Murder on Nob Hill

by Shirley Tallman

  Indeed there were! My father's transplanted law practice flourished in this chaotic, prosperous town full of gold dust and the callow forty-niners bent on mining it. With such instant wealth, criminal defense, litigation and debt collection cases abounded. Horace T. Woolson's thriving practice soon catapulted him to public office, and eventually to the Superior Court of the County of San Francisco.

  Frederick is the eldest of my three brothers and has—to my amazement—become a fairly successful attorney. Charles, three years Frederick's junior, is also married and has gained a reputation as a skilled, if impoverished, physician. My youngest brother, Samuel—my co-conspirator in the episode at Shepard's law firm— is two years my senior. Samuel remains a bachelor and still lives at home, as does my brother Charles and his family.

  There were eight of us, then, at dinner that evening. Charles and his wife, Celia, presented a handsome contrast, he with his dark complexion and Mama's thick ebony hair, she with her fair coloring and golden locks. After seven years of marriage and two lovely children, Thomas and Amanda, the looks they exchanged, the seemingly accidental touch of their hands, was almost—but not quite—enough to weaken my resolve to remain a spinster.

  Frederick and his wife, Henrietta, presented a sadly different picture. Tall, heavy-set, looking older than his thirty-eight years, Frederick is, I am sorry to say, a humorless man. His appearance favors Papa, with the same nut-brown hair and dark eyes, as well as Papa's noticeable paunch. Henrietta is also tall, but where Frederick has turned portly, she has kept her thin, brittle figure. They make an impressive, if passionless, couple. I wonder sometimes how they ever managed to produce eight-year-old Freddie, a son of whom Ivan the Terrible would be proud. But that's another story.

  That evening, I sat across from my brother Samuel, the self-proclaimed oddball of the family. In appearance, Samuel is a throwback to an obscure German branch of my father's family. Shorter than his brothers, he's blond and muscularly built. That is not to imply he's not handsome; any number of hopeful young ladies would happily attest to my brother's popularity. He is, in fact, counted among San Francisco's most eligible bachelors—a designation, I might add, that he's in no hurry to alter.

  In temperament, Samuel is also considered odd. Trained in the law, he has persistently—or bullheadedly, as Papa describes it— delayed taking his California bar examinations. If Papa knew that Samuel was more interested in a journalistic career than in the le gal profession—an obsession he's kept secret from everyone in the family but me—he might find even stronger words to describe his youngest son's behavior. If he also realized that Samuel has sold pieces to local newspapers (under the unlikely nom de plume Ian Fearless), I shudder to contemplate his reaction. Papa considers journalists to be social scavengers making their living at the expense of public awareness and debate. It would never occur to him that a Woolson would sully the family name by becoming a Robert O’Brien (Papa's nemesis on the San Francisco Chronicle), a Mark Twain, or even a Bret Harte (the latter two writers I personally admire).

  Frederick and Henrietta's presence cast a pall on the usual lively tempo of our evening meals. Talk of Saturday night's dinner party dominated the conversation ad infinitum, and I began to despair that I would ever get a word in edgewise. Finally, while Ina, our Irish maid, served the main course of broiled turkey breast and steamed vegetables, a momentary lull in the conversation provided the opportunity I’d been awaiting.

  “Papa, what do you know about Cornelius Hanaford?” I asked.

  Seven pairs of eyes turned to regard me with interest.

  “Hanaford?” Samuel said innocently. “Isn’t he the banker who was murdered in his study several weeks ago?”

  I had to suppress a laugh. Because of certain friendships he's cultivated within the ranks of the city police, Samuel was more aware of crime in our town than anyone else at the table.

  Henrietta regarded me with the frosty disapproval she usually bestows upon me. “The discussion of murder is hardly an appropriate subject for the dining room. Even in this house.” She darted a glance at Papa who, I noted with amusement, seemed to be enjoying the turn in the conversation.

  “Quite right, my dear,” Frederick agreed. “Really, Sarah, it's high time you learned to curb your tongue.”

  “Don’t be pompous, Frederick,” I retorted. “Any subject is preferable to your dreary party.”

  “Violent death is a dreadful subject at any time,” Celia, ever the peacemaker, interjected. “But I confess to a degree of morbid curiosity. If you don’t mind, Sarah, how did it happen?”

  I spoke before either Frederick or Henrietta could voice another objection. “Actually, I know little about the case except that Mr. Hanaford was stabbed to death in his study sometime after dinner.” I turned again to my father. “I hoped you might be able to tell me something about the man.”

  Papa regarded me from beneath bushy brows, showing, of late, rather more white than brown. “Hanaford made his money, actually a good deal of it, twenty years ago in the Nevada silver mines. He was a dry goods salesman in Sacramento before he was bitten by the gold bug and formed a partnership with several like-minded young men. Unlike most fools who dashed off to the mines with heads as empty as their pockets, Hanaford and his friends managed to do surprisingly well for themselves.”

  Papa was momentarily sidetracked by a platter of fried oysters. “To their credit,” he went on at length, “all four men made the most of their newfound wealth. Hanaford established one of the city's largest banks. Rufus Mills, of course, became a successful industrialist, and I hardly need mention that Willard Broughton is serving his third term in the California Senate. The fourth partner, Benjamin Wylde, has made a name for himself as a trial attorney. All three will be at Frederick's soiree Saturday night, I believe.”

  “Mr. Wylde will be out of town,” Henrietta put in. “However, Rufus Mills and Senator Broughton have promised to attend.”

  “As has Thomas Cooke, the hotelier,” Mama added. “His daughter, Annjenett, is Mr. Hanaford's widow.”

  “Actually, I met Mrs. Hanaford this morning when I visited Mr. Shepard's law offices,” I said, reaching for a roll. Once again seven pairs of eyes turned to stare at me.

  “What possible reason could you have for consulting Joseph Shepard?” demanded Frederick, taking a sip of wine.

  “Not that it's any of your business,” I told him, “but I was inquiring about a position as associate attorney.”

  Frederick choked on his wine, inducing a fit of coughing.

  I handed him a serviette. “You’re dripping wine on Mama's tablecloth, Frederick.”

  “This is too much!” He turned a livid face to my father. “Now you see where your permissiveness has led.”

  Papa chuckled. “You might as well tell us the rest of it, my girl. How did you manage to get that old reprobate to see you?”

  Realizing the subject could no longer be avoided, and taking care not to mention Samuel's role in the affair, I explained the confusion with our initials. Papa shot Samuel a suspicious look, but allowed me to tell my story without interruption.

  “Oh, to have been a fly on Shepard's wall,” Papa chuckled when I’d finished. “I’ll wager you gave the poor man apoplexy.”

  “I admire your nerve, Sarah,” Celia put in admiringly. “I think you’ll make a splendid attorney.”

  “Don’t encourage her, Celia.” Frederick turned to Charles for support. “Surely you appreciate the gravity of the situation.”

  Charles took a moment to answer. My middle brother is the mildest of men, thoughtful and considerate to a fault. No one who calls upon him professionally is ever turned away, even when they’re unable to pay for his medical services. Despite his kind

  heart, however, I knew his love for me and innate sense of fairness must be waging battle with his sense of propriety.

  “I don’t for a moment believe that women are incapable of grasping the finer points of the law—or of medicine, for that matter,”
he ventured. “But a woman would have to sacrifice a great deal to make a success of either profession. I don’t want to see you hurt, Sarah, and I fear you’ll face enormous opposition.”

  I regarded my brother fondly. “I appreciate your concern, Charles, but I relish hard work. And growing up with Frederick has given me no end of practice in dealing with bigots.”

  “I find Mr. Hanaford's death most unsettling,” Mama put in before my eldest brother could explode. “You should speak to Edis, Horace,” she went on, referring to the dour but devoted man who has served as our butler for as far back as I could remember.

  Papa didn’t appear unduly concerned. “I hardly think that's necessary, Elizabeth. We don’t want to alarm the servants. Edis fusses like an old woman as it is. Pass the carrots, would you Charles?”

  Mama did not look convinced. “Yes, but—”

  “Trust me, my dear,” Papa reassured her. “The police have the matter well in hand. Besides, Cornelius Hanaford's unfortunate death has nothing to do with us.”

  With these woefully unprophetic words, the conversation passed on to politics.

  The opportunity to speak to Samuel did not present itself until the rest of the family had retired for the night. Slipping outside, I found my brother in the garden smoking a cigarette. “It's about time,” he told me softly. The night was chilly and I pulled my wool shawl closer about my shoulders as I sat beside him on a garden bench. Through the moonlight, I could detect the hint of a smile playing on his mouth as he asked, “So, are you to be Shepard's newest associate attorney?”

  “Joseph Shepard is incapable of seeing beyond his nose. He recited a litany of reasons why a woman is unfit to practice law, ranging from physical frailty to mental impairment.”

  “So, now what?”

  I was forced to confess I didn’t know. “I’ll probably try Avers and Brock. They’re not as established or respected as Shepard's, but needs must. Or perhaps I’ll open my own office.”

  This time there was no mistaking my brother's amusement. “And how will you lure clients, little sister? Paying clients, I mean. Or will you treat them all pro bono?”

  “Sarcasm doesn’t become you, Samuel,” I told him shortly. “Besides, there are more important matters to discuss.”

  “Such as Cornelius Hanaford and his lovely young widow?”

  I nodded and briefly described my meeting with Annjenett, as well as my plans for relieving her current financial problems. “I thought you might have discussed the case with George.”

  George Lewis was a boxing partner of Samuel's, as well as a member of the San Francisco Police Department. George's work on the force had provided my brother with material for several true crime stories which appeared, successfully I might add, in the city's newspapers. Due in no small part to Samuel's friendship with George Lewis, Ian Fearless was making a name for himself.

  “He's talked of little else since it happened.” He studied my face. “You do know how Hanaford was murdered, don’t you?”

  “Of course. He was stabbed.”

  “Yes, but do you know where he was stabbed?”

  I looked at him blankly. “No. Why, does it matter?”

  “It must have mattered to his murderer. Sarah, Hanaford was stabbed to death in the genitals.” I was momentarily struck dumb.

  “Which means, of course,” he went on, “that the murder was more likely a crime of passion than of chance or burglary.”

  “But what about the items that were stolen?”

  “Another question the police would like answered.”

  I leaned back against the bench and thought of my talk with Annjenett. She’d said nothing to lead me to believe the murder was of a personal nature. Yet, as Samuel pointed out, the unusual manner of the attack was undoubtedly significant.

  “The police have kept the more sensational aspects of the crime quiet,” Samuel went on, breaking into my thoughts. “Lewis admits it has them baffled.”

  “I can imagine.”

  “Not surprisingly, the financial district is in an uproar. And there's a lot of political pressure to solve the crime quickly.” “Do the police have any suspects?”

  “Hanaford's staff has been repeatedly interviewed. No one recalls anything out of the ordinary that evening.”

  “What about disgruntled bank clients? Or employees?”

  “Nothing serious enough to result in homicide.”

  “Surely someone must have seen something!” I said, exasperated.

  “If they did, they haven’t come forward.” He hesitated. “I suppose you’ve considered the more obvious implications of this case?”

  I felt a shiver that had nothing to do with the night air. “The possibility is too obvious to ignore. Hanaford either let the murderer in himself, without the servants’ knowledge. Or—” “Or the murderer was already inside.” Samuel crossed his legs. “Tell me about Mrs. Hanaford. I know, of course, that she was younger than her husband.”

  “Yes, considerably. It was an arranged marriage. And not, I gather, a particularly happy one.” I added defensively, “That doesn’t mean my client's a murderer.”

  Samuel darted me a look. “Your client!”

  “At least until this business concerning Mrs. Hanaford's finances is settled.”

  “Well, that caps the climax,” he said with a laugh. “Old Joe Shepard must have thrown a fit when you waltzed into his office and stole one of his prized clients.”

  “Joseph Shepard was less than useless. He brushed the poor woman off as if she were a piece of lint on his coat.”

  “And you rushed in like Florence Nightingale to save the day.”

  “I haven’t saved it yet,” I said dryly. “But if I fail, it won’t be for lack of trying.”

  Samuel sat thoughtfully for several moments. “I think you’d better hope the police find a likely suspect soon, little sister. Otherwise your client may find more pressing matters to worry about than her finances.”

  I stared at my brother. His eyes, usually full of mischief, were deadly serious in the moonlight. “Surely it isn’t that bad.”

  “Come on, Sarah. If there were no visitors, and no one broke in, what's left?”

  “Not that,” I insisted. I pride myself on my judgment of people, and I was convinced the young woman I had met that morning could not be a cold-blooded killer. “I’d stake my life on the fact that Annjenett Hanaford did not murder her husband.”

  My brother gave me a long look. “For your client's sake, I hope you’re right.”

  In the distance, St. Mary's Cathedral chimed midnight. Samuel stretched and got to his feet.

  “She's fortunate to have you, little sister,” he said quietly, as I rose to join him. “The time may come when Annjenett Hanaford will need a friend.”

  My brother's words remained on my mind as I arrived at Portsmouth Square at ten o’clock the next morning. As I alighted from the horsecar, I was pleased to spy Annjenett Hanaford's Victoria across the street. The widow's hopeful face made it easy to dismiss Samuel's dire predictions, and I returned her bright smile. Before we entered the rising room, she took my arm.

  “Sarah, do you really think we’re going to succeed?”

  Despite the fact that I’d asked myself that same question most of the night, I kept my voice optimistic. “I see no reason why we shouldn’t. I’ve been over the documents at length and they’re in order. According to the law, the money is rightfully yours.”

  “Then it really is true.” Unexpectedly she threw her arms around me and kissed my cheek. “How can I ever thank you?”

  For a moment I was too surprised to speak, then managed to sputter, “Yes, well, you can thank me when this business is successfully concluded.”

  “Oh, but you’re bound to succeed, Sarah. I have every confidence that you can do anything you set your mind to.”

  Silently, I prayed I could live up to such lofty expectations! Then I asked Annjenett to pay me one dollar so that I might act as her legal representative
.

  She smiled as the sense of this plan became clear, then removed a silver dollar from her reticule. “I would be pleased to have you represent my affairs, Miss Woolson.”

  When we presented ourselves at Mr. Shepard's law offices, the

  ferretlike clerk I had encountered the previous day scurried off in a flurry of agitation. He’d scarcely left the room when I felt the small hairs on my neck begin to prickle.

  Annjenett leaned closer. “There's a man staring at you, Sarah. I remember seeing him yesterday. He's—very noticeable.”

  Even before I turned, I knew it was the orange-haired associate attorney, ensconced in his cubicle of an office, eyes boring into my back in the rudest possible manner. I was annoyed to feel my pulse rate unaccountably increase. The man's audacity knew no bounds!

  Furious, I returned his rude stare until, with a fierce frown, he bent his head to the jumble of papers and books spilled across his desk. For the life of me I couldn’t understand why Joseph Shepard would employ such a man. If someone had been foolish enough to cast Paul Bunyan in the role of an attorney, he couldn’t have appeared more incongruous than this churlish giant!

  Joseph Shepard's arrival cut short my musings. With an ill concealed glare in my direction, he took Annjenett's hand.

  “My dear Mrs. Hanaford. What a pleasure to see you again so soon. Although I’m sorry to inform you that, as yet, I haven’t been able to reach Mr. Wylde.”

  “I’m not here to discuss Mr. Wylde,” Annjenett informed him. “Miss Woolson wishes to call your attention to one or two items in my husband's estate.”

  Although I was prepared, it was nonetheless disconcerting when he produced that awful noise in the back of his nose.

  “Not only can I think of no possible reason to discuss Mr. Hanaford's affairs with Miss Woolson,” he informed us. “It would be unprofessional to even contemplate such a thing.”