Murder on Nob Hill Page 12

  “Blast it, woman, you know bloody well I don’t. But I have the ability. I’m certain of it.”

  I started to retort this vainglorious statement, then stopped, taken aback by the fire in his eyes. To my astonishment, I realized that he had just revealed something extremely personal to me. This was his passion. His dream.

  “That's why you left Scotland to practice law in San Francisco, isn’t it?” I said. “To be a trial attorney.”

  He stood with his back to me, facing the window. Without turning, he nodded. Perhaps he felt he had already said too much. I judged the fiery lawyer to be an intensely private man.

  “But how did you end up at Shepard's firm?” I persisted. “Why not stay in Edinburgh?” To my surprise, I really wanted to know.

  Something of this sincerity must have shown in my voice, for he turned and walked back to the table. He stared hard at me for a moment, then righted the fallen chair and sat down.

  “My father's also a lawyer. A prominent trial attorney. Too prominent,” he added dryly. “When I couldn’t escape the inevitable comparisons made between us, I decided to immigrate to the States. James McNaughton was one of my law professors at the University of Edinburgh. We kept in touch when he moved to America. When a position as associate attorney opened in Shepard's firm, James suggested my name.”

  “I see.” So that was why this brute of a man had been willing to work in a closet-sized room and take orders from a man he clearly didn’t respect. It seemed that my client was to be his long-awaited reward.

  “You don’t think I’m capable of handling Mrs. Hanaford's defense, do you?” he challenged.

  I didn’t immediately answer. There was no doubt he could be quarrelsome and annoyingly blunt. On the other hand, I could no longer deny he had a sharp mind and was more intuitive than I’d previously credited. If he believed in someone, he might be a formidable defender. The fact remained, however, that he had virtually no trial experience. Most disturbing, and potentially damaging to the widow's case, he wasn’t convinced of her innocence.

  “I honestly don’t know your capabilities,” I told him. “I do know, however, that my client desperately needs all the help she can

  get. If you’re willing to keep an open mind, I see no reason why we can’t work together in the best interests of her defense.”

  When he didn’t answer, I began the tedious job of replacing the dusty tomes we’d pored over for the past few hours. Without a word, he began helping me until the task was completed.

  “What's on the agenda for tomorrow?” he asked as we took our leave of the Department of Records.

  I gave him a sharp look. “Are you asking as one of Mrs. Hanaford's attorneys, or as Joseph Shepard's secret agent?”

  He had the good grace to smile. “A little of both, I suppose. I don’t like playing the role of spy any better than you, Sarah. However, I do care that justice is served. Toward that end, I’m willing to help you search for the truth.”

  I returned his smile. “In that case, I accept your offer. I plan to visit Peter Fowler at the jail tomorrow morning. Shall we say nine o’clock?”

  He tipped his hat. “Until nine, then.”

  I watched his retreating back until he was swallowed up by the crowd milling about in the wake of the parade, wondering all the while at the unexpected accord we had just struck. I wasn’t at all sure what to make of it, but was forced to admit that when he was so inclined, Robert Campbell could be charming.

  Then, no longer able to contain my fatigue, I hailed the first unoccupied hansom that passed my way and instructed the driver to take me home.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Peter Fowler seemed surprised but pleased when Robert and I entered his cell the following morning. He pressed for news of Annjenett, and after assuring him she was doing as well as possible under the circumstances, I asked about his own situation.

  “I’m being treated well enough, I suppose,” he answered. “It's the feeling of powerlessness that's the most maddening. Time has become my enemy. Each moment is a bitter reminder that my life is no longer my own, indeed that I may forfeit it for a crime I didn’t commit. I’ve begun to suspect that even my attorney thinks I’m guilty.” He looked at us through eyes that were bloodshot and sunken from lack of sleep. “A fine thing, isn’t it, when your own attorney believes you to be a murderer?”

  I glanced at Robert, who couldn’t meet my gaze. Good, I thought, happy to see that the similarity in our own client's situation hadn’t escaped him. Turning back to the actor, I asked if there was anyone we could notify on his behalf.

  “My parents are both dead and I have no other family.” His expression was rueful. “I never thought to hear myself say this, but in a way I’m glad they’re gone. I don’t think I could bear to have them see me like this.”

  I’d taken a seat on the room's only chair, a rickety affair that I doubted would hold either man's weight. Robert stood by the door, observing our conversation in unexpected silence.

  “There are a few questions we’d like to ask you, Mr. Fowler,” I began.

  “Anything, Miss Woolson. I suppose you’d like to hear my version of what happened the night I went to Hanaford's house.”

  Without waiting for an answer, the actor took us through his actions the night Hanaford was murdered. I was pleased to note that his account tallied in most respects with Annjenett's. I was disappointed, however, when Fowler claimed not to have seen or heard anyone else enter the house after his arrival.

  “It's difficult to hear the front door from Mrs. Hanaford's rooms,” he explained, his face a mask of frustration and despair. “You don’t know how profoundly I wish I had heard someone else come in that night. But the truth is, we heard absolutely nothing.”

  “Perhaps you were too absorbed in your assignation to notice,” Robert put in.

  Peter's face flushed. “I don’t want to appear ungrateful, Mr. Campbell, but I can’t allow you to malign Mrs. Hanaford like that. It's true I shouldn’t have been in her room, but I assure you my motives were honorable. I was concerned about her safety and was determined to have it out with Hanaford once and for all.”

  “Thus provoking a scene that got out of hand,” Robert retorted.

  “No! By the time I convinced Annjenett—Mrs. Hanaford— that the only way to end her husband's brutality was to go down

  and confront him, he was already dead. Quite horribly so. I tried to keep her out of the room, but she pushed passed me. Seeing her husband like that was a terrible shock, as you can imagine. I’m afraid I was forced to put my hand over her mouth to keep her from crying out. Even in those first few moments, I realized the precariousness of our position. At all costs, we must not be found in the room with that body.”

  “So, you took some odds and ends to make it look like a robbery and fled, leaving the woman you profess to love to face the police on her own.” Robert made no effort to hide his disgust.

  “You make me sound like a cad,” Fowler shot back. “It wasn’t like that at all. How would it have looked if I’d been found there? We would have handed the police a ready-made motive for murder. Our only hope was to make it seem as if she’d been alone all evening. Fortunately, none of the servants saw me arrive.”

  “No, but a neighbor did,” Robert pointed out.

  “Yes,” Peter said soberly. “Now my worst fears have been realized. They think we killed Hanaford so Annjenett would be free to marry me. And I’m stuck in this place, powerless to clear either one of us.”

  “It might help if you could account for your actions the night you were arrested,” I told him.

  Peter looked confused. “The night I was arrested? What can that have to do with Hanaford's death?”

  “Last Saturday night, or early Sunday morning, a man by the name of Rufus Mills was murdered,” I told him. “His body was discovered in one of Chinatown's back alleys.”

  Peter gave a nervous start and came halfway up from his cot. His face grew so pale I feared he was il
l.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, sinking back down and belatedly attempting to make light of his reaction. “I don’t know what came over me.”

  “The victim's name seems familiar to you,” I observed. “I take it you knew Mr. Mills?”

  The actor met my gaze, then looked silently at Robert.

  “Come on, man, you might as well tell us the truth,” Robert said. “Lying will only make matters worse.”

  With a despairing look, he dropped his head. “I didn’t actually know Mr. Mills. Actually, I met him only once, when I was a young boy. He was—that is, he’d been a friend of my mother's.”

  “Hemusthavebeenabloodygoodfriendtowarrantthatkind of reaction,” said Campbell. “You should have seen your face, man.”

  “At one time I believe they knew each other quite well,” the actor answered. “But that was a long time ago.”

  “I see.” Of course I didn’t see at all. At least not the part of the story Peter seemed unwilling to confide. Foolish man. How were we to help him if he insisted on playing these ridiculous games? “That was the night Mrs. Hanaford was arrested for her husband's murder. You, on the other hand, weren’t taken in until several hours later. Where did you go that night after you left the theater?”

  Peter's face showed honest bewilderment. If he was lying, I decided, he was a very good actor indeed.

  “What possible difference does it make where I went?”

  “Hanaford and Mills's deaths are nearly identical,” Robert told him. “They were both stabbed to death in the—” He hesitated. “In the, er, same anatomical area.”

  “Our fear is that the police will eventually connect the two crimes,” I broke in. “Especially since they’ve found no other likely suspects.”

  “But that makes no sense,” Peter exclaimed. “Why in god's name would I kill a man I hardly knew?”

  “That's what we’re here to find out,” Robert told him.

  “If you can account for your actions that night, then Mills's death need no longer concern us,” I pointed out.

  Peter shook his head. “I—I’m not sure,” he said vaguely. Sometimes I feel the need to unwind after a performance. That night I seem to recall going for a walk before returning to my room.”

  “For three hours?” Robert didn’t bother to hide his skepticism. “The police waited at your boardinghouse until two in the morning, man. That was a very long walk.”

  Peter stared at Robert. Even he must realize how feeble this sounded. For all his acting skills, he was a poor liar.

  “I was upset. About Ann—Mrs. Hanaford.” Despite the cell's frosty temperature, the man's face was wet with perspiration. “The police wasted no time portraying our relationship as something sordid and cheap. I needed time to sort things out. I paid no attention to the time. I just kept walking.”

  For a moment, no one spoke, but Robert's expression left no doubt what he thought of the actor's story. “You’d better hope the police don’t connect the two murders, Fowler. If they do, your story won’t hold up for two minutes.” He looked at me in exasperation. “We can learn nothing more from this man if he refuses to tell us the truth.”

  “One minute,” I said, making one last attempt to get at the real story. “Did you meet anyone during the course of this walk? Someone who could corroborate your story?”

  “No,” he answered. “At least I don’t think so. It was dark and very late. As I say, I was lost in my thoughts.”

  “Of all the fool nonsense—”

  I rose to my feet, cutting off my colleague's diatribe. “Thank you for seeing us, Mr. Fowler. Mr. Campbell, would you call for the jailer?”

  Robert glowered, but turned to bang on the door and call out for the guard. After a moment, a burly man appeared and without a word let us out of Peter Fowler's cell.

  We’d barely taken a dozen steps before my companion erupted. “Of all the bald-faced liars, that man beats the Dutch! Make no mistake about it, Sarah, there's your murderer.”

  “Calm down,” I said perfunctorily. “I agree he's lying. Whether or not he's the killer remains to be seen.”

  “Confound it, woman, he had guilt written all over his face.” “Something was written on his face,” I admitted thoughtfully. “His reaction to the news of Mills's death was quite extraordinary. You’re right, Robert. That young man is clearly hiding something.”

  When we reached the bedraggled anteroom, I informed my testy associate that I planned to visit Annjenett before we took our leave of the jail. I wasn’t surprised when he insisted on accompanying me, but I was convinced she’d speak more freely if we were alone. I left him muttering something largely unrepeatable as I was led to Annjenett's cell.

  “Sarah, it's so good of you to come,” she exclaimed, rushing to take my hands. “The hours drag on interminably.”

  I could well imagine they did. Just the thought of being confined to such a place made my blood turn to ice.

  “I’ve been to see your Mr. Fowler,” I said, settling down beside her on the cot.

  Her strained face brightened. “Oh, Sarah, how is he? I’ve heard nothing of him since I entered this wretched cell.”

  “He's holding up well enough,” I told her, then paused. I had no wish to add to her worries, yet time was running out and the subject must be broached. “This may seem a strange question, but have you any idea where Peter may have gone after his performance at the California Theater last Saturday night?”

  Annjenett looked surprise. “Saturday night? You mean the night I was arrested? Surely that's no mystery. Peter himself was arrested shortly after he left the theater.”

  “Actually, he wasn’t apprehended until several hours later. We need to establish where he went during the intervening time.”

  The small crease between her eyes deepened. “I’m sorry, Sarah, but I don’t understand why that should be important.”

  I sighed. It seemed I had no choice but to tell her the whole story after all. “You’ve heard of Rufus Mills, the industrialist?”

  She nodded.

  “I’m afraid he was murdered that night—sometime after midnight.”

  The bewilderment I saw in her eyes had to be genuine. If, however unlikely, Peter Fowler turned out to be responsible for Mills's murder, I was convinced Annjenett hadn’t been involved.

  “Years ago Mr. Mills was my husband's partner,” she said, still looking perplexed. “I’m shocked to hear he's been killed. But what can it have to do with Peter?”

  “Unfortunately, the circumstances of the two deaths are nearly identical. As yet, no one has thought to connect the two murders, but we must be prepared in the likely event that they do.”

  What little color was left in her face drained and I feared she might faint. Then an angry flush appeared in each cheek.

  “That would be monstrous!” she cried indignantly. “Peter did not even know Mr. Mills.”

  “Can you be absolutely sure of that?” I laid my hand on her arm. “Think, Annjenett. You may be Peter's best hope. Have you any idea where he might have gone after the theater that night?”

  She wrung her hands in distress. “I can’t think of any errand

  that would keep him out that late. Unless—?” She seemed struck by a sudden idea.

  “What is it?” I urged.

  “It's probably nothing, but about a week ago when Peter and I were on our way to the theater, we stopped at a house in an unpleasant part of town. He said he was visiting a friend who was ill, an actor down on his luck. Because the house was so seedy, he insisted I wait in the carriage.” She looked hopeful. “Perhaps that's where he went, to visit his sick friend.”

  I thought this explanation unlikely. If Peter had gone to visit an ailing friend after Saturday night's performance, why not simply say so, instead of inventing that preposterous story of walking the streets half the night?

  “I’ll look into it,” I promised, hiding my skepticism. “I don’t suppose you remember the address?”

  “Actu
ally, I do. The numbers were faded, but I had little else to do but study the house while I waited for Peter.”

  I jotted down the address, then chatted for several minutes of more pleasant things. When it was time to leave, I promised to do everything possible to prove Peter had nothing to do with Rufus Mills's death. I only prayed it was a promise I could keep.

  Robert was pacing restlessly outside the cell block when I returned. “What have you been doing all this time?” he demanded.

  “If you feel restless and claustrophobic after thirty minutes,” I said, eyeing him reproachfully, “just imagine how that poor woman must feel locked inside that cell, day in and day out.”

  Although he guffawed and turned away, I could see that my

  words had found their mark. Unable to find a suitable retort, he predictably changed the subject.

  “We’ve wasted the entire morning on this fool's errand. I have to get to the office.”

  “Fine,” I replied, as we exited the bleak, ever damp building. “When you report back to Mr. Shepard, please don’t mention our visit with Peter Fowler. The fewer people who guess our suspicions, the better.” I turned and started walking toward the corner, where I hoped to find an unoccupied cab.

  “Wait!” With several long strides he caught up with me and took hold of my arm. “Where are you off to now?”

  “That needn’t concern you. I’ve taken up too much of your time already.” I tried to pull free of his grasp, but his hands seemed made of steel. “Release my arm at once!”

  He muttered something I didn’t catch, then let go his hold, if not his determination to get his way.

  “I don’t see why you can’t cease your infernal meddling for one day. This morning's interview with Fowler proves we needn’t look any farther than that jail cell to find Hanaford's, and possibly Rufus Mills's, murderer. It's past time I attended to the stack of work piling up on my desk.”

  “Attend to it then, by all means,” I replied tersely.