by Scott Mackay
‘I suppose the whole town is wondering why I haven’t asked Miss Wade to marry me yet.’
‘Maybe not the whole town. But I’m sure Miss Wade is.’
I shrugged. ‘Like I say, it was Miss Wade’s summer away. It shook me up.’
‘Clyde, I thought we went through that. The assemblyman’s pa was in my office the middle of September. The way he tells it, there wasn’t anything serious between Miss Wade and Mr Howse.’
‘Maybe not. But then there’s this fellow from Boston.’
Stanley paused. ‘What fellow?’ I could see the fellow from Boston was news to him and I realized I should have been more discreet with Olive’s private life. But the fellow from Boston had been in the back of my mind ever since I’d heard about him.
‘When she came here to bury her Aunt Tabitha, she stayed in Fairfield because of this married man she knew back in Boston. It was a bad business. She couldn’t go back.’
Stanley paused and lifted his chin. He tapped his desk a few times, and said, ‘Best not to question a woman’s history too closely, Clyde. Not if you plan to marry her.’ He pointed his finger at me. ‘And if you hire this young nurse, I’d be careful. I can tell you see something in her. And I can tell it has nothing to do with your professional sense.’
I thought of Olive Wade on the way home. I stopped in the middle of the footbridge over the canal and stared down at the water. Two blocks away to my left, a barge steamed by on the Tonawanda River carrying a load of coal upstream to West Shelby. I knew that if I was going to marry anyone, it would indeed be Miss Wade. So why should I be careful about hiring Miss Gregsby? Miss Gregsby had an impressive résumé. She was personable. And I knew she was the kind of woman – and nurse – who wouldn’t shirk her duties, no matter how arduous or taxing they became. Where and when I would ask Miss Wade to marry me was a separate issue entirely. The point was, I needed help in the surgery, and Miss Gregsby, despite her big brown eyes, was my best candidate.
Accordingly, when I returned to the surgery, I drafted an offer of employment, and walked to the Grand Hotel to deliver it to the front desk in person.
As I turned the corner from Culver Street on to Tonawanda Road, I saw two carpenters tacking a tarpaulin to the front of Flannigan’s Stationery Shop, the façade having been torn away preparatory to the construction of a new one. The two scrambled over scaffolding to get the job done, as it looked like it was going to snow any minute, and they wanted to protect the interior. One of them backed up on the scaffolding and knocked a bucket of tacks to the ground. I hurried over and helped put some of the tacks back in the bucket.
‘Much obliged, Dr Deacon,’ the tall one called. He jumped down and started helping me. I left off and let him do the job himself.
Although I didn’t know their names, being still relatively new to Fairfield – they momentarily introduced themselves as Ernest and Oliver Fitzhenry, carpentry of all kinds, lowest price guaranteed – they certainly seemed to know mine.
‘Carry on, gentlemen.’
I continued along Tonawanda.
I was just nearing the alleyway between the Grand Hotel and the Corn Mercantile Building when I felt a painful poke in my toe. I stopped, lifted my shoe, and saw that I had stepped on one of their tacks. I couldn’t help seeing it as a sign – and also as a warning – not to lose my head over Miss Gregsby, no matter how much she reminded me of Emily. I took the tack out of my shoe after some struggle, and put it in the pocket of my clay worsted overcoat so no one else would step on it, or otherwise misplace their heads when encountering pretty young women who looked like dead wives and had sad stories to tell. I resolved then and there that before the old year was out, I would ask Miss Wade to marry me, and end my widower days once and for all. That way I wouldn’t have to worry about Miss Gregsby.
Also, there was no point in keeping Stanley in suspense.
Billy Fray finally made an appearance at the surgery the next day. He was an exceedingly tall man, with muscles like a gorilla, his shoulders broad and rippling from lifting a hammer all his life. His eyes were puffy, and he looked as if he had been grieving for his father vigorously. He was in workman’s pants, unlaced boots, a thick wool coat, and a cap that had a tear at the front. He smelled of whisky and tobacco.
‘Is there anything you or the sheriff can do, doc?’ he asked. He pulled out a piece of paper, which, upon closer inspection, turned out to be an eviction notice from the law office of Mr Ambrose Johnstone. ‘Not only did he make my pa kill himself, but now he’s kicking me out of my own home. I got nowhere to go.’ Billy proffered the document toward me. ‘Signed by Mr Purcell himself, and notarized by that crooked lawyer of his, Ambrose Johnstone.’ Tears came to the big man’s eyes. ‘I lived there my whole life.’ His voice grew ragged. ‘So did my pa. So did my grandpa. Mr Purcell can’t do this to me. He’s made my life miserable. And he made my pa’s life miserable. I seen my pa go downhill day after day, and now he’s done gone and hung himself, all because of Mr Purcell.’ For several seconds he couldn’t go on. When he did, it was not with grief but with a great burst of anger. ‘It’s all Mr Purcell’s fault! And sumpin’s got to be done, I tell you!’ In the back of my mind, I couldn’t help thinking of Marigold Reynolds, Mr Purcell’s stepdaughter, and how she was apparently in love with this sad brute in front of me; enough so that she was willing to have his child out of wedlock. ‘It ain’t fair what he done to us! I got no family, I’m out on the street, and don’t have no way of making a living, all because of that old miser. And he’s got to be made to pay!’
FIVE
That night, as I was in bed reading a letter from my son, Jeremiah, who would be coming home for Christmas from school in Boston in a few weeks, I heard a gunshot break the stillness out my window.
I sat up. I listened, my heart pounding. There came a second shot. Or was it the echo of the first one coming from across the river? I listened for a third shot, but everything grew silent.
Stanley was in West Shelby for the evening working on one of the two murder cases he was trying to solve before Christmas, and I had been deputized to look after the town in his absence. We had once been sheriffs together in Cross Plains, Texas, and so the choice was natural. Discharge of a firearm within town limits was against the law. As much as I wanted to stay in bed and read my son’s letter, I knew I had to go investigate.
I got dressed, went downstairs, put on my boots, my overcoat, and my brown derby, then lifted my deputy’s badge – a five-point brass star with the words FAIRFIELD POLICE engraved in the metal – and pinned it to my breast.
I was about to leave the surgery when, deciding that caution might be in order, I went to my study, opened my firearms cabinet, and chose my Colt Army Frontier revolver, a weapon with a seven-and-a-half-inch barrel, one that had stood me in good stead when I had been a lawman with Stanley in Texas eighteen years ago.
As I rounded the corner from Culver Street onto Tonawanda Road, and climbed south up the hill past Flannigan’s Stationery Shop (tarp still up, not all the tacks collected from the road yet), I saw a small crowd in front of the Grand Hotel. Moving closer, I discerned within this thicket a man of considerable girth lying on the ground. A young woman knelt over him, pressing his chest with both hands up and down in a rhythmical manner. A few seconds later I saw blood on the paving stones, and realized I had a shooting.
I broke into a run and reached the crowd quickly. ‘Stand back, please. Sheriff Armstrong has deputized me. Stand back!’
The crowd, all men, drinkers from the tavern in the Grand Hotel, or farmers from the Saturday-evening auction at the Corn Mercantile Building next door, shifted out of the way and revealed to me my victim – none other than Ephraim Purcell.
On her knees before him doing what she could to save him was my freshly hired nurse, Henrietta Gregsby.
She turned to me, blood on her hands, and some on her face. She was wearing only her muslin nightshirt and a purple overcoat, no shoes, hat, or scarf. She looked at my
badge.
She then met my gaze and, in a shaky voice, said, ‘I’m sorry, doctor, but the patient seems to have expired.’
I rushed forward, knelt next to her, and placed my fingers on the man’s carotid artery. Miss Gregsby had indeed made a correct diagnosis – Mr Purcell was indisputably dead.
The murmuring in the crowd dwindled away to nothing. I glanced at Miss Gregsby. She was staring down at the dead man. Her lips were pursed and her blood-besmirched face had settled into a perplexed frown, as if she couldn’t understand why she hadn’t been able to save him. She remained professionally calm.
She turned to me. ‘You’re wearing a badge, doctor?’ She looked at my revolver. ‘And carrying a gun?’
I quickly explained my dual role in Fairfield. ‘Genesee County is currently under-policed. And so when the sheriff bites off more than he can chew, I step in and help him.’
One of the onlookers offered further information about me. ‘And he also used to be President McKinley’s personal doctor as well.’
Her eyes narrowed further. ‘Oh. So you’re that Dr Deacon.’
I saw that she was now shivering. ‘My dear, you’re cold.’
She lifted her hands and gazed at all the blood. ‘I do so hate to lose a patient. I take it as a personal defeat.’
I glanced at Purcell. ‘Miss Gregsby, he was shot through the chest. There was little you could do to save him.’
I placed my hand on her elbow and gently coaxed her to her feet. I took off my coat, put it around her shoulders, then pulled out my handkerchief and wiped the blood from her face. She gave me a quavering smile of gratitude. Here it was again, murder, come to visit me. I remembered the president’s assassination. I remembered how I had tried to save him. And how I had failed. I glanced down at the brass star on my breast. Yes, here it was again. The gears meshed. The engine turned. I pulled back. I looked at the dead man.
‘Did you see anything?’ I asked her. The words were out of my mouth even before I understood that I had properly formulated them.
Her eyes narrowed as she put events together in her mind. ‘I was in my bed reading.’ She twisted around and pointed. ‘Up there, on the fourth floor. That corner room. I heard the shots, and came to my window. I saw the victim on the ground crawling toward the hat shop. I’m sorry, I don’t know his name.’
‘Ephraim Purcell. He’s an important businessman in Fairfield.’
‘He was struggling.’
‘So he was still alive when you saw him out the window?’
‘Yes.’
‘Dragging himself toward the hat shop?’
‘Yes.’
Here was some potentially useful information. I looked across the street at Jensen’s Hat Shop.
I then made a general survey of the street.
Next to the hat shop was Wiley’s Drugstore. Both were three-story buildings with ground-floor shops and apartments above. Yes, the hunt was on, the murder of the president goading me forward, transforming me, now not a doctor but a lawman, and one who was always seeking redemption for the way he hadn’t been able to save the twenty-fifth president of the United States. South on the street, the hill rose on my left to the New York Hard Goods and Clothing Emporium, Mr Purcell’s establishment, and on my right to the Exchange Bank. I then swung around and gazed first at the Grand Hotel, then at the Corn Mercantile Building next to it, and at last at the alley running between the two. How had it all come about? Why was Ephraim Purcell lying dead here in the street? Certainly Billy Fray’s outburst of earlier in the day came to mind. And certainly that alley was a well-hidden vantage point from which any shooter, including Billy, might fire.
Now fully in lawman mode, I made a general announcement to the onlookers. ‘I want anybody who saw anything to gather on the hotel steps. The rest of you, go home. There might be evidence around here, and I don’t want it trampled.’
I was disappointed when only one farmer remained behind and the rest went on their way.
Before I started with the farmer, I had a few more questions for Miss Gregsby.
‘So Mr Purcell was dragging himself away from the back alley?’
‘Yes.’
‘And when you heard the shot, did it sound as if it came from the back alley, or from somewhere else?’
She corrected me. ‘Shots.’
I paused. ‘Yes, shots. From where I was, I thought the second shot might have been an echo.’
‘No. There were definitely two shots, one right after the other.’
Here was more potentially useful information. ‘It’s an extremely important distinction, Miss Gregsby, because if the shooter reloaded, he might have ejected the first cartridge, and finding it would be my first step in identifying the murder weapon.’
‘I heard two shots, doctor. Whether they came from the back alley or not, I can’t say.’
‘And were you the first one on the scene?’
‘No. There were a few others about when I got here. Mostly men from the tavern.’
‘Very good, Miss Gregsby. You may return to your room. I’ll see you in the morning. Please be at the surgery by eight.’
‘Of course, doctor.’ She got up and retreated into the hotel.
I now went over to the farmer, inclining my head toward him. He was a tall, grim-looking man, one I hadn’t met before. ‘Good evening, sir. I’m Dr Deacon.’
‘I know who you are, doc.’ His voice was low, like the E-string of a double bass, and I saw at a glance that he was a no-nonsense and humourless man.
‘And you are?’
‘Albert Swinford. Own a hunnert and fifty acres out by Reese’s Corners.’
‘And you think you saw something, Mr Swinford?’
‘Heard something, doc. Heard exactly where that shot came from.’ He motioned around the area. ‘People was saying it came from here, it came from there. But I was a scout in Cuba in the war against Spain. I know a thing or two about pinpointing enemy position.’
Having fought in the Spanish–American War myself, I was willing to grant this man some credibility. ‘And did you hear one shot or two?’
‘There was only one shot, doc. That other so-called shot? That was just an echo from across the river. Take it from someone who’s heard a lot of gunfire.’
‘And where did the shot come from?’
He pointed to the alley. ‘Right down there by those garbage cans. No doubt about it.’
‘And where were you?’
‘Inside the Corn Mercantile. Sittin’ up by that second-story window. My son and I were bidding on hogs.’
‘Did you look out the window?’
‘No way I could. There’s an eighteen-foot drop behind the bleachers. But I’m not wrong about the shot.’
I stared at the window for several seconds, then turned back to Mr Swinford. ‘I fought in Cuba with the president’s Rough Riders.’
‘I think I heard that.’ He gave me a lacklustre salute.
I returned the salute. ‘Might as well go over and have a look, then,’ I said.
We both went over.
We weren’t halfway when Mr Swinford stopped abruptly, and in a hard and unfriendly voice said, ‘You going to need me for anything else, doc? I should be hitching up and riding home. It’s getting late.’
I turned to him. He was frowning, as if this was all a big bother to him.
‘You have nothing else to add?’
‘No, sir. I heard the shot from the back alley. That’s about all I can tell you.’
I stared at him some more, and now I detected an unexpected nervousness. ‘I can’t hold you, Mr Swinford. If you have to go, you have to go.’
‘Reese’s Corners is a fair piece. This morning’s snow might have melted here in town, but the Wiccopee Road is fairly bad.’
‘You’ve been most helpful.’
Mr Swinford nodded and moved off.
I proceeded into the alley.
I wasn’t hoping for much. Through experience, I knew a lot of criminal
investigation was an uphill battle. But there on the ground beside the nearest trash bin was not an ejected cartridge, such as I had originally anticipated, but an unfired round. I lifted the bullet, turned it over, and saw an ‘H’ stamped on its brass bottom. My brow rose. Having made a study of a wide variety of firearms, I knew the round was from a Henry rifle, a much-coveted Civil War era weapon.
My eyes narrowed as I realized I had made my first step forward in the case. A Henry. Not the rarest rifle on the rack, but certainly less common than a Winchester.
As such, I hoped it might eventually narrow my field of suspects.
SIX
Once I had pocketed the bullet and had finished with a further rummage around the alley, I returned to the street and searched Mr Purcell’s body.
I discovered on his person a thirty-two-caliber Smith and Wesson hammerless revolver with a three-inch barrel. I checked the chamber and discovered that the weapon was fully loaded and that there was no evidence of a recent discharge – the murder had happened so fast and unexpectedly the poor man hadn’t had a chance to defend himself.
I checked to see if the bullet had gone straight through. It hadn’t. There was no exit wound.
I then went through Purcell’s other pockets and found a pocketbook, a gold watch with emerald inlay, loose change, business cards, cigars, and matches. As everything still seemed to be here, I concluded that he hadn’t been robbed, which meant I had to consider another motive.
I again couldn’t help thinking how Billy Fray had come to the surgery earlier that afternoon to tell me Purcell had to be made to pay. I could hear his words echoing in my head. ‘I got no family, I’m out on the street, and don’t have no way of making a living, all because of that old miser.’
I sent a boy from the hotel to fetch Deputy Raymond Putsey – he lived on the edge of town and probably hadn’t heard the shots. I sent another boy to get Deputy Ernie Mulroy, who was on duty manning the Sheriff’s Office telephone tonight.
When the junior deputies arrived, I had Mulroy go get Edmund Wilson, the undertaker, over on Talbot Lane. Putsey and I then gave the alley another going over, looking for tracks. The mud in the alley was like slop, with all the snow melted from earlier in the day, and finding a proper trail, or evidence of an escape, proved impossible.