No Darkness as like Death

by Nancy Herriman

  “Why would you ask us a question like that?” asked Leonard Shaw.

  “Just answer him, Leo,” said his mother. “I retire early and was likely in bed by eight, Detective. Our domestic can confirm the exact time, because she helps me undress. Leonard came in from a social engagement around nine.”

  “You were awake and checking the clock, Mrs. Shaw,” said Nick. Taylor flipped to a new page of his notebook, quietly this time.

  “I leave my watch on a stand atop the little table right next to my bed,” she answered.

  “You live in this house, Mr. Shaw?” asked Nick.

  “I have a room on an upper floor. No reason to leave my parents alone in this rambling place,” he said. “My stepsister, Rebecca, operates a photographic gallery in the city. My brothers have mining interests in Nevada. I intend to stay here until I marry and set up a household of my own.”

  Mrs. Shaw’s expression didn’t reveal her opinion of her youngest son’s decision to remain at the family homestead.

  “Did your domestic see you come in around nine, Mr. Shaw?” asked Nick.

  “I managed to slip in without her spotting me,” he replied. “Had a brandy in the upstairs parlor, then went to bed. Sorry if I disturbed you, Mother.”

  “Ah,” said Nick. “Where was this social engagement you attended before you returned home last night, Mr. Shaw?”

  “I was at a supper with several friends. A meeting of the San Francisco Club at the Parker House,” he replied. “I’m sure any of them can tell you I was there.”

  “And can also tell me when you left.”

  Mrs. Shaw scowled at Nick. “Of course they can, Detective,” she said. “Rather than interrogate us, you should spend your efforts on proving Mr. Blanchard’s involvement. Unless you sympathize with his politics and refuse to imagine him culpable for Ambrose’s death.”

  “I wouldn’t let my sympathies interfere with my duties, ma’am.” Nick stood, and Taylor closed his notebook, stowing it away inside his coat. “I think that’s enough for today. And again, our condolences.”

  Mrs. Shaw rose as well. “Mr. Ross sent a note around requesting that we come to the Institute as soon as possible to collect Ambrose’s possessions. We’ve barely had time to process my husband’s death, and he’s sending demands like that.”

  “Maybe he needs to free up the room for another guest.”

  “Oh, I doubt that,” she replied.

  Nick tapped his hat onto his head, leveling the brim with a sweep of his fingers. “We’ll keep in touch, ma’am. Once the coroner has reached a conclusion on your husband’s death, we’ll let you know.”

  Mrs. Shaw inclined her head. “Leonard, please accompany the policemen to the door, if you will.”

  “Gentlemen,” he said, striding for the parlor doors to tug them open.

  Nick paused at the doorway. “Oh, ma’am, I forgot to ask you something. Have you ever heard of a woman named Mina Cascarino?”

  “No,” she answered. “Should I have?”

  “Just curious.”

  Taylor bid the Shaws a good morning and scurried out of the house after Nick. “You think one of them could’ve been the intruder Mrs. Wynn saw last night, sir?”

  Nick paused on the front steps of the house. “I can’t rule them out, even though Delphia Shaw acted like she didn’t know about that private entrance.” He didn’t want Mina to be guilty any more than Mrs. Davies did.

  He descended to the sidewalk, Taylor on his heels.

  “Suppose they’ll both inherit a lot of money,” said his assistant, patting down his coat pockets and fishing out a cigar and a match. “Never seen so much gilding in my life.”

  “I expect they will,” said Nick, turning down the steep incline of the road.

  “I also gotta say Leonard Shaw didn’t look all that upset about his father’s death, sir . . . Mr. Greaves, sir.”

  “Maybe he’s good at keeping his emotions under control.”

  Taylor looked over at him. “You think so?”

  “Not really.”

  • • •

  Who was aware that Ambrose Shaw had a weak heart?

  Celia strode down Montgomery, bound for Miss Shaw’s gallery. All of the Shaws would know, for a start. Mr. Ross at the Institute and possibly one or more of his employees. Close acquaintances, she presumed, but beyond them . . .

  At the gallery, the shades were up and the front window displayed an Open sign. Celia stepped inside, setting off the bell above the door. Within seconds, Miss Shaw exited her darkroom, a thick apron tied over her dress and leather gloves on her hands. The smell of photographic processing compounds wafted out.

  “Mrs. Davies, you’ve come to retrieve your portrait,” she said, peeling off the gloves and setting them aside. Despite their protection, her fingernails were stained from photograph development chemicals. “It has turned out very well. I think you and your cousin will be pleased. I have it right over here. Please take a seat.”

  Miss Shaw went to a cabinet against the wall and opened it. As discreetly as possible, Celia examined the woman as she moved about. Was she a trifle pale? Or was she oddly unperturbed by the news of her father’s death? Unless she’d not yet been informed.

  “Here you are.” Miss Shaw handed over the picture, the print attached to a rectangle of thick paper approximately four by six inches in dimension. “It’s called a cabinet card. They’ve become very popular since they were introduced. I can also sell you a frame to display it, if you’d like.”

  Celia had never had a portrait taken, and it was disconcerting to see her image staring back from the glossy surface of an albumen print, her hand resting on Barbara’s rigid shoulder. Her cousin was quite lovely, but the two of them could not be more of a contrast—Barbara relatively petite and dark of hair and eye, while Celia was taller than she enjoyed being, her own hair and eyes cast eerily pale against the background.

  “Don’t you like it?” asked Miss Shaw. Up close, Celia could see that the young woman’s eyes were red-rimmed. From crying?

  “No, it is quite perfect. Thank you,” she replied, giving the print back to Miss Shaw for wrapping. “I simply have never seen myself beyond what I observe in the mirror of my dressing table.”

  “I also printed four cartes de visite for you to send to friends and family.”

  Would Celia’s aunt and uncle in England want a photograph of their wayward niece and their brother’s half-Chinese daughter? Not likely.

  “Barbara will be thrilled to be able to send one to her friend, who is away at the Young Ladies’ Seminary in Benicia,” she said. “And I shall purchase a frame for the cabinet card. A simple one. Nothing too showy.” Nothing too expensive.

  Miss Shaw set the cabinet card atop the glass case and hunted for a frame among those on display inside.

  “I must tell you about the oddest coincidence, Miss Shaw,” said Celia, rising up on her toes to keep the woman’s face in view. “An acquaintance of mine turns out to be a friend of your father’s. A Miss Mina Cascarino. Do you know her as well?”

  Miss Shaw’s expression gave no hint she recognized Mina’s name.

  “I’ve never heard of her, Mrs. Davies,” she replied and straightened, frame retrieved. “But then my father has a great many friends. Even female ones.”

  Ones he enjoyed sending boxes of candy to.

  “Certainly,” said Celia. “She recently expressed to me how worried she is about your father’s health, though.”

  “Oh?” the other woman asked, her fingers trembling now.

  “Miss Shaw, are you quite all right?” asked Celia.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I am a nurse and it is my habit to be observant,” she said. “You appear upset. Is it your father? Has he has suffered a turn for the worse?”

  Miss Shaw clasped her hands at her waist. “It is my father. The police were here this morning . . . a dreadful business.”

  “The police?” asked Celia, doing her best to sound appalle
d.

  “Yes,” she said. “My father has died. Suddenly. His heart.”

  “Oh my goodness,” said Celia. “But why did a police officer come?” Miss Shaw eyed her. Blast, I’ve gone too far with my questions. “Have I misspoken, Miss Shaw?”

  “Why are you here, Mrs. Davies?”

  “To collect my photographs, of course,” she replied, wishing she’d been more interested in participating in the amateur theatrics her neighbors used to stage when Celia was a child. “If I had been aware you were suffering a recent bereavement, I’d not have done.”

  “You must think I’m heartless, leaving my business open under such circumstances.”

  “Your father’s death came as a shock.” Did it not, Miss Shaw? “The routine of work can be comforting.”

  “I’ll close once I’ve taken care of my appointments this afternoon.” She stared at the frame she’d forgotten she was holding and set it down. “Delphia will want help planning the funeral.”

  “Delphia?”

  “Mrs. Shaw. My father’s second wife.”

  Not referred to as her stepmother, Celia noticed. “Undoubtedly she shall,” she said. “At least you had an opportunity to visit him at the Institute not long before he passed away. A comfort.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “How do you know I went to visit him?”

  Calm, Celia. Be calm. “You mentioned it yesterday when Barbara and I were here.” Exude calm despite the mistruth you just told. “Do you not recall?”

  “I don’t remember saying anything about my visit to you, because I didn’t actually talk to my father,” she responded. “He didn’t want to see me, and I left after a few minutes.”

  Perhaps their relationship was not as “sufficiently amicable” as Miss Shaw had yesterday claimed. Furthermore, perhaps she’d not had an opportunity to take her father’s key from his room. Which meant the one currently stored in Celia’s reticule had found its way into Mina’s pocket by some other mean than Miss Shaw giving it to her. If that key even was the one missing from the Institute.

  “Do be kind to yourself, Miss Shaw. Losing a father can be hard,” said Celia, smiling gently. “Both of my parents passed away when I was young. To this day, I feel their loss keenly.”

  “Hard? I suppose you’re right, Mrs. Davies,” she replied, retrieving a sheet of paper to wrap Celia’s photographs. “I wonder, though, if Delphia and Leo will agree.”

  Chapter 6

  “I appreciate you taking the time to see me, Jane,” said Celia, settling onto one of the deeply cushioned chairs in her friend’s parlor.

  “I’m grateful for the company,” Jane Hutchinson replied, taking the settee opposite, her magenta silk gown billowing around her. “With Grace away at college, it’s been very quiet around here. I even think Frank misses her.”

  “Of course he misses her, just like Barbara misses her. Grace is a joy,” said Celia. “Your husband only pretends to be annoyed by his daughter’s spirited nature.”

  “If so, he’s very good at pretending.” Jane leaned toward her. “Celia, were you able to . . .” She glanced at the closed parlor doors, shut tight against the rest of the household. “Were you able to pay that fellow the money he was owed?” she whispered.

  Mr. Griffin. The recent upheaval had caused her to forget about him and Patrick’s debt.

  “I was. Thank you for your help,” said Celia, her voice as low as her friend’s. Frank must not be aware that Jane had lent her money. “I shall make good my obligation to you as soon as possible.”

  “Don’t worry. There’s no rush. Honestly.”

  Celia smiled. Kind, generous Jane. A true friend.

  “Oh, wait. I’ve a present for your stepdaughter.” She unwrapped the bundle she’d brought from Miss Shaw’s gallery and handed Jane one of the cartes de visite. “Barbara and I had our photograph taken yesterday by Miss Rebecca Shaw. You’ve heard of her studio, no doubt.”

  “I have. I was wondering what you had wrapped in paper there.” Jane took the portrait and smiled over it. “Grace will be thrilled to get this. I’ll send it to her today.” She placed the carte de visite on the side table. “Would you like some tea? Hetty’s around here someplace.”

  “There’s no need to fetch your servant. I’ve not come for tea nor to simply give you that photograph.”

  Her friend lifted a brow. “You’re here to discover what I know about someone.” Her smile vanished. “Oh, no, Celia. Who is it who’s died now?”

  “Am I so transparent?”

  “Not at all. I’ve just grown used to the fact that you usually only show up at the house unexpectedly when you need my help on one of your cases.”

  “My ‘cases’? I am not an investigator.”

  Jane laughed. “You could’ve fooled me, Celia.”

  “I must be cursed, Jane. What a dreadful year it’s been.”

  “Have you heard from Patrick?” she asked.

  “No. He has apparently gone to the Colorado Territory in search of gold.” Which did not mean he’d not return to San Francisco someday. “My visit has nothing to do with him. I’m here to ask how well you know Ambrose Shaw and his family. Aside from having heard about his daughter, the photographer.”

  Jane sat back and began to toy with her wedding ring, twisting it around her finger. “Oh. Them.”

  “What about them?” Celia asked.

  “I don’t know the Shaws well, since Frank doesn’t agree with Ambrose Shaw’s politics,” said Jane. “A few years ago—before you came to San Francisco, Celia—I tried to convince Delphia to join the Ladies’ Society of Christian Aid. When she learned we occasionally collect funds to support the Chinese Mission House, she declined to participate.”

  Which would make Delphia Shaw like other ladies unwilling to offer charity to the Chinese women in the city. Several members of the Society were not comfortable with Barbara, either, whispering about Celia’s cousin on the limited occasions she’d agreed to attend a meeting.

  “I’d not like her, then.”

  “Probably not, although the few times I’ve interacted with Delphia Shaw she’s been cordial and pleasant enough,” said Jane. “As for the other Shaws, I’ve only met Ambrose Shaw and just one time. Strolling through the City Gardens. Broad smile, large teeth. Ready to pump a person’s hand, as Frank might refer to the fellow’s handshakes, like so many politicians. But quick to hold a grudge against those who oppose him.”

  “How do others feel about Ambrose Shaw, Jane? Do you know?”

  “It’s said that Ambrose is hot-tempered. As is his son, Leonard, from what I hear. Like father, like son, I suppose. Frank dislikes the both of them and refuses to do business with their bank.” Jane’s eyes widened. “Ambrose Shaw is why you’ve come. What’s happened to him?”

  “You must keep what I tell you in confidence,” said Celia. “I am uncertain what the police intend to tell the newspapers about the event.”

  “You know you can trust me.”

  She could. Utterly.

  “Ambrose Shaw was discovered dead last evening at the Hygienic Institute,” she said. “From an apparent heart attack. However, the gas jet in his room had been opened, possibly to feign an accident or a suicide attempt. The coroner believes Mr. Shaw may have been rendered previously unconscious—or dead—from chloroform. With Mr. Shaw’s weak heart, the substance could have killed him. Furthermore, an intruder was spotted outside his room not long before his body was discovered.”

  “Mr. Shaw, murdered. My, my,” Jane said, as calmly as if she were commenting upon the state of the roses in Celia’s garden. “What does Mr. Greaves have to say?”

  “He has informed me that one of my neighbors’ daughters is under suspicion,” she replied.

  “Then you have spoken with Mr. Greaves.”

  “Do not get that look in your eye, Jane,” said Celia. “There can be nothing between us. Ever.”

  “Because of Patrick’s untimely return from the dead?”

  Celia felt the inv
oluntary uptick of her pulse, noted the way she held her breath at the mention of Patrick’s name. As though the sound of an indrawn breath might inform her husband where to locate her, and he would materialize right then and there, striding across the thick carpet of the Hutchinsons’ parlor, his blue eyes snapping with life.

  “Yes, Jane. Because of him.”

  “It’s been three months since you imagined catching sight of Patrick, Celia, and not a word from him,” said Jane. “Maybe he’s not actually alive or gone to the Colorado Territory, despite what you’ve been told.”

  “Patrick’s current circumstances are irrelevant, and I’d prefer to not think about him at all,” she replied, irritation rising, the sentiment as good a marker as any of how she’d often felt about her husband. We should never have wed.

  “What do you plan to do next?” asked Jane, honoring their friendship by dropping the subject of Patrick Davies.

  “I intend to clear my young friend of suspicion, and in order to do that I must discover who may have had a reason to wish Mr. Ambrose Shaw dead,” said Celia. “She was acquainted with him but has no motive to harm him that I can discern. Perhaps Mina was an innocent pawn in another’s scheme.”

  “He was a wealthy man, Celia, who also wasn’t afraid of engaging in heated political debates,” said Jane. “All sorts of people might have wanted him dead.”

  “Precisely,” said Celia. “Rebecca Shaw made a curious comment about her stepbrother Leonard and Mrs. Shaw. Questioning if they’d be upset about Mr. Shaw’s death.”

  “There are rumors that Ambrose was disappointed with Leonard. Money troubles, I think. However, Leonard works at the family bank, so their relationship couldn’t have been all that bad.”

  “Shall he inherit the business?”

  “Probably, pending approval of the other officers. I gather his older brothers are located in Nevada—successful mining operators, I believe—and might not be interested in running the bank here,” she replied. “Either way, Leonard Shaw should inherit a tidy sum of money. A motive to want his father dead, Celia?”