Justice Done (10 page)

“Would you please take me there?” the boy asked.

“Take you there? I suppose I'm to close my shop and hire a rig?”

“My father would be willing to . . .” He stopped before saying “pay you,” because the phrase made him realize why the men might have stolen Charlie. His father would pay for Charlie's return—but Andrew, much cast down, certain he would be blamed for all that had gone wrong, wasn't sure his father would want his willful eldest son back at all.

“I'm sure your father would be willing to take you wherever you like,” the store owner was saying, “but I can't leave my place of business.”

“Please, sir, how far am I from Jefferson Road?”

“By the main road? About ten miles. Of course, as the crow flies, it's only about three.”

“Which way does the crow fly?”

The man laughed. “Oh, westward over the oil fields, I suppose.”

Andrew brightened a little at this. His father had taken him to the oil fields twice, most recently just two days ago. The oilmen knew his father. He might see someone there who would help him return home.

He thanked the proprietor and began walking toward the forest of wooden derricks he had seen on the way into town. When he reached them, he again became frightened. Although the paths between the derricks had the same sharp fragrance of oil-soaked wood and earth, there was no sign of the bustling activity he had seen at the other oil field, the one he had traveled to with his father. Here equipment was still and rusty with disuse, the drilling platforms damaged and empty. The wooden buildings attached to the derricks, which he knew to be called doghouses, were rickety and missing boards. Even the small offices and equipment shacks appeared to be abandoned. He remembered his father talking of wells that were dry, and wondered if this was an oil field full of such wells.

He told himself that he would sooner or later find other people, and walked toward the sun. Close up, the distance between the wells was greater, and the derricks seemed much taller. They loomed over him, silent giants which began to look identical.

His feet started to ache, and then to throb and burn, but still he walked toward the sun. That the distance he must travel to reach his home was nearly double the shopkeeper's estimate would not have mattered to him. He was thirsty and tired, but he continued to place one foot before the other, the sound of his steps a counterpoint to his troubled thoughts. He walked over hills whose shade was welcomed but confusing to his sense of direction. Coming to one rise, he at last saw the more familiar sight of an active field. He could not run, but began to shout for help as he drew closer and closer. One of the men who was climbing high on a distant derrick noticed him and pointed. Soon, two men rode horses to where he stood, swaying on his feet, exhausted more by his emotions than his exertions.

“Why, it's the Masters boy!” one of the men shouted, leaping down from his horse.

“Charlie,” Andrew said, beginning to cry. “They stole Charlie.”

A
t first, his parents rejoiced in his return. They had spent several hours alarmed by the discovery that their children were not playing under the tree and could not be located anywhere on the large property. They could not know that by the time the attic and stables had been searched, Jack had already given Andrew his quarter.

They wept over Andrew when the oil field boss brought him home, and had not remonstrated against him. But quickly their alarm returned; their fears for Charlie were expressed in recriminations hurled at his older brother, who should have known better than to get into a strange conveyance, who should have known better than to leave his brother for a quarter.

“Two bits!” Papa shouted. “Even Judas held out for forty pieces of silver!”

His mother intervened then, and separated them by taking Andrew to his room. But soon there were police to be answered, and not much later the detectives from Pinkerton's, and over time, endless others.

Tough men, large men, ill-mannered men, always badgering him for descriptions and repetition of details, making unpleasant suggestions as to how it might have truly happened that Andrew was spared. Under this assault, details became confused in Andrew's mind, memories shifted, and to his father's fury, he could not name the town—or be certain of the roads, or how far he had traveled. Eventually the store he had visited was located, but as Andrew could have told anyone who might have listened, no one in that town had noticed Charlie and the two men.

A ransom note, postmarked from Pittsburgh, arrived three torturous days later. The letter, filled with misspellings, was eventually deciphered to be a demand for twenty thousand dollars, details of payment to be forthcoming. Papa declared himself ready to pay.

By now, newspapers were publishing stories of “Little Charlie Masters,” whose brother had abandoned him to kidnappers. This was, of course, not at all what the papers intended to convey, but it was how every story appeared to Andrew.

During this time Andrew slept and ate little, cried easily and was prone to nightmares of the worst sort. He could not help but notice that his parents no longer looked him in the eye, that the servants whispered. Had not Grandpapa arrived to protect him from his persecutors, and threatened to remove their one remaining son from their home, the Masterses might not have gone on as a family through the ordeal that awaited them.

The instructions never came. The explanation for the failure of the kidnappers to continue on their course was not uncovered until an enterprising Pinkerton's man compared descriptions of Jack and Phil with two robbers gunned down by police in Pittsburgh on the day the letter had been received. As he lay dying, one of the men—Jack, it seems—had said, “Never find Charlie now.”

Questioning of the men's few known associates yielded nothing. The detectives advised the Masterses to assume their son was dead.

Never one to give up, Papa announced to the newspapers that he was offering forty thousand dollars—an astronomical sum, twice the amount demanded by the kidnappers—to anyone who returned his son Charlie to him. Other than renewed publicity and attention, nothing came of it.

O
ver the years following Charlie's kidnapping, Andrew learned to calmly accept his altered position in the family. His parents could not punish the kidnappers, so they punished the person they had come to view as an accomplice. They used the weapon of choice for persons of their breeding and social stature—civility. Andrew was accorded this, but little more. Charlie, by contrast, took on in memory saintly attributes he never had in life, became the perfect son denied to them. His room was enshrined, his toys left waiting for his return.

On Andrew's eleventh birthday, the one hundred and fourth pretender (by Andrew's careful accounting) arrived at the Masters home. He was easily dismissed as yet another boy put forward by some schemer as “Little Charlie.” There were always stories to go with these pretenders—of how the missing boy's “adoptive” parents had taken pity on some feverish waif who had then forgotten all of his previous life until just this moment—but Andrew could not bear to listen to another one. He asked Old Davey to saddle his favorite mare, then rode toward the town where Charlie had disappeared.

This time he did not venture into the town itself, where he had become a familiar and pitied sight, but turned off into the abandoned oil field. He rode slowly, and at times dismounted to take a closer look at some object. At last his search was, at least in one sense, rewarded. He spent another hour or two at the site, then rode home. That he was filthy and had ruined his clothes either escaped his parents' notice, or was (more likely) not thought to be worthy of their comment.

This he did not mind.

N
ow, as he stood beneath the oak on his twenty-first birthday, he put the quarter back in his pocket and removed a second object. It was a crudely whittled soldier, weather-beaten and oil-stained, found near an abandoned well.

The well was a disposal well, used to hold oil-contaminated water and sludge pumped from other wells. It was about sixteen inches in diameter; too narrow for an adult, perhaps too narrow even for a schoolboy, but not too narrow for the body of a small child. He had known that it would be useless to look down it for Charlie's remains; the well would be too deep.

Andrew had never been able to picture Phil and Jack planning to endure a child's company while waiting for ransom; if they had left Charlie with someone else while they robbed houses, that person would have long ago claimed his father's reward money. No genuine claimant had stepped forward.

Fourteen years had passed since Charlie disappeared, and the pretenders were growing fewer, but before the end of his father's life, Andrew's count of them would reach two hundred and eighty-six. On this day, he did not yet know that number, but he did know what had happened to his brother. On this day, he simply rested in that knowledge, and took his revenge in his silence.

“Thank you for the birthday present, Charlie,” he said, tucking away the second—and only other one—he had received since the day he turned seven.

An Unsuspected
Condition of The Heart

N
ow and again you may call me a rattlepate and tell me I don't know what's o'clock, Charles, but even you will account me a man who can handle the ribbons. And a dashed good thing it is that I am able to drive to an inch—or I'd have bowled your cousin Harry over right there in the middle of the road. I daresay running him over is no less than he deserved, for he'd overturned as beautiful a phaeton as I'd ever seen, which was a thing nearly as bad as wearing that floral waistcoat of his in public—upon my oath, Charles, even the horses took exception to it.

“Oh, thank heaven,” he cried, even before I'd settled the grays, “it's dear old Rossiter!”

Two days earlier, the fellow had all but given me the cut direct at Lady Fanshawe's rout, and here he was, addressing me as if I were an angel come down the road just to save him.

“Dallingham!” I replied. “What on earth has happened? I trust you've taken no hurt?”

“Nothing that signifies,” he said, dabbing at a little cut above his left brow. “But I am in the devil's own hurry and here this phaeton has lost a wheel and broken an axle!”

“Let me take you up, then,” I said. “Will your groom be able to manage those bays?”

“Yes, yes,” he said, already climbing up next to me. “I'd just instructed him to take them back to that inn we passed—five miles back or so, and to see about repairs. May I trouble you to take me there? I must see if they've something I can hire—”

“Nonsense, Dallingham, can't imagine they'd have so much as a horsecart to hire. I'm on my way to Ollington—to see my Aunt Lavinia. I'll take you along as far as that, and if you need—”

“Ollington! Why, I'm to dine at Bingsley Hall this evening, and—”

“Bingsley Hall?” I said. “Well, that is on my way. No trouble at all.”

“My thanks, Rossiter!”

The grays were restive, and I put them to. A moment later, he said, “Perhaps you can save me from disgrace.”

I doubted there was any possibility of such a thing, but I said, “Oh?” (Just like that, you know—“Oh?” I believe I raised a brow, but I can't swear to it.)

“Have you met Lord and Lady Bingsley?” he asked.

“Never had the pleasure. They do not go about much in society. I believe my aunt has some acquaintance with them.”

“Damned recluses, the pair of them.”

“I beg your pardon? Did you not just say you were invited to dine there?”

He smiled. “Oh no, I'm to stay there a fortnight!”

“A fortnight! With the Bingsleys!”

“Well, yes, as it turns out, we're related!”

“You are related to Miss Bannister's aunt and uncle?”

He laughed. “Wish me happy, Rossiter! I'm newly married!”

“Married!” I could not hide my shock.

“Yes, as of yesterday. And in future you must refer to Miss Bannister as Lady Dallingham. We were married by special license. She's gone on to Bingsley to—er, prepare my welcome.”

Charles, I own I was left speechless. The grays took advantage of my lack of concentration, and a rather difficult moment passed before both my horses and my composure were back in hand.

“Well, then,” I said, rather bravely, really, “I do wish you happy. Miss—er, Lady Dallingham is a lovely young woman.”

“Oh, I suppose the chit's well enough,” he said, “but there can be no doubt that her fortune's mighty handsome.”

As you can imagine, this blunt speech left me appalled. Of course, all the world knew that Dallingham was hanging out for an heiress, and that he had followed in his father's footsteps—meaning that his gaming had finally destroyed whatever portion of the family fortune the old man had not already lost at faro and dicing.

I know you'll not take offense at my putting it so baldly, Charles—after all, neither your cousin Dallingham nor his father could be ranked among your favorites, and your father was estranged from his late brother for many years. I recall that Dallingham applied to your esteemed parent for assistance with his debts on more than one occasion, and that your father—quite rightly—showed him the door.

Of course, even as I took him up that night, I knew that Dallingham was not without friends. He could make himself charming when need be. I will own that Dallingham's handsome face made him agreeable to the ladies, but most matchmaking mamas steered their chicks clear of him, knowing he hadn't a feather to fly with, and that his reputation as a rake was not unearned.

I fear Miss Bannister was easy prey to such a man. She is an orphan. Her guardian was a half-brother who gave little thought to her; he gave her over to the care of her aunt and uncle, Lord and Lady Bingsley—Lord Bingsley also serving as the trustee of the large fortune that will come to her a few years hence.

But the Bingsleys, as I have said, do not go about much, and have not been seen in Town for some years. When Miss Bannister was old enough to make her come-out, therefore, her half-brother arranged that she would spend the season with her godmother, a most foolish woman, who could by no means be accounted a suitable chaperone.

I soon had it from Dallingham that her half-brother—undoubtedly misled by Dallingham's charm—had granted his consent to this hasty wedding.

“You think it unseemly, high stickler that you are!” Dallingham accused me now.

“I? A high stickler?” I said. “Oh no. One only wonders, what brought about a need for such haste?”

“Tradesmen and others,” he replied, quite honestly.

“Forgive me if I speak of matters which do not closely concern me, Dallingham,” I said, “but you find me all curiosity. Miss Bannister's godmother has bandied it about that Miss Bannister does not come into her fortune upon marriage. She must reach the age of twenty.”

“Ah, and you wonder that I could wait so long? The expectation, my dear. The tradesmen foresee a day in the not-so-distant future when I shall be a very wealthy man. They are willing to forestall pressing me until that day. In fact, they are quite willing to extend my credit.”

We turned to idle chitchat for a time, during which he let fall that the lovely phaeton he had so recently overturned was yours—I am so sorry, Charles!

I changed horses at Merriton, and we were well on our way again when he said, “Sorry to have cut you out where the Bannister was concerned old boy. But I daresay my need was the more pressing. From all I hear, Rossiter, you're as rich as Golden Ball.”

“No such thing,” I said coolly.

He chuckled. “No need to cut up stiff with me,” he said. “You've had your eye on her, haven't you?”

“My dear Dallingham,” I said, “she is your wife. It would be most improper in me to respond to such a comment.”

In truth, Charles, she had come to my notice. However, unlike most women—who are drawn to me by my fortune and rank—she had no need of either. This being the case, I was sure I held no attraction to Miss Bannister. While I don't suppose a great many children have been frightened by my visage, or told by their nursemaids that I shall come to steal them if they don't mind their manners, I've not Dallingham's handsome face.

I did not blame the ladies of the ton for being taken in by him, for I too readily remembered one beauty who flattered me into believing that all mirrors lie, and 'twas a heady experience. That was long after I'd had my town bronze, so what chance does a chit fresh from the schoolroom have against the influence of a handsome face?

By the time we arrived at Bingsley Hall, my spirits were quite low. These were by no means lifted when Dallingham, at the moment we passed the gatekeeper's lodge, announced with a covetous eye, “She's to inherit all this, too, you know! Bingsley dotes on her.”

I had every intention of leaving at the first possible moment, but Lord Bingsley would not hear of it. For my part, I could not help but like the old fellow and his lady, who proffered every kindness imaginable—the upshot of this being my acquiescence to the Bingsleys' insistence that I stay the night. My relative was not expecting me at any certain date, and so I agreed to break my journey with them.

“Good man! For we've something of a celebration this night, haven't we?” Lord Bingsley said, clapping Dallingham on the back.

Dallingham, who had apparently already met Lord Bingsley, seemed relieved not to be met by an outraged relative when introduced to his wife's aunt. Lady Bingsley, if not quite as effusive as her husband, was nonetheless all that a hostess should be.

For her part, the former Miss Bannister seemed, as always, becomingly shy in the company of gentlemen, and to my own relief, was not at all demonstrative with her new spouse.

In fact, dear Charles, the two of them seldom looked at each other. Dallingham was eyeing the thick carpets, the beautiful vases, and charming chandelier with the air of a man who is calculating the price each might fetch at auction. One would have thought him a solicitor's clerk, practicing the art of taking inventory of the Bingsleys' estate. He made little effort to hide his happy contemplation of taking possession of their goods upon their demise. He divided his time between this and the depletion of Lord Bingsley's cellars.

Watching him, I found myself seething, until I felt a gentle hand on my sleeve. “My dear Lord Rossiter,” the new Lady Dallingham said softly, “how glad I am that you have come.”

She moved away rather quickly, and spoke to her aunt, all the while blushing.

I did not suppose for a moment that Dallingham, a man whose name has been linked with two actresses and any number of fair Cyprians, thought her very lovely. She tended to plumpness, a little. Her face was not that of a classic beauty, and no one would mistake her for a diamond of the first water. But there are other gems than diamonds, my dear Charles, and I found much in her that was admirable and becoming.

I wanted to ask if something was troubling her, if there was any way in which I might be of service, but I had no opportunity for private speech with her that evening—which was, I tell you plainly, easily one of the strangest nights of my life.

We were beset by real difficulties at the table that evening. Dallingham wasn't paying the least attention to me or his wife; he was admiring the silver and china, repeatedly congratulating Lord Bingsley on his fine cellars, making gratifying comments to Lady Bingsley on the excellence of the soup
á
la re
ine, and remarking on the beauty of the epergne at the center of the table. (It depicted tigers chasing one another round about—not to my taste, frankly—don't like to dine with figures of things that would just as soon dine on me.)

But just as the second course—a haunch of venison, saddle of lamb, boiled capon, and spring chicken—was served, Lady Bingsley said in a ringing voice, “Pistols at dawn!”

Dallingham and I exchanged looks of some consternation, even as Lord Bingsley calmly replied, “You'll never do me in that way, my dear.”

“I know a good deal about pistols,” her ladyship replied. “Don't I, Amelia?”

“Yes, Aunt,” the former Miss Bannister replied.

“Yes, yes,” said his lordship, “but for all that you know about them, you are an execrable shot.” He continued to apply himself to the venison, even as her ladyship appeared to apply herself to the problem of shooting him. Dallingham, so far from being dismayed, seemed on the verge of losing any semblance of gravity still left to him, while his new wife calmly continued to take small bites of the lamb.

Within a few moments, his lordship looked up from his plate and said, “Arrow through the heart. While you sleep.”

“I must say—” I began weakly.

“Nonsense!” said her ladyship firmly.

“It is not nonsense!” protested my host. “I'm a damned sight better with the bow and arrow than you are with pistols. I'll creep into your room through that old priest's hole.”

“Now, there you're out!” said her ladyship. “The priest's hole is in Lord Dallingham's room—the exit, in any case.”

At this, Dallingham, who had been drinking steadily from the moment of our arrival, was overcome with mirth.

“I find nothing amusing . . .” I tried again.

“By Jupiter!” his lordship said, “You're right! Hmm. In that case, it shall have to be something more subtle. Perhaps when you go riding—”

“Please!” I said. “Your lordship, your ladyship . . . I beg pardon . . . not my place, really . . . but I can't possibly face the next course if there is to be nothing but this talk of murder!”

There was a moment of profound silence before his lordship said, “Not face the next course? Rubbish! There's to be lark pudding!”

And so the exchange of murder plots continued. I would have made good on my threat to excuse myself from the table, lark pudding or no, had not the former Miss Bannister looked at me so beseechingly, I forgot all else.