Murder on Nob Hill

by Shirley Tallman

  He noted my heightened interest. “Yes, Miss Woolson, it was there that I first met Mr. Hanaford and his three partners. You must understand that many of my countrymen were leaving China at that time in search of a better life in America. Circumstances for the Chinese in Virginia City, however, were not easy. We faced bigotry and fierce competition from other miners. We were consid-

  ered a subspecies and were not allowed to stake our own claims, but were forced to take the white man's leavings. I was more fortunate than most and managed to acquire a mine that had been abandoned by two white men who cared more for alcohol than wielding axes. I worked the mine for many months, convinced that valuable minerals lay hidden in its tunnels. In the end I was proven correct. The mine turned out to be extremely rich.”

  “That's how you acquired all this, then?” I asked, looking about the extraordinary room.

  His mouth tightened and he regarded me with undeviating frankness. “I am afraid not. When the value of my mine became known, Mr. Hanaford and his partners relieved me of my claim.”

  “Relieved you of your—? You mean they stole it? But how?”

  “It was childishly simple. It was, after all, my word against theirs.” His smile was ironic. “And I was Chinese.”

  “You must have had recourse. Surely the law protected you—”

  His laughter cut through my words. “We are speaking of Virginia City, Miss Woolson. You are presuming a system of equality under the law that does not yet exist in San Francisco. Only last year the men of this city voted to exclude Chinese from entering the state. Those who are already here are barely tolerated. We cannot become naturalized citizens, nor can we marry a white person. We have been driven from many occupations because of our perceived threat to the white worker. All this in a so-called civilized city. Imagine, then, the situation facing us in a remote mining town with virtually no laws, and no one to enforce what few there were.

  “It's reprehensible!” I exclaimed, incensed by such discrimination.

  “No, it is reality,” he replied with a quiet smile. “That was what I learned, you see. In order to succeed, I would have to make the white man's rules work for me.”

  “So you left the mines and came to San Francisco.”

  He nodded, but did not elaborate further. Once again his erudite face became unreadable. Was this all he was going to tell me? There was so much more I longed to know.

  “You had good reason to resent the men who took so much from you.” I realized this statement was hardly as subtle as I would have liked. On the other hand, I knew of no good way to ask someone if he was a murderer. Especially a man like Li Ying.

  Again, he smiled. “If you are asking whether I killed Cornelius Hanaford and Rufus Mills, Miss Woolson, the answer is no. While it is true I bore no love for either man, they were worth a great deal more to me alive than dead.”

  “You mean the blackmail money.” I had an unexpected thought. “Were Mr. Wylde and Senator Broughton paying you as well?”

  His face was calm, but his eyes burned like black coals. I suddenly felt lost, without any real idea where I was going. I had allowed Li to lull me into believing he meant me no harm, but that trust was suspect. Despite the feeling that I was standing at the edge of a precipice, I boldly pressed on.

  “Mr. Hanaford and Mr. Mills were two of the most influential names in San Francisco,” I said. “How was it possible for you to wield control over such men?”

  Li considered this. “You have a saying, Miss Woolson, that one must not speak ill of the dead. The path to achieving the power and influence of which you speak is not always smooth. Nor is it always honorable. Let us say that when I was presented with an opportunity to collect on a debt long overdue, I was fortunate to possess the knowledge and ability to do so.”

  “The authorities may view that as a motive for murder.”

  “Undoubtedly.” His mouth moved into a half smile. “Do you plan to tell them, Miss Woolson?”

  I’m not ashamed to admit that my heart pounded as I looked into that enigmatic face. In truth I hadn’t fully considered what I would do if and when I was released from Li's house. Yet again my host surprised me by breaking into laughter.

  “Please, do not look so aggrieved. Of course you will inform your brother's friend on the police force what has happened. I assure you it is of no consequence. The authorities cannot harm me, nor have they the power to disrupt my organization. They are, however, understandably concerned for your safety. They have been combing the quarter since you became separated from Miss Culbertson after rescuing little Chum Ho from the opium den. Again, I apologize. I regret having caused you and your friends distress. It was necessary, however, that we have a chat.”

  His mouth twitched slightly and his black eyes twinkled.

  “You are known for your candor, Miss Woolson, and now that I have had the honor of meeting you, I see that the reputation is justified. In your innate honesty, I am certain you will acknowledge that tonight's discussion has been to our mutual advantage. If anyone can prove Mrs. Hanaford innocent of murdering her husband, I do not doubt that it will be you.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  Any hope I had entertained of sneaking into my house the next morning was dashed when my parents pounced on me the moment I opened the door. The alarm had been

  raised when Mama discovered I hadn’t slept in my bed the previous night. I gather I had returned just in time to prevent Edis from summoning the police.

  Papa's tirade was mercifully forestalled when my mother realized I was painfully favoring my left foot. Charles examined the afflicted appendage, then tersely informed me I was lucky to have escaped my night's folly with nothing more serious than a sprained ankle. I was duly bandaged and hustled off to bed. There, surrounded by my befuddled family, I was at last forced to offer an explanation for my behavior.

  In doing so, I was careful to include as few details as possible. The fact that I had been returned to my front door by two of Li Ying's men, however, made it difficult to deny in which part of the city the accident had occurred. Even a considerably watered-down

  version of my adventure with Miss Culbertson had been enough to drive my mother to tears and cause my father to threaten a nunnery if I ever again did anything so irresponsible.

  Only Charles's insistence that I must rest—in fact that I would need to stay in bed until the swelling in my ankle receded—finally brought a blessed end to parental censure. Before my father left the room, however, he bent down to whisper, “You haven’t told us half of what happened to you last night, my girl. I won’t press the matter now, but when you’re feeling better we’re going to have a little chat.”

  “You may not like what you hear, Papa,” I answered guiltily. “No, I probably won’t,” he said, planting a kiss on my forehead. “Nevertheless, I can’t wait to hear it.”

  To my surprise I slept until mid-afternoon, awakening when Mama entered bearing a late lunch. She plumped my pillows, then laid the tray on my lap. It was only after I’d taken a bite of Cook's excellent beef sandwich that I realized I was famished.

  My mother watched me for a moment, then said, “What you did last night was very reckless, Sarah.”

  “It was necessary, Mama. And I didn’t go alone.” “I know. You went with that woman from the Presbyterian Mission. I’ve long admired Miss Culbertson's work. Still, her raids are dangerous.”

  “I’m sure she would tell you that saving even one girl from white slavery is worth the risk.”

  “Yes,” Mama said wearily, “I’m sure she would.” She fussed with my bedclothes, then surprised me by saying, “You should have been a boy, Sarah. Lord knows I’ve tried, but I begin to despair of ever seeing you properly settled.”

  “By that I assume you mean married with a house full of children.” My mother and I had had this discussion before.

  Mama ignored my ironic tone. “I know you’ll find this hard to believe, but I have some idea how you feel. There was a time when I, too, had i
deas of what I wanted to do with my life.”

  I stopped chewing. “You mean other than marrying Papa?”

  “This was long before I met your father—I couldn’t have been more than six or seven. I’d had a fight with my older sister, your Aunt Eloise. She’d received a lovely white porcelain horse for Christmas, and I thought it was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen. I offered to trade her my new skates for it, but she refused. After days of pouting, my governess suggested I write about the horse. If I couldn’t own it, I could make up stories about it to my heart's delight.”

  “And did you?” I asked, intrigued by this rare glimpse into my mother's childhood.

  “Oh, yes. Pages and pages—in a little notebook. At first I wrote about the anger I felt toward my sister. Then, gradually, it became a story of a real horse.”

  I lay still, afraid to break the spell. My loving but reticent mother rarely shared her more intimate thoughts.

  “It sounds silly, but my horse became very real to me. Soon my sister's porcelain pony paled next to the lively creature of my imagination. That was the beginning. For years I wrote all sorts of stories. I don’t know how many notebooks I filled.”

  I was struck by the similarities between Mama and Samuel, who was driven by the same dream. What would Mama say if she knew her youngest son had inherited her passion? In addition, that he was making a name for himself—even if it wasn’t the name he’d been christened. I was sorely tempted to share this with her, but in the end I knew I couldn’t break Samuel's confidence.

  “Do you still have the notebooks?” I asked.

  “Do you know, I have no idea,” she said, looking surprised by my interest. “I haven’t seen them since we left Williamsport.”

  “Look for the stories, will you, Mama?” I said, squeezing her hand. “I’d love to read them.”

  Mama looked pleased, if a little self-conscious. “They’re just the ramblings of an overimaginative child, Sarah. Still, if you’d like, I’ll try to find them. There are some old chests in the attic. I might look there.”

  “Good.” I started to get up. “I’ll help you.”

  Mama gently pushed me back onto the pillows. “You’ll do no such thing. If I find my funny little notebooks, I’ll bring them to you. Perhaps they’ll help pass the time while your ankle mends.”

  She hesitated. “There was a reason I told you this story, Sarah. When I said you should have been a boy, I meant that your dreams, like my childhood fancies, are better suited to a man. I don’t doubt your ability to become a fine attorney, but have you considered the price you’ll have to pay? You’ll be the subject of gossip, spurned by other women, and you’ll be mocked by men in their clubs. You’ll find it difficult, if not impossible, to make a suitable match, or have a home of your own.” She took my hand. “My dear, are you willing to make such a sacrifice?”

  I had thought of these things, of course. Truth be known, I didn’t relish a life alone, and it pained me to think I might never bear children. But there was a price to pay for marriage and motherhood, as well, perhaps one even more costly than that demanded of me by the legal profession.

  “I do want those things, Mama, and if I knew of a way to have them both, I would. But as you just pointed out, it must be one or the other.”

  She sighed, then rose and picked up my tray. “It's not the life I

  would have chosen for you, Sarah, but I realize nothing I say is likely to change your mind. It never has. You were always the most headstrong of all my children. I only pray you won’t live to regret your choice.”

  “If I do, I’ll have no one to blame but myself.” I looked up at her. “You could still do it, you know, Mama. Write, I mean. We’re all grown now. You could find the time if you tried.”

  She looked horrified. “Your father would never permit it. You know his feelings about writers.”

  I smiled. She didn’t realize it, but she had just proven my point. To be a married woman in this world meant having a man make choices for you. He could decide how your money was spent, how many children you had, where you lived and in what kind of house, even in what church you would worship.

  No, I thought, as my mother carried the tray from the room. I had made the right decision. For better or for worse, I would have to live with it.

  The next morning, I convinced Charles that it would do no harm if I sat in the back parlor, my ailing foot propped upon a stool. Because it afforded a magnificent view of the Bay, this had long been my favorite room in the house. Since childhood I had happily escaped to this retreat, never tiring of the ever-changing panorama of sea and sky and hills framed in our large bay window.

  Today the scene was idyllic: there were few clouds and the water reflected a moving mirror of blue and silver. It was so clear that I could see Yerba Buena—or Goat Island, as it was usually called— as well as graceful coasting schooners and the small fleet of Italian fishing boats that serviced Fisherman's Wharf.

  There I remained for hours, looking out at the Bay and reading

  the stories in the little notebooks Mama had unearthed in the attic. Charming in their innocence, the tales were told with a spirited imagination I never would have guessed my mother possessed. What a shame, I thought, that such a talent remained unfulfilled because of the outdated dictates of society.

  Shortly after lunch I received a surprise visit from Miss Cul-bertson. The poor woman seemed pathetically relieved to find me in more or less one piece. She regretted my sprained ankle but, like Charles, was happy I had come to no more serious harm. She was considerably taken aback when I told her of my visit with Li Ying, especially when I described his remarkable home. Since client confidentiality did not permit me to discuss the reason for my abduction, the poor woman was genuinely bewildered as to why I’d been singled out for such a dubious honor.

  “I’m just grateful you’re all right,” she said when I’d ended my tale, then went on to thank me for what she generously termed my “invaluable help” in the raid. Chum Ho had been taken in by a Chinese family to be raised as their daughter. There was no use sending her back to China, she said sadly, since the girl's family would almost certainly sell her right back to the slave traffickers. Poverty in some of China's southernmost districts was extreme. Here, Chum Ho would have a good home and a chance for a brighter future than she could expect in her native land.

  After Miss Culbertson's departure, I went back to reading my mother's stories until my reverie was interrupted by the sound of a voice that could belong to only one person. Our butler's usually unflappable expression registered mild surprise when I instructed him to show Mr. Campbell in.

  Robert was untidily dressed, even for him, and he looked cross and out of sorts. Not bothering with even a token show of good

  manners, he immediately denounced what he charmingly termed “the stupidest stunt he’d ever heard of.”

  “Shepard is livid I let you out of my sight. I’ll be damned if he doesn’t blame me for the whole fiasco. What in the name of all that's holy were you thinking of, risking your life like that?”

  Without waiting to be invited, he pulled up a chair and sat down, then ordered me to report everything that had happened on the raid, including how I had injured my ankle—which he’d been eyeing ever since walking in the door.

  I felt a wave of resentment. How dare the odious man march into my home and toss about demands as if he owned the place!

  “How did you hear about the raid?” I demanded.

  His laugh was derisive. “You’re even more naive than I supposed if you think a white woman can be abducted in Chinatown without it becoming public knowledge. Miss Culbertson hadhalf the policeforce outlooking foryou.” Hiseyesboreinto mine. “I know this has something to do with that confounded note we found in Hanaford's desk, so you might as well tell me everything.”

  He looked so incongruous sitting there in Mama's fragile armchair—like some oversized Chief Sitting Bull—that despite myself, my anger turned to amusement. Clear
ing my throat to cover a strong urge to laugh, I described my Chinatown adventures, concluding with Li Ying's assertion that Hanaford and his partners had jumped his claim in the Comstock Lode, a name commonly used to refer to the Virginia City Silver Mines.

  “He admitted to blackmailing them for years,” I finished, “without the least embarrassment or guilt.”

  Robert said thoughtfully, “I can’t see why Li would want to kill the geese laying the golden eggs. On the other hand, what if

  Hanaford and Mills refused to make any more payments? Maybe Li decided to kill them as an example to the other two.”

  “Somehow I can’t see Hanaford or Mills defying a man as powerful as Li Ying. I certainly wouldn’t want him as an enemy.” Then, reluctant as I was to tell him what I’d learned about Fowler's identity, I decided he’d better know that, too.

  “You’re telling me that Fowler is Rufus Mills's illegitimate son?” he exclaimed when I was through. “Can you prove it?”

  “No, of course not. But you’re missing the point. I was able to verify that Jessie Gooding did work for the Mills family as a hired girl. And the dates of her employment match up with the time Peter must have been conceived. The important thing is that Jessie raised her son to believe Mills was his father. That's what the prosecution will claim if they unearth this story.”

  Robert stared at me. “You realize this puts the final nail in Fowler's coffin. Probably in Mrs. Hanaford's as well.”

  “I know,” I admitted morosely. “That's why I’m telling you. I need your help to get to the bottom of this mess before the story becomes public knowledge.”

  He sniffed dismissively and his expression spoke volumes.