“Can you tell me what went on?”
“Sure. She shouted up a storm and swung that hammer of hers around like a castaway who’s been sucking down seawater. Put at least half a dozen dents in the bar before Spence Arnold came up behind her and wrenched the hammer right out of her hands.”
Derrick, who’d been scanning the establishment like an on-duty sentry, suddenly returned his attention to the conversation. “Spence Arnold?”
Angus gestured with his chin. Derrick and I both turned and craned our necks. I impatiently waved away curls of smoke drifting from the next table. Through the crowd I spotted a man a good head taller than anyone near him, his silvery hair thinning and his profile reminiscent of a primitive stone carving.
I pointed. “There he is. That’s Spence. He’s a carpenter. Does a lot of work on the houses on the Point.” I turned back to Angus. “Any idea why Spence and no one else decided to disarm Mrs. Stanford?” At Angus’s puzzled look, I clarified. “The crazy hellion with the sledgehammer.”
“Oh. Well, most of us were too shocked at first to do anything but stare like a bunch of simpletons. I mean, what the he—er—what on earth? But Spence, he’d just gotten here. He took one look at her and said, ‘Lady, I had enough of you over at the Oyster Club.’ Then he stepped right in the way of that swinging sledgehammer—right where I wouldn’t have stepped for all the free grog in Christendom—grabbed the thing and yanked it right out of her hands. You should have seen her face. Ooh wee, if Spence weren’t the giant he is, I think she might have swung a punch at ’im. As it was, she turned on her heel and stomped her way out the door. Old Spence, he followed her—I thought to make good and sure she left. But out on the sidewalk—I could see ’em through the window—he just give her back her sledgehammer and told her don’t come back. Ever.” Angus slapped his knee and let go a laugh.
“So it wasn’t the first time Spence encountered the woman?” I asked.
At yet another questioning look, I clarified once again. “It wasn’t the first time he’d run into this woman.”
“No, but I hope for her sake it’s the last.”
“And no one else spoke to her at all?”
“Only Ted, the barkeep, and I can’t repeat what he said to her . . . not to you at any rate.” Angus scratched his chin through his abundant growth of beard. “Brady would have my hide if I talked to his baby sister like that.”
I sat back. “I wonder if Spence will talk with us.”
“Do you think he might have more to add about what happened at this other establishment . . . the . . .” Derrick groped for the name.
“The Oyster Club,” Angus said.
I came to my feet. “Thank you, Angus. You’ve earned your fifty cents.”
“Am I going to have to pay this Spence, too?” Derrick asked as he followed me through the crowd.
I merely shrugged and wound a circuitous path to avoid spilled beer and wobbly men. Spence Arnold, along with several others clad in plaid shirts and worn denims, had taken up position in front of one of the dartboards; money was exchanging hands at the surrounding tables.
“Mr. Arnold?” I called. “Yes, good evening . . . over here . . . oh, excuse me, sir, if I could just get by . . . excuse me!” I tugged my skirts out from between the back of one man’s chair and the right hip of another who sidestepped too close, then nudged aside another fellow blocking my way. “Mr. Arnold!”
Spence finally turned, one hand raised to propel the dart clutched in his fingers. He squinted a moment before recognition dawned. “Arthur Cross’s girl?”
“Yes, Mr. Arnold, it’s me, Emma Cross. Might I have a word with you? It’ll just take a moment.”
A rumble of protest erupted around me. “I’ve got money on him!” one man shouted.
“And I’ve got money against him,” another yelled.
I looked over my shoulder at Derrick. “Can you throw?”
“I’ve been known to hit the target upon occasion.”
“Well, then, gentlemen, how about if my friend takes Mr. Arnold’s place for just a few moments?”
My suggestion met with vigorous and deafening debate. Someone demanded that Derrick throw a dart to give them a preview of his talents. He smoothly stepped forward and without even removing his coat sent a dart hissing almost invisibly through the air. My next sight of the red and white feathered object was as it came to a trembling stop a fraction to the right of the target’s dead center.
The onlookers fell into a hush that lasted all of five seconds before shouts rose, quoting odds and probabilities; fistfuls of money once again exchanged hands.