The aspiring politician, I noticed, was holding court in another part of the room, parroting the current conservative line and promising to rescind business regulations imposed by Denis Kearney's Workingman's party during the last two elections. My brother Charles had been called out shortly after supper on a medical emergency and thus had escaped all the folderol, leading me to wonder if, after all, I had chosen the wrong profession.
Obeying Mama's orders to circulate among our guests, I spied Papa talking to Joseph Shepard. I couldn’t hear what they were saying, but the elderly attorney seemed agitated, all the more so when Papa threw back his head and laughed. Shepard sputtered, and even
from across the room I couldn’t miss the annoying trumpeting sound in the back of his throat. At that moment, he saw me and his face darkened. Abruptly, he paid his respects to my father and strode heatedly from the room.
I joined Papa, who amused himself by repeating Shepard's litany of my sins. It was when Shepard had attempted to enlist my father's support in “curbing my unorthodox behavior” that Papa had burst into laughter, saying he would rather face a charging bull than stand in the way of anything I’d set my mind on. Papa's only regret, he told me with a hearty chuckle, was that he had missed the look on Shepard's face when I’d marched in like Sherman taking Atlanta and staked a claim to one of his offices.
“The poor man has absolutely no idea what to do with you, my dear,” Papa said. “Truth to tell, he seems quite overwhelmed.”
“He has no reason to be,” I replied, failing to find humor in the situation. “I’ve requested no special treatment. On the contrary, I’m prepared, nay anxious, to accept my share of cases.”
Papa's eyes twinkled. “That's precisely what has him worried.”
He was still chortling as he walked off to join a colleague, leaving me at last free to pursue my plan. I spotted my quarry in the front sitting room, standing with a group of men by the hearth. The tall man occupying center stage was Willard Broughton, local Republican Senator and one of Cornelius Hanaford's mining partners. I was pleased to see that the man standing next to him was Rufus Mills, the industrialist and fourth partner who, along with Benjamin Wylde, had accompanied the late banker to Nevada City some twenty years earlier. I smiled as I walked over to the group, pleased I would be able to kill two birds with one stone.
“Good evening, Senator Broughton.” I smiled at the distinguished man with the graying hair and neatly trimmed mustache,
then turned to his much slighter companion. “Mr. Mills. I’m pleased you could come.”
The two men were a study in contrasts. Broughton, in his late forties, was stylishly turned out. He was self-assured and possessed the easy conviviality of a born politician. Rufus Mills, on the other hand, was taciturn to the point of rudeness. I hadn’t seen the man in several years, but I recalled him as outgoing and nattily attired. Tonight, his clothes were wrinkled and hung loosely on his narrow frame. His face was drawn and pale, and he sniffed and sneezed as if he were suffering from catarrh. His manner, too, seemed ill at ease, almost anxious. His gaze darted about from behind spectacles so thick his magnified eyes reminded me of a frightened deer. This was hardly the dynamic man who had single-handedly forged an industrial empire. What had happened, I wondered, to bring about such a drastic change?
“I was sorry to learn of Cornelius Hanaford's death,” I said when I was able to maneuver the two men away from the others, determined to draw as much information from them as possible. “I believe he was once your partner?”
“That was a long time ago,” the senator told me. “Of course his death came as a great shock.”
Mills took out a crumpled handkerchief and wiped his brow. “Terrible, terrible,” he said to no one in particular. His oversized eyes were currently focused on our parlor drapes.
“Were you acquainted with Mr. Hanaford?” the senator asked, his sober brown eyes regarding me with interest.
“Unfortunately, no. However, I have come to know his widow.”
“It's very sad. She's such a lovely young woman.”
“Yes, it's been difficult for her. I understand another of your former partners has been named executor of Mr. Hanaford's estate.”
He nodded. “Indeed. Mr. Benjamin Wylde. A fine attorney, I assure you. Mrs. Hanaford is in capable hands.”
“She is now,” I agreed cryptically, then asked the senator if he had any idea who might have wanted to see the banker dead.
He seemed taken aback. “My dear young lady, you need look no further than the streets to find the killer. I assure you, Cornelius Hanaford did not have an enemy in the world.”
“Come now, Senator,” I gently chided. “Have you ever known a man of finance who didn’t have adversaries?”
“Surely not the sort who would kill him,” he protested.
“Perhaps not,” I went on, ignoring his disapproving frown. “But if the servants didn’t let the killer into the house, Mr. Hanaford must have opened the door himself. I hardly think he would have invited a stranger in at that hour of the night.”
Senator Broughton's face suffused with color and I realized I had gone too far. Murder was not an appropriate subject for polite conversation, and certainly not at a social soiree. I was definitely not making a favorable impression.
“Are you suggesting,” he asked darkly, “that Cornelius knew his assailant? That he ushered him into his study so the man could kill him?”
Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed that Rufus Mills had stopped fidgeting and was giving us his full attention. Again, his expression left me with the distinct impression that he was afraid.
“I’m merely stating the facts as they’ve been presented to me,” I said, turning my attention back to the senator.
“That is the danger of listening to gossip,” he said reproachfully. “It's usually silly and frequently dangerous. This is a matter for the police. That is what they are paid for and—”
“I must leave,” Mr. Mills broke in. “My wife is unwell.”
Broughton looked at his friend in surprise. “What are you talk ing about, Rufus? Martha spoke to Regina just yesterday and she seemed in excellent health.”
“It was sudden. Quite sudden.” Mills turned to me and nervously cleared his throat. “You’ll inform your parents, Miss Wool-son? And offer my apologies?”
“Yes, of course, Mr. Mills. But my mother is right over—”
He didn’t so much as glance in my mother's direction. “I must go.” He gave his friend a harried look, then spun on his heels and all but bolted for the door.
Broughton's expression was difficult to read. Behind his obvious bewilderment, he seemed both concerned and angry.
“You must forgive Mr. Mills, Miss Woolson,” he said after an awkward moment. “He's devoted to his wife.”
“So it seems.” I wondered if his wife's poor health was the reason Mills had seemed so preoccupied. But that couldn’t account for his surprising weight loss, or his slightly shabby appearance. Perhaps my initial reaction was correct and he, too, was ill.
Senator Broughton excused himself, saying he wished to have a word with his wife, who was seated in the group with Henrietta and Mrs. Crocker. I watched as he joined the women and said something that drew laughs, then looked meaningfully at his wife. She flushed, as if her husband had imparted some sort of private message, then quickly stood. Somewhat awkwardly she made her apologies to Mama and the other ladies, after which the Senator bowed, took his wife's arm and led her toward the door. As they crossed the room, I caught a glimpse of his face. It was no longer smiling. And Mrs. Broughton looked embarrassed and near tears.
“I saw you pumping the old boys for information,” Samuel said, coming up behind me and causing me to jump. “Any luck?”
“No, but it was probably asking too much to suppose they’d tell me anything useful. Rufus Mills behaved strangely, though. He
didn’t look well, and he ran out of here as if the place were on fire. Oddly, Senator
Broughton and his wife left on his heels.”
“They’d probably had all they could take of Frederick and his mind-numbing party.” He drew out his fob watch. “I wonder how long before I can decently slip out of here myself?”
“Don’t you dare. Mama would never forgive you.”
Spying Henrietta walking in our direction, my brother took my arm and drew me into the hall.
“I spoke to George,” he said, referring to his friend on the police force. “Your client may be in more trouble than you know.”
My pulse quickened. “Why? What did George say?”
“The police have discovered she has a lover. An actor by the name of Peter Fowler.”
Of course! My mind went back to the scene outside Shepard's building the day before and I suddenly understood why Annjenett's friend had seemed so familiar. Just last year I had seen him perform a melodrama at the California Theater.
“You don’t look surprised.”
“I saw them together, Samuel. What you’ve just told me explains Annjenett's strange behavior.” I had an awful thought. “What impact will this have on the murder investigation?”
“For one thing, it supplies a motive. And, of course, the widow is going to have to explain her relationship with Fowler.”
“Poor Annjenett.” Her behavior had been foolish, but surely not criminal. Of course she’d be ruined socially. A woman might be allowed a discreet affair—if it were circumspect and hidden from the public eye—but society would never accept a scandal involving murder and, even worse, an actor. There were some indiscretions even San Francisco could not forgive.
“After our talk the other night, I did a little poking around. Do you see that man over there?” Samuel indicated a stout, middle-
aged man with ruddy cheeks and receding white hair. “That's Thomas Cooke, Annjenett's father.”
Unobtrusively, I studied the man as my brother went on.
“Cooke was heavily indebted to Hanaford's bank. Then, after his daughter's marriage, his financial obligations were suddenly forgiven. I doubt it was by coincidence.”
My eyes flew to my brother, thinking perhaps I had misheard. “Are you implying that Thomas Cooke all but sold his daughter into marriage? How could any father—”
I stopped, brought up short by a familiar face in the foyer, a face that towered at least half a head above the other guests. “What is he doing here?”
Samuel followed my gaze. “You know that fellow?” “Unfortunately, yes.”
Excusing myself, I started toward the door. Even if the man were not so tall, he would have stood out in the present company like an oak tree in a rose garden. He still wore his dark blue daytime frock coat and brown trousers—which, I noted, were sorely in need of pressing—along with a tan waistcoat and an unfortunate necktie that failed to match any other article of his clothing. His face was flushed, as if he had traveled in some haste, and his red hair flew about his head in more disorder than usual.
“Mr. Campbell,” I said, reaching the foyer. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”
“I have a message for Mr. Shepard,” he said, not bothering with civilities. “I was told he’d be here tonight.”
“He left some time ago,” I replied, then bristled when the arrogant man craned his neck, looking beyond me into the parlor. “Do you accuse me of lying, sir?” I felt my face flush at his rude behavior. “Do you think that for some nefarious reason we’re hiding Mr. Shepard?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. It's just that I’ve never seen such a display of ostentation beneath one roof.”
I couldn’t bring myself to admit that, for the most part, I agreed with this pronouncement. “You don’t approve of Society?”
His eyes raked over the lavish gowns, the diamonds, rubies, and emeralds, the tiaras and ostrich feathers. “I see little to commend fatuous women whose sole purpose in life is to outspend, outdress and outglitter their neighbor.”
“That's a generalization, Mr. Campbell,” I said shortly. I thought of Mama and the hours she spent each week gathering clothing, food, and medicine for the poor. There was Mrs. Hearst's Settlement House in South Park, Mrs. Crocker's Boys’ and Girls’ Aid Society, not to mention the Old People's Home she had helped found. “There are members of Society who care deeply about the needs of the less fortunate. They give—”
He gave a snort of impatience. “I’m sure you know more about the vagaries of San Francisco Society than I do. However, since I didn’t come here to debate social reform, I’ll bid you good night.” With a slight nod of his head, he turned toward the door.
“Wait,” I called after him. Something in his expression made me uneasy. “Perhaps if I knew your message, I could help.”
For a moment I thought he hadn’t heard, but after one or two strides of those long legs he stopped and turned back. I don’t know what made me think of Annjenett, but suddenly I was certain his errand concerned her.
“It's about Mrs. Hanaford, isn’t it?” When he didn’t answer, I said, “I’m her attorney. I demand to be told what has happened.”
“You really are a meddlesome woman,” he spat, but I could see his resolve was weakening. “All right,” he went on grudgingly. “Earlier this evening Mrs. Hanaford was arrested and taken to the
city jail. The police are still looking for her love—that is, a gentleman of her acquaintance.”
I could hardly credit this. “Annjenett, taken to jail? Why?”
He hesitated a moment, then blurted, “Mrs. Hanaford and a fellow by the name of Peter Fowler have been charged with the murder of Cornelius Hanaford.”
I was not allowed to visit Annjenett until Monday morning, a delay which seemed like an eternity. Through his friend George Lewis, Samuel learned that Peter Fowler had finally been arrested early the previous morning and that both he and Annjenett were being held without bail—not only because they were charged with a capital offense, but because the presumption of their guilt was too great to risk flight. Samuel insisted on accompanying me to the city jail, an unnecessary but welcome arrangement.
Our cab made its way through heavy morning fog to arrive at the jail shortly after nine. As it turned out, it was as well Samuel was with me, since Annjenett's jailers—rejecting the possibility that I might be her attorney—refused to allow me inside. It was only after my brother, without benefit of bar accreditation, insisted he was co-attorney that we were finally admitted.
It was unusual for the city jail to be called upon to house a woman of Annjenett's refinement, but the guard assured me that the widow had been allotted the best accommodations the institution had to offer. Nonetheless, her bleak chamber shocked me. The cell was bitterly cold and barely large enough to hold three people. A narrow cot, covered by several coarse woolen blankets, took up the limited space. To one side was a cracked chamber pot and a porcelain bowl filled with water. There were no table or chairs. In
fact there was no place for visitors to sit except upon the cot. A small, barred window, located high on one wall, provided the only source of light, and little of that on this dreary morning.
“Sarah, thank goodness you’ve come.” Annjenett clutched my arm, her white face and red eyes making my heart ache in sympathy.
“How are you, my dear?” Anxious as I was to hear what had happened, I first had to ensure that she was being treated well by her jailers.
“Everyone is kind enough,” she said with a weak smile. “They bring me extra food and blankets, but there's little they can do to change this...” She swept a thin hand around the cell.
Leaving Samuel to stand by the barred window, I took the young widow's hand and led her to sit on the cot. “I know this is difficult,” I said, taking a seat beside her. “But if I’m to help, you must tell me everything.”
Annjenett hesitated and looked toward Samuel, who, interested as he was in her narrative, instantly understood that she’d feel more comfortable if we were alone.
“I’ll see what I can find out about Mrs. H
anaford's arrest,” he said, knocking on the cell door to attract the guard.
I nodded my approval. “I’ll meet you outside.”
When he was gone, Annjenett said, “It was kind of you to come.”
“Kindness has nothing to do with it. It should be clear to any fool that you’re incapable of murder.”
Her hands moved nervously in her lap. “You may change your mind when you’ve heard my story.”
“I’ll be the judge of that.” In an effort to help her begin, I said, “I understand your father was in debt to Mr. Hanaford's bank, and that this debt was forgiven upon your marriage.” I tried to keep my tone nonjudgmental, but some of my distaste must have shown.
“Please, Sarah, you mustn’t judge Papa too harshly. He hated marrying me to a man we both disliked so intensely. But Papa has a penchant for gambling, and Cornelius preyed on that weakness by lending him ever-increasing amounts of money. When my father realized what he’d done, it was too late. He was forced to agree to Cornelius's terms or risk losing everything.
I shook my head at this cowardice and she rushed on, “At first it wasn’t so bad. And I took hope from the fact that Cornelius treated me kindly. For the first year or two, I actually grew rather fond of him.”
“Then what happened?” I prompted when she faltered.
“Cornelius—began to make certain demands of me. He—” Her pale cheeks flamed into color.
I patted her hand. “I have friends who are married. I think I know what you’re trying to say.”
“Excuse me, Sarah, but I’m not sure you do. For a long time I didn’t either. I was too naive to understand that his—that my husband's appetites went beyond what is normally expected of a wife. I only knew that I found them coarse and humiliating. I tried to do what he asked, but it was never enough. Each time he came to my bed his demands grew more outrageous, more debasing. If I refused, he would sometimes strike me until I gave in.”
“Dear god!” Tears streaked down Annjenett's face and I felt beastly. “Please, believe me, my dear. I would never make you go through this if it weren’t so important.”
Murder on Nob Hill Page 5
