The Miser of Cherry Hill

by Scott Mackay

  THIRTY-FIVE

  Having eliminated Jensen as well as the Swinfords, I was now down to Marigold, Daisy, and Billy. Again, the most direct approach would have been to confront Billy with Marigold’s eyewitness account, but I wasn’t entirely convinced that her account or other evidence could successfully indict Billy when the wound angle so obviously pointed to a rooftop origin for the firearms discharge. Also, I had Daisy’s various omissions, misdirections, and dissimulations to think about.

  Upon my return to town, I swung round to her Finch Street home to talk to her again.

  We again sat in her parlor. I was in the house alone with her. Her father was down at the cement works and her mother was at the Thanatopsis Club attending a lecture on prehistoric fossils recently discovered in South Dakota.

  She gazed at me apprehensively with her unusual blue eyes – eyes the color of Lake Ontario in its darker moods.

  I began by telling her that she had been remiss in leading me astray. ‘Might I remind you, Miss Pond, that the last time we spoke, you told me you were in your house all evening on the night of Mr Purcell’s murder. Now I learn you were in fact visiting Miss Reynolds and that you took a call of a most disturbing nature from Billy Fray around eight forty-five. He told you that he was down at the Grand Hotel and preparing to kill Mr Purcell. I’m afraid this omission is something I can’t easily overlook. I’m going to give you one more chance, Miss Pond. I know you’re terribly frightened of Miss Reynolds, but you must, absolutely must, cooperate with the authorities in this matter, or you’ll find yourself facing dire consequences.’

  She wrung her hands, her long blonde hair falling past her face. ‘I’m sorry, sir. But you’re right. I’m frightened of her. She said I was to tell no one. Can we not just arrest her? She’s the one behind it all.’

  I was surprised that she would so quickly turn on her friend.

  ‘We’re getting close to taking it to Judge Norris, Daisy, but we need further evidence or witness testimony. That’s why I’m asking you again for your cooperation. Tell me, why did you lead me to believe Marigold was the one who was responsible for employing Mr Talbert Two-Arrows? She insists it was, and always has been, her father.’

  Some bitterness came to her eyes. ‘She’s trying to save herself any way she can.’

  ‘And she says she never burned you with the cigar. Maybe you burned yourself with a cigar to make your story more convincing?’

  Her face reddened. ‘That’s a lie, too.’ But with her cheeks red like that I wasn’t so sure.

  ‘So you’re telling me you think Marigold is the murderer?’

  I could see she was fighting with herself, and that she was torn between being a good friend and a good citizen. ‘I’m afraid I must amend my story, Dr Deacon. It’s essentially as I told you before, but with some critical differences.’

  I could see she was reluctant. ‘Go ahead, Daisy.’

  She looked away. ‘One thing I wasn’t lying about was Billy, and how Marigold ensnared him.’ She turned back to me. ‘Marigold tricked Billy into being her beau, but not because she loved or admired him. She wanted someone to protect her from her stepfather, that’s all. She told me this numerous times.’

  I nodded. ‘She’s admitted that Billy’s protected her on occasion. But I’m not convinced she doesn’t love him.’

  Her eyes grew solemn and she stared at me for several moments, using the pause to underline her next words. ‘She would joke about killing her stepfather when the three of us were together. She would say, “Wouldn’t it be lovely if Ephraim were dead? Billy, why don’t you be a good sport and kill him for us?” On another occasion, she said, “He would be very easy prey, Billy. He doesn’t deviate from his schedule, not a smidge, and I can give you all the particulars. Be a dear and get rid of him for us, will you?” She would say things like this, and then afterwards she would tell us that she was joking.’ Daisy shook her head. ‘This went on for some time. I kept telling Billy that no matter what he did, and no matter how deeply in love he was with Marigold, he should never entertain the idea of killing her stepfather for her.’

  ‘A wise counsel, Miss Pond.’

  ‘She would say to him, again as a lark, “When you kill my stepfather, Billy, make sure you’re sober. Your aim tends to wander when you drink.” I can attest to that. I’ve seen him at the Shooters Club when he’s drunk and he can’t hit a thing. That’s why I think that even though Alvin Jensen might have seen him down at the hotel with a rifle at the time of the murder, it’s unlikely he could have killed Mr Purcell, not only because he was drunk at the time, but also because I know he’s not capable of murder. There were two shots, I understand. Maybe there was someone else.’ Her voice grew fraught with emotion. ‘Maybe someone like Marigold.’

  I gave this veiled accusation the time it deserved, then played devil’s advocate. ‘You understand that much of the evidence points toward Billy as my perpetrator.’

  Her face reddened even more, her shoulders straightened, and she became braver. ‘Then I will have to change that, won’t I, doctor? I will not let my Billy hang for a murder he did not commit. I told him again and again that Marigold was only using him to get rid of her stepfather. Well, sir. The truth shall be known. I’m tired of being frightened of Marigold.’

  ‘If you have information that exonerates Billy, Miss Pond, now’s the time to come forth with it. We’re very close to drawing up murder charges against him, and I would hate to see him electrocuted for a crime he didn’t commit.’

  She took a few moments to gather her thoughts, then began with an altered version of events. ‘I was over at Marigold’s house on the night of the murder. I’ll admit to that now. And I did take that call from Billy. And, as you say, he was down at the Grand Hotel. He told me to tell Marigold that he was in position, as he called it, and getting ready to kill her stepfather. He was slurring his words – quite drunk, you see. I became frantic. I ran upstairs to the bathroom. Marigold ordered Flora to leave. I then told Marigold about the call. “And he’s drunk?” she asks me. I told her, yes, he was. She grew angry after that. She told me to go home. So that’s what I did. I was on my bicycle. I rode up the hill to Erie Boulevard and was just reaching Poplar Avenue when I decided I better go back and see if I could do something to help. So I turned around and I rode back to Marigold’s house.’

  ‘You went back?’

  ‘Yes. When I got there, I saw Marigold riding down her drive on her bicycle. She had her Henry rifle in her carrier. I could tell by the brass trim on the butt. And so I really think it was her, because Billy can’t hit anything when he’s drunk.’

  I paused to reflect on this newest information. ‘When you saw Marigold with the rifle, did you not try to stop her?’

  ‘I did, sir. I rode after her. But she has longer legs than I do and is able to ride faster. She reached the Cherry Hill Road drawbridge just as Mr Barner was lowering the barrier and flashing the lights. A late barge was coming through. But still Marigold kept on. She went around the barrier and crossed the bridge. By the time I reached the bridge, it was already going up. I had to go around, by the Tonawanda Road bridge. And by that time I was too late. Mr Purcell was already dead. I was so frightened, I just rode away and pretended to everybody, including you, that I had been home all evening.’

  I reached the Purcell mansion twenty minutes later.

  Mr Leach admitted me into the salon, where I found Marigold reading Sister Carrie by Theodore Dreiser.

  ‘I’m going to have to take your Henry rifle into custody, Miss Reynolds.’ I told her of Miss Pond’s accusations. ‘We’ll have to test-fire it to see if it was the murder weapon.’

  She was livid. She gave me some argument and ended with a question any betrayed person might ask. ‘Why would she do that to me?’

  ‘Come, now. I’ll need the rifle.’

  She ruminated petulantly. ‘How convenient for her. Getting me to take the blame so she and Billy can be together at last.’

  �
�An interesting theory, one I’ll keep in mind. Could I have the rifle, please?’

  ‘Do I have to give it to you? It actually belonged to my mother.’

  ‘Refusing only makes it look worse for you. I’ll take good care of it and return it promptly.’

  She stared, her green eyes like pieces of polished beryl. ‘Fine. Do what you want with it. The rifle wasn’t used. I haven’t taken it down to the range since Billy was forced to hide in the Pleasant Hotel. If you need to rule me out, by all means, have Leach put it in its bag and give you a box of ammunition. He knows where everything is. In fact, I absolutely insist you take it now.’

  When I finally turned up my drive a half hour later, I was confronted with a lone horseman mounted beside the surgery’s side door, an Oneida tribesman in misty silhouette against the wintry dusk. He was cloaked in a native blanket, and wore a derby with a white feather sticking up the back – a vision that reminded me so much of Cross Plains that for several seconds I felt transported eighteen-hundred miles to the southwest and fifteen years into the past. He had a rifle resting across his saddle horn. The butt was distinctive, a Henry, with the brass trim on the back. Snow fell past him, every flake seeming to miss him. He held up his hand serenely, and I knew that this was Jerome Highcloud, at last returned from his Adirondacks hunting expedition.

  ‘Mr Highcloud,’ I called. ‘So good of you to come.’ I nodded toward the rifle. ‘Is that the Henry?’

  ‘It is, doctor.’

  I now had two weapons to test, Mr Highcloud’s, and the one I had just confiscated from Marigold, which presently rested in my saddle holster.

  I had Munroe build up the parlor fire for Mr Highcloud. My man then brought him coffee and Christmas cake, and let me know that Henny and my son were over at the church enjoying a Christmas carol sing-along.

  I left Highcloud in my parlor and went to my stable to test-fire both weapons. The stable was warm – it had its own pot-belly stove to keep my animals comfortable. It also had a water pump.

  I found water a useful ballistics tool. Its density was such that it had extremely good stopping power but also the advantage of keeping slugs relatively intact after impact. I leaned both weapons against the wall, startling a mouse, which darted under some hay. I dragged a water barrel to the pump, and over the next five minutes filled it to the brim.

  When I was done, I got my sixteen-foot stepladder, set it up next to the water, and climbed to the top with the weapon Mr Highcloud had brought, Billy Fray’s old Henry. I loaded a round into the chamber and fired. My animals jerked, spooked by the discharge, but quickly settled. I got off the ladder, rolled up my sleeve, and fished around the bottom of the barrel until my fingers closed around the slug. I pulled it out and had a look.

  The impact had only minimally distorted its shape. It had distinct lands and grooves on its lead body.

  I repeated the process with Marigold’s weapon and got the same result, a nicely preserved slug with sharp lands and grooves that would be useful in a comparison against the bullet recovered from my victim’s body.

  Back in the house, I bade Mr Highcloud a hearty Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year and sent him on his way with enough patient-baked Christmas cake to feed the entire reserve at Silver Lake.

  I then went to my lab.

  Using first my magnifying glass and finally my microscope, I determined, after fifteen minutes, that the lands and grooves from the murder bullet matched not the bullet from Billy’s rifle, but that from Marigold’s weapon.

  I looked up, stunned.

  Marigold was the guilty party after all?

  I couldn’t figure it out. If she was guilty, and she knew she was guilty, why would she so freely surrender the murder weapon and in fact insist that I take it, knowing that it would only serve to incriminate her, and even indict her formally?

  THIRTY-SIX

  I went into Billy’s cell and sat on the bench opposite him. I didn’t consider him a suspect anymore. I never really had, not with the wound angle the way it was. And the fact his weapon hadn’t been used just confirmed this conviction. No, I didn’t think of him as a suspect anymore. On the contrary, I thought he might be my best witness.

  At first I just stared at him. His face, with its pleasant mouth, square chin, and handsome forehead was set in its usual expression of intransigence.

  ‘Billy, your court date for assaulting the sheriff is coming up on January second. A new year. A chance to make a fresh start. And you’ll be happy to know you’re going to make that fresh start. We won’t be charging you with Mr Purcell’s murder. The sheriff and I apologize for putting you through all this worry. Isn’t that right, sheriff?’ I called to Stanley, who was sitting at the basswood table doing paperwork.

  ‘That’s right,’ called the sheriff.

  I said to Billy, ‘As compensation, we’ll be dropping the assault matter against you. New evidence has come to light. We know who our killer is. We’ll be arresting Marigold Reynolds later this evening for the murder of her stepfather.’

  His eyes went wide, the intransigence left his face like a frightened bird, and he leaned forward on his bench with a lurch, his dark eyes filled with panic. ‘You’re arresting Marigold?’

  ‘We got her on the evidence. We’ll be asking Judge Norris for the death penalty.’

  Billy looked like a fish trying to swim its way out of an ice cube. ‘But I know for a fact she didn’t kill her stepfather.’

  ‘And how do you know that? You’ve consistently told us that you were nowhere near the Grand Hotel on the night of the murder. You’re not a witness.’

  He glanced away, desperate now. ‘Darn it, doc, maybe I was there after all. Maybe I was the one who killed Purcell. If you want to ’lectrocute someone, ’lectrocute me, but leave Marigold alone.’

  I was impressed. He would sacrifice himself for love. I used love like a grape-press – to squeeze as much information out of him as I could.

  ‘You might have been there, Billy – and in fact we’ve been told about the telephone call you made to Marigold from the Grand Hotel – but we know you didn’t kill Purcell. You can’t hit the dirt on the ground when you’re drunk, and Robert McGlen says you were stuporous with drink. His exact words. Plus the wound angle is all wrong.’

  Indignation flashed across his eyes. ‘I can hit anything in any condition at any time, and I don’t know who told you otherwise. I was there, and I was by myself, and dang it all, doc, I shot him! I shot him with my own rifle!’

  ‘Your Henry rifle?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And in order to get rid of the weapon afterward, you sold it at King’s Emporium?’

  He now seemed to see salvation in his bid to save Marigold. ‘You can ask Mr King himself!’

  ‘And that was the same rifle you shot and killed Mr Purcell with?’

  ‘The exact same one. So you might as well save my spot in the ’lectric chair and tell Marigold she can go free. Marigold ain’t had nothing to do with this.’

  I studied him some more, curious now for personal reasons. ‘You really love her, don’t you?’

  He was adamant. ‘I love her more than anything. She’s my girl.’

  ‘You love her so much that you’d go to the electric chair for her?’

  ‘All I know is I shot and killed her stepfather with my own Henry rifle.’

  I paused. ‘Funny, Billy. Because we found your rifle. Mr King sold it to Jerome Highcloud.’

  He paused, now wary. ‘He one of them Indian fellers on the reserve?’

  ‘He is.’

  ‘He got a dang fine rifle, then.’

  ‘We tested that rifle.’ I briefly went into the science of ballistics for him, how I could compare bullets. ‘It’s a relatively new field, Billy, but it’s doing wonders for the science of criminology. The lands and grooves on the bullet fired into the victim didn’t compare to the test round fired from your own rifle. Therefore, we know you didn’t kill him. Unless you used a different rifle, and you
just told me you didn’t. I also compared a test-fired round from Marigold’s rifle. It matched. So we know her rifle was used. Other evidence puts her in the area on the night of the murder. There was a tack in her boot from the scene. We know she did it.’

  Billy was breathing in a fragmented and agitated way now. His eyes were wide, panicked. He glanced around the jail as if he wanted to escape as quickly as possible, perhaps to rescue Marigold physically. At last his shoulders sank and he scrutinized me. I could tell he was thinking hard. He then heaved a great sigh. I felt I had broken a big intemperate horse.

  ‘She wasn’t there. I would have seen her if she was.’

  ‘Why don’t you tell me what really happened, Billy? It’s the only way we might save Marigold’s life.’

  He stared at me, leaning forward, his back straight, his spine like a girder, his eyes wide, bulging as his brow grew shiny with moisture. ‘She didn’t do it!’

  ‘Just start from the beginning, Billy.’

  For several seconds he seemed at a loss. More weakly he said, ‘She didn’t do it.’

  ‘Come, Billy, how did it start? What set the whole chain of events off? If we can untangle that, Marigold might stand a chance.’

  He didn’t speak for several seconds. Then his whole body sagged and tears came to his eyes.

  ‘It all started because of that dang promissory note.’

  I stared, considered this, and admitted to myself that I might have been wrong about the promissory note. I wasn’t infallible, after all; something Stanley loved to point out on occasion.

  ‘So you did forge the promissory note?’

  He looked at me sheepishly. ‘I reckon I lied to you about that. I admit, I tried some stupid things to save the smithy.’ His brow stiffened and he sucked at his lower lip. ‘The night of the promissory note, I went up to the mansion to forge the dang thing, and the old man caught me red-handed and took it from me at gunpoint. Then he fired a few rounds at me as I lit out the back. He yells out them French doors that the next time he sees me he’s going to shoot me down like a dog. Way I reckoned, we was coming to a showdown, and it was going to be either me or him. I figured it was better him than me, so I made my plan. I waited for him at the Grand Hotel by those garbage cans two nights later. I was going to ambush him. He comes out, and I call to him and he turns around, and I don’t know how he did it, but he shoots first, and I don’t even see him pull his revolver, that’s how fast he is, the sly old geezer.’