No Pity For the Dead (5 page)

Despite their modest home on Stockton, the Hutchinsons were wealthy. Enviably wealthy. They would draw gossip to them like a lodestone attracted iron shavings.

“So what happens now?” Jane asked.

Last night, the exceedingly busy Mr. Greaves had detailed to Celia what the next steps would be. He would request that a police officer guard the offices of Martin and Company; then the coroner would come with his jury to assess the cause of death, and the body would be taken away for further examination. Celia didn't envy Dr. Harris the task ahead of him; the body would be quite putrid.

“The coroner will do an autopsy. The police will look for clues,” said Celia. “And they will question all the partners. Including Frank.”

“But what could Frank know about some stranger buried in the cellar of his office? It's ridiculous to think he'll have any information.”

“We must consider that the dead man might not be a stranger,” Celia pointed out. “Furthermore, Detective Greaves will be thorough. In fact, he might even come here to speak with you.”

“Here?” Jane surveyed the contents of her parlor, as if trying to envision a policeman standing on her Brussels carpet or rummaging through the porcelain statuary and Chinese urns on display.

“There's no need for them to come here.” Agitated, she stood and began pacing. “Grace and I don't know anything about this event. They shouldn't waste their time.”

“I merely wish to prepare you for the possibility, Jane.”

“We don't even know who this person was,” she said. “Besides, the body might've been there a long time, since before Frank took his father's position at Martin and Company.”

“I am no expert, but I know enough about decay to be quite certain that the body has not been buried in that cellar for several years. Ample flesh remained on the bones.”

Jane halted. “How gruesome.”

“Death can be an ugly business.” And murder more so. “There's something else,” Celia went on. “When I went with Owen to see the body, we interrupted a person attempting to disinter it. In order to remove the corpse from the premises, I surmise. This individual seems to have heard our arrival and was hiding upstairs. When he made to flee, Owen chased him, but he managed to get away without Owen seeing his face. It was too foggy.”

Jane retook her seat on the mahogany sofa. “Do you think it was the murderer, returning to the scene of his crime? You could've been killed.”

“Possibly, but how would the murderer have learned so quickly that the body had been found?”

“That is a good question.” Jane considered her. “Do you intend to investigate?”

“I am not a detective, Jane. I shall leave the case in the hands of the police.”

“The women at the Ladies' Society of Christian Aide discussed your part in finding the person who killed your Chinese patient, you know.”

“With revulsion, no doubt, over my unladylike behavior.” Celia was finding it difficult to forgive the ladies' hurtful treatment of her cousin. She hadn't anticipated that an organization, its primary purpose to help poor women, would turn against the Chinese along with so many others in the city, since before they had only been generous.

“They admire you more than you realize, Celia, and many of them regret that Barbara felt unwelcome the last time you spoke at their meeting,” said Jane. “Your voice is missed there. I miss having you there.”

Celia sighed. “For you, Jane, I shall return. Someday soon.”

“Good,” said Jane, crisply nodding. “This man's death will undoubtedly be the main topic of conversation at the party Mr. Martin is hosting on Sunday. What a way to celebrate ten years since the establishment of Martin and Company—the discovery of a corpse on the premises.”

“Perhaps he shall cancel,” said Celia.

“Not him. Once Jasper Martin decides on a course of action, he charges forward like an angry bull.” She scooted to the edge of the sofa and tapped Celia's knee. “You should come with us.
We're going to Cliff House, and I know you love it there. Besides, everyone will be talking about the crime, and I'd like you with me for support. And to prevent me from fainting.”

“I cannot attend without an invitation.”

“Jasper won't mind. He'd love the addition of a beautiful woman to the list of guests. He was very taken with you at my party, by the way.”

How wonderful. A potential swain.
“If that is what you wish.”

Jane settled against the sofa back. “I do. I'll send a note telling him to expect you in our group.”

Celia chewed the inside of her bottom lip. She had to ask about Frank's movements last night but was uncertain how to proceed without upsetting Jane.

However, nothing ventured, nothing gained, as her uncle Walford used to say.

“Jane, I've told you all this because I must know the answer to a question,” she said. “Shall you be able to account for Frank's whereabouts last evening?”

“I can't believe you asked me that.”

“It needs to be asked. If the police are not satisfied by what they learn this morning,
they
will ask.”

“Good heavens, Celia.” Jane stood again and resumed pacing.

“Jane . . .”

She paused at the mantel and straightened a figurine of a dog that hadn't been askew. “Last night was one of the nights that Jasper closes the business early. On Tuesdays and Thursdays, around six or so, in order for the men to spend more time with their families during the week.” She moved the dog again, back to its original placement. “Frank usually takes the opportunity to spend
those evenings with Abram Russell, however. He's the third partner at Martin and Company. A civil engineer and architect.”

Jane's voice was taut, and she pushed the porcelain dog around with more force.

“What time did Frank come home after his evening out with Mr. Russell?” Celia asked quietly.

Jane looked over, tension in every line of her face. “I don't know. I haven't been able to sleep lately, and I took a soporific last night. At eight, I think. Hetty might remember. She brought a glass of water to my bedroom for me right before I went to sleep.”

Hetty was Jane's maid of all work. Celia would stop to speak with her before she left.

“So you cannot say when Frank returned home last evening. Because you were asleep.”

“No, I can't say, Celia. I can't, and I wish I could.”

Abruptly, Jane raised her hand to her throat, in the process snagging the porcelain dog with her sleeve. It tumbled from the mantel and crashed to the floor, shattering into pieces.

*   *   *

T
he sight of a pair of police officers carrying a fabric-draped body through the rear door of Martin and Company had assembled a crowd of onlookers out in the alleyway, where a wagon waited to haul the corpse to the morgue Harris had set up in the basement of an undertaker's establishment. The carpenters and painters employed to refurbish the offices all stood around gawking, too. Inside and off to Nick's left, the gaunt Jasper Martin watched as well, his dark eyes staring down his beaklike nose. He had taken his gold timepiece from its vest
pocket and was snapping the lid open and closed. The sound was setting Nick's nerves on edge.

Taylor trotted over from where he'd been talking to one of the painters. “The cops who've had a look around haven't found any clues as to who might've killed the fella, sir,” he said. “And none of this bunch claims to know anything about anything. Don't know who the dead guy is. Don't recall seeing anything funny going on. Can't figure who could've ever gotten in the building. Guess Martin's a stickler for making sure the offices are locked at night. Oh, and Mr. Kelly, the supervisor”—he nodded toward the Irishman lounging outside of one of the glass-partitioned office spaces—“claims he can't recall any time that the locks have looked like they'd been forced.”

“Maybe they weren't forced. Which means we need to find out who all has a key.” Or maybe the offices actually weren't locked the evening a paunchy middle-aged man missing part of an arm was murdered and buried in the cellar. Martin might be a stickler for insisting the place was secured at night, but with all these men coming and going, it would be easy to overlook an unlocked window or door.

“Will do,” said Taylor. “And Mullahey's gone to bring Matthews into the station. I'm headed back there now to talk to the fellow.”

“Thanks, Taylor.”

His assistant tapped his fingertips to the brim of his hat and hurried off.

“Get back to work, gentlemen.” Jasper Martin's voice boomed, echoing off the fancy plaster on the ceiling. “Mr. Kelly, see that your workers do what Mr. Hutchinson and I pay them for.”

Kelly straightened and strode out into the main room. “You heard Mr. Martin. It's back to work with you lot.”

The laborers scattered. Kelly gave Nick a sideways glance before going to inspect the gas fixtures being installed.

Jasper Martin turned his gaze on Nick. “It's Virgil Nash.”

“Do you mean the dead man?” Well, that was quick. “What makes you think so?”

“After I got here last night, I took a look at the body. The face . . . was somewhat recognizable, and Virgil Nash was also missing the bottom portion of his right arm,” answered Martin. “From a mining accident up at the Comstock Lode, is my understanding.”

“There are other fellows in town missing parts of their arms.” There wasn't a day Nick didn't notice ex-soldiers with missing limbs. The war had done more than just kill men.

“Most of those men are not former clients of mine.”

“And Mr. Nash was, I gather.”

Martin scanned the people in the room. They were all doing a good job pretending not to be listening. But the sound of hammering wasn't nearly as loud as when Nick had arrived that morning.

“Let's come back here and talk,” the other man said.

Nick followed him to an office in the far corner. Martin stepped inside. It wasn't much quieter. “I don't have any secrets to keep. I would simply prefer this remain between you and me.”

That
wasn't going to happen. On his way into the building earlier, Nick had shoved past a reporter from the
Elevator
.

“I'm all ears, Mr. Martin,” said Nick, leaning against the partition. Martin took a seat at the desk, not seeming to mind that the chair was covered in construction dust. “Virgil Nash was a client whom somebody hated enough to stab in the stomach and bury in your cellar.”

“A
former
client,” Martin clarified.

He rested his elbows on the chair arms and steepled his fingers. The undersides of his coat sleeves were shiny from wear. It wasn't because the man couldn't afford new clothes; Jasper Martin was simply a skinflint. Taylor had done his research and told Nick what he'd learned. Martin was one of the wealthiest men in town, having tried his hand at just about everything—panning for gold, investing in railroads, purchasing shares of Nevada silver mines, buying and selling real estate. Plenty of money for fancy clothes if he wanted them. The question remained, though, whether all that wealth had made Jasper Martin enemies, and whether Virgil Nash had been one of them.

“What sort of business did you do with this former client?” Nick asked.

A muscle ticked in the man's bony jaw. He was as hollow cheeked as the old miners reliving their glory days in every cheap saloon in the city or chewing over their miseries in the square across from the police station. The grizzled old miners, however, were scrawny because they'd gambled away their riches and couldn't afford a bite to eat. Jasper Martin was scrawny because he must not believe in spending money on food any more than in spending it on clothing.

“Our dealings are a private matter, Detective Greaves,” said Martin. “But let me reassure you that the transactions with Mr. Nash were thoroughly legal.”

“But you no longer did business with him.”

“It was mutually decided that we would cease working together on a recent project.”

“Maybe you can tell me about the fellow who found the body. Dan Matthews,” said Nick, omitting any mention of Owen. “What was his job?”

“Not digging in my cellar looking for buried treasure.” Martin reached for his infernal watch again. “He was employed to level and brick over the cellar, among other things. I should say formerly employed.”

“Do you intend to press charges?”

“I expect depriving him of a job will be punishment enough.”

“Do you think he might've killed Nash?” Nick asked as Martin began snapping the watch lid again.

“And then tried to dig him up again?” asked Martin, sounding incredulous. “I doubt they even knew each other.”

That wasn't what Cassidy thought, though.
“What about anybody else who works here?”

“I have no idea. Nash was a rich man, and everyone knew it,” he said. “The man was a fool and liked to carry money on him, show off his cash. Did you find any on him?”

“I didn't check the man's pockets, Mr. Martin. The coroner will make a full inventory of what was on the body.”

“Anyway, I wouldn't be surprised if you find that Nash was robbed, and the killer decided to implicate us. Simple as that.”

“That's a thought.” It might even be correct. But in Nick's experience, most thieves didn't go to the trouble of burying their victims. They just let them lie where they fell. “So you're thinking this was a robbery. That doesn't explain what he was doing here in the first place, though.”

“I think the reason Virgil Nash was killed and buried here is your job to uncover, Detective.”

“That it is, Mr. Martin. That it is,” said Nick. “I'd like to speak to your partners about the man. Where are they?”

“Mr. Hutchinson is overseeing a project of ours near the Second Street wharf. I expect Mr. Russell is with him as well.”