Worthy Brown's Daughter (14 page)

CHAPTER 32

S
haron Hill begged off having dinner with Benjamin, claiming exhaustion and pointing out that Heather hadn’t seen him since they had left for San Francisco. She was relieved when Gillette agreed to drop her at her hotel. Putting up a facade twenty-four hours a day was tiring. And the news of Barbour’s death was devastating. Her plan could not succeed if Caleb was not alive to testify that the signature affixed to the marriage contract was that of Benjamin Gillette.

When they arrived at the Evergreen Hotel, Francis brought her luggage to her room. Later, while luxuriating in a warm bath, Hill tried to think of a way to use the contract, which was hidden in her valise, but she was too hungry to think clearly. After the bath, she dressed and headed downstairs to the restaurant. When she neared the dining room, she saw Jed Tyler talking to the maître d’.

“How nice to see you again, Justice Tyler.”

Tyler turned. A look of surprise then pleasure suffused his features when he saw that it was Sharon Hill who had spoken.

“Do you dine here often?” she inquired.

“Not often,” he replied, “but on occasion. I’ve just returned from riding the circuit, and I have a craving for a good steak.”

“That sounds delicious.”

“Would you care to join me?”

“If it’s not an imposition.”

“To the contrary. I would be grateful for your company. Riding the circuit is a lonely business.”

The maître d’ seated the couple, and they ordered chowder, porterhouse steaks, and wine.

“I can tell from your accent that you are originally from the East,” Hill said when the waiter left.

Tyler smiled. “A good guess.”

“New York?”

Tyler laughed. “Yes.”

“Were you raised there?”

“I was.”

“What made you travel so far from home.”

“My brother. It is he who should be sitting here, talking to you.”

“Oh?”

“David is obsessed with the West. He reads every article written about it, and he was always dragging Muriel and me to these stuffy, overheated halls to hear ministers or veterans of the Oregon Trail or Indian fighters talk about the opportunities awaiting men of action in San Francisco and the Oregon Territory.”

“Muriel?”

“David’s wife.”

“Ah. But he stayed in New York?”

“David is a dreamer. He’s not a man of action. But his dreams infected me, and I decided to live them.”

“What did your family think about your decision to move three thousand miles away from them?”

“David supported me but my father was very upset. He foresaw great things for me in the New York Bar, followed by an advantageous marriage and a prestigious place in New York society. I found the life he’d planned for me tedious and unbearable. Father would always point to David as an example of how life should be lived, never noticing that David felt trapped and stayed put only because he loves Muriel so much. She would never agree to leave New York and her society friends.”

“Did your father come around eventually?”

“No, he made it clear that I would receive no help from him if I left.”

“It must have been devastating to be rejected by your father.”

“At first, it made me very sad. I wanted him to see what I saw, to support me. But, in the end, it was liberating. It left me with nothing to fall back on and forced me to rely solely on my wits.”

“Was it simply boredom that made you move to Oregon?”

“No, Miss Hill. I was always a loner. I never fit in. I had one interest, one love—law. I believed that the West was wild and unformed, a place where a new social order was developing, and I wanted to help shape it.”

“And have you?”

Tyler nodded. “I believe I’ve had an impact on our state, I believe I’ve left my mark.”

“Was there ever a time when you questioned your decision to leave New York?”

“Never.”

“And did you find the West to be as wild as you imagined it?”

Tyler smiled.

“What’s so funny?” Hill asked.

“Your question made me remember
The King of Prussia
. It was the steamer on which I booked my passage west in 1851. A pretentious name that was unsuitable for such a sorry vessel. The accommodations were deplorable, but I never thought about them. Every moment was an adventure. I remember when we off-loaded at Chagres, a pitiful little town on the Isthmus of Panama. I and the other California-bound passengers were poled upriver to Cruces in small boats by Indians. Indians! David would have given anything to meet an Indian.

“From Cruces, we rode mules over the mountains, where there were other steamers waiting to take us to San Francisco. The scene there amazed me. I found thousands of people waiting for passage near the docks. Some passengers in steerage sold their tickets for $750 and took their chances on finding something cheaper.”

“Was San Francisco what you expected?”

“It was more than that. You’ve lived there, you know how it is. The streets were filled with Americans from every state in the Union, Chileans, Frenchmen, Kanakas from the Sandwich Islands, Russians and Chinese, and the crowds rushing through the streets never seemed to rest.”

“Why didn’t you stay in San Francisco?”

“There were too many lawyers. I reckoned that my chances of making something of myself would improve if I moved north. And that’s how I came to settle here. I stepped off the boat with all my worldly goods and saw an
OFFICE FOR RENT
sign in the window of Gillette’s Mercantile Emporium.”

“Benjamin Gillette?”

Tyler nodded. “It was one of Ben’s first enterprises. We struck a deal—work for rent—and my fortunes rose with his. But I never liked the daily practice of law. When Ira Corbett fell off his horse while riding circuit and broke his neck I used every marker I had to secure my spot on the Supreme Court. The day I joined the court was the happiest day of my life.”

It would be natural for Tyler to turn the conversation to her life, a subject she wished to avoid, and Hill was relieved when the food came. She was exhausted and she wasn’t sure she could keep her lies straight. During dinner, Hill deflected questions about her life before Phoenix and steered the conversation to their food, the life of a judge, Caleb Barbour’s murder, and other topics that saw her safely through the meal. The waiter was clearing their plates when the grandfather clock in a corner of the dining room chimed.

“My goodness,” Hill exclaimed, “I had no idea it was so late. I’m exhausted and you must be, too.”

The judge stifled a yawn. Then smiled. “I am done in.”

“Thank you for the dinner and the entertaining conversation.”

“The pleasure is mine. I enjoyed your company.”

“Perhaps we can dine again sometime.”

“I’d like that,” Tyler said.

CHAPTER 33

B
y most measures, W. B. Thornton was a success. Before his election to the position of Multnomah County district attorney, he had built up a respectable practice representing the shipping companies whose trade had made Portland a booming port city. He lived in an elegant Italianate mansard residence with Abigail, his plump, adoring wife, and their three children. He was an intimate of the rich and powerful in Portland society and a shareholder in the Oregon Railway and Navigation Company, which he hoped would soon make him wealthy. And, of course, he held a position of power and had aspirations for gaining more. But he never really felt secure, and he frequently worried about the way others saw him.

To improve his self-image, Wilbur Bartholomew Thornton had dealt away his first and middle names because he thought they sounded effeminate, so he was now W. B. Thornton. To seem older, he had cultivated a paunch and had grown the full beard that covered his baby face. He also consulted his pocket watch frequently in order to appear contemplative.

As there was no courthouse in the county, Thornton conducted public business from his law office, which was near the docks on Front Street. Thornton was busy with an insurance claim when Matthew Penny appeared in his waiting room. Thornton cultivated those with influence in Portland society, and there were rumors that Matthew might soon join that group by becoming Benjamin Gillette’s attorney, so he told his secretary to show the young man in.

“Good to see you up and about, Penny,” the DA said as he studied the fading evidence of Matthew’s beating.

“Thank you,” Matthew answered after taking a seat across the desk from the prosecutor.

“I heard that you were badly injured.”

“I was laid up for several days.”

“Well, it looks like the worst is over. So what may I do for you? I assume this is about Brown.”

“Yes.”

“I’ll be going for an indictment the next time we convene a grand jury. Will you be representing him?”

Matthew swallowed hard. “No, sir, I will not.”

“I see. Then why are you here?”

“I . . .” Matthew paused. His heart was beating rapidly, and he felt short of breath. “There has been a mistake. Mr. Brown did not kill Caleb Barbour.”

Thornton cast an incredulous look at Matthew. “Then who did?”

“I . . . I believe I am responsible.”

Thornton stared at Matthew as if he had not understood him.

“Believe? Are you saying that you are unsure?”

“No, I killed Barbour. I struck him, and he hit his head and died.”

Thornton leaned back in his chair. His expression told Matthew that he was having a hard time crediting what he had just heard.

“Mr. Penny, Caleb Barbour was murdered over a week ago. If you killed him, why have you waited so long to make this confession?”

“I didn’t remember what I had done. When I was struck on the head, I lost my memory.”

“And you have suddenly recalled that you perpetrated this horrible crime?”

Matthew looked down at his hat, which rested on his lap.

“My memory did not return all at once. At first, I had nightmares. I saw Roxanne Brown running from the flames. I had a sudden vision of Mr. Barbour sprawled across his front porch steps, dead, his head bleeding, but the body was not burned.”

“Barbour’s corpse was badly burned.”

“Yes. That’s what made me realize what must have happened. Barbour’s body had been badly burned by the time Marshal Lappeus arrived on the scene but not in my vision. The only way I could reconcile my vision with the condition of the body was if I’d seen Barbour’s corpse twice with time intervening.”

“Even if you saw the body twice, what makes you think that Brown did not strike the fatal blow?”

“That’s not how I remember it now.”

Thornton leaned forward. “Look, Penny, I don’t know why you’ve come here, but if you are taking the blame for Brown’s cowardly act out of some . . .” Thornton waved his hand in the air, at a loss for words.

“Frankly, I don’t know what has possessed you. I know you’re an abolitionist. Maybe this confession was prompted by pro-Negro sentiments. But this case had nothing to do with slavery or race. It is about murder, plain and simple, and it’s clear that Brown killed Caleb Barbour. He hated his former master for keeping his daughter from him. He threatened to kill Barbour on the very day Barbour was murdered. He was caught red-handed at the scene of the crime.”

“But I did kill Barbour. I’m sure of it.”

“Your certainty is a product of nightmares and visions, not fact. Go home, Penny. Get a good night’s sleep or, better yet, see Dr. Sharp. I think you’re still suffering the effects of that blow to the head.”

Matthew saw that he would not be able to convince Thornton, so he stood up.

“Thank you for your time,” he said before turning toward the door.

“Brown will hang, Penny,” the DA said. “In time, you will see that his punishment was just.”

MATTHEW WAS IN TURMOIL AS
he walked back to his office. He was certain that he had murdered Caleb Barbour, but Thornton would not accept his confession. It took him only a few moments to realize why. W. B. Thornton was a political opportunist. A conviction in this murder case would make him wildly popular, and it would be so much easier to prosecute a Negro for the murder than to bring a white man to trial for the crime.

But even if Thornton was not politically ambitious, Matthew could see why he would be reluctant to accept a confession that had come so long after the crime and was inspired by visions and nightmares. Yet Matthew was convinced his memory was real. The problem was convincing someone who mattered that he was a murderer. If he could not, Worthy would die, and Matthew would live with Brown’s death on his conscience.