by Scott Mackay
A short while later, Mr Wilson and his assistant, Lloyd Pearson, preceded by Deputy Mulroy, appeared with a team of two pulling a large market wagon. They came to a stop in front of Jensen’s Hat Shop. Edmund Wilson, who I had already seen that week in regard to the Fray suicide, got down off the wagon, and came toward me. Pearson stayed with the wagon.
As Mr Wilson approached, he said, ‘We do meet in the oddest places, don’t we, doctor?’ He motioned at the hat shop. ‘We left the wagon over there in case you weren’t finished with the scene yet.’
‘Most thoughtful of you, Wilson. I believe nothing else useful will be obtained.’
I had my junior deputies start knocking on doors. Putsey began first by speaking to Mrs Jensen in the hat shop. Mulroy spoke to Cora Wiley in the drugstore. Both ladies shook their heads and I could see that they didn’t have much information for us. The deputies then fanned out both north and south along Tonawanda and left me to deal with the undertaker by myself.
‘You may attend to the body, Mr Wilson.’
The undertaker turned and raised his arm. ‘Lloyd, bring the wagon around.’
Mr Pearson shook the reins and the horses started toward our victim.
The undertaker squatted by the body.
After inspecting Purcell for a few seconds, he said, ‘Went through the chest, did it?’
I nodded. ‘But there’s no exit wound. The bullet’s still in there. Do you think you and Mr Pearson are up to the task of recovering it for me? I’ll need it for my investigation.’
He nodded. ‘If we have any difficulty, we’ll send for you.’ He looked at Purcell. ‘Poor Ephraim. I never thought I’d see the day. Fairfield won’t be the same without him.’
‘You knew him?’
‘Oh, yes. We’re both members of the Welland Street Club, and we fraternized often. I just hope he’s left his business concerns in competent hands. He was a great economic force in town. A lot of people will be nervous about that, wondering if they’re going to keep their jobs and so forth.’
By this time, Pearson had moved the wagon next to the body.
Mr Wilson pulled out a cloth sack with a draw-string. ‘I’d like to remove Mr Purcell’s personal effects and valuables first, if you don’t mind, doctor. I know he has some gold and silver pieces he carries, and I’d hate to be accused of not itemizing them correctly when the family comes to collect them.’
‘A wise precaution, Mr Wilson.’
Mr Wilson went through the victim’s pockets, writing down in pencil on a claim-slip each item he removed: a gold card case with calling cards; a gold pen and pencil case; the gold pocket-watch with emeralds; a cedar-lined cigar case big enough for five cigars; spectacles; a mother-of-pearl medicine box containing numerous pills and tablets; a miniature portrait of his dead wife, Francine Reynolds.
Then Mr Wilson checked the pockets of his topcoat.
As the undertaker went through one pocket after another, a puzzled line came to his brow.
He then felt through the man’s coat more assiduously.
‘Mr Wilson?’ I said.
‘Strange.’
‘Is something wrong?’
The undertaker frowned. ‘It’s just that Ephraim always travels with his whisky flask. He’s never without it. It’s an extremely special item to him, made of sterling silver, engraved, an article he won in a bet a number of years ago. Every time I run into him on the street, or in the club, he draws me aside, pulls it out, and says, “A flask for bravery, Mr Wilson?” and we take a nip.’ Wilson shook his head. ‘He carries it wherever he goes. But now it’s not here.’
‘Are you sure he carries it with him always?’
‘Yes, always.’ He looked up at me and cocked a brow. ‘Perhaps he’s been robbed?’
Billy Fray’s outburst notwithstanding, I now considered this a second motive. But I was a little puzzled. ‘You have a cloth sack of other valuable items.’
‘Yes.’
‘It’s odd.’
‘Extremely.’
‘Why take just the whisky flask? Why not everything else as well? Can you more accurately describe the flask, Mr Wilson?’
The undertaker searched his memory. ‘I’ve never inspected it closely, Dr Deacon. I was always making sure the coast was clear, so to speak. A man in my profession doesn’t like to be caught taking a nip in public. So I can only describe it in rough strokes. Like I say, I know it was sterling silver, and that there was some engraving on it.’
‘And he always had it with him?’
The undertaker nodded solemnly. ‘It was an incontrovertible law of the universe that he never ventured from Cherry Hill without it, doctor. He used to say to me, “I always carry my flask, Wilson. Some men may pray. But why do I need to pray when I have my flask?”’ Mr Wilson motioned at the corpse. ‘I guess he should have taken up prayer.’
SEVEN
Later, when the undertaker and I had Ephraim Purcell in the mortuary, I examined the victim’s wound more closely. Deputy Putsey was standing by.
The dead man, laid out on a steel embalming table, was now without his clothes. I pulled my Kodak Brownie camera out of my medical bag and took some clinical photographs of the fatal injury. The oval perforation, wiped of its excess blood, gaped above and to the left of the cardiac structures, below the scapula – a clean shot into the upper part of the lung cavity. There was no evidence of gunshot or powder burn on his skin, and taking my magnifying glass to his topcoat, I couldn’t immediately detect any dark stippling there either. This eliminated the possibility of a close-range shot, and supported the existing evidence of a shot fired from the back alley.
I took pictures of both the wound and the coat.
After I was finished with the camera, I examined the rest of the body checking for signs of a struggle but saw not a scratch, contusion, or other collateral trauma.
These findings again supported a long-range shot.
I then inserted a hose with a hand pump down his airway and evacuated several hundred cubic centimetres of blood. In this way I determined that cause of death was asphyxiation on his own blood, which would account for the way he had crawled a good distance before finally succumbing.
I made notes of all this, then drew a narrow piece of bamboo from my bag. Wilson, Pearson, and Putsey looked on with interest. I lightly coated the first few inches of bamboo with hair pomade, then inserted it gently into the bullet wound, breaking past the initial coagulation so that the wound started to seep again. Careful to find the wound’s slant no matter where it took me, the bamboo now stuck out of Purcell’s chest at a fairly extreme angle, up past his chin and forehead. I was surprised. This left me to conclude that the bullet had perhaps not been fired from the back alley after all, such as Mr Swinford the farmer had asserted, but from an elevated position.
The discrepancy left me puzzled.
Later on, when I was finished with the undertaker, and was riding over to the Purcell residence to give the servants the news, I said to Deputy Putsey, ‘It doesn’t make sense, Ray. Why would Albert Swinford, a scout, mind, trained in pinpointing enemy position, schooled in gunfire, insist the shot came from the back alley when the evidence is telling me it came from either an upper window or a rooftop?’
‘Maybe he got it wrong.’
I shook my head. ‘I know the training these scouts get. They’re never wrong about enemy position or pinpointing gunfire. Plus there was something odd about his manner. The way he was so intent. And then he got nervous. It’s made me suspicious. Do you know him at all?’
Putsey shrugged. ‘He and his family live in the loneliest part of Reese’s Corners. The only time they come into town is for church, the Corn Mercantile, and sometimes to visit the Wileys.’
‘The Wileys? From the drugstore? They’re friends with them?’
‘It’s more just the wives, doc. Albert Swinford ain’t exactly the friendly sort.’
I shook my head. ‘Swinford certainly made a point of telling me the shot cam
e from the back alley, didn’t he? Why do you suppose that is, Ray, especially when it’s now looking like the shot came from a roof or upper window?’
‘I don’t know, doc.’
‘Do you know anything about bloodhounds, Ray?’
‘Not much, sir.’
‘I raised them in Tennessee. There’s only one way to fool a bloodhound.’
‘How’s that, doc?’
‘Cover your tracks with cayenne pepper. And I’m starting to think Albert Swinford is sprinkling cayenne pepper around.’
I let Putsey go and rode over to the Purcell mansion by myself.
By this time it was well after midnight.
The Purcell mansion, a gracious if somber residence at the top of Cherry Hill Road, was three stories tall and had three wings.
Sidney Leach, Mr Purcell’s butler, answered the door.
I got straight to the point. ‘I’m afraid your master’s been murdered, Leach. Shot to death in front of the Grand Hotel. I’m sorry.’
The butler behaved as all must in these situations, the jolt of the news rendering him immobile for several seconds, his stare widening, comprehension slowly sinking in by degrees, understanding finally coming and made manifest by how his shoulders at last eased with shocked resignation.
‘Where is he?’
‘At Wilson’s mortuary. Has Miss Marigold returned from Buffalo yet? It’s my duty to inform next of kin.’
At first too distracted to answer, he said after a few seconds, ‘No . . . no.’ Now with greater agitation, he added, ‘Oh, dear. This is appalling. Have you apprehended his killer?’
I shook my head. ‘I’m afraid Mr Purcell’s murderer is still at large. One of the first steps I must take in order to catch his killer is to determine your master’s movements this evening.’ I gestured toward the interior of the house. ‘Do you mind if I come in? If anybody has any direct knowledge of the way Mr Purcell arranges his day, I’m sure you do.’
Still shocked, and now apparently deep in thought, it took him a few seconds to respond. ‘Of course, doctor. I’m sorry. It’s cold out. Come sit by the fire.’
He made way for me and I entered. We settled on the bench in the capacious front hall. The hall fire was made up, and I was thankful for its warmth. Dual staircases wound up either side, and a large chandelier hung from the ceiling. I saw a salon through French doors to the left, a ballroom to the right, and a conservatory full of plants further on. Above the hall fireplace was a full-length portrait of Francine Reynolds, Marigold’s mother, Ephraim’s late wife, done in Academy style, a painting showing a well-proportioned young woman in an 1880s bustle dress, with the same orange hair as Marigold.
We began by discussing Mr Purcell’s routine.
Leach said, ‘He’s up at five every morning, has a vigorous constitutional down to the river and back, the same breakfast of porridge and orange juice day in and day out, followed by two cups of coffee, a cigar, and perusal of the Fairfield Newspacket. By eight o’clock he’s in his downtown office at the New York Emporium. He’s back here by three to work in his home office, and then after that he takes another constitutional down to the river and back. If the weather is fine, we go for a ride in the motorcar.’
‘What about today in particular?’
‘He spent most of it in the emporium looking after Christmas orders. Then he came back to dress for dinner. Saturday night he has dinner at the club and then walks over to the Grand Hotel to check the week’s receipts.’
‘He owns the hotel, too?’
‘Yes, doctor.’
I made a note of this, then revealed to Leach one of the more perplexing aspects of the case. ‘It appears his whisky flask was taken. The sterling silver one. Nothing else. I find it odd. Do you know anything about the flask?’
Leach shrugged. ‘Only that he prized it very much. He won it in a bet six or seven years ago. I’m not exactly sure of the details.’
‘Do you know what it looks like?’
‘Sterling silver, with a picture of Abraham Lincoln on it.’
This detail was at least a little more useful than the vague ones Mr Wilson had given me about the flask. But it didn’t narrow the field too much, as many Union Army veterans had flasks with pictures of Old Abe on them. ‘And do you know if Mr Purcell has any particular enemies?’
A weary grin came to Leach’s face. ‘A man like Mr Purcell has many enemies, Dr Deacon. But then again, he has many friends, too.’
‘Would Billy Fray be a particular enemy?’
The butler’s eyes widened. ‘The blacksmith’s son?’
‘Yes.’
Leach thought about it. ‘Mr Purcell was irritated Marigold had shown an interest in the young man. That’s about all I know about it.’
‘Did Mr Purcell have any connection to the Swinford family of Reese’s Corners?’
Leach was puzzled by the inquiry. ‘The Albert Swinfords?’
‘Yes.’
Leach searched his memory. ‘I believe he hired Clarence Swinford, the man’s son, to work at the hotel one summer. In an accounting capacity. A very bright young man. It’s one of Mr Purcell’s talents, spotting the bright ones. Other than that, no.’
Although this didn’t seem like much, I made a note of it as well.
‘Do you know anything about Mr Purcell’s estate, and how he’s got it arranged? I understand he employs a great many people in town. I think a reassuring statement should be made to the Newspacket, just to allay fears Mr Purcell’s demise might have economic repercussions.’
Leach nodded, looking relieved that I had broached the subject. ‘Mr Purcell has appointed his brother, Herschel, executor. Herschel lives in New York City, and is a professor of history at New York University. I’ll send a telegram immediately after you leave. I imagine it might take him a day or two to extricate himself from his duties before he can come to Fairfield. Until that time, provisions have been made to grant Mr Purcell’s lawyer, Ambrose Johnstone, stewardship over his many concerns, not only in Fairfield, but elsewhere as well. Mr Purcell left his affairs in order, Dr Deacon, of that you can be assured. He was extremely organized when it came to his money.’
EIGHT
I met Stanley at the Sheriff’s Office the next morning, early, at seven o’clock.
He planted both elbows on the basswood table and stared at me stoically when he found out he had a third murder to solve.
‘And has the stepdaughter been informed?’ he asked.
The Henry bullet found at the scene sat upended like a little gold rocket before him.
I shook my head. ‘Marigold is still in hospital in Buffalo.’
‘Should we send a telegram?’
‘Her condition will still be delicate this early in her recovery. We should wait until she’s been discharged.’
‘And so Billy had some fighting words about Purcell the afternoon before he got shot?’
I nodded. ‘I’ve been up since five this morning looking for him, but I can’t find him.’
‘You were over at the smithy?’
‘I was. He wasn’t there.’
Stanley ruminated. ‘I’ll tell the other deputies to keep a lookout for him. And I’ll saddle up and have a ride-about myself.’
I again couldn’t help thinking how tired the sheriff looked. ‘Stanley, I know you’re busy with your other cases right now. Plus with Christmas coming you’ve got your family to think about. Since I’ve already started this one, why don’t you let me handle it? You don’t have to go looking for Billy. I’ll do it.’
He raised his hand. ‘Now, Clyde, I don’t want you offering your services when Jeremiah’s coming home.’
‘He’s not due for another few weeks, Stanley. You let me take care of Purcell. You need to be with your family at this time of the year.’
And in fact, my old friend looked relieved. Without too much more fussing, he said, ‘All right. I’m mighty grateful.’ He raised his finger. ‘But let me know if you need help.’
‘I will.’
‘As to the murder itself, what exactly happened?’
I recounted what I knew for the sheriff: that there had been one, possibly two shots; that the shots had most probably originated from the back alley next to the Grand Hotel, but also possibly from a rooftop or upper window; and that a whisky flask appeared to have been taken from the victim.
‘A witness says the shot came from the alley,’ I said. ‘But the evidence suggests a rooftop or window origin for the shot.’
‘What witness?’ asked the sheriff.
‘Albert Swinford.’
Stanley tapped the table. ‘Swinford’s a good man. Regular army, retired. If he heard it, he heard it.’
‘I’m not so sure about that. There was something odd about his manner when he came forward to tell me about the shot. He was too eager. And he was nervous. I could tell he had a mission.’
‘And what mission was that?’
‘To make me believe, come what may, that the shot came from the back alley.’
‘What are you suggesting? That he had something to do with it?’
‘His actions were odd, and they’ve left me suspicious.’
‘I don’t see Swinford involved in something like this.’
‘Then why, if the evidence points a rooftop or window position, was he so eager to tell me that the shot came from the alley?’
‘What evidence?’
I explained to him about the gunshot wound angle. ‘If Purcell was shot from the back alley, the wound angle would have been parallel to the ground. It’s not. It’s at a forty-five-degree angle to the ground.’
‘Maybe the wound angle can be accounted for by the way Purcell had his body positioned at the time of the shooting.
‘Likely forward and down?’
‘Yes.’
I remained unconvinced. ‘Purcell would pretty well have to be on his hands and knees crawling toward his assailant to account for the wound angle, and that just doesn’t make sense to me.’