Holmes on the Range Page 16

  “Alright then—that’s all I needed to hear,” Old Red announced, pumping up his voice with as much confidence as he could. “Y’all have been a big help, and I thank you.”

  “So who do you think did it?” Swivel-Eye asked.

  “Yeah, tell us, Sherlock,” Anytime threw in, some of the nasty snap back in his voice. “Who killed Boudreaux?”

  “Well. . .I reckon there’s certain fellers I’d like to point my finger at,” Old Red replied, obviously choosing his words with considerable care. “But you gotta consider all the answers—even the ones you don’t like—if you’re gonna dig out the truth.”

  “Just let us know if there’s more we can do,” Swivel-Eye said.

  Old Red smiled grimly. At least one Hornet’s Nester was still solidly behind us. Then my brother noticed something over Swivel-Eye’s shoulder, and his smile faded. I followed his gaze and saw six men moving toward the corral on foot—Uly, Spider, Tall John, and three other McPherson hands.

  “There’s more you can do,” Gustav said. “But this ain’t the time. What Big Red and I gotta do now, we gotta do alone.”

  “And what exactly is it we gotta do?” I asked, my eyes on the McPhersons and their boys as they drew closer.

  My brother has a habit of answering questions with more questions and making comments that get a man scratching his head. But what he said now left no room for deep thought or confusion.

  “Run!”

  And that’s exactly what we did.

  Twenty-two

  EDWARDS

  Or, The McPhersons Stay on Our Heels While We Get on a Gentleman’s Nerves

  We didn’t bother with the gate—we just scrambled over the fence and took off in a sprint the second our feet hit the ground. Of course, I knew what we were running from, but I quickly realized I had no idea where we were running to. Old Red supplied an answer by making a beeline for the castle.

  We didn’t make it. When we were still a good twenty feet from the porch, the front door opened, and out stepped Edwards, his bulky frame wrapped in one of his heavy tweed outfits.

  “I would have a word with you!” he said when he saw us.

  I was of a mind to keep on running. But Gustav skidded to a stop, so I did, too. As Edwards came down the steps toward us, I peeked over my shoulder at the McPhersons’ little lynch mob. They were outside the corral, talking to the Hornet’s Nest boys and throwing glares our way.

  “You’re still pursuing this ‘investigation’ of yours?” Edwards asked. He was moving slowly, obviously still hurting from his ride the day before. In fact, he appeared to be so weak that the small, covered basket he carried with him was enough to pull him off-balance, giving him the slightly tilted gait of a rummy stumbling from one saloon to the next.

  “Yes, sir—still pursuin’,” Old Red said. “In fact, I think you’ll soon be out two hundred of them pounds.”

  My brother gave Edwards the kind of salty, ribbing grin that comes more naturally to men like Anytime.

  “You have a theory, then?” Edwards asked. “A notion as to which man is responsible?”

  Old Red nodded, still doing his best to look smug. “I do.”

  Edwards waited a moment, obviously expecting more.

  “Well?” he said.

  “Well what?”

  “What’s your explanation? Whom do you suspect?”

  “Oh, I shouldn’t say just yet. But be patient. You’ll hear my conclusions soon enough.”

  It was plain Edwards didn’t like hearing “just be patient” from a social inferior. His face, already pink as watermelon pulp from hours in the sun to which a man of his station isn’t accustomed, burned even redder.

  “You refuse to tell me?”

  “ ‘I follow my own methods and tell as much or as little as I choose,’ ” Old Red said, quoting you-know-who. “ ‘That is the advantage of being unofficial.’ ”

  For a second, I wondered if Edwards was going to heft up that basket of his and bring it down on my brother’s head. He settled for a dismissive sneer.

  “Be obstinate if you wish. It doesn’t matter to me anymore. For your information, I’ve withdrawn my wager.”

  Old Red’s put-on cockiness almost gave way to genuine surprise, but he managed to keep a smile on his face.

  “Backed out, did you? I suppose I oughta look upon that as quite a compliment.”

  “You shouldn’t. My decision had nothing to do with your chances for success—though my opinion on that subject hasn’t changed.”

  “Well, your opinion on somethin’ must’ve changed.”

  “Yes, well,” Edwards huffed. “It’s simply that upon further reflection I realized that this whole charade is in the most abominable taste. A man is dead. He may have been some sort of a Negro grotesquerie, but that doesn’t turn his death into a proper subject for sport.”

  “So it’s a matter of principle, huh?” Gustav replied. “Well, I commend you on that, Mr. Edwards. You’re absolutely correct. Any death should be treated with all due seriousness. Which is why I know you won’t mind answerin’ a few questions.”

  “You wish to question me?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  I was almost as surprised as Edwards to hear that Gustav wanted to drag this conversation out further. We had places to go and people to get the hell away from. I took another look over my shoulder and saw the McPhersons and their crew looking right back at me from the corral.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Edwards said. “What could I possibly know about this tawdry affair?”

  “Just give me a minute, and we’ll find out.”

  Edwards looked at my brother like he was a mosquito who’d just told him to drop his drawers and bend over.

  “You took back your bet, but the Duke didn’t,” Old Red said before Edwards could spit out a firm no. “He still expects to collect two hundred pounds when this business is done. I’m sure he’d be mighty disappointed if Mr. Brackwell had cause to not pay up. . .like, say, because certain people didn’t give me all the information I needed to—”

  “What do you want to know?” Edwards cut in sharply.

  Old Red stared back at him as if the man had told him a great deal already.

  “Well,” my brother said, “first off, I’m wonderin’ if you heard or saw anything out of the ordinary last night.”

  Edwards nodded so impatiently his pince-nez went crooked. “Yes, yes. I was awakened by a noise—a sort of thud.”

  “A thud? Not a pop?”

  “A thud. I didn’t know it was a gunshot, of course. It could’ve been someone slamming a door or dropping a book for all I knew.”

  “Did it sound close by or far off?”

  “I couldn’t say. You Westerners may be accustomed to the constant sound of gunfire, but I’m not, so I have little basis for comparison.”

  “What time was it you heard this ‘thud’?”

  I pricked up my ears, hoping Edwards might help us pin down exactly when the shot that killed Boo was fired: around one o’clock, as Emily said, or closer to dawn, as Anytime and Swivel-Eye claimed. Unfortunately, Edwards couldn’t—or wouldn’t—help us out.

  “I have no idea,” he said. “I was asleep again within moments.”

  “You didn’t get up to have a look-see?” Old Red asked.

  “I saw no reason to”—Edwards took on the appearance of a man trying to swallow paint—” ‘have a look-see.’ ”

  “And I suppose you weren’t feelin’ your most spry just then.”

  “No, I wasn’t.”

  “That ride yesterday really took it out of you.”

  “Yes, it did.”

  “But today you’re feelin’ better.”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “You ain’t sufferin’ from the same malady as young Brackwell?”

  “I should say not. I know how to handle my drink.”

  “And the boy don’t, huh?”

  “Lady Clara is overindulgent with the young man. His Grace wished to
toast. . .our satisfaction with the Cantlemere. The lady encouraged Brackwell to join in with excessive enthusiasm.”

  “Got him drunk, did she?”

  “Yes,” Edwards hissed through gritted teeth.

  “Just how far back do you go with the Duke and his family?”

  “I’ve known the St. Simons for three years and have been an investor in the Cantlemere for two,” Edwards said. “Are you finished? It seems to me you’ve strayed from any pertinent line of inquiry.”

  “Oh, have I?” Old Red said, blinking with wide-eyed innocence. “I beg your pardon. How about this: Your room’s on the second floor, ain’t it? Next to the Duke’s room?”

  “Our rooms are separated by a linen closet.”

  “Right, right. Well, have you heard any prowlin’ about at night while you been here?”

  “What do you mean ‘prowling about’?”

  “Footsteps, whispers, doors openin’ and closin’ at odd hours—that kind of thing.”

  “No,” Edwards said, a strange, wary quality creeping into the disdain he’d been beaming at my brother the past few minutes. “And I don’t see how that’s any more relevant than your other questions.”

  “Well, like I said when we were all lookin’ at the body earlier—the man was wearin’ spurs. My guess is he aimed to clear out. Now if he was gonna do that, wouldn’t it make sense for him to snag a few valuables to hock in town? And where were the real valuables around here? In the house.”

  “Oh. Yes,” Edwards said, his irritation fading into some deeper, murkier emotion. “I see what you mean.”

  And then he did something that put a shiver down my spine faster than a blue norther: He smiled.

  “Perhaps we got off on the wrong foot. I’m sure I seem quite the frightful prig to bluff fellows like yourselves.” Edwards was attempting a jocular tone he couldn’t quite pull off when using phrases like “quite the frightful prig.”

  “Keeping up appearances, that’s all. It’s what one has to do around . . .” He nodded back toward the castle, rolling his eyes and making a face halfway between a grimace and a grin. “You know.”

  “Sure.”

  “Oh, yeah, sure,” I said, following my brother’s lead. “We understand.”

  “Of course you do. Just like I understand what it must be like for you. The hard work, the monotony. And then along comes a chance for a break from the routine, a little excitement, and you grab it. Who wouldn’t?”

  Gustav shrugged. Neutral as the gesture was, Edwards seemed encouraged to continue.

  “But you know, you’re not going to accomplish anything mucking about in people’s affairs, except perhaps annoying your employers—never a wise thing to do. The Duke’s not a man to trifle with, I assure you. So just to show that I’m not a stuffed shirt, I’m going to help you. I can go inside and lay hands on a bottle of wine or Scotch—even real English gin. Whatever you want. I’ll bring that out, and you can go ‘investigate’ it someplace private. I daresay that would be a better use of your time than asking a lot of silly questions. What do you think, hmmm?”

  Edwards’s words had taken on a strangely twangy quality, and he was almost finished before I realized what he was trying to do—speak like us. His accent wasn’t very convincing. His offer wasn’t, either.

  “I don’t drink when I’m on a case,” Gustav said. His right eye twitched ever so slightly, throwing out a wink so quick only a brother could catch it.

  “You’re a fool,” Edwards snapped back, his voice reverting to its normal haughty tone. And with that he stepped around us and limped off toward the corral with as much speed as his aching muscles could manage.

  “Mr. Edwards!” Gustav called after him. “Just one more thing!”

  Edwards turned stiffly.

  Old Red pointed at the basket dangling from the man’s right hand. “Are you goin’ on a picnic?”

  Edwards’s only response was to point himself back toward the corral and hobble off again. Once he reached the McPhersons, a quick conference followed, and a couple of Uly’s men sprinted off to the barn where the wagons and buggies were kept. Edwards shuffled after them.

  “I think he is goin’ on a picnic,” Gustav muttered.

  I nodded. “Peculiar.”

  My brother raised an eyebrow. “Suspicious.”

  We’d been standing there staring at the McPhersons, and now they suddenly turned to stare at us. And they did more than stare, too—they headed for us again.

  All the turning tail we’d been doing that morning was beginning to wear on my nerves. Yet I figured standing our ground might be even harder on my hide.

  “Inside?” I asked my brother.

  “Inside.”

  We hustled up the steps and into the foyer, the noise of our hurried entrance drawing Emily out of the dining room to gape at us. Then the door behind us opened again, and she had even more to gape at.

  Uly and Spider were coming in after us.

  Twenty-three

  DE OOTHOOSE END DE DOOBLE-OO KAY

  Or, Gustav and the Swede Talk . . . and Neither One Makes Much Sense

  Old Red didn’t wait for the McPhersons to rope us like a couple of steers. He started toward Emily, and I followed.

  “Fetch His Grace—quick,” my brother barked at the startled maid as we swept past. “Mr. McPherson has important news!”

  “Don’t you—” Uly began, but Emily was already scurrying away. From behind us came the sound of quick footsteps and the opening of a door—undoubtedly the one to Perkins’s office—and then the Duke’s booming voice.

  “What now, McPherson?”

  “Well, sir. . . uhhhh. . .you see. . .,” Uly stammered as we hurried up the hallway.

  We found the Swede rolling dough in the kitchen.

  “Oh, boyce!” the old fellow moaned, looking miserable. “Peer-kens dead, Boo-de-row dead. Aront here iss getting planty bed, hey?”

  The Swede’s accent was molasses-thick even under the best of circumstances, but now it was as if someone had left the jug outside on a cold day. I was still trying to strain some meaning from the syrup when Gustav replied.

  “Plenty bad indeed. Got a minute to talk about it?”

  “I ken be speaking mit yew boyce unteel dat leetle kronjon Eem-ily iss returning.”

  Fortunately, the Swede nodded as he spoke, which cut out the need for a word-for-word translation.

  “So tell me—did you notice anything out of the ordinary last night or this mornin’?” Old Red asked.

  The Swede nodded again. “Dere iss in de hoose downstairce a dooble-oo kay, but Eem-ily says it iss too much in de murning mit de noice. Not for herself, you know, but for the . . .” The Swede crooked a thumb at the ceiling—and the bedrooms above it. “So I em going always to de oothoose when I am to be making with the plop, yes? End I—

  “Wait, wait, wait,” Gustav said. “A ‘doo bell oo kay’?”

  “Yes, a dooble-oo kay.”

  Just to show how profoundly befuddled my brother was, he actually turned to me for help.

  “Oh, come now, Gustav. Don’t tell me you don’t know what a ‘dooble-oo kay’ is,” I said. “Why, every modern home’s got one.”

  “So what is it?”

  I shrugged. “Damned if I know.”

  Old Red turned back to the Swede with a snort of disgust.

  “Dooble-oo kay,” the Swede repeated, making symbols in the air with his fluttery, flour-covered hands.

  The symbols couldn’t mean anything to my brother: They were letters, which left the deciphering to me.

  “WC—water closet.”

  “Oh,” Gustav said, looking chagrined.

  “Well, that sure was a good use of time,” I said. “At this rate, it shouldn’t take more than a month to find out what the Swede had for breakfast. If you’d like, I could go ask Uly and Spider to wait to kill us until we’ve—”

  “So,” my brother said to the Swede, “you went to the outhouse early this mornin’.”


  The Swede nodded, and I noticed Old Red’s eyes narrow just the slightest bit. Anytime wasn’t lying, he was no doubt thinking.

  “Boot someone iss to it before me,” the Swede said. “It iss still dark mostly, so I em not seeing who. But ass I come closer to de hoose I voot-stops end maybe voices em hearing. End den slak! De door is shut slammed.”

  “You heard movement by the outhouse?”

  “Vootstops, yes.”

  “And voices?”

  “I tink maybe.”

  “And then the door slammed?”

  “Yes. Slak!”

  “Slak?”

  “Slak!”

  “And after the slak?”

  “I em knowing Eem-ily eef I em too early de dooble-oo kay using iss complaining, yes? So I em knocking on de oothoose door end I em saying, ‘Hallo! Will you soon be done?’ ”

  “And. . .?”

  “End nothing. I em getting no answer.”

  “Had you tried the door?”

  “Yes. It wass locked.”

  “And this was about what time?”

  “Four thirty maybe, I tink.”

  “Four thirty,” Gustav repeated.

  He pointed a cocked eyebrow at me for the briefest flash of a moment. It looked like the Swede was backing up Anytime and Swivel-Eye’s version of events: The gunshot was fired just before dawn, not just after midnight. Before I could sink my teeth into that for a thoughtful chew, Old Red was pressing on.

  “And then what?” he asked the Swede.

  “I em no choice having. I go inside de hoose end I em de dooble-oo kay ussing. Den I get to work. Eem-ily, she tells me yesterday de Duke sausages iss wanting. Sausages! Where em I sausages getting unless my own hands I em making dem with? So dat’s what I do. I em making de fat kukhuvud hiss sausages—chopping, grinding, chopping, stuffing. End den. . . skrall!”

  “Skrall?”

  “Skrall!”

  “The gunshot.”

  “Yes. Only maybe I shouldn’t skrall! be saying. It wass more maybe of a . . .” The Swede lowered his voice and put his hand over his mouth. “Poop.”

  “A pop?”

  “Yes. A poop, not so very loud.”

  “Did you step outside to take a look?”