Eleanor Furlong wants her daughter back. She wants her daughter...and her daughter’s money.
The thought blasted into Scott’s head with such force it made his stomach trip and lurch.
His little cousin’s head cocked slightly while her nose wrinkled as if she was examining a strange bug under a magnifying glass. The envelope wasn’t providing the ah-ha of recognition.
Not her mother. Good. A slow exhale restored calm reasoning. Scott held out his hand. “May I?”
A halting nod escorted the correspondence across the table.
The uniform handwriting appeared ordinary. Correction. It appeared purposeful - suggesting the sender had carefully written each letter in order to leave no identifying clues.
“Will you please open it for me?”
“It’s not going to bite, Freckles.” Scott’s instincts disagreed with his reassuring smile as he fished out a penknife from his back pocket. Be prepared. It's a rattler.
The knife’s blade neatly created an escape for the envelope’s contents. Anticipating a letter, the confusing discovery of a clipped newspaper article pinched the corners of Scott’s eyes and mouth. In hopes to provide some clarity, he proceeded to read the print aloud.
DEAD BODY ON A TRAIN
FOUND ON ROOF OF A RAILWAY CARRIAGE.
A message from Sydney in these columns yesterday stated that when the Melbourne express reached Jerrawa on Saturday, the dead body of a man was found on the roof of a carriage. Documents found on the body bore the name of T. H.Yarra. Mr. M.F. Yarra, a spokesman for the Yarra family, informed Plain-clothes Constable Birch yesterday that his brother, Thomas Herbert Yarra, had left Melbourne to attend a social event in Sydney. He identified the body was that of his brother. Mr. and Mrs. Lancelot Yarra, a prominent family in the Melbourne social class, have requested an investigation into their son’s death. Constable Birch reported the decomposition of the dead body was minimal, and inebriation may have played a role in Mr. Yarra’s untimely passing. Additional details are forthcoming.
“Who in the hell is Thomas Herbert Yarra?” Scott directed his query to the newsprint in his hand, half-expecting it to show him the answer. When none was given, he raised his eyes to address Kinsey.
Can ye see the cup’s inner light, ScottyGarrett?
Watching the color drain from his little cousin’s face, the memory of Winnie’s china cup paid a visit. Her white bone china teacup: light, thin, translucent, fragile. The cup’s characteristics permitted soft light to pass through it when his friend held her coveted possession in front of a candle. As a child, Scott was convinced if he touched the teacup it would explode.
If I touch Kinsey, she’ll shatter into a million pieces.
“It’s him.” His cousin’s two words, barely uttered above a whisper, delivered the impact of a mountain avalanche.
********
Very little had been spoken after his cousin’s remark. All questions which required asking were silenced at her request for necessary time alone. With curtains drawn in her room, he watched Kinsey disappear under the bed’s quilt. Returning home from the war, Scott accepted the fact his mind, like a broken arm, would need time to heal. As he quietly closed her door behind him, he prayed his little cousin’s healing would be speedier than his own.
Following Kinsey’s lead on coping, Scott stood alone in his room trying to regain a sense of normalcy - a rather hopeless task considering the circumstances. The corner of the valise containing his travel mementos poked out from under the bed. Well, at least he could scratch the brain itch that had been nagging him for weeks. It was a start.
The search for the newspaper photograph from Melbourne’s Government House luncheon came easily. It remained on top of all the other clippings and letters from Scott’s last journey down memory lane. However, this time his concentration wasn’t on the picture’s fuzzy faces but the corresponding printed names.
Captain H.V. de Sarge, Miss Smith, Miss Furlong, Captain S.G. Lancer -
There he was, sitting next to Kinsey - oblivious to the knowledge of their Garrett connection.
His Excellency Rear-Admiral Bridge, His Excellency Sir Gerard Smith, Lady Smith -
Titles of Importance. Scott rolled his eyes. And he thought Brahmins were the biggest offenders.
Miss Darley, Lord Magheramorne -
Scott blinked at the last name jumping off the paper.
Sir T.H. Yarra.
There the bastard stood, staring… no, sneering down at the two cousins. “You sonofabitch. Burn in hell.” Scott’s words, coated in hollow anger, seemed meaningless. The damage to Kinsey couldn’t be undone. Balling up the newspaper photograph, he threw it across the room - a fruitless effort if distance counted.
Sifting through the rest of the clippings and cards saved from his time in Melbourne produced no evidence of Yarra. Haphazardly gathered papers returned to their leather case - its lid snapped shut.
A booming voice from below intruded Scott’s self-imposed time alone. Although muffled by the closed window, it remained familiar. Pulling back the curtain provided the view of Murdoch tossing a wave to Cipriano before entering the hacienda.
An angrily flung Green River Gazette. It had been Scott’s response to his father’s reprimand regarding his oldest son’s priorities and the abrupt dismissal which followed. The paper skipped across Murdoch’s desk like a stone across a pond - gathering the blotter, snifter, and additional papers to join the journey. After Scott’s wave of frustration receded, a half-exposed envelope under the blotter had caught his attention. Postmarked: Melbourne. Sender: The Pinkerton Agency.
Scott retrieved from his shirt pocket the more recent envelope with its precise, purposeful lettering.
Miss Kinsey R. Furlong
In care of Murdoch Lancer
Postmarked: Melbourne. Sender - Scott had a damn good guess on that one.
********
His fingers slid the envelope across the same polished wood a Green River Gazette skated on several weeks ago. The envelope with its precise, purposeful lettering traveled past the day’s mail - opened and scattered. The same mail, which now held his father’s intent attention, caused an absent-minded acknowledgment of his oldest son’s presence in the Great Room. Scott leaned forward slightly - his extended arm assisting in the envelope’s journey to the Lancer patriarch.
Due to Murdoch’s fleeting skills of verbal, effective communication, Scott had learned to read his father’s poker tells. The mannerisms of the man behind the desk were noted and gradually replaced the unspoken words. Scott was far from being an expert at second-guessing Murdoch Lancer, but, by God, he’d gotten pretty good at knowing what a mouth twitch or stiffened shoulders meant.
Scott stood back, clasped his hands behind himself and silently observed his father’s reaction. The man simply stared at the envelope his oldest son had placed on the desk.
He already knows.
Murdoch’s jaw tightened somewhat as his index finger tapped the envelope. “It’s addressed to Kinsey.”
Scott wrestled with a small dose of sarcasm. “In care of Murdoch Lancer. I thought you might care to read its contents.” Sarcasm won. “It may be of some interest to you, sir.”
“I see.” Removing the newspaper clipping, Murdoch’s eyes darted through the words forming sentences that described the unusual death of Thomas Herbert Yarra.
If he rises to pour himself a scotch, he’s buying time. If he pours one for me, he’s willing to talk.
Murdoch rose. His long strides traveled to the liquor cabinet where a hand removed the cut-glass stopper guarding the good stuff. A tip of the decanter, a splash of amber liquid and a healthy two-fingers poured. After a second’s pause, which stretched for days as Scott held an exhale, the process repeated itself. The man and the scotch moved to the Great Room’s sitting area and tacitly settled in. Snagging the news story from the desk, Scott’s paces matched his father’s. Once seated, Thomas Herbert Yarro and his printed fate joined the two drinks on a small low table positioned between the chairs. There was no need to pour the Melbourne bastard a scotch.
Murdoch reached for his glass - eyes glancing at Yarra. “I don't know the man.”
Scott followed suit, took a sip and rested the crystal lowball on his knee. “Personally. You don’t know the man personally.” A pointed index finger at the paper clipping invited T.H. Yarra back from the dead to sit down. “But you know his name. A Pinkerton agent saw to that.”
What’s his name? It was one of the first questions his father had asked when learning of the man who had forced himself on Kinsey. Scott couldn’t answer - his little cousin never shared the detail. This lack of information no doubt set in motion the chain of events which now brought Thomas Yarra to join them for a drink… so to speak.
“Yes. I know the name.”
Scott pushed onward. “It must have been quite the challenge, sir, for Pinkerton to locate Mr. Yarra. I mean, the man wasn’t socializing with Bostonians or Federales.” The words possessed no edge but were offered for a confirmation.
“It took time.” With Pinkerton involvement established, Murdoch sampled his drink. “Yarra had established a reputation and bragged about it when encouraged. He eventually mentioned Kinsey’s name to the wrong person.”
Scott cast a downward gaze at the piece of paper representing Thomas Herbert Yarra. “Was it a difficult decision, sir?” Setting aside the scotch, he picked up the clipping.
“Requesting the elimination of a predator can be quite easy, son.” The lines on his father’s face appeared deeper - shadows under his eyes darker. The pursuit had aged the elder Lancer.
“But Pinkerton made one mistake.” Standing, Scott returned to the Great Room’s desk and picked up the envelope which delivered Mr. Yarra to Lancer.
A low grunt and a pop of a knee tagged along with Murdoch as he left the chair and approached his son. “One mistake. The instructions were to send all correspondence to me.”
I hope to hell there was only one mistake. The Pinkerton envelope felt heavy in Scott’s hand. “If not now, sir, then when? When did you plan to inform Kinsey her rapist was dead?”
“What are you talking about?” Johnny’s voice, tightened by an obvious answer, poked a hole in Murdoch’s silent response.