“Wraps up that part of our investigation.” He gestured for her to take a chair and closed the door behind her. “Have to say, Mrs. Davies, you once again beat me to the solution.”
He took his chair and leaned back, happy the room was empty except for the two of them. Which meant it didn’t feel empty at all.
“You were only a few minutes behind me, Mr. Greaves,” she said. “You’d reasoned as I had that the Hygienic Institute held the answer to who’d caused Mr. Shaw’s death and murdered Mrs. Wynn.”
“I’d searched that supply closet for chloroform bottles yesterday—not as thoroughly as you did, apparently—and noticed the stack of handkerchiefs kept there. Did you see them?”
She inclined her head. “I did.”
“A couple are identical to the one Harris discovered wedged beneath Shaw’s body. I’d been interrupted while examining the contents of that room—by Mary Ann Newcomb, as it turns out—and didn’t pay enough attention to those handkerchiefs. Almost forgot about them entirely until I saw the handkerchief Miss DiPaolo had on her when we brought her into the station,” he said. “By the way, she’s admitted that she went to Shaw’s room Wednesday. Got inside the building with the key Rebecca Shaw had taken and Miss Campbell, acting as intermediary, had handed over. And she was the woman you saw with Rebecca Shaw.”
“What were their intentions?” she asked. “Murder?”
“No.” He explained about the document supposedly proving Giulia DiPaolo had been part of a common-law marriage. “There wasn’t any document, though. A story fabricated by Leonard Shaw and Briggs to shake off an undesirable dalliance. She went to search for it, only to find Shaw dead.”
“She must have panicked,” said Mrs. Davies. “And then to encounter Mina out in the alleyway . . .”
“A brief altercation that got out of hand,” he said. “I apologize for ever thinking Mina killed Shaw.”
“You should tell her that, not me, Mr. Greaves.”
“The less Mina Cascarino sees me, Mrs. Davies, the better.” But he should apologize to her. Again.
“I admit that I was upset with you for insisting Mina was guilty,” she said. “But the evidence was damning.”
She smiled, offering her forgiveness, which he readily accepted. Maybe even hungrily accepted. He’d take anyone’s forgiveness of his weaknesses, his mistakes, since he never forgave himself.
“Thank you, ma’am.”
“Yet you trusted Miss DiPaolo’s story. Why?”
“She admitted that she’d lied about seeing Platt,” he said. “I’ve never met a criminal who willingly retracted the alibi they’d conceived. She wanted to fess up. I did trust her, and my instincts.”
“Luckily for her,” she replied, shifting in her chair to get more comfortable, the scent of lavender—ever-present on her clothes and in her hair—wafting over. He might be imagining the aroma, given the stink all around, but he inhaled deeply anyway. “And when you realized the handkerchief found by Dr. Harris had come from the supplies at the Institute, you reasoned that Mr. Ross had actually been the perpetrator.”
“Yes, I did. Even though I was wrong, as it turned out.”
“I wonder if Mr. Shaw had demanded that Miss Newcomb administer the chloroform,” she said. “His daughter told me of his difficulty sleeping. Mr. Ross had refused to help, but Mary Ann was clearly persuaded.”
“She decided on her own to murder Althea Wynn,” he said. “No wonder she was shaking like a leaf yesterday morning when I interviewed her here. She’d just come from killing her friend.”
“She’d acted out of fear, Mr. Greaves.”
“A common excuse, ma’am.” Not one a judge would be all that sympathetic to.
She sighed. “I suppose I should send Mr. Blanchard a contrite note, begging his pardon for nosing around in his house in search of chloroform.”
Nick lifted an eyebrow. “Contrite, Mrs. Davies?”
“Apologetic, Mr. Greaves,” she corrected. “For reading too much into the offhand comments of a young woman who is inadvisedly in love with the man.”
“Both Miss Campbell and Miss Shaw,” he said. “Even though Blanchard is married.”
“Love does not always choose the wisest path, Mr. Greaves,” she replied softly.
Her gaze locked on his, lingered. He clenched his jaw against the desire to jump up and gather her in his arms, forget that her husband had come back to haunt them, show her that he would never cease loving her. Instead, he resisted, and her gaze flickered away, a wistful smile on her lips. Damn.
“I hope Giulia DiPaolo gives up on pursuing Leonard Shaw,” he said, escaping into the details of the case. Where he too often found himself. Cold comfort. “He’s not worth her while. Plus, his family won’t let her win. Even more so, now that he’s taken charge of the bank.”
“Will she be punished for her part in the crime?” asked Mrs. Davies.
“Only if Mina presses charges,” he said. “And it seems unlikely Ross will be interested in accusing Miss DiPaolo of trespassing. I’m sure he wants to put all of this behind him as quickly as possible.”
“No doubt,” she said. “Oh, I have forgotten to tell you that I promised Owen you’d speak to his employer, who has dismissed him from his position. Please inform Mr. Roesler that Owen was acting on police business when he provided me with the list of people who’d received gifts of candy from Mr. Shaw.”
“You told him I’d do that?”
She grinned wickedly. “I trust you shall be persuasive.”
He laughed. “All right, I will,” he said. “And you tell that Irish kid to keep away from Caleb Griffin before he finds himself in genuine trouble with the law.”
“All right, I will.” She stood and extended her hand. “It has been a pleasure, Mr. Greaves. Another case concluded, though I pray it is my final case. As do Barbara and Addie, I am sure.”
He got to his feet and took her gloved hand, the warmth of her skin filtering through the thin crocheted cotton. He wanted to hold on forever. “I expect it won’t be your final case, ma’am.”
“It must be.” She withdrew her hand from his grip. “I told you last time when we said goodbye that it would not be forever, Nicholas, but I was wrong to wish for an impossibility. You and I both know it is hopeless.”
His head ached. His chest ached. His heart . . . ached. “What are we to do, Celia?”
“Remain friends.” Her lovely pale eyes examined his face as if memorizing every line. “Good friends.”
“I do suspect, ma’am, we’ll see each other again.”
“Take care of yourself, Nicholas,” she replied sadly, sweeping from the room, leaving nothing but a whisper of the fragrance she wore behind.
• • •
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Davies.” Libby Campbell held tight to her weak arm, her shoulders slumping. The wind coming up Vallejo whipped a loose strand of her hair across her cheek. “I should’ve told you that I gave Mr. Shaw’s key to Giulia, the key Rebecca had taken from his room at the Institute. That I knew what Giulia intended to do.”
“It was a dangerous plan, Miss Campbell,” Celia replied, studying the other woman’s face to gauge the sincerity of her apology. “A young woman I care about suffered a serious concussion because of Miss DiPaolo.”
“That wasn’t supposed to happen, but Giulia was in such a state after finding Mr. Shaw dead . . .” She stared out at the street. “She stopped by my place Thursday, questioning if Rebecca could have done it. I had to wonder, too, especially after Rebecca told me you’d been asking questions. I was afraid for her, for all of us, but I shouldn’t have left that note.”
“It came from you.”
She nodded. “That was stupid of me. I hope you didn’t get too scared.”
“The note did alarm Addie.” So many acts of subterfuge by so many people. “Were you with Mr. Blanchard Wednesday evening, Libby?”
She paused before answering. “I went to his house on a whim. But I saw Rebecca coming out,
running down the front steps,” she said. “She begged me to forget I’d seen her. So I came up with a story that might protect them both.”
“Oh, Libby.” Another young woman desperate for love, and searching in the wrong place. She could hardly condemn Libby’s poor judgment when she herself, a married woman, had fallen in love with another man.
Miss Campbell’s eyes met hers. “I’ve come to a decision about my employment here, Mrs. Davies,” she said. “I’ve decided it’s best I no longer continue. Given all that’s happened.”
“Perhaps that is the right decision,” Celia replied.
Tears shimmered in her eyes. “Give Barbara my regards. She was going to be the most wonderful student.”
“I shall, Miss Campbell. Best of luck to you,” she said and held out her hand.
Miss Campbell briefly took it before retreating down the front steps and walking off. Inside, Addie was waiting in the entry hall, a tray with a teapot and cup in her hands.
“What has Miss Campbell to say for herself?” she asked, trailing Celia into her examination room.
“She withdrew from her position here, sadly, but not before apologizing for her role in assisting Miss DiPaolo’s scheme and for being the author of that note I found. She seemed sincere,” she answered. “I do not believe, though, that she feels sorry for having claimed to be with Mr. Blanchard. She loves him.”
Addie tutted and set the tray on the desk. “Weel, that’s done for, at least. And I trust you and Mrs. Hutchinson are finished with interfering in police business, ma’am.”
“Addie, you are beginning to sound like Mr. Greaves,” she replied, smiling. Chasing away the fleeting recollection of the look on his face when she’d bid him goodbye. “I’ve no further intentions of becoming involved in police business. I need to concentrate on my clinic. I have been neglecting it and my patients, of late.”
“I am glad to hear you say so,” said her housekeeper, pouring out some tea, its smoky aroma drifting over. Freshly brewed souchong. “I’ve an apple pudding planned to go with dinner tonight.”
“Sounds delicious. I am famished.”
Addie retreated to the kitchen, leaving Celia to enjoy the tick of the entry hall case clock, children laughing as they played on the street, Barbara calling out that she was headed to the back garden to read. Take it all in, Celia. This is your life and it is a good one. She must not wallow in thoughts of how it could be better.
She dragged over her stack of patients’ records and began to review them. The clang of the front doorbell interrupted her.
“I’m up to my elbows in flour, ma’am,” called Addie from the kitchen. “Do you need me to answer?”
“No, I shall go, Addie.” Celia got up from her desk. She was not expecting a patient, but women often arrived without an appointment and she was always prepared to assist. “Finish what you are doing.”
“Aye, ma’am.”
Celia fixed a welcoming smile on her face and pulled open the door. “How can I—”
The man who stood on the threshold stopped her cold.
“Hello, Celia,” he said, his Irish lilt deceptively warm, his blue eyes as bright as she remembered, his broad grin, teasing. “Glad to see your old husband?”
Author’s Note
I have always had a fascination with the forms of medicine practiced in history, and have often written alternate medical therapies into my books. Among all the various methods I’ve touched on, the water cure was relatively innocuous and its emphasis on pure water bathing and a simple diet may have even promoted healing. In 1867, there were four individuals offering the water cure in San Francisco, but by the 1880s the fad had died out in the city. By the 1890s, it had faded away in the rest of the country as well.
In this series, I have also occasionally alluded to the fallout from the Civil War, not just as it affects Nick. The September 1867 state elections saw unexpected losses for Lincoln’s Republican party in several races, not just California’s. The fight to ratify the 14th Amendment, which would provide citizenship to anyone born in the U.S., had stirred animosity among Americans who felt threatened by the prospect of former slaves becoming equals. Californians dreaded the possibility that Chinese people born in America might also become citizens, and folks rallied to vote and show their opposition. Despite their success in 1867, the 14th Amendment would be passed in 1868 and the national election for president would see Republican U. S. Grant elected that same year. In 1870, the 15th Amendment would grant every citizen the right to vote, including former slaves. But not women. That right would be another fifty years in the making.
Books by Nancy Herriman
Mysteries of Old San Francisco
No Comfort for the Lost
No Pity for the Dead
No Quiet among the Shadows
No Darkness as Like Death
Bess Ellyott Mysteries
Searcher of the Dead
A Fall of Shadows
Stand-Alone Novels
Josiah’s Treasure
The Irish Healer
About the Author
Nancy Herriman left an engineering career to take up the pen and has never looked back. She is the author of the Mysteries of Old San Francisco, the Bess Ellyott Mysteries, and several stand-alone novels. A winner of the Daphne du Maurier Award, when she’s not writing, she enjoys singing, gabbing about writing, and eating dark chocolate. After two decades in Arizona, she now lives in her home state of Ohio with her family.
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