The Gold Miner's Wife: A Young Woman's Story of Romance, Passion and Murder (24 page)

“The master and your friend are marrying today,” he announced without preamble. 

“Am I to be set free?” she asked.

“Hardly,” he said cruelly.

“Did you bring food?”

“Not needed,” was the terrifying answer.  The message was appallingly clear - they had decided to do away with her after all.

The last thing Brophy was expecting was a woman who fought back.  It had not been his experience that women put up much of a fight at all.  Usually, one smack with his brawny hand was enough of a deterrent.  But when he knelt down near her and started to bind her ankles together, she had a clear shot where his loose coat gaped open.  This was her one chance and she took it, deftly plunging the knife into the side of his gut.  Her hand came away bloody, with more blood on her sleeve.

             
He winced at the pain and let out a wild scream.  “You fucking bitch!” he bellowed as one hand instinctively went to his side, as if to assess the immediate danger.  She scrambled around him, but despite his pain and shock, his other hand shot out to grab her by the leg.  His grip was like a vise, he twisted her leg at the ankle and she cried out.  This action however, proved to be his undoing.  Kicking and writhing, she jolted the dagger that was still lodged inside him, causing him further injury.  Catori scooted past him, and driven by desperation sprinted out the door and ran like the wind despite the shooting pain.  She spotted the horse tethered nearby.  With her hands still bound together, she was up and on the horse.  In another heartbeat she was thundering away down the lane like the devil himself was at her heels. 

             
Catori rode the horse hard and it swiftly carried her far afield of the chamber of horrors.  But she would not let down her guard until she was many miles from her prison.  Nothing looked familiar about this particular landscape.  She had no idea where any of the roads would lead.  The horse was tiring and so was she; soon it would be night and a storm might be in the offing.  Catori needed to find someone who would help her.  She saw smoke curling upward in the distance and in another half mile a small cottage came into view.  She reached the small dwelling, slid from the horse, limped to the door and desperately screamed for help.  When they opened their door, the shocked residents of the cottage beheld a wild thing.  Smelly, blood-stained, her hands bound together, her hair matted, her clothes covered with dirt, they wondered what foul business had brought about her pathetic state, and if inviting her inside would bring imminent danger to them.  Before she collapsed in their doorway, Catori uttered the one word that she hoped might save her: “Larkspur”.

*****

At three o’clock on Tuesday afternoon, the wedding ceremony took place in the large Anglican Church on Effingham Road in Stoke-on-Trent.  It was a cloudy, chilly, unpromising day.  The bride wore an organdy gown, with a train and a lace veil of the same length.  The gown had a fitted bodice, small waist and full skirt.  The local seamstress had been very obliging and worked tirelessly to have the gown finished in only three days’ time, not that Susannah cared.  The bride also wore embroidered silk stockings, kid gloves and ornate flat shoes adorned with bows.  The groom, Edward Mansfield, wore a waistcoat of white and trousers of lavender doeskin.  The guests assembled and the deacon completed the rituals in less than thirty minutes.  Edward took his bride’s hand and slipped the wedding band into place.  Susannah concentrated on her trembling fingers, unable to meet his gaze.  At the last, the legal registry was duly signed by the newly minted bride and groom.   After the ceremony, wedding cake and wine were served to the dozen or so wedding guests in a private parlor in the nearby Mayfair Hotel.  But Susannah had no appetite for any of it.  Foremost on her mind was what had become of her friend. 

Jack’s heart pounded as he made his way down the gangplank and stepped onto the dock.  It felt strange to be on solid ground again, his body had grown used to the endless pitch and roll of the ship.  It was a wintry, grey day and storm clouds were building.  The London streets were busier than he remembered them, crowded, impeding their progress to the train station.  Jack had visited London as a college student.  Now those carefree days seemed very long ago.  Of course he wasn’t on an urgent mission back then, like he was now.  Perhaps he was just impatient.  Jack mulled the idea of sending a telegram ahead to Larkspur to announce their imminent arrival, but Cookson said it was best to push ahead. 

Their plan was to meet with Susannah and thoroughly review the ironclad evidence exposing Mansfield and Brophy as co-conspirators in a murder plot.  Her safety and welfare was foremost on their minds.  Detective Cookson was prepared with the details, including the telegram which had been delivered to Mansfield at her home in Denver shortly before the tragedy.  In addition, they planned to meet with the British authorities, but realized that bringing both men to justice would be a slow process.  How the authorities might decide to proceed was really out of their hands.  For Jack, the mission was a personal commitment.  He loved Susannah,  he would protect her, he would keep her from harm, he would give up his life for her.

By one o’clock they were on the train to Stoke-on-Trent.  By half-past three they had arrived and hastily procured rooms at a nearby hotel, pausing only long enough to deposit their luggage.  They rented suitable horses at the local stable for the five mile journey to Larkspur.  The stable master was helpful with directions: Effingham Road past the Anglican Church to Fair Lane, thence to Elm which would bring them to the main road leading out of town, so that by four-thirty they reached their destination at last.

The perplexed housemaid who greeted them at the door clearly was not expecting callers, especially foreign visitors dressed in an unfamiliar style of clothing.  Jack wore a Western frock coat in a striped pattern, a string tie and a Stetson hat.  Cookson was garbed in a cavalry, double-breasted great coat, Western preacher cowboy boots with two inch heels, and a Stetson.  Of course, their pistols were neatly concealed in shoulder holsters.  Nevertheless, she wondered – who were these arrestingly handsome yet dangerous looking men? 

“Good afternoon,” Jack began pleasantly.  “I am Jack Simmons and this is Daniel Cookson,” he said, handing over their cards.  “We are here to call on Mrs. Sprague, if you would be kind enough to let her know we have arrived.”

Nothing could have prepared him for the revelation that came next.

“I am so sorry gentlemen,” she told them, looking surprised.  “Mrs. Sprague is not at home.  In fact she is marrying this very afternoon and her grandmother, Lady Alice is, of course with her.”

Both men were stunned.  Her statement rendered Jack speechless.  What hideous nightmare was this?  How could this possibly be?  He had warned Susannah that Mansfield was a dangerous criminal, and yet she was marrying him?

“Married!” he exclaimed.  “Today?”

“Why yes sir,” was the polite response.  “This afternoon, at the Anglican Church in Stoke-on-Trent,” she added helpfully.

“And who is the groom?” ventured Mr. Cookson, although they both suspected they already knew the answer to this question.

“Why it is Mr. Edward Mansfield, a long-time friend of the family.  He owns the neighboring estate, High Park.”

Both men were as horrified as they were angry.  The news was disturbing, unfathomable.  It couldn’t be – and yet it
was
.  They had come all this way to save Susannah from this evil blackguard and now it was too late.  Hadn’t she received the telegram?  Evidently not – but
why
not?  Why was it that Mansfield always seemed to be one step ahead of them?  He had them running in circles.  What possible inducement might have persuaded Susannah to marry him?  Jack could think of several and he shuddered at the thought.  She would never have done so willingly, of that he was convinced.

“You may be able to find her at the Mayfair Hotel,” she supplied helpfully.  “I believe the guests were all invited to attend a small reception there.  We expect Lady Alice to return to Larkspur by early evening.”

“Thank you for the helpful information,” said Jack, trying to rein in his seething emotions.  “We may yet have the good fortune to see Mrs. Sprague and Lady Alice today, but it would be appreciated if you would let them know we called here all the same.”

*****

The last of the well-wishers departed shortly after five o’clock and soon afterward Susannah and Edward withdrew to their suite of rooms on an upper floor of the lovely Mayfair Hotel.  There was a comfortable sitting room, a dressing room, a large bedroom and a balcony offering a fine view of the town square. 

Edward Mansfield was in his element, was delighted with his new bride and his obscenely improved financial picture.  Very soon, when he bedded the exquisite Susannah, his triumph would be complete.  Susannah was distraught and depressed, she felt sick.  She had repeated the words required of her at the altar and willingly passed her fortune into the hands of her manipulative husband in order to save her friend, wasn’t that enough?  She sat on the blue damask sofa in a state of nervous apprehension, wondering what her next move should be.

Susannah’s personal maid answered the soft knock at the door and two hotel employees entered with silver trays of hot food – a special wedding supper along with a bottle of champagne for the happy couple.  “Dismiss your maid for the evening,” Mansfield ordered Susannah, while the aromatic, gourmet dishes including oyster soup, beef Tallyrand and hot fruit compote were being carefully arranged on the table.  When they were quite alone, Edward joined his new bride on the sofa and took her hands in his.  But Susannah stiffened and shrank away from him.

“My dear,” he began, “it has been an overwhelming few days for both of us.  But now we are finally alone at last.  Our tasty dinner is ready and we should celebrate.  What do you say we have some champagne, share in a toast and relax ourselves with this fine meal?”

But Susannah was having none of it.  She had paid an extremely high price in making this sinful bargain with Edward – exchanging her own freedom for Catori’s.  “Where is my friend?” she asked, her voice low and cold as she glowered at him.  “Where is Catori?”

Edward knew the horrifying answer to this question was one his wife would not want to hear. 
Brophy would have taken care of this detail by now.  Catori could not be trusted to remain silent.  Once free, she would squeal and this was something he could not allow.  However, to appease his wife and buy time he told another lie.

“Mr.
Brophy looked in on her today as he has every day.  She is fine.  She is unharmed.  When we return home to High Park tomorrow, Catori will be there to meet you.”

“I do not believe you,” she said bluntly, her stubbornness surprising him.  “Everything you have ever said to me has been a lie.  I have paid a very high price for
Catori’s freedom and I demand to see her.”

“My dear,” he pleaded.  “Please be reasonable.  It is night and is threatening to snow.  I have no way of sending a message to Mr.
Brophy at this hour.”

“No!” she shouted as she stood up.  “
You
be reasonable!  Enough of this charade.  I want to see my friend and I will see her now!” 

“You bitch!” he yelled, as he stood, grabbed her upper arms and shook her.  “Let’s get one thing straight.  I am the senior partner in this arrangement with the right to dictate terms.  You will do as I say, when I say!” he yelled.  To further intimidate his pretty bride of merely three hours, he delivered a forceful crack across her face with the back of his hand.  Too late she tried to shield herself and instead received the brunt of the stinging blow.  “
Ow!” she cried out in pain. 

“I am so tired of this game,” he snarled, as he violently ripped at the bodice of her gown, partially exposing her breasts.  “You are mine now, you little whore, and you better get used to it!” he said as he forcefully pushed her down on the sofa.  In suffocating panic, she screamed and writhed in protest.  But he fell on top of her, effectively pinning her down while he drew her skirt up above her thighs.

In that chaotic moment when she thought all was lost, Jack came crashing through the door with his gun drawn.

“Give it up, Mansfield!” he yelled.  “It’s over!  Let her go!”

But Mansfield reached into his coat pocket and had Susannah on her feet and with a gun pointed to her head in lightning speed.

“Drop the gun – or she dies right now!” Mansfield ordered as he held her in a vise-like grip.

“Jack!”  Susannah cried.

“You have no chance, Mansfield.  You have been found out,” warned Jack.

“Drop it, I said,” Mansfield repeated.  “I won’t say it again.”  But Susannah’s fury could no longer be contained and as she squirmed to free herself she forcefully kicked Mansfield in the leg, causing him to move his hand away from her temple.  He was rapidly losing control of the volatile situation.  The boat was sinking and he could not bale the water fast enough.  In desperation, he pointed the gun at Jack and fired; the bullet hit him in the right thigh.  Jack immediately dropped to the floor and Susannah gave out a blood-curdling scream.  With Susannah’s body shielding Mansfield, Jack did not have a clear shot.  Mansfield was poised to shoot again, but then another blast came from behind.  Susannah let out a terrified shriek.  With a bullet in his skull, Edward Mansfield fell over dead.  Daniel Cookson ran forward from the bedroom suite with his gun drawn.  He had gained entry by climbing up to the balcony.  The deadly confrontation was over in less than a minute.

“Mr. Cookson!” Susannah exclaimed.  She was shaking.   Cookson took her elbow.  “Come away,” he said gently.

“He meant to kill us,” she said. “He would have killed us,” she repeated in nervous disbelief.   She rushed over to Jack.  He had pulled himself upright, was leaning against the door frame and had placed a hand over the bullet wound to stem the flow of blood.  “Jack!” she cried as she embraced him.  “You are badly hurt and I know it is my fault.  I caused him to point the gun at you!”

He embraced her with his free arm.  “I’ll live, sweetheart,” he said, although in obvious pain.  “Are
you
alright?” he asked, noting her torn clothing and the bright red mark on her cheek.

“Yes, because you are here!” she answered, and then, emotionally spent and in shock, she started to sob.

“Shh, love,” he said as he held her.  “It is over now,” he said soothingly, trying to calm her.  “It is finally over.”

Cookson peered closer at Jack’s injury.  The bullet wound was deep.  As a battle-hardened Civil War veteran, he knew it was essential to stop the bleeding.  Cookson grabbed the cloth dinner napkins from the table, wadded them up and applied pressure.  Jack winced in pain.  “God damn!” he said in protest.  “Steady,” said Cookson, looking grim.

Help quickly descended from every direction and the scene became very chaotic.  Hotel personnel scrambled to fetch Constable Emery and Dr. Hargreaves.  Jack was moved to a bed in an adjoining room.  Curious onlookers were disbursed.  The mortician was summoned. 

Detective Cookson and Susannah were interviewed at length by Mr. Emery, but he spoke with them separately so that one might remain with Jack and be of help to Dr. Hargreaves.  Very soon three of Emery’s associates were dispatched to High Park – to notify Charlotte of her brother’s death, to arrest
Brophy and to locate Catori. 

The unpleasant task of finding and removing the bullet lodged in Jack’s thigh and then treating the deep wound took Dr. Hargreaves nearly an hour.  The liberal amount of alcohol Jack consumed was not nearly enough to blunt the pain from the metal instruments that probed his tender flesh.  Jack had lost a lot of blood.  Exhausted, he slipped into a restful sleep in the comfortable bed.  Susannah stayed close by throughout the night, with the oil lamp turned down low, dozing occasionally as she sat wrapped in a blanket in a brocade wing chair.

It was three or perhaps four in the morning when Jack awoke groggily, his eyes adjusting to the lamplight.  He saw her sleeping there in the uncomfortable chair – his beautiful guardian angel.  “Susannah,” he called to her softly.

“Jack!  What?  I am here!” she said, immediately jumping up from the chair.  “How are you feeling?  What do you need?” she asked as she came to the bedside.  “Water?”

“Shh, shh, love,” he answered, gently taking her hand.  “I need you.  Come to bed,” he invited her as he drew back the covers.

“But your leg…your wound…” she started to protest.

“It hurts, yes,” he agreed.  “But it would do a world of good to have you here next to me.  Just come to bed.”  Something shifted between them, it was sweet and lovely.

She looked at him for a long moment and was struck by the way the dim light played along the rugged line of his iron jaw, softening the harsh planes and angles of his handsome face.  She dropped the blanket, removed her robe and slid under the warm covers, snuggling next to him, wearing only her thin night rail.  He turned to her, wrapped his arms around her, pulled her close to his heart and tenderly kissed her temple.  “Sleep, my love, just close your eyes and sleep,” he said to her.  In this moment, she and Jack were the only two people in the world.