Chapter 17: Where There’s a Rose

Baxendale was one of Montana’s more affluent towns. The original settlement became the hub of an area of cattle country and for some years the community thrived, though it was a one-industry place. Then, after the passing of the Homestead Act, settlers began to appear. Their arrival might have caused the same kind of trouble as occurred elsewhere. That it did not was attributable to the influence of Edmund Canfield, doyen of the ranchers.

Some of the cattlemen, possessive about their hallowed open range, resented the incursion of farmers, but no one wanted to make a hostile move without a lead from Canfield. They did not get the one they had in mind, for their spokesman had seen that the days of the unfenced range were numbered. The only question was whether the transition would be rough or smooth. Canfield counselled in favour of a welcome to the homesteaders, arguing that the town’s survival would depend on a broader base of activities.

The old man prevailed, as he did later, when the sheepmen arrived. Potentially, this was an even more explosive situation, but Canfield had studied the grazing habits of sheep and cattle and judged them to be more complementary than competitive. He was as right about that as he had been about the homesteaders.

To cap everything, shortly after the first sheepherders arrived, gold was discovered nearby. Again, the town was lucky, for this was not the placer metal that caused the familiar fever, but a limited and difficult seam, demanding and receiving the attention of a large mining company. It was just enough to enhance Baxendale’s prosperity without spoiling the place.

Among those gaining most from the town’s happy position was Maurice Laver. At the time of the gold find, he was forty-nine years of age. A man of medium height, his stocky build running to fat, he had luxuriant black hair with traces of grey and clear brown eyes in a smooth clean-shaven face. He liked the good things in life – first class liquor, top quality cigars, fashionable clothes and the like. His house was unquestionably the most imposing one in town, and he was taken to and from it in an imported landau, pulled by a perfectly matched pair of splendid horses.

Laver monopolised the law business in Baxendale. Trained in the East, he had moved west soon after graduation and had come upon the place by accident. Seeing its potential, he had put down his roots and was for six years the town’s only lawyer. At first, he had been satisfied with the ample rewards of his profession. Later, he was seized by ambition.

Like anyone in his profession, Laver became privy to many secrets and since he secured all the local business, he became a nerve-centre of confidential information. A more conventional lawyer would have accepted that as normal and thought no more of it. However, Laver began to see how he could turn various things to his advantage. He found that, in return for passing on, or refraining from passing on, sensitive details from certain sources to certain destinations, he could do very well for himself. In short, he became an extortioner. Nothing as crass as common blackmail, of course. More a question of clients compensating Laver for his malleable discretion. After all, it was difficult for a man to limit his social life for fear of taking one drink too many and possibly betraying trust. Some recompense was appropriate. Shall we say an increase of fifty per cent over normal fees? No, perhaps a hundred per cent. More secure that way.

When the railroad company put in a spur from the main line to Baxendale, the town got a telegraph office and Laver added another arrow to his quiver. It took a little bustling around and a few words in the right ears, but the result was to prove worth the effort. The lawyer got his cousin installed as wire operator. Thereafter, he was able to glean even more than before. Much of what came his way was useless, but things looked up when his proxy employee drew his attention to coded messages addressed to the mining company.

Though he had no talent for dealing with cyphers himself, Laver remembered a fellow who had been in the same year as himself at law school in Philadelphia. The man had had an addiction to conundrums of any kind. Baxendale’s lawyer was not one to pass up any opportunity to further his interests. Having traced his former classmate, who was still in the City of Brotherly Love, Laver copied three messages onto plain paper and sent them to him, with a letter explaining that the cryptic notes had turned up as part of the estate of a deceased client. Could they be deciphered?

There was no difficulty. The man’s love of puzzles was as great as ever. He replied quickly, saying that he hoped Laver might provide him with some more demanding material, as the code was merely a question of substitutions. All one needed to know was the relative frequency of letter usage in the language, from which point there was a little trial and error. Laver was supplied with the key.

The expert cryptographer did not allude to the fact the messages seemed to have no logical connection with what Laver claimed was their source. As it happened, they were far from sensational and gave away no secrets of any consequence. However, some later ones were much more informative, supplying details of investment plans, stocks and so on, which Laver exploited several times.

Nothing lasts forever. One day a fellow named Roland Sharp arrived in Baxendale. He was an attorney in his middle thirties and, having taken a fancy to the town, decided to stay. He found accommodation in the form of three rooms above a general store, accessed by a flight of wooden stairs. He was industrious and efficient and soon cut himself a sizeable wedge of the local cake in legal matters. Not the gregarious type, he made no effort to associate with Laver, or even to contact him. Sharp’s’ assessment was that there was enough work in the town for two lawyers. Laver’s view was different.

On a dark rain-swept evening, six months after Roland Sharp arrived in Baxendale, one of the townsmen was on his way home and somewhat the worse for drink, when he stumbled over what he first thought was a sack of trash in the street. Closer inspection revealed that it Sharp, or more accurately his corpse. The body lay at the bottom of the stairs leading to the lawyer’s office. Three feet away was a rum bottle, almost empty.

Deputy Sheriff Tom Donaldson was summoned and he in turn brought in the town doctor, who pronounced that Sharp had died of head injuries, presumably suffered in a fall down the stairs, the flimsy hand rail being broken and leaning out over the adjacent alleyway. A strong smell of drink from the dead man’s mouth and his clothing was noted as a probable contributory factor.

It seemed an open and shut case, but Donaldson was puzzled. As a part of his duties, he took a close interest in newcomers to the town and had noticed that Sharp had always appeared a model of sobriety, never visiting the saloons. Being a thorough man, Donaldson toured the town, calling at any place that stocked the brand of liquor found near the body. The answer was clear. Sharp had looked after himself, buying such things as a small household might need, but no alcoholic beverages of any kind. Since arrival, he had never left the town, so if he had been a secret drinker, he must have brought his supply with him. But Donaldson recalled that the man had arrived with only a carpet bag and a cardboard box, open at the top and full of books, and had subsequently bought everything he needed from the local stores. Not conclusive, Donaldson thought, but odd.

Almost a year after the lawyer’s death, a young man named Alan Easterbrook arrived in Baxendale. Like the unfortunate Sharp, he was in the legal business and, being newly qualified, was seeking to make a name for himself. Apart from their common profession, Easterbrook was different from Sharp in many ways – physically much larger, clearly far better off and very flamboyant. He immediately found good premises on the main street and lost no time in making his presence felt. He adopted a high profile, renting the largest house available, buying a handsome carriage and touring the town and its surroundings extensively. He was, he maintained, in Baxendale to stay. Unlike Sharp, he made a point of calling Maurice Laver, stating his intentions.

Easterbrook certainly made an impact. With his dashing lifestyle, he was not everyone’s idea of a legal practitioner, but he was undoubtedly competent and no one for whom he acted had any reason to regret engaging him. He made inroads and gave every indication of doing even better than his deceased predecessor.

One day, four months after his arrival in Baxendale, Easterbrook set out to keep an appointment with one of the nearby ranchers. He never arrived. Several hours later, a cowboy from the ranch found the lawyer’s buggy, one wheel broken, at the trailside. He also found Easterbrook face-down at the foot of a tree, dead.

Again, Deputy Sheriff Donaldson was brought in and again, he summoned the doctor, who closely inspected a long gash on Easterbrook’s head. In and around the wound were fragments of tree bark. A large stone completed the picture. Obviously, the carriage wheel had struck the obstacle, throwing the lawyer head-first at the tree. It was no great surprise. Easterbrook had been a racy, extravagant fellow, and while his death was regrettable, the general view was that it somehow seemed to match his life. Donaldson could only concur. Still, it was strange that lawyers were coming and going in this way.

After Easterbrook’s death, eight months passed, then the residents of Baxendale were surprised to find themselves with yet another new lawyer. This time, the man’s name was Eugene Craine. He was a tall thin fellow in his late forties, dark-faced, with black hair and a small moustache. His explanation for his appearance in the town was that he had chest trouble and had been advised to move to the West on health grounds.

Craine settled in quietly. Like Sharp, he found premises which served him as both home and office. A withdrawn man, he made no great show but he did, at first slowly, then with increasing pace, build up a clientele. He was as sound as he was undemonstrative. Like Sharp and unlike Easterbrook, he made no effort to strike up acquaintanceship with Maurice Laver.

Over three months, Craine advanced to the point at which he was taking a significant share of the town’s legal business. Then, one morning, a rancher client called on him to finalise a deal. As there was no response to his knock, the cattleman tried the door. Finding it open, he walked in to see Craine sprawled back in the chair behind his cluttered desk. Unable to get any response from his lawyer, the rancher hurried off to Deputy Sheriff Donaldson. Once more, the doctor was brought in. Among the items on the desk was a small bottle. The doctor sniffed at it, then at Craine’s lips. “Almonds,” he said. “This man has taken poison.”

Tom Donaldson returned to his office in a thoughtful mood. For three hours, he gave his fellow deputy no more than the odd grunt then, in mid-afternoon, he picked up his hat and set off towards the telegraph office. Halfway there, he stopped abruptly, stood in the middle of the sidewalk, massaging his chin, then swung round and returned to his office. “I’m riding over to the county seat,” he said to his colleague. “Hold the fort till tomorrow, Ben, will you?” In answer to his partner’s query as to his reason for such a burst of energy, he shrugged his heavy shoulders. “I’d rather not say right now,” he mumbled. “Maybe I’m being foolish. We’ll see.”

Baxendale’s people had been startled by the arrival of Eugene Craine, and even more so by his departure. Their astonishment was still greater when, three weeks after his death, the afternoon train brought in two travelling companions. One was a small mousey man wearing a black suit, a narrow-brimmed hat, tie and shoes of the same colour, and a white shirt. The other was a short stout, woman, around forty years of age, blond-haired and dressed in dark-grey travelling clothes of high quality. The arrival of the couple was accompanied by a good deal of fuss, as they brought with them a prodigious amount of baggage.

The woman appeared to be in charge of matters and immediately sent the man off on some errand. Then she hovered by the five large trunks and three cases, which had been hauled off the train by the guard and a couple of fellow passengers. The woman had obviously made some arrangements in advance. Within five minutes, her travelling companion returned with the livery stable owner, another man and a buckboard. The mountain of possessions was moved to an empty house on the main street. When the unloading was finished, the liveryman grinned at the newcomer. “Jesus, lady, if you’ll pardon my language, nobody could accuse you of travellin’ light,” he said.

“Your language does not shock me, sir,” the woman replied. “I’m grateful for your help and as for the baggage, it is a necessary part of my business. It’s mostly law books. That is my profession and one I intend to practise here. I propose to start at once and if you wish to recommend me to any of your acquaintances, I shall be obliged.”

This was good news to the man, who was an inveterate gossip. Now unrestrained, he lost no time in spreading the word and by that evening, there was scarcely a person in Baxendale who wasn’t abreast of the development.

The following day, the town saw nothing of the woman, who was busy arranging her copious effects. Once, the small black-suited man called at her house, stayed for an hour, then returned to his own lodgings.

Shortly before noon the next day Maurice Laver was working at his desk when his secretary announced a lady visitor. Checking that he was at his impeccable best, Laver stood and invited in his caller, thus getting his first sight of the woman who had arrived the previous day. Her unpacking completed, she had decided to confront the entrenched opposition. “Good morning, sir,” she said brightly. “My name is Rose Faraday. I’m here to practise law. As we shall be competitors, I thought it best to speak with you at the outset.”

“Your frankness does you credit. I welcome your arrival and I hope we shall have a cordial relationship. Please take a seat.”

Rose Faraday was smartly turned out in a bright red jacket and skirt and white blouse, with a gold brooch at her throat. She sat facing Laver. “I do hope you are right,” she replied primly. “I am a woman in what is largely a man’s world, but I am a good lawyer with a very capable assistant, and I hope to succeed.”

Laver gave his visitor a broad smile. “Well spoken, Miss Faraday,” he said.

“Mrs. I am a widow.”

“Beg pardon ma’am. I’m sorry.”

“Please don’t concern yourself, Mr Laver. I am accustomed to being alone and the situation suits me.”