The Innocents (The Innocents Mystery Series Book 1)

by C. A. Asbrey

  His eyes glittered through the darkness in irritating triumph. “You’re one of the most honest people I ever met. Don’t get me wrong; you lie through your teeth, but only for the right reasons. You can’t be bought and you don’t cheat. Do you know how many women with your looks would use them to get what they wanted? Even to draw us in?” He grinned. “At least, when it happens, I’ll know it’s not that kind of trick.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “When what happens?”

  His smile danced with devilish temptation.

  “It’ll never happen,” she murmured.

  “No, Abi. When.” Roguish sparks shone in the glittering smile. “You and me are made from the same stuff, just different sides of the same coin. There’s a whole lot of fire under that stiff, proper front. Now, let’s turn in. I think this is getting too far from the business at hand.”

  They strolled on, back to the hotel. The stars stretched endlessly above them and blazed with as much defiance as the spirits of the complicated people below.

  Nat turned to her. “I questioned Kurt. He says that when they came across the women they were already dead and disposed of the bodies so they could sell anything valuable.”

  She stopped walking and faced him once more. “And you believe him?”

  “To a point. He’s not bright enough to be very creative. I don’t think I got everything out of him, though. There were too many witnesses around. I had to go gentle.”

  “What about the jewelry he sold in Paris?”

  Nat stopped in his tracks. “He said the women were wearing it and he wouldn't give whoever found them next a chance to steal it instead. They scavenged it, according to him.”

  “Where would prostitutes get something worth stealing?”

  “I asked the same question,” he shrugged. “They were better paid than most, but then I wondered if it’s something to do with this inheritance stuff.”

  “We must get a warrant to seize it,” Abigail replied. “I need to examine it. What did he say about the murder of his father?”

  “He says he went off alone one day and didn’t come back.”

  “I suppose that may be true, in a way. He’s what links the Schmidts to the killers of Bessie and Dora though. He was shot by a single shot to the head like Bessie, execution style,” she mused.

  “It might not be a link. Lots of people have guns and Schmidt wasn’t popular. So, you think he knows who the killers were, too?”

  “Maybe, but he’ll have been indoctrinated since birth about not cooperating with the law, and he’s not smart enough to realize he’ll be in the frame for the killings unless he helps us. Perhaps the sister will be of more use to us? She seems more intelligent.” Her rueful smile was caught in a watery moonbeam. “Ironically, this might have been one time where you’d have been more successful under your real identity, Mr. Quinn.”

  “Abi, can I ask you something personal?”

  “What?”

  “Why do you call me Mr. Quinn? There’s no etiquette for our situation, but it seems too formal, considering you use Jake’s given name.” He beamed the way the moon does to brighten the night sky. “We’re cut from the same cloth, and we have an understanding. Aren’t we beyond conventional formalities?”

  She nibbled on her bottom lip before it melded with an indignant moue. “No. I can’t.”

  “Everyone else calls me plain old Nat.”

  “I would call you by your first name, but I can’t,” she shook her head. “My relationship with Jake is familiar. My relationship with you is kept firmly at arm’s length. That’s why I’ll always call you Mr. Quinn. You won’t get too close that way.”

  “Ya think?” His eyes widened along with his smile. “You’ve already given me the biggest compliment you could, Abi. You don’t avoid what you’re indifferent to. I’ll take ‘Mr. Quinn’ with pleasure,” his eyes danced with promised thrills. “Great pleasure.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  When Abigail and Nat walked into the sheriff’s office the next morning, all eyes were on her. Everyone in town now whispered about the female Pinkerton, even if they weren’t aware she was also the formidable ‘Mrs. Benson’. Jake gallantly stood, as always, as she approached the desk in the private office behind the front desk.

  She smiled. “How are you, Jake?”

  His deep blue eyes warmed. “I’m fine. Everything’s better in the light of a new day, huh? How are you?”

  “Worried about upsetting you.”

  “But putting us away for twenty years ain’t gonna upset me?” he whispered.

  She glanced around to make sure they weren’t overheard. “That’s the sentence for things you did, not for things you didn’t. You didn’t deserve that kind of judgment from me. I am sorry, and I’ll never misjudge you again. I give you my word I’ll trust you where you deserve it.” She smiled. “However rarely.”

  His eyebrows flicked up. “I suppose that works both ways. I guess you just didn’t know me well enough, but you do now. That old lady stunt in the restaurant is somethin’ else entirely. I still owe you for that one, makin’ the waitress think I used old ladies for their money.”

  She laughed. “Oh, yes? Just what do you have in mind?”

  He grinned. “When it happens, you’ll know.”

  Nat grabbed a chair. “Well, I’m glad you two made it up.”

  “Nothin’ to make up, Nat, except for the little old lady stuff.”

  Nat chuckled as he sat. “You earned it, Abi.”

  They pulled out the file of telegrams from the sheriff along with the reply from the Pinkerton agency which had come in that morning, and dissected the evidence. All eyes turned to Nat as he spoke in subdued tones, trying to make sure they weren’t overheard outside the privacy of the office. “I took time to speak to the Schmidt boy last night. They’re thieves and murderers; but he says he wasn’t there when Bessie and Dora were killed. He won’t say more at the moment, not yet. I don’t think he realizes how much trouble he could be in.”

  “The sister and the mother are saying nothing at all. They won’t open their mouths,” Abigail shrugged. “They don’t trust the law. It’s very common.” Her eyes widened. “The information came in from Boston. I think I know who did it, and why. If we could get the jewelry he sold in Paris, I could tie all this up.”

  Jake looked into his coffee cup. “Why? What did you find out from Boston?”

  “Ben Middleton probably isn’t who he says he is, and the first Mrs. Benson died years ago. That’s what gave him away. He knew. He absolutely knew Phil Benson’s mother was dead.”

  “So who is he?”

  She shrugged. “I have an idea, but I need to check. I’ve asked the sheriff to bring him in along with those who want to adopt David. They’re also from Boston and I think they have connections to Ben Middleton’s real family.”

  “Real family?” The men exchanged a glance as the Jake spoke. “So what did you get back from the Pinkertons? What have you got?”

  “Phil Benson’s maternal grandmother’s maiden name was Middleton. We have no proof Ben Middleton’s using a false name, but we have to consider it. It’s a common mistake to use the maternal maiden names as an alias, though. It helps us.” She shrugged. “We know nothing about his background other than the fact he was caught in the same explosion which killed Dora’s husband, and turned to playing the piano to make a living when he was blinded.”

  Nat and Jake frowned, processing this information as she continued.

  “Phil Benson’s father is also dead: two years ago, but it looks like he remarried when he was quite old. He left his money to his surviving children, so Phil Benson wouldn’t have been entitled to a share, as he predeceased him. That also rules out the boy as someone who could inherit, too. The will excluded him. Dora had contacted a lawyer to find out about the will by telegraph. The sheriff got that information for me. So why did Dora think she was going to be able to give up prostitution from that?”

  “Bigamy? Old man Burton
remarried while his first wife was still alive and it was blackmail?” asked Nat.

  She shook her head. “No, Andrew Benson’s first wife died, but they’d lived apart for at least nine years. He was a horrible man, a violent alcoholic, but he had worked hard and built a future. It was a plumbing supply business, and he got above himself when he opened his second shop. He alienated his family and they all sided with his wife when she left him after one final beating. She died in poverty, the poor soul. In Bannen, actually. She wasn’t the genteel matron I portrayed. She was a washerwoman because her husband wouldn’t give her a penny. Incidentally, she also had another son; an older boy called Michael. He died five years ago, but there had been a warrant out for his arrest as he beat the proverbial you-know-what out of his father and left home. He was close to his mother and hated his father. She signed the death certificate in Boston before she left and came out West. Old man Burton’s second marriage was to a woman called Rose Thornhill and she married a Robert Davies after Andrew Burton died. Rose had a daughter by Burton. She’s about four now.”

  “Robert Davies!” Nat exclaimed. “He’s at the hotel. Bob is short for Robert.”

  “Didn’t he say his wife was called Mary?” asked Jake.

  “Yes,” Abigail nodded. “We have some checking to do on both of them, but they are most definitely suspects. However, they come from the other side of the country, not Boston, so they may just have a similar name.”

  “So, why would anyone murder Dora and Bessie for that, and why want the boy? He didn’t even inherit anything.”

  “That’s what I need to prove, and I need to get everyone together, before the scratch evidence disappears. Andrew Burton, the man who wanted to adopt, was a very tall man with a middle finger missing. I had an idea who that might be as soon as I heard the description, and that also tells me why he wanted to adopt. The other couple was quite aggressive, especially when they found out the asylum had already allocated David to Andrew Burton.” She flicked through the papers. “The sheriff is bringing in everyone involved in this so we’ll see then.” She paused. “We just need to speak to Daintree and Dunbar. Daintree is in the cell after being caught going through Tibby’s bags.”

  “I suppose we want to know what he was looking for,” Jake frowned.

  “Oh, I already know that,” Abigail grinned. “He’s mad about the dossier I took from his room and wanted to see where it went. I want to find out why he suspected Tibby, though.”

  ♦◊♦

  Daintree spread out his spindly legs in an untidy cluster of long feet and thighs. His bony arms were folded obstinately, hands thrust into his armpits. He leveled his jagged elbows at them like gun barrels. He glared at Abigail in contempt.

  “You stole my file. I know you did.”

  She smiled. “Was I carrying anything when you saw me?”

  “No, but you could have been carrying it under your skirts.” Daintree tilted his chin in an act of defiance. “We both know that.”

  “Indeed I could have,” she shuffled through her papers and picked up her report from the agency once more. “And you would be aware of that since you are also a detective. Wouldn’t you?” She read straight from the document. “You are part owner of the Rigby Daintree Consulting Detective Agency based in Scollay Square in Boston, aren’t you?”

  His eyes bulged. “How did you find that out?”

  “The Pinkerton Agency is very efficient. What is your real name? There are two owners and one has the surname Rigby and the other Daintree. Which are you?”

  “I’m Rigby. Charles Rigby. My partner is still at the office.”

  “Who hired you?” Nat asked, “and why?”

  “I was retained by telegram by someone called Benson. I only had an initial, ‘P’. I guess that could have been fake. They said they wanted me to look into a long-lost family member who had contacted them again. Her name was Dora Benson, and she lived in Bannen. After that, the telegrams came from someone called R.D., and Benson wasn’t mentioned by the client again.”

  “Dora was murdered,” Jake’s lip curled into a snarl. “Why didn’t you tell the law what you were doin’ here?”

  Rigby shuffled on his seat. “I was worried I might have been set up to take the fall. I never handle cases like this. We usually just do divorces. You know the kind of thing, witnesses bursting in on a setup to give the evidence to the court? We never saw the client, and money got paid straight into our account in cash by someone who went to the bank. We sent the telegrams to the Advertiser Building in Washington Street, but we don’t know who collected them. That’s all I can tell you.”

  Abigail sat back in her chair eyeing the man with curiosity. “What were you sent to find out in Bannen, and what did you report back?”

  “I had to find out as much as I could about Dora. I reported back that she worked in a brothel, and she appeared to have a relationship with the blind pianist. I saw him sneaking into her room myself. Twice.” He tugged at his collar in discomfort at having to describe his actions to a woman. “The visit was purely professional. I can’t usually afford that kind of money unless it’s backed by a client.”

  “The client paid for it?” Nat demanded. “How many times? We can check with the brothel and your bills to the client.”

  “Three or four,” Rigby answered.

  Jake thumped the desk with an open hand. “Exactly how many times?”

  “Three! Alright? I’d need to check if I billed the client for four.” He dropped his gaze to the floor. “I might have done.”

  Nat and Jake exchanged a look of satisfaction. They could always do business with a dishonest man.

  Nat fixed him with an intense stare. “What else did you find out?”

  “Nothing much. She was a whore with a soft spot for a pianist. Nothing special in that except for his face. She lived with her boy nearby and paid a neighbor to watch him while she worked. The washerwoman watched him while she worked.”

  Jake’s eyes narrowed, but he remained silent and paced back and forth beside Rigby.

  “You suggested to the client Ben Middleton might be her husband, and that he changed identities to get a pension from the mine accident,” said Abigail. “It’s in your telegrams. Nobody could tell because he’s so disfigured.”

  “Well, why else would she spend so much time with him? Have you seen that freak? Only a wife would go near him. None of the other whores in the place would touch him.”

  Without a word, Jake turned and battered his foot against the leg of chair, kicking it out from under the man. He clattered to the floor with an injured cry as Abigail leaped to her feet and glared at Jake.

  The gunman bent over to loom over the startled prisoner. “Right now you look a darn sight uglier than he ever did.”

  “Is this how the Pinkertons get their information? They beat it out of people?”

  “No, we don’t,” Abigail asserted, glowering at Jake.

  “My foot slipped,” Jake growled. “Let me help you.” He grabbed Rigby by the lapels and lifted him as though he weighed no more than a child. He righted the chair and plunked the shady detective on it. “There you go,” Jake growled under his breath, fixing the man with an icy glare. “Want me to dust you down? It’ll just take a few slaps.”

  “I think he’s fine,” Abigail cut in.

  “Alright, but I’ll be here if he changes his mind,” murmured Jake. “We wouldn’t want him goin’ to court lookin’ untidy.”

  “To court? On what charges,” blustered Rigby.

  “Breaking and entering,” Nat answered. “You got caught red-handed.”

  “I’m a detective, not a thief. I did nothing she didn’t do.”

  Abigail’s eyes widened and glistened with innocence. “You saw me on the stairs, nowhere else. There’s nothing illegal about walking downstairs in a building to which the public have access. You, on the other hand, were caught red-handed.”

  “And we can prove you’re dishonest. I’m willing to bet you billed f
or four visits to the brothel when you only went three times. We can check real easy.”

  “Alright!” Rigby turned puce. “What do you want?”

  “Why were you searching Tibby’s room?”

  “He came from back east. The Davieses came out from San Francisco. It’s that simple.” He tugged on his lapel, noting it was still inside out from the bumpy assistance from the floor. “Davies might have the right initials, but I saw them come off that train from San Francisco myself. I was there collectin’ a telegram. If I could find the damned file, I could prove I picked one up that day. I’m sure the staff would remember them because she made such a fuss about her hat box.” Rigby leaned forward. “Tibby Dunbar is from the east. Not only that, but I can’t find a single politician in town he’s supposed to be working for. He’s poking around, asking questions and was just being damned suspicious.” Rigby’s long forefinger stabbed the air in vehemence. “He’s as shady as hell. Who is he, and who has a name like Tiberius F. Dunbar? I mean it’s just plain ridiculous.”

  Abigail noted the little flecks of spittle around his mouth and the breath coming in great pants of emotion. This man was desperate, angry, or both. It could be hard to tell the difference sometimes. She stood and scribbled a list on a piece of paper and walked over to the door. “Sheriff Thompson? Can you take this gentleman back to his cell? We’re quite finished with him.”

  She handed over the list she had just compiled. “Can you bring these people in right away? It’s about time we cleared this thing up, once and for all. I have to check out something this man just told us at the railway station. Oh, and he gave you a false name. His real name’s Charles Rigby.”

  The lawman’s terrier brows bristled. “He did, did he?” He glanced at the list and his face fell. “All of these?”

  “All of them. This whole story dovetails one into another. It’s the easiest way to explain what went on.”

  “Pearl Dubois?” sputtered the sheriff. “She ain’t gonna like this.”

  Abigail smiled at both men hoping it came across as sweet and persuasive. “I’m sure my colleagues could help with that. They’re very persuasive.”