I traveled four thousand miles across the ocean and two thousand miles across the prairie to marry Liam Callahan, Kathleen said, stepping off the stagecoach in Baker City, Oregon.
The county office was a cramped, dusty room filled with ledgers and maps. Caleb Marsh sat hunched over a desk, his spectacles perched on his nose, meticulously updating records. The air smelled of old paper and ink.
I walked in, Sean waiting outside. I carried a small wooden box containing the discolored vial of tonic and a fresh bottle of the same syrup I’d purchased from Higgins as evidence.
“Mr. Marsh,” I began, placing the box carefully on his desk. “I’ve come to give you a deposition regarding the Callahan homestead dispute.”
He looked up, his expression wary. “Miss Burke. I’ve already received Mrs. Callahan’s petition. Her claims are quite… persuasive.”
“Persuasion,” I said, “is not always truth. Liam Callahan is not merely ill; he is being poisoned.”
Marsh’s pen clattered to the desk. His eyes widened, suddenly alert. “Poisoned? By whom?”
“By Clara Callahan,” I stated calmly. I opened the box, revealing the two vials. “This is Liam’s cough syrup. I’ve conducted a simple chemical test, using rudimentary apothecary reagents, that proves it contains lead acetate.”
I explained the process I’d used with Elijah Higgins, demonstrating the discolored liquid in the first vial. “The sweet taste masks the poison, Mr. Marsh. It causes precisely the symptoms Liam is exhibiting: rapid decline, neurological confusion, and extreme weakness. It’s slow, insidious murder.”
I then placed a brief, neatly written document before him. “This outlines the biological impact of chronic lead compound poisoning. My training at the Dublin Rotunda Hospital covered precisely these toxins.”
Marsh picked up the document, his gaze scanning the precise script. He then looked at the vials, his brow furrowing deeply. The image of the helpless, grieving widow Clara had cultivated in his mind began to crumble. Her frantic insistence on speed, her eagerness to sell the land before Liam’s death, suddenly took on a far more sinister meaning.
He pushed his spectacles up his nose, rubbing his temples. “An unannounced inspection of the Callahan homestead,” he mused, almost to himself. “Specifically, Mrs. Callahan’s pantry.”
“I believe you will find the raw lead compound jars there, Mr. Marsh,” I suggested. “Probably buried under something innocent, like sugar sacks.”
Marsh nodded, his gaze hardening. The legalistic rigidity that had made him susceptible to Clara’s refined charm now turned against her. He was a man of order, and nothing disrupted order like murder.
“I will conduct this inspection myself, Miss Burke,” he announced, his voice firm. “And I will not be announcing my arrival.”
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