by C. A. Asbrey
“You really need Pearl?” Jake’s brow lined with concern.
“Yes, and everyone else on that list. This has gone on long enough.” She turned at the open door. “I'll check on what Rigby just told us about the train from San Francisco. It should take no more than half-an-hour or so.”
Chapter Nineteen
The sheriff’s office was full of people. One cell held the Schmidt women; the other, Richards, Kurt, and Rigby. People crammed into the office, vying for the few chairs until the sheriff and his deputies took control. A woman in a poke bonnet kept to the wall, and the doctor’s friend and assistant from their night the Clark family was brought in leaned against the wall near the cells.
All eyes, except for Ben Middleton, turned, as Nat and Jake walked in with Pearl and her security man and the sheriff rushed to proffer her a seat.
“Got them all here as you asked,” Sheriff Thompson turned to Nat. “I guess you want to ask the questions. What’s your name again?”
Nat smiled and suppressed a chuckle at Abigail’s irritated face as he neglected to introduce himself.
“Sure, I’ll start.” He stood in front of the assembled group and indicated the people in the cells. “As agreed with the sheriff, I questioned Kurt Schmidt last night. According to him, the Schmidts didn’t kill the girls. They had a psychic reading with his sister, and they sometimes used that to spot a potential victim. Dora seemed excited about a large sum of money and a bright future, and that’s why they became a target for the Schmidts. They thought she may have some of it with her. The lad would track people and hold them up before their pa and a disguised Anna Schmidt moved in, after checking nobody else was near enough to hear anything. He told me the women were already dead when he found them and he saw no one else around. I don’t believe that last part.”
Jake cast his mind back to the boy who followed him from the Schmidt’s place that night and gave a wry smile at what might have been if he’d been less vigilant. Being held up by the Schmidts held no terrors, but things would definitely have turned nasty if they’d drawn on him.
“How can you believe he just happened on the bodies and didn’t kill them?” demanded the sheriff.
“I don’t think they were the killers,” Nat shrugged. “They’ve been doin’ this for years. The old man had robbed that way when he was a young man, according to Kurt. He was also a militia member during the war, and just kept doing it.”
“So? They just took the horses and sold them on?” asked a deputy.
“After throwing the bodies down a well. They didn’t need folks examining what they’d been up to, and they were too greedy to pass on the price of the horses. Greed is behind this whole thing,” he twinkled amorally at Abigail, “but I suppose it’s behind most crime.”
Nat cast out a hand toward Pearl. “Mrs. Dubois, here, can testify that Dora kept telling people she was coming into money. It was the worst-kept secret at her establishment.”
“And we are great at keeping secrets,” added Pearl, determined to emphasize her discretion. The extravagant feathers on the matron’s hat trembled like an excited peacock as she spoke. “Is that all I was brought here for? I’m a busy woman.”
“No, there’s something else, but we haven’t got there yet,” smiled Abigail, at the simmering woman.
“So, from telegrams Dora sent and received, it looks like she tired of her life and contacted her late husband’s family for help. She got a reply from someone calling themselves R.D. and asking for details of her family to prove she was who she said she was. Dora replied, and Mr. Rigby, here, was then sent to investigate her without her knowledge. Rigby was employed in writing, and cash paid straight into the company bank account, so he has no idea who he was really dealing with,” Nat threw a glare at the skeletal man in the cell, “so he tells us, anyway.”
“Why are we here?” demanded Davies. “It’s obvious those people killed those poor women. It’s ridiculous for respectable people to be treated like this.”
“Is it?” asked Nat. “Those robberies have been going on for at least fifteen years in one form or another, and there’s never been a death. Why would they suddenly start now?”
“They’re criminals. They’re all the same,” he barked.
Nat flicked up an eyebrow and fixed him with a gimlet eye. “No, sir. They’re not, and my experience is quite considerable in that area. This man and that girl, they’re thieves, not killers.”
“They fought back. They killed them. They were violent with the Clark family,” replied the sheriff.
“The Clark robbery was more violent than any others, but they still only beat the woman and shot the man in the arm in panic. That was the only robbery after old man Schmidt died. The dynamics of a gang can change when they lose their leader. The more scared and disorganized robbers are, the more likely they are to use violence. They didn’t have their pa’s steadying influence anymore. A bullet in the arm and a beating’s a different mindset to a deliberate shot to the head and a slow strangling.” Nat’s eyes seemed to turn blacker as he spoke. “It takes a lot of cruelty to strangle a woman with your bare hands, or a lot of hate. That sort of sickness grows. There would be a pattern. It doesn’t just happen once, and then disappear.” He paused. “Either that, or a one-off explosion of hate fuelled by very real passion, and theft isn’t a strong enough motive. Not when they’ve been doing this all their lives without violence.”
Nat cast out a hand toward Abigail. “This takes us to Miss MacKay’s part of the investigation.”
“Thank you.”
“I recognize that voice. You came to my door with the other woman.” Ben Middleton shuffled in his seat, his head cocked receptively.
“Yes, Mr. Middleton. I did. But that’s not your name is it?”
The man froze. “Yes, it is.”
“Can you evidence that? Is there anyone from your youth who could testify as to your identity, documents perhaps? Family, maybe?”
“I’ve got no documents, and no one would recognize me. Not after the explosion. I’ve moved around a lot. I went where the work was.”
“There are some things which don’t change too much, like your handwriting. Your hands are unaffected, which is why you play piano. Dick Turpin, the famous highway man, was identified when an old school teacher recognized his writing. What school did you go to? I’m sure we can get something from that?”
“I didn’t go to school.”
“You’re lying, Mr. Middleton. If we search your house we’ll find examples of your handwriting. You’re a musician, most say a superb one, yet you apparently took it up after the accident. It speaks to me of a fairly good education. In fact, I think you’re classically trained. I’ve heard you playing in Pearl’s place. Should we ask your wife? I can get the sheriff to fetch her from the laundry.”
“Leave her out of this.”
“I’m trying to. Work with me, not against me. Do you recognize anyone else’s voices?”
“Yours, some of the men.” His sightless face turned. “And Pearl.”
“Mr. Middleton. I think your name is really Benson. I can prove it, if you make it necessary, but you were able to reinvent yourself, weren’t you?”
The man shifted in his chair. “You can’t prove anything.”
Abigail paused and smiled. “I can if I have to. You were disfigured and could have been anyone. Phil Benson was being blamed for the explosion and wasn’t getting a penny. Rigby told his client you were Phil Benson, and you claimed to be Ben Middleton to get a pension from the mine insurance company. Is that true?”
“No, of course not. What kind of a man would stand by and let his wife go into a brothel?”
The sharp nosed woman whispered something from behind her poke bonnet to her husband.
Abigail raised her head. “Something you want to say, madam?”
The bonnet shook.
“Please remember you are all here for a reason. You will all get your chance to talk.” She turned back to the blind
man. “You’re not Philip Benson,” said Abigail. “You’re his elder brother Michael, aren’t you?”
The blind man shuffled in his seat.
“Mr. Benson. The charges your father brought appear to be trumped up at best. You were defending your mother from yet another beating weren’t you? He kept following his wife demanding that she come back to him, and was violent. There’s no need to hide anymore.”
“I—”
“You ran away to be with your brother and to escape the assault charges, didn’t you? The census shows Dora Blyth was a maid there along with both sons. Dora and Phil left first and lived in Boston for a bit. Your mother left after one last beating, and you eventually all met and lived as neighbors with your mother and brother here in Bannen. You beat your father about six months after your mother left for hounding her to come home, before she ran off to Bannen and changed her name to her own mother’s maiden name. He responded by swearing out charges with a warrant for your arrest in revenge.” She shrugged. “I’m guessing your mother declared you dead to keep the law from coming after you. You arrived in Bannen and lived as a happy family until the mining accident three years ago tore everyone’s lives apart. Your mother died soon afterward.”
“That doesn’t prove a thing,” sniffed the blind man.
Abigail rubbed her temples. “Mr. Benson. I can prove this if you push me to. You weren’t Dora’s lover. You were her brother-in-law, and she had a kind heart and earned more than anyone else in the family. Everyone who knew her said what a big heart she had. You weren’t paying a prostitute. She gave you money to help you and your wife. She wasn’t just supporting her son, she supported both households, and in return, your wife looked after her son. For her sake, please tell the truth. Don’t let your stupid pride get in the way. She paid you at the brothel to make it look like you were bringing home a better pay packet to your wife. She helped you present a front to your wife.”
He dropped his head in shame. “I’m a wreck. A hopeless cripple. Dora was a wonderful person and I had to end up living off her. Look how she earned her money. I couldn’t bear it, but it meant Becky didn’t have to take on extra work. My name is Michael Benson and I beat the life out of that old son of a—” he paused, his breathing coming in heavy rasps. “I watched him hit my mother for years until I snapped. I was on the run from the law so I went to my brother and changed my name to Middleton. My mother eventually registered me as dead because he kept sending investigators after us. I took grandmother’s maiden name because my mother used that to hide from my father. I lived with her as her son again. My father was a vengeful, horrible man who couldn’t bear the fact we’d rather live in the gutter than be near him, so he punished us in any way he could.” A flicker of a smile flashed over his scarred face. “I met my Becky. We got married, but what kind of life have I given her? What future is there for her? She works from dawn to dusk in a hot, steamy laundry.” The man dropped his head in his hands as everyone in the room stared at him.
“There’s a warrant for you?” demanded the sheriff.
Nat threw an arm out, sensing Jake stiffen beside him.
“There is, Sheriff, but I hardly think he’s a flight risk,” Abigail replied. “Besides, he’s a very wealthy man. I think this case would be fairly straightforward with the help of a good lawyer, but the statute of limitations has probably expired anyway, along with the supposed victim of the crime. I don’t have the date of the charges, though, or the exact nature of the warrant. There’s a longer period for beating a man over sixty in that state, for instance; so I don’t want to mislead anyone with false hope. I do think it can be smoothed out, though.”
“What?” The woman whose pointy nose stuck out from her poke bonnet couldn’t help herself. “Wealthy?”
“Yes,” replied Abigail. “He’s the eldest born legitimate son. In fact, only Philip and Michael were legitimate. The second marriage happened quite late, and the second wife lived as a common law wife until they were able to legally marry on the death of the first Mrs. Benson. Their daughter was illegitimate, and a later marriage doesn’t change the status for inheritance law in Boston. It’s quite a motive. With nobody around to challenge the legitimacy, the girl from the second marriage would get everything. With Michael around, she’d get nothing at all.”
“Isn’t it illegal to register someone as dead when you know they’re alive?” The woman demanded, her face still shrouded in the shadow of the poke bonnet.
“It is if there’s an intention to defraud, but the woman who registered him is dead. Any charges would die with her, unless you could prove he was in on it beyond all reasonable doubt. I have heard nothing here to confirm that.” She paused and spoke with deep emphasis. “And I would caution Mr. Middleton that he shouldn’t say anything more about it without consulting a lawyer.”
“I’ve heard enough.” Davies stood and took a step toward the door, but stopped in his tracks when he peered into Jake Conroy’s impassive face.
“Sit down, sir,” Jake raised his chin in challenge. “I won’t ask again.”
“Thank you.” Abigail nodded in Jake’s direction. “Anyone thinking of leaving should remember this place is full of lawmen. Isn’t it, Sheriff?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Sheriff Thompson sounded unsure as to who he should stop, but sure he should act as though he did.
“And that brings us to the motive of the crime. Dora had contacted someone with the initials R.D. They, in turn, appear to have retained a detective who, wrongly, informed R.D. that Philip Benson was still alive, but pretending to be someone called Middleton to get a peppercorn pension from the mine insurance company.” She turned and stared at Rigby. “That’s the sort of mistake amateurs make; they run on assumptions instead of getting evidence. R.D. didn’t get their money’s worth from the Rigby Daintree Consulting Detective Agency, that’s for sure. But it gave R.D. a motive. They assumed Michael had died five years ago so discounted him, but saw Phil and his son as danger to the illegitimate daughter’s substantial inheritance. Something had to be done. Dora was so excited about her future—that’s one of the big tragedies here. In reality, she was sleepwalking into a trap. She realized that her brother-in-law would inherit, and knew she could rely on him to look after her and her son. I can only suppose she didn’t want to say anything to Michael until she was sure. She probably thought it would have been devastating to build up his hopes for no reason.”
Nat glanced over at Tibby. “And after the murders, Rigby worried he’d been set up to take the blame, which might not be too far from the truth, if events hadn’t taken an unexpected turn with the Schmidts. Who are you, Mr. Dunbar? You came in on the eastbound train.”
Tibby sat with his spat-clad feet primly together, both little hamster-hands on the ornamental knob of his walking stick. “I told you who I am. I am Tiberius F. Dunbar.”
“Who claims to be working for local politicians, but you’re not. Are you, Mr. Dunbar?” Nat pushed on. “I made it my business to look into you today, and nobody seems to use your services. Neither the sheriff nor the mayor is running for re-election soon. Why don’t you tell us the truth?”
Tibby grinned. “I must say, you Pinkerton fellas are superb. I suppose there’s no harm in telling everyone now. Not after the investigation has reached a dead end.”
“Investigation? Another damned detective?” the sheriff spluttered. “Is everyone in this blasted town investigatin’ everyone else? How many of you is there now?”
“No, Sheriff. I’m not a detective. I’m a journalist who writes under the name pen name of Dogberry.”
The sheriff’s impressive brows rose. “Dogberry? What kinda name is that? You call yourself after Dog’s droppin’s?”
“Dogberry is a literary character from Shakespeare’s ‘Much Ado About Nothing’,” Abigail replied. “He is a comical character intended to poke fun at the law enforcement of the day by his incompetence, which is probably why Mr. Dunbar chose the name. I admit on being rather keen on Dogberry
’s writings.” She nodded. “Your in-depth investigations and exposés are wonderful, especially that one about the selling of children. Very impressive. I must say I didn’t expect you to look the way you do. I expected someone much younger and buccaneering, if that’s not too insulting.”
“Thank you, miss, but I gave up worrying about my appearance when I realized it was my personality which alienated people.”
A ripple of laughter drifted around the room as Tibby continued. “I’ve been covering the stories on the fake Innocents, and looking into the real gang. You can check with my editor. He’s paying my expenses. If experience is anything to go by, he’ll be doing it with all the grace of a dog walking on its hind legs on a hot sidewalk. He hates parting with money.”
Nat slipped into his best poker face and allowed Abigail to take the lead again. Did Tibby know his real identity?
Abigail frowned. “Why are you investigating The Innocents around here?”
“Oh, just a rumor that Nat Quinn and Jake Conroy were brought up around here. I’ve checked all the school records and the orphanages though. I can’t find the names at all. They are very common names aren’t they? Even your two detectives bear them,” Tibby’s scrutiny seemed to magnify through widened eyes as he continued. “Lots of Nathans, Nathaniel’s, and Jacobs, and the only ones who are the right ages are still around here and are clearly not outlaws. One family of Quinns lives out by the mines, but they’re girls—and there are no Conroys. None. I’ve hit a dead end with that, but at least I got the scoop on the fake Innocents by being on the train.”
Abigail nodded, glancing at Pearl. “Yes. I had heard something similar about Quinn and Conroy. I drew a blank too. You couldn’t find the names? I long suspected they used an alias, too. We must have a chat, Mr. Dunbar.”
“I’d love to, Miss MacKay. In fact, I have been wondering if I might do an article on you.”
“I would prefer you didn’t, Mr. Dunbar. The element of surprise is important in my work. In exchange for giving up that story, I may help you get the scoop on this one, though.”