Holmes on the Range (25 page)

At that moment, I came to understand how women in romantic melodramas can be made to “swoon” by the mere sight of their beau's heroic deeds. I felt like swooning myself. This was proof positive for me: Lady Clara had not only the face of an angel, but the soul of one, too.

“As it so happens, you
can
help me,” Old Red said, and I knew exactly what words would leave his mouth next. “Tell me—did you notice anything out of the ordinary last night or this mornin'?”

“Actually, yes. Two things. First, I heard a noise last night—from
my conversations with the others, I gather it was the gunshot that killed that poor man.”

“Did you make note of the time?”

I leaned forward, anxious to have the dispute over the timing of Boo's killing resolved at last. Anytime, Swivel-Eye, and the Swede disagreeing with Emily—well, that was something to think about. But if Lady Clara disagreed with Emily, why, then the matter was settled, far as I was concerned. In fact, if the lady disagreed with
everyone
and said the shot had been fired thirty seconds ago, I would've been inclined to believe her over all the others.

“It was pitch-black, that's all I know,” she said.

“So it was the middle of the night?” Old Red persisted. “Midnight maybe? One o'clock?”

The lady shook her head. “I really couldn't say.”

My brother and I both sank back into the cushions. The
when
of Boudreaux's death was still a mystery.

“And you didn't get up to investigate?” Old Red asked, forging on.

“No. I went back to sleep. I assumed someone had merely bumped into something in the dark.”

“Oh? There's been a lot of sneakin' around at night, has there?”

“No,” Lady Clara said, her tone turning a tad snippish. “I simply meant that I had no reason to assume it was anything sinister.”

Old Red conceded the point with a nod. “And the other thing you noticed?”

“I wasn't the one who noticed it, actually. It was Emily. Just a few minutes ago, she discovered that my valise had been stolen.”

Gustav sat up like a man who just felt a strike on his fishing line. “Your
valise
? That's a handbag, am I right?”

“Yes, though a little bigger.”

“More like a carpetbag?”

“I suppose they would be similar in size, yes.” The lady's expression soured ever so slightly—carpetbags being for people who couldn't afford
luggage made from more tasteful material. “I had no use for the valise while we were here in the country, so it was stored with our luggage in the upstairs linen closet. Emily noticed an iron and some pillows missing, so she conducted an inventory. The only other missing item was my valise.”

“What was in it?”

“Only what one would expect—a small amount of money, a few personal items of the sort women carry with them.”

“I see,” Gustav said, though I doubt he really knew much about what “personal items” ladies tote about. “And you think Boudreaux—that's the dead feller—you think he took this
valise
of yours?”

“That was Emily's assumption.” Lady Clara shrugged, imbuing even such a mundane movement as that with grace and refinement. “I'm not so sure, myself. Perhaps this Boudreaux encountered the thief and tried to stop him. I hope that's
not
the case, however. I hate to think of anyone losing his life over some meager possessions of mine.”

“Um-hmm, um-hmm,” Old Red mumbled absently. His eyes went fuzzy, losing their focus as they will when his vision turns inward.

“Is there anything more you wish to ask?”

“Well, yes and no, Miss St. Simon,” Old Red said slowly, pulling himself back to the here and now with visible effort. “I ain't got more questions for you, but I do have a request.”

“And that would be?”

“Could you fetch your father for me? I'd like to ask
him
a few questions, too.”

You might have thought my brother had just requested a peek at the lady's petticoats, her eyes shot open so wide. I couldn't blame her, for my eyes did a little popping themselves.

Men like us aren't meant to speak to men like the Duke lest it's to say “Dinner is served” or “Yes, sir—right away!” I couldn't see the use of pestering the old man with questions. He was a hive of bees I preferred not to poke.

Lady Clara recovered more quickly than I, effortlessly smoothing her lovely features back into a mask of composed gentility.

“Wait here.”

She rose and left the parlor, heading across the foyer to Perkins's office. When the door shut behind her, I turned to my brother.

“What're you playin' at? You know that tub-gutted son of a bitch is just gonna stomp out here and holler at us—if he comes out at all.”

“I've got my reasons,” Gustav replied calmly.

“Well, I'll be damned if I can see ‘em. Why you'd persist in houndin' every soul in the castle instead of sniffin' after the McPhersons or maybe Anytime is beyond—”

The office door opened wide, and Lady Clara stepped out again. She was followed by the Duke and Young Brackwell, who'd traded in his buckskin finery for a dark frock coat more suitable for a junior nobleman. While I was impressed by the lady's power of persuasion in convincing her father to grant us an audience, that wasn't what set my heart to pounding and my brain to racing.

The office window was opened wide, and a breeze blew through it, sweeping past Lady Clara and the others to bring the smell of smoke into the parlor. And not just any smoke. It had a scorchy, sulfurous aftertaste about it that I knew well.

It was the smell of
gunsmoke
.

Or, Gustav Needles the Duke, but It's My Brother Who's Cut to the Quick

I
peeled off a
peek at Old Red to see if he'd caught wind of that oh-so-familiar yet oh-so-surprising smell. He clearly had, for his face wore an expression of such unbridled self-satisfaction it would have made a strutting gamecock appear humble by comparison.

I knew what he was thinking: We'd found “the scene of the crime.” But it seemed to me it was nothing to get cocky about, as the discovery raised more questions than it answered.

Why didn't anyone in the castle recognize the gunshot for what it was? Why move the body to the
privy
of all places? And, knottiest of all, was it possible one of our visitors had killed Boudreaux—and if so, why?

The first place to start hunting for answers was in the office. But there was a considerable obstacle between it and us—an obstacle who wasn't pleased to see us.

“Well?” the Duke demanded as he entered the parlor. He moved with the plodding confidence of a saloon strong-arm about to roust a
drunken deadbeat, but his appearance wasn't quite as intimidating as he seemed to think. His hair was thick but gray, his body heavy with muscle turned to blubber, his face flushed not just with indignation but with heat and strain. He was, in a word,
old
—and he apparently didn't know it.

He didn't bother taking a seat, and I could tell from the way his eyes burned into us he wasn't pleased to see us on our rumps while he remained on his feet. But my brother kept himself buried butt-deep in cushion, so I did the same.

“Thanks for makin' time for us, Your Grace,” Gustav said, his words coming out so offhanded and relaxed he might have been gabbing with another hand over a plate of beans. “I got a couple questions to ask you. Just tryin' to be thorough, y'see.”

“Yes, yes. Get on with it, then,” the Duke grumbled.

“Okeydokey,” Old Red replied cheerfully. He turned to me, throwing a casual nod toward the old man. “Maybe you'd like to get this rollin', Brother.”

This unexpected honor put a grin on my face—as did my suspicion that it was being granted merely to annoy old Dickie. I cleared my throat and looked thoughtful for a moment.

“Tell me, Your Grace—did you notice anything out of the ordinary last night or this mornin'?”

Gustav nodded his approval, while Lady Clara and Brackwell kept their eyes on the Duke like a couple of railroad stokers watching a boiler they half-expected to explode.

“I did not,” the old man said.

I opened my mouth, then quickly closed it again. I'd had my next questions all set—”What time did you hear it?” and “You didn't step outside to take a look?” But now it looked like this interview wasn't going to follow the same trail as the last few, and I found myself at a loss for words.

“Uhhh. . .you didn't hear a sort of. . .well. . .
bang
-type sound?”

The Duke glowered at me, his bushy eyebrows pushing down so hard I had to wonder if he could see anything through the foliage.

“I heard nothing.”

I recalled what Emily had said about the unrousable depths into which the old man fell once in bed. But for all their lack of size, der-ringers don't entirely lack for
sound
. They might be easier to muffle than your larger artillery, but they'll still put out a pop. The gun that had been fired last night—inside the house, if the smell from the office was any indication—had kicked up enough noise to awaken Emily on the first floor and Lady Clara, Brackwell, and Edwards on the second. Could the Duke have really slept through it?

“Ummm. . .you sure?” I asked, unable to think up a more subtle way of getting at my doubts.

“Of course I am!” the Duke barked. He didn't top that off with
you imbecile
, but his tone said it plain enough.

I shot my brother a panicky look that pleaded with him to grab back the reins of the conversation. He took them, alright—and jerked them in a whole new direction.

“Did Mr. Perkins know you were comin'?”

“What?” the Duke said, so taken aback he momentarily forgot to bellow and fume. Behind him, Lady Clara and Brackwell looked equally bewildered.

“Did Perkins—or anyone else here at the ranch—know you were comin' thisaway?”

“No. What has that got to do with—?”

“No, you say?” Old Red frowned and shook his head, making a big show of his apparent confusion. “Well, why was the house stocked up with fine linens and wines and whiskeys and whatnot? I don't think the hired help was meant to live so soft.”

“The board had instructed Perkins to be ready for a visit at any time.”

“A ‘visit'? Don't you mean a ‘surprise inspection'?”

The Duke gave Old Red a look that suggested he was reappraising just what kind of insect my brother was—and in what manner he should be squashed.

“I say what I mean. We were traveling to Chicago for the Exposition and I decided to
visit
the Cantlemere. It was a mere whim, a sudden fancy.”

I found it hard to imagine the Duke acting on a “sudden fancy.” Gustav apparently had the same difficulty.

“Your Grace, Chicago is more than five hundred miles east of here. That's a mighty long way to travel on a whim.”

“What in blazes does this have to do with that dead Negro out there?” the Duke demanded.

“I ain't sure yet. I'm just collectin' data.”

“ ‘Collecting data'?” the Duke repeated with a grimace of disgust, apparently finding this phrase more objectionable than any comment one might make about Jesus Christ, excretion, or the physical act of love.

“Exactly,” Gustav said. “Like this, for instance—how long's it been since the Bar VR turned a profit?”

“This is impertinent, irrelevant, and an utter waste of time!” the Duke roared.

“Alright, let's say it is,” Gustav threw back at him. “That oughta make you mighty pleased.”

“Why in heaven's name should I be
pleased
?”

“Because if I'm wastin' time, every minute I'm at it brings
you
another minute closer to two hundred pounds.”

The Duke blinked at my brother as if he'd just switched from speaking English to Chinese. Then he shook his head and spat out a laugh. It wasn't a jolly, “Well spoken, my good fellow” kind of laugh. It was a laugh that aimed to pull down your britches, knock off your hat, and spit in your eye—a
mean
laugh.

“You are an insolent jackanapes, but I must admire your cheek.
You're using your own incompetence to justify a few more minutes of idle gossip in comfortable surroundings. Just look at you! Stretched out in the shade while your friends toil outside. Would you like a glass of lemonade?” The Duke laughed again and looked back at Brackwell. “What do you think of your champion now? He's half-simpleton, half-lunatic, and all rascal, I'd say!”

Brackwell remained silent, though the sour expression on his face made it plenty clear what he thought of the Duke.

Beside him, Lady Clara didn't look too pleased, either. She took a step toward her father and put a hand on his arm. But before she could admonish the crotchety old toad—or bring the interview to an end—Old Red spoke again.