Lancer 14: Family Plot

Sensing his father's uneasiness, Johnny touched his arm. "Murdoch, trust me."

Murdoch flung an arm around Johnny's shoulders and yanked his son close; then he freed the young man; but, feeling the need for physical contact, he kept one hand on Johnny's shoulder.

Johnny blithely followed on Hodges' heels, not giving the butler a chance to announce them. Harlan was surprised to see them. It was an even bigger surprise to Murdoch to see how Harlan's eyes lit up at the sight of Johnny.

"My boy, are you all right?" Harlan greeted him, holding out his hand. "How's Scotty?"

Johnny sat familiarly on the side of the bed.

"Scott's doing fine, Harlan. He's awake, and worried about you."

"How did you get free?"

"Scott told them I didn't shoot him, so here I am."

"I'm glad," Harlan said sincerely. "I told them you didn't do it, but the constable said my opinion wasn't evidence."

His curiosity satisfied, Harlan turned his attention to his other visitor who stool, granite-faced, in the doorway next to Hodges who had not been dismissed.

"Come in, Murdoch," Harlan said without warmth.

Harlan's improvement in health had brought back some of his imperious nature. To Murdoch, he looked like the same old adversary.

"You're looking well, Harlan. Better than I was led to expect," he said.

"I see you came running to your son's aid," Harlan said.

"Both my sons," Murdoch stated firmly.

"Of course."

Silence descended like a brick. There was once a time when they would have torn at each other with words as sharp as the pain each one felt. That time, by silent agreement, was past. Now they chose to go by the ancient wisdom, "If you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all." The silence grew uncomfortable as the men regarded each other.

Johnny closed his eyes in a short prayer for strength.

"Murdoch needs a place to stay, Harlan. I told him you had plenty of rooms."

Johnny's attitude defied either of his elders to deny him.

Murdoch looked away. Harlan blinked.

"Of course," he said with conventional politeness. "Hodges, show Mr. Lancer to the …" Harlan started to say one thing, hesitated, then decided and finished quickly before he could change his mind "… the blue room."

"Sir?" The best measure of Hodges' astonishment was that he showed it.

"You heard me," Harlan said gruffly.

Hodges showed the Lancers to the door of a room across the hall from Scott's.

"I'll have to get Dulcie to make up the bed," the butler said. "No one …" Hodges paused. There was a funny sort of fearful anticipation in his manner. "No one has ever slept here," he said, as he swung the door open for them.

Puzzled, the Lancers stepped inside. Murdoch stopped as if he'd been struck. Johnny drew in a long breath, searching the room with his eyes. Hodges quietly closed the door behind them.

Between the twin windows was a full-sized portrait in oils. The rest of the walls were covered with sketches, watercolors and photographs — all of Scott's mother at various ages.

It wasn't her room. Johnny knew the house had been under construction when she and Murdoch eloped. It was almost a shrine, built by Harlan in Katherine's memory. But that wasn't right, either. The room was too homey for a shrine. There were trinkets on a battered, but lovingly polished, dressing table, and an inexpertly sewn quilt, just a trifle lopsided, blanketing the bed.

"It's a school room," Murdoch said. "For Scott."

Johnny knew he was right. It was a tribute to Katherine, but most of all it was a lesson in what she was like, which was dedicated to her son. Johnny realized that letting Murdoch have this room was a major gesture of reconciliation on Harlan's part.

Murdoch fingered the quilt. A sad smile relaxed the tension on his features.

"She made this for Harlan. Sent it to him at Christmas with a note begging for his forgiveness."

He crossed to the dressing table and picked up an oval music box made of carved maple. It began to play when he opened it. Inside the lid was a photograph from their wedding.

"This was my present to her that Christmas, our only Christmas," he continued. "It's one of the few things she took with her when I sent her away from the ranch for her safety — for her safety." The irony had lost some of its sting, but not all.

Murdoch shut the lid with restraint, as if he really wanted to slam it, but couldn't bear to. He went to stand in front of the painting, which showed Katherine just a year younger than when he'd met her.

Johnny sidled out of the room and left his father to his memories.

The Lancers slept late the next day, making up for the sleep they'd lost the previous week.

Once up, though, they hurried through breakfast and rushed over to the hospital. They might as well have taken their time. MacGregor told the Lancers, as he had told the constables before them, that Scott had passed a restless night and couldn't be questioned until the afternoon, if then.

Stymied, they went to the Constabulary, where they found Wes and Powers talking to the boy who had delivered the telegram.

The two "deputies" were beckoned into the chief constable's office.

"But I didn't really notice, sirs," the boy was saying when they entered. "It was late, getting dark, and I was thinking about getting home to dinner. All I really remember is he was a lousy tipper. And I only remember that because Mr. Hanson told me to wait for a reply, but the man didn't want to send one."

"Any description would help, son," Powers said gently. "Try to remember. This is a case of murder we're talking about."

"Gosh! Wait'll I tell the fellows!" the urchin exclaimed, his eyes as wide as silver dollars. "He squeezed his eyes shut, the better to concentrate. Finally he sighed. "Well, he was about your age, your height, too, sir," he said, nodding at Wes. "It's hard to tell for sure, because he was on the steps, but he was definitely taller than this gentleman," the boy gestured at Johnny. "I don't know how to describe him, but I might know him again if I saw him, especially if I heard his voice."

"How about his hair — light or dark?" Wes asked.

"I'd guess dark," the boy said uncertainly.

"Eyes?" The boy just shook his head.

"Anything special about his features? Big nose? Ears stick out?"

The boy continued to shake his head. "Sorry, sir, I didn't know it was going to be important," he said with disappointment.

"No, of course you didn't," Powers said with resignation. "If you think of anything else, be sure to tell us about it," he added, handing the boy a coin.

"Yes sir!" the youngster exclaimed, accepting additional largess from Murdoch.

He scampered to the door, having made a fair profit on what had seemed an unprofitable delivery.

"You heard most of that," Powers told the Lancers after the boy left. "The man who signed for your telegram met the boy on the steps, never gave him the chance to ring the bell. Must have seen him coming."

He gave the approximate time of the delivery and looked inquiringly at Johnny, who racked his brain to remember that evening.

"Could have been anyone," he answered finally, repeating a phrase that Powers was getting tired of hearing. "Scott and I were upstairs with Harlan. The rest were gathering in the front room, which looks out on the street. Anyone could have stepped out for a minute."

"Well, if the boy's description is accurate, it lets out the women and Frederick Garrett. That leaves Mortimer and Gerald Garrett, Richard Desmond — he looks youthful for his age, especially in a bad light; dyes his hair, I'd bet — and his son, Gary," Wes enumerated.

"No, Gary's out," Johnny said reluctantly. "He's no taller than I am, remember?" Johnny and Sam Goldberg had reason to remember that.

"Damn! I forgot," Wes swore. "There goes our prime suspect. I'd have really liked it to be Garrett Desmond," he said wistfully.

Johnny nodded in agreement.

"Don't give up hope, yet," Powers said dryly. "Remember, Michaelson said at least two people were involved."

Wes and Johnny brightened at the thought.

The day passed slowly for the Lancers.

Johnny got in some practice with Scott's gun, using makeshift targets set up in a yard behind the constabulary. He had used the gun before. The former professional gunfighter was still paranoid enough to practice with every weapon on the ranch, just in case of emergency. Scott's pistol wasn't as familiar as his own, but it would do, Johnny decided, as he blew down six empty bottles from the saloon down the street.

Wes watched in open-mouthed astonishment. He'd always thought the tales about Western fast draws and Western shooting were mere exaggeration.

Murdoch shook his head. "You're slow, Johnny," he said, adding to Wes' astonishment.

"A mite," Johnny admitted. "Scott's holster doesn't sit the same way mine does. Don't figure I'll run into anyone faster, though, not in these parts. Accuracy is what's going to count here."

Murdoch nodded. "You don't have much problem there. Same make of gun, and close to the same trigger pull." The elder Lancer had also tried every weapon on the ranch.

Johnny grinned. "Must run in the family," he said, for Murdoch's usual pistol handled much the same as his own and Scott's.

Target practice couldn't last forever. Back in the office, the Lancers and the constables discussed the case, getting nowhere.

When that tired topic was exhausted, Powers began to catch up on his paperwork. Wes did chores around the building. Murdoch began to tell Johnny what had happened on the ranch in his absence.

The ranch discussion didn't last long either. It was surprising to Johnny to realize he'd been away from Lancer for just two weeks. It seemed like a lifetime.

He shook away the thought. Determined to make the time pass, Johnny began to tell Murdoch, in detail, about his trip East and the day he and Scott had spent in Boston.

Somehow, time passed. Mid-afternoon arrived. The four men left for the hospital.

The investigators found MacGregor still reluctant to let them enter.

"I don't know." He shook his head in ponderous uncertainty. "He's still a very ill lad. He needs rest and quiet. He doesn't need to be badgered by unfeeling officers of the law."

He looked pointedly at Wes, who still hadn't been forgiven for arresting Johnny in MacGregor's own operating room.

It was Johnny who confronted the doctor.

"Do you think Murdoch and I would do anything to hurt Scott?" he asked angrily.

The surgeon regarded his volunteer blood donor fondly.

"Not deliberately, lad," he said softly. "But it could be dangerous for your brother to get overexcited or overtired."

"It's also dangerous to let a murderer walk around free," Murdoch said seriously.

"I know. I know," MacGregor said, torn between his responsibilities as a doctor and as a citizen.

"Suppose we handle it this way," Powers said. "Suppose we don't ask Scott any questions. We'll do all the talking ourselves. We'll go over everything we know and let Scott contribute whenever he has a thought."

"Well …" said MacGregor, his resolve wavering.

"And, of course, you can be present, doctor," Powers added hastily.

MacGregor pondered the proposition.

"What does Scott have to say about it, Doc?" Johnny asked slyly.

MacGregor chuckled.

"He asked why you hadn't been to see him, yet," the doctor confessed.

He agreed to Powers' terms.

When the five men entered Scott's room, the patient looked so pale and drawn, Murdoch was afraid MacGregor had been right. But the sight of the visitors brightened Scott's countenance, so MacGregor knew he had been wrong.

Scott relaxed, restlessness forgotten, as the chief constable gave him his orders. Seeing his patient obediently settle into his pillow, MacGregor realized that the uncertainty had been wearing on Scott as much as his wound.

Scott listened carefully to the information Wes had gathered, though most of it was old news to him. He'd known most of the people involved longer than he'd known his father and brother.

The wounded man didn't make many interruptions. He only added his perceptions of the evening, the people and the shooting. Still, Wes' recitation took two hours and the stories told by Johnny and Murdoch added to the time. Dusk had arrived by the time Scott was thoroughly briefed.

The long period of attentiveness had taken its toll. Scott looked limp and white. His eyes were squeezed shut, but not in concentration.

MacGregor moved to take Scott's pulse.

"We could continue this tomorrow," he suggested.

The others started to move, but Scott shook his head and they subsided.

"Just a little longer?" Scott begged. "There's something … something that doesn't make sense."

MacGregor didn't assent in so many words, but he gave Scott a dose of laudanum and went back to his seat.

"If the killers intercepted the telegram and knew Murdoch was suspicious, why did they go through with the shooting?" Scott said slowly and carefully.

The others considered.

"We know there's more than one person involved," Wes said finally. "Maybe the one who intercepted the telegram didn't have a chance to tell the other one about it."

"They had all night!" Johnny protested. "More likely, they thought the police would ignore the evidence of an 'illiterate Western barbarian'," he added, quoting one of the comments Winifred had made under her breath, thinking Johnny couldn't hear her.

"They ignored it out of contempt?" Powers considered the idea. "It does seem to fit the prevailing attitude. It's possible, but I'd like to go back to the motive for a moment. I'd like to find a concrete reason for someone to try to kill you, Scott. All this jealousy and hatred stuff is fine, but they're the sorts of motives that lead to unpremeditated attacks, not carefully considered murder conspiracies. Tell me, Scott, what would have happened if you'd died?"

"The trust fund would have reverted to grandfather. My share of the ranch would go back to the partnership. My will leaves a few tokens to people, including you, Wes, but the residue would go to Murdoch and Johnny."

"Is this where I'm supposed to confess?" Johnny sighed.

The others laughed obligingly.

"What would happen to the trust fund?" Powers pressed.

Scott was silent for a long moment.

"In my will I asked grandfather to make it over to Mort's kids an Mary's kids," he said with reluctance. "They need it the most."

"There's a concrete motive," Murdoch said.

"Except for one thing, they don't know about it," Scott said firmly.

"Are you sure?" Powers asked.

"Yes. I didn't know if grandfather would honor my request. I wouldn't want to get anyone's hopes up for nothing. Besides, I didn't intend to die until the kids were too old to need my money."

"Does anybody else know about the will?" Powers asked.

"Nobody," Scott said firmly. "Annabell knew about my will once, but I've changed it since then. No one else knows."

"That's true enough, constable," Murdoch said. "I know Scott has a will, because there's a copy in the safe at Lancer. But I never asked about the contents, and he never said."

"It always seemed like a morbid form of bragging," Scott said weakly.

"There goes the concrete motive," Wes sighed.

There was a long silence in the hospital room. Johnny broke it.

"Maybe we're asking the wrong question," he mused.

"What do you mean, son?" Murdoch asked.

"Well, Mark asked, 'what would happen if Scott died?' Maybe the question should be, 'what wouldn't happen?'" The youngest Lancer looked at blank stares all around, and shrugged. "Maybe not."

Powers turned the new question over in his mind.

"If Scott died, what wouldn't happen?" he said.

Scott inhaled sharply, and then let it out in a long sigh of sudden enlightenment.

"What wouldn't happen is that I wouldn't be around to inherit grandfather's money," he said, with the certainty of a man placing the final piece of a jigsaw puzzle.

"Yes!" Wes said softly.

"You couldn't ask for a more concrete motive than a couple million dollars," Murdoch said wryly.

"But who would it go to?" Powers asked.

Everyone looked at Scott. He shook his head. One revelation per day was his limit.

"Don't know," he said. "As far as I go, grandfather never made any provisions…" Scott stopped to catch his breath, and then went on more slowly. "When I joined the cavalry, grandfather's lawyer and I tried to get him to name an alternate heir, just in case. But he refused to consider it. He got angry when we pressed him."

"As if by ignoring the possibility, he could prevent it," Murdoch said softly.

Scott nodded.

"Who are the most likely candidates, then?" Powers asked.

Scott shrugged. "It would go to a Garrett, no question. But which one would depend on grandfather's mood. He might leave it to the kids; they need it the most. Or to Gerald and Caroline. He likes them the best. He might just divide it among all the Garretts." Scott smiled faintly and apologetically. "It might be anyone."

Wes groaned at the too-familiar phrase. "We're still not getting anywhere."

"Just wait a minute," Murdoch said. "Something doesn't make sense here, or maybe it does. Listen, someone wanted Scott to die before Harlan did. They decided they couldn't wait for Scott to die naturally or in an accident. After all, Harlan's in his 70s. However healthy he is, he is more likely to die than a young man."

"So they decide they have to help matters along," Powers contributed. "They have to kill Scott before Harlan dies."

"Exactly!" Murdoch said in excitement.

The others looked at him blankly.

"Well, how do they do it?" Murdoch asked impatiently. "How do they kill Scott when they're in Boston and he'd in California?"

Understanding dawned.

"You mean they lured Scott back East?" Wes asked. "But that would mean …"

"… That grandfather's illness isn't real." Scott's words were almost a prayer.

"Oh, it's real enough," Murdoch corrected. "But it's not natural."

"That must be why Mr. Garrett got better after Scott was shot," Powers said in growing excitement. "Because they didn't want him to die before Scott did."

"Wait!" MacGregor broke in to the conversation. "Are you saying that Mr. Garrett was poisoned to make him sick to cause Scott to come to Boston?"

The investigators exchanged looks and found themselves in agreement.

"It's only a hypothesis," Powers said. "But it fits the facts better than anything else we've considered."

"Not one fact," MacGregor protested. "Benjamin Fraser may be an obnoxious, pompous snob, but he's a talented physician. There is no way he could treat a man for more than two weeks, mistaking poisoning for a heart attack!"

"Unless he was the poisoner," Johnny said quietly.

"He fits the telegraph messenger's description," Powers said judiciously.

"He left grandfather just about the time the telegram is supposed to have come. He could have seen the messenger from grandfather's room," Scott said wearily, his first excitement draining away.

"That would explain why the man who intercepted the message didn't warn his partner about the telegram," Johnny added. "Fraser didn't stay to dinner. He was on his way out of the house."

Wes snorted. "He wouldn't even have to administer the poison, just prescribe it. Mr. Garrett would take the poison himself, thinking it was medicine."

MacGregor shook his head angrily. "You've gone beyond speculation into accusation, now," he warned. "You can't accuse a man of attempted murder without proof!"

"Then help us get the proof, doctor," the chief constable said mildly. "Come and take a look at the medicines Fraser prescribed for Harlan."

MacGregor hesitated, but his worst failing as a doctor was getting emotionally involved with his patients. He had a strong desire to horsewhip the person who had wounded Scott and framed Johnny. Failing that, he wanted to help bring the man to justice. MacGregor abandoned his reservations and agreed to join the hunt.

"Scott …" Johnny began, then cut himself off. His brother was asleep.

The hunting party watched in silent anxiety as the doctor checked his patient. They were relieved when MacGregor reported his condition satisfactory.

"He should sleep for awhile now," the doctor predicted, as he ushered the group out.

The doctor had been known to be wrong.

More than three-quarters under, unaware he had been left alone, Scott was still working on the puzzle.

"Not right," he muttered in uneasy slumber. "Not a Garrett. No profit in it."

A few moments later, he said clearly, "But there's one person he'd do it for."

But there was no one in the room to hear the name he spoke.

To Be Continued

A/N: So, at last, the plot laid out in plain view. It unravels so neatly once you pull on the right strand of yarn. So you ought to know whodunit by now, right? Just two chapters to go. I'll try not to leave you hanging so long next time.