Death on Telegraph Hill Page 2

  Before Wilde could resume reading, there was yet another disturbance in the foyer, and an arrogant-looking man wearing a topcoat and bowler hat stepped into the room. I recognized him at once as Jonathan Aleric, a celebrity of sorts and owner and editor of the Bay Area Express, a recently established local newspaper.

  Despite his haughty demeanor, I thought Aleric to be a rather ordinary-looking individual: in his early forties, he was of average height and build, with graying hair, a large and rather untidy salt-and-pepper mustache, a pocked complexion, and washed-out blue eyes. Some twelve years earlier, Aleric had gained international fame by penning An Uncivil War, an immensely popular book describing General Grant’s 1863 march on Vicksburg. In mere weeks, the book had sold out across the nation—surprisingly, sales were brisk even in the South—casting Aleric as the defining voice of the horrendous War Between the States.

  In the years following the book’s publication, his devoted readers waited expectantly for more stirring words to issue from the great author’s pen. When none were forthcoming, Aleric’s name gradually faded but never disappeared completely from the literary scene. He was still regarded as one of the finest American writers of our time and gave occasional lectures on the war, and his craft, throughout the country. Two years ago he migrated to San Francisco, determined to reinvent himself in the field of journalism. According to Samuel, the relationship between Aleric and Mortimer Remy had been strained from the beginning, both professionally and personally. Over the past year, Aleric seemed to have made it his life’s purpose to put Remy’s newspaper out of business.

  Had that goal been his only sin, Remy probably would have been able to cope with it as one more example of journalistic rivalry in an extremely competitive town. But Aleric had not contented himself with stealing Remy’s readership; he had also stolen the affections of his lovely wife, dealing the southerner a devastating, and humbling, blow. When Remy’s wife succumbed to a lung disease just months after she had scandalously deserted her husband, a war hardly less intense than that between the states broke out between the two men.

  “Aleric!” Remy’s face had flushed red with fury. “Good God, man, have you no sense of decency? This is my home, and you most certainly were not invited!”

  Ignoring his host, Aleric stepped casually inside the parlor. His angular, sharp-featured face was creased in a self-satisfied smile, as if Remy’s reaction were everything he had hoped for.

  “I said what are you doing here?” Remy again demanded. His brown eyes bulged, and his hands were balled into fists. I honestly feared he might be angry enough to strike the interloper.

  “Calm down, Mortimer, you’ll do yourself an injury,” Aleric said calmly. If anything, his smile grew even more taunting. “I came to meet Mr. Wilde, of course. Isn’t that the purpose of tonight’s little get-together?”

  “You bast…” Remy stopped, fighting to collect himself. He glanced uncomfortably at Wilde, who was watching the episode with quiet amusement, then at his tense guests. He took one or two steadying breaths before continuing in a more composed voice. “As I said, you were not invited, Aleric. I will thank you to leave my home. At once, if you please.”

  Aleric laughed, dismissing Remy’s words with a careless wave of his hand. “Nonsense. I’m here to make Mr. Wilde’s acquaintance, and I shall not leave until I have done so.” He gave the Irish poet a little bow. “I was privileged to hear your lecture on art decoration at Pratt’s Hall last night, Mr. Wilde. It was truly inspirational. With you as their representative, the Aesthetic Movement cannot fail to be a grand success.”

  Wilde studied Aleric for a long moment and then nodded his coiffed head as if to an admiring subject.

  “That is kind of you to say, Mr.…?” He looked questioningly at his host. “Aleric, was it?” He paused a moment, then his lazy eyes suddenly brightened. “Jonathan Aleric! You are the author of An Uncivil War, are you not? I remember reading it as a young lad. A marvelous book. It was quite popular in Ireland after your War Between the States.”

  Aleric beamed. “How kind of you to say so, Mr. Wilde. I’m honored that you enjoyed my book.”

  Remy’s face had grown very red, and I saw his jaw muscles clench as he tried to regain control of the situation. “I apologize for this rude interruption, Mr. Wilde. I am sure Mr. Aleric will do the gentlemanly thing and retire, immediately, from my home.”

  “Come now, Mr. Remy,” Wilde protested. “Mr. Aleric is a noted author—indeed, a kindred spirit. And he has traveled all this way—” He fixed his gaze on the newcomer. “I assume you have come from some distance to see me, Mr. Aleric? The walk alone up all those stairs must, in any sane man’s opinion, constitute a journey of inestimable miles.”

  I truly feared our host might explode. He opened his mouth to speak, but Wilde cut him off. “After all, life is too important to be taken seriously, don’t you agree? For myself, I make it a point to avoid arguments; they are always vulgar and all too often convincing.”

  Wilde’s languid eyes turned to Remy, as if awaiting his agreement. Our host took another deep breath, but there was little he could do but accede to his guest’s wishes. He gave a curt nod of his head, then wordlessly motioned for his nemesis to take a seat. Several people moved aside so that the author could make his way to a vacant chair next to Tull O’Hara, but Aleric held up a hand as if to signify that he wished to cause no inconvenience. Instead, he settled in the seat Remy had occupied prior to his arrival.

  Our host’s face grew even darker, but after catching sight of Wilde’s obvious amusement, he placed a chair to Aleric’s left and sat down. Stone-faced, he indicated that Wilde should resume reading.

  “That is good of you, Mr. Remy,” Wilde said, once again picking up his book of poems. He gave a rueful smile. “Life is never fair, and perhaps it is a good thing for most of us that it is not.”

  The tension triggered by Aleric’s arrival never truly dissipated as the long evening marched drearily onward. Wilde continued to read, but I sensed a general unrest in the room as one desultory poem followed another. I enjoy good poetry, but these offerings were rather too morose for my taste.

  When at long last the Irishman brought his recitation to a close, there was polite applause and one or two thinly disguised sighs of relief, one of them coming from Claude Dunn’s expectant wife, Lucy. But it appeared that the poet was not yet finished, and to my dismay he went on to lecture us for another hour on the “house beautiful” and how his opinion of Americans as barbaric was reinforced each time he was introduced to yet another “ill-looking room in an ill-built house.”

  Finally, mercifully, he concluded his talk by instructing us on how to build and furnish houses that would “live in song and tradition, and delight the hearts of generations of aesthetes yet unborn.”

  This time, the applause was less enthusiastic. Even Mortimer Remy seemed visibly dismayed that Wilde had veered from his request to focus on his literary career. I must admit that I was more than ready to take my leave of the gathering and return home. I turned to say as much to Samuel but found him engaged in a heated conversation with Emmett Gardiner and Claude Dunn. Dunn’s wife, I noticed, remained in her seat, looking resigned and clearly exhausted.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Stephen Parke slip away to share a few words with the attractive Isabel Freiberg. It was a brief meeting, but it was clear from the way they looked at each other that I had correctly assessed their feelings. When the girl’s father pulled on his topcoat and made toward the door, the young couple quickly drew apart, Stephen looking flustered, the young woman’s face flushing a becoming pink. Taking her arm, the man nodded curtly at the writer, then led the girl none too gently out the door.

  Stephen watched the two make their way down the hill, then reluctantly turned back to the room. He and my brother spoke quietly for several moments, then Stephen paid his respects to our host. After bidding me farewell, he departed the cottage.

  As Samuel and I approached Remy to
say our own good-byes, we found that he had joined Emmett Gardiner and Jonathan Aleric, who were chatting with Oscar Wilde. Mrs. Montgomery sat in her wheelchair in front of the fireplace, speaking quietly to Claude Dunn. Looking toward his weary wife, he seemed to question something she had said. The elderly widow smiled at Lucy, then nodded her head at Dunn. I sincerely hoped she was suggesting that the man take his poor wife home and put her to bed!

  Unfortunately, that did not appear to be the case. Despite his earlier disparaging remarks, Dunn moved to join the others clustered about Wilde, followed a moment later by Mrs. Montgomery, wheeled there by her man, Bruno Studds. Clearly, the poet was in his element.

  Mortimer Remy, on the other hand, looked miserable. He was once again holding his swollen jaw, all the while darting hostile looks at Jonathan Aleric, who was chatting with the poet as if they were long-lost friends. Finally, he seemed unable to bear it any longer.

  “Come, everyone,” he said, forcing a painful smile. “Our guest has had a long journey, and I am sure that he is weary. We must allow him to return to his hotel.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Mortimer, the evening is still young,” Aleric put in with a patronizing smile. “Were you aware that Mr. Wilde plans to write a stage play? We were just discussing—”

  To my surprise, Mrs. Montgomery spoke up from her wheelchair. “Mortimer is quite right, Mr. Aleric. Mr. Wilde is obviously fatigued after entertaining us with his splendid poetry.” Before Aleric could object, she turned to the faithful man standing silently behind her chair. “It is a clear evening and the moon is out, but the path can be treacherous at night. Please light Mr. Remy’s guests down the steps, Bruno.”

  “I won’t hear of it, Mrs. Montgomery,” Remy protested. “Bruno must take you back up to your house. I will see my guests down the hill.”

  “Nonsense,” she replied, waving a dismissive hand. “You have put up a brave front all evening, Mortimer, but you are obviously suffering a toothache. Soak it in whiskey and get a good night’s sleep. That’s the ticket.”

  Remy looked at her in dismay. “But—”

  “I’ll hear no more argument.” She looked at Remy’s gruff typesetter, who was silently making his way toward the front door. “Your man O’Hara will take me home, will you not, Tull?”

  The crotchety man stared at the woman in sullen surprise. I feared he might be about to refuse when Remy sighed.

  “I suppose if Tull is willing…”

  “His willingness is neither here nor there,” the old woman said with acerbity. “He is your employee and naturally will be happy to accede to your wishes. In truth, it is past time we all made our way home.”

  Her tone was so resolute that even Oscar Wilde was forced to stop talking, appearing affronted that someone had had the effrontery to interrupt his discourse.

  “My dear madam, you speak of time,” he said in a droll voice, peering at her down his long nose. “As the brilliant Brendan Francis put it, ‘When you are deeply absorbed in what you are doing, time gives itself to you like a warm and willing lover.’”

  Mrs. Montgomery did not appear impressed. “I’m confident that even Mr. Francis eventually learned not to overstay his welcome, Mr. Wilde. It is a lesson worth cultivating.”

  Before the poet could object, the widow motioned for Studds to take up his lantern and lead the way out of the cottage. Mortimer Remy shrugged in resignation. No doubt his toothache was finally getting the better of him.

  Without further comment, Wilde donned his oversize fur-trimmed coat and followed Mrs. Montgomery’s man toward the door, Jonathan Aleric close upon his heels. After bidding our host a good evening, Samuel and I trailed the group out of the cottage, pausing a moment to wish Emmett Gardiner good night before he turned to walk to his own home.

  Studds led the way, lantern held above his head. Wilde and Aleric followed behind him, while Samuel and I brought up the rear. Mrs. Montgomery’s man was obviously familiar with the path, for he set a brisk pace.

  We had nearly reached the top of the Filbert Street Steps when Aleric lost his footing and started to fall. Samuel bent over and caught him by the arm. As I, too, stepped forward to lend a hand, the quiet night was shattered by a loud explosion.

  Time seemed to hang suspended as I looked around, searching for what had caused the boom. I heard my brother utter a single muffled gasp and turned to find him standing perfectly still beside me, his expression one of astonishment.

  Then, suddenly, his legs seemed to give way from beneath him. I watched in horror as, without another sound, he crumpled to the ground like a rag doll.

  CHAPTER TWO

  For a long, horrible moment I stood frozen, unable to move. I was in shock; I realized this even as a voice in my head shouted, For God’s sake, do something!

  Shaking myself out of this momentary paralysis, I knelt beside my brother, horrified to find blood flowing far too freely from beneath his topcoat. Adding to the nightmare, Aleric kept yelling that we were under attack, while Wilde wailed that the American West was as wild as he’d been warned.

  “Damn it all, be quiet!” I snapped, heedless of my language. “Your caterwauling isn’t helping my brother.”

  The men fell into stunned silence. As I tore apart my brother’s cravat and starched white shirt, I came upon a gaping wound just above his left breast. I am ashamed to admit that when I stared down at this sickening defilement to my brother’s body, I experienced a moment’s light-headedness. Closing my eyes, I took in a deep gulp of cold night air to clear my head, then ripped several strips of longcloth from my petticoats and bound each one as tightly as I dared around his chest. As I worked, I murmured soft words of reassurance, all the while praying that the bullet had not lodged near his heart.

  Once I had staunched Samuel’s bleeding as best I could, I attempted to minimize his shock by tucking my cape snugly about his body. Getting to my feet, I ordered Aleric and Studds to carry him as quickly, but gently, as possible down the hill. Without comment, the two men dutifully lifted my brother from the dirt, Studds hoisting him from beneath his shoulders, Aleric bearing his weight from the knees down.

  Despite my brother’s slender frame, it seemed to take the two men forever to navigate their way down the steep wooden stairs. I had grabbed hold of Studds’s lantern to light the way, but I was all too aware of how badly my feckless hand trembled as I held on to the handle. Behind me, I could hear Samuel’s ragged breathing and cringed every time he groaned in pain when one of the men tripped or fumbled to regain his grip. Bringing up the rear, Wilde continued to look over his shoulder, declaring that he was too young to meet a violent death in such a barbaric land.

  To my profound relief, the Irish poet managed to pull himself together by the time we reached the street, offering his waiting carriage to rush my brother to St. Mary’s Hospital. Adding to this act of chivalry, Wilde insisted on accompanying us. To my surprise, Jonathan Aleric also joined us in the carriage. After helping us lift Samuel into the cab, Bruno Studds closed the carriage door and without a backward glance made his way back up the stairs.

  The rest of the night passed in a terrifying blur. I’m sure we must have arrived at the hospital faster than it seemed at the time, but the bumps and jolts of the racing vehicle did nothing to ease my poor brother’s pain. I maintained a constant pressure on the wound, but the flow of blood continued to be alarming. Most frightening was the sight of his dear face appearing so deathly pale when it was caught in the spill of passing gaslights. I found myself counting each of his short, shallow breaths, as if by doing so I could ensure that they did not stop. I surely prayed more for his survival during that ride than I had prayed for anything in my entire twenty-eight years.

  Once we reached the hospital, Aleric and a somewhat clumsy Wilde managed to carry Samuel into the building, where he was hastily transported into the dark bowels of the building. I recall a feeling of profound relief to realize that the doctor on duty was a colleague of my brother Charles, although his pat
ience must have been sorely tested when I demanded to be allowed to accompany Samuel.

  In the end my objections were overridden, and I was forced to adjourn to a dreary room with few amenities, occupied by an elderly man dozing fitfully in one of the room’s half-dozen chairs. I had, of course, scribbled a quick note to my family alerting them of the attack on Samuel and sent it by way of Wilde and Aleric when they departed the hospital. I tried to ease my family’s fears by describing my brother’s condition as stable. There would be time enough to face the reality of his condition when Samuel was out of surgery. Even so, I worried that my mother would suffer one of her nervous attacks upon hearing that her youngest son had been shot.

  After I had discharged this duty, the minutes began to drag by, and the fear I had worked so hard to keep at bay returned with a vengeance. Now that there was nothing to do but wait, my entire body began to shake as though I had been immersed in a vat of icy water.

  Far too unsettled to even consider joining my snoring companion in one of the straight-backed chairs, I paced back and forth across the room. How serious was Samuel’s wound? I kept asking myself. How much blood had he lost? How close had the bullet come to his heart? Even if it had missed his heart, had it punctured other vital organs?

  With a pain so acute it felt like a knife piercing my chest, I could no longer avoid facing the unimaginable. What if Samuel’s wound proved fatal? Dear Lord, it wasn’t possible. It had all happened so quickly and without warning. Surely I would awaken to discover it had all been a terrible dream. My entire world could not be turned upside down in a single moment. Samuel was my best friend, an eager accomplice to all the mischief we’d gotten up to throughout our childhood. I wasn’t sure I could bear a world without him.

  As I continued my restless pacing, my fear gradually gave way to anger. Why would anyone do such a terrible thing? Who hated my brother enough to hide in the dark and deliberately shoot him? I was unaware that I had balled my hands into fists until my nails pressed into my palms with such fury that they broke the skin. Then and there I vowed that I would find my brother’s assassin and bring him to justice, no matter how long it took or how tedious the trail. In the heat of that moment, I had no thoughts of whether I could even succeed at such an undertaking. The idea of failure did not enter my mind!