Deadly Proof: A Victorian San Francisco Mystery

by Locke, M. Louisa

  Once Griggs left the office to go back on the floor, she calculated what each employee made per week over the past six months. As one of the typesetters had told Nate, Florence Sullivan was making an unusually generous wage for a woman––$22 a week––identical to Griggs’ weekly salary. This meant they both made nearly ninety dollars a month, a very respectable salary.

  And it was a good deal more than the typesetter––Orrie Childers––made. When pretty raven-haired Miss Childers showed up at the office door first thing this morning, asking a clearly fabricated question of Griggs, Annie immediately recognized her from Nate’s description. He’d called her a pert little gossip. Miss Childers was one of the three full-time typesetters, and apparently she was the slowest of the three since she seemed to be averaging only $12 a week. Perhaps her propensity to gossip was getting in the way of her productivity.

  When Annie looked at the wages of the two full-time pressmen, who were, according to Griggs, paid standard union shop wages, she saw that Seth Timmons made $30 a week, five dollars a week more than the day pressman. This added up to a very substantial monthly amount––certainly more than he would make teaching in one of the city’s primary grades, which was the job he held last spring.

  However, it was when she took a good look at the contracts for the five young female apprentice typesetters that she finally understood what Iris Bailor, the WCPU forewoman, meant when she said that Rashers was able to undercut his competitors because he paid his apprentices such low wages.

  The two apprentices who were finishing up their first year with Rashers, under the terms of the contract, only averaged two dollars a week in wages and––even though they got free room and board—this was a pitiful amount. A servant, like Kathleen, who also got part of her wages in room and board, made seven dollars a week. The five female apprentices shared one room at a nearby boarding house, and Annie had already discovered in the accounts that Rashers paid that boarding house keeper only a dollar-fifty a girl per week for their lodging and meals. Annie suspected that the meals the poor apprentices got at their boarding house were as unappetizing as the mattresses they shared were lumpy.

  By the time an apprentice entered her fourth year working for Rashers under the contract, they were still only making slightly less than six dollars a week—even though by that time they should have achieved the skill level of a typesetter like Orrie Childers.

  If other printers paid their apprentices more and had fewer of them, this represented a real disadvantage in terms of their labor costs when competing against Rashers, who was getting half of his typesetting done for half the cost. No wonder he’d been able to charge clients less and still make a profit.

  Annie was even more shocked when she read the fine print of the contract. Rashers was taking ten percent of these girls’ wages out of each pay packet—supposedly to guarantee that they would stay for the four full years of the contract. How many of these poor girls actually ended up quitting before the four years were up, never getting that money back?

  It would be easy for an employer like Rashers to make the workplace suddenly so intolerable for a young woman that she would decide it was worth it to forfeit the money to get away. Particularly if there were work available elsewhere for significantly higher wages. Then he could sign up a new apprentice who would cost him almost a third less than the apprentice who’d just quit.

  She would need to check to see if her speculations were correct about what other printers were paying their workers, but if she were—this certainly did seem like an adequate motivation for a business competitor to want Rashers dead. And what might a young female apprentice do if she suddenly realized how badly Rashers had been exploiting her?

  *****

  Laura used the walk up Montgomery Street to Clay to stretch out her tired limbs. She’d put in a good ten hours of work today at the WCPU, maintaining a pace of typesetting at 1000 ems per hour of lean copy. Even more rewarding, Iris praised the job she did composing the layout for the legal brief she was working on and found only one typographical error in the proof she pulled. She enjoyed working on the legal briefs. They gave her something to talk about with her brother Nate, and it felt like good preparation for law school, which was her ultimate goal in trying to get into the University of California. The entrance exam was just a little over two weeks away, and she’d been studying with Kitty and Ned almost every evening, so she was beginning to feel more confident of success.

  Crossing the street at Clay and turning towards the Niantic, she felt a pleasant warmth from the sun, which at this time in the early evening was still high enough in the sky for its beams to skim over the top of the tall five-story buildings along Clay. She only wished the day’s heat hadn’t had its usual effect on the dung that littered this busy street. Why was it that on the ranch she was never bothered by the smell of manure, but here in the city she found it offensive?

  Wrinkling her nose, she hurried down towards the front entrance of the Niantic. When she had dinner with Seth on Monday, he’d told her that one of Rashers’ dalliances, Miss Von Klepp, was the forewoman at the cigar box factory on the building’s fourth floor. She hoped to be able to talk to her about Rashers, but she didn’t want to explain to Seth why she was there, which was why she was avoiding the side entrance.

  Laura hated the idea of other poor working women finding their names in the papers, which could happen if her brother called them to testify, but she saw how their testimony could undercut Mrs. Rashers’ accusations against Mrs. Sullivan. Seth admitted the reason he mentioned the box factory forewoman to Nate was because he thought this proved that Florence wasn’t romantically interested in Rashers. He’d said to Laura, “It’s not as if Mrs. Sullivan wasn’t aware of the flirtation going on between Rashers and Miss Von Klepp. But I’ve never seen any animosity between the two women.”

  Today, Laura was going to test Seth’s theory. Her plan was to introduce herself as a fellow typesetter interested in clearing Florence’s good name. She thought she would just ask if the forewoman or any of the box-factory workers noticed any strangers on the stairwell when they went out to dinner on the Friday night in question. If Seth were right, Miss Von Klepp wouldn’t exhibit any outright hostility, and at the very least maybe she’d offer something Nate could use in the trial—like some mysterious hoodlum lurking on the stairs.

  Laura was worried about the coming trial. This would be Nate’s first big case, and as far as she could tell, there was a very good chance he might not be able to keep his client from being found guilty. Besides not being good for his reputation as a defense lawyer, what a terrible burden that would be—to think that you were responsible for an innocent woman going to prison. If Florence Sullivan was innocent.

  Laura wasn’t so sure about that. Seth was convinced Mrs. Sullivan wasn’t in love with Rashers, but from what Iris told her, she certainly had been. What she couldn’t understand was what would have attracted her to a man over twenty years older. Even if everyone said he was handsome and charming, he would be old enough to be her own father. It was one thing to have a few years difference between a man and a woman—for instance Nate was three years older than Annie and Seth couldn’t be more than ten...

  Anyway, Iris thought one of Rashers’ attractions for Florence was his age—that she was looking for a father figure, since her own father had died when she was so young. Laura could see why a young woman might idolize Rashers––she and her friend Hattie had developed quite the grand passion for dear old Professor Thicke at San Jose Normal. But be intimate with him? Laura shuddered at the very thought.

  Five minutes later, all thoughts of the inexplicable nature of the attraction between a man and a woman were blasted from Laura’s head as she stood at the doorway to J. P. Austin’s Cigar Box Factory. The noise was deafening. There was the whine of two big steam-powered saws at the back of the room, where men were cutting what smelled like cedar into different-sized pieces of wood. Then there was the cacophonous sound of ten hammers
wielded by young men who were nailing the pieces of wood into boxes. Finally, the voices of at least fifty women who chatted while they pasted paper into the insides and outsides the assembled boxes added a garbled soprano melody to the mix. If Laura had to work in this environment, she’d go mad.

  “May I help you?” shouted a short buxom blonde who had the pink cheeks and blue eyes of a Dutch doll.

  “Yes, please. I hoped to speak with the forewoman, but I wonder if there is somewhere else we could go where I wouldn’t have to yell?”

  The Dutch doll, who did indeed turn out to be Miss Von Klepp, led her into a small room with glass windows looking over the rows of working women and shut the door, muting the factory noise to a reasonable level. Laura introduced herself as a typographer for the WCPU, who also happened to be the sister of the lawyer defending Mrs. Sullivan.

  To her delight, Von Klepp’s reaction was to shake her hand enthusiastically, saying, “I am so glad to hear someone is helping her. I couldn’t believe it when I found out that she’d been arrested. Is there anything I can do to help?”

  Laura, trying to be polite, first expressed how intrigued she was with the work the women were doing on the shop floor before launching into her questions about the night Rashers died. This turned out to be the way to the forewoman’s heart. By the time Miss Von Klepp finished giving Laura a verbal tour of the factory, she’d learned that the standard size box held one hundred cigars and was made from six separate pieces of cedar, fourteen nails, and a muslin hinge. That all twelve sides of the boxes themselves were lined with paper, inside and out, and that they displayed not only a variety of advertisements but also a factory identification, a federal tax stamp, and a notice cautioning against the reuse of the box.

  She also discovered that, not surprisingly, Rashers did the printing for the labels the women were so busily affixing to the boxes. This led nicely into her first question about what Miss Von Klepp thought about Joshua Rashers.

  Her pink cheeks rounded even more, and she chuckled. “Well, I confess I am sorry that he’s died. He was a right old so and so, and I wouldn’t want to work for him, but he made me laugh. And he gave me a good price on the cost of printing up the labels—which made my boss very happy.”

  “Did you know that it was Mrs. Rashers who accused Florence Sullivan of killing her husband?” Laura asked. “Suggested that she played the part of the ‘woman scorned.’”

  “No! What a load of nonsense. Not to say that things weren’t complicated between the two of them. When Rashers first started inviting me in for a smoke, she took me aside and warned me that his intentions weren’t entirely honorable. I assured her that I didn’t mind a little fun—livened up my day––if I got something out of it. I do know she felt protective of the girls under her, made sure he was never alone with them.

  “But she didn’t seem at all jealous of you?”

  “She seemed more sad than angry. Like he had disappointed her again. She once said to me that he could be such a better man if he didn’t worship the almighty dollar so much.”

  “Did Mr. Rashers ever give you any idea about what his relationship was like with his wife?”

  “I didn’t ask, and he didn’t say. My experience is that men of his class don’t really see their relationships with other women as any business of their wives. But from what you say, sounds like she did take an interest. I wondered why old Griggs was so cagey when I asked if the widow would be willing to maintain the same charges for the label print runs.”

  “She’s insisting that she completely trusted her husband,” said Laura.

  Miss Von Klepp laughed. “Well she’s either a fool or a liar. But in either case, I better suggest to my boss that he be the one to speak to her. She might not respond well to overtures on my part.”

  Well-satisfied with what she’d learned, Laura said she wouldn’t keep Miss Von Klepp away from her duties, if she could just ask one more question. “I understand that there is some sort of dinner break for the women at 6:30. I wondered if, on the Friday Rashers was killed, you or any of your workers noticed anybody hanging around the stairs who seemed out of place?”

  “In the summer, I usually leave about that time. Sometimes I even stopped by to see old Joshua if I felt the need for a laugh or a free smoke before I went home. But not that night. As a sort of early July Fourth celebration, I went out to eat with some of the girls. I didn’t see anyone unusual—just Griggs and that handsome pressman and his apprentice. But I will certainly ask everyone. I assume it would help Florence if we could come up with a nasty-looking stranger to blame the murder on.”

  *****

  The lively Miss Van Klepp insisted Laura come out and meet some of the girls on the factory floor before she left. As a result, she didn’t realize what time it was when she exited the cigar box factory. That was the excuse she gave herself later for her decision to take the back stairs that led out to the Clay Street entrance. In consequence, she ran into Seth in the stairwell.

  Of course, she felt she needed to explain why she was at the Niantic––to make it clear she wasn’t there to see him. When they got to the street, she said she needed to hurry home because Mrs. O’Rourke was expecting her to be there for dinner––just in case he thought she was angling for a dinner invitation. He simply nodded and then announced he would walk her to the corner of Kearney and Clay, where she would get the North Beach and Mission car home. Standing at the next corner, waiting for a break in the traffic going down Montgomery, he said, “What did you think of Miss Von Klepp?”

  “I quite liked her.” Laura said. “She reminds me a little of my own forewoman, Iris Bailor––competent and very sure of herself. But she did say something that I thought was interesting. She said she thought Florence Sullivan didn’t love or hate Rashers...but that she was disappointed in him.”

  “Disappointed that he’d decided to fire her—as Mrs. Rashers is saying?”

  “No...not that. Miss Von Klepp agreed with you that Rashers wouldn’t have fired her. In fact, she said that it was her belief that he would do almost anything to keep her working there.” Laura thought for a moment. “She said that Florence steadfastly believed that Rashers had the potential to be a better man than he was.”

  “But he didn’t live up to that potential?”

  “Obviously not. But do you think that is why she stayed working for him? She kept hoping to change him. Or at least keep the worst elements of his nature in check.”

  Before Seth could answer, a woman’s high voice claimed their attention, saying, “Seth Timmons, you devil. I asked you to wait. That old fool Griggs went on and on about nothing.”

  Laura saw it was the typesetter she and Seth had run into outside of Hank’s on Monday. The one with Franklin Griggs...Orrie something or other.

  “Miss Childers, I believe I introduced you to Miss Dawson,” Seth said, interrupting the black-haired young woman who was shamelessly batting her eyes at him.

  Acting as if she’d just noticed that Seth was talking to someone else, Miss Childers turned to Laura and said, “Of course. Miss Dawson, how nice to run into you.”

  Orrie leaned into Seth and slipped her arm through his, saying, “Seth, why didn’t you tell me that Miss Dawson and I have so much in common—both being typesetters and all? Seems strange you didn’t mention her before—I thought you said you hadn’t worked for any other printers in town?”

  When Seth didn’t respond to this query, Laura felt compelled to fill in the silence, saying, “It was a surprise to me as well to discover that Mr. Timmons and I...”

  “That isn’t the only strange thing I learned today,” Orrie said, speaking over Laura. “Griggs was just telling me that, in addition to being the sister of that charming lawyer who was here last week, you are the future sister-in-law of the woman who has been doing the books for the past two days. Quite a family enterprise you all have going. Should I expect you to be joining me as a typesetter at Rashers any time soon? Since I assume Mrs. Sullivan won
’t be returning?”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Sunday, late afternoon, July 18, 1880

  “MARITAL MURDER: A Vengeful Wife Deliberately Kills Her Husband” San Francisco Chronicle, October 2, 1880

  Nate stood in the back yard behind the O’Farrell Street boarding house and looked down at the terrier, Dandy, who waited at his feet with a crooked stick held firmly in his mouth.

  “So fella, if you want me to throw that, you’ve got to let go. I promise you, I am not going to indulge in a game of tug of war.”

  Dropping the stick, Dandy sat and looked up at him expectantly, his slightly bulging brown eyes gleaming, his pink tongue curling in his wide mouth. Nate picked up one end, avoiding the moist middle, and tossed it toward the back fence. The dog raced after it, skittering to a stop to scoop it up in his mouth and tear back to Nate’s feet. This time, after picking up the stick, Nate held it about shoulder high, watching in admiration as Dandy leaped up, almost getting it from him. The dog must be part frog to reach that high. He tossed the stick again.

  It was a little after three, and in the good old days, after an excellent and very filling Sunday dinner like the one he’d just finished, he would have been lighting up a cigar. Shaking his head at the thought, Nate turned to look into the kitchen door that was standing open, hoping to catch a glimpse of Annie.

  Mrs. O’Rourke, Kathleen, and Tilly, the little Irish girl who worked part time, had outdone themselves cooking, but with the afternoon sun hitting the back of the house, the kitchen was a steam bath. Which was why he was waiting in the back yard underneath the shade of the apricot tree while Annie consulted with her staff over some domestic crisis. Something about the laundress having just sent a note round that she wouldn’t be able to make it to the house tomorrow for wash day.