The Miser of Cherry Hill Read online

  He said, ‘Don’t funerals make you sad? Like I say, he taught me a lot that summer. He knows a great deal about business, and I plan on going to business school.’

  I let it go at that.

  We found Mr Swinford a short while later. He was felling a pine tree with a broadaxe. An ox in a harness with drag chains stood nearby, ready to haul the tree back to the farmstead. Despite the cold, Swinford had removed his coat and shirt, and was bare from the waist up. For a man his age, he had a Herculean physique. He had his back to us as we approached.

  He was just lifting his axe to take another swing at the tree when he must have heard us. He stopped, turned, saw us, and lowered the axe. His breath steamed over in the cold, his face was red, and his mustache had some frost clinging to it. His bare skin steamed as well, so that I had the passing fancy he was a creature from the underworld. He made no move to greet me, or attempted anything even remotely approaching social grace, but just stood there, as uncivil and uninviting as a tombstone, looking like he was getting ready to run me off his land with his axe.

  Clarence got off Pythagoras. I followed suit.

  ‘Morning, doc,’ the farmer called at last. ‘Son, you’d best run back to the house and finish with that snow ploughing.’

  The two stared at each other for a few moments. Something passed between them, I wasn’t sure what.

  Clarence finally said, ‘Yes, pa.’

  The boy turned around and headed back.

  We watched him go.

  Then I glanced at Swinford. Here was a man with no chinks in his armour.

  He swivelled toward me with all the friendliness of a Comanche warrior on the warpath. ‘You’ve come to talk to me about Purcell. Ain’t no other reason you’d ride all this way. But I already told you all I know.’

  He lifted his axe and got ready to chop again, like we were done.

  So I used an axe of a different kind. ‘Is it true Purcell took advantage of your wife?’

  He stopped, the axe poised high above his head. After a long pause, he took a swing at the tree and lodged the axe deep into its white meat with considerable force. He dropped his hands away from the axe handle, turned to me, his face now as ruddy as a piece of smoked ham. ‘Is that why you’re here? Because of some old rumour you heard in town?’

  ‘I thought I would come to you first, Mr Swinford.’

  In a more snappish voice, he asked, ‘Come to me for what?’

  ‘To find out how you feel about Mr Purcell. And to learn how the members of the Swinford family connect to Mr Purcell.’

  ‘Ain’t no connection at all, doc. You wasted your time.’

  I tapped the badge on my coat. ‘I’ve been entrusted by the county to solve Mr Purcell’s murder.’

  ‘I’ve already cooperated with the county. I heard the shot. It came from the alley between the Grand Hotel and the Corn Mercantile Building. That’s all I got for you, doc. Do what you want with it. But I’d be careful about the rumours you hear in town. They’re usually lies. There was never anything between my wife and Purcell. Melissa and me have been married in the Lord for twenty-two years, and we’ve shown no dishonour to each other since our wedding day.’

  ‘Do you own a Henry rifle, Mr Swinford?’

  He frowned. ‘I’m a Winchester man, myself.’

  ‘Do you mind if I check the house, the barn, and the outbuildings for weapons?’

  His frown deepened, got a hacked look to it, like the tree he was chopping. In words as cold as the day, he said, ‘You’re not welcome here, doc. I’d appreciate it if you got off my land. I’ll give you five minutes. After that, I’m setting my dogs on you.’

  As I had no legal authority to stay, I nodded a brief goodbye, got back on my horse, and headed out of the woods back to the farm.

  In the farmyard, I found Clarence ploughing away. He looked at me. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t even wave.

  I continued on.

  In the kitchen window, I saw a woman peering out at me – Melissa Swinford, in an apron, a shirtwaist with puff sleeves, her hair up. When she caught sight of me, she quickly closed the curtains, as if she didn’t want me to see the tortured look in her eyes.

  Far in the forest, Swinford’s tree crashed to the ground, scaring a few grouse into the air.

  They flew away in a panic, like lost souls fleeing the gates of Hades.

  PART TWO

  An Invitation to the White House

  FOURTEEN

  Ambrose Johnstone, Purcell’s lawyer, came to the surgery for an appointment. Though ostensibly his complaint was one of an ingrown toenail, I soon came to realize he was here for more than just this small affliction, and that he had in fact come to talk to me about his client’s murder.

  He sat with his bare foot in front of me. I had my examination lamp turned against the offending toe. The nail had curved into his skin, and the epidermis was inflamed. I glanced at his shoes – expensive dongolas with an opera toe – then at the patient himself. He was in his late fifties, had a rim of argent-tinted hair around his bald pink pate, and possessed the fleshy face and generous mid-section of a man who enjoyed a fine meal more often than was good for him.

  ‘I usually see this condition in younger men, Mr Johnstone. Those who are more active on their feet.’

  He shook his head stoically. ‘I’ve been suffering with it for a while now, doc. I’ve had to take a good shot of whisky now and again to dull the pain.’ With glum consolation, he added, ‘At least I’ve got an excuse for Edna now.’

  ‘You should get rid of those fancy dongolas and wear something more sensible. Something with a London toe, perhaps. That’s your long-term solution. Short-term, you should be soaking the injury four times a day in warm water. I know you’re a busy man, but it will help. Stick a roll of cotton batting under the offending nail. This will train it to grow properly. And if you notice even the slightest sign of infection, come to me immediately.’

  ‘I will, doc.’

  I then set about treating the toenail.

  While I was doing this, he talked about the Purcell estate, and by this circuitous route, the Purcell murder.

  ‘Mr Wilfred Hurren at the Exchange Bank gave Professor Purcell and me access to the accounts this morning, and I’ve learned that more than half of Mr Purcell’s assets are owned by Marigold, and that fully sixty percent of the estate is from her mother’s side. The profits generated by those assets are supposed to be deposited in a trust fund for Marigold, available to her when she turns twenty-five. But it now appears a substantial portion of them have been funnelled into a private bank account in Switzerland. The account holder is Ephraim.’ He shook his head. ‘I hate to admit this, Clyde, but it looks as though Ephraim has been robbing his own stepdaughter. Before I came here, I drove up to Cherry Hill Road and had a word with young Miss Marigold about it. She says she’s known of the scheme for a number of years but has been too afraid to do anything. From what she tells me, she’s lived in a state of terror ever since poor Francine died. She’s been powerless to stop her stepfather’s robbery.’

  This was indeed interesting news. I sniffed the first faint scent of a new motive and a possible new suspect in my case – just because Marigold was in hospital the night it happened didn’t mean she couldn’t have been involved in Purcell’s murder. Perhaps she and Billy were in it together?

  ‘Marigold never told you anything about this before?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Has she told anybody?’

  Johnstone flinched as I snipped off a piece of nail. ‘Just her friend, Daisy Pond, and more recently, Billy Fray. They urged her to go to the sheriff, or even Judge Norris, but she was too afraid.’

  ‘What have you advised now?’

  The lawyer shrugged. ‘Her stepfather’s dead, so the point’s moot. I only raise the matter because it pertains to Ephraim’s murder. His wholesale robbery of his stepdaughter would certainly be a motive.’

  ‘I was just thinking the same thing.’


  But it turned out Johnstone was having a different train of thought in regard to motive than me.

  ‘Not that I think Marigold herself had anything to do with the crime. Heavens, no. But as Professor Purcell is understandably anxious to see someone prosecuted for the slaying of his brother, he felt it my duty to bring to your attention Billy Fray’s particularly angry reaction to Mr Purcell’s piracy of Miss Marigold’s monthly dividends. Herschel can’t help thinking Billy may have taken things into his own hands on her behalf. When you add it to everything else you have against him, it’s certainly worth looking at. Professor Purcell would be greatly obliged if you would pursue it vigorously.’

  Once again, things were mounting up against the poor young blacksmith, and the evidence might have been definitive if it hadn’t been for the growing number of suspects in my case.

  ‘Thank you, Johnstone. I’ll most definitely look into it.’

  ‘And please try not to bother Marigold too much about it. She’s terribly upset as it is, and her condition is still delicate. Yes, yes, she’s had to admit to Herschel and me what’s happened, and we know all about her pregnancy. I always thought the girl had more sense than that.’

  Munroe brought my mail to me on a tray at lunch time.

  I hadn’t received my consult note on Marigold from the doctors at Sisters of Charity yet, and with this new information about the pirated dividends Johnstone had brought me, I was now growing suspicious in regard to its tardiness. I searched for a consult note on the tray, but it still hadn’t arrived.

  Yes, it was extremely late.

  Why hadn’t it come?

  There were two possible explanations.

  Either the transcriptionists at the hospital were backed up.

  Or Marigold hadn’t gone to the hospital in the first place and had been here in town on the night her stepfather had been murdered.

  Which meant she could have had a direct hand in the crime, and not just colluded in it.

  Though no consult note from Buffalo came, I did find an envelope from the White House, the dimensions of which told me it was my annual invitation to the president’s Christmas party.

  I slit the envelope and had a look. At the end of the formal printed part of the invitation, Theodore had written a personal note. ‘I do hope you can attend, Clyde. We had such a jolly time at Sagamore Hill in August. And please bring Olive Wade. After all the belly-aching you did about her on Long Island, Edith and I feel we almost know her. And of course bring Jeremiah if he’s back from Boston at that time. Kermit would so love to see him.’

  Alas, my son wouldn’t be home from Boston until later in the month. What had me more disturbed was the president’s insistence I bring Olive Wade. How could Theodore expect me to bring Miss Wade to Pennsylvania Avenue when she wasn’t even accepting my calls at Poplar Avenue? His request seemed more daunting than his standing invitation to explore the uncharted tributaries of the Amazon after he was done being president.

  I ruminated on the problem until Munroe interrupted me a second time.

  ‘The sheriff’s come to see you, doctor.’

  I at first feared the sheriff had driven himself so hard that he had precipitated a fatiguing illness, and had come to see me as his doctor, not as his deputy.

  But it turned out there had been a development in the murder case.

  ‘Clyde, we caught Billy Fray. He was holed up in the Pleasant Hotel. Putsey and Mulroy went up the front while I went around the back.’

  I inspected my old friend. ‘And judging from your condition, Stanley, I take it he came out the back?’

  The sheriff touched a gash on his left eyebrow. ‘He put up quite a fight.’

  It appeared Stanley needed me as his doctor after all. ‘Let me clean you up and get you bandaged.’

  He dutifully followed me into the examining room.

  Once I had him sitting on the table, and was dabbing at his one-inch laceration with hydrogen peroxide, he said, ‘I do believe Billy Fray’s your man, Clyde. He wouldn’t have put up such a fight if he wasn’t. Also, we now have an eyewitness.’

  I paused in my ministrations. ‘An eyewitness? Who?’

  ‘Alvin Jensen, Isaac Jensen’s eight-year-old son. It turns out he saw Billy on the night of the murder. He was looking out his bedroom window. He says Billy was behind those garbage cans with a rifle.’

  I grew immediately suspicious. ‘Yes, but Isaac Jensen is a suspect in our case, Stanley. Now you’re telling me his eight-year-old son saw Billy Fray murder Ephraim Purcell? Jensen might be coaching his son to deflect blame. And by the way, it looks like you’re going to need a stitch or two.’

  An irritated knit came to the sheriff’s brow, making the gash bleed even more. ‘Question the boy yourself, Clyde. Isaac Jensen has him down at the Sheriff’s Office. He was looking out his bedroom window at the whole thing.’

  ‘Stanley, you know children make unreliable witnesses. The three times we had child witnesses in Cross Plains, we always had one or two jury members not willing to trust their word. Killers and horse thieves went free because of our child witnesses. Now you want to try again?’

  With some sourness, Stanley said, ‘You come over to the Sheriff’s Office and talk to him yourself, Clyde. You know Miss Wharry?’

  ‘The school teacher?’

  Stanley nodded. ‘She says Alvin’s one of the smartest grade-schoolers she’s ever taught. I’m telling you, Clyde, I’ve questioned him every which way, and his story stays the same. Not like those kids in Cross Plains. He says he saw Billy Fray in that back alley behind those trash bins on one knee with the Henry poised ready to fire while Purcell was leaving the Grand Hotel. Putsey and Mulroy questioned him independently, and got the same story. The boy knows what he saw.’

  Just like the Swinfords knew what they had heard, I thought, with some scepticism.

  ‘Stanley, you have no suspicion that Mr Jensen is putting his son up to this in order to get us looking at somebody else other than himself?’

  ‘If Alvin’s story wasn’t so consistent, I might have thought that. But come talk to him yourself. That is, after you sew up this here scratch.’

  FIFTEEN

  The child was asleep. Isaac Jensen tried to rouse the boy, but when boys that age have a mind to close their eyes, there’s little God or anybody else can do to stop them.

  ‘I’ll stop by the hat shop later,’ I told Jensen.

  ‘He’s telling the truth, doc.’ There was a pleading tone to the man’s voice. ‘My little Alvin has never told a lie in his life.’

  But Jensen seemed too desperate to convince.

  Once Jensen was gone, and because I was already in the jailhouse, I talked to Billy Fray.

  He looked as if he had been mauled by a pack of wolves – Stanley had that effect on a man when he decided to put up his dukes.

  ‘Billy,’ I said, ‘it’s looking bad for you. The evidence keeps mounting up. First off, everybody in town knows Purcell was trying to keep you away from his stepdaughter. Then there’s the matter of the baby – I heard all about Talbert Two-Arrows and the rest of it from Daisy Pond. Then there’s Mr Purcell stealing Marigold’s dividends. Then you blame Purcell for kicking you out of the smithy and for your pa’s suicide. To top it all off, you were over at the Welland Street Club on the night of the murder causing a ruckus. This was four hours after you went to the Shooters Club to pick up your Henry rifle. The next day, after the murder, you sold your Henry rifle. I find a live round of Henry ammo at the scene. You hole up in the Pleasant Hotel and hide on us. Now we’ve got little Alvin Jensen says he saw you shoot Purcell.’

  Billy was flabbergasted by all this. ‘That’s plain impossible, doc. I was nowhere near the Grand Hotel when the old man got shot.’

  I kept at him for another half hour, but he maintained his story. ‘I was at the smithy, sleeping it off. Ask that dang old butler at the club. He can tell you how drunk I was.’

  Because he insisted for the time being on bei
ng intransigent, I did what any self-respecting strategizing lawman would do – scared him by telling him he was going to fry in the electric chair if he didn’t start telling me the truth soon, then let him stew in jail for awhile.

  I decided it was finally time to talk to Marigold Reynolds, the victim’s stepdaughter, even though she might still be in a delicate state of convalescence.

  I got on Pythagoras and rode up Cherry Hill.

  Leach let me in. I told him my business, and after a wary look he said, ‘She’s by the fire in her studio. I’ll have to ask her if she’s fit for visitors. She’s still quite weak.’

  I nodded. ‘Of course, Mr Leach. But as I’m her doctor, I should examine her in any case. Think of it as a house call.’

  Leach retreated to the studio. I sat on the bench in the big front hall.

  I re-examined the full-length painting of Francine Reynolds, Marigold’s mother. The portrait was eight feet high and four feet wide, and must have cost a fortune to commission. I got up and was just inspecting the painter’s signature, James Tissot, when Leach came out and told me Marigold would see me.

  I followed the butler down the hall and soon came to Marigold’s studio, a room with three large arched French doors that faced north on to the grounds. Only the nearest had its curtains open, and through them I saw a turned-off fountain with gold cherubim and a dozen cherry trees, leafless at this time of year.

  ‘Marigold, how are you, my dear?’

  ‘You needn’t have troubled yourself with a visit, doctor. I’m feeling much better.’

  ‘And have you been taking proper nourishment?’

  ‘Yes, doctor.’

  ‘And getting plenty of rest?’

  ‘Yes, doctor. Flora has been ever so careful with me. And so has cook.’

  ‘And how are your spirits? You’ve had an awful time. And to have it followed so quickly by the murder of your stepfather.’