Uneasy Spirits: A Victorian San Francisco Mystery

by M. Louisa Locke

  Annie hadn’t realized how nervous she had been about confronting Albert, who very well might have tried to kill her last night, until the front door opened and she felt a wave of relief when she saw it was Biddy who was standing there, ushering them in.

  “Oh, Mrs. Fuller, I didn’t know you were the girl’s next client.” Biddy then lowered her voice. “Something’s going on. There’s a man in the library with Mr. Frampton and Albert. I didn’t see who it was, but the master told me to answer the door and . . .” Biddy stopped abruptly, then in a louder voice she said, “Please, Mrs. Fuller, the master asked if you would be so kind as to step into the parlor, he will be with you straightaway.” Sketching a brief curtsy, Biddy winked at Annie.

  Biddy then turned and acknowledged Mrs. Nickerson, who was coming down the front stairs, saying, “Ma’am, I told Mr. Simon that you wished to speak with him, but he is otherwise engaged. He said to tell you he would see you at dinner.”

  Mrs. Nickerson did not appear pleased, saying querulously, “Such a bother. I had postponed going out in the expectation of being able to speak with him.”

  Annie made a split-second decision and walked swiftly over to Evie May’s mother, her hand outstretched. “Please, Mrs. Nickerson, I am so glad to have this chance to meet you. My name is Mrs. Fuller, and I am about to have a private sitting with your wonderfully talented daughter. How very proud you must be. I had begun to despair of ever contacting my loved ones, sitting night after night in Arabella’s circle . . . I know she is supposed to be quite in tune with the spirit world . . . but I haven’t seen, well, that is neither here nor there . . . but your daughter. Oh, my, the power she has . . . the feeling you are speaking directly to the dearly departed. Mrs. Nickerson, I shouldn’t delay you, but I was wondering if you would oblige me . . . my servant has a communication to you that explains everything. If you would just read my little note and let Kathleen here know if you would be willing . . . oh, I must not keep your daughter waiting. I so hope you will look upon my request favorably. It would mean the world to me.”

  Annie finally released the speechless Mrs. Nickerson’s hand and practically ran to the door to the parlor. As Annie passed by, Biddy grinned and then closed the door behind her. Annie hoped she had read Mrs. Nickerson’s character correctly and that she would be amenable to Annie’s proposed meeting. If Simon would just delay coming out of the library long enough for Kathleen to do her part. Who was the man meeting with Simon and Albert? Could it be the same man Simon and Arabella talked about on Sunday?

  She then noticed that the door to the small parlor was open and saw that Evie May was sitting in the cabinet. She was dressed all in white, but, unlike last Wednesday, today her outfit was clearly feminine. She didn’t appear to see Annie. Instead she looked down where her arms cradled the air. She hummed a monotonous tune, faintly reminiscent of a nursery rhyme. Annie went over to the girl, but, not wanting to frighten her, she stood for a moment, hoping to get a sign of recognition.

  Evie May slowly raised her face and stared blankly up at Annie, her eyes an odd light amber shade today. She then went through one of her amazing transformations. She pulled up her knees, scrunched down, and tilted her head, all of which seemed to shrink her overall size. With one hand twirling her hair and the other tugging at Annie’s sleeve, she smiled beatifically, lisping, “Have you come to put me to bed? I was a naughty girl, the bad man says, ’cause I won’t play with him. Bad girls have to go to bed without their suppers and they get scared all alone. I don’t like being all alone.”

  Annie responded to the insistent tugging and sat down on the cabinet bench next to Evie May, who immediately sidled closer to her and put her arms around her neck.

  “Maybelle, is that you?” asked Annie.

  “Course it’s me. Silly. Can you sing me a bedtime song?”

  Annie stroked Evie May’s hair and said softly, “Maybelle, who is the bad man? The one who sends you to bed without your supper?”

  “He says he’s papa. He’s not my papa. My papa loves me. I’m the bestest girl in all the wide world.” Evie May pulled away from Annie and glared, her voice rising. “I am his beautiful girl and he loves me best, better’n anybody.”

  Flora Hunt had suggested that Annie try to contact Evie May’s ‘Miss Evelyn,’ the young woman Kathleen had met in the hallway two weeks ago, because as an older spirit, she might be able to provide more information about Evie May and her past. With this in mind, Annie said, “Yes, Maybelle, you are a very good girl, and I am sure your papa loves you. But it’s time for you to go to sleep. Could you ask Miss Evelyn if she would be willing to visit with me awhile?”

  “I love Miss Evelyn, she sings me a bedtime song and I fall right to sleep.” Evie May yawned hugely and put her head back down on Annie’s shoulder, becoming a dead weight.

  Annie tightened her arms around the girl, thinking about the horrors that Flora had hinted at from her own childhood and wondering if Evie May had a similar past. She also wondered if Flora was correct and that the personalities Evie May experienced when she was in a trance were ‘protective’ spirits.

  How could this sweet child, Maybelle, provide any protection for Evie May? Or, for that matter, what good could the nine-year-old boy, Eddie, do? How could the spirits of such young children protect a girl who was actually older than they?

  “Oh, Evie May, what has happened to you? And where was your mother?” Annie whispered, rocking the girl in her arms.

  “Get your hands off of me. Who do you think you are?” Evie May had metamorphosed into an outraged young woman, who was now sitting as far away from Annie on the cabinet bench as she could get. Sitting ramrod straight, she appeared tall, and the soft wool dress now revealed the modest, but definitely promising, shape of a womanly figure. The deft way she was rearranging the soft curls that had been cascading down her back into a fashionable topknot suggested she was not without vanity.

  Annie said tentatively, “Miss Evelyn?”

  “Yes, and who might you be?”

  “I’m Mrs. Fuller. Mrs. Annie Fuller. I actually was hoping I might meet you. I’ve been worried about Evie May. She, rather Maybelle, has mentioned a man who sounds like he might be frightening her. Can you tell me who he is?”

  “That is really none of your business. I appreciate your concern, but no one is ever going to hurt any of us again, I can assure you. Edmund will make sure of that.”

  “Edmund?”

  “Yes, he may be a regular hoodlum, but, for all that, he’s learned a thing or two on the streets.”

  Annie made another try, “Please, Miss Evelyn. There is a woman, Mrs. Flora Hunt, who feels that she might be able to help you . . . all. I have asked your mother to meet with Mrs. Hunt tomorrow, and I think it may be helpful if you were to encourage this meeting.”

  “Well,” sniffed the young woman. “I’m going to be pretty busy. Thursday’s market day. But Eddie might want to come, and he’s a sensible little chap. He looks after Maybelle when I’m not around. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I can see that our time together must be ending.”

  Annie heard a sound from the adjoining room, and, without thinking, she shook the hand that had been graciously offered her. Feeling quite like Alice down the rabbit hole, she watched as Miss Evelyn disappeared, to be replaced by Evie May, slumped in the corner of the cabinet.

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Thursday morning, October 30, 1879

  “M.H de Young, one of the proprietors…explained all the modern conveniences connected with this confessedly most perfect and thorough journal office…from the business office, on the first floor, to the mailing room, on the upper floor, there is combined elegance and convenience…”

  —San Francisco Chronicle, 1879

  As Nate approached the new five-story Chronicle building on the corner of Bush and Kearny, he tried to put a damper on the excitement he had been feeling ever since yesterday when he got a brief note from Anthony Pierce, setting up a meeting for this morning because
he had an “interesting proposition” to put before him. He’d hated having to postpone seeing Annie last night because of work, but he decided after he got the note it might have been for the best. Sunday night had dispelled any remaining doubts he’d had about Annie’s feeling for him, and, if Anthony had come up with a concrete job possibility, he could talk to her about their future together when he saw her tomorrow. That is, if the “position” paid more than he was currently making. Hell, it couldn’t pay less.

  After Nate paid for his share of the rent and supplies for the law offices and his room and board, there was hardly anything left over. Yesterday he’d again broached the subject with his uncle of looking for an additional partner to share the law firm’s expenses and bring in more lucrative clients. Once again his uncle had said they would talk about it later. Uncle Frank might find that later was just too late.

  Since Sunday, visions of a future life with Annie had dominated his thoughts, almost to the exclusion of everything else, fueling his impatience. Work at the law firm consisted of boring clerical work and the petty concerns of men like Suttlerly, the octogenarian Nate had met with last night. Men whose lives had narrowed down to trying to preserve their power beyond the grave through minutely detailed wills. This isn’t why he’d chosen the law as a profession. Too young to prove himself in the war, uninterested in following in the footsteps of his father and be a rancher, Nate had thought law would be where he would make his mark. Defending the innocent and establishing new legal precedents, not writing out wills, deeds of property, and articles of incorporation had been his goal.

  However, a position in the state attorney general’s office, or even better, working in the city attorney’s office, would be a lot more stimulating. In addition, experience on the prosecuting side could be very helpful later if he wanted to set up his own law firm concentrating on defense. The investigations he did last summer with Annie had given him a taste for criminal law.

  And, he had to admit, this investigation of the Framptons was turning out to be quite intriguing. He had thoroughly enjoyed uncovering the séance tricks on Sunday. Then there was the personal satisfaction of the all too short interlude with Annie in the cabinet. He supposed when Annie married him and quit her work as Madam Sibyl she might find life a little dull, until the children came; but he would be sure to share with her the more interesting parts of his own work. She had a keen mind, and he was sure she would give him good advice as he moved forward in his career.

  Entering the first floor of the Chronicle offices, Nate had to push his way past a line of people who were putting in classified ads and work his way down a narrow space between a counter and the wall, to a swinging door that let him behind the counter. The Chronicle’s new offices were impressive and he could feel the pounding of the gigantic steam press engines in the basement under his feet. Several men stood outside of Charles de Young’s office at the rear, talking loudly about the newest scandal in Nevada mining shares. The chief editor himself was still missing, rumored to be hiding out in Mexico until the furor over his attempt on the new mayor’s life died down.

  Nate took a detour when he noticed that his friend, Tim Newsome, was lounging at the subscriptions desk, chatting animatedly to the young female clerk. Nate hoped that the clerk knew Tim was both a hopeless flirt and hopelessly in love with his own wife.

  Newsome looked up as Nate drew near and said, “Hey, Nate, you old rascal, come here and meet Amanda Fitchings, who has the loveliest copperplate handwriting in the whole building. Miss Fitchings, meet Nate Dawson, Esquire. And to what do we, of the Fourth Estate, owe the pleasure of your company?”

  “Miss Fitchings, pleased to meet you, although I hope you will not hold my friendship with Mr. Newsome against me. Tim, I’m looking for Anthony Pierce; he asked me to stop by. Do you know if he’s at his desk?”

  “Not in yet. This is a little early for Pierce, usually doesn’t come in until afternoon. What’s he want to see you for? Got something I might be interested in?”

  Tim Newsome draped his arm around Nate’s shoulder and began to direct him back to stairs in the rear that led to the reporters’ offices on the second floor. Tim was a tall Swede, with pale blond hair cut short, a silky mustache, ruddy complexion, eyes the blue of a deep fjord of his native land, and a mischievous smile that had made a devoted friend out of a young, homesick fifteen-year-old Nate Dawson when they’d first met.

  Newsome specialized in stories about the state’s agricultural and fishing industries, and Nate thought that Annie might find a lot to talk about with his friend. I’d bet she’d like Lydia as well, they’d rail about “votes for women” to their hearts’ content. Having again conjured up an image of Annie, she never seemed far from his mind these days, Nate decided to ask Tim for information about Mr. Abraham Ruckner and the San Francisco Gold Bank and Trust. Wouldn’t hurt to have a tidbit of information to bring with him when he saw her tomorrow, in case his expectations about Pierce’s proposition didn’t pan out. He smiled, thinking how unusual she was, a woman who would prefer a little inside financial information over flowers from a beau.

  “Nate, my boy, you look very much like the proverbial cat with the cream. What have you been up to?” Newsome asked as they wove their way through the large second-story room, crowded with mostly empty desks, Pierce not being the only reporter who didn’t come in this early.

  “I’m helping out a friend, just doing some background checking on a local medium and some of her clients,” said Nate, not wanting to get into his love life with his friend this morning. Tim had a wicked sense of humor.

  “So, that’s why you want to talk to Pierce. I wondered if he was going to do a follow-up on that series, it was a real winner. Circulation went up and the Chief was right pleased. I’m afraid stories about the wheat crop just don’t get that kind of recognition.”

  Nate said, “I bet they don’t, though I always try to read your columns last thing at night, best sleep aid I’ve ever used. But you might be able to help me out. One of the clients I’m interested in is Abe Ruckner, one of the owners of Gold Bank and Trust. I understand the man recently lost his wife, that sort of thing can shake a man, affect his business sense, don’t you know.”

  Nate was amused to see the change his question produced in his friend. Newsome straightened up, his head pushed forward, like some hunting dog on the scent, and he stood for a moment, very still.

  “Well, well, now that you mention it, I do remember hearing something about the wife’s death,” Newsome said. “But not that it was having a negative effect on Ruckner and the bank, just the opposite. The wife was a McCormick, so he inherited a pretty penny in Harvesting Machine Company shares. He’s going to see a medium, is he? Can I quote you on that?”

  “Tim, no. I don’t have firsthand knowledge about this, and, anyway, the poor man just lost his wife. If I do learn anything concrete, I’ll let you know.”

  “Same here, just promise me if there is anything, you’ll tell me, not Pierce. I don’t want to be stuck on the farm and fish beat forever. Just what do you need to talk to him about?”

  “He told me last week that he would try to get me a meeting with the incoming state attorney general, see if there might be something for me in Sacramento.”

  “Pierce’s pretty well-connected, so I wouldn’t be surprised if he could. With the new state constitution and the shake-ups on the state level, there’s bound to be some openings. Thing is, Nate, be careful. Pierce has a nose for corruption, and he writes damn good stories, but he’s made enemies along the way, and some of his friends aren’t all that savory. We all operate along the principle of ‘you scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours’ or in your profession’s terms, quid pro quo, but I’ve heard that Pierce can extract a pretty high price for favors rendered. He can be awfully hard to read, never know when you end up on his bad side. He did just come back from his mother’s funeral, so he’s been especially touchy. Why are you interested? You aren’t thinking about leaving your uncle�
�s firm are you?”

  Nate removed a stack of papers from the chair next to Newsome’s desk and sat down. “Tim, you know how much I owe Uncle Frank. Damn it, we both do since most of the time when I was young and he had to rescue my sorry hide he rescued yours as well. Thing is, ever since Haranahan died, the firm has begun to stagnate. Old men and their wills seems to be the only business he brings in, and if I don’t start to get some trial experience, I’m not going to do any better. I’d hoped he would find a new partner this fall while I was away at the ranch, someone with a reputation and some big clients, but as far as I can tell he’s done nothing.”

  “Have you asked him what his plans are?”

  “I’ve tried, but he keeps putting me off. I think he still sees me as that raw-boned whelp he took under his wing nearly fifteen years ago. Doesn’t occur to him I’m a grown man with plans of my own.”

  Newsome leaned over and said, “Plans of your own, you devil. So who is she? Lydia’s just been saying we haven’t seen you since you got back in town. Used to be you came hanging around every Saturday night, looking for a decent home-cooked meal.”

  Nate tried to keep the smile off his face, but couldn’t. “It’s not a done deal, so don’t you go spilling the beans to anyone. She’s a widow; I met her at the end of the summer. Never known anyone like her. Independent to a fault, which, of course, made me think that your Lydia would get along with her like a house afire. Uncle Frank even approves of her, so you’d expect he would understand why I need to make more money. I just think he’s been a bachelor for so long, never occurs to him I might want something different.”

  “I wouldn’t be so sure of that, my fine friend. Just last Sunday I took Lydia for a ride in Golden Gate Park, and I saw your Uncle Frank tooling along in a rented phaeton with a very lovely lady, a Mrs. Matthew Voss. He seemed in fine fettle, and I wouldn’t be so sure his bachelor days aren’t going to be soon over. Say, weren’t there rumors that old Mr. Voss was tied up with some fortuneteller? Couldn’t be that’s what you are working on, is it?”