“Someone? Who?” she pressed.
“Ella’s brother maybe. She said she didn’t tell Lewis the address, but I’m not so sure. He’s so strict, so controlling. She was close to snapping under the pressure he put on her.”
“Was he hurting her?”
“He’s slapped her before.”
Isobel circled back around. “So you did meet Ella at the Popular that Saturday?”
“As I said, we were careful. We exchanged notes at the library, never actually talking there. But we’d slip them into books and whatnot, then checked out what the other had returned. The ad was another way. A signal.”
“To do what?”
“That it was time. That I had everything ready for her,” Hadley said.
A used bed and secondhand bedding. Classy. Isobel shoved that thought aside, and put on a sympathetic face. “That seems like an awful lot of subterfuge.”
“Her brother and mother are strict. Ella was distraught when her mother told her she couldn’t associate with Madge anymore. The two of them started the notes in the library books thing long before I came along.”
“Why did you resort to the ad? Why not continue with the notes?”
“We found out the notes were disappearing—some of the ones we left for each other. We kept them cryptic, but I wager the librarians were tossing them in the rubbish bins. The ad was my idea. I figured if her mother believed she was working for a family, she wouldn’t question why Ella was gone so much.”
“What happened at the Popular?”
“Nothing. I met Ella outside. She asked for the address of the house I rented, then she went off to give her mother an excuse. But she must have told Lewis. That’s all I can figure, or…” He trailed off.
“Or?”
“Ella used to watch a girl—the daughter of her mother’s attorney. Ella didn’t like the man. He made her uncomfortable. He was always deep into his cups when he was home.”
“How would Mr. Grant have known where Ella went?”
Hadley shook his head. “I have no idea. Maybe she telephoned Ruby, the little girl, to let her know where she could be found.”
Isobel sat back and considered. Did she believe him? Everything he’d told her was plausible, but unlikely. A last ditch effort to escape the noose. She wished Riot were here—that man could spot a lie from a saint.
There was the matter of the cards and adverts found inside the house. Lewis worked for the very company that owned the house, and Oliver Grant was also in the neighborhood. Maybe the operator had been mistaken and someone did answer the call Ella placed to Menke’s after speaking with her brother. But why would Oliver Grant kill Ella? Had she threatened to expose something he did to her?
No, this was likely a last, desperate attempt by Hadley to go free. She needed some kind of confirmation. “Where is Madge Ryan?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t seen her for weeks. Ella said she got better accommodations.”
“Where?”
“I can’t remember if she told me or not. But Ella did say Madge found better employment.”
“Doing what?”
“I didn’t ask.”
“What happened after you left the Popular? I need details, Charles.”
The man ran a hand through his hair, handcuffs clinking with the movement. “After she made the telephone call, I took her to the Golden Gate Cafe. We walked through the park afterwards, then we went to the house on Sutter Street. Ella was tired, so I left her there with a promise that I’d return first thing.”
“Did you have sex with her?”
Charles blinked, and shifted in his seat. “No. Of course not.”
“You’re lying,” Isobel stated.
“We… got cozy.”
“Speak plainly,” she ordered. “I’m not encumbered by propriety.”
Hadley glanced at Tim, who puffed on his pipe, looking uninterested in the whole affair. Isobel knew better. The old man could spring up like a jack-in-the-box in a blink.
“I showed Ella… a few things. That intimacy could be… pleasurable for her. But I left. I didn’t want to move too quickly.”
Isobel swallowed down her disgust. Ella might have been willing, but Hadley’s deliberate seduction of the girl made her skin crawl. “And Sunday morning?”
Hadley gave a small smile. “Ella was rested, and… more than eager. Afterwards, she drifted off to sleep, so I left to get her some breakfast.” He paled. “When I returned she was dead.”
“Where did you buy breakfast?”
“At a bakery down the way. Amelie’s. The French lady there will remember me.”
“How did you find Ella?”
“I told you. Dead,” he bit out the word.
“You said the other day that you folded her hands and put a sheet over her.”
“Of course. I couldn’t leave her like…”
“Like how?”
“She was all askew. Her legs, and… it was like she had been kicking. I didn’t like the thought of leaving her like that, so I straightened her out, and folded her hands and legs.”
“The cloth she was clutching?”
“After we… were intimate, she fell asleep with it between her legs. It was like that in her hand when I came back, so I left it.”
“And the flask?”
“It was mine. Ella had had some the night before. Then I finished it off and tossed it on the floor. I figured they might think her death was an accident, or she killed herself.”
“What did you burn?”
Hadley looked confused. “Burn?”
“Let me see your kerchief.”
Hadley dug in his pocket and brought out a dirty one he had used to mop his face. He held it out, but Isobel only studied it from afar. It was silk, borderless, and his initials were stitched in a corner. Nothing like the one Riot had found partially burned in the house.
46
Home Sweet Home
Tired, sore, and looking forward to a bath, Isobel climbed the stairs to her bedroom. She and Tim had handed Charles Hadley over to Inspector Coleman at the police station and filled out a heap of paperwork. The detective was impressed. On leaving, they walked through an army of reporters shouting for answers, but she owed the story to Cara Sharpe.
And now, late in the evening, she turned her key in the lock and opened the door.
Her room was empty.
“Riot?” she called through the bathroom door.
No answer. His fedora was gone.
Worried, she checked Sarah’s room, then Jin’s, but they were gone, too. A knot untwisted in her stomach. Riot had likely taken them on an outing, one that didn’t involve guns, disgruntled agents, or assassins. She hoped, at any rate.
She turned on the taps, shed her clothing, and sank into a hot bath, wincing at the bruises covering her skin. It had been years since she’d fallen off a horse. With a sigh, she closed her eyes, and let the water carry away her worries.
A door opened, and she jerked awake in the water. Riot poked his head inside; his face had returned to its normal proportions, but the skin around his eyes and nose had turned a dark green. Plaster covered cuts on his forehead and his lips were still split, but his eyes were clearer.
She beckoned him closer with a smile, and he bent to kiss her lips.
“This is the only body of water I’ll ever be able to rescue you from.”
She snorted. Then pulled on his tie to kiss him again.
“Where were you?” she asked.
“Sarah and Jin decided I needed fresh air, so they took me for a snail-paced walk. I take it you found Hadley?” he asked as his eyes roved downwards. He was definitely feeling better. “You’re covered in bruises.”
“I did. And not all of me.” Isobel hoisted herself out of the tub, and he pulled her to him. “I’ll get you wet.”
“I don’t care.”
“You have another week of bed rest.”
Isobel grinned at the sound he made and draped her arms around his n
eck, pressing her hips against his. His immediate physical response was reassuring.
“Your eyes are clearer,” she whispered.
“For the most part. Ewan’s been here to check on me every day. My head still hurts.” His palms were warm, and they caressed her back, strong and sure, until he hit a bruise and she winced.
Riot pulled back, reaching for a towel.
As Isobel padded out of the bathroom, she ran the towel over her hair, and brought him up to speed with a concise summary.
“Seems straightforward enough,” he said when she fell silent.
“It was. I suppose.” Isobel finished cinching her robe, and curled up in Ravenwood’s throne-like chair.
“Do you believe Hadley?”
Riot sat across from her in shirtsleeves. His hair was tousled, collar undone, his forearms exposed, and his feet were bare. Riot wasn’t a tall man, but his feet didn’t suffer for it. He looked tired. And she noted he had removed his spectacles as soon as possible, still shying away from light.
“Inspector Coleman certainly seems satisfied.”
“But you aren’t,” he noted.
“What do you think?”
Riot rubbed a hand through his hair. “I wish I could say.”
For a moment, he looked so very vulnerable. Lost even. Isobel uncurled herself and knelt in front of him. She saw fear in his eyes.
“You’re not well, are you?”
“Let’s just say I’m not minding the bed rest as much as I should,” he admitted.
“I shouldn’t have left you.”
“Stop it. I’m not telling you for sympathy. Only…” He searched for the word, grasping at emptiness.
“For honesty’s sake?”
Riot nodded.
She took his hands in hers, and kissed them. “Dr. Wise said two weeks. At least. You still have another one to go. Give it time, Riot, and don’t force things.”
“I’m afraid I was a proper grouch with you before you left.”
“Yes, you were. And I’ll be sure to return the favor a hundred times over.”
Riot rested his forehead against hers. She closed her eyes, savoring the moment. “There’s something I need to tell you,” he whispered. “And you’d best be sitting down for it.”
Isobel’s eyes snapped open. She leaned back.
“First of all,” he said. “Jin is fine.”
The way he said it made the room spin.
“What happened?” Isobel asked slowly.
47
No Bounds
Monday, October 29, 1900
Isobel sat in the library reading. It was quiet. Far quieter than it had been in Ravenwood Manor the past few days. She tried not to think of her daughter, but it was difficult.
The moment Riot had finished telling her about Jin, Isobel lost it. She had marched upstairs and given the child a proper chewing out.
“Don’t you ever do anything like that again. Do you understand me?”
Jin stood defiant.
“I did a lot of things as a child, but I never tried to kill anyone.”
“I avenged my parents!” Jin screamed.
“You nearly got yourself killed!”
The conversation had deteriorated from there, until Riot dragged himself all the way up to the attic. He nearly fell over at the top of the stairs.
Isobel still wasn’t sure whether it had been an act or not, but he managed to halt their heated argument.
Flustered at her own outburst, Isobel pulled Jin into a fierce hug that likely pained her injured shoulder, told her in no uncertain terms that she loved her, and then banished her to the attic for the rest of her life. For good measure, she took the rope ladder down.
All in all, it could have gone worse. At least that’s what she told herself.
Isobel pressed her palms to her eyes. Maybe if she forced her eyeballs into her skull, she’d be able to focus.
The last days had been a series of blunders. Irritable and combative, she had confronted Lewis Fletcher at his sister’s own funeral.
“Did you lie?”
“What?”
“About the address. The false one your sister gave?”
It was a crisp and sunny day, entirely at odds with the somber mood of the funeral. Reporters swarmed, the public was there to show support for the family, and Isobel accused Lewis of murder. At least she had pulled him away from prying ears first.
“I told you the truth,” he said earnestly, his eyes red from emotion.
“No, you didn’t. You knew where Ella was because she told you on the telephone. You needed the support of the Masonic Temple’s Board of Relief. If Ella was caught with a man, your family’s reputation would be stained, and they would withdraw financial support.”
“Are you accusing me of strangling my own sister?” he hissed.
Isobel held his eyes. “Why else would you ask us to drop the case before her murderer was caught?”
Lewis took a breath, and unclenched his fists. “Miss Amsel, I appreciate what you did. You found Ella, and you caught her murderer. Why are you defending him? I’m the one who hired you. And I would never leave my sister there in a house to rot. Not even for a day!” The last was a shout that attracted curious stares, and found its way into the newspapers.
Lewis had stormed away, leaving Isobel standing alone next to Ella’s grave.
“Bel,” Riot whispered, touching her arm. “What was that about?”
Isobel met his eyes. “The pieces don’t fit.”
“I think they fit perfectly.”
But she shook her head. “Why would Hadley go to all that trouble to set her up as a mistress? He rented the house for six months.”
“Then you believe his story?”
Isobel clenched her jaw. “I don’t want to. But, yes. I do.” And if she was correct, she had handed over an innocent man to hang. Hadley was a predator of young, naive girls to be sure, but he was no murderer.
So now she sat reading in the library, her stomach twisting over her next blunder.
Questioning Oliver Grant had gotten her nowhere, so she had lurked in a park with Watson on a leash until little Ruby Grant came along with her childminder. Isobel had smiled and used Watson to strike up a conversation with the girl. Watson played his part admirably, and eventually Isobel worked the conversation around to Ella Spencer.
Bright, inquisitive, and sad about her friend, Ruby swore she had not picked up the telephone in Menke’s Grocery. Isobel pressed the child on the matter, and eventually her questioning had reduced little Ruby to tears—all for a scoundrel’s claim of innocence. She felt absolutely predatory.
Isobel looked down at her book, and the single note tucked between the pages. Hamlet.
She thought of Mack, caught up in some vendetta that wasn’t his doing. Of the rage that simmered in Monty for years, rage that had driven him to try to kill the man who’d been almost a brother to him. And she thought about Mack’s funeral. The Scottish Pipers who had come out in force, their bagpipes moaning in the Bone Orchard. Entire sporting clubs, boxers and coaches, along with every newspaper reporter in the city came to pay their respects to the fallen Scotsman.
Monty had been there, standing off to the side with his boxing club. He looked the worse for wear: one bloodshot eye, angry bruises and a crooked nose, and holding himself just so. Riot had given almost as good as he got. But that was a small consolation.
Riot and Monty locked eyes, then the big man had smirked and turned to his friends.
After the funeral, Isobel watched Tim walk over to the ex-agent. How many years had they worked together, she wondered? How many times had they saved each other’s life? She tensed to charge, sure that Tim would shoot the man in broad daylight or pick a fight with the entire club. But nothing so dramatic happened. Tim offered a hand and the two shook, then stood and chatted amiably for a time.
“What the hell is he doing?” Isobel whispered to Riot.
“Monty didn’t kill me when he had the cha
nce,” Riot said again. “He could have. But he didn’t.”
“He killed Mack,” she growled. The nerve of Monty, showing up at Mack’s funeral.
Riot gripped her arm. “Bel, let’s go. Let it lie.”
Vengeance. For Mack. For Riot’s brush with death, and for every day of pain since. For his throbbing skull and sluggish thoughts and slurred words. And for all the fear Monty had caused her. It was a tempting path.
Hate, hurt, and pain—a recipe for murder.
How far would she go?
Isobel looked up as the door opened. A girl walked into the library. Red-haired and smiling, she gave a little wave to the librarian and went straight to a favored desk.
Isobel glanced again at the note tucked in the pages. Cryptic, but only to those without context. She waited until the girl settled herself.
The library was full this time of night. Two readers sat nearby at separate tables, but deep in their books. Isobel took her copy of Hamlet over to the table and pulled up a chair beside the girl.
“Hello, Madge,” she said.
The girl looked up, startled.
“I’m Isobel Amsel. I’m surprised you weren’t at your friend’s funeral.”
Madge Ryan had rich auburn hair and green eyes. She was young, but world-wise, as Isobel had been at that age. Her skin was pale and freckled, and her cheekbones showed signs of malnutrition.
“I… I said goodbye to her at the morgue when I went by.” She had a soft voice, nearly timid. “You’re the one who found her, aren’t you? The one in all the newspapers.”
Cara Sharpe had gotten her exclusive, and San Francisco ate it up—the City couldn’t resist a rebellious woman mired in scandal who solved murders.
“I am.”
“I’m glad you found her.” Madge’s eyes looked down to her book. “The thought of her in that room… I didn’t go to the funeral because her mother never cared for me, but I wanted to.”
“I understand. I wanted to make sure you were all right. I worried that Hadley had done something to you, too.”
Where Cowards Tread (Ravenwood Mysteries #7) Page 34
