No Comfort for the Lost (16 page)

Gun in hand, Nick crept back to the street corner and peered around the edge of the building. He startled a grizzled man tying his horse to a hitching post.

“Apologies,” said Nick.

Nick checked that the gun’s hammer was resting on the empty chamber and reholstered the weapon, letting his coat flap back into place. He continued on his way home. He might’ve been imagining he’d been followed, but he didn’t think so. His visit to Lange’s had made somebody nervous. Was it the man Lange had called evil looking or some other—

The blow to Nick’s head came from out of the blue, staggering him to his knees. He reached for his gun and rolled to one side as his assailant swung again, striking Nick’s forearm and sending the Colt skittering across the rocky dirt of the alleyway. White-hot pain shot along his arm, flooded his body. His head reeling, Nick struggled to stand. It was too dark in this stretch of the road to make out more than the attacker’s general shape, his features obscured by a drawn-down hat and a piece of cloth over his face. The man raised his weapon—a thick bludgeon—and Nick kicked out, losing his balance, but he caught one of the man’s knees with his boot heel, knocking him backward. Breathing hard, Nick jumped up, his surroundings swaying.

He pushed off from the nearest wall and kicked out again, but the man fended off the kick with the club. Nick lunged for him, but his assailant was strong and tore away from his grip. The man took off running with long, loping strides.

“Damn!” Nick’s stomach heaved from the pain in his arm as he gave chase. “Stop, damn it! Police!” he shouted.

The assailant dashed into an alleyway and Nick followed. But the alley was deadly quiet and too dark to make out anything more than a sliver of purple sky overhead.

The man was gone.

• • •

“
Y
ou did very well with your arithmetic today, Barbara,” said Celia, wiping a sponge soaked in a mild solution of creosote water across the oilcloth surface of her examining table.

A patient had been waiting when Celia had returned home from her unsuccessful visit to the police station, where she’d found neither Mr. Greaves nor Officer Taylor. The patient had been a domestic with the measles, and Celia always disinfected her examination room after seeing contagious cases, even though Addie would complain about the smell afterward and Celia’s hands would be chapped for days.

“Oh,” responded Barbara to Celia’s comment, not interrupting her inspection of the darkened streets beyond the clinic’s window blinds.

“I have not seen anyone watching the house today.” Celia dropped the sponge into the bucket at her feet. “Maybe the person has tired of spying on us and leaving notes.”

“Do you really believe that?” asked Barbara.

“Yes,” she answered, calmly holding her cousin’s gaze. It was a small lie, but worth telling to calm her cousin. In the morning, Celia would speak to Nicholas Greaves about Connor Ahearn, the man would be arrested, and Tom would be freed. Soon they would no longer live in fear.

Barbara let the slats drop into place. “Then maybe we don’t need to bother Madame Philippe with our questions tomorrow.”

“Addie still wishes to go.” Celia decided not to share that she wanted to question the woman about anything Tessie might have said to her about Li Sha or Connor Ahearn. Barbara would only criticize Celia’s involvement in the investigation again. “Thank you for helping organize the supplies in here, Barbara. It has been a long day and you look tired. You should go to bed.”

“Good night,” Barbara said, and shuffled off.

Celia hefted the bucket and pushed through the connecting door between the examination room and the kitchen. Addie was scrubbing the oak worktable, the pots and pans from the day’s meal preparation already cleaned and hung on their hooks.

Addie wrinkled her nose. “Och, now you’re bringing that concoction in here?”

“I have to dispose of it somewhere,” she said, dumping the solution into the wet sink in the corner.

“Smells like the verra devil. Maybe you should take it to the Palmers’ for their cleaning.” Addie’s scrub brush went around in increasingly rapid circles. “I met that new housekeeper of theirs, Rose, at the Washington Market today. Rose talked my ear off about how Mrs. Palmer is following her about, inspecting her cleaning as if the girl doesna ken what’s she’s doing!” Addie shook her head. “She willna stay with them any longer than the last one, I predict.”

“Elizabeth should learn to be grateful for the capable domestics she has been able to hire.”

“Perhaps she believes like my father that gratitude is a heavy burden. Only, in Mrs. Palmer’s case, it’s a burden she’d rather not carry.” Addie paused. “Whisht, is that the fire bell?”

Celia lowered the bucket to the kitchen floor and listened for the sound. The tocsin at city hall that alerted the fire stations was ringing.

“Four bells,” she said. The Barbary Coast and parts of the Chinese district were in the Fourth Ward.

“The fire should stay south of us, ma’am,” said Addie. “Dinna fash yourself.”

“I am not worried about the fire reaching us, Addie.” Celia removed her apron and headed for the front door, snatching up her half boots on the way. “I am worried that Connor Ahearn and his men have decided now is the time to burn out the Chinese.”

“You canna be going there!” screeched Addie, who’d scrambled after her. “At this time of night and with that watcher fellow out there, wanting to harm us!”

“He has not been out on the street today,” said Celia, kicking off her soft mules and sitting to tug on her boots.

“And now you’re splitting hairs,” said Addie, stooping to tie the bootlaces.

“I have to go,” Celia responded, and stood. “If any of the Chinese get injured in the melee, who will come to their aid? No one. I must help.”

With a loud sigh, Addie untied her apron and tossed it onto the hat rack by the door.

“What are you doing?” asked Celia.

“I’m coming with you.”

“We should not leave Barbara alone.”

“Then I’ll go next door and ask Mrs. Cascarino to come over.” Addie fisted her hips. “Because you’re nae going to the Barbary at night without me.”

Celia grinned and squeezed Addie’s hand. “Fetch my bag. Quickly. We must hurry.”

The fire glowed orange over the intersection of Jackson and Dupont, and smoke, lit from beneath, billowed into the sky. Nick ran toward the blazing buildings, his sore head throbbing in rhythm with the pounding of his feet. His arm, wrapped in an improvised sling, didn’t feel much better. He’d rather be nursing it and the knot on his skull with a few stiff slugs of whiskey. But when he’d heard the city hall bell indicating a fire in Chinatown, Nick had been convinced the anti-coolie hooligans were following through on their promise to burn out the immigrants.

A horse-drawn hose reel clattered past him, its bell ringing to forge a path through the gawkers crowding the cobblestones. It pulled alongside the steam engine from Company One, which had already hooked up to the hydrant at the corner. Firemen, their red shirts soaked with sweat from the fire’s heat, trained the water hose on the flames. A laundry was on fire, along with the saloon next door.

“You have to save my shop!” yelled a white storekeeper, gesturing wildly to where sparks and ash were raining down on his jewelry store.

A clutch of Chinese men had collected buckets and futilely tossed water onto the laundry shop even as it dissolved in a wall of flames. The fire created a wind that fluttered their tunics.
Burn them out.
Wouldn’t be hard. If the wind picked up, the whole street could turn to cinders in no time.

“You there.” One of the firemen, the company emblem attached to his tall leather helmet reflecting the flames, shouted at the Chinese men. “You need to get back!”

Nick paused at the edge of the crowd. Patrons of the gambling dens along Jackson, who had come to see the spectacle, were wagering on how many other buildings would go up.

“And you, too!” The fireman pointed at Nick. “Out of the way!”

“Police.” Nick flashed his badge. “How did it start?”

“Sorry, Officer. Not sure. Looks like it might’ve begun in the alley at the back of the laundry. But it could’ve started at the saloon next door.” He jerked his chin toward a man seated on the curb, cursing in what sounded like German. “He keeps muttering ‘kerosene.’ Maybe somebody overturned a lantern. But the captain thinks it looks like arson.”

“Did you talk to the man who owns the laundry?” Nick asked.

“Him? He won’t say anything to us. Not even in that funny English them Celestials speak.”

The flames flared up, the roar deafening. A portion of the upper floor of the laundry crumbled and collapsed in a thundering heap of sparks. Hot air fanned over the crowd, making everyone jump back. The firefighters unrolled another length of hose and began to attack the fire from the other side.

“Gad,” said a familiar voice at his shoulder. “Is anyone hurt?”

Nick looked over at her. “Everybody escaped the fire, Mrs. Davies.”

“Thank goodness. I was expecting a brawl, to be frank. The fire, however, is bad enough.” Her fist tightened around the handles of the medical bag she’d thought to bring with her. Beside Mrs. Davies, her housekeeper clung to her shawl and gaped at the flames. “So they have done what they threatened,” Mrs. Davies said.

“We don’t know that this was caused by Ahearn or any of the anti-coolieites, ma’am,” he pointed out.

“Do we not, Mr. Greaves?” she challenged. Her gaze dropped to the old undershirt he’d looped around his neck to cradle his forearm. “And what, may I ask, happened to you?”

“Not sure I want to bore you with that story, ma’am.”

“I am not going anywhere soon,” she said, an eyebrow arching. “So you may as well.”

• • •

“
R
emove the sling and roll up your sleeve,” demanded Celia, once she had managed to extract the story of his attack out of Nicholas Greaves. They had moved farther from the fire, which was coming under control. It seemed the rest of the block would be saved.
Thank heavens.

Mr. Greaves balked, tucking his injured arm closer to his chest. “It’s nothing.”

“Please do as I ask, because if you are busy being assaulted in alleyways, I want to see what damage has been done.” She handed her portmanteau to Addie, who was now gaping more at the firemen, handsome in their uniforms, than at the fire. “Did you see your assailant’s face?”

“Not clearly. He had a cloth of some sort wrapped around the lower half. He must’ve been afraid I’d recognize him.” Gingerly, Mr. Greaves extracted his arm from the sling. “And I couldn’t tell if he was wearing a red-and-yellow vest, either. He had on a long coat buttoned up over his clothes.”

“A duster coat like what the cowboys wear?” she asked. “Because the person I saw watching our house might have been wearing one as well.”

“Could’ve been a duster.”

“And now the watcher is after you.”

His eyes met hers. “Or maybe it’s just one of the many friends I have in the city, ma’am, paying their respects.”

“Most amusing, Mr. Greaves.”

He took off his jacket, which he also handed to Addie, and rolled up his shirtsleeve. There was a large, swollen bruise on his forearm. Celia prodded the area gently, making him wince.

“Honestly, between you and Owen . . .” She carefully turned over his arm. His hand, long fingered and broad, rested against her sleeve.

“Well?” he asked. He was watching the movement of her fingers over his skin, and his breath whispered across her forehead. Her pulse lifted at the intimacy of the contact.

She released her clasp on him.

“It is hard to see in this light, but I do not think your arm is broken,” she said, turning to observe the last of the flames gutter out, avoiding his eyes. He was too observant and would see what she’d felt. “It is a good thing both you and Owen are particularly sturdy.”

“I want to meet this Owen kid someday. From what you’ve said, he’s the sort of person I’d like.”

“He
is
the sort of person you would like, Mr. Greaves. Courageous and honest and loyal.” Celia nodded toward his arm. “Put a cold compress on that bruise when you return home. And are there any other injuries you would like to tell me about?”

“No, ma’am,” he replied, taking his jacket from Addie. “None that I’d like to tell you about.”

“The firemen have finished, ma’am,” said Addie.

They had shut off the water and were coiling their hoses. The laundry and the saloon were smoldering piles of embers and shattered glass, their upper floors collapsed into the ground floors. The crowd dispersed, wandering back to their lodgings or to nearby drinking establishments. The fire would make good conversation over liquor and cards.

“Wonder where the German who owns the saloon went to,” Mr. Greaves said as he restored the sling around his arm. “I would’ve liked to ask him if he saw anybody suspicious.”

“Should I speak to the owner of the laundry?” Celia offered.

“That’d be helpful, ma’am.”

She crossed the street. At first the man did not wish to talk to her. She managed, though, between English and fragmented Chinese, to explain that she wished to help.

“
Fo.
The fire,” she said. “Did you see . . .” Celia did not know the Chinese word for “anyone.” “Did you see a man?
Yan?
”

The laundry owner narrowed his dark eyes. “See man. White man. Come today. Yesterday. He look at my store a long time.”

“What did he look like?” she asked. “His face.
Min.
”

“White,” he answered, and pressed his lips together.

“Did he have on a red-and-yellow waistcoat?”

“You know him, you tell him we not go.” He turned on his heel and stalked off. Celia returned to where Mr. Greaves waited and relayed what the man had said.

“Can’t say it was Ahearn, then,” said Mr. Greaves.

Celia watched the hose-cart driver guide the horse away from the fire. The water had left huge puddles of mud in the road. The owner of the laundry sat on his haunches and stared at the remains of his business. “The Chinese have done nothing to deserve this violence,” she said.

“They’ve come to California and upset the balance of the world for a lot of folks. Reason enough.”

The crisp breeze ruffling the fringe of her shawl drifted smoke toward them, and Celia coughed.

“Let’s get you two home,” the detective said, making a quick final scan of their surroundings before heading up the road.

It would be a steep climb from here. Celia was exhausted and dreaded the hike back to the house, but the streetcars did not run at this hour, so she trudged alongside Mr. Greaves.

“’Tis awful,” said Addie, trailing behind them. “Miss Barbara will be asking again to leave the city.”

“I hate to tell you this, Miss Ferguson, but you probably won’t be able to leave,” said Mr. Greaves. “They’ll likely subpoena you to be a defense witness for your brother-in-law, Mrs. Davies. You’ll have to stay in San Francisco for the trial.”

“Och, no,” muttered Addie.

“What shall I say to Barbara? This fire, coming so soon after the notes we’ve received, will terrify her.”

“Sorry, ma’am.”

“You must arrest Connor Ahearn, anyway,” she said, as they left the Barbary behind and headed into the quieter neighborhoods that tumbled down the side of Telegraph Hill. The lights of the houses on the hillside winked among the shadows. “If he did not commit arson himself, he incited someone to.”

“Owen Cassidy overhearing his friends claim that a man named Connor wanted to burn out the Chinese isn’t quite enough proof to arrest Ahearn. I’m sorry. Truly, I am.”

“But it is still possible Mr. Ahearn was involved in Li Sha’s death.” Celia explained that he’d been in Chinatown looking for Li Sha. “I find it ironic that a man who claims to hate the Chinese makes use of Chinese prostitutes. Although does it not seem sometimes that people most vocally revile what is, in truth, their greatest temptation?”

“He’s just scum, Mrs. Davies. I don’t think we need to ascribe more thought to his actions than that,” said Mr. Greaves. “You need to know that Tessie Lange has sold all her mother’s jewelry and taken off without leaving a note. She might’ve left town, but she didn’t take any of her clothes.”

Addie gasped. “Her, too?”

“Is Tessie in danger?” asked Celia.

“Taylor’s been searching for her. We’ll find out what’s happened to Miss Lange.”

“More to ask Madame Philippe tomorrow, ma’am,” said Addie.

“Who’s Madame Philippe?” asked Mr. Greaves.

“An astro—”

“Dinna explain, ma’am,” Addie interrupted, scowling. “He’ll only laugh like his great gowk of an assistant.” She tossed her head and stalked ahead of them, Celia’s medical bag swinging in her hand.

“I will tell you later,” said Celia to Nicholas Greaves.

“Can’t wait to hear.”

• • •

C
elia lay awake, her eyes attempting to trace the printed vines that twined up her bedchamber’s wallpaper. If she did not get some sleep, she’d be of no use to her patients tomorrow. She kept thinking about the fire, though, and Tessie and Connor Ahearn’s possible culpability in Li Sha’s death.

Tom was reluctant to condemn them, though. Did his hesitation mean he thought they were guilty—or not guilty? But why go to the hangman’s noose for a woman he no longer cared for and a friend who had hated Li Sha? Celia understood loyalty, but not at that cost. Unless Tom was reluctant to admit to himself that two of his closest acquaintances had conspired to kill the woman he’d come to love.

“Oh, Tom. What a mess.”

Celia had started on the third column of vines to the left of her window when she heard a cry come from inside the house. Scrambling out of bed, she threw open her chamber door. Pale moonlight shone through the window at the end of the hallway. Her cousin’s chamber was across the way, next to the room that used to be her father’s bedchamber. Celia could hear Barbara’s sobs through the closed door. Addie slept in the tiny room on the other side of the staircase. It would take more than Barbara’s weeping to awaken Addie; she could sleep through a cannonade.

Celia tapped on her cousin’s door. “Barbara? What is it?”

The sobbing halted and silence descended.

“Barbara, I heard you crying, so you can stop pretending to be asleep,” Celia said through the closed door. “Let me in.”

She heard the sound of feet padding across the floor, and Barbara opened the door. Her cousin clasped her long braid like a lifeline, and her eyes were bloodshot. “I’m sorry I woke you, Cousin.”

“Don’t worry. I was not asleep.” Celia pushed the door wide and entered the room. “What is the matter? Are you upset because of the fire?”

“No. It’s nothing.”

She tried to turn away, but Celia seized Barbara’s arm to halt her. “You can tell me.”

Barbara wriggled out of her grasp. “I had a bad dream; that’s all.” She limped to her bed and flopped onto it, the hair-and-spring mattress sinking beneath her weight.

Celia sat next to her on the bed. “If you tell me about this dream, you might feel better.”

Tears collected in Barbara’s eyes. “It’s about Li Sha. I spend more time thinking about her now that she’s dead than I did when she was alive. Why won’t she leave me alone?”

“What happens in your dream?” Celia asked gently.

Barbara reached for her pillow and clutched it to her stomach. “It’s horrible. I see a man, but not his face. He’s wearing all black and Li Sha is wrapped in a white sheet stained with blood. He drives a wagon down to the pier and tosses her out. She lands with an awful thud. He laughs and drives away.” She drew in a ragged breath. “It’s the same every night.”

“Do you think you recognize him?” But what did a dream portend, other than to reveal one’s deepest fears?

Tears seeped from the corners of Barbara’s eyes to spill down her cheeks, and she grabbed Celia’s wrist. “Can’t we please leave San Francisco, Cousin Celia? Go out to Healdsburg and visit the geysers for a while? I think we can afford a short trip, and your patients will be fine without you for a few days.”

“Detective Greaves has told me I will likely be subpoenaed to appear as a defense witness in Tom’s trial. I cannot go anywhere. I’m sorry.”

“Well, maybe
I
can go with Addie.”

“Going to Healdsburg will not end the nightmares, Barbara,” said Celia.