No Pity For the Dead (20 page)

“Yes, yes, yes,” she replied, and did so.

Wrapping her shawl tight around her shoulders, Celia slid open the parlor doors. “Good afternoon, Grace.”

Grace stood up from the piano bench and gave a small curtsy. “How are you doing today, Mrs. Davies?”

When Barbara turned her head, Celia could see dark circles beneath her eyes; it had been another sleepless night for her.

“I am quite well, if a trifle bruised, Grace,” Celia said. “Were you preparing to practice something on the piano?” An unfamiliar piece of music sat waiting.

“My stepmother wants me to play ‘The Battle Hymn of the Republic' for our upcoming Fourth of July celebration,” said Grace. “I brought it over for Bee to play, too. I'm trying to cheer her up.”

“Grace,” said Barbara crossly, turning around to face the piano keys and flipping open the cover of the sheet music.

“Thank you for trying to lift her spirits, Grace. We all had a shock yesterday, I dare say.”

“It was awful, wasn't it?” asked Grace. “And we were having such a nice time. Well, up to the point where that man called Bee a bad name while we were walking along the terrace. And then to have that crowd gather around like a pack of rabid dogs. I think I was too angry to be scared of them, though. Cowards.”

“Grace,” Barbara repeated, more insistently. “Cousin Celia
doesn't need to hear about this. She's familiar with the names people call me and how I'm treated.” She rested her fingers on the keyboard and listlessly tapped out the opening measures of the song. “I shouldn't have gone to Cliff House. I shouldn't go anywhere I'm not welcome.”

Grace rapped Barbara on the shoulder, a rough gesture for a well-bred young lady. “Don't say that! You know that's what those people want, don't you? They want to scare you into hiding inside your house like a trapped animal!”

Barbara glanced up at her friend standing over her. “You don't understand, Grace. People don't look at you the way they look at me, like I'm a leper.”

“You don't think I understand? I remember what it was like when my mother died, and everyone would stare when I went to the market with Hetty or to church with my father.” She dropped onto the bench next to Barbara. “The looks and the whispers. ‘Poor little Grace Hutchinson. Her sweet, lively mother dead so soon after her father came back from the war. So shocking. And him not the same at all.'”

Grace pressed her lips together and glanced over at Celia.

“No one returns from war the same as when they left,” said Celia quietly.
And some do not return at all,
she thought, the memory of her brother pricking as sharply as the spiny stem of a weed.

There was more behind Grace's words than the concern that her father had changed, however.

“My mother died, too, Grace, and my father,” said Barbara before Celia could consider what Grace had been trying to say. Her cousin looked over her shoulder at the portrait of Uncle Walford, who grinned at them from above the settee. “And whereas
people have stopped whispering about you, now that your father's remarried and nobody likes to think about the soldiers anymore, I'm still half-Chinese. And a leper.”

Grace wrapped an arm around Barbara's shoulders and hugged her close. “Not to me. Not to me
ever
. And anybody who thinks differently is a no-account fellow!”

Barbara closed her eyes and let her friend hug her.

Thank goodness you are here, Grace,
Celia thought.
Thank goodness she lets you comfort her.

“Would you two like some lemonade?” Celia asked. “I expect Addie has left a pitcher in the kitchen for us.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Davies,” said Grace, releasing Barbara.

Celia made to walk past them, heading for the kitchen via the dining room.

“Mrs. Davies,” said Grace, halting her. “I'm glad you didn't get hurt.”

“So am I,” she said. The way the girl was looking at her caused Celia to recall the odd interaction between Grace and her father at Cliff House. “Grace, do you have something you wish to tell me about what happened yesterday?”

“Cousin, do you have to?” asked Barbara.

“This is important.”

“It always is,” she muttered, plunking away at the piano, perhaps hopeful that she could drown out Celia's voice.

“Barbara, please stop,” said Celia. Her cousin ceased playing and lowered her hands to her lap. “Grace, you were standing directly across from me, facing my direction when I was trying to push through the crowd to reach my cousin. You had to have noticed who was standing nearest to me.”
And who might have pushed me over the wall,
she did not need to add.

“I saw you coming, but I didn't notice anybody else,” Grace answered, holding Celia's gaze. “I was so worried about Bee.”

Her eyes might not have wavered, but she plucked at the lace banding her left cuff. Celia had been taught by one of her instructors at the Female Medical College that if she wanted to understand a patient's true feelings and thoughts, she must watch for unguarded movements more than observe what was reflected in their eyes. People could learn to control their faces; they found it far more difficult to manage the anxiety that caused them to shuffle their feet or pick at their fingernails.

“Mr. Martin was nearby. Mr. Greaves must have been close. There was a woman, also. Several males,” said Celia when Grace maintained her silence. “And your father had to be very near, since he grabbed me.”

What did you see, Grace? Tell me what you saw and are afraid to admit.

“
Did
you see somebody push my cousin, Grace?” asked Barbara, suddenly interested in Celia's questions.

“Mr. Martin,” Grace answered, her fingers closing around the lace band. “I saw Mr. Martin push you, Mrs. Davies.”

“Do you recognize the watch, Mrs. Nash?” Nick asked, holding it out to her.

Her maid glided into the parlor, set tea on the parquetry table between them, and tiptoed off, unnoticed by her employer.

Alice Nash hesitated to take the watch, as if afraid it might bite. When she finally did, she lifted the watch from his hand as gently as she might lift a holy relic.

Her eyes widened. “It's still warm,” she said, sounding alarmed.

“That's from me, ma'am.”

“Yes. Of course.” The hallway case clock chimed the hour as she glanced at the watch, not looking too long at her husband's dried blood still embedded in the fancy scrollwork carved across its surface. Matthews would've received at least thirty dollars for
it, a nice sum of money, if he'd lived long enough to get to a pawnshop. “Yes. It's Virgil's.”

She brought the watch to her lips, kissing the silver case. It was the most emotion he'd seen her exhibit.

“Oh, Virgil.” She handed it over as reluctantly as she'd taken it from him. “Where was it found?”

“In possession of a man found dead this morning,” answered Nick, tucking the watch into a pocket. The tea remained untouched on the table.

“Thank heavens that the murderer is dead,” she said, pressing a hand to her throat, the rapid motion of her arm wafting the aroma of magnolia water his way. “Who was it?”

“Nobody you know, ma'am,” he said. “I'm curious about something, Mrs. Nash. When my assistant and I visited you on Friday, why didn't you tell me about the threatening notes your husband had received?”

“I didn't think it was necessary. Virgil and I both knew who'd sent them, even though they weren't signed. One of Jasper Martin's many ploys to get his way.”

“When did they start?”

She paused as she thought back. “More than a month ago. Not long after Virgil learned about Jasper Martin's plans to level Second Street.”

The timing made sense. “Since we last spoke, I've learned the name of the man who killed your husband's brother. Cuddy Pike. Sound familiar?”

She shook her head and finally reached for the tea, pouring it out for them both, the fawn-colored stream of liquid catching the sunlight. “As I told you then, Virgil didn't like to talk about Silas' death.”

“And he never talked about cheating miners at the Comstock, either,” Nick said. “But what about the men he tried to cheat here, like Horatio Enright?”

The lid of the china teapot clinked noisily as she set it down. “Horatio Enright's complaints have no merit, Mr. Greaves. I repeat that my husband was an honorable man. How often do I have to say it?”

“Mr. Enright thinks otherwise about your honorable husband.”

“He envies my husband's success, like so many others.” She drew out a handkerchief from the sleeve of her ink-dark gown. Above her head, the black-swathed portrait hung in mute testimony to the brutal end of one man's life. “That's all one finds in California—grasping men for whom nothing matters but the acquisition of wealth. I hate it.”

He looked around at what Nash's money had bought—a house brimful of luxuries most of the people in San Francisco could only imagine owning. Just like Frank's house. Just like Russell's. “Strong words, ma'am, when you've got plenty of wealth yourself.”

“You think I'm a hypocrite.”

Nick shrugged. It really didn't matter what he thought about her.

Her tears had dried and she gazed steadily at him, her emotions come full circle, back to the calm of the first time he'd met her. The woman was a wonder.

“Well, none of my lovely, precious possessions will bring Virgil back, will they, Mr. Greaves?”

*   *   *

N
ow what, Celia?

After seeking to confront Mr. Martin at his office and learning he was not there, she had taken the North Beach
and Mission Railroad line all the way to Union Square. Celia walked the intervening uphill blocks to Jasper Martin's impressive home on Sutter Street, nearly in the shadow of the onion domes of Temple Emanu-el that towered over the neighborhood. A limestone fence with sinuously carved balustrades separated the front yard from the pavement, the building further safeguarded from the passing street traffic by a thick screen of evergreen trees. The shutters behind the many arched bay windows were closed against the midday sunshine, though the fence and the trees were sufficient guards against the unwelcome scrutiny of pedestrians and conveyance drivers.

Trust me, Mr. Martin, they very adequately relay your desire to remain undisturbed. But what to do next?

Anticipating that she would speak to Mr. Martin at his offices, where there would be plenty of witnesses should he turn violent, she'd gone out alone. The lack of a protector had not kept her from impulsively visiting his house to speak to him, however.

You can be rather imprudent, Celia.

But surely there would be servants inside, and since she was here . . .

Celia pressed her hand to the iron gate leading to the front steps. It swung open as silently as a skate blade gliding on ice. She'd known people who intentionally allowed their gate hinges to go rusty, the squeal an early alert to the presence of guests—or strangers. Celia supposed Mr. Martin must not be concerned about either, confident that he could dispose of anyone unwelcome.

She climbed the limestone steps—seven in total and very steep—and arrived at the front door, which appeared as solidly
forbidding as the rest of the property. Celia tugged the lever that activated the doorbell, hearing the responding trill echo through the front hallway. Minutes passed without any indication of life within.

Celia leaned over the porch railing and attempted to peer through the shutters covering the nearest window. She couldn't see any movement, or much of anything at all inside. A matron strolling by on the pavement gave Celia an inquiring look before continuing on down the road.

“Hello?” Celia called out, tugging the doorbell lever again. She hadn't come all this way to give up easily. “Any—”

The door was yanked open, interrupting her midword. A thickset man in a frock coat scowled down at her, his expression bracketed by the bushiest mustache she had ever seen. He hadn't released the handle, giving the impression he was quite prepared to slam the door upon whoever had been ringing the bell.

“What do you want?” he asked.

“I need to speak to Mr. Martin,” she said, using her most imperious accent, the one that made her sound like the rector at her family's parish in Hertfordshire when he was delivering a Lenten sermon. “Most urgently.”

The man did not appear in the least impressed. “And who are you?”

“A friend.”

He did not appear impressed with that claim, either. In fact, he appeared utterly dubious. “Mr. Martin is not receiving ‘friends' today.”

He swung the door to shut it, but Celia inserted her boot in the way, preventing it from closing. The man scowled at her foot and pushed harder on the door, pinching her toes.

“It is most important that I see him,” she said. “Tell him Mrs. Davies is here.”

“My patient is resting and not seeing anybody.” He shoved at her foot with the toe of his shoe.

Patient?
“What has happened? I am a nurse. You can tell me.”

“A nurse.”

“Yes. I have a clinic on Vallejo,” she said, trying to peep around him into the depths of the entry hall. “Is Mr. Martin all right?”

“He had an attack of angina pectoris, but he's resting now. And
not
seeing anybody.”

From within the bowels of the house, a man bellowed, “Johnston!” The physician glanced toward the sound.

“Dr. Johnston,” said Celia, “you should probably return to Mr. Martin before he has another attack whilst calling for you.”

He flung wide the door and ushered her inside. “Meddlesome woman,” he muttered as he hurried off down the hallway, bound for the steps rising from the center of the house.

Celia closed the door. She barely had time to absorb the luxuriousness of her surroundings before she chased after Dr. Johnston, her footfalls muted by the Turkish carpet runner climbing the wide staircase. She felt only momentarily abashed for intruding upon Mr. Martin; he may have suffered an attack of angina but sounded quite recovered, if the volume and tone of his voice were any indication.

“Johnston, what was keeping you?” Jasper Martin was asking the man as Celia located the bedchamber and stepped inside. Mr. Martin was propped up in his tester bed, a mountain of pillows at his back. The windows were shuttered here,
too, which made an already dark room darker still. The space felt close and smelled of camphor.

He noticed her arrival. “What are you doing here, Mrs. Davies?”

“Now, now, Mr. Martin,” soothed Dr. Johnston. “Don't let her disturb you.”

“When did this happen?” she asked Mr. Martin, coming to his bedside.

His color was good for a man whose heart had attempted to fail him. But the nightshirt he wore exposed the bones of his neck and hung awkwardly upon the sharp angles of his shoulders and elbows, making him appear even more gaunt than usual. Very frail, actually.

She tried to feel the pulse in his wrist, but he moved his hand beyond her reach.

“Really, Mrs. Davies,” protested Dr. Johnston. “Mr. Martin is my patient, and you're agitating him. Please leave.”

“When did this happen, Mr. Martin?” Celia asked again. Had guilt about pushing her contributed to the onset of the angina?

“Last evening, Mrs. Davies. It seems our outing to Cliff House was more than my heart could stand,” he said with more than a hint of sarcasm. “But you haven't answered my question. What are you doing here?”

“I've been troubled by my small accident yesterday, Mr. Martin, and you may be able to set my mind at ease.”

He elbowed himself into a more upright position and folded his arms in his lap. “Oh? How so?”

“You were very near me, you and Mr. Hutchinson, and you had to have seen who shoved me,” she said.

“I didn't see anybody push you, Mrs. Davies. You should just accept that you fell on your own.”

“But I am certain I felt a hand at my side. And—you will find this most disturbing—two people have told me they believe the hand belonged to you.”

Dr. Johnston gasped. Mr. Martin laughed—perhaps at his physician's response, perhaps at her accusation—then clutched his chest.

“Mr. Martin, remain calm,” said his physician, hastily pouring a glass of water from the crystal decanter waiting at Mr. Martin's bedside and dispensing the powdered contents of a packet into it. “Ma'am, I insist you leave. My patient needs his rest.”

Mr. Martin exhaled as the pain passed. “It's all right, Johnston. Mrs. Davies is an amusing diversion,” he said. “Why would I push you, ma'am?”

“I have no idea. I was hoping you would tell me.”

“Don't you think that if I'd been attempting to kill you, coming here and confronting me was rather unwise?”

“With servants in the house, Mr. Martin, you would not harm me. They would overhear my shouts for help.”

“But I don't have any live-in servants, Mrs. Davies,” he said. “And my hired domestic hasn't returned from an errand I sent her on. If it weren't for Dr. Johnston here, it would've been just you and me.”

Her skin prickled. What
had
she been thinking?

Dr. Johnston thrust the glass at Mr. Martin. “Drink this, Mr. Martin. This woman is going to bring on another attack if you're not careful.”

“I'm feeling fine, Johnston. It's
you
who's going to give me another attack with your endless pestering.” Jasper Martin
waved his hand, nearly knocking the glass out of Dr. Johnston's hand. “Who was it who saw me push you, Mrs. Davies?”

“I would prefer not to tell you.”