Murder on Nob Hill Read online

  Samuel studied me seriously. “Sarah, be honest. Do you still think she's innocent?”

  I didn’t answer immediately. Just moments before, in the silence of my room, I’d asked myself the same question. Had my own arrogance—my need to be proven right about Annjenett—rendered me incapable of an unbiased opinion? After a great deal of what I hoped was candid introspection, I’d decided that it had not.

  “I know it looks black, but I don’t think I could be so mistaken in my judgment. Besides, she deserves to have at least one person believe in her.” I closed the law book I had borrowed from Papa's library. “I could use some good news, Samuel. Tell me you discovered something useful about Hanaford and his partners.”

  “There's not a lot to report, I’m afraid.” He crossed one neatly creased pant leg over the other. I smiled, wondering how my brother did it. Even after an evening out on the town, he looked as fresh and handsome as when he’d left the house. “The newspapers are full of stories about the four partners over the years, but I found nothing that's likely to help your client's case. After they returned from Nevada, Wylde went to Harvard, while Broughton attended Yale University. Hanaford and Mills used their newfound wealth to start businesses, and eventually made more money than their better-educated friends. Along the way, I’m sure they collected their share of enemies, but I came across no dealings so hostile they might lead to murder.”

  He paused, as if taking mental inventory. “Let's see. Ah, yes,

  here's an interesting piece of chimera. You knew Hanaford was a client of Shepard's firm. But did you know his three partners are also represented by your new employer?”

  “No, I didn’t,” I said, sitting up straighter. Several possible ways to use this information instantly sprang to mind, all of them risky, one or two probably unethical. None, however, daunting enough to put me off trying.

  “You’ve done very well, big brother,” I told him earnestly. “I have no idea where any of this will lead, but it's a start.”

  My brother shifted in his seat but didn’t get up.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “I’ve given this a lot of thought, Sarah, and I think you might want to stop insisting that the two murders are connected.” “Why? I’m sure they are.”

  “I know. But it might do your client more harm than good if the police decide to agree with you.”

  Confusion must have registered on my face because he leaned forward and lowered his voice.

  “I see this hasn’t occurred to you. But just think, Sarah. We know Mrs. Hanaford had nothing to do with Mills's death because she was arrested early the evening he was killed. Fowler, on the other hand, wasn’t taken in by the police until several hours later.”

  I stared at my brother. “Are you suggesting Peter Fowler might have killed Rufus Mills?”

  “I’m saying it's something you need to consider. Hanaford and Mills were powerful men; City Hall is under a great deal of pressure to solve their murders. If the police can’t come up with a suspect for Mills's killing soon, they may decide it's in their best interests to connect the two crimes after all. It won’t take them long to realize that Fowler had the opportunity to kill Mills as well

  as Hanaford. And he's already in custody. What a tidy way to wrap up both murders at the same time.”

  “Wait a minute!” I objected. “You just agreed that Annjenett couldn’t have had anything to do with Mills's death.”

  “Not physically, perhaps, but she might be charged as an accessory. The authorities could argue that she helped plan both murders. When she was arrested before the second crime could be carried out, Fowler went ahead and committed the murder himself.”

  “But why? What motive could they have for killing Mills? Ann-jenett might have met Rufus through her husband, but it seems unlikely that Peter Fowler could have known him. They hardly traveled in the same social circles.”

  “I agree, Sarah. I’m merely pointing out the dangers in that line of reasoning. It might turn on you.”

  “Yes,” I said slowly, still trying to absorb the idea that Annjenett might, however improbably, be accused of not just one murder, but two.

  “What do you know about Fowler, by the way?” he asked.

  “Frustratingly little. He's a competent actor and I’m sure Annjenett's deeply in love with him. Neither of which precludes the man from being a cold-blooded killer. We know from George that the police had to wait in Fowler's rooms until two in the morning the night Mills was murdered, which begs the question, where was he that night? More specifically, where was he at the time the crime was committed?”

  “I can help with the earlier portion of the evening,” Samuel offered. “For the past two months, Fowler's been appearing in The Beaux Stratagem at the California Theater. I saw the play myself last week, and with the intermissions it ran about three hours. The night Mills was killed, the evening performance started at eight o’clock. So we know where he was until at least eleven.”

  “The police seem to think Mills was killed sometime after midnight,” I said thoughtfully. “The California Theater is on Bush Street—about half an hour's walk to Chinatown, wouldn’t you say? Which means Fowler would have had ample time to make his way there and commit the murder.”

  “Depending, of course, on what he did after the show.”

  “Yes,” I agreed, soberly. “That's what we have to find out. And as I said, we can’t be certain Fowler even knew Rufus Mills. But if he can account for his whereabouts between the final curtain and the time he was arrested, it will be a moot point.”

  “And if he has no alibi?”

  I pulled a face at Samuel. He was right, of course. I had to tread carefully.

  “All right,” I said briskly. “We’ll start at the beginning and reassess our plan as we go along.”

  “This may not be as easy as you think.”

  “Nothing about this case is easy, Samuel,” I groaned. “But we have to try. Everyone else has already given up—even the men Annjenett is counting on to defend her.”

  My brother looked worried. “I wonder if you realize what you’re taking on, Sarah. The police have amassed a great deal of damaging evidence against Mrs. Hanaford. Convincing them that they’re wrong isn’t going to be easy. I know you don’t want to hear this, but the truth is, it doesn’t look good for your client.”

  I shivered and pulled my robe more closely about my shoulders. Suddenly I felt chilled and incredibly weary. I wanted nothing more than to sink beneath my covers and let sleep silence my mind as well as my fears.

  “You’re right, Samuel,” I said with a sigh. “I don’t like to hear it. On the other hand, I’m not as naive as you seem to think. I’m well aware that this is probably going to be an uphill battle.”

  “And no matter what I say you won’t give up.” He smiled ruefully. “But when have you ever given up—even as a little girl with three big brothers who ganged up on you?”

  He leaned over and patted my hand. “Get some sleep, little sister. Something tells me you’re going to need it.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  I was shocked by Annjenett's appearance as she was led into the courtroom for her arraignment. Her face was drained of color and the hands she held clenched in front of her plain woolen gown were visibly trembling. How many more days of this could she endure, I wondered? Because she was accused of a capital offence, I knew it was unlikely we would be able to get her released on bail. Still, I prayed for a miracle—anything, however unlikely, that would allow her to return home that very day.

  On the other side of the room, Annjenett's father, Thomas Cooke, sat alone, face drawn, eyes fearful. He seemed oblivious to the curious onlookers crowding the courtroom, staring fixedly at the door where his daughter had suddenly appeared. The unpardonable act of marrying her off to settle a debt notwithstanding, I couldn’t help but feel sorry for the man. He seemed to have aged ten years since I last saw him, and the love he bore his only child was clearly etched on his ravaged face.<
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  Robert Campbell and I sat at the defense table with Augustus

  Paulson. Despite a game attempt to tame his unruly hair—and dress in what was obviously a new morning coat and gray trousers—the volatile young attorney still looked as out of place in the courtroom as an elephant at a tea party. He’d given me a brief greeting, then steadfastly refrained from looking in my direction. Benjamin Wylde completed our defense team; he sat directly behind us in the area reserved for spectators.

  As Annjenett's case was called, a guard ushered her to our table. After a brief, painful look at her father, she came to stand between Mr. Paulson and myself. Her icy fingers sought mine and held on for dear life as the judge read aloud the charge of murder in the first degree. When he asked for her plea, she was forced to repeat “Not guilty” twice before the court could hear her reply.

  The entire affair was over almost before it began. The prosecution presented a strong case against granting bail and, despite Paulson's impassioned arguments, the judge concurred, banging his gavel to indicate the hearing was at an end. I barely had time to embrace Annjenett's thin shoulders and pledge my continued support before, head bowed and looking even more miserable than when she’d entered the courtroom, the young widow was given a brief moment to embrace her father, then led back into the wretched bowels of the city jail.

  There was little time to talk with Paulson, either, as he was due to meet with other clients. His smiling assurance that all had gone as expected did little to hearten me. Nor did his opinion that, because of our planned insanity defense, the stolen articles found in Fowler's room would have little impact on our case. The day before, Annjenett had broken down and confessed it had been her idea for Peter to take the items so the crime might look like burglary, a strategy, I thought, that hardly sounded like the ravings of a mad woman.

  It was just after ten o’clock when I caught a horsecar to Clay and Kearny Streets. Because of my preoccupation with Annjenett's case, this would be my first full day at the law firm, and there was much to be done before I could settle into my new office. Furthermore, I was anxious to carry out the mission I’d conceived after my late-night talk with Samuel.

  I hadn’t expected an enthusiastic greeting from my new colleagues, nor was I disappointed. Hubert Perkins, the nervous clerk who, as usual, lay in wait by the door, tried to intercept me, but I resolutely swept past him and down the hallway to the room that was to be my office.

  I was delighted to find Joseph Shepard away for the morning. I was also relieved to note that Mr. Campbell had not yet returned from Annjenett's hearing.

  Upon reaching my assigned storage closet—it would be pretentious to call it more than that—I examined the grubby interior with dismay. But not one to procrastinate, I rolled up my sleeves, pried open the room's two small windows with a broom handle, and began to scrub.

  Two hours later, with the less than eager help of several clerks I had conscripted into service, the room was finally clean, though well short of hospitable. Taking stock, I decided that window curtains, some pictures on the barren walls, and perhaps a vase or two of flowers would at least make the place tolerable. I’ve long held the belief that tasteful, uncluttered surroundings are essential to foster a productive mind. In this case, I’d have to be satisfied with uncluttered. Good taste and this room were mutually exclusive.

  As it turned out, my timing was perfect. Joseph Shepard had not yet returned to the office, and I was relieved to see that Campbell's cubicle was still unoccupied. Now that my corps of helpers had scurried off before I could find more work for them to do, no one

  exhibited the least interest in the newest and sole female employee of the firm.

  Leaving my office, I made my way as unobtrusively as possible down the hall, stopping at each door until I found the one I was seeking. In a room hardly larger than my own were a number of old, very dusty file cabinets. Slipping inside, I closed the door and quickly set about my task.

  I knew that what I was doing was unethical. I had no reason— no official reason, that is—for being in this room, much less tampering with its highly confidential contents. Unofficially, I was prepared to stifle my conscience and take whatever steps necessary to save my client.

  The esteem in which the city of San Francisco held Joseph Shepard's firm was borne out by the vast number of files I was forced to sort through. Samuel's discovery that all four mining partners used the same law firm had given me the idea, of course. The knowledge that their personal files were housed under one roof made searching for the records too great a temptation to resist.

  I started with Hanaford's file. I’d already read the copy of the will in his home safe, but the folder I now held was thick with other documents. Everything seemed disappointingly ordinary until, at the very bottom of the file, I came upon several papers listing the holdings of Hanaford's estate. The final entry brought me up short. It read: Fifty thousand dollars in trust at First National Bank, 850 Clay Street, San Francisco. Intrigued, I examined the firm's copy of Hanaford's will. I was right! There was no mention of a fifty thousand dollar trust—and this I found most peculiar—held at a bank other than his own!

  I dug through more files until I found Rufus Mills's folder, which also contained his last will and testament. My heart skipped a beat. There, again entered last, was the same notation for fifty

  thousand dollars held in trust at First National Bank! My thoughts flew to the remaining partners. Was it possible they had similar funds?

  It didn’t take long to find Senator Broughton's file. It was just as I’d suspected! He, too, had fifty thousand dollars in an account at First National. I had just located Wylde's folder when a voice boomed, “What in damnation do you think you’re doing?”

  I was so startled I nearly dropped the file in my hand. Behind me in the open doorway, tousled red hair brushing the top of the wood frame, stood Robert Campbell, eyes glaring out accusingly from beneath fiercely knitted brows.

  “Come in and close the door,” I snapped, annoyed he had caught me unawares. “And for heaven's sake, lower your voice!”

  His scowl deepened and, typically, the obstinate man refused to budge. “I asked what you’re doing in here?” he repeated in what was, to my relief, a slightly lower decibel level. “Don’t you know these files are confidential?”

  “The only thing I know, Mr. Campbell, is that Annjenett Hanaford is languishing in city jail, while the very men who are supposed to be championing her cause blithely accept that she's guilty of first-degree murder.”

  “And what do you think you can accomplish?” he asked in a voice heavy with sarcasm.

  “I can try to find out which of Mr. Hanaford's clients or acquaintances wished to see him dead, and who among them has no alibi for the night he was killed.” I waved Hanaford's file. “I can also attempt to discover why the owner of one of the largest financial institutions in the city would keep a fortune in someone else's bank”

  This brought the troublesome man up short. Without so much as a by-your-leave, he yanked the papers out of my hand and scanned them skeptically, stopping at the final, puzzling entry.

  “There must be a reasonable explanation for this.”

  “Oh, really? Is there also a reasonable explanation why Rufus Mills, Senator Broughton, and—” I rifled through Wylde's file, then gave a little cry of triumph—”Benjamin Wylde should have matching deposits at the same bank?”

  “I neither know, nor do I care. It certainly can’t have anything to do with Mrs. Hanaford's case.”

  “We won’t know that until I’ve had time to investigate. The logical place to start, of course, is with Cornelius Hanaford, since his account at a competing bank is—”

  “Investigate! When will you get it through your head that Mrs. Hanaford's case is none of your confounded business? Furthermore—”

  It was as well that I’d tuned him out, for as he blathered on, I heard footsteps in the hall, then the sound of Joseph Shepard's voice. I grabbed the file from C
ampbell's hand and threw it, along with the others, into the nearest file cabinet. I had just slammed the drawer shut and gone to stand by the startled attorney when the senior partner appeared, Perkins, the annoying clerk from the front office, at his heels. Shepard scowled.

  “So you are here, Miss Woolson.” His voice and his gaze were frosty. “May I ask what you’re doing in this room?”

  I sensed Campbell's quick intake of breath, but before he could speak, I gave the dour senior attorney my brightest smile.

  “Mr. Campbell graciously offered to give me a tour of the office. This is an impressive collection of records.”

  “It is a confidential collection, Miss Woolson. No one is allowed in this room without permission from one of the partners.” His glare went to the Scot. “You should know better, Campbell.”

  The younger man colored but I rushed in before he could reply.

  “Please, it's entirely my fault. In my enthusiasm to see everything, I’m afraid I opened this door by mistake.”

  Shepard glared at my fuming accomplice but had little choice but to accept my apology. To do otherwise would make him seem churlish if the story reached my father. He forced a smile which, unfortunately, made him resemble a man with a toothache.

  “See that it doesn’t happen again,” he told me sharply, then turned to the junior attorney. “I want to see you in my office, Campbell. Now!”

  Before he could leave, I reminded the senior partner that the money from Annjenett's separate account was due that day. When he protested that Mrs. Hanaford's incarceration prevented him from carrying out this promise, I presented the note Annjenett had signed in her cell, assigning me power of attorney. His cheeks flamed and for a moment I feared we were in for one of his tiresome outbursts. Then he seemed to realize the futility of further argument and ungraciously gave in to my request.

  When I left the office some half hour later, Mr. Shepard's bank draft for ten thousand dollars was safely tucked inside my reticule. I was understandably anxious to deposit it as quickly as possible and made directly for Hanaford's bank. There was, however, a second reason for my visit: I hoped for a word with Eban Potter. Perhaps he would know why his late employer had kept money at a rival bank. In this matter, however, I was disappointed.