The Russian Hill Murders Page 10

  “Wash your face, Sarah,” she ordered. “And change that soiled gown before you come down to dinner.”

  After Mama went downstairs, my father gave me a final, appealing look. It pained me to let him down, yet I could not bring myself to make a promise I knew I couldn’t keep.

  “Please, Papa, don’t worry,” I told him. “I give you my word I’ll be careful.”

  The expression that crossed Papa’s face was enough to make me cry. All my life I’d sought to please him, to live up to the challenge of being his only daughter. It was, after all, due to his patient tutelage that I’d become an attorney. I owed him so much, yet I could not sacrifice my integrity.

  “You should listen to your father, Sarah, and leave this business to the police,” Robert said, after Papa was gone.

  I sighed. “Don’t be naive, Robert. You know as well as I do there’s little the police can do. Even if they were inclined to step in, they haven’t the manpower to investigate a fraction of these shops.”

  “Ah, but you do have the inclination.” His voice was mocking. “Sarah Woolson, defender of the impoverished and destitute. Even if it kills her!”

  Suddenly, I felt very weary. My head ached, not only from the rock, but from the hurt I had caused my father. The last thing I wanted right now was to engage in an argument I knew I couldn’t win.

  “I have to change for dinner, Robert,” I told him, and closed the door behind him to attend to my toilette.

  I came down to dinner to find that Robert had declined Mama’s invitation to join us. He’d pleaded a previous engagement, one I knew he didn’t have.

  Also among the missing were Adelina French—who was suffering from painful arthritis—and Lucius Arlen, who’d sent Mama a message explaining he was too ill to attend. It crossed my mind to wonder if whatever had been bothering him at the hospital might have something to do with his absence. But, as Robert never tired of saying, perhaps I was just looking for trouble where none existed.

  As Ina served the soup, I saw that most of the hospital board was in attendance, including Reverend Prescott, who appeared as handsome and charming as ever. No one was rude enough to comment on my tardy arrival, but the bandage on my forehead earned me a number of curious glances.

  My brother Charles, obviously bursting with news, returned just as the last of our guests were departing. A short time later, he, Celia and I slipped into the library for a private talk.

  “All right, Charles,” I said, unable to contain my curiosity. “Did you get the results of the autopsy?”

  “Yes, I did, and Halsey’s postmortem results are certainly unusual. The coroner found high levels of an alkaloid called hyoscyamine in his system, along with other related toxins.”

  Celia and I looked at him blankly.

  “Hyoscyamine is the main poison found in Datura stramonium, or jimsonweed, which is part of the nightshade family,” he explained. “You may not know it by name, but you’ve probably seen it growing wild in the country or in forests along the shoreline.”

  “I don’t understand,” Celia said. “I thought Reverend Halsey died of a heart attack. What does this jimsonweed have to do with it? It doesn’t sound like something you’d want to eat.”

  Charles gave a wry smile. “Actually, some people very willingly ingest it. The plant is famous for its mind-altering properties. It’s mentioned in Homer’s ‘Odyssey’ and in some of Shakespeare’s plays. Closer to home, soldiers in colonial Virginia ate jimsonweed and behaved erratically before they died. Years ago, Italian women used it to dilate their pupils, which was considered beautiful at the time.”

  “I doubt Halsey cared about his looks,” I said dryly. “And somehow I can’t conceive of him trying to alter his mind. He was too sanctimonious and smug for that.”

  Charles sank onto the sofa next to his wife. “There can be little doubt, I’m afraid, that Reverend Halsey was deliberately poisoned.”

  “How long does this poison take to work?” I asked. “Remember, I saw Halsey the afternoon he died and he looked fine.”

  “That’s hard to say,” Charles replied. “Symptoms may occur four to six hours after ingesting the plant, sometimes even sooner. The coroner suspects it was placed in some coffee Halsey drank shortly before his death.”

  “A cup of coffee,” Celia repeated. “I know people found the man annoying, but who would go so far as to poison him?”

  “I’m sure that’s a question Samuel’s friend on the police force would like answered,” Charles said. “Evidently George Lewis has been assigned to the case.

  “I know what you’re thinking, Sarah,” Charles went on, watching me. “But there’s no reason to believe Mrs. Godfrey and Halsey’s deaths are connected. I admit I’m concerned about the high level of nitroglycerin found in her system, but there may be a perfectly logical explanation for how it got there. Besides, Mrs. Godfrey and Reverend Halsey had nothing in common.”

  “Except the new hospital,” I said thoughtfully.

  “It’s doubtful the police will agree with you,” Charles said with a yawn. “At any rate, they’ve decided not to release the cause of Halsey’s death. I suppose they hope it will somehow help them find the killer.”

  Stretching, he got up from the sofa. “Come on, Sarah, it’s time you were in bed. I’ll be surprised if you dcn’t wake up in the morning with a black eye. Maybe you should take the day off tomorrow.”

  I sighed. In truth, my head ached worse than ever, and I didn’t look forward to meeting Pierce the next day with a discolored eye.

  “This is one time I’d be more than happy to take your advice, Charles. Unfortunately, it’s not possible.”

  “Well, at least let me examine you in the morning to ensure the wound hasn’t become infected. Although I must say Mrs. Barlow did a pretty good job of it.”

  “Thank you, Charles,” I said, kissing him on the cheek. As I did, I thought back to the many times he’d “doctored” me since our childhood. I doubt if Frederick and Samuel together provided Charles with as much hands-on experience in his future vocation as did his little sister.

  Regrettably, Charles’s prediction proved only too correct. By morning, my headache had somewhat abated, but my right eye was a dreadful purple color. Charles duly replaced the plaster on my forehead, but even a slightly smaller bandage did nothing to improve my sad appearance.

  Despite courteous efforts to behave as if nothing were wrong, Pierce could not entirely mask his surprise when he picked me up in his carriage promptly at ten o’clock. He insisted on hearing how I’d come by my injuries, and when I gave him an abbreviated version of what had happened, he astonished me by bursting out laughing.

  “Sarah, you continue to amaze me. Yes, I know,” he said, holding up a hand, “what happened to you was dangerous, and I’m more grateful than I can say the injury wasn’t more serious. But I know of no other woman who’d have placed herself in such a situation in the first place. You’re wonderful!”

  I hardly knew how to respond to this surprising statement. “I did nothing more than enter a brougham cab, Pierce, something a great many San Franciscans do every day. The fact that some ruffian saw fit to hurl a rock is hardly a reason to—”

  Once again his laughter stopped me. “Come on, Sarah, the very fact that you see nothing unusual about your life makes it all the more remarkable. No, don’t shake your head. You’re one of a kind, whether you’re willing to admit it or not.”

  Enough was enough! These far too personal—and embarrassing—statements had to cease. Straightening my skirt into neat folds, I looked him in the eye. “Mr. Godfrey, are we or are we not about to attend a meeting involving matters of serious concern to your company?”

  After a startled moment, he nodded. “Yes, but—”

  “Then hadn’t we best use what little time remains to us to settle upon a strategy?”

  “Yes, of course, you’re right.” Taken aback by my candid remark—ironically, one of the very qualities he professed to admire—Pier
ce took a moment to order his thoughts. “As I explained earlier, most of the vessels constructed on the Pacific Coast are two- or three-masted schooners. They’re not as grand as the down-easters built on the East Coast, but they’re more than adequate for the coastal trade, which constitutes a fair portion of our company’s business.”

  “Yes, I understand.”

  “In the past, we’ve purchased vessels from several local shipbuilders. Now, because of our planned expansion, we’re placing a more substantial order. That’s why we’ve approached Henry Finney, the largest shipbuilder in San Francisco.”

  “I gather you’re not pleased with the prices Finney has quoted you.”

  “No, I’m not. Yet he’s the only one who can fill our order in the specified time.” He smiled. “Which is why you’re here, Sarah.”

  My returned smile was ironic. “To work a miracle, Mr. Godfrey? You don’t ask much of me.”

  “No, not a miracle. A strategy. Henry Finney came over from Ireland on a packet ship, pockets empty, head crammed with ideas. He pulled himself up by his bootstraps, learned the shipbuilding business from the ground up, and eventually opened his own yard. He’s a ‘man’s man,’ a rough sort of fellow who’ll be taken off guard to find himself dealing with a woman attorney.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “But you told Mr. Shepard you’d informed Finney about me.”

  “Yes, that’s true, I did. What I failed to mention is that Finney thinks it’s a joke. He doesn’t believe for one minute that I’d hire a woman as an attorney.”

  “I see,” I said, not entirely pleased. It was one thing to enter the meeting believing I was expected and quite another to discover I was being used as a ploy to throw Finney off guard.

  I considered my options until our carriage halted in front of a weathered brick building at the waterfront end of Bay Street. Behind the structure I saw a vast shipyard, where a number of wooden ships were at various stages of construction.

  “Are you ready?” Pierce asked, helping me out of the carriage.

  “Yes, as a matter of fact, I am,” I replied, having just arrived at my decision. Regardless of Pierce’s strategy in hiring me, the fact remained that I was a licensed attorney. The happenstance of my gender was neither here nor there. I would ignore Pierce Godfrey and Henry Finney’s childish power plays and do the job for which I’d been trained, and for which I was now being paid.

  I won’t deny that I was frightened. I was, after all, a woman entering a wholly man’s world. Nevertheless, I was determined to succeed. Paraphrasing a comment the tong leader, Li Ying, once made to me, it was sometimes necessary to make the opponent’s rules work for you.

  Pierce and I entered a small room containing a single desk, behind which sat a middle-aged man I instantly identified as something of a dandy. Not only was he meticulously dressed—far more elaborately than his surroundings warranted—but everything about him spoke of fussy attention to detail. Each item on his desk was in its place and arranged just so, from his freshly sharpened pencils to the neat stack of papers from which he’d been working. At our approach, he looked up, then instantly assumed an expression of sympathy at the sight of my companion.

  “My dear Mr. Godfrey,” he gushed, circling the desk to grasp Pierce’s hand. “I was so sorry to hear of the loss of your sister-in-law. Such a tragedy.”

  “Thank you, Sloan,” Pierce said, looking ill at ease.

  Pierce had explained in the carriage that, although Henry Finney was the driving force behind the shipbuilding company, Octavius Sloan managed the everyday running of the business with zealous control. Finney often joked that Sloan had more information stored in his head than in the office file cabinets. Pierce thought that Henry Finney stood somewhat in awe of Sloan, since the latter had spent a year or two at a university back east, while he’d received little formal education. In many ways, the office manager was treated more as a silent partner than a mere employee.

  “Miss Woolson, I’d like you to meet Octavius Sloan,” Pierce said, introducing the thin, fidgety little man. “He’s been with Finney’s as far back as I can remember.”

  “Twenty-two years, Mr. Godfrey,” Sloan put in proudly. “Since the day Mr. Finney first opened for business.” His face took on what I can only describe as a sly expression, as he turned the conversation back to Caroline’s death. “I realize, of course, that the relationship between you and Mrs. Godfrey was, ah, somewhat strained. Nevertheless, I’m sure you must feel her loss very deeply.”

  Pierce’s face turned dark. I realized Octavius Sloan had overstepped some invisible line.

  The clerk quickly recognized his faux pas and hastened to add, “I apologize, Mr. Godfrey. I assure you I did not mean to be impertinent. Naturally, it’s none of my concern.”

  “No, Sloan, it isn’t,” Pierce told him bluntly. “We have an appointment with Mr. Finney. Please be good enough to inform him we’re here.”

  I considered this surprising exchange as we were quickly, and silently, led upstairs. Apparently I hadn’t merely imagined the hostility I noted between Pierce and his sister-in-law the night of the charity dinner. Once again, I wondered what had occurred between them to cause such animosity.

  We were led into a spacious office on the third, and highest, floor of the building. The room had several large windows, two of which afforded a splendid view of the Bay and a busy wharf with long finger-piers pushing out into the water. A third window looked out over a bustling shipyard, where construction workers scurried over the skeletal spines of ships like ants on a pile of sugar. The poor immigrant boy from the Emerald Isles had done very well for himself, I thought.

  Henry Finney was a short, genial man in his early fifties, with sandy-red hair beginning to fade with age. Twinkling blue eyes smiled out at us from a lined, weatherbeaten face. His speech was heavily flavored with a rich Irish brogue, his movements energetic and sure. He had the habit of waving his hands as he spoke, revealing thick ropes of muscles stretching in his neck and beneath his rolled-up sleeves.

  “How are you, Mr. Godfrey?” Finney said, taking Pierce’s hand in a firm grip. Without waiting for a reply, he turned to me, his craggy face expressing surprise, not only, I surmised, at finding his client accompanied by a woman, but one moreover with a badly bruised face. “And who is this fine lady you’ve brought with you?”

  “Finney, this is Sarah Woolson, an attorney with Shepard, Shepard, McNaughton and Hall. I’m afraid Miss Woolson met with an accident yesterday,” he added, as Finney continued to look curiously at my blackened eye.

  Finney’s bushy red eyebrows rose. “Well, now, I’m sorry to hear that, Miss Woolson. Be that as it may, Mr. Godfrey, you can’t expect me to believe this young lass is a lawyer. Come now, lad, introduce us good and proper.”

  “I assure you it is nothing less than the truth, Mr. Finney,” I said, impatient to end this wearisome game. “I have been employed by Mr. Godfrey to represent his company’s interests in these negotiations.”

  “Negotiations?” The Irishman’s eyes widened in what appeared to be genuine astonishment. “But we’ve already come to an agreement now, haven’t we, Mr. Godfrey?” He motioned for us to be seated at a table overlooking the Bay. “You said you’d be wantin’ four two-masted scows and two three-masted schooners, the last of the six to be delivered no later than fifteen months from signin’ the contract.” He grinned easily at Pierce. “Nothin’ could be more straightforward than that now, could it? And we’ve already agreed on the rates, which are fairness itself.”

  Pierce started to speak, then caught my eye. “Miss Woolson has gone over your proposal, Finney. Perhaps she’d be good enough to give us her professional opinion.”

  Several expressions crossed Finney’s face—skepticism that I could have an opinion worth listening to, impatience that his valuable time was to be so flagrantly wasted, then resignation that he had no choice but to humor his customer.

  “Right then, Mr. Godfrey,” he said with a sigh. “But I’m tellin
’ you flat out you won’t find a better deal than mine anywhere on the West Coast, and that’s a fact.”

  Now that the time had come for me to play my part in this little drama, I found myself curiously calm. So far, Finney had fairly dripped Celtic charm. Despite that, I was sure that beneath the jocularity he possessed a shrewd mind and probably a will of iron.

  “Mr. Finney,” I said in my most professional voice, “the terms you outlined for the purchase of these six ships are not satisfactory.”

  Finney’s face, which was already a ruddy color, turned a decidedly darker shade of red. “What do you mean, not satisfactory? I’d be losin’ money if I set them any lower.” He regarded me with narrowed eyes, as if wondering how far he could go without antagonizing his prospective buyer. “No disrespect intended, Miss Woolson, but I’d hardly expect a woman to understand matters of such a confusin’ nature. And havin’ to do with shipbuildin’ in the bargain. Now, if you’ll let Mr. Godfrey and me get back to—”

  “I have not yet finished, Mr. Finney,” I broke in, noticing Pierce trying to stifle a grin. “Surely you’re aware the British have started building steel-hulled ships. Those companies that have switched to steel are receiving very favorable insurance rates from Lloyd’s of London, far better, I might add, than the insurance rates charged to the wooden boats our country currently builds. It isn’t difficult to see—even for a mere woman—where this will eventually lead. Already, the down-easters are being replaced by the new steel-hulled vessels. Which means, Mr. Finney, that there is a surplus of the down-easters to be had at greatly reduced costs.”

  Finney’s face grew darker by the minute. A shadowy glint in his eyes told me he was only too aware of the changes in shipbuilding taking place abroad.

  “But they wouldn’t be new, nor would they be built to Mr. Godfrey’s specifications,” he argued. “They’d have to be completely refitted. And there’s the cost of sailing them around the Horn.”