William regarded the chair and its turning wheels, then looked at The Narrows and up at Harmony.
She nodded encouragingly. “Go ahead, Wilkie.”
Wilkie ran into the passageway. He stopped, still within sight of Harmony and Inez, tipped his head to look up at the overhanging cliffs, then hopped up and down and began shouting. His delighted hoots and shrieks echoed back to Inez and her sister.
Harmony lowered her parasol in the shade of the strait. “We should probably walk a little faster so we can have time to rest and dress for dinner. There is usually a musical concert afterwards, although the musicians vary. I believe they rotate amongst the various Manitou hotels, and I don’t recall who is playing tonight. Tomorrow, it’s games in the parlor. Charades,
tableaux vivants
, and so on.”
Inez inwardly groaned at the prospect of having to endure endless parlor games and halting musicians of uncertain talent, but said, “If you will be there, so will I.”
She lowered her parasol to follow her sister. Before passing through The Narrows, she glanced back up the path to where they had stopped. Nurse Crowson and her charge had paused at the same point, as if to take in the view further up the canyon. Only the nurse, instead of facing the scenery like her patient, was gazing toward Inez and The Narrows, with a barely discernible frown.
***
No sooner had they turned off the path to town and headed to the back of the hotel than the stable boy Billy darted up to them, remembering at the last moment to snatch off his cap. “Mrs. Stannert, Mr. Morrow says he has the trash ready for you to look at.”
Harmony looked at Inez, mystified. “Trash?”
“In the confusion last night something fell from my valise,” Inez improvised hastily. “Mr. Morrow was kind enough to clean out the stagecoach so I could see if I can find…” Find what? Her imagination failed her. She finished lamely, “…it.”
“Well, then, we shall see you at dinner.” Harmony leaned over and whispered, “I’ll try to arrange it so that you don’t have to sit next to Aunt Agnes again. Once a day is quite enough.”
Inez smiled her gratitude to her sister, kissed the top of William’s head, then hurried after Billy. He led her to an area inside the stables that was, Inez happily noted, out of sight of guests strolling the back gardens and the verandas.
The tarp was stretched out, the refuse and debris displayed such that she could see each piece separately. Inez was grateful she wouldn’t have to root around through a mish-mashed pile of garbage.
Morrow was standing by a table consisting of a plank supported by two sawhorses, examining what looked like a worn girth strap. He looked up as Billy and Inez approached.
“Afternoon, ma’am. Glad the boy found you. Here’s all we found in the coach. Floor’s clean as a whistle now. I set Billy to scrubbin’ it down with lye and ashes. You couldst probably eat your dinner from it and be satisfied.”
A memory of Mr. Pace retching on her skirts and the floor rose before her. Inez quickly suppressed it. “Thank you, Mr. Morrow, Billy.” She strolled before the tarp, examining the contents.
A couple of empty whiskey bottles. Moldy bits of bread that looked hard as rocks. A lady’s glove. The odd bits of newspaper, waxed papers, empty snuff tins, and apple cores that she had glimpsed before. Then…
“There!” she exclaimed, triumphant, and pointed. “Billy, could you bring me that small cork? It’s by the apple cores.”
Billy, looked at her, doubtful, then at Morrow, who nodded.
He stepped onto the canvas, picked up the small, elongated, stopper, and handed it to her.
She fished Mrs. Pace’s tonic bottle from her pocket, pulled out the replacement cork, and compared it to the one Billy had given her. They looked the same, except that the one from the coach still had wax adhering to the top and sides. She plugged the bottle with it, just to be sure.
It fit.
Up in her room, Inez shed her dusty clothes and set them aside for the hotel maid to freshen. Wearing her satin wrapper, she set the small tonic bottle and its stopper on the polished wood table in the center of the room. She toyed with the coiled tubing that fed the table’s gas lamp, thinking back on the death of Mr. Pace, and the various things she’d learned about the Paces’ visit and about Manitou in general and the Mountain Springs House in particular since her arrival.
First, there was the fact that Mrs. Pace was here for her health. Inez picked up the tonic bottle, turning it this way and that. It was brown, not as small as the ones Harmony had received that morning for her and William, more of a mid-size. The label identified it as belonging to Kirsten Pace. According to the conversation on the stagecoach, it had held at least a day’s worth of tonic. Mr. Pace had taken it all in a single gulp. How many doses did it hold? Four? Five? Could it be that simply taking that much in one swig was enough to kill him?
I shall have to ask Mrs. Pace how often she takes it and how far apart the doses should be. If she is at the concert tonight, perhaps I can talk with her.
Could he have simply died of some sudden heart ailment? In Leadville, it certainly happened. Young men and old, the rarefied air could send an otherwise healthy man keeling over with nary a peep. It seemed the luck of the draw, sometimes, that did it.
Inez tipped the top of the bottle toward her. The wax on the top of the cork was a bit darker than that on the side, perhaps, she thought, due to dirt. Or bootblack of some kind. She thought back on the valise it had been pulled from. Perhaps some of Ayer’s Cherry Pectoral had dripped onto it. She rubbed the top of the cork with her thumb, but the color seemed to be in the wax itself. She set the bottle aside to consider what else she knew.
Assuming for a moment that the fatal dose was for Mrs. Pace, what reason could anyone want to have her sicken and die?
She was against her husband investing in Manitou. Investing in the Mountain Springs House. Would someone take offense at that? And if so, who?
Who was “invested” in the Mountain Springs House’s success?
As far as she knew, there were three: owner Franklin Lewis, physician Aurelius Prochazka, and manager Terrance Epperley.
Could there be others?
Inez thought of her own business dealings. There was the backroom deal she’d crafted with Madam Flo. The grubstakes she’d invested with various Leadville prospectors, in hopes of sharing the wealth of a lucky strike. Some of these deals were public, others she chose to play close to the vest. It could be the same at the Mountain Springs House, she decided. There could be public investors and private investors. Men who, behind the scenes, were gambling on the rise of the hotel’s fame and fortune. It made sense, given Dr. Prochazka’s reputation and the region’s claim on health through its mineral waters and various treatments.
Of course, having the hotel’s patients die as a result of partaking of its medicinal cures would be very bad for business and for the physician’s reputation. So, if Mrs. Pace’s tonic was poisoned, could it have been with the aim of casting the hotel and its attendant physician into disgrace? In which case, any competing hotel or physician who harbored murderous tendencies could have bribed someone at the Mountain Springs House.
Inez shook her head, realizing that her Machiavellian thinking was taking her in circles. She wished that she could put out that she was interested in investing in the hotel and generate some interest. But, as Epperley had pointed out, no one in Manitou, where she was not well known—except by ex-pat British wastrels and drunks, apparently—would take her, a woman, seriously.
Ah, if only I were a man!
What she needed, she thought, was a male shill. Someone who would be willing, or who she could persuade, to play the part of a potential investor in Mountain Springs House. Someone wealthy, or at least able to convincingly portray a wealthy nob. Someone people would instinctively trust, someone good at getting people to confide. Someone who was skilled at reading people and their motives. Someone who could charm men and women alike. Someone a tad deceitful. Someone who could bluff with the best, and improvise when necessary. Someone like…
Mark.
Damnation!
Inez slammed the small bottle down in frustration, then hastily picked it up again and examined the glass bottom closely, to be sure the force hadn’t cracked it. Satisfied the vial was intact, she set it down gently to one side.
Elbow on the table, chin in palm, she tried to come up with other possible confederates. It had to be a man, one she could trust to be “on her side.” Casting an inward eye over the ranks of men from Leadville, she plucked first one and then another from the lineup for consideration.
Abe?
Abe Jackson, part owner of the Silver Queen Saloon, along with the Stannerts, was more than a business partner. He and Mark had met during the Civil War and teamed up at war’s end with the common aim of “making a fortune” in the war-torn Eastern seaboard. Once Mark and Inez eloped, they had traveled together, eventually settling in Leadville at the beginning of its silver rush. Inez regarded Abe as a friend and a confidante, although they had their moments when they were at odds. But she would trust him with her life. He could be as wily as Mark, given the right circumstances.
But these were not the right circumstances. Much as she would like to obtain Abe’s help, she knew it would be impossible, for several reasons. His wife was about to give birth any day. Even more to the point, a colored man—no matter that he was born free and came with a fat bank account—would not be welcome to sit at this particular table.
Jed Elliston?
He was a newspaperman, and hint of a local business scandal could bring him on the run. He had helped her in the past. However, a “local” angle was necessary to gaining Elliston’s interest and compliance. As far as Inez could ascertain, the current situation in Manitou had no Leadville ties. Too, Elliston was understaffed at the newspaper and had his hands full just keeping up with Leadville’s doings.
Doc?
Doc Cramer had several variables in his favor. He was a physician, so could perhaps worm his way into the closed medical establishment in Manitou. He was familiar with Dr. William Bell and General William Palmer from the War, so that was another plus. He was her family physician and had not only seen William into the world, but had brought all his medical skills to bear on keeping William alive and breathing through the first harrowing winter of his small life. If Doc thought she or William were in danger, he’d come in a heartbeat. But. Doc was, to put it bluntly, a lousy liar, and too fond of good brandy and friendly conversation to be trusted with an underhanded scheme such as the one she was planning. One glass of brandy too many, and he’d invariably say something that would tip their hand.
It was no use. Mentally riffling through the cards she’d been dealt, Inez realized she only had one on which to pin her hopes:
Mark.
If it was a poker hand, she would have folded and walked away. But there was far more at stake in this game than mere money.
She sighed. Resigned. Turning to the small bedside stand, she extracted a pencil and stationery embossed with The Mountain Springs House at the top, and began drafting a telegram.
***
At dinner, Harmony, true to her word, arranged for Inez to sit apart from Aunt Agnes. Agnes and Inez shared Dr. Zuckerman as a dining companion, who all in all was more interested in conversing with Harmony’s husband, Jonathan, across the table than with either of his dining companions. Rebuffed in her attempts to flirt with the physician, Agnes turned her attentions to young Robert Calder on her left, taking occasion to shoot an occasional pointed and disapproving glance at Inez.
Inez cast back over the day, trying to come up with something she might have done that would put Agnes in a tiff. Several events came to mind, but none that her aunt could conceivably have known about. Inez resigned herself, certain that Agnes would eventually reveal what displeased her, and probably sooner rather than later.
Partway through the stultifying dinner—oyster soup, baked pickerel, boiled tongue, roast leg of mutton, banana fritters, stewed tomatoes, chicken salad en mayonnaise, and blackberry pie—Inez became aware of the conversation between the Dr. Zuckerman and Jonathan DuChamps. It was an eerie echo of the “hard sell” she had often overheard between a huckster and a possible investor. Only, whereas in Leadville the talk focused on silver, mines, and assays, here in Manitou it was of consumption, mineral waters, and cures.
“What of the Duket cure? The Salisbury Plan?” Jonathan inquired, leaning intently over the table. “I’ve heard they both show great promise.”
“Oh, cures abound,” Zuckerman pronounced. “Duket is nothing but flimflam and humbuggery. ‘Relentless greed sets the trap and death is partner in the enterprise.’ That was said by some observant fellow or other. I’d not give the Duket so-called cure a second glance. As for Salisbury plans, Dr. Salisbury believes that food is the agent of tremendous power that causes consumption.” Zuckerman leaned forward in emphasis. Inez feared for his pampered beard should it stray into the stewed tomatoes.
He continued, “The treatment, in a nutshell, is based on the idea of removing the cause by ridding the blood and tissues of the presence of the yeast by starving it out. He also advocates wearing flannel and daily riding. Salisbury states if the directions are followed faithfully, consumption in all its stages
becomes
a curable disease.” He raised a finger. “Note that he does not say he cures, but the disease
becomes
amenable to treatment.”