Scandal On Rincon Hill Read online

  “Never mind that, Eddie,” Samuel put in. “Where did you find these magazines?”

  “That's just it,” the boy answered eagerly. “I found them in that feller's room what got himself bashed in. You know, the dealer bloke.”

  “Do you mean Deacon Hume?” I asked, regarding the boy in disbelief. “How do you know it was his room? And what were you doing there?”

  The lad had the good grace to look ashamed. “I seen his name in the newspaper, and there was some mail addressed to him lyin' on a table.” He shifted from one foot to another. “I didn't do nothin' wrong, at least I didn't mean to. I was waitin' with the carriage like you said, when I seen this dog chasin' a cat hell to split behind them trees over there. I thought I'd just take a look to see if the dog got the cat or not, when I heard this really pitiful cryin' comin' from inside a little house behind the church.” He paused in his narrative to give me a guilty look.

  “Well?” Samuel prompted. “What did you do then?”

  “I, ah, well, the door weren't locked, so I peeked inside, you know, just to see if someone was hurt and needed help. The noise was comin' from a box under the bed.” His face brightened. “It was full of kittens, tiny little things all crawlin' over each other, and cryin' for their ma. I went to pick one up, and it was then I saw the magazines. I just took a few to show you, Mr. Samuel. There's a lot more under the bed if you want me to get 'em.”

  “No, Eddie,” I said, before he could run off. I caught my brother's eye and knew we were both thinking the same thing. Pornography constituted strange reading material for a young man soon to be ordained a church minister.

  “I should probably give these to George,” Samuel said, taking the magazines from Eddie, who reluctantly turned over his booty. “They may have nothing to do with the case, but he should be told.”

  “Can I have 'em back when the copper is finished with them?” the boy asked hopefully.

  “Certainly not!” I was so nonplussed by the lad's discovery that I forgot to remind Eddie to hand me properly into the brougham. Stepping in unaided, I directed the boy to drive us back to my office.

  As we rode, Samuel and I discussed what we had learned about the late Dieter Hume.

  “Considering his controversial beliefs and disgusting reading material, Hume appears to have been an unlikely candidate for the ministry,” I said, grasping hold of the seat as Eddie took a corner so fast that I was sure only two wheels were making contact with the ground. Samuel shouted for the boy to slow down, but if Eddie heard my brother, he paid him no mind. Perhaps, I thought, he was still disgruntled because Samuel had appropriated his pilfered reading material.

  “I wonder if the Reverend Mayfield was aware of his deacon's interest in pornography?” Samuel asked.

  After racing through the streets, our carriage had now come to a virtual standstill due to heavy lunch-hour traffic. Frankly, I did not mind. It was a relief to be able to catch our breaths, before Eddie once again gave vent to his passion for speed.

  “I doubt it,” I said, trying not to look at the magazines my brother was holding on his lap. “The Reverend Mayfield does not strike me as the sort of man who would ignore such a weakness in a young man under his supervision. If he did somehow find out, surely he would have confronted Hume and put an immediate stop to it, or else reported his findings to the bishop.”

  Samuel nodded in silent agreement. We were once again moving, albeit slowly, and I very nearly slid into his lap as a coal-box buggy came precariously close to broadsiding us. The driver shook his fist and shouted out an obscenity, but was forced to take his place behind us when Eddie refused to give way.

  “Traffic in this city is becoming downright hazardous,” my brother exclaimed. “Most of the streets are too narrow, and we could go swimming in some of these potholes. Yet City Hall refuses to allot any real money to rectify the situation.”

  “I understand a citizens' committee has been formed to address the problem,” I said.

  “That may be, but I give it little chance of success. Ah, well, I suppose we should look on the bright side. Eddie may drive like a speed demon, but he seems miraculously adept at avoiding pedestrians or colliding with other vehicles.”

  “You say that because your own driving is almost as harrowing as his,” I said with a smile.

  I fell silent as I spied a young woman pushing a baby in a pram. It immediately reminded me of Brielle Bouchard.

  “What's wrong, Sarah? You look worried.”

  “I'm concerned about the young woman who visited my office a couple of days ago,” I told him. “Although since she failed to keep her appointment with me this morning, I'm not sure I can honestly count her as a client.”

  His eyebrows rose with interest. “If that's the case, then you're no longer bound to keep the details of that visit confidential.”

  “That's painting the situation in rather broad strokes,” I told him, still reluctant to break client confidentiality, but even more reluctant to let the matter go without seeking his advice. “Frankly, Samuel, I'd be grateful for your help.”

  Briefly, I told him the details concerning Brielle's visit to my office that I had originally left out. When I identified the girl's lover, Samuel whistled softly between his teeth.

  “Well, well. So Mr. Righteous Morality himself is that young girl's lover.”

  “Was her lover,” I corrected.

  “All right, was. The fact remains that the man is a complete hypocrite. I've sold articles to that bounder, and he's actually forced me to rewrite portions to suit his newspaper's rigid rules of respectability. ‘We must not offend our readers’ is one of his favorite justifications for chopping up a story. And all the while he was seducing a seventeen-year-old girl. What a charlatan!”

  I nodded in agreement. “The problem now is, what should I do? If she had failed to keep this morning's appointment of her own volition, I would let the matter go. But after hearing about the men who waylaid her outside my office, I can't help but be anxious for her safety.”

  “I gather You'd like me to look into the situation?”

  I smiled. “I would appreciate it, Samuel. I know so little about her: where she comes from, if she has family, or even where she went after Gerald Knight threw her out onto the street. I won't rest comfortably until I can be certain that she and her baby are all right.”

  He squeezed my hand reassuringly. “Don't worry, Sarah. I will see what I can find out tomorrow. No promises, mind you, but I'll do my best.”

  “Thank you, Samuel,” I said, squeezing his hand in return. “I knew I could count on you.”

  He had Eddie drop me off in front of my office, then instructed the boy to take him to an appointment across town. After I alighted from the brougham, I was unnerved to see newsboys hawking their papers to shouts of: “Second Death on Rincon Hill,” and “Chinese Devils Loose on Rincon Hill!”

  This last cry stopped me in my tracks. Hurrying to the corner, I purchased a paper from one of the boys and stared at the headline: POLICE SEARCH CHINATOWN FOR RINCON HILL KILLER!

  I hastily scanned the front-page article, anxious to see whether the police were seriously considering this theory, or if the newspapers had once again singled out the Chinese as handy scapegoats. It was true, as Papa pointed out, that the Chinese often used the Second Street Cut as an early-morning shortcut to waterfront warehouses which lay just beyond Rincon Hill. This had occasionally precipitated violence, but it was always directed at the Chinese, who were resented by other immigrants for their hard work and willingness to accept lower wages. Could Papa be right in suggesting that members of the Chinese community had finally decided it was time to retaliate?

  I wondered if Li Ying had seen today's newspapers. If so, how would he react to this latest accusation levied against members of his community? True, he was one of the district's most powerful tong lords, but I also knew him to be a man of integrity who genuinely cared about the welfare of his people.

  And if he did know, w
hat could he do? Would he be powerful enough to protect his countrymen from what might very well develop into a lynch mob?

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  For once I was relieved when it was time to leave my office for the day. I was so troubled by what the newspapers were saying about Nigel Logan's and Deacon Hume's deaths, I found it all but impossible to concentrate on Robert's paperwork. Moreover, Celia had invited the Reginald Tremaines to dine at our house that evening. Although I was not in a party mood I had promised her that I would attend, as had Samuel, which was a testament to our sister-in-law's gentle powers of persuasion.

  To be honest, I admit that I was curious to learn more about the Tremaines, whom I was acquainted with only casually through the Church of Our Savior. I was especially interested in the family since their dinner in the Reverend Mayfield's honor, the previous Saturday night, seemed to feature so prominently in the violent deaths of two men.

  According to my sister-in-law, who had grown to know the Tremaines well, the entire family would be present tonight, apart from the two youngest children from Mr. Tremaine's second marriage. This included Reginald Tremaine, his wife, Faith, his elderly father, Major Zachariah Tremaine—who made his home with the couple—as well as Mr. Tremaine's older children from his first marriage, seventeen-year-old twins, Melody and David.

  I enjoyed watching Celia act the role of hostess that evening. As I have often mentioned, she is one of the most loving and thoughtful women I know. I could well understand how she and Faith Tremaine had become such fast friends, given that they both had small children and served together on several church committees.

  Although Mrs. Tremaine was but two years older than me, it was not surprising that we remained but casual acquaintances. Our lives were simply too dissimilar to encourage a more intimate friendship. She was a married woman with four children—if one counted the twins by her husband's first marriage—while I had chosen to remain a spinster and seek my livelihood in a man's profession. I sensed that she regarded me in silent disapproval which, as I say, was not altogether unexpected.

  Actually, I reflected, as our little Irish maid Ina Corks served the soup course, most of my girlhood companions had drifted away since marriage, and our friendships had suffered by consequence. Not only did we share little in common, but San Francisco society strongly censured any woman improvident enough to choose a career over so-called domestic bliss. Few women were crass enough to say it to my face, but I knew well enough what was tittle-tattled behind my back. My mother was generally pitied because her only daughter seemed so determined to remain single. The fact that I had become—horror of horrors!—a lawyer merely added grist to the ever-flourishing gossip mill.

  As I sipped Cook's excellent clam chowder, I allowed myself to study our guests. Reginald Tremaine was a handsome man who looked to be in his late forties. He was a great deal taller than his wife, and his slender physique was only beginning to take on a slight paunch. I admired the thick head of curly brown hair which he wore parted down the center. A neatly trimmed brown mustache, which showed only a light sprinkling of gray, lay beneath a long Roman nose. His eyes were hazel, and twinkled good-naturedly.

  Faith Tremaine was a small woman, barely five feet tall, and possessed the fragile beauty which, I've noticed, most men can't resist pampering. That evening, her pale, strawberry-blond hair was gathered into a neat chignon atop her head, and her light green dress very nearly matched the color of her eyes. I thought her to be a pleasant, if sometimes opinionated, woman who appeared to be a devoted mother and generous volunteer at her church.

  Reginald's father, Zachariah Tremaine, was a former army major who had served in the Mexican-American War, and later in the American Civil War. He was a distinguished-looking gentleman, tall and slender and somewhere in his mid-seventies. Although he was many years retired, he still carried himself with military erectness. He had a thick white mustache, bushy white eyebrows, and a full head of longish gray hair. Despite his military demeanor, however, he was a cheerful man who laughed easily and treated everyone with polite respect.

  I deduced from the affectionate way he interacted with his seventeen-year-old grandchildren that he was particularly fond of the twins. Judging from the way they remained close to him throughout the evening—one twin sitting to either side of the elderly gentleman at the dinner table—it was obvious that they fully reciprocated this affection.

  My eyes drifted to Melody and her brother David. The boy was tall and quite handsome, but his sister was nothing short of stunning. She had a slightly upturned nose and the fair, milk-and-honey skin which was currently much sought after by women of all ages. Her lips were full and tinted a deep natural pink, her cheeks had a rosy glow, and the delicate bones of her face were gracefully sculpted. To say that her hair was brown would do it an injustice; highlights in the thick, lustrous strands more closely resembled the tawny rays of a setting sun. Tonight it was pulled back from her oval face and gathered at the crown with a ribbon, from there to cascade down her back in a flurry of curls. Her very feminine gown of shaded blue lampas brought out the sky-blue color of her eyes, which were framed by long fans of dark lashes. The simple lines of the bodice emphasized the gentle swell of the girl's bosom, and displayed her tiny waist to good advantage.

  Her twin brother David shared his sister's lovely blue eyes and fair coloring. His amber-brown hair was also thick, and had a tendency to curl. He was nearly his father's height, quite slender, and shared the older man's classically handsome bone structure. Where Reginald was animated and outgoing, however, his son was reticent and not inclined to join in the dinner conversation, although he seemed to be following it with quiet attention.

  I, too, said little as I ate my food, allowing the others to carry on with their more or less mundane discussion concerning the rapidly approaching Christmas holidays, the party we would be hosting the following week, and the unusual amount of rain we had been experiencing of late. Papa—who loved nothing better than a lively dialogue involving politics or other controversial subjects at mealtimes—was obviously on his best behavior, no doubt thanks to Mama's strict admonitions. I noticed that she kept darting furtive looks in his direction, as if fearing this uncommonly polite behavior might evaporate at any moment.

  Actually, I wished Papa would ignore whatever promise he had made Mama, and bring up the Tremaines' party, and the part, if any, it played in the subsequent murders. When I saw from his pained expression that this was not going to happen, I decided it was up to me to ask the questions in his stead. Before I could decide how to broach the topic, however, Samuel jumped in ahead of me.

  “Mr. Logan's death last Saturday night was certainly tragic,” he said, directing the question primarily to Reginald Tremaine. “I was wondering if you knew whether the police are any closer to apprehending the culprit?”

  My brother had once again composed his features into an expression of admirable innocence. Since I knew that George Lewis had been put in charge of the investigation, and kept him updated on how the police were progressing, Samuel's question—along with his blameless air—made it difficult for me not to laugh.

  Talk at the table suddenly ceased. Everyone regarded him as if he had suddenly released a basket of snakes onto the dinner table. Everyone, that is, except Papa. My father was practically rubbing his hands together in glee at this unexpected upturn in the conversation, especially since he had not been the one to initiate it.

  “Samuel, please,” protested Mama, looking mortified. “This is hardly the proper time or place to bring up such a distressing subject.”

  Reginald Tremaine raised his hand as if to dismiss Mama's objections. “Please do not distress yourself, Mrs. Woolson. Your son's question is understandable. The city's newspapers have talked of little else since poor Mr. Logan was attacked. Unfortunately, I cannot think who might have committed such a vile act. I can only surmise that it was a robbery gone wrong. It is impossible for me to imagine that the young man had any enemies, at least non
e who might wish to do him bodily harm.”

  “You knew Mr. Logan well, then, Mr. Tremaine?” Samuel persisted, ignoring Mama's disapproving expression.

  “I would not describe our friendship as close,” the clothier answered. “Mrs. Tremaine and I became acquainted with the gentleman through our church, which he occasionally attended. Although why he did so, I am at a loss to understand, since he was something of a rogue in his religious beliefs.”

  Samuel looked surprised. “Given Logan's unorthodox opinions, I'm surprised you invited him to a party in honor of the Reverend Mayfield who, I understand, adheres strictly to church doctrine.”

  Reginald Tremaine appeared momentarily confused, as if even he was unsure why Nigel Logan had been invited. He turned questioningly to his wife.

  “Mr. Logan was a good friend of Dieter Hume's, our church deacon,” Faith explained. “Naturally, before extending the invitation, I brought the subject up with the Reverend Mayfield, but he expressed no objections to the young man attending.”

  “Was the Reverend Mayfield acquainted with Logan's views on Charles Darwin's Origin of Species?” Samuel inquired.

  Before Mrs. Tremaine could answer, Mama broke in, darting furious glances at her youngest son. “Samuel, please. You are annoying our guests with all these unsuitable questions.”

  Once again Reginald Tremaine appeared to brush off my mother's objections. Chuckling, he said, “Yes, the Reverend Mayfield certainly was aware of Mr. Logan's views on the subject. The two were always going on about those silly books. Actually, I think they rather enjoyed the bickering. Nigel was very serious about his work in the field of biology, and of course we all know the dim view the church has taken of Darwin's controversial theories.” He gave a deprecating smile. “I fear I find all the sciences incomprehensible, so I am unable to describe Logan's studies in more detail.”

  “His work was in the field of biogenesis,” his son David put in. Since this was the first time the boy had ventured into the dinner conversation, we all regarded him in surprise. He flushed self-consciously, then clarified, “Mr. Logan was particularly studying the microbic origin of infectious disease.”