The Innocents (The Innocents Mystery Series Book 1)

by C. A. Asbrey

  “I’m sure someone as ingenious as you could come up with something. Just go away, lie low, and reinvent yourself. Give this up.”

  He shrugged. “Maybe someday? When there’s something to stop for, huh? I guess that’s something we have in common. Neither of us cares too much about the future. I’ve seen that in a few reckless young men, but I’ve got to admit I’ve never seen it in a woman.” His jaw tensed. “Why? What happened to you?”

  The playfulness shut down, locked out by an impenetrable shield of darkness in the eyes. “Why must something have happened to me? Why can’t women be adventurous?”

  He shook his head, giving his mind time to run and analyze as he examined her. “Nope. I’ve seen that in plenty of women, but you take it to a whole other level. You do things experienced men would refuse to do. None of my gang would have trailed the Pattersons alone, and I wouldn’t expect them to. Why would you do it?” He stared at the top of her head as she gazed at the floor. He took her chin in a crooked finger and lifted it so she faced him once more, speaking with delicate softness. “Don’t you have anyone? Nobody at all?”

  The absent eyes gathered mettle full of sparking lights in their depths. She raised her head away from the caressing forefinger. “Wasn’t it you who told me you’d keep out of my family if I kept out of yours? I’m holding you to that, Mr. Quinn.”

  He frowned. “But you didn’t. You’re here with my only relative.”

  “Well, you would say that, wouldn’t you? I could say the same, but would you believe me?”

  “Yes. If you told me you were alone in the world, I’d believe it.”

  Her brow crinkled. “But not when I tell you I promise not to hand you in until this is over? You saved my life. I know what could have happened. I owe this to you and Jake. Then, we’ll be even.”

  “Even?” He sighed. “If that’s all this is, you can leave with no hard feelings. I’d have done it for anyone. So would you.”

  “Yes.” A smile ghosted over her face. “But I still want you to know I’ll help. It’s what I do, and I do it for everyone. Nobody else will investigate it and you can’t access the Pinkerton records if we need them. I’m staying, and I’m going to catch these people.”

  “We,” he corrected. “We’re going to catch them.”

  “Wee? That reminds me.” Her eyes widened and she sidestepped him, trotting down the steps with a flash of white petticoat. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

  He scowled and stepped out to follow her, stopped by a voice coming from the doorway behind him.

  “Leave her be. She said she was goin’ for a wee. She’s gone to the outhouse,” Jake leaned against the door jamb and smirked. “You’ve really forgotten all the Irish stuff, haven’t you? The Scots say it, too. Your Ma would be ashamed of you chasin’ a woman to the latrines.”

  “Eavesdropping, Jake?” Nat frowned. “You’re better than that.”

  “No, I ain’t, and my bladder certainly ain’t.” He pushed himself upright and walked back into the cabin calling behind him. “Let me know when she’s done. I’m next.”

  ♦◊♦

  It was about ten o’clock in the morning when Abigail retrieved her trunk from the stored luggage area of Bannen’s Railway station. She needed privacy to change her appearance and she set off to the rail yard to find a quiet corner as the public restrooms were little more than unsanitary latrines.

  All of Abigail’s wigs were human hair and were of the highest order. They were almost indistinguishable from a coiffured head, and she held a good variety of them for use at the drop of a hat. The first female Pinkerton had been an actress, and she promulgated the skills of her profession through the department. The women were trained with a theatrical make-up artist and had an infinite collection of prosthetics; noses, teeth, wrinkled neck skin formed elderly dewlaps which, when applied by her expert hand, meant even their own mothers wouldn’t recognize them.

  When the train from Topeka pulled in at twelve minutes after eleven, nobody paid any attention to the stout, middle-aged woman dressed in widow’s weeds and carrying a carpet bag, who followed the porter. He pushed ahead with her large trunk on a trolley. Abigail understood how invisible unattractive middle-aged women were in society, and she exploited this sad truth whenever it suited her purposes. The women of Bannen would never associate her with the slim, curly-haired maid who had worked at the brothel, or the mousey Irish girl who ran off. She needed to look respectable.

  “Porter.” Her tones rang out in a clear, perfect American accent. All her Celtic vowels and rolled consonants gone.

  “Can you direct me to a respectable boarding house?”

  ♦◊♦

  “I’m hoping to find something out about the whereabouts of my son. He fell out with his father many years ago and we became estranged.” She took a sip of tea from her flowered, china cup as she fixed the other woman with a pained expression. “You know how men are, and we women can do little to move them when they make up their minds. My David died six months ago, and I’ve decided it was time to reach reconciliation. I had heard he and his wife were in this area. I was told you could help.”

  Mrs. Leyton’s eyes widened in sympathy. “I do know. We women just have to deal with it all. What was it? Money?”

  Abigail shook her head. “Women. He fell in love with one of the servants. My David wouldn’t have it, so they ran away together. David cut them off.”

  A pair of rheumy blue eyes opened in sympathy as the matron noted her new boarder had servants; plural. How gracious. How wealthy. How pleased was she to have this interesting arrival in town in her boardinghouse and to be in the vortex of the new storm of gossip about to sweep through Bannen? She leaned forward to get more details. “What’s your son’s name?”

  “Philip. Philip Benson. His wife is Dora; Dora Blythe, as was.”

  She watched as the landlady took a great gulp of air and put down her tea cup. “I’m sorry, so sorry.”

  “Why?

  “I don’t know how to tell you this. He lived here.”

  “Has he left? Do you know where?”

  “Oh, Mrs. Benson.”

  “What?”

  “Your son is dead, and so is his wife.”

  Abigail sat in total silence as she shook the cup in the saucer so violently, Mrs. Leyton removed them from her hands, concerned she might chip her valued tea set. “When? How? Was there some kind of dreadful accident? What happened? Why did nobody tell us?”

  “Your son died about three years ago. There was an explosion in the mine he worked in. Another man was seriously injured in the accident, but he survived. He was blinded.”

  Abigail swooned and fanned herself. “That poor girl. All on her own.”

  “She had a son. He’s also called David. He’s eight now.”

  Mrs. Leyton watched as she dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief. “He called him after his father. Oh, where is he? I must see him.”

  A stiff, pregnant pause stilled the room. “Dora is also dead. She became—” the woman groped for a sensitive way to tell this woman her daughter-in-law was driven into prostitution by poverty, “a working woman, a soiled dove, a fallen angel. She went missing not so long ago. They found her body just the other day in the most dreadful circumstances.”

  Abigail rasped her nose on her handkerchief, trying not to laugh at the woman’s purple prose. When she had contained herself, she spoke in a voice cracking with amusement which could be mistaken for emotion. “The child? What happened to the child?”

  “He went missing after being put into care.”

  “The poor baby. What are the authorities doing?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  A hard edge crept into her voice. “Well. That’s about to change. What kind of town is this where people are killed and children disappear and no one cares?”

  “It’s a very nice town, Mrs. Benson. I’m sure the sheriff will help you.”

  “I’m sure of it, too. He’ll deal with this, or I’
ll have his badge.”

  ♦◊♦

  ‘Mrs. Benson’ sat opposite the sheriff, her normal Scottish accent back in play. “I have here a letter of authority from Alan Pinkerton himself. Please contact the agency by telegraph if you wish to verify my identity. I’d never normally carry this in deep cover, but I need to speak to you about a few things which necessitate supporting documentation.” She leaned forward. “Please check. In fact, I insist upon it. I’ll wait.”

  ♦◊♦

  Jake patted the neck of the sorrel who nickered and pawed at the straw, eager for the humans to stop talking and pay attention to her. She was hungry, and the stableman just stood there with the sack by his feet as he yammered away with this other human. Her ears flicked back and she dropped her head, stretching out her neck to nip at the bag. The stableman snatched it back. “Here now, Meggy. I’ll give that to you when I’m good and ready.”

  “She’s hungry,” Jake laughed. “Feed her. I’m the same when I need to eat and folks are yakkin’ away.”

  The old man nodded and emptied the sack into her tub and scattered over extra grains, apples and carrots. He watched the velvet nose drop into the food and grinned. “There ya go. I should get some peace now, huh?” He raised his head to face the visitor. “She’s a character, that one. Belongs to a gent stayin’ over at the hotel. You might wanna meet him. He sells novelties, and decided rentin’ was too expensive and bought her.” The stableman reached into his back pocket and fanned out a pack of cards. “Have you ever seen the like of this?”

  Jake stared at an array of nude, or barely-clad, women in lewd poses. “If you think they’re good you should see the ace of spades.” The stableman shuffled. “Of course they needed her to be dark ’cause it was ace of spades, but wait’ll ya see her. She should be in a travellin’ show. I ain’t never seen the like.”

  Jake shook his head. “I prefer the real thing.”

  “That’s easy for you to say at your age, young fella.” He stuffed the cards back into his back pocket. “When you get to my age, it’s all a man’s got to do to while away a long evenin’.” He raised his beetled brows. “What did you want again?”

  “It ain’t a game of cards, that’s for sure.” Jake chuckled.

  The old man laughed and pointed over to a bale of hay. He walked over to it and kicked it, causing the rising dust to dance in the golden sunbeams. He sat. “Folks sellin’ stolen horses, you say?”

  “Yeah,” Jake joined him on the bale. “Pearl said you’d know if anyone did that around here.”

  “She’s right. I would. What’s your interest in this thing?”

  “I was kinda fond of Dora,” Jake replied, his face solemn, but his blue eyes flashing. “The law’s doing nothin’.”

  “I know,” the old man nodded his craggy head. “This ain’t the town to sell stolen horseflesh, especially if it belonged to anyone local before it was took. Now, from what hear, they’d take them to a town about forty miles from here called Paris. It’s a real dirty place, and it ain’t got no sheriff. You can buy and sell anythin’ there, and I mean anythin’—even people. Have you ever heard of it?”

  Jake’s face registered faux shock. “I’ve heard of it. They say outlaws can kick back there without worryin’ about arrest. It must be a real hole.”

  “Oh, it is. I ain’t never been there, but I’ve got a theory the bushwackers round here come out of Paris. I think they ride out from there and hit poor innocent folks before they head back. They’re always that side of town.”

  “There’s been bushwackin’s?”

  “Oh, yes,” the stableman agreed. “They’ve been goin’ on well nigh fifteen years, now. Ain’t nobody ever been killed, though. I guess it was just a matter of time.”

  “Any descriptions? Are they all the same outfit, or just random?”

  “It used to be just one man, back in the day, but now it’s usually three men. I guess word got around it was easy pickin’s or the first one got old and needed back up.”

  “How often do these happen?”

  “I dunno,” the old man creaked to a standing position, his hand propping his lower back with both hands. “Four, maybe five times a year? I ain’t never paid too much attention to it. It’s always strangers passin’ through. Families, and the like. They go for easy targets, so the locals go armed with plenty of men or use the train. I’m sure it comes straight outta Paris ’cause it’s full of them low-life cowards.”

  “And if I went to Paris? Is there anyone you think I should speak to?” murmured Jake.

  “You can’t go there, son. It’s dangerous.”

  “I have no choice. I’m goin’. Who should I speak to?”

  The old man looked at the straw-covered floor, scratching behind his ear. “I wouldn’t, son. I really wouldn’t.”

  “I’m thirty-six, and nobody’s son,” snapped Jake.

  The stableman turned in surprise at the sudden anger in the younger man’s voice. “Easy, I didn’t mean nuthin’ by it. I’m just worried for ya. If you have to go, take backup—lots of it. Five or more men. It’s a treacherous place. I also don’t count on you gettin’ any answers.”

  “But you know the name of the man we should speak to?” Jake pressed.

  “No. I only got rumors.”

  “Rumors are enough. I want a name. Where do I start?”

  “Ethan. Ethan Green. He’ll buy horses from anywhere.” The older man scowled. “Don’t take that attitude with him. He’ll shoot you quick as look at you.”

  Jake stood. “I’ll take my chances.” He reached into his waistcoat pocket and pulled out a few notes. “Thanks for your help. He’ll never hear from me where I got his name.”

  The stableman watched Jake turn and stroll out of the building. He walked over and stroked the mare’s ears. “A nice young fella, Meggy. What a shame he’ll never make it outta Paris alive.”

  Chapter Twelve

  The man glowered at her from under tufted brows, which, when combined with his wiry frame and dun-colored hair, gave him the look of an irritated Jack Russell Terrier. He discarded the reply from the Pinkerton Agency with a mute shake of the head at the madness of the modern world and slumped into the seat opposite, glaring at her in open challenge.

  “An old woman? Are they kiddin’ me? I ain’t any got knittin’ patterns in this office.”

  “I don’t think I need to tell you I require the utmost discretion in this case. You can tell no one who I am. Mr. Pinkerton will take the matter up with the state governor himself if it gets out. You’re the only person who knows. It couldn’t come from anywhere else.”

  “I can’t spare no men to look into the death of two whores. We’re stretched enough looking after the respectable folks. I guess Pinkerton ain’t got any spare, either, to send the likes of you.”

  Abigail swallowed her distaste for the man. “I’m not asking for men or any other resources, Mr. Thompson. I simply want to know a few things. At worst, you can collect evidence which needs a badge behind it.”

  “Such as what?”

  “Let’s start with crime in the area. Has anyone else been killed in circumstances which are similar, regardless of how they made a living?”

  “Of course not. What kind of town do you think I’m running, here?”

  She fixed him with intense brown eyes. “Since you ask, one in which the brutal murder of two women and a kidnapping of an innocent child doesn’t even merit you attempting to leave the office. That’s not good in anyone’s book. I was taught justice is blind, but you also seem to want to make her as deaf and dumb, too.”

  He half-stood, leaning on the desk as he glared at her with beady eyes. “It’s a good job you’re an old woman or I’d make you regret that remark. What the hell are they doin’ employin’ an old baggage like you?”

  Abigail smiled to herself but understood she was getting more respect than she would get if he knew she was only twenty-four. “People say things around old ladies they won’t say to a man with a s
tar. It’s a matter of getting results, and you will be judged on whether you help or hinder me in getting them. Now, killings in the area, please?”

  He muttered under his breath as he brought out a large ledger. “There’ve been occasional bushwackin’s, but nothin’ like the whores. There are shootouts and a few stabbin’s in bars. There may be a fella or two who’ve slapped their wives a bit too hard and ended up in the cells for the night. This is a good town.”

  “How occasional are the bushwhackings?”

  “A few a year. Nobody killed before the whores though, except for old man Schmidt. They’ve been goin’ on for over fifteen years now. It could be as long as twenty. I’d have to check.”

  “Schmidt?”

  “Yeah lives out—”

  “I know where he lives.” Her brow furrowed. “When and how did he die?”

  The sheriff examined her in open surprise, bemused by her local knowledge. “He got shot. His body was found just on the outskirts of town the day before yesterday. Are you talkin’ about the same one? The one with the boy who’s a bit simple?”

  Abigail paused in thought before she spoke. “Through the forehead?”

  “Yeah. How’d you know?”

  She nodded. “I didn’t. I guessed. I need to see the body.”

  “Why? It’s just an old man in a box. There ain’t no clues there.”

  “I need to see if he put up a fight.”

  Thompson shrugged. “Suit yourself. I’ll get my deputy to take you over to the undertaker’s office, but I don’t get it.”

  “Do you have descriptions of the bushwhackers?”

  “Three men, heavy-set, masked. One little. I ain’t got nothin’ more.”

  “Has Kurt always been simple?”

  “Always,” he nodded. “The teacher couldn’t even teach him in the school when they arrived here. He’s real backward, but pleasant enough. Smiley, but simple. He ain’t no bother.”

  “Any pattern in the robberies?”

  The lawman shook his head. “Random. There are all kinds of victims, just folks passin’ through. There weren’t hardly anyone local until Schmidt.”