by Sharon Rowse
Granville thought for a moment. “Any number of reasons. To disable or weaken a coupling, to loosen the wheels or a door, anything that might make the silk easier to steal once the train was underway.”
“What if they wanted to leave something?” said Emily softly. “If Mr. Jackson was smuggling opium to the States, what better way than hidden in a train that had special status along its route and was guaranteed the fastest delivery time to New York?”
“By Jove, I think she’s onto something.” O’Hearn was staring at Emily with approval.
“But if Jackson had already put the opium in the railcar, why would he have gone back the following night?” asked Trent. As they all turned to look at him, he added, “It doesn’t make sense.”
“It depends how much opium Jackson was smuggling,” Granville said, tapping one finger against his cup. “If only some of his opium came in on the India, and the rest from somewhere else, he might ship part of it in the silk cars, and ship the stuff that came in on the India some other way.”
That was why her father had all those papers about the loading of the silk trains, Emily realized with a start of joy. He must have suspected something, and was trying to work out what it was, maybe how to stop it. So it was all right, he wasn’t being dishonest. Unless he knew about Jackson, she realized with a sinking feeling. And he hadn’t been at the theater with his wife and daughters that night; he could have been anywhere.
“That makes sense,” O’Hearn was saying. “But it still doesn’t tell us who killed him.”
“Clara and I went to see the medium again,” Emily said, partly to keep from blurting out her fear about her father.
Granville turned to look at her. “And?”
From the corner of her eye, Emily could see O’Hearn’s intrigued look, but she concentrated on Granville’s reaction. Trying to read his expression, she told them what had happened. “I think she’s a fraud,” she concluded. “But I can’t decide why she’d tell us the story in the first place.”
“She tells people what they want to hear,” Granville said. “And she probably made the mistake of thinking you were harmless.”
“Unless she had some reason for wanting to spread the story that a woman shot Mr. Jackson, and she thought we were gullible and likely to gossip about it,” Emily said. “Mr. Granville, you said someone else had told you Jackson was shot by a woman. Who was it?”
“Bertie’s uncle.”
“Bertie’s the one whose cousin disappeared, right? Your Chinese houseboy?” O’Hearn had been following the conversation with great interest, his pencil flying. “Is this uncle the cousin’s father?”
“That’s right.”
“They’ve never found any trace of the cousin or what happened to him. What does his father think happened?”
“He believes he was murdered for the opium he carried. He’s asked me to look into the matter for him.”
“And you think the two cases are connected?” O’Hearn asked. “That it was this cousin’s opium Jackson was waiting for?”
“And that got him killed?” Emily added, feeling excited. This could mean that her father had played no part in the opium smuggling. “It seems to make sense. Except why would Bertie’s uncle tell you about the woman?”
“Who’s this woman?” O’Hearn asked.
Emily ignored him. “If he thinks Jackson was responsible for his son’s death, he would want Jackson’s killer found so the facts could come out, wouldn’t he?”
“Not if he hired Jackson’s killer himself. He wants me to find his son’s killers, and that trail may lead to Jackson, but it also leads to someone else. Jackson was not on that ship.”
Emily felt her heart thump. “The passenger lists. The answer could be there.”
He nodded. “Yes, thanks to you.”
O’Hearn looked from one to the other. “You have the manifest from that sailing?”
Granville looked at the expectant faces; two of them already knew the answer. “Yes, I do,” he said.
T H I R T Y
Ignoring the murmur of voices and clatter of dishes all around them, the five pored over the passenger lists for nearly an hour without recognizing a single name linked to Jackson.
“This is getting us nowhere.” O’Hearn flung down the page he was reading, a disgusted look on his face.
“Do you have a better idea?”
Surprisingly, the comment came from Clara, and from the laughter that sparkled in her eyes, she was flirting with O’Hearn.
Well, well, Granville thought, glancing at Emily to see if she’d noticed. She had. She was watching Clara with an odd expression on her face, then her gaze switched to O’Hearn. Was she jealous? Was she interested in O’Hearn herself? Granville found to his surprise the idea unsettled him.
Clara looked at O’Hearn and the young man turned red again. “I’m planning to see what I can learn about the Blayney killing, for one thing,” he said.
“That’s a good idea,” Emily said. “And I want to talk to Bertie about his cousin.”
“I’ll talk to the coroner again. He originally estimated Jackson died between eight and one in the morning, but he may be able to tell us more by now. Trent can accompany me,” Granville told them.
“We’ll need to share what we find out,” Emily said. “Shall we continue our practice of meeting here?”
“Yes,” Granville said. “Same time tomorrow?” Even if they had made little clear progress, he found his mood had lightened.
“When is your friend’s trial?” O’Hearn asked.
“Four days from now.”
“Then we haven’t much time.”
So much for his better state of mind.
Dr. Barwill sat alone in his dingy office. “So you’re back,” he said. “What d’ye want now?”
Without saying anything, Granville put the bottle of malt whiskey on the desk with a thump.
“What can I tell you?” Barwill asked.
“I want details on exactly how Jackson was shot and killed.”
“Ah. Well, first off, being shot didn’t kill him.”
What? “It didn’t?”
“Nope. The bullet missed everything important. He bled a lot, though.”
“So whoever shot him left him to bleed to death? In effect killing him?
“Wal, I suppose that’s one explanation. But he didn’t die of blood loss, either.”
“So what did he die of?”
The doctor shrugged. “Probably from the blow he took to the head.”
“What blow?”
“The one that dented the side of his skull. Drove a spur of bone right into his brain. Poor bastard,” he added. He was eyeing the whiskey covetously.
“And you are certain the shot didn’t kill him?”
Barwill seemed to think about it. “Might’ve, I guess, if it had turned bad. Or if he’d kept bleeding. But no reason for him to stand around doing so.”
“So he could walk? He could have gone for help?”
“If somebody hadn’t cudgeled him first.”
It raised another question. “You told me Jackson died between eight and one. How old was the shot wound?”
“Dunno. He hadn’t been patched up, though, and most men don’t stand around bleeding from a bullet wound for long.”
Granville’s mind raced. That meant . . .
“Why didn’t you tell me this before?”
“You didn’t ask,” the doctor replied.
Granville wasn’t sure if he was angrier with the doctor or himself. Barwill had misled him, but he’d assumed Jackson had died of the bullet wound he’d seen. He’d questioned Barwill only about the wound and the time of death.
How much time had he wasted? Time a man in a jail cell couldn’t afford to lose. “What was Jackson hit with?”
“Some kind of bat, maybe Left quite a dent in the side of his head.”
Granville pictured the heavy baseball bat Scott had been carrying. “What kind of dent?”
Doc shrugged. “A dent. What do you mean, what kind?”
“What shape?”
Doc glared at him, then lifted his right hand and formed a half circle. “Like that.”
“You’ve told the police this?”
“I have.”
“Then why aren’t they looking for the weapon?”
“I believe they think they have the murderer. And how do you know they haven’t got the weapon?”
Because I would have seen it at the site, Granville thought, picturing how Jackson’s body had lain. “Wait a minute. I saw the body, and there was blood from the shot, but I saw no sign of a blow to the head.”
“It was on the side of his head, under his hair.”
“He was lying on his face when we found him. And all the blood was on the front.”
“The blow to the head didn’t bleed much.”
“But head wounds always bleed. Unless the victim is already dead.” Even Granville knew that much.
“Or he dies instantly. Or the wound bleeds internally.”
“So how did this one bleed?”
“Internally.”
“And you are certain the blow to the head killed him?”
“Yes.”
Granville pictured Gracie’s wasted form. “Could a woman have delivered a blow like that?”
“A woman? I doubt it.”
“Why is that?”
“Jackson was what? Six feet? His assailant had to have been an inch or two taller.”
Granville thought about Benton and Gipson, both shorter than Jackson. He pictured Scott at six foot four, and his heart sank. “What if Jackson wasn’t standing?” he asked, afraid he already knew the answer.
“Hmmm. If he was kneeling or bent over? That kind of angle? In that case, yes, yes it could have been someone shorter than he was.”
Granville’s feeling of relief was punctured by the doctor’s next words. “It could even have been a woman.”
T H I R T Y – O N E
Trent held his silence until they’d closed the door of Dr. Barwill’s office behind them, then he burst out, “How many times was Jackson killed, anyway?”
Despite his own frustration, Granville had to chuckle.
Trent wasn’t finished. “I thought he did an autopsy.”
“He did. And held a coroner’s inquiry.”
“I don’t understand. Why didn’t he tell us before what killed Jackson?”
“Perhaps he wanted to confuse us.”
“But why? You don’t mean someone might have paid him off?”
“It’s possible, don’t you think?”
“But what would he have told the police? Surely he wouldn’t have lied to them?”
Good thing the boy wasn’t trying to pursue a life of crime. He was far too naive. “Why don’t we go and ask them?”
Granville didn’t find McKenzie’s spartan office any more pleasant when he was the one doing the questioning. “I won’t let Sam Scott hang for something he didn’t do,” he told the chief.
“No point jumping to conclusions. Case hasn’t come to trial, yet.”
“No, but my partner’s the one sitting in jail. Are you making any attempt to pursue other lines of inquiry?”
“No reason to.”
“And are you aware Jackson didn’t die from the bullet wound, but from a blow to the head?” Granville asked, watching closely for McKenzie’s reaction.
“About the kind of wound a baseball bat might have caused, wasn’t it? Like the one your friend was carrying.”
It seemed the good doctor had been more forthcoming at the inquiry than he’d been with them. “What about the motive?” he asked, then immediately realized how it would play into the other’s hands.
“Scott’s motive? Bad blood between him and the deceased, I hear. Jackson loaned Scott some money and was pushing to get it back. Wasn’t there something about a sister, too?”
Had everyone except him known the real story? “And what about Blayney’s murder? Since he and Jackson were partners and you can’t lay that one at Scott’s door.”
“Funny you should ask. Had a young fellow from the Daily World in earlier, asking questions about Blayney.”
Trent stirred as if to say something, but subsided at a look from Granville. “And what did you tell him?”
Chief McKenzie smiled, but there was no humor in it. “Same thing I’ll tell you. We have no one in custody and until we do, anything else is police business.”
“Have you any suspects?”
The chief’s eyes narrowed. “I’ll not say it again. I suggest you leave now, else you’ll find yourself answering some hard questions.”
“Fine.” At the door, Granville stopped to give the chief a long, appraising stare. “I’ve not finished yet. I intend to see this through to the end and see the real murderers occupying your cells.”
Fine words, Granville thought as he let the door slam behind him, but how the hell was he going to fulfill them?
Inside the house at 21 Dupont, Granville spotted Flo on the far side of the room and strode over to her. “I’d like to see Gracie.”
“She’s indisposed.” She looked troubled.
“Still?”
Flo nodded.
“What’s wrong?”
“She can’t eat, can’t keep food down. She has no strength.”
“I’d like to ask her a few questions.”
“You’d need to keep it brief. And only one of you can go up.”
“I won’t say a word,” Trent assured her.
Flo considered both of them for a moment. Granville pulled out his money clip and she nodded. “See that you don’t, then. Follow me.”
He handed her a folded bill. They proceeded to the stairs.
In the doorway to Gracie’s room, he stopped short, taken aback by how much worse she looked. He’d seen that pinched look before; few who had it survived. His nose confirmed what his eyes were telling him, the sweetish smell of the dying nearly overpowering the musk he’d noted the last time. Then Gracie looked up at him, and the fierce light in her eyes belied her wasted frame.
“Thank you,” he said to Flo. She took the hint, closing the door behind her.
Granville took a deep breath, trying to come to terms with what he was about to do. He wanted to be gentle with Gracie, but he needed answers. Her brother was running out of time, and by the look of it, so was she.
Walking to the side table, he poured her a glass of water and took it to her. She reached for it with hands that shook slightly, but her eyes never left his face; she seemed to be bracing herself for his questions. “I know you shot Jackson, Gracie.”
She went paler, and pushed herself back against the headboard, as if to put as much distance between them as possible.
“But I don’t think you killed him.”
In a move that might once have been seductive but now was only pitiful, she ran her tongue over her lips. “I . . .” she began, then stopped and lifted the water to her lips.
Perhaps if he used her real name, it would speak to something of the girl she’d once been. “Look, Lizzie,” he began, then stopped, halted by her expression of revulsion. “Gracie, then?”
She nodded slightly.
“Look, Gracie. I don’t care why you were there that night or what you did. My only interest is in saving your brother.”
She wouldn’t meet his eyes.
“I need anything you know about why Jackson was there that night. And I need to know exactly what time you saw him. Please.”
Still she was silent.
There had to be a way to persuade her. Except for the killer, she was probably the last person to see Jackson alive and the information she possessed might be the key he needed to free Scott. But how could he convince her? “If it is money you want, I can pay anything you ask.”
She gave him a contemptuous look and turned her face away. Now what?
It was Trent who provided an opening: “Are you worried they’ll arrest you for shooti
ng Jackson?” he asked.
“You didn’t kill him, Gracie. I’ll make sure you have the best barrister in town. I can guarantee you’ll be set free,” Granville said.
At that she laughed, a sound that was entirely mirthless. “I don’t think a jail would hold me for more than a few days.” A cough shook her frail body.
Granville forced himself to keep his gaze even. He found it painful to see a woman suffer so. “Is there anything I can do to help you?”
“Feeling sorry for me now? Don’t bother. And thanks for the offer, but no. There’s nothing anyone can do to help me now.” She clearly sensed his distress, but it seemed only to harden her resolve.
“Then why won’t your help your brother?” Trent burst out. “If you have nothing to lose, then why not save him?”
“I didn’t say I had nothing to lose.”
Granville shook his head. He had no idea what was going on. Clearly they were asking the wrong questions, with Gracie weakening by the moment. “Look, let me be honest with you; I am bound and determined to save Sam. If you have something or someone you need to protect, I will protect them when you no longer can, but only if you tell me everything you know about the night Jackson died”
She gave a harsh laugh. “How can you protect something if you don’t know where it is?”
“I’ll find it for you,” he pledged recklessly.
“Do you mean that?”
“Every word,” Granville said, wondering what he was committing himself to.
She put every ounce of her strength into the stare she gave him. “How do I know I can trust you?”
“You have my word as a gentleman.”
“And just what is that worth?” There was a wealth of bitterness in her tone.
“If I were lacking in honor, why would I be fighting so hard to save your brother?”
She was watching him, a fleck of color high on each cheek. Then she gave a quick nod, and a sigh that seemed to shake her entire body. “All right, I’ll trust you. But you have to do what I ask.”
“Agreed. What do you want me to do?”
“I have a daughter. Somewhere. You have to find her for me.”
A child. It was the last thing Granville had expected to hear, and Gracie didn’t seem old enough or strong enough to have borne a child. For a moment he hesitated; it could be hopeless. Then he thought of Scott, and the reality of a hanging, and shuddered. He could not lose another friend, not if he could prevent it. “Agreed,” he said, before he could change his mind.