No Pity For the Dead (13 page)

“Of course not. How silly of me—”

“You're asking questions because you know Detective Greaves, aren't you? Did he put you up to this?”

“He did not. I am asking solely out of personal curiosity.”

“Asking questions seems pretty dangerous, Mrs. Davies,” he said, “when a man's been murdered.”

His tone was ominous, but Frank Hutchinson would never threaten her. “I shall be cautious.”

“A good idea,” he said. “And since you know Nick Greaves so well, why don't you tell him to leave us alone, too?”

“I do not believe he would listen,” she said with a smile, an attempt at lightheartedness that Frank did not reciprocate.

Abruptly, he got to his feet. “Expect our carriage around eleven tomorrow, Mrs. Davies. Until then . . .”

She'd been dismissed. “Yes. Tomorrow. Good day to you.”

She exited the room and retreated down the stairs, her plan to speak to the workers thwarted by John Kelly's vigilant gaze. As she stepped out onto the street, her skin tingled with the certainty that she was being watched. She fought the urge to look back at the building. It was best to pretend she had nothing to fear. Even if that might not be the case.

*   *   *

N
ick strolled up Post, heading for Abram Russell's house. Two stories of cream-painted brick, the house stood just shy of Union Square. It was close enough, though, that Nick supposed Russell could lean out his window to observe the parades that always seemed to be taking place there. Today the square was empty except for a handful of men in tattered uniforms and grizzled beards, lounging on the benches.

From the far end of Union Square, the bells of Trinity Church, its multitude of skinny spires poking toward the heavens, sounded the top of the hour as Nick climbed the steps to Russell's front door.

A Chinese boy answered the bell. Nick explained who he was, and the boy bowed him into the entry hall. Then, his long black queue swinging over his turquoise silk tunic, the boy ran off toward the back of the house, leaving Nick to wait. He tapped the toe of one boot on the white marble beneath his feet. Here he was
again, in yet another fancy house, its rooms stuffed to the rafters with expensive furniture. If Nick poked through the polished rosewood secretary he noticed in the adjacent parlor, would he find stacks of bills demanding payment for the oriental vases and silk curtains? Gambling debts could have pitched Russell over the brink, encouraging him to kill Nash rather than figure out how to produce the money he might've owed the man.

“You come.” The boy had returned and gestured for Nick to follow. “Garden.”

At the end of the hall, a doorway let out onto a rear porch. It overlooked a garden with a fountain that spurted water into the sky. From the porch, he could also see the sparkle of the bay and the ships and steamers like rolling specks traveling upon blue fabric. A fine view, but not quite as nice as the one from the Nashes' house on Rincon Hill.

Mr. Russell sat at a table alongside a plump woman, her nut-brown hair cascading around her face in a fuss of spirals. Plates of food sat in front of them; Nick had interrupted them at their lunch.

Russell rose from his wicker chair and introduced the woman as his wife, Dorothea. He was short of stature and thin, and didn't look like he'd be able to successfully stab another man to death. Unlike Dan Matthews, who had plenty of muscle, or Frank, tall and strong. Nick would have to ask Harris how powerful he thought the fellow was who'd severed Nash's abdominal artery.

“I'm not sure why you're here, Detective.” Russell's voice trembled, but some folks got nervous around cops whether they were guilty of something or not.

“What is this about?” asked his wife.

A small fluffy dog jumped down from her lap and ran over
to Nick. It stopped at the foot of the steps—a safe distance—and proceeded to yelp.

“Peaches, be quiet,” she commanded, and then also stood, her heavy skirts rustling. “Peaches, come here.”

The dog didn't quiet or come to her. Dorothea marched over and bent to retrieve it. “If your arrival has anything to do with that wretched business at my husband's office, Detective, I can assure you he is blameless.”

“I prefer to assess that for myself, ma'am,” replied Nick, which caused her to scowl. The dog—Peaches—must have felt her tense, because it began yapping again. She didn't attempt to stop it. She might have wanted to yap at Nick, too.

“I'd like to hear whatever you have to say about this affair, Mr. Russell,” said Nick. The man flushed. The day was warming, but their backyard enjoyed a pleasant breeze sweeping down off the western hills. It was too cool a midday to have turned such a bright shade of pink.

His wife spoke for him. “Virgil Nash was born to be a thorn in good folks' sides, Detective. His efforts to interfere in the plans of Martin and Company brought him great delight, I do believe. It is my expectation that he had numerous enemies and few friends. He and his wife were so often at the opera or theater alone.”

“Dottie, you're not helping matters,” said Russell.

“How well did you know Nash, Mr. Russell? Beyond any interactions through your work, that is,” said Nick. “Ever drink with him at Burke's or the Golden Hare, for instance, or maybe gamble with him?”

“My husband does not gamble!” Peaches squirmed in her arms, and she released the dog, which ran over to Nick again
and barked more fiercely. It made Nick glad to have Riley, who barked only at reasonable times.

“That's not what I hear,” said Nick.

“What you hear is utter scandal, sir,” pronounced Dorothea Russell.

“You didn't answer my question, Mr. Russell.”

“I did see Mr. Nash at Burke's, the one time I went there. Bought him a drink. Trying to be friendly with the man. That was what Martin wanted from us. Didn't he, dear?”

“You have always been dependable, Abram.” Dorothea patted his arm. “Always.”

Hmm
.

“How long have you known Mr. Nash? Since the Comstock?” Nick asked, a shot in the dark.

Russell swallowed. Peaches gave up barking at Nick and scurried back to his mistress. “I've never been to the Comstock, Mr. Greaves.”

“Where were you Thursday night, Mr. Russell?” Nick asked.

“I was with Frank,” he said. “We usually spend Tuesday and Thursday evenings together.”

“That's what Mrs. Hutchinson told me as well,” said Nick, and Russell perked up. “About what time did you two part ways?”

“He was home before sunset,” answered Mrs. Russell for him.

And Frank was back at his house around ten, according to the Hutchinsons' maid. Which left an unaccounted-for gap of a little more than two hours. If Dottie wasn't lying. “What about the night of May twenty-eight?”

“Is that the night Nash died?” Russell asked, proving reasonably perceptive.

Nick inclined his head.

Mrs. Russell prepared to speak again, but her husband hushed her. “I don't recall. It's been too long.”

“It was the Tuesday two weeks ago, if that jogs your memory,” said Nick.

Russell ran a finger between his collar and his neck. “Oh yes, I remember. I'd gone out to dine with Frank that particular evening as usual, now that I think back. I'm right, aren't I, Dottie?” Mrs. Russell responded with a slight nod. “We were out late, I hate to admit.”

“Both of you?” Nick asked.

“Yes. Both of us.”

“Why, of course he was with Mr. Hutchinson, Detective Greaves,” said Dorothea Russell. “And believe me, I was ever so unhappy about it, having been quite unwell that entire day.”

“So, it's not possible Frank Hutchinson murdered Virgil Nash and buried him in the cellar of Martin and Company?” Nick asked Russell. “Because you were with him that entire evening.”

“What reason would Frank have to do something stupid like that?”

“Because he wants to impress his father-in-law with a nice new house, and Mr. Nash stood in the way of his getting the money he needed,” Nick replied. “Witnesses have said they'd fought many times. About some business with a Mr. Horatio Enright, for instance.”

“And I just told you Frank was with me that night,” insisted Russell. “Frank Hutchinson would never murder a man simply to afford a nicer house for Jane, Detective. Or as a way to settle a dispute over the way Mr. Nash liked to conduct his affairs.”

“Are you absolutely certain he was with you all evening, Abram?” his wife asked him, suddenly deciding to change her
story. “You know how . . . You know how forgetful you can be. Could it be somehow possible he slipped away from you—”

“I won't accuse my closest friend of murder in order to save my own neck, Dottie,” he said sharply, which caused her to blanch.

Nick would give the man credit for his staunch support of his friend, if for nothing else.

He stared at the steadfast Abram Russell, and part of Mrs. Davies' Shakespeare quote came to mind:
Faithful friends are hard to find.
Maybe all the partners were involved in getting rid of the annoying Virgil Nash. Every one of them stood to gain from his death, and two of them hated the man. They were certainly doing a bang-up job of covering for one another.

“I'm going to advise you to stick around town, Mr. Russell, like I'm advising everybody connected to this case to do.”

“You can't think my husband is a suspect, sir!” Mrs. Russell screeched, sending Peaches into a clamor of barks.

“Until I learn otherwise, I very much can, Mrs. Russell.”

*   *   *

T
he bell of the fancy goods shop tinkled overhead as Celia pushed open the door.

The middle-aged woman who owned the shop, Mrs. Lowers, looked over. She stood at a counter, helping a customer examine a selection of beautifully carved hair combs of tortoiseshell and ivory. “I'll be right with you, Mrs. Davies.”

Celia closed the door and glanced around. She had always found the smell of the space—slightly musty from the bolts of wool ranged across the shelves—comforting. And the riot of colors from the many fabrics and lengths of lace that filled nooks and spilled from cubbyholes was a delight. Peeling off her cotton gloves, Celia lifted the corner of a piece of golden pongee silk
not yet returned to its place and rubbed the material between her fingers, relishing the sheen and the luxuriously soft feel of the textile against her skin.

“How can I help you?” Mrs. Lowers asked, having bustled to Celia's side as soon as the customer had departed with her purchase.

She released the pongee. “I would like half an ell of your cream gauze ribbon. Ginny knows which one. I spoke to her earlier about it.”

The woman perked, pleased that Celia had come in to make a purchase, rather than merely browse as so often occurred.

“I can fetch . . . ,” the woman began to say as the shop bell rang out and a matron in expensive silks entered.

“You may assist your other customer, Mrs. Lowers. I shall locate Ginny on my own.”

“She's in back,” the owner answered, and strode off to attend to her other customer.

The rear room was located behind a curtained archway. A space about the size of Celia's parlor, it was filled with worktables, neatly folded stacks of material, and sewing implements. Ginny, a woman too young for the air of pinched solemnity that hung about her, sat on a low stool by the grimy window, embroidering a pair of cotton gloves. If she had set alight one of the gas lamps suspended overhead, she might be better able to see her work. The relative cleanliness of the ceiling, however, suggested Mrs. Lowers rarely permitted their use.

The girl looked over. “There you are again, Mrs. Davies.” Ginny poked the needle into the embroidered section to not lose her place and stood. “You here for that pretty ribbon?”

“I am, but I would also like to ask you some questions,” said
Celia, glancing toward the doorway. The sound of voices indicated that Mrs. Lowers remained occupied with her customer. “About something that happened Thursday night.”

Ginny's eyes widened. “Is it about that dead man they found at Mr. Martin's?” she whispered. “I saw the police crawling all over the place yesterday and carrying the body off.” She crossed herself. “It's got Mrs. Lowers dreadful scared, especially when the cops came around to ask her questions. It's got me scared, too.”

“There is no need for you and Mrs. Lowers to be concerned about your safety, Ginny. The circumstances suggest the murderer is not likely to be after other individuals who work and live on Montgomery.”

“Did someone at Martin and Company kill the fella?” Ginny's eyes grew wider. “I knew it! I'll never talk to those two again! Trouble, the both of them!”

“Which two?” Celia asked.

“Rob and Dan. Won't leave a girl alone. If they see me outside when they're on their way to the billiard saloon down the street, they can't go by without teasing and saying stuff,” she said. “And once they're liquored up, they're worse. Always plotting and scheming, those two. Plotting and scheming.”

Another mention of Rob Bartlett.
I must move him up my list of suspects.

“Did you notice anything unusual a few weeks back?” Celia asked. “Tuesday the twenty-eighth. Did you perhaps hear a commotion?”

“Don't think I did, ma'am.”

“What about Thursday night, Ginny? That evening, a man tried to remove the body, but he was chased off,” said Celia, hoping Ginny didn't stop to ponder how Celia was in possession of
such information. “I believe he ran past the shop here. Did you happen to notice?”

“Wait . . . Yes, I did!” She lowered her voice again. “I was out in the alley shaking out the rugs at the end of the day. I heard the sound of running feet and was headed back inside, scared of what was going on. He came past quick . . .
They
came past quick, because there were two of them. A man followed by a boy. The boy turned back, though. I thought that was strange.”