Murder on Nob Hill (10 page)

“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 called, 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.”

I
t 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.”

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.

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.