Murder at Marble House(62)

It was Derrick who ended it. “Just remember that we know who you are and what you’re doing. We’ll be watching the two of you.”

Winty opened his mouth as if to protest his innocence once more, but in the end he clamped his lips together and nodded. Stanford seethed through eyes gone narrow within pockets of sagging flesh. Obviously he was a man who didn’t like being bested or not knowing exactly where he stood. Unfortunately for him neither Derrick nor I was about to offer any reassurances. Better to keep the man wondering what we might do with the information we had.

We parted ways with terse wishes for a good evening. Winty and Stanford walked together to the edge of the park, where they separated and went in opposite directions on Bellevue Avenue.

Beside me, Derrick let out a labored breath. “Well, that was interesting. Not sure we learned much, though.”

“We learned you were correct about the rum. And I believe those men on Rose Island acted on their own when they came after us.”

“Maybe.” Derrick stared pensively off into the distance. “Come, it’s time I got you home.”

“Oh, no, it isn’t.” When he shot me a puzzled frown I grinned. “It’s time you took me to a tavern. Or several. I have a new theory that needs exploring.”

Derrick groaned.





Against Derrick’s protests, I managed to persuade him to accompany me to several dockside taverns. Quite simply, I told him if he didn’t wish to come with me, I’d go alone. The first, a place frequented by ruffians off the scrod boats and crews from the various steam freighters putting into harbor, yielded us little information. Yes, Hope Stanford had been in several nights ago. She had raised a ruckus, banged her hammer on the bar top, but had left upon realizing her proselytizing was landing on deaf ears. Also, a large man had threatened to pick her up, carry her outside, and toss her over the nearby dock into the bay. But just as this rough-hewn crowd of mostly out-of-towners had no interest in being saved by Hope’s radical views on the evils of alcohol, neither were they particularly eager to answer my questions. In fact, I believe they viewed my intrusion into their inner sanctum with the same mixture of suspicion and disdainful amusement with which they had viewed Hope’s. And having the well-dressed Derrick beside me proved that a gentleman held no more sway here than a woman.

Our next stop brought us to The Red Mariner, a watering hole popular with local fishermen and dock workers. Here I spotted some familiar faces, young men I’d grown up with on the Point, others I knew from church, or from having attended school with their sisters. But one face in particular stood out, or, I should say, his bright red hair penetrated the gloom of pipe smoke and dim kerosene lighting. Grasping Derrick’s coat sleeve I directed us toward a table in a corner near the bar.

“Good evening, Angus.”

The boatman hunched on his elbows over the little square table, a mug of muddy-looking beer bracketed between his hands. “Emma? What the he—er—what are you doing here?”

“Is it all right if we sit with you?” Without waiting for permission I pulled out the seat opposite him and slid into it. Derrick reached for an unoccupied chair at a neighboring table, dragged it over, and straddled it backward. “Angus, this is Derrick Andrews. He’s a friend of mine.”

Unlike Hope Stanford’s husband, Angus MacPhearson showed no hint of recognition at either Derrick’s name or his countenance. He merely nodded in greeting.

“I was hoping to ask you a couple of questions, if you don’t mind, Angus.” I leaned a bit over the table to be heard over the low roar of voices and the occasional burst of masculine laughter behind me. A hush had fallen over the pub when Derrick and I walked in and a good twenty or so astonished faces had turned in our direction. Our novelty had worn off quickly enough, however, and the patrons had resumed their boasting, arguing, dicing, and dart throwing.

Angus leaned back in his chair, bringing his beer with him. He took a measured draft while studying me with his weather-crinkled eyes. Then he used his sleeve to wipe the suds from his mustache. “Are you hiring me to answer these couple of questions, Emma?”

I flicked a glance at Derrick, who dug into a pocket and produced another fifty-cent piece. He flipped it in the air; Angus reached out and snatched it.

“Ask away,” he said.

Without further ado I said, “Were you here several nights ago when an older woman came barging in with a sledgehammer?”

The question clearly delighted Angus. He raised his mug as if in a toast. “Sure enough. I hadn’t had that much fun in years. Crazy bi—ah—hellion, that one.”