Murder on Nob Hill

by Shirley Tallman

  “You little fool!” he said sharply. “Don’t you know that Shepard is looking for any excuse to throw you out of here? I’m not the only one he's spoken to. Everyone in the office has been instructed to keep an eye on you. You haven’t a prayer of slipping into the file room unnoticed.”

  For some inexplicable reason, my heart had begun to pound in my chest. No doubt, I reasoned, it was because I sensed his weakening resolve. I took a deep, calming breath, then looked up at the ruddy face so close to my own.

  “Well, well, Mr. Campbell,” I said, trying to keep my tone non-

  chalant. “I’d have expected you to cheer the possibility of seeing the last of me in this office.”

  “I’m not saying I wouldn’t, you annoying woman—” I watched as he glanced through the glass portion of his door. By now, most of the clerks had arrived and were staring curiously at us from their desks. Hastily, he let go of my arm and moved back a step. “Damn it all, Sarah, you’re going to get us both fired!”

  For a moment our gazes locked. I don’t think I’d fully appreciated what an intense shade of turquoise his eyes were, or how they seemed to bore straight through me. I had no idea what he saw in mine, but it was easy enough to read in his the fierce internal battle he was waging.

  Finally, he expelled the breath he’d been holding and said, “For god's sake, Sarah, don’t do anything stupid. Shepard's due at court after lunch. I’ll wait until then and see what I can do.”

  “Thank you, Robert. You won’t regret helping me.”

  He gave an abrupt snort. “That remains to be seen. It's far more likely I’ll regret it a great deal.”

  It was hard to fill the hours before lunch. Augustus Paulson had scheduled another strategy meeting for the following week, but until then there was little work I could do on the case. At any rate, I couldn’t plan my next move until Samuel, Celia and George had completed the assignments we’d agreed upon the night before. Most irritating, of course, was the fact that I couldn’t complete my own part of the scheme until Robert secured Wylde's files. I’m not used to relying on others to carry out tasks that, at the risk of sounding immodest, I’m best qualified to perform on my own. The enforced inactivity was maddening!

  Several times I walked past the closed file room, my fingers itch-

  ing to open the door. But each time I reached for the knob, a clerk or associate attorney always seemed to happen by. After several aborted attempts, I began to believe that Robert had spoken nothing less than the truth. It seemed that my employer had enlisted everyone in the office to keep an eye on me!

  Furious to be treated with such condescension, I boldly marched into Joseph Shepard's office and demanded that he consign some of the firm's work to me.

  “I’m well aware that you’ve ordered Robert Campbell to dog my every step,” I told him. “Now you’ve set the rest of the office to spying on me as well. If you really want to keep me out of trouble, then give me some bona fide work to do.” He stared, small eyes bulging, while I went on to state that I had a particular case in mind. “Mrs. Rebecca Carpenter's suit against Mr. Howard Brooks has come to my attention.”

  He looked at me blankly and I saw I must refresh his memory.

  “It concerns a vehicular accident some months ago. Mrs. Carpenter was returning home from her employment as a room maid at the Baldwin Hotel when she was hit by Mr. Brooks's carriage. She claims he drove without care to her person, indeed without concern for the safety of any pedestrian.”

  He made a dismissive gesture. “Yes, yes, I remember,” he said, although it was plain he hadn’t the slightest recollection of the event. “And just what do you feel you could bring to this case?”

  “The defendant counters that he was in no way negligent. What is more, he argues that Mrs. Carpenter cannot use loss of wages as evidence of personal damage suffered as a result of the injury.”

  “Those arguments seem perfectly sound. This woman, er—”

  “Mrs. Carpenter,” I prompted, praying for patience.

  “Yes, yes. Mrs. Carpenter must realize that a wife's time and services belong to her husband. For loss of such service and ex-

  penses, the husband alone has the right to sue. The law is perfectly clear on this point. I can’t imagine what you think you can do to change it.”

  “It has already been changed,” I told him, enjoying the look of surprise on his pudgy face. “Or, at least it's been altered. By the Earnings Act of I860.”

  He rejected this with a wave of his hand. “A ridiculous piece of legislation, for which we can thank a bunch of ignorant busybod-ies who think that if they make enough fuss they’ll be accorded ‘women's rights.’“ These last words were uttered in a voice laden with sarcasm. “It's all so much nonsense. Besides, that act has yet to be satisfactorily tested in court.”

  “Exactly! Which is why we must seize the opportunity to do so now. To date, the judiciary has chosen to interpret the intent and spirit of the act as narrowly as possible. Mrs. Carpenter has four small children. Her husband is a drunkard and currently unemployed. Because of Mr. Brooks's carelessness, she’ll be unable to work for weeks, perhaps months. We must do everything we can to see that she receives a fair settlement.”

  My employer held up a protesting hand, more to get rid of me, I suspected, then because he agreed with my sentiments.

  “All right, Miss Woolson, you’ve made your point. If it will keep you out of my office, you may inform Mr. Ackroyd that I’ve given you leave to write a brief on the case. Now, please, I must prepare for court this afternoon.”

  Delighted, I set off to find Eugene Ackroyd, one of the firm's junior associates. As Ackroyd, too, appeared to have forgotten poor Mrs. Carpenter, he seemed happy enough to pass her on to me. Carrying her pitifully thin file into my office, I set to work. Thanks to Mrs. Carpenter's excellent recall of the accident— as well as the accounts of one or two apparently reliable

  eyewitnesses—I was able to compose a legal brief that I felt confident would force the most narrow-minded judge to consider my client's position.

  I was so engrossed in my work that I was startled when Samuel entered my office late that afternoon, with Robert following close upon his heel.

  “A funny little clerk told me I’d find you back here,” my brother explained, then looked inquiringly at Robert.

  Realizing the two hadn’t met, I performed the introductions, then told Samuel that Robert was also helping with Annjenett's case. Predictably, Robert instantly started to protest my version of his role in our unofficial investigation, when Samuel grinned broadly and reached out his hand.

  “So you’re Campbell. Sarah's spoken of you. I’m pleased to make your acquaintance at last.”

  Robert seemed momentarily taken aback by Samuel's congeniality, then reached out and returned the handshake. I watched Robert's reaction with amazement; I never fail to marvel at the easy way Samuel has with people—men as well as the women who flutter about him like bees on a honeycomb. I’ve heard Papa proclaim more than once that Samuel could charm Beelzebub himself if he had a mind.

  “My pleasure, Mr. Woolson,” Robert said, studying Samuel. He appeared to like what he saw, for he returned my brother's smile. “I understand you’re also a lawyer?”

  “I haven’t taken the bar examination yet,” Samuel hedged, loath to admit, I knew, that he had no intentions of trying—at least not in the foreseeable future.

  “Will you two please come in and close the door?” I said, not anxious to be overheard by the prying ears that I now suspected were lurking in every corner. Fortunately, I had moved a third

  chair into my office. We were crowded, but no one need stand. “First you, Robert? Did you find Wylde's file?”

  “I found several,” he answered. “I didn’t dare remove them from the file room, but I had time to give them a cursory look.”

  “And?” I prodded.

  Robert answered with obvious reluctance. “It seems that some of Wylde's investments haven’t be
en doing well. He lost a significant amount of money in the crash of ‘79.”

  “Are you saying that he's bankrupt?” Samuel asked in surprise.

  “Not at all. He's just suffered one or two financial reversals.” He darted me a look. “I’m reluctant to pass this on to your sister. She has an unfortunate tendency to make mountains out of molehills.”

  Samuel laughed. “That's an understatement.”

  I ignored them, concerned only with how this information might affect our case. “So, it's possible that Wylde viewed the tontine as a way out of his financial difficulties,” I mused aloud.

  Robert threw up his arms. “There, you see what I mean? We don’t know enough about Wylde's situation to jump to such an outrageous and potentially litigious conclusion. The western stock market is always volatile. For all we know, he may have a fortune in reserve and invest only what he can afford to lose.”

  “That's true,” I admitted calmly, surprising both men, I’m sure, by refusing to let them ruffle my good nature. “It's one more piece to the puzzle, though. We’ll have to obtain more precise figures in order to form a more educated judgment, but you’ve made a good start, Robert.”

  For some reason, my innocently offered gratitude seemed to ruffle the attorney's ever-explosive temper. Before he could gear up to a full assault, however, I turned to Samuel.

  “Were you able to find out anything at Wylde's clubs?”

  “Not much. Wylde claims membership in the Bohemian

  Club—to which I also belong,” he added for Robert's benefit. “But I rarely see him there. Evidently, he spends more time at the Pacific Union Club. Too bad we can’t enlist Frederick's help,” he added, alluding to the family joke that our eldest brother spends more time at his club than he does at his own home. On this point, at least, I can’t bring myself to cite Frederick. If I were married to Henrietta, I might well move into my club, bag and baggage.”

  “Do you know if he was at either club when the murders were committed?” I asked, moving to the heart of the matter.

  “I know he wasn’t at the Bohemian,” Samuel answered. “Checking the Pacific Union will be more difficult, since I have no membership there. However, several of my Bohemian colleagues who belong to both clubs have promised to make some discreet inquiries.”

  “Which may take more time than we have at our disposal,” I said, then wondered aloud if Celia had had any luck with Ina.

  “Who's Celia?” asked Robert. “And what role does she play in this melodrama you’ve concocted?”

  Briefly, I described our household, then related the strategy Samuel, George, Celia and I had agreed upon the night before.

  “I just hope these wild speculations of yours don’t result in a libel suit,” said Robert gloomily.

  “Nonsense,” I said, then added with blissful naivete, “Benjamin Wylde need never learn of our inquiries.”

  As it was nearly five o’clock, Samuel and I bade farewell to Robert and left for home. Eager to learn how Celia had fared with our little Irish maid, I was disappointed to learn that she and my mother were not yet back from paying social calls. While I waited for them to return, I spent a more or less unproductive hour in my room updating the list I’d drawn up concerning the case.

  When I was finished, I looked over my short list of suspects. In

  addition to Peter Fowler—who in all honesty I couldn’t rule out— it included Benjamin Wylde, Senator Broughton and Li Ying.

  I forced myself to examine these men with a dispassionate eye. Had I been overeager in casting Benjamin Wylde in the role of villain, I asked myself? Had I allowed my personal dislike of the man to cloud my judgment? Or was it the stubborn belief in my ability to judge character that led me to gloss over suspects I found more personally appealing? While it was true that Wylde had a strong motive for wishing his partners dead, we had yet to establish whether he also had the opportunity. Besides there might be heaven only knew how many others who possessed motives for killing the former mining partners.

  Starting with Li Ying.

  In hindsight, I was dismayed by how easily I’d been taken in by the man. Discounting his imposing appearance and lifestyle, what did I actually know about Li Ying? He was a feared tong lord, the acknowledged God of the Golden Mountain. He was also a self-proclaimed blackmailer. Was it such a leap from blackmail to murder? Assuming the veracity of his story about a stolen mining claim, he had ample motive for wanting to see the four mining partners dead. His assertion that killing them would be self-defeating was suspect. There was always the possibility—albeit remote—that Hanaford and Mills balked at paying further extortion money. Even in today's world, Li would find it next to impossible to prove that four of the city's most respected men had callously robbed him. In the end, it would come down to the partners’ word against a Chinese, which in reality meant no contest at all. Had Li become so irate that he’d finally decided to make the four men pay the ultimate price for their treachery?

  I put a check by Li's name, then moved on to Peter. Here again personal bias intruded. I had difficulty imagining the affable actor

  as a murderer, despite the fact that he had ample motive and no apparent alibi. As Annjenett's lover, he would understandably wish to remove the obstacle to their happiness—and his financial freedom. Hanaford's money would also enable him to move his mother out of Bertha's bawdy house. As for Mills, well, Peter believed the industrialist to be his father, a man who had selfishly used, then deserted, his mother. Who could say what desperate lengths any of us would be driven to given those circumstances?

  Drawing a check beside Peter's name, I moved on to ponder Senator Broughton. True, he’d been attacked outside his club, but I couldn’t ignore the possibility that the incident had been staged. It could have been an ingenious ploy to shift suspicion from himself if word of the tontine agreement became public, as it must sooner or later. No, I decided, I couldn’t rule out Broughton, and placed a check by his name as well.

  I was still pouring over my notes when Celia knocked lightly on my door, then burst in before I had time to answer.

  “I spoke to Ina,” she said breathlessly. “She's agreed to talk to her sister, Lotty, about Mr. Wylde.”

  “Was she suspicious?” I asked anxiously.

  “Not at all. In fact, she thinks it's quite romantic.”

  “That's wonderful, Celia. When will Ina be able to speak to her sister?”

  “Not until Monday afternoon. That's Lotty's next half-day off. I know it's hard to wait, but I can’t think of a way to get them together any sooner.”

  “No, we don’t want to arouse suspicion.” Still, it was frustrating. It would be five days before the sisters could meet. Then we’d have to wait heaven knows how long until Lotty could get back to Ina. Unless—

  “What if Ina delivered a message to her sister?” I proposed. “Something personal—about her family, perhaps?”

  Celia looked delighted. “Yes, that would work. It's unlikely anyone would question Ina reporting some sort of minor domestic emergency. I’ll ask her about it tonight.” She lowered her voice. “What about you, Sarah? Were you able to find out anything useful about Mr. Wylde's financial affairs?”

  Briefly, I related Robert's discovery of Wylde's monetary setbacks, then Samuel's report concerning the attorney's clubs.

  “It's all so frustrating,” I said, rising from my chair and walking to the window. The sky outside was overcast and it looked like rain. I drew the drapes and turned back to Celia. “Subterfuge is so time-consuming. And so subject to failure.”

  “Yes, but it's the best we can do under the circumstances.” She crossed to me and touched my arm. “I understand your concern, Sarah. It's hard to be patient. But remember, our cause is just.”

  Celia looked so earnest, I couldn’t help smiling. I wished I could share her certainty that a just cause was enough to ensure success, but I knew all too well that life doesn’t always supply a happy ending. After she left, I prayed that hard work
and perseverance would bring results, even if a just cause failed.

  That weekend, Mama, Papa, Samuel and I were to attend a performance of Verdi's A’ida at the Opera House. At the last moment, however, Hortense Weslyum asked Samuel to take her to a cousin's engagement supper, which, of course, left us with a spare ticket and me without an escort. Personally, I had no objections to attending the opera alone, but Mama insisted it was out of the question and suggested we invite Ulysses Lyman, one of Freder-

  ick's fatuous friends. In hindsight, I’d like to believe it was this unhappy prospect that led me to do the unthinkable.

  Actually, the opera was the last thing on my mind as Robert and I sat in my office the next day discussing our progress—or lack of it—with Annjenett's case. I was disappointed that after exhaustive inquiries, Samuel had been unable to learn anything more about Wylde from his fellow Bohemians, and my patience was wearing thin waiting to hear back from Ina's sister.

  “So, here we sit,” I told Robert dejectedly.

  I was prepared for one of his derisive comments. Instead, he surprised me by saying, “You’ve done everything possible, Sarah. Paulson tells me you’ve been to the jail to visit Mrs. Hanaford every day this week. No one could do more.”

  I still say it was the fear of spending an evening in the company of a man even more boring than Frederick that led to what I can only describe as a temporary lapse of sanity. Having said this, I have to admit that Robert's unexpected display of sensitivity threw me off balance. Without taking time to consider what I was saying, I’d blurted out an invitation for him to accompany my parents and myself to the opera the following night. He looked momentarily taken aback, then, much to my surprise—and probably his own— he accepted.

  “Good,” I said, then realized I had no idea what to say next. I was already regretting my impulsiveness, but could think of no civil way to retract my words.