Holmes on the Range (24 page)

“A pop?”

“Yes. A
poop
, not so very loud.”

“Did you step outside to take a look?”

“No.”

“
No
?”

“No. I em in sausage up to my elbowce, end I em tinking, ‘Ahhh, dat Brackwell. One day he is shooting soomebooty when with those fancy gunce he is playing.' ”

“Had you seen Brackwell?”

“Well, no.”

“Had you seen
anybody
when you were outside?”

“No.”

“How about in the house? Any sign folks were up?”

“Not yet. Dat Eem-ily—always overlate she iss sleeping. Never em I seeing her out of her room before de sun. End den de—” The Swede hooked a thumb at the ceiling again. “Dey are not getting up fur anoother hour.”

“Now this is very important, Swede,” Old Red said, speaking extra-slow to drive home his seriousness. “How much time passed between your knockin' on the outhouse door and your hearin' that gunshot?”

“Five minutes, I em tinking.”

“Five minutes?” my brother mumbled. “
Five minutes
. Just enough time for someone to—”

Just who might be doing what I didn't learn, for some other
who
came barging through the door behind us. My hand shot down to the hogleg at my side, bringing it up and cocking it as I whipped around.

What I found at the end of the barrel wasn't the steely-eyed McPherson I'd expected. It was a wide-eyed, terror-stricken maid.

“Jesus, I'm sorry, Emily,” I said, holstering my .45 before she could scream.

The girl had been so shocked to find a peacemaker jammed in her face, for once she couldn't put words together. “B-bloody. . . h-hell. . .,” she panted.

“Hold that thought,” Old Red said. “I've got one more thing to ask our friend here.”

He was talking at a streak, as if he had to hustle out the most important question of all before Emily grabbed us by the seat of the pants and tossed us from the castle.

“Swede,” he said, “did you pack a picnic for Mr. Edwards just now?”

I had to clinch my jaw to keep it from dropping to my chest. Here we were tracking a killer, the McPhersons on our tails, and my brother was curious about Edwards's
lunch
?

The Swede nodded and shrugged at the same time, looking as perplexed by the question as I felt. “He iss coming into the kitchen soon ago, fur bret end cheece asking. So I em giving him dese things.”

“But not packin' ‘em yourself? Just puttin' ‘em out for Edwards to take?”

The old cook nodded again. “He is de food in hiss basket putting, yes.”

“Thank you, Swede.”

Emily cleared her throat. “Your presence. . .,” she began, taking on the stiff, brittle tone she used when she was talking like a nobleman's maidservant and not a giggly girl.

Old Red spun around to face her almost as quick as I had a moment before. “You told us you heard the shot around midnight or one o'clock. You sure about that?”

The snap in Gustav's voice—or perhaps the chance to trade in more gossip—seemed to drag the real Emily out of her servantish shell. “I'm sure,” she said. “I should think I know what the dead of night looks like, and this was the dead of night.”

“No, no,” the Swede butted in. “It was mooch later.”

“Oh, don't listen to
him
.” Emily rolled her eyes, then leaned in closer to Old Red. “And I'll tell you something else, Mr. Detective—that dead darky wasn't just creeping about outside last night. He came right into the
house
.”

My brother perked up like a hound catching the scent of something rotting and ripe. “How do you know?”

“Because I went into the linen closet upstairs not ten minutes ago, and an iron and some pillows were
missing
.”

Gustav squinted at Emily as if she were a mirage shimmering in and out of view. “Pillows and an iron?”

The girl nodded. “And that's not all. He also took Lady Clara's—”

As those last words left her lips, Emily sighed and sagged. She quickly straightened up again, and I knew what was coming next. She'd remembered what she'd been sent after us to do—throw us out.

“Your presence. . .,” she said, launching back into the sentence she'd begun a minute before.

. . .
will no longer be tolerated in this house
is what I expected to hear. What actually came out was very different indeed.

“. . . is requested in the parlor. Lady Clara wishes to speak with you.”

Or, An Angel Pleads for Mercy, and Old Red Plays Devil's Advocate

L
ords and ladies are
not accustomed to waiting for anything, let alone a pair of no-accounts with dirt under their fingernails and dung on their boots. Yet by sidetracking Emily with his questions, Old Red had put Lady Clara in just such a position, and when we entered the parlor I feared we'd find my dream girl's shimmering hazel eyes aboil with indignation. I needn't have worried, for she graced us with a heavenly smile as we entered.

But that smile couldn't conceal the lady's obvious anxiety. There were lines around her eyes and mouth I hadn't noticed before, and her proud, perfect posture had drooped, causing her to sag like a dying flower bent by the weight of its own beautiful petals.

“Gentlemen,” she said. “Please sit down.”

These four words showered upon us an honor I would never have dreamed possible. We had been invited to seat ourselves in the presence of a bona fide aristocrat. As Old Red and I brought our denim-clad backsides down upon the divan, I was overcome by such an intoxicating
mix of humility and pride that my head felt light as a leaf on my shoulders. I stole a glance at Gustav, but he appeared to be little moved by the uncommon courtesy being afforded us. He seemed to have overcome his shyness around females, as well, for he looked more curious than bashful.

“Amongst those of my country and class, there are subjects that are regarded as unsuitable topics of discussion for a respectable woman,” Lady Clara said. “But as Americans of the frontier have a reputation for . . . relaxed attitudes in matters of propriety, I hope you won't be shocked if I speak plainly.”

I nodded vigorously, while beside me Old Red stayed perfectly still.

“As my father can attest, I have always spoken my mind on finance, politics, and other matters that supposedly fall outside the feminine sphere,” the lady continued. “Murder would be one such topic—especially murder of the sort discovered here today. A Negro found dead in an outhouse? Some would say it's beneath my notice. But I feel that a man's death is
never
beneath one's notice. Nor should it be the subject of jokes or idle amusements. Wouldn't you agree?”

This question was directed at me, perhaps because Lady Clara saw that I wouldn't dispute any statement she should make, whether it be to criticize her father's bet or to insist that the sky is red, blood is blue, and my own hair green as grass. Old Red wasn't under such sway, however.

“My investigation ain't no joke,” he shot back.

“And we couldn't agree with you more, my lady,” I added quickly, trying to smooth things over. “Why, my brother said much the same thing to Mr. Edwards not twenty minutes ago. ‘Ain't nothin' funny about death,' he said. ‘Serious it is, and serious it oughta be treated.' ”

“Then you'll both understand why I find this wager between my father and Mr. Brackwell so distasteful,” the lady said.

I nodded again, but Old Red just sat there like he was carved from wood.

“I'm told the proper authorities should arrive no later than noon
tomorrow,” Lady Clara said, her warmth toward us starting to cool. “Surely any investigating can wait until professionals are here to pursue it.”

She paused, giving my brother another opportunity to do the gentlemanly thing and put a bullet in the bet—by giving up his detecting. Instead, he made use of that pause to take himself off the spot and put the lady there in his place.

“If you're as partial to plain-speakin' as you say, you won't mind if I ask you a question of a personal nature.”

The worry lines on Lady Clara's face appeared to grow deeper before my eyes. But true to her breeding, the lady remained unflustered.

“You may ask.”

“Thank you,” Gustav said, his voice softening up a touch. “As you're a woman who don't let notions of propriety stand in her way, I find it strange that you'd object so strongly to the Duke's wager on moral grounds—callous though that wager may be, I grant you. It makes me think there's another reason you wanted to talk to us. . .and maybe it has somethin' to do with that hunk of money your father put up for grabs.”

The lady stared at my brother for a moment as if she were still waiting for him to ask his question. Then she nodded slowly and sadly.

“It shames me to admit it, but it
is
the money that concerns me.”

“Two hundred pounds is a lot of cash, I gather. And cash is some-thin' your family ain't exactly flush with anymore, is it?”

I blushed with embarrassment, horrified that Gustav should rub Lady Clara's dainty nose in the gossip we'd heard from Emily and Brackwell.

The lady sighed and sank into an even more pronounced slump. “Do even the Red Indians know of our troubles by now? Yes, our fortune is not what it once was. The two Cantlemeres—this one and our estate in Sussex—are all that remain. As you know so much already, there's no reason not to tell you what brought us down so.”

A ripple of emotion spread across Lady Clara's usually placid features, revealing an anger that lurked just beneath the surface.

“It was gambling,” she said. “On cards, on horses, on whether a fly would alight on a lump of sugar. Between my father and my brothers, it's a wonder my family has anything left.”

“The ranch here don't bring in enough to keep you afloat?” Old Red asked.

The lady tucked away her bitterness behind a wry smile. “The Cantlemere Ranche is what men of finance would call a break-even proposition—with the possibility of failure hanging over it at all times. Sometimes I think that's why my father remains committed to it: It's his last grand gamble. He has great hopes that things here will take a sudden turn for the better.”

My brother cocked an auburn eyebrow at that. “Based on what exactly?”

“As I've said,” Lady Clara replied with a shrug, “he is a gambler.”

“Which is why he wouldn't give up on the bet he made this mornin'—even though you've asked him to.”

“That's correct. William—Mr. Brackwell—is a gentleman and a friend, and of course he was willing to renounce the wager.”

Old Red's gaze turned iron-hard, but the lady didn't seem to notice.

“Unfortunately, the Duke refused to release him from his bet,” she went on, her smoldering resentment again burning its way through any attempts to smother it. “If my father wins, he means to collect. And if he loses, he means to pay. The Duke of Balmoral won't have it said that he isn't good for his debts—if those debts are incurred through gaming. After all, a man who reneges on one foolish wager might be denied the privilege of making more. And the Duke can't have that.”

My instinctive dislike for the old man had now been fanned into outright hatred, and I was ready to hop up, seek him out, and box his ears. Old Red, on the other hand, simply leaned back and shrugged.

“I'm sorry to say it, ma'am, but your father's bet ain't my concern. I'm anglin' to catch a killer. Whether money changes hands is beside the point, from where I sit.”

“I understand entirely,” Lady Clara said, instantly regaining her natural poise. “I must seem like a selfish old harridan to think of my own petty problems at such a time.”

“Oh, no! Not at all! It's only natural you should be concerned for your family,” I assured her. “Why, it would just break our hearts to pieces if we should bring any misfortune upon you and your kin. Ain't that right, Gustav?”

Old Red took a deep breath that might have been a stifled sigh.

“Yup,” he said. “Break our hearts.”

Lady Clara gave us a small, almost wistful smile. “You're very kind. I can see that.”

She looked back and forth between Gustav and myself as she said it, but I fancied her words were intended for me alone. This was about to draw from me some hayseed ejaculation on the order of “Awww, shucks,” but fortunately the lady spoke again before I could embarrass myself.

“Since you're moving ahead with your investigation, I may as well offer my assistance. As you say, the wager should be a secondary concern. There's a murderer loose, and it would be heartless indeed for me to stand in the way of his capture, no matter what the price. If I can aid you in any way, you have but to ask.”