Whether along the street or in the bookstore, the town was abuzz with political talk. Of course, every section of the territory wanted its very own delegate to Congress, even though there was only room for one; and the list of candidates formed a veritable army: General Laramir, General Bowen, General Thayer, General Estabrook, Colonel Rankin, and other men of rank.
Their main arguments concerned a definitive location for the Territory’s capital, which was undecided, in spite of Omaha’s pillars, and where to place a national road through Nebraska. In regards to the former issue, one pragmatic candidate, hoping to please everyone, suggested we just put it on wheels.
I should add that candidates south of the Platte River also seemed equally interested in the construction of a bridge. They had no doubt used the same ferry I had.
But since I had my Westward Ho! secured, I found myself wanting to move on and satisfy my curiosity about the bounty issue, seeing that the land office now had to be open.
I presented myself at the land office, where I found the Register of Deeds, John A. Parker, at his post. I asked Mr. Parker about any bounty issued to a Mr. Weber that would have been redeemed in June of 1856 or later. He pulled out a large register where he privately kept a list of original warrant holders and the number assigned each warrant. I looked down the list and found the name Hans Weber. Mr. Parker then opened a drawer, and, after thumbing through a pile of sheets of paper, no doubt ordered numerically, retrieved a land warrant. The original owner of the warrant had indeed been a Mr. Hans Weber, but he had signed it over to a certain Stephen Nemlon. However, as if things hadn’t become complicated enough, this man’s name had been crossed through and the final proprietor was a certain Hamish Sinclair, who had delivered the warrant to claim a section of land down near Nebraska City.
I didn’t know who Steven Nemlon was, but if he wasn’t a middle man, or if he wasn’t someone used by the smug man to do his dirty work, Steve Nemlon could be the smug man himself. This meant that if I could just locate Mr. Sinclair, maybe he would help me identify the smug man.
* * *
I won’t bother you with the details of my return trip to Nebraska City on Saturday, July eighteenth, except to say that I procured two solid loaves of bread and boarded a Missouri steamship, a singular diet of bread is often less disturbing to the digestive system than variety when traveling. Those who fast seem to be less likely to bow to the gods of dysentery and cholera. Despite the illness often attendant with river travel, going downriver is swift enough and gentler than any stagecoach, also there’s no ferry to tackle.
Once in Nebraska City, I called at Barnes and Barnum’s hotel to collect any letters. I found two, one from Cameron and another from Kitty. Cameron informed me that the hoof-print found up at Mount Vernon matched that of the estray kept at Coleman’s livery. He apologized for not having told me sooner, but it had slipped his mind. He also said he had not yet been able to complete my commission in Saint Jo but expected to do so on the morrow and hoped to see me soon. He couldn’t promise a date. This troubled me as I had included him in my plans for exposing the mastermind for the Friend murders.
Kitty, in her usual style, apprised me of Brownville news first. Little Mary Maun, daughter of Mr. Whitt’s competitor, died of lung fever, she was soon to be two years of age. Kitty even included a little poem she’d written to the intent of the dear child, and hoped I might include it in my gazette. It ended with the lines “I would not awake thee from thy dream, it seems too bright and fair; I would not change the holy scene, for those of earthly care.” She also told me the Nuckolls’s little boy had succumbed to dysentery, and she’d like to pen a little poem in his memory as well.
Obviously, my enthusiasm for the day collapsed, and I offered up a prayer for the Maun and Nuckolls families, that they might find strength in Kitty’s thoughtful words.
As concerns our little world of local politics, Kitty informed me that Mr. Kennedy, my abolitionist friend, stood for election as justice of the peace. I think Esquire would be a well-suited title for the gentleman farmer.
She even thought it important to mention there was yet another fire in Brownville, though not to worry, it was only the bank burning its money in the street. It will replace the paper dollars with new issue.
Finally, at the end of her missive, she informed me she would be, Lord willing, in Nebraska City as planned, and that they, meaning she and Stewart, would be accompanied by Messieurs Martin and Whitt as well as Prudence and Jonathan. Teddy she had not been able to locate as of yet. Decidedly, my plan to have a band of able-bodied men on hand to subdue the exposed murderer had unraveled.
Nevertheless, due to the fatigue of travel and a lack of mosquitoes inside the house, I spent a restful night at the Lipscomb residence.
The next day, being Sunday, I thought it right to attend church to prepare myself for the upcoming encounter with the murderer. It was a mistake. I found myself before a certain minister I’d had the displeasure of meeting before, one full of himself and emptied of humanity. Although one cannot criticize his creativity, because Reverend Chivington knows how to twist the Lord’s message of salvation into a judgement against the Indian. He found it apt to expound upon the recent Sioux attack near Spirit Lake in Iowa, which left barns, homes, and white people in flames. Of course, he meant to bring to mind that we were all under judgement and soon to fall into the incendiary hands of Lucifer, but I couldn’t help but notice that he failed to mention the friendly Indians who helped chase away those bent on harm.
Arson. It brought the Friend family murder back to mind. Chivington couldn’t blame that on the Sioux, because I had a fair idea that Mr. Smug wore no feathers and was an upstanding citizen of our community.
After church I inquired as to the whereabouts of a certain Hamish Sinclair and was pleased to discover that the man actually did exist and held a claim not far from town. I employed Harry, a boy who works for Sterling Morton’s newspaper at Nebraska City, to deliver a note to Mr. Sinclair with precise instructions as to when and where I hoped to see him. I not only paid the boy to run the commission for me, I also offered Mr. Sinclair a wage to do my bidding.
In spite of a mild rise of anxiety concerning the upcoming confrontation with my assassin, at least part of my plan seemed to be falling into place.
* * *
In the evening I unlocked the Lipscomb’s house, left my parasol in the entryway, and, advancing to the end of the hall, took the side door to the left to descend the stairs. The stairs spiraled back so that the bottom landing was directly beneath the front door, or nearly. Here, I turned to my left and unlatched a door leading into the kitchen. A round table stood in the middle and I assembled around it all the chairs I could find. It rather reminded me of King Arthur’s table and I wondered where I should place the most likely candidate to play the part of Mordred. Wherever I put him, I wanted my Sir Galahad, if he would show, next to him in case he tried to escape or become violent.
I, taking the position of Arthur, would sit with my back to the far corner of the room so that I might face the door and place people as they entered. I assumed my travelers would be famished, as I told them to appear at eight o’clock, so I laid my remaining loaf of bread on the table with a full pitcher of water. Spartan fare, but one of them should get used to it. I loaded my pistol and put it beside my chair in my handbag, so that I might draw it out when I revealed the killer. Of course, events unfolded in their own haphazard way.
Messieurs Martin and Whitt knocked first and as I escorted them downstairs, Kitty and Stewart arrived, and as I attempted to place Mr. Martin, I found that Teddy had slipped in behind me and had selected his own seat, as did Kitty, Stewart, and Mr. Whitt. The room was soon a jumble as everyone had brought a carpet-bag and placed them pell-mell either on the floor or on the table. Jonathan I could hear upstairs, telling Prudence that a house built of soft brick wouldn’t last ten years. Prudence was astounded they would use such poor-quality brick and suggested that Jonathan present
himself to the city’s stockholders to offer his services as an advisor.
“Well, well,” announced Jonathan as he entered the kitchen. “If they had dug another three feet, they would have had a fresher and cooler room.”
“I find it refreshing enough,” said Mr. Whitt.
Mr. Martin agreed with the latter but wanted to get discussing the high school proposal. I needed to stall for time as my Galahad had not yet made an appearance.
“I’m sure you’re all famished,” I said. “I have bread to plug any hole one might have in the stomach, but I feel we ought to say grace first, no matter how meager the offering.”
“Forget grace,” said Mr. Martin. “For one thing I’m not an admirer of your God and for a second, we all ate at the hotel before coming your way.”
“Oh, my,” I uttered, sitting down rather slowly in my chair. The door had been shut and I heard no footsteps from Cameron. My only consolation was that I did manage to get my back to the far corner and my face oriented toward the door, but with no one coming through it and everyone seated...it seemed a rather hollow victory.
“We’ll see about the school tomorrow,” said Mr. Whitt. “All we need to know at the moment is that if we cannot find ourselves a home here and teaching in their high school, whether or not we’ll build one in Brownville.”
“Fair enough,” said Mr. Martin, pulling out a deck of cards from his pocket. “How about a game of whisk.”
“Count us out,” said Stewart. “Cards are an incentive to gambling and gambling to drink. I prefer to retire, but I thought I would escort Kitty here since she’s spending the night with Miss Furlough.”
Stewart rose and so did all the others. Things were falling apart quickly.
“If you don’t mind, sirs,” I said with a wobbly voice that evinced an evident nervousness, “I would ask you all to sit down as I have something very important to tell you.”
At this Kitty shouted with glee and clapped her hands. “I knew it,” she said. “It’s tomorrow isn’t it? I knew this was a ruse to get us all here for your grand day!”
“Oh,” said Mr. Martin nodding his head. “Where is the lucky man?”
Mr. Whitt was more subdued, but not as much as I.
“Is he not shown up yet?” asked Stewart.
“No, he hasn’t,” I said, “and I’m afraid he’s unaware of the grand day.”
They all fell silent and looked at me as if I’d just returned from burying my mother.
“No, it’s nothing serious...well, yes it is, but you misunderstand me.” My skills of rhetoric declined with each new word.
“Please,” I insisted, “take your seats.”
“What is it Addy?” asked Teddy, whose attuned empathy detected that I was troubled.
Everyone obliged me and sat down, I remained standing, like a schoolmistress. “My dear friends,” I began, “I believe I have solved a mystery.”
“What kind?” asked Prudence.
“The murdering kind,” I said. My little group of suspects became very grim. “Yes, I have looked into the Friend murders and I am sad to say that I discovered that one of us was really responsible for the murders.”
“Us?” said Stewart.
“Well, I don’t want to point out anyone in particular just yet, but let me tell you what I found out.”
“It was Amos who engineered it wasn’t it?” said Mr. Martin. “It takes a certain head shape to become a Mormon and it’s the same that...”
“No,” I interrupted before he could begin his first high school lecture on phrenology. “No,” I repeated with a growing strength in my confidence and voice. “It was not George Lincoln or Amos Davis or any of the others hanged for the crime.”
“You mean they didn’t do it?” asked our druggist.
“Oh, they did it all right, but they didn’t plan it out or profit from the crime. Someone else did.”
“Who did then?” nearly all asked in unison.
“Well, whoever did it had a whiskey bottle and turpentine.” All eyes turned to Mr. Whitt.
“Anybody can buy turpentine,” said Mr. Whitt.
“But does everybody end up owning the Friend farm?” asked Jonathan.
“Are you suggesting I would kill someone? Sounded more like you might be a killer than me.”
“What?” responded Jonathan incredulous.
“I heard the story. You were down in Saint Jo with Miss Furlough, waiting outside her house when she was shot. Sounds awfully fishy to me.”
“Why would I want to hurt Addy?” Jonathan protested. “We saw you in Saint Jo, bet you didn’t count on that, assassin!”
“Class!” I hollered. “I mean gentlemen, please withhold your speculations for a moment and let me explain.”
They all folded their hands and turned their attention my way.
“Jonathan, you do have some explaining to do. Soon after you arrived, the little shed behind the Post Office went up in smoke.”
“Addy!” exclaimed Prudence. “You can’t really be accusing Jonathan of starting a fire or any other such nonsense!”
“Not if he can give me an account of himself,” I said sternly. Then turning to her brother, I continued, “So, Jonathan, you arrived and soon after a conflagration broke out. I found matches near where the fire started and I suppose you use a match to light your cigar, don’t you?”
“Like more and more people do today,” he rejoined.
“And it is true that when Mr. Whitt took us to the Friend farm, you knew right where to go to find the ruins of Jacob’s cabin. How could you know where it had been?”
“Just the power of reason, some of us have more of it than others.”
“In Mr. Wither’s defense,” said Mr. Whitt. “He was simply walking up the trail. It made sense that the house would have been up against it.”
I hadn’t thought of this, but that didn’t clear Jonathan on other points. “Be that as it may,” I continued, “it is true that you stayed out of Mrs. Lincoln’s house and were the only person present outside after someone had shot at me. And what’s more, you seemed to be overly familiar with the city of Saint Jo. How did you know there was a bookshop there, and one that would carry novels in French?”
“Because a man of importance travels for his business. I noticed the bookshop because it was inferior in size and contents to one I frequent back in Saint Louis. As for being outside the house wherein you, Addy, were to interview a woman concerning matters of little importance to me, I plead guilty as charged; but let me ask the gentlemen,” he said turning to Teddy and the rest, “what would you have preferred: listening to an old widow lady rattle on about her deceased family members or smoke a fine cigar?”
“He’s got a point,” said Teddy softly.
I had one last card to play against Jonathan and I showed it. “Let me see your box of matches.”
He fumbled about in his pocket for a moment and produced the evidence. Meanwhile, I extracted the Bryant box of matches from my reticule. I held the two side by side, and without attempting humor, I must say they did not match.
“So much for your little inquiry,” said Jonathan spitefully. “And that’s why women are not constables.”
CHAPTER 21
After Jonathan’s denigrating remark, a hush fell upon the room. I think Teddy believed he ought to retrieve my parasol from the upstairs entryway so that I might give a solid response to Prudence’s brother. The parasol was totally unnecessary.
“I’m far from done,” I said as I put my handbag on the table. “I do admit, Jonathan, that you are less suspicious to me now than earlier, but you did need to give an account of yourself.
“On the other hand,” I continued, turning to Mr. Martin, “I have some questions for our phrenologist.”
“Fire away,” he said. “Unlike Mr. Withers, I’m amused by all this.”
“I’m glad to hear it, but maybe it’s gallows humor.” Mr. Martin looked unphased as I said this, so I proceeded. “It does seem strange to me th
at you were here in Nebraska Territory just over one year ago when the Friend murders took place. It also seems odd that you took such an interest in the case, even claiming to have written down everything the condemned men had to say about their crime. It seems all very convenient. However, what really surprises me is your pipe. If you’d be so kind as to show it to us, I will tell the others what’s singular about it.”
Smirking, Mr. Martin laid his pipe on the table.
“Everyone will notice,” I explained, “that this is an unusual pipe, being porcelain. It comes directly from Germany, and it has the letter “J” embossed upon it. Might not that letter indicate Jacob Friend’s first name?”
“Miss Furlough,” said Stewart, “I do believe that stands for Jaeger, the pipe’s manufacturer.”
“That’s a possibility. But how about this, Stewart...Can Mr. Martin tell us who was in the buggy with Judge Kinney on the Deroin Trail?”
You may wonder why I asked this question, so I’ll explain. When Stewart asked Mr. Martin, some days prior, if he’d seen Judge Kinney on the road, you may recall that Stewart had inadvertently supplied Judge Kinney’s name to Mr. Martin. It was therefore easy for Mr. Martin to answer that, yes indeed, he had spotted Judge Kinney in the buggy, even if, in reality, Mr. Martin had never been on the Deroin Trail at all. Even if, I might add, as a not implausible conjecture, Mr. Martin had really been on a steamship bound for Saint Jo where he attempted to assassinate me. So, if Mr. Martin could now describe who was with the judge in the buggy, then he would prove that he had indeed seen Judge Kinney on the Deroin Trail, because only I knew what the judge’s traveling companion looked like.
“Well, yes, I do remember the buggy,” replied Mr. Martin, “and I rather suppose it was the gentleman you speak of driving it. And come to think of it, and this may be a bit of an embarrassment to myself, but if I didn’t notice him so much, it was because I noticed a young woman beside him. Yes, a pretty young woman, could have been the judge’s daughter.”
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