Murder on Nob Hill Read online

  “I believe you were well acquainted with Mr. Hanaford,” I said,

  trying yet another tack. “Do you know if he, too, made a practice of frequenting Chinatown?”

  Potter looked stunned. “Really, Miss Woolson, I think you’re wasting your time pursuing this line of inquiry. What possible business could Mr. Hanaford have had in that part of town?”

  “The same might be said for Rufus Mills,” I commented. “And it's necessary to cover every possibility.” Again I shifted focus. “I know Mr. Hanaford and Mr. Mills were old friends, and in the past had been mining partners. Do you know if they continued to have business dealings? I thought perhaps Mr. Mills might have used the bank to finance some of his projects.”

  “Quite right, he did.” The bank manager looked relieved to be on more certain ground. “Cornelius—Mr. Hanaford—provided most of Mr. Mills's financing which, considering his many successful enterprises, returned a nice profit to the bank.”

  “What about the other partners, Senator Broughton and Mr. Wylde? I understand you’ve known all four men since your school days.”

  “Mr. Hanafordand Igrewuptogether. Imet theotherswhenhe was attempting to finance a trip to Nevada. Rufus Mills, Benjamin Wylde and Willard Broughton had agreed to accompany him.”

  “I’m surprised you didn’t go as well.”

  “Cornelius urged me to go, but it wasn’t my sort of thing.” He smiled. “I’ve never been particularly adventurous, I’m afraid. In any event, my wife was expecting our daughter, Louisa. Even if I’d been inclined, I couldn’t have left her at such a time.”

  “No, of course not. You say Mr. Hanaford assumed responsibility for financing the venture?”

  “Yes, Cornelius was always good at that sort of thing. People trusted him. He even convinced me to invest. And I had little enough put aside in those days.”

  “You must have been happy that you did, given their success.”

  “Cornelius more than repaid my original investment. And the money couldn’t have come at a better time.” He hesitated. “There were complications during childbirth and my wife never recovered her health. She passed away soon afterward.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Potter. I didn’t realize—”

  “Please, don’t distress yourself, Miss Woolson,” he broke in with a kind smile. “You couldn’t have known.”

  When I rose to leave, the manager took hold of my hand. “If you see Mrs. Hanaford, please assure her that I don’t for one moment believe the charges against her. Surely the police will realize their mistake and release her from that appalling place.”

  “I sincerely hope so,” I agreed wholeheartedly.

  Apologizing for taking up so much of his time, I thanked Eban Potter for his help and took my leave of the bank.

  I arrived at Mr. Paulson's office promptly at six o’clock to find Robert Campbell already present.

  He nodded his head with stiff courtesy. “Miss Woolson.” “Mr. Campbell,” I returned with equal formality and accepted the chair Mr. Paulson offered.

  “Mr. Wylde has expressed an interest in attending our meeting,” the attorney informed us. “As an old friend of Mr. Hanaford, and executor of his estate, he's understandably concerned about Mrs. Hanaford. I trust this meets with your approval, Miss Wool-son? And yours, Mr. Campbell?”

  I bit back my true feelings on the subject of Benjamin Wylde. Since it was imperative that I continue to act in Annjenett's behalf, I couldn’t afford to antagonize Mr. Paulson.

  “Yes, of course,” I replied, keeping my tone pleasant.

  “It's fine with me,” Campbell said, as if the matter were of no consequence to him one way or the other.

  “Excellent.” Mr. Paulson smiled. “While we wait for his arrival, I’ve taken the liberty of ordering tea.”

  We’d just been served refreshments when the office door opened and a clerk announced Benjamin Wylde. The man was much as I remembered from Hanaford's bank. He was impeccably dressed in a tailored frock coat and trousers; his longish black hair was neatly combed, his angular face defined by open speculation as he boldly took in the room and its inhabitants. His sharp eyes went to Robert Campbell, then to me, and it was infuriatingly clear that he found us a less than formidable addition to the defense team. My temper rose at the impertinence. He was present at this meeting as a personal favor, yet from the moment he entered the room he seemed to take it over. Catching Campbell's eye, I was pleased to note that he, too, seemed put off by Wylde's gall. At least we agreed on one thing, I thought.

  “Before we begin,” said Paulson, “I have disturbing news. When the police searched Mr. Fowler's room, they discovered the items taken from Mr. Hanaford's house the night of his murder.”

  This information struck me like a physical blow. “Have you spoken to Mrs. Hanaford about this?”

  “Not yet,” the lawyer answered soberly. “Please, allow me to be frank. There's little Mrs. Hanaford can say that is likely to diminish this blow to her case. She swears Fowler never left her sight the night of the murder. If this is true, the evidence found in his rooms is as damaging to her as it is to him.”

  Before I could object to this line of reasoning, Wylde said, “What defense do you have in mind?” He spoke directly to Paulson, rudely turning his back on both Campbell and myself.

  “That's what we have gathered here to discuss,” Paulson replied.

  “Mrs. Hanaford will be arraigned next Wednesday morning. We shall have to be ready with her plea.”

  He looked at each of us in turn. “After giving the matter a great deal of consideration, it seems clear that there are three ways to handle the case. One, we can claim Mrs. Hanaford and Mr. Fowler acted in self-defense, which would be damn—” He glanced uncomfortably in my direction. “That is to say, it would be difficult to prove, especially given the, ah, nature of the victim's wounds. Two, we can contend that Fowler forced Mrs. Hanaford to act as his accomplice. Either way—”

  “Either way you assume her guilt,” I interrupted, appalled.

  “I didn’t say I liked our options, Miss Woolson,” he told me unhappily. “I am merely stating the facts.”

  “Whatever the purported facts, the truth remains that Annjenett Hanaford did not murder her husband.”

  “Why? Because you think she's incapable of such an act?” Campbell snorted. “That's blind faith, Miss Woolson, not a viable defense one can use in a court of law.”

  Paulson broke in before I could justify my position.

  “I appreciate your loyalty to Mrs. Hanaford, Miss Woolson. But Mr. Campbell is correct when he says we must structure a defense based on the evidence collected by the police. To do less would be grievously negligent.”

  “How damaging is this evidence—other than the discovery of the stolen items in Fowler's room?” asked Wylde.

  Mr. Paulson put on his spectacles and opened a folder. “It seems that a neighbor saw Mr. Fowler enter the Hanaford house shortly after nine o’clock on the night of the murder.”

  I gasped, shocked by this belated revelation. “It's been nearly a month since Mr. Hanaford's death. Why has this neighbor waited so long to step forward?”

  “Evidently the gentleman went abroad the morning after the murder and has only just returned,” explained Paulson. “When the police revisited Mr. Hanaford's neighbors, he was able to relate for the first time what he’d observed.” He gazed at us over his spectacles. “Besides the stolen articles, this is the most damaging disclosure to date. Unfortunately, however, there is more.”

  He looked uneasily in my direction, then cleared his throat. “Mrs. Hanaford and Mr. Fowler have been seen together on numerous occasions, it seems. Without Mr. Hanaford.” He let the obvious implication hang in the air.

  “How long had this been going on?” Campbell asked in the silence following this statement.

  The lawyer consulted the file. “For at least six months. According to witnesses, they were circumspect. But this sort of thing can’t be kept secret for long. I
n my opinion, it would be fruitless to deny that they were more than merely friends.”

  “An actor,” Mr. Wylde said, his tone contemptuous.

  “How could she expect to get away with it?” Campbell put in. “Her husband was certain to find out.”

  “That is undoubtedly what the prosecution will contend,” Paulson said. “They’ll claim that Mr. Hanaford discovered his wife's affair and that Fowler, aided by Mrs. Hanaford, was forced to murder him. After a discreet passage of time, they’d be free to marry and share in her inheritance.”

  Listening to these three men—the very attorneys whom Ann-jenett depended on to clear her name—calmly discussing her as if she’d already been tried and convicted made my blood boil. Despite Paulson's sympathy for the widow, he still stood with society in his judgment of her implied indiscretions, without any idea what loneliness and despair might have driven her to seek solace in another man's arms. What would they say if they knew of the

  beatings she’d suffered at her husband's hands, or the degrading acts she’d been made to perform? Or would that knowledge make any difference? Even if Annjenett had killed her husband in self-defense—something I would never believe—it would be a difficult case to defend. For this reason, I dared not tell these men what I knew about the physical and emotional mistreatment she had endured. To do so would provide the prosecution with an even more powerful motive: that she had helped plan and execute Hanaford's murder to free herself of a brutal husband.

  “The police have also learned from the servants that the Hanafords frequently quarreled,” Paulson went on, his expression grim. “One of their most rancorous fights was overheard by a maid the night before Mr. Hanaford was killed, an event the prosecution will surely use to disastrous advantage.” He closed the file. “And, of course, Mrs. Hanaford is her husband's principal beneficiary. She stands to inherit a very large fortune.”

  “Unless she's convicted,” put in Wylde.

  “That is correct.” Paulson agreed. “A murderess cannot profit from her crime.”

  Campbell stirred in his seat. “You mentioned three options for handling Mrs. Hanaford's case, Paulson. What's the third?”

  Paulson again looked around the table. “After dismissing the first two alternatives as impossible to sustain in a court of law, I’m convinced there is only one feasible defense. We must plead Mrs. Hanaford not guilty by reason of insanity.”

  “No!” I protested, unable to hold my tongue another moment. “On no account must we do that. She's not insane. And police evidence notwithstanding, I’ll never believe her guilty of murder.”

  “Calm yourself, woman,” Campbell ordered, which only added to my aggravation.

  “It's impossible to remain calm when my client's only hope

  rests with men who believe her guilty. If you represent her protectors, God save the poor woman from her accusers!”

  Benjamin Wylde glared at me darkly, but before he could speak, Mr. Paulson sighed and said, “Miss Woolson, however much you believe in Mrs. Hanaford's innocence, we owe it to our client to be practical. We cannot ignore the mountain of evidence that will be used against her by the prosecution.”

  “Nor can we idly stand by and do nothing to explain or disprove that evidence,” I argued hotly. “Surely we can find a witness who saw someone else enter the house that night. Hanaford had to have had enemies. It's up to us to find them.”

  “This is absurd!” Wylde's voice rose. “I refuse to be lectured to by a woman who patently hasn’t the first idea what—”

  “Please, Mr. Wylde,” interjected Paulson. “I understand Miss Woolson's concerns.”

  Wylde's face darkened, but he lapsed into resentful silence. Paulson turned to me, his mild brown eyes sympathetic.

  “We’re facing a difficult situation, my dear, and there are no simple answers. Once you’ve examined the facts, I’m sure you’ll agree that there is only one defense possible if we’re to save our client's life, no matter how abhorrent that plea may appear.”

  He opened a large tome to a marked page. “I propose to base our insanity case on the McNaghten Rules of 1843. We will have to prove that at the time the crime was committed, Mrs. Hanaford was laboring under a defect from reason and didn’t know the nature and quality of the act she was committing. Or, if she did know, that she wasn’t aware that what she was doing was wrong.”

  “That seems to be a sound plan,” Wylde agreed.

  “I don’t anticipate any difficulty finding doctors who will attest to Mrs. Hanaford's troubled state of mind. The servants have spoken of the days she spent closed off in her room, as well as crying

  spells they witnessed and displays of nerves. Of course, the crime itself speaks to her fragile mental condition.”

  I started to protest, then decided it was useless. I was the only person in the room who believed Annjenett Hanaford innocent. Clearly, it would be up to me to prove that she was.

  When the meeting was over, after the three men had agreed to base Annjenett's defense on temporary insanity, I politely refused Mr. Paulson's offer to share his carriage. Splurging on a hansom cab, I wearily requested that the driver take me home.

  That evening I brought my father up to date as we sat in his study, enjoying freshly brewed coffee generously laced with brandy.

  “All right, Sarah,” he said at last. “If, as you believe, your client and Mr. Fowler are innocent, who do you suppose did kill Cornelius Hanaford?”

  “I wish I knew.” I ran a hand through my already disarranged hair, a habit I had acquired as a child and had been unable to break as an adult. “I believe that Hanaford not only knew his killer, but that he personally let him inside the house.”

  Papa nodded his agreement. “If Mrs. Hanaford and the servants are telling the truth, then that's the only possible conclusion.”

  “Which is why it's so vital to learn everything possible about Hanaford and Mills. Think back, Papa. Can you remember any scandals they might have been involved in? Or business dealings gone wrong?”

  “Business dealings are always going wrong,” he said with a wry smile. “Although I can think of none that might cost two men their lives—assuming, of course, that the murders are connected. As for scandals, well, that's another story.”

  I leaned forward. “What is it, Papa? What do you remember?”

  “Nothing that's apt to help you, I’m afraid. Just some trouble Rufus Mills was in fifteen or twenty years ago. Too far in the past to have anything to do with his murder.”

  “Even so, I’d like to hear it.”

  My father made a tower with his fingers, something he often did when he was lost in thought. I knew enough to wait quietly until he was ready to go on.

  “You have to understand, Sarah, Hanaford and his partners had reputations for being somewhat wild in their younger days,” he said at length. “Of course, San Francisco was a rowdy town in the sixties, and what passed for law and order was disorganized at best. Even so, it made a big splash in the papers when a woman who had done housework for Mills's parents, insisted Rufus was the father of her son. The boy was around ten at the time, as I recall. The woman was sick and out of work. She demanded Mills give her money to care for the boy and get medical help for herself.”

  “What happened?”

  “By all accounts he sent her packing. Said she was nothing but a gold digger and denied he was the father of her child. In desperation I suppose, she went to the newspapers with her story. Naturally, they fed on it like a pack of wolves. But in the end it was Mills's word against hers, and by then he was becoming a bigwig in the city. Regardless of what people privately thought, they aligned themselves on the side of money.” He stared into the fire. “I heard the woman died not long after and that was the end of it.”

  “And the boy?”

  Papa shrugged. “Probably took to the streets—like thousands of other poor waifs.”

  I shared my parents’ sympathy for the city's homeless children, or street Arabs as they were call
ed, who slept in doorways and lived

  from hand-to-mouth. We did what we could to help them, but it was never enough. It angered me to think that a man as wealthy as Rufus Mills would consign one more child to such a fate, especially one who might be his son. Still, I couldn’t see how this incident, tragic as it was, could have a bearing on either murder.

  Papa seemed to read my thoughts. “I warned you I didn’t think it would be helpful. Other stories circulated about the four men from time to time—their drinking, gaming, carousing, that sort of thing. But, as I say, they were no worse than the hundreds of other young men who were bent on hell-raising in those days. I’m sorry, Sarah. I wish I could tell you something useful.”

  “I know.” I tried to mask my disappointment. “It's just that matters are growing desperate. Paulson means well, but if he has his way, the best Annjenett can hope for is to be put in an insane asylum where she’ll languish for the rest of her days.”

  “That's better than death on the gallows,” Papa pointed out.

  “Is it? I’ve read stories about self-styled mental asylums. Patients beaten and starved, kept in filthy conditions—treated worse than wild animals. A swift death might be more merciful.”

  “Then you must do what you can to save her.” He patted my arm. “You have an advantage over Paulson and the others, my dear. You believe in your client's innocence. That passion may be all that stands between her and the scaffold. Or, as you have pointed out, perhaps an even worse fate.”

  It was almost midnight and I was sitting up in bed combing through legal volumes when I heard a soft knock on my door. A moment later, Samuel poked his head in. “I saw your light,” he explained.

  I sat up straighter. “Come in. I was hoping to speak to you.”

  He entered quietly, closing the door behind him. “George told me about the stolen items they found in Fowler's rooms.” He sat in the chair facing my bed. “That can’t help your client's case.”

  “It was devastating news,” I said, and went on to recount the meeting that afternoon, ending with Paulson's decision to plead insanity. “It makes me wonder what else Annjenett hasn’t told me.”