The Russian Hill Murders Read online

  “I’m doing all I can, Mr. Godfrey.” My brother’s kind eyes were reassuring. “The medicine should relieve the pain and ease her breathing.”

  After what seemed an eternity but was probably no more than a few moments, Pierce returned with a small apothecary box. Leonard extracted a tiny white pill and placed it beneath his wife’s tongue. We all watched in anxious silence as color gradually returned to her face and her breathing became less arduous. As the pain slowly receded, she again tried to sit up.

  “Lie back, Caroline,” Leonard told her. “You must give the medicine time to work.”

  “But dinner,” she protested.

  I was close enough to hear her husband’s soft curse as he reluctantly turned to his guests. “Will you all please go into the dining room? I’ll join you in a moment.”

  There was an awkward pause, as if, despite Godfrey’s admonition, no one was quite sure what to do. Clearing his throat, Reverend Prescott said, “We can best help Mrs. Godfrey by honoring her wishes.” Taking Mrs. Adelina French’s arm, he left the parlor. With anxious glances at their hostess, guests began following the minister into the dining room. Charles and the two Godfrey brothers remained hovering by the stricken woman’s side.

  “Who was that man waving his Bible at us?” I asked my father as our party joined the general exodus.

  “He’s some sort of religious fanatic,” Papa said grimly. “Evidently this isn’t the first time he’s badgered Mrs. Godfrey about the new hospital. He belongs to a Los Angeles sect that believes poverty and destitution are the result of God’s punishment, especially when it comes to unwed mothers.”

  I was speechless. I trust I’m a faithful Christian, but I have no patience for those who use the Bible to promote their own bigoted ideology. My indignation must have been obvious, because Reverend Prescott quickly said.

  “Let us pray that Mrs. Godfrey soon recovers, Miss Woolson. At the moment, that is our primary concern.”

  “Amen,” Mama and Celia heartily agreed.

  Papa and I seconded the prayer, although privately I felt nothing but contempt toward the hypocrite who had triggered the poor woman’s attack.

  Most of the other guests had taken their seats by the time we entered the dining room, and I was shown to my place by one of the footmen. The long refectory table was easily large enough to accommodate the thirty or so diners and was laid with ornate china, wine glasses and heavily carved silver. Floral arrangements and dozens of flickering candles completed the elaborate setting. The soup course had already been served, and I sensed the butler’s growing distress as he watched it grow cold.

  Those of us seated at the table were hardly less edgy than the servants. A sober-looking Lucius Arlen sat to my right. Next to him, my mother was talking to Judge Barlow. Catty-corner across the table, Margaret Barlow and her mother chatted with Reverend Prescott, who sat between them. There were two unoccupied seats at the table, presumably for my brother Charles and Pierce Godfrey, as well as our hosts’ places at either end of the table.

  I’m sure I wasn’t the only one who felt like an unwilling witness to what surely should have been a family matter. I couldn’t understand why we hadn’t simply been sent home. Sitting here with our hostess lying ill only a few rooms away seemed tasteless in the extreme.

  The footmen had begun pouring wine when conversation abruptly ceased, and I glanced up to see an unhappy Leonard Godfrey lead his wife into the dining room. Mrs. Godfrey looked drawn and pale, but overall she seemed much improved. She smiled gamely as her husband escorted her to the head of the table. But when he continued to hover behind her chair, she waved an impatient hand, indicating that he should take his own place.

  “I want to apologize,” she said in a surprisingly steady voice. “Not only for that appalling man who forced his way into our home, but for my brief indisposition. As you can see, I am quite recovered.” As if to demonstrate this, she picked up her spoon and began eating her soup.

  I watched my fellow diners react to her words with a mixture of relief and lingering concern. I doubt anyone was foolish enough to believe her attack hadn’t been a good deal more serious than she claimed. Yet we could do little else but follow her example and try to behave as if nothing distressful had occurred.

  I had just taken a sip of wine when Charles and Pierce Godfrey slipped into their seats, the latter opposite me.

  “How is she?” I asked him as quietly as I could over the hum of dinner conversation.

  “Probably not as well as she’d have us believe. My brother urged her to rest in bed until she could be seen by her own doctor.” His expression grew grim. “But Caroline is a stubborn woman. She rarely allows anyone to tell her what to do.”

  His tone made me wonder if this statement had something to do with the tension I’d sensed between Pierce and his sister-in-law in the alcove.

  “Mr. Godfrey’s advice is sound,” I said, “but I can sympathize with his wife. She’s worked so hard for the new hospital, I’m sure she feels a responsibility to see the evening through.”

  “It’s a poor reason to risk another, perhaps more serious, attack.” He glanced at Caroline, his handsome face set in lines I couldn’t read. Was it anger, frustration, incredulity? Or again part of that strange drama I’d witnessed before dinner? When he turned back to me, his face had softened into a smile. “I’m certain everything will be fine. Caroline has a way of coming out on top. Or perhaps she’s just blessed with incredibly good luck.”

  Having no idea how to respond to this curious statement, I bent my head to my dinner. I’m sure the food was superb, but I tasted little of it.

  “—I would be pleased if you would accept.”

  “I’m sorry, what did you say?” I looked up to find Pierce Godfrey regarding me with an odd expression. Perhaps it was the way the candlelight cast his face into sharp contrasts of light and shadow, but I had the bizarre impression of a buccaneer standing at the helm of his frigate.

  “I asked if you would do me the honor of dining with me tomorrow evening,” he repeated.

  I didn’t immediately reply to this unexpected invitation. Over the past few months I’d had to deal with far too many assertive men at the law firm to add yet another example of the species to my social life.

  “I fear I’m busy tomorrow night,” I said, buttering a roll. “But thank you for asking.”

  “That’s unfortunate.” Pierce’s dark blue eyes studied my face, leaving me with the irrational feeling that he easily read my lie. “Perhaps some other night, then?”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I’ll be busy all week.”

  “Ah, I’d forgotten. Your work must be demanding. Perhaps you’re involved in another intriguing case?”

  Inadvertently, he’d touched on a sensitive nerve and I stiffened. What I wouldn’t have given to be involved in any case right now, much less an intriguing one. Unfortunately, Joseph Shepard, the senior partner at the firm, considered women attorneys incapable of performing any task more mentally stimulating than washing the dishes.

  “I find all legal work interesting, Mr. Godfrey.” That part, at least, was true. This was hardly the time in which—and Pierce Godfrey was certainly not the person in whom—to confide the anger and frustration I felt toward my employer and his male cronies. “It takes up a great deal of my—”

  I broke off as a chair suddenly crashed to the floor. All eyes flew to Mrs. Godfrey, who half-stood at the end of the table. Her face was flushed, and her fingers were pressed to her temples as if she was in terrible pain.

  “My head!” she cried hoarsely.

  Her husband and Charles rushed to her side, easing her back into the chair, which someone had righted. Leonard pulled the apothecary box from his pocket and spilled out pills. The poor woman was trembling so violently, it was several moments before he could place one beneath her tongue. Obviously in mortal distress, she clutched helplessly at her bodice as she struggled for air.

  “Do something!” Leonard shouted a
t Charles.

  My brother was already doing everything he could, aided by Reverend Prescott, who had rushed forward to help. In an effort to ease her breathing, they’d begun to loosen the tiny pearl buttons at the back of her gown. Before they’d managed more than one or two, she bent double and began to vomit. Someone grabbed a serviette to dab at her face, but the gesture only spread the mess down her gown.

  “Caroline,” Leonard cried helplessly. “For God’s sake, help her!”

  Caroline’s lips were moving, but no sound issued from her throat. The flush drained from her face as her body was struck by another spasm, and her skin once again turned a ghastly blue. Then, as she drew in a rattling breath, her irises rolled up into her head until they showed only white, and she sank limply onto the floor.

  Charles knelt and cradled her head, at the same time attempting to place another pill beneath her tongue. It was no use; Caroline Godfrey was beyond help. Nicholas Prescott dropped down beside Charles, bowing his head in silent prayer.

  Someone cried out behind me, and several women began to weep hysterically. Leonard stared at his wife, his face white with shock and disbelief. Charles raised the woman’s limp arm and felt her wrist for what seemed like an eon. Then, with a sigh, he gently closed her eyes.

  “Is she—?” Leonard stammered. “That is, she can’t be—”

  Charles gave the distraught husband a regretful nod. “I’m truly sorry, Mr. Godfrey, but I’m afraid your wife is dead.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  I did not sleep well that night and arrived at the law firm later than usual the next morning. Going directly to my office—if one could dignify a space hardly larger than a broom closet with this appellation—I removed my hat and coat and gathered up the stack of research papers I’d completed the previous Friday. With any luck, perhaps I’d be able to deliver the files before I was seen by one of the partners and banished to the firm’s library or, infinitely worse, forced to face the odious machine that had, over the past few weeks, become my nemesis.

  It was called the Caligraph, or typebar typewriter, an insidious device clearly invented by a fiend. The contraption had just come onto the market the previous year, the second machine of its kind to be let loose upon an unsuspecting public. For reasons that defy comprehension, Joseph Shepard had purchased one.

  For the past three months it had sat upon my desk, an ungainly tribute to man’s inhumanity to man. I had poked, prodded, coaxed and even shed tears in a mostly futile attempt to get the accursed thing to do my bidding. As far as I could see, the Caligraph had not been designed to accommodate any fingers designed by God. Mine certainly refused to cooperate. Every time I placed them on the keyboard they seemed to balloon to twice their normal size, usually striking two keys instead of the one I’d intended.

  Covering this instrument of torture, I embarked on my appointed rounds. Thankfully, I was able to complete them without incident. The last file was promised to Robert Campbell who, like myself, was an associate attorney at the firm. I found him surrounded by books and a blizzard of papers. How he could think, much less accomplish any real work, in such disarray never failed to amaze me.

  “So, there you are,” he said, as usual not bothering with social niceties. “I expected this file an hour ago.”

  This morning, Robert wore a dull brown morning coat with a starched white wing collar and tan flannel trousers. The customary pencil perched behind his ear, and his orange hair flew about his craggy face as if he’d been caught in a windstorm. At six feet, four inches tall, and with muscles no suit could contain, he resembled a grizzly bear who had somehow landed himself inside a fishbowl.

  “Where have you been all morning?” he went on, his Scottish rs rolling along in good form.

  I ignored his poor manners. Criticizing Robert’s rudeness would be like trying to stop a terrier from burying a bone.

  “You have a nerve complaining. Especially as you weren’t the one forced to plow through dozens of legal tomes to unearth this information.”

  “Ah, yes,” he said, his tone almost, but not quite, apologetic. “I, er—it was good of you.”

  “Don’t mention it,” I retorted dryly. “I’ll try to get to that probate case you’re working on this afternoon.”

  He looked sheepish, and I saw that my earlier barb had found its mark. “No need to do that, Sarah. I’ll, ah, try to find time myself this afternoon.”

  “That’s up to you. From what I’ve gleaned so far, the case seems pretty straightforward.”

  As I turned to leave, he waved a newspaper at me. “Have you read this morning’s Examiner?”

  “No. Why?”

  “You’re in it. Or, rather, your family is. Your brother Charles is quoted on the front page.”

  I remembered the newspaper reporter who’d cornered Charles for a statement as we’d left the Godfrey house. My brother Samuel—who, unknown to our family, has published a number of newspaper articles under the nom de plume Ian Fearless—is fond of saying reporters will go to any lengths for a story. Including, it seems, standing for hours in the fog on the off chance of obtaining an interview.

  I removed a stack of books from the room’s only other chair, sat down and started to read. The headline announced the untimely death of one of San Francisco’s foremost society matrons, then went on to list her charitable works, including her recent establishment of the Women and Children’s Hospital. The last paragraph named some of her dinner guests, including Judge Horace Woolson and his family, then concluded with an interview with Mrs. Godfrey’s attending physician, namely my brother Charles.

  “It says she died of a heart attack,” commented Robert.

  I looked up from the paper. “Yes, she suffered from angina. Charles suggested the Godfreys’ regular physician order an autopsy, though.”

  “Whatever for?”

  “He seems to feel that Mrs. Godfrey’s symptoms weren’t entirely compatible with coronary artery disease. He thought an autopsy would lay to rest any lingering doubts about the cause of death.”

  Robert snorted. “Unbelievable. Absolutely unbelievable. It must run in the family.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means you’re not the only Woolson cursed with an overactive imagination. First you, then your brother Samuel, and now Charles. You just said the woman suffered from angina. Why look for mystery where none exists?”

  “Unless you’ve suddenly become an expert on heart disease,” I said acerbically, “I suggest you keep your opinions to yourself.”

  With that I stood and left his cubicle. As I crossed the clerks’ antechamber, a nervous-looking woman with three small children in tow entered the office. She wore a worn but neatly pressed day dress and a straw hat decorated with faded ribbons. Her hair was light brown, and several errant strands flew about her wan face. The two youngest children clung to her skirts, while the oldest child, a girl of about six, held tightly to her mother’s hand. From the bulge beneath the woman’s dress, it appeared another child was on the way.

  Hubert Perkins, the head clerk, gave the woman and her brood a disapproving look. “Do you have an appointment, madam?” he asked, not bothering to stand.

  “I would—” the woman’s eyes darted around the room. “That is, I’d like to speak to—”

  She faltered, the clerk’s surliness adding to her discomfort. I empathized with the poor soul. Hubert Perkins had treated me much the same the first day I’d entered these rooms. I knew all too well what it felt like to be judged and summarily dismissed as being of no consequence.

  I was about to walk over and rescue the poor woman when she looked up and saw me. Color flooded her pale face and her expression turned guardedly hopeful.

  “Are you Miss Woolson?” she asked.

  I was taken aback. To the best of my knowledge, I’d never met the woman. “I’m Sarah Woolson,” I said with a smile. “Is there something I can do for you?”

  “Rebecca Carpenter’s my friend,” she said.
“You helped her get some money—when she was hit by a carriage?”

  Ah, yes, Mrs. Carpenter. It was the first brief I’d drawn up for my new employer. “I remember the case very well, Mrs … . ?”

  “Mankin, miss, Lily Mankin.” She twisted the strap on her reticule. “My husband, Jack, was killed two weeks ago—in a fire at the contract shop where he worked.” She hesitated, and tears filled her eyes. “Three people got out. My Jack and four other poor souls didn’t. Only one door was open. The back door—” She swallowed with difficulty. “The back door was nailed shut.”

  “Nailed shut!” I exclaimed. Most sweatshops were little more than tinderboxes; they were always going up in flames, sometimes taking out whole blocks of similar buildings with them. When faced with such a common danger, why would anyone block off one of only two means of escape?

  Deciding the clerks’ chamber was not the place to discuss the matter, I suggested we go to my office. The woman gathered her children and followed me along the corridor to my office. There, I settled the widow in a chair and indicated another chair for the children. The two eldest, the six-year-old girl and her younger brother, obediently shared the seat, while I took the last chair behind my desk.

  “Please,” I asked. “Tell me what happened.”

  “Thieves broke the back door during a robbery,” she told me, settling the youngest child on her lap. “Instead of fixin’ the door, they nailed it shut.”

  Incensed at such callous disregard for the safety of one’s employees, I realized this sort of thing happened far too often in a world where the poor and disadvantaged were considered dispensable. When one sweatshop worker died, dozens more were waiting to take his place.

  “What is it you’d like me to do for you, Mrs. Mankin?”

  “I was hopin’ you could help me, like you did Mrs. Carpenter. I take in laundry and mendin’, but it’s not enough to pay my bills.” She rubbed a hand over her extended belly. “Soon I won’t even be able to do that.”

  “Have you spoken to your husband’s employer?”