Frail Blood (4 page)

"Let her work with you," Knight returned quickly.

"What? Who?"

"Emma. Hire her."

"What?" Malachi repeated.

Preposterous.
He had no intention of letting anyone,
especially a nosy newspaper woman like Emma Knight, be privy to his trial plans.
"Impossible. She's already compromised my defense with her article. Why
should I beg more trouble?"

"She merely did her duty as editor of the paper. You
must admire that in her." Malachi could tell that Knight was not a man
accustomed to begging when he lowered his voice and whispered, "Please."

"No."

"She can help you," Knight cajoled.

Malachi snorted in disbelief. "I doubt that."

"Although my niece has much to learn, she has a fine
and curious mind. She had experience in journalism at Wellesley. Well, a
little," he admitted with a smile. "But she's very good at engaging
people in conversation. If there's any information you want to know about
someone, she can wrangle that information out of them. She's damned good at
that."

Malachi began shaking his head.

"Don't decide out of hand. Think about it," Knight
urgede. "Please." He paused before adding, "Consider that you'd
be hiring me, rather than my niece."

Malachi jammed his fists in his trouser pockets. "I won't
change my mind."

Knight's voice took on a conspiratorial tone as he glanced
around him. "I am acquainted with a great number of people – important
people – and possess a prodigious amount of resources. It's no small thing to
have a man like me in your debt."

Malachi's eyes narrowed even as he worked to control the
smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He had to admire the man's
perspicacity. "That sounds very much like a bribe to an officer of the
court, Stephen. For your sake, I hope it isn't."

Knight chuckled. "By God, I like you, young man." He
clamped Malachi hard on the shoulder, shook his head, and walked away, still
laughing.

Chapter 4

"The first thing we do, let's kill all the lawyers."
–
Henry the Sixth, Part 2

Malachi took a long route back to the courthouse. He headed
across the street, down by Mary Belle's Tearoom, around the corner, and up the
gently sloping hill toward several merchant shops whose store fronts were now
dark.

Around the next bend were the offices of
The Placer
Gazette.
He paused at the window, mulling over Stephen Knight's odd request.
No benefit lay in working with Emma Knight. On the contrary, she presented a
world of potential disaster.

Through the wide window, the front of the newspaper office
was dark and empty, but he made out a dim light at the rear. He'd just turned
to start back up the hill to the courthouse where he'd hitched his horse Blaze
when he spied Emma Knight exit from the back room, her arms laden with a stack
of newsprint. Dirt smudged her nose and cheek and the scraggly strands of her
auburn hair struggled to escape their knot.

Desiring nothing less than another encounter with a Knight
family member, Malachi hesitated, wanting to duck back around the corner, but
those too quick, brown eyes locked with his through the dusty pane.

Too late.

He inclined his head in acknowledgement, but knew he'd be
well off if she returned to the back room without further engagement. However,
as if weighing a momentous decision, she hesitated a moment before she gestured
with a regal wave that he should come in. There was nothing for it but to bid
her beckoning and face the inevitable sparring.

A tiny bell jangled as he entered and Malachi took the
initiative by speaking first. "Miss Knight, you're working late. Is that
the usual schedule of a newspaper woman?"

He braced himself against the long wooden counter where she'd
dumped the papers and behind which she stood, arms crossed over her chest. She
looked sharply at him as if wondering whether he joked, then apparently decided
he did not.

"As a new owner, I have much to do." She waved
helplessly around the disordered room. "Nothing a brisk cleaning won't
fix, however."

"Several sisters among the Strickland family would
welcome the work," Malachi suggested, knowing this particular family could
make good use of the extra income.

Surprise registered in her voice. "Why, thank you."

Several awkward moments passed after which both spoke
simultaneously.

"Were you leaving now?" he asked.

"Are you going home?" she said and then laughed a
musical sound like the sweet high tones of a bell.

"Yes," he answered. "Trial work to prepare."

She nodded seriously. "Alma Bentley. Poor woman."

He smiled wryly. "Because she's accused of murder or
because she has me, a mere man, for representation?"

She had the grace to look chagrined. "I misspoke
earlier." Again, he felt it cost her some pride to make the admission. She
hesitated, then ploughed on. "I suppose I should formally issue that
invitation to dine with us tomorrow evening."

"No obligation," he said. "I know my way
around a kitchen and am quite capable of preparing my own supper."

"Uncle Stephen insists." She shrugged her slender
shoulders. "And you must eat at any rate."

He wondered if she realized how graceless the comment
sounded. "In that case, I'd be delighted to sup with you."

She frowned, a tiny line drawing her brow down as if she
suspected he'd somehow outmaneuvered her.

With a smile and a tip of his hat, he left, ambling toward
his horse and feeling partially redeemed. He might rather enjoy verbal dueling
with the eminently flappable Miss Knight.

#

"Is that the murder weapon?" Emma whispered to Mr.
Spencer, nodding toward the evidence table. Today the courtroom was jammed. The
notoriety of yesterday's events had spread like wildfire and drawn even more
curiosity seekers.

"Not until someone proves it," Spencer snorted.
The
Sacramento Union
reporter turned to gaze at her, evidently liking what he
saw, for he clarified more amiably. "You see, the pistol was found near
the body, but who's to say it belongs to Miss Bentley?"

"But she admitted her guilt," Emma protested.

"That's the trouble you see," Spencer explained. "The
defendant said she did it, but she pled 'not guilty.' She could have been mad
with grief and confessed out of her confusion."

"I see," Emma said, not seeing at all.

She hardly thought Mr. Spencer's logic made a great deal of
sense. Joseph was dead. Alma was found in the woods near his home. She
confessed to the deed. Emma stared at the back of Mr. Rivers' head. Was his plan
to claim Alma was insane?

Almost as if he'd felt her eyes on him, Mr. Rivers turned
around as Mr. Spencer leaned closer to Emma. Too close for propriety, she
thought and shifted slightly to her left.

"If they connect the weapon to her," Mr. Spencer
continued and pressed his arm against hers, "that makes the confession
more valid, d'you see?"

Emma dropped her notebook and, while Mr. Spencer fetched it
from the floor, she moved even farther away. Mr. Rivers lifted one brow. She
widened her eyes and tilted her head in silent question. An amused expression
played around Mr. Rivers' lips although Emma saw nothing humorous in the
situation.

The audience had buzzed with salacious curiosity at the
sight of the weapon, but after the initial flurry, no further drama occurred
for several tedious hours. Mr. Fulton continued to pontificate. Mr. Rivers
continued to lounge rather lazily next to his client. The magistrate continued
to chomp on a sodden-tipped cigar and peer over his spectacles at the primaries
as if they would at any moment commit a court infraction.

And Emma continued to twist her pencil idly in her fingers.

By noon Charles Fulton had called three additional persons
to malign the character of Alma Bentley. Emma was sure some of Mr. Fulton's
questions required at least a feeble protest from Mr. Rivers. But no, he'd
remained seated throughout.

From time to time he jotted notes on a yellow pad, patted
his client's hand reassuringly, and ever so often glanced at Emma. She made a
point of glaring back at him to show her disapproval of his lackadaisical
tactics.

Right before the midday break, Mr. Fulton called Nathan
Butler, the Bigler County Sheriff, to testify. Mr. Fulton picked up the firearm
from the evidence table.

Emma felt a chill creep into her marrow. This object
dangling carelessly from his hand must be the murder weapon! The
short-barreled, small pistol appeared to her untutored eyes just the kind of
weapon a woman would use to commit murder.

Sheriff Butler quickly testified that he'd discovered the
pistol lying on the Machado kitchen floor several feet from the victim's body,
that it had been fired, and that the bullets recovered from the body belonged
to the pistol. Then he stepped down from the stand. An expectant hum ran
through the gallery.

Mr. Spencer touched Emma's forearm and winked at her. "But
does the pistol belong to Alma Bentley?"

Exactly, thought Emma. And why the devil doesn't Mr. Rivers
object or cross-examine Sheriff Butler? But he didn't.

Judge Underwood glowered at Mr. Rivers.

A hush descended on the courtroom as Mr. Fulton turned to
the bench. "Your Honor, I'd like to call one last witness before we
adjourn."

The judge eyed his pocket watch. "Be brief, Mr. District
Attorney. I become disgruntled over any delay to my noon meal."

Emma saw Mr. Rivers begin to rise, but apparently he changed
his mind and sank back into his chair. Alma looked as if she'd burst into tears
at any moment, and he whispered something in her ear. Over the arm that he
rested on the back of Alma's chair, Mr. Rivers caught Emma's eye. For the first
time, she detected a hint of worry on his face.

The prosecutor then called Jeremiah Woods, a Placer Hills
gunsmith. After being sworn in and stating his name and occupation, the witness
sat down with an air of officiousness that suggested he might have something
significant to say.

Mr. Fulton brandished the pistol just identified as the
murder weapon. "Mr. Woods, would you please tell the court what I hold in
my hand?"

The gunsmith reached for the pistol. "This is a
firearm, sir, specifically a Philadelphia Deringer."

"And where is this type of Deringer currently produced?"

The gunsmith's round, baby-cheeked face flushed with
importance. "Nowhere. Henry Deringer stopped production of this design
back in '68."

A specious look of surprise crept across Mr. Fulton's face. Of
course, he'd known the answer long before he asked the question, Emma realized.

"Really? No longer produced?" Mr. Fulton said. "Well,
then, for how long did Mr. Deringer produce this pistol?"

"From '52 to '68."

"How can you be so sure he ceased production in 1868?"

The man blinked nearly lashless eyes and raised sparse brows
to meet a receding hairline. "Why, Mr. Henry Deringer died that year. Yessir,
died in 1868, he did."

"And this particular weapon was no longer made?"

"No sir," Woods answered emphatically.

"Thank you, Mr. Woods. Now, please examine the weapon."

Fulton leaned against the railing while Mr. Woods turned the
pistol over in his wide hands, peering down the barrel and sliding his broad
thumbs over the walnut stock for long minutes.

"Can you identify the owner of this weapon?"
Fulton asked.

Emma held her breath. Mr. Woods couldn't possibly identify a
single firearm from among dozens made over a sixteen-year period. And surely
Mr. Rivers would object at last.

"That I can, sir," Woods answered decisively. "This
pistol belonged to Mr. John Bentley."

A clamor went up from the gallery while Judge Underwood
hammered his gavel with the intensity of a Sousa percussionist. Gradually the
noise subsided and the judge scowled at the defense. Emma willed Mr. Rivers to
rise and object to ... something, anything.

But he remained as mute and unmoving as a lump of coal.

After a moment or two Underwood growled, "Continue."

Mr. Fulton cleared his throat and waited for absolute
silence. Emma's pencil broke in her fingers.

"Many such pistols must be in existence, Mr. Woods,"
the prosecutor said at last. "How can you be positive that this particular
firearm belonged to John Bentley?"

"See this nick on the stock?" Woods pointed to a
scratch mark on the walnut handle near the finger guard. "John Bentley
complained like a whoreson about that tiny scratch!"

A muffle of nervous laughter trickled through the room.
Underwood frowned at the audience, but didn't pound his gavel.

Mr. Fulton allowed the information to sink in before
continuing. "When did you sell this Deringer to Mr. Bentley?"

Woods scratched his head and thought a moment. "Uh,
probably back in '75 or '76, give or take."

"What happened to the weapon when Mr. Bentley died?"

"Oh, don't know as I can rightly say," Woods
answered slowly, clearly drawing out the notoriety the trial afforded him. "Lemme
see. John passed 'bout ten years ago, guess his property would've gone to his
wife Jenny."

"And did Jenny and John Bentley have a daughter?"

Judge Underwood aimed a scathing look at the defense.

"Sure did. I met her once or twice," Woods said.

Emma clamped down hard on her lower lip and wanted nothing
more than to shake Malachi Rivers senseless.

"A tiny little thing she was, about twelve, thirteen
when John died. She's sittin' right over there." Woods pointed his thick
finger at Alma Bentley, whose shoulders suddenly sagged under the accusatory weight
of the man's declaration.

Nearly ten minutes passed before the clamor of the crowd
settled to a manageable din.

Fulton continued his questioning of the gunsmith, until at
precisely half past noon, the judge thumped his gavel on the podium right in the
middle of an incipient remark by the district attorney.

"Court's adjourned for the weekend," Underwood
growled, hammering his gavel with a resounding assault as though the day's
occurrences were a personal affront to the court. "We'll resume Monday morning
at nine o'clock."

The prosecutor protested half-heartedly, but Emma knew it
didn't matter. Mr. Fulton had won. His smirk clearly demonstrated his
satisfaction with today's victory. Streetman rose and dismissed the court. The
damage of Woods' testimony was absolute.

Sheriff Butler had identified the Deringer as the murder
weapon, and now Mr. Fulton had tied the pistol inextricably to Alma Bentley's
father – and by extension, to Alma herself.

The argument was thin. Any number of persons could have acquired
the gun from Jenny Bentley during the last ten years. But Emma had scanned the
faces of the jurors during the last few minutes, and she had no doubt the
gentlemen had convicted Alma already in their hearts.