Nate thought of his first grand passion. Esmeralda. He’d attended the very same Calvary Presbyterian church when he was living with his uncle in the mid sixties––only the church had then been on Bush Street, just a block away from his uncle’s law offices on Sansome. Esmeralda’s family sat two pews ahead of theirs but closer to the aisle. He’d spent a good number of Sundays studying her profile and thinking up some way of meeting her outside of church.
“Florence has always been more mature than most women her age,” Sullivan continued. “She’s been supporting her mother since her father died when she was fourteen. She takes her responsibilities very seriously.”
“How long have you been married?”
“Three years. We married in June of 1877.”
“And she has been working for Rashers for how long?”
“Five years.” Sullivan shifted on the bench.
“Did you know her well when she started working there? I wondered what her reasons were for joining that firm,” Nate said.
“I told her about the job. We were both attending Calvary’s adult Sunday School class by that time, and she’d confided in me that the publishing company she’d left the WCPU to work for was being bought out. I’d heard from someone that Rashers was looking for a skilled compositor, so I told her about the job. Worst mistake in my life.”
“Why? From what I heard, your wife made very good money at Rashers.”
“Yes, she made good money. But at what cost?”
Nate waited, hoping Sullivan would expand without more prompting. Another tactic that Cranston had drilled into him. As did most of Cranston’s tactics, it worked.
Sullivan sighed. “At first, I congratulated myself for having done her such a good turn. She came to me one Sunday after she’d worked there for a few weeks and gave me a big hug. Told me how much she loved her new job. The work was challenging but rewarding, Rashers was a wonderful employer who appreciated her skills, the pay was going to let her move into better accommodations for her mother. She just...I don’t know...it was as if she were suddenly brighter...like someone had turned up the wick in a lamp.”
“You said ‘at first.’ Then what happened?”
“About a month later, she stopped attending Sunday school. When I asked her about it after services one Sunday, she said the new job required her to work longer hours and she needed to spend more time with her mother on her day off. I asked if I could walk her home from work, but again she said she was too busy...her hours were too erratic. But she seemed different. Like whatever the source of the light—it was burning her out. I thought at the time she was just working too much.”
Nate again let silence do its job, and Sullivan went on in a rush. “Finally, one evening, I waited for her outside Rashers. I told her I loved her and that if we married she wouldn’t have to work as many hours, maybe she could even quit working and take care of her mother full time.”
Nate shook his head in sympathy and said, “If your wife is anything like my fiancé, I can bet that didn’t go over well.”
Sullivan looked surprised, then sighed again. “No it didn’t. She got very upset. Said she was sorry, but she just didn’t ‘think of me that way.’ She started to cry...made me feel like a complete idiot. Particularly when she stopped going to Sunday services. I felt like I had driven her away from church.”
“Obviously something changed or you wouldn’t be married.”
“Not for a year. I asked for the night shift at the Call. It was better money, and it kept me from the temptation of trying to see her. That was a bad year. Hard to get used to night work. Most of the fellows I’d gotten to know worked days...so it was pretty lonely.”
“And then?”
“Then she showed up at church again. Looked terrible. Thin, well thinner. And that light had gone out.” Sullivan looked over at Nate and said, “I think Rashers did something to her. But she would never tell me what happened. And I never saw that light in her again.”
Chapter Twelve
Friday, evening, July 9, 1880
“Compositors arrange their type in this backward fashion, the type being reversed by the process of printing.” J. Tyndall, Notes on Light, 1869
“He said Rashers’ did something to her? Like what?” Annie again sat across from Nate at Montaigne’s Steak House, and as usual, Miss Pinehurst had reserved them a table tucked away in a secluded corner.
He replied, “I couldn’t get him to tell me what he thought happened.”
“Let me see if I understand. Florence starts working as a typesetter for Rashers in 1875, and according to Alan Sullivan, she loves the job. More than that, this serious young woman positively glowed with happiness. She also stops going to church. As if she felt guilty about something. A year later, she shows back up at church, but no longer happy, quite the opposite.”
“Yes, that is about it,” he said.
“Sure sounds to me like she fell in love with Rashers and then something happened. I suppose he might have rejected her. Although her absence from church sounds more like they were in a full-blown affair. If Mrs. Pitts Stevens suspects that—it certainly would make sense that after the Laura Fair trial she wouldn’t want to be directly involved again in a case of a woman killing her married lover.”
She thought for a moment, then said, “Yet it appears that whatever occurred, it happened within the first year of her employment. And yet she stayed working for him and kills him...four years later? That part doesn’t make sense.”
Annie didn’t have any personal experience with unrequited love, but as Madam Sibyl, she’d counseled one woman with a hopeless passion for her very married pastor. This young woman spent much more time thinking about taking her own life than killing the object of her affection.
“Well, something happened four years ago,” Nate said, “And her husband said it killed her spirit. Killed his spirit too, if I am any judge. There was no emotion in his voice when he told me about how he finally got her to marry him. Like he was talking about someone else.”
“How did he get her to change her mind?”
“Mostly he talked about how patient he was, willing only to see her on Sundays, walk her home from church. One day, she asked him if he could come in to fix a window that wasn’t shutting properly and was leaving her mother in a draft. Her mother invited him to stay for Sunday dinner, which became a habit. Then Mrs. Sullivan’s mother got quite ill, and he offered to stop by midday to check on her. Well...at some point he renewed his offer of marriage and she accepted.”
“That’s right. Iris Bailor told me he just wore her down. She didn’t think much of him...called him a weakling.”
Nate laughed and said, “Well I got the distinct impression that he didn’t think much of Miss Bailor.” More somberly, he added, “I don’t think there is any question that he loves his wife. What I don’t know is if she loves him.”
Annie thought about the months after she had rejected Nate’s first marriage proposal, how he struggled to maintain and strengthen their friendship without pressuring her. How awful it would have been if he had made her feel guilty for not saying yes. Or if she’d only agreed to marry him because she thought she owed him something.
Annie sighed and said, “How sad.” She leaned over and took his hand in hers. “At least we don’t need to wonder if one of us really loves the other, do we?”
Nate smiled and squeezed her hand tightly, and the stream of joy that lately ran just below the surface bubbled up. Sometimes she wondered what would happen when they were finally married and truly together as husband and wife. Would that stream subside...or threaten to sweep them away?
The waiter approached their table with a laden tray, and she reluctantly let go of Nate’s hand.
Once the waiter left, Nate changed the subject, saying, “What about your meeting with Miss Bailor? Did she saying anything specific about Rashers and Mrs. Sullivan?”
“No, besides saying the same thing she said to Laura, that it was impossible t
hat Florence was the murderer. She seemed to think that we would do better to look for the killer among his business associates or the typographical union. Said that there were competitors out there who would be happy to see Rashers dead because he had ruined them with his sharp practices.”
Nate paused with his fork in midair and said, “Really, did she give you any examples?”
“I have some names. If you stop by the boarding house after dinner, I will give them to you. But let’s get back to the question of whether or not Florence was in love with Rashers. When I talked to the owner of the WCPU, Mrs. Richmond, she gave me the impression that he pretty much flirted with anything in skirts—so it is quite possible Florence was one of his conquests. Mrs. Richmond was quite firm, however, that she didn’t think he would actually have an affair.”
“Not according to Seth Timmons.”
“Really, you spoke with Seth? Did he ask about Laura?”
“I met him during his dinner hour, and what he had to say about Rashers was really enlightening. And yes, he asked after Laura. He was surprised to learn she was working as a typesetter, but not surprised she’d looked for work outside of teaching.”
“Did you tell her where she is working?”
“Yes, and I immediately kicked myself for giving him that detail...not knowing how they left things. Do you think she’s going to be angry?”
“I doubt it. I mean, it isn’t as if Seth doesn’t know where she lives...if he wanted to get hold of her. Something she said to me made it sound like he was the one who decided not to pursue the friendship. I wonder why?”
“Could be as simple as he didn’t have time. Man was working two jobs most of the spring,” Nate said.
Things are never that simple, thought Annie. Poor Laura.
Last year had been a difficult one for Nate’s sister. First, she weathered a challenging fall term teaching in a rural school, harassed by one of her older students. Then she suffered the loss of her best friend just as she was adjusting to teaching in the San Francisco public schools and trying to figure out who had assaulted her in the alley behind Annie’s boarding house. Throughout all these events, Seth Timmons had been there, an enigmatic presence that Laura never quite understood or ever quite trusted, until he’d proven her savior.
Annie looked over at Nate, carefully cutting up the steak that he’d ordered garnished with mushrooms. She made a mental note to tell Beatrice about this preference. For some reason she’d never taken a liking to these fungi, so her cook left them off when serving Annie. There was still so much to learn about her husband-to-be.
“Aren’t you interested in what Seth had to say?” Nate put the fork down and smiled at her.
“Of course. I was just thinking about how much fun Beatrice is going to have cooking for you. You know she is already trying to figure out how many eggs it will take to make the wedding cake. We really do need to decide who we are going to invite to the wedding festivities.”
“When we get back to the boarding house, we can be very organized and make lists. But in the meantime, I told Mrs. Sullivan I would come see her this weekend, and I would like to be able to tell her that I have made some progress in building her defense.”
“Which means that you need to undercut Mrs. Rashers’ testimony, at the very least. What did Seth say about her accusations?”
“Like Iris Bailor, he insists it isn’t in her nature to kill anyone. He also pointed out that Rashers was a big man and physically fit. Said he didn’t think that any woman, much less a slight woman like Mrs. Sullivan, would be able to kill him. But one of Cranston’s cases that I worked on was defending a woman who assaulted her husband, with good cause I might add. She was less than 5’ tall, and he was a giant of a man. But a kitchen knife in the right hands can be pretty damaging—if the victim lets you get close enough. One of the reasons I need to see the doctor who did the autopsy is to see if a woman, wielding a sharp instrument like the bodkin, could have done it.”
“But what about the idea that Florence and Rashers might have had an affair?”
“He thought it unlikely. In his opinion, she didn’t much like Rashers and kept their relationship very businesslike. But that doesn’t preclude something having happened in the past. However, he named three different women, two who work in the same building, that he believes Rashers was involved with in some sort of on-going dalliance.”
“Oh Nate, if you could prove that––it would go a long way to weaken Catherine Rashers’ testimony against Florence.”
“That’s my hope. I don’t think Chief Jackson likes the fact that he hasn’t been able to get a confession out of Mrs. Sullivan. He will be even more uneasy if I come up with some alternative suspects since right now all the evidence they have is circumstantial. I am hoping he will look into the question of whether or not any of the businessmen that Rashers ruined could have killed him out of revenge.”
“Did you discover anything else in your visit to Rashers?”
“I learned that Franklin Griggs, Rashers’ foreman, knew about the trip that he was planning on taking with his wife but that he’d heard nothing about his boss intending on firing Mrs. Sullivan. Both he and Seth thought that the idea was preposterous. Said that Rashers needed her too much––particularly if he was going to be away for any length of time. Evidently she is not only a superior compositor, who can lend her hand to any part of the printing business, but she seems to have handled the basic accounting and helped put out with the weekly pay packets.”
Annie put down the glass of water she’d just raised and said, “Well, that explains why Mrs. Richmond, who considers herself a friend of Catherine Rashers, asked if she might give my name to her as an accountant. I thought it was very odd that the company didn’t already have someone they worked with. As I wrote to you, I told her I would have to think about it since I was afraid you might feel this would be a conflict of interest.”
Nate said, “When I met with Mrs. Rashers, I kept thinking how much I wished you were with me. I just couldn’t get a lead on her. But if you were to meet with her––even if she didn’t end up hiring you––that would be a great help. I can’t see why it would be unethical, as long as you told her about your engagement to me. Anything you learned directly from her would be hearsay anyway—so I couldn’t actually use any testimony from you. But I sure could benefit from your impressions of her.”
“Then, I will tell Mrs. Richmond to forward my name and hope I do get that meeting.”
“Try to find out what she plans to do with the business. The foreman seemed to hope she intended on running it herself...with him as manager.”
“That’s interesting. Mrs. Richmond did say Mrs. Rashers has always had controlling interest in the firm...which is why she believes that Rashers wouldn’t have ever crossed his wife by having an affair.”
“But if Seth is correct, he frequently has dalliances with other women—which gives his widow a good motive for killing him herself.” Nate speared the last bite of his steak.
“And blaming the woman she saw as her chief rival for the murder,” said Annie, who then had a thought. “If she agrees to hire me, it could be her way of keeping tabs on you...using me to find out what sort of defense you are mounting. I hadn’t thought of that.”
Nate leaned over and took her hand, twisting the sapphire ring slightly on her finger. “I don’t have to tell you to be careful, do I? Now that I apparently have asked you to start meeting with someone capable of killing her husband.”
Annie smiled and said, “Of course not. I would hate for anything to happen before the wedding. Beatrice would be so upset if she didn’t get to make you that cake.”
Chapter Thirteen
Saturday, morning, July 10, 1880
“Medical Testimony Favorable for the Defendant: The testimony, with one exception, was entirely of a medical character.” San Francisco Chronicle, February 28, 1879
“Please do be seated, Mr. Dawson,” said Dr. Charles Blach as he removed a white
cotton coat, throwing it in a wicker basket. “I understood from your letter that you are representing the woman who has been arrested for the murder of Joshua Rashers.”
“Yes, Mrs. Florence Sullivan. I appreciate you seeing me this morning,” said Nate. “I am hoping that you will be able to clarify some of the details in the autopsy report.”
He sat down and watched as Blach carefully washed and dried his hands at an enamel washbasin on a metal washstand. He then put on a black frock coat that hung on the back of the office door before coming to sit on the other side of his desk from Nate. The faint scent of carbolic acid followed him.
Blach’s office was neat and tidy, reflecting the man himself. Tall, balding, with a squared-off face, serious gray eyes, and pale almost translucent skin, he was clean-shaven, except for the gray sideburns that came down to his jaw. His coat, subdued vest of silver and gray, and his black cravat all looked expensive and spotless, while his starched shirt was as white and crisp as newly fallen snow.
Next to him, Nate felt the slightest bit scruffy since the work of Mrs. McPherson’s maid often left much to be desired in the laundry department. When he first started courting Annie, he asked what he had done to cause her maid Kathleen to frown at him so. She’d laughed and said Kathleen was displeased by the slightly grey cast of his cuffs, not by him. He suspected that once married, he would find his whole wardrobe quickly refurbished and renewed to meet Miss Kathleen’s exacting standards.
“I am afraid my initial notes were probably not very illuminating,” Blach said with a slight smile. “As you can see, I usually see patients on Saturday mornings. I am afraid my initial examination last week was done fairly hastily because I had a patient with a nasty burn from a fireworks accident that I was scheduled to see at ten. Anyway, the main purpose of my initial examination of the body was to confirm that the cause of death was not due to natural causes or self-inflicted and that there was no need to call the coroners’ jury to confirm that ruling. Not that we could have rounded them all up on the July Fourth weekend, anyway.”
Deadly Proof: A Victorian San Francisco Mystery Page 13
