Murder on Nob Hill (20 page)

“My modest home pleases you?” he asked in flawless English.

“It's—quite extraordinary,” I replied, realizing even as I spoke that these words hardly did justice to such magnificence.

He seemed amused. “But you are surprised by my choices?”

“They’re unusual certainly. But the effect is pleasing.”

It was true. Within these walls time seemed to stand still, and I felt an unexpected sense of calm. Here, I thought, one might find sanctuary from the disquiet of the outside world.

Even as these thoughts crossed my mind, I recognized their incongruity. I was a prisoner, I reminded myself, taken against my will for heaven only knew what reason. Indeed, despite this serene Chinese conversing with me as if I were an honored guest, my life might still be in danger.

“Please, do not distress yourself,” the man said, as if reading my thoughts. “I mean you no harm. Furthermore, I regret the treatment you received at the hands of my men. They have informed me that you fight like a Yan Wo, which, you may know from your research into our customs, is a particularly vicious tong. My men meant this as high praise, but it does not excuse their ineptness. I offer my profound apologies, Miss Woolson.”

I looked at him in surprise. “You know my name?”

“You are the only daughter of the Honorable Horace Woolson. Your eldest brother, Frederick, recently announced his intention to run for state senate. Another brother, Charles, is a skilled, if underpaid, physician.” He smiled. “Your brother Samuel, or should I say Ian Fearless, is a talented writer. I found his article on Tangrenbu last year interesting, if a bit overdramatized.”

If it had been my host's intention to startle me, he’d succeeded. “In at least one respect you know more about my siblings than my own parents,” I said, trying to keep my voice calm. “But I don’t understand. Why have you taken the trouble to learn so much about my family?”

“I find it prudent to know as much as possible about those who show an interest in me, Miss Woolson.”

“Show an interest! But—” Suddenly my situation, as well as the identity of this surprising man, become clear. “You’re Li Ying.”

He inclined his head. “I have neglected to introduce myself. An oversight for which I must again beg forgiveness. You are correct, Miss Woolson. I am Li Ying.”

I forgot my manners and stared frankly at this alleged God of the Golden Mountain, the most powerful and feared tong lord in Tangrenbu. I’m not sure what I’d expected, but certainly not this refined, obviously educated man who lived in a house that would have made the Astors proud.

A manservant noiselessly appeared, bearing a tray containing a pot of aromatic China tea, as well as a selection of very Western sandwiches and cakes. To my surprise I found I was hungry.

“I hope you will enjoy this modest refreshment.” He waited until I had sampled my tea before raising his own cup.

“It's delicious. Thank you.” It was, in fact, the finest tea I had ever tasted.

“You honor me.” He went on to make polite, but insignificant, conversation while we ate. It wasn’t until the servant collected the remains of our meal that he came to the heart of what I now knew must be the reason for my abduction. “I am most curious to learn, Miss Woolson, why you have been inquiring about me.”

Anticipating the question, I had been turning over in my mind how best to answer. In the end I decided that any attempt to deceive this man would not only be foolhardy, but would surely fail. Consequently, I told Li Ying the circumstances surrounding Hanaford and Mills's deaths, and how his own name had come to my attention. When I described finding his note to the banker, he raised an eyebrow.

“I am disappointed that Mr. Hanaford was so indiscreet.” “So you admit you wrote the letter.” “Oh, yes. And several others like it.”

“But why?” I asked, then realized the tong lord was hardly likely to satisfy my curiosity. Again he surprised me.

“Because I was blackmailing him,” he replied without the slightest hesitancy. “I had been doing so for a number of years.”

This time I was at a loss for words.

“I see I have shocked you, Miss Woolson.” He smiled. “Perhaps it would help if I told you something of myself and the events that led to my association with Mr. Hanaford.”

“Yes. I would like that very much.” I realized I had moved forward expectantly in my chair and consciously sought to relax.

“You have undoubtedly heard stories about me,” he began. “While some of them are true, you must not believe them all.”

I was unsure how to respond to this, so I said nothing.

“My family comes from Canton,” he continued. “My father was a scholar-official, a ruling mandarin of some distinction. In time I, too, passed the Confucian examinations and prepared to devote my life to the service of my country.” He paused, and when he went on, his voice was tinged with regret. “Unfortunately, that was not to be. The turbulent political situation in the south forced me to leave my country. After working as a seaman aboard a clipper ship, I traveled to Nevada because I had heard stories of great riches to be found in the silver mines.”

He noted my heightened interest. “Yes, Miss Woolson, it was there that I first met Mr. Hanaford and his three partners. You must understand that many of my countrymen were leaving China at that time in search of a better life in America. Circumstances for the Chinese in Virginia City, however, were not easy. We faced bigotry and fierce competition from other miners. We were consid-

ered a subspecies and were not allowed to stake our own claims, but were forced to take the white man's leavings. I was more fortunate than most and managed to acquire a mine that had been abandoned by two white men who cared more for alcohol than wielding axes. I worked the mine for many months, convinced that valuable minerals lay hidden in its tunnels. In the end I was proven correct. The mine turned out to be extremely rich.”

“That's how you acquired all this, then?” I asked, looking about the extraordinary room.

His mouth tightened and he regarded me with undeviating frankness. “I am afraid not. When the value of my mine became known, Mr. Hanaford and his partners relieved me of my claim.”

“Relieved you of your—? You mean they stole it? But how?”

“It was childishly simple. It was, after all, my word against theirs.” His smile was ironic. “And I was Chinese.”

“You must have had recourse. Surely the law protected you—”

His laughter cut through my words. “We are speaking of Virginia City, Miss Woolson. You are presuming a system of equality under the law that does not yet exist in San Francisco. Only last year the men of this city voted to exclude Chinese from entering the state. Those who are already here are barely tolerated. We cannot become naturalized citizens, nor can we marry a white person. We have been driven from many occupations because of our perceived threat to the white worker. All this in a so-called civilized city. Imagine, then, the situation facing us in a remote mining town with virtually no laws, and no one to enforce what few there were.

“It's reprehensible!” I exclaimed, incensed by such discrimination.

“No, it is reality,” he replied with a quiet smile. “That was what I learned, you see. In order to succeed, I would have to make the white man's rules work for me.”

“So you left the mines and came to San Francisco.”

He nodded, but did not elaborate further. Once again his erudite face became unreadable. Was this all he was going to tell me? There was so much more I longed to know.

“You had good reason to resent the men who took so much from you.” I realized this statement was hardly as subtle as I would have liked. On the other hand, I knew of no good way to ask someone if he was a murderer. Especially a man like Li Ying.

Again, he smiled. “If you are asking whether I killed Cornelius Hanaford and Rufus Mills, Miss Woolson, the answer is no. While it is true I bore no love for either man, they were worth a great deal more to me alive than dead.”

“You mean the blackmail money.” I had an unexpected thought. “Were Mr. Wylde and Senator Broughton paying you as well?”

His face was calm, but his eyes burned like black coals. I suddenly felt lost, without any real idea where I was going. I had allowed Li to lull me into believing he meant me no harm, but that trust was suspect. Despite the feeling that I was standing at the edge of a precipice, I boldly pressed on.

“Mr. Hanaford and Mr. Mills were two of the most influential names in San Francisco,” I said. “How was it possible for you to wield control over such men?”

Li considered this. “You have a saying, Miss Woolson, that one must not speak ill of the dead. The path to achieving the power and influence of which you speak is not always smooth. Nor is it always honorable. Let us say that when I was presented with an opportunity to collect on a debt long overdue, I was fortunate to possess the knowledge and ability to do so.”

“The authorities may view that as a motive for murder.”

“Undoubtedly.” His mouth moved into a half smile. “Do you plan to tell them, Miss Woolson?”

I’m not ashamed to admit that my heart pounded as I looked into that enigmatic face. In truth I hadn’t fully considered what I would do if and when I was released from Li's house. Yet again my host surprised me by breaking into laughter.

“Please, do not look so aggrieved. Of course you will inform your brother's friend on the police force what has happened. I assure you it is of no consequence. The authorities cannot harm me, nor have they the power to disrupt my organization. They are, however, understandably concerned for your safety. They have been combing the quarter since you became separated from Miss Culbertson after rescuing little Chum Ho from the opium den. Again, I apologize. I regret having caused you and your friends distress. It was necessary, however, that we have a chat.”

His mouth twitched slightly and his black eyes twinkled.

“You are known for your candor, Miss Woolson, and now that I have had the honor of meeting you, I see that the reputation is justified. In your innate honesty, I am certain you will acknowledge that tonight's discussion has been to our mutual advantage. If anyone can prove Mrs. Hanaford innocent of murdering her husband, I do not doubt that it will be you.”

CHAPTER NINE

A
ny hope I had entertained of sneaking into my house the next morning was dashed when my parents pounced on me the moment I opened the door. The alarm had been

raised when Mama discovered I hadn’t slept in my bed the previous night. I gather I had returned just in time to prevent Edis from summoning the police.

Papa's tirade was mercifully forestalled when my mother realized I was painfully favoring my left foot. Charles examined the afflicted appendage, then tersely informed me I was lucky to have escaped my night's folly with nothing more serious than a sprained ankle. I was duly bandaged and hustled off to bed. There, surrounded by my befuddled family, I was at last forced to offer an explanation for my behavior.

In doing so, I was careful to include as few details as possible. The fact that I had been returned to my front door by two of Li Ying's men, however, made it difficult to deny in which part of the city the accident had occurred. Even a considerably watered-down

version of my adventure with Miss Culbertson had been enough to drive my mother to tears and cause my father to threaten a nunnery if I ever again did anything so irresponsible.

Only Charles's insistence that I must rest—in fact that I would need to stay in bed until the swelling in my ankle receded—finally brought a blessed end to parental censure. Before my father left the room, however, he bent down to whisper, “You haven’t told us half of what happened to you last night, my girl. I won’t press the matter now, but when you’re feeling better we’re going to have a little chat.”

“You may not like what you hear, Papa,” I answered guiltily. “No, I probably won’t,” he said, planting a kiss on my forehead. “Nevertheless, I can’t wait to hear it.”

T
o my surprise I slept until mid-afternoon, awakening when Mama entered bearing a late lunch. She plumped my pillows, then laid the tray on my lap. It was only after I’d taken a bite of Cook's excellent beef sandwich that I realized I was famished.

My mother watched me for a moment, then said, “What you did last night was very reckless, Sarah.”

“It was necessary, Mama. And I didn’t go alone.” “I know. You went with that woman from the Presbyterian Mission. I’ve long admired Miss Culbertson's work. Still, her raids are dangerous.”

“I’m sure she would tell you that saving even one girl from white slavery is worth the risk.”

“Yes,” Mama said wearily, “I’m sure she would.” She fussed with my bedclothes, then surprised me by saying, “You should have been a boy, Sarah. Lord knows I’ve tried, but I begin to despair of ever seeing you properly settled.”

“By that I assume you mean married with a house full of children.” My mother and I had had this discussion before.

Mama ignored my ironic tone. “I know you’ll find this hard to believe, but I have some idea how you feel. There was a time when I, too, had ideas of what I wanted to do with my life.”

I stopped chewing. “You mean other than marrying Papa?”

“This was long before I met your father—I couldn’t have been more than six or seven. I’d had a fight with my older sister, your Aunt Eloise. She’d received a lovely white porcelain horse for Christmas, and I thought it was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen. I offered to trade her my new skates for it, but she refused. After days of pouting, my governess suggested I write about the horse. If I couldn’t own it, I could make up stories about it to my heart's delight.”

“And did you?” I asked, intrigued by this rare glimpse into my mother's childhood.

“Oh, yes. Pages and pages—in a little notebook. At first I wrote about the anger I felt toward my sister. Then, gradually, it became a story of a real horse.”

I lay still, afraid to break the spell. My loving but reticent mother rarely shared her more intimate thoughts.

“It sounds silly, but my horse became very real to me. Soon my sister's porcelain pony paled next to the lively creature of my imagination. That was the beginning. For years I wrote all sorts of stories. I don’t know how many notebooks I filled.”