The Miser of Cherry Hill

by Scott Mackay

  She was sitting up, her legs covered with a down comforter decorated with blue peacocks and pink fans. On the table was a cup of hot apple cider with a cinnamon stick. The fireplace, twice as large as any in my house, smoldered with indolent flames, casting shifting light over her pale complexion.

  Unexpectedly, her face quivered with emotion, and her eyes, mint and cream, glimmered with tears. ‘They say in town that Billy Fray killed my stepfather. My Uncle Herschel has kept me informed.’

  I was still concerned about her condition and, as she appeared to have true feeling for Billy, tried to minimize whatever she had heard. ‘We’ve yet to conclude our investigation, my dear. Billy hasn’t been formally charged.’

  With sudden urgency, she said, ‘Please don’t execute Billy. I’m sure he had nothing to do with it.’

  ‘My dear, as your doctor, I’m asking you not to trouble yourself with that just now. You look pale. The physicians at Sisters of Charity looked after you well?’

  ‘They did.’

  ‘And are you now prepared to give me the medical history behind it all?’

  She fidgeted. I glanced around the room where I saw an easel with a half-finished painting of snow-covered cherry trees. I waited for her to tell me about Talbert Two-Arrows and the botched abortion, but she remained mute. I waited for her to admit she had been pregnant with Billy’s child, but she said nothing.

  Then I saw a rifle rack on the wall, and stopped waiting for much of anything because, much to my growing interest, I saw a Henry rifle up there.

  Feigning a casualness I did not feel, I strolled over to the rack and got a closer look at the rifle. It was the only weapon there.

  In the guise of making conversation, I said, ‘Ah. A Henry.’ I turned around. ‘I understand you shoot, Miss Reynolds? I chanced upon your photograph at the Shooters Club.’

  ‘I do, doctor.’

  ‘A most enjoyable pastime.’ Realizing I was going to have to sacrifice, at least for a few minutes, my own treatment plan in regard to the delicate state of Miss Reynolds’s convalescence, I said, ‘Did I tell you I recovered a Henry bullet at the scene of your stepfather’s murder?’

  Soon enough, she got my implication. ‘But doctor, surely you don’t think I was responsible for my stepfather’s murder.’

  ‘I understand that until recently Billy also owed a Henry rifle.’

  She sat up, her back straightening with the same rectitude as her mother’s in the full-length Tissot portrait. ‘But this is all so ridiculous, doctor. I was at the hospital. And there are several more likely candidates.’ She raised her hands in frustration. ‘Isaac Jensen for one. I don’t know what you’ve heard, or what your investigation’s revealed, but my father did everything he could to drive that poor man out of business.’

  ‘Yes, I’ve heard that. And the matter’s being looked into.’

  ‘And then there’s Albert Swinford.’

  I stared. Here again was the farmer from Reese’s Corners. ‘You know about Albert Swinford?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘My mother told me the whole story before she died. Melissa Swinford told her. They were on the church social committee together. Mr Swinford has a lot more reason to kill my father than either Billy or I do.’

  ‘You refer to your stepfather’s affair with Melissa Swinford?’

  ‘You’ve heard?’

  ‘Only the fact of it. I possess none of the details.’

  Marigold grew less agitated, her manner more reasonable.

  ‘Mrs Swinford is a picture of rectitude, isn’t she? Her father was reverend before Eric Porteous took over. She’s a woman of impeccable morals, a God-fearing one, and she lives her life by the Lord. So when my stepfather grew interested, she of course refused. But that wasn’t going to stop my stepfather. Back then, he owned Reese’s Corners, and all the properties around it. In fact, the reason it’s called Reese’s Corners is because my stepfather’s middle name is Reese. When Mrs Swinford wouldn’t give him what he wanted, he raised their rent – the same thing he did to Mr Fray – and said he would run them off their land if she didn’t surrender her charms. In order to hang on to the farm, she had no choice. My stepfather didn’t care that Mr Swinford should know. In fact, it gave him greater pleasure that he did. At least that’s the way my mother told it. In church, Mrs Swinford holds her head up high. But you can tell she thinks she has one foot in hell.’

  I digested all this, then probed further. ‘So am I to infer that Clarence Swinford knows who his real father is?’

  Marigold stared at me, and an admiring grin came to her face. ‘Your powers of deduction are indeed remarkable, doctor.’ She gave me a nonchalant nod. ‘Yes, Clarence knows. And since the reading of the will, we have found out that a provision has been made for Clarence. He will go to college, thanks to the Purcell estate. Isn’t that lovely, doctor? At least some good has come of my stepfather’s death.’

  On the way out, I encountered Flora Winters, Marigold’s maid, in the front hall, dusting the frame of the magnificent full-length painting of the late Mrs Reynolds. As Flora had accompanied Marigold to Buffalo, I thought now was my opportunity to verify that Miss Reynolds had actually gone.

  ‘Miss Winters, a word.’

  She stopped dusting and turned. ‘Sir?’

  ‘I’ve yet to receive my consult note in regard to Miss Marigold’s admission to Sisters of Charity. I assume you were the one who spoke to the admitting physician upon arrival?’

  Colour climbed into her face. ‘Yes, sir, I was.’

  ‘And you let them know I was her doctor, and that I have my mailing address on Culver Street?’

  ‘I did, sir.’

  ‘Because I haven’t received my consult note yet.’

  ‘I gave them your address, sir.’

  ‘Good girl. What did the doctors say once they assessed her?’

  She paused again. ‘Only that my mistress was in stable condition and that she would pull through with proper rest and nourishment.’

  I left the Purcell mansion thinking that if I did not get my consult note the next day I would have Henny – for that’s what I called Henrietta Gregsby now – telephone the hospital to see if it had gone astray.

  I took the Cherry Hill Road bridge back into town.

  I hitched my horse in front of Jensen’s Hat Shop and went inside. Tilda Jensen gave me a worried look from behind the high mahogany counter – I surmised she was now fully aware of her husband’s place in my case.

  In a lowered voice, she said, ‘Alvie’s awake now. He’s in the back room waiting with his father.’ A pinch now coming to her brow, she said, ‘Dr Deacon, I know my Isaac didn’t do this. I know he didn’t. Please. We’ve lost our business. I don’t want us to lose Isaac, too. I know he’s had his troubles with Ephraim, but he would never kill the man.’

  ‘Madam, we’re by no means close to making an arrest just yet, so I implore you not to worry. Your husband is just one of many possible suspects the sheriff and I are looking at, and by no means at the top of our list.’

  I found Alvin in the back room with his father playing with a toy Indian and a toy cowboy. Oddly, he wasn’t making them fight, as most boys would. He was making them talk, a conversation about fishing spots in the river. As I came in, he stopped and looked at me.

  Mr Jensen came forward and put his hand on his son’s shoulder. ‘Alvie, this is Dr Deacon. He’s come to talk to you about what happened out front. Remember you told the sheriff? About the man with the rifle behind the garbage cans? Now the doctor wants to hear it.’

  The boy looked at me, then at his father, then back at me. He waited with wide expressionless eyes. I moved forward and knelt next to him.

  ‘Can you tell me about the man with the rifle, Alvin?’ I asked.

  He looked at his father again, then back at me. ‘I saw the man shoot the other man.’

  ‘And do you know who the men were?’

  He nodded. ‘Mr Purcell. He�
��s the one who got shot.’

  I nodded. ‘And who was the man with the rifle?’

  ‘I don’t know his name. He puts shoes on horses.’

  This, then, amply identified Billy Fray, because that’s all he did at the smithy, shoe horses, his father looking after more finicky forge business.

  ‘And what exactly did the man with the rifle do? How did he go about shooting Mr Purcell?’

  ‘He got down on his knee behind the garbage cans beside the hotel, and he shot Mr Purcell.’

  Yes, all very well, but I still couldn’t help thinking his father had coached him. If I was to trust the veracity of the claim, I needed further specifics. ‘And did he do anything else besides shoot Mr Purcell?’

  The child grew still. ‘He drunk some whisky before Mr Purcell come out of the hotel.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  The boy thought some more. ‘He dropped a bullet to the ground.’

  Unaware that he had delivered to me a critical piece of evidence, something only a true eyewitness could know, he went back to playing with his figures. Taken in conjunction with the Henry bullet I had found at the scene, I now knew I had an even stronger case against Billy Fray.

  ‘Mr Jensen, may I use your telephone?’

  ‘Of course, doctor.’

  On the phone, I told Stanley about the additional evidence. ‘Did Alvin say anything about the bullet to you?’

  ‘Nope. But I told you he wasn’t lying, and this just proves I’m right.’ My old partner sounded transcendent with glee.

  I always felt I had to do something about Stanley’s glee. ‘I only wish the wound angle wasn’t so wrong.’

  I could sense the sheriff fuming with sudden consternation. He then tried to explain it away like a carpenter building a house with rubber nails. ‘Purcell must have been coming at him from the ground, or crawling at him, like we talked.’

  ‘Miss Gregsby said she saw him crawling away from the alley, not toward it.’

  Thus ended Stanley’s glee, his more characteristic orneriness taking its place. ‘Dang it, Clyde, the boy saw Billy drop a bullet. Only a real witness would know that. Ambrose Johnstone’s been calling me. Professor Purcell wants Billy to go on trial.’

  ‘Johnstone’s been calling you?’

  ‘Professor Purcell is apparently mad with grief and wants to see Billy go to the electric chair, the sooner the better.’

  I now felt some of my own orneriness. ‘And are you thinking of taking what we have to Judge Norris before we’ve explained away all the other conflicting evidence? What about the wound angle? What about the flask?’

  ‘Clyde, the evidence is now overwhelming against Billy, and the town is growing restless.’

  ‘We’re not going to have mob justice, Stanley.’

  ‘And you’re the sheriff, now?’

  I sighed. ‘Just give me a chance to rule out our other suspects before you go taking anything over to Judge Norris. And by the way, I’m beginning to think we’re going to have to add Marigold Reynolds to our suspect list.’

  Taken off guard by this, he said, ‘Marigold Reynolds?’ More than taken off guard; stunned. ‘You’ve got to be pullin’ my leg. And my arm. I thought she was in the hospital the night it happened?’

  ‘I still haven’t got my consult note from Buffalo. And, until I do, we can’t be sure she went. Which means she could have been in town. She also owns a Henry. And if Billy was in the alley, and the wound angle is wrong, I can’t help thinking she might have been somewhere else, maybe up on the hotel roof, where the wound angle is right, and that the two of them acted together. Two shooters might explain two shots.’

  SIXTEEN

  The next day, Dr Charles Pritchard, the town dentist, arrived on my doorstep to deliver personally an invitation to his Christmas party.

  ‘I’m terribly sorry about the oversight, Clyde, but because you’re so new in town, you weren’t on our standing list, and Martha never prepared one for you.’ I sensed Henny in the corridor behind me. ‘Once we discovered our mistake, I came straight over. I’m afraid it’s tomorrow night, awfully short notice, I know, but I certainly hope you can attend.’

  I took the invitation, smiling. ‘I’d be delighted, Charles.’

  ‘Oh, good. Martha will be so relieved. We’ve hired some musicians from Buffalo, and there’ll be a lot of dancing and jollity, and I’m sure it will turn out to be a capital evening.’

  ‘Splendid.’

  ‘We’ll see you at seven, then?’

  ‘I’ll be there.’

  When Dr Pritchard was gone, I turned around and saw that Henny had disappeared.

  I looked for her in the parlor, then the office, then the kitchen, but couldn’t find her.

  I finally spotted her out the back window walking up and down the drive, no coat on, hugging her arms, her skirt dragging in the snow, her lips pursed, her eyes focused intently – and with great distress – on absolutely nothing.

  I walked around to the side door, descended the stairs, and stepped on to the drive. ‘Henny, what on earth are you doing out here?’

  She looked up. ‘Just catching a breath of fresh air, doctor. No need to be alarmed. Do we have a patient?’

  I could see there was much need to be alarmed. ‘No. I suppose we should take lunch now.’ I paused. ‘Are you sure you’re all right?’

  This time she couldn’t answer. She turned away from me. Oh, dear. Christmas was often hard for a person if they’d just lost someone. I hurried to assist her. She looked around and saw me coming. Her face creased with anguish and tears welled in her eyes.

  I went up to her and put my arm around her. ‘Henny, what is the matter?’

  At first she couldn’t answer, had to struggle to regain her composure, but at last got herself under control.

  ‘I have nowhere to go for Christmas, doctor. I thought I would be fine. I thought I would be happy. But then your friend came with his Christmas invitation, and it brought home to me how lonely I was.’

  So. Just as I suspected. Christmas, one of the chief misery-makers of the world, had stirred up things again.

  ‘Come. Sit in the parlor.’

  I ushered her along the drive, in the side door, and up the steps to the corridor.

  In the parlor I got her sitting in the tabouret chair and built up the fire. I then fetched a linen handkerchief, knelt next to her, and gave it to her.

  She dabbed her tears and said, ‘It’s Martin, you see. My fiancé.’

  I remembered my own Emily. ‘Yes, dear, I know. It’s hard.’

  For several seconds she was too overcome to continue. I let her sit for a full minute. Finally she looked at me and said, ‘I’m sorry, doctor. It’s just that this is the first Christmas I shall be without him.’

  ‘I know, I know.’

  She stared at her hands for several seconds.

  ‘His family’s in Wisconsin. We were to go for the holidays.’

  ‘My dear, if you need time off to go to Wisconsin, by all means, you can have it.’

  This just exacerbated her tears.

  ‘But they don’t want me now!’ she said with sudden emotion.

  I was puzzled. Her future but never-to-be in-laws didn’t want her, even though they knew she didn’t have a soul in the world?

  ‘Why ever shouldn’t they want you, dear? You’re one of the most agreeable creatures I’ve ever met.’

  Her emotional condition grew even more volatile.

  ‘Because the Booths blame me for Martin’s death!’

  Here was a statement that needed some amplification.

  ‘And why should they blame you for their son’s death?’

  She struggled to regain control. In a calmer tone, she said, ‘I was only trying to help him. He was a good doctor, but prone to bouts of melancholia.’

  I could see she was too upset to give me instant clarification. So I simply cooed in the most commiserative fashion I could. ‘I see.’

  ‘I would go to his room
and force him to come to work. I would have to get him to look after himself and to take an interest in things. I would sometimes sing and dance just to get him to smile. As a nurse, I recognized his condition. On the ward, I’ve dealt with melancholia often, and so I easily recognized it in Martin, even though he always denied it to me. All I was trying to do was help him. All I was trying to do was make him better. And so I thought a change of scene might be beneficial.’

  ‘I prescribe the exact same thing for my patients with like conditions.’

  She looked at her hands, thinking, then turned her attention to the fire. In a friable voice, she said, ‘I thought a stay in Sodus Point might cheer him up. So I booked a room at the Bright’s Cove Hotel, with a view of the lake. A weekend at the beach was all I intended. I thought it would make him happy. And I thought he would be interested to see where I grew up. But then he went for a swim one day and didn’t come back.’ She looked at me, her eyes bereft, guilty. ‘They found him a mile down the beach the next morning. His parents have never forgiven me. They believe I gave him the means.’ She shook her head, more tears coming. ‘When I met them last spring in Wisconsin, before Martin’s death, they treated me like a daughter. I was so happy. I felt I had found another family. We were going to spend Christmas with them, Martin and I, but now they don’t want me because they think I’m responsible. They say I never should have taken him to the water.’ Her voice tightened and climbed into a higher, softer register. ‘I’ll have to spend Christmas alone. And no one will invite me anywhere because no one in Fairfield knows me. You’ll go to your party tomorrow night, and I’ll have nothing better to do than darn my socks.’

  She wept quietly.

  I leaned forward and put my hand on her shoulder. ‘My dear, you don’t have to worry about spending Christmas alone. You can spend it with Jeremiah and me. Put off finding new lodgings until the New Year. I can’t stand the thought of you in a dreary boarding house on Christmas morning. Not only that, I want you to come to Dr Pritchard’s Christmas party tomorrow night. A young woman such as yourself should have the chance to dance whenever the opportunity arises. And weren’t you going to teach me some new steps anyway?’