The Killing Look Page 23

  Well, it looked like Cade was that fool.

  Samuel had disappeared into the stable. Cade slipped out of the house and through the still unmended hole in the hedge the false Chinese had cut. With a glance toward the house, he entered the stable. He saw Samuel, standing before one of the stalls, patting one of the horses on the muzzle as he affixed a feed bag.

  “Hey, partner,” he called out softly.

  ***

  Samuel was so startled, he almost dropped the feed bag. “Cade,” he said, “what the hell are you doing here? I thought you were in jail.”

  “Seems I have friends in high places,” Cade said. He turned and looked out of the stable door, checking for the Pinkertons’ return. “I’ve come to get Marjorie out of here.”

  Samuel rubbed his chin. “Really?” He shook his head. “I mean, I could tell you had it bad for her, Cade, but—”

  “Listen to me,” Cade said urgently. “That attack by the Chinese? The one where they were supposed to kidnap Marjorie…Mrs. Hamrick?”

  Samuel grimaced. “I don’t think I’ll ever forget that, Cade.”

  “Well, that wasn’t the goddamn Chinese. It was set up by Hamrick’s lawyer.” Cade explained what he’d learned from Mei and how she’d identified Tremblay as the man trying to blame the kidnapping and eventual tragic death of Marjorie Hamrick and her daughter on the Chinese. When he was done, Samuel was shaking his head in disgust.

  “White sons of bitches.” He looked at Cade. “No offense.”

  “None taken.”

  “The little girl, too?”

  Cade nodded grimly. “She’s not really Hamrick’s daughter.”

  “Still.” Samuel snuck a look out the carriage house door toward the house. “So, what’s the play?”

  “You in?”

  Samuel nodded. “I never liked this damn job anyway.”

  “You think you can get Bridget on board?”

  Samuel frowned. “I don’t know. She’s not that fond of Missus, but she loves that little girl like it’s her own. And she’s got no reason to love these damn Pinkertons.”

  “Okay. You’ll need to talk to her. Where’s Hamrick?”

  Samuel shrugged. “Inside. In his office.”

  “Okay.” Cade explained what he had planned. When he was done, Samuel was smiling. “I definitely think Bridget will go for that.”

  “Okay, then.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

  The two Pinkerton men had finished their luncheon and were back making their rounds. Samuel sat at the table, eating his own meal and speaking to Bridget in a low voice.

  “That bastard,” she hissed when he was done. “And now he’s trying to pack Missus off to the madhouse.” She gritted her teeth in rage. “And God alone knows what’s to become of that sweet little girl.”

  Samuel nodded. “So. You in?”

  Bridget nodded. “Oh, aye. I’m lookin’ forward to this like Christmas.”

  ***

  Renfrew Boyle paced up and down in the narrow strip of grass in front of the mansion, rifle at the ready, his eyes on the street. He was bored, and full from the lunch the Irish cook had fixed for him, and what he really wanted to do was lie down under one of the trees on this street, pull his hat down over his eyes, and take a nap. Or better yet, have a quick roll in the hay inside this nice house with the red-haired cook, then a nap. Bridget, was it? No matter. She was a little skinny for his taste, but he’d liked the cowed look in her eyes when he’d smacked her. It was always better for him when they were at least a little afraid.

  He sighed. This daydreaming was useless. Being found off his post would cost him his job, and he needed the work. He looked back at the house, wondering exactly what it is he was supposed to be guarding. As he regarded the front door, it swung open. Bridget was standing there, beckoning to him. He looked around, then mounted the steep steps.

  “Mr. Boyle,” the girl said, her eyes downcast, “I was wonderin’ if you could help me with somethin’.”

  Boyle grinned. “And what would that be, darling?”

  She giggled at the endearment. “I think there’s a broken slat under me bed. Can you help me fix it?”

  Boyle’s prick stood to attention at the unmistakable invitation. He licked his lips and looked around again. The street was quiet. No one would notice if he took time for a quick poke. The head of the detail, Sears, was walking sentry out back, and hell, he’d understand, one man to another. Maybe he’d even share the little redhead. She seemed to like things rough. Why else would she extend such a blatant invitation after the wallop he’d given her? “Lead on, honey.”

  He followed her down the hallway, to a door next to the kitchen. She opened the door with a wink back at him.

  The room was tiny, with a battered dresser, table, and washbasin the only furniture other than the bed. The bed was the only thing that interested him. She was leaning over, her hands on the mattress. “It’s right here,” she said, with a slight back and forth swaying of her backside.

  “You don’t have to ask me twice.” He leaned his rifle against the wall and advanced, ready to lift that skirt, grab her by the hips, and go to town. But he’d only taken a step when she whirled around, an entirely different expression on her face, a short-barreled carriage gun she’d pulled from beneath the blanket in her hands.

  “Then I won’t have to tell ya twice to get on yer knees, ya feckin’ prick.”

  Boyle’s mouth opened and closed like a landed fish. This wasn’t the way things were supposed to go at all. He briefly considered making a grab for the gun, but the blazing fury in her eyes told him she wouldn’t just pull those double triggers and spread his brains across the walls of the narrow room, she’d enjoy it. He sank slowly to his knees.

  She nodded, an expression of grim satisfaction on her face. “Good lad. Now turn around. Face the door.”

  Still numb with shock, he shuffled on his knees in the small space. He caught sight of the rifle propped against the far wall. He was calculating his chances of leaping to reach it when he heard her voice again.

  “Now, little man, tell me again how yer goin’ to give me another smack.”

  He opened his mouth to answer, but before he could, an incredible pain exploded in the back of his head and everything turned black.

  ***

  Bridget stood over the unconscious Pinkerton man. “What’s the matter, stud?” she taunted, “Cat got yer tongue?”

  She’d nearly pulled the trigger on him. It was what he deserved after laying his hands on her, but she knew she’d swing for it. A poor girl never had any chance with the law, in her experience, so she’d had to satisfy herself with clouting him on the head. She bent over to make sure he was still breathing, then took a length of clothesline from beneath her bed and bound him tightly, hand and foot. She straightened up when she was done and regarded her handiwork. “Pinkertons,” she scoffed. “Not much, from where I stand.” Satisfied he wasn’t going anywhere any time soon, she picked up the rifle he’d propped against the wall and put her ear to the door. She heard no footsteps in the hall, so she quietly slipped out. She made her way to the stairway, casting a glance at the library door. Mister had been in there all day, working on who knows what. Hopefully, he’d stay there. Moving as quietly as she could, she headed up the stairs to Violet’s room.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

  It was a cool day, but Sears was starting to sweat in his woolen suit. The heavy meal he’d had wasn’t helping. He considered taking off his coat, at least, but he had a feeling it wasn’t something Mr. Pinkerton would approve of. He had never met the great man personally, but he knew that the professionalism of his operatives was something in which he set great store.

  It was bad enough he was saddled with Boyle as a partner. The man was crude and slovenly in his habits, and Sears had had to reprimand him already for spending more time ogling the lady of the house and the skinny Irish cook than he gave to his duties. He left t
he coat on, bearing the discomfort with a rapidly growing irritability.

  He noticed the black servant whose name he couldn’t remember headed to the barn. “You there,” he called out. “Boy.”

  The black man stopped and turned around, a dull and blank expression on his face.

  “Where are you going?” Sears called out.

  The servant ducked his head. “Stable, suh.”

  “I can see that!” the Pinkerton man snapped. He wondered if the black was simpleminded. “On what business? You already fed them.”

  The head stayed down. “Mendin’ tack, suh.”

  “Fine,” Sears growled. In truth, he didn’t really care, he was just bored. “Go on, then.”

  “Yassuh.” He turned and shuffled into the stable. Sears resumed his pacing.

  In a moment, the black man came rushing out, eyes so wide Sears could see the whites. “Suh!” he whispered. “Suh! Come quick!”

  Sears frowned. Something had disturbed the man. He hurried over. “What is it, boy?”

  The black cast an eye back over his shoulder at the open door of the stable. “Someone’s in there, suh! In the hay loft.”

  “What?” Sears looked at him skeptically. “Who would be in there?”

  “I dunno, suh, but he’s up there.”

  “Wait here.” Sears raised the rifle and advanced into the stable, eyes and ears straining. He stopped just inside the door, allowing his eyes to accustom themselves to the dimness. He could smell hay, horse, leather, and the rich aroma of manure. The bulk of a black carriage loomed on his right side. A line of three stalls ran along the building, and he could sense rather than see the horses inside. At the end of the corridor was a ladder that led up to the hayloft. He leaned forward, straining his eyes in the weak light. He thought he could see something or someone moving in the darkness. “You!” he barked. “Who goes there?”

  There was no answer. Sears brought the rifle to his shoulder and advanced down the hallway. A horse whickered and stamped in its stall, disturbed by the unfamiliar intruder. Sears’ attention flickered that way for a second, then he kept going. “Come down!” he ordered. “Or I’ll shoot.”

  He heard a click behind him, then felt the press of cold metal against the back of his neck. “Drop the rifle.”

  He started to turn. The metal pressed harder. “I said drop it, motherfucker.”

  He was stunned to recognize the voice as that of the black servant. All the earlier dullness and subservience was gone. “Nigger,” Sears said, “what the fuck are you playing at?”

  There was a rustle from the hayloft. A man Sears hadn’t seen leaped down, holding a short-barreled shotgun in his hands. “I wouldn’t call him that again, if I was you. He gets a little testy about it.” The voice turned hard. “Drop the fucking rifle.”

  The rifle clattered to the ground. Sears looked at the man with pure hatred in his eyes. “So you’re the one we’re supposed to be keeping away from the house.”

  The man nodded. “Not doin’ that crackin’ a job, are you?” He looked over Sears’ shoulder at the black man who’d gotten the drop on him. “Mr. Clayborne, would you be so kind as to tie this fella up?”

  The voice was cool and sardonic. “With pleasure, Mr. Cade.”

  “No,” Sears said.

  Cade raised an eyebrow and the coach gun at the same time. “No?”

  “You do it. I don’t want…him,” he jerked his head toward the black man behind him, “touching me.”

  “Well, I’m powerful sorry, Mr. Pinkerton,” the man called Cade said, “but we’re on a bit of a tight schedule here, so we don’t have time to educate you about emancipation and the brotherhood of man. So put your hands behind your back.” Sears didn’t move. Cade raised the gun. “Do it.”

  Sears obeyed, teeth clenched, as he bore the indignity.

  “Now the ankles,” Cade said. “Have a seat.”

  When he was bound hand and foot, Sears was further humiliated to be dragged into one of the stalls. The black man led the big black gelding out as Cade propped him up against the back wall. He squatted down and looked at Sears. “Now. We need to keep you from raising a ruckus.” He took a bandanna from a back pocket. “I can gag you, or I can knock you senseless. The second one might look better to your employer, but it’s likely to give you a headache. All that said, I really don’t give a damn. So what’ll you have, Mr. Pinkerton?”

  Sears closed his eyes. He could hear the sound of the carriage being moved out to the yard and the whinny of a horse. He swallowed. The thought of being knocked unconscious frightened him. He didn’t want the risk of a busted skull. But maybe that way, he could explain that he’d been bushwhacked. Overcome by numbers. He wouldn’t have to admit that a damned darkie had gotten the drop on him. He’d never work again if that got out, and he’d sure as hell never live it down.

  “Knock me out,” he said.

  ***

  Samuel had one of the horses in harness and was getting the second one situated when Cade came out of the stable. He was holding the coach gun and the Pinkerton man’s rifle, which he set in the back of the carriage. “Be ready to go,” he said. “You remember where?”

  Samuel nodded. “Gold Wharf. Like before.”

  “Ask for Captain Alton.”

  Samuel turned from his work and looked at Cade. “You’re not coming?”

  “Yeah. Yeah. Of course. But, you know, if something happens.”

  Samuel turned back to hitching the other horse. “Nothing’s going to happen, Cade. Now go. And hurry up.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

  Hamrick entered the room, looking down at his wife sprawled limp on the floor. “Poor sweet dear,” he said with ironic sweetness. “Poor mad Marjorie.” Grunting with the effort, he hoisted her up onto the bed and laid her out. Reaching into his waistcoat pocket, he pulled out the vial of Harrison’s Elixir. It was a common patent medicine, available at any druggist’s, principally made of opium combined with wine and recommended for “female troubles.” He had to laugh at that. He was certainly clearing up his own female trouble. He reached down, raised her head up slightly, and pulled the cork from the bottle with his teeth. “Drink up, dear,” he whispered and put the bottle to her slack lips. He was about to tip it up and pour the fatal dose down his wife’s throat when the heard the pounding of feet on the back steps, then a familiar voice from below. With a muttered curse, he stepped back. Cade was here. He had no doubt the saddle tramp was coming for his wife. And he’d be armed. Hamrick’s gun was in his own bedchamber. He slipped down the hall as silently as he could to fetch it.

  ***

  Cade took the servant’s stairs two at a time, his need to see Marjorie overriding any consideration he might have for stealth. “Marjorie!” he called out. Then again, louder, “MARJORIE!”

  There was no answer. His heart pounding, he drew the Navy revolver.

  He reached the second-floor landing, then headed up to the third floor to where he thought the bedroom was. At the top of the stairs, the way was blocked by a wooden door. He tried the knob. Locked. He pointed the pistol at the lock, then hesitated. If he fired blindly through the door, he didn’t know who he might hit on the other side. He reared back and kicked the door hard with his booted foot. The narrow stairwell and the steepness of the stairway made for a difficult angle. The door shivered in its frame, but held fast. He tried another kick, with identical results. With the third kick, the door gave way and he entered the room.

  Marjorie lay on the four-poster bed on one side, her face as pale as the sheets on which she lay. Her eyes were shut. Cade couldn’t tell for a moment if she was breathing. Then he saw her chest rise and fall, one deep breath, then stillness. Then another slow rise and fall.

  Cade sat on the edge of the bed and grasped her by one shoulder. “Margie. Honey. Come on. Wake up.” He shook her gingerly, then more firmly. “Come on, girl. We’ve got to go.” He shook her again. “We’re going to your
daddy’s boat. Sorry. Ship. To Captain Alton. Remember him? He’s got a room all ready for you. On the Marjorie Ann.” He knew he was starting to babble. He took a breath to steady himself and shook her again, this time hard enough that her head shook back and forth. “Come on. Wake up, Margie. Wake up, honey lamb.”

  There was no response. The world before Cade’s eyes began to turn red around the edges. He didn’t know what had happened, but he knew John Hamrick had something to do with it.

  He gritted his teeth and got himself under control. He had to get Marjorie out of the house, which meant getting her down three flights of stairs. The narrow servant’s stairs would make the task doubly difficult. The front stairs were the easier way, but he still didn’t know if Hamrick was in the house or where he was.

  Those questions were answered when he heard a voice behind him.

  “Step away from my wife, Cade. And put that gun down.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

  Cade turned. Hamrick was standing there in his shirtsleeves and suspenders, a pistol held in his right hand.

  Cade stood and turned toward Hamrick. He brought his own pistol up to point at the center of Hamrick’s chest. “What did you give her?”

  “I didn’t give her anything, Cade. She took an overdose of laudanum.” He smiled nastily. “In madness and remorse for her transgressions against her loving husband and family.” He raised the pistol and turned slightly, like some dime novel picture of a duelist. “But now, another story presents itself. I’ve come upon an intruder in my home. Come to ravish the poor madwoman who mistook her own selfish lusts for romance. No court in this country would convict me for killing such a man.”