Marblestone Mansion, Book 6 Page 2

  Located some seventy miles south of Denver, the town was hardly what anyone would call a boomtown, having gained less than 18,000 residents in thirty years. It had one sheriff, two standby deputies, one judge, a volunteer fire department, a grand hotel that hosted many European tourists, a general store, a drugstore, various other privately owned businesses, a baseball team, and several millionaires, including Hannish MacGreagor.

  Black smoke belching from the train’s engine marked the long awaited return from Scotland of Mr. Hannish MacGreagor, his wife, Leesil, and their toddler son, Justin.

  No one was happier about that than Prescot.

  Born in America, Prescot worked as a butler for a wealthy east coast family, and then became a prizefighter, which is how he ended up in Colorado. He gave up prize fighting, took a position as butler at Marblestone Mansion, married the Scottish beauty, Millie, and became the proud father of a daughter. All in all, he was a happy man.

  Yet, being left in charge while the family was away, proved to be more of a challenge than the normally easygoing Prescot expected. He had bad news to report, and instead of letting everyone come to town, only he and Footman Dugan stood outside the station door and waited for the train to come to a stop.

  Dressed in black, Prescot hid his dark wavy hair under a tall hat, wore white gloves, and as soon as the conductor placed the steps in front of the passenger door, he offered his hand to help Leesil down.

  “Home at long last,” she announced, hugging the man she thought of more as a friend than an employee. She pretended not to notice Dugan, closed her eyes, smelled the Colorado air, and then turned up her nose as the smell of train smoke caught up. “Aye, ‘tis home all right.” Leesil grinned and rushed into Dugan’s arms.

  As soon as Hannish stepped down, Prescot took the sleeping Justin out of his father’s arms and laid him on his shoulder. “Welcome home, Sir,” he said.

  Hannish was not fooled. The lack of the whole household there to greet them was a sure sign all was not well. “What is it?” he whispered.

  Prescot didn’t have time to answer before Leesil interrupted. “I have missed all of you so.”

  The butler mischievously grinned. “Not nearly as much as we have missed our little Sassy.”

  She tipped her head to the side and let the deep dimples in her cheeks show. “I’ve not been called that in a while, but I am too exhausted to complain.” She took Dugan’s arm, let him walk her to the carriage, and then help her board. “Is everyone well?”

  “Quite well,” Dugan answered.

  “Well, then, where are they?”

  A native of Scotland, Dugan grinned, and then got out of the way so Hannish could climb in. “They are preparin’ for your return, and happily so.”

  “All of them? I confess, I am hot, tired and dirty, but I hardly need that much attention.” She slowly lowered her gaze. “Perhaps ‘tis best. We wish to visit Aunt Blanka’s grave before we see home.”

  Prescot nodded. “I thought you might.”

  With auburn hair and blue eyes, Leesil made certain her round, wide brimmed hat was on her head securely and that it offered some measure of shade from the August sun. She wore black in Blanka’s honor, which made her feel the heat that much more. “We shan’t stay long, ‘tis too hot.”

  “I agree,” said Hannish. A man with dark wavy hair and bright blue eyes, his unusual height made the stout Prescott seem small.

  “How was Scotland, Mr. Hannish?” Prescot asked as they waited for the luggage to be loaded on the back of the carriage.

  “Scotland changes little, but the people have changed a great deal. I am eager to tell you all about it.” He got in, sat beside his wife and took Justin out of Prescot’s arms.

  As soon as the luggage was secure, Prescot took a seat across from Hannish in the carriage, closed the door and nodded for Dugan to drive on. “Are Alistair and Sarah happy?”

  “Very happy, and more so now that Cathleen is content,” Leesil answered. “You were right, the servants were plaguin’ my sister, but all has been resolved.”

  “I am glad to hear it.” Prescot turned his attention to Hannish and pretended to be put out. “How could you let Egan stay in Scotland?”

  “Let him? I hardly had a choice in the matter. He fancies himself in love, and I dare say, I dinnae blame him. She’s a Scottish beauty if ever I saw one, and she is a concert pianist. They promise to come see us when she plays in New York next year.”

  Prescot tipped his head to one side. “He is in love, huh…well, I suppose you are forgiven then, although the MacGreagor quartet just became a trio.”

  Hannish chuckled. “I had not thought of that.”

  *

  While the MacGreagors and their Scottish servants were more like family, Dugan was the only one still in America who was directly related to Blanka. As they stood together at the front of the grave, Leesil put her arm around him and laid her head on his shoulder.

  It was a peaceful little cemetery at the edge of town, with tall oak mingled between picturesque evergreen trees. Family members often came to pull weeds and occasionally, a farmer brought several sheep to keep the grass from growing too tall.

  “I am so sorry we were not here to comfort you,” Leesil told Dugan.

  “You could not have known ‘twould happen,” said Dugan.

  “I know, but…”

  Dugan hugged her back and then let go. “Doc Parker assured us she dinna suffer. For that, I am grateful.”

  Leesil didn’t bother hiding her tears when she looked into his eyes. “As am I.”

  His son still asleep in his arms, Hannish wrapped his other arm around his wife and asked the very question Prescot was expecting. “What precisely happened?”

  “We do not know, precisely,” Prescot answered. “Cook Jessie was coming down to start breakfast, and found Blanka at the bottom of the back stairs. I can only guess she heard something in the night, went to see about it, and lost her footing.”

  Leesil wiped the tears off her cheeks and took a forgotten breath. “Then we might never know what happened?”

  “I suspect not,” Prescot admitted.

  “Shall we not go home now, my love?” asked Hannish. “You need your rest and I could use a spot of wine.” He waited for her nod and then walked her back to the carriage. He helped her in and was about to climb aboard, when he again noticed the familiar look in Prescot’s eyes that meant something was wrong. “Have you a bit more bad news?”

  “A bit,” Prescot confessed, “but Mrs. Whitfield put an end to it.”

  Leesil adjusted her hat again and wiped the last of her tears away. Justin was starting to wake, so she took him from Hannish and sat him in her lap. “What mischief has Abigail done this time?”

  “It was not Mrs. Whitfield, it was Moan’s daughters.”

  “I should have guessed,” said Leesil. “What mischief have the girls done this time?”

  “They got a bit out of hand after you left for Scotland.”

  “A bit…or a lot?” Hannish asked, taking a seat beside his wife.

  “Very well then, a lot. They took to chasing each other all through the house, and I fear a few things got broken.”

  Leesil caught her breath. “Pray, do not tell me they broke the vase Hannish gave me as a weddin’ present.”

  Prescot got in, sat down, and puffed his cheeks. “I am afraid so.”

  “Oh no, I loved that vase,” Leesil muttered.

  While Dugan got the team of horses headed back through town, Prescot continued, “Mrs. Whitfield was there when it happened and I tell you, I have a new found respect for her. She promptly marched the girls out to the corral.”

  “The corral?” Hannish asked.

  Prescot grinned from ear to ear. “She made them shovel manure from one side of the corral to the other, and declared they would not be let back in the house until the deed was done. Mary dared complain, so she made them move the pile right back where they got it. Since that day, the daughters of
Mr. Moan and Mrs. Elizabeth MacGreagor have been as good as gold.”

  “And their parents did not object?” Leesil asked.

  “Not at all. After nearly two weeks of doling out punishments, which the girls ignored once he had gone off to work each morning, Mr. Moan was beside himself with what to do. As soon as Mrs. Whitfield announced her plans, he asked all the servants to witness the humiliation of his three daughters, and said the girls were to draw their own baths and wash their own clothes. We were not to lift a finger, so we did not.”

  “Good for Abigail and for Cousin Moan,” said Hannish. “I was thinkin’ of helpin’ Moan build a home of his own.”

  Prescot nodded. “Mrs. Whitfield strongly suggested the same to Mr. Moan’s wife.”

  “Remind me to give Abigail an extra hug, when next we see her,” said Leesil.

  “Yet,” Prescot hesitantly added, “what do we do with all the extra help we hired to care for them?”

  Hannish thought about that. “A point well taken. Times are hard and I hate turnin’ anyone away.”

  “Perhaps if the girls are no longer a problem,” Leesil started, “we could let them stay.”

  “I say we decide later,” said Hannish. “We are both too tired to make important decisions such as that just now.”

  “Agreed,” Leesil said. She kissed her son on the cheek and then leaned against her husband’s shoulder. “Prescot, you have heard about poor Loretta Collins and her unfortunate marriage, have you not?”

  “I have. Mrs. Whitfield asked me to attend the wedding reception in case there was trouble between Mr. Swinton and Mr. Whitfield.”

  Leesil eyes widened. “Then you saw what happened? Is it true? Is Patella Green carrying Mr. Swinton’s illegitimate child?”

  Prescot hung his head. “I wished to tell you this later, but you’ll hear soon enough anyway. Miss Patella Green was found dead this morning, and the unborn child with her.”

  Leesil sat up straight and gasped. “Dead?”

  “Did Swinton kill her?” Hannish wanted to know.

  “That would be my guess,” Prescot answered, “but we wait to hear what Doc Parker has to say about it.”

  Leesil closed her eyes and slumped back against her husband’s shoulder. “Poor Loretta, she has surely married a madman.”

  “We have no proof, my love,” said Hannish, “therefore we must not accuse him unfairly. Let us wait to see what Doc Parker says.”

  “Just as we wait to see who burned the warehouse down?” Prescot asked. “The sheriff still has not solved that crime.”

  “Sheriff Thompson does the best he can, for a lad with little experience,” Hannish said. “Does Madeline still keep a close eye on Mr. Swinton in Palmer Lake?”

  “She does. I like her very much, but with the girls to keep an eye on, I send Tom to see her. She keeps her position in the café, has become friends with the new Mrs. Swinton, and Tom has become friends with Madeline. I suspect he has more than a passing interest in her. Tom seems a little too eager to go see her when I suggest it.”

  “Then ‘tis perfect,” said Hannish. “Swinton shall not suspect we spy on him if Tom fancies Madeline.”

  “I agree,” said Prescot. “By the way, Tom is there now. He rode off as soon as Mrs. Whitfield called early this morning with the news about Miss Green’s death.”

  “To see if Mr. Swinton was home last night?” Leesil asked.

  “Indeed, although Madeline may not know the answer to that question.”

  “Loretta would,” Leesil put in.

  Prescot nodded. “Unless she still relegates him to sleep elsewhere. The new Mrs. Swinton was so upset at the reception; she swore she would never let him back in her bed.”

  “All the more reason to rid himself of the pregnant Miss Green,” Hannish muttered.

  “Are you not the one who just said we should wait before we judge?” Leesil asked.

  Hannish wrinkled his brow. “Was that me? Are you quite certain?”

  “It was, and I have witnesses,” Leesil said.

  Prescot chuckled and then asked, “How do you suppose Mrs. Whitfield found out about Miss Green’s death so early in the morning?”

  Leesil rolled her eyes “She is inclined to listen in on the party line from time to time, and I’d not be surprised if she picks up the telephone before she is even out of bed.”

  “A habit Claymore tries desperately to break her of,” Hannish added. “Her husband fears somethin’ awful will come from her propensity to gossip, and both of them will deeply regret it. I take it he and Mr. Swinton did not come to blows at the weddin’ reception?”

  “They did not. However, Mr. Whitfield took great pleasure in throwing Mr. Swinton out of his house. He embarrassed Swinton in front of half the town, and I haven’t seen that kind of rage on a man’s face in years. Mr. Whitfield expected trouble from Swinton the next day, but he has done nothing thus far.”

  “Swinton is too busy trying to calm his wife,” said Leesil. “How very dreadful for our poor Loretta. How shall she ever survive such a scandal?”

  *

  It had a rich history of army forts, Indian raids, saloon shootings, a potato blight, and goldmines that didn’t pan out, but these days, the center of the farming community called Palmer Lake, was normally peaceful. Trains, traveling between Denver and Colorado Springs, stopped to take on water, and occasionally, passengers got off to have a lakeside picnic or to spend a night in the hotel. In spring, lavender and white Columbines dotted the foothills, and in summer, people came from miles around to swim in the lake, and enjoy the shade of the trees against a backdrop of the Rocky Mountains.

  The café in which Madeline Foster waited on her customers was situated at the end of a main avenue, a perfect location if one wanted to keep an eye on the town’s activities. As far as she knew, she was the only one who had a specific reason to glance out the window often, and that was to watch Mr. Douglas Swinton. Mr. Swinton and his wife lived at the other end of the avenue, in a Victorian style mansion that had once been abandoned. Abandoned, that is, until the mysterious and wealthy Mr. Swinton bought it, fixed it up, and married Loretta Collins.

  Like several others, Madeline suspected there was something not quite right about Douglas Swinton soon after he arrived in town. Now that Swinton was the subject of the biggest scandal the town had ever seen, she was convinced of it.

  A young woman at only seventeen, with a round face and wavy brown hair, Madeline could afford to wear nicer clothing, but what was the point? In her line of work, she wasn’t willing to risk stains that wouldn’t wash out, so she wore an ordinary long black skirt, a no frills blouse and a white waitress apron.

  It was no accident that Marblestone’s Tom Boland happened to be there the day Madeline socked one of her customers in the jaw. It didn’t happen often, but once in a while, a stranger got a bit too friendly. It was obvious the stranger had been drinking, so when Madeline came to write his order down on her paper, he boldly balanced himself on the two back legs of a chair, slid his hand around Madeline, and planted it on her backside. Madeline smiled, set her paper and pencil on the table, doubled her fist, and hit him square in the jaw. The shocked stranger promptly lost his balance, fell backwards, and went flying across the floor on his back.

  Most of the customers laughed, but not Madeline. She was madder than a hornet’s nest, and was prepared to hit him again, as soon as he got up. That’s when Tom Boland grabbed the man by the collar, pulled him to his feet, tossed him out the door, and sent the man’s hat soaring into the street after him. Tom brushed off his hands as if touching the man got them dirty, and then grinned at the furious damsel in distress.

  That’s how it began.

  She liked Tom from the very beginning, especially his deep voice and slow way of talking. He mentioned where he worked, and right away, he told her Prescot sent him to learn what he could about Douglas Swinton. It was the beginning of several clandestine discussions and it wasn’t long until she began to look for
ward to Tom’s visits.

  She found herself physically attracted to the man who was but a few inches taller than she, had green eyes and curly, dark brown hair. His visits steadily increased in frequency, he managed to come between meals when she was not so busy, and he stayed, she noticed, longer each time. She thought he was attracted to her too, yet not once had he offered to take her to any of the many summer activities.

  That morning, the morning of Patella Green’s death, Tom arrived early and was relieved to find only a few customers in the café. His favorite table by the window was unoccupied, and he normally sat where he could see what was happening in the street, but this morning, he was more interested in hearing what she had to say. He removed his Stetson Cowboy hat, set it on the table, and sat with his back to the window.

  He nodded when Madeline brought his usual cup of very black coffee. “Have you any news?”

  “Mrs. Walter’s cow got out of the barn again.”

  Tom did his best to look just as serious as she was pretending to be. “Sixth time this month? What will she do now?”

  Amid the clanking of forks on plates, cups being set back on saucers, and muffled conversations, Madeline checked her customers, decided no one needed her attention, pulled the chair out, and sat opposite him. “Shoot it…is what she claimed this morning.”

  “I see no other choice.”

  “She has another choice. She could fix the latch on her barn door.”

  He pretended to be shocked. “I wonder why she has not thought of that.”

  Madeline leaned forward. “I have heard that some in these parts are not as keen as they need to be.”

  “Apparently not.” He smiled, and then changed his expression to one a little more serious. “I see you have not heard.”

  “Heard what?”

  “Patella Green died in the night.”

  Madeline gasped and covered her mouth with her fingertips. “She is dead?”

  “And the baby with her.”

  “What happened…I mean, how did she die?”

  “I heard from a very reliable source that she was found dead in her bed.”

  “I can guess who that very reliable source is. It is Mrs. Whitfield and soon everyone for miles around will know every detail. Poor Miss Green, she did not deserve to die.”