Chapter Thirteen
"Weatherly, Sir, just call me Weatherly."
Sam nodded, sipping tea from a fine bone china teacup. He suspected that one cup and saucer would cost him a month's wages. Weatherly had brought out the silver tea service and set it down on the highly polished mahogany coffee table that sat between two expensive but uncomfortable sofas.
At first Weatherly had beenreluctant to invite a stranger into the house, but Sam's act had convinced the servant that Sam might die at the front door, and that would never do. However it wasn't long before they fell into comfortable conversation. If not for Johnny skulking around the house, Sam would have actually enjoyed himself.
Sam set his tea cup down and Weatherly immediately refilled it.
"Thank you for your hospitality," Sam said. "This must be a hard time for you."
"I admit that I enjoy your company, Dr. Jenkins. Except for the cleaning ladies who come in once a day for a few hours, I am quite alone here."
Sam raised an eyebrow. "I thought Harlan had a grandson. In fact I'm sure of it. I remember him speaking highly of him. Expected him to take over the business one day."
"That was Mr. Garrett's plan from the time young Master Scott was in diapers. It was a dream of his. Mr. Garrett hired only the best teachers and governessesas the boy grew up. In fact, there was a time when it looked like Mr. Scott would follow in his grandfather's footsteps. But the war lured Mr. Scott away. When he came back, things were never quite the same. Mr. Garrett hoped the boy would stay on. But…"
Sam nonchalantly picked up a scone and nibbled at it,his heart beating at the prospect of learning more about Scott. He wished Johnny were here to hear this.
"The war can change a man."
Weatherly nodded. "Mr. Scott was a prisoner of war, held in Libby for over a year. His condition was appalling when he finally returned to us. Once he was healed and regained the weight he had lost, Mr. Garrett assumed he would return to the life he had led before the war. But there was something different about Mr. Scott. I could never put my finger on it. Perhaps a wanderlust that he had never had before."
"He would not be the first to find it hard to go back to the same life he led before the war. But I guess with Harlan's death he will have to take over the company, for a short time at least. It must have been a terrible shock to learn that his grandfather was gone."
Weatherly looked down at his hands clasped in his lap. "Mr. Scott doesn't know. We have been unable to contact him."
Sam felt his pulse quicken.
"Where is he?"
Weatherly sighed deeply. "Mr. Garrett said …"
A crash from upstairs froze both of them.
Weatherly jumped to his feet. "There shouldn't be anyone else in the house."
Sam stood also, his heart beating in his throat. That crash was more than likely a blunder on Johnny's part. He knew the boy was not up to this. But when Johnny had an idea in his head, nothing or no one could change his mind. They had agreed that thirty minutes was all the time they could spend in the house before he was spotted. It seemed that he was about ten minutes short.
"No one else is in the house?" Sam asked.
"No one."
"You shouldn't go up there alone," Sam cautioned. "Let me go with you."
Weatherly brushed him off. "No. You stay here. I'll be back in a few minutes."
To Sam's dismay, he saw Weatherly open a drawer in the writing table to the side of the archway that led to the stairs, and draw out a derringer. Sam knew all too well that a bullet was a bullet, no matter what gun it was fired from.
As Weatherly disappeared from the parlor, Sam began a quick survey of the room. If wealth and influence were measured by possessions, then Harlan Garret was indeed a wealthy man. Everything spoke of a man's influence, not unlike Lancer. But where the Lancer great room was comfortable but functional, this room was overcrowded with furniture and expensive cut crystal lamps,lace curtains that puddled on the floor beneath the windows and rich green velour drapes. Above the large fireplace two gold framed paintings hung on the wall. The likeness of Harlan Garrett was astoundingly lifelike. Though he had never met the man, he felt as if he knew him, that he could see the austere business man Scott had often spoke of. If there was a kind side to Harlan Garrett the painting failed to show it. The second painting was of Catherine Lancer. Sam had first met Scott's mother after a long hard journey from Boston to Morro Coyo first by ship around Cape Horn, then by stagecoach from San Francisco. And even then she had been the most beautiful woman he had ever met. He often wondered how Murdoch Lancer had swept her off her feet. The artist had captured the brushof a smile on her lips.
As Sam studied the paintings he felt that there was something odd about them. Then he realized it was the placement over the fireplace. They weren't centered. As he looked closer he could see the faint outline on the wall where another painting had hung. Curious, he walked over to the fireplace and looked at the wall more closely. There was a definite outline of another painting. As he turned to get a better look at the room he caught sight of the edge of a gold frame hidden behind a liquor cabinet to the left of the fireplace. It seemed to be exactly like the two frames hanging on the wall. Carefully, he slid the frame from in back of the cabinet and caught his breath. It was of Scott. He was a few years younger, his complexion lighter and his hair darker…but there was no doubt that it was Scott Lancer he was looking at. His hand trembled as he realized he had found the proof that Scott was the real and true Scott Lancer.
He carefully slid the painting back behind the liquor cabinet and quickly returned to the sofa. He hoped his excitement wouldn't show on his face. He couldn't wait to tell Johnny that he had proof.
The sound of Weatherly walking back down the stairs gave Sam time to school his expression.
"Did you find anything?" he asked innocently, as Weatherly walked back into the parlor.
"A lamp was knocked off the bureau in Mr. Scott's room. I can't explain how. I found no one up there, or any evidence that someone had been there. It may have been the cook's cat. I told her to take the beastly thing with her, but it appears that she didn't. I hate cats.
Would you like another cup of tea while I clean up the spilt oil? I told the cleaning ladies to make sure all the lamps were filled. If they had followed orders then the cat could not have knocked it off. "
Sam stood up slowly, trying to act nonchalant. He really wanted to race out of this house and back to the hotel. "Thank you, Weatherly, but I have an appointment this afternoon. And thank you again for your hospitality."
Weatherly held out his hand. "It was a pleasure, Sir." He cleared his throat uncomfortably. "If you have time, before you leave, I would enjoy another visit. A proper lunch perhaps."
Sam shook his hand. "I would like that Weatherly." And Sam realized that he truly meant it.
Johnny slowly and painfully uncurled himself from his hiding place. He had hugged the corner in the last bedroom for the past hour, scrunched behind a daybed with enough pillows for every bed at Lancer. Every time he was ready to leave his corner of safety, the old servant would walk the hallway, searching for something. He doubted the man was looking for an intruder; he was too relaxed for that. But he was looking for something.
Finally he heard the distant sounds of pots and pan being moved around in the kitchen downstairs and Johnny knew it was now or never. His ribs burned and his arm ached, but it was worth it. He had found the evidence to prove to himself and to everyone that Scott was exactly who he said he was…his brother. Johnny felt a niggling of guilt at having doubted Scott, even for a second. But mounting evidence that Scott was an imposter had come at him like a Gatling gun. He hardly had time to breathe before something new appeared.
Easing himself past the bedroom door, Johnny held his breath as he slowly and silently climbed back down the stairs. If it had not been for his arm being in the sling, he could have climbed out one of the upstairs windows. He made it to the room he had first entered and carefully lifted the window. He again thanked his good luck that the window casing was used often and slid effortlessly up for him to climb out.
Once outside, he straightened his black suit and causally made his way back to the sidewalk. He couldn't wait to tell Sam what he had found.
The sky had clouded over while he was inside Garrett's house and now he heard the distant sound of thunder. If his luck was still holding, he would make it back to Parker House before the rains hit. He knew he should take one of the cabs moving up and down the busy street, but he hated that closed in feeling.
Finally he made it to the hotel and slowly headed up the stairs to his room. He could only imagine how worried Sam was.
Worry could not begin to describe the look on Sam's face when Johnny opened the door.
"Good God, man." Sam flung the door open. "Where have you been? I expected to see you here when I got back from Garrett's."
"Sorry, Sam," Johnny sighed as he carefully eased himself into an inviting chair. "Harlan's servant kept searching the upstairs. Don't think he was looking for me…but I couldn't get back down the stairs."
Sam took a deep breath then chuckled. "He was looking for the cook's cat. It seems she left it behind and it knocked a lamp over."
Johnny smiled. "Cat's can be clumsy sometimes."
Sam quickly pulled a bottle of medicinal whiskey from his medical bag and poured Johnny a glass.
"Here, drink this. I have some news to tell you."
Johnny's eyes sparkled. "Me too, Sam."
"While Weatherly, Harlan's servant, was upstairs looking for a 'stray cat', I had a look around the parlor. I noticed there was a painting missing above the fireplace. Johnny, I found the missing painting. It was of Scott. Our Scott! Why they hid it or why they are trying to prove that he is an imposter I have no idea. But I do know for a fact that the real Scott Lancer is back home with Murdoch."
Johnny nodded. "I found a picture in Scott's room. The same picture he has in his room at Lancer. And a train schedule for Green River." Johnny suddenly froze. "Sam, we have to get word to Murdoch that we have proof."
"I'll send a telegram immediately. There's no telling what reaction your father might have had finding out that Harlan is dead. I just hope he didn't say anything that he will live to regret."
"He's got enough of those to last him a lifetime already."
Sam grabbed his coat. "You get some rest. I'll be back as quickly as I can."
Johnny raised his glass. "I wish I could see his reaction."
Sam closed the door leaving Johnny to think over what they had just found. Someone had gone to a lot of trouble to make it look like Scott was an imposter. But why? And was it just a coincidence that Harlan Garrett had been killed? Who had given the Pinkertons the wrong information? He held no love for the Pinks, and they didn't always get their facts right, but this wasn't just misinformation, this was outright lies. Johnny laid his head back against the seat back, more tired than he was willing to admit. His eyes began to close of their own accord.
Johnny wasn't sure how long he had been sleeping when a knock at the door startled him awake. He knew Sam wouldn't knock. Grabbing the gun that sat on the small table next to his chair, he slipped it into his sling before clumsily pushing himself out of the chair. He walked stiffly to the door. The long walk to Garrett's house, then the even longer wait secreted behind the daybed had taken its toll.
He opened the door slowly to find a young man dressed in the same jacket as the man behind the desk.
"Mr. Lancer, a message for you."
"Thank you," Johnny said, confused as to who would send him a message to him. Sam was the only one who knew he was here, and Sam wouldn't need to send him a message. The young man stood with his hand still extended waiting for something. "Thank you," Johnny said again and closed the door but not before he saw the look of disgust on the young man's face. He would never understand these people with all their rules and regulations.
Returning to the chair he sat down, taking his gun out of his sling and adjusting the cast so it didn't anger his ribs anymore than they already were. Only then did he struggle to open the small envelope with his good hand and pull the note out with his teeth. He couldn't wait to get this damn cast off.
The note simply read: 'Things are never what they seem. Meet me at the Long Wharf as soon as possible.'
Johnny studied the note. It could be a trap. But could he pass up the chance that someone could tell him what was going on here? He left the note on the small table for Sam to find when he returned, then slipped his gun back into his sling before heaving himself out of the chair. Hopefully Sam would find the note and meet him down at the wharf before he had to head back here. He could make it there, but he was not all that certain he had the strength to make it back on his own.
Stopping for directions at the front desk, Johnny received a sneer before the measly little man told him how to reach the wharf. How Johnny longed to be back at Lancer.
Outside the smell of rain was heavy in the air. The clouds had moved in and looked ready to open up any second. Sam was going to be furious with him for going out in the rain. Following directions, he walked down School Street to Washington Street then turned on State Street. The first raindrop hit his cheek and he knew he would be wet before too long.
His steps slowing as exhaustion drained his energy, Johnny found himself at the wharf. Huge warehouses, some as long as the main street of Morro Coyo, stood cold and neglected in the gray drizzle. Johnny felt a chill run down his back, not just from the cold rain, but at a feeling that he was somewhere he shouldn't be. Especially alone. Damn it. Why didn't he wait for Sam?
The sound of the water lapping at the piers increased as a steady raw wind grew stronger. Two clipper ships sat anchored, sails lowered and gangplanks stretching from ship to wharf. He saw a handful of men loading supplies onto the ships.
The sound of a horse and buggy echoed in the distance and Johnny turned to watch a black horse and closed carriage appear out of the drizzle.
He reached into his sling, his hand on his gun. The carriage pulled to a stop beside him and the door opened. A middle aged woman, wearing a white dress and black apron, her black hair pulled back in a severe bun, leaned close to the door. "Mr. Lancer?"
Johnny nodded.
"Please, hurry," she urged. "It isn't safe for you here."
The sound of another carriage echoed in the drizzle. Johnny looked from the woman to the second horse and carriage appearing in the gloom.
"You sent the note?"
"No! They set up a trap for you. Get in before it's too late."
Climbing into the carriage, he didn't have time to sit before the carriage was in motion. He lost his balance and fell head first against the cushioned bench seat, driving his arm into the back of the seat. He couldn't stop the grunt of pain before surprisingly strong hands pulled him up and helped him to sit down, the carriage still bucking wildly as it raced down the slippery Boston streets.
"Who are you?" Johnny gasped. The pain in his arm and ribs throbbed so loudly he could barely hear the woman's answer.
"I was Mr. Garrett's head housekeeper."
Johnny drew in a deep breath, flinching at the pain in his chest, but he needed to clear his head.
"What'sgoing on here?"
The carriage swayed as the driver cut a corner too close and the coach nearly rolled over. Johnny and the woman were thrown against the left side of the carriage.
"Who's after us?" Johnny barked, trying to right himself in the jostling coach, his heavy cast making it impossible to keep himself steady.
"You have to warn Mr. Scott. He is in great danger. They want him dead. And you too."
"Who?" Johnny demanded. "Who and why?"
"Mr. Garrett wanted…" Bullets suddenly pierced the walls of the carriage and the woman gasped and fell forward, blood spreading across the back of her white dress.