Note: This is a self-solve murder mystery story. All the information needed to solve it is in the story. It’s your job to find the murderer and state the reason you chose that particular person. The name of the murderer is in the story. You have one chance. Remember, no guessing. You have to tell me why you think it’s that particular person. The evidence has to be conclusive.
He was the fur press man. That was his job. First inspecting all the furs to make sure they were vermin-free and dry. Then squashing them into a compact bundle using the enormous fur press at Fort Edmonton. Once satisfied, he wrapped the bundle in oiled canvas, then tied it securely, so it wouldn’t get wet on the long journey from Edmonton to York Factory, Hudson Bay.
Now, he was the fur pressed man. Very flat and part of a bundle of furs sitting in the courtyard at Fort Edmonton. Bleeding.
Sarah, strolling by the fur press in the early morning light saw it first. Barely having time to scream, she fainted and collapsed. Isobel, seeing Sarah fall, rushed out to the fur press to help. Then she too saw it and also fainted. Andrew ran out to the ladies’ aid, saw it, bent over and threw up his breakfast.
Chief Factor, Ronald Jones, rushed out, saw it, exclaiming, “What a goddamned mess! Now who’s going to press the furs? LaCoine was our best man.”
His wife, Mary, right behind him, cuffed him on the back of the head. “Here we have a very dead man, Ronald. One of yours. And all you can think about is who will press the furs?”
“No, Mary. That’s not all I was thinking. I was also thinking how we’ll have to cook the books to make up for the loss of those bloodied, spoiled beaver pelts.” For his words he received another cuff from Mary.
Now everyone rushed out into the middle of the compound. Including the killer. The growing crowd was somewhat mesmerized as they stared at the gore. ‘Nice job,’ thought the killer. ‘Looks even better in the daylight.’
“How do we know it’s even LaCoine. I mean there’s not much to see. Look. His one eyeball is close to his …..”
“That’s enough Katherine. We can all see where his eyeball is lying.” Mary seemed to be the only one who was thinking clearly.
Katherine turned to the Chief Factor. “How do you know who it is, Ronald? He……., it’s totally unrecognizable.” She gave the Chief Factor a suspicious look. Only the killer might know who that was.
The Chief Factor bent down and opened one of the hands sticking out of the bundle. It was clutching something in the closed fist. He produced a shiny object, holding it up. A silver cross of Lorraine. He turned it over and there on the other side were the Montreal silversmith’s initials, JC etched into the silver.
“Must of been made by the Lord himself. Initials are identical.” The somewhat drawling, booming voice came out of nowhere. Everyone turned toward the man uttering what seemed, under the circumstances, rather crass words. There standing near them was a rather large man dressed in black. Perched on the stranger’s head was a black beaver felt top hat, of unusual style. Instead of a black band, a thin, red band circled the crown of the hat. He was inspector of the forts of the Western Territories for the honorable Hudson’s Bay Company. John A. Beeston.
“Well, Beeston, glad you showed up. This is now in your hands. You are an inspector after all.” The Chief Factor stepped away, wanting nothing more to do with this gruesome affair.
“I’m a building inspector. Inspector of forts. Not a detective of crimes. No, this doesn’t fall in my bailiwick. Look for someone else to deal with your mess.” Beeston then bent over to examine the severely squished body. He reached out and picked something off the corpse, quickly putting it in his pocket.
John Beeston was a tall, gangly-looking man. Upon first seeing him, people gawked at those enormous hands. And those feet. He seemed slow and awkward, with about as much grace as a lumbering elephant. Whenever people looked at his scarred face they imagined all sorts of things that might have caused them. Few had the courage to ask. Both his demeanor and size inspired both respect and fear.
Ronald Jones pushed his point. “Look at it this way, Beeston, it could have been anyone of us standing here who did it. Crushed poor LaCoine into a contorted bloody blob.” At his words, Sarah nearly fainted again and Mary felt a little light-headed.
“Beeston, you’re the only one here that’s sort of neutral. You have to take charge.”
“How do you know I’m neutral? I could have done it, same as anyone else.”
“What motive would you have had, Beeston? You just got here and don’t even know the man. You’d be my last suspect.” Those around the Chief Factor all nodded in agreement. The killer too liked the idea. Beeston didn’t look like the swiftest buffalo on the prairie. In his hands, which admittedly were rather large, the murder investigation would likely go nowhere.
“But, why would any one here kill LaCoine? He was just a ordinary worker. You have no obvious reason to harm the man.” Beeston, not realizing he was already beginning the investigation, looked around at those gathered. Most eyes were downcast, not wanting to meet his.
“Well, why are you all suddenly looking guilty. You, what’s your name?” Beeston pointed a large finger at an elderly looking man with graying hair and spectacles on his nose. “You, Sir, tell me what you know of this man.”
“Name’s Edward Sinclair, Sir. I’m the clerk of the fort. I keep the books.” Beeston simply stared at the man. ‘Well, a clerk who takes care of the books and a man who takes care of the furs.’ There could be some dark things going on there between those two. He would follow that up with further questions of this clerk. And have a close look at those books.
“So, tell me why would anyone press poor LaCoine here into a pancake?” Hearing those words, a few of the men, especially Andrew, looked like they were going to sick-up. Again.
Everyone, including the killer, remained silent. The only sound came from some restless shuffling feet.
Beeston patiently waited but no one spoke. “I see. It seems you all didn’t like this man – for various reasons, I presume.”
Not a word from anyone. Finally the Chief Factor broke the silence. “I’ll tell you now, Inspector Beeston, that he wasn’t very well liked by anyone. But, I don’t think he was hated enough to be murdered.”
“Well, obviously he was, Chief Factor. See, he looks quite dead to me.” To make his point Beeston lifted up a limp arm and let it fall. Someone had certainly hated LaCoine enough. Or needed to get rid of the man to hide something.
Finally a somewhat recovered Sarah blurted out, “All the women in the fort loathed LaCoine. Whenever he came near us he would pinch and grope us and tell us what he’d like to do to us in the dark when our husbands were away.” The women around Sarah then started telling stories about LaCoine. Some were truly awful. They had reason to dislike him. But to kill him. Was that enough?
And Beeston wondered. ‘Would a woman be strong enough to press a man to death.’ Then he glanced at Sarah and had his answer. ‘For someone so sturdy looking, she sure faints easily.’
The usually stoic fort Native interpreter, Bear-Child, piped up. “He hated us. Anyone who was Native or of mixed-blood. He thought himself better than us. He would often taunt me or the others, hoping to start a fight. He was a mean man. Especially when drunk which he was often enough. One night he fell in the river yelling for help. I didn’t go help. I hoped he would drown. But someone else heard and pulled him out.” A now shaking Bear-Child stopped. It was obvious he hated LaCoine with a passion.
Jack Smith, the fort cooper, an enormous man, almost Beeston’s size, spoke next. “You’re not the only one he hated. He detested the English even more. Kept reminding us we should not have won that bloody war down east. Said, he would get revenge on us some day. I, and others, didn’t much care for that bloody French blowhard.”
Beeston now realized that most of the women, those of mixed-blood and Natives, and English servants disliked this man. That was about the entire fort population. That left only the French Canadians. And those present weren’t shedding any tears.
Beeston sighed. This case wasn’t going to be easy. “OK, that’s enough for today. Let’s clean up this mess and take the rest of the day to calm down. Tomorrow I’ll start interviewing and questioning all of you again. I’ll continue until we can make some sense of this.”
“So, you’re taking on the investigation, Beeston?,” asked a relieved-looking Chief Factor.
“Yes, it seems so.” Beeston then strolled over to the fur bundle and with one enormous hand grabbed its ropes and walked off with the entire mess, making sure it didn’t touch his finely pressed trousers, toward one of the shops. “Well, come along, Chief Factor. Let’s have a closer look at the body for clues.”
“Me?,” sputtered Jones. “Surely, you can use one of my other men. I don’t need to be there to see this up close. I’ve seen enough.”
Beeston kept walking. And finally yelled back. “Bring your clerk, Jones. We need to record this properly for my report. Edward will do nicely.”
Both a sick-looking Edward Sinclair and Ronald Jones hesitated, but then reluctantly followed the inspector of buildings, into one.
…………………..
“You seem to know your way around dead bodies, Beeston. Something you want to share with me.”
Beeston only gave Jones an icy stare. Then he continued looking at what was left of LaCoine. Now straightened out, laying on a wood table in the trading room of the fort.
Edward sat in the corner taking notes as Beeston described details about LaCoine’s remains. He looked ready to pass out but managed to coherently write down what Beeston said.
“Someone very powerful must have done this. Look at him.” Jones too wasn’t feeling well either, looking at the blood and gore, now all nicely spread out.
“Why do you think that, Jones? This mess was caused by that fur press. With that press it wouldn’t take much strength to do this.”
“Oh, I guess not. That press could crack a rock if enough pressure was applied to the end of the pole. So, what happened, inspector?”
Beeston went over to the shattered head and pointed. “See this here, Chief Factor. There is a deep indentation on the skull caused by a blunt object of some sort.” Jones reluctantly bent over and yes there was a large indentation on the back of LaCoine’s head, which could not have been caused by the fur press.
Then Beeston strolled over to the man’s feet and his boots. “And see here, Jones, the dirt on the heels of his shoes. As if he had been dragged some distance.” Jones looked and yes, there was dirt on the boot heels and pants which seemed somewhat unusual from just walking. Dragging an unconscious LaCoine to be pressed would have taken some effort. LaCoine, in his former unpressed state, wasn’t exactly small.
“LaCoine was smacked on the head elsewhere then dragged to the fur press, perhaps still alive, and pressed into a nice little bundle, it seems. I noticed the heel marks in the compound near the fur press. They ended here at the trading store.”
“But, why no screaming, Beeston? Surely, if he was still alive he would have yelled.”
Beeston went back to the head. Opened the man’s contorted jaws. And pulled out a very large rag. “I guess, that’s why, Jones. Maybe he wanted to….”
Beeston was about to say more when the door suddenly opened and Father Broussard walked in. Unannounced. Had the good father been listening outside? Beeston wasn’t sure. “Evening gentlemen. Terrible, just terrible. I was at the scene by the fur press, but didn’t want to interfere. I want to pray for this poor man’s soul, one of my sheep.” The Father was wringing his hands, clearly in some discomfort.
Beeston causally asked. “And what kind of man was this sheep of yours, Father? Everyone paints him as having rather black fleece. Do you know anything that might help in the investigation? A murderer walks among us. We must find him. Or her.”
“I can’t divulge his confessions, Inspector. He was, however, a difficult, often troubled man. I had hoped he would find solace in the Lord our Savior. And perhaps learn to treat those around him with more kindness.”
Beeston only nodded. “Well, we’re done for the evening, Father. I’ll leave you with your crumpled sheep. In prayer.” A bewildered Father looked at Beeston, then at the remains of LaCoine. As his stomach started churning from the sight, he decided the prayers weren’t going to take too long.
Hearing Beeston’s words, Edward ran out of the store as if shot from a cannon. Thinking. ‘How can that Beeston be so cool and calm with that gory mess?’ Truly, there was something strange about the man. Building inspector? And that accent wasn’t British. Edward wondered who he really was. Best to be careful around that one.
………………..
Early next morning Beeston woke suddenly to screaming outside. For a few moments he didn’t know where he was. Everything around him looked unfamiliar. Then he remembered. Fort Edmonton. The screaming and shouting continued and then Beeston heard the footsteps running out into fort compound.
Beeston strode out of his room, stood on the Big House second storey balcony and looked down at the small crowd gathered around the fur press. There beside the fur press stood Father Broussard, Isobel and Katherine with their hands over their mouths, the French Canadian labourers, Louis, and LaFrance, and the fort tailor, John. Jack Smith was conversing quietly with the fort interpreter, Bear-Child, on the other side of the fur press.
Then Beeston looked at the fur press. Hanging between the large posts with a noose around a hooded head was what looked like a scarecrow. Beeston descended the stairs and walked towards the scene.
Chief Factor Jones came running up. “What is it? Oh, not again. Is it real or just some joke?”
Beeston first saw the blood oozing from under the hooded head. He reached up and pulled off the hood. And, there in all it’s gory glory, was LaCoine’s broken face, with his one eye, staring back at him. Everyone around gagged and gasped at the site. The killer wandered over, trying to look as sick and confused as everyone else. Followed by the cooks, Ted and Marie, who both had worried looks on their faces. And flour on their hands.
“Who would do such a thing?” asked Emily. “This is awful. He’s been murdered twice it seems. Our killer can’t seem to kill LaCoine often enough.”
Now Marybell and Martin were inspecting the scarecrow’s gloves which functioned as hands. Martin was just about to open the closed glove, when Beeston stepped in. “Don’t touch it. Let me look at it first.” Beeston bent over and examined the scarecrow’s hand and opened it, prying out a flat circular object. He raised it up and showed it to those gathered around.
“Here’s what he was holding? A 1MB piece.”
“Is it a clue for us?” asked Edward the clerk. “Is the killer leaving a message for us?”
“Perhaps,” sighed a perplexed Beeston. “Or perhaps he or she is misleading us by leaving these clues.” Beeston personally felt all these ‘clues’ were nothing but a smokescreen. And then while everyone was chatting and speculating on what the Made Beaver token meant, Beeston opened the other glove and removed something else, quickly slipping it into his pocket before anyone noticed. But the killer noticed. And smiled inwardly, thinking Beeston would be fooled by what he had found.
“What does it mean, inspector Beeston? It’s obviously a clue. First a holy cross and now a MB token. I can’t figure it out.” Chief Factor Jones looked as puzzled as everyone else by this supposedly new clue.
“I don’t know, Jones. Maybe it’s a clue. But why would the killer try to help us solve the murder? That doesn’t make any sense.” Beeston continued to muse in silence.
Finally Beeston spoke to the gathering. “Let’s clean this up and get LaCoine’s head back with the rest of him.” He looked around for help but the clerk Edward had already disappeared. In anticipation of being asked to help again. ‘Coward’, thought the now smiling Beeston. ‘Doesn’t like to be near the gore with those delicate clerk’s hands of his.’
Beeston went to remove LaCoine’s head from the scarecrow only to find it sewn onto the shirt and coat. He looked closely at the delicate, precise stitching. As if a tailor had done it. Or one of the fort women, many of whom were excellent at sewing and embroidery. Or a surgeon, with very skilled hands, accustomed to such work. And that 1MB token. Who would have access to those tokens other than the clerk and Chief Factor.
Finally he just picked up the scarecrow, head and all, and walked back to the store with it. Jones followed him. The others went back to their cabins or work.
“Can we lock that door tonight, Chief Factor? Obviously the killer is not intent on murdering this man just once.”
“After we’re finished here, Inspector, I’ll lock up. That should keep him safe until we bury his remains.” Jones was about to leave the inspector still thinking about this new turn of events and who might have done it.
Before he could, however, Beeston asked, “Chief Factor, do you have a surgeon or doctor at the fort?”
Jones thought for a moment before answering. “No certified medical doctor, inspector. Our tailor studied medicine before he joined the Company. He often administers medicine and does small medical things when necessary.”
“Thank you, Chief Factor.” ‘Interesting,’ thought Beeston. ‘A tailor who knows medicine. I’ll have to keep an eye on that John fellow. But, what’s his motive? Why would a tailor have reason to do such a thing? Twice.’
For the rest of the day Beeston interviewed the fort personnel. Some in their living quarters. Others while at their assigned tasks around the fort. By the end of the day he was no closer to finding the killer. It was never easy, but sooner or later the murderer would slip up and leave a clue. They always did. It was just a matter of time.
Then he thought about the two objects he’s removed from the body without anyone seeing them. Or, least he thought no one saw them. Two HBC officers’ pewter coat buttons with what appeared to be a beaver design on the face. He chuckled to himself as he looked at the buttons in his hand. ‘Beaver? Look more like pigs to me.’ Another clue? Or diversion? Did LaCoine’s killer put them there? Or perhaps someone else who wanted to implicate a person they disliked? He would check closely who had lost a button.
…………………….
That night Beeston set up a chair in the dark at the window of one of the cabins nearest to the fur press. He was certain the killer would return. It was now three in the morning and nothing had happened. Beeston needed to pee. As he headed to the privy he heard something behind him. He started to turn. But it was too late. The blow caught him in the back of the head and he went down like a ton of bricks.
The next thing he remembered was someone shaking him. “Beeston, are you alive? Wake up man. Are you OK?” Beeston opened one eye to see a blurry Chief Factor standing over him. His head hurt like hell. Slowly he tried to get up and finally managed to sit.
“I’ll live, Chief Factor. Just a lump on the head.”
“Jesus, what happened, Beeston? Have you been lying here all night?”
“No, just since about three in the morning. I went to the privy and someone came up behind me and smacked me a good one. That’s the last thing I remember. Good thing it’s spring. Or I would have frozen to death.” Beeston was now rubbing himself all over, trying to expel the early spring Edmonton chill of the night from his sore body.
“What were you doing out here at three in the morning, inspector?”
“I was watching the fur press. I had a feeling the killer would return.” Ronald Jones thought about that. ‘Maybe Beeston hit himself on the head to avoid suspicion.’ There was just something a little off about the man.
“Well, you were right about that, Beeston. He, or she, returned. Look over there.”
Beeston turned toward where Jones was pointing. There stapled to the fur press was a figure, dressed in LaCoine’s bloody clothes with a painting of his face for the head. The figure was punctured with about a dozen arrows, looking more like an oversized pin cushion than a man.
Around the figure stood a small crowd of fort workers, whispering among themselves and wondering what this meant. Emily, Marybell and Martin looked rather stricken. James, the blacksmith and Henry the carpenter looked curiously at the arrows. Ted and Marie didn’t know what to think. The killer looked at last night’s handiwork from a distance, before wandering out from behind one of the buildings to join those already gathered.
Beeston walked up to the clothed figure with the painted head, still rubbing the rather large lump on the back of his head. He looked at the painted face which had an uncanny resemblance to LaCoine. Who painted at the fort? Beeston would have to check his notes. Maybe there was a connection there.
He was about to leave when he happened to look down the arm of pincushion man. There tied to the left shirt sleeve was a small peculiar looking tubular bone object with linear incisions on it. Beeston looked closer and then took the object from the sleeve. With his exceptional memory, he turned and casually looked around and finally met the killer’s eyes, watching him.
Beeston pointed a large, meaty finger at the killer. “You! You did this, didn’t you. I saw this object in your cabin when I interviewed you yesterday. I’ll bet there aren’t many like it in the fort. Where were you last night? The nights before?” Beeston barely finished his sentence when the killer suddenly bolted, bursting through the crowd and running toward the fort gates. With the good Inspector Beeston of the honorable Hudson’s Bay Company in hot pursuit. Beeston, suddenly looking as agile and quick as a deer, had finally found his killer.
…………………
Now, with the information in this story, you should be able to identify the killer.
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