No Darkness as like Death

by Nancy Herriman

  He shook his head. “Nothing, sir. No watch or any of the other stolen items.”

  Another dead end. Unless Mrs. Wynn had pawned everything already.

  Miss DiPaolo’s gaze darted from Nick to Taylor and back again. “I do hope Mina’s not in too much trouble. Or Mrs. Wynn, either.”

  “Are you finished here, Officers?” asked the landlady, folding her arms. “I’ve got work to do.”

  Nick returned his hat to his head. “Notify the police immediately if Mrs. Wynn returns, ma’am.”

  “‘If’?” she asked. “She’d better return. She owes me a month’s rent!”

  • • •

  Fog crept between the buildings, chilling Owen’s neck as he swept the sidewalk. Durned Caleb Griffin. It was Caleb’s fault he’d been forced to work late. All because of that message he’d had to give to Mr. Platt, which had kept him away from the shop for too long. Mr. Roesler hadn’t been happy at all, and now he was out here cleaning the planks in front of the store at a god-awful hour. He was going to miss dinner, durn it all.

  Stomach rumbling, the cold air encouraged him to sweep faster just to get warm. Although pondering how he’d be able to poke around in the store’s account books without Mr. Roesler catching him should’ve been a thought nerve-racking enough to heat his skin. He’d been thinking, though, about Mr. Roesler’s habits. He often went down to the docks near to closing time to check on the next day’s incoming shipments. He was down there right now, in fact. And sometimes on his way back, he stopped at Ghirardelli’s to purchase cocoa, which Mr. Roesler then packaged in fancy tins with his name on it, claiming the chocolate was his special formulation. All of which should give Owen time—

  “Hey! Cassidy!”

  Owen halted sweeping and looked around. Who was calling him? He didn’t see anybody he recognized. Just the usual folks hustling past on the sidewalk, the hawker down the street out pushing his hair tonic—“garrunteeed to grow your hair back!”—the lady at the mantilla store cajoling the last of the day’s shoppers to come inside.

  “Cassidy!” the voice shouted. This time its owner peered around the corner of the store and gestured at him.

  Shoot. Caleb.

  Owen hurried over to where Caleb was waiting. “I only got a second. Mr. Roesler’s gonna be back any minute.”

  Caleb Griffin had drawn his collar up, hunkering down into his coat like a turtle wanting to hide inside its shell. “Well?”

  “I gave him the message, Caleb. Once he was done talking to Mrs. Wynn.”

  “Wynn, huh? You didn’t hear them mention me, did you?”

  “No. They didn’t say nothing . . . didn’t say anything about you, Caleb. Not a word.” Owen instinctively stepped away from him. “You didn’t kill that Shaw fellow, did you?”

  “Me? Kill Ambrose Shaw? Are you crazy, Cassidy?”

  He swallowed, his tongue sticking to the roof of his gone-dry mouth. “Yep, Caleb. Crazy,” he managed to stammer. “But do you know who did kill him?”

  “You think I’d tell you?” Caleb barked a laugh.

  Nope. “Should I be worried, Caleb? Is there gonna be a dangerous person after me now?”

  “I’d keep my head down if I were you, Cassidy. But that’s always good advice.”

  With that, he turned and legged it, splashing through a puddle of wastewater tossed onto the street by the nearby hotel’s domestic. Owen didn’t have the guts to call out and remind Caleb about the other silver dollar he owed him.

  • • •

  I do hope I’ve not risked Owen’s job.

  Celia’s pace slowed as she turned down Vallejo. On her way home from Roesler’s Confectionary, she’d stopped in on a patient whose lodgings were situated between the candy shop and Celia’s house. Which meant the sun had sunk behind the western hills and Owen was likely finished with work and gone home. It was too late to return to the shop and tell him she’d rather he did not examine those ledgers and risk his position at Roesler’s.

  “Just be careful, Owen,” she murmured.

  “Weel, home at last, ma’am,” called Addie, fists on her hips, from the porch.

  The lamp in the parlor had been lit, shedding a warm and welcoming light behind her. Next door, a candle burned in the room Mina occupied, but the rest of the house was quiet and dark. The only time the Cascarino home was quiet was when the children were engaged in eating.

  “We’ve been waiting dinner on you,” her housekeeper added.

  “I am sorry, Addie,” said Celia, gathering up her skirts to climb the steps. “I visited my patient who is due to have a baby, which took longer than I’d anticipated.”

  Addie harrumphed loudly enough for Celia to hear. Smiling, she ascended the steps. A rectangle of white stopped her. She bent down to retrieve it.

  “What do you have there, ma’am?”

  “A note. Addressed to me,” she said, climbing the rest of the way to the porch.

  “I didna see it earlier when I swept the steps,” said Addie, staring mistrustfully at the plain piece of folded paper.

  “Curious.” Celia ran a thumbnail through the wafer gluing the flap shut and held the note up to the light coming through the parlor window. Leave us alone. Spelled out in precisely printed letters, as though meaning to obscure the author’s identifiable cursive handwriting.

  But who was “us”? The Shaws? She hadn’t met nor spoken with any of them, aside from Rebecca. Who else, then?

  She scanned the darkened road, searching for the person who’d dropped the note on the step. There wasn’t a soul within sight who looked out of place. Life as normal, the fog bell ringing, a man hauling a cart up the street’s steep incline for his final delivery of the day, the priest from St. Francis wandering out of his rectory, bound for dinner at a parishioner’s.

  “What does it say, ma’am?” asked Addie impatiently.

  “Leave us alone.” She refolded the note and tucked it away. “With no signature.”

  “Threats again?” asked Addie. “Och, ma’am, this always happens whenever you get involved in one of Mr. Greaves’s cases.”

  “Not always, Addie.” Or did it? “All in all, a rather pointless request when I’ve no idea who us refers to.”

  “’Tis unchancy, ma’am,” her housekeeper replied. “Unchancy.”

  • • •

  Squinting against the early morning sunshine, Nick yawned into his fist and ambled over to the chest of drawers against the wall. He hadn’t slept much since he’d returned from Sacramento, thoughts about his father’s funeral swarming his brain like ants angling for space on a dropped piece of food. Hard to believe it had been less than a week since the funeral. Two days since he’d said goodbye to Ellie.

  “Just two days.” Goodbye to a city he’d likely never visit again. He’d miss his sister, though. “Maybe I should tell her she’s welcome to come here, after all, Riley.”

  Riley got up from where he’d been sprawled beneath the window, a spot he favored, where he could sniff the smells of the city drifting in when Nick opened it to the breeze. The dog trotted over to Nick and looked up at him.

  “Don’t mind me, Riley.” He scratched the dog’s head, which caused a mighty thumping of his shaggy tail. “You know how my moods are.”

  Nick slid open a drawer and rummaged through his overshirts, each one as wrinkled as the last. He never cared to spend money on having somebody press his clothes. Mrs. Jewett had offered, but he didn’t want to be beholden to her.

  And that’s the problem with you, Nick. Maybe you should let folks help.

  He shoved the calico shirt he’d pulled out back into the drawer, his knuckles brushing against a crumpled scrap of paper. The unread telegram Mrs. Jewett had handed him yesterday. He tore open the envelope. It hadn’t come from Ellie, like he’d expected, but from the ex-wife of his deceased Uncle Asa.

  “Never thought I’d hear from you again.” The telegram had been sent from St. Louis, which implied the woman who’d gone off with an army officer h
ad grown weary of life in Indian country with the fellow. The news of Nick’s father’s death must have been posted in the papers there, although he couldn’t figure why. Maybe Ellie had notified their aunt . . . their former aunt. She’d always liked the woman for some reason.

  Deepest sympathy on your father’s parting. He spoke often of you with pride. As did Asa. Love.

  “My father, proud of me?” Nick crushed the telegram into a ball and threw it against the wall. Riley went to fetch it. “Go ahead. Chew it up, if you want,” he said. “Wait, wait. Never mind, Riley. Give me that.”

  He grabbed the slobbered piece of paper and flattened the creases, staring at the words. He should reply to her. Just not today. Not when a case was calling, which had always been his best excuse for brushing aside all the guilt and the pain.

  Chapter 11

  “You look well enough this morning, ma’am,” said Addie, her tone a trifle critical, and set out Celia’s breakfast. “Despite receiving a threatening note last evening.”

  “I cannot permit the note to upset me, Addie,” said Celia. “And perhaps it has nothing to do with Mr. Shaw’s death.”

  Addie poured her a cup of tea. “Because folks are always dropping off unsigned notes requesting that you leave them alone.”

  Best not to reply, she thought and reached for the butter and toast.

  “Have you seen the news this morning?” asked Addie, laying a copy of the Daily Alta California on the dining room table alongside Celia’s plate.

  “Not yet.” Celia finished the bite of toast she’d taken and patted her mouth with her linen serviette. “What is it?”

  “There on the front page.” She tapped the article of interest with a fingertip. “An article about Mr. Shaw and his unexpected demise.”

  Celia picked up the paper and read aloud. “‘Mr. Ambrose Shaw was found deceased in his room at the Hygienic Institute Wednesday night. Authorities refuse to respond to rumors the fellow met an untimely end. Mr. Ross, owner and operator of the Institute, disputes claims that the gas jet in Mr. Shaw’s room had been turned on and caused Mr. Shaw’s demise, despite the noticeable smell of fumes outside his room. His political opponent, Mr. Elliot Blanchard, has been questioned by the police and released. Our readers may recall an unfortunate dispute between the two men at the Bank Exchange saloon that came to blows. Mr. Blanchard maintains his innocence in this most recent event, asserting that Mr. Shaw perished from natural causes and any insinuation he is involved in the man’s death is slander meant to smear his reputation.’ Well,” said Celia, dropping the newspaper onto the table. “The news is out.”

  “Maybe Mr. Greaves doesn’t believe Miss Mina is guilty, after all.”

  “He hasn’t sufficient proof of Mr. Blanchard’s guilt, however, if he released him,” she replied. “Jane had some interesting information about the fellow. She told me he and Rebecca Shaw had once planned to wed, until her father brought the engagement to an end.”

  “He’s had his revenge against Mr. Shaw, then.”

  “I might agree, except Mr. Blanchard has married another.” The hearts of men . . . which could be so fickle.

  “Oh, Mrs. Davies. There you are.” Libby Campbell entered the dining room, her leather satchel clutched at her waist. “I knocked, but when no one answered, I tried the door and found it unlocked. I suppose I should have rung the bell.”

  “You are very early, Miss Campbell.” Celia indicated the chair across from her. “Please sit while I finish my breakfast. Hopefully you do not mind.”

  “I’m the one who should be apologizing for intruding,” said the young woman, leaving her satchel near the doorway. With her good arm, she pulled out the dining table chair, struggling as its legs snagged in the thick carpet underfoot. Her cheeks pinking, she glanced at Celia and Addie to see if they’d observed the difficulty she was having. Celia perused the newspaper as though she’d not been paying Miss Campbell any attention. “I was excited to begin Barbara’s lessons.”

  “Unfortunately, Miss Campbell, my cousin is not an early riser.” Celia looked over at her housekeeper. “Addie, tell Barbara her tutor is here and bring Miss Campbell some tea.”

  Addie hastened out of the room, the crisp patter of her footfalls receding up the stairs.

  “There’s no need to offer me tea, Mrs. Davies,” said Miss Campbell.

  “It will be awkward for me to sit and eat my breakfast while you have nothing, Miss Campbell,” said Celia, smiling at her to ease the tight furrow between the young woman’s eyebrows. “Besides, you shall be a regular visitor here. I’d never be so impolite as to not at least offer you tea.”

  “Not all employers would offer their employees tea.”

  “Addie is the only person I have ever employed, Miss Campbell, so I’ve little experience in what behavior is considered proper or not,” she said. “Not that I much care what might be proper behavior between employer and employee.”

  “Mr. Blanchard used to say that we are all to be treated equally,” she declared. “Sadly, not enough people agree with his viewpoint.”

  “You previously worked for Elliot Blanchard?” Jane had never told Celia the name of the person who’d recommended Miss Campbell’s services.

  “Why, yes.” Libby gave the newspaper, folded open at Celia’s elbow, a quick look. “Is that a problem?”

  “Not at all.” But how very, very intriguing . . .

  “Miss Barbara should be down soon, ma’am,” said Addie, bearing fresh hot water and a china teacup for Miss Campbell. “Here you are, miss.”

  The tea served, Addie retreated to the kitchen again.

  “I saw the story in the paper this morning,” said Libby, reaching for the porcelain sugar bowl. “Mr. Blanchard is an energetic and passionate man, a demanding employer, but it’s incomprehensible that anybody could implicate him in Mr. Shaw’s death. Incomprehensible and a downright lie.” Color once more washed over her cheeks. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Davies. I’m being too free with my opinions. It’s a problem I have.”

  “I am often too free with my opinions as well, Miss Campbell. You’re among friends here,” she said. “What was your role at the Blanchard household? I was not aware they had children to tutor.”

  “I tutored his wife,” she replied, dropping a spoonful of granulated sugar into her tea and stirring. “She is from South America. Mr. Blanchard wanted my assistance improving her English so that she’d be more comfortable in society. He has political ambitions, and . . .” The clink of her spoon against the porcelain decreased its frequency until it stopped.

  “And his South American wife might be a hindrance to his prospects?” said Celia.

  “Only for those who are small-minded, ma’am,” she replied. “The petty and ignorant. People like Ambrose Shaw, who has said unkind things about her.”

  More reason for Elliot Blanchard to despise the fellow, perhaps. “These are contentious times, Miss Campbell,” said Celia. “The outcome of America’s recent war appears to have aroused a fresh round of animosity rather than provided any hoped-for peace.”

  “We all saw what happened in the recent elections, ma’am. Retaliation for attempting to ensure that freed slaves should be considered citizens.”

  “So noted, Miss Campbell. Contentious times.”

  Libby Campbell carefully placed her spoon onto the saucer. “Mrs. Blanchard is very lovely. Such shiny dark hair and eyes. I felt sorry for her. The way people would look at her on the street when we’d go walking.”

  Like they looked at Barbara. With hatred and resentment.

  Celia eyed her over the brim of her teacup. “Why did you leave Mr. Blanchard’s employ, Miss Campbell?”

  “I would’ve continued if his wife hadn’t made plans to stay with her mother in Yuba City. To get away from San Francisco for several weeks. It’s warmer and drier there, I hear,” she said. “Mrs. Blanchard suffers from chronic pain, and the chill makes it worse some days.”

  “Barbara has a bad foot. The weather also bothe
rs her, at times.”

  “She does? The water cure might help,” she said. “I tried to get Mrs. Blanchard to go, but she wouldn’t.”

  “Oh?” asked Celia, lowering her cup, her gaze fixed on the young woman’s face. “Are you familiar with the Hygienic Institute’s treatments, Miss Campbell?”

  “Oh no, not me. I couldn’t afford a place like that. I’ve heard about the Institute from a friend.” She glanced at the newspaper. “Although Mr. Shaw’s sudden death will be bad for the place.”

  “It most certainly will,” said Celia.

  “Working at the Blanchards’ was gratifying, and I enjoyed my time with them,” she said, abruptly resuming their prior line of conversation. A more suitable topic, perhaps, than Mr. Shaw’s highly suspicious death. Which certain circles had implicated Mr. Blanchard in. “Mrs. Blanchard was an eager student, and Mr. Blanchard has so many interests besides the wines he sells. He has a huge collection of insects, butterflies, preserved reptiles, and the like. They’re stored in glass cases in his display room. He calls it his ‘cabinet of curiosities.’ I’ve never heard such a phrase.”

  “I have. A family friend in England kept a taxidermy display of every mammal native to Hertfordshire.” She used to balk when her aunt arranged a visit to their friends’ home, her reaction infuriating her uncle and giving Celia’s brother an excuse to tease her for days afterward about being a coward. She’d encountered far more startling scenes, far less genteel displays of death in the years since.

  “So you’re familiar with collections like his.” The young woman leaned forward, her eyes bright. “Quite amazing, aren’t they? It’s like visiting a museum except you don’t have to go any farther than a room in your house! At first Mr. Blanchard’s exhibits made me queasy, all those dead eyes staring, the bugs looking ready to skitter free of their pins and glue, but I got used to it.”