The Cliff House Strangler Page 7

  As it was, my remaining funds would last but four more months, and then only with the most rigid budgeting. But what bothered me the most about failing was proving all the naysayers correct. My eldest brother, Frederick, was the most vocal of my critics, predicting not only my social ruin if I continued to act upon this insane idea, but also the end to any expectation I might entertain of contracting a suitable marriage. Since I had no desire to marry—a state that, even in 1881, places a woman firmly under her husband’s control—I’d ignored Frederick’s pessimistic ranting. So, too, had I disregarded Robert Campbell’s protests that only a fool would leave the premiere law firm in San Francisco to open her own office. Especially a woman attorney!

  The very thought of being forced to eat crow before either of these detractors was enough to make me see red. Which, of course, got me nowhere. Heaving a deep sigh of frustration, I berated myself for wasting valuable time and energy worrying about what might or might not happen four months from now. “Sufficient unto the Day” must become my motto, I vowed. Defeat was a word I could not and would not allow to enter my vocabulary!

  And so I spent the remainder of the afternoon reading the latest issue of the San Francisco Law Journal, an informative periodical that had commenced publication some three years previous. So immersed was I in an article concerning the law of negligence that I started half out of my chair when I was interrupted by a knock on my door. Opening the gold timepiece pinned to the bodice of my dress, I was taken aback to see that it was going on six o’clock. Assuming it was Fanny Goodman inviting me downstairs for a pot of tea before I left for the day, I called for her to enter.

  To my surprise, it wasn’t my neighbor who timidly entered the room, but a woman I had never seen before. She appeared to be in her early thirties, and was becomingly slender and of average height. Her dark blue day dress was simply cut, with a very small bustle, and her thick chestnut hair had been wound into braids and tucked beneath a stylish brown hat. Her thin oval face might have been considered pretty, if it were not for several fading bruises on her forehead and cheeks. Her right eye was also discolored and slightly puffy. My temper flared at the sight of these contusions, and it was all I could do to stop myself from asking outright who had subjected her to such violence. The poor woman appeared so frightened and ill at ease, however, I decided that for the time being at least I would hold my tongue.

  “Good afternoon,” I said, rising from my chair. I had been practicing law for less than a year, yet I understood the courage it required for most women to visit an attorney, especially those who were married and used to their husbands making all the decisions in their lives. Indeed, my visitor fitted this description to a tee; she looked so nervous, I feared that at any moment she might bolt back out the door.

  Hoping to ease her anxiety, I gave her a welcoming smile. “Please, take a seat,” I said, motioning her to the chair in front of my desk. “How may I help you, Mrs. . . .”

  “Sechrest, Mrs. Luther Sechrest.” Her voice was timorous and uncertain. After a brief hesitation, she sank tentatively into the chair I had indicated. “I—that is, I came here to ask you—” The woman’s lovely face colored a pale pink. “I was here earlier today, you see, but the lady downstairs informed me you were out. I—it took me the rest of the afternoon to muster the courage to return.” Her face grew even more flushed. “You must think me a terrible coward, but—well, I had no idea consulting an attorney would prove so difficult.”

  “I understand,” I told her with genuine sympathy. “It’s an undertaking most people would prefer to avoid entirely. Unfortunately, there are times when dealing with the law cannot be avoided, and it can be a difficult road to navigate on one’s own. Now, Mrs. Sechrest, why don’t you try to relax and tell me what brought you to my office this afternoon.”

  Biting her bottom lip, Mrs. Sechrest leaned back farther in her chair and opened her reticule. Withdrawing a small white envelope, she handed it to me across the desk. “Perhaps this will help explain matters.”

  I accepted the envelope and slit it open. Inside, I discovered a brief letter written in a neat, familiar hand. Dropping my gaze to the signature, I was surprised to see that it was from my very first client at Shepard, Shepard, McNaughton and Hall, Annjenett Hanaford, the young widow I had represented when she was accused of murdering her wealthy husband, Cornelius Hanaford. She had since remarried and was now known as Mrs. Peter Fowler.

  I scanned the brief missive and was pleased to see that Annjenett, who had been shamefully ill-treated by her first husband, had used the fortune she’d inherited from him to establish a home here in San Francisco for abused women. According to Annjenett, Alexandra Sechrest had fled to the safe house, seeking shelter from her drunken and violent husband. So that is who had so cruelly mistreated the poor woman, I thought, grateful that because of Annjenett’s largesse, women such as Mrs. Sechrest now had a secure haven where they might be out of harm’s way.

  “Mrs. Fowler tells me that you’re interested in obtaining a divorce from your husband,” I said.

  “It’s not what I want,” she protested. “I never thought to bring such shame upon myself and my family. But I feel I have no other choice. It’s my boys, you see. Johnny is ten and Harry eight. If I don’t remove them from their father’s house, I’m afraid he’ll begin to mistreat them as he has mistreated me. Luther drinks and—” Her blue eyes filled with tears. “I cannot allow that to happen to them, Miss Woolson.” Burying her face in her hands, she began to cry.

  I removed a clean handkerchief from a pocket hidden in the folds of my skirt—I always have one or two of these handy appendages added to all my working clothes—and, walking around the desk, handed it to Mrs. Sechrest.

  “Then we must ensure it does not happen,” I said firmly. It was true that I had not yet heard the details of the case, but already my heart went out to this unfortunate woman, not to mention her sons. “Where are your boys now, Mrs. Sechrest? Did you take them with you to Mrs. Fowler’s safe house?”

  Her face was a mask of hopelessness. “I had them with me for the first week, but Luther, my husband, sent two of his men to take them away from me.”

  “You mean they grabbed your children by force?”

  She nodded, too lost in misery to speak. I waited while she brought her emotions under control. I only wished there was some way to comfort the poor woman. The idea that a husband would snatch his young children from their mother’s arms appalled me. Even worse was the fact that in most cases the law permitted such behavior from a father.

  “Mrs. Fowler was kind enough to contact Mr. Sechrest on my behalf, but he refuses to return the boys to my care. He even threatened—” Once again she stopped as a fresh rush of tears interrupted her narrative. “He told Mrs. Fowler that if I did not return to his house and resume my wifely duties, he would—he would make certain I never saw my sons again.”

  Once again, the poor woman buried her face in the handkerchief, her shoulders shaking with silent sobs. I could not watch her misery any longer without offering some kind of comfort, even one whose benefits would be fleeting.

  Assuring my visitor that I would be right back, I hastened into the small room adjoining my office proper. This space was to serve as my law library and file room—at least it would once I accumulated files and books to store there. Since clients were hardly beating a path to my door, it currently provided me with a relaxing place to sit and read, or to enjoy a hot cup of tea and some light refreshments.

  Striking a match, I lit the spirit lamp I kept on a side table, then scooped a generous spoonful of tea leaves into two strainers and settled them into the cups standing ready for this purpose. Fortunately, the water in the kettle was still warm from tea I’d brewed earlier, and it was not long before I returned to the front room carrying the two steaming cups, as well as a plate of gingersnaps and Sarasota chips I kept stored in tins.

  “There now,” I said, laying the refreshments out on my desk. “Why don’t you tell m
e everything, starting with when and where you and Mr. Sechrest were married.”

  Alexandra Sechrest gave me a quick smile and gratefully sipped her tea. Placing the cup back in its saucer, she took a deep breath and commenced her story.

  “Mr. Sechrest and I were married twelve years ago. He is the foreman of the Leighton Mining Company here in the city. Actually, he is much more than that. Mr. Leighton is getting on in years and has no sons to run the company after he’s gone. Although he hasn’t actually promised to leave the business to my husband, for the past seven years Luther has taken over the day-to-day operation of the plant.”

  Her face clouded. “My father favored our marriage. My mother did not. She felt I was marrying below my station, which was probably true, but my family had fallen upon hard times and Papa could offer little dowry. And he has two younger daughters to settle in marriage. It seemed a godsend when Luther promised to provide my family with a monthly allowance. And to give him his due, he has kept his promise, at least the one he made to my father. As for me—” She shuddered. “My husband began to change soon after we were married. He was no longer the man I had come to know and respect.”

  I waited while my guest once again regained control of her emotions. Unfortunately, the story she related was far from uncommon; tragically, it was Annjenett Hanaford’s tale, as well. Mr. Hanaford, like Mr. Sechrest, had appeared to possess a genial nature before marriage. It was not until the union had been consummated that he began to show his true colors.

  “I beg your pardon, Miss Woolson.” Alexandra dabbed at her damp eyes, then managed another weak smile. “I’m truly embarrassed. I don’t seem to be handling this very well.”

  “To the contrary, you’re doing just fine. Matters of this nature are always distressful, especially when there are children involved.” I reached for a pad and pencil and sought to established the facts concerning the divorce. “You say your husband physically abused you. Did anyone witness this abuse? Say your personal maid, or other servants?”

  She shook her head. “I was always careful to hide it from the household staff. My lady’s maid probably saw some of the bruises, but she never remarked on them. Then there’s my sister Emily. Last year, she paid a surprise visit, and was actually shown in by the maid no more than a minute or two after Luther had struck me across the face. She must have seen the mark of his hand, yet she has never questioned me about his behavior.”

  I was not surprised. Convention dictated that what went on between a husband and wife in the privacy of their own home was no one else’s concern. The law went to great lengths to ensure that a man’s home remained his castle. Unfortunately, spousal abuse was all too often met with a blind eye—by servants, by families, and, regrettably, by the law.

  “If it becomes necessary, do you think your sister or your maid would testify in court on your behalf?”

  She blanched. “Surely it won’t come to that.”

  “I appreciate your distress, Mrs. Sechrest, but in divorce actions such as this, a court appearance is almost a certainty. Your case will be best served if we are prepared for any eventuality.”

  Alexandra’s face remained pale, but she could hardly find fault with this sensible precaution. “Yes, undoubtedly you are right, Miss Woolson. It’s just that I did not anticipate airing our private problems in public.”

  “Of course not. No one does. However, allowing Mr. Sechrest to continue this destructive behavior might well result in serious injury.” I watched her reaction to this statement, trying to gauge the extent of her commitment to the action she proposed. If she went ahead with the divorce, the process would be anything but smooth. If I was to act as her attorney, it was my duty to warn her of what lay ahead.

  That she had taken my words to heart was obvious by the frown lines on her smooth forehead, and by the way her bosom rose and fell beneath her dark blue bodice. For the first time since she had entered my office, I sensed that Alexandra Sechrest was questioning her decision to dissolve her marriage.

  “I appreciate your honesty, Miss Woolson,” she said at length. “I confess I feel very naïve. The divorce procedure sounds perfectly dreadful.” She paused, then stared directly into my eyes. “Despite the possible consequences, however, I am determined to see the matter through, not so much for my sake, but for my sons’. I would never forgive myself if their father mistreated them in any way. Nor could I bear it if they grew up imitating his wretched behavior.”

  “If that is your final decision, Mrs. Sechrest, I suggest we meet here again next week and draw up a plan of action. We will need to discuss gaining custody of your sons, as well as formulating a strategy in the event your husband contests your petition of divorce.”

  Despite her newfound bravery, my client’s shoulders drooped perceptibly. “I am certain Luther will contest my request for a divorce, Miss Woolson. Not because he loves me, but because he is fiercely protective of his possessions. And that is all I have meant to him for many years now. You were right when you said we must be prepared for any eventuality.”

  She heaved a sigh of what I took to be resignation. “I fear we must brace ourselves for a bitter battle.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Iwas not looking forward to dinner Saturday evening. I knew the food would be excellent and the wine carefully chosen to complement each course in what I feared would be a far too drawn-out meal. The servants would be in full livery—although heaven alone knew why, since only the immediate family would be present—padding noiselessly about the candlelit dining room like so many well-trained penguins. In brief, everything would be perfect. The only fly in the ointment was that the party was to be held at my eldest brother Frederick’s monstrosity of a house on Nob Hill. And because the dinner was in honor of Papa’s sixty-fifth birthday, there wasn’t a thing I could do to get out of attending!

  Since everyone in the family, excluding Frederick and Henrietta, still lived at our Rincon Hill home, Papa had hired two cabriolets for the occasion. Mama, Papa, and my middle brother, Charles, would travel in one, while Charles’s wife, Celia, my youngest brother, Samuel, and I would go in the second.

  Despite my lack of enthusiasm for the evening, I had to admit that we arrived at Frederick and his wife Henrietta’s house in grand style.

  “This house never fails to amaze me,” Charles said as we waited for everyone to alight from the carriages. Although my brother Charles would never say anything derogatory about someone’s house—particularly his own brother’s—I knew from past visits that he found it a bit of a monstrosity.

  “That isn’t precisely the word I would use,” I said. “But yes, it’s something all right.”

  As always, the sight of their overblown residence caused me to cringe. Frederick’s determination to erect a home that would compete with the railroad and Nevada silver mine moguls’ multimillion-dollar feudal castles was an ambition doomed to failure, given his modest budget. The end result was a hodgepodge of French and Italian styles, with columns, balustrades, gingerbread trim, and even a dome thrown in for good measure. These conflicting designs seemed to have been added without the slightest regard to aesthetic beauty or architectural harmony. Not only was the edifice an eyesore, but the money Frederick had been forced to borrow to erect it would ensure his continuing indebtedness for years to come.

  We were met at the door by Woodbury, Frederick’s stodgy and very proper butler, who showed us into the front parlor. I will not bore you with a description of the interior of the house. Suffice it to say that the rooms reflected the same unabashed disregard for eye-pleasing symmetry as did the exterior. The objective in furnishing the rooms had been to demonstrate my brother’s success and personal worth (even if most of it was owed to the bank), rather than to provide a pleasant and comfortable haven in which to live.

  Opening the parlor door, Woodbury announced our arrival as if he were presenting us to European royalty. We were, I saw, just in time for an aperitif and the dreary discourse that invariably accompanied these
dinner parties. For some reason I had yet to fathom, my eldest brother and his brittle, rail-thin wife, Henrietta, disdained any verbal exchange that involved conflict or unpleasantness of any kind, or that required more than the most minuscule intellect. These conversational restrictions, I need hardly point out, made for extremely dull evenings.

  I eschewed the glass of sherry Frederick automatically served my mother, Celia, and I, opting instead for the whiskey mix meted out to the men. This was not my usual predinner drink, but given the long, dismal evening stretching before me, I decided that I required all the help I could get.

  Frederick’s eyebrows lifted until they nearly collided with his slicked-back and rapidly receding hair. Sensing that I was about to be broadsided by one of his tiresome lectures, I gratefully accepted the whiskey and soda Samuel handed me, a broad grin on his face.

  “Don’t bother, Frederick,” he said before our host could protest. “I’ll just help myself to another.”

  Samuel had already taken a glass from the side table and was proceeding to fill it with far more of the amber liquid than Frederick’s initial allotment. He added a meager splash of soda, then held it aloft.

  “To Father on his sixty-fifth birthday,” he toasted. “May he be blessed with many more.”

  “Yes, to Papa,” Celia said, beaming at the in-law who had become more like a father to her than the man who, in 1862, had marched off to join the Confederate army in its first invasion of the North. Celia had been eight years old at the time. She never saw her father again.

  “To Father,” the rest of us exclaimed in chorus, even Frederick and Henrietta, although judging by their sour expressions, you’d have thought their glasses contained unsweetened lemon juice.