No Darkness as like Death

by Nancy Herriman

  “Have you met any of the other Shaws, Miss Campbell?” asked Celia.

  Barbara groaned. “Cousin, must you?”

  “I don’t mind answering, Barbara,” said Miss Campbell. “I haven’t.”

  “What about Rebecca Shaw? Did Mr. Blanchard ever mention her?”

  She shook her head. “Not around me.”

  “Ah. I was under the impression that Miss Shaw and Mr. Blanchard were old friends.”

  “I can’t imagine why they would be,” she was quick to reply.

  “Miss Shaw is very pretty,” interjected Barbara. “We went to her studio to have our portrait taken, and I liked her. If I were Mrs. Blanchard, I’d be jealous if I ever heard rumors that her husband was friends with Miss Shaw.”

  “He’d never do anything to hurt Mrs. Blanchard. Never.”

  Spoken with considerable heat. “I’ve also learned that the Shaws have accused Mr. Blanchard of harassing and stalking Ambrose Shaw.”

  “That’s a bald-faced lie, Mrs. Davies,” Miss Campbell spat. “True, they’d had that fight at the Bank Exchange saloon—it was in all the papers, which is how I heard, because nobody was to speak a word about it at the house—but for any of them to claim that Mr. Blanchard had been stalking Mr. Shaw . . . it’s a lie. He’d never do that. Mrs. Blanchard was right that Mr. Shaw would try to provoke him, hoping to make Mr. Blanchard do something reckless and appear volatile and unstable.”

  Celia contemplated the young, passionate woman across from her. “Did Mr. Blanchard do something reckless, Miss Campbell?” she asked quietly.

  “He didn’t go out the evening that Mr. Shaw died. He didn’t kill him,” she insisted.

  “How can you be so positive?”

  She blanched and clutched her weakened arm. Did the limb pain her like Mr. Greaves’s wound pained him? Like Barbara’s foot ached when foul weather approached? A sign, a portent of deeper, more forbidding troubles.

  “I can be positive, Mrs. Davies, because . . .” Her chin abruptly went up, a decision made. “Because I was at his home Wednesday evening. With him.”

  Chapter 16

  “Is Mr. Shaw still here?” Nick asked the teller, occupied with locking the gate in an ornate metal screen spanning the length of the bank’s chest-high walnut counter. The counter was at least two feet deep, which must not have been judged an adequate safeguard against felonious customers.

  “I’d have to check, sir,” the teller said, speaking through the gate rather than unlocking it again, which might encourage Nick to loiter.

  “I’d appreciate that. Police matters.” He went through the motions of showing his badge to the fellow, who jerked his head back in surprise. “Detective Greaves.”

  There’d been a message waiting at the station from Taylor, who’d gotten an alibi from Platt. Sound asleep in room at boardinghouse. Landlord confirms. Disappointing, because Nick really would have enjoyed arresting Platt for murder. Instead, he got to spend more time with Leonard Shaw, interrogating him.

  One of the other employees, an older fellow sporting a black mourning armband, his puffed-out chest signifying a level of importance—assumed or actual—wandered over. “What’s going on here?”

  “This police detective wants to speak with Mr. Leonard.”

  The older man narrowed his eyes. “I will see if Mr. Shaw is in his office, Detective. You may wait there.”

  He gestured at a row of angle-top desks against the wall—there weren’t any chairs to sit on—and hustled off.

  Nick waited until the man disappeared into the bank’s rear offices before turning back to the teller. “Nice place.”

  He scanned the room as though he was a connoisseur of banking establishment interiors. In addition to the fancy teller screens and deep walnut counter, the floor was paved with clouded marble. There was a quarry in Tehama; maybe the stone had come from there. The ceiling was pressed tin, like at Bauman’s, and the walls were papered in an elegant blue-gray geometric pattern. At the room’s far end, a door stood ajar, the bank’s massive cast-iron safe visible through the opening. The name of its manufacturer was painted in curling gold letters across the front. From Cincinnati, O. Reassuringly solid, for those customers needing reassurance. Wall clocks ticked. Portraits hung in prominent locations. One was draped in black. The last time Nick had seen that face, it had been resting slack-jawed against the plush mattress of a bed at the Hygienic Institute.

  “Mr. Ambrose Shaw, correct?” he asked the man peering at him between the screen’s bars.

  “Yes.” The teller glanced up at the painting. “A tragic death. So sudden.”

  “A good man to work for, I imagine.”

  “He was a fair man who demanded the best from his employees,” the teller replied. “Although he’d recently begun to focus his attention on politics, his guiding hand at the bank will be missed.”

  “No doubt. No doubt,” said Nick. “But I’m sure his son is prepared to step right in.”

  “Mr. Leonard worked alongside his father every day.”

  A statement that might or might not confirm Nick’s comment. “His fiancée must be eager to see the whole business settled so they can plan for their wedding.”

  “Mr. Leonard? Getting married?” The man tipped his head to one side. “I didn’t know he was walking out with anyone. Are you sure?”

  “Maybe I misunderstood what I was told.” The Shaws’ servant wouldn’t have lied about overhearing arguments concerning Leonard Shaw’s choice in women, though. “I’m hoping Mr. Shaw can see me. I’ve been trying to speak with him all day, but when I stopped in this morning, he wasn’t around.”

  “You were here this morning?”

  Nope. “I spoke with somebody else.”

  “Mr. Leonard arrived at his usual hour, around nine,” he said. “I don’t understand how you missed him.”

  “I don’t understand it either.” A few hours to account for, then. Breakfast and a stop at the police station shouldn’t have taken so long. “Anyway, we received a report that a man who resembled Mr. Shaw was observed tussling with a fellow in an alley not far from here. A possible attempted mugging. Mistaken identity, undoubtedly, but we have to be sure it wasn’t him.”

  “Mr. Leonard made no mention of such an incident, and he didn’t at all look like he’d been involved in a tussle,” he said. “His clothes were immaculate, and he’d been to the barber for his morning shave.”

  The teller had provided the information Nick had been after with his made-up story. However, clean clothes didn’t exonerate Shaw of bashing in Mrs. Wynn’s head; he may have changed before arriving at the bank. But where? Not at home.

  “A man of few words.”

  “He doesn’t usually talk to us at all, Detective.”

  “Well, I suppose the witness to the scuffle was mistaken, but I’ll wait over there to confirm with Mr. Shaw,” said Nick. “Wouldn’t want a crime to go unreported. Could be dangerous for other folks around here, to have a mugger on the loose.”

  He wandered back to where he was supposed to have been standing the entire time. The teller sidled over to another man, partially hidden by rectangles of opaque glass set in the metal screen, and took to whispering. Nick leaned against one of the desks, nicely outfitted with brass inkwells, pens, and writing paper, and wished the men would talk louder so he could hear their conversation.

  The door leading to the bank vault opened wider, and Leonard Shaw stepped through. Looking immaculate, as reported. Fresh as a daisy, as Nick’s mother used to say when describing folks but not always in a kindly way.

  “Mr. Greaves, what brings you to the bank?” he asked, striding toward Nick with an outstretched hand. The tellers behind their metal screen watched with undisguised curiosity.

  “Let’s go outside and talk for a couple of minutes, Mr. Shaw.”

  Nick exited the bank to stand on the sidewalk beneath the overhang of an awning. Any conversation they had would be drowned out by city noise, buzzing with commotion as work
ers spilled out onto the streets at day’s end, shutters and blinds snapping shut, saloons and restaurants cranking to life.

  “Is there news?” asked Shaw. “Have you identified who murdered my father? It’s Blanchard. You’ve arrested him, haven’t you?”

  He and his mother were consistent in their accusation. “When did you leave your house this morning, Mr. Shaw?”

  “What does that have to do with my father’s death, Detective Greaves?”

  “Humor me.”

  Shaw rolled his tongue around in his mouth before answering. “I departed the house around sunrise.”

  Smart to be honest, figuring Nick might already know the answer to his question. “Seems early, Mr. Shaw.”

  “I couldn’t sleep.” He paused to tip his hat at a pair of young women strolling on the sidewalk, their belled skirts brushing against Nick’s calves as they passed. “Pointless to stay in bed when there are numerous matters to attend to before my father’s funeral tomorrow.”

  “Where did you go between sunrise and arriving at the bank?” he asked. “Aside from stopping in at the police station.”

  “I did stop at the station immediately before breakfast,” said Shaw. “You weren’t there.”

  “You spoke to my colleague Mr. Briggs instead.” Nick eyed him. “What about?”

  “Personal matters unrelated to my father’s case.”

  “Ah,” Nick replied. “And after you departed the police station?”

  Shaw groaned, already tired of Nick’s questions. He couldn’t be anywhere near as tired of them as Nick was.

  “I went to breakfast and then on to my barber. My usual routine,” he answered. “I arrived at the bank around nine. I like to get to my office before opening. As my father always did, although sometimes he’d start at eight or even seven. A man dedicated to his business.”

  “Three hours of briefly meeting with a police detective, breakfasting, and sitting in a barber’s chair.” None of which, in Nick’s opinion, had much to do with getting ready for his dedicated-businessman father’s funeral tomorrow. “Interesting.”

  “I ran across several acquaintances while I was out, offering their condolences,” he said. “I insist that you tell me why you care where I was this morning, Detective Greaves.”

  Just then, a newspaper boy, peddling the remainder of his copies of the Evening Bulletin, shouted, “Widow woman murdered.”

  A providential response to Shaw’s request, thought Nick.

  One of the tellers, departing the bank for the evening, overheard the boy’s cries and dashed across the road to snap up a paper.

  “That’s why you’re questioning me. Because a woman was murdered today.” Shaw cursed under his breath. “I didn’t kill her, whoever she was, or my father.”

  “Then you’ll be happy to provide more details on your movements this morning, Mr. Shaw,” said Nick. “Because I doubt you spent an entire three hours engaged in what you’d like me to believe.”

  Shaw stared out at the street. On the other side stood a tobacconist’s; maybe when Nick was finished with Shaw he’d stop in and buy some cigars for Taylor. The booking officer was prone to stealing from Taylor’s supplies and he was always running out.

  “I went for a long walk,” he finally said. “To think, Detective.”

  “A long walk. Thinking.” The most unlikely alibi Nick had ever been offered in his years as a cop.

  “It’s true,” insisted Shaw. “Thinking if it’s possible Rebecca had a hand in our father’s death.”

  Well, well. “You and Mrs. Shaw have been expending a lot of breath blaming Blanchard for murdering your father,” said Nick. “Are you now telling me you imagine Miss Shaw could’ve plotted with him? Is that what you concluded after your lengthy walk?”

  “They were in love. Once. She and that rabble-rouser.” There was venom in his tone. “A man ‘giving voice to the oppressed.’ Ha. Blanchard only ever gave voice to his own ambition.”

  Like a typical politician, if Nick were to offer his opinion. “Why imagine that Miss Shaw had schemed with him? They’re not still in love, right?”

  “I’ve heard rumors . . .” He didn’t finish the sentence; he didn’t need to. “Rebecca’s obstinate. Mother calls her wayward, but that makes her sound like a child, which she definitely isn’t. If Blanchard asked for my stepsister’s help, I’ve no doubt she’d give it.”

  Nick couldn’t tell, for the life of him he couldn’t tell at all, if Shaw was upset about the possibility his stepsister had been involved. Or if he was leading Nick on. No love lost between Shaw and Rebecca, perhaps, since families didn’t always love one another. God only knew the hatred Nick had sometimes felt for his father. Misguided hatred, maybe, borne from his own guilt over Meg’s suicide. But for all that depth of dark feelings, he’d never have accused the man of murdering someone. Unless he was actually guilty.

  “You might be interested to learn, Mr. Shaw, that we found your father’s watch and fob chain on the woman who died this morning,” he said. “Her name was Mrs. Wynn. Your mother says she was acquainted with your father.”

  “I . . .” Shaw rubbed his forehead. “What? Mrs. Wynn? How did she get Father’s watch?”

  “I see the information is shocking, Mr. Shaw,” said Nick. “Especially when you’ve been so keen on accusing Blanchard—and now Rebecca—of a plot to murder Ambrose Shaw.”

  “Maybe they were all working together,” said Shaw. “A conspiracy to kill off my father.”

  “A conspiracy, Mr. Shaw?” asked Nick. “Or is this convoluted tale an attempt to hide your own guilt?”

  “Why would I want to kill Father?”

  “For the inheritance?” Nick suggested. “Or maybe because he also stood between you and a romantic attachment he didn’t approve of. Just like he hadn’t approved of Rebecca’s relationship with Elliot Blanchard. Did you and this young woman work together to do away with your father, only to discover you’d been spotted? By a widow whose cold, dead body is now with the undertaker?”

  Shaw’s neck went red first, spreading across his skin until the flush reached his face—as slowly as a dry cloth dipped in a crimson liquid, the color diffusing through the material. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “You spent three hours this morning wandering about, deep in thought, then went to the station and then breakfast, where you’d like me to believe you kept encountering acquaintances who wanted to extend their condolences, then on to your barber’s. Three hours, Mr. Shaw?”

  “That’s how long it took. I don’t know why that’s so damned hard to believe,” he spat. The door to the bank opened, and the rest of the tellers exited the building, casting sideways glances at their boss and the police detective. Shaw turned his back to them and lowered his voice. “I don’t know why what I’ve said is so hard to believe, Detective Greaves.”

  “Well, because we’ve also discovered that you left your meeting at the Parker House right after dinner on Wednesday. Around seven,” said Nick. “You didn’t arrive at home until nine. Two hours. Another mysterious lapse of time I’d be happy to have you explain.”

  Shaw’s nostrils flared as he sucked in a breath. “I went to visit a lady friend whose name I’m not going to provide, so don’t even bother to ask.”

  “Ah, your paramour, who your parents disapproved of.”

  “I’d prefer to leave her out of this.”

  “She’s your alibi, Mr. Shaw. You sure about that?”

  “I am very sure about that.” Shaw stepped closer, the smell of bay rum cologne drifting off his clothes. “If you’ve got proof I’m responsible for my father’s death or Mrs. Wynn’s, charge me, Detective Greaves. Otherwise, leave me alone. My father is being buried tomorrow. I’d like to be able to mourn him, alongside my mother, in peace.”

  Nick fixed an innocent expression on his face. “Is that why you smell so good, Mr. Shaw? You’re planning on spending the evening with your mother, recalling all the better days with your father
?” he asked. “Or did you have other plans? Maybe with your lady friend.”

  “Leave me alone, Detective Greaves.”

  He stalked off, the tails of his frock coat flapping against his legs.

  Nick counted to twenty before he followed. A gift of cigars for Taylor would have to wait.

  • • •

  “Miss Barbara’s hidden away in her room and willna speak to me, ma’am,” said Addie, setting a small glass of dark purple wine at Celia’s elbow. Bramble wine, made using a recipe Addie had brought from Scotland. “She may talk to you, though.”

  “If she’d not speak to you, Addie, she will not speak to me.” She sipped from the glass. “Your wine has turned out well.”

  “Thank you, ma’am. I should have a nip myself to calm my nerves,” she replied, eyeing the cut-glass decanter she held. She lowered it onto Celia’s examination room desk before she gave in to her impulse. “But what are we to do about Miss Campbell now?”

  The young woman’s confession had stunned them all. None more so than Barbara, who’d shouted at Miss Campbell before dashing up to her bedchamber, where she slammed her door so firmly that the sound reverberated through the downstairs rooms. Libby Campbell, in tears, had sworn that nothing untoward had happened between her and Mr. Blanchard before springing from the settee and running from the house. Celia had not attempted to stop her.

  “She may be lying to protect him, Addie,” said Celia. “I would question Mr. Blanchard myself about Miss Campbell’s assertion, except that after my visit to his house this morning, he’ll likely never agree to speak with me again.”

  Addie tutted. “And I’d come to like the lass.”

  “What a predicament we are in, Addie.”