00 a.m. and have you back home by six o’clock,” he reassured her. “The leaves are starting to turn. I think you will enjoy the scenery.”

  “I look forward to it,” she said honestly.

  Jack spent the remainder of the afternoon most agreeably at the home of the Purfield’s. They were supremely grateful for his diligent assistance. Jack had the hidden advantage of spending time clos
e to someone who was very dear to him.

  The next day, the wind picked up. Tumbleweeds were starting to run wild all over town, caught in fences, piling up next to homes and buildings and getting trapped beneath carriages and wagons. They were a constant menace to those living along the Front Range and on the high plains. Residents waged an unending battle against the resilient weeds that rolled and bounced along so effortlessly. They would rid their yards of the pesky vagabonds one day, only to be invaded again the next. The weather was especially unsettled at this time of year and one never knew what the wind might be whipping up.

  Jack rode against the steady wind to Daniel Cookson’s office on Colfax Avenue, drawing his bandana over his mouth and nose, lest he breathe in dust. Cookson had sent a note around that morning requesting a meeting. Jack was anxious to learn what details may have surfaced in the ongoing investigation.

  He found Cookson working behind his desk and an older gentleman emptying his ashtray into a dust bin.

  “Anything else, Captain?” the older man asked.

  “No, thank you Rivers. That will be all. We will have some papers needing to be filed away later,” said Cookson. “Very good Captain,” the man replied as he shuffled past Jack carrying the dust bin. He clearly had a limp.

  “Ah, Mr. Simmons,” said Cookson. “Please come in, and close the door will you?” Jack shut the door, removed his Stetson and took a seat.

  “Captain?” said Jack.

  “That was Mr. Rivers. He was wounded at Vicksburg. He was in the 130th Illinois Infantry under my command, Mr. Simmons. I offered him a position here.” This information confirmed what Jack already knew about Mr. Cookson; he was an honorable man and a man of integrity. His men were loyal to him as he was to them. “I asked you to meet with me because I have made some progress. It is more important than ever that we find Brophy – I’m sure he is our man,” Cookson stated, without preamble.