Murder on Nob Hill Read online

  Which led me—however unwillingly—back to Annjenett and Peter. Although loath to admit it, I could imagine Fowler choosing to kill Hanaford in this manner because of the abuse Annjenett had suffered at his hands. Likewise, he might have felt Mills deserved the same fate because of the way he’d mistreated his mother.

  I leaned back in my chair, unhappy with where this was leading. Robert was right, the more evidence I uncovered, the more it seemed to seal Peter Fowler's fate. Was it possible Annjenett had been so deceived by the actor that she’d been willing to provide him with a false alibi the night of her husband's death? Had she really gone downstairs with him to confront Hanaford? Or had she stayed in her room while Peter faced her husband alone?

  I threw down my pen in disgust. Even to me this explanation seemed the most plausible. If I couldn’t be sure of my client's story, how in the world could I expect a jury to believe it?

  That evening, I remained in the parlor mulling over the case long after the rest of the family retired. I expected Samuel— who was again out with Hortense Weslyum—to be home soon. I kept telling myself that if we could only put our heads together, we might begin to make sense of this mess.

  I don’t know how long I’d been dozing in my chair when I was startled awake by a soft knock. Hurrying into the hall, I opened the front door a crack and was startled to find George Lewis, in full police uniform, standing on the stoop.

  “I beg your pardon, Miss Sarah,” he said, looking surprised to see me. “I saw the light in the window and thought Samuel might still be up.”

  Something about the man's manner alarmed me. I knew he would never call this late at night without serious provocation.

  “What is it, George? Has something happened to Mrs. Hana-ford?”

  “No,” he said quickly, sensing my distress. “It's Senator Broughton. He was attacked this evening—outside his club.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  I stared at George, too stunned to speak. Before I could gather my wits to ask what had happened, a carriage reined up on the street in front of us and Samuel alighted. Not surprisingly, he looked startled to see his friend and I conversing outside the front door.

  “George? What in god's name are you doing here at this hour?” he asked, taking the steps two at a time.

  Before George could answer, I motioned both men inside. This was hardly the place to conduct a conversation with a uniformed policeman, especially after midnight. Already several lights had been lit in adjoining houses. It would be the scandal of the neighborhood if curious eyes observed our incongruous little group from behind drawn shades. Leading the way into the parlor, I turned up the gaslight while Samuel stoked the dying embers in the hearth. When the fire crackled back to life, he threw on a fresh log and turned to George.

  “All right, man, out with it. What's happened?”

  George looked self-consciously from my brother to me, then with a slightly flushed face began the surprising narrative.

  “An elderly couple were walking their dog shortly after nine this evening, when they saw Broughton leave the Bohemian Club. He tried to hail a cab, but when none came by he started to walk. He’d taken no more than a few steps when a man jumped out of the shadows and began striking at him with a knife. When the couple shouted for help, the man ran away. Their cries probably saved his life. As it was, he suffered only minor cuts and bruises.”

  Samuel considered his friend for a moment, then said, “It must have been an attempted robbery.”

  “Not according to the senator,” George replied. He leaned forward, his boyish face earnest. “In fact—now here's the strange part—Broughton claims the attack was an accident.”

  “An accident?” I stared blankly at the young man. “But that's ridiculous!”

  “Yes, that's what I thought,” George agreed. “But the senator insists the man meant him no harm.”

  There being no rational response to such an irrational statement, the three of us sat for a time in silence. I was about to question George further, when the door suddenly opened to reveal Celia, dressed in a pale-colored dressing gown and carrying a lighted candle. Her eyes went from Samuel to me, then grew very wide at the sight of the uniformed policeman calmly sitting in our front parlor.

  “I heard voices,” she said in growing alarm. “Is something wrong?”

  I drew my sister-in-law into the room before she could rouse the rest of the house. Keeping my voice low, I introduced George, then briefly explained the reason for his visit.

  Celia put a small hand to her mouth to stifle a gasp. “But that's

  horrible! Was the senator seriously injured? Have they caught the assailant?”

  “The man's face was covered, Mrs. Woolson,” George told her, sounding a little abashed. “I fear we have little to go on.”

  Celia's face creased with concern. “It's a terrible thought, but do you think the attack on Senator Broughton can have anything to do with the murders? It seems, well, too much of a coincidence otherwise.”

  “I couldn’t agree more,” I said, looking pointedly at George.

  He shifted uneasily. “It won’t be the official police position, mind you, but yes, I’m beginning to think you may be right.”

  “If it is connected,” Celia said eagerly, “then surely the police will be forced to release Mrs. Hanaford and Mr. Fowler. They couldn’t have attacked the senator from their jail cells.”

  “I’m afraid it's not that simple,” George told her. “The prosecutor's put together a strong case against those two. It’ll take a lot to get him to change his mind. It doesn’t help that Senator Broughton insists tonight's attack was an accident.”

  “How can a knife attack be an accident?” I said in disdain. “I still don’t see why he’d make such a ludicrous statement. Unless—” I looked at George. “Is it possible Senator Broughton recognized his assailant and for some reason feels the need to protect him?”

  It was clear from George's face that this possibility hadn’t occurred to him. “The senator claims it happened too fast to get a good look at his attacker, which agrees with the witnesses’ account. According to them, the man wore a dark topcoat, and his hat was pulled down so low it was impossible to see his face.”

  A log fell in the fireplace. Samuel picked up a poker and prodded it back into place, then stood with his back to the hearth. “So, what now?”

  “I don’t think we have a choice,” I said matter-of-factly. “Since

  the authorities don’t see fit to investigate, we’ll have to do it ourselves.” Three sets of eyes watched as I reached for a notebook and pencil. On the first page I wrote: “To Discover.” “First,” I said, “we need to know where Benjamin Wylde was at the time of Senator Broughton's attack.”

  “Benjamin Wylde?” Celia looked bewildered. “What can he have to do with this?”

  George coughed discreetly while Samuel rolled his eyes. Ignoring them, I explained the partners’ tontine agreement, adding that the fund had by now grown into a very sizeable sum of money.

  “But surely you can’t suspect Mr. Wylde!” Celia exclaimed.

  “It's a possibility we must at least consider,” I said, daring my brother to contradict me. Samuel gave me one of his looks, but said nothing. “All right then. The second thing we have to determine is Mr. Wylde's financial situation.”

  “And just how do you propose to do that?” asked my brother, a challenging twinkle in his eye.

  I chewed thoughtfully on my pencil. “We can hardly ask Wylde to show us his books, so I guess I’m going to have to manage another look at his file.”

  Samuel snorted. “God help you if Shepard catches you pulling a fool stunt like that. You’re treading on thin ice as it is.”

  Celia was shaking her head doubtfully. “I just can’t imagine Mr. Wylde as a murderer.”

  “Unfortunately, money and influence do not render a man incapable of violence,” I told her grimly.

  Celia nodded, but I could see her misgivings mirrored in George
and Samuel's eyes. Clearly I was outnumbered.

  “All right,” I said with a sigh. “If Wylde can account for his time the night of either murder—or tonight when Senator Broughton was attacked—I’ll concede his probable innocence.

  There, I can’t speak fairer than that. But keep in mind he already lied about his whereabouts the night Mills was killed.”

  George and Celia looked at me in surprise, and I realized that only Samuel knew about my visit to Wylde's office. Deciding it would be foolish to hold anything back at this stage, I related everything I’d learned to date concerning the case, including Mills's opium addiction and my abduction by Li Ying. When I finished, Samuel was leaning back on the sofa, eyes closed, an enigmatic smile on his face. George and Celia were regarding me in openmouthed astonishment.

  “This must be held in the strictest confidence,” I told them. “Particularly by you, George. At least until we’ve had an opportunity to discover the truth. After that, you can take our findings to your superiors. Do you agree?” I stared hard at the young man until he reluctantly nodded.

  “If this comes out, I could lose my job,” he said unhappily. “But you’re right, Miss Sarah. If I went to them with a story like this, they’d not only deny it had anything to do with the case, they’d think I’d lost my mind in the bargain.”

  Celia, who’d been listening quietly, said, “I can’t stop thinking about Mrs. Hanaford. I don’t know how she manages to survive in that awful place. Thank goodness she has you, Sarah, or she’d have little reason for hope.” Her small jaw hardened. “I want to do all I can to help the poor woman. If I found myself in her place, I fear I wouldn’t be able to bear it.”

  “Adversity often brings out the best or the worst in us,” I told her gently. “Given the same situation, I’m sure you’d discover a reserve of strength you didn’t know you had.” Then, in an effort to mask how much Celia's sentiments had moved me, I went back to my list. “Now, how are we going to check on Wylde's whereabouts?”

  “If you’re really set on doing this, Sarah, I think we should hire

  a professional,” Samuel said. “Perhaps a man who's had experience on the force. George, you must know of someone.”

  George didn’t look hopeful. “Most of the private inquiry agents I know left the department under dubious circumstances. I wouldn’t trust them to find a wrench in a toolbox, or if they did, to keep it to themselves. The few who are reputable receive the bulk of their incomes performing work for local attorneys.”

  “Including Wylde?” asked Samuel.

  “Particularly Wylde,” George said. “I can’t think of anyone we could count on not to go to him and reveal what we’re doing.”

  “And be paid a handsome reward for his efforts,” Samuel added.

  “Exactly. As I said earlier, it appears we must do this on our own.” I turned to my brother. “Samuel, couldn’t you make inquiries about Wylde at your club? There's always the possibility he was seen by someone on the nights of the murders.”

  “I could try,” he said a bit doubtfully. “We share few mutual friends—and of course I don’t know which clubs he belongs to— but I’ll see what I can find out.”

  “Excellent.” I noted this on the paper. “Now, if we only had some way of asking a few discreet questions at his home.” I looked hopefully at George, whose eyes widened as he took my meaning.

  “Oh, no, Miss Sarah. It would be worth my job if I went around questioning people on my own. Especially a man like Mr. Wylde.” He reddened, as if afraid of being perceived a coward. “But I’ll see what I can find out at the station. Maybe it will occur to the lieutenant to question Mr. Wylde or his servants.”

  I thanked George but thought it unlikely anyone on the force would be brave enough to face the wrath of a man as powerful as Benjamin Wylde, especially when the attorney possessed the skill and wherewithal to press his grievances in court. Moreover, the

  police had no reason to question anyone else when they were convinced that the real killers were already in custody.

  “It's too bad we can’t plant someone in Wylde's household,” I mused, more to myself than to the others.

  Celia looked up. “Oh, but I think we already have someone there. If I’m not mistaken, one of Ina's sisters works for Mr. Wylde.”

  Celia was referring to our maid, Ina Corks, who came from a large Irish family. Most of her brothers worked in shipyards or on the docks. The majority of her sisters were, like herself, employed as domestics.

  “Of course we’d have to offer Ina a plausible reason for doing such a thing,” she went on. “We certainly can’t say we suspect Mr. Wylde of being a murderer.”

  “Good lord, no,” Samuel said, laughing. “She's a frightened little mouse as it is.”

  The four of us sat thinking for several moments, then I turned to Celia. “What if we told Ina that one of your friends was taken with a man she saw while riding in Golden Gate Park. From his description, you thought the man might be Wylde. But before you mention his name to your friend, you wondered if she’d make sure he was actually in town on the dates she saw him.” I looked around for a response. “Well, what do you think?”

  “It might work,” Samuel said thoughtfully.

  “That's a splendid idea,” pronounced Celia. “It's sure to appeal to Ina's sense of romance. If Mama-in-law can spare her, I’ll invite her to come along when I take the children to the park tomorrow. That way we can talk without being overheard.”

  “Excellent.” I jotted this down below Samuel's contribution.

  “Even if we establish that Wylde was in the city, we still won’t

  know if he went out on the nights in question, and if he did, where he went,” George put in. He looked at Celia. “Surely obtaining such personal information is asking too much of your maid's sister.”

  “Not if she's clever,” Celia told him. “Mind you, she couldn’t ask Mr. Wylde such questions. But if she's careful, she could query the other servants. Certainly the butler and Mr. Wylde's valet would know his movements on any given night, and perhaps one or two of the maids. There's a great deal of downstairs gossip in any household, Mr. Lewis. A resourceful girl can learn a great deal.”

  “Even if Wylde got word of the nosey maid,” I said as George continued to look doubtful, “he’d just think himself the target of a lovesick female. But chances are, he’ll hear nothing. He's probably as oblivious to the internal workings of his own house as Samuel is about his.”

  Samuel started to object but, glancing at my timepiece, I cut him off. “It's late. Unless there are any more suggestions, we’d better get to bed.” Actually, I wanted to break up our meeting before further objections could be raised. I needed no one to point out the flaws—as well as the risks—in our plan. On the other hand, no one had come up with a better strategy and Annjenett's trial would start in a matter of days. If we weren’t prepared to gamble now, it might soon be too late.

  A quarter of an hour later, lying beneath my quilt, I thought back to Celia's concerns about Annjenett. No clean sheets and soft blankets for my client, or the warmth of coals glowing cozily in the hearth. Did she despair of returning to her own home and enjoying the simple creature comforts, which like most of us, she’d always taken for granted? In the dead of night, did her jailers trouble

  themselves to speak encouraging words to allay her fears? Or did she lie in her cold cell feeling abandoned by the world?

  Despite the warm bedclothes tucked about my neck I shivered, not from the cold, but from fear. Celia said that Annjenett was fortunate to have me, that I might represent her only hope. But what if I failed in my quest to find the real murderer? What if, in the end, I was unable to set her free?

  In the dark loneliness of my bedchamber, it was a fear I could no longer keep at bay.

  The following morning I arrived at the office early, hoping to speak to Robert before Shepard and the other senior attorneys made an appearance. I was surprised to find him already ensconced behind the clu
ttered desk in his office.

  “Thanks to you I’m days behind in my work,” he grumbled, sweeping out a hand to indicate a pile of books and papers so high they nearly hid his disapproving face.

  “It wasn’t my idea that you follow me like a lost dog all over town.” Ignoring his mostly unprintable retort, I seated myself on the only other chair in the miniscule room and proceeded to tell him about the attack on Senator Broughton. When I finished, he looked at me with narrowed eyes.

  “Naturally, you think this has something to do with Mills and Hannaford's deaths.”

  “Of course they’re connected.” I regarded him in exasperation, then decided that, despite his obtuseness, I had no choice but to press on. “Look, Robert, I didn’t come here to argue. The fact is, I need your help.”

  He raised a suspicious brow. “To do what?”

  “I need information about Benjamin Wylde's financial situation.”

  I sat silently through the anticipated explosion. When Robert finally ran out of steam, I calmly continued, “Since Shepard has forbidden me to go into the file room, I thought you might look up the pertinent data for me.” I stared pointedly at his cluttered desk. “Surely some of these cases require you to access the files. It shouldn’t present a problem.”

  “Of course not. No problem at all. Other than the fact that I’d be fired on the spot if Shepard, or any of the partners, caught me giving you personal information from a client's file.”

  I noted the stubborn tilt of his square jaw and the disdainful glint of those penetrating eyes, then stood and straightened my skirt. “All right, have it your way. I’ll have to find a way to get the file myself. Shepard's in the office this morning and I’d hoped to avoid a possible confrontation. However, needs must.”

  “Oh, good lord!”

  He was out of his chair before I could reach the door. I gave a little gasp as he took hold of my arm, but I didn’t attempt to pull away. In truth, my threatened departure had been a bluff. I badly needed Robert's help. It would be far more difficult to carry out the mission on my own.