Innocent as Sin

by C. A. Asbrey

  The firelight illuminated the room, showing her pushing herself to a sitting position on a sofa, covered in a patchwork quilt.

  “Good, you’re dressed.” He sighed in relief. He glanced around the room, instinctively checking for danger. “Here’s your bag.”

  She silently glared at him as he placed it on the floor beside her.

  His moue of discomfort which ghosted across his face was both long and excruciating as he fought to find the right words. “Abi, I’m sorry. Sorrier than I can ever say. I had no right to call you that. I was about as wrong as a man can be. Can you forgive me?”

  Her dark eyes narrowed. “Fine, you’re forgiven. Now go away.”

  He hooked his thumbs in his belt, his eyes downcast. “It ain’t that simple. There’s the mother of all storms out there. It took me over an hour to get here. I can’t get back. I’m stayin’.”

  She blinked as she considered the options. “This is a big place. Find somewhere else to wait it out. I don’t want you around.”

  “So you haven’t forgiven me? Look, I spent the day Mrs. Williams killed herself walking about, seeing pictures in my head, mixing up that woman’s brains spilling out with my sister’s. I was in distress, angry, and all kinds of wrong.” He paused. “I invited Nat to punch me in the mouth. You can do the same, if it helps.”

  Outrage flashed over her face. “I don’t go around hurting people to make myself feel better. I believe that’s your prerogative. What do you think I am?”

  “Since you ask, a real fine person. Brave, honest, and honorable. You’re also irregular, free-spirited, and the most singular woman I met since my ma. You told me you were still gettin’ used to us bein’ out of the ordinary. The same goes for me. You need to give me time to find the words for a woman like you. And for the record, I think you could hurt a man real bad if you put your mind to it. In fact, you’re doin’ it right now.”

  “I’m not doing anything.”

  His brow creased. “You know you are. You’re closed down and cold. That ain’t you, Abi.”

  “Of course I’m cold.” Her voice was crisp and sharp. “I came here with some fantasy of an impossible life. I already know what people think of respectable women who take up with criminals, but in a wildly inconceivable brainstorm I believed we could carve out a world where none of it mattered. Then you showed me it did. It always will.”

  He dropped his head. “Please, Abi. If I could go back in time and change it I would, but all I can do is put it right.”

  “You can’t unring a bell. I’m leaving as soon as I can. I advise you to do the same.”

  He walked further into the room and sat, although unbidden. His earnest eyes glittered in the firelight. “You can’t.”

  Her hostile glare pinned him to the spot. “What do you mean, I can’t?”

  “You’re one of us.” His eyes burned intently across the half-light. “Like it or not, fate made you from the same stuff as us. You’re the light, we’re the dark, but you’ll always be drawn to what’s in your soul. It’s why you’re here. My grandpa told me the Irish used to believe souls were created in circles. That’s your clan. When you meet a stranger and you feel connected, it’s because they belong to the same soul circle. Circles never end. You’re a Gael. You know this stuff.”

  “Very colorful, Mr. Conroy, but I am a modern woman and I have free will.”

  “Sure you do. So does Nat, and he doesn’t give up on things easy. Why are you calling me mister? Call me Jake.”

  “Our relationship is no longer informal.”

  “Abi, I was a horse’s ass yet again. That ain’t a change, it’s more of the same, and you showed me I’ve got to do somethin’ about it. I think you could change everythin’ for Nat. You’d be good for him.” He paused. “He could be good for you, too. Look how happy you’ve been.”

  “Or, he could ruin my life. This has focused me on how dangerously close I came to being sucked in.”

  He leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. “Fine. What if I disappear and leave you and Nat to it? I’m the problem, not him.”

  Her forehead creased. “You’d do that?”

  “If it meant you and Nat could be happy, I’d do whatever it took. I brought him up since he was four. I kept us together and got him the best education I could, but he still never had a chance. I kept bad company. I was a bad influence.” His eyes burned into her. “I love him like my own son, but I’ll walk away and leave you two in peace if that’s what you need.”

  An array of emotions fluttered across her face before she spoke again. “Nat would never do that.”

  Jake snorted. “He’s already told me he’s goin’ away from me the minute this place thaws. The way I figure, he might as well take you with him and be happy.”

  “He said that?”

  “And more. Most of it not fit to share with a lady. Sleep on it. Think it over.”

  She played idly with the quilt, her fingers working at the fabric at the center of a colorful swirl before she nodded curtly. “Goodnight, Mr. Conroy.”

  He took off his jacket and settled back on the sofa. “I’m goin’ nowhere, Abi. Not only is it cold enough to freeze off a man’s whiffles, you’re diggin’ out a murderer. I ain’t leavin you in an unlocked room in the place the killer is likely to live.” He punched a cushion into shape. “Besides. There’s a fire in here. I’m only dumb, not a complete dunderpate.”

  He draped his jacket over him and lay back. “If I could get you to understand how seein’ the body affected me. Sometimes, I wonder when the forgettin’ will ever begin. When you’ve seen a loved one smashed up, it haunts a person, but I guess I’m just weak.”

  The silence lay heavy with unspoken thoughts as the fire crackled in the hearth, throwing a cavalcade of flickering shadows dancing around the room. He sat to pull off his wet boots, placing them on the hearth to dry out, and glanced over at the silent woman, who had turned her back on him and pulled the covers over herself. “Goodnight, Abi. I hope this isn’t another regret to add to a lifetime of mistakes. I’m a damned fool, but don’t let Nat pay the price for it.”

  He removed his gun belt and dangled it over the arm of the sofa so it would be close, then lay back on the opposite sofa and closed his eyes. Their conversation played over and over in his head, irritating him as he found countless ways to have posed a better argument. The glowing fire was comforting, and he soon succumbed to the soporific effect. His breathing slowed to a deeper, calmer rhythm until he sank into a drowsy, torpid state. Something softly touched him and his eyes darted open. The colorful quilt had been delicately spread over him. A smile tugged at his lips as he discreetly watched her climb back under her remaining blanket and turn on her back to him. Abigail had clearly waited until she thought he was asleep to share her bedding, but share it, she did. Maybe this visit hadn’t been a complete disaster, after all.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Almost every man in town was engaged in digging out the roads the next morning. At least three feet of snow had fallen overnight and the wind had carried it in shifting drifts which scaled walls and over roofs like sifted flour. The loose snow caught the wind in glittering shards which danced over the surface in tiny, shimmering whirlwinds, underscoring the biting wind chilling bones and burning sinuses water wherever it hit.

  But Nat wasn’t cold. Sheer hard work was his furnace and, for a man who had dedicated his life to finding ways to collect money which were light on the back, he was certainly throwing himself into hard labor. He had stripped off his coat, and was battering through the banks of snow like one of those clockwork automatons he’d seen in books. It was cleansing; living in the moment instead of dwelling on his emotional problems. They didn’t disappear, but his mind focused on the repetitive work and gave relief from the pressure. Work as a way ahead was new to him, and the thought made his lips twitch into an involuntary smile. He’d always heard hard work was its own reward, but didn’t think it was worth the risk to find out.

&n
bsp; He paused to wipe sweat from his brow, screwing his eyes against the blinding sun glinting off the hoary whiteness of the banked-up snow, and rested for a moment on his shovel. Abigail wouldn’t listen to reason, but she’d have to listen to him if he solved this damn thing. There was a huge piece of evidence sitting in a bag in the doctor’s consulting rooms. Pettigo had a tailor; a good one, who made bespoke clothing. Surely, he could tell him a little more about the suit moldering away in the packing box? The corpse had been dressed in it before being dumped. That meant it belonged to someone local. All they’d really done was look at the debris it had collected. Maybe it was time to look at the garment itself.

  ♦◊♦

  The bell above the door tinkled and bounced around on the brass spring to announce the arrival of another customer to the emporium, causing a ferret-faced youth to emerge from the back of the shop. Nat hesitated, unsure what to even ask. He showed his badge.

  “I wonder if anyone can help me? I need an expert to tell me as much as he can about a suit of clothes. They belong to a murder victim, and it might help us know more about him.”

  The boy’s eyes widened and he darted back to the door, bellowing into the shadows beyond. “Pa. Ma! There’s a lawman here. He’s got questions about a murder.” He turned back to Nat, his chest rising and falling in anxiety. “Why’d you think we’re involved?”

  Nat smiled to lighten the spiraling panic of the gathering knot of people. “I don’t. I thought a tailor could tell me how old the suit was, maybe where it was made, or even about the type of person who got suits like this made for them. Anything at all, really. There’s nothing to worry about. You know clothes, I don’t. I want to pick your brains.”

  “Oh!” The tall man said as he followed a tiny, sandy-haired, beige-faced woman into the main shop. “That’s a relief. Taylor Nessmith, this is my shop. This is my wife, Elly. How can we help?”

  “Taylor? Really? You’re called Taylor and you’re a tailor?” Nat placed the box on the counter, his most charming persona in play.

  “Yup. My pa was a tailor, too. He never had much in the way of imagination. Ma was always surprised he had the gumption to leave England at all.”

  “Is this a bad time? I don’t want to impact on your business.”

  “It’s slow as hell since we’ve been snowed in. The apprentices are working on ready-made for the summer, but we need the folks through here to be busy. The tourists comin’ to the hot springs and the gambling tournaments are a big part of our business. Wealthy folks like to go back with a fine new suit of clothes, especially when they win big. Whatya got? I got time.”

  Nat lifted off the lid and removed the jacket, placing it on the counter. “What can you tell me about this?” He pointed out the dark spots. “Not the stains, more how it was made and what it tells you about who would have had this made.”

  The couple pored over the fabric, moving it around and fingering it. “This was expensive back in the day.” Mr. Nessmith declared as his wife nodded in agreement.

  “Yes, Harris Tweed. Imported fabric,” she answered. “This belonged to someone wealthy.”

  “The cut is old-fashioned. The legs are wide, like in the fifties. They got much narrower in the sixties. The watch pocket is hand-stitched. A button fly, not a fall front, so keeping up-to-date mattered to the owner. Both types were made in the fifties, but the modern man went for the button fly.”

  The tailor’s practiced eyes narrowed as he peered at the stitching. “Some of this is sewn by machine and the rest hand-finished. That was fairly normal for tailors in the fifties. Machines were startin’ to come in, but they still did darts and tricky bits by hand.” He raised his head and grinned. “Look at this, Elly. Look at the finish of this knot.”

  The woman peered at the tiny stitches. “It’s a bullion knot.” She smiled at her husband. “Just like your pa used to do. You don’t think he did this do you?”

  “It is, ain’t it? A bullion knot.” The tailor looked Nat full in the face. “My pa always ended visible hand stitching with an ornamental knot. A tiny little thing, something nobody but a tailor would notice, but he insisted it all added to the quality of the finish. This looks like his work. I can’t say for certain, but not all tailors do this. It’s not common. It looks like his work.”

  “Your pa made this? How much of a coincidence is this?”

  “Well, not too coincidental. You are in the same town as his shop. It’s not too much of a stretch to think a lot of the best suits locally come from the only local tailor.”

  “I guess.” Nat scratched his head. “Is your pa around?”

  “Yeah, he’s in the graveyard on the outskirts of town.” Nessmith chuckled. “The ground’s a bit hard right now, so you might have trouble raisin’ him before spring.”

  “Oh, hush, Taylor.” Elly admonished him with a wave of her hand. “Stop being disrespectful.”

  Nat sighed. “Darn. I don’t suppose he’d have remembered who he made it for anyway.”

  “Nope, but we keep all our records.” Elly arched both brows. “You’re welcome to look at those.”

  “Records? What records do you keep?”

  “A tailor has a manual for all his bespoke customers. A good fit doesn’t just rely on the basic measurements. It takes a trained eye to spot all the little nuances in posture, all the little imperfections a shoulder higher than the other, a slight hunch, or a bit of a belly. Excellent tailoring can disguise all that, and we take detailed notes to ensure a man looks the best he can. If we keep them the first time we don’t have to do it again.” Nessmith eyed Nat’s broad shoulders. “I could make you the most wonderful suit of clothes you ever wore. With a physique like yours, I could make you look like a Greek god.”

  “Yeah, but I think it’d be more than I earn as a deputy in a year.” Nat’s cheeks dimpled. “And it’s too cold for a toga.”

  Nessmith chuckled. “You’ll be earnin’ every penny of it if you go through our records back to 1850. That’s a lot of readin’. Pa kept a manual, but I find a card system easier. Every customer has his own card and the measurements are amended with little changes on every visit so it’s all up to date. The older records are much harder to read because they’re by date, not name.”

  “I guess I’ll have to go through them.” Nat fixed on the man’s laughing eyes. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you? I bet you get a lot of fun out of people’s imperfections behind the scenes.”

  “Nooo.” Nessmith laughed. “If I wanted to profit from other people’s misery I’d have become a florist.”

  Nat’s dimples deepened as he warmed to the man’s dry humor. “So, if I go through the records to identify this suit, what am I looking for?

  “Well, I’ll give you all the measurements. The fabric’s called Harris Tweed and it’s hartwist plain herringbone in barleycorn.” He led Nat through a room full of young men laboring away over pieces of fabrics to an office. “We keep all the manuals in here.”

  The dimples fell from Nat’s dismayed face at the stacks of huge leather-bound books crowning the shelves. “These?” he asked. “All of these?”

  “Oh, no.” Nesmith pulled a bolt of material away and unveiled a tea crate. “There’s all these, too.” He folded his arms and arched his brows. “Are you sure you want to do this? There has to be an easier way of identifyin’ this man. We’ve dressed thousands of people over the years.”

  Nat dragged out a chair. “Oh, we’ve identified the man but someone had dressed him in an old suit to make him look like a saddle tramp. If I can find out whose suit it was, I might stand a chance of finding out who did it.”

  “Good luck with it. Will coffee help? I’ll measure it for you and Elly will fix the coffee.”

  He pulled out the first ledger and flicked it open. “Yes please. A large vat of the stuff.”

  ♦◊♦

  Jake started awake at the sound of the door closing. The blanket was neatly folded on the opposite sofa and the pillow placed squarely on
top. He pushed himself to a sitting position in the empty room and frowned aimlessly into the gray ashes of the dead fire in the hearth. The lack of resolution sat in his gullet like a ball of lead. She had thawed only slightly, but today would be pivotal. Had she warmed enough to stop the only family he had from walking out of his life forever? He cursed under his breath and stood, bolstering himself to face possibility of the rest of his life alone. Seeing your own children a couple of times a year and hearing them call you uncle was just an extra spike in the heart. It’d be just him and the specters of the lost.

  The reception area was quiet with Dick Nash ensconced behind his desk. The dark brows gathered into a tight line of disapproval at the sight of a male deputy emerging from the room he’d reserved for the female Pinkerton.

  Jake scowled. “Let’s get somethin’ straight. She’s as respectable as your own mother. I came here through the storm to make sure she was safe. There’s a killer on the loose. I wasn’t leavin’ her alone to face him. She’s been hurt doin’ that before. Understood?”

  The steely determination in the blue eyes was enough to make the desk clerk flutter nervously and fumble with the ledger. “I never said a word, sir.”

  “You didn’t need to. I saw the way you looked at me. Where’d she go?”

  “The private quarters. She wanted to get to work right away. I’m sending in breakfast for her while she works.” Nash’s moustache twitched in agitation. “Shall I get them to add to the order?”

  The gunman nodded and headed straight for the private quarters. He thrust the door open and strode in to the sight of Abigail lighting an oil lamp.

  His greeting was terse but he attempted to sound conciliatory. “Mornin’, Abi.”

  Her dark eyes slid sideways, her hands still on the crown of the lamp. “You’re up. I left you sleeping.”

  “I ain’t been sleepin’ too well the last few nights, Abi. I’m grateful.” He frowned. “A lamp? It’s broad daylight.”

  “I need a flame to purify instruments.” She replaced the shade. “I’m testing for bloodstains. The Williamses have been staying with the Morgans, and need to get back in their home. I have to finish today.”