No Justice for the Deceived, page 24
Upon hearing her voice, Owen popped through the curtain blocking off the back room.
“Mrs. Davies!” he said, eyebrows perked. He knew Celia only showed up at Roesler’s Confectionery when she needed him for some sleuthing.
Mr. Roesler shot him a look before retreating to the rear of the rightmost glass case, sets of which lined both sides of his shop. He pulled out an empty decorated tin—which would cost more than a simple paper packet—and proceeded to fill it with candy.
“What is it you need, ma’am?” Owen asked her, his voice low.
“A pound of Roesler’s best chocolates, Owen,” she replied, smiling.
“Oh.” He glanced over at his boss. “Of course.”
Finished, Mr. Roesler held out the tin. “That’ll be fifty cents, ma’am.”
Gad. She fished the money from her reticule, took the candy in one hand and Owen’s elbow in the other.
“Who are we delivering the candy to, Mrs. Davies?” he asked once they were out on the street.
“No one, Owen. I merely needed to acquire your services and it was the only scheme I could come up with.” An expensive one. She would have to delay replacing her pair of gloves that had a tear in them. “Please drop the chocolates off at my house. I am headed for the Ingrams’ for an overdue visit with Miss Ingram.”
She handed Owen the tin. The container was too large to stash inside her reticule.
“You think one of them tried to poison the Carr fellow?” he asked, tucking the tin under his arm.
“Mr. Greaves has arrested Anthony Ingram for the crime. He found an incriminating piece of evidence inside his house,” she said, setting out at a quick pace. “Mr. Ingram may also have murdered one of the Carrs’ servants yesterday morning, Owen. The maid, Emma, who saw the unknown intruder on the back stairs that Mr. MacNamara told you about.”
Owen whistled. “That’s awful, ma’am. Just because she saw him,” he said. “But what’s that got to do with why you want to talk to Miss Ingram?”
“She may possess information concerning Sebastian Carr. I’ve not dropped him from consideration, you see, as it seems he may have gotten Emma with child. Another scandal for him, and his engagement to Miss Bremerton not yet finalized,” she said. “Irene may have dismissed the rumors about the vitriol attack on Miss Ingram, but she might not overlook this indiscretion.”
“But he could just deny he was the father, right?” he asked as he trotted alongside. “Nobody’d believe a servant over a rich fellow like him. And he wouldn’t have tried to poison himself, would he?”
“Two stumpers that suggest he is not guilty,” she replied. “However, to be quite certain Mr. Carr had no part in Emma’s condition, I need you to go to the Pacific Museum of Anatomy for me.”
“Wait, ma’am.” Owen came to a dead stop in the middle of the pavement, forcing her to lurch out of the way of a clerk hurrying along with a parcel in his arms. “Isn’t that where fellows go to speak with the doctor who runs the place to get help with their . . .” He blushed a red that nearly swamped his freckles. “You know, their, ahem . . .”
“Their virility,” she supplied. “Do I want to know how you’re aware of such matters, Owen?”
“I’m not a little kid, ma’am!”
“No. You are a young man.” One who sends valentines to Grace Hutchinson and breaks Barbara’s heart in the process. “A very handsome young man.”
“Aww, you don’t need to say that, ma’am,” he replied, abashed. “But how am I gonna find out what you want to learn? Don’t think folks there will be open to gossiping about private stuff like that.”
“I have complete faith in your abilities, Owen.”
His chest noticeably swelled. “I can do it, ma’am. Count on me. I’m learning how to handle this detective business.”
Oh dear. “If you finish quickly, meet me at the Ingrams’ house.” She gave him the address along with enough coins to pay the museum’s entrance fee. “In case I require your assistance there.”
“You’re not expecting trouble, are you?”
She smiled to reassure him, although by this point in their relationship, Owen would not be easily fooled by smiles. “I am not expecting trouble, but it never hurts to be prepared.”
• • •
“What did Mr. Ingram have to say, sir?” Taylor asked, standing just inside the door to the detectives’ office. He’d missed Briggs, who’d been in the office only long enough to smirk that Nick hadn’t resolved the case yet. Briggs had wisely left before Nick punched him. “Did he confess to killing Miss Joyce?”
“He’s decided to blame Preston Carr instead.” Nick bundled together the caftan and length of white silk and stuffed them inside his lower desk drawer. It jammed on the material when he tried to close it. “Envy, supposedly. Wanted Emma for himself.”
“But we found that bloodied shoe in Mr. Ingram’s room.”
Nick gave the drawer another shove, finally getting it to shut. “Ingram had an explanation for it. Said he went to visit Emma because she’d been acting strangely lately and he was worried about her. Showed up after she was killed. He stepped in the blood.”
“Do you believe him?”
Instinct, Greaves? Or thinking with your brain? “He’s all we’ve got right now, Taylor, and the evidence against him is pretty damning.”
“I suppose so.”
Nick hated when his assistant didn’t sound convinced.
“I’ve got the final report from the coroner on Emma Joyce, sir.” Taylor handed Nick a sheet of paper, a few lines written in a tidy hand marching across its surface. “Nothing different than what Dr. Harris told you, Mr. Greaves. And Dr. Letterman agrees that she was probably dead several hours before Mrs. Davies found her body. Although you’ll hear all this at the inquest this afternoon.”
“Why don’t you attend for me, Taylor. Tell the coroner’s jury what you’ve found.”
“Yes, sir,” he replied, exhaling. “So that’s it, then. Mr. Ingram wanted revenge against Sebastian Carr, but ended up killing the wrong person. And innocent Emma Joyce paid the price for what she’d seen Friday evening.”
“That or jealousy.”
“Pretty terrible.”
“It is, Taylor.” Nick kicked at the drawer, even though it hadn’t inched open again. “It is.”
• • •
I’m gonna get fired. I’m gonna get fired. I might be doing this to help Mrs. Davies, but shoot.
“I’m gonna get fired,” Owen muttered aloud.
He’d stopped at Mrs. Davies’s house to hand off the tin of chocolate to Addie, who was mighty confused by it, and had needed to come all the way back down Montgomery to the museum. Meaning he’d been gone from the store way longer than Mr. Roesler’s patience would allow.
Fired, for sure.
Sighing, he stared up at the building housing the Pacific Museum of Anatomy. On the corner of Pine and Montgomery, it occupied a section of Eureka Hall. The building’s tall street-level windows overlooked the wagons and horsecars and folks passing by in one of the busiest parts of town. Should draw all sorts of curiosity seekers through its doors. In fact, right then a hunched fellow was peering at the front door, probably debating if he should go in and see the sights. He didn’t debate for long and charged inside.
Owen swallowed, his tongue sticking like it always did when he was nervous. Not just about getting fired—he was pretty certain Mr. Roesler wasn’t going to forgive him this time like he did last time Owen skipped out on work in order to help Mrs. Davies—but about going into the museum himself. He’d heard about the weird objects they had on display. The insides of ladies. All sorts of dissected parts of people, including a brain. An entire room dedicated to the effect of diseases like syphilis on folks, meant just for medical men to examine. Although one of his mates had been able to visit the room and he wasn’t a doctor. Not by any stretch. Skeletons from executed criminals. The foot from an Irish giant. Owen didn’t know whether to believe the foot was real, since if there’d ever been giants in Ireland, he was sure his pa would’ve told him. Pretty sure, at least.
To gather courage, Owen sucked in a long, deep breath. Not a good idea, since the street hadn’t been recently cleaned of manure and there was a foul stink from a nearby butcher’s. Coughing, he hurried across the road and charged straight into the museum like the hunched fellow had done.
Along the walls and in the middle of the room stood glass cases, lots and lots of glass cases filled with all those body parts he’d been told about, and a goodly quantity of bell jars with more oddities inside them. The cases were covered in fingerprints like folks had tried to touch the contents, only to be stopped by the glass. Mr. Roesler would be horrified to see so many smudges on a display case. But these cases weren’t filled with tempting chocolates and sugared almonds. No sir, not at all. He wasn’t even sure he should be looking at the nearby models of naked women. His landlady would say the exhibits were obscene. Although Owen thought they were sorta fascinating, too.
“Twenty-five cents,” said a man who’d appeared out of nowhere, making Owen jump.
“What?”
The fellow, in a dark checked suit that was too small for him, stuck out his hand. His fingers were spindly and freakishly long. Maybe when the fellow died, the proprietor would cut off his hand and put it on display. “The admission fee. Twenty-five cents.”
Owen rooted through the pocket where he’d stashed Mrs. Davies’s money and handed him a quarter. Twenty-five cents was an awful lot.
“Would you like a copy of our descriptive catalog?”
Not if it cost more money. “I’m just here because, well, you see, I work for the Carrs. And I overheard Mr. Sebastian talking about this place. I had to come and see for myself.” Owen fixed a wide-eyed look on his face. Which wasn’t difficult.
The fellow with the spindly fingers grinned. “Dr. Jordan has collected the most amazing specimens for the education and edification of the good citizens of San Francisco.”
The good male citizens, that was.
“Perhaps you are here to gaze upon our cyclops child,” the fellow continued, guiding Owen over to the nearest display. An arm that had been taken apart, all its insides exposed, and was making Owen nauseated. “Or the exquisite dissection showing twins in the womb. Our many fetal preparations cannot be compared to any others’, Dr. Jordan declares.”
Owen was curious about one thing. “Is it true about the foot of the Irish giant?”
He guffawed. “Why, yes. It is in the corner over there.”
Maybe he should have a peek before he left. “And is it also true what they say?” he asked. “That the doctor, you know, can help a fellow?”
“Aren’t you a little young to be worried about having problems like that?” the man asked, screwing up his eyes to scan Owen.
Owen’s cheeks got as hot as if he’d been plunged into a fire. “I’m not asking for myself, of course. I’m not worried.” He chuckled. Not that he’d ever had a chance to test his, umm, manliness. “I’m asking for my older brother. He’s been having trouble with his wife and he’s too shy to come here. I thought I’d help him out.”
“Ah. I see. Marital difficulties.” The man nodded. “The doctor frequently consults with gentlemen about such issues.”
“So he can help?” Owen asked. “I didn’t know whether or not to believe Mr. Sebastian, because I couldn’t imagine him coming here. He seems healthy enough to me.”
The fellow sniggered coarsely. Owen didn’t like the sound. “You can’t tell by looking at a man if he’s going to have such problems.”
“So he has been in here to speak with Dr. Jordan. I never would’ve reckoned it.” Owen shook his head. “Mr. Sebastian is going to be married soon. Bet he’s troubled about that.”
“About the wedding night, you mean.”
“Yeah. Exactly.”
“Well, Dr. Jordan set him up, so he should be fine enough,” the man replied. “If he isn’t, Dr. Jordan will be happy to provide more treatment in total confidence.”
“I’ll tell Mr. Sebastian that. Thank you,” Owen said, turning and heading back out.
“Wait! What about your brother? Wasn’t he why you came in here?” the fellow called after him.
Owen was out on the street before he remembered that he’d wanted to see the giant’s foot.
Shoot.
• • •
The curtains on the upper floor windows of the Ingrams’ house were thrown wide, admitting the sunshine that made a pleasant change from the recent dreariness and rain. The house had a nice southerly exposure on a stretch of the road that was not quite as busy as other sections of it. It would likely have sun-lit rooms perfect for painting in. Only one way to find out. Celia waited for a lumber delivery wagon to lurch up the street, and dashed across.
A young woman—slim, petite, her straight chestnut-colored hair worn parted in the middle and bound in what the Americans called a waterfall chignon at the nape of her neck—answered the bell. A trace of purple paint was smeared along her jaw where she’d rubbed at it. She was strikingly lovely.
“Can I help you?” she asked, taking in Celia’s widow’s weeds as though assessing how well she and her black gown might appear on canvas.
“I am Mrs. Walford.” Barbara’s last name and Celia’s maiden name. As was abundantly clear, she was becoming too well known by her real name. Infuriating newspaper articles. “Are you Miss Louise Ingram?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, good. I was hoping I had the correct address,” she said. “I came by on Friday, after I’d attended a lengthy afternoon tea in memoriam of my recently departed husband, to see if you were in, but no one answered my knock. Around six, I believe. Or perhaps a trifle later.”
Miss Ingram’s fingers—also paint-spattered—gripped the edge of the door. She kept her right hand out of view in the pocket of her apron. “You did? I didn’t hear your knock and Truda wasn’t here then. I’m sorry I missed you,” she said. “Why did you wish to speak with me?”
Celia inched forward across the threshold, forcing Miss Ingram to step back in order to avoid getting crushed by Celia’s encroaching skirts. “You were highly recommended to me as someone whom I could commission to do a painting. For my parlor.”
Brilliant, Celia. What do you do if she agrees? She could not afford fifty cents’ worth of chocolates. She could hardly afford a painting.
Louise Ingram’s grip on the door tightened. “I am not painting for commission at the moment, Mrs. Walford.”
“The work can wait a few weeks. Or months. Whichever suits you best, Miss Ingram.” Celia took another step into the hallway until she was entirely inside the house. “I would like to see some of your work first, however, before I decide whether or not to employ you.”
“I . . . who gave you my name?”
“A friend. I do not recall precisely who.” Celia looked around her. “This is a lovely home. Do you live here alone?” What an intrusive question. Surprisingly, Miss Ingram answered.
“No, I don’t. My brother lives here with me.”
When he was not in jail accused of multiple crimes. “How comforting for you, I am sure.”
“Yes.” Miss Ingram struggled to close the door, which jammed on the threshold. “This door. Tony keeps forgetting to repair it.”
The space was very tidy, and if the rest of the house was like the parlor, the Ingrams appeared to have few furnishings or bits of bric-a-brac. Siblings living in straightened circumstances, was how Celia read the situation. Their household economy no doubt impacted by the damage to Louise Ingram’s painting hand.
Celia strolled over to a landscape hung above the settee in the parlor. It was a watercolor depicting a river and mountains, a more sedate rendering than the grand paintings of Yosemite that crowded every city art gallery. Celia found that she liked it. “Is this one of your pieces?”
“Yes, back when I did paintings like that as opposed to the theater scenery I paint now. That I used to paint,” she corrected.
“My friend did tell me that you’d had an unfortunate accident, resulting in a temporary cessation of your work with the local theaters.” Celia smiled sympathetically. “I am so sorry to hear that, as it appears you are quite talented.”
Miss Ingram removed her damaged hand from where she had been hiding it in the depths of her apron pocket. The scars from the vitriol attack were red and ugly, and Celia wondered why it wasn’t wrapped. Perhaps bandaging felt uncomfortable. Celia had to stop herself from recommending a poultice that might offer some relief. She was not here as a nurse.
“I doubt I’ll ever again be able to paint backdrops at the theaters with the damage to my hand, Mrs. Walford.”
“I’d not be so quick to dismiss the prospect, Miss Ingram,” Celia said. “I have an acquaintance who had burned her hand upon a hot poker and who despaired of ever being able to engage in the correspondence she was so fond of. Despite her distress, she did heal and was back to composing letters as frequently as before.” She had no such acquaintance, but she had long ago learned that a patient’s faith in a cure could be as important as the cure itself, if not more important. “You must at least feel some relief from seeing the perpetrator behind bars.”
“The boy who was accused and convicted died in prison just the other day, Mrs. Walford. I am convinced he was not guilty, though,” she said. “I don’t mean to suggest that he didn’t toss the contents of that bottle on me, because he did. I saw him clearly. But I firmly believe he had no idea what was in that bottle.” Miss Ingram frowned. “How scared he looked when I screamed from the pain. The judge, the jury, though . . . They wouldn’t listen to my testimony. I tried to save David Alonso. I truly did.”
“My apologies, Miss Ingram. I did not mean to remind you of such a traumatic event.”
