“Don’t say it. I know who you think is guilty.” My ankle had begun to throb and I shifted it to a more comfortable position on the stool. “I admit I could be wrong about Peter, but I’m not mistaken about Annjenett.”
“We’ve been over this before, Sarah. Even you must see how well it fits together: Fowler helps Mrs. Hanaford murder her husband in order to inherit his estate. In return, Mrs. Hanaford helps Fowler plan Mills's death to avenge the wrong done to his mother.”
I stifled a groan. Stated like that, Robert's bald reasoning painted a bleak picture for my client.
He gave a sardonic laugh. “You should be working for the prosecution, Sarah. You’re handing them an ironclad case.”
I shot him a look, but I knew he was right. Instead of helping my client, I was tightening the noose around her neck.
“Fowler knows more than he's telling,” I said, hating my defensive tone. “It's time we had the truth out of him.”
“Assuming the man is capable of telling the truth—which I seriously doubt.”
“We have to make him understand it's his only chance of avoiding the gallows. I know he isn’t our client, but—”
“All right, all right,” he broke in, holding up a hand. “When do you want to visit the jail?”
“So you’re willing to help?”
“What choice do I have? You’ve made up your mind. Changing it would be like trying to stop a herd of stampeding buffalo.”
“Excellent,” I said, ignoring the unflattering analogy. “I’ll see you at the jail, then, first thing Monday morning.”
He stood and fixed me with those clear, blue-green eyes.
“Just remember, Sarah, this was your idea. Once we’re inside that cell, I mean to have the truth out of Fowler. If necessary, I’m prepared to wring it out of him!”
Samuel had spent the weekend in the country, so I didn’t have a chance to speak to him until Sunday evening. Before he could start in on the business with Miss Culbertson, I told him what I had learned about Fowler's probable parentage, then recounted the raid we’d staged to save little Chum Ho from the highbinders, including my unwilling visit with Li Ying. To my surprise, he seemed more intrigued than angry.
“What a wonderful story this would make,” he said, journalistic eyes alight.
“Don’t even think about it!”
He laughed. “Relax, Sarah, your secret's safe with me. At least for the time being. I’d give a lot to meet this Li Ying, though. You don’t suppose—”
“No, Samuel, I don’t. Besides, I was blindfolded. I could walk down every street in Chinatown and still have no idea where I was taken.”
There was a sudden burst of laughter outside the library door. Samuel waited until the voices had passed before saying, “Speaking of Chinatown, I had a chance to speak to my contacts before I left town. It seems you were right about Mills, little sister. Evidently he’d been using opium for at least a year, perhaps longer. I don’t know what this does for your case, but it might explain why he was in Chinatown the night he was killed. Unless, of course, he was delivering a blackmail payment to Li.”
“No, I don’t think that was it. As Robert pointed out, why would Li want to kill off a good thing?”
He sat for several minutes, thinking. “You know, Sarah, maybe we’re overlooking the obvious. There's always the possibility Mills was murdered because he owed money to his opium dealer.”
I considered this. “As far as I know Mills wasn’t facing financial difficulty, although I suppose I should check at his bank. But wouldn’t it make more sense for his supplier to simply withhold the drug until Mills paid? Besides, it seems too much of a coincidence that a Chinese opium dealer would just happen to stab Mills in the same anatomical region as Hanaford's killer.”
“Stranger things have happened, but it does seem improbable.” He pulled out his watch. “It's six. I’m late for an engagement.”
“With Hortense Weslyum?” I said with a wry smile. Hortense
was Samuel's latest lady friend, a young woman I found particularly silly and superficial. Hortense, however, had two important qualities to recommend her to my brother: she was very pretty, and her father published the Morning Chronicle, a valuable connection for an aspiring journalist.
Samuel grinned. “As a matter of fact, I’ve been invited to attend the opera with Hortense and her parents.”
“Given Hortense's intellect and sparkling wit,” I said with thinly veiled sarcasm, “I’m sure you’ll have a stimulating evening. Do please give my regards to Mr. Weslyum. I understand the Morning Chronicle is searching for a new true crime serial. I’m sure he’ll find your ideas fascinating.”
Samuel pulled a face at me—the same one he’d used to tease me since we were children—then hurried off, leaving me alone to contemplate the ruinous case against my client.
I spent a restless night filled with nightmares about Annjenett being led to the gallows, and awoke the next morning tired and mildly depressed. I was pleased to note, however, that my injured ankle felt a good deal better. Confident I’d be able to hobble about, I dressed and slipped out of the house before anyone could raiseafuss.
True to his word, Robert was waiting for me at the jail. My heart sank, however, at the sight of his dour expression.
“The police have found out about Fowler's connection to Ru-fus Mills,” he bluntly announced. “There's no point looking so stricken, Sarah. You said yourself they were bound to stumble onto Fowler's questionable paternity.”
“Yes, but not so soon. We need more time!”
“Well, we aren’t going to get it. The police have been question-
ing the two of them all morning. They’re being allowed no visitors.” He looked glumly at a passing jailer. “Paulson was right. Our only hope now is to plead insanity.”
“No! Annjenett did not kill her husband. I refuse to give her up to the wolves without a fight.”
Robert threw up his hands. “Oh, for god's sake! Why is it so hard for you to admit defeat?”
Realizing the futility of trying to make him see my point of view, I turned to leave only to run headlong into Thomas Cooke. The change in Annjenett's father since his daughter's arraignment was startling: his face was ashen, his eyes sunken, and clearly he had lost weight. His eyes lit with recognition when he saw us, which was surprising since we had never been formally introduced.
“Excuse me, but I believe you are Miss Woolson,” he said. “And you’re Mr. Campbell, are you not, sir? You were in court with my poor girl.” His overbright eyes were pleading. “Please, you must help me. They refuse to let me in to see her.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Cooke,” I told him gently. “Evidently she's being questioned. Perhaps if you come back later—”
“Why won’t anyone tell me what's happening?” he broke in, taking hold of my arm. “I’ve been hearing wild stories about that man, Fowler. It's all lies, I’m sure of it! My daughter was a good wife. She would never have been unfaithful. And with an actor, of all people.”
As I tried to extricate myself from his painful grasp, Robert stepped in and gently pried the man's fingers from my arm.
“There's no need to excite yourself, Mr. Cooke,” he said, guiding the distraught man toward the door. “I’m sure they’ll let you see your daughter as soon as she's back in her cell.”
“You don’t understand,” Cooke cried, “it's all my fault. If I hadn’t been such a fool, my poor girl would never have had to
marry that man. She didn’t love him. I knew that, yet—” His voice caught in a half sob. “Oh, lord, if I hadn’t been so selfish, none of this would have happened! There must be something I can do.”
“We’re doing everything possible,” Robert assured him.
I watched openmouthed as the distressed man allowed himself to be led outside. This was a totally unexpected side to Robert Campbell. Who could have guessed that the voice capable of stopping wild horses in their tracks could be so gentle?
Flagging
a cab, Robert helped Cooke inside. When he turned back and found me watching, he frowned, as if daring me to comment on his behavior. I started to speak, then decided it would be best to act as if I hadn’t noticed. Instead, I hailed my own cab.
“Now where are you going?” he asked, jumping in behind me.
“If you must know, I’m going to Hanaford's bank. Since there's no way I can get into ‘trouble’ there, you’re free to go about your own business.”
In truth, I wanted a private word with Eban Potter concerning Mills's financial situation. Since this was a delicate subject, I feared that Robert's presence would only complicate matters. But when the irritating man made no move to leave the cab, I resigned myself to suffering his company, at least until I could find some way to be rid of him.
We arrived at San Francisco Savings and Trust shortly after noon, but were told that the manager was out. When I explained the importance of our business to the clerk, he finally relented and informed us that the bank manager sometimes ate his lunch in the small park across the street.
Ignoring Robert's grumbles that he could use a bite to eat himself, I led the way through the rush of lunch-hour traffic to a small but charming oasis set, like a rare gem, between two solid walls of mortar and brick. It was delightful to find natural beauty left
undisturbed in the center of town. I have long maintained that San Francisco must act soon to preserve our city's natural flora and fauna from careless urbanization. It's city parks such as these that we must save before they are sealed beneath a sea of concrete. Entering the quiet retreat, I was pleased to spy tall oak and arroyo trees, as well as a wide selection of native fern, Douglas Iris and the colorful California Poppy.
Robert brought me back to our errand when he spied Eban Potter sitting alone on a bench in front of a small pond. Beyond the water was an interesting outcropping of rock that formed a pleasing grotto. A dozen or so birds fluttered about the bank manager's feet, feasting on the remains of his lunch. Potter looked up, startled to see us, and for a moment I regretted that we’d intruded upon such a tranquil scene. His smile and gracious greeting, however, quickly set me at ease.
“Miss Woolson, what a delightful surprise,” he said, rising. I performed the introductions, then begged him to sit down again as Robert and I settled on an adjoining bench.
“You’ve chosen a peaceful spot, Mr. Potter,” I told him.
Potter threw more crumbs to the greedy birds, then smiled. “I used to bring my daughter here when she was a little girl. She loved to feed the birds and pick flowers. She’d make up a little bouquet and insist I take it back to the bank and place it on my desk so I would remember her while I worked.”
“Oh? I didn’t know you had a daughter.” For some reason I had assumed the baby had died in childbirth with her mother.
“Louisa died of a fever, Miss Woolson. It's been nearly two years now. I come here to remember the happy times we enjoyed together.” He tossed out the last of the crumbs and brushed his hands. “But you didn’t come here to listen to a rambling old man.” His eyes grew very large and looking around, he lowered his voice.
“I’ve been hearing the wildest rumors, Miss Woolson, about you and that woman from the Presbyterian Mission. You didn’t—I mean you couldn’t really have accompanied her on one of her raids?”
“Actually, I did, Mr. Potter. Miss Culbertson is a most courageous woman.”
“But it must have been dangerous.” He gave a little shudder. “Especially if what they say is true about the tong lord. Did he—I mean, were you actually kidnapped?”
Without going into details, I briefly sketched my late-night visit with Li Ying, finishing with Li's assertion that the four mining partners had stolen the claim to his Comstock silver mine.
“Did Mr. Hanaford ever mention this to you?” I asked.
Potter looked taken aback. “What an astonishing story. I know little about this Li Ying, but I have a difficult time believing his accusations can be true.”
I had been prepared for the bank manager's loyalty to his slain employer and decided to change tactics. As delicately as possible, I broached the subject of Peter's possible relationship to Rufus Mills. This time he didn’t appear surprised.
“I remember the incident, of course. It was in all the newspapers.” He stopped, looking embarrassed.
“What is it, man?” asked Robert, leaning forward on the bench.
“Well,” Potter said hesitantly, “At the time of the scandal I had reason to doubt Mr. Mills's denials of paternity. Quite by accident, I overheard a conversation he had with Mr. Hanaford in which he all but admitted to being the boy's father. It was right after the stories began to appear in the papers. Mr. Mills was very upset. He accused the woman of being a scheming opportunist, and said he’d had better, that is, more obliging women at houses of—I mean—” His face colored.
“We get your meaning, Potter,” Robert told him.
“It was no secret that Mr. Mills longed for a son,” the manager went on, “but sadly Mrs. Mills did not seem able to give him children. I think he secretly believed the Gooding woman's child was his, but he didn’t dare claim paternity for fear of bad publicity. He was just beginning to make a name for himself, you see. The scandal could have ruined him.”
Maddeningly, a young couple strolling through the park stopped a few feet from where we sat and admired the birds clustering around their feet in hopes of another meal.
“Go on, please,” I prodded, when the couple finally moved on.
“There's not much more, except for the boy himself. The Gooding woman brought him to the bank once—he was ten or eleven, I believe. Anyway, the child was the spitting image of Mr. Mills. I don’t see how anyone could have doubted his paternity once they’d seen the lad.” He sighed. “But in the end, the court ruled in Mr. Mills's favor. I felt sorry for the boy and his mother. But there was nothing I could do.”
“You weren’t called as a witness?” I asked in surprise.
“No. Strange, isn’t it? When Miss Gooding's lawyers questioned me, I told them everything I knew, including the conversation I’d overheard between Cornelius and Mr. Mills. This may sound fanciful, but I got the impression they didn’t particularly care whether their client won her case or not. They thanked me, but said my testimony wouldn’t be necessary.”
Robert and I exchanged glances, each of us, I suspected, thinking the same thing: Jessie Gooding's own lawyers had been bought off. I thought of the pathetic old woman living in the house on the Barbary Coast and wondered what kind of man would reduce a woman to such circumstances, especially if he suspected he was the father of her child. I could only imagine how hard it must have
been for Peter, struggling to survive on the streets while the man he believed to be his father lived as a millionaire. But this was no time for moral outrage, not while my client languished in that miserable cell. Pressing on with the business at hand, I asked if Potter had any reason to believe that Mr. Mills was experiencing financial difficulties before his death.
“It would be unethical for me to discuss a client's account, Miss Woolson,” he replied soberly. “But I don’t think I’d be breaking a confidence to assure you that Mr. Mills's financial affairs were in very good order.”
“I suppose that will have to do.” I was disappointed but not surprised that he couldn’t be more specific. There was, however, one last thing I wanted to know. “I saw Mr. Wylde at the theater last week, in the company of a lovely young woman. She was tall and slender and had golden hair dressed in the latest French fashion. Do you happen to know who she might be?”
“You must be referring to Yvette, Mr. Wylde's daughter,” Potter replied with a smile. “I wasn’t aware she was in town.”
It was my turn to look surprised. “Mr. Wylde's daughter? I didn’t realize he was married.”
“It was many years ago, shortly after his return from Virginia City,” Potter explained. “His wife was French and very beautiful. Not long afterward, Yvett
e was born. Unfortunately, Mrs. Wylde seemed unable to adjust to life in San Francisco and begged to return to her native country. I assume Mr. Wylde didn’t care to leave the city, for in the end his wife went back to France without him, taking the little girl. I believe Yvette recently finished her schooling abroad.”
“Were the Wyldes divorced?” I asked.
“If they legalized their separation, I didn’t hear of it. I do know that Mr. Wylde makes frequent trips to Paris to visit his daughter. I
believe they’ve remained close. I can’t presume to know the nature of his relationship with his wife.”
“Of course not,” Robert answered, giving me a hard glare. It was clear from his expression that he not only saw little purpose to these questions, but that he was anxious to be off.
Realizing there wasn’t much more to be learned from the bank manager, I thanked him for his time and Robert and I walked out to the street where, predictably, he began ranting about my ankle, admonishing me to go home and get some rest. Since my foot was clearly none of his business, I insisted on accompanying him to the office. There, I was forced to endure yet another lecture about my involvement with Miss Culbertson, this time from my tedious employer. When the fountain of his ire finally ran dry, I retired to my office where I closed the door, propped up my throbbing foot, and stared gloomily at the gray walls. Then, for lack of something more productive to do, I proceeded to write out a detailed list of everything we had so far learned about the case.
When I had finished, I studied the page. It was disappointing to see how little solid information we’d managed to accrue. Assuming Annjenett and Peter's innocence, the only other people I could think of who would profit from Hanaford and Mills's deaths were Wylde and Senator Broughton. If this deduction was true, then one of these men was a murderer, while the other man's life was in mortal danger. The problem, of course, was which one was which?
Then there was the unusual way Hanaford and Mills had been killed. Why attack their genitals? I asked myself. I simply could not believe this had been coincidental, or that the choice had been random. Striking at the heart or the throat would have been a much quicker and more efficient way to ensure death. Why had the assailant chosen that particular area of the anatomy?
Murder on Nob Hill Page 17
