The Miser of Cherry Hill

by Scott Mackay

  THIRTY-ONE

  My son and I took the noon train to New York City the next day. The sky was sunny and the fields were bright with fresh snow as we headed east.

  Reaching the outskirts of the city at dusk, its skyline came into view, many of its buildings over twenty stories tall, twinkling like a festive arrangement of Christmas lights, beckoning us with their promise of bustle and excitement.

  Jeremiah said, ‘Reminds me of that grass fire we had out in Cross Plains before we came east, the way it’s burning so bright.’

  We talked about our scheme to flush out Isaac Jensen as we neared East Harlem. ‘You’re sure you remember what you have to do?’

  ‘Pa, I’m not a child anymore.’

  We crossed over into East Harlem through the Bronx and traveled down the Park Avenue tracks until we descended into the Park Avenue Tunnel at 97th Street. Immediately the passenger cars became thick with the smell of locomotive smoke and steam, and, looking out the window, the air was so clouded I wondered how the engineer could see anything at all. I could well understand the big train accident down here that had killed seventeen hapless travelers near Grand Central Depot last January.

  The depot itself was under phased demolition, preparatory to the building of the new Grand Central Terminal, and there was much dust, noise, and confusion. I was glad when we finally found our way out to 42nd Street, where we hailed a hansom cab.

  Once we were heading away from the depot, I asked my son, ‘And you don’t mind wearing the hat?’

  ‘If it will help catch a killer, I’ll wear a dress, pa.’

  We checked into the Hotel Empire, had a couple of porterhouse steaks, then set off for the Lower East Side, Hester Street, Hattie Whitmore’s address.

  By this time it was dark, but, it being Manhattan, the streets were still fairly well-lit, still with a lot of gas lamps, but with some of the new electrical ones too.

  As the professor had suggested, Miss Whitmore’s apartment wasn’t in the best neighborhood. Garbage and snow were piled high on the curb. Despite the late hour, children ran around in the middle of the street and threw snowballs at any unfortunate horse-drawn conveyance that happened by. Horse manure clogged the gutter, mixing with the slush. We found a drab little row of shops, the masonry begrimed with years of coal soot, their sun awnings drawn up so snow-burden wouldn’t rip them apart, their windows showing haphazard arrays of second-hand goods and clothing. Apartments occupied the floors above each shop. It was in one of these that Hattie Whitmore lived.

  I took the Western Union Telegraph hat from my bag and gave it to Jeremiah. He put it on. I gave him the fake telegraph. ‘If it’s Miss Whitmore who comes down, you must say that you’re to deliver the telegram personally to Mr Jensen.’

  ‘Yes, pa.’

  ‘I’ll be around back to make sure he doesn’t leave by the fire escape. Once you’re sure he’s there, come round and get me and we’ll both go in.’

  I went around to the back and stood guard there.

  Three hoboes sat further down the alleyway, having their own form of Christmas cheer: a gallon jug of wine. A fire burned in a barrel. A small white dog with black markings, one most notably around its left eye, sniffed from the periphery of the group, nervous, jerking back several feet whenever one of them made a sudden or unexpected move.

  I looked up and saw the back of the building in the light of their fire. I scanned the iron fire escape for any sign of activity, particularly the third floor, Miss Whitmore’s floor, but there was no-movement on the landing and the door remained shut.

  I soon heard footsteps in the alley behind me. Turning, I saw my son approach, a big smile on his face.

  ‘He’s there, pa.’

  ‘And how did he react when you told him the telegram was from Herschel Purcell?’

  ‘Puzzled. And shook up to learn the flask had been left to him in Ephraim’s will. And that Herschel knew where to find him.’

  A short while later we climbed the stairs to the third floor.

  Jensen was shocked to see me standing there when Miss Whitmore opened the door.

  ‘Dr Deacon, what are you doing here?’ He looked at my son. ‘And why are you with the Western Union boy?’

  I explained our ruse. ‘I’ve come to ask you why you’ve run away from Fairfield at Christmas, Mr Jensen. It doesn’t seem like a thing an innocent man would do. I would also like to know how you came to be in possession of Mr Purcell’s Lincoln-head whisky flask.’

  He fumed a bit, then burst out. ‘It’s my flask! He cheated me out of it!’

  I took his measure coolly. ‘Regardless, I think you have some explaining to do. Miss Whitmore, would you mind if we stepped inside for a few moments?’

  Miss Whitmore, a graceful if aging woman in clothes that looked a decade old, glanced at Jensen. I could see the hatter thinking furiously.

  After Miss Whitmore gave him an encouraging nod, he finally relented. ‘Come in, then.’ He motioned around the cramped apartment, a guilty look on his face. ‘And this isn’t what you think it is. Miss Whitmore and I are just friends. Old and good friends. Nothing more.’

  ‘Forgive me, Mr Jensen, but the tone of her letters would seem to suggest otherwise.’

  ‘You’re a scoundrel for taking those, by the way.’

  ‘And if your wife knew about them, what harsh epithet would she give you? Scoundrel seems mild.’

  This drew alarm. ‘You haven’t told her, have you? She thinks I’m in Milwaukee with my brother.’

  ‘My only interest is the murder of Ephraim Purcell. That’s why I bring up Miss Whitmore’s letters. I quote, “I don’t blame you for wanting to kill Ephraim, dearest Isaac. He is a snake.”’

  They both stared.

  Miss Whitmore finally mounted a weak defense. ‘Dr Deacon, I hardly think private correspondence intended for an audience of one constitutes lawful evidence.’

  ‘That, Miss Whitmore, is something the court will decide. Come, now. Why don’t we have tea and discuss the matter like civilized human beings? Would that be all right?’

  ‘I’ll have none of it!’ said Jensen. ‘You hunt me down like a common criminal and expect me to treat you in a civil manner when I had absolutely nothing to do with Ephraim’s murder. I won’t hear it!’

  I reached in my pocket and pulled out my handcuffs. ‘Then you can accompany me back to Fairfield and tell Judge Norris and your wife what you’re doing here in Hester Street. I don’t believe the adultery statutes in New York State have changed recently.’

  Again, stares from both.

  Surrendering grudgingly, Jensen turned to Miss Whitmore. ‘Hattie, tea, please.’

  The woman went to get tea.

  Jensen allowed us into the apartment.

  It was tiny, consisting of a parlor, a kitchen, a bedroom, and a lavatory. I saw a photograph of Hattie standing with a group of orphans in front of an orphanage. They were all smiling, and she was smiling too. She seemed a good sort. I wondered how she could love a man like Jensen all these years when he apparently had no intention of leaving his wife.

  We sat. I contemplated Jensen. His face was set in an expression of angry pride.

  In a fit of impatience he looked at me and said, ‘Could you ask your questions quickly before you spoil more of our Christmas holiday? And I take it the telegram from Herschel Purcell about the flask was all part of your scheme?’

  I ignored this. ‘How do your children feel about this?’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘How you’ve de-camped to Manhattan with Miss Whitmore for Christmas.’

  ‘Like their mother, they think I’m in Milwaukee with my brother.’

  ‘And your brother supports you in this deception?’

  ‘If you knew the entire story, you would understand why matters are the way they are. And do we have to speak about such things in front of your son? He’s a little young.’

  I turned to Jeremiah. ‘Jerry, if you could help Miss Whitmore with tea.’
r />   ‘Yes, pa.’ My son went into the kitchen.

  Some of Jensen’s feistiness left him and in a more conciliatory tone, he said, ‘I don’t make excuses for myself, Dr Deacon. I do the best I can with the hand I’ve been dealt. I don’t know how much you know, or what you read in those letters, but at one time, Hattie and I were extremely close. Engaged to be married, as a matter of fact. Hattie was the only woman I ever truly loved. Don’t get me wrong. I admire my wife. And I’m fond of her. But I wouldn’t have married her if Ephraim hadn’t come along and taken Hattie away from me.’

  ‘He seems to have taken a lot away from you.’

  He gave me a disgruntled look. ‘The minute I married Tilda, Ephraim broke his engagement to Hattie, as if it had all been a lark to him. And so I was married, with my first child on the way, but my heart still belonged to Hattie. After Hattie got over Ephraim, she realized hers still belonged to me. So here we are.’ After a few moments, he said, ‘I suppose this will just make you think I have yet more reason to kill him.’

  ‘I’m not so much interested in reasons at this point, Mr Jensen, as I am in establishing facts. On the night of the murder, we’ve established that you left the Welland Street Club after expressing your great displeasure with Mr Purcell to Lonnie Moses. You tell me afterwards you went home and fell asleep in your study. Yet the flask that Mr Purcell was never without went missing from his pocket. I learned that he won the flask from you in a bet, and that originally the flask was presented to you by President Roosevelt for an act of bravery during the Civil War, the same act that saved Ephraim’s life. The flask meant the world to you.’

  His lips tightened and he looked away. I saw heartache in his eyes. ‘He broke the bond.’

  ‘You could have easily made that shot on Tonawanda Road. You neutralized that sniper in Monckton, Georgia.’

  His lips quivered and he looked at the table where I saw a-dog-eared copy of Harper’s Weekly. ‘We were best friends.’ He swallowed against his pain. ‘When your best friend becomes your worst enemy, it’s the toughest thing in the world for a man. And as much as I could have made any shot whatsoever, I was drunk and passed out in my study when Ephraim was murdered.’

  ‘I don’t think you were, Mr Jensen. As I already indicated, you had the flask. I’m sure he didn’t just give it to you. So please don’t lie. It was hidden in the hat shop’s third-floor crawlspace. Why would Ephraim Purcell’s flask wind up in your third-floor crawlspace? If you can give me an adequate answer for that, I’ll get on the train tonight, go back to Fairfield, and never bother you again.’

  Miss Whitmore and my son came out of the kitchen with tea. On a plate I saw shortbread cookies shaped like Christmas trees and stars. She set everything down and poured.

  She then said, ‘Would you like us to join you, gentlemen? Or would you prefer to continue your discussion in private?’

  Jensen gave her a sheepish smile. ‘Perhaps the two of you could have tea in the kitchen, Hattie.’

  Miss Whitmore turned to my son. ‘Come along, Jeremiah. You can help me with the jigsaw puzzle I’m working on.’

  The two retreated, leaving me and Jensen to continue our conversation alone.

  I waited for him to lift his teacup. All he had to do was raise it to his lips to exclude himself as a suspect in the murder and that would be that. But he now seemed lost in thought, and struggling with himself. ‘Maybe I wasn’t in my study after all. Maybe that was just a cockamamie story I made up to protect myself. I swear to you, I had nothing to do with his murder. I just stupidly took the flask at probably the most asinine moment I could. Afterward, I figured you might find out the history between us, and start blaming me for his murder. I thought you might come looking for the flask as well. I didn’t want to get rid of it so I put it in the crawlspace.’

  ‘How did it all come about, you getting your hands on the flask?’

  Much cowed now, he sighed, hesitated, then gave me the story. ‘I’d been walking about after my outburst at the club.’ He glanced out to the street where a man in a thick coat was leading a mule down the pavement. ‘I was trying to calm myself. I finally found myself walking in the back alley out behind my place. I walk there a lot. It’s off the beaten track and I find it soothing.’ He looked at his hands, then into the fire. ‘I was just reaching my place when I heard the shot.’

  ‘You heard only one shot?’

  ‘I’m not sure. I was mighty drunk. I went up along the side of the hat shop to the street, and I saw Ephraim lying there.’

  ‘This was immediately after you heard the shots?’

  ‘Couldn’t have been more than ten or fifteen seconds.’

  ‘And you were the first to arrive?’

  He nodded. ‘I was the only one there at that point.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me about this?’

  ‘Because of what I did next. This flask business.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘I saw him lying there, and the flask had come out of his pocket and was lying next to him. I go up to him, and I see that he’s hurt, and I start to panic. At the same time I was angry at him. I’d gotten word from the bank that day that my family and I had to leave the shop.’

  ‘Was he still alive at this point?’

  Jensen looked away and nodded woefully.

  ‘And you took no measures to save him?’

  ‘No.’ His eyes moistened. His face stiffened and he looked up at me. ‘I thought, why should I? After what he’s done to me.’ His anger left him and he shook his head. ‘Then I got just plain scared. I thought, here I am, in the middle of the road with Ephraim, and I’d said those things to Lonnie, and I had every reason to want Ephraim dead, and I was kneeling over him, and if people came and saw me like that, what chance would I have when you and the sheriff came to investigate? I knew I was going to be a suspect. It would have been the last miserable thing he would have done to me. So I figured I had to get out of there. I look up at the hotel and I’m hearing people coming down the front hall. I leave. But as I do, I see the flask lying there. I pick it up, figuring he’s not going to need it now. If I hadn’t been drunk, I never would have considered the notion. But I did, and it was only afterward I realized my big mistake.’

  ‘It certainly was a big mistake, Mr Jensen.’

  Tears now stood in his eyes. ‘I reached the corner of the hat shop and I looked back at him. He was crawling toward me.’ I remembered how Henny had reported the victim crawling toward the hat shop. ‘It was just like that day in Monckton, Georgia. History was repeating itself. But this time around, I just left him there. He deserved it. I figured it was my turn to break the bond.’ He shrugged wearily. ‘I could have saved him, Dr Deacon. And I should have saved him. But I didn’t. Alvin saw the whole thing, but I coached him not to say anything afterward, and to just focus on Billy, as I think Billy’s really your man, deputy.’

  ‘Did you see Billy yourself?’

  He sighed miserably. ‘No.’

  ‘Drink and judgment have never gone hand in hand, Mr Jensen.’ But I was thinking how all this explained the flask theft as well as the wound angle. Now that the mechanics behind the flask theft had been revealed, the wound angle most definitely pointed toward an elevated position.

  Then Jensen lifted his teacup, and ruled himself out entirely. As it got closer to his lips, his hand shook in a most horrible fashion. I saw that he had what his sister had, benign essential tremor, brought on by exertion, the shake so bad that some of his tea spilled out on his lap, the whole reason I’d included Belva Jensen’s hereditary disorder in the Ephraim Purcell case file in the first place.

  ‘Damn this cup!’

  ‘I believe you didn’t kill Mr Purcell, Mr Jensen. But not on your say-so. Only because I know you couldn’t have made that shot after all.’

  He frowned. ‘What the devil are you talking about? I’m an ace marksman.’

  I shook my head. ‘Maybe at one time you were. But these days I doubt you could hit that v
ase from where you’re sitting.’

  ‘Sir, you insult me.’

  ‘Sir, you suffer from benign essential tremor. Your sister has it. It’s hereditary. It runs in families. And I’m afraid you have it worse than Belva.’

  ‘President Roosevelt himself recognized my marksman’s skills.’

  ‘No one’s doubting the sacrifices you’ve made for your country, Mr Jensen. But I’m a doctor, and I know what’s possible and not possible in a patient with benign essential tremor. Plus the circumstances of the flask robbery eliminate you as well.’

  He put his cup down, watching his hand shake with dismal alarm. He then glanced at me, looking lost. ‘Why does a man have to lose everything he holds most dear, Dr Deacon? Look at that. Sometimes it just won’t stop. I’ve been trying to hide it for the last twenty years. My marksmanship is something I’m proud of. But now I don’t have it anymore, and it makes me miserable at times.’

  The next day in a Manhattan jewellery shop I did my best not to behave like Edgar Keenan. No wandering eye for me. I focused on Miss Wade, and Miss Wade alone. I needed something pure and rare, a piece that would reflect Olive’s character and beauty, untangle all my feelings for her, and set them straight so she would at last understand me, but more importantly, so that I at last would understand her.

  I found a necklace of uncultured Japanese pearls. A pink pearl served as pendant. I had the jeweller gift-wrap it for me.

  I then bought an engagement ring.

  THIRTY-TWO

  Upon my return to Fairfield, my original plan had been to go out to the Swinford farm with my ballistics sample, as, of my suspects, only the Swinfords had access to that upstairs drugstore window. But as I was getting ready, I received a call from the Sisters of Charity Hospital in Buffalo. The clerk had damaging news about Marigold Reynolds.

  ‘Dr Deacon, I’m afraid we have no record of this patient, nor of her November admission. She was never an inpatient here.’

  With Flora Winters’s story about Marigold now confirmed, and confirmed enough so that it would stand up in court, I decided I would concentrate on the victim’s stepdaughter instead.