No Justice for the Deceived, page 16
“In her room, ma’am.”
The register, then. Blast.
Addie lowered her voice. “She’s still upset with Owen about the valentine he sent to Miss Grace and ran upstairs when she saw it was him at the door and not one of your patients.”
“I see.” For love, thou know’st, if full of jealousy. More wisdom from Mr. Shakespeare. What could she do for her cousin, though, since she rarely listened to any advice Celia might offer? What was the advice from a woman who herself had failed at love worth, anyway? “Thank you, Addie.”
She found Owen at the dining room table, slurping from a bowl of beef soup Addie had hastily prepared for him. Celia always suspected Owen’s visits were prompted as much by a desire for one of her housekeeper’s meals as any other reason.
“Mrs. Davies.” He downed the remainder of the soup and wiped his mouth with a napkin. “I’m glad to see you.”
She took the chair across from him. “Addie said you wanted to speak with me, Owen. I hope you are not in trouble.”
“Not this time,” he said, reaching for a slice of bread and slathering butter on it. “But I wanted to tell you about something I learned from Angus MacNamara.”
Overhead, the floor creaked under the weight of Barbara’s feet. Celia glanced up at the grate recessed into the ceiling, sure that a shadow was visible through the loops and curves of the iron. She sighed. There’d be no keeping the news about the servant’s death or whatever Owen had to relay from her cousin.
“Who is Angus MacNamara?” Celia asked. Aside from obviously being an Irishman. Owen’s life in San Francisco had never taken him far from his heritage and those who shared it.
“I worked with him last night, both of us stocking the Carrs’ cellar with wine and whiskey.” He stuffed the bread into his mouth and rapidly chewed, swallowing so quickly Celia feared he might choke. “He came by Roesler’s today to give me my pay. I asked if he saw anything funny last night, and he sure did, Mrs. Davies. He saw one of the maids talking with somebody who wasn’t supposed to be in the house.”
She leaned forward as much as her blasted corset and the edge of the table allowed. “Where? Exactly when?”
“On the stairs. You know, the back ones that lead upstairs from that passageway next to the kitchen.”
“Yes. I do know which stairs you mean.” The same ones Irene Bremerton had led Celia up, rather than risk having a woman with a medical bag spotted by the partygoers.
“I can’t say exactly when, though, but it was before I showed up to help with the second delivery of wine,” he said, snatching the last slice of bread. “Seven, maybe?”
Everything seemed to have taken place at seven. “What was it the maid said to this individual?”
He scrunched up his face as he thought back, the wrinkles across his nose causing his freckles to stand out in relief. At times, he could still look like a boy.
“Angus told me she said ‘what are you doing?’ That was it, ma’am,” he said. “Doesn’t sound like it could’ve been one of the guests or family, because they’d use the main stairs to reach the upper floors. Wouldn’t they?”
He sounded a trifle uncertain about what was properly done in the homes of the upper crust. The nicest house Owen Cassidy had likely ever been in, aside from the cellar and back passageway of the Carrs’, was this one.
“Yes, they would, Owen. Unless they wished to pass unnoticed to an upper floor.”
“Which they didn’t manage to do. Angus couldn’t see the person because they were up on the steps beyond the landing, though,” he said and popped the bread into his mouth.
“Does your friend Angus know which maid it was who recognized this person?”
More furious chewing and swallowing ensued. “He said she had red hair. Do you know which of the maids that is, ma’am?”
“Yes, I do. Her name is Emma Joyce.”
She’d appeared so timid and frightened last night. Had Celia mistaken the reason for the girl’s unrest, assuming her behavior had been caused by standing in that airless attic room while Jenny lay sweating on a cot, her life ebbing away? When instead her unease may have been caused by seeing a person utterly out of place on the back stairs of the Carrs’ home?
A person who may have attempted murder and might be willing to try again? Just as Celia had said to Jane.
• • •
Nick returned to the station after visiting the costumer. He hung around until he learned from Taylor what his search had uncovered at the Carrs’ house. Which was precisely nothing. No caftan and turban hidden away. Nobody confessing to having crept about in the bushes outside and torn a piece of their clothing. Furthermore, Mullahey hadn’t had any luck tracking down Paulina Lyons either. Although, at the rate Celia was unearthing information, she’d probably locate the girl first.
He dragged the soles of his boots across the iron scraper at Mrs. Jewett’s front door, mud dislodging in clumps. He was tired and he was hungry, and he wondered if there’d be much to eat. Knowing there would be, because Mrs. Jewett would never let Nick starve. Especially now, with the anniversary of Meg’s death approaching. His landlady was as faithful about remembering the date as she was in commemorating her son’s death. When she would drape his photograph in its ornate frame—a brave young man in his uniform, his gun at his side—in black crepe and fix his favorite meal for dinner.
“Evenin’, sir,” said the lamplighter passing on the street. The fellow’s ladder thudded against the pole and he scrambled up the rungs and set the gas ablaze, throwing a pool of light wide enough to reach Mrs. Jewett’s front steps.
Nick roused himself. “Evening.”
Riley heard him and took to barking in Nick’s room above the street. He went inside. Mrs. Jewett bustled out of the dining room with her usual haste, indicating she’d been waiting close by for Nick to come home.
“There you are, Mr. Greaves. Finally.”
“I’m not that late, Mrs. Jewett,” he said, pulling his hat from his head.
She took it from him, wiping dust from the brim, and hung it on the peg by the door. “I worry.”
“No reason to worry.” She would anyway.
“I kept the stew warm for you.” She glanced toward the commotion Riley was making. “I’ll tend to him. You sit and eat.”
“I’ll deal with Riley.”
“I insist that you sit and eat,” she said, giving him a gentle shove toward the table, set with a bowl and plate and a spoon. She hurried off and returned with her stew, ladling it out. “Oh, I almost forgot. This came for you today. Looks like it’s from the same person as the other one, Mr. Greaves.”
Brows tucking together, she set down the stewpot and withdrew an envelope from her skirt pocket. It was from the same person as the last letter, the loops of their handwriting distinctive, the purplish black iron gall ink not quite dark enough, as if they’d bungled the recipe they’d used to make it.
“I can tell you I didn’t like the look of the fellow who dropped it off,” his landlady said, eyeing the envelope.
“Why is that?”
“He was a grimy character. Unpleasant,” she said. “He kept trying to peer into the house like he was looking for you.”
“Thank you for letting me know about him, Mrs. Jewett. But he’s probably harmless,” he said, aiming to sound like he wasn’t concerned about either the grimy character or what the envelope might contain.
She pursed her lips. “Since when are folks poking around in your business harmless, Mr. Greaves?”
Since never. “If you’re concerned, I’ll have the policeman who walks this beat keep an eye out.”
“Now I really am worried,” she replied, although his response seemed to have appeased her somewhat.
As soon as he heard her climbing the stairs, Nick pulled out a chair and sat, breaking open the wafer sealing the flap. No studio daguerreotype this time. Just a note.
I hope you got the photograph.
Nothing else.
Chapter 11
“Take six grains of Dover’s Powder in the evening, Mary,” Celia instructed her patient, hunched and weak, her skin creased, her eyes dull. She might never have been described as a beauty, but she’d been fairer once. Before the consumption had begun to destroy her body. “And a spoonful of cod liver oil twice a day.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Celia handed the woman the powder, carefully wrapped in brown paper, and hoped she had sounded reassuring. It was difficult to sound reassuring when the woman’s condition was serious and there was so little Celia could do.
“Can I take White Pine Compound, too?” Mary asked, her hand trembling as she took the packet and tucked it away. “I’ve run out of prayers to recite that I get better. My little ones need me. My husband needs me. But I know what happens with the consumption.”
Her gaze was pleading, hopeful that Celia would say that she’d not have to worry. That the Dover’s Powder and White Pine Compound and cod liver oil would change that outcome and she would be cured. Celia could not lie, however, and the reality Mary faced was grim.
“Feel free to take White Pine Compound, if you wish,” Celia said, gently squeezing the other woman’s thin arm. “Rest and try to stay warm.” An ill-considered thing to say to someone who likely could not afford enough coal or wood to keep her rooms heated. And it was so damp and cool this morning after an overnight rain.
Mary coughed into the handkerchief she’d balled in her fist. Celia did not need to examine the cloth to know that blood would be mingled with the phlegm. “I’ll do what I can to stay warm, ma’am.”
Celia showed her out and glanced at the case clock in the entry hall. Nearly nine. Blast, it was late. Far later than she’d intended to get to the Carrs’ in order to question Emma. She would have gone immediately after learning Owen’s news last night, but a patient with a serious nosebleed had shown up and then another with bronchitis. Appointments that had kept her in the clinic until it was too late to convince any of the usual neighbor boys to take a message with Owen’s information to Nicholas while she went out to the Carrs’. She’d visit the station once she was finished.
Addie and Barbara were still at church services, so Celia was able to leave without explanation. The same brusque young woman who’d answered the Carrs’ door yesterday did so again.
“Mrs. Davies. Miss Bremerton is not back from services yet, and will not be receiving visitors when she is,” she added, scotching any chance for Celia to volunteer to wait for Miss Bremerton. “She intends to return to her parents’ home tomorrow and will be busy packing.”
Her return home indicated the seriousness of her plan to postpone the engagement. “Mr. Sebastian must be distressed by her pending departure.”
Not a flicker of an opinion about his possible emotions—good or bad—crossed the woman’s face. “Is there anything else, Mrs. Davies?”
“Are the police aware Miss Bremerton means to depart?”
“Do they need to be aware?” the servant asked, her hand sliding up the door and her fingers gripping the edge, readying to slam it shut. Although the young woman seemed far too self-controlled to actually slam doors.
“She is a possible witness to a suspicious death,” Celia said. “They will not be pleased if she leaves the city before their case has been resolved.”
“I will inform Miss Bremerton when she and the others get home from church,” she replied. “Now, if there is nothing else—”
“I am not actually here to speak with Miss Bremerton. I would like to talk to Emma Joyce,” Celia said. “I would like to present her with a token of appreciation for assisting me with Jenny Bernard. If that would be possible. I meant to appropriately thank her yesterday, but it slipped my mind.”
The servant glanced at Celia’s reticule, perhaps wondering what this “token”—which did not in actuality exist—might consist of.
“Emma doesn’t work on Sundays—she is a part-time girl—and isn’t here,” she said. “She will be in early tomorrow, though, even though Monday is not one of her usual days either. Because of the mask on Friday, and the unfortunate event that occurred, there is a great deal of laundry that needs to be done, so she’ll return in the morning. Hopefully, that is. If she’s not poorly again.”
“What do you mean? Has Emma been unwell?”
Realizing she’d been oversharing information, the servant scowled. “It doesn’t matter. She’s gotten better, with Miss Vanmeter’s help.” The woman stuck out her hand. “I can take whatever it is you want to give Emma, Mrs. Davies. Make sure she gets it tomorrow.”
“I would rather deliver my thanks in person. Where can I find her?” she asked. “If you do not mind telling me, that is.”
“Let me fetch her address.”
She closed the door to discourage Celia from wandering about inside the house. After a length of time that made Celia wonder if she’d been very cleverly brushed off, the door opened again.
“She lives with her friend.” The servant thrust a folded note into Celia’s extended hand.
Celia tucked it into her reticule. “Oh, perhaps you can help me with another question. Which I also forgot to ask yesterday. I noticed a particular guest here on Friday. A man wearing a head wrapping and a loose turquoise-blue tunic. I do believe he is the husband of an old friend of mine, but I might be mistaken. Do you know who he was?”
“We didn’t have a guest wearing a costume like that, Mrs. Davies,” she replied. There was nothing in her manner to suggest she was being dishonest.
“Oh. How odd.” The fellow had certainly not been a guest then, but that did not mean he’d not gained access to the house. “Perhaps I could ask one of the Carrs about him.” Irene Bremerton had already told Celia all she knew about the person.
“As I said, Mrs. Davies, the Carrs and Miss Bremerton have gone to church and are not home.”
Celia rose on her tiptoes to scan the entry hall behind the servant. “Even Mr. Preston and Mr. Sebastian have gone to church?”
The servant heaved a weary sigh. “They are not home, Mrs. Davies. So, if you’re finished, I need to wish you a good day,” she said.
And slammed the door.
• • •
“I wasn’t expecting you to show up at the station on a Sunday morning, Mr. Carr,” Nick said. He hadn’t been planning on being here himself. “But thank you for responding to my request that you come and speak with me again as soon as possible.”
Preston Carr bowed, theatrically, over the arm bent at his waist. “You sent for me and I obeyed, Detective,” he said in his deep, rich voice. “Besides, there’s nothing else to do on Sunday. Might as well, since I didn’t have any plans.”
For not having any plans, he was smartly dressed. Spiffy, as Mrs. Jewett might describe Preston Carr in his fine clothing—black cassimere pants, gray brocade double-breasted vest under his charcoal frock coat, striped cream silk cravat with a coordinating pocket handkerchief. Not a spot on any of it, either, which wasn’t easily achieved in San Francisco. His woodsy cologne had been slathered on even more thoroughly than it had on Friday.
Nick retook his seat and indicated that Carr should take a chair too.
“I am grateful you sent for me, Mr. Greaves, because a summons to the police station made for a nice excuse to not attend services with my family this morning.”
“You’re not a churchgoer, Mr. Carr?”
He gave Nick a pointed look. “You don’t seem to be either, Mr. Greaves. Since you’re here on a Sunday morning.” He gestured at the detectives’ room, empty aside from them. “Unless the police station is your church and the law is your god,” he said and winked. Naturally.
A lot of folks would consider his comment blasphemous. However, God had abandoned Nick on a battlefield in the Wilderness, set ablaze by a fusillade of bullets, the stench of charred bodies as strong as the acrid smell of burning brush. Maybe he did worship the law instead, even though it could prove to be just as fickle.
“Your father didn’t come with you.” He’d been part of the “summons.”
“He does fully believe in the good Lord and never misses a church service.”
“And your brother?”
The right corner of Preston Carr’s mouth twitched with a grin. “He never misses a church service,” he replied. “Your man was at the house last night, looking for an article of clothing. What was that about?”
“A person wearing a turquoise-blue tunic and a white turban was observed creeping around outside your house during the masquerade ball, Mr. Carr,” Nick replied. “We have reason to believe this fellow was not one of the invited guests. We’d like to figure out who it was.”
“You want to figure that out by hunting through our wardrobes for the clothing he wore?” Carr asked. “I don’t understand . . . oh, wait. Yes, I do. You think it was one of us in that costume.”
“I’ve been told it’s an outfit you’ve been known to wear onstage,” Nick said. “In fact, I spoke with the costumer who may have lent it to you. Only to never have the outfit returned.”
“I may have donned something similar once in one of my many performances, but I was not responsible for ensuring the wardrobe made it back to the costumer, Detective,” he said. “Unfortunately for your investigation—although fortunately for me, I suppose—Mr. Taylor didn’t find the ensemble inside our house. And why would I have been wearing that outfit on Friday night, Detective? I was dressed as a harlequin that evening, as you know. Furthermore, I don’t have any need to prowl about in the yard.”
“Unless you went outside, wrapped in a tunic, because you wanted people to catch sight of a suspicious stranger. A stranger who might then be suspected of poisoning your brother’s supply of vanilla.”
Carr lowered his eyebrows. “I don’t appreciate being a suspect, Detective.”
“Everybody is for now, Mr. Carr.”
“Even my father? What a thought,” he said. “However, it wasn’t me outside the house dressed like an oriental potentate. Who was it, though? Have any ideas? And how could they have gotten inside without being noticed and snuck up to Sebastian’s room? They must have, though. I’m amazed they pulled it off—”
