Death on Telegraph Hill Page 3

  With grim determination, I gathered myself together by the time my family arrived at the hospital. Papa pushed through the door first, hair still mussed from bed, brown eyes wide in alarm. My mother followed, her white face strained and taut with dread. My brother Charles, and his wife, Celia, entered last, their expressions equally anxious.

  “Sarah, what happened?” Mama said, rushing into the waiting room to grasp me in an almost suffocating embrace. “How is he?”

  The rest of my family quickly joined us. Taking a deep breath, I did my utmost to look more confident than I felt.

  “They took him into surgery nearly two hours ago,” I said. “As yet there’s been no news.”

  “Where was he wounded?” asked Charles before Mama could venture another question.

  “Just below his left shoulder,” I told him.

  “Shot,” Papa repeated slowly, as if trying to process such a preposterous idea. “Why would anybody shoot at Samuel?”

  “I have no idea, Papa,” I said bleakly. “It was so sudden. The shot seemed to come out of nowhere.”

  “Where did it happen?” my sister-in-law Celia asked in a quiet voice.

  “On the east side of Telegraph Hill,” I told her. “Just above the Filbert Street Steps.”

  Celia placed a small hand across her mouth as if to stifle a cry. “Who would do such a dreadful thing?”

  Once again I shook my head. “I’ve been asking myself that same question. I can only think it must have been someone from the reading at Mr. Remy’s house. Although I can’t imagine who, or why.”

  “Didn’t Oscar Wilde speak there tonight?” Papa asked.

  “Yes, he—”

  I stopped when Mama gave a little cry and buried her face in her hands, her shoulders heaving in silent sobs.

  “You said in your message that it was nothing serious, Sarah,” she said, looking at me through her tears. “Why didn’t you tell us the truth?”

  I shook my head, too miserable to speak. Perhaps I should have been more frank in my note, but my only thought had been to postpone my mother’s pain for as long as possible.

  “Don’t fret, my girl,” Papa said, recognizing my wretchedness. “Trying to explain what happened in a note would only have made matters worse.” Holding Mama by the shoulders, he led her toward a chair opposite the elderly man, who had awakened to watch our little group with ill-concealed curiosity.

  Charles waited until they were out of earshot. A lump formed in my throat to see the lines of tension around his mouth and the deep furrow between his eyes.

  “Sarah, I want an honest answer,” he said. “How close is the wound to Samuel’s heart?”

  “I don’t know,” I said, voicing the fear that had been plaguing me for hours. “I think it missed his heart—I pray it did. But there was so much blood.” I felt hot tears stinging my eyes. Taking a deep, ragged breath, I fought them back. The last thing Mama needed was to see me dissolve into tears. “I should have done more to stop the bleeding!”

  “I’ll hear no more of that,” Charles said, pulling me into his arms and giving me a fierce hug. “I know you, my dear sister. I’m certain you did everything possible for him.”

  “Of course you did,” said Celia, her sweet voice comforting.

  “But why is he still in surgery?” I asked. It was an enormous relief to have Charles here. Finally someone who might be able to answer some of my countless questions, who could allay my fears. “Why is it taking so long?”

  “Wounds of that sort require a steady hand, Sarah,” he told me. “It can be very delicate surgery. Did they tell you which doctor is attending him?”

  So confused were my thoughts that it was several moments before I could recall the man’s name. “It’s Dr. Ludlum. One of your friends from medical school.”

  Charles’s somber face brightened with relief. “But that’s excellent news, Sarah. Thomas Ludlum is a first-rate surgeon.”

  I closed my eyes, feeling as if a huge weight had been lifted off my shoulders. While I had met the man once or twice, I had no knowledge of Ludlum’s medical expertise. “Thank God,” I said in little more than a whisper.

  Celia gave my arm a reassuring squeeze, her expression equally grateful. “Thank God indeed, Sarah.”

  “Why don’t you both take a seat while I inquire about his progress?” Charles nodded us toward two vacant seats by my parents. “It’s late, so I’m not sure how much staff is on duty, but I’ll do my best to bring back news.”

  Unfortunately, when my brother returned to the waiting room some twenty minutes later, he could report only that Dr. Ludlum was indeed performing the surgery, although no one would tell him how it was proceeding. He reassured us again that Samuel was in good hands, but I was disheartened to see the lines of worry still etched across his tense face.

  We continued our desultory wait for another two hours. We had fallen into an apprehensive silence as the unbearably slow moments crawled by. Sometime around three o’clock in the morning, a man whom I took to be a physician stepped into the waiting room and we all sat up expectantly. The newcomer, however, passed by our little group and made his way over to the old man dozing in the chair opposite ours. He gently touched the man’s bony shoulder to wake him, then bent to whisper something we couldn’t hear. Bad news, it appeared, for the elderly gentleman’s wrinkled face seemed to melt into itself, and his pale eyes glistened with tears. I glanced at my mother to find her staring at him, her expression a mix of sympathy and dread, surely wondering if it would soon be our turn to receive such appalling news.

  Papa took my mother’s hand in his and patted it reassuringly. “It’s going to be all right,” he told her softly. “You heard Charles. Our son is in capable hands.”

  Mama nodded bleakly but said nothing. Since she was normally reticent in public, I was surprised to see her lean her head on my father’s shoulder and close her eyes. Celia met my gaze and managed a wan smile. My sister-in-law was the kindest and gentlest of women, and I knew she was doing her utmost to be strong for my parents’ sakes. However, she could not entirely mask her own fears, and again I sensed the tears she was holding back by sheer force of will. I blinked hard to contain the flood threatening my own eyes and tried not to stare as the physician helped the elderly gentleman from the room.

  Without the old man, the room seemed smaller somehow, and I had the irrational feeling that the walls were closing in on us. I scolded myself. Such imaginings were surely brought on by anxiety and fatigue. I could hear my father encouraging my mother to sleep, but this was beyond the power of any of us to achieve. I had never known time to pass so slowly.

  Shortly before dawn I was surprised to see Sergeant George Lewis, Samuel’s boxing partner and good friend on the San Francisco police force, standing in the waiting room door. He started forward, then hesitated as he took in our forlorn little group, including my silently weeping mother. I quickly stood and joined him in the outer hallway.

  “How is he, Miss Sarah?” he asked without preamble. I knew that George considered Samuel to be one of his best friends, and realized that he must be equally shocked by this senseless attack. “I’ve been told that he was shot in the left shoulder.”

  “Yes. Far too close to his heart. He’s been in surgery for hours. We won’t know his condition until we speak to the doctor.”

  George shook his head and sighed heavily. “I can’t make any sense of this. Why would anyone want to shoot Samuel? You were with him when it happened?”

  I nodded, then went on to briefly relate the events leading up to the shooting. As I spoke, he jotted details into a small notebook. At his request, I went on to list everyone who had been present at Mr. Remy’s house for Oscar Wilde’s talk.

  I had just started to describe what I knew about Remy’s neighbors on the Hill, when Dr. Ludlum, a short man in his mid-thirties, joined my family in the waiting room. He looked weary, but his dark eyes were clear and his step brisk. George and I followed him into the room.


  Charles immediately stood, and the two physicians spoke quietly for several minutes. When my brother led his colleague over to us, I thought the furrow between his eyes looked less pronounced.

  “Mother, Father, Celia, allow me to introduce my friend and colleague Dr. Thomas Ludlum, the surgeon who operated on Samuel. I believe you’ve already spoken to my sister, Sarah, Tom.”

  Before the doctor could answer, Mama asked him anxiously, “How is my son, Doctor?”

  Dr. Ludlum smiled down at her, his eyes sensitive to her distress. “It was a difficult procedure, Mrs. Woolson, but your son is young and strong, factors which weigh heavily in his favor.” He glanced at Charles, who gave a little nod. “I won’t lie to you, Mrs. Woolson. Samuel has lost a great deal of blood. Whoever bound the wound most likely saved his life.” He looked at me. “I understand that person was you, Miss Woolson.”

  I nodded but did not attempt to speak.

  “I must also applaud your good sense in using your cloak to cover your brother once you had staunched the bleeding,” the doctor continued. “It is an unusually cold night, and he was in shock. May I inquire if you have had medical training?”

  “No, I have not received formal training, Doctor.” I smiled at Charles. “But I was blessed with a brother who ensured that his family were well versed in the basics.”

  “We are in your debt, Dr. Ludlum,” Papa said, rising to shake the surgeon’s hand. “Charles assured us that Samuel was in the best hands possible.”

  Ludlum’s full face flushed. “That is high praise indeed, Judge Woolson, coming as it did from your son.” He cleared his throat, his tone growing serious. “I must warn you that the worst may be yet to come. As I say, Samuel is in excellent health, but he is a long way from being out of the woods. He’ll require steadfast care if he is to pull through this ordeal.” He smiled at Charles. “It’s far too early to predict when he’ll be able to leave the hospital, but fortunately you have a most competent doctor in the house to monitor his recovery. Charles’s presence will allow me to release your young son sooner than I might consider under different circumstances.”

  “Don’t worry, Thomas,” Charles told the physician, looking at Mama, and his wife, Celia. “I will be assisted by two of the finest nurses in the city.” He adopted a cheerful smile that I suspected was mainly for Mama’s benefit. “In fact, I don’t doubt that my little brother will be spoiled beyond redemption by the time he has recovered.”

  * * *

  Thankfully, it was not until early afternoon that my eldest brother, Frederick, and his stiff-backed wife, Henrietta, paid a visit to the hospital. I say “thankfully,” since the couple was hardly likely to bring comfort and good cheer to any patient’s bedside.

  Papa and I had attempted in vain to talk my mother into going home and getting some rest after the long night’s ordeal, but naturally we were wasting our breath. Indeed, she would leave Samuel’s room only when Dr. Ludlum or one of the nurses inspected his wounds or changed his bedding. Celia did return to Rincon Hill to help her children’s nanny, Mary Douglas, feed and tend to her three young charges, but even she promised to return to the hospital as soon as she could reasonably get away.

  Despite Dr. Ludlum’s encouraging words, it was a shock to see my brother’s white face when they brought him into the room after surgery. He was so still that my heart practically stopped beating for fear that there was not enough blood left in his poor body to sustain life. From my mother’s quick gasp, I knew the same dreadful thought had occurred to her. She watched helplessly as two male attendants, under the matron’s supervision, settled him in bed. Then, as soon as they left, she approached the bed and lovingly rearranged the bedding to her motherly satisfaction. When she was certain that he was as comfortable as she could make him, she brushed the blond hair from his forehead, clucking in fearful, hushed tones about his damp, cold skin.

  “His hands are like ice,” she cried, and gently placed them beneath the covers. When she looked up, her eyes pleaded with my father for reassurance that their son was going to be all right.

  Papa went to her side and placed his arm around her waist, allowing her to cry against his shoulder. “We can but put him in God’s hands, Elizabeth,” he told her softly. “Thankfully, we can rest assured that he is receiving the best care possible.”

  For the most part, Samuel passed the day in a deep sleep, moaning a few times when he half awoke, then drifting off again. I was pleased when, despite her anxiety, my mother finally dozed in a chair. Papa located a blanket and draped it across her shoulders, indicating with a nod that we should be quiet and leave her to get whatever rest was possible under the circumstances.

  My father and I were half-asleep ourselves when Frederick and Henrietta unceremoniously arrived shortly after one o’clock that afternoon.

  “Good Lord, how did a thing like this happen?” Frederick demanded, forgoing pleasantries as he marched into the room with a heavy tread and a face as dark as a thundercloud. He turned his outraged gaze onto me. “What tomfoolery have the two of you been up to this time?”

  “I’d hardly call getting shot at by some homicidal maniac tomfoolery,” I said, unable to control my temper at my eldest brother’s insensitivity. “And for heaven’s sake, be quiet. Mama is exhausted.”

  Naturally, my warning came too late. Mama jumped at Frederick’s sharp voice and her eyes flew open as Papa reached out to prevent her from falling out of the chair.

  “What is it?” she murmured, a bit dazed. “Oh, Frederick, it’s you. And Henrietta. It was good of you both to come.”

  “Good afternoon, Mother, Father,” Frederick said, kissing Mama lightly on the cheek. “You should be at home resting in your own bed.” This time his eyes went to Papa. “It is unforgivable that Sarah and Samuel have caused you this grief.”

  Coming to stand beside her husband, Henrietta gave a loud sniff. “The story was on the front page of every newspaper in town this morning. Your name was mentioned as well, Father Woolson. Most distressing for a superior court judge.”

  My father’s face suffused with anger. “Don’t be idiotic, Henrietta,” he snapped, surprising my sister-in-law with his sharp tone. Although he was outspoken by nature, Papa generally made at least a token attempt to treat Frederick’s wife with civility. The events of the last twelve hours had obviously affected him more than he had let on. “Losing my son would have been distressing. Finding my name plastered in some rag sheet is no more than empty babble, picayune nonsense of no interest to me. Nor should it be to you.”

  Henrietta took a step back, her normally sallow cheeks coloring. She opened her mouth to speak but was forestalled by her husband.

  “Really, Father, that is shortsighted of you,” he blustered, his own face turning red. “You may consider the city’s newspapers to be of little importance, but they are popularly read. Moreover, despite your disdain, the puerile public generally accepts the articles they contain at face value. When Sarah’s or Samuel’s name appears within those pages—as each has far too frequently over the past year—it reflects badly upon the entire family, and especially you in your role as a distinguished judge.”

  “And you in your role as a state senator,” I added, far too furious over his callous behavior to police my remarks. “Our brother was shot, Frederick. Shot! Had the bullet entered his shoulder even a fraction of an inch lower, we might well have lost him. Yet you behave as if Samuel deliberately threw himself in the shooter’s path for the sole purpose of causing you aggravation. Sometimes I think you forgot to pack your brain, much less your heart, if you’ve ever possessed one, when you moved to that mausoleum on Nob Hill.”

  My eldest brother drew himself up to his full height, his unfortunate jowls, which had become more pronounced of late, quivering like a bowl of Cook’s gelatin. Before he could speak, however, our mother rose, took hold of his arm, and led him toward the door.

  “I am sure you meant well by coming here, Frederick,” she told him with unaccustomed reso
lve. “But as you see, your brother is seriously ill and cannot be disturbed. I think it would be best if you and Henrietta came back in a few days, when he is on the mend.”

  She stopped at the door, regarding the couple gravely. “And when you do return, Frederick, I expect you to behave civilly, and without flinging about hurtful recriminations. Sarah has been through quite enough without you and Henrietta adding to her distress.” Without another word, she hustled her son and his wife out of the room, then closed the door firmly on their incredulous faces.

  Before returning to her seat, Mama walked to the bed and gazed down at Samuel, who had blessedly slept through the entire event. Only when she had assured herself that he seemed peaceful, and in no pain, did she look up to realize that both her husband and her daughter were staring at her as if a stranger had somehow taken possession of her body. Mama’s face colored, causing her to appear younger and more animated than she had since Samuel’s attack.

  “What is it? Why are the two of you looking at me like that?” She straightened her skirts and sank back onto her chair. “I apologize if my tone was sharp. It pains me to speak ill of my eldest son, but I fear that he occasionally behaves tactlessly, speaking before he fully considers the consequences. I simply cannot have Samuel disturbed in that way, nor you, Sarah.”

  Mama reached out a slim hand to pat my knee reassuringly. As she did, I spied fresh tears glistening in her eyes. “If not for you, my dear, Samuel might have—” She faltered, attempted to speak again, but seemed to have lost her voice.

  Using his handkerchief, Papa gently wiped away the tears that were now rolling freely down her cheeks.