The Cowboy's Crime

  The Cowboy’s Crime

  A Clara Fitzgerald Mystery

  Book 18

  By

  Evelyn James

  Red Raven Publications

  2020

  © Evelyn James 2020

  First published 2020

  Red Raven Publications

  The right of Evelyn James to be identified as the Author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyrights, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system without the permission in writing from the author

  The Cowboy’s Crime is the eighteenth book in the Clara Fitzgerald series

  Other titles in the Series:

  Memories of the Dead

  Flight of Fancy

  Murder in Mink

  Carnival of Criminals

  Mistletoe and Murder

  The Poisoned Pen

  Grave Suspicions of Murder

  The Woman Died Thrice

  Murder and Mascara

  The Green Jade Dragon

  The Monster at the Window

  Murder on the Mary Jane

  The Missing Wife

  The Traitor’s Bones

  The Fossil Murder

  Mr Lynch’s Prophecy

  Death at the Pantomime

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter One

  The annual funfair had arrived on the seafront of Brighton; a bright and cheerful gala of rides, sideshows and food stands guaranteed to raise the spirits as the year turned further into winter. It was still too early to be thinking about Christmas, though of course some of the more complex festive traditions were already in operation – Annie had made her Christmas cake in early October and had been feeding it every week with rum in preparation for the big day, and many people were in the process of handmaking Christmas presents for their loved ones. But mostly the festive period was a background thought, while people concentrated on the hard realities of cold, rain and threatening snow that the late weeks of November foretold.

  Clara, Brighton’s first female private detective, was unsurprised that it was in these darkest of months that people were drawn to all manner of night festivities to chase away the long shadows of winter. Bonfire night was not long past and the building of guys, followed by youths carting them through the streets with the cry ‘penny for the guy’ had not long finished. There were still odd piles of poorly burned leaves and branches in gardens, the remains of optimistically constructed bonfires that failed to live up to their builders’ hopes. Bundles of rags, old socks and singed caps marked out where straw-filled guys had partially combusted. It might not be until next November that these reminders of Guy Fawkes’ Night were fully disposed of.

  With the bonfires burned, there was a lull as people slowly turned their minds to Christmas. In the countryside there were some old pagan pastimes to keep people busy – Michaelmas, the wassailing of orchards (though often done around New Year’s these days) and other evening activities to rid homes of malign influences and spirits, or to ensure good luck for the coming twelve months. The farms had the summer animals to slaughter and either sell or preserve, there was pickling to be done to make supplies last, and the stocking up of feed for the remaining livestock.

  But these were all things that happened outside the paved roadways of Brighton itself, deeper into the rural reaches, among the countrymen and women, who had their own ways as different from the townsfolk as any could be. For the urban residents, these diversions were not available, and they needed something else to distract their minds from the often-depressing times that winter brought. That was the need the funfair fulfilled. It was lively, bright and colourful, just the sort of thing to make you forget that there was no coal for the fire and a leak in the roof. The food and games were cheap, many of the sideshows free, and the bigger rides could be saved up for. In short, the funfair appealed to anyone, rich or poor, who wanted to get out of the house and lose themselves for a while.

  That was certainly why Clara was here. Recent events in Brighton had left her feeling as though the world was slipping out from under her feet. There was gang trouble in the town, which was rapidly embroiling anyone who had the misfortune to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. It had embroiled Clara.

  The situation was simple enough; an old enemy, Brilliant Chang, who was a criminal mastermind working in London, had found himself in bother when his sister had decided she could do a better job of running a gang than he could. Clara was all for female emancipation, but this was a step too far in her opinion – women should have better sense. In any case, Jao Leong had started a rival gang a safe distance away in Brighton, at least it was safe at first, but then it turned out she was actually interested in completely ousting her brother from power and he had had to disappear into hiding. This sibling rivalry was turning nasty fast as both had loyal gangs to back them up, and there was every possibility the situation would turn into bloody warfare, with Brighton as the battleground.

  Driven by his own desire for self-preservation and a sense of responsibility to his sister she probably did not deserve, Chang was trying to stop matters before they got worse and he had turned to Clara to assist him.

  The old phrase the enemy of my enemy is my friend had come into play, to a degree. Chang needed someone outside of the world of criminal gangs to help him stop his sister. He hoped Clara’s links to the police would enable her to be an intermediary between himself and the authorities. Since the police would dearly like to arrest him, he could not go too near them himself.

  Clara had reluctantly accepted the proposal he made that they work together, in the loosest possible sense. She was not keen on helping Chang, but she knew that his sister was a dangerous threat and it might be only through his assistance that she could be stopped. The police were doing what they could, but it would take insider knowledge to crack this problem.

  As unpleasant an arrangement as that had seemed, Clara had at least felt she was achieving something working with Chang, and then a new complication arose.

  Jao Leong hired Clara to seek out her brother.

  Only, ‘hired’ was the wrong term as it suggested Clara had had a choice. As far as Clara or Chang knew, Leong did not realise that the detective was already working for her brother. It was a coincidence she had chosen to hire Clara, though the fact Clara had been involved in solving a crime committed by Leong’s gang perhaps had an impact on that decision. Whatever the case, Clara had found herself trapped between the two siblings. She had explained the situation to Chang, as that seemed the safest option and he was offering her information she could give his sister to keep her happy, while they both worked towards a way to
arrest her and destroy her gang once and for all.

  Life had become a complicated, messy muddle for Clara at the moment and any excuse to step away from her woes and concentrate on something else for a while was too tempting to miss.

  Clara had been asked to go to the funfair by Captain O’Harris and she had jumped at the chance. She did not spend enough time in the former pilot’s company for her liking. They were both extremely busy and had a tendency to get wrapped up in their respective work. That was something Clara was trying to change. If recent events had taught her anything, if was that you must not miss your opportunities when they arose. Clara and O’Harris were on that difficult cusp between friendship and romance, a toe slipping over into the latter more often than not, but neither quite ready to take the final leap.

  Clara and the captain wandered about the stalls, occasionally pausing to try out a game or to buy some food. O’Harris won a rather cheap looking porcelain ornament at the coconut shy, and Clara indulged her curiosity by taking them into the ‘Crimes of the Century’ tent which had a rather uninspiring collection of supposed crime memorabilia. The noose allegedly used to hand a notorious serial killer; the hat worn by another while he committed his heinous crimes. There was even a glove said to have been found at the scene of one of the Ripper murders. Clara wondered, if it was the Ripper’s glove, why it was not in some police evidence archive somewhere. Feeling uninspired they left the tent.

  The evening had been pleasantly banal, an underrated sensation in Clara’s opinion. When your life was full of the sort of excitement as hers was, boring and bland was a welcome relief. Clara was also glad they had not come across any supposed Egyptian mummies, having had a bad experience the last time she found herself at a carnival looking at one.

  Clara was just starting to feel quietly relieved that the evening had been serenely mundane, when her attention was attracted to a man standing a short way from the carousel and obviously swaying on his feet. He was dressed in a cowboy outfit, including a large hat and a shiny pistol in a holster at his hip. He was out of place, which was what first caught Clara’s eye. You didn’t get cowboys in Brighton normally.

  She nudged Captain O’Harris.

  “Look at that fellow.”

  O’Harris followed her gaze and saw the cowboy.

  “Isn’t he from that ‘Stories of the West’ sideshow?” O’Harris replied. “He is a famous gunslinger from California, I think.”

  “He looks drunk,” Clara remarked, watching the cowboy wobble on his feet again. “I hope that gun isn’t loaded.”

  No one else seemed to be paying much heed to the cowboy who was just stood among them, a weird, lost look on his face. He suddenly slumped to his knees.

  “Uh-oh, he’s going to pass out,” O’Harris said.

  Clara was annoyed that no one else seemed to be showing any concern for the man. He might be drunk, but a little common human decency wouldn’t go amiss. She started to push through the crowd to reach the man. Captain O’Harris followed.

  “Can anyone tell me…” the drunken cowboy was holding out his hand to passers-by who were completely ignoring him. “Can anyone…”

  Clara reached his side and crouched beside him.

  “Sir, are you all right?”

  The cowboy turned his head towards her. He was in his forties, his face sun blanched and with deep lines already etched into it. He might have been thought handsome, in a rugged sense, especially when dressed as his gunslinger persona. He looked at Clara with dazed, wide eyes. He seemed utterly confused.

  “Miss, I ain’t right at all,” he said with a frown forming on his brow. “Ain’t nothing right about it. Could you perhaps tell me where I is? Seems to me this is not where I am meant to be.”

  Clara was troubled now too. The man did not smell of drink and his speech was not slurred, yet he seemed completely out of his head.

  “This is Brighton,” Clara told him.

  “I ain’t heard of such a place in California,” the cowboy muttered. “Are we in New Mexico, maybe?”

  “No, you are in England,” Clara told him calmly.

  The cowboy laughed hard, his head throwing back as he did.

  “England? How would I get there? No, miss, you are playing a joke on me. Now, kindly point me to my horse, would you?”

  Clara turned a worried glance at O’Harris. This was not an alcohol problem, there was something more going on with the unfortunate gunslinger.

  “Play along,” O’Harris whispered in Clara’s ear.

  “I don’t know where your horse is,” Clara told the cowboy in a gentle voice. “But I think it would be best if you get up off this cold ground and we got you some coffee.”

  “Damn horse!” The cowboy swore. “Where did I leave him? Coffee, you say? Now you mention it, I could be doing with some.”

  O’Harris bent down and helped the cowboy to his feet. He seemed to have little strength in his legs and leaned hard on the captain. Clara guided them both towards a stand she had seen earlier in the evening selling fresh coffee. Clara was more of a tea drinker, but she understood that coffee was growing in popularity in England. The stall seemed to be doing a steady, if not exactly rushed, trade. She was also hoping the coffee seller would know the cowboy and offer some insight into what was wrong with him.

  Her hope proved founded when the coffee man looked at the cowboy being assisted towards his stall with a stunned expression.

  “Clark? What is the matter?”

  The coffee man had a slight American twang and it seemed he knew the cowboy Clark well enough. He grabbed out a folding chair from behind his stand and set it up so O’Harris could deposit the confused gunslinger in it.

  “He doesn’t seem to know where he is,” Clara told the coffee seller. “He thinks he is in America.”

  The coffee man looked amazed, then deeply concerned.

  “Have some coffee Clark,” he said, quickly fixing a cup and giving it to the gunslinger.

  “Thanks muchly,” Clark took the cup and swallowed a deep gulp of the black liquid. “I am looking for my horse, you seen it? Palomino, black saddle, got this look in his eyes like he knows what you are thinking.”

  The coffee seller glanced anxiously at Clara, clearly perplexed by this question.

  “Is he known to drink?” Clara asked.

  The gunslinger was now staring at the crowd and ignoring them, his hands clasped around the warm cup of coffee.

  “Not really,” the coffee seller replied. “Alcohol has never been his thing.”

  “What about drugs?” Clara pressed.

  The coffee seller scowled at her.

  “That is unnecessary, Clark doesn’t mess with such stuff. No, this is… unexplainable.”

  Clark was smiling to himself, lost in his thoughts.

  “Seems to me he has suffered a major psychological trauma which has caused him to revert back to memories of his days in America,” Captain O’Harris interjected. “I have seen it happen to soldiers. The mind can’t cope with what is happening in the present, so it shuts down all recent memories and goes back to a time when life was better for the individual. In this case, it appears Clark has gone back to a time before he left California.”

  “He has been in England over ten years!” The coffee seller protested in astonishment. “How can you erase all that?”

  “It’s not erased permanently, just locked away for the moment,” O’Harris explained. “Something must have happened to trigger this and as I can see no blood to indicate our friend has suffered a serious blow to the head, we have to suppose the trauma had an outside source.”

  The coffee seller was clearly confused.

  “What does that all mean? Has Clark gone mad?”

  “Not as such,” O’Harris reassured him. “He has done this to protect his mind from something he found too difficult to process.”

  “Is it just me or do all these ladies walking around have surprisingly short skirts on?” Clark said to no one in particular. “
Not that I am minding the flash of ankle, but my old ma would be spitting out her chewing baccy right about now.”

  “His mother is dead,” the coffee seller hissed in an alarmed tone.

  “He has probably forgotten that too,” O’Harris said. “Look, let’s take him somewhere quiet and see if we can figure out what this is all about. You might want to let the funfair owner know that his gunslinger has been taken ill.”

  “Them horseys on poles make me feel giddy,” Clark said, shaking his head. “Any chance of more coffee?”

  Chapter Two

  They escorted Clark the gunslinger to his personal caravan. This was Clark’s home as he travelled with the funfair and it was hoped going inside it might spark his erstwhile memory. Here he was surrounded by his personal possessions. It was a cluttered container of mementoes from a complicated past. Pictures were securely screwed to the walls, showing Clark at rodeos, standing over a dead bear, shaking hands with an Indian chief. There were also numerous photographs of horses, each with a name engraved on the base of their respective picture frames. Clearly Clark was fond of equines and had owned a few in his time.

  They helped Clark to slump onto a cushioned bench seat that could fold out to a bed when needed. He was looking very tired and quickly laid down on his side, mumbling something about being ‘damn, tuckered out’. The coffee seller retrieved his cup from the cowboy’s hands just as it slipped from his fingers.

  “I’ll let Mr Maven know about this,” the coffee seller told Clara. “I think Clark should be safe enough here, don’t you?”

  The man was obviously torn between tending to Clark and seeing to his stall.

  “I think he will sleep a while,” Clara said. “In the meantime, I am heading over to his sideshow tent, to see what might have sparked this curious behaviour.”

  The coffee seller was nodding in agreement, while also trying to surreptitiously nudge them out of the door. Clara knew he was desperate to get on and allowed herself to be ushered out of the caravan. The coffee seller toyed with locking Clark inside, opted to leave the door unlocked and then headed back to his stall.