He laughed as he thought of the house he’d built because he
was angry at not being able to see the upstairs of the Fenton house.
With his hand on the bannister, curiosity overrode his common sense and he bounded up the stairs two at a time. Hurriedly, like a thief afraid of getting caught, he went down the hall and looked into the bedrooms. They were very ordinary, with heavy, ornate, dark furniture and heavy, depressing curtains and wallpaper. “Houston has much better taste,” he mumbled and then laughed at his snobbery.
He was still smiling when he came to the head of the front staircase, but his smile vanished instantly.
At the foot of the stairs, in a crumpled heap, lay Jacob Fenton—obviously dead.
Kane’s first thought was that he’d come too late and now Jacob would never know that at last he was the legal owner of all he’d worked so hard to have. And, too, Kane felt sadness. All those years that Kane had worked in New York, all he could remember were the times he’d polished Fenton’s boots, but right now what he remembered were the times he’d given Jacob a hard time, embarrassed him in front of guests, argued with him about when he could and could not have his own horses, and all the times Kane’d tickled the cook and talked her into putting onions into the gravy, both of them knowing that onions gave Jacob such indigestion that he didn’t sleep all night.
Slowly, Kane started down the stairs, but he’d only taken one step when Marc Fenton and five of his young friends burst into the hall. By the state of their clothes and their loud voices, they looked as if they were just returning from all night on the town.
“If Taggert thinks that he’s gonna take my inheritance away,” came Marc Fenton’s slurred voice, “he’s gonna have to fight me. Nobody in this town will believe Taggert over me.”
The two women, wearing yellow satin, one with a red feather boa, the other with four peacock feathers in her hair, and the three men, all shouted agreement with Marc.
“Where’s the whiskey, love?” one of the women asked.
As a group, the people stopped to stare at the body of Jacob Fenton lying at the foot of the stairs. It was Marc who looked up and saw Kane standing at the head of the stairs.
“I came to see your father—,” Kane began but Marc never gave him a chance to finish.
“Murderer!” Marc screeched and started up the stairs in one leap.
“Wait a minute!” Kane shouted, but no one paid him the least attention as the three other men jumped him also. All five men went rolling down the stairs and Kane thought that since he was the only one who was sober, he would probably be the only one who was hurt. In spite of the fact that it was four against one, Kane was winning the fight.
But then one of the women slammed Kane over the head with a heavy brass statue of David preparing to slay the giant.
The four men unsteadily got to their feet and looked down at the unconscious form of Kane.
“What do we do now?” one of the women whispered.
“Hang ’im!” Marc shouted, starting to pick up Kane, but when he made no progress, and none of the others offered to help, he looked up, pleading, “He killed my father.”
“There ain’t enough whiskey in the world to get me drunk enough to hang a man as rich as he is,” one of the men said. “While he’s out, let’s take him to the jail. Let the sheriff deal with him.”
There was some argument from Marc, but he was too drunk to put up a great deal of fight, and so the four of them struggled to heave Kane’s big body into the back of a buckboard that had been left standing outside the house. Not one of them seemed to give the body of Jacob another thought as they left him on the floor, the doors of the house wide open.
* * *
“Here, drink this,” Edan was saying as he held Kane’s head.
With a groan, Kane tried to sit up, but the pain in his head made him lean back against the cold stone wall. “What happened?” He looked up to see Edan, Leander and the sheriff hovering over him.
“It was all a mistake,” Lee said. “I told the sheriff about the paper and why you went to Fenton’s.”
“He was dead?” Kane asked. “He looked like it from where I stood.” Kane’s head came up sharply, causing him more pain. “The last thing I remember is Marc Fenton and some drunks pullin’ me down the stairs.”
Edan sat down on the cot where Kane was stretched out. To his right were the bars of the jail. “As far as we can tell, the servants found Jacob Fenton dead about three minutes before you walked into the house. For some reason, they all decided to go get help and so left the body alone and the house open. Then Marc and his friends came in from an all-night spree and saw you standing at the top of the stairs and thought you’d pushed him down. You’re lucky, because Marc wanted to hang you from the front porch.”
Kane rubbed the knot on the back of his head. “Hangin’ couldn’t hurt more than this does.”
“You’re free to go, Mr. Taggert,” the sheriff said. “And I suggest that you get out of here before your wife finds out. Women take on so when their husbands are put in jail.”
“Not Houston,” Kane said. “She’s a lady to the core. She’d be calm if they hanged me.” Even as he said the words, a new thought came to him. How would Houston react if she thought he were a murderer? Hadn’t he heard one time that all the property of murderers was confiscated by the state? Or was it that a person couldn’t inherit from a person he’d killed?
“How many people know about this?” Kane asked. “The Fenton servants can testify that I’m innocent, but has that fact spread around town yet?”