The Miser of Cherry Hill Page 7

  ‘Yes, doctor.’

  I safely conveyed my nurse from the sleigh.

  She gave Miss Wade one last nod, then hurried up the drive and disappeared through the side door.

  Munroe took the sleigh and horses.

  Miss Wade came down from the front porch and joined me on the drive.

  Her face was now like a fortress. ‘I had no idea you had hired a nurse, Dr Deacon.’

  And I had no idea how to proceed, and feared that whatever I said might make matters worse. So I again extended my hospitality while I stalled for time. ‘Would you like to come in and sit by the fire?’

  ‘I shouldn’t want to trouble you. You’ve had a long ride in the country, by the look of it, and you need to rest. In fact, I must be off.’

  ‘But you said you wanted a word with me.’

  ‘I’m thinking it can wait. You look tired. And cold.’

  ‘I should like to know why you’ve come.’

  She stared at me, and it was as if all the warm feeling she had ever felt for me had drained away. It was a most daunting spectacle, and I wondered if I had any true knowledge of the woman who was standing before me, or if she possessed an unguessed-at submerged personality I knew nothing about. The only thing I knew for sure was that she wasn’t amused.

  ‘Very well, then,’ she said. ‘I’m here to talk about Marigold Reynolds.’

  I stared some more. Baffled, I steered a neutral course. ‘You’ve heard from Sisters of Charity, then, Olive?’

  ‘Not Sisters of Charity, no. But Daisy Pond came to speak to me about her. Do you know the Ponds, Dr Deacon? Of Finch Street?’

  ‘Must you call me by my surname? I thought we were on intimate terms.’

  ‘I’d prefer proper forms right now.’

  ‘Olive, please.’

  Her voice became insistent. ‘Do you know the Ponds of Finch Street, Dr Deacon?’

  I of course remembered what Stanley had told me about Daisy Pond, how she had been hit by Mr Purcell back in October and had come to the Sheriff’s Office to press charges against the man. ‘Yes. I know the Ponds.’

  ‘Daisy is their daughter. She and Marigold are best friends. Daisy’s one of my piano pupils.’

  Then Olive caught sight of Munroe and Miss Gregsby going about the business of making a fire through the parlor window. Having construed my nurse in a sleigh with me as perhaps the most nefarious act in human history since John Booth shot Abe Lincoln, Miss Gregsby, in my parlor by my fire, appeared to strike Miss Wade as an even more heinous sin.

  She turned back to me with renewed frostiness. ‘It turns out Marigold was with child after all. Miss Pond took me into her confidence about the whole matter at her piano lesson yesterday, and I thought as Marigold’s physician you should like to know. Miss Pond tells me Billy Fray is the father.’

  ‘Miss Wade, won’t you come in for a few moments? Perhaps you would like a brandy.’

  ‘It would also seem your hypothesis about an Oneida practitioner’s involvement in the termination of Marigold’s pregnancy is correct as well. Mr Purcell, when he found out about the baby, sent for Talbert Two-Arrows. The child meant more than anything in the world to Marigold. And to Billy. They were both terribly angry at Mr Purcell.’

  While my professional side acknowledged that this was yet more evidence against Billy, personal impulses drove me to place my hand upon Miss Wade’s arm. ‘Olive, please come in.’

  She removed her arm. ‘I’m afraid I can’t stay, Dr Deacon. My attentions are presently divided.’ She glanced in the parlor window, where Miss Gregsby had just taken off her hat and was shaking out her hair. ‘As yours seem to be.’

  She then turned and walked away before I could speak to her further.

  As she left, I felt two things.

  First, I yearned for her. I wanted to take her in my arms and crush her to my chest, and tell her everything was going to be all right.

  My second feeling was something approaching a lover’s irritation.

  What right did she have to question me after her summer away with Everett Howse?

  Marigold Reynolds was at her stepfather’s funeral in a wheelchair. She wore black. She had a veil over her face, and all I could see were her grimly set lips. I saw no tears. The handkerchief in her hand remained unused.

  As much as I wanted to question her about Billy Fray, Talbert Two-Arrows, and their lamentably lost baby, I left her alone. And as much as I wanted to confront her on how, because of the whole Talbert Two-Arrows episode, Billy had more than enough motive to kill her stepfather, I knew it simply wasn’t the appropriate time or place.

  Stanley was there with me. Billy Fray was nowhere in sight. No one had seen him since the night of the murder, which of course was yet more evidence against him.

  To Marigold’s left stood a man in his mid-fifties. He wore a black overcoat, pince-nez spectacles, and bore a striking resemblance to Mr Purcell, only thinner. I had to conclude that this was Herschel Purcell, Ephraim’s history professor brother from New York University, my victim’s chief executor, now arrived in Fairfield after extricating himself from his academic duties. Though not shedding any tears, the professor looked truly grief-struck.

  Behind these two stood Sidney Leach and the household staff, seven altogether, including Flora Winters, Marigold’s maid, all looking appropriately solemn. And behind these were a great many townspeople – friends, employees, probably a few enemies, and the just plainly curious.

  One mourner stood apart from the crowd, a young man, seventeen or eighteen, tall, long-limbed, in an old blue farm coat, no gloves, and a felt farm hat. He had positioned himself by the cemetery fence, and was the only one in all that large group who cried.

  He now took off his hat. He clutched it and twisted it, as if he wanted to squeeze blood from it, then held it in front of him, up to his face to wipe tears away. Why should he be the only one in this whole graveside group besides Professor Herschel Purcell who was genuinely grieving for the old man’s passing?

  I leaned toward Stanley. ‘Who’s that young man over there?’

  Stanley looked.

  After a moment’s hesitation, he said, ‘Clarence Swinford.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘Albert Swinford’s son.’

  ‘The man who told me the shot came from the back alley?’

  ‘Yes.’

  I began to smell cayenne pepper again. ‘Strange.’

  ‘I’ll say.’

  It seemed as if Stanley was starting to smell cayenne pepper too.

  ELEVEN

  The following day, clouds thickened over Fairfield, and the weather grew milder.

  Miss Gregsby and I saw patients in the morning.

  At lunch, I walked over to the Corn Mercantile Building and spoke to Mr Erwin Fletcher, the yard boss. He wasn’t particularly tall, but he was rangy in his movements, swaggering from side to side as he approached me, his arms moving as if to clutch and pick an invisible cotton crop, his toes, in cowboy boots, pointed outward.

  ‘Howdy, doc.’

  ‘Morning, Erwin.’

  After a brief discussion about the change in weather, I came to the matter at hand. ‘In your line of work, I guess you run into farm-folk of all kinds.’

  ‘That’s true, doc, I do.’

  ‘I’m just wondering how well you know the Swinfords.’

  He hesitated, then nodded. ‘They buy their livestock here. They buy their feed here. And we buy all kinds of things from them. Mrs Swinford’s preserves can’t be beat.’

  ‘What about Mr Swinford? What kind of man is he?’

  ‘I don’t think you’ll find a harder-working farmer anywhere in Genesee County.’

  ‘And his boy, Clarence?’

  ‘As hard-working as his father. And smart. He’ll be going to college next year, if everything works out.’

  ‘He was crying at Mr Purcell’s funeral. Does he know Mr Purcell?’

  Fletcher’s brow rose. ‘Not in any special way, I wouldn’t suppose. Though I believe he
worked for the man one summer at the Grand.’

  ‘Is there any connection between Mr Swinford and Mr Purcell?’

  Fletcher’s eyes narrowed and he cocked his head to one side. ‘Say, doc, Mr Swinford ain’t under suspicion for this here murder, is he?’

  For the sake of discretion, I told a white lie. ‘Of course not.’

  ‘And Clarence neither? Because they was both right up there on them bleachers when the shot went off.’

  ‘So I understand. But Clarence Swinford crying at Mr Purcell’s funeral – and he was the only one – needs looking into.’

  Fletcher thought about it and finally shrugged. ‘As I say, I can’t help you there. But I was thinking about the murder just last night and there’s something you might want to know about it.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘You may have noticed how Isaac Jensen has a big going-out-of-business sign in his hat shop window across the street.’

  ‘I have.’

  Fletcher paused, as if he felt he had to give me a moment to appreciate and prepare myself for the gravity of what he was about to say. ‘It’s Ephraim Purcell who’s driving him out of business.’ The yard boss now seemed keen on proving his worth as a top-flight supplier of town information and gossip. ‘He and Purcell go way back. All the way back to business school in New York City, as a matter of fact. If anybody has a bone to pick with Mr Purcell, Isaac Jensen does.’

  My brow rose – a new lead after all, just not the Swinford one I had been hoping for. ‘And how is Mr Purcell driving Mr Jensen out of business?’

  ‘The usual way. By undercutting him. Taking a loss to drive him under. Heard it from Rufus Hankins.’

  ‘Rufus Hankins?’

  ‘The bar-keep at the Grand Hotel.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Who heard it from Eugene Lapinance.’

  I nodded, catching on. ‘The hotel manager?’

  Fletcher gave his own nod. ‘And I guess Eugene got it straight from Mr Purcell.’ Mr Fletcher offered explanation. ‘Eugene and Mr Purcell are thick.’

  ‘I see. And Mr Purcell was driving Jensen under any way he could?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I take it you refer to the hat sales the New York Emporium is constantly having?’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘Why do you suppose Mr Purcell wants to drive Mr Jensen out of business?’

  Fletcher thought about it. ‘Purcell and Jensen were good friends at one time. Now they ain’t. Eugene says a woman drove them apart.’

  ‘A woman?’

  Fletcher nodded. ‘Mr Purcell has always been partial to the ladies. And I guess to this one lady in particular.’

  ‘I see. Any idea which lady it was?’

  ‘Can’t say as I do. Some lady they knew back in their business-school days together in New York, after they came home from the war.’

  I thanked Mr Fletcher for his information, exited the Corn Mercantile Building, and stood on its front steps to survey the Jensen Hat Shop across the street, my curiosity piqued, my investigational appetite whetted.

  Of wood-frame construction, the shop had a pretty façade, pink and green, such as its primarily female customers might like, was three stories tall, and was fenestrated with two windows on the second floor and two on the top. I studied these upper windows. Any of them would have made a perfect perch for a rifleman.

  I tried to remember what I knew about the Jensen family. Because they were patients of Dr Olaf Thorensen, the town’s other doctor, I had never had much occasion to converse with them. The little information I did have came from Jensen’s older sister, a spinster, Belva Jensen, my own patient. And all I could recall her telling me was that she liked to spoil her eight-year-old nephew, Alvin, every chance she got.

  I moseyed over to find out what I could.

  Inside, two young shop girls, presided over by another more matronly woman I recognized as Tilda Jensen, Mr Jensen’s wife, stood behind the counter. The two young ladies, if the resemblance was any indication, were Mrs Jensen’s daughters. Sitting in the back doorway playing with a toy horse was a much younger member of the family, the eight-year-old son, Alvin, a delicate and intelligent-looking tow-headed boy.

  The shop was crowded, mostly with women. The going-out-of-business sign in the front window was having its desired effect, that of drumming up custom.

  When Mrs Jensen saw me, her face became welcoming and pleasant. ‘Dr Deacon, so nice to see you. Belva was in here just the other day telling me the wonders you’ve done for her bunions.’

  ‘Good day, Mrs Jensen. Yes, her bunions. The special shoes are helping.’ I pointed with curiosity to the sign in the front window. ‘You’re going out of business?’

  Her smile lessened. ‘Alas, Dr Deacon, yes. We must fish in other waters now.’

  ‘That’s a shame. I’m told you’ve been a fixture on Tonawanda Road for many years.’

  ‘We have. But we now have high expectations for a new business opportunity in Elmira. We’re hoping customers there will recognize craftsmanship and quality, and will choose to buy their headgear not because of price, such as at the New York Emporium, but because of style and durability.’

  ‘Yes, yes, it seems Mr Purcell has a hat sale every week, doesn’t he?’

  Her expression darkened. ‘He buys his hats by the gross in Philadelphia and sells them at a loss. I hardly understand his business methods but he sure has made life unpleasant for the Jensen family.’

  I glanced to the back of the shop. ‘Is Mr Jensen about? I thought I’d say hello and wish him well.’

  ‘As a matter of fact, Mr Jensen is at present in Elmira looking at suitable properties. If things go well, we will be removing ourselves from Fairfield in the opening days of the New Year. I’ll be sad to leave our comfortable home here, and to pull the children out of school, but I’m sure we’ll land on our feet.’

  ‘And will Mr Jensen be coming back to Fairfield before the move?’

  ‘He’ll be back in a few days.’

  I paused, then motioned at the street. ‘You of course know of the tragic events of last Saturday evening?’

  She grew animated. ‘Oh, yes, doctor. It’s given us all a scare. I don’t think I shall rest easy till you and Sheriff Armstrong catch the culprit. Imagine! And Fairfield such a respectable town.’

  ‘Did anybody in the family see anything? I understand Deputy Putsey spoke to you.’

  ‘No. The girls and I were by the fire in the back and Alvin was asleep. My husband was in his study with the blinds drawn.’

  ‘And did you hear one shot or two?’

  ‘Two shots, doctor. Distinctly two.’

  I shook my head. ‘It’s such a sad business. I’m sorry to disturb you with it. I’ve actually come on a much happier mission. I would like to buy a hat.’

  ‘For yourself, doctor?’

  ‘No.’ I glanced around at the various samples on the shelves, then turned back to Mrs Jensen. ‘For Miss Wade. Can you help me choose something that might make her blonde person radiant?’

  Mrs Jensen helped me pick out a hat, a Jean Nedra design from Paris, a shimmering specimen, blue brushed velvet, fabulous ribbons, a velvet neck strap, exquisite net detailing, and a lovely red flower made of an ingenious textile. Mrs Jensen boxed my purchase, gift-wrapped it, and away I went, hoping to prove to Miss Wade that my attention was in fact undivided.

  Evidence mounted against Isaac Jensen the next day when Lonnie Moses, the Oak Room butler at the Welland Street Club, came to my surgery with some incriminating information about the hatter. Mr Moses was a negro gentleman of some advanced years, from the South, like me, wearing a dark suit and vest.

  He behaved in an anxious manner.

  ‘Dr Deacon, it’s a dangerous thing for a negro like myself to go accusing a white man, but my conscience can’t take it no more, so I decided I had to come and talk to you about it.’

  ‘You can count on my discretion, Mr Moses.’

  He nodded deferential
ly, then looked around the room as if he wasn’t used to being in a white man’s parlor, gripping the brim of his old-fashioned top-hat and turning it again and again like a steering wheel. ‘The night Mr Purcell was killed, I was serving Mr Jensen in the Oak Room. He was sitting by himself. I was serving him drink after drink, and I was getting scared.’

  ‘Why were you getting scared, Mr Moses?’

  A crease came to his brow. ‘I was afraid because he was stewing about something. The other gents in the room sensed it, too. None of them would sit with him. Even when he asked them to come over, they refused. So finally he asked me to sit with him.’ Lonnie shook his head as great dismay settled in his eyes. ‘A coloured man generally don’t sit with a white man, Dr Deacon. As Southerners, you and I both know that.’

  ‘But this is the North.’

  He objected by raising an index finger. ‘It ain’t so far North it ain’t part South.’

  I conceded the point. ‘I suppose Jim Crow finds his friends in New York State as well.’

  He stopped turning his hat and shook his head woefully. ‘Mr Jensen started yelling at me, Dr Deacon. Right there in the club. In front of all those other gentlemen.’

  ‘It must have been embarrassing to you, Mr Moses.’

  ‘I don’t like it when a white man starts yelling at me. It generally means trouble.’

  ‘He put you in an awkward position.’

  ‘I couldn’t sit with him. He knew I couldn’t. I been around a while. I know what’s good for me. I says to him, “Mr Jensen, I can’t sit with you. It ain’t right.’”

  ‘And I take it this made him angry?’

  ‘He was as riled up as a bear in a bear trap. So I poured him a drink, and then I poured him another, and I said to him, “Mr Jensen, why don’t I stand next to you instead. It ain’t proper for coloured folk to sit with white folk, you know it ain’t. I’ll stand here, and you say your say, and I’ll be more than happy to listen. Last thing we want is to get these other club members all mad at me for sitting with you.” After that, he just stared awhile. Then he says, “Lonnie, if you got to stand, you got to stand.” So that’s what I did. Just stood there with my silver tray under my arm hoping none of the other gents would need me any time soon. But all the other gents are glancing at me, like I didn’t have no right to even stand next to Mr Jensen. Just as I’m feeling like a long-tailed cat in a room full of rockin’ chairs, Mr Jensen starts talking to me about Mr Purcell.’