“Maybe she’s here to arrange Mrs. Wynn’s funeral,” he said. “She’s taken charge of the woman’s body.”
“I suppose you are right.”
He hated when she said that; it usually meant she didn’t agree.
“You know, ma’am, our discussion about Miss Campbell and Rebecca Shaw is all very interesting, but I’m convinced that Platt’s behind both murders and have sent Mullahey to arrest the fellow,” he said. “He might not have meant to kill Shaw, but he wanted that watch to settle his debt with Griffin. Except Mrs. Wynn beat him to it. When he overheard that Mrs. Wynn was going to flee San Francisco, he figured she’d realized he’d killed Shaw and also that she had the man’s watch in her possession. She had to be dealt with. So, Mrs. Davies, I’d say we’re finished.”
“Are we, Mr. Greaves?” she asked. “I feel as though I’ve been handed a critical piece of this puzzle-map but have discarded it as irrelevant.”
“I’m going to throw Platt in jail, Mrs. Davies,” he said firmly. He’d finally gotten his hands around this case and here she was, causing it to crumble in his grasp.
“Do what you must, Mr. Greaves,” she answered, unruffled, her chin up. “And I shall do likewise.”
Chapter 18
“Mina, how are you today?” asked Celia, stepping into the bedchamber Mina occupied, Mrs. Cascarino’s footsteps fading in the hallway beyond the room.
Mina set aside the book she’d been holding. “Better. A little,” she replied. “I suppose Barbara told you about my memories starting to come back.”
“She did.” Celia took the bedside chair, her dark blue skirts crowding against the bed itself. She’d come straight from the cemetery, the dust of the journey on the hem of her dress and her shoes. “Have you recalled any more since she visited?”
“Not much. Just that I was anxious and in a rush to get to the Institute,” she said. “But exactly why I felt that way, I don’t remember.”
“Could it have been concern over Mr. Shaw, perhaps?”
Mina gazed up at her. She had dark and captivating eyes, fringed with thick long lashes. They were not the eyes of a guilty woman. Or so Celia dearly wished to believe. “You mean, did I know that he was going to be murdered?” she asked.
Celia sat back. “That is what I mean.”
“How could I have known?”
“Have you ever heard of a Mr. Platt, Mina?” She watched the young woman closely; Mina’s reaction would be revealing. But she did not cringe nor glance away, convey any hint she had ever heard his name.
“The name’s not familiar,” said Mina.
“He works at the Hygienic Institute. Mr. Greaves intends to arrest him for the murder of Mr. Shaw and a Mrs. Wynn, who was killed yesterday morning,” said Celia.
“Then Nick believes I’m innocent, after all,” she said, sounding hopeful.
Celia knew she should be content to see the man accused and possibly convicted. But if Mr. Platt was not responsible, hanging an innocent man did not feel like justice to Celia, even if Mina was spared.
“Not completely, Mina,” she replied. “There remains the matter of your shawl and the key I found, which worked the lock on a private door at the Institute.”
Mina pinched her eyes closed. Perhaps to rebel against the cruel trick her unhealed brain was playing by not permitting her to completely remember, crippling her efforts to defend herself. “Nick thinks I’m an accomplice.”
“Did you love him, Mina?” It hurt to ask that question. Like countless other jealous women, though, Celia desperately wanted the answer. “Never mind. I should not have asked. Your prior relationship with Mr. Greaves is irrelevant to this particular situation.”
“Is it?” she asked. “I did. Once.” Her smile was fleeting. More a trace of a smile than an actual one. “He was hurting after he returned from the war and discovered his sister had died by her own hand. Consumed by the pain, which left no room for me.”
Celia considered the young woman resting on the bed, surrounded by the small comforts of a family poor in earthly goods but rich in tenderness and warmth. Someone had cut the last fading blooms of a rosebush and tucked the flowers into a glass vase for Mina to enjoy. One of her siblings had sketched a picture of a sunny garden and left it on the bedside table. A woman deeply loved by her family and who would love deeply in return.
“I am sorry, Mina,” she said.
“There’s no need to apologize for Nick, Mrs. Davies,” she replied. “Besides, he cares far more for you than he ever did for me. I can tell by how he speaks your name.”
Her heart contracted, but what could she do with the sensation, the emotion? Nothing.
“Enough about Nicholas Greaves, Mina, other than to tell you I’ve confirmed that those candies he saw at Bauman’s were not meant for you,” said Celia. “Mr. Shaw had them sent to ‘all the ladies,’ according to the customer records at Roesler’s.”
“They were actually meant for Giulia.” Mina gasped at her sudden recollection. “I remember now, Mrs. Davies. He’d sent them to her.”
“Is Giulia’s last name DiPaolo?” The young woman who’d endeavored to chase down the Shaws at the cemetery that morning. The young woman who’d supposedly observed Mr. Platt in an alleyway around the time of a murder.
“That’s her, and despite some record that Mr. Shaw had sent those candies to ‘all the ladies,’ they were definitely meant for Giulia. How she laughed when that box showed up.” She frowned. “I should’ve told Nick, but I remember now I was so mad that he’d presumed those candies were a gift for me.”
“Miss DiPaolo was at the cemetery this morning,” said Celia. “Does she know the other Shaws?”
“She’s met Leonard, because he comes into Bauman’s every once in a while. Flirts with him,” she said. “I don’t know about the others.”
“Are she and Leonard Shaw in a relationship?” she asked. The pieces of the puzzle-map were hovering nearer, readying to fall into place, and the recognition made Celia’s pulse tick upward.
“She probably wishes she was, a rich man like him, but I don’t . . .” Mina stopped, her brow furrowing.
Celia seized Mina’s hand, as though clutching her fingers might squeeze the memories out of her brain. “What is it, Mina?”
“Nothing.” She shook her head, which made her wince from the movement. “I don’t remember anything. I thought I might be . . . but I don’t.”
“You were worried and went to the Institute because you feared what Giulia meant to do, didn’t you, Mina?” Celia asked. The young woman who knew both Ambrose Shaw and Leonard Shaw. Who’d accused Mr. Platt of murdering Mrs. Wynn. “That night, you kept muttering ‘terrible, terrible.’ But you also said something like ‘what has she . . .’ Mina, did you mean Giulia DiPaolo?”
“Giulia can’t be involved in those murders. She can’t.” Mina paused to massage her temples; perhaps the conversation was making her head ache. “That’s not who she is.”
“What other ‘she’ would you have been upset about?” asked Celia. “She knew Ambrose Shaw, perhaps more intimately than you were aware. Most critically, she lives at the same boardinghouse as the second victim, Mina, and is the only witness pinning the crime on Mr. Platt. What else can we conclude?”
But were those the pieces of the puzzle-map that were meant to fit together, or was she forcing them into place?
• • •
“How was Mr. Shaw’s funeral, sir?” asked Taylor, hopping up from his desk.
“Grand,” replied Nick. “Thanks for coming in on a Saturday, Taylor. Has Mullahey brought Platt in yet?”
“He’s in one of the holding cells, sir. Mr. Greaves, sir,” he replied, nodding toward the barred door. “Not happy one bit. Guess you decided his alibi didn’t work out.”
“Guess so.”
The booking officer’s desk stood empty; maybe he’d decided to leave early on a Saturday. Nick rooted around in the papers atop it for his keys. Not finding any, he pounded on the doo
r to the holding cells. A middle-aged fellow snoozed on a stool at the end of the six-foot aisle separating the two rows of cells.
“Hey, I need to talk to a prisoner,” said Nick through the iron crosspieces barring the window. “The booking officer’s not here to let me in. Did he give you the keys?”
“Yeah, yeah.” The jailer grudgingly got up from his chair. “I’m coming. Stop banging on the door, Detective Greaves.” He trudged along its length, dodging the outthrust hands of prisoners trying to grab his keys. “You’re after Mr. Platt, our brand-new guest, I suppose.”
His keys clanked in the lock and he swung open the door. Nick squeezed past. He hated this place, the damp darkness and the chill, the mold and the squeak of rats, the stink of slop jars and sweating men—and women. At times Nick couldn’t decide if it was worse in here or at the main jail on Broadway. This was bad enough.
“Which cell?” he asked the jailer, who was thudding the door shut again.
“I’m right here, Mr. Greaves,” said Platt, pressing his face against the floor-to-ceiling grate of a cell two spaces down. He’d been brought in before he’d had a chance to shave and brownish-red hairs prickled his cheeks. “So I’m guilty, huh?”
Three cells down, a young man—not much older than a boy, actually—strained to catch sight of the new prisoner and the cop come to talk to him.
“What’re you looking at?” Platt shouted at the kid, causing him to jump back and bump into the cot behind him. A grizzled fellow across the aisle—a drunk and one of their regulars—cackled so hard it made him cough. The jailer banged a thick wood baton against the nearest grate, the clang reverberating off the weeping stone walls, which quieted things for all of a minute.
Nick stared at Platt, who scratched fingers through his beard stubble and stared back. “You were seen by a witness at Mrs. Wynn’s yesterday morning,” said Nick. “Slinking through the alleyway.”
“Nope, sorry. Wasn’t me,” he said. “And I’d like to know who this witness is.”
“Do you suddenly have a solid alibi, Platt?” Nick asked.
“I was at my lodgings, asleep. Just like I told your assistant when he stopped by to visit yesterday,” he said. “And I’m not going to be railroaded for a crime I didn’t commit.”
“This is how I see it,” said Nick, shifting his stance and putting his back to the occupants of the other cells. “You brought chloroform into Shaw’s room, meaning to knock him out and steal his watch. Except—surprise!—you killed the fellow. You turned on the gas to make it look like an accident or that he’d killed himself. Couldn't take the watch now, because then it would be clear the man had been murdered.”
Platt chuckled. “One problem, Detective. I never would’ve needed to use chloroform on Shaw in order to pilfer his watch. I could look at the treatment schedule and learn when he’d be down having a cold soak. Go in then,” he said. “Or enter his room in the middle of the night. I’d hear him snoring away when I’d walk by his suite on my rounds. I probably could’ve stolen the shirt he slept in without waking him.”
Nick continued on. “Griffin was pressing you for the money you owed him. Maybe you panicked and decided against those more sensible options,” he said. “Sadly, Althea Wynn saw you running out of Shaw’s room. When she crept inside to steal his watch and found him dead, she realized you’d killed him. Right, Mr. Platt?”
“Sounds like you got it all sorted out, Mr. Greaves,” he replied, his expression flat. “What do you want me to say? I confess?”
“Would be helpful,” said Nick. “How did Mrs. Wynn reply when you demanded to know if she’d taken Shaw’s watch? Did she tell you that she’d seen you? That she knew you’d killed him? And you discovered that she meant to flee to Crescent City. On a ship headed out of town yesterday morning. A quick trip to her lodging house to murder her then back to your bed, where you could pretend to have been sleeping like a baby all along.”
“Perfect explanation, Detective.” He pressed his face against the cell bars. “However, somebody else killed Shaw. But apparently I’m the one who’s going to pay.”
• • •
“Ma’am!” cried Addie, startled as Celia burst into the entry hall.
“Jane will be here at any moment, but we have an additional visit to add to our agenda,” she said, removing her black gloves and tossing them aside with her shawl. “A side trip to Miss Shaw’s photographic studio.”
Addie caught the gloves and shawl before they landed on the floor. “Why there?”
“My quest involves a witness who has blamed the evening attendant at the Hygienic Institute for murdering our second victim.”
“Then you’ve nae need to go to that dreadful place today, after all,” said her housekeeper.
“Ah, but I feel that witness is no longer reliable,” said Celia, hopping on one foot as she struggled to remove the half boot on the other. “According to Mina, the young woman was the recipient of the candy Ambrose Shaw sent to Bauman’s. Which might play into a scheme to murder the fellow.”
“Miss Mina knows her?”
“Yes, and I have to ask if Miss DiPaolo was the reason Mina had gone to the Institute Wednesday.” Both boots freed, she handed them to Addie. “Maybe Mina had followed her that evening to stop her from going through with her plans.”
And here I was beginning to suspect Miss Campbell.
“So what does this Miss DiPaolo’s involvement have to do with your hurried need to go to Miss Shaw’s studio?” asked Addie, Celia’s discarded clothing bundled in her arms.
“She was at Mr. Shaw’s burial service this morning and looked familiar to me,” she answered. “I have a hunch why, and the resolution might be found at Miss Shaw’s gallery. Among the images of working-class women arrayed in the window.”
What if, thought Celia, it had been Rebecca Shaw Miss DiPaolo had been seeking to intercept at the cemetery? Unresolved business concerning the deaths of Mr. Shaw and Mrs. Wynn, perhaps. Moreover, what if she was the woman I saw with Rebecca yesterday, frantic and upset?
“Just because she’s been photographed by Miss Shaw doesna make her a killer, ma’am,” Addie pointed out. “No more than you and Miss Barbara are murderers for having your portrait taken by her.”
“The note, Addie. Leave us alone. What if she and Miss Shaw are the ‘us’?” asked Celia. “I have to figure out where I’ve seen Miss DiPaolo before.” And what it might mean, once she did settle the question.
Addie frowned. “’Tis certain you’ll find trouble, ma’am.”
“Do not fret, Addie.”
“You’re off on one of your schemes,” she replied. “How can I not fret?”
True.
Celia bounded upstairs in order to change into her crimson flannel Garibaldi blouse and holland skirt. The outfit she had often worn before she’d taken on widow’s clothing. Wool and linen and sturdy cotton to gird herself in. Armor to provide courage, which had been sorely lacking since Patrick had arisen from the dead.
The front bell sounded; Jane had arrived.
“You’re going to wear your nurse’s costume to the Institute, Celia?” she asked when Celia stepped into the parlor.
“I feel more comfortable in these clothes, Jane.” Celia rested her hands at her waist, the blouse freeing her from the strict confines of a tight corset. She could readily breathe; how glorious a sensation. “But first, a brief stop at Miss Shaw’s studio is required.”
Jane glanced at Addie, standing in the doorway to the parlor, who shook her head. “It’ll be closed, Celia.”
“I do not require the gallery to be open. I shall explain on our way there,” she said. “Unless you do not wish to accompany me, after all.”
“As I said yesterday, I wouldn’t want to miss the excitement,” Jane replied, winking. “But where’s Barbara?” She peered into the dining room, visible through the open doors. “I wanted to give her a letter from Grace.”
“You can leave the letter on the entry hall table for her,” s
aid Celia, tying the ribbons of her hat beneath her chin. “She is keeping to her bedchamber because of some startling news Miss Campbell shared with us yesterday.”
“You’ll have to tell me about that, too.”
The Hutchinsons’ tilbury waited outside on the curb. Joaquin, who lived across the street and was always on hand for tasks, stood holding the reins. He’d been whispering to the horse—a lovely bay—and caressing the animal’s forelock. He snapped to attention when he heard Celia and Jane descending the stairs.
“Before I left the house, I read the notice of that widow’s death in the paper,” said Jane, taking the reins and leading the carriage horse back down the street. “The article mentioned that she’d been a frequent—and recent—patient at the Hygienic Institute.”
“Interestingly, Mr. Ross was at the cemetery today,” said Celia. “I expect he will be quite upset over the newspaper stories.”
“Hopefully not too upset.”
“We’ve nothing to fear from Mr. Ross, Jane.” I think.
Reaching more level ground, they climbed onto the carriage seat. Celia provided the address of Miss Shaw’s photographic gallery, and Jane steered the tilbury in its direction.
“So tell me why we’re going to Miss Shaw’s studio first,” said Jane.
“Because Mina Cascarino has recalled going to the Institute Wednesday evening, and I have an idea who it was she may have followed there.” Celia relayed what she’d learned about Giulia DiPaolo. “I recognized her at the cemetery, and the probable reason is because I’d seen her photograph at Miss Shaw’s gallery.”
“A photograph doesn’t prove she conspired with Miss Shaw to murder Ambrose Shaw, Celia,” said Jane, much as Addie had done.
“No, but it does prove they knew each other, which could be important in revealing the author of that warning note I received.”
“I’d nearly forgotten about that note.”
“I wish I could.”
Jane steered the horse onto Montgomery, slowing as pedestrians—gingerly stepping around horse droppings not yet cleaned away—crossed the street ahead. “I’m afraid to ask about Miss Campbell’s news.”
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