Kathleen pretended to consider this statement, biting her lower lip, then began hesitatingly, “If you think it would help, ma’am . . . I do want to do what is best. She has gotten to where she don’t sleep at all well, and this past week I’ve had to sleep in her room, so I can wake her when she starts having one of her dreams. This makes her short with me the next day. Tiredness will do that. But I’m half asleep on my feet, myself. I dunno.” Kathleen shook her head then rushed on, “It’s the child I think. I think she dreams about her child, Johnny.”
Arabella Frampton frowned and then she said, “A child? But I understood that she was childless. Her letter to my husband mentioned her parents were gone, and her husband. So sad. Are you sure she dreams about a child? I do believe her husband’s name was John.”
Why ever did I call him Johnny? Mrs. Fuller never told me to do that, Kathleen thought, feeling slightly panicked. As they say, in for a penny, in for a pound. She continued, “But there was a son. Named for the father, I believe. She broke down and told me once when I found a picture hidden away under her pillow. Cutest little tyke. Mrs. Fuller said she was expecting when her husband died, and the boy was all that helped her keep her sanity. But then, two years later, the boy also died. Such a tragedy. She told me never to speak of it to anyone. She can’t bear even to think about him. But when she cries out at night, she says, ‘Johnny, Mother’s here.’ clear as day. And then she starts sobbing.”
Chapter Nine
Thursday evening, October 16, 1879
“KALLOCH RECOVERING: It was reported at the headquarters of the Workingmen’s party yesterday afternoon that the ball in Kalloch’s hip wound had been extracted without surgical aid.”
—San Francisco Chronicle, 1879
“I told you, Uncle Frank, just Judge Babcock. Don’t know his Christian name, that’s all Mrs. Fuller gave me. I checked the city directory, didn’t find anything. So you’ve never heard of a judge in town named Babcock?”
Nate Dawson looked over at his uncle, who was putting on his coat and hat in preparation to leave the office. The neat brass sign outside the door said Hobbes, Haranahan, and Dawson, Attorneys-at-Law, but there wasn’t any Haranahan anymore; hadn’t been for two years since his uncle’s long-time partner had finally succumbed to the inevitable effects of a long life of cigars, whiskey, and energetic mistresses. Nate missed the old reprobate. He had livened up the place considerably, as well as bringing some interesting cases to the firm. His uncle, Frank Hobbes, had always concentrated on domestic law: wills, probate, property deeds and such. Respectable, steady earners, boring.
“No, I am sorry; I can’t say I can place him,” his uncle said, pausing as if to review the veracity of his own statement. “Just why does Mrs. Fuller wish you to find out about this judge?”
Nate looked up from his desk at his uncle, biting back an irritated reply. He had just told his uncle that Mrs. Fuller was trying to help out one of her boarders, and to that end she needed to know any background he could dig up on a Judge Babcock. Which is exactly all Annie had written to him in the letter he had received from her this morning. As usual, his uncle hadn’t been attending.
Frank Hobbes then took his hat and placed it on a stack of tottering files on a table next to the door and walked back over to a shelf that held law journals and other periodicals, dragging out his reading glasses from his breast pocket. “Can’t think of a single California judge, lawyer for that matter, with that name. However, if I remember, there was a Judge Babcock who sat on the Pennsylvania state bench back in the forties and fifties, an old Whig. Made his name in a number of cases regarding property rights. If I’m right, I should be able to find his name in one of these old University of Pennsylvania law reviews.”
Nate’s irritation slipped away as he watched his uncle pull off one book after the other, looking swiftly through their indexes. Despite the thought of re-shelving all the books, since the one clerk they had was completely overworked, he couldn’t help but marvel that his uncle, stooped from years of pouring over books and briefs, still had a mind like a steel trap. Nate had always admired that keen ability to concentrate, even when it meant he seemed deaf to his nephew’s words.
Looking at his uncle, Nate noticed how white his hair had become, and thought about the white that was dimming the gold in his father’s hair and mustache. His brother Billy took after their father: short stature, tough sinewy body, fair hair and the sunny temper to go with it. Everyone said Nate took after his mother’s side of the family, which meant his Uncle Frank: tall, thin, and dark in complexion and temper. Nate hated that age was beginning to weigh so heavily on both of the older men. Yet, his father seemed to be willing to hand over the reins to the next generation with much more grace than Uncle Frank.
“There he is,” his uncle crowed, “Zebulon Babcock, who wrote the deciding opinion on an important case extending the right of eminent domain. He’d be at least in his seventies by now and probably retired from the bench. With a first name like that, it should be easy to determine if he is the same Judge Babcock that Mrs. Fuller is trying to locate.”
“Yes, sir,” Nate replied, getting up to look at the volume his uncle held. “You said he was a Whig, probably a Republican now? That reminds me, I stopped off at the Chronicle offices today. Appears the editor, Charles de Young, is planning on coming back to town, now the election is over and Kalloch is alive and well and about to become mayor. Damned stupid move on de Young’s part, shooting his candidate’s opponent. Practically assured the Republicans would lose in this last election. Do you have any idea who he has retained for his defense team? Wouldn’t I love to be working on a case like that?”
Nate’s uncle handed the law review over to Nate, not deigning to respond, and he went over to take up his hat again. As he was about to close the door behind him, he addressed Nate, saying, “Anyone who would consider getting involved in what is surely going to be the legal circus of the century is a darn fool, and people don’t entrust their business with our firm because we’re fools; you just keep that in mind, young man.”
Nate resisted the urge to hurl the book in his hand at the door as it closed behind his uncle. What was foolish was his uncle’s refusal to take any cases that would give Nate any trial experience. While Haranahan had been alive, Nate had assisted him in a number of divorce and property dispute trials, but he had no experience on his own. Just one successful stint as a defense lawyer and Nate could begin to attract his own clients, which would increase the revenue to the firm and improve his own financial position. And improve his chances of marrying Annie.
Nate had been frustrated when Annie cut his visit so short on Monday, but he later admitted to himself that he had been fortunate that she had agreed to meet him at all, and he found her request that he find out information about Simon Frampton and his wife Arabella particularly hopeful. He knew she wouldn’t have asked for this favor if she was planning on breaking off their relationship. When I first met her, she wouldn’t have even asked for my help at all, she’s that independent, so this is a very good sign.
Then Annie had written to ask him to find out about Judge Babcock and talk to Anthony Pierce, a newspaper reporter who had written a story about the Framptons some time back. Nate had visited the Chronicle offices today for that reason, since Pierce had written the story for that paper. Unfortunately, the harried clerk at the front desk had said Pierce was away on family business, due back in the next few days. He hoped he would be back before Saturday afternoon, which was when Annie had asked to meet. At least he might not have to come to their meeting empty-handed, thanks to his uncle’s sharp memory. Surely a stop by the courthouse tomorrow would yield someone who would know if a prominent Pennsylvania judge, named Zebulon Babcock, was in town.
Annie might be disappointed if all he had was a name, and nothing from Pierce, but from his perspective this would give him an excuse to see her again as soon as Pierce got back into town. Meanwhile, he looked forward to meeting her at Woodward’s
Gardens two days from now. I wonder why she didn’t want me to come to the house so we could go together? Hang it all, doesn’t matter. I’ll take seeing her in a public place, surrounded by strangers, over those old ladies and their lace, any day.
*****
The girl opened her eyes and stretched. She stood up and tucked her shirt into her trousers, then straightened the canary yellow vest. She sauntered over to the tall oval mirror next to the northern window and began to tie a brown cravat, sticking the ends neatly into the top of the vest. She frowned at her image, and then she pulled a slouch hat on her head so the brim came down further, stood back, and nodded in satisfaction. She stroked the skin over her upper lip, looking puzzled, and then grimaced and shrugged. Walking over to the window, she pulled out a package of cigarettes and matches from her pocket. She tugged at the top window, and, after some struggle, was able to pull it down a few inches. She lit the cigarette, inhaled, and then sent the smoke spiraling through the crack in the window.
Chapter Ten
Thursday evening, October 16, 1879
“SITUATION WANTED BY A GOOD COOK in a private family or boardinghouse; no washing.”
—San Francisco Chronicle, 1879
“So you see, Mrs. O’Rourke, I told Mrs. Frampton that the child’s name was ‘Johnny.’ Mrs. Fuller told me not to fret, that I hadn’t done wrong, but all day I haven’t been able to get it out of my mind.” Kathleen stood twisting the dishtowel in her hands as she looked over at Annie. “How could I have been so foolish as to give the boy your husband’s name? I wouldn’t cause you pain for anything in the world, you know that, ma’am!”
Annie walked over and put her hand on the young servant’s shoulder. “Now, Kathleen, don’t worry yourself over this. My husband has been gone nearly six years, and let me assure you I can handle hearing someone use a variation of his name for a fictional boy. Fact is, using the name Johnny was really quite clever. This way, if some spirit appears purporting to be John, I can pretend to mishear and claim it is the spirit of my ‘precious child.’”
She gave Kathleen’s shoulder a squeeze, then walked over to the rocking chair across from the stove and sat down. It was a little after seven in the evening, and she had just finished with her last client, taken off Madam Sibyl’s wig, washed the powder and paint off her face, and come down to the kitchen, as was her habit at the end of each day. The window was fastened against the chill autumn night air. Beatrice O’Rourke stood over the kitchen sink, washing up the dishes from supper while Kathleen dried.
“I wonder if Mrs. Frampton usually gets involved in digging up information on clients? Kathleen, tell us, what did you think of her?”
Kathleen turned, a wet dinner plate in her hands. “Oh, ma’am, I just don’t know. First I couldn’t get over how beautiful she is. Mrs. O’Rourke, you wouldn’t believe her hair, like living flame, and eyes, I never in my life saw such a color, a kind of green that don’t seem natural! I ‘spect men go into a trance just looking at her. And she was so friendly. What did you think of her, Mrs. Fuller?”
Annie remembered her first impression of Arabella Frampton, but she wouldn’t call her friendly. Hostile was more accurate. She had swept into the library after the most cursory knock, and it was Annie’s distinct impression that Simon Frampton hadn’t welcomed the interruption. He had been holding both of Annie’s hands by that time, and had been softly reassuring her of . . . what? She really didn’t remember. His voice had been so soothing that she had found herself just listening to his tone not the words. She did remember staring into his eyes, fascinated by the contrast between the deep black pupil, surrounded by cloudy gray iris, encircled by an odd black ring. Then the knock on the door had caused Simon to break off and utter an oath.
“Annie, love, are you alright?” Beatrice stood in front of her, using her apron to dry her soapy hands. “To be sure, we’d begun to think you’d gone to sleep on us. Would you like me to put on a pot of tea for you now?”
Annie sat up straighter and laughed. “Oh Bea, I think that might be a very good idea. I asked Esther Stein to come by when she gets in tonight, and I know she will want some of that chamomile. I would like some too. And as to Kathleen’s question, I thought Arabella Frampton wasn’t too pleased to see me. Which is strange, since clearly she knew her husband was interviewing me. She is quite beautiful, Kathleen was right about that. However, I found her very imperious, and there is a temper there to go along with those red curls. She announced, rather than asked, if I was ready to leave. Did anything happen to put her into a temper, Kathleen?
“Well, ma’am, not really. We were sitting there, and she was asking me about you: how long you’d lived in San Francisco, who your friends were. Just like you said someone would. I made sure to tell her about Mr. Stein and made it sound like there were all manner of rich people stopping by and dropping off cards, hoping for a visit with you. But when I mentioned how excited you were to join the circle on Friday she seemed surprised. Said, ‘What, this Friday?’ That’s when she stood up, knocked on the door, and went right in.”
“That’s interesting,” Annie said. “She did say something to Simon about, ‘promising not to fill the circle without consulting,’ and then she made some excuse about Mr. Frampton having another appointment as she hustled me out. Did you see anyone else come in while you were waiting for me?”
“Just that strange girl and the woman who took her out to the butcher shop. But they seemed to live there. Who do you think they were, Mrs. Fuller?”
“I don’t have any idea about the older woman, but I think that the girl might be Evie May, the young medium Simon Frampton told me about. I wonder if I will see her at Friday night’s séance?”
Without warning, the back door to the kitchen banged open, startling the three women. A gust of cold October wind blew in a young boy and a small dog. The majestic black cat curled on the wicker chair next to the warm cast-iron stove hissed halfheartedly and settled back down to sleep.
“Mrs. Fuller, Mrs. O’Rourke, Miss Kathleen, you should have seen Dandy,” said the boy. “There was this rat, down by Cooper’s store, and Dandy killed it! I didn’t even see it, dark like it is, but Dandy did. My friend Georgie says dogs can see ten times better than we can.”
“Jamie, slow down,” Annie interrupted the eight-year-old who had bent down to scratch behind the upstanding ears of a shorthaired black and white terrier. “How could Dandy kill a rat; he wasn’t off his lead was he? You have strict instructions from your mother never to let him go. Why, if one of the dog catchers found him loose, license or no, you’d be in for a fine.”
Jamie’s mother was Barbara Hewitt, who taught English Literature at Girls High. She and her young son lived up on the third floor attic of the boarding house. It wasn’t entirely clear if there had ever been a Mr. Hewitt, and Annie had never had the nerve to ask.
Jamie shook his head. “Oh no, ma’am. I never would. That’s how dogs get killed. So easy to run under a carriage. I was just taking him for his last walk, and he was sniffing along the barrels in front of Cooper’s, like he always does, when suddenly I heard him snarl and he lunged between two of the barrels. I heard this squeal, and then he backed out with this gigantic rat in his jaws. I had a terrific time getting him to let go of it. But it was dead as a doornail. Dandy must of broke his neck. Didn’t ya boy! What a clever dog!”
Annie looked down at Dandy, whose tiny crooked tail whirled around in pleasure at his master’s kind words. The dog wasn’t more than twelve pounds, no nose to speak of, and, although when he yawned his mouth opened as wide as a frog’s, she just couldn’t imagine him killing a rat. She didn’t know whether to be appalled or impressed, but when the dog suddenly sat down and tried to scratch his ear with his back leg, almost falling over in the process, she decided to be amused and laughed.
“Mrs. Fuller, remember he is a Boston Terrier, and Georgie says terriers are bred to hunt rats and such.” Jamie seemed to feel Annie wasn’t taking Dandy’s feat seriously
.
Beatrice who had been busy scrubbing the last pan, sniffed at this statement. Both she and Annie had heard all about how Dandy was some special breed out of Boston. Beatrice, in fact, had been the one to name him when Jamie had rescued him and brought him home to the boarding house. The dog’s neat black fur and white chest and white front feet, and most importantly, his air of supreme confidence, had made her think of a gentleman in evening clothes, hence the name Dandy.
“I guess, Mrs. O’Rourke, we should be glad to know if Queenie gets too lazy to keep mice and such out of the kitchen storeroom, she’ll have an able lieutenant in Dandy,” Annie said, nodding at the old cat, whose eyes opened briefly at the mention of her name. “But Jamie, you better skedaddle upstairs, your mother will be waiting for you. It’s getting near bedtime, and you will want to have time to tell her all about Dandy’s exploits.”
“Yes, ma’am. Oh, I’m so sorry, Mrs. Stein.” Jamie had narrowly missed running into Esther Stein in his mad dash up the stairs.
Fortunately, chasing her own numerous grandchildren had kept Esther Stein nimble, and she lost neither the candle she carried nor her composure in the encounter. “Jamie, dear. We need to put a bell on you to alert us to your progress through the house. Mind your way going upstairs. Here, take my candle with you, and be quiet as a mouse, I believe Miss Minnie and Miss Millie have already retired for the night.”
“Mrs. Stein, come sit down, I’ve just fixed a pot of tea,” Beatrice said as she shooed Queenie reluctantly off the wicker chair.
Uneasy Spirits: A Victorian San Francisco Mystery Page 7
