Innocent as Sin

by C. A. Asbrey

  “Robbery, maybe?” asked Jake.

  “Maybe.” Morgan shrugged. “He lived quite frugally, though. He ate plain food, didn’t drink, and went to bed early to read the Bible. Between you and me, I found him kinda boring. I’m surprised he had anyone listen to him for long enough to take against him.”

  “Yeah, it looks like he never left town, but someone travelled to Lattimer to send a telegram to make it look like he did.” The lawman sighed. “When did you last see him?”

  “When he left the bank. I checked my diary, and it was on the eighteenth of December. He’d finished and was leaving the next day.”

  “You didn’t meet him after work for a drink or a meal?” asked Jake.

  “Like I said, he didn’t drink.” Morgan shuffled, frowning in discomfort. “He was pretty dull company. No, I didn’t meet him. I went home to my wife and had a good dinner. Ask her. We made popcorn garlands for the Christmas tree with the kids.”

  “So he must have died either late on the eighteenth or early on the nineteenth, because there’s no evidence he made it to Lattimer and then came back. Anyone could have sent the telegram that was supposed to make it look like he left town.” Gibson stuck out his arm to shake the bank manager’s hand. “I’ll leave my man here to go through the books. I can’t even think of anything else to ask.” He turned to Jake. “Can you?”

  “How about, did you kill him, or do you have any idea who did?”

  Morgan’s eyes widened and his face broke into a grin. “I guess that’s a fair question. No. He was dull and stuffy. I’m surprised anyone stayed awake in his company long enough to murder him.”

  “Well, I guess I’ll head to the hotel and ask a few questions there.” Jake gestured with his head to ‘Albert’ who lingered nearby, chatting to the mail boy and another youth. “Are you comin’? I’m going to check out where he stayed.”

  “Why’s he got a kid with him?” asked Morgan.

  “Don’t ask.” The sheriff glanced sideways and spoke in a low mutter. “They had no control over who they got stuck here with. Just humor them.”

  ♦◊♦

  They trudged through the packed snow, frozen hard and glistening after weeks of biting cold. The relentless wind cut through to the bone, meaning the streets were deserted by all but those who needed to be outside. The breeze nipped at their numb noses until they made a good match with their iced-cherry cheeks, and dulled their extremities. As they tramped up the arctic hill toward the hotel, Abigail turned to the gunman beside her. “That was young Tommy MacGilfoyle I was talking to in the bank. He’s sixteen. He can’t remember anything about Cussen. He says he and his father never went far beyond the reception desk unless something needed to be repaired. They work outside most of the time, and they have a little workshop on the grounds. The office junior said the victim wasn’t popular. Not disliked, just irrelevant. He came, he audited, and he left. He was a remote man with an air of detachment and rather uncommunicative.”

  “He’s sure got a way with words for an office boy.”

  “Well, yes. I paraphrased. He was as dull as dishwater. That’s something I didn’t reword.”

  “I’ve gotta wonder what a man like that could’ve done to upset anyone.” Jake looked down at his foothold in the icy conditions. “He never said boo to a goose. If it ain’t the audit, I’ve got no idea where this is gonna go. It doesn’t sound like a jealous wife or a rival in love.”

  “No, he doesn’t sound the type, but they always say the quiet ones are the worst.”

  “Yeah, maybe in offices or banks, but not so much in bar rooms full of drunks. The danger’s usually the most obvious thing to watch out for.”

  He reached out to grab her as they both slithered and slid on the hard-packed ice, the pair of them hobbling to the ruts cut by carts and wagons. People had scattered ashes in the streets to provide grit and traction on the worst inclines and cambers, and Climax Hill had plenty of those. For the rest of the climb, they stuck to the gritted grooves and tracks.

  The building was a confection of brick decorated with ornate carved wood and pillars. The flat-rolled tin roof was covered in a downy blanket of fleecy snow, softening the geometric façade with nature’s crystalline coat of curves. Bright amber lights glowed from the windows, promising warmth, comfort, and even normal traction—everything the two figures struggling up the steep hill dreamed of as they struggled ever upward.

  “If Constance Williams and her mother are doing this in skirts every day, I have a new respect for them,” said Abigail as they approached the gates of the Regent Hotel. They trudged onto the porch and opened the door to a warm, palm-fronded world of velvet splendor. A crackling fire roared in the hearth of a drawing room to their left and leeched the chill from their frozen bones with the nourishing comfort of blessed heat. A beetle-shaped man with shiny oiled hair smiled from the front desk in curiosity.

  “We have no rooms, I’m afraid. We’re full. They might be able to accommodate you in the church hall.”

  Jake pulled off his gloves and unbuttoned his coat to reveal the star on the jacket beneath. “Is the owner around? I’d like to speak to him.”

  “Mr. Williams? Sure, he’s in the private quarters out the back. I’ll get him for you.”

  “On second thought, you might as well take me there. If I get the chance to talk to the family, it might save another visit.”

  “Follow me, sir.”

  The clerk made his way over to a door marked ‘Private’ in gilt lettering and knocked before opening it at the urging of a baritone male voice.

  “Mr. Williams, sir? I have a man from the sheriff’s office who says he’d like to speak to you and Mrs. Williams.”

  The door was pulled open by a square little man with bright blue eyes. His expanding waistline was covered by highwaisted trousers which sat around the nipple-line, making his short legs look even stubbier. “The law?” He opened the door and motioned for Jake to enter while Abigail trotted in behind.

  “Mr. Williams?” Jake dragged off his hat at the sight of Mrs. Williams and Constance sitting in the room. “Ben Gibson employed me and my partner to help with the murder of the man dumped in the church hall. We’ve identified him and he stayed here more than once. We’d like to know what you remember about him, if anythin’ at all.”

  “We?” Constance’s brown eyes widened in question as they fell on Abigail. “Why have you brought the boy?”

  “He’s a medical student. Dr. Fox thought he might learn a few things.”

  “What can he learn? He doesn’t speak any English.” Constance frowned. “I’ve met him before.”

  Jake stared at the boy by his side and shrugged impotently while Abigail peered around the room with blank uncomprehending eyes, sticking with her role.

  “I did what I was told and brought him,” said Jake.

  “That woman has been worming her brother into Clarence’s world. It’s too much, it really is. I’m sure she’s doing it to keep in contact with him.” She stalked over to the door and held it open, pointing at ‘Albert’ and then out to the reception once more. “You go! Leave, get out. Do you understand?”

  Abigail decided he didn’t and smiled an annoying smile.

  “Oh, you stupid boy,” she walked over and grabbed ‘him’ by the gloved hand, pulling him over to the door and pushing him out. “Go.” Abigail blinked and remained mute, feigning surprise. “Go away, and take that witch of a sister with you.”

  The door slammed in her face. She couldn’t help but break out into a grin as she glanced about. The beetle at reception was dealing with a resident, so she seized the moment and wandered off toward the kitchen.

  Jake took the seat offered to him and smiled at the family. “The man’s name was Lymen Cussen. He came here to audit the bank’s books for at least the last five years and always stayed here. A quiet man in his fifties, five-foot-ten-and-a-half, balding, came from San Francisco? Ring any bells?”

  “Not for me, but then I do office work
and the books and the like, so I don’t tend to meet the guests unless I’m standing in at the front desk. Kathleen will sometimes do front of house stuff in the restaurant. Handing out menus, seating people, that sort of thing.” He turned to his wife. “Do you remember him, dear?”

  Her brow furrowed. “A man who audited the bank does sound familiar, but I can’t place him.”

  “And Miss Williams? Would she know him?”

  Williams shook his head. “No, Constance doesn’t work. I’ve made sure of that.”

  Jake paused. “To be honest, we’re scratching around. He was a teetotal lay preacher who kept to himself. We can’t imagine what he might have done to end up being stabbed to death. Would any of the staff know him?”

  “Lay preacher? Now, it rings a bell,” Williams paused and turned back to his wife. “Kathleen, you’re active in the church. Wasn’t there a guest who attended services and did a few sermons? Is he the man? You told me about one.”

  “It sounds like him,” Jake answered. “Does it help you remember anything, Mrs. Williams?”

  She pursed her lips and shook her head. “There are so many guests. Who can say?”

  Constance peered at her mother. “Wasn’t there the man who talked about Massachusetts, Mother?”

  “Massachusetts?” asked Jake.

  “The Catholic riots,” Constance said. “They were animals by all accounts. Drunken louts who disrupted the peace. He told us all about it. I was there when he told the pastor about it after the sermon. You must have heard, Mother. You were pouring out drinks.”

  “No, I don’t remember that at all, Constance. You were clearly part of a conversation I wasn’t part of. Riots? We don’t have riots in Pettigo. And if people should talk of such things again I want you to walk away immediately.”

  “No, Mother he was talking about—”

  Mrs. Williams’s brows met in consternation. “Constance, I don’t know anything about politics and I would suggest it’s unladylike to get too interested in such things. We are there to serve the Lord, not to inflame any of our passions. Have you ever heard me talk of such things?”

  She dropped her head. “Sorry, Mother.”

  “That’s quite all right, Constance. Women brains are smaller. We can’t cope with such matters. I’m trying to protect you.”

  Jake cut in. “When did this happen, Miss Williams?”

  “A few weeks before Christmas,” Constance replied. “Why? Does it help?”

  “Not really, but it does give me somewhere else to ask questions. We’re lookin’ around for a motive.” He stood. “Is your man MacGilfoyle around? I’d like to ask him a few questions.”

  “Questions?” asked Mrs. Williams.

  “Yeah, his bonfire was used to burn the clothes, but we recovered the coat.” Jake turned toward the door. “Thanks for your help.”

  “You have recovered clothes?” Mrs. Williams’s eyes bulged. “On our land?”

  “Yup, so we’ve a few more questions to ask.” Jake opened the door. “Thanks for all your help, folks.”

  ♦◊♦

  A buxom woman turned at the sound of Abigail opening the kitchen door, her salt-and-pepper hair caught back in a mop cap. “This is private.”

  “I know. Miss Constance sent me here. I came with the deputy who is asking questions about a guest. She says I’m not allowed to stay with the adults for the interview.”

  “She did? You’d better come in then. You look freezin’. Would you like some warm milk?”

  “Oh, yes, please. My name’s Albert, ma’am.”

  “Mrs. Chatsworth. I’m the cook. Do you want sugar and cinnamon in your milk?”

  Abigail smiled. “Yes, please, ma’am. Thank you very much.”

  “What a nice polite boy. What is the deputy doing, dragging you all the way here in this weather?”

  “Dr. Fox thought I could learn something. I’m a medical student.”

  “At your age? What are you, twelve, thirteen?”

  “Fifteen, ma’am.”

  Mrs. Chatsworth shook her head. “You don’t look near that. You’re no more’n a little scrap of a thing.”

  “I’ve always been small for my age.”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sakes!” A skinny girl stormed in the back door, slamming it behind her. She dropped a basket of logs on the floor and peeled off her coat and hat, hanging them on a peg at on the door. “Where’s MacGilfoyle got to? He should be doing this work.”

  “Tommy? I saw him in town,” Abigail said. “He was at the bank. I was speaking to him there.”

  She paused, indicating toward the boy with her head. “Who’s this?”

  “Albert. He’s here with someone seeing the Williamses. I’m making him warm milk.”

  “With sugar.” Abigail added, in character.

  “Hi, Albert. I’m Sarah. No, I didn’t mean Tommy, I meant Eugene, the father. He’s always slopin’ off somewhere or other. He’s an expert at hidin’ from work. I don’t know why we keep him on.”

  “’Cause he’s thick as thieves with the missus, that’s why. He makes sure he keeps on her right side.” The cook poured the milk into a mug and grated in the lump sugar. “She’s mad on her roses and he keeps them lookin’ beautiful. No wonder, with all the manure he talks. I don’t know why she can’t see through him. He’s a boozer. She must know he has a still in the grounds.”

  Abigail looked at the mug in front of her, a smattering of aromatic nut-brown powder floating on the top. “Thank you, ma’am.”

  Mrs. Chatsworth beamed. “Isn’t he a lovely boy?”

  “More polite than Tommy, that’s for sure.” Sarah opened the range and tossed in logs before clapping her hands clean and rubbing them on her apron. “You know him?”

  “Not really. I’ve only talked to him once.”

  “Stay away from him. He’ll get you into trouble.”

  “He’s dishonest?” Abigail asked.

  “A scrapper. He’s always gettin’ into fights over one thing and another. He’s bad news. I’m sure he’ll be a drinker like his pa, but he’s violent enough sober.”

  “Good to know.” Abigail sipped her milk. “What do you do here, Sarah?”

  “Maid of all works. So basically, if it moves I feed it, and if it doesn’t, I clean it.”

  “Hard work, huh?”

  “It sure is. There are a few of us, but I’ve been here the longest, so I work directly for Mrs. Williams, mostly. I keep the family quarters looking clean and do the public rooms.” Sarah smiled proudly. “They don’t want just anyone being the face of the Regal Hotel.”

  “Quite an honor.”

  “Yes, I’m aiming to be in charge of housekeeping once Mrs. Williams decides she wants to take things easier. She trusts me.”

  “Not all the time.” Mrs. Chatsworth snickered. “Remember the fuss Constance made about the missing shepherdess. She blamed you.”

  “Shepherdess?” asked Abigail.

  “An ornament,” Sarah said. “And only until Mrs. Williams explained she’d broken it and was scared to admit it to her daughter. I can understand why. Constance is the type to hold a grudge and she does take on so.”

  “Yeah, it took her long enough, though. Nearly a week. I thought it was going to ruin Christmas. Miss Constance bought it for her mother’s birthday. Of course, the staff were the first suspects. Typical, huh?”

  “Are they a good family to work for?”

  “Lovely, well, apart from Miss Constance. She’s a bit spoiled. Mrs. Williams dotes on her daughter. She’s marrying the doctor in June, so she’ll be gone soon.”

  “Yes, it was Miss Williams who sent me here.” Abigail smiled at the cook. “I’m glad she did. I wouldn’t have gotten the warm milk.”

  “So tell us, what’s the deputy here for?” Mrs. Chatsworth settled in a chair across the table and smiled conspiratorially. “Is it that body they found?”

  “Yes. They say he stayed here. Lymen Cussen? He was a lay preacher and audited the bank?” />
  Sarah nodded. “The bank auditor? I remember him. Really boring. I’m sorry he’s dead, though.”

  “Stabbed,” Abigail said. “Who’d want to do that to a preacher?”

  “I’ve met a few who’ve been askin’ for it.” Sarah chuckled. “All fire and brimstone in the pulpit, but more arms than an octopus when they get you alone in their room.”

  “Was Mr. Cussen like that?”

  Sarah shook her head. “Nope. An aspidistra was more interestin’. It was like he was made of wood.”

  “Oh, hush. Don’t speak ill of the dead.” The cook scolded. “And that’s no way to speak around Albert.”

  “I don’t mind, Mrs. Chatsworth.”

  “I mind. Drink your milk.”

  Abigail did as she was bid before she attempted one more question. “Did Mrs. Williams know Eugene MacGilfoyle before he worked here?”

  “He came here about ten years ago,” Mrs. Chatsworth answered. “He was interviewed along with a few others. Apparently, he knew a lot about roses, and that was enough for Mrs. Williams.”

  “And does he know about roses?” asked Abigail.

  “He worked on an estate in Ireland for Lady Something-or-Other, so I guess so. They sure look good. It’s beautiful in the summer.”

  “I expect they need a lot of fertilizer?” Abigail ventured.

  “Horse manure.” Sarah asserted. “He collects it from the street, and gets the men to pee on the big pile. It’s disgusting, but he says it’s the best. I think his other selling point to the missus was the ice. It is great to have ice cream when it’s real hot in the summer. He can make it even in hot weather. It makes the hotel a real special place.”

  “He can make ice?”

  Mrs. Chatsworth stood and took the empty mug from Abigail. “Yeah, the rich folks in Europe have been makin’ ice for hundreds of years. He knows how. He won’t tell anyone else so they can’t get rid of him. It takes him ages and he can only make a little at a time, but it’s a real treat in the summer. We charge the earth for it, too.”

  “I can see why she likes him,” Abigail said. “He knows stuff.”

  “Albert?” They turned to look at the tall blond man with piercing blue eyes at the door. Sarah’s jaw dropped open at the sight of the handsome deputy. “I’ve been lookin’ for you.”