Deadly Proof: A Victorian San Francisco Mystery

by Locke, M. Louisa

  “Orrie Childers? But how? What happened to her?” Mrs. Sullivan seemed bewildered.

  Nate came and sat down across from her. “This is what we know so far. She entered the Niantic Building a little before ten, the night porter letting her in. The porter said that she told him that she’d been asked to come in to do a last-minute job, which happened occasionally, so he didn’t think much about it. At midnight, when the porter made the usual rounds, he found the back door to Rashers wide open and a lamp burning. He went in to check and found Miss Childers dead on the floor. The coroner says that she was first knocked out with a wrench, then strangled to death. Initially, they thought that Mr. Timmons was responsible, but he left Rashers at eight—before Miss Childers got there.”

  Florence Sullivan looked over at Annie and then back to him. “But who would have done such a thing? And why? What was it you said about Mr. Timmons? Certainly they wouldn’t suspect him? Such a nice man.”

  Nate responded, “There is evidence that someone was trying to make it look like Mr. Timmons was responsible. But he has an alibi. As to why––the police believe that Miss Childers was blackmailing someone.”

  “Blackmail?”

  Nate went on. “Yes, they found a substantial amount of money in her room when they searched it. This is where I believe that what has happened is so important to your own situation. I can now make the case that Miss Childers must have known something about Rashers’ murder and someone was paying her to keep quiet about what she knew.”

  “I don’t understand. How would that help me?”

  Nate suppressed the sense of irritation he felt every time he tried to have a conversation with his client. Annie said Mrs. Sullivan was quite bright, but then how could she not see the implications of this information? Annie had gotten it immediately.

  He said slowly, “If Miss Childers knew who the true murderer was and blackmailed this person, and he or she killed her to cover that information up, then the real murderer couldn’t be you...since you were locked up in jail.”

  Mrs. Sullivan frowned at him and said, “But how can you prove that the two murders were connected?”

  “If we can figure out who paid her the three hundred dollars—the amount the police found––and if they also had a good motive and opportunity to kill Rashers, then we have at least a strong circumstantial case against...what is it, Mrs. Sullivan?”

  Florence Sullivan had sprung up from the bed halfway through his last statement and was agitatedly wringing her hands.

  He rose as well and asked her again what had upset her.

  “You said...three hundred dollars? That much?”

  “Yes. Much more than a badly paid typesetter could possibly have saved on her own. Frankly, more than anyone working for Rashers would have...including Mr. Timmons.”

  He turned to Annie and said, “I forgot to mention that to you. I think the sum of money they found had already weakened the case they were trying to build against Seth.”

  Annie ignored him and instead moved over to Mrs. Sullivan, who was hiding her head in her hands. She said, “Florence, please, tell us why this has upset you so.”

  When Mrs. Sullivan just shook her head, Annie continued. “It is an enormous amount of money. Much more than say...your husband...would have to spend to pay off a blackmailer, isn’t it?”

  The usually stoic Mrs. Sullivan began to sob, and Annie took her into her arms.

  *****

  It took a good ten minutes to get Florence calmed down enough to speak. By that time, the matron had come to see what was wrong. As Annie suspected, Mrs. Gross had a soft spot for Mrs. Sullivan. She caught Annie’s eye and said quietly, “Good. She’s needed that cry for some time.” Then she left them alone, saying she would bring a pot of tea.

  Poor Nate looked so uncomfortable. What was it about women’s tears that were so upsetting to men? At least he quickly grasped the importance of Florence’s reaction.

  When she was finally composed enough to talk, he said quietly, “You feared your husband murdered Joshua Rashers, didn’t you?”

  When she nodded and looked like she was going to begin to cry again, he went on hurriedly. “And that is why you didn’t want to see him...or want me to look for a different suspect?”

  “Yes,” she whispered. “But he would never have killed Miss Childers. And he’s certainly never had access to that much money.”

  Annie gave her another warm hug and said, “You do understand, however, that you need to explain to us why you were so afraid your husband was involved.”

  Mrs. Sullivan just shook her head. Nate, barely hiding his impatience, said, “You may now be convinced that your husband wasn’t responsible, but it is possible the police will argue that you and your husband were working together in this. That you killed Rashers and that he killed Miss Childers to keep her from turning over some damning evidence about you to the police. I need to know the truth about you, your husband, and Joshua Rashers, if I am going to have any hope of getting you off—or keeping your husband safe from prosecution.”

  Florence’s swift, in-drawn breath at Nate’s statement almost drew a reproof from Annie, who felt he was being unnecessarily harsh. But when the woman next to her sat up straighter and began to speak, Annie kept silent.

  Florence Sullivan said softly, “The papers were right, you know. I did have illicit relations with Joshua Rashers. I was only twenty and very naive. But that doesn’t excuse my behavior. I know I will be held accountable by my savior. But I can swear to you that I ended it as soon as I realized he hadn’t been telling me the truth about his marriage.”

  Annie said, “You don’t have to explain to us, but...”

  “But you wonder why I stayed working for Joshua Rashers once I had broken off with him?” Florence gave her a sad smile. “At first it was because I kept hoping that he would change...I could somehow redeem him. You do that, you know. Tell yourself a pretty story about how you are the only woman who really understands a man. The only one who can save him. I eventually realized I was just deluding myself.”

  When Florence stopped and stared into space, Annie encouraged her to continue, saying, “Was that when you agreed to marry Mr. Sullivan?”

  Florence looked sharply at Annie and said, “Yes. He’d been so good to me and to my mother. And I thought that marriage would protect me against Joshua. And to a degree it did. I would never, ever have been unfaithful to my husband.”

  “Then why didn’t you leave at that point? I know you wouldn’t have had any difficulty getting another job,” Annie said.

  “My friend Iris asked me that...she would get so angry when I would complain about his behavior. I told her, and myself, that it was because it was my responsibility to stay and protect other young women, like Miss Childers, from being seduced by him. But the truth was that I was afraid.”

  Nate stirred. “Afraid of Rashers?”

  “Yes. He told me that if I left the firm he would tell my mother and my husband about...about our former relationship. And I knew that he would do it in a way that would suggest that it was still going on. I was afraid of what that would do to the two people I loved most in the world.”

  “So you stayed,” said Annie, thinking about the damage Joshua Rashers had done to so many people, from the poor young apprentices he exploited to the other printers he had ruined. And she felt sure that at least indirectly he was responsible for the death of Orrie Childers. At least she and Nate could do something to ensure he didn’t continue to ruin Florence Sullivan’s life.

  Florence sighed. “But Alan, my husband, became increasingly upset. Joshua kept expecting more and more of my time. I was to come in early to work on the books, stay late to finish up any rush orders, work a full day on Saturdays. And Alan couldn’t understand why I would agree.”

  “What happened that Friday night?” Nate said.

  “When I got home and told Alan that I had to go back at seven-thirty, he exploded. I’ve never seen him so angry. He walked out—whi
ch is just not like him.”

  Florence again stopped speaking. Annie knew that the woman before her had to get over this next bit. The part that was going to haunt her if she didn’t. So she prompted her by saying, “I can understand why you were so frightened when you went into the office and saw Rashers lying in a pool of his own blood. Mr. Timmons told us you said, ‘Whatever will become of us?’ You meant you and your husband, didn’t you, because you thought your husband had killed him?”

  Florence shuddered and said, “It is just that the last thing Alan said as he left was that he was going to talk to Joshua and tell him he couldn’t order me around anymore. When I went back to work that night, I was so worried that I would discover that Joshua had carried out his threats, and my marriage would be over.”

  “Instead, you found Rashers dead,” Nate said.

  “Don’t you see? All I could think was Joshua pushed Alan to the breaking point, and in a fit of anger my gentle sweet husband killed him. So when the police began to question me, I decided then and there I just wouldn’t say anything. I wouldn’t lie. But I wouldn’t say anything that would throw suspicion on Alan. If he had killed Rashers, it was really my fault. He shouldn’t have to pay for my sins.”

  Annie never quite understood why some people’s faith seemed so dependent on being punished for their human weaknesses, but she could sympathize with Mrs. Sullivan’s desire to protect those she loved from the consequences of her own actions.

  She patted Florence on her back and said, “That was admirable, but since we are assuming your husband was not, in fact, the murderer, could you now help us to figure out who actually killed Mr. Rashers and Miss Childers?”

  Florence pulled out her handkerchief and gave her nose a good blow. Then she said, “I promise I will help you...but first, Mr. Dawson, could you please get word to my husband that I would very much like to see him?”

  Chapter Thirty

  Monday, late morning, August 2, 1880

  “Galley proofs, these proofs supplied in slip form—not made up into pages.” C. T. Jacobi, Some Notes on Books, 1892

  Annie nodded to the constable who was stationed at the front door of Rashers’ print shop, but when she went inside it seemed that everything was business as usual. The small jobber printers were thumping away at full speed, and every type case had a typesetter in front of it, filling the air with the click, click, click of type being slid onto the compositing sticks. Only the big steam press that Seth ran was silent. Instead of the pall of a murder scene that Annie expected, there was a kind of cheerful energy to everyone’s movement that had been missing before.

  When she and Nate left Florence to the matron’s ministrations and a pot of tea, they went outside the Old City Hall to walk around Portsmouth’s Square, briefly enjoying each other’s company and the August sunshine. Nate then went off to the Sullivan’s home on Stockton. He told Annie that he surely hoped that someone at the Morning Call, where Alan worked the night shift, could testify that he was working between ten and midnight on Saturday night. Nate wasn’t just trying to frighten Florence into cooperating when he said that they needed to make sure the police didn’t decide to turn to her husband as their next viable suspect.

  The heat wave had broken sometime in the night, and Annie was glad of her light shawl when they were walking, but in the print shop it was warm. As she moved towards Rashers’ office, she saw Griggs standing at his supply room desk looking out the window onto the shop floor. He was sipping from a mug, and she had the unkind thought that he was probably drinking something stronger than coffee. She’d not been able to ignore the stale whiff of alcohol that generally clung to him, and she wondered if this was usual—or just his reaction to Rashers’ death and all the uncertainty about the company’s future. Just one of many things she hoped Florence might give them insight into now that she seemed willing to share information.

  “Mrs. Fuller.” Griggs appeared at the supply room door and came over to give her a firm handshake, temporarily blocking her from moving forward. “I believe Mrs. Rashers is in her office waiting for you. I assume that you’ve heard our terrible news. Miss Childers, one of our typesetters, was killed Saturday night. Such an awful loss for all of us.”

  Annie said the usual polite condolences, but she didn’t know if she was more surprised by the fact that Franklin Griggs appeared to be sober, newly barbered, and wearing a well-pressed suit, or by the artificial tone to his statement about Orrie Childers’s death. Could he have been the one being blackmailed by her? But why? It was hard to picture him having a motive to kill Rashers, and surely the two murders were related.

  Yet, if Orrie had been a blackmailer, she thought, it could be that she had more than one target, and the three hundred dollars might have come from multiple sources. She could see, for example, some petty blackmail of Griggs over his drinking or some of the mistakes he’d made since Rashers death...there was at least one irate letter from an angry customer that had arrived last week accusing the firm of losing an order. Well, another topic for Nate and her to discuss with Florence.

  Griggs, continuing to stand in her way, said, “Mrs. Rashers confided to me that she has definitely decided not to sell the business and that she will be making this announcement to the rest of the staff later on this afternoon.”

  “I am glad to hear she has made a decision,” Annie said, thinking to herself that this news helped explain why Griggs appeared in such good spirits.

  He continued, saying, “Joshua would be very proud of her for taking on this responsibility. But then he’d also have known he could depend on my guidance and support for his widow. But I am keeping you...I am sure she will tell you all about it.” He moved over to the door leading to Rashers’ office and knocked briskly on it before opening it and ushering Annie in.

  After Griggs finished distributing his usual set of fulsome compliments to Mrs. Rashers and went back to the shop floor, Annie noted that the workers weren’t the only ones who looked considerably more cheerful than they had before Miss Childers’ death. Mrs. Rashers seemed in fine fettle.

  She was still dressed in black, as befitted a widow, but the black silk was in the very latest princess style where the overdress hugged a woman down to below the knees. Annie wondered if this was the handiwork of Miss Minnie and Miss Millie. If so, they certainly had done an admirable job of constructing a dress that showed off every one of Mrs. Rashers’ physical assets.

  As if she heard Annie’s thoughts, Mrs. Rashers smoothed her hands over the snug contours of her waist and said, “Dear Mrs. Fuller, thank you for coming. Do sit down. Shall I pour you some tea?”

  Annie walked over to sit on one the two comfortable arm chairs that now sat where the chaise lounge had been. Mrs. Rashers brought her a cup and sat down across from her, saying, “I want to thank you for your excellent analysis of the company assets I had you do. You probably didn’t have any trouble discerning that they were from Neppier and Son’s Printing Company?”

  Annie smiled but didn’t say anything, having learned that she got more information from this woman if she didn’t ask too many questions.

  Mrs. Rashers laughed. “It turns out that my husband was in negotiations with Jack Neppier—the owner’s son. I knew he was up to something when he agreed to take that trip with me.”

  “I am amazed that he would want to leave in the middle of negotiations?”

  “It turns out that they were to settle everything the weekend of July Fourth. And we weren’t scheduled to leave until late August. Plenty of time for Jack, Mr. Neppier, to become familiar with our business. You see, part of that agreement was that Jack would take over running the business on the day-to-day basis while Joshua and I were back east.”

  “So you didn’t know about all of this before your husband died?”

  Mrs. Rashers sighed. “Joshua was so pig-headed about keeping me out of his business. I confess I thought his insistence that we wait until August to leave was just his way of getting out of going. And he’
d been so secretive...I thought...well, never mind what I thought.”

  Annie suspected that what Mrs. Rashers thought was that her husband was having an affair with someone—like Mrs. Sullivan. Or Orrie Childers?

  The widow shrugged and took a sip of tea. She then said, “When you pointed out to me that Joshua seemed to be targeting Neppier’s, I asked my lawyer, Mr. Glasser, to make some discreet inquiries. Jack later told me that he’d been in flat despair when he heard of my husband’s murder—thinking everything had come to naught.”

  “So did he contact you?”

  “Yes, and with Mr. Glasser’s help we have worked out a very satisfying agreement. Since I have recommended that we continue to hire you as our accountant, I guess I can tell you the terms.”

  Annie couldn’t help but wonder how much of Mrs. Rashers’ good humor was due to the agreement and how much was due to the attentions of Jack Neppier, who was clearly a very personable young man. She said, “Mrs. Rashers, thank you for your confidence in me. Yes, I would be very interested in hearing the details of the agreement.”

  “As you concluded in your report, the current value of Neppier and Son is about a third of the value of Rashers. But they have several very important customers that Jack has promised to bring with him into the new partnership. So he will own forty percent of Rashers and Neppier. I will remain the majority owner, but he will take over the daily management of the company for an additional fixed salary.”

  “That sounds very equitable. But how can he promise the equipment or the customers without his father’s consent?”

  “That is where I have to thank Joshua’s sharp business practices. As you pointed out, he’d already been winning away some of Neppier’s business, so Jack was able to persuade his father that I would be willing to follow those very same practices, if necessary, and that they could ultimately lose everything.”

  Catherine Rashers smiled sweetly and said, “So his father has agreed to retire and sign over everything to Jack, who I am sure will take good care of his father in his waning years.”