by Scott Mackay
Billy was going to buy her a hat at Jensen’s Hat Shop, probably one of the last the shop would ever sell. He was pretending, now that Marigold had apparently been arrested, that he had suddenly and miraculously fallen in love with Daisy. Intelligent though she was, I could see that she wanted Billy so much she was easily allowing herself to be fooled by the ruse. Billy played the role well, shoulders up and proud, a young man in love.
Stanley said, ‘He knows how to make a deal, the rotter. We let him off for my shiner, and he gets a pretty woman on his arm.’
They went into the hat shop. Stanley and I waited. It was the twenty-fourth of December, and I was eager to deliver, in person, my pearl necklace and my Jensen Hat Shop hat to Miss Olive Wade. I prayed for a Christmas truce with the estranged object of my affection, perhaps even an amicable renaissance in 1903, but needed to get this murder case out of the way first. Once the necklace, hat, and truce were accomplished, I would get down on bended knee with my engagement ring.
We waited fifteen minutes. The pair at last came out.
Daisy still had her lover’s giddy smile, even more so now that she carried a tinsel-spangled hatbox. What startled me was the way Billy had a lover’s smile as well. Much to my consternation, I realized he was not acting.
Stanley came to the same conclusion. ‘He’s actually falling for her,’ said the sheriff.
As we were both afraid Billy might now tell Daisy to run off, we left the room quickly and started down to the street, double-timing it.
In Tonawanda Road, Stanley kept his eye on the pair, following them toward the river.
I, on the other hand, entered the hat shop.
Tilda Jensen was there with her son, Alvin. There was no sign of Isaac, still in Milwaukee, as far as Tilda was concerned, but so tragically in Manhattan with Hattie Whitmore.
I gave the mother a grin. ‘So, then. Did young Alvin get a good look at Miss Pond?’
‘He did, doctor.’
I knelt next to the boy. ‘Do you remember seeing the lady on the night Mr Fray shot Mr Purcell?’
He nodded.
‘And where do you remember seeing her?’
‘Up on the hotel roof.’
‘And you saw her from that distance when it was so dark out?’
He nodded. ‘The light from the sign lit her up.’
I was puzzled. ‘Why didn’t you mention the lady when you first told me about the man behind the garbage cans?’
The boy looked nervously toward his mother.
Tilda rushed to explain. ‘He was told by his father not to say anything about the lady. Isaac thought it might damage the credibility of Alvie’s story.’ She shrugged. ‘A lady on the roof too? Isaac thought he was making the whole thing up. Alvie does tend to tell stories sometimes. You can ask Miss Wharry, the schoolteacher, about that.’
So. There had been a little coaching after all, not just about Miss Pond’s involvement on the scene but also about the flask robbery.
I turned to Alvin. ‘And who was this lady?’
‘Her pa owns the cement factory.’
‘And what did she do up on the roof?’
Alvin thought. ‘She was looking down at everything.’
‘And did you see her rifle?’
‘Yes.’
‘And did you see her fire the rifle?’
‘After the man by the garbage cans fired his.’
Here was another witness fooled by the discharge next door. Mrs Swinford trying to kill herself was mistaken for Billy firing his own rifle. I could discount it because of the ballistics evidence. Added to Mr Barner’s witness account, I had what I hoped I needed, enough to convince Judge Norris to give me a warrant for Daisy’s arrest.
‘Thank you, Alvin.’ I pulled out a stick of candy and gave it to the boy. ‘Merry Christmas. May your new future in Elmira be a bright one.’
His eyes shone as he spied the candy and a big smile came to his face. ‘Merry Christmas, sir!’
As Miss Reynolds had said, Miss Pond was prone to fainting.
When the sheriff and I went to arrest her, armed with a warrant Judge Norris, considering town pressure, was only all too eager to grant, I found I had to immediately suspend my duties as deputy and commence my ones as doctor.
The shock of her arrest made her face turn red, then white, then gray. Her eyes twitched upward toward her blonde brow, her neck grew as limp as boiled pasta, and her head lolled toward her left shoulder. Her legs gave out by increments and she went down like the Thomas Wilson in Duluth Harbor.
Her parents hurried to help, but they weren’t in much better shape. Mr Pond looked as ashen as the cement he sold, and Mrs Pond, a stout matron of forty-five, had to sit quickly on the damask-upholstered chair.
I stepped forward to catch Daisy. I carried her to the sofa. I opened the window and had a servant bring smelling salts.
Miss Pond revived before the smelling salts arrived, but remained pale. She couldn’t sit up for the next several minutes. When she did, she was unsteady and sobbed in a most horrible way. ‘I only ever wanted to save Billy.’
She kept saying these words – or variations of the same – as we brought her to the Sheriff’s Office in the police wagon, her parents following in their motorcar, Mr Pond at the tiller, Mrs Pond, in goggles, fretful beside him.
At the Sheriff’s Office, we had her sit at the basswood table. Billy was now released, and the only one in jail was Rupert Scales, the town drunk, who watched the proceedings with great, if bleary-eyed, interest. Mr and Mrs Pond took the bench off to the side. They were inconsolable, holding each other, fearful for their only daughter – shocked, doting parents.
Daisy wept in a breathless, clutching way.
‘Daisy, dear, you admit to the crime?’ I asked. ‘Confession is your first step to the judge’s lenience.’
She struggled to regain herself, but was having a difficult time. ‘I had no choice. I had to protect him.’
‘And you used Marigold’s rifle?’
She nodded woefully. ‘I did.’
‘And you got the hotel’s back door key from Mr Purcell’s key cabinet in his study?’
‘I did.’
‘And then you made sure one of the French doors in Marigold’s studio was open so afterward you could return the rifle?’
She nodded pitifully. ‘I waited a long time out in the cold. I wanted to make sure everyone was in bed. And I couldn’t leave by the front, so I couldn’t lock the French door behind me after I left. I’ve been frightened ever since.’
‘And you’ve had no opportunity to lock the French door since?’
‘No. There’s always been a servant down the hall, or Marigold in her studio, or the professor in Mr Purcell’s study.’ She cried a bit more. ‘And I was afraid you would find the key missing.’
‘We did.’ I was curious. ‘Why didn’t you put the key back when you returned the rifle?’
‘I got back and couldn’t find it. It must have fallen out of my pocket during my bicycle ride. I was riding so fast.’
Stanley said, ‘The thing I don’t understand is why you killed Mr Purcell in the first place. You weren’t sore at him for hitting you back in October, were you?’
‘No. At least, yes, I was. But that’s not the reason. I had to save Billy.’
‘You keep saying that.’
In a tiny voice, she said, ‘Mr Purcell has threatened Billy again and again. He’s fired upon him with his revolver on three different occasions.’ Stanley and I glanced at each other; this was news to both of us. ‘The promissory note incident was the most recent. On that particular occasion, he threatened to kill Billy the next time he met him in the street. When Billy telephoned Marigold from the hotel, I went up and told Marigold about it but she just frowned and said that she would go downtown and put a stop to it, and that I was to go home. She didn’t seem to understand the urgency of the situation the way I did. So I went back downstairs and tried to phone you at the Sheriff’s Office to let you know
what was going on so you could go over and put a stop to it, but the line was in use. So I did the only thing I could think of to save his life. I took Marigold’s rifle and Mr Purcell’s key and went to watch over him on the roof of the Grand Hotel like a guardian angel.’
I thought of Ernie Mulroy talking to his sweetheart in the Sheriff’s Office; maybe all this could have been avoided.
‘And so you rode your bicycle down Cherry Hill Road and crossed the drawbridge just as Mr Barner was getting ready to lift it.’
She looked surprised. ‘How do you know about that?’
‘Because I’ve spoken to Mr Barner. He saw you.’
She nodded fretfully. ‘I’m sure he’ll never forgive me. He’s so particular about his bridge.’ She seemed lost in thought for a moment. ‘Once I crossed the bridge and reached the hotel, I went round to the back and climbed to the roof. I saw Billy kneeling behind the garbage cans. Mr Purcell was out on the street. I was going to try and stop the whole thing by calling to them. But then Mr Purcell fired at Billy, and I knew I had to take action.’
At this point, all talk came to a stop. Stanley and I stared at the girl, then turned to each other.
I leaned forward. ‘You actually saw Mr Purcell take out his revolver and shoot Billy?’
‘Didn’t see him, because I was focusing on Billy at that precise moment, but I heard him, and knew Mr Purcell was going to keep his word and kill Billy if I didn’t do something to stop him. I had no choice. The man I loved was in mortal danger.’
The poor girl of course didn’t realize the shot had come from the Wileys’ bedroom window: Mrs Swinford trying to kill herself.
‘And then you tried to blame Marigold for the whole thing,’ said Stanley, in a flat and unforgiving tone of voice.
She looked away. ‘It was a horrible thing to do. I’m so sorry. I just couldn’t stand the thought of going away to jail and not being able to see Billy anymore.’
FORTY
I got home from the Sheriff’s Office late.
As it was now the afternoon of Christmas Eve day, I saw only a few more patients, then closed the surgery early for the holiday.
I was just putting my DOCTOR IS OUT sign in the window when I noticed a hired cab come up the drive. The coachman reined in his horses. Looking more closely, I saw – curiously – that no fare rode inside the covered conveyance. The coachman wasn’t in dropping-off mode; he was in picking-up mode.
Thinking he may have made a mistake, and that perhaps it was my neighbours, the Caines, who needed a cab, I made for the front door, only to find Henny waiting in the vestibule in her traveling cloak with all her luggage packed.
Her face reddened. ‘Oh! Doctor. I left a note. I was trying to slip out unnoticed. I do so hate goodbyes.’
‘Henny, where are you going?’
For several seconds she couldn’t speak. Her face was suffused with conflicting emotions. ‘I’ve made such a fool of myself, falling in love with you like a schoolgirl.’
I regarded her kindly. ‘There’s a cab waiting for someone in the drive. You’ve no doubt made alternate Christmas arrangements?’
A broad grin came to her face and her eyes moistened. ‘How can I ever thank you?’
‘For what?’
‘For writing that letter to Mr and Mrs Booth. I don’t know what you said, or how you framed your appeal, but they’ve forgiven me, and want me to spend the holiday with them. I daresay I won’t be there in time for Christmas, as my train doesn’t arrive until the morning of the twenty-seventh. But then I shall be in Wisconsin for the rest of the holiday, perhaps even longer. They say they have a town doctor who’s looking for a nurse. They’ve put in a good word for me. Oh, Clyde, I’m ever so happy. All of Martin’s sisters and brothers, and even some of his cousins, aunts, and uncles are there, and they’re welcoming me as part of the family. So you see, I really don’t think I’ll be coming back. I’m sorry. You must think it entirely unprofessional of me.’
‘Nonsense, my dear girl. Everything’s worked out for the best. You have a home to go to for Christmas. I’m most cheered to hear it.’
In a surfeit of feeling she flung her arms around me and kissed me full on the lips, a big romantic goodbye kiss. My arms went rigid at my sides, my fingers splayed, and my eyes sprang wide as if I had just been latched on to by a diamondback rattler. She kissed me that way for several seconds. I at last clasped her shoulder and, with some gentle pressure, bade her desist.
She pulled away and looked at me with half-hooded ecstatic eyes. ‘Don’t think I’ll ever forget you, Clyde Deacon. As a man – and a mentor – I’ve never met anyone like you. And please tell me that you’ll allow me to write to you.’
‘Of course, Miss Gregsby. I should be delighted.’
‘And always think of me as Henny. Not as Miss Gregsby.’
‘As you wish, Henny.’
‘And should you finally marry Miss Wade, I would be ever so honoured if you would invite me to your wedding.’
I looked away. Great sadness stole over me. ‘Of course.’ Shaking away my sudden emotion, I said, ‘Come, now. I’ll have Munroe help you with your bags.’
Fifteen minutes later, Munroe had her luggage loaded into the cab. The driver turned around and headed out to Culver Street. Henny gave me one last wave from under the canopy, blew a kiss, then disappeared into the dusky light of the wintry evening.
I was going to miss her.
Not only as a nurse, but as a woman.
On Christmas morning, Munroe and my son and I spent a happy time by the tree opening presents. Jeremiah unwrapped a B-flat cornet. I opened a hand-crafted rosewood pipe with accompanying tobacco pouch. And Munroe received a complete set of J. Fenimore Cooper’s novels – I’d learned the young man was an avid reader of adventure stories.
Two gifts remained conspicuously unopened: the pearl necklace I had bought for Miss Wade, and the hat I had purchased for her at Jensen’s Hat Shop. As for the engagement ring, it was snug in my pocket.
After our Christmas celebration in the parlor, we got dressed for the holiday service at Fairfield Congregationalist Church. Munroe stayed home and prepared the turkey.
My son and I arrived in the church a short while later.
We immediately looked for Miss Wade – Jeremiah knew my plans.
I glanced up and down the pews, into the transepts, as well as the choir – she was sometimes an occasional substitute soprano when one of the regular ladies was sick. Jeremiah glanced everywhere as well. I could see that he was as anxious as I was; I would gain a wife, but he would gain a mother.
With a tone I could only call plaintive, he said, ‘I don’t see her.’
I continued to look, but after another minute, gave up. ‘She’s not here.’ I was beginning to feel dejected but maintained a façade of hope. ‘Never mind. I’ll ride up to her house afterward.’
Reverend Eric Porteous, always generous when it came to his sermons, didn’t finish his particularly lavish and extensive ode to the coming of the Messiah until nearly noon. Much as I gloried in the Christ-child’s birth, I was nevertheless the first one out of my pew when the aging minister concluded with a solemn ‘Amen.’ No Christmas fellowship for me in the church basement. I was off like a spooked buck in hunting season, out the front doors, turning right across the Court Street bridge, left on Cattaraugus Avenue, then up Cherry Hill along Poplar Avenue until I reached its summit, where the wind coming down from Lake Ontario hit me like a herd of incensed mastodons.
Miss Wade’s house, a three-story wood-frame Victorian model with white clapboard and blue trim, stylish mansard roofs, and many dormers, looked bereft and deserted. All its shutters were closed and the front steps had been left uncleared of snow. The bare poplar trees around her house swayed violently in the wind. The sky was clear, cold, but laced with windblown ice crystals.
I rode up her drive to the old-style portico and tied Pythagoras to the hitching post. I made sure the engagement ring and the necklace were in su
itably accessible pockets, and the hatbox securely under my arm. I then climbed the stairs and knocked on the door.
I felt nervous. As I waited for Miss Wade’s servant, Freda, to answer, I realized I stood at a crossroads in my life, that I had finally put Emily to rest, Henny to Wisconsin, and was now ready to take someone else’s hand.
But when Freda answered, I knew immediately that something was wrong. For one thing, she wasn’t in her servant’s uniform but just in ordinary street clothes. For another, she regarded me as if I were Mephistopheles himself, risen from the underworld to collect her soul.
‘Doctor! Merry Christmas!’ Her tone was forced, nervous.
‘Merry Christmas, Freda. I’ve come to pay my respects to your mistress. Is she at home?’
Even more flustered, she said, ‘Why, no, doctor. Her train left three days ago. I’m afraid she’s gone to Boston.’ More fretfully, she added, ‘Her stay there will be indefinite.’
My disappointment was acute. I of course understood that there had been this risk, but had believed, perhaps foolishly, that the force and passion of our kiss in front of Dr Thorensen’s house would secure for me a permanent place in her heart.
Struggling to maintain my composure, I said in a quavering voice, ‘Perhaps you can give me her address, then. I have a small Christmas package I’d like to send to her.’
‘Oh, dear. She’s sworn me not to give you her address.’
I stared at the maid. ‘Why ever not?’
‘She was quite emphatic, sir. I’m not to reveal her address to you.’ Seeing that I was dashed, Freda added, ‘If it’s any consolation, doctor, I told her you were ten times the man Edgar Keenan is.’