Murder on Nob Hill Page 6

  “It's all right, Sarah, I understand.” A smile touched her lips, but quickly faded. “Sometimes the beatings were so serious I was forced to stay in my room to hide the bruises from the servants. Then gradually, Cornelius came to my room less frequently. Over the past year he hardly came at all.

  “At first it was a relief, but over time I began to grow lonely.

  Then, about six months ago, friends asked me to accompany them to the theater. Cornelius was out for the evening and it seemed an innocent thing to do.”

  Her blue eyes met mine. “We went to the Baldwin Theater. They were doing The Shoemaker's Holiday and Peter Fowler played Simon Eyre. Oh, Sarah, he was wonderful! Afterward, he joined our party for a late supper and we were surprised to discover that we’d both grown up in San Francisco, actually within blocks of each other. We wondered if we might have even played together as children. Peter was so easy to talk to and he made me laugh. Heaven knows I hadn’t laughed in a long time.”

  “So you began seeing each other?”

  She nodded. “I’m not proud of my behavior, Sarah, but for the first time in my life I had fallen deeply in love.”

  “I’m not here to judge you, my dear. Only to clear you of these ludicrous charges.” I looked her in the eye. “Now, I want you to tell me what happened the night your husband was killed. What really happened.”

  She looked at me miserably, then turned away. Suddenly, I understood. “He was there, wasn’t he? Peter Fowler, I mean.”

  She nodded wretchedly. “Sarah, I swear he had nothing to do with my husband's death. Neither of us did.”

  “How did Mr. Fowler come to be in your home?”

  “Cornelius had found out about us. The night before his death we had a dreadful row. When Peter saw marks on my face the next day, he insisted on confronting Cornelius. I tried to dissuade him, but he was adamant. After dinner I made a show of going upstairs, but in fact I waited on the landing. I answered the door at the first knock and managed to sneak Peter up to my boudoir. It was while I was trying to convince him that his presence would only make matters worse that—that Cornelius must have been murdered.”

  “Neither of you heard anything?”

  She shook her head. “My boudoir is on the second floor, at the rear of the house. It wasn’t until Peter stormed downstairs to have it out with Cornelius that we—we found him dead.”

  She began sobbing quietly while my thoughts raced. Only now did I fully comprehend the damaging case against Annjenett. I still believed her innocent, but I couldn’t be certain of the actor. For all I knew she might, even now, be lying to protect him.

  I hesitated, but the question had to be asked. “How much do you know about Mr. Fowler,Annjenett?”

  She guessed my thoughts and her eyes flashed. “Only that he is the kindest, gentlest of men. Peter was prepared to fight Cornelius to protect me, but he would never have murdered him in cold blood.”

  I abandoned this line of questioning; Annjenett was obviously too smitten with the actor to give an unbiased opinion. Before I could think of another way to approach the subject, however, I heard the jailer's approaching footsteps. Hurriedly, I pulled a document out of my briefcase and handed it to her, along with pen and ink.

  “If we’re to secure your release,” I told her, “we have to discover who really murdered your husband. This paper gives me authority to go through his effects. It also allows me to claim the money we’ve demanded of Mr. Shepard, which we’ll need to pay your household expenses and, if necessary, use for your defense.”

  “Yes, of course,” she agreed and quickly signed the paper. Her pale face showed a flicker of hope. “What do you expect to find in my husband's belongings?”

  I was loath to admit I hadn’t the faintest idea. She had little enough to sustain her through the coming days and nights, and far too much time to agonize over her situation. Temporizing, I said

  there was always the chance the police had overlooked something, and was pleased when she seemed to take heart in this possibility. A moment later the jailer threw the cell door open with a clang.

  “There's a couple of gents waitin’ to see the prisoner.” He eyed me suspiciously. “One of ‘em says he's the lady's lawyer.”

  It wasn’t difficult to guess that Joseph Shepard, or one of his associates, was here to interview Annjenett. It was no less than I expected. I was only glad I had been able to speak to her first. I gave Annjenett a confident smile.

  “Don’t lose heart,” I told her. “I’ll come back to see you soon.”

  “Oh, Sarah, please do.” Impulsively, she leaned forward and kissed me on the cheek. Taken aback, I smiled and mumbled something I hoped was reassuring, then turned and departed the cell.

  Just as the jailer had announced, I found two men waiting in the jail's anteroom. One was a stranger, the other was the towering figure of Robert Campbell.

  “You!” I said incredulously. “Don’t tell me Joseph Shepard is allowing you to handle my client's defense.”

  “Your client, madam?” the second man said in surprise. “I was given to understand that I was to represent Mrs. Hanaford.”

  “Pay no attention to her, Paulson.” Campbell's look was scornful. “The woman fancies herself an attorney and has somehow foisted herself upon Hanaford's widow.”

  Ignoring him, I extended my hand to the older man. “My name is Sarah Woolson, and Mr. Campbell's disclaimers to the contrary, I am a fully licensed attorney in the State of California. And you are?”

  The man raised shaggy brows. He was of modest height, yet there was an air of authority about him that made him appear taller. His clothes were well cut and, despite his portly girth, he wore them with panache. His face was full and as he removed his

  top hat I could detect a good deal of silver in his brown hair. He regarded me speculatively, and for a moment I thought he might take Campbell's advice and ignore me altogether. Then, abruptly, he smiled and reached out a manicured hand to shake mine vigorously.

  “Augustus Paulson,” he said in a voice so superb it was easy to imagine it captivating a courtroom. “It's an honor to make your acquaintance, Miss Woolson. I’ve heard of Mrs. Clara Foltz, of course, but I’ve never before had the privilege of meeting a lawyer of the fairer sex. I admire your courage. It can’t be easy penetrating such an established male bastion.”

  “There's no need to waste sympathy on this woman,” Campbell broke in. “She has all the sensitivity of a charging rhino.”

  “Unfortunately, not everyone is blessed with your tact and refined social skills,” I commented dryly, then turned to the elder attorney. I found myself liking Augustus Paulson and decided Annjenett could do a good deal worse then have this man represent her. It remained to be seen, however, how long he would continue to be sympathetic to female attorneys once he realized how closely I intended to work with him on the case. “I’m sure Mrs. Hanaford will be grateful for your help, Mr. Paulson.”

  “I gather you have already spoken to my—to our client.”

  I nodded, then glanced around with distaste at the peeling walls, the filthy floor, the chill that permeated every inch of the drafty hallway. “City jail is no place for a woman, Mr. Paulson. After you’ve met with Mrs. Hanaford, we must discuss a strategy for her defense and speedy discharge.”

  “You must discuss!” Campbell exploded. “Madam, will you kindly get it through your head that you’re not part of Mrs. Hanaford's defense? If you really have her best interests at heart, you’ll cease your confounded interference and allow your betters to get on with their business.”

  “By ‘my betters,’ I presume you mean yourself, Mr. Campbell? You who have had such extensive trial experience.” My tone was scornful, having learned from my inquiries that the nearest the irritating man had come to a courtroom was as a research assistant.

  “I meant Paulson, you obdurate woman,” he shot back, his Scottish r's rolling at me like waves in a tsunami.

  “Campbell, please,” Paulson inter
vened, staring at the younger man until he clamped his mouth shut. “Miss Woolson, I apologize for my colleague's, er, exuberance. I’m afraid his concern over Mrs. Hanaford has caused him to forget his manners.”

  “On the contrary, I doubt Mr. Campbell has any manners to forget. His boorishness, however, is of no importance. What matters is getting Mrs. Hanaford out of this place.”

  “On that point, we are all agreed.” Mr. Paulson consulted his fob watch. “I believe you’ve hit upon an excellent plan, Miss Woolson. After Mr. Campbell and I have spoken with Mrs. Hanaford, the three of us should meet to discuss how best to proceed with the case. Unfortunately, I have to be in court this afternoon. Would it be possible for you to come to my office at six o’clock this evening?”

  Campbell started to grumble, but Paulson threw him another look and he fell reluctantly silent.

  “That would be fine,” I agreed, pointedly ignoring the Scot.

  Mr. Paulson gave a polite nod, then turned and walked into the bowels of the jail. With a final glare, the irascible giant murmured something I couldn’t quite catch and hurried after him.

  Samuel was waiting for me outside the jail. Beside him was George Lewis. George is of medium height, with a round, amiable face and light brown hair that invariably spills in boyish locks

  onto his brow. Despite the unflattering uniform relegated to San Francisco's Finest, George wore his blue long coat and bowler hat with pride. It was reassuring to know that the appalling corruption that existed in our police department had not as yet filtered down through the entire rank and file.

  One look at their faces told me that something was wrong. “What is it?” I asked without preamble. “What's happened?”

  Samuel deferred to his friend, who regarded me unhappily.

  “There's been another murder, Miss Sarah,” he blurted. “Rufus Mills was found dead last night—in Chinatown. He was, er—” George turned red, stumbling to find the right words.

  “There's no delicate way to say this, Sarah,” my brother broke in. “Rufus Mills was stabbed to death in the genitals.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  We lunched at a nearby hotel, but I paid scant attention / / to either the food or my companions. While George and my brother discussed a story Samuel was researching for the Police Gazette, I mulled over Rufus Mills's death. According to George, the police surgeon speculated that Mills had been dead at least twenty-four hours before his body was discovered in one of Chinatown's back alleys. That meant he’d probably been killed not long after leaving Frederick's party Saturday night. Obviously his story about returning home to nurse a sick wife had been merely an excuse, since he’d gone to Chinatown instead. But why? I asked myself. What possible reason could he have had for venturing into an area considered so unsavory that even the police avoided it after dark?

  “Sarah? You haven’t heard a word I’ve said.”

  I came out of my thoughts to find both men staring at me. “I’m sorry, Samuel, what—?”

  “I asked how your meeting went with Mrs. Hanaford?”

  “She's understandably distressed and anxious to get out of that awful place,” I replied, then looked at George. “Which, thankfully, shouldn’t be long now. Horrible as it is, this second murder will at least guarantee her speedy release.”

  “Second murder?” George's intelligent brown eyes, normally cheerful and eager to please, were uncharacteristically serious. “I’m afraid I don’t take your meaning.”

  “Surely it's clear enough, George,” I told him. “Regardless of the alleged evidence against Annjenett for her husband's death, she can hardly be charged with killing Rufus Mills from her jail cell. His murder proves my client's innocence.”

  George cleared his throat. “I’m sorry, Miss Sarah, but we’ve found no evidence to indicate that the two deaths are connected.”

  For some reason, George always seems uncomfortable in my presence. Samuel insists it's because the man is enamored of me, a notion I find too absurd to credit. More likely, his uneasiness stems from my penchant for speaking my mind, a characteristic many men seem to find intimidating. Insecurity, however, is no excuse for pigheadedness.

  “Then you haven’t looked hard enough,” I retorted. “It defies logic that Hanaford and Mills should be murdered within weeks of each other, and in an identical manner, and not be related.”

  George winced at my reference to how the two victims had met their unfortunate ends. “It's a coincidence, I assure you, Miss Sarah. I’d like to help your client, but I’m afraid the charges against her won’t be dropped because of Mr. Mills's death. Unless you know something to link them?” He looked at me expectantly, as if hoping I might pull a rabbit out of my hat.

  It galled me to admit that I had nothing substantive to offer beyond my own intuition. “A number of possibilities present themselves,” I said, angry to detect a note of defensiveness in my voice.

  “Cornelius Hanaford and Rufus Mills might have been associated in a way we’re not yet aware. Perhaps they shared a common enemy who wished to see them dead. We also need to establish who gained from their deaths. Where were the two surviving partners that night? What was Rufus Mills doing in Chinatown, of all places? And so late at night. Was he alone or was he meeting someone? What time was he murdered? Were there any witnesses? Was the weapon recovered? Who found the—?”

  Samuel had the poor grace to laugh. “Sarah, have pity on George.”

  I turned to our companion, who was staring at me as if he’d been hit by a runaway train. “You have given serious thought to these questions, haven’t you, George?”

  George opened and closed his mouth, but did not answer.

  “I presume you haven’t been assigned to the case or you wouldn’t be wasting time dawdling over lunch,” I went on. “But that shouldn’t preclude you from offering sensible suggestions to those in charge. If the investigating detectives mean to turn a blind eye to the obvious similarities between the two cases, you’ll need to speak up. A woman's life may depend on the three of us keeping our heads.”

  “Wait a minute,” protested Samuel. “What do I have to do with this?”

  “You have some influence with the local newspapers,” I pointed out. “You can use their files to learn more about the four mining partners. I can’t help thinking the answer to all this lies in the past. So that seems the most logical place to begin.”

  George continued to stare at me with his mouth open. If he weren’t such a fine-looking young man, he would have reminded me of a large, floundering fish.

  “Surely you aren’t suggesting that Mr. Wylde or Senator Broughton has anything to do with these murders?”

  “That's exactly what we need to find out. Really, George, you can’t expect me to do all your thinking for you. You’re a member of the police. They must teach you something about criminal investigation.” The smile had returned to my brother's face. “I fail to see anything amusing about this tragic affair, Samuel,” I told him hotly.

  My brother regarded me over his coffee. “Your defense of Mrs. Hanaford is admirable, Sarah. But you can’t order the police about as if it's your private corps of investigators. Besides, I heard at the jail that Augustus Paulson would be handling Mrs. Hanaford's defense. I think, little sister, you may be about to lose your first and only client.”

  “That remains to be seen.” I wasn’t pleased with his tone. “I had occasion to meet Mr. Paulson after my interview with Mrs. Hanaford. I have no reason to suppose he resents my collaboration.”

  Again Samuel laughed out loud. “Well, if he doesn’t, Joseph Shepard certainly will.”

  George continued to look worried. “Samuel's right, Miss Sarah. I know you mean well, but the evidence against Mrs. Hanaford and Peter Fowler is compelling.”

  “We’ll see about that.” I’d had enough of cynics and naysayers for one morning. Pushing back my chair, I stood and rearranged my skirts. “If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen, I have pressing business to attend to.”

  I
turned and made my way through the restaurant without a backward glance at my startled companions.

  I would be lying if I pretended I wasn’t unsettled by the official reaction to Mills's death. Could the police really be so blind—

  or pigheaded—that they failed to recognize the similarities between the two murders?

  Consulting my lapel watch, I saw that my meeting with Paulson would not begin for another five hours, far too long to sit idly about twiddling my thumbs. Since no one else seemed inclined to ask the questions I’d posed to George, I decided I must do it myself. Annjenett's freedom—perhaps her very life—might depend on the answers!

  Lacking a better place to commence my inquiries, I returned to Cornelius Hanaford's bank to speak to Eban Potter. He had known his employer since childhood, I reasoned, and Annjenett mentioned he had also been acquainted with Hanaford's mining partners. If the motives for the two crimes did lie in the past, I hoped the bank manager might at least be able to point me in the right direction.

  I found Mr. Potter considerably shaken over Annjenett's arrest.

  “Mr. Hanaford would turn in his grave if he could see his wife in such a place,” he said, ushering me into a small but well-ordered office. He offered me a chair, then sat down behind an equally tidy desk. “What can the police be thinking?”

  “They seem to feel they’ve discovered a reason why Mrs. Hanaford might wish to see her husband dead.”

  “You mean the actor?” Potter's tone clearly indicated his disdain for members of that profession. He shook his head. “I don’t believe it for one moment.”

  Realizing that Potter's loyalty to the young widow made this line of inquiry unproductive, I changed tactics. “Can you think of any reason why Mr. Mills might go alone to Chinatown?”

  He gave an involuntary shudder. “I can’t imagine why anyone would venture into that dreadful place, especially after dark.”