Blood Rise

Three

ThreeSimms went into town on Monday morning, grimacing with each step his horse took. Having worked all weekend in the raging heat, his back and arms were sore from ploughing through earth as unforgiving as the coarsest, hardest stone.

There were two messages waiting for him. One from his bank, advising him of concerns raised over a land acquisition and a telegram from the Illinois headquarters of the Pinkerton Detective agency. This took most of his attention.

Returning from the Mexican War in Eighteen-Forty-Nine, as news of the California Goldrush hit every headline and passed over every set of lips, Simms found himself taking up work as a detective in the recently formed agency founded by Allan Pinkerton. Now, ten years later, as chief manager of the first eastern branch of the agency, Simms divided his time between his duties as a Pinkerton and that of Sheriff in the town of Glory. Life's curious passage brings with it many unlooked for changes, and so it was with Simms. And often, like now, the weight of responsibility brought profound weariness.

The words of the telegram did not relieve his mood.

'Escaped convicts must be recaught, STOP. Make for Fort Bridger, immediate, STOP. News there. STOP. A.P.'

The route from the town of Bovey to Fort Bridger took two days and, although it followed an old, well-used Indian trail for the most part, danger lurked every step of the way. With this in mind, he unlocked the rifle cabinet and selected his recent acquisition of a Colt Root rifle, with five shots in the cylinder. This allowed him greater firepower than his old Halls carbine, which he affectionately ran his fingers down the stock of before closing up the cabinet once more. At his hip was the Navy Colt given to him by his friend Martinson, who ran an eating-place some distance from the town of Bovey. He had enough paper cartridges for this g*n, assembled by his partner White Dove back at the ranch house. He always marvelled at her patience and dexterity at making such fine pieces of ammunition. This cut down on the time it took to reload his sidearm, but even this could not compare to the Smith and Wesson Model One in his shoulder holster. This g*n held self-contained metallic cartridges, making reloading fast and effective. So armed he put the coffee pot on the stove and reread the telegram from Illinois one more time.

He sighed. There was still the matter of investigating the Hanrahan funeral robbery. Ruminating on what to do for the best, he barely had enough time to throw down a cup of half-brewed coffee before he climbed into his saddle and cantered across to the big old house on the outskirts of town to talk to the deceased's surviving offspring.

The daughter of the deceased greeted him at the door. Doffing his hat, Simms stepped inside, his dust-caked boots sounding hollow on the entrance hall's floorboards. He smiled to her, somewhat self-consciously, as a young maid emerged and stooped down next to him with dustpan and brush. “My apologies.”

“Don't trouble yourself none, Detective,” said the daughter, and beckoned him to move farther inside. “Betsy, make us some coffee after you've cleaned up.”

The maid nodded and Simms gave her an apologetic smile which she did not return.

He followed the daughter into the parlour, a large room with chintz-covered couch, writing table and straight-backed chair in the corner. The fireplace, although empty, bore the marks of recent use. Twin patio doors opened up to an impressive back yard, with mature trees and flower beds. An air of tempered opulence hung over the room., as it did much of the rest of the impressively decorated house.

Taking his attention were the wallpaper designs, rendered in powder-blue with a floral motif. He leaned across and peered at a section closely.

“You are interested in such decoration, Detective?”

“I am indeed, Miss …?” He looked at her from over his shoulder.

“My name is Naomi.” She held out her hand. Simms straightened and took it, wondering if he should kiss it in the old-fashioned way. He'd heard it was appropriate in certain sectors of society. He decided against it. “I am the second of my late father's four daughters. Elspeth, the eldest, is seeing to some of the legal wrangling associated with my father's estate, whilst my—”

“Forgive me, Miss Naomi, but my time is pressing. I need to know what happened.”

“Oh, I see.” She grew a little flustered, a slight reddening appearing around her jaw. “Well, I, suppose we will start here as this is where my father lay.” Waving her arms vaguely towards the patio doors, she pressed the back of the same hand to her mouth, eyes closed, and swallowed down a tiny sob. “I'm sorry.”

“Perhaps I should come back at another time, when you are feeling more at ease.”

He held his breath. He wanted this case done and dusted before he set-out for Bridger. Escaped convicts were more pressing than a simple robbery. Or so he assumed.

“No, no,” she said quickly, producing a silken handkerchief from inside her sleeve. Dabbing her eyes, she forced a tight smile. “It's all been – well, hectic is the word I suppose you could use, Daddy struck down so quickly, you see. Unexpected.”

Simms caught his breath, his interest tweaked.“Oh? I didn't know that. I assumed he was ill.”

“Daddy was at his fittest for years,” Naomi said, pausing a moment to dab her eyes again. “He had begun socialising with a group of like-minded landowners and would often invite them here for dinner. At one such meeting, he grew to be very fond of a widow from town. A Mrs Miller, who had lost her husband some years back from—”

“Excuse me, did you say Mrs Miller. Mrs Laura Miller, from the town of Glory?”

“Yes, that's her. Do you know her, Detective? An extremely handsome and affectionate woman, whom Daddy took a shine to almost as soon as she appeared on our front porch.” She giggled at the memory, her eyes growing distant, “She imbued him with a new lease of life, Detective. I have not seen him as happy for many years, not since Mama died.”

Reflecting on these revelations, Simms wandered across to the porch doors and looked out towards the manicured lawn. “And the robbery, Miss Naomi? What happened exactly?”

“Well, people were coming and going. Jacob, our manservant, did the best he could, but we had no way of knowing who came to pay their last respects.”

He turned, staring at her. A fragile little thing, pasty-faced, awash with grief. “Could you possibly make a list of everything that was taken?”

“Yes, I can do that. Somebody must have slipped upstairs to Mama's room. All of her jewellery…” She coughed, again the handkerchief pressing against her face. “Poor Daddy. I thank God he didn't have to suffer any of that.”

“I think, perhaps, if he hadn't suffered the way he did, none of this would have happened.”

“I don't understand you, Detective.”

“As ghastly as it may sound, there are professional thieves out there who prey on people when they are at their lowest – funerals being the main one. They also frequent society weddings, sometimes purporting to be newspeople looking to report the event. However they do it, they get inside and help themselves to whatever they can find. This theft is clearly in the same mode.”

“I see. But yes, you are quite right, Detective – it is ghastly.”

“If you could make up the list, send it over to my office, I would be obliged. And if you can cast your mind back, try to think of any strangers you may have noticed. A couple perhaps.”

“A couple?”

“Yes, they often work in pairs. A man and woman, full of grief, draped in black, the woman probably wailing, the man standing apart, serious.”

“Dear Lord, as if such a thing could happen.”

“All too often, Miss Naomi, it does.” He touched the brim of his hat. “Please get those scraps of information to me, no matter how insignificant they may seem.”

“I will, Detective.” She reached out and touched his arm as he went to move to the door. “Thank you. All of this, at such a time…”

He smiled knowingly, nodded and walked out.

Stepping out onto the porch, the heat hit him like a door slamming in his face. He hauled himself into his saddle and gently turned the horse away. The maid gave him a small wave and he tipped his hat in response and spurred his mount into a canter.

All the while, on his ride back to Bovey, a single thought burrowed its way deeper into his brain.

Laura Miller knew Randolph Hanrahan.

And now Randolph Hanrahan was dead.