The Gold Miner's Wife: A Young Woman's Story of Romance, Passion and Murder (11 page)

“For you,” Jack said, handing
Gerta the basket.  “From Susannah,” he added, gesturing.

Her eyes went wide.  “
Danke, danke,” she said.  Catori and Susannah placed the bundles containing the fabric on the table.  Gerta called to little Otto who had been peering shyly from behind the door to the bedroom.

“Otto, come,” said
Gerta.  He ran to her side.  “Mein Sohn,” she beamed.  Otto is vier,” she added, holding up four fingers.  Otto had a cherubic face, with rosy red cheeks and curly brown hair.

“How do you do Otto,” said Susannah.  “I am Susannah, this is
Catori, and you know Mr. Simmons.”  He gave everyone a bashful smile, which quickly transformed into an expression of utter delight when Catori reached into her pocket to produce a small wooden top and gave it to him.  “Danke!” he exclaimed as he immediately knelt on the floor to play with his new treasure.  Otto knew exactly what one was supposed to do with a wooden top, but he was a little clumsy at his first few tries as it wobbled unsteadily.  Jack got down with him and together they practiced until they had the top dancing across the wooden floor.

Gerta
removed the items that had been carefully packed in the basket, including strawberry jam, coffee, sugar, oatmeal, tea, rice, molasses, even a block of soap.  She was clearly surprised and pleased and expressed her gratitude to her new friends by hugging them.  The parcels containing fabric were opened next.  There were yards of material in many colors – Otto would have new shirts.  When she came out of mourning, Gerta would have a few new day dresses.  She was overwhelmed, her eyes welled up.  “Danke,” she said quietly. 

Jack did not want Mrs. Schultz to become overset with emotion as a result of their visit, so he asked her if any help was needed at the moment around the house. 

“Meine Kuh wird lose,” she replied.

“
Kuh?” repeated Jack, looking puzzled.

“
Kuh,” said Gerta again, not knowing the word cow.  She quickly offered everyone her best ‘
moo
’ sound which immediately cleared up the mystery.

“Your cow gets out?” said Jack.

“Ja, Das Tor braucht – the gate,” she said.  “The gate, neues Scharnier.”

“A new
Scharnier?” repeated Jack.

“
Ja, Scharnier,” said Gerta, and she left the room momentarily to fetch the object.  Evidently the cow was escaping because the hinge on the gate was broken.  Jack immediately figured out what was needed.  Gerta had a new hinge but was not strong enough to lift the gate nor could she install the hinge at the same time.  The task required two people. 

Everyone went outside.  Jack dispensed with his jacket, loosened some buttons on his shirt and rolled up his sleeves to reveal brawny, powerful arms.  His neck was thick and his chest, lightly furred.  The gate was heavy, but he lifted it up with little effort and held it in place,
as his muscles bunched along his upper arms and shoulders.  The ladies used a screwdriver to install the new hinge.  His back was broad and strong, leading down to a narrow waist and buttocks outlined by his tight leggings.  Perspiration caused his shirt to cling to his muscled form.  From his exertion brown hair had fallen across his sweaty brow.  Jack was manly and virile, powerful.  He was also kind and considerate, gallant, thoughtful and Susannah found herself staring.  He had cared about what happened to a prostitute who had been mistreated.  He had solved what had been a serious worry for Gerta.  The loss of her cow would have meant the loss of her income.  With the new hinge in place, the cow could no longer escape.  How a man with so many fine qualities had remained single was incongruous to her.  Jack had always been a friend, first to Thomas, and now to her.  And she thanked Providence for that and for him.

It had been a good day, Susannah felt a sense of accomplishment and had made a new friend.  Despite their inability to understand each other’s words, the two young widows understood a great deal about each other.

              Daniel Cookson sat behind the desk in his office on Colfax Avenue and absently smoothed his thin moustache, lost in thought.  The comprehensive notes he had taken were arrayed in front of him, neatly grouped into categories: suspects, opportunities, motives.  He had also drawn a rough diagram of the layout of the mining camp.  Cookson had spent two weeks at the Five Nuggets Mine, interviewing the employees and piecing together events leading up to the explosion.  He was endeavoring to narrow the possibilities before him, and as with any investigation, the devil was in the details.  It was important not to overlook the minutia.  One small item, one piece of information, was frequently all that was needed to solve a mystery.  He stood and walked to the open window that overlooked Colfax Avenue as he lit another cigarette.  The weather had turned a bit cooler, the air coming through the window felt refreshing.  It was now into September, and the snow could fly at any time.

             
Was it an ambush or was it an accident?  Mines were inherently dangerous places.  Again last week an incident at a mine in Divide was reported in the newspaper.  The men had put in a blast with one holding the tamping bar and the other striking, when the powder exploded, knocking both men senseless.  Their faces were burned, along with their buckskin gloves.  The men were lucky not to have been blinded.  If one did not get hit by loose rock or a falling support beam, or take a misstep and fall down a shaft, there were other deadly threats.  One might succumb to the black damp, or choke damp, which reduced the available oxygen content to render the air incapable of sustaining life.  Perhaps it was a murder designed to look like an accident.  Which man did the murderer want dead, and why?

             
Cookson had first needed to convince himself that what had happened was no accident.  A visit to the scene of the explosion along with a tour of the operation and lengthy interviews with the three managers, Marroney, Jones and Trentham, convinced him that the size of the powerful blast far exceeded what was necessary to get at the surface ore.  The blast had been deliberate. 

             
Heinz Schultz was an experienced miner and a careful worker.  He had an unblemished record and was not prone to accidents.  The best theory offered was that Schultz was drilling a hole obliquely into the designated place in the rock that afternoon when the drill entered an unexploded charge of which he was ignorant.  The charge had been put there by someone else.  The trouble was, no one had been authorized to place a charge in the area where Schultz was working.  Further, someone closely familiar with the schedule knew when and where Schultz would be drilling that afternoon and that Sprague would be working nearby.  When the charge exploded, Schultz was killed instantly and Thomas, in the next chamber, was killed by falling rubble.

             
Cookson had done a little investigating into Mr. Schultz’s background and found nothing to indicate he had any mortal enemies.  An immigrant from Germany, he worked hard and was a family man.  Schultz was trying to make a go of it in his adopted country.  He appeared to be solvent financially and was not prone to gambling.  Thomas Sprague had a fine reputation as an honest businessman and a person of integrity.  The bulk of his worldly possessions had been left to his wife, with a small portion to his mother.  He also had no enemies.  There was no other person who might gain financially from his demise.  Of necessity, Susannah Sprague briefly came under Cookson’s microscope but he quickly deemed her to be above suspicion.  By all accounts she was wildly in love with her husband and was also an independently wealthy woman in her own right without Thomas’s fortune.

             
The breeze was disturbing some of the papers on his desk.  He moved the deck prism to anchor them all in place.  Another variable had to be considered.  What had the murderer accomplished in committing this bold crime?  Two young women were now widows.  Was a jealous suitor waiting in the wings?  Was
that
the motive?  Love has the power to make fools of us all, Cookson thought.  It makes us slaves to sentiment.  Was this a crime of passion?  Although this concept seemed unlikely, it was an avenue that would be explored.

             
Cookson had now completed his interviews with the other mine workers.  He wanted to rule out sabotage as a motive and found no evidence of disgruntlement or unhappiness among the laborers.  The men were paid on time and received a competitive wage.  He had also visited the Federal Land Office on Fifteenth Avenue in Denver to check on the validity of the claim.  Everything was in order.

             
So many leads had dissipated, like smoke in the breeze.  Cookson returned to his seat at the desk and glanced at his notes, now focused on the numerous unresolved questions he had regarding the enigmatic Mr. Brophy.  The sinister proof he was seeking would in some way be connected with this man, he was sure of it, but he had yet to ferret out what it was.

             
The mine managers affirmed what Jack had asserted previously.  Brophy simply walked into the mining camp that late July day and was put to work almost immediately.  He labored steadily for nearly one week without complaint.  The high altitude which forced some workers to move on, evidently did not bother him.  After several days, Mr. Quinn had instructed Brophy in the use of the auger.  The two established something of a camaraderie owing to their common roots from County Tipperary.  Brophy now knew how to use the auger and where he could find one.  Quinn and two others were experienced in laying charges and Brophy, now having gained their trust, had observed where the blasting caps were safely stored.  Like any other worker, he moved about the camp freely.  He had knowledge and he had opportunity, but what would be his motive?

             
It was equally mysterious that someone who had labored diligently for a week at physically demanding work, would neglect to ask for the wages he was due before he left.  There could only be one explanation – someone else was paying him.  But who?  And why?  Cookson tried to imagine what sort of man would be willing to carry out another’s dark wishes.  Was not a person’s character his most precious commodity?  By luck or by design, Brophy was an outcast, a loner, someone’s minion, and in Cookson’s experience this was the most dangerous type of ruffian.

             
The timing of his disappearance was another puzzlement.  Brophy worked the morning of the explosion and evidently slipped away unnoticed sometime that afternoon.  With the crisis at hand, everyone was focused on saving lives.  In a frantic race against time, the workers whose brass checks were hung on the board outside the mine entrance were the ones needing to be accounted for.

             
In the aftermath of that tumultuous day, Jack had asked his managers to get the word out in Pine Creek and the surrounding mines that they were looking for Brophy.  He was wanted in connection with his alleged assault at the brothel.  But Brophy seemed to have disappeared without a trace.  Cookson was back to square one.

             
There was yet one person who had not been interviewed, a person with knowledge of Mr. Brophy, and that person was Mary Dempsey…Jade.  Cookson knew that such an interview would cause her considerable disquiet, but they were on the same side in this.  He needed to find out more about what Brophy may have said to her.  If she labored under the belief that he might be caught and brought to justice for his brutality, she would probably cooperate.  She need not know that he was looking into Mr. Brophy for other reasons.  Cookson jammed the cigarette butt into the ashtray more forcefully than was needed and reached for his revolver.  He would be ready if trouble came his way.  It was time to return to Pine Creek.

             
As Jade recovered from the brutal treatment she received at the hands of Mr. Brophy, she contemplated her grim situation.  It could only be characterized as execrable.  Life had brought her to a very low place indeed.  It had taken a full week after the event for Jade to find the courage to peer into a looking glass.  She had been terrified by the whole ghastly business and although the nightmares were fewer, the headaches subsided, and her face was now healed, to continue on at Madam Delilah’s was a reality she would not countenance.

             
The one hundred dollars received from Mr. Simmons had allowed her to think about other avenues.  It often happens that significant events in life will conspire to lead us in a new direction.  She now had an opportunity to rescript her path.  No one else could save her, she wanted nothing more than to save herself.  It was time to forget her past life; she was no longer Jade.  She would begin anew as Mary Dempsey.  With the diligent help of Madam Delilah and the others at the brothel house, a low-paying position was found at a boarding house in Colorado Springs where Mary would be out of sight, banished to the scullery to clean the pots.  The prospect suited her.  With nothing to recommend her, Mary Dempsey was grateful for a new beginning that would keep her out of harm’s way. 

             
It was David Cookson’s good fortune to find Mary Dempsey still in Pine Creek as he called on her just on the eve of her departure.  He handed his card to Madam Delilah and introduced himself as the detective hired by Jack Simmons to find out more about Mr. Brophy.  Mary Dempsey was then called to the parlor.  She wore a simple brown day dress with long sleeves and a high collar.  Her auburn hair was pulled into a neat chignon at the nape of her neck.  She was very young, barely a woman.  In light of all she had endured, Cookson was loathe to interview Miss Dempsey, to force her to dredge up the awful memories and relive it all again.  At the same time he was committed to solving the mystery.  The reality was that Brophy might also be guilty of murder.  He had to find him. 

             
“Miss Dempsey,” Cookson began, “I know you do not wish to revisit that painful day.  However, Mr. Simmons has sent me because we would like to apprehend Mr. Brophy.  It would help our investigation if you would tell me anything you remember.”

             
She eyed him warily.  “He will kill me,” she said fearfully, looking like a cornered mouse.  “He made that very clear.”

             
“No one is going to kill you,” said Cookson with authority.  “Brophy has fled the area.  He knows we are looking for him.  Why would he want to kill you?  What can you tell me?”

             
Mary flinched and turned her head away for a moment.  The image of those large fists hitting her assailed her.  Then came the terrifying memory of searing pain and the taste of blood.

             
“Not very much, I am afraid,” she answered quietly.  “Someone came to the door.  He had an accent like Brophy, only different.  He was dressed like a gentleman, not a worker.  He asked Brophy ‘is it done?’ was all.”

             
“To clarify, Mr. Cookson, one of my girls showed the man where to find Brophy,” said Madam Delilah.

             
“And what did Brophy say to this man?” asked Cookson.

             
“He said ‘yes, tomorrow’ was all.”

             
“And then…?”

             
“Then the well-dressed man handed Brophy a big wad of money and said he would be in Denver waiting for further news,” she added. 

             
“And when did he attack you?”

             
“Later I asked Brophy if the man was someone from the mine.  He answered by using his fists,” she said.  Mary looked down, her hands were anxiously twisting the handkerchief.  Her nerves were starting to fray.  Her delicate lashes dusted her cheeks; then the teardrops came.

             
“Brophy wanted you to forget the man you saw,” supplied Cookson.  “I do not wish to upset you further.  Just one thing,” he added, “can you tell me anything else that would help describe the well-dressed man?”

             
“I only got a brief glimpse of him,” she said honestly.  “He had brown curly hair and a thin mustache.  I
think
he had a mustache, the hallway was dark.  He was tall, I mean taller than Mr. Brophy.”

             
“Thank you, Miss Dempsey.  I appreciate that it has been very painful for you to be asked to recall these events.  You have helped our investigation tremendously.  I can assure you, he has now left this area.  No one has seen him.  Brophy is an evil man and he knows we are trying to find him,” said Cookson in an effort to reassure her.

             
“If he ever finds out that I spoke with you, he will surely kill me,” she insisted, her voice cracking.

             
“He will never find out,” said Cookson quite firmly.  “And thanks to you, our prospects are even better that we will be able to prevent him from harming other women.”

             
“What will happen if you catch him?” she asked, as she dabbed her eyes with her handkerchief.

             
“
When
we catch him, he will hang,” said Cookson without mincing words.

             
“Hang?”

             
“We have reason to believe he is the culprit in other crimes, Miss Dempsey,” said Cookson with further elaboration.  “Thank you again for aiding in our investigation.”