“It is a fascinating hobby.” The work of a disciplined mind.
“Mr. Blanchard caught a lizard out in the garden one day, and he wanted to show me how he intended to preserve it. He meant to store the creature in a jar with carbolic acid and arsenic, I believe. Before removing the insides, stuffing the body with bran, and mounting it.” Libby gave a shudder. “But the smell of the chemicals in his workroom was overpowering. Plus, I rather pitied the poor thing and couldn’t bear to watch!”
Her description gave Celia pause. “Does he keep many chemicals in his workroom, Miss Campbell?”
“He has all sorts, along with his other supplies,” she said. “Why?”
“Merely curious.”
• • •
“Any news on Mrs. Wynn?” asked Nick, striding into the detectives’ office, Taylor hustling inside behind him. The room was, thankfully, empty of Briggs, who never showed up early at the station.
“Maybe she’s skipped town,” said his assistant. “Even though her clothing and whatnot were still in her room.”
“Let’s head back over to her lodgings; maybe we missed a clue.”
“Detective Greaves?” One of the station’s policemen stood in the doorway with a woman, a cheap straw bonnet on her head, red-knuckled hands clenched at her waist. Freckles dotted her round face. “This young miss is here to talk with you.”
“You must be Miss Newcomb. Thank you for coming in,” said Nick.
“I got your message at my lodgings last night that you wanted to see me.” She nervously scanned the interior of the office, anxious as an animal caged in a trap. Most folks tended to look that way when they’d been summoned to speak to him. “I came as soon as I could this morning.”
“And we appreciate that.” He gestured for her to take one of the chairs near his desk. “I’d offer you coffee, but I don’t think any has been made yet.”
“That’s okay.”
Taylor scrambled to help her sit.
“I’m not sure how I can help you though, Detective,” she said. “I already spoke with one of the police officers yesterday.”
“I had a few more questions, since I haven’t had a chance to meet with you myself,” said Nick, dropping onto his chair. “First off, I believe you and Mrs. Wynn were the last two people to see Mr. Shaw alive. Does that sound correct?”
“I suppose that’s true.”
“How did he seem?” he asked. “Did he appear to be expecting a visitor, for instance? Or acting rattled, maybe?”
“He was down to his vest and shirtsleeves when I brought his dinner to the small parlor, looking ready for the evening,” she replied. “Behaving like his usual self. Not a polite man. Not to me, at least.”
“You told Officer Mullahey you didn’t notice any trespassers in the building Wednesday night.”
“Mrs. Wynn saw an intruder,” she replied.
“What about you?” he asked.
“I didn’t see anybody, but after I talked with your officer, I got to remembering some footsteps I’d heard,” she said. “Right before I left for the night.”
“You left around seven thirty, wasn’t that what you told Officer Mullahey?” asked Nick. At his side, Taylor’s pencil scratched across the paper of his notebook.
“A few minutes before.” She glanced at Taylor, likely curious about what he was recording. “I’d finished helping Mr. Platt in the parlor, put away the lovely tureen I’d used to serve the soup jardiniere I’d prepared for dinner, collected my purse and bonnet, then heard those footsteps, scurrying across the flagstones. The noise was coming from the end of the hallway, near the side door that leads out onto the alleyway.”
“The private entrance that the occupants of the suite are able to use,” said Nick.
She nodded. “Yes, but I didn’t see anybody. I called out, but nobody replied, so I thought it must’ve been Mr. Platt and left.”
“Except Mr. Platt was still in the parlor tidying up the broken glassware.”
“Which is why I now realize I’d made a mistake,” she said. “It had to have been the intruder Mrs. Wynn saw. I wish I’d spotted them. Then maybe we’d know who it was who’d been inside Mr. Shaw’s room.”
“Speaking of Mrs. Wynn, do you know how we can contact her?” Nick asked. “She wasn’t at her lodgings last evening, and we’d like to speak with her about some thefts at the Institute.”
“Why would you want to talk to her about those?”
“You were aware of them, Miss Newcomb?” asked Nick. “Mr. Ross has been trying to keep the thefts quiet.”
“I didn’t want to snitch on him,” she said. “It’s hard to get decent work in this town, if you’re an unmarried female like me.”
Nick considered the young woman. “He’s been stealing from his patients?”
“I don’t mean to imply Mr. Ross is the thief, Detective! Oh Lord, no!” Her hands flew to her face. “It’s just that it would be bad business for him if folks learned that there have been problems at the Institute.”
“Problems like expensive items being lifted from patients’ rooms.”
“It’s awful,” she replied, fidgeting in her chair, ruffled by all his questions.
“Who do you think the thief could be, Miss Newcomb?” he asked.
“I don’t like to point fingers, Detective.”
“Nobody does.” Hell, that wasn’t true. A lot of folks loved to point fingers. “But since you’ve been brave enough to stop in our station this morning, why not go ahead and tell us who it is you suspect, miss.”
Being called brave seemed to please her, and her expression perked up.
“It has to be Mr. Platt. He has horrible debts, Detective. He gambles. Bets on boxing matches and horse races,” she explained. “A gentleman . . . I shouldn’t call him that. True, his teeth were clean and he smelled good, but he was no gentleman.” She shook her head. “He’s come to see Mr. Platt sometimes. I’ve seen them together when I’ve left the Institute after finishing up in the kitchen. Whispering out in the alleyway. Arguing about money. Money I believe Mr. Platt owed him.”
“We’ve heard about this fellow and the debts Mr. Platt owes him,” Nick replied. “Funny, though, that Mr. Platt has accused Mrs. Wynn of being the thief.”
“He would, wouldn’t he?” she asked sensibly. “Although if Mr. Platt had been the person outside Mr. Shaw’s room, Mrs. Wynn would’ve recognized him. Unless he’d put on a disguise. Don’t criminals wear disguises sometimes, Detective?”
“On occasion, miss.” More often in novels than in real life, though.
“It’s all really dreadful, isn’t it?”
Yes. “I have another question for you. It’s about an item my assistant discovered in the alley outside the Institute.” From a drawer in his desk, Nick retrieved the broken bit of chloroform bottle and held it out for her to see. “I’ve been told that Mr. Ross doesn’t use chloroform at the Institute, but maybe I’ve been told wrong.”
“No. Not in a long time. We don’t keep it on hand anymore,” she said, staring hard at the piece of glass. “I don’t know where that came from, but lots of folks throw rubbish into the weeds out there, Detective. I’m chasing them off all the time.”
“Ah, of course.”
“Is Mr. Ross in trouble too, Detective Greaves?” she asked, watching him closely as he returned the bottle to the desk drawer. “Because of some broken bottle of chloroform?”
He locked the drawer and leaned back. Mary Ann Newcomb’s fidgeting had turned to trembling. What is it you’re keeping from me, Miss Newcomb? What is it you’re afraid to reveal? Who is it you’re scared of?
“Is there anything else you’d like to tell us, Miss Newcomb?” he asked.
“No, sir,” she said. “I just hope you find whoever it was who killed Mr. Shaw. It’s not right that there’s a murderer on the loose. Not right at all.”
• • •
“Yes, ma’am?” asked the woman who’d answered the bell at Mr. Blanchard’s home.
She scanned Celia from tip to toe, her perusal hesitating when it encountered the leather-bound notebook clutched in Celia’s lace-gloved hands.
“Is Mr. Blanchard in this morning? I am Mrs. Celia Davies. Collecting monies for the Orphans’ Asylum,” said Celia, summoning her most proper English accent, which had the effect of hiking the woman’s eyebrows. Do not over-egg the pudding, Celia. She smiled and pressed on. “I was told by a mutual acquaintance that Mr. Blanchard would be most generous with his support. After the reports in the newspapers of the amount raised by Mr. Higgins on his march up Montgomery last week, we have found many of the excellent citizens of San Francisco clamoring to add their names to the list of noble contributors.”
“Mr. Blanchard?” she asked. “You sure you have the right fellow?”
Celia stepped back and surveyed the nearby houses clinging to the steep incline of the road. “This is the address I was given. Mr. Elliot Blanchard, correct?”
“That’s him.”
“One of my associates came by here Wednesday evening, but she was unable to petition Mr. Blanchard directly,” she said. Oh, you are getting too good at these mistruths, Celia. “Her name is Mina Cascarino. Did you happen to speak with her?”
“Never heard of a Mina Cascarino,” she answered without hesitation. “And I leave after dinner, so if she rang past six, I don’t know why Mr. Blanchard didn’t answer.”
“But he is here now.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Sighing, the maid pulled wide the door. “He was out for a bite of breakfast at Empire State—he does that whenever Mrs. Blanchard is away—but he’s just come in before he goes on to his downtown office. I’ll ask if he’ll see you. He’s an awfully busy man, though.”
“Certainly, certainly,” said Celia, pushing into the entry hall before the woman could change her mind about admitting her. The space was thick with quiet, the noise of the street outside muffled. “I am most appreciative. My thanks.”
“Don’t thank me, ma’am,” she responded. “Not until we discover if Mr. Blanchard’s willing to talk to you.”
Celia glanced around. A staircase rose ahead of her, and a narrow hall stretched ahead. At its far end, a door to the dining room stood open, shedding light across the polished wood floor and the mauve-and-blue carpets extending from its doorway to the entrance vestibule. Among a row of portraits—mounted in a bewildering variety of gilded and painted frames on the papered walls—a large clock ticked imperiously. A man’s black cassimere hat lay on the padded seat of a curved-back chair, as if its owner had been in a rush to discard it and had tossed it there, rather than hang it on the waiting stand.
“Such a welcoming space,” said Celia, nodding approvingly in supposed appreciation for what was, in truth, a typical entrance to a respectable home.
“Hmm.”
The housekeeper strode into the parlor at their right, and Celia followed. Its curtains were drawn against the upholstery-fading California sun. Everything in the room was heavy—the sofa and its fringed cushions, the stuffed armchairs, the wide pilasters of the black cast-iron fireplace mantel, the brocaded ottomans and marble-top tables, more wallpaper with a dense pattern of geometrical flowers. Was Elliot Blanchard equally heavy and fussy, with a thick watch chain draped across a stout belly, his broad cheeks bristling with whiskers? More like a stodgy businessman, perhaps, than the ambitious fellow she’d imagined a woman like Rebecca Shaw would fall in love with. Or the man Miss Olivia Campbell had found so fascinating. Unless the furnishings reflected the taste of the woman he’d married, attempting to prove her Americanness through the decor.
“You can wait here.” The housekeeper gave a hasty flick of her hand to indicate an appropriate spot on the Brussels rug and left.
Her footsteps ascending the stairs indicated where she’d gone. Celia’s task was now to find Mr. Blanchard’s workroom, filled with possibly incriminating chemicals. Where, though, to locate his “cabinet of curiosities”? A bright room at the rear of the house and overlooking the garden that ran alongside the home, she supposed. Hopefully that room was on this level.
As quietly as possible, Celia leaned into the hall and peered up the stairs. Distant voices, those of the housekeeper and a man, echoed off the paneling from a second-floor room. The sound rose and fell in the rhythm of a disagreement. She only had minutes—perhaps less—to find the workroom and search his collection.
She sped down the hall on her toes, pausing to peek into the next room she passed. It was outfitted as a library, bookcases climbing halfway up three walls. A few bottles of wine occupied a rack near a large desk. No other types of bottles or cases of pinned insects, though.
Celia hurried on, into the dining room at the end of the entrance hall. More light and less fussiness in this space, outfitted practically with a rosewood table and chairs, plain marble fireplace, and sideboard. The door adjacent likely led onto the kitchen. It was the closed one to her right that might take her to her destination.
Overhead, wood boards creaked, and her pulse leaped. But no one came down the stairs into the hallway. She opened the door and discovered a glass-fronted piazza, display cases stretching from one end of the space to the other. Chairs and tables were scattered around the piazza to allow the inquisitive to sit and survey particular creatures of interest. Perhaps take a moment to closely examine the display of—Celia leaned nearer to read the description cards—of various Epinotia moths. Beyond the windows, the side garden bloomed with late summer roses. The space was stunning, and she wished she had time to study the arrangements of iridescent beetles and peculiar walking sticks, the butterflies in brilliant oranges. She had dawdled enough, however.
She spotted another door and tried the knob. The door swung open on well-oiled hinges, the odor of alcohol greeting her, to reveal a narrow cupboard of a space. The ceiling overhead was made of glass, as were the walls on three sides, rather like a miniature conservatory. A workbench was pushed against the windows, and various implements sat on its surface—pincers and tweezers and a small forceps that brought to mind the birthing instrument she owned, several scalpels, a stack of specimen boxes, glass vials and a handful of wide-mouthed bottles with cork stoppers. Pins of various sizes and lengths of silver wire. A board had been laid atop the table and a dragonfly was pinned to the surface, its spread wings shimmering opalescent in the morning light. On the wall hung shallow shelves filled with rows of bottles and jars. Strangely, there was a gap where an item was missing.
Celia set down her notebook and began examining the labels, one after the other. Alcohol. Carbolic acid. Thick glycerin. A small jar of arsenic powder. As Libby had mentioned and most intriguing. Gum arabic, for adhering the creatures to paper or board, she presumed. Ether.
She arrived at the gap in the bottles. Glass glinted at the back, and she rose onto her tiptoes to drag it forward to read its label.
“What in God’s good name are you doing in here?” a man shouted.
Celia whirled to face him, narrowly avoiding sending the whole lot of bottles crashing onto the flagstone floor. He stood in the doorway, tall and lean, a tight cap of dark curls silhouetted against the stronger light of the room behind him. Not the face or form of a stodgy businessman, but a man whose even features were twisted with outrage.
“Oh!” Her face went hot. “I do apologize, Mr. Blanchard.”
“Get out before you break something.” He stood aside. Celia snatched up her notebook—it was one of her patient ledgers, and she did not want to leave behind proof she hadn’t arrived to collect a charitable donation—and strode past him into the piazza. He banged the door shut behind her. “When my housekeeper informed me you were here, she neglected to mention you planned to rummage through my house.”
“I . . . oh, dear. Yes, this does look bad.” She smiled apologetically. “However, a friend told me about your collections. I could not resist the temptation to see them for myself.”
“Well, you’ve seen them.” He extended a hand in the direction of the front
of the house. He had large, almost protuberant, eyes. They glared at her with a fierce intensity. “And now you can leave.”
He stood behind her and began to slowly move toward the door she’d left ajar, herding her like a wayward sheep.
“Does this mean you are not interested in donating to our cause?” she asked, dragging her feet against the inexorable force removing her from the piazza. “Delphia Shaw indicated you would be most receptive. The poor orphans are so worthy.”
He scoffed. “Why in heaven’s name would Delphia Shaw send anyone to my house seeking charitable contributions? Is this some sort of a joke?” He took her elbow and pushed—shoved—her into the dining room.
“I apologize for my error. I imagined her recommendation a sincere one, but . . .”
“Tell Delphia I’m not amused any more now than I ever have been with her antics.” He managed to steer her through the dining room and back into the entrance hall. “And who was it who told you about my collection? Not Delphia Shaw. The Shaws have never been invited here.”
Oh? “No, not Mrs. Shaw. A friend I’ll not name, as I do not wish you to be as angry with her as you currently are with me.”
He shuffled her down the hall. His housekeeper, waiting in the doorway to the parlor, raced off when she saw them coming. Undoubtedly, she’d be due a tongue-lashing for permitting Celia to enter the house.
Mr. Blanchard threw open the front door. “As much as I’m used to being gossiped about, Mrs. Davies, tell your friend to keep her tittle-tattle to herself.”
Celia stepped over the threshold and out onto the front step. “Again, I am deeply sorry, Mr. Blanch—”
Before she could finish her sentence, he slammed the door on her face. No matter. She had learned what she’d come to discover.
• • •
“So who did steal Mr. Shaw’s watch, sir, and those other items from the Institute’s patients?” asked Taylor, smoke swirling off the cigar clenched in his teeth as they walked. “Mr. Platt?”
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