Cole made his way down the hallway to room seven. The room was small, with a bed and a side table. A small gas light was over the table. The bedding was clean, if not a little threadbare. It didn’t matter much to him. It wasn’t like this was going to be home forever. He made short work of unpacking his clothing and shaving kit. The last item he pulled out was a small satchel of papers.
Everything related to his case was in this satchel. He tucked it under his arm and grabbed his hat, placing it on his head.Lunch was necessary if he was going to formulate a plan for finding out the truth about young Mr. Edwin Gilbert.
A half an hour later, Cole finished off the last of his apple pie and coffee. With the table now clear of plates and cutlery, he unpacked the small satchel.
This was the type of case usually given to newer agents. The young man in question had a reputation for gambling, stealing, and gun fighting. The initial report from the Denver police was that while intoxicated, he fell from his horse and broke his neck. The notes from the doctor who examined his body detailed bruises and cuts consistent with being dragged by his horse for a short distance. And the investigating officer made note of the smell of whiskey on the body.
Cole frowned. That was where the case became strange.
Mr. Louis Gilbert contacted the Pinkerton Agency because he was certain his son was murdered. He ranted and raved about the incompetency of the Denver police. His son, he claimed, had never had a drink of liquor since his mother died three years ago. A deathbed promise. And one Mr. Gilbert was adamant his son kept. It was hard to imagine someone involved in various illegal enterprises, such as those young Edwin dabbled in, abstained from liquor. But stranger things had happened.
Especially in the Wild West.
He looked at the papers strewn across the table. There was a clue in here somewhere. Something that would give him the next step to take. Right now, all he had was a wealthy client with a dead son who was convinced murder was the cause of death. Hart handpicked Cole and tasked him with the impossible. Either prove the Denver police might have missed a murder and the murderer was still at large or break a father’s heart.
Neither proposition was palatable.
But that was the job.
It was also the major reason he was at the Tremont House, the last known address for Edwin. He looked at the miniature the senior Mr. Gilbert gave him the night before he left. A solemn trio stared back at him. Edwin stood behind his parents, hair slicked back, eyes eerily pale in black and white. The photo was the last of the three of them, the mother dying just two months later.
Cole tapped the picture against his palm, a detail niggling in the back of his mind. A young man who surrendered to every vice except drinking. He scoffed. Impossible. Unless...
The guidelines given to him upon check-in came rushing back. What had that woman said? Tremont House was a temperance hotel. A thrill shot through him. Maybe she knew something—anything—that could help him.
He gathered his papers and put them back in the satchel but kept the miniature out. He shoved his hat on his head and made his way back to the front desk. The woman was still at her post.
“Hello again. I have a few questions about someone who stayed here a few months ago. Would you be able to help me?”
She narrowed her eyes and crossed her arms. “We don’t give out information on patrons, sir.”
Cole nodded, studying her. Her graying black hair was tucked neatly into a pile on her head. Her clothes were clean and pressed, not new, but well cared for. The mail was put away and the desk was tidy. This was a woman who cared about her job. That much was clear. “I’m with the Pinkertons. I’m not asking for anything personal. But his father is concerned. He has some doubts as to how his son died. Any information you would be willing to share would be most helpful, miss...?”
An eyebrow arched on her forehead. “Mrs. Young.” There was no censure in her response. A good sign she might help. “What was this young man’s name?”
“Edwin Gilbert.”
Mrs. Young’s eyes welled with tears. “Oh, that poor boy. He was a decent sort. A charmer, but not a schemer. I was shocked when the police came by and said he died.” She pulled a small handkerchief out of her cuff and dabbed her eyes.
What luck! She’d actually known him. “Just to be sure we are talking about the same young man... Can you confirm that this is the gentleman in question?” He handed her the picture.
“Yes, that’s him.” She smiled. “He wasn’t lying when he said he took after his mother’s side of the family.”
Interesting. “Did you know him well?”
“Just small talk. But he always had a bit of the melancholia. Said he never quite got over his mother’s passing.” She handed him the miniature, brows drawn together. “I thought he fell off his horse and broke his neck.”
“That is the report. They suspect he was drunk.”
Mrs. Young drew back and fisted her hands on her hips. “That boy? No. No, sir. He had trouble in plenty of areas. Lord knows he did. But in all the months he lived here, there was never the smell of drink on him.” She wagged a finger in Cole’s direction. “I looked the other way on some things for that boy, but he knew drinking wouldn’t be one of them.”
“Did he tell you why he didn’t drink?”
“He said he promised his mother he would be sober the rest of his life. Apparently, his grandfather died because of the stuff.” She shook her head. “Yes, Edwin had many vices. But liquor was not one.”
Cole looked at the miniature and back at Mrs. Young. “Thank you for your help, ma’am. I do appreciate it. And if you don’t mind my saying so, it sounds like you filled a motherly void for him.”
Mrs. Young nodded and wiped her eyes again. “He reminded me of my own boy. He’s off on some great adventurein Europe and won’t be back for some time. It was nice to look after someone again.”
