Scandal On Rincon Hill Read online

  “I see you continue to refuse to adopt the civilized habit of announcing your arrival with a knock upon my door,” I told him sardonically.

  “Knock?” he asked, as if this word were strange to his vocabulary. “This is a law office open to the public, is it not?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “And I am currently visiting that office as a client, is that not also correct?”

  I knew, of course, where this was headed, but was forced to nod my head in reluctant agreement. “I suppose you could technically be termed a client.”

  “Oh, aye? Have I not brought you business, you ungrateful woman?” he declared, his Scottish burr rolling along nicely. “And have I not paid good money for your legal services? From the dearth of clients queued up at your door, I should think You'd regard me as a very fine client, indeed.” Without waiting for an invitation, the irksome man sank into the chair opposite my desk. “Now, have you finished my work or not?”

  Once again I consulted my lapel watch. “It is barely nine forty-five, Robert. Even I cannot proceed that quickly. I am barely halfway through the Walton brief, a very wearisome one, too, I might add.”

  I was taken aback, and not a little irritated, when the big Scot laughed. “Why do you think I brought it to you? For some odd reason, Joseph Shepard has decided that I possess an inexhaustible tolerance for drudgery. Since he is mistaken—and you are in need of income—I have settled on a mutually satisfactory solution to the problem.”

  I felt my temper rising. “So, you finally admit that you are bringing me this work out of pity?”

  He looked affronted. “What are you going on about? I just finished saying that you were doing me a favor by attending to this claptrap. Damn it all, woman! Why must you always read drama and intrigue into even the most straightforward conversations?”

  My temper bridled at this. “I am doing nothing of the sort, Robert. I'll have you know that my law firm is doing very well, considering I have been open for less than—”

  I broke off as a knock sounded on my door. I straightened in my seat, certain that it must be Brielle Bouchard's tardy arrival. I would have to send Robert quickly on his way so that we might have a private conversation. To my surprise, however, Fanny Goodman poked her head in, giving us a cheery smile.

  “I saw Mr. Campbell going upstairs and thought the two of you might enjoy some fresh coffee and a bit of a morning nibble.” Balancing a heavily laden tray, she held the door open with her ample hip, then passed inside. Although Robert rose to offer her a helping hand, she cheerfully brushed him aside and made her way to my desk. I was not particularly pleased by the interruption, but the aroma emanating from the tray was tantalizing, especially the large gingerbread cake still warm from the oven.

  “Fanny, it smells wonderful, but I'm expecting a client at any moment.”

  “If you mean that Bouchard girl, I don't think she intends to keep her appointment.” She set the tray down on my desk, then poured coffee into several cups she had brought up from her kitchen.

  “Excuse me, Fanny,” I said. “What makes you think Miss Bouchard will not keep her appointment?”

  “Because she's been here and gone,” she replied, handing each of us a cup of the steaming brew. “I saw her not thirty minutes ago crossing Sutter Street with the same determined look on her face she wore the first time she came to see you on Monday. I thought I'd just step out of my shop and take a quick peek at that darling baby of hers, when two men came out of nowhere and stopped her dead in her tracks.”

  “What sort of men, Fanny?” I asked in growing alarm.

  Robert looked from Fanny to me, his blue-green eyes suspicious. “What's this about two men, Mrs. Goodman? And who is Brielle Bouchard?”

  “Miss Bouchard is a new client, Robert,” I explained. “Well, actually a prospective client. She was to meet with me here at nine o'clock this morning.” I turned back to my neighbor. “Can you describe the men, Fanny?”

  Fanny hesitated in the act of cutting a generous slice of gingerbread. “Let me see. They were both young, maybe in their late twenties or early thirties. One was tall with a lot of wild-looking black hair. The other man was shorter, but very thin and well on his way to going bald. Both men had mean faces that gave me the willies.”

  I thought about this disturbing news. Then, as Robert drew in air to speak, I said, “You say Miss Bouchard changed her mind about coming up to my office after she spoke to the men? Could you hear what they told her?”

  “I could see them plain as day from my doorway, but I was too far away to hear what they were saying. I can tell you one thing, the poor Bouchard girl didn't look any too happy to see them. I could see she was trying to back away from the bullies, all the while clutching that dear little baby of hers. Then she suddenly turned and bolted back across the street as if the devil himself were after her. The two thugs had a good laugh behind her back, then took themselves off up Sutter Street.

  “Good Lord!” Robert jumped out of his chair. “What kind of men would threaten a woman, especially one carrying a baby? You said they went up Sutter Street, Mrs. Goodman? Maybe I can catch them up.”

  Fanny seemed a bit taken aback by his enthusiasm. “You'll never find them now, Mr. Campbell. They've had too much of a head start. And I was ready enough to call for help if they'd shown any sign of actually harming the girl.”

  “Frightening the poor young woman was crime enough,” he said, his deep voice tight with indignation. “There is only one fit place for men such as that, in jail!”

  I started to speak in support of these sentiments, when I heard footsteps on the stairs leading up to my office, and an ever exuberant Eddie Cooper burst into the room. To my dismay, I spied a copy of the Police Gazette tucked beneath the boy's arm. If Eddie thought I could be persuaded to use this rag sheet in lieu of Mark Twain's exciting tale The Adventures of Tom Sawyer for his reading lesson, he was very much mistaken.

  The boy's eyes grew large when he saw Fanny and the tray of gingerbread on my desk. “Mornin', Mrs. Goodman,” he said, politely removing his cap as I'd instructed him when in the presence of a lady. “Mornin', Miss Sarah, Mr. Campbell,” he added as an afterthought, his eyes never leaving the food-laden tray.

  “I see we've come just in time,” my brother Samuel remarked, entering the room behind the boy. “Hello, Fanny, Robert. It's good to see you.”

  “And you,” Robert replied, shaking my brother's outstretched hand. Although the two men came from different countries, cultures, and backgrounds, they had formed a genuine friendship over the past year.

  “Fetch yourself a cup from the back room, Mr. Samuel,” Fanny directed him. “The coffee's hot and fresh.”

  She nodded toward the spare room that, as I have mentioned, I currently used for reading and brewing tea. Eventually, I intended this second room to serve as my law library, but so far I'd been able to stock it with only a handful of legal tomes, most of them borrowed from my father's home library.

  “What brings you here, Samuel?” I asked, reading the barely suppressed excitement on his handsome face. “Why do I have the feeling that this is more than a social call?”

  “I come bearing news,” he replied. “But first I must assuage my craving for Fanny's excellent coffee and gingerbread.” He glanced teasingly at Eddie. “I don't suppose You'd care for a slice, would you, lad?”

  The boy grinned from ear to ear. “You know better than that, Mr. Samuel. No one bakes better gingerbread than Mrs. Goodman.”

  Fanny beamed at this compliment, while at the same time good-naturedly slapping at the boy's fingers, which had begun inching toward the cake plate. “Not so fast, young man. First, go wash those filthy hands.”

  The boy scooted into the back room where I kept soap, a basin of water, and a towel to freshen up during the day. He was back so quickly, I had to wonder how thorough a job he had made of it. Fanny must have been satisfied, though, for as soon as Eddie returned she began to cut him a very generous piece of
the cake.

  “Now, eat this quietly and behave yourself,” she told him with a playful wink.

  “Thanks, Mrs. Goodman,” he said, accepting the plate. Grinning broadly, he carried the gingerbread over to his favorite perch on the windowsill. There he sat and, opening the rag sheet I was sure Samuel had just given him, began to devour Fanny's unexpected treat.

  “So, Samuel,” I said after we had all been served. “What's this news you're bursting to tell us?”

  “I should leave,” Robert said, once again rising from his chair, “before Joseph Shepard has a fit of dyspepsia. Trevor Lansing is still ill with catarrh, so I must take his place as second chair to Shepard in court again this morning.”

  “Please, Robert, just another minute,” Samuel said, holding up a hand. “I'm sure what I have to say will interest you, as well.”

  Robert nodded and sank back onto the edge of his seat. Despite his hurry, he looked intrigued, as did Fanny and I. “All right, but I really can't stay long.”

  We were all staring at Samuel, and as I watched his expression grow somber, I felt a sudden chill trickle down my spine.

  “What is it, Samuel? What has happened?”

  “There's been another murder,” he told us gravely. “And once again it's happened on Rincon Hill.”

  Fanny drew in her breath. “Another murder?” She executed a hasty sign of the cross, and sank down heavily on the chair Samuel had placed for her beside Robert. “Lord help us, who was it this time?”

  “The victim is Dieter Hume,” explained my brother. “I'm sure you're acquainted with him, Sarah. He was the deacon at the Reverend Erasmus Mayfield's church.”

  Fanny, Robert, and I sat regarding him in stunned silence. Eddie abruptly ceased reading the Police Gazette, and was staring avidly at Samuel, his thin cheeks bulging with gingerbread.

  “Was it a robbery?” I asked.

  “Apparently not,” my brother said. “His wallet was still in his pocket, and his watch was left undisturbed.”

  “Deacon Hume was a guest at the Tremaines' party Saturday night,” I mused. “And didn't you mention that he was a friend of Mr. Logan's?”

  “Nigel Logan,” Fanny put in thoughtfully. “You mean the poor fellow who was beaten to death under the Harrison Street Bridge last Saturday night?”

  I nodded solemnly, then turned to Samuel. “Surely the two murders must be somehow connected.”

  I caught Robert giving me a suspicious glance out of the corner of his eye, but he forbore to question—or censure—this very logical statement. Given the link between the two men, as well as the fact that they had died in the same neighborhood a mere four days apart, surely he could not accuse me of manufacturing “drama and intrigue,” as he was wont to phrase it.

  “My thoughts exactly, Sarah,” Samuel said. “Hume's body was found this morning only a hundred yards or so from where they discovered Nigel Logan.”

  “Again, only two blocks from our own home,” I muttered.

  Robert was beginning to look concerned. “Isn't that unusual for Rincon Hill? I thought that area was relatively free of violent crime.”

  “It is,” I answered quietly.

  “How was—that is, what was used to kill the poor man?” Fanny asked in a small voice.

  Samuel hesitated, fearing, I was sure, that the details might upset my matronly neighbor.

  Fanny must have guessed what lay behind his uncomfortable silence, for she said, “Don't think that whatever you have to say is going to cause me to faint dead away, Samuel Woolson, because I'm made of stronger stuff than that. Now, give us the truth of the matter.”

  “Yeah, Mr. Samuel,” Eddie said, staring wide-eyed at my brother from his window seat. “What done in the bloke?”

  “I'm afraid he was bludgeoned to death, just like Nigel Logan,” Samuel reluctantly explained, regarding Fanny, despite her assurances, with a wary eye.

  “Oh, my dear Lord,” she gasped, sitting back in her chair and growing a bit pale. “How horrible!”

  Robert eyed her apprehensively. Reaching out, he placed a hesitant hand on her shoulder, obviously unsure how to go about comforting the poor woman.

  Fanny gave him a wan smile. “Thank you, Mr. Campbell, but I'm all right. It is a terrible shock, though. It isn't every day two young men are brutally murdered in such a fine neighborhood.”

  “Do the police have any idea who was responsible for Deacon Hume's murder?” I asked Samuel.

  “Was it the same knuck what done in the other feller?” Eddie asked, the question coming out somewhat garbled due to the large amount of gingerbread stuffed inside his mouth. He had left his perch on the window ledge and was standing expectantly behind Samuel. “Lordy, was there a lot of blood, then?”

  “Eddie, please!” I admonished. “Sit down and eat your cake with some semblance of good manners. I'm sure Mr. Samuel will tell us what he knows about this tragedy, if you will but give him an opportunity.”

  The boy reluctantly retreated to the window. His large eyes never left my brother, however, as he once again lowered himself onto the edge of the sill.

  “There's not much more to tell,” said my brother. “According to George—my friend on the police force—” he explained for Fanny's benefit, “Dieter Hume's death has only increased the police's interest in the Reverend Mayfield and the other guests who were present at the Tremaines' party. Evidently, they questioned the minister again this morning. I'm sure they'll be paying the Tremaines another visit, as well.”

  “The Reverend Mayfield?” exclaimed Robert, looking shocked. “You mean the police actually think a clergyman could have committed two such abominations?”

  “I doubt that the police have singled out Reverend Mayfield as their prime suspect,” Samuel replied. “But he's one of the people they're investigating. Frankly, Robert, they don't have much to go on.”

  “So they're revisiting all the guests who were present at Saturday night's party,” I said.

  “What else can they do?” my brother answered. “As you pointed out, it's a bit much to suppose the two murders can be mere coincidence.”

  “No,” I agreed quietly, with a growing sense of unease. This was not because San Francisco lacked its share of crime, including a fair number of murders committed every year, but rather because few victims were actually killed so close to our own home. While it was true that the Second Street Cut had attracted a few unsavory individuals to our neighborhood, nothing like this had occurred as far back as I could remember.

  “I wonder if Dieter Hume shared Nigel Logan's enthusiasm for Darwin's revolutionary theories?” I went on, speculating aloud.

  Robert gave a little snort. “Even if he did, that would hardly provide a motive for murder. These crimes are far too violent for any decent man to commit. Surely the killer is a vagabond, or some kind of madman.”

  “That would assume that the two deaths were random,” I argued, “which is a theory I cannot entertain. Hume and Logan were friends, and their bodies were found in the same vicinity, just yards apart, although not on the same day. They were both present at the Tremaines' party, and the same method was used to kill them both. Common sense demands that there be a connection.”

  Robert shook his head, causing his unruly red hair to fly helter-skelter about his expressive face. “If you're right, Sarah, then those two men shared a very dangerous enemy.”

  He rose from his chair. “I must go now. It will mean my job if I arrive late at the courthouse.” He pointed to the paperwork he had brought me, which was still spread out on my desk. “Since I may be in court again tomorrow, I'll pick these up on Friday. Surely you'll have finished with them by then.”

  I gave him a level look, not pleased with his tone. “I will complete them this afternoon, Robert. You may, of course, collect them at your convenience.”

  Ignoring me, he again expressed his thanks to Fanny Goodman, nodded politely to Samuel, and took his leave.

  “He's right, you know,” Samuel said aft
er he was gone. “If, as we believe, the two murders were linked, then Logan and Hume managed to acquire an extremely determined and vicious enemy.”

  “I agree,” I said, draining the last of my coffee. Such was my distress regarding Samuel's news, I had barely touched my gingerbread. Judging by Eddie's hungry glances at my plate, however, I was confident it would not go to waste. “What we must do is find that connection.”

  My brother gave me one of his ironic grins. “We, little sister? Does that mean that you intend to help me follow up on the story?”

  This brought me up short, and I realized I was not quite sure what I had meant. “If I can be of any assistance to you, Samuel, I'll be happy to help. Other than that, I have no reason, or intention, of becoming involved in this dreadful matter.”

  My brother continued to grin at me, which I found annoying. I knew what he was thinking, and was not well pleased.

  “you're becoming as bad as Robert,” I told him. “I grow weary of being accused of poking my nose where it is not appreciated. These murders are appalling, and it frightens me that they occurred so close to our home. But I agree that this is a story you must pursue, and I'm willing to lend you a helping hand.”

  In truth, I had not realized until this moment how deeply I'd been affected by Nigel Logan's and Dieter Hume's deaths, or how I had taken the security of my Rincon Hill home for granted. In less than a week that feeling of complacency had been shattered, and I found myself asking who might be next.

  It was not uncommon for gentlemen, including my own father, to enjoy late-evening constitutionals in our neighborhood. My brother Charles, who was a physician, frequently came and went at all hours of the night while attending his patients, and of course Samuel regularly kept late hours. The thought that a member of my own family might fall victim to this unnamed monster was truly alarming.

  “It's high time I was on my way, too,” Fanny said, stacking the empty gingerbread plate and coffee cups onto the tray. “I am already late opening my shop. I'll let you know if I catch sight of the Brielle girl, Sarah, or those hooligans I saw talking to her earlier.”