The Russian Hill Murders Page 7

  Mama flashed me a knowing smile in the silence following Reverend Prescott’s prayer, pleased she’d been proven right. The quiet did not feel uncomfortable; rather, it seemed companionable and calm. I had the impression no one wished to shatter the serenity the tall minister had created in the room.

  After several moments, Mrs. Barlow cleared her throat and asked Lucius Arlen to present his financial report. The accountant stood and, looking about the room as if to ensure he had everyone’s attention, placed his spectacles atop his globular nose and opened a black ledger.

  “Largely due to the one hundred twenty thousand dollars raised at Mr. and Mrs. Godfrey’s charity dinner,” he began, “we were able to reach an agreement with the owners of the Battery Street warehouse and have signed the lease papers. Renovations on the new hospital have already begun and, according to the survey we commissioned, will be less extensive than we originally feared. This will not only reduce our initial costs, but will allow the hospital to accept its first patients several weeks earlier than scheduled.”

  An excited murmur swept through the room. Celia clasped her hands together in delight as Mama whispered that women were already begging for admission to the hospital. Now, mercifully, they would not have to be turned away.

  Mr. Arlen turned a page in his ledger, then removed his glasses and again regarded the room until it became quiet.

  “Having said that, I must stress the need for fiscal restraint. For instance, I question the amount of money that has been allotted the kitchen staff, especially as the cook is Chinese.” This last word was uttered with obvious disdain.

  All eyes went to Margaret Barlow. “I assure you Mr. Chin is a Fine Chef and comes highly recommended.” Her tone was a bit defensive. I knew from Mama that Mrs. Barlow had hired Chin Lee Fong away from an upscale hotel on Turk Street.

  “The man is Chinese,” he repeated, as if Mrs. Barlow had missed the significance of the man’s racial origin. “You are paying him a white man’s wages.”

  Mrs. Barlow seemed unable to find a suitable retort. She looked helplessly at her mother, who said, “Mr. Chin has been offered a wage commensurate with his skills, Mr. Arlen. Are you suggesting that in good conscience we should offer him less than a fair living?”

  “I’m saying we must not lose sight of our limited resourses, Mrs. French. As Chin will be cooking for a charity hospital, I consider it reasonable that we readjust his salary or hire someone who will do the job for less.”

  When this statement elicited loud opinions, both for and against the proposal, Mrs. French gave her daughter a sharp look, at which Margaret hastily recalled her duty as chairwoman. Thanking Arlen, she asked one of the doctors to report on the number of beds and the amount of medical equipment required to accommodate the first patients.

  The accountant closed his ledger with a sharp snap and returned to his seat. Was he anti-Chinese? I wondered. Since I’d met the enigmatic tong lord, Li Ying, I’d begun to grasp the misunderstanding that existed between our two cultures. While it was true the average Chinese immigrant preferred to isolate himself from the fan kwei (foreign devils), it was because once he’d earned enough money, he planned to return to his homeland. The few brave souls like Chin Lee Fong who ventured outside Chinatown were usually regarded with distrust. Was this what was bothering Arlen, or were the hospital’s finances really so dire?

  On the whole, I considered the accountant’s report favorable. The fact that at least some of the hospital’s rooms could be put to immediate use was vital to the plan I had come here to propose.

  When the general business of the evening had concluded, I asked permission to address the board. Standing, I explained Lily Mankin’s situation, then proposed a practical solution to her predicament: we could allow the widow and her children to occupy one of the existing rooms in the hospital while the rest of the building was being renovated.

  “Wait, please,” I put in, when my suggestion produced a murmur of disapproval. “Mrs. Mankin is honest and hardworking. What’s more, she’s adept at sewing, ironing and cooking. I have no doubt she would make a fine nurse if properly trained. I believe it would be to the hospital’s benefit if she lived in as a full-time staff member.”

  “What about her children?” asked a heavy-set matron, who sat ramrod straight on her lady’s chair. “Who is going to care for them while Mrs. Mankin performs her duties?”

  “We’ve made plans to establish a nursery for children confined to the hospital, as well as for the offspring of women who are giving birth,” Mrs. French replied, giving me a conspiratorial smile. “Allowing Mrs. Mankin’s children to use this room would not pose a problem.”

  When there were no further objections to my proposal, Margaret requested a vote, and it was unanimously decided to permit Mrs. Mankin and her children to move into the hospital as soon as a room could be made ready. Celia gave my arm a little squeeze, sharing my elation that the poor widow and her children would not be forced out into the street.

  As Margaret saw us to the door after the meeting, she invited anyone interested to tour the new hospital the following afternoon. Mama and Celia accepted with alacrity. I thought about it a moment, then I, too, accepted her kind invitation.

  I think everyone gave a collective sigh of relief when we exited the house to find no sign of the volatile Reverend Halsey lurking outside.

  “Perhaps he finally realized the hospital isn’t an instrument of the devil,” Celia ventured.

  “Perhaps,” Mama said doubtfully. “Somehow I can’t imagine Mr. Halsey giving up that easily, though.”

  I silently agreed, and on the walk down the hill found myself wondering what Halsey was up to.

  As it happened, I did not have to wait long for an answer. Samuel and Charles were waiting for us when we arrived home, their somber faces declaring louder than words that something was wrong.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “It’s Reverend Halsey,” Charles answered. “He was found dead tonight. One of my colleagues—who was also a guest at the Godfreys’ charity dinner—was the first doctor called to the scene. He recognized the victim as Josiah Halsey.”

  “How did he die?” Celia asked, eyes wide with shock.

  “It appears Mr. Halsey suffered a fatal heart attack.”

  It was past midnight when Mama and Papa retired for the night. The rest of us were equally fatigued, but Charles, Celia, Samuel and I decided on a nightcap before following our parents upstairs. Choosing to sit in the more informal—and to my mind cozier—back parlor, Samuel stoked the dying embers of the fire until the room glowed in flickering shades of amber and gold. After tonight’s shocking news, it felt reassuring to be sitting here with my family. Leaning back in my favorite armchair, I allowed Papa’s aged brandy to spread welcome heat throughout my body.

  Charles and Celia sat on the settee. Samuel, who had replaced the fireplace poker, stood with his back to the hearth, thoughtfully rocking back and forth on his heels. Of the four of us, Celia alone seemed edgy and unable to relax.

  “What’s bothering you, Celia? Is it Halsey’s death?”

  She gave her husband a weak smile, as if embarrassed to admit that the minister’s passing distressed her. “It’s just so unnerving, Charles. Sarah said Reverend Halsey seemed fine when she saw him at Woodward’s Gardens this afternoon. How could something like this happen so suddenly?”

  “People die of heart attacks every day, my dear,” Charles told his wife. “Often they occur with no warning.”

  I placed my brandy snifter on a small cherry wood table. “Caroline Godfrey suffered from angina for years, yet her attack was every bit as fatal as Halsey’s. And she had medicine and a doctor on hand to save her.”

  Charles sighed. “Unfortunately, a physician and the right medicine don’t always guarantee a patient’s survival.” He said this as if he were personally responsible for the shortcomings of modern medicine.

  Belatedly, I realized how my words might be misconstrued. “I’m s
orry, Charles, I wasn’t blaming you. You did everything possible to save Mrs. Godfrey.”

  He gave me that wonderful, big brother smile I’d loved since childhood. Samuel was the sibling I could count on to help me fight my battles. But it was gentle, kind-hearted Charles who provided a sympathetic shoulder to cry on.

  “I know you don’t hold me personally responsible, Sarah,” Charles said. “But it’s difficult not to experience a sense of failure when you lose a patient.”

  We were all silent for a few minutes, then I asked, “By the way, where was Halsey found?”

  “On Lombard Street. Not far from the Barlows’ house.”

  “Hmm. Does anyone know where he was living?”

  “I doubt anyone knew him well enough to ask. Your friend George Lewis was at the scene, by the way,” Charles said looking at Samuel. “Evidently, he found no identification on the body.”

  Samuel spoke from where he stood by the fireplace. “Why did you ask where he was living, Sarah?”

  “I was trying to understand what he was doing on Lombard Street tonight. If he had a room nearby, that would explain it. On the other hand, given his habit of appearing uninvited at hospital board meetings, he might have been on his way to the Barlows’ home when he suffered—”

  “A fatal … heart attack?” Samuel finished for me.

  That slight hesitation, as well as the way he spoke the last two words, caught my attention. “You say that as if you question whether he died of natural causes.”

  Samuel swirled his brandy, then left his place by the hearth to take a seat in an armchair.

  “I’ve never been a big believer in coincidence, Sarah,” he said. “It’s been my experience that when something seems too improbable to be true, it usually is.”

  “Are you suggesting, Samuel, that Reverend Halsey caught something from Mrs. Godfrey the night of the dinner?” Celia looked to her husband. “I didn’t think heart disease was contagious.”

  Charles’s smile was rueful. “It isn’t—at least, not as far as we know. But even if there was some truth to the notion, Halsey was never close enough to Mrs. Godfrey that evening to catch anything, not even a simple cold.”

  “Have they ordered an autopsy?” I asked Charles.

  He nodded. “It’s not an uncommon procedure when a victim dies suddenly, or if he hasn’t been under a doctor’s care.” He cleared his throat. “I know it’s tempting to imagine a connection between Mrs. Godfrey’s and Reverend Halsey’s deaths, but when I said people die of heart attacks every day, I was serious. Caroline Godfrey was being treated for a severe coronary condition. Josiah Halsey was a religious fanatic, not the sort of peaceful life one associates with good health and longevity. And don’t forget, he was at an age when heart attacks among men are not unusual.”

  “All right, Charles,” I put in. “But what about the excessive amount of nitroglycerin found in Mrs. Godfrey’s system? How do you explain that?”

  There was an instant outcry from Samuel and Celia, and Charles explained Mrs. Godfrey’s autopsy results.

  Celia shook her head, sending soft blond curls bobbing about her worried face. “I’m sorry, but I don’t understand any of this.”

  Samuel drained what was left of his brandy, then placed the glass on the table and said, “I think what it means, my dear sister-in-law, is that, tempting as it is to jump to conclusions, we shall have to postpone further speculation until Reverend Halsey’s postmortem is completed.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  I arrived at the office the next morning to find Hubert Perkins, the head clerk, waiting to pounce on me.

  “Mr. Shepard wants to see you in his office,” he said. He drew out his fob watch. “You are fifteen minutes late.”

  “If I am, Mr. Perkins,” I retorted, weary and in no mood for verbal sparring, “it is hardly your concern.”

  The clerk’s face flushed with anger. “Punctuality is always my concern, Miss Woolson. Mr. Shepard is waiting.”

  “I’m afraid he’ll have to wait a few more minutes,” I said, refusing to be rushed. “I must go to my office first.”

  Ignoring Perkins’s high-pitched protests, I made for the former storage room set aside for my use. Frankly, I was still troubled by our late-night conversation the evening before. I wanted to believe Charles was right; people died of heart attacks every day. Just because it happened to two people whose paths had so recently crossed did not mean their deaths were connected, much less suspicious. Why, then, couldn’t I get Caroline Godfrey and Josiah Halsey out of my mind?

  Realizing I couldn’t put my employer off any longer, I removed my hat and coat and prepared to walk into the lion’s den. Opening my employer’s door, I found that he was not alone. Seated across from him was Pierce Godfrey.

  Belatedly, I remembered the purpose of Godfrey’s visit. So much had transpired since our talk in the carriage the day before, I’d forgotten his promise to speak to Joseph Shepard about my acting as his company’s attorney.

  “For heaven’s sake, come in and close the door,” Shepard barked, when I stood uncertainly in the doorway. One look at his face told me he was not pleased with his early morning visitor. In fact, his expression put me in mind of a sadly failed Yorkshire pudding. “You’ve met Mr. Godfrey.” It was not a question so much as a criticism.

  “Yes, we’ve met. Good morning, Mr. Godfrey.”

  Pierce, who stood as I entered the room, gave a small bow. “You’re looking well this morning, Miss Woolson.”

  “Thank you. I’m feeling well.”

  Shepard, who had remained seated at my arrival, glared at me. “Let us get on with this, shall we?”

  Pierce assisted me into a chair. As he did, I wished I’d been a fly on the wall to witness my employer’s reaction when Pierce announced that he wished to hire me as his attorney. The senior partner must have come close to apoplexy. Even now, the vein in his temple pulsated with suppressed anger.

  “Mr. Godfrey has come on extraordinary business, Miss Woolson.” Shepard’s jowls quivered with indignation. “I’m astonished you led him to believe you’d be willing—much less qualified—to act as legal counsel for his firm.”

  “It is Mr. Godfrey’s choice, Mr. Shepard,” I replied.

  “Then you should have spared no effort clarifying the situation. Such an arrangement is out of the question!”

  “And why is that?” Pierce inquired politely.

  Shepard clamped on his pince-nez and subjected the younger man to a squinting appraisal. “Why it—it’s unheard of, that’s why. Good Lord, man,” he sputtered as if Pierce might be suffering from failing vision. “She’s a woman!”

  Pierce smiled. “So I’ve noticed. Still, I’m confident that her gender has not adversely affected her brain, which I’ve found to be first-rate. I’m sorry if this upsets you, Mr. Shepard, but I’ve made up my mind. I will settle for no one but Miss Woolson to represent my company.”

  “But she has no experience whatsoever in corporate law.” Pierce gave a dismissive wave of his hand. “Perhaps not, but I’m sure she’ll learn quickly. After all, she passed her California Bar Examinations.”

  “Her father is a judge. She had help.”

  “I’d be surprised if she didn’t,” Pierce agreed. “On the other hand, I doubt if Judge Woolson was permitted to take the examination for her. She accomplished that on her own—and did exceedingly well, I might add.”

  I shot him a surprised look. “How do you know—”

  He smiled. “Miss Woolson, much as I admire you, I would never consider hiring an attorney without assuring myself of his—or her—qualifications. You have nothing to be ashamed of, I assure you. Your scores were in the top percentile. I’m sure you agree, Mr. Shepard, that is impressive.”

  “I—I—”

  Shepard’s fleshy face had turned a shade of bright red, and I found myself tensing for the inevitable explosion. Sure enough, he began that dreadful sound at the back of his nose, building in tempo until it trumpeted forth
in full volume. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Pierce staring at him as if fearing the man had taken leave of his senses.

  Ironically, Shepard’s resistance to Pierce’s request was the final incentive I needed to accept the position. “When would you like me to begin, Mr. Godfrey?” I asked, carrying on with the conversation as if my employer weren’t sitting there braying like a donkey.

  “Actually, I was hoping to go over some of the details today. Then, on Wednesday, I’d be pleased if you’d accompany me to Henry Finney’s shipbuilding firm, where we’ll sign the final contracts.”

  Shepard’s annoying outbreak had gradually abated, but his pale eyes bulged with righteous ire. “No! Not under any circumstances. Not only is Miss Woolson unqualified for the position you’re suggesting, but surely you must realize no company would enter into negotiation with a woman!”

  “I have already apprised Mr. Finney of my decision to retain a woman as my legal representative. I realize, of course, that Miss Woolson is a recent associate, but given your firm’s reputation, I’m sure you would never hire an attorney whose abilities were less than exceptional.”

  Finding no ready retort to this statement, Shepard had to content himself with casting another withering look in my direction. Since I had more or less relied on subterfuge to obtain my employment in his firm, I averted my eyes.

  Pierce seemed to take my employer’s silence as tacit agreement. Standing, he extended his hand across the desk. “Thank you, Mr. Shepard, it’s been a pleasure. I look forward to working with Miss Woolson and with your firm.”

  Subjecting me to one last, furious glare, Shepard turned back to Pierce, his expression one of scornful misgiving.

  “I fear you will regret this decision, Mr. Godfrey. Don’t say I didn’t warn you—”

  There was a knock on the door. Before Shepard could respond, Robert entered, his sharp gaze going first to me, then to Pierce.