Marblestone Mansion, Book 3 Read online

  Cathleen rolled her eyes. “Have you no lunch to eat, dear brother-in-law?”

  “I do, and so do you. I am sent to say Abigail will take over for you in a few minutes.”

  “A pleasant thought indeed.” She should not have, but Cathleen glanced at Mr. Swinton again, and then at the frown on Hannish’s face. “You need not worry, I am too young to marry, or so everyone keeps reminding me.” He nodded, but the frown did not leave his face even as he walked away. “I pity any daughter you might have; she’ll be ninety before she is allowed to marry,” Cathleen muttered.

  *

  Keith sat down on the lawn beside Margaret Ann and got comfortable. “Where is William?”

  “Mr. Hannish has him. Never have I seen a man so fond of children and it matters not whose children they are. I suspect he does not have enough to do and when Leesil will not let him have baby Justin, he takes William off my hands for an hour or two. Are you hungry?” Margaret Ann asked starting to untie the strings around her box.

  Keith finally spotted Hannish heading into the trees. He had William by the hand and he suspected it was so William could water the grass. Keith smiled. “For a lunch the MacGreagor cooks make? You have no idea how hungry I am for that.”

  “You do not have a cook?”

  “Not like Halen and Jessie. I’d walk ten miles for one of their lunches. Did they make fried chicken…I hope?”

  Margaret Ann grinned. “Will a drumstick do?”

  “Yum, my favorite.” He reached in the box she held out to him, chose a drumstick, took a bite and closed his eyes to relish the taste.

  By the time the MacGreagor quartet performed later that afternoon, little William was sound asleep on Keith’s shoulder and it warmed Margaret Ann’s heart. She hoped, she so hoped, this was the beginning of something wonderful.

  *

  In Denver, the annual Pioneer Celebration lasted three days. Business was suspended, the downtown streets were filled with merrymaking crowds and Jedediah took the duchess to at least two events each day. The first day, they watched a contest between 15 marching bands, each playing John Phillip Sousa’s El Capitan.

  The second and third days were marked with parades, a carnival and horse-drawn floats featuring large paper flowers and Paper-Mache birds. Men in clown costumes sat on donkeys that were not always willing to move, giving the crowd in the grandstands a good laugh. The rodeo marked the last day and was followed by an outdoor masquerade ball.

  The duchess enjoyed it thoroughly and found herself becoming so fond of Jedediah, that she decided to put her plans to lure Hannish MacGreagor away from Marblestone on hold for a while. As each day passed without word of anyone looking for her, she became more relaxed and emboldened to go wherever Jedediah wished to take her. She could not remember a time when she had been so happy.

  *

  Sheriff Thompson read the latest telegram, laid it on his desk in his office adjacent to the courthouse and frowned. “Another train robbery, Judge.” Behind the Sheriff’s desk were two unoccupied jail cells.

  Seated on the other side of the desk, Judge Mitchel crossed his legs and rested his hat on his knee. “Where this time?”

  “New Mexico. They think it was the Wild Bunch again.”

  “Well, at least that gang tends to stay on the other side of the mountains.”

  “True, but we’ve got two trains a day rolling through our little town, both carrying gold shipments to Denver. It can’t be long before they get robbed. I’m by myself here and those gangs think nothing of shooting it out when we try to stop them. I would rather not give up the ghost till I am old and gray.”

  “You are saying you need a deputy?”

  “At least one, hopefully two. This little town of ours is growing and the Mayor dreams up new reasons to celebrate every day. I don’t mind that so much, but I have to ask men to be temporary deputies for each occasion. Truth is, they are not well trained and if I needed them, most can’t get here in a hurry.

  Two months ago,” the sheriff continued, “robbers hit a bank back east and locked the cashier in the vault. They got those big standup faults there, you know. Anyway, next they hit a pawnshop right down the street. All they did was throw a rock through a window, and then grab three guns and a couple of watches.”

  “Did our men catch them?”

  “They got them cornered, but the thieves pulled their guns and robbed the sheriff and his deputy too. Then, they shot both in the leg so they couldn’t chase them. The deputy got hit in the artery and his life’s blood spilled out on the ground before anyone could save him. A month later, the thieves hit the same bank again. We live in perilous times, Judge, we just don’t see it here…not yet anyway.”

  “But you think we will?”

  “Why would a man work when he can steal other people’s money? I heard a rumor that some men are taking their money out of our bank just in case. I don’t blame them. Not when they only have me and banker Goodwin to protect their money.”

  “Sheriff, what exactly do you want me to do?”

  “Judge, you are a learned man and the right letter written to the right man might help…”

  “Such as the Governor?”

  “And the Mayor and the President, if you have to. Maybe you could get Mr. Goodwin and a few others to sign it.”

  Judge Mitchel got to his feet and scooted his chair back where he got it. “I agree, we do need more protection. Consider it done, Sheriff.” He put his hat on, opened the door and left.

  Sheriff Thompson puffed his cheeks. He wasn’t the only one worried, half the town was on edge wondering if they should put their money in the bank or under the mattress. If he had to, he would confess that was exactly where some of his money was – carefully hidden under his mattress. The other half of the town dreamed of getting their hands on the reward money and therefore, newcomers were more carefully watched than they might have been.

  For a long moment, Sheriff Thompson tried to think where the train might be the most vulnerable. Sometimes the robbers raced their horses alongside the train and boarded, but other times they found a way to block the tracks so the engineer was forced to stop to keep from derailing. A derailed train injured or killed passengers and stopped rail traffic for days. It was a real nightmare, took hundreds of men and dozens of horses to set the engine and the cars right again.

  If he were a robber, the sheriff thought, where would he block the tracks? Near the Black Forest, he decided. A little ride was in order, so he put on his hat, got his horse from the stables and rode north of town to have a good look. As he suspected, there were plenty of places for a gang of thieves to hide in the forest while they waited for a train to come to a full stop. He walked his horse several feet into the forest, turned his horse around and decided that was exactly where he would hide.

  It was not until he dismounted that he found something very interesting indeed. The floor of the forest was disturbed as though someone had spent a night or two there recently. Sheriff Thompson took off his hat, set it on the end of a tree stump, and ran his fingers through his hair. He knelt down, picked up a hand full of dry pine needles and let them slip through his fingers. The drought conditions soon bothered him far more than evidence that someone had been there. After all, it wasn’t a crime to sleep in a forest. He walked to the nearest tree and when he easily broke off a limb, there was no doubt in his mind; the forest was dry – far too dry.

  Alarmed, he looked up at what he could see of the clear blue sky. For now, they were safe but the summer storms would come, and usually with enough lightning to set fire to half the state. He made a mental note to call the mayor when he returned to his office, got back on his horse and continued his search for the best place to hold up a train. A moment later, Sheriff Thompson came back, leaned down and plucked his hat off the tree stub.

  He would never know just how close he came to finding Jedediah Tanner’s stolen gold.

  *

  Charles Whitfield, only son of Abigail and Claymor
e Whitfield of Colorado Springs, Colorado had a bit of a crooked smile, green eyes like his mother’s and wore his reddish-blond hair short to the nape of his collar. He was also the unwitting fifth victim of one Alexandra Sinclair, a.k.a. the duchess – he just didn’t know it.

  Solicitor John Crisp, an elder man with graying hair and a square face, was shocked when Charles Whitfield burst into his London office unannounced. He was shocked, but of a truth, Crisp was thrilled to see the man. He waved his secretary away, pretended to be reading a paper on his desk and appeared to have little interest.

  “Where is my wife?” Charles demanded.

  Crisp hid his smile well. “Run off, has she? I am not surprised.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  Crisp glanced at the stack of papers on the corner of his desk – the nearly completed manuscript he was writing about the escapades of a bigamist. Right before him stood yet another chapter and he felt as though a pot of gold had just dropped into his lap. “Pray tell me what happened?”

  Charles took a deep breath and sat in the only available chair. The Solicitor’s office looked even more unkempt than it had only a few months earlier, with stacks of books and papers everywhere, some of which were heavy-laden with dust. “We sailed to America, boarded a train in New York City and when we reached St. Louis where we were required to change trains, she disappeared.”

  “Ran off you mean?”

  “She was kidnapped. She had no money to speak of and left everything she owned behind.”

  Crisp wrinkled his brow. That was not like the Alexandra he had come to know and admire. “Who kidnapped her?”

  “I have no idea. She is very beautiful and perhaps a man simply wanted her. No ransom demand ever came, yet…”

  “Yet what?”

  “She might have gotten the money to return to England somewhere else. An old friend, perhaps.”

  “I see. You no longer believe she was kidnapped.”

  Charles took a deep breath. “I do not know what to think.”

  “I suspect you have been deceived, Mr. Whitfield.” A sentence he wrote in the manuscript, brilliantly so he thought, sprang to mind. “Your wife, as you call her, is the worst kind of thief – she steals hearts and shatters them.”

  Charles thought the remark utter nonsense. “Shatters hearts?”

  “Yes, well I am not at liberty to say anything more…my reputation as a solicitor, you understand.”

  Charles narrowed his eyes. “Hang your reputation; I must know she is alive, at least.”

  “I can tell you this much, she has not contacted me. But then, why would she? I am not normally needed unless there is trouble.”

  Charles hung his head in defeat. “Have you any idea where she might be?”

  Crisp took a moment to consider what to do. In order to write the next, and perhaps the last chapter of his book, it was imperative to know the outcome. He could hardly do that if he simply sent Charles to the one obvious place to look – the Sinclairs. For a moment, he was amused Charles hadn’t thought of that himself. On the other hand, there had to be hundreds, if not thousands of Sinclairs in the Kingdom.

  “Perhaps I might place a call or two,” Crisp said finally. “Have you any funds this time, funds you must not first get from your wealthy father?”

  “Some.”

  “Excellent.” Crisp wiggled his fingers to indicate he wanted to be paid up front. He waited and when Charles produced a wad of folded bills, he watched him count off twenty pounds and then said, “That will do for now.”

  Upon going to the jail and asking to interview the jail keeper for the book, Mr. Attwater let it slip he overheard and knew the names of all of Alexandra Sinclair’s husbands. At the time, Crisp was furious, fearing Attwater might write a book of his own, but now…now Mr. Attwater might just come in handy.

  “Mr. Whitfield,” said Crisp. “I believe I might be able to help you after all. He reached for paper and pen, jotted down an address and handed the paper to Charles. “This is the jail where your wife was held. Perhaps you might learn something there.”

  Charles was thrilled, took the paper, stood up and nodded his appreciation.

  “Oh, and Mr. Whitfield, if you need anything else, do not hesitate to call.” As soon as Charles was gone, Crisp grabbed the tall, cast brass handle of his desk set telephone, lifted the earpiece, and placed a call to the jail where Alexandra Sinclair still deserved to be.

  *

  Mr. Attwater and his wife lived in a separate section of a London house used as a detention facility for women awaiting trial. Their quarters included the kitchen, a bedroom and the parlor. The pay was low, the work was hard and the prisoners were often too many to easily manage. Yet, there were a few advantages to being in such a position, one of which was the ability to overhear conversations between solicitors and their clients.

  As he had on other occasions, Mr. Attwater took a seat on the bench in the hallway and listened intently as John Crisp interviewed Alexandra Sinclair several months before. It was by far the most fascinating conversation he had ever heard. To keep the names of all her husbands straight, Attwater rushed to the kitchen, got writing materials, rushed back and furiously wrote the details. What he intended to do with such information, he was not quite sure.

  Mr. Attwater loved his wife and it pained him to see her work from morning until night to keep the prisoners in the London detention home fed. By his reckoning, two meals a day were plenty for women who did not appreciate the effort, and most likely were exactly where they belonged. The intensity of love he felt for his wife was equal to the hate he felt for all solicitors. In his opinion, not one of them could be trusted. As fate would have it, the most explosive, scandalous prisoner he had ever encountered was Alexandra Sinclair, who happened to have the worst lawyer of the lot – John Crisp.

  Crisp had a reputation for getting all he could out of a client and Attwater was not pleased when Crisp came to interview him for his book. However, he quickly decided if money was the name of the game, two could play and he charged a hefty fee for his time and information. Therefore, when Crisp called to say Charles Whitfield was on his way, offered to pay for a few specific services and suggested he obtain a fee from Charles as well, Attwater was happy to comply.

  *

  It was hard for Charles to imagine his beloved Alexandra had been kept in such a horrid place as the parlor of the detention house implied. If this was any indication, he could just imagine what the cells were like. Loud female voices came from the rooms beyond and it sounded as though some women were crying. It made him shiver and cringe.

  Attwater had no remarkable features. He was stoutly built with a trimmed beard and mustache the same color as his sandy hair. His eyes were brown, his lips were perhaps a little redder than normal and his hands proved he was a hardworking man.

  “I have come to inquire about my wife,” said Charles. He held his Stetson hat in his hand and waited to be invited to sit down.

  “Your wife is?”

  “Alexandra Whitfield…I mean Sinclair.”

  “Ah yes, I remember her well. Meanest woman I ever did see.”

  “Mean?” a surprised Charles asked.

  “The meanest ever. Acted like she were some sort of queen, she did. Happy were we the day she left. Now, what is it you wish to know?”

  Charles still hadn’t been invited to sit down and suspected he would not be, so he put his hat back on. “I hoped you might know where I can find her. Perhaps she made a friend or two I could speak with…or…”

  Attwater chucked. “I assure you, Alexandra Sinclair made no friends amongst the women here. She was…” He caught himself just in time. “The criminals here do not tend to make friends.”

  “Alexandra is not a criminal, it was all a mistake.”

  “So I heard, Mr. Whitfield, so I heard. Whom have you already contacted?”

  “Her solicitor, naturally, but he would not tell me anything. Mr. Attwater, I must find her.”

&nb
sp; “Have you thought to ask her husband, Mr. Sinclair?”

  “He is not her husband.”

  “If she told you that, she lied.”

  “See here, Mr. Attwater, careful what you say about my wife.”

  Attwater’s mouth curled into a wicked smile. “You do not know do you. She is not your wife, not legally anyway. She isn’t Sinclair’s wife either, now that I think about it, although she also married him. Sinclair was husband number two and you are husband number five.”

  Charles took a step backward and gasped. “Five?”

  Attwater waited a moment to let the news sink in. “It is the God’s honest truth.”

  “It is not true, it cannot be. She loved me; I know she did. Alexandra would not lie about a thing like that.”

  “Would you care to know how I know?”

  Charles decided he better sit down, invitation or not, took a kerchief out of his pocket and dabbed beads of sweat off his brow. “How?”

  Attwater stretched out his hand palm up. “Mr. Whitfield, I am a busy man, but for the right price, I could be persuaded.”

  Charles rolled his eyes, reached in his pocket, pulled out his British Pounds and peeled off more bills.

  At last, Attwater sat down opposite him and began to tell what he knew.

  *

  Charles Whitfield was in shock when he left the detention house Alexandra was kept in. So much so, not once did he look back and notice Mr. Attwater following him. He went to the courthouse, gave up a few more British Pounds and got the address of Alexandra’s second husband, Mr. Sinclair. After that, he returned to his hotel to have a drink or two, and to decide if he really wanted to find Alexandra now.

  Being her fifth husband might have been an easier pill to swallow if she had not also been married to his father’s best friend, Hannish MacGreagor. Charles tried hard to remember how she managed to snare him in her trap, but the truth was, he liked to have a stiff drink or two while he was gambling, and didn’t actually remember what happened that night in Paris.

  He sat at the small table in his hotel room, poured himself another shot of scotch whiskey and realized he liked to have a stiff drink or two quite regularly. “Hannish MacGreagor?” he muttered right before he downed the shot. “So she married a lord, a duke and then the son of a wealthy gold mine owner, but why run off?” It took a moment, but he figured it out – they were going to live just up the road from Hannish MacGreagor and Hannish would have told on her. Of course she ran off, it was the only thing she could do.