No Mortal Reason (14 page)

“In the Biblical sense, maybe,” Myron muttered. “Doubt he had any idea what else she was up to.”

Diana let that pass.

“You got any more questions?” Myron demanded. “I’ve got work to do.”

“That’s all I can think of for now,” Diana admitted. “I want to interview Mrs. Ellington and Mercy, and Howd when he returns.”

“What about Saugus and his wife?”

“I’ll talk to them, too, but not, I think, as a journalist. Would Scorcher have told anyone else what was in that telegram?”

“Hard to say, but I doubt the Sauguses will have heard. Neither one of them is friendly with anyone from the village.”

“Good. I’d just as soon they not find out I work for a newspaper.”

“I’ll send Tressa in.” Myron was on his feet, already heading for the door.

“Ask her to meet me in the writing room,” Diana called after him.

She arrived first and used the few minutes of privacy to scrawl a hasty note to Horatio Foxe. She had changed her mind about contacting him by telegram. She did not want to take the chance that its contents would get out. With luck, her letter would be sent to Manhattan by train and reach him tomorrow.

She’d just finished addressing the envelope when Tressa Ellington joined her.

“Are you sure you need to dig up old scandal?” she asked. “Perhaps your editor would be satisfied with a travel piece.”

“If I don’t write about Elly, some other reporter will. And as long as there are no answers, suspicion will continue to hang over Howd Grant.”

“Mr. Buckley’s letting the matter drop.”

“Just because the authorities aren’t investigating doesn’t mean the discovery of those bones will be forgotten.”

“No, I suppose you’re right. The newspapers will keep the story alive.” She sounded bitter, and Diana couldn’t blame her.

“You knew Elly Lyseth when she worked here,” Diana said when the other woman finally selected a straight-back chair and sat. “What can you tell me about her?”

Mrs. Ellington held herself stiffly, hands clasped in her lap. “I was not well acquainted with the girl.”

“I know that it is repugnant to speak ill of the dead, but sometimes it is necessary. Was there anything about her character that might have caused someone to murder her?”

“Well, she was no better than she should be. That’s certain.”

“Did you know Howd Grant was . . . courting her?”

A flicker of some deep emotion shone in the older woman’s eyes. “There were hints of it. The way he looked at her sometimes when he didn’t think anyone would notice. Damned old fool!”

“He was an older man. He is pleasant-natured, attractive—”

“He did not seduce that flighty young chit, if that’s what you’re hinting at. If anyone took advantage, it was her.”

“You didn’t like Elly much, did you?”

“I didn’t know her, except as a lazy, slovenly chambermaid. I told Myron not to hire her, but with Celia and Floyd already working here, he didn’t see as he had much choice.”

“It wasn’t unexpected when she disappeared, then? You accepted the story that she’d eloped with a peddler?”

“Oh, yes. It only surprised me that she didn’t manage to catch one of the guests. She was always flirting with them. And more than that, I suspect.”

“But you have no proof? She was never caught with a man in a compromising position?”

Mrs. Ellington shook her head. “More’s the pity. That would have gotten rid of her, maybe before she got her claws into Howd.”

“What about Norman Saugus? Did you ever suspect he was one of her, er, conquests?”

Tressa Ellington blinked at her, clearly taken aback by the suggestion. “I don’t believe I ever saw them together.”

“All right. What about Mr. and Mrs. Saugus? What are your impressions of them, then and now?”

“Charming when they want to be. Snippy when they don’t.”

“Do you trust them?”

For once an answer came without hesitation: “No.”

“Why not?”

“Underneath all the well-tailored clothes, he still talks like a snake-oil salesman, and no fashionable gown can hide what she is, either. With all that red hair and the overblown figure, she still looks more like a girl in a chorus line than a proper lady.”

“That doesn’t make them murderers,” Diana said, fighting a smile. “Or even small-time criminals.” She thought for a moment, then asked, “What if Howd found out about other men? Do you think he’d—”

“Certainly not!” Mrs. Ellington went rigid with indignation. “He’s not that sort of man.”

Gracious
, Diana thought.
How swift she is to rise to his defense
. She wondered if Howd knew the housekeeper had been jealous of the maid.

“May I go now?” She stood. “I have work to do.”

“So do we all. Can you see that these are mailed today?” she asked, handing over both the letter to Foxe and the one to Mrs. Curran.

Mrs. Ellington accepted the missives, promising to see that they were sent, and headed for the door. She stopped just short of her goal and glanced back at Diana. “I didn’t mean to snap your head off. I’m worried about Howd, that’s all.”

“I understand,” Diana assured her. Perhaps more than Mrs. Ellington realized.

Mrs. Ellington managed a cautious smile. “I believe I’ll take your letters to the post office now. Nothing like a brisk walk to restore both mind and body.”

“Send Mercy in, will you?” Diana called after her.

She didn’t have much expectation that her young cousin would add anything new to the information she’d already gathered. Mercy had already denied remembering much about Elly Lyseth. But it wouldn’t hurt to talk to her again. At least this time Diana could be open about what she wanted to know.

But Mercy did not appear, and when Diana went out into the lobby to look for her, the young woman was nowhere to be found.

Chapter Seven

“Ma’am? Mrs. Spaulding?”

The voice was young, male, and had a hitch in it, as if the speaker were nervous. Diana turned to find Simon “Scorcher” Tanner standing just inside the lobby entrance of the hotel.

“Do you know where Miss Grant is?” she asked him.

“No, ma’am. But I have another telegram for you. From your editor.”

She sighed and extended her hand for it. “I suppose everyone in the telegraph office knows the contents of this one, too.”

“Just me and the operator, ma’am.”

“Let’s keep it between the three of us, shall we?”

“Yes, ma’am. I’m sorry, ma’am. Didn’t mean to cause trouble, ma’am. It’s just that it’s so exciting to have a real reporter here. I read every newspaper I can get my hands on. Hotel copies, mostly. The
Independent Intelligencer
is the stuff, begosh, and you were the one who caught that killer who murdered those other reporters.” There was such admiration in his voice that Diana immediately softened toward him. He hadn’t meant to create new problems for her with the Grants.

 The lad’s earnest blue-eyed gaze and the eager expression on his freckled face left Diana feeling a bit bemused as she opened the telegram and read Horatio Foxe’s latest missive. At once, annoyance furrowed her brow. Foxe’s last request had been an imposition, too, but at least she had a personal interest in finding out what had happened to Elly Lyseth because of the hotel and her own family’s involvement. This new assignment irritated her. Didn’t Foxe realize carrying it out would be an interruption? A distraction? She had no time to pursue a second story.

She answered herself—obviously he was not at all concerned about disrupting her plan for a quiet reunion with long lost relatives, or interfering in her efforts to clear one of them of suspicion of murder. Now that it had occurred, Diana supposed she should have anticipated this development. She knew Horatio Foxe was not one to waste his resources. She was on the spot. Naturally he would want her to look into that other murder, the one that had taken place the previous fall.

Ben was not going to like this. He already thought Foxe took advantage of her.

Perhaps she’d put off telling him. There was no real question about accepting Foxe’s new assignment. If she was to retain any measure of independence after her marriage, it behooved her to keep her job. That meant looking into the notorious “Sailor Jack” case whether she wanted to or not.

Resigned, Diana folded the telegram and put it in her pocket. Only then did she realize that Scorcher was still watching her intently.

“I could help you with this story, ma’am.”

“
How
can you help?” she asked him.

“I know all about Sailor Jack. It’s been in the local papers for months. Everyone says there’s going to be a hanging when the trial’s over. I’ll bet they let newspaper people witness it. You could take—”

“No!”

His face fell. “I wouldn’t be any trouble. And I’d like to see a hanging. There won’t be many more after this year. They got one of them electric chairs now, at the state prison.”

Diana gave him a sharp look, thinking he seemed to have an unhealthy interest in the subject of murder. Then again, she supposed there were those who would say the same thing about her.

“Only certain people are allowed to witness hangings, Scorcher. In addition to the sheriff and his deputies, the district attorney and a judge, and two physicians, there can be no more than twelve citizens—’reputable’ citizens. That means no women and no minors.”

“But—”

“No. On the other hand, Mr. Foxe, my editor, will pay you for any useful information you have.”

Putting a hand on the lad’s bony shoulder, Diana steered him to the pair of lounging chairs arranged in one corner of the lobby. They were old, of the tubby and rounded style popular before the Civil War, but comfortable, and it was warmer there by the windows than it was next to the unlit fieldstone fireplace at the other side of the large, open room.

“Sit. Tell me what you know.”

With renewed enthusiasm, Scorcher spouted facts while Diana scribbled rapidly in her notebook, hoping she could read her own handwriting later. Scorcher knew what he’d read in the newspapers and what he’d heard people say. Diana couldn’t rely exclusively on either source, but the boy’s fascination with the murder would save her a great deal of time and effort.

In short, John Allen, known as “Sailor Jack,” had killed one Drucilla Ulrich of Swiss Hill, near Jeffersonville, while he was intoxicated, and had robbed her afterward. He’d been caught because she’d been killed with a heavy charge of bird shot and Allen had been the only one out hunting with a shotgun in that neighborhood.

“He claimed he was innocent, but when they searched him they found a large jackknife and a dollar and nine cents in money, and a newspaper.” Scorcher leaned closer, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “The newspaper was torn because several pieces had been used for gun wadding, and they matched paper found on the kitchen floor where the crime was committed.”

“Was the knife significant?” Diana asked.

His nod was so vigorous it made his scraggly blond hair bounce up and down. “A bureau in Mrs. Ulrich’s house had been hacked at with a knife to get the drawers open and Sailor Jack’s blade exactly matched the cuts. Then, when they searched the road between Mrs. Ulrich’s house and town, they found a five dollar bank note, and someone remembered seeing Jack with one in the village the evening before. They figured he must have thrown it away while he was being dragged back to the scene of the crime. Anyway, Mrs. Ulrich’s son Joe identified the bank note as one his mother had owned. Don’t know how. Must have had a mark on it or something. Anyway, he said she’d had it at least fifteen years.”

As evidence went, even second hand from the mouth of an overeager young man, Diana found this convincing. She wished all murder cases were as straightforward. On the other hand, there didn’t seem to be much of a story in what Scorcher had told her. The hunt for the killer was over. The trial would not be held until June. She wrote: “Interview Sailor Jack?” in her notebook. That would mean a trip to the county seat in Monticello, taking her away from where she wanted to be, but she couldn’t think of anything else that would provide a newsworthy angle.

She smiled at Scorcher. “You’ve been a wonderful help. Thank you.”

“How much do you think he’ll pay me, your editor?”

“How does five dollars sound?”

His eyes went wide with pleasure. “You’re the stuff, begosh!” At once the pale skin behind the freckles pinkened. “I mean to say . . . well . . . thank you, ma’am. That’s more than I’d likely make in a month of delivering telegrams.”

“Just one thing, Scorcher.”

“Yes, ma’am?”

“Not another word to anyone else from now on about any of this. Not about my interest in Sailor Jack or about the remains that were found here at the Hotel Grant. And the content of any telegrams I receive from now on is to be treated as privileged information.”

“Yes, ma’am. Word of honor. And you be sure to let me know if there’s anything else I can help you with.” He was whistling cheerfully as he left the lobby.

“You’ve won his heart,” Mercy said from behind Diana.

“It’s not difficult to do with a boy that age.”

Diana rubbed her fingers together, hoping to warm them. She’d have written with gloves on if it had been practical, it was that nippy in the lobby. She wondered why Mercy didn’t spend half her time blue with cold. She supposed her cousin kept warm enough when she was polishing furniture or dusting or sweeping, but she must become thoroughly chilled when she worked at less active tasks behind the check-in desk.

“Aunt Tressa said you wanted to talk to me.”

“I have a few questions.”

“It’s almost time for dinner. Will they wait?”

Since Ben had just come in from the veranda, Diana agreed that it could. She’d far rather return to their warm, cozy suite to compare notes with him than badger Mercy for answers.

* * * * 

“The first Grant to arrive in New Netherlands was looking for a lead mine,” Mercy Grant said over dinner in one of the small, private dining rooms. “He and his brother had a map they’d gotten from some Indians.”

“Lead?” Diana’s brow furrowed in puzzlement. “Is lead valuable?”