Murder on Nob Hill (7 page)

Spying Henrietta walking in our direction, my brother took my arm and drew me into the hall.

“I spoke to George,” he said, referring to his friend on the police force. “Your client may be in more trouble than you know.”

My pulse quickened. “Why? What did George say?”

“The police have discovered she has a lover. An actor by the name of Peter Fowler.”

Of course! My mind went back to the scene outside Shepard's building the day before and I suddenly understood why Annjenett's friend had seemed so familiar. Just last year I had seen him perform a melodrama at the California Theater.

“You don’t look surprised.”

“I saw them together, Samuel. What you’ve just told me explains Annjenett's strange behavior.” I had an awful thought. “What impact will this have on the murder investigation?”

“For one thing, it supplies a motive. And, of course, the widow is going to have to explain her relationship with Fowler.”

“Poor Annjenett.” Her behavior had been foolish, but surely not criminal. Of course she’d be ruined socially. A woman might be allowed a discreet affair—if it were circumspect and hidden from the public eye—but society would never accept a scandal involving murder and, even worse, an actor. There were some indiscretions even San Francisco could not forgive.

“After our talk the other night, I did a little poking around. Do you see that man over there?” Samuel indicated a stout, middle-

aged man with ruddy cheeks and receding white hair. “That's Thomas Cooke, Annjenett's father.”

Unobtrusively, I studied the man as my brother went on.

“Cooke was heavily indebted to Hanaford's bank. Then, after his daughter's marriage, his financial obligations were suddenly forgiven. I doubt it was by coincidence.”

My eyes flew to my brother, thinking perhaps I had misheard. “Are you implying that Thomas Cooke all but sold his daughter into marriage? How could any father—”

I stopped, brought up short by a familiar face in the foyer, a face that towered at least half a head above the other guests. “What is
he
doing here?”

Samuel followed my gaze. “You know that fellow?” “Unfortunately, yes.”

Excusing myself, I started toward the door. Even if the man were not so tall, he would have stood out in the present company like an oak tree in a rose garden. He still wore his dark blue daytime frock coat and brown trousers—which, I noted, were sorely in need of pressing—along with a tan waistcoat and an unfortunate necktie that failed to match any other article of his clothing. His face was flushed, as if he had traveled in some haste, and his red hair flew about his head in more disorder than usual.

“Mr. Campbell,” I said, reaching the foyer. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

“I have a message for Mr. Shepard,” he said, not bothering with civilities. “I was told he’d be here tonight.”

“He left some time ago,” I replied, then bristled when the arrogant man craned his neck, looking beyond me into the parlor. “Do you accuse me of lying, sir?” I felt my face flush at his rude behavior. “Do you think that for some nefarious reason we’re hiding Mr. Shepard?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. It's just that I’ve never seen such a display of ostentation beneath one roof.”

I couldn’t bring myself to admit that, for the most part, I agreed with this pronouncement. “You don’t approve of Society?”

His eyes raked over the lavish gowns, the diamonds, rubies, and emeralds, the tiaras and ostrich feathers. “I see little to commend fatuous women whose sole purpose in life is to outspend, outdress and outglitter their neighbor.”

“That's a generalization, Mr. Campbell,” I said shortly. I thought of Mama and the hours she spent each week gathering clothing, food, and medicine for the poor. There was Mrs. Hearst's Settlement House in South Park, Mrs. Crocker's Boys’ and Girls’ Aid Society, not to mention the Old People's Home she had helped found. “There are members of Society who care deeply about the needs of the less fortunate. They give—”

He gave a snort of impatience. “I’m sure you know more about the vagaries of San Francisco Society than I do. However, since I didn’t come here to debate social reform, I’ll bid you good night.” With a slight nod of his head, he turned toward the door.

“Wait,” I called after him. Something in his expression made me uneasy. “Perhaps if I knew your message, I could help.”

For a moment I thought he hadn’t heard, but after one or two strides of those long legs he stopped and turned back. I don’t know what made me think of Annjenett, but suddenly I was certain his errand concerned her.

“It's about Mrs. Hanaford, isn’t it?” When he didn’t answer, I said, “I’m her attorney. I demand to be told what has happened.”

“You really are a meddlesome woman,” he spat, but I could see his resolve was weakening. “All right,” he went on grudgingly. “Earlier this evening Mrs. Hanaford was arrested and taken to the

city jail. The police are still looking for her love—that is, a gentleman of her acquaintance.”

I could hardly credit this. “Annjenett, taken to jail? Why?”

He hesitated a moment, then blurted, “Mrs. Hanaford and a fellow by the name of Peter Fowler have been charged with the murder of Cornelius Hanaford.”

I
was not allowed to visit Annjenett until Monday morning, a delay which seemed like an eternity. Through his friend George Lewis, Samuel learned that Peter Fowler had finally been arrested early the previous morning and that both he and Annjenett were being held without bail—not only because they were charged with a capital offense, but because the presumption of their guilt was too great to risk flight. Samuel insisted on accompanying me to the city jail, an unnecessary but welcome arrangement.

Our cab made its way through heavy morning fog to arrive at the jail shortly after nine. As it turned out, it was as well Samuel was with me, since Annjenett's jailers—rejecting the possibility that I might be her attorney—refused to allow me inside. It was only after my brother, without benefit of bar accreditation, insisted he was co-attorney that we were finally admitted.

It was unusual for the city jail to be called upon to house a woman of Annjenett's refinement, but the guard assured me that the widow had been allotted the best accommodations the institution had to offer. Nonetheless, her bleak chamber shocked me. The cell was bitterly cold and barely large enough to hold three people. A narrow cot, covered by several coarse woolen blankets, took up the limited space. To one side was a cracked chamber pot and a porcelain bowl filled with water. There were no table or chairs. In

fact there was no place for visitors to sit except upon the cot. A small, barred window, located high on one wall, provided the only source of light, and little of that on this dreary morning.

“Sarah, thank goodness you’ve come.” Annjenett clutched my arm, her white face and red eyes making my heart ache in sympathy.

“How are you, my dear?” Anxious as I was to hear what had happened, I first had to ensure that she was being treated well by her jailers.

“Everyone is kind enough,” she said with a weak smile. “They bring me extra food and blankets, but there's little they can do to change this...” She swept a thin hand around the cell.

Leaving Samuel to stand by the barred window, I took the young widow's hand and led her to sit on the cot. “I know this is difficult,” I said, taking a seat beside her. “But if I’m to help, you must tell me everything.”

Annjenett hesitated and looked toward Samuel, who, interested as he was in her narrative, instantly understood that she’d feel more comfortable if we were alone.

“I’ll see what I can find out about Mrs. Hanaford's arrest,” he said, knocking on the cell door to attract the guard.

I nodded my approval. “I’ll meet you outside.”

When he was gone, Annjenett said, “It was kind of you to come.”

“Kindness has nothing to do with it. It should be clear to any fool that you’re incapable of murder.”

Her hands moved nervously in her lap. “You may change your mind when you’ve heard my story.”

“I’ll be the judge of that.” In an effort to help her begin, I said, “I understand your father was in debt to Mr. Hanaford's bank, and that this debt was forgiven upon your marriage.” I tried to keep my tone nonjudgmental, but some of my distaste must have shown.

“Please, Sarah, you mustn’t judge Papa too harshly. He hated marrying me to a man we both disliked so intensely. But Papa has a penchant for gambling, and Cornelius preyed on that weakness by lending him ever-increasing amounts of money. When my father realized what he’d done, it was too late. He was forced to agree to Cornelius's terms or risk losing everything.

I shook my head at this cowardice and she rushed on, “At first it wasn’t so bad. And I took hope from the fact that Cornelius treated me kindly. For the first year or two, I actually grew rather fond of him.”

“Then what happened?” I prompted when she faltered.

“Cornelius—began to make certain demands of me. He—” Her pale cheeks flamed into color.

I patted her hand. “I have friends who are married. I think I know what you’re trying to say.”

“Excuse me, Sarah, but I’m not sure you do. For a long time I didn’t either. I was too naive to understand that his—that my husband's appetites went beyond what is normally expected of a wife. I only knew that I found them coarse and humiliating. I tried to do what he asked, but it was never enough. Each time he came to my bed his demands grew more outrageous, more debasing. If I refused, he would sometimes strike me until I gave in.”

“Dear god!” Tears streaked down Annjenett's face and I felt beastly. “Please, believe me, my dear. I would never make you go through this if it weren’t so important.”

“It's all right, Sarah, I understand.” A smile touched her lips, but quickly faded. “Sometimes the beatings were so serious I was forced to stay in my room to hide the bruises from the servants. Then gradually, Cornelius came to my room less frequently. Over the past year he hardly came at all.

“At first it was a relief, but over time I began to grow lonely.

Then, about six months ago, friends asked me to accompany them to the theater. Cornelius was out for the evening and it seemed an innocent thing to do.”

Her blue eyes met mine. “We went to the Baldwin Theater. They were doing
The Shoemaker's Holiday
and Peter Fowler played Simon Eyre. Oh, Sarah, he was wonderful! Afterward, he joined our party for a late supper and we were surprised to discover that we’d both grown up in San Francisco, actually within blocks of each other. We wondered if we might have even played together as children. Peter was so easy to talk to and he made me laugh. Heaven knows I hadn’t laughed in a long time.”

“So you began seeing each other?”

She nodded. “I’m not proud of my behavior, Sarah, but for the first time in my life I had fallen deeply in love.”

“I’m not here to judge you, my dear. Only to clear you of these ludicrous charges.” I looked her in the eye. “Now, I want you to tell me what happened the night your husband was killed. What
really
happened.”

She looked at me miserably, then turned away. Suddenly, I understood. “He was there, wasn’t he? Peter Fowler, I mean.”

She nodded wretchedly. “Sarah, I swear he had nothing to do with my husband's death. Neither of us did.”

“How did Mr. Fowler come to be in your home?”

“Cornelius had found out about us. The night before his death we had a dreadful row. When Peter saw marks on my face the next day, he insisted on confronting Cornelius. I tried to dissuade him, but he was adamant. After dinner I made a show of going upstairs, but in fact I waited on the landing. I answered the door at the first knock and managed to sneak Peter up to my boudoir. It was while I was trying to convince him that his presence would only make matters worse that—that Cornelius must have been murdered.”

“Neither of you heard anything?”

She shook her head. “My boudoir is on the second floor, at the rear of the house. It wasn’t until Peter stormed downstairs to have it out with Cornelius that we—we found him dead.”

She began sobbing quietly while my thoughts raced. Only now did I fully comprehend the damaging case against Annjenett. I still believed her innocent, but I couldn’t be certain of the actor. For all I knew she might, even now, be lying to protect him.

I hesitated, but the question had to be asked. “How much do you know about Mr. Fowler,Annjenett?”

She guessed my thoughts and her eyes flashed. “Only that he is the kindest, gentlest of men. Peter was prepared to fight Cornelius to protect me, but he would never have murdered him in cold blood.”

I abandoned this line of questioning; Annjenett was obviously too smitten with the actor to give an unbiased opinion. Before I could think of another way to approach the subject, however, I heard the jailer's approaching footsteps. Hurriedly, I pulled a document out of my briefcase and handed it to her, along with pen and ink.

“If we’re to secure your release,” I told her, “we have to discover who really murdered your husband. This paper gives me authority to go through his effects. It also allows me to claim the money we’ve demanded of Mr. Shepard, which we’ll need to pay your household expenses and, if necessary, use for your defense.”

“Yes, of course,” she agreed and quickly signed the paper. Her pale face showed a flicker of hope. “What do you expect to find in my husband's belongings?”

I was loath to admit I hadn’t the faintest idea. She had little enough to sustain her through the coming days and nights, and far too much time to agonize over her situation. Temporizing, I said

there was always the chance the police had overlooked something, and was pleased when she seemed to take heart in this possibility. A moment later the jailer threw the cell door open with a clang.

“There's a couple of gents waitin’ to see the prisoner.” He eyed me suspiciously. “One of ‘em says he's the lady's lawyer.”

It wasn’t difficult to guess that Joseph Shepard, or one of his associates, was here to interview Annjenett. It was no less than I expected. I was only glad I had been able to speak to her first. I gave Annjenett a confident smile.