No Darkness as like Death

by Nancy Herriman

  “Aye, but you’ll find a way to fix matters, ma’am,” her housekeeper replied, filled with confidence. “You always do.”

  She slipped out of the room, softly closing the door behind her.

  Celia drained the bramble wine, the sweet liquid burning down her throat, and set the empty glass aside. Time to think. Time to work through the puzzle surrounding Mr. Shaw’s murder. The death of Mrs. Wynn, as well.

  She opened the drawer in her desk and pulled out a table book, opening it to an empty page. She inked a pen and began to inscribe her thoughts. Suspect. Motive. Clues for or against their guilt. Starting with Mr. Shaw before turning to Mrs. Wynn, whose murder Celia had significantly less information about. A man whose demise had been brought about by a very unlikely weapon—chloroform. The killer had been aided by the fact that Mr. Shaw had been drunk, according to the coroner. Less time and effort needed, perhaps, to bring about his death. Mr. Shaw had briefly struggled, if she properly recalled what Mr. Greaves had told her. The struggle itself may have been the cause of his fatal heart attack.

  Where to start . . .

  Proceed one by one, write down your thoughts. Starting with the suspect Miss Campbell desired to protect.

  Elliot Blanchard, she wrote. Motive—acrimonious political opponent of Ambrose Shaw, who’d broken off Mr. Blanchard’s engagement to Miss Shaw. Might also have despised Mr. Shaw for insulting Mrs. Blanchard. In possession of chloroform, a bottle missing from his supply. Possibly aware of Mr. Shaw’s poor health and susceptibility to heart failure. Still uncertain how he might have acquired the key to Mr. Shaw’s room. His whereabouts Wednesday evening accounted for by Miss Campbell, whose truthfulness as a witness was, however, questionable. I fear she is somewhat in love with the man. Out of his house around the time Mrs. Wynn was struck down.

  Leonard Shaw. Motive—inheritance money and difficult relationship with his father, according to Jane. Dubious alibi for the evening of Mr. Shaw’s death. Had visited his father at the Institute, providing an opportunity to take the key. Encountered Mina outside, struck her down, stowed incriminating key in pocket? Open question as to where he may have obtained chloroform. Would know of his father’s heart condition. At the police station this morning, but what was his alibi for the exact time of Mrs. Wynn’s death?

  “I do wish I’d had an opportunity to meet him and Mrs. Shaw,” Celia whispered, tapping the end of her pen against her lower lip. “Form my own impression of them. Another reason to attend Mr. Shaw’s burial service.”

  It would be enlightening to observe not only the Shaws but the other mourners. Who might count themselves as a friend of Ambrose Shaw?

  Celia resumed list-making.

  Delphia Shaw. Motive—terminate a possibly unhappy marriage, gain inheritance monies as well. She’d also visited Mr. Shaw at the Institute. May have been able to depart and return to her home Wednesday evening without any servants, if they had live-in domestics, marking her absence. Would definitely be aware that her husband’s heart was weak.

  She’d have to enquire what the staff situation was at the Shaw household. She might be able to ask someone about it at the cemetery tomorrow. Who would speak to you about such a matter at a funeral, though, Celia? Honestly.

  Back to Mrs. Shaw—and Leonard Shaw. Did they possess chloroform? Celia surveyed her cabinet of medicines, bandaging, mixing vessels. Among her own supplies was a bottle of the substance, which she’d purchased to assist in delivering babies but had not yet used. Recommended for women in extreme discomfort, its action reportedly slowed labor, rendering the substance counterproductive. The Shaws, however, might keep a bottle in their home for another purpose. Was Delphia Shaw tall enough to smash Mrs. Wynn’s skull?

  “Gruesome, Celia.”

  Rebecca Shaw. Motive—inheritance money, useful to support her photographic studio, and revenge against the man who’d denied her the chance at happiness with Elliot Blanchard. But why remove the obstacle to their marriage at this point, years after the engagement had been broken? Her alibi for Wednesday evening was an interaction with her neighbor around seven thirty.

  “The time the intruder was spotted.”

  Rebecca may have obtained chloroform from Mr. Blanchard, either with his knowledge or without, or purchased it. She was tall and likely sufficiently strong to overwhelm her unhealthy and drunken father—taking him by surprise, no doubt—and kill Mrs. Wynn. And that key . . . she’d proposed to Mr. Greaves that Miss Shaw could have snuck upstairs while at the Institute. It was a scenario she planned to assess while she and Jane were visiting the place.

  Mr. Platt. Celia knew almost nothing about the fellow. Motive—attempting to steal from a wealthy patient. Accidentally killed Mr. Shaw with chloroform meant to sedate the man, perhaps. Mr. Ross had denied keeping a supply on hand as part of his treatment regimen, however. As an employee of the establishment, Mr. Platt could gain ready access to Mr. Shaw’s room. Owen had overheard him arguing with Mrs. Wynn about Mr. Shaw’s watch.

  “And now Mrs. Wynn was dead.” Celia considered her paper. “Ah, Mr. Platt, that does not bode well for you.” Yet he was not the person found in possession of Mr. Shaw’s watch. Perhaps he’d dashed out of Mr. Shaw’s room in a state of shock when the fellow died, leaving it behind. Ran downstairs and threw open the private entrance door, feigning an interloper’s means of entering the building. Spied Mina outside and . . .

  “Gone back to fetch the all-important key and hide it in her skirt pocket?”

  Sighing, Celia re-inked her pen and moved on.

  Mr. Ross. Motive—Unknown. Also had access to Mr. Shaw’s room, obviously, but why kill his patient? An old animosity Mr. Greaves had not uncovered? An argument got out of hand concerning the efficacy of Mr. Ross’s treatments? Obviously knew of Mr. Shaw’s medical condition. Or had he sought to steal from his wealthy client in order to pay outstanding debts? Yet it was Mrs. Wynn who’d been found with Mr. Shaw’s watch and fob chain. Had they conspired together, but then he murdered her in order to silence her?

  “I am catching at straws.”

  She retrieved a second piece of paper to continue her list, grown cumbersome in its length.

  Mrs. Wynn. Motive—theft. Had occupied a room down the hall from Mr. Shaw. Could have easily monitored his comings and goings. She’d provided the information about an intruder, a possible fabrication. Body found with his watch and chain. Obtain chloroform from apothecary or Mr. Ross’s disputed supply? Aware of Mr. Shaw’s poor health? Obviously, she’d not killed herself that morning, which meant there were either two murderers or she had to be removed from suspicion as Mr. Shaw’s killer. Same issue as Mr. Platt’s concerning the key in Mina’s pocket.

  Mr. Griffin? What was his role in this affair? He had paid Owen to contact Mr. Platt, who owed him money. No known motive to harm Ambrose Shaw. He was, of course, certainly clever enough to gain entrance to the Institute and Mr. Shaw’s room, but a chloroform-soaked rag was an unlikely instrument for a criminal like him. A knife was more direct.

  “Perhaps he’d intended to render Mr. Shaw unconscious in order to kidnap him and hold him for ransom.” His plans thwarted by the fellow’s unfortunate and sudden heart failure. Yet he’d need to haul away the man’s insensate body without being observed. A difficult task, even with the availability of a private entrance.

  “Now you truly are catching at straws, Celia. How fantastical an idea.” She scratched out his name.

  And what about Mina Cascarino? She had no motive that Celia could discern. She could not, however, deny that Mina had been at the Institute, having gone there in a state of anxiety around six thirty. What was her relationship with any of the other suspects, aside from an acquaintance with Ambrose Shaw? They’d likely never resolve how that dashed key had ended up in her pocket until she regained her memory, though. Mina was not, however, culpable for Mrs. Wynn’s death. The only one on Celia’s list who could be cleared of suspicion in the woman’s murder.

  Celia’s pen hover
ed above the page as she pondered one final possibility.

  Olivia Campbell. Motive—to prove her loyal affection for a man she could not have, Elliot Blanchard, by removing his political opponent. A young woman whom Mr. Shaw had sent chocolates to, his motivations contemptible and hurtful. Had she come to hate him as a result of that unwanted gift? She’d known that Mr. Blanchard possessed chloroform. Had witnessed its effect upon living creatures. But how might she have become aware that Mr. Shaw’s heart was failing him? Information required to even begin to believe dosing the man with chloroform might kill him. Question about how she could have come into possession of the key. Her alibi for Wednesday evening that she’d spent it with Elliot Blanchard, who’d surely deny she had been with him, whether or not that was the truth. With a weak arm, could she have struck down Mrs. Wynn? Only one strong arm was required to wield a heavy cobblestone, though. Had arrived to tutor Barbara at a strangely early hour this morning . . .

  It cannot be possible, thought Celia, her pen inscribing a heavy, blotchy circle of ink around Miss Campbell’s name. Can it?

  • • •

  Leonard Shaw proved ridiculously easy to trail. Nick didn’t even need Taylor’s skills to track the man through the downtown streets and alleyways. He never once looked back to see if anybody was following him. He might just be walking home. Innocent as a lamb.

  But Shaw didn’t turn south toward the home on Stockton he shared with his mother. Instead, he headed north. Toward the Barbary. Turning onto a street Nick had often walked.

  It was only when he neared the tavern that Shaw glanced around to see who might be monitoring his movements, unfolding the velvet collar of his coat to hide behind. Why then? It wasn’t a crime to stop in a saloon, and nobody would care that some politician’s son, the heir to a bank, wanted to imbibe a lager beer or two. Although Nick would guess the fellow’s taste leaned toward scotch whiskey.

  Shaw didn’t notice Nick watching and trotted down the shadowed steps into the basement, his body temporarily blocking the light from the freshly lit gas lamps as he crossed the threshold. Nick pushed away from the wall where he’d been leaning. He didn’t have to follow the man inside. He’d ask Bauman later who Shaw had come to visit at his saloon.

  Chapter 17

  “Mr. Greaves.” Miss DiPaolo stood up from the chair she’d been occupying. “I’m glad you’re here. I wasn’t sure you would be, on a Saturday.”

  “Sometimes I even work on Sundays. Could you fetch Miss DiPaolo some coffee?” Nick asked the booking officer, leaning against his desk and eyeing the young woman who’d come into the station early on a Saturday morning. “From upstairs.”

  “Am I one of your lackeys now, Greaves?” he shot back. “And what’s so bad about the coffee down here?” He jerked his head in the direction of the white enamel pot heating on the corner stove.

  “Thanks for helping out,” Nick replied. Grumbling, the booking officer stamped up the stairs. “There’s no need for you to keep standing, Miss DiPaolo.”

  She smiled, which made her eyes shine. If Taylor were here, he’d be blushing. “Mina always has said you’re blunt. I don’t mind, though,” she said, retaking her seat.

  Mina talked about him to the other girls at Bauman’s? “How can I help you this morning, Miss DiPaolo?”

  “I wanted to let you know I’ll be taking charge of Althea’s body,” she said. “She doesn’t have any other family in town. At least, none that I’m aware of.”

  “Her nearest relative’s in Eureka, I hear,” he said, waiting to see if she’d correct him, trying to discover just how many people knew about Althea Wynn’s family in Crescent City.

  “Are they? Pretty far away,” she said. “I want her to get a decent burial, and the other women at the lodging house chipped in to help pay for one. I didn’t want Althea’s body sent to a medical college so they could . . . well, you know.”

  “I do.” Bodies getting buried at public expense could be claimed by medical students unless the dying person had stated they didn’t want to be a part of anatomy instruction. Mrs. Wynn hadn’t exactly had the opportunity to make her wishes known. “I’ll inform the coroner. Is that all?”

  “I . . . I . . .” She paused to compose herself. He hadn’t realized that she and Mrs. Wynn had been such great friends. Couldn’t have been that close, if she didn’t know about the relatives in Crescent City.

  “Take your time, miss.”

  “I’m finding it awful hard to believe what the papers are reporting about Althea,” she said. “That she was a thief.”

  Damn. He’d like to know who’d leaked the information to the reporters about Shaw’s watch. Probably Briggs, just to rile him.

  “We don’t have any other explanation for how Mr. Shaw’s watch and fob chain ended up in her possession, Miss DiPaolo,” said Nick. “Do you?”

  “I don’t understand it at all. Unless . . .” She stared at him. Giulia DiPaolo had lovely, clear, intelligent eyes. “Unless that man who came by to talk to her the other night is to blame. Maybe he pressured her to steal from Mr. Shaw. That must be it.”

  “You told me Mrs. Wynn never had male visitors.”

  “I wasn’t completely honest, Detective, because then I’d have to admit how we—the other lodgers and me—manage to have fellows visit without Mrs. M. finding out,” she said.

  Mullahey thudded down the stairs, a steaming cup of coffee in his hand. “The booking officer told me I was to give this to you, Mr. Greaves. He had some other words, as well, but ’tis best I not be tellin’ you those in front of a young lady, sir.”

  “The coffee is for Miss DiPaolo.” Obviously the fellow had found his own lackey.

  “Here you go, miss,” he said, handing the mug to her. “I’ve news for you, sir. About one of our suspect’s alibis.”

  “Oh?” asked Nick, observing Miss DiPaolo’s inquisitive sideways look. “Please excuse me for a moment.”

  He rose and motioned for Mullahey to join him out of her earshot. “What have you learned?”

  “Mr. Blanchard was at Empire State restaurant yesterday morning, like you’d heard.” Mullahey grinned fleetingly. “Having a bit of a row with Mr. Leonard Shaw, as it turns out. Apparently Mr. Blanchard is a tad upset that the Shaws have been accusin’ him of being a murderer. One of the waiters had to stop their argument from turnin’ into a round of fisticuffs.”

  The fight a detail Shaw had omitted from his description of how he’d spent yesterday morning.

  “Thank you, Mullahey.” Nick returned to his chair opposite Giulia DiPaolo, engrossed in sipping her coffee. “So who was Mrs. Wynn’s male visitor? Have a name?”

  “He was a scruffy fellow, with a crooked nose and reddish hair. Do you know him?”

  “Yes, I believe I do.” Platt, again. “Did you overhear their conversation?”

  “I didn’t, but I’ve been thinking back on yesterday morning, and I believe . . .” She rolled her lips between her teeth. They flushed pink when she released them. “I believe he was the shadow I saw in the alleyway, Detective. The man whose voice I heard.”

  “Mullahey!” Nick called over to the policeman before he disappeared up the stairs, stopping him in his tracks. “I need you to bring Platt in.” Past time they arrested him, his supposed alibi be damned.

  Mullahey nodded and rushed off.

  Nick turned back to Miss DiPaolo. “Were you at work last evening?” Her arrival at the station may have saved him a trip to Bauman’s to ask about Leonard Shaw’s visit. Which might no longer be important, if Platt was the killer, but a broken thread worth tying off.

  Her expression changed. Not her expression, actually, but her posture, which had been drooping as expected for somebody upset over the brutal murder of a friend. A subtle, wary stiffening of her spine.

  “I was, because Mina’s still recovering from her concussion and hasn’t returned yet,” she said, a slight edge to her voice. Resentment, probably.

  “A man stopped in last evening. A fel
low I’m interested in. Broad face. Dark, narrow-set eyes. Clean-shaven. Dresses well,” he said, describing Leonard Shaw. “Do you know who I’m talking about?”

  She set the coffee on the desk behind her. “You mean Leo Shaw.”

  “He’s a regular, then.” Mina had to know him, in that case.

  “He’s only taken to stopping by in the past few weeks,” she said. “I guess he heard about the saloon from his father.”

  “Did Leonard Shaw spend last evening alone, enjoying your singing and Herr Bauman’s lager?” he asked. “Or was he joined by a friend?”

  “Nobody joined him, Detective,” she said. “Mr. Shaw came in, sat alone for around an hour, and left.”

  Leonard Shaw had slathered on bay rum in order to have a lager or two, alone, at Bauman’s? “You’re positive.”

  “I didn’t notice him talking to anybody, Detective,” she said. “But then I was busy without Mina there. Awfully busy.”

  • • •

  The morning had dawned damp, mist drawing a gray veil across the sky as though even the heavens themselves wept for Ambrose Shaw.

  Celia, you have grown poetical. Or morose. Or both.

  She stared out the window of the Central Railroad car, steadily climbing toward the western hills and the flank of Lone Mountain, the cross at its peak a landmark beckoning them onward. The number of buildings and houses gradually reduced, replaced by an increasing quantity of flimsy fences and stakes marking out lots for future buildings and houses. Ahead rose the imposing bulk of the recently constructed Ladies’ Relief Society Home, its grandness incongruous among the patches of greasewood and sagebrush and sand. Standing alone like a guest who’d come early to the party and was awkwardly waiting for the rest to arrive.

  Celia consulted the watch she’d pinned at her waist. Not long before they would reach the cemetery. Mr. Shaw’s funeral services had gotten underway midmorning. Mindful, perhaps, of the business hours of those who’d be attending, and who likewise might wish to return to their offices—even on a Saturday—after sympathizing with the Shaws. Friends had been called to visit the family home at nine o’clock and from there to proceed to the cemetery. No church service had been planned, which Celia found unusual for a man in his position. She would have attempted to call at the Shaws’ home—she’d been bold enough to spy on a murder victim’s church service before—but she’d had an appointment with the patient she’d yesterday treated for nettle rash.