Scandal On Rincon Hill Read online

  When I failed to respond—or even to look up from my gruesome reverie—she quickly guessed my concern.

  “The deaths of those two young men are tragic, Sarah. But if their murders are truly related, as you and Samuel suspect, the motive must stem from something to do with their personal lives. Rincon Hill is still one of the safest areas in San Francisco. I'm certain these deplorable events will not affect your family or friends.”

  And with this pitifully erroneous prediction, Fanny picked up her tray and coffeepot and headed downstairs to her shop.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  As soon as Fanny left, Eddie hopped down from the windowsill and appropriated the woman's vacated chair across from my desk. “I was wonderin', Miss Sarah. Are you, ah, gonna eat that gingerbread?”

  Samuel chuckled as I wordlessly passed the boy my plate. “Hurry up with that cake, Eddie,” he said. “I need the services of your cab.”

  “Oh?” I asked curiously. “Is your errand by any chance connected to this latest murder?”

  “As a matter of fact, it is,” he replied. “I'd like to have a chat with the Reverend Mayfield about his deacon.”

  “Samuel, you never go to church. He hardly knows you. What makes you think he'll agree to an interview?”

  “Oh, I think he'll agree, all right,” he said with a smile. “If you're with me. Nothing like a pretty female companion to loosen a man's tongue, even a minister's.”

  “Samuel!” I protested.

  “Don't look so surprised, Sarah. You're the one who offered to help, remember? Besides, you're as interested in this case as I am, you just don't care to admit it.”

  He pushed his chair away from my desk and stood. “Actually, the timing is perfect. You don't have to finish Robert's brief until Friday. That gives you more than enough time to assist your brother in his effort to scoop Ozzie Foldger and the Tattler.”

  In far less time than it ought to have taken at a more civilized pace, Eddie reined the dappled gray to a stop in front of a wood and stucco church, located on Howard Street between Second and Third. It boasted a modest bell tower, a tall steeple, and a Roman structure with several unexpected Greek and even Moorish features. It was my considered opinion that whoever designed the Church of Our Savior had been confused about just what style he intended to emulate.

  As we pulled up, we spied a short, portly man in his fifties descending the church steps. I recognized him as the Reverend Erasmus Mayfield, the church's rector for the past fifteen years. The man's balding head was down, and he held his hands behind his back as he walked in the direction of the rectory, a small wooden house located to the left of the church. He seemed distressed, shaking his head and muttering to himself.

  “Reverend Mayfield,” I called out, as Samuel assisted me out of the carriage.

  When he seemed not to hear, I started after him, calling his name out louder this time. He finally stopped, but looked at us blankly, as if having visitors appear unexpectedly at the church was an extraordinary occurrence.

  “Yes?” he said a bit sharply, appearing annoyed to have his musings interrupted. Belatedly realizing how harsh this must have sounded, he managed a weak smile. “I am sorry. Is there something I can do for you?”

  “Excuse us for dropping by unannounced, Reverend Mayfield,” I said. “I'm Sarah Woolson, and this is my brother Samuel. Judge and Mrs. Elizabeth Woolson are our parents.”

  His face suddenly cleared, as recognition slowly dawned. “Yes, yes, of course, how remiss of me not to know you at once. It has been a rather arduous day, and I fear my mind has been sadly preoccupied. Please allow me to apologize. I have frequently observed you accompanying your parents to services, Miss Woolson, although I don't seem to recall your face, Mr. Woolson.”

  My brother looked embarrassed, and I experienced a pang of guilt. In all honesty, I found the Reverend Mayfield a good deal less than inspiring. Sunday services tended to be tedious, sadly repetitive, and devoid of passion. The primary reason I continued to attend with my parents was to please my mother, who held the firm belief that any path to heaven must include weekly church attendance.

  I came out of my thoughts as Samuel cleared his throat. I realized he was searching for a way to answer the rector without jeopardizing the interview. “It's not always possible for me to attend church, Reverend Mayfield. My, um, work, you know.”

  Apparently, Mayfield did not know, or he was accomplished enough at judging character to recognize a spurious excuse when he heard one. “I'm sure that must be very trying for you,” he said, a glint of disapproval darkening his pale gray eyes.

  “We have come to extend our sympathies on the loss of your deacon, Mr. Hume,” I said, steering the conversation out of dangerous waters and back to the real reason for our visit. “It is a shocking tragedy.”

  The Reverend Mayfield nodded. “Oh my, yes. Terrible, terrible. Very difficult to grasp. Just yesterday, Mr. Hume and I were discussing possible plans to replace the church roof. It is old and badly in need of repair. I doubt it will survive another winter.”

  He gave a little shiver and looked about, as if suddenly aware of the damp fog that was rolling in from the ocean. Rubbing his plump hands together briskly, he said, “It has become quite chilled. Come inside, please. My housekeeper will brew a pot of coffee.”

  Without waiting for a reply, the portly little man turned and led us inside the two-story dwelling which served as his residence.

  “Mrs. Brown?” he called out as we entered the foyer. “We have visitors.” He took our wraps and hung them on a coat tree standing by the front door. He had just added his own long coat to the rack when a small, gray-haired woman of about sixty came bustling toward us. “Ah, yes, there you are, Mrs. Brown. Would you be so good as to put on a fresh pot of coffee for our guests? You may serve it in my study.”

  As we followed the rector into a small room off the hallway, I was delighted to see a fire crackling in the hearth. It truly had grown chilly outside, and I felt a pang of remorse that we had left poor Eddie to wait outside with the carriage. I hoped that our interview with the Reverend Mayfield would not be overlong.

  After Mrs. Brown brought us coffee and a plate of cookies, Samuel took charge of the conversation. I was pleased to see that he was trying to broach the subject tactfully.

  “I understand Mr. Hume came to this parish directly from seminary school,” he began.

  “That is correct,” Mayfield replied, choosing one of the housekeeper's cookies from the platter. “It has been nearly a year now. You should try these. Mrs. Brown is an excellent cook. I don't know what I would do without her.”

  Samuel dutifully reached for a cookie and took a bite. “You're right, these are delicious.” When he finished chewing, he went on. “Mr. Hume was a bit older than the usual seminarian, though, wasn't he, Reverend Mayfield?”

  “Yes, he was in his late twenties, but that is not altogether remarkable,” the rector explained. “A fair number of young men do not immediately receive, or do not accept, their spiritual calling until they have experienced something of the world. On the whole, I do not consider it a bad thing to wait a year or two to make such an important decision. The ministry is, after all, a lifelong commitment.”

  “No doubt you're right,” Samuel agreed. “I imagine commencing one's church service at a more mature age would tend to make a man more responsible in fulfilling his duties. Particularly a man who had attended university.”

  The Reverend Mayfield hesitated a moment, then nodded, albeit without overmuch enthusiasm. “Yes, that is true. Given, of course, that the man in question possesses the necessary qualities to join the ministry. Unfortunately, higher education does not guarantee those qualities. In fact, university life has been known to instill just the opposite behavioral tendencies. In the end, character and commitment must always be the primary considerations when dedicating one's life to the church.”

  My brother raised an eyebrow. “Are you implying that Mr. Hume might have been mistaken
in his vocation?”

  “No, no, not at all,” Mayfield replied, wincing a bit at Samuel's bluntness. He sipped his coffee, then added, “Naturally, no one can see into another man's soul, but Dieter performed his responsibilities well enough. In time, I'm confident he would have smoothed out the odd rough spot here and there and made an excellent career in the church.”

  “I understand Mr. Hume attended university with Nigel Logan,” Samuel said.

  Mayfield looked startled at the mention of the biologist. “Nigel Logan. Yes, I believe that is correct. Dieter and Mr. Logan had been friends for some time.”

  He drained his coffee, then sat forward in his seat, regarding Samuel with grave eyes. “I am loath to speak ill of the dead, Mr. Woolson, but I feel obliged to admit that I did not consider Mr. Logan a suitable friend for Dieter. As a man of science, Mr. Logan held some rather unsettling, dare I say misguided, beliefs. Hardly the sort of ideas appropriate for a young church deacon to espouse. I attempted several times to explain this to Dieter, but he was loyal to his friend, and would allow no ill to be spoken against him.”

  “By that I gather you mean that Mr. Hume shared Mr. Logan's enthusiasm for Charles Darwin's evolutionary theories?” I asked, entering the conversation.

  The Reverend Mayfield darted a surprised look in my direction, as if he had forgotten I was in the room. “Whatever leads you to think that, Miss Woolson?”

  I attempted to mimic my brother's well-rehearsed expression of innocence. I daresay, I was not as successful.

  “My father happened to mention that you and Mr. Logan exchanged words last Saturday night—at the gathering Mr. and Mrs. Tremaine arranged in your honor. I assumed that must be what you were referring to when you mentioned Mr. Logan's inappropriate influence on Deacon Hume.”

  The Reverend Mayfield's face flushed, and for a moment I feared he would deny the argument, or simply refuse to discuss the matter with us. After all, we had already overstepped social civility by bringing up what surely must be a sensitive subject. He took several moments to mull over his response, then sighed and sat back in his armchair.

  “Yes, Miss Woolson, you are correct, I fear I did allow Mr. Logan to arouse my temper. More than some other of the man's . . . heterodox beliefs, his views concerning Darwin's misguided theory on the origin of species troubled me. I must agree with Adam Sedgwick who wisely maintained that “the Author of Nature will not permit His work to be spoiled by the wanton curiosity of Man.”

  “Adam Sedgwick.” This name rang a distant bell in my memory. “Wasn't he a professor of geology at Cambridge some years ago?”

  “Precisely the man, Miss Woolson,” Mayfield replied, appearing agreeably amazed that I was familiar with his source. “He was also president of the Geological Society and of the British Association of Geologists. A learned man, Professor Sedgwick, possessed of a keen mind which, I am pleased to say, saw right through Darwin's ungodly notions of evolution.”

  “Am I to assume that, despite your efforts to dissuade Deacon Hume from this heresy, he persisted in supporting Mr. Darwin's theories?” Samuel asked.

  Reverend Mayfield did not immediately answer, and once again I feared we were guilty of abusing his hospitality. However, he merely reached into a pocket for a large white handkerchief and gently mopped his brow.

  “I am sorry to say that he remained entrenched in this profanation. Most unfortunate, especially as the angel of death was even then setting out to reclaim his immortal soul. But as it reads in the Book of Common Prayer, ‘In the midst of life we are in death.’ We never know when, or from whence, it may come. It behooves us all to maintain constant vigilance.”

  Samuel cleared his throat, then assumed the innocent expression I had tried, but failed, to imitate. “I understand that most of the guests present at the Tremaines' party Saturday night have been questioned about Mr. Logan's death. I know the police have visited our father. Have they, er, interviewed you, Reverend Mayfield?”

  Again, the minister's face colored slightly, but after a moment he slowly nodded his head. “Yes, the police have been here to see me, although I fail to understand how they can suspect one of us of such a heinous crime. Obviously, those unfortunate young men were victims of robberies gone terribly awry. It is my understanding that gangs of Chinese highbinders have been known to roam the area surrounding the Cut. That is where the police should concentrate their search, instead of wasting their time on decent, law-abiding citizens. Particularly members of the clergy,” he added, looking affronted.

  “Yes,” Samuel solemnly agreed, “I can understand your feelings. It is a great tragedy. Deacon Hume's death must have caused his fiancée great pain.”

  “His fiancée?” Mayfield regarded my brother in surprise. “I know of no fiancée, Mr. Woolson. Indeed, I had long encouraged Dieter to find a nice young woman and settle down—it is by far the best situation for a young man entering the church. I myself was married for nearly thirty years when my poor wife, Ada, passed on. Unfortunately, Dieter did not appear interested.” He paused. “Although of late—”

  “Yes, Reverend Mayfield?” Samuel prompted. “You felt he was revising his views on matrimony?”

  “It was no more than a vague feeling,” the rector replied, looking uncomfortable. It was clear he felt that he had spoken out of turn. “I simply received the impression that Dieter was softening in his views concerning the married state. I wondered if perhaps he had found some woman in particular.”

  He placed his cup and saucer on the table and got to his feet. Judging by his weary expression, I was certain we had at last exhausted the man's patience. “I do not wish to appear rude, Mr. Woolson, Miss Woolson, but there are pressing matters which require my attention.”

  Samuel and I immediately put down our own coffee cups and stood.

  “Of course, Reverend Mayfield,” I said. “We have taken up entirely too much of your time as it is.”

  “Yes, I apologize,” Samuel added, smiling a bit sheepishly. “I fear that we have presumed on your kind hospitality. It's just that Mr. Hume's tragic death—and Mr. Logan's, of course—have profoundly affected us all, especially those of us who reside on Rincon Hill.”

  “They have, they have,” Mayfield said, nodding somberly. “It has been most distressing. I fear it will be difficult to calm my congregation. Mr. Logan's death was unfortunate, but their own deacon! That strikes all too close to home. Yes, the ladies will be most distraught. And fearful, of course. I will have to address the tragedy in Sunday's sermon, although what I can say to reassure my flock . . .” His voice trailed off and he once again used the handkerchief to mop his brow. “But then it is all in God's hands, we must remember that. Somehow we shall overcome.”

  He led us to the rectory door. “Thank you for taking the time to visit this morning, Miss Woolson, Mr. Woolson. Let us pray that the police will quickly apprehend the villain who has committed these monstrous crimes.”

  What do you make of the Reverend Mayfield?” Samuel asked, as we headed back to the carriage.

  “I can't imagine him as a murderer, if that's what you're thinking,” I replied. “Clearly he wasn't particularly fond of his deacon, but I hardly think that would induce him to beat the young man over the head with a two-by-four.”

  Samuel chuckled. “No, I have a hard time envisioning that as well. To be honest, George didn't seem overly taken with the idea, either. I suspect that police interest in the good rector indicates how desperate they are to make an arrest.”

  “Very probably. But why suspect the Reverend Mayfield more than the other guests at the Tremaines' party? Any one of them could have killed Nigel Logan, and conceivably Deacon Hume.”

  We had reached the brougham, only to find no sign of Eddie, either on the driver's seat or inside the carriage. As I looked up and down the block to see where he might have run off to, I spied a short, pudgy-looking man with a brown cap pulled low over his forehead, watching us from across the street.

  “Samuel,” I said
, keeping my voice quiet. “Don't look now, but isn't that Ozzie Foldger of the Tattler over there, half hidden by that tree?”

  Making a show of searching for Eddie, Samuel darted a discreet peek at the man across the way. “That looks like him, all right. What do you suppose he's doing here?”

  “More than likely, he's trying to scoop you on the Deacon Hume story.” I gave a low laugh. “He can't be happy to see that you beat him to it.”

  “I doubt it will bother him one iota. When he can't get access to the facts, Ozzie has the habit of making his stories up out of whole cloth.”

  Hearing the sound of running feet behind us, we turned to see Eddie all but flying across the lawn that divided the church from the rectory. He held his left hand behind his back, his eyes alight with excitement.

  “I've been doin' some investigatin' on my own,” he announced proudly, if a bit out of breath.

  Screwing his eyes into a suspicious squint, he melodramatically peered up one side of the street and down the other. My eyes immediately flew to where Ozzie Foldger had been standing only a moment before, but to my surprise he was no longer there. Several carriages were passing by on Howard Street, but both sides of the block were devoid of foot traffic.

  “Look what I found,” Eddie continued in an exaggerated whisper. Moving closer, he brought his left hand out from behind his back. Tightly clutched inside it were several dog-eared magazines, all of them bearing extremely lurid covers. “Don't this beat all?” He looked up at my brother as if he had discovered a secret treasure. “they're even better than the Police Gazette!”

  “Eddie, where did you get these?” I demanded, averting my eyes from the sight of the scantily clad, and crudely posed, women.

  The boy flushed, as he suddenly realized the inappropriateness of his plunder. “Oh, ah, sorry, Miss Sarah,” he stammered. “I didn't mean to—that is, I—”