by Hatch, Marcy
“Some unfortunate event I imagine,” Jack said.
“A series of unfortunate events, actually. This house has been witness to little else.”
Jack was curious, even if it was a load of shit, and he invited Silas inside.
“You’ll excuse the mess I hope,” Jack said, waving at the crates and covered furniture, soot-covered sills and scorch marks that deteriorated into a shell of a great room with a view of the river.
“Nice view,” Silas acknowledged.
They watched the night fall, listening to the crickets and peepers while fireflies danced at the edge of the property. Silas told Jack about the house, from the time it was built over a hundred years ago to the present day. By the time he was done Jack could see why someone might think the place haunted, or cursed.
But he shrugged and laughed it off. “I’m afraid I don’t believe in ghosts or curses,” he said.
“No, I didn’t think you were the type. But I was curious who bought the place and that was a good opening, don’t you think?”
“You mean none of it’s true?”
“No, no, it’s all true, all the death and burning. It happened as I said. And it was a damned good excuse to come talk to you, don’t you think?”
“Then you plan to write about me?” Jack asked, surprised.
Silas smiled. “Not right now. Maybe never. Mostly I like to collect information.”
“I see,” Jack said, though he really didn’t. And that summed up Silas. Curious and wanting to know everything, always asking questions, finding things out no one else knew and publishing very little of it. He was one of the most revered writers on the east coast, even then.
Jack looked at him now. He’d grown older, grayer, and slower—but he still had those sharp, dark eyes.
“Sit, young fellow,” Silas said. “Sit and have a drink with an old man.”
“You go on,” Jack said, waving the flask away. “I don’t like that shit you drink.”
“Come, come, Jack, you can do better than that. How about ‘putrid swill.’ Much more imaginative than ‘shit,’ don’t you think?”
Jack smiled and shook his head, watching Silas tip the flask back for a long swallow before capping it and putting it away, bottom drawer, under a stack of yellowed clippings.
“I got your envelope,” Jack said.
“Did you now? Well, good enough. Glad to be of some help to such a respectable lawman such as yourself.” He winked.
Jack ignored the jibe. “What do you think?”
“Of what?”
“Don’t be obtuse, Silas.”
“Big words, Jack. Be careful.”
“Come on, you know what I’m thinking.”
“I know a lot of things,” Silas reminded him. “More than I’ll ever write about. You understand?”
“You’re telling me you’ll never write about any of this?”
“I didn’t say that, but I didn’t last this long by writing about everything I know.”
“Alastair McLeod must be a powerful man.”
“He has influence,” Silas agreed. “Not as much as he did when he was young but he still has friends in high places. Anyway, Jack, you know I’m interested in all kinds of things. You for instance. I don’t bet you have any idea how interesting you are.”
Jack gaped at him.
Silas smiled slyly and went on. “Oh, yes, very interesting. Bounty hunter or gentleman. Which is it? Or maybe a bit of both. I’m not sure. I keep asking myself why a wealthy gentleman would want to risk his life chasing after criminals. And where would a bounty hunter acquire enough money to live as a gentleman? Interesting questions, don’t you think? See, Jack, there’s always interesting questions, and sometimes there’s interesting answers. But that doesn’t mean I have to publish it or delve too deeply. Some things are best left alone.”
Jack was silent, realizing a number of things all at once, not the least of which was that old Silas Beadle was a whole lot smarter than he let on.
“Oh, I did find one more clipping I thought you might enjoy. Recent, too. May.”
Jack took the cut clipping, inspecting it closely, seeing a grainy black and white image of an old man and a young woman standing side by side. Next to the picture was the caption: Alastair McLeod, of McLeod Shipping, cuts the ribbon to open the new wing on the library on Boylston Street. Standing at his side is his widowed granddaughter, Mrs. Shepherd.
“Mrs. Shepherd,” Jack whispered, instantly recognizing Alanna McLeod.
“Yes.”
“Very interesting.”
“Very. But remember what I said. I rather enjoy our little visits and I wouldn’t want them to come to an untimely end.”
Jack raised a brow. “Don’t worry.”
Silas nodded and Jack took his leave, limping down the stairs and out to the curb where his carriage was waiting.
His driver, George, waited until he was safely within the confines of the cab before starting off. Jack pulled the curtains closed. He had seen the view before and just now he didn’t feel like doing much of anything but closing his eyes.
Home. Munroe House. Certainly it had not been much to look at when he had bought the place. There was only the view to recommend it. But much of its former beauty had been restored. It was not exactly as it had been; not as large, but more than comfortable for a bachelor and his two servants.
It had not been as difficult as he had thought. Foreknowledge had allowed him to make certain investments, which had turned profitable in the short time he’d been here. This in turn had allowed him to live quite well, as a “gentleman,” as Silas had suggested. Jack enjoyed the time he spent in Boston. It was a respite from the sleepless nights, long hours in the saddle, uncomfortable accommodations, and bad food. And when he tired of too much comfort, too much free time, and altogether too much of Mrs. Henry’s good cooking, he investigated the wanted posters Harlan was kind enough to send him periodically.
It was all nearly perfect.
The carriage rolled to a stop and Jack opened the door, not bothering to wait for George. They didn’t stand much on ceremony once they were off the streets. George understood that Jack was different than your ordinary gent, and Jack didn’t ask about the scar that ran down from George’s scalp and across his nose.
Inside, Mrs. Henry had left the larder stocked, fresh candles in the kitchen, the morning’s bread, and the rooms aired and smelling of beeswax. She would be in the apartment she shared with her son, George, knitting or sewing—though what she did with the finished products Jack never knew.
He guessed her to be in her fifties, stocky, plain, but still strong. She didn’t speak much, but she was efficient and seldom asked questions. As far as Jack was concerned, the arrangement was perfect.
Jack made himself a plate of fresh bread and cheese, cold ham from the cellar, and a tall ale. He grabbed a few candles, and walked through the pantry and dining room, off into the alcove that was his library. He lit the lamps and placed the candles on the mantle, drawing the curtains closed.
There was a comfortable armchair in the corner and a table where a book sat, a feather sticking out of it, marking a page. It was an old book, or it would be one day, Jack reminded himself. But now, here, it was newly printed, the leather still supple and soft. He sat down and put his leg on the footstool, taking the book up.
Chapter Sixteen
The Apple
Leavenworth Times, August 30, 1881
Alanna McLeod, notorious thief and murderess, was finally captured in Fort Leavenworth after nearly five years on the run, only to escape the long arm of the law yet again with the help of her long-time lover and partner in crime, Will Cushing. According to Deputy Callahan, Miss McLeod was taken unawares by one Jack McCabe, bounty hunter, and would have been brought to A
bilene to face justice and a trial. However, before Mr. McCabe reached his destination, he was ambushed by Will Cushing and left for dead. At this time the whereabouts of Alanna McLeod and Will Cushing are unknown although there is speculation they are heading east.
❧
Alanna read the clipping again, and then the letter that had come with it. A small frown turned her lips and she set the papers aside, her gaze diverted to the street below.
The day was bright and sunny, pleasantly warm. The humidity of the past week had been washed away by a quick passing downpour that had left the streets clean and the air fresh. She had opened all the windows that morning and set Mrs. Pratt to beating the rugs. Together they had made a good start on the floors and got the curtains hung. There were only a few crates left to unpack and she had thought they might be finished before supper. Then the post had come.
Who was she? Who was this person with Will they all thought was her? Someone who looked like her. Someone willing to pass herself off as a famous thief. A thief of names, Alanna decided, not liking it. And Will, what was he doing with her? Why had he helped her?
Will Cushing. She almost said his name aloud just to feel the taste of it on her lips. Yes, she missed him, in all truth. He had been an excellent lover and smarter than he let on, possessing a sharp wit that nearly matched her own. No one since had quite been able to take his place. Not that there hadn’t been contenders, but it was so much more difficult now. After all, she was a proper young widow with a small child. She couldn’t very well have a parade of men coming and going—much as she would’ve enjoyed it. Such affairs had to be conducted with discretion and by necessity tended to be brief. It was a shame really; Will would’ve been much better company.
Alanna sighed and turned away from the window. Her little William peered up at her from the floor, towheaded and serious. He was waiting for an answer to a question she hadn’t heard, his small hands wrapped about a floppy rabbit. It would not do for Will Cushing to find her. It would not do at all. She read the letter once more: Suggest you might be more comfortable outside the city. Have heard it may become unbearably warm. —LS
Her eyes narrowed at the suggestion of leaving, her lips pinching together as she imagined putting things into boxes. Her eyes found William again, who smiled up at her and she crumpled the piece of paper.
There would be no leaving, she decided. Things were different now. She had little William now. She may not have wanted him but she had grown fond of him after all; she planned on seeing he had what he needed. And right now that included her. The trouble was there was this thing called the past coming back to haunt her.
A wry smile crossed her lips. Her grandfather would appreciate the irony. Once he had thought himself above reproach, beyond the rules and mores of ordinary men. He could do as he wanted, no matter how perverse, without repercussion. Her return had set him on his heels. It had been hard not to gloat.
“It’s simple really,” she had said to him. “You will welcome your widowed granddaughter home with open arms, make up whatever story you please, and provide me with a suitable monthly allowance. In exchange I will be quiet and good and stand at your side at every charitable function you care to attend.”
“And if I don’t?”
“Why, I know a number of people who would be very interested in hearing my confession. You know the public, how they love lurid tales. Especially one about an heiress turned outlaw.”
His face had turned purple and he’d glared at her without the least bit of affection, as if she were a stranger and not the granddaughter he’d molested for five years. She stared back at him, triumphant.
“I see you’ve grown clever and bitter,” he said.
“I am what you have made me,” she replied, handing him the card of her solicitor.
“I cannot change the past,” he said. “No one can.”
His reply had come soon after, along with a draft on his account, which allowed her to set up house. And the agreement had been quite fair, she thought. He had only added a single stipulation of his own; namely, that he be allowed to visit with William once a month. She had almost reconsidered everything at that, not wanting him to have anything to do with her son. But while she might be bitter she was not stupid and so agreed to the visits.
Yesterday had been one of them. They had sat on the lawn, watching William feed the ducks. She found her grandfather less unpleasant now that he had no power over her. He made small talk, played with William, and gave him a new toy, a wooden train with a string. Last time it had been a music box that played a march. It occurred to her now that while she might not care much for her grandfather, he could be useful. She showed him the news clippings while William romped with his new toy.
Alastair McLeod gave a snort after reading, placing the clipping on the table between them. He looked at her, his blue eyes cool, a wry smile on his lips.
“You knew all along, didn’t you?” she said.
“Oh, yes. I know who you are, and what you’ve done in some foolish effort to avenge yourself. You think I didn’t know? That I didn’t guess?” He shook his head. “I know who you are, Alanna.”
“Well, then, if you’re so clever, tell me what to do now.”
“Ah, now you have need of me. Very well, I shall tell you, though I must say I’m surprised you haven’t thought of it yourself. Kill her, this woman who has your name and your face. Kill her and this Will Cushing. Then she’ll be dead and you can go back to being Rose.”
“Just like that,” Alanna said.
“Just like that,” her grandfather answered.
Alanna was silent, considering. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t killed before, and who better to kill than some woman pretending to be her? But there was Will to consider. She didn’t particularly want Will dead. Not really.
“Kill her,” her grandfather repeated, adding, “and anyone else who knows.”
Chapter Seventeen
The Parker House Hotel
Katherine made a survey of the suite, making the bellboy wait while she inspected the two bedrooms first, noting with approval the beds, both of which appeared comfortably appointed. The damask spreads were of excellent quality, and there was a beautiful French armoire in the blue room.
She was surprised by the cleanliness of the floors considering the lack of electrical appliances. Even the mullioned windows were free of dust and dirt. The sitting room was spacious, furnished simply with a velveteen camel back sofa and two wing chairs upholstered in gold chintz. French doors opened onto a private patio overlooking Tremont Street. In the marble foyer a Queen Anne side table stood against the wall, a silver dish for cards sitting next to a vase of fresh cut roses and gardenias.
Katherine turned to the bellboy still waiting patiently in the foyer. She smiled and withdrew her purse, handing him a quarter. The boy’s eyes widened. It was too much, Katherine guessed, probably more than the boy saw in a week.
“Thank you. This will be fine.”
The boy pocketed the quarter and hastened away, perhaps afraid she might ask for change given another moment. She closed the door and looked at Will.
“Nice, isn’t it?”
Will nodded. “Classy,” he said, adding, “Alanna would like it.”
“Did you stay in nice places with her?” Katherine asked.
“A few times, but mostly it was cheap places where we wouldn’t be noticed.”
“And she didn’t mind?”
Will gave a shrug. “She did, but she didn’t go on about it.”
Katherine nodded. “Do you have a preference for rooms?” she asked.
Will shook his head. “It’s your money; you choose.”
“I’ll take the blue then, you can have the gold.”
Will dragged her trunks and valise into the room she’d chosen. She immediately began
to unpack, hanging the gowns in the armoire and folding the small clothes before tucking them into the dresser. She took note of the bell cord and decided then and there that the first order of business would be a bath, a long hot bath, with soap.
Two hours later she emerged clean and feeling almost human again, dressed in an olive green cloth dress with gold braiding and matching green shoes. She found Will sitting in one of the wingback chairs, which he’d moved next to the open French doors, with a glass half-full in his hand. She guessed it was the whiskey he’d bought at their last stop—something to make the journey more pleasant, he said.
He was watching her, a curious expression on his face.
“What is it?” she asked, a little unnerved.
“If I ask you something will you tell me the truth?”
She hesitated too long.
“I guess not,” he said.
“No, I . . . I’ll try,” Katherine said.
“Fair enough.”
“What is it?”
“How come you’re doing this? I mean, you have enough money, you could just get on a boat, go anywhere.”
Katherine looked at him, wishing she could tell him the truth, and Will, as if sensing a lie coming gave a shrug. “Never mind,” he said, taking a long swallow.
“No, I’m sorry,” Katherine said, pouring herself a glass and taking a seat on the sofa.
“Look,” she said after fortifying herself with a big sip of the whiskey which she guessed to be about a hundred proof or more by the taste and the burn. “I’m not used to this, any of this. I never had to worry about anything before being mistaken for Alanna. Now suddenly my whole life is suspect. The only way for me to get my life back is to bring Alanna to justice. I’m sorry if I can’t tell you more or explain any better; but unless I clear my name I have no future, and I mean that in the most literal sense you could possibly imagine.”