No Rest for the Departed, page 9
“They told you about his visit.”
“When you went to their house to enquire about Meg and her letters, Nicholas, you were unaware that she might have had a beau. I was aware, after guessing that the deceased man wearing your sister’s locket was more than a mere friend,” she said. “Mrs. Victor told me that her beau’s name was Mr. Eckart. Your murder victim.”
“What specifically did he want from the Chases?”
“Mrs. Victor did not provide details. He wished to speak with Mr. Chase and was so agitated that Mrs. Chase had him removed from the property,” she answered. “Nothing more.”
“Hm.” He turned on his heel and continued up the road, more slowly this time. “Did you get the names of any of Meg’s friends? While you were out at the Chases’ former residence collecting information I wasn’t given.”
“I was told that anyone who may have befriended her no longer worked for the Chases.”
“Same thing they said to me. Even when I asked about a friend of hers named Judith,” he said. “Meg mentioned the woman in one of her letters.”
Celia fell into step alongside him. She wished that she could entwine her arm through his, enjoy the warmth and strength of it, and stroll as though they were merely taking the air, with no concerns and certainly no murder to investigate. However, they had far too many concerns to casually stroll anywhere, so she did not entwine her arm through his.
“Owen learned an interesting tidbit from a neighbor of the Chases’,” she said. “A former neighbor, that is.”
“He would.”
“There is gossip that Mr. Chase is responsible for someone’s death, and that it is very unwise to bother them,” she said. “Could the gossip be referring to Mr. Eckart, do you think?” Or to Meg, she did not add.
He reached up to massage the pain in his old wound. “I don’t remember any police reports about Chase. As innocent as a newborn kitten, as far as I’m aware,” he said, his voice as taut as the fingers he’d wrapped around his arm.
“I would dismiss the comment as well, Nicholas, were it not for the fact that the woman who answered the front door at the Chases’ former house also advised me to not question them. A hazardous occupation, apparently.”
“Chase is dangerous, is he?” He scowled, his thoughts possibly spinning the same direction as Jane’s had gone.
“I have been mulling over the reason why Mr. Eckart recently sought to confront Mr. Chase—”
“He’s been away for a while. Oregon.”
“Ah,” she said. “Anyway, I was assured that his motivation had nothing to do with a business relationship with Mr. Chase. So his urgent need to speak with the man must be somehow due to Meg. That is all we can conclude.”
He stopped at the intersection. The coffeehouse stood across the way, its door thrown open in welcome, customers at tables visible through its large plate-glass windows. Signs advertised that they served Chartres Coffee and drink brewed from freshly ground J. A. Folger beans. With a pang of regret, she realized they’d likely not be enjoying any of the beverages on offer; Nicholas appeared ready to complete their discussion outside on the street.
“‘We,’ Celia?”
“Would you prefer that I’d said ‘I can only conclude’?”
“I don’t know what I’d prefer you to say, other than a remark along the lines of wishing me good luck and that you’re heading back home right now.”
“Honestly, Nicholas,” she replied. “Anyway, as I was saying, Meg must be the link. She used to work at Mr. Chase’s auction house. Mr. Eckart was her beau. He may have met the man through her, or had learned something about him through her. But what I cannot fathom is what precisely was Mr. Eckart’s reason for his visit and why now? Why return from Oregon now?”
After a final squeeze, Nicholas dropped the grip on his arm and stared down at her. “You’re planning on paying the Chases a visit yourself, aren’t you? To gather more information on what Mr. Eckart wanted.”
Her cheeks heated. Why she was blushing at being caught out, she’d no idea; his question was not unforeseen. “I have learned of a fundraising event Mrs. Chase is hosting tomorrow evening.”
“And you plan to attend, even though you’ve been directly warned that questioning them is unwise,” he said, his expression thunderous. “They don’t want to discuss Eckart and they really don’t want to discuss my sister, Celia. Don’t you get it? A girl who worked for them killed herself. Drank enough laudanum to end her life in a hotel room she’d rented for the night. They were fortunate to avoid any associated scandal when it happened. They don’t want me or you digging up the past and putting the dirt on fresh display.”
“You do not want me taking advantage of this opportunity, even if I could discover that Mr. Chase is potentially culpable for Mr. Eckart’s death, Nicholas?” she asked. “Or potentially your sister’s death? Is Mr. Chase somehow responsible for it?”
“If the gossip is correct and not just gossip, Celia, that’s all the more reason for you to wish me good luck on this case and go home,” he said. “And not come back out.”
“I cannot stay locked in my house, Nicholas. No matter how much you’d prefer that I do,” she retorted. “I have patients to attend.”
“You do know it’s my job to conduct investigations, not yours, Celia,” he said. “Despite what they write about you in the newspapers.”
“I am well aware of your occupation and mine, Mr. Greaves.”
He groaned. “And I suppose you’ve talked Mrs. Hutchinson into going along with your scheme, since she’s probably acquainted with them.”
She smiled and refused to answer. He’d only shout at her if she confirmed Jane’s involvement.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” he said. “You know you’re putting her in danger, Mrs. Davies. Again. How much longer do you think Frank is going to put up with your antics?”
Antics, now. “We shall be careful, Nicholas. Completely discreet and careful.”
“I’m not even going to bother to respond to that.”
Which he did not, at least not verbally. He let the glower on his face speak for him.
• • •
Surprisingly, Celia agreed to return home. Well, at least she’d acted agreeable about it. She’d do what she wanted whether or not Nick approved. They weren’t married; he couldn’t stop her. He probably couldn’t stop her even if they were wed.
“Damn it, Celia,” he muttered under his breath as he descended from the horsecar, catching the disapproving eye of a young woman waiting to climb aboard after him. “Sorry, miss,” he said, but not waiting to see if she accepted the apology for his language.
He hadn’t known what to make of what she and Cassidy had learned. Chase responsible for somebody’s death? Was the reason Nick hadn’t heard any rumor to that effect because the death had been too recent? Or because the death had occurred four years ago, but nobody dared speak up against the man because it would’ve been too dangerous?
Damn it, Celia.
Nick turned up Market Street. Their best, maybe only, source of answers to at least some of their questions was a man missing fingers on his right hand. Mina had described Raymond as having sawdust in his hair and on his clothes. She’d thought he worked at a sawmill, and Nick agreed.
Most of the city’s sawmills were situated on Market or adjacent streets between the terminus of the railroad and the wharves. Their proximity to each other made the task of asking about a man named Raymond a whole lot simpler. All Nick had to do was take a stroll from one to the next, showing his badge if the fellow unloading logs or the foreman was reluctant to respond.
He had no success at the first few sawing and planing mills he stopped at. By the sixth one, he was starting to question his strategy. Plus, he was starting to get hungry, which didn’t help his mood.
A large sign spanned the roof of the next mill he visited. It advertised that the place manufactured doors, sashes, blinds, and moldings. Along with other custom items. All Nick needed, though, was information on Raymond and where he might find him.
He stepped through the door to the office.
A fellow, noting orders in a ledger book opened on the counter in front of him, looked up. “How might I help you with your project, sir?” he asked with a broad smile, more obsequious than welcoming.
“No project. I’m looking for a man named Raymond who might work here.” Nick shortened the conversational give-and-take by flapping aside his coat lapel to show his badge.
The man blanched.
“Um . . . yes, Officer. You should, um, speak with the foreman. I’m new and don’t know all the men, you see.” He twisted toward the door that linked the office to the mill. It barely muffled the thunderous noise of the equipment. “I’ll fetch him, if you’d like.” He took a few jerky steps towards it.
“No, I’ll go find the foreman myself. Thank you.”
Nick swung open the connecting door and was met by the rhythmic thunk of the steam engine’s pistons booming through the building, the hiss and squeal of escaping steam, the high-pitched buzz of saw teeth slicing through wood. Heavy leather belts hung down from the spinning central camshaft that was powered by the engine. The belts turned the shafts that ran the saws and planers and lathes, clacking as they rotated. Raymond had fared better, losing only a few fingers, than a five-year-old boy who’d been killed at a planing mill—maybe even this one, but Nick couldn’t recall the details from the article he’d read—when he got caught in the machinery a year or so ago.
Lumber was stacked everywhere, propped against walls, tucked into corners and onto large wheeled carts. The building smelled of tarry machine oil and sweet sawdust, which shot off the blades and into the air to land on every surface. The equipment, the floor, the men. And their hair, where it wasn’t covered. Mina had been under the impression that Raymond was deaf. Nick would be too and in no time, if he had to work here. He shouldn’t complain about the noise from the street outside his office window any longer.
Not far from the door Nick had come through, a boy was counting and bundling cut boards. A job that might not cost him his fingers. Or his life.
“I’m looking for a fellow named Raymond,” he said to him.
The kid looked up from what he’d been doing and squinted at Nick. “What?”
“Raymond,” Nick said louder. “A man named Raymond. I’ve been told he’s missing some fingers on his right hand. Does he work here? Do you know?”
“Who are you?”
Nick showed his badge. He could pin it on the outside of his coat like Taylor and the other officers wore theirs, but he valued keeping his identity as a detective private. Although it seemed that every criminal in San Francisco could spot a detective, no matter what he was wearing, from a mile away.
“What did he do?” the boy asked, his eyes wide.
“So there is a fellow named Raymond working here at the mill.”
“Sure. Raymond Fuller. But I ain’t seen him for a couple of weeks,” he shouted over the piercing shriek of a saw.
“A couple of weeks.” Gone around the same time he’d delivered that final parcel of Meg’s letters to Mrs. Jewett’s.
“Yep,” the kid said. “Don’t right know what happened to him. Maybe the foreman fired him. He did like to fight with the other fellows.”
Just like Mina had described him. Unpleasant. “What about Sy Eckart. Ever heard of him?”
The kid shook his head. “Nope.”
“Hey! What are you doing in here, bothering my worker?” a tall man, his self-importance swelling his chest, bellowed. The foreman.
The kid hustled back to his stacks of boards as the fellow stomped over. “If you’re a customer, you need to talk to—”
“Not a customer. I’m looking for Raymond Fuller. Do you know where I might find him?”
“I don’t, but if you ever find him, tell him he’s not welcome back here.”
“If you fired him for fighting, I presume Fuller already knows he’s not welcome back.”
“I didn’t fire him. He just stopped showing up one day,” the foreman replied. “And a good riddance to bad rubbish, I say.”
Chapter 8
Mr. Chase’s business, that of auctioneer and commission merchant, occupied three consecutive addresses along Sansome Street, so large was the enterprise. When she and Nicholas had parted, Celia had agreed to head directly home. However, the police station was so near to Mr. Chase’s auction house that she found she could not pass up the opportunity to ask a few questions.
O what a tangled web we weave, when first we practice to deceive . . .
A bit of guilt-inducing wisdom from Sir Walter Scott.
Celia hurried across the road, her skirts lifted high to avoid a steaming gift a horse had recently deposited upon the cobbles, and paused in front of the window of the central-most address. A sign announced specific sale days—Mondays and Wednesday for the catalog sales of clothing and shoes and fancy goods; Thursdays for the sale of American and imported dry goods, silks, embroideries, etcetera. Etcetera comprising a large and enticing list of possibilities. Once she concluded her mourning period, she could use a new dress. Perhaps Mr. Chase’s auction house would have a lovely taffeta fabric in blue at a reasonable price. Presuming he hadn’t been jailed for the murder of Mr. Eckart by that time.
“Celia, you are getting ahead of yourself,” she murmured. Simply because the son of their former neighbor believed Mr. Chase was responsible for a person’s death did not mean he actually was.
The auction house might be closed, since it was Tuesday and therefore not a sale day, but she reached for the door handle anyway. Just then, the door itself opened and a man stepped through. Tall and rather dashing-looking, he acknowledged her with a doff of his black top hat before strolling off down the road. Not closed, then.
She entered the salesroom, the overhead bell clanging with unexpected volume. The window shades were only a third of the way up, leaving the capacious room dimly lit, and it took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the gloom. Trunks and crates stood in soldierly lines around the perimeter, waiting to be opened and inventoried. A selection of the contents of others had been set out for the auctioneer to display to the bidders tomorrow, people who would occupy the stacked chairs waiting to be arranged in front of the auction stand. A cassimere overshirt was folded alongside a linen duster and a pair of trousers and vest appropriate for summer wear.
A side door opened, allowing Celia a glimpse of a large warehouse, before a stout man with wire-rimmed spectacles hurried through and closed it.
“I’m sorry, ma’am, was the front door unlocked? It shouldn’t have been. Today is not an auction day so you need to come back tomorrow,” he said breathlessly, as though he’d sprinted from the deepest depths of the building upon hearing the shop bell.
“But I passed a gentleman on my way inside,” she said in her most polished British accent, which, she realized, was becoming diluted from years of living in America.
“Ah, well, that was Mr. Hunter. He’s not a customer,” he said. “In the meantime, you can peruse one of our catalogs, if you’d like.”
“Pardon me for intruding, sir.”
He gave a tight-lipped smile. “It’s not a problem, ma’am, so long as you weren’t expecting to be able to purchase any of our goods today.”
“Oh, no, I was merely strolling down the street—I often take solo strolls, much to the chagrin of my housekeeper, but I find them so consoling—and noticed your establishment. Upon reading the name above the door I realized that a friend of mine had once been employed to assist with the auctions here. She is no longer . . . forgive me.” Celia retrieved a handkerchief from her reticule, readying it should the need arise to appear to be crying. Honestly, I should attempt a career on the stage. Scandalizing everyone she knew. Including herself.
He extended a hand to console her and thought better of his forwardness before he touched her sleeve. “A friend of yours? A female?”
“Yes,” she sniffled. “She has passed away, you see. It has been many years but I continue to often think of her. Such a bright spirit. So lovely.”
The clerk furrowed his brow. “It’s been a while since we’ve had a female assistant. Mr. Chase has decided it’s better to strictly employ men, even when we have women’s and children’s clothing on offer. He finds them more . . . competent with our customers.”
How charming. “You knew her? Margaret Greaves?” she asked. “That was her name, although most people called her Meg.”
His expression shifted, turned wary. “Interesting that her brother came here asking about friends of hers last week, but he was told to leave,” he said. “I might’ve been able to help him but I wasn’t here that day, and nobody else—except for Mr. Chase—knew Miss Greaves. And like I said, he was turned away. Politely, of course, because he’s a policeman and we don’t want to annoy the police.”
Nicholas hadn’t mentioned that he had come here. No matter, since it appeared he’d not learned anything of use.
“However you were acquainted with her,” she said. “Dearest Meg.”
“She quit not long after I joined the company, so I can’t say that I was all that acquainted with her, ma’am.” He removed his spectacles and wiped them with a scrap of yellow cotton cloth he retrieved from his waistcoat pocket. “A shame she quit, though. Enjoyed having her around. Made the day pass more quickly.”
Oh, Nicholas. To have lost her . . .
“I only hope that the cause of Miss Greaves’s departure had nothing to do with your employer,” Celia said. “That he was not—how shall I put it?—forward with her.”
“We’ve had other women working here before Miss Greaves who didn’t seem to have any trouble with Mr. Chase,” he stated candidly. “But I could tell Miss Greaves didn’t like working here anymore. Became upset and jumpy. Missed her last scheduled auction to assist with, in fact. It was after that event that Mr. Chase implemented his rule about only men getting hired to work here.”
