No Rest for the Departed, page 22
Ah, Mr. Chase. “As the killer?”
“Just talk, Detective.”
Not very useful talk. “Why would anybody link his name to the murder of a ship’s carpenter? An upstanding businessman like Mr. Chase.”
His witness laughed so hard he started choking. “Chase, upstanding?” he asked once he recovered. He glanced up and down the street before slinking back into the meager cover the doorway provided. “Also heard he bribes customs officials to look the other way.”
“Import tax evasion?” Otherwise known as smuggling.
“Helps a person get rich, doesn’t it? If you’re in the business of selling imported goods.”
“If you’ve heard, the harbor police have to have heard, too,” Taylor pointed out. “And the customs officials.”
“You’d think,” the man agreed.
“Which of them should have heard but are acting like they haven’t?” Nick asked.
“I’m not naming names, Detective. I’m only standing here because I know when it’s smart to look the other way.” He sobered. “And don’t tell anybody I told you. Don’t want to end up like that dead guy.”
The sound of distant shouting interrupted Nick’s interrogation. A pair of boys ran down the street in the direction of the commotion, chased by a mangy dog yapping at the top of its lungs.
“What in tarnation?” Nick’s witness asked.
“Taylor,” Nick said.
“I’ll be right behind you, sir.”
Nick jogged after the boys. People were collecting at a nearby intersection, where it looked like there’d been an accident. A buggy driver, his carriage perched cockeyed on the sidewalk, was trying to calm his rearing horse. Squealing kids darted in and out of the crowd, adding to the uproar. A man driving a gig bellowed for someone to explain why the road was blocked.
One of the onlookers spotted Taylor. “Hey, Officer! Come quick!” he called out. “This here driver was speeding through the streets and nearly ran over a kid!”
“Let me through,” Nick ordered.
A kid slumped on the ground in the middle of the crowd. An Irish kid. Owen Cassidy. Of course.
“Damn it, Cassidy,” Nick swore.
“Sorry, Mr. Greaves.” He scrambled to his feet. His clothing was torn in spots and bloodied. “Sorry.”
“It’s his fault my buggy is damaged, Officer,” its owner protested. “Look at the right front wheel. It’s ruined! He needs to pay.”
Owen? Pay for repairs? “What happened?”
“He ran out from between those two buckboards so quick I didn’t have a chance to stop. Lucky I didn’t get thrown.”
“You were tearing down the road like you were loco,” a fellow accused. A couple of the assembled gawkers murmured in agreement.
“The kid’s lucky he’s not dead!” one of the buckboard owners yelled. The other one was nowhere to be seen, along with his wagon.
“Shoot, Mr. Greaves. I’ve torn my jacket and pants to shreds.”
“I’ll pay to replace them,” Nick said.
“You will?” Owen asked, his face brightening.
“What about paying for repairs to my buggy?” the owner asked.
“Yes, Cassidy. Just stop getting yourself into fixes, all right?” he asked. “And what in hell were you doing, running out into the street?”
“Didn’t mean to, Mr. Greaves, but there was a fellow chasing me.”
“Anybody see the man?” Nick asked the crowd.
“I might’ve, Officer,” a woman wearing a sea-green shawl said. “He ran down the street thataway.”
“Taylor, try to get more details from these very helpful people.”
Nick turned and sprinted down the street that the woman had indicated.
“Hey! What about the damage to my carriage?” the buggy owner shouted after him.
Nick examined every shadowed doorway, checked behind every stack of barrels and crates. Maybe the fellow had found an unlocked door and bolted inside. Nick couldn’t inspect every building, though. He halted at the next intersection. Nobody was running down the road like they didn’t want to be caught. In fact, nothing unusual was going on at all. The man had gotten away.
Damn.
Chapter 17
The Chases’ California Street house was considerably more quiet than it had been last evening. It nearly looked deserted. Perhaps the staff was tiptoeing around, afraid to disturb an upset Mrs. Chase. Or perhaps they huddled in corners to whisper about the attack on Jane and who the perpetrator could have been. The quiet was beneficial. It meant that no one was outside to monitor Celia while she searched the grounds for any clues left behind by an intruder.
After one more glance around, she skirted the right side of the house. A pair of fruit trees—one pear, one apple, the flower buds on the pear beginning to show—stood sentinel over a patch of expertly trimmed ivy and a trellised stand of grape vines. In the daylight, they’d be noticeable from the conservatory. Fortunately, no one was inside to observe her creeping about. Unfortunately, there was no evidence that anyone had passed this way recently. Perhaps the intruder had been light on their feet and not left an imprint in the soft dirt like she was doing.
“Ma’am?” asked the cook. She stood on the rear porch, the door to the potting room hanging open behind her. “What are you doing out there, ma’am?”
“I was admiring the Chases’ grape vines,” she said, smiling. “And the ivy is so tastefully planted around the house. I did not have the opportunity, obviously, last night to inspect them.”
She squinted at Celia. “You’re the woman who helped the lady with the head injury, right?”
“That indeed was me.”
The woman pursed her lips. “You’ve come back to inspect the garden? At this hour? The sun is going to set soon.”
“Gardens are an interest of mine, no matter the hour.”
The cook reached for the door, signaling she intended to return to her work in the kitchen. “Are you done admiring the grape vines and the ivy? I’m busy with dinner.”
“Ah, yes, I am,” Celia replied. “Might I ask if Mrs. Chase is in?”
“Well, yes. She is.”
“Good. Very good,” Celia replied. “Oh, before I visit with her, can I ask you a question? This might seem quite odd, of course, but I was wondering if Mrs. Hunter came into the kitchen last evening, during the benefit, to speak with you?”
She looked at Celia as though she might have suffered a head injury along with Jane. “Mrs. Hunter? Talk to me in the kitchen?”
“I shall take that as a no,” Celia said. “Rather than troop through the kitchen, I will go around to the front and ring the bell there. Inform one of the other servants to answer, if you will.”
Celia marched off in the direction of the veranda. A housemaid—not Eileen—was waiting for her. Celia cleaned the soles of her half boots and followed the maid into the parlor. Marian Chase sat on the sofa, an afternoon newspaper folded on the seat next to her. The room was cozier than it had been last evening for the benefit, the furniture no longer pushed out of the way but arranged so that guests could comfortably converse while admiring the art and the Chases’ collection of Oriental porcelains.
“Mrs. Davies,” said Marian Chase. “Was I expecting you? It’s rather late in the day for a visit.”
“I hope I am not disturbing you,” she said, taking the chair the woman indicated. A rosewood easy chair upholstered in the same golden-yellow ribbed silk as the sofa.
“I’ve already been disturbed by the police today. Hunting around in our possessions. Inspecting my husband’s Sharps rifle and upsetting Archibald in the process. Questioning the staff about my husband’s whereabouts last Friday evening, when we were at dinner and here in the house afterward, as all of them can attest. Ridiculous,” she huffed. “So if you’re here to search for clues on your own, you’re too late.”
“I was at Mrs. Hutchinson’s—she is recovering well from her concussion, by the way—when Mrs. Hunter stopped in,” she said. “She told us you were quite upset last evening.”
“Wouldn’t you be if some stranger broke into your home and terrorized you?”
“You are convinced it was a stranger?” Celia asked, shifting her weight to get more comfortable, as she kept sinking into the overstuffed cushions of the chair.
She looked disturbed by the question. “No friends or staff of mine would ever conceal themselves in my conservatory and attack a guest.”
“An enemy of your husband’s, perhaps?” Or an unsavory friend.
“We have no enemies, Mrs. Davies,” she stated. “Maybe you do, given your propensity for snooping around in matters best left to the police. But we don’t.”
“A businessman with no enemies? Mr. Chase would be the first of my acquaintance.”
“He is an ethical man,” she stated.
Were there those who claimed otherwise? Celia wondered. “At least you had a friend to stay with you and comfort you at such a distressing time.”
An uncertain look crossed Mrs. Chase’s face, then cleared. She’d not dispute Deborah Hunter’s story.
“Your husband is certainly a successful businessman,” Celia continued. “I happened by his auction house today—I’ve been wanting to procure a length of blue silk—and was impressed by the items up for auction. Which included a brooch nearly identical to the one you wore last night.”
“Why the interest in my brooch, Mrs. Davies?” she asked stiffly. “Mrs. Hutchinson probed me with questions last evening, too.”
“I am curious why multiples exist—one of which is a fake—yet you insist yours is unique.”
“My husband’s auction house would never sell paste jewelry. We are a business dealing only in quality items.” Marian Chase’s eyes narrowed. “It was you asking about Margaret Greaves at the auction house, wasn’t it? And out at our old Mission house, too.”
“You knew her through your work with the Ladies’ Society of Christian Aid, did you not?”
Mrs. Chase had not instructed her servant to provide tea or coffee, so she had no cup to toy with while she decided upon a response.
“I did know Miss Greaves. Deborah brought Meg to the attention of the Society after she found herself on the streets,” she said. “Archibald took her on at the auction house. She didn’t last long.”
“She left your husband’s business, moved out of the room she’d been renting behind your house out by the Mission Woolen Mills, and died shortly thereafter.”
Marian Chase appeared unmoved by Meg’s fate. “She took her own life, Mrs. Davies. Reprehensible.”
“I have heard rumors—”
“That you should ignore,” she interrupted. “None of us were in any way involved in her death.”
“What can you tell me about Judith Whelan? She and Meg were friends,” she said. “Lena Douglass informed me that you likely interacted with her when she first approached the Society for help.”
“I did,” she answered curtly. “Why are you interested in Miss Whelan?”
Celia thought it wisest to not answer.
“You knew them all, did you not, Mrs. Chase?” she asked. “Meg. Judith. Sylvanus Eckart too, I would presume.”
“That man who came here the other week, demanding to speak with Archibald?” she asked disdainfully. “I did not know him.”
“And Mrs. Hunter knew them all, as well.” Celia, tired of being rendered helpless from collapsing into the depths of the armchair, scooted to the edge of the cushion. “Through her work for the Society.”
“What are you driving at, Mrs. Davies?”
I am stumbling in the dark, at the moment. “Did any of them ever confide in you, Mrs. Chase?” Divulge the secret that Meg may have been killed for?
“I do not know any of our ladies well enough for them to confide in me, Mrs. Davies. It is best to treat them with a certain level of detachment.”
Rather than compassion and concern. “Might they confide in Deborah Hunter?”
Her lips puckered in a moue. “I have no idea.”
“When Mr. Eckart came here looking for your husband, he was seeking help, I’ve been told.”
“Clearly, you’ve been told a great deal,” she replied. “Which leaves me curious why you are even questioning me.”
“Because I am convinced that you know more than you are willing to admit, Marian,” she said evenly. “What sort of ‘help’ was Mr. Eckart seeking?”
“He was going on about wanting some sort of ‘proof’ that my husband had,” she said. “Proof? Of what? I have no idea.”
Proof of who had killed Meg Greaves, perhaps. Proof he thought Mr. Chase was in possession of.
“I asked our gardener to toss him out,” Marian was saying. “They got into an altercation and he ended up with a broken arm as thanks. And now I’ve no one to attend to my azaleas.”
Celia leaned forward. “Marian, are you positive that you’ve not seen or heard anything that might indicate your husband is in trouble?” she asked. “I am concerned for your safety. Yours and your husband’s. Last evening’s intruder may have been attempting to deliver a warning.”
“A warning?”
“A warning, Marian.”
She hesitated. Honestly, Marian. Celia fought the urge to grab the woman by the shoulders and shake the truth out of her.
Marian groaned. “It has been so strange lately, Mrs. Davies. Not just what happened last night.”
At last! “In what way?” she asked quietly.
“I shouldn't be telling you this, but I recently overheard a conversation between William . . . Mr. Hunter and my husband,” she replied. “An odd conversation. About a fellow named Francis.”
“Have you ever heard him mentioned before?”
“No,” she said. “Mr. Hunter sounded angry about the man. Because he wanted a greater ‘share of the business,’ which upset my husband.”
“A share of the auction business?”
“I don’t know,” she replied. “I asked Archibald about him, but he told me not to worry. That it was simply business talk among men and I wasn’t to think about it. But I do think about it.”
“Do you think he could have been last evening’s intruder, Marian?”
Her gaze flickered. “I shouldn’t have said anything. Archibald would be furious if he found out,” she said. “So if you are finished, Mrs. Davies, I’d like to prepare for dinner before my husband returns.”
Marian reached for the brass bell on the table at her side, readying to ring it to have Celia escorted out of the house.
“One more question, please, Mrs. Chase,” Celia said, halting her. “And then I shall take my leave.”
The other woman sighed, and set the bell on her lap, the clapper muffled against the thick folds of her emerald green shot silk skirt. “Go ahead.”
“Mrs. Hunter believes she saw someone inside the conservatory when she arrived before the other guests. Did she tell you that?”
“No,” she declared. Too quickly for Celia’s taste.
“The edging spade I believe was used to strike Jane Hutchinson had mud upon the blade. Mud that had not fully dried.” She’d forgotten to tell Nicholas about her discovery. “I have to conclude that someone—possibly the intruder—had been using the spade to dig in your conservatory. Have you found evidence of digging?”
“I haven’t. And no one had been admitted to the conservatory prior to Mrs. Hutchinson going in there. I don’t know what Deborah saw.” She rang the bell and stood. “I really must ask you to leave. Good day to you, Mrs. Davies.”
Celia rose as well. Marian Chase strode over to the parlor doors and slid them open. She flung wide one arm to indicate that Celia was to leave, nearly trapping Celia’s skirt as she slammed the parlor doors behind her.
Well. Celia drew in a breath and looked over at the conservatory, visible beyond the open dining room doors. She glanced around the hallway. Voices came from the direction of the kitchen, but none of the servants had responded to the ring of Marian’s bell.
She looked over at the doorway onto the conservatory again. There was still enough light to see by. More than she’d had last night. Now to hope that the door was unlocked, because she was not the most skilled picklock.
Celia strolled across the dining room, her ears pricked. She tested the door handle. Unlocked. Thank God.
She hurried inside, quietly shutting the door behind her. She made her way down the central gravel path, scanning the area around the plantings, looking for any sign that someone had been digging in the conservatory.
A large display of ferns was arranged around the fountain, their dark green fronds graceful against the white marble. She’d paid them little attention last night, even though they were quite lovely. But something was amiss. Several of the potted ferns, a collection of maidenhair, had been set upon stands. However, the arrangement was disordered and asymmetrical, and not intentionally so.
Celia swept some of the fronds aside. There was a depression in the soil where a plant had been removed. She hunted around for a shovel and found one propped in the far corner. She dug down and found nothing. If an item had been buried in that spot, it was now gone. Along with any clue as to what that item had been.
Blast.
• • •
“Let’s get you upstairs, Owen,” Miss Walford said, recovered from her initial shock over encountering a wounded Owen in her entry hall. She perked her chin like her cousin might and indicated the steps leading to the bedrooms. “You can use our spare bedroom. It’s my schoolroom at the moment, but you won’t get in the way.”
“Are you sure I need to stay, Miss Barbara?” he asked, sounding like he hoped she’d insist. “It’s only some scrapes.”
“Cousin Celia will insist you stay until she’s positive you’re not more severely wounded,” she answered, making him smile. “At least for a short time. I’ll bring up what I need to tend to your cuts.”
“Thank you, Miss Walford,” Nick said, watching them climb the stairs.
“Och, we should’ve gone and set up a wee cot in Mrs. Davies’s clinic for the lad,” Miss Ferguson said, wringing the life from the apron tied around her middle.
