Deadly Proof: A Victorian San Francisco Mystery

by Locke, M. Louisa

  Nate assumed this was the office Rashers had died in, and he noted that, unlike the rest of the dusty room, the floor had been scrubbed down to the raw wood. Nevertheless, he detected the taint of blood in the air, along with stale cigar smoke. The bank of exterior windows directly across from him was closed shut, which didn’t help matters much.

  Catherine Rashers, a small but very well-endowed woman, stood behind a desk covered with stacks of folders, curling newspaper clippings, and the various accoutrements of a businessman––humidor, small cigar scissors, ashtray, a tin of safety matches, inkwell, a jumble of pens, ruler––and a number of other implements he didn’t recognize and thought were probably unique to the printing business.

  Nate couldn’t get a fix on the age of Joshua Rashers’ widow. His first impression was that she was a middle-aged woman––something about the artificial brightness of the blonde curls under her tall be-feathered straw hat and the sallowness of her skin. Yet her high soprano voice, fluttering eyelashes, and the bows and other fripperies on the black silk dress she wore suggested a much younger woman. He thought the police report said that her two boys were under the age of five, so perhaps she was only in her twenties. Nate wished Annie was here with him. She’d be better able to judge the widow’s true age, and he’d really like her ideas about what the widow hoped to gain by agreeing to meet with him.

  The lawyer, Mr. Glasser, in contrast to his client, was extraordinarily tall, topping Nate’s six feet two by several inches, and he looked as old as Methuselah. Only a few wisps of hair crowned his head, and a straggly beard and mustache barely hid the wrinkles and liver spots that covered his face. He was staring fondly at Mrs. Rashers with his watery pale blue eyes.

  Mrs. Rashers took her seat at the desk chair, which practically swallowed her up, and said, “Please be seated, Mr. Dawson. I trust you don’t mind me having Mr. Glasser join us. He and I were meeting to go over some pressing matters when I mentioned my appointment with you. He seemed to feel that I ought not to see you alone.” She then laughed, as if she had said something amusing.

  Nate said, “Of course I don’t mind, Mrs. Rashers. You are being more than gracious...agreeing to meet with me...given that...”

  “You are representing the woman who killed my husband,” she snapped. Then she batted her eyelashes again, as if to take away the sting of her words.

  Glasser made a soft tsking sound, and Mrs. Rashers ducked her head, bit her underlip, and said, “Oh Fergus, don’t scold. I am sure that this nice Mr. Dawson understands that I am just expressing my opinion. He and anyone else are welcome to try and find some other explanation for why Florence Sullivan was found standing over my husband, her hands covered in his blood.”

  Before Nate could respond, she continued, saying, “I know as a good Christian I should forgive her. For the sake of my poor fatherless sons, I just can’t.”

  Trying to get control of the interview, Nate replied, “I am terribly sorry for your loss, Mrs. Rashers. And I appreciate you taking the time to see me. I am just trying to get a feel for your husband’s business and his relationship with all his employees, including my client.”

  “I am afraid I can’t tell you much about the business. That was my husband’s sphere.” She gave a wan smile and said, “Mr. Glasser will testify to how ignorant I am of all such things. Although, I shall have to learn if I want to salvage anything for my poor boys.” When she looked over at her lawyer, he nodded gravely.

  “And his business associates? He got along with them?” Nate asked.

  “I am sure he did,” she said, then frowned and wrinkled her nose. “Well...Joshua did get impatient with some of the other printers when they complained about losing an account to him.”

  “Any particular...”

  Mrs. Rashers rushed on, saying, “But I am confident that everyone admired him, didn’t they Fergus? Just everyone. He was so clever. And absolutely dedicated to the company.”

  Thinking about the chaise in the corner, Nate said, “I gather he worked long hours. I suppose sometimes he even spent the night when there was a deadline.”

  “You have no idea, Mr. Dawson. I begged him to let the foreman handle more of the day-to-day management of the business. Joshua was never home; he barely saw the boys. Working himself to death.”

  For the first time in this conversation, Nate felt he was getting a hint of Mrs. Rashers’ real feelings as her voice had dropped into a more natural level for a grown woman.

  “And his employees, Mrs. Rashers? Did they admire him as well?”

  She said sharply, “Of course they did. You just ask any of them. He gave them jobs. And on holidays, it was always free beer for the men and a nice fruit cake for the girls’ tea. They will all tell you how much they loved him.”

  “Even Mrs. Sullivan?” asked Nate, curious to see what her response would be to this question.

  *****

  His question about Mrs. Sullivan was the last Nate got to ask Mrs. Rashers because she abruptly stood up and said, “Come in,” to a knock on the office door, and a tall man in a black wrinkled suit entered the office.

  “Mr. Dawson, how fortunate, here is my husband’s foreman, Franklin Griggs,” she said. “He is just the man you need to see. He has been with the firm since the beginning, and he can tell you all you need to know about the employees. Franklin, Mr. Dawson is Mrs. Sullivan’s lawyer. Why don’t you take him next door? Mr. Glasser and I have a few more items to discuss.”

  Nate wondered if she had a way of signaling for Griggs to come rescue her––like a wire pulley system similar to the way you could summon a servant. He wouldn’t put it past Rashers to have set just this sort of thing up to get rid of those pesky competitors who came in to complain about his business practices.

  By no means handsome, Franklin Griggs had a pleasant and engaging smile, and his deep-set brown eyes gave his face a certain gravity, despite a red-veined nose that hinted at a more convivial nature. As seemed true for many men whose hairlines had receded, his full mustache and bushy beard seemed calculated to make up for the lack of hair up top. Nate estimated that he must be in his late fifties or early sixties, given the degree of silver threaded among the brown in his beard and the way his broad shoulders sloped, as if their weight had become too much to bear over the years.

  Griggs stuck out a large calloused hand that was liberally marked with ink and gave Nate a quick handshake, saying, “I will be glad to help you in any way I can. If you will just follow me.”

  Mrs. Rashers, now all smiles, nodded graciously as Nate thanked her for her time. Griggs led him out onto the shop floor and then turned into a door right next to Rashers’ office. They entered what appeared to be a supply room, crammed with shelves holding different-sized paper, replacement ink, and machine parts. On the floor were piles of rags, a mop and pail (with what Nate hoped was rust not blood in the bottom), and numerous boxes.

  Griggs closed the door behind them and led him around one of the stack of boxes that created an alcove holding a small battered desk and two decrepit wooden chairs. The desk faced a set of interior windows similar to those in Rashers’ office, but these were clear of obstructions. Nate looked out and noticed the woman who had escorted him to Rashers’ office pinning up a piece of paper on one of the lines strung across the room. She glanced up and saw him looking at her and gave him a saucy wave.

  Griggs pulled the desk chair around and, sitting down heavily on it, he said, “So, you’re poor Florence’s lawyer. Take a seat. Not much that goes on in this company I don’t know about.”

  Nate dragged the other chair back a bit and sat down, placing his hat carefully on his lap, and noticing that they would now be invisible to people on the shop floor unless someone came right up to the window.

  He said, “I appreciate you taking the time to speak with me. I’m trying to get a handle on just what kind of relationship Mr. Rashers had with his employees, particularly Florence Sullivan. For instance, why do you think Mrs. Rashers is so sur
e my client was responsible for her husband’s death?”

  “Now, that’s a puzzle,” Griggs said, pulling out a whiskey bottle and tumbler from the lower drawer of the file cabinet to his right. He nodded to the bottle and said, “Want a finger-full? Been a long day for me, and it’s about quitting time.”

  Nate shook his head in the negative.

  “No? Suit yourself,” Griggs said, pouring out considerably more than a finger full of the whiskey. “As to what has gotten Mrs. Rashers all fired up...wish I could help you there. To my mind, Florence’d be the last person to kill Joshua.”

  “From the police report, I gather that Mrs. Rashers said Mrs. Sullivan was in love with Mr. Rashers. Supposedly Friday night he was going to tell her she couldn’t work for him anymore...and that was why she killed him.”

  “Well that’s just wrong,” Griggs said, then swiftly drained the glass. “I know for a fact that Rashers was planning on promoting her to the position of forewoman while he was gone. To fill in for me, you see, since I was going to be running the company for him in his absence.”

  Nate leaned forward. “Really? And you’d be willing to testify to that?”

  “Sure, sure. Florence is a first-rate compositor, and when a girl trains under her, she became a first-rate typesetter. Joshua knew that. He’d never fire her.”

  “And you don’t think there is any truth in Mrs. Rasher’s belief that Mrs. Sullivan was in love with him?”

  “Well now, I can’t say what any woman has on her mind. But Florence is a married woman, ain’t she? And she’s not the sort to go and play her husband false.” Griggs stared into the empty glass for a moment, then said, “Course, as a general rule, I don’t think it’s good for women to work once they marry––for just this reason—people can get the wrong idea about things.”

  “Is there any reason why someone, like his wife, might get a wrong idea about the relationship between Mrs. Sullivan and Joshua Rashers?”

  “Old Joshua was a bit of ladies man...but that was just his way. No harm in it. Surely his wife knew that by now. She’s been married to him for near twenty-five years.”

  “Twenty-five years! Are you sure? She...”

  “Doesn’t look it, does she? Met and married him when he came to work in her father’s printing firm. Don’t suppose she was much older than fifteen.”

  “And is that when you first met Mr. Rashers?”

  “No, sir. I met him a few months afterwards, in the beginning of 1856, when he moved over to Whitton and Towne. I was already an apprentice there at the time. He brought me with him in ’68 when he started in business for himself. Been his foreman ever since.”

  “I gathered that you were the last to see him on Friday. Can you tell me about that night?”

  “Yes, yes, I guess I was. The day shift had left as usual about 5:30, although Florence left a little early, I had noticed that. When I finished checking the work that had been done for the day, I stopped by Rashers’ office to tell him I was off.”

  “When was that?”

  “About a quarter after six. That was when he told me that he’d asked Florence to come back to work—some order that had come in at the last minute he wanted her to do.”

  “Was that usual? I mean, why didn’t he have you do it?”

  “I dunno—don’t know what it was. But I wondered at the time if he wasn’t going to bring up his travel plans with her.”

  Nate remembered reading in the police report that a galley proof of an invitation to a “Bon Voyage Party” was found under Rashers’ body, smeared with blood. The police felt this corroborated Mrs. Rashers’ testimony that her husband was going to break the news to Mrs. Sullivan that night that he and his wife were going on a long trip and that she would need to find new employment before he got back. Yet Griggs said Rashers told him he was going to promote her, not fire her.

  “Mr. Griggs, had Rashers already told you about his plans to take a trip with his wife?”

  “Oh yes, of course. There weren’t any secrets between us.”

  “Was this trip somehow unusual?”

  Griggs laughed. “I’ll say. He worked seven days a week making this business successful. His wife had been after him forever to take time off. She wanted to go back east, visit the sights. I think she would have dragged him off to Europe if she could, but he said he couldn’t be away that long.”

  “Do you know what made him decide to go now?”

  “He said that since both boys were now old enough to travel, and the company was doing so well, this was as good a time as any to do it. ‘Get her off my back’ were his exact words. He also told me he thought he might look into whether he could drum up some business with some eastern publishers.”

  “And Friday night...you thought he might be telling Mrs. Sullivan about his plans that night?”

  “Well, yes I did. Just a feeling. But he didn’t say so. Our conversation was about routine stuff. The July Fourth weekend meant we needed to be ready for some last-minute insertions for the Monday papers.”

  “And then you left the shop.”

  “Yes, sir. Said goodbye, went and conveyed a message to Timmons, our large press operator, and walked out with him and his apprentice about six-thirty. Last time I saw Joshua. If I’d just hung around, mebbe...”

  A scowl transformed Griggs’ face, and he muttered, “A damn shame. Cut down in his prime like that...shouldn’t have happened.” Then more loudly he continued, saying, “Florence as the murderer? I just don’t buy it. I mean, who’s to say someone didn’t come in when everyone was away at dinner, looking to see if there was some money in the office, killed him before she even got back?” He scooped up the whiskey bottle and poured out an even more generous amount and briefly looked into the amber depths before drinking it down.

  Nate waited a moment then said, “What do you think will happen with the firm now? Do you think Mrs. Rashers will sell?”

  “Hope not. With children so young, she’s going to need the steady income. Can’t expect a woman like her to run the business by herself, though. I’ll be more than happy to help out. I’ve put a little away over the years, might even invest in the company myself.” He put the glass down on the floor beside the bottle and leaned back in his chair.

  Nate noticed that the thought of helping the widow had restored Griggs’ spirits, and he said, “No doubt your long years with the company will be invaluable. I assume that as foreman you were in charge of the actual work done on the floor, while Rashers spent most of his time on the business end. I didn’t see any sign of any clerical or sales staff. Did he handle all the accounts himself?”

  “Mr. Dawson, I can tell you’ve got a keen eye for how things are. Joshua built up this firm himself, one account at a time. He might not have had any education beyond the fifth grade, but he knew to the penny what it cost to print any job and how much he could charge to under bid the competition and still make a profit. Said men who paid other people to make their decisions for them were damned fools. ”

  “And his employees, did he have much to do with them? Did he, for example, do the hiring and firing?”

  “Florence and I usually looked over anyone applying for a job first––just to weed out the chaff you might say––but you can bet he had the last word.”

  “Mrs. Rashers seemed to think that her husband got along with all his employees. Would you say that was an accurate statement? Any chance one of the other women besides Mrs. Sullivan might have taken exception to Joshua Rashers’ propensity to flirt?”

  Griggs’ scowl returned, and he shook his head. “No, sir. We have a happy shop here. Girls learn a good skill, get room and board in a decent house just a couple of blocks away. Not to say that now and again there wasn’t some dust up between the girls, or one of the boys didn’t play some prank on ‘em that got their noses out of joint. But nothing that Florence or me couldn’t handle.”

  “What about the men? Any trouble there? Someone who might have had a beef with him...maybe someo
ne he let go recently?”

  “Not to my knowledge. Good steady workers, the lot of them.” Griggs shook his head. “Damn, I hope all this with Florence gets straightened out soon. The girls are all upset, which means they make mistakes, and she’s our best proof reader.”

  Nate wished he could reassure Griggs on that matter, but he wasn’t entirely sure anything he had learned today was going to help much, not if Mrs. Sullivan didn’t start cooperating with him. At least if the case went to trial he could get Griggs to testify that Rashers wasn’t planning on firing Mrs. Sullivan. This would undercut Mrs. Rashers’ accusations.

  He also suspected if he dug deep enough that he might find some evidence that Florence Sullivan wasn’t the first woman Joshua had worked with that sparked Catherine Rashers’ jealousy over the twenty-some years of her marriage. The testimony of a perpetually jealous wife wouldn’t be quite as effective with the men on the jury. And maybe Griggs had it right, Rashers was just killed in a run-of-the-mill robbery. He should find out if Rashers ever kept much money in the office. Nate hadn’t noticed a safe there, but there must have been one.

  Griggs suddenly leaned forward and grabbed Nate by the forearm, saying, “Look, give it to me straight. Do you think she did it? It does look bad, doesn’t it? Her being found with the body and all. Did she tell you anything about what happened?”

  Chapter Nine

  Wednesday, late afternoon, July 7, 1880

  “When women first began as type-setters in Boston, the male typesetters struck.” Daily News, June 24, 1899

  “Tell me, Mr. Dawson, where did Mrs. Sullivan get the money to hire a fancy lawyer like you?”