Chapter 11: Family Matters

Eastbound train, April 1871

Murdoch Lancer was dozing in his seat when the conductor brought the telegram he'd picked up at the last stop.

As he paused to survey his passengers, the uniformed Negro saw Murdoch freeze when he read the message. The big man seemed to turn to stone, his face was set as if carved in granite. The conductor was glad he wasn't responsible for the telegram that had changed this pleasant if broody passenger.

Murdoch caught the conductor's eye and beckoned. The Lancer patriarch asked when they were due at the next station and then he asked whether the conductor could supply any telegram forms.

"I have to send several messages," he said grimly.

Garrett mansion, Boston

Wes decided to start at the top.

Mrs. Hodges let the constable in and showed him upstairs, to where her husband and the doctor were talking in low voices in the hall.

"I'm afraid the shock of Scott's shooting has made Mr. Garrett's condition more precarious," Dr. Benjamin Fraser said sadly.

"But I thought he looked so much better today," Hodges protested with tears in his eyes.

The doctor smiled faintly.

"Oh, he's a fighter all right," he agreed with admiration. "But I'm afraid he's running on nervous energy at the moment, living on hope. If Scott dies …" Fraser let it trail off and shook her head hopelessly.

Mrs. Hodges hands flew to her mouth. Her husband's trembled.

"But we can't give up," the doctor said briskly. "Let's try this new medicine. Maybe it will calm those heart palpitations."

He handed Hodges a bottle of pills. "Alternate these with the other ones. One every two hours, starting with these."

"Yes, doctor." Hodges nodded his understanding.

Wes stepped forward. The two men looked at him curiously.

"Constable." Hodges recognized Wes and introduced him to Dr. Benjamin Fraser. "He's investigating the shooting," Hodges explained to the doctor.

"What's to investigate?" Fraser asked with the unconscious arrogance of a Boston Brahmin. "You already have the killer in custody."

"In the first place, Scott isn't dead," Wes said with deceptive mildness. "In the second place, the Boston Constabulary never accuses a man of any crime without a thorough investigation."

"No, of course not, and quite right, too," the doctor said, put on the defensive by the anger he saw in Wesley's eyes.

"I'd like to see Mr. Garrett, if he's up to it," Wes continued.

"Well … I don't know …" Fraser said judiciously.

"He's been asking me to fetch you, sir," Hodges told the constable.

"Then I'd better see him," Wes said. "I wouldn't want to upset Mr. Garrett any more than he's already been."

Wes pushed past the doctor, knocked and entered Harlan's bedroom.

"I don't suppose it will hurt anything," the doctor said indignantly to the constable's back. "I'll be back tomorrow," he told Hodges. "See that you keep Mr. Garrett in bed and quiet." Fraser glared at the closed door of the bedroom. "And try to keep his visitors to a minimum. Too much excitement is the very worst thing for him."

Still in a huff, Fraser stormed out of the house.

"Who are you?" Harlan snapped at the constable with some of his old fire.

Though he was still gaunt from being unable to keep his food down, though his heart was still subject to fits of frantic pounding, he looked better than he had when Scott first arrived, or even when Scott and Johnny had helped him downstairs two nights before.

His eyes were alert. There was color in his cheeks and his voice was hard and steady. Wes thought he looked dauntingly formidable, not like a sick old man at all.

The scent of battle agrees with the old warhorse, he thought, remembering some of Scott's stories. Wes knew Scott was a fighter. He saw Scott's grandfather was the same.

"You going to state your business, or have you come to rob an old man in his sickbed," Harlan asked waspishly.

Wes introduced himself. His name seemed familiar to Harlan.

"Scott and I were in the cavalry together," Wes explained.

Harlan nodded recognition. Emotion shadowed his face. For a moment, he looked all of his 80 years. "Is Scotty …"

"Still holding on." Wes hastened to reassure him.

Harlan's relief was manifest. He didn't try to hide it, but didn't speak until he had his relief and his worry under icy control again.

"Tell me why you're fool enough to believe Johnny Lancer shot my grandson," he demanded.

"I don't," Wes replied, surprising Harlan.

Quickly Wes explained the reasons he and his superior believed Johnny innocent.

"Our instincts say he's not guilty, but our instincts aren't admissible in court," Wes said. "All the evidence points Johnny's direction. I was hoping you might be able to supply some that pointed another way. Who would profit from Scott's death."

Harlan's mouth twisted wryly.

"As far as I know, only his brother, his father and me," he said. "I don't believe Scott's made a will, what young man does? Without a will — even with one, most likely — his property would go to his nearest relative, his father Murdoch Lancer, who is in California. His share of the ranch would be split between the two remaining partners, Johnny and Murdoch. His great-grandmother's trust fund would revert to me, just as it did when his mother …" Harlan stopped suddenly and fought for control.

Wes looked away politely and changed the subject.

"What about the servants? Anyone hold a grudge against Scott?"

"That's preposterous," Harlan declared. "The Hodges helped raise Scott. They helped raise his mother, for that matter. And the maids adore him. He wrote letters from California to the whole house. Dulcie and Estelle would take turns reading aloud and wondering whether he was getting enough to eat and who was darning his socks. No, none of the servants have any reason to try to kill Scott."

"You know what you're saying, don't you, sir?" Wes asked quietly.

"Yes," Harlan answered in hardly more than a whisper. "Yes. I'm saying that someone in my family tried to murder my grandson."

"Would anyone of them have a motive? Money?"

Harlan shook his head. "No, as I said, only Johnny, Murdoch and me. But there are other motives, constable."

Wes nodded as the old man began to tell about Gerald's outburst at the dinner party and about the earlier fight between Scott and Gary Desmond. He concentrated on Gary and Gerald, because their actions had seemed the most threatening, but he didn't skimp on any details of the dinner party. He even described the loud words between Scott and Johnny, but offered his opinion that Scott had been upset by his cousins, not his brother.

As he rose to leave, Wes thanked Harlan for his time.

"Don't be silly, boy," Harlan said gruffly. His eyes were old and weary, but his jaw was set firmly. "The only thing I can do for Scotty is pray, but I'd gladly give my future and my life to catch the man who shot him."

The intensity of his anger shook the usually reserved businessman's fragile frame.

"Wes had no reply for that. He said his goodbyes quietly. He started to leave, but hesitated at the door.

"Sir?"

Harlan met his eyes.

"Sir, why …?" Wes stopped, uncertain how to phrase his question, wondering whether he ought to ask at all. A vision of Scott, unconscious and feverish in his hospital bed, reminded Wes that any unusual behavior had to be investigated.

"I'm surprised you're so certain Johnny's innocent, considering your history with the Lancers," Wes said baldly.

Harlan actually smiled.

"Old dogs occasionally learn new tricks, constable, when the lesson is harsh enough."

He wasn't going to expound, but Wes waited patiently until Harlan continued.

"I hated Murdoch Lancer," Harlan said, his eyes turning steely at the memory. "I blamed him for stealing my daughter, for taking her to that howling wilderness which killed her. I took Scott from him out of revenge, I realize now; but also out of the belief that the life Murdoch lived was too dangerous for my grandson. I hated Murdoch Lancer, but I never considered him a cold-blooded killer, nor his son, no matter what Johnny's reputation is. No matter what I think of Scotty's 'half breed half brother,' I know one thing for certain. He loves Scott and would never do anything to hurt him."

Murdoch would have found Harlan's implacable expression familiar. Wes didn't have to know him to recognize a judgment without appeal.

When the maids caught the drift of Wesley's questioning, they put him in his place thoroughly.

"There's no reason for us to try to kill 'im. 'E's always the gentleman, always ready for a giggle or a tease, but 'e never tries to take advantage. 'E doesn't assume you're a workin' girl, just because you're workin' for 'im," Estelle said.

"And why would we want to harm a hair on Mr. Scott's head?" Dulcie said with devastating logic. "His death would kill the master, too; and then the two of us would be out the best positions we've ever had."

Sarah Hodges was up to her elbows in bread dough, her therapy in times of stress. She pummeled the dough viciously. The effort helped, but not enough.

"It breaks my heart to think of it," she told Wes with tears in her eyes. "Poor Scott, lying in that hospital, and Johnny in jail. You should have seen them, giggling like a pair of schoolboys, trying to coax me out of the pie they missed while they were outside talking. Just like little boys."

She couldn't continue. She threw herself into a chair and wept into her apron. She was comforted by her husband.

"Sir, in my position you must be a good judge of character, or you end up buying vegetables at twice the market price," Hodges said. "I can't believe that Mr. John's affection for Mr. Scott was feigned. I can't and I don't. But then, I can't believe anyone would want to kill Mr. Scott."

The old butler looked totally lost.

Mort Garrett looked equally lost when Wes caught him during recess at his school.

"Of course, Johnny did it, constable. No one else would have. No one else could have."

Mort looked less certain than his words implied, but he refused to believe anyone he had known since childhood could be a killer.

Wes was unable to drag much more information out of Mort before recess ended and the teacher escaped back to class.

Winifred Garrett Masters had a lot to say, none of it good.

She was delighted to tell Wes that Johnny was no good, dangerous. It was obvious just from looking at him.

"Half blood is bad blood, you know," she said.

Winifred didn't confine her vitriol to the younger Lancer brother.

She told Wes that Gary Desmond was a spoiled brat who liked to tromp all over people who got in his way.

"But only when those people are weaker than he is," she said. "He wouldn't have the guts to face a person he hated. Shooting from ambush would be just his style."

She didn't know why his parents were so tolerant of his escapades, but then, between them, Arthur and Maybell Desmond couldn't come up with half a brain.

Gerald Garrett was always stupid, marrying a woman engaged to someone else and letting her wind him around her little finger.

"He's weak, too weak," Winifred judged. "And that wife of his is no better than she should be. Caroline is a little minx. Flirts with everything in pants. She always has to have the men panting after her."

"That's my granddaughter, you're talking about, woman," Marcus Garrett spoke up suddenly from the fireside where he had been sitting and rocking throughout Winnie's tirade.

Wes was glad to trade the woman's bitter words for Marcus' senile ramblings, just for a change of pace.

"Caroline's a good girl. She understands. She visits me. She listens to me," Marcus continued.

"Of course, she listens," Winnie muttered, loud enough for Wes to hear. "He still has his money and she's his only heir. She may be a flirt, but she knows where her bread is buttered," Winnie said, as if with reluctant admiration.

Marcus went back to muttering to himself. With a mental sigh, Wes turned back to Winnie, who continued to assess her relatives with relish.

She said Frederick was a pompous ass and his daughter-in-law was no better than a common tart. Annabell was forward, too manly by half, never knew a proper woman's place.

"There's something wrong with a woman who never marries," Winifred said, proudly pointing up her own widowed status.

Mort and Evangeline were paupers, living on the largess of their relatives.

As for Harlan, he was an old fool who let Murdoch Lancer steal his daughter, then his grandson. And then he let that viper Johnny Lancer into his home.

"Really, it's no surprise Scott got shot. He's an ingrate who ran away to strangers, no proper feeling for the people who raised him. He always was a moody boy. Look at his behavior Saturday, running out in the middle of dinner. Disgraceful," she said tartly.

"Not a proper Garrett. Not proper at all," Marcus broke in, nodding agreement to his own words. "Wants to be a Lancer, let him. Can't be a Garrett and a Lancer. Not proper."

"Mr. Garrett!" Wes said, raising his voice to penetrate the old man's self-centered fog. "Do you think Johnny Lancer shot his brother?"

"Of course not." Marcus looked genuinely surprised that Wes had to ask. "Lancers don't shoot Lancers. Garretts don't shoot Garretts. Ridiculous."

Wes felt as though he had followed Alice down the rabbit hole. He made hasty goodbyes and fled. He felt he had to get out of the house before Winnie started on the children or Marcus started to make sense.

Gerald Garrett looked content and Caroline looked coy as they cuddled together shamelessly on the settee.

"We were asleep. We didn't hear the shot ourselves. Our room was on the front of the house," Caroline explained.

"I probably wouldn't have heard it on the other side," Gerald confessed. "I sleep pretty soundly, especially that morning."

He tickled Caroline teasingly. She blushed and slapped his hand away playfully.

"Gerald!"

To stop the byplay, Wes asked, "What did wake you up?"

"A door banging shut," Gerald replied promptly.

"Me, too," Caroline agreed; then she gasped. "Oh! Gerald! Perhaps it was the shot that woke us after all!"

A funny, sick expression crossed Gerald's face.

"I thought it was a door slamming," he said slowly. "But maybe it was the shot."

With an effort, he threw the thought out of his mind, though he still looked nauseated.

"In any case," he continued with an effort to sound normal. "By the time I pried my eyes open, Caroline was up and I could hear doors opening in the hallway. Voices were wondering where the shots were coming from. Everyone was milling around in the hallway, and then we heard noises from downstairs."

"So we went down en masse." Caroline continued the narrative. "And I saw all that blood all over Scott and Johnny. I … I don't know what happened then. Something snapped inside me and I started screaming. I couldn't stop." Her voice shook.

Gerald wrapped his arms around her.

"My wife's always been high strung," Gerald said.

It was an apology and an explanation.

"Now that you've had time to think about it, do you still believe Johnny shot Scott?" Wes asked.

Caroline cast an anxious glance at her husband, who didn't seem to notice.

"Of course. Who else?" Gerald replied in a matter-of-fact voice. "Johnny was the only one there. I find it hard to believe that he did it on purpose. They seemed so close. It must have been an accident. Perhaps Johnny was showing Scott the gun and it misfired," he suggested.

"Oh, Gerald, you can't tell with that sort of person," Caroline said rapidly.

Gerald looked puzzled, as Caroline turned to Wes. "You know Johnny was a was a gunfighter once?" Wes nodded. "I heard him tell the children he trained himself to act without thinking," Caroline said hurriedly. "If Scott said something to upset him, he could have pulled out his gun and shot him before he even knew what he was doing."

Her antecedents were a bit confused, but her meaning was clear. Wes forbore to point out that that Johnny would have had to have been carrying his gun in his hand, ready for use, because the constables had found his empty holster upstairs in his room.

Instead, Wes said, "We have some reason to doubt Johnny's guilt. There were other people in the house who had reason to kill Scott."

As he spoke, he looked at Gerald pointedly. Color faded from Caroline's cheeks, but her husband simply looked puzzled.

"Well, Gary got into some sort of brawl with the Lancers that afternoon, but I wouldn't call it a motive," Gerald said slowly.

"What about yourself?" Wes asked softly. "You virtually accused Scott of having relations with your wife. You made threatening gestures at them. Wouldn't you say that makes you a suspect?"

Caroline turned a shade paler, but her husband laughed. It was the last thing Wes expected.

Gerald roared with apparently genuine mirth. Finally he wiped tears from his eyes and regained his breath.

"I'm sorry. It's terrible to be laughing, to be happy, while Scott may be lying on his deathbed. But, you see, constable, my wife spent the better part of the night, uh, persuading me that I'd been wrong about her and Scott, that they were only friends, that she loves me and on one else." he spoke with fierce pride and hugged his wife close.

The color rushed back to her cheeks.

"That morning I was going to go down and apologize to Scott," Gerald continued. "I was going to apologize to everyone for making a fool of myself." He shook his head. "No, I didn't have any reason to shoot Scott."

Gerald sounded sincere, Wes thought, as he was leaving; but his euphoria might be that of a man who'd neatly disposed of a rival. If Caroline's story was true, Gerald had been asleep when the shot was fired, and was still asleep when she arose after hearing the shot or the door slam. Of course, wives had been known to lie for their husbands, especially when the wives were the cause of the trouble.

Wes shook the befuddlement out of his head.

"I should have stayed in the army," he muttered to himself. "No one expected me to think for myself there."

Doggedly, he continued to the next Garrett residence.

Young Laura Garrett looked composed, but her hands were clasped tight to prevent trembling.

"Yes, he told us he learned to react without thinking, but that was to point out how dangerous it is. He couldn't have hurt Cousin Scott."

Annabell came downstairs and interrupted before Wes could question the girl more.

"You didn't come to see the children, constable," she said severely.

"No, ma'am" Wes answered respectfully. "Scott always respected your opinions, Miss Garrett. He used to quote them at us during the war, and I can't remember any of them being far from the truth. If Johnny didn't shoot Scott, who did?"

Annabell sighed in frustration.

"Do you think I haven't asked myself that same question? I've never seen Gerald so upset before. He's usually so controlled. He couldn't have shot anyone normally, but he wasn't normal that night.

"Gary … Gary is a poisonous beast. My nephew could easily persuade himself that it wouldn't be murder if he did it. He thinks he's perfect, you see. Heaven knows my sister has told him he's perfect enough times. And there was something about the saloon fight that Johnny and Scott weren't telling. Gary looked positively petrified every time Johnny looked at him directly. The shooting was done from ambush, just the way Gary would do it, but I had the distinct impression that Gary was too scared to try anything when Johnny was around. So I don't know.

"My sister and her husband are so besotted with Gary, they might kill to protect him; but that would mean admitting he was less than perfect, which I can't imagine. Besides, I don't think either of them could hit the side of a house with a gun.

"Now, Frederick is an excellent shot. He's a tough-minded sort who wouldn't think twice about shooting a dangerous man. His one son's widow married another man and he scorns her for her disloyalty. If he thought Scott threatened his other son's marriage, he might have shot him. But he's such a straightforward man that after the necessary job was done, he would step forward and admit it. I can't see him letting Johnny be blamed for something he did.

"Winnie wounds everyone with her tongue. She doesn't need to use a gun, though she knows how. All the men and women in Uncle Frederick's family have learned to hunt and shoot at targets. That includes Marcus. He has a collection of dueling pistols that even Frederick envies. He's grown crazy enough for anything. I can see him shooting Scott for reasons that would only make sense to him; but I can't see him keeping quiet about it. He babbles so.

"Caroline shows a trace of her grandfather's instability. All those hysterics," Annabell sighed. "She almost collapsed when she saw he had been shot. She may be married to Gerald, but she still loves Scott. Why would she hurt him?

"As for Laura's parents," Annabell smiled apologetically at the girl. "They kept pretty quiet at the dinner. They usually do. I'm afraid they feel their status as the 'poor relations.'"

"Cousin Maybell and Cousin Winnie would remind them if they forgot," Laura murmured.

"True enough, dear. Your parents are nice people. Too nice, maybe. If Mort and Eve would stand up for themselves, Maybell and Winnie would back down, I think," Annabell said.

"They make Daddy feel bad. Sometimes after the family dinners, I've heard him say he'd kill for enough money to make Cousin Maybell eat her words," Laura said, attempting to lighten the mood.

"I doubt they would profit from killing Scott," Wes said just as lightly, only to see a horrified look cross Annabell's face.

She controlled herself before Laura saw.

"Laura, why don't you get your sister ready to go?" she suggested.

After the girl excused herself, Wes said, "What did you remember?"

"Did you know Scott has a will?" Annabell asked.

"Harlan didn't think so."

"Uncle Harlan doesn't know, because he doesn't want to know. He doesn't want to think about the death of his only grandson," Annabell said. "But Scott is a practical boy. He made his first will when he went into the cavalry. The bulk of his estate was his great-grandmother's trust fund. He asked that it be divided between his fiancée Caroline and his cousin Mort. Scott really wasn't sure he could legally give away the trust, but he was sure his grandfather would respect his wishes.

"Is that will still in force?" Wes asked with interest.

"Not exactly," Annabell replied. "When Scott learned Caroline was married, he changed his will. It wouldn't have done to leave his money to a married woman, you see."

Wes nodded.

"That was after Richard Garrett had been killed, but before Mary remarried. So Scott left his money to be divided among the children of Mort and Eve and of Mary and Richard, equal portions for each of the six children," Annabell said.

"So that would give any of the parents a motive for murdering Scott," Wes mused.

"Except for two things," Annabell said. "I'm sure Scott's changed his will since then. That was before he met his father and brother."

"The Lancers are pretty well off," Wes said. "I can't picture Scott cutting his young cousins out of his will."

Annabell sighed. "You may be right. I don't know. When he was ill, after his escape from the prison camp, I helped him find a lawyer and I witnessed his will. I can't be sure what he's done in the years since. But there's one other point, constable. I don't believe Scott ever told anyone about his will." She smiled faintly. "He's a little like his grandfather in that way. I think he feels it's bad luck to talk about wills. I'm almost certain that I'm the only one in the family who knows he even has a will."

"Almost certain," Wes pressed.

"Yes," Annabell admitted. "But I can't believe Mort, Eve or Mary are desperate enough for money that they would try to kill Scott. He's always been a friend to them, even when the rest of the family wasn't. They haven't forgotten that," she said earnestly. Perhaps too earnestly, Wes thought.

After a pause, Annabell went on, "Do you want me to excuse myself next?"

"No, Miss Garrett. I guess you'd say you didn't do it and you didn't have any reason to do it — that's what everyone's said so far."

"Yes, well, it's true enough in my case. I have accepted the fact that I will never have any children of my own, constable. However, I have a good-sized family to take care of and give me comfort. I couldn't hurt a hair on any one of their heads, not even my nephew. I've seen too many of my relatives die already."

Wes met her steady gaze and knew the interview was over.

After he left for the Desmonds, Laura emerged from the bedroom holding her sister by the hand. Both girls wore their coats and bonnets.

"May we go now?" Laura asked.

"Yes, I think we'd better," Annabell said.

To Be Continued