No Justice for the Deceived, page 21
“Did you and Emma fight about the move?”
“Not like that, Detective. Just a quarrel.” He dropped his chin to his chest and scrubbed his hands through his hair. “I told her I’d think about it. About what to do.”
“Did Emma spot you at the house Friday night?” Nick asked. “You didn’t need to kill her. She’d kept your secret and hadn’t said a word to us when she was here yesterday, sitting in that same chair.”
Still alive. Still vibrant, if frightened and small. Like a quivering mouse before the cat strikes.
Ingram didn’t respond.
Nick looked over at Taylor, scratching away in his notebook. “But now Miss Joyce is dead. Murdered this morning, her throat slit. Killed, maybe, for noticing you someplace you weren’t supposed to be,” Nick said. “Where did you toss your bloody clothes, Mr. Ingram? Slicing her throat had to have ruined the sleeve of your coat.”
“Like I told you, I was in bed and didn’t even get up until after Lou left for church,” he said. “Did you ask her? You were at my house this morning, poking around, finding clothes that somehow implicate me in the poisoning. You must’ve asked Lou.”
“I did question her,” Nick said. “You know, your neighbor doesn’t judge you two to be churchgoers.”
“She decided to this morning,” he said. “I was not out . . . what kind of a monster do you think I am, Detective? I’d never hurt Emma. Never.”
Even though all the clues they had pointed Ingram’s direction, Nick felt his certainty about the man’s guilt beginning to slip. If he faltered now, he might never learn the truth. Intuition is a good thing, Nick, but don’t let it cloud your judgment. In the end, you always have to think with your brains, if you want to be a good detective. Always. That’s what Uncle Asa had told him once about trusting intuition. Maybe he wasn’t thinking. Maybe he was putting more faith in a feeling in his bones than in logic.
“Do you shave yourself, Mr. Ingram?” he asked, pressing on. Nick had searched Ingram for a knife and hadn’t discovered one on him. Not finding a bloodied weapon didn’t eliminate the man from suspicion, though.
The man’s forehead furrowed. “Yes.”
“That’s what I thought, because I noticed your shaving supplies in your bedroom,” Nick said. “Except you’re missing your razor. Where is it?”
“My razor?” Ingram swallowed. He’d reasoned out why Nick was asking the question. “It broke where the blade joins the handle. I haven’t gotten around to buying a new one yet. I’ve been visiting a barber on the street one over from ours instead.”
“Ah. I see.”
“I didn’t use it on Emma . . . dear God.”
“Why were you at the Carrs’ house on Friday, Mr. Ingram? Preston Carr wanted you to stay away because he was afraid of what you might do. How you might act,” Nick said. “He told me you’ve got a bad temper.”
“I’m not going to respond to these comments and questions any longer, Detective. If you don’t believe me, repeating myself isn’t going to change that.”
True.
“Then who was it wearing this costume on Friday?” Nick tapped the caftan. “Who was it our witnesses saw? Who was it Miss Joyce noticed on the Carrs’ rear staircase, alarmed that they were there, if it wasn’t you?”
“I have absolutely no idea,” he responded, despite his intention not to. “There’s probably another costume just like this one at the American. And it could’ve been anybody on those stairs.”
Nick would have Taylor or Mullahey follow up on the quantity of caftans and turbans in storage at the theater.
“I can understand why you’d want to get revenge on Sebastian Carr,” Nick said. “I had a sister once and I might’ve retaliated against someone who’d harmed her, if there’d been a need.”
Taylor glanced up from his notebook, confusion—or maybe it was worry—creasing his face. Nick rarely ever talked about his sister and never while interrogating a suspect.
“I admit that I hate Sebastian, Detective, but I’m either too stupid or too cautious to have concocted the idea of poisoning him,” Ingram replied. “Just like you don’t have any proof that I murdered Emma, you don’t have any proof that I got into the Carrs’ house and tried to poison him.”
“Maybe not yet, but I’m only just getting started.” Nick got to his feet. “Taylor, take him out to the sergeant and have him booked for the murder of Emma Joyce. Along with the attempted murder of Sebastian Carr, which resulted in the death of Jenny Bernard.”
• • •
“Detective Greaves might be a while, ma’am.” The sergeant who processed incoming residents of the station’s jail cells eyed her. He wasn’t the usual officer who occupied the desk adjacent to the heavily barred door. Celia must not come into the station on Sunday all that often if she wasn’t acquainted with him. “Are you sure you want to keep waiting?”
“Quite certain.”
Celia rearranged her hands on her lap—she’d removed her wedding ring and stashed it in her reticule—and squared her shoulders, emphasizing her commitment to remaining affixed to the chair until Nicholas Greaves concluded the interview in progress inside his office. She did wish he would hurry, though. The stench inside the room was no nicer on a Sunday than it was on any other day of the week.
“It could be another hour,” the sergeant said as though she were daft. Celia was surprised he hadn’t crossed the room to sniff her to determine if she was drunk and might need some time inside the jail cells he guarded. “Might be better for you to go home.”
“I have never known Mr. Greaves to require an hour to conduct an interrogation, Sergeant,” she replied. “And I am content to wait as long as is required.”
The door to the detectives’ office opened, rescuing her from a continued argument with the officer, and Mr. Taylor stepped through. His hand was clamped around the elbow of a dark-haired fellow resisting every attempt to drag him away.
“Mrs. Davies.” Mr. Taylor nodded at her. “Come on, Mr. Ingram.”
So this was Anthony Ingram. “Is Mr. Greaves available?” she asked Taylor just as Nicholas exited his office.
“Ce . . . Mrs. Davies,” he said, shooting a look at the sergeant, who was watching them both. “How long have you been out here?”
“Long enough.”
“I kept telling her you’d be awhile, Detective,” the sergeant said. “But she wouldn’t listen.”
“She rarely does. You may as well come in, Mrs. Davies.” He returned to his office.
Celia took the chair in front of his desk. It was still warm from having been recently occupied. “You have found proof that Tony Ingram murdered Emma.”
“No proof yet but his alibi—asleep in bed, according to his sister—is pretty weak, so I’m having him jailed for the crime. It doesn’t help his cause that I found something rather incriminating in a locked wardrobe in his bedroom.” He pointed at the pile of clothes on his desk. “Evidence that he was the fellow Miss Bremerton and Dr. Schneider saw Friday night. He claims the reason he left his house at six on Friday, an hour before he was required to show up at the American, was because he wanted to walk and do some thinking. Might’ve been enough time to head to the Carrs’, though. We have heard from one of his fellow musicians that he was late arriving.”
“Is that so?” She fingered a corner of the tunic. The material was both supple and oily and a trifle sticky, that strange tactile sensation only provided by silk. The theater it had come from did not stint on its costumes. “Given this development, Preston Carr may have to reconsider his accusation against Sebastian. Insofar as Miss Joyce’s horrible murder is concerned, that is.”
“When did you talk to him?”
“I came directly here from Bishop’s restaurant, where I located Mr. Carr.”
Nicholas dropped onto his chair. “He didn’t happen to mention having spoken with a very upset Katherine Vanmeter Friday afternoon, who’d been banging on Sebastian’s locked door, did he?”
“He did not, but she alluded to it. Yesterday morning when she came to speak with me so urgently. She said she’d caused a scene by storming upstairs to confront Sebastian, although she neglected to mention that she’d interacted with Preston.” How curious. “I informed him of Emma’s murder, by the way. I hope you do not mind too much.”
“I doubt it would stop you if I did mind.”
He was teasing. At least, that was what she thought he was doing. It was so difficult to tell some days.
“Preston Carr wants me to believe that Sebastian is responsible for killing Emma Joyce, Nicholas. Because Sebastian had gotten her with child and wanted her out of the way.” The words were hideous to speak aloud.
Nicholas’s expression darkened. “Neither of the Ingrams mentioned anything like that.”
“Such a situation is humiliating for the woman involved,” she replied. “It is possible Louise Ingram was not aware. Perhaps Emma had not even informed Tony of her condition.”
“She was pressuring him to marry her and move away, and he was resisting,” he said. “Maybe after failing to convince Ingram to marry her, she tried to get Sebastian Carr to do what was honorable.”
“Emma could hardly bear the child and raise it on her own, without employment, without support.” A woman of her station, dependent upon a good reputation to secure a respectable position, would face an impossible future with an illegitimate child. Celia’s heart ached for all the women who had ever found themselves in such an untenable situation. Some of those women had visited her clinic, and there would be more. “My impression of Sebastian Carr, however, is that he’d be nearly impossible to persuade to ‘do what was honorable’ by her.”
“More reason to believe Tony Ingram is the murderer,” Nicholas said. “Maybe he’d figured out why she was so eager to get married. Maybe he’d figured out who the father was, as well.”
He shifted in his chair, and the low afternoon light coming through the window at his back burnished the brown of his hair. The strands were soft and thick; she’d run her fingers through them once, a rare moment when they had been alone together. If she leaned across the desk, she could reach out and stroke his hair again, straighten the lock that sagged crookedly across his forehead. He’d left the door open, though, and the sergeant would undoubtedly notice. Besides, this was no time for tenderhearted touches.
“Celia?” He was watching her and she wondered how long she’d been sitting there, staring.
Her cheeks warmed. “Woolgathering. Excuse me,” she said. “Where was I? Oh, yes. In support of Preston Carr’s claim that his brother killed Emma, he suggested that, if we questioned his father or Miss Bremerton, we’d discover that Sebastian had not accompanied them to church this morning but rather met them there. Although I’ve not the faintest idea how he would be aware of that, since he’d not attended services either.”
“I need to head over to the Carrs’ house and ask a few questions, it sounds like.”
“While you are there, you might wish to speak with Miss Bremerton about her plans to depart San Francisco,” Celia said. “I was told this morning by the young woman who answers the door that she is packing and means to leave tomorrow morning. Preston Carr was rather surprised, genuinely so, to hear the news when I told him of her intentions. A sudden change of her plans, is how I read his reaction.”
“We’ll stop her from doing that, Celia.”
“I should have informed you earlier. But after finding Emma . . .”
“An understandable lapse,” he generously said. “As it stands, Celia, we only have Preston Carr’s word for it that Emma Joyce had become pregnant and that his brother had admitted to being responsible. I wouldn’t call Preston Carr the most trustworthy source.”
“I can well imagine, though, Sebastian bragging to his brother about such an accomplishment,” she said bitterly.
“If only we had the blasted coroner’s report.” He started hunting through the papers on his desk. “He should be done with it by now.”
“Unless Dr. Letterman does not work on Sunday, Nicholas.”
“Harris did.”
She feared he would be longing for Dr. Harris for the rest of his days as a police detective.
“Greaves?” a voice called out in the station. “Oh, there you are.”
“Dr. Harris, we were just talking about you,” Celia said.
“Mrs. Davies, I’m never surprised to find you here.” He took the hand she extended and squeezed her fingers. “I’ve got news from Dr. Letterman, Greaves.”
“He’s finished the autopsy on Emma Joyce?” Nicholas said.
“Yes. He did confirm, I hear, that the wound was definitely not self-inflicted,” Dr. Harris said. “Any suspects?”
“We have a man in custody,” Nicholas answered. “Her former lover and a man who is also a suspect in the attempted poisoning of Sebastian Carr. Anthony Ingram, the brother of the woman who was the victim of that vitriol attack in January.”
“Her brother? I can understand why he’d want to retaliate against Sebastian Carr, but why kill his sweetheart?” Harris asked.
“I have learned from Preston Carr that Sebastian may have forced himself on Emma, Dr. Harris. Perhaps, though, Mr. Ingram misunderstood the relationship between them and struck out in jealousy,” Celia replied. “During the autopsy, did the coroner discover that she was with child, by any chance?”
“He did, Mrs. Davies,” the doctor replied. “But she’d recently lost the baby.”
“One of the Carrs’ servants had mentioned to me that Emma had been feeling unwell lately but had recovered.” Had pregnancy been the cause of her illness? Likely so, it now appeared.
“So Ingram no longer had her pregnancy as a reason to get back at Carr,” Nicholas said.
“He still may have wished to, even though she’d lost the child, Mr. Greaves,” she said. “He would remain angry with Sebastian Carr for what he’d done to her.”
“But the loss of the baby does eliminate the need for Sebastian Carr to kill Emma. His problems had been resolved,” Nicholas said. “Unless she hadn’t told him yet.”
“The note, Nicholas!” Celia noticed Dr. Harris grin at the use of his Christian name. “The note about a meeting that I found in Sebastian Carr’s room, burned. What if that message had been from Emma? Attempting to arrange a meeting to inform him that she was no longer pregnant,” she said. “And this morning, Sebastian Carr misunderstood the reason for the meeting and went to deal with the problem—which no longer existed—striking her down before giving her a chance to speak.” How utterly cruel.
“Maybe her murder isn’t resolved, Greaves, and Mr. Ingram is not guilty,” Dr. Harris said.
“Thanks for pointing that out, Harris.”
• • •
“Detective?” The servant who’d answered the door at the Carrs’—not Pru—blinked at Nick.
“I need you to assemble the Carrs so that I can speak with them.”
“Miss Bremerton has gone for an afternoon carriage ride with Mr. Sebastian, Detective,” she said, looking every bit like she regretted answering the bell and finding a policeman on the porch. She glanced behind her for rescue, which only confirmed Nick’s assumption. “It’s been her habit ever since she came to stay with us. Early in the morning and every day before dinner. Even when it’s chilly like it is today.”
“Did she go out this morning before heading to church?” he asked, pushing his way into the entry hall, where it was warmer than on the porch. She’d made the mistake of leaving the door open wide.
“Yes. Miss Irene went out for a short ride as soon as the sky started to get light,” she said, moving aside. “Surprised there was anybody at the livery stable to help her with the horse, but maybe she’d arranged for them to always be ready, no matter the day or the weather.”
“She goes alone at that hour?” He didn’t know of any other women who’d take a risk like that. Except for Celia. But the risk might’ve been worth it if your goal was to murder a rival.
“She doesn’t seem to think it’s dangerous,” she replied. “If Mrs. Carr were still alive, she’d be screaming down the house about how improper it is for a genteel young lady to go off on her own. But Mr. Carr and Mr. Sebastian don’t seem to mind so much.”
“I’ve heard she intends to return home tomorrow. Do you know if those are still her plans?”
“Her luggage has been brought up to her room but without Pru here—she’s off to visit her mother in Oakland and took the ferry over before lunch—she doesn’t have anyone to help her pack.”
Miss Bremerton couldn’t pack without the help of a servant? “Did anybody else leave the house early this morning before heading off to church?”
“Not that I saw, sir. Pru could have told you that too. Sorry she’s not here,” she said. Nick could imagine exactly how much she was sorry. If Pru had been in the house, she’d be answering his questions instead. “I’ve been in the kitchen most of the day. And doing some tidying, since Emma doesn’t come in on Sundays, even though it would’ve been a help if she had today. We haven’t finished cleaning up after the party. There will still be plenty to do tomorrow when she does get here.”
The household obviously hadn’t heard the news that Emma would never be returning. “You’re positive, then, that you didn’t notice any of the Carrs sneaking out of the house before dawn.”
Her forehead creased. “Sneaking?”
“Leaving. I meant leaving.”
“I don’t think so, Detective. Mr. Carr and Mr. Sebastian and Miss Irene went to church together. That’s what Mrs. Tilden said,” she replied. “Well, not Mr. Sebastian, I think. He came back with them, though, in time for the light Sunday lunch we serve. Does that help?”
Yes and no. “What about Mr. Preston?” he asked, even though when Preston Carr had been in the station he hadn’t looked like he’d recently slit a young woman’s throat.
“He’s been out most of the day. He doesn’t attend church services.” She looked disappointed in Preston Carr. “He was back for a little bit, but then a police officer came for some reason and he went off with him. So it’s just Mr. Carr here right now.”
