Murder on Nob Hill Read online

I turned my back to him, well pleased to set off on my own. Flagging down an approaching brougham, I gave the man the address Annjenett had provided then took my seat inside the carriage. We had barely started when the cab suddenly jerked to a stop and my watchdog clamored aboard, dropping into the seat next to mine.

  “You must be very determined to earn Shepard's carrot to neglect all that important work piling up on your desk,” I remarked,

  freeing the edge of my skirt, which had become entangled beneath his boot.

  His only answer was a disdainful grunt. For the rest of the brief ride, he sullenly kept his head turned away from me and stared fixedly out the window.

  The house I sought was located in the Barbary Coast district. I’d heard unsavory stories about the city's infamous waterfront, but since no self-respecting San Franciscan would venture onto those vice-ridden streets, I had no first-hand knowledge of the place. As our cab passed Powell Street, the neighborhood became increasingly rundown and dissolute. From the muttered comments of our driver, I knew he was as unhappy with our destination as my silent companion, whose grumbling increased with every street.

  “Where are we going?” he demanded, curiosity at last getting the better of his ill temper.

  “We’re going to attempt to discover Peter Fowler's whereabouts the night of Rufus Mills's death.”

  “We already know where he was. In Chinatown—committing a—”

  “It was your idea to tag along,” I interrupted sharply. “The least you can do is make an effort to keep an open mind.”

  Robert's answer to this sensible suggestion was to turn away with a rude grunt and continue his vigil out the carriage window. The neighborhood was becoming more rundown by the block. We passed cheap hotels, pawn shops, saloons, dance halls and frame houses, the red lights outside their doors blatantly advertising their sordid trade. At this hour the streets were all but deserted, the inhabitants too weary, or too hung over, to be up and about.

  “You can’t mean to stop here!” exclaimed Robert as our cab halted in front of a dilapidated house close to the waterfront. The sign in front boldly featured a large rooster with a red light for a beak. “This is a broth—that is to say, it's a—”

  “I know what it is,” I broke in. To be honest, I found the neighborhood, and this house, as off-putting as my disgruntled companion. I checked the address Annjenett had given me. There was no mistake, at least on my part. I was, however, beginning to question the accuracy of my client's memory.

  “Sarah, I demand you tell me why we’ve come to this place.”

  Briefly I related my conversation with Annjenett. His reaction didn’t surprise me, since it so closely mirrored my own.

  “She must be mistaken. Even an actor wouldn’t stoop so low as to bring a respectable woman to a place like this.”

  My sentiments exactly, although I didn’t say so. Distasteful as it was, we had little choice but to give the place a try.

  Gathering my skirts, and my nerve, I stepped down from the carriage. Grumbling, Robert followed. We asked our nervous driver to wait, then walked to the front door where I rang the rusty bell. When there was no response, Robert pounded his fist on the splintering wood. This time I heard the sounds of approaching footsteps and in a moment the door was flung open by a tired-looking woman dressed in a faded robe, her hard, pinched face framed by a mop of unkempt gray hair. I suspected we had awakened her, since her pale eyes were puffy and rimmed with red. She stared myopically at us, making no effort to hide her annoyance.

  “Whatcher want?” she barked. “We don’t open till three.”

  I felt Robert stiffen beside me, but I gave the woman my brightest smile. “We’re looking for a Mr. Peter Fowler. We were told he might be here.”

  “Well, you was told wrong,” she snapped. “The old woman's

  asleep. No need for him to be here when she ain’t kickin’ up a fuss, is there?”

  She started to slam the door, but I pressed inside. I heard Robert step in behind me, but kept my eyes fixed on the woman.

  “Would it be possible for us to see her?” I improvised. “The old woman, I mean. I’m sure it would mean a great deal to Mr. Fowler.” This was a stab in the dark, but apparently the woman saw nothing unusual in my request.

  “Just told ya she's sleepin’, didn’t I? If you think I’m gonna wake her up, yer crazier than you look.”

  Holding tightly to my smile, I ignored the insult. “There's no need to awaken her. If we could just take a peek.”

  Before she could answer, I heard shuffling footsteps in the hallway behind her. Through the dim light, I could make out an elderly, painfully thin woman, a shabby gray shawl draped over her nightdress. The old woman's face was ravaged by age and intemperance, but her wide-set eyes and finely chiseled bones attested to the fact that she’d once been a beauty. She hobbled closer to stare at us in obvious agitation.

  “Is it Peter, Bertha? Has he come to get me?”

  The woman at the door glared at us. “Now look what you’ve gone and done. I won’t have any peace now for the rest of the day.” Angrily, she snapped at the old lady, “Just a couple of busybodies, Mrs. Gooding. No need to go gettin’ yerself upset.”

  Ignoring her, the old woman continued toward the door. Bertha, if that was her name, hastened to intercept her, taking Mrs. Gooding's arm and trying to pull her back down the hall. The old woman must have been stronger than she appeared, for despite Bertha's bullying efforts, she refused to budge.

  “Why isn’t my Peter here?” she demanded, beginning to cry. “Why doesn’t he come to take me home?”

  “For god's sake, quit yer whining,” Bertha ordered, giving the old woman a shake. “Yer gonna wake the whole house.”

  “I need my medicine, Bertha,” the old woman whimpered. “Please, can I have my bottle now?”

  “Get back to bed and I’ll bring it to ya. Just be quiet.” Bertha shot us a sharp look. “You two, get yerselves out of here before she takes one of her turns and I have to send for her son. He's the only one can quiet her down when she gets like that.”

  With a final glare, Bertha led Mrs. Gooding away. Robert touched my arm and I allowed him to lead me outside. Neither of us spoke until we were back inside the carriage and the driver was urging his horse out of the Barbary Coast with jarring alacrity.

  “Fowler told us he was an orphan,” Robert said, breaking the silence that had fallen upon us since leaving the Red Rooster. “Yet another of his lies. I’m beginning to think the man is incapable of telling the truth.”

  “Why lie about such a thing?” I mused aloud. Then suddenly I remembered something Papa told me and it brought me up short. It was an improbable notion. Still, if it were true, it would explain a good deal. “Yes,” I added more to myself than to Robert. “He’d be about the right age. I wonder—”

  “You wonder what? Drat it, woman, stop manufacturing mysteries and tell me what's going on in that overwrought brain of yours.”

  But I wasn’t ready to share what might, after all, turn out to be just wild speculation. “It's nothing,” I said, making a show of rubbing my brow. “I’d hoped to return to the office, but I’ve developed a headache. I think I’ll go home instead.”

  It was amusing to watch Robert try to hide his pleasure at this announcement. Of course I’d counted on his desire to be released from his nursemaid chores. Conscience clear, he’d be free to bury

  himself in his lair of an office, while I went about my business unfettered. To my annoyance, he insisted on depositing me at my home on Rincon Hill before instructing the brougham to take him to Clay and Kearny Streets. Oh, well, I told myself, it was a small price to pay to be rid of him, and I was soon ensconced in a horse-car and on my way to the Morning Call. There, I hoped to either prove or disprove my theory.

  Largely because of Papa's excellent recollection of the scandal, the job proved easier than I expected. And what a scandal it had been! At the time it happened, it had filled several front-page paragraphs every
day for more than a week.

  The year had been 1863. Rufus Mills, who’d returned from the silver mines a wealthy man, was making a name for himself in San Francisco industry. After establishing his first iron works factory, he had expanded into tool and machinery production, and finally into shipbuilding. His businesses and personal wealth grew exponentially. That year, he married Regina Olmsted, the heiress and only child of Herman Olmsted, the shipping magnate. The match not only doubled Mills's holdings, it solidified his standing in Society. Life had become very good indeed for a young man with little education and even more limited prospects.

  It must have been a shock when, shortly after his marriage, a woman appeared on Mills's doorstep claiming he was the father of her eleven-year-old son. Mills flatly denied the allegation and sent the woman and her boy packing. That seemed to be the end of the matter until a reporter got wind of the story. Hoping, no doubt, to shame Mills into acknowledging his paternity—and understandably angered by his cavalier treatment—the woman was induced to tell all. The affair quickly became the scandal of the year.

  Aided by the newspaper, the woman took Mills to court. Unfortunately, she could present no proof of her allegations and the

  trial was over in three short days. Despite the sympathy the newspaper stories generated for the woman, the judge ruled in Mills's favor. Eventually the furor, and the woman, faded from public memory, and in time took its place among San Francisco's scandalous tales of betrayal and misspent passion. The name of the woman who’d challenged one of the city's wealthiest and most powerful men was Jessie Gooding. Her young son was called Peter!

  I sat for a long time staring at the articles. Any satisfaction I might have derived from confirming my theory was offset by the grim implications of the affair, not only for Peter, but for my client. Had Robert been right all along? Was it possible the actor had murdered not only Cornelius Hanaford, but also the man accused of being his father?YetifhedidkillMills,whathadhehopedtogainfromhis death? Surely not money, since the industrialist vehemently denied his paternity. Had Peter been so angered by Mills's shabby treatment of his mother seventeen years earlier that he had sought revenge? Is that why he had created a new name and identity? Had it all been a plantogetbackatthemanwhohadruinedhismother'slife?

  The whole business was maddening. The harder I worked to prove my client's innocence, the more reasons I found to support her guilt, or at least her association with the probable murderer. I wondered if Annjenett knew Peter believed he was Mills's son, then decided her reaction to the man's death had been too convincing to be faked. No, I was sure she was unaware of her paramour's connection to Mills. Unfortunately, my beliefs were inadmissible in court. I had to find proof. And soon!

  I decided to take advantage of Robert's absence by running one last errand before returning home to prepare for that night's adventure. While it probably would have been foolhardy to visit the Barbary Coast alone, my next destination required no such precaution. It was, in fact, an interview best conducted on my own.

  As I settled back in my seat for the brief ride to Nob Hill, I couldn’t help but contrast the sordid district Robert and I had visited just hours earlier with the one I was entering now. Once again I was reminded of the wide chasm separating the “haves” from the “have nots” in the greatest city west of the Mississippi. Yet I must be honest. Social conscience aside, it was a relief not to have to hold my breath against the foul stench that permeated the waterfront, nor, despite Robert's presence, have to fear for my safety.

  Rufus Mills's three-story, castellated house—located only two blocks from the Hanaford estate—resembled nothing so much as a towering mausoleum. It stood in stark silence on its hilltop perch, while afternoon fog from the Bay formed a swirling moat to mask its black-draped windows. A solemn footman wearing a black band on his arm answered my discreet knock. I presented my card, informing him in hushed tones that I had come to pay my condolences to Mrs. Mills. The footman politely led me into a sitting room and bade me wait while he inquired if his mistress was at home to visitors.

  I passed the time examining family photographs and an array of bric-a-brac that seemed to cover every inch of flat surface. Heavy drapes blocked any light that might have found its way in from outside, and the fire blazing in the hearth merely added to the claustrophobic atmosphere. After a few minutes, I was far too warm for comfort and, without asking leave, threw open the sitting room door and relished the cool air that swept in from the hallway. It is my opinion that keeping rooms too hot is unhealthy; it weakens the constitution and makes one susceptible to illness. If I must be kept waiting half an hour, I thought self-righteously, I shouldn’t be required to do so in an oven!

  My indignation dissolved the moment the widow entered the room. Regina Mills was a small, plump, garrulous woman in her

  mid-forties, whom I knew from our work together for several charities. Today, dressed in a black faille mourning gown, unrelieved in its austerity except by a gold engraved mourning broach pinned to herbodice, sheseemedapaleshadowof her former self. Her skin was pasty looking and drawn, and several strands of graying hair had broken free of the circle of black lace that crowned her head. Her brown eyes were puffy and red from crying and she appeared dazed, as if she hadn’t yet absorbed the full extent of her loss.

  Besides her obvious grief, however, I sensed another emotion not as easy to identify. Then, with a start, I realized it was shame. Of course, I thought, the shocking circumstances of her husband's death would, however unjustly, render his widow a social leper. Decent people didn’t get themselves killed in Chinatown, Society would reason. There was undoubtedly as much speculation about what Mills was doing in such a place, as to who had wielded the knife that had ended his life. How many friends had visited to pay their respects, I wondered? Probably not many. The death of a spouse would be hard enough to bear, I thought, without being ostracized by one's supposed friends.

  “Mrs. Mills,” I said sincerely. “I’m so sorry for your loss.”

  “That's kind of you, Miss Woolson.” With almost pathetic eagerness she bade me be seated. The normally gregarious woman must be aching for someone to whom she could pour out her confusion and grief. “My family is in New York,” she went on. “It has made matters rather difficult. One feels quite alone.”

  As I asked if there was anything I could do to help, I felt a pang of guilt. It was unforgivable to pry, especially under the circumstances, but time didn’t permit a more socially acceptable approach.

  “This must be very hard for you,” I began sympathetically, then lied, “I heard that it was a robbery gone wrong.”

  The widow seemed taken aback by my bluntness, and I feared I

  had crossed a line even a woman as lonely as Mrs. Mills could not accept. After several uncomfortable moments, however, a spot of color appeared in each of her pale cheeks.

  “No, Miss Woolson, it was not robbery. This may shock you, but I almost wish it had been. Then, at least there would be an explanation why this terrible thing happened. I cannot imagine what Rufus was doing in such a dreadful place.” She wrung her plump hands in distress, then suddenly looked at me. “Why, I remember now. Rufus was to be with your brother that night. Some political gathering, I believe. He said it would just be a group of men and unsuitable for a woman.” The tears she’d been holding back with an effort began to flood her eyes, and she dabbed at them with a lace handkerchief. “If only I’d insisted on going with him, Rufus might still be alive.”

  I was surprised, not only that Mrs. Mills was speaking so freely, but also because of what her husband had told her. The night of Frederick's party, Mills had claimed his wife was unwell, had used this illness, in fact, as an excuse to leave early. Why had he lied? And why misrepresent the evening to his wife?

  “I’m sure you knew nothing about it, my dear,” she went on, sniffing back her tears. “It always amazes me how absorbed men become with politics. It all seems terribly confusing. I fear I wouldn’t know what to do if
I were called upon to vote. It's just as well such things are left to men.”

  I bit back the retort that sprang to my lips. I am sure there is no need to enlighten readers of this narrative concerning my views on women's suffrage. Arguing the case at this juncture, however, would not help me elicit the information I sought.

  “Did Mr. Mills often attend such meetings?” I asked innocently.

  She shook her head. “In the early years of our marriage, he was

  too preoccupied establishing his business to have time for that sort of thing. Of late, however—” She left the sentence unfinished.

  “Yes?” I said, urging her on while stilling my conscience at this blatant invasion of her privacy.

  She hesitated, and I read on her face the natural reluctance to discuss such a personal matter, especially with someone who could hardly be termed a close friend. I watched as loneliness warred with propriety. She gave me a wan smile. “You may think me fanciful, Miss Woolson, but, well, of late he seemed changed.”

  “Oh?” I gently prodded. “In a way to cause you concern?”

  She blinked back fresh tears. “Over the past year I came to fear for my husband's health. He lost a great deal of weight, you see, and had difficulty sleeping. He suffered severely from catarrh. He tried all the usual remedies, of course, but none offered any sustained relief. Gradually, he became withdrawn and moody but would not tell me why.”

  “Was it to do with his business?” I asked, trying to direct the conversation to her late husband's partners. “Perhaps he said something to Senator Broughton, or Benjamin Wylde, the attorney?”

  She considered this for a moment. “That's possible, I guess.” She sighed. “But even if they did know what was troubling him, I don’t suppose it matters now.”

  That remained to be seen, I thought, then said casually, “I had occasion to speak to Senator Broughton recently and was interested to learn that your husband and his mining partners signed a tontine agreement shortly after their return from Nevada.”