Innocent as Sin

by C. A. Asbrey

  He tugged at the padlock securing the hasp. It was locked, but it was no problem to a man of his talents. He pulled out the lock pick and flicked it open in seconds. Satisfied brown eyes slid from side to side, checking for witnesses. The hasp creaked back and Nat dragged the door open against the gathering snow piling at the bottom. It was time to examine the hotel’s outbuildings.

  ♦◊♦

  MacGilfoyle’s blue eyes fixed on Jake, narrowing as his gaze drifted to the star on his chest. The gunman’s brows arched in mute challenge, holding the stare until the Irishman looked out the window.

  Sheriff Gibson strode in with Tommy MacGilfoyle. His father turned, burning with indignation. “What’s he doing here? He’s just a boy.”

  “He’s sixteen,” answered Ben, casting out a hand to the empty chair beside his father. “Sit down, Tommy. There’s stuff we need to clear up.”

  “He has nothing to do with it.”

  Jake’s eyes flashed. “To do with what?”

  “Anything. He’s a good honest boy.”

  “I’m counting on that,” said Abigail walking in carrying a box which she placed on the floor. “It’s best for you both to be honest. I know you are honest too, Mr. MacGilfoyle, even when you are trying to mislead. I noticed it when you and I spoke. You talk all around the truth trying to hide it.” She examined the boy who fidgeted next to his father. “Hello, Tommy. I take it you remember me?”

  “Yes, miss.”

  “Good. We are going to ask you a few questions about a man who died. I want you to tell the truth.”

  The boy shook his head in denial. “I don’t know nothin’ about anythin’ the law might be interested in.”

  “We’ll be the judge of that.” Sheriff Gibson eyes glistened with cautionary lights. He looked over at Jake. “Do you want to start the questioning? You brought him in.”

  “Sure.” Doubt glimmered over Jake’s face. “Tell us about the night of the eighteenth of December. It was a Saturday, and they held the Christmas Ball.”

  MacGilfoyle snorted. “Tell you what? I don’t go to balls. Neither does Tommy.”

  The boy glanced at his father and bit into his lip. “If it was a Saturday, I’d have been covering for night porter.”

  Abigail cut in. “From eight. We know.”

  “Yeah, until eight the next mornin’.”

  “Were you at the desk when Constance and her mother came out of the private quarters to join Dr. Fox and Mr. Williams in the bar?” she asked.

  Tommy' s mouth clamped shut.

  MacGilfoyle‘s shoulders squared in aggression. “He doesn’t remember.”

  “Let him speak for himself,” Jake barked.

  The Irishman ignored him. “Tell them you can’t remember, Tommy.”

  “Think hard, Tommy.” Abigail leaned in with both hands on the desk. “This wasn’t any Saturday night on the desk. It was the Christmas ball. People were arriving in carriages and the ladies were wearing beautiful gowns. Constance was wearing emerald green and looked absolutely stunning, didn’t she? She walked from the church with Doctor Fox and her mother about seven, so they must have gotten here about half-past. That was before you started on the desk.” She stared intently at the lad. “Now if you didn’t see them, it either means Dr. Fox is lying for no good reason or they got ready for one of the biggest social occasions of the year in less than thirty minutes and went to the ball before eight. I refuse to accept that ladies would dress for a huge occasion so quickly. Think harder, Tommy. You did see them. You even spoke to them, didn’t you?”

  The lad gulped hard, caught out by her determined certainty. “I—yeah. I guess I did.”

  “Who was first?” Her eyes glinted. “Before you answer, I want you consider the fact we already know.”

  Tommy’s cheeks colored with little spots of pink. “Miss Constance. She was first. She was lovely. Mrs. Williams was second, because she’d been helpin’ Miss Constance get dressed, and then did her own hair.”

  “And what happened then?”

  “Nuthin’.”

  Abigail pushed herself back from the table and stood upright. “What do you mean ‘nothing’? There was a ball going on. A lot happened.”

  Jake cut in. “Mr. Cussen was also at the church and left after the ladies did. You must have fetched his key from the board for him. He couldn’t have got there before you started.”

  “I don’t remember,” the boy answered. His eyes glittered with tears which he blinked back.

  MacGilfoyle frowned. “He doesn’t remember, and you’ve got nothing to link us to this.”

  “Not so fast.” Nat’s dark velvet baritone drifted from the doorway, causing every head to turn. He strolled in with the confidence of a lion and dropped a half-full hessian sack on the desk.

  He turned to stare at MacGilfoyle. “Saltpetre. I’ve had it tested by the pharmacist, and there’s no doubt.” He turned to Abigail with a satisfied smirk. “It’s potassium nitrate and it’s been used to make ice for hundreds of years. I checked. Mr. Rumbelow, the pharmacist, is real helpful and he knows how to make ice, too. He knows all sorts. All you’ve got to do is walk into the pharmacy and ask.” Nat turned to the sheriff. “Not only that but I went into the icehouse and it looks like someone knocked over a bag of the stuff so it’s all over the floor. If a body was dragged out of there it might have picked up a lot of it in the fabric. You might find it’s a damned good place to hide a body for weeks without anything having a chew at it. It was frozen solid, wasn’t it? Like it’s been in an ice house, maybe? I bet we’ll find traces of brick dust, hair, or even blood if we go through it with a magnifying glass. Won’t we, MacGilfoyle? It’ll have come off the suit.”

  The Irishman’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he gulped. “I don’t know. I haven’t been in there for ages.”

  “No?” Nat’s eyes narrowed. “Why do you keep it locked?”

  MacGilfoyle folded his arms in indignation. “You can’t search without a warrant. You just messed up.”

  “Warrant?” Nat’s cheeks dimpled. “The padlock fell to pieces in my hands. The cold must’ve gotten into the works. In any case, the icehouse belongs to the hotel, not you, and they’re cooperating with us. We don’t need a warrant.”

  The gardener’s face fell as he slumped back in the chair and stared obstinately ahead. “Whatever happened in there, you can’t pin it on me. I haven’t been in there for months. There is no need to go in there with all the snow.”

  Nat’s eyes glinted in feral determination. “Fine. Let me draw you the line connecting you to the body in the ice house. He was stripped of his own clothes and they were found burning where you and your friends have your bonfires and drink hooch. It was burning at a time of year nobody is doing any yard work, so there’s nothing to burn. Everything’s stopped growing. He was dressed in a tattered suit kept in a nearby hut, used by Otto Schuster for all his dirty work. He changed out of it for his less dirty jobs.” Nat paced. “Only you, your son, Schuster, and Jethro Walters knew the suit was there. Jethro drew attention to himself by wearing the coat, and the scorching says he definitely rescued it from the fire. If it was him, he’d have kept it without damaging it. If Schuster did it, he wouldn’t have dressed the body in clothes which could be linked back to him, and I tracked them right from the tailor who made them, right through every man who ever owned the damned thing.”

  “You did?” Abigail’s surprise appeared to have made her forget to blink.

  He glanced at her dismissively. “Yeah, I did. In any case, the body was left in the ice house you guard so jealously and carried into the church hall by a man and a smaller figure.” He stopped, his eyes glittering with intensity. “That’s you and your son. It couldn’t be anyone else. In this whole town.”

  MacGilfoyle’s lips curled. “It’s not proof. It doesn’t link me or my boy.”

  “No? I think it sounds pretty conclusive, but maybe I can push it further.” Abigail walked over to the box she’d brought in and deposited
it on the desk. She picked out the black straw hat and held it out. “Black straw. It’s hard to see stains on this. Hard, but not impossible.”

  “Stains?” asked MacGilfoyle. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Blood stains. Practically imperceptible against the black straw, but if you look really close with a magnifying glass, you can see it. There isn’t much, but Dr. Fox has confirmed most of the bleeding would have been internal.”

  She pulled out the pin; long and thin, and tested the point against her finger. “Ten inches long, and certainly could puncture the heart with a lucky strike.” She stared at both MacGilfoyles in turn. “It was thrust back into the hat which smeared the hat where it was stuck back into it. I asked the doctor and he confirmed it could have been the murder weapon. I’m about to test it for blood. Here, right in front of you.”

  MacGilfoyle snorted. “So? You think I wear that?”

  “No. I think Mr. Cussen came into the private quarters, and it was hanging on the hat rack by the door. It’s possible he saw someone was upset with him and wanted to talk to them. He came in and an argument ensued and the hatpin was used in a fit of anger.” She stared hard at Tommy. “Isn’t that right? You saw Cussen go in. You heard shouting through the door. She called you to get your father didn’t she? Talk to me, Tommy. Helping is not the same as killing. She’s dead, but she left a note. I didn’t give it to the family, but she admitted it.”

  “A note?” The boy sniffed and backhanded away the tears. “She admitted it? Yeah. She came out to go to the ball and Cussen was there gettin’ his key. He said somethin’ about Sodom and Gomorrah and how drinkin’ and women dancin’ wasn’t the Christian way. Mrs. Williams asked to have a word with him. She weren’t happy at all. He went in and the door closed.” Tommy’s cheeks were alight with the tears streaming down his face. “There was shouting. I couldn’t hear the words, just the noise.” He paused, looking at his father before continuing. “It all stopped real sudden, and then she came out. She were cryin’ and she asked me go get my pa. The man was lyin’ on the floor. I flipped him over, but he was a goner. It was an accident, mostly. Nobody meant for anyone to get hurt, let alone killed.”

  The boy dissolved into a moist ball of distress, his hunched shoulders heaving as he buried his head in his hands.

  Abigail sighed and shook her head. “She admitted it to us in her note. But you covered the whole thing up, didn’t you, Mr. MacGilfoyle? And you know I know why. When I asked you about Sloinneadh you said the only family you had here was Tommy, and that was true…right after Mrs. Williams died. She was related to you. The rumors of her being besotted with you circulating through the staff were true, but it wasn’t romantic love, it was familial. I found her maiden name in a Bible, and it was Powell. That is also one of the translations of Mac Giolla Phóil. It’s fairly common for Irish people to try to pass as Protestant to escape the prejudice and make better lives. I’ve come across it many times, and it’s why I asked you if any other members of your family used different translations. Your answer was so precise and guarded about your son being your only living kin. She was what? A sister, cousin?”

  MacGilfoyle’s clenched jaw spoke of his refusal to assist. Abigail continued. “Her name translates to the same as yours in Gaelic. So does the name of the poor young woman who was killed in the riots Cussen helped provoke. You can claim that’s all a coincidence, but it’s not that common a name. You are all connected, and we can telegraph the authorities in Boston and Ireland to check if you force us to. We’ll find out the names of your sisters through church records. Mrs. Williams spoke of a dead sister, and I think she was Margaret Mary Foyle as Kathleen Williams came from the same area. When Cussen’s sanctimony put a damper on Mrs. Williams’s Christmas ball she’d had enough. She confronted the man responsible for whipping up the mob and lashed out when he was uncaring and pious. I’m sure it wasn’t intended to kill him, but the pin ended his life in one ill-considered blow. She was a gentle person who found it impossible to live with. The priest hasn’t even been through here to give her absolution. She turned to her brother for help. You are older and still have your accent. She had no accent, and could pass as an American Protestant as she was younger when she came here. She could get a better job, meet different men, marry better. Basically, she took the easy way. Most people would. I don’t blame her one bit. She thought about protecting others right up to the end, didn’t she? That’s why she left the note. She didn’t want anyone else to be accused.”

  She stared at the reticent man and his wretched son. “I’m so sorry for you all. You lost your sister to a mob, and justice deserted you. I think she only wanted Cussen to understand the pain the family went through, but he cared more about the next world than this one. What did you do? Whip the body out through the kitchen? With Mister—” she glanced over at Nat and thought the better of using a surname, “my colleague’s findings, it couldn’t have been anyone else. We can check the ice house minutely. I’m sure we will find evidence Cussen was stored there.”

  “Laundry basket.” MacGilfoyle spoke at last. “Kathleen was in bits but I sat her down and gave her a firm talking to. She had to go out there and put on an act to give her an alibi. She was my only living relative in this country apart from young Tommy, so I had to protect her. I told her we’d clean the mess. I pulled out the hatpin and stuck it back in the hat after a quick wipe. He went in the basket and I burned his clothes to stop him from being identified. I took him to the ice house later and then didn’t know what to do with him. The ground was frozen too hard to bury him. I took a train to Lattimer the next morning to send a telegram, after checking Cussen’s room to see where he was headed next, and left his luggage there. Tommy only did what I told him. It’s not his fault.”

  Nat frowned. “And you took Schuster’s suit?”

  “Yeah. I had to get rid of the body and I couldn’t bury him until spring. Out of desperation, I dumped him in the church hall dressed like a tramp. I thought he looked fresh enough to fool them into thinking it was somebody else and that he just got killed.” He glowered at Nat and Jake. “I didn’t count on you lot.”

  Ben Gibson paced. “So Kathleen Williams really did do it? She was protecting a secret brother.” He rubbed his face. “Does the evidence prove she did it?”

  “A hatpin isn’t generally a male weapon,” answered Abigail, lifting the bottle of hydrogen peroxide. She dripped it over the glass beads and it fizzed into a foam around the ornate setting of the glass beads. She then applied the fizz to paper already prepared with guaic and watched it darken to blue. “See? There is blood on there, deep in the burrs and prongs. We can see it using the magnifying glass, too. There’s no reason to believe a gardener would be in the private quarters while ladies got ready for the Christmas Ball. The height and trajectory shows a shorter person than Mr. MacGilfoyle did it, but someone around the height of Mrs. Williams.” She glanced at Tommy before looking over at his father. “We can only follow the evidence.”

  “I need to speak to the mayor.” Ben Gibson shook his head. “This is a small town and MacGilfoyle and the Williamses are well thought of. If she lashed out, nobody in the West would blame a brother for protectin’ her. Not after a family member died because of Cussen.”

  MacGilfoyle’s keen eyes fixed on the sheriff. “Are you sayin’ there’ll be no charges?”

  “I’m sayin’ I can’t see the point in any. It’ll destroy the Williamses if they find out it wasn’t an accident. You didn’t kill anyone, and you ain’t a danger to public safety. We found the killer and she killed herself. That’s really all there is to it. We can tell Cussen’s family who and why. I can’t see the point of no trial for hidin’ a body. It’d ruin the boy’s life and ruin the Williamses’ reputation.”

  “I gotta say I agree with you,” Jake said. “I feel for you, MacGilfoyle. Cussen’s past came back to haunt him, and his killer’s dead.”

  “The past’s got a way of doin’ that. It can change your whole f
uture.” Nat’s wry smile was dry and joyless. “Well, I came here to deliver my findings and I’ve done it. If anyone wants me I’ll be in the Jagged Tick Saloon.” He turned on his heel and strode out of the room without a backward glance. “But I can’t see why anyone would.”

  Abigail and Jake shared a look of concern. Jake shrugged. “I’ll talk to him.”

  Chapter Twenty Two

  The mayor swung back on Sheriff Gibson’s chair, his grim face cheerless and pensive. “So who knows all this?”

  “Just my team, the sheriff, Dr. Fox, and the MacGilfoyles. Nobody else,” answered Abigail.

  He nodded. “I’ve spent a lot of time with the Williams family. It doesn’t seem right to rip up Kathleen’s memory based on a moment of madness. How sure are you she really was the killer?”

  “She was the right height. She had the motive, the opportunity, and the means. It was her hatpin,” said Abigail.

  “So she was Irish, huh?” The mayor arched a thick brow. “My wife is Irish, but if that happened to her folks as a young ’un I can see why she’d hide it. What would we gain by prosecuting the MacGilfoyles? Are they criminal? Dishonest?”

  Ben Gibson shook his head. “Nope. They’re hard workin’ and no trouble at all. The young ’un can be a bit of a scrapper, gettin’ into fights and stuff, but I ain’t had to shout at him for at least a year now.”

  “Yeah, well. You had to kick my Hiram’s butt a few times. That’s boys for you. It doesn’t mean a thing. Them hidin’ the body is a protective family reaction, it ain’t like they do it for everyone. I think a jury out here would feel sorry for them; a secret family looking after a sister who lashed out through grief? I say we tell Percy Williams the truth and let everyone else forget about it.”