“How are you, Marco?” I asked, returning his smile.
“Bene, Miss Woolson,” he replied, beaming. “Grazie.”
“Hello, Sarah,” my father's voice greeted me. A moment later, he appeared from around the side of a large rhododendron bush. “Did you finally grow tired of pasting strips of paper together? I swear, your mother has become obsessed with this Christmas party of hers. In the end, she'll have our house looking like one of those ridiculous scenes inside a snow globe.”
“Actually, Mama is helping Celia with little Charlie. Mary Douglas has the afternoon off to visit her family,” I said, referring to the children's nanny.
“Good. Then maybe it'll be safe to go back inside the house. I don't understand why women have to make such a fuss over the Christmas holidays. If she didn't want everything to look so perfect for that dad-burn party of hers, she'd have had a conniption fit to see me working out here on a Sunday afternoon.” He chuckled. “Never mind that the back fence is about to be bowled over by these bushes.”
He took a few steps to the right and studied the rhododendron bush from another angle, then pulled back a thick branch and nodded to our handyman.
“Cut it here, Marco. With this bit gone, we should be able to reach around back and trim the branches that are invading the fence.”
Whistling cheerfully, Marco did as he was instructed, then tossed the cuttings onto a pile of debris in front of some shrubs. Making his way farther around the overgrown rhododendron, he was momentarily lost to sight, although his merry whistle continued unabated.
“I planned on speaking to you after we were through here,” Papa said, turning back to me. “I was wondering if you knew when Samuel would be returning from his weekend in the country?”
I gave Papa a suspicious look, then immediately tried to disguise it by idly using my foot to nudge some stray leaves onto the pile of cuttings.
“I believe he said he would be back sometime tomorrow morning. Why do you ask?”
“I've made an appointment for him to see Arthur Cunningham Tuesday morning. I planned to tell him about it Friday night, but he'd already taken off for the weekend—without saying anything to me, as usual.”
His normally cheerful face grew serious. “I've gone to an almighty amount of trouble arranging this interview, Sarah, and I don't intend to let Samuel wriggle out of it. He's thirty years old, high time he stopped cavorting around and took his bar exam. He can't spend the rest of his life as a part-time paralegal. Arthur Cunningham and John Brill run a respectable law firm. Samuel could do a good deal worse than start off his career with them.”
I gave a little shudder to think of how Samuel would react to this news. Misunderstanding my shiver, Papa started to remove his jacket. “Here, Sarah, it's grown cold and you'll catch a chill.”
“Thank you, Papa, but I'm fine.”
Nervously, I cleared my throat, then I hurried on before my face inadvertently gave away my brother's secret.
“Actually there's something I'd like to discuss with you, too, Papa,” I said, as another large branch came flying out from behind the bush.
“Is that so?” my father replied, wiping his hands on a handkerchief and starting toward a wooden bench that stood beside an acacia tree. “Well, there's no time like the present. I think Marcus has the rhododendrons well in hand.”
Settling onto the bench, Papa gave a tired sigh, and I suspected he was only too happy to be afforded a break from the pruning. Although he was fond of telling his family and friends how much he enjoyed gardening, I've often thought it would be more accurate to say that he enjoyed a supervisory role in the garden, rather than actually tilling the soil himself.
“So, what's on your mind, my girl?” he asked, brushing small clumps of dirt off his coat sleeves. “If you're looking for Christmas gift ideas for your mother you're out of luck. In fact, I was going to ask you for suggestions. I swear, that woman gets harder to shop for every year.”
I smiled at this. “She is, isn't she? But that's not why I wanted to talk to you. I need your advice about a young woman who visited my office last week.”
“A new client?” he said, pleased. “Excellent! I always knew it was only a matter of time until your law firm took off.”
“A possible client,” I amended, and went on to describe Brielle Bouchard's visit to my office the previous Monday morning. His eyes widened when I mentioned that she had spent more than a year and a half as a “kept woman.” They became absolutely huge when I told him the name of Brielle's lover.
“Gerald Knight!” He slapped his knee and exploded with laughter. “The oh so virtuous preacher of righteous living. My, my, how the mighty have fallen.”
“You're familiar with his newspaper, then?”
“I've glanced over the Daily Journal a time or two,” he admitted a bit shamefacedly. Considering Papa's oft-spoken views—all negative—on the daily press in general, I was surprised at this confession. “More to keep up with who he's currently lambasting than to read his pitiful prose. As far as I'm concerned, Gerald Knight is a perfect example of plug-ugly journalism.”
“I'm not familiar with Mr. Knight, other than to recognize his name and that of his newspaper. From what I've heard, though, he strikes me as being rather pompous and narrow-minded.”
“You're right there, my girl,” pronounced Papa. “That paper of his is always going on about one cause or another, especially the sanctity of the family. Which is all-fired ironic, don't you think?”
I nodded my head in agreement. “According to Brielle, he kept two previous mistresses in the Pacific Avenue house before she moved in.”
“All the while posing as the champion of all that is good and moral,” Papa spat in disgust.
He looked up to see Marco moving on to the next rhododendron bush. “Just a minute, Sarah.”
He rose a bit stiffly from the bench and went to speak to the handyman, returning several minutes later after issuing a fresh set of instructions.
“Of course, listing Gerald Knight's faults does nothing to help this young girl of yours,” he said, sitting back down beside me. He shook his head in obvious appreciation. “She sounds like a right little fireball. Imagine the nerve it took for her to visit you, waving that contract and insisting on suing the bounder. By God, I'd like to try the case myself. I'd throw the book at that womanizer. He deserves to pay through the teeth for being such a two-faced good-for-nothing. It's a shame the poor girl doesn't have a leg to stand on.”
“I know, that's the problem. There's no getting around the issue of paternity.”
“What do you propose to do?”
I sighed. “I have no idea. I've examined the problem from every angle, and I can't come up with a single strategy to help the poor girl. I realize I'm grasping at straws, but I hoped you might have some suggestions.”
He chuckled. “I'm touched by your faith in me, my girl. But I haven't yet mastered the art of performing miracles.”
“If we fail, Brielle will be compelled to work at Madam Valentine's parlor house.”
“Which is hardly a desirable place to raise a child.” He sat quietly for several minutes, presumably mulling over the situation. Finally, he shook his head. “I wish I could help, Sarah. But you know as well as I do that there is simply no way to prove that Knight is the child's father.” He paused. “Not legally, anyway. Unless—”
“Unless what, Papa?” I asked, unable to repress a flicker of hope.
“Has Knight seen the baby?”
“No, I don't think so. According to Brielle, he made her leave the Pacific Avenue house when she refused to consider an abortion. By then I believe she was about four or five months into the pregnancy, and the baby is now three months old.” I did some rapid mental calculations. “That means he most likely hasn't seen her for seven or eight months.” I studied my father. “Why? What do you have in mind?”
“Don't get your hopes up, Sarah. It's a very remote chance at best. But since there's no possibility
of taking the case to court, it's worth a try. If you can arrange it, Gerald Knight should see his child. Right now, the baby is a nonentity, merely a name, if he even knows that much about her. It's much easier for him to ignore a daughter he's never met.”
“You think that if he sees Emma, he might change his mind about providing financial support?”
Papa shrugged. “Probably not. But at least he'll no longer be able to deny the child's existence. And if she's half as sweet as you claim, there's always a chance—an outside one, mind you—that he might relent.”
“He and his wife have three children of their own. No matter how adorable little Emma is . . .” My voice trailed off, my initial excitement quickly evaporating.
Papa gave my hand a reassuring pat, then rose to his feet. “We won't know until you've tried, will we, my girl?”
I was surprised to see Samuel enter the house shortly after dinner that evening. He looked tired, but smiled when I greeted him in the foyer.
“I thought you weren't planning to return until tomorrow?” I said. “Was it a terrible weekend?”
“Not completely,” he said, handing me one of his smaller bags to carry upstairs. “On the other hand, it was not what I would call lively.”
Entering his room, we placed the bags on his bed. “The important thing was that I was able to obtain the information I need for my book, which is the primary reason I agreed to go there in the first place.” He chuckled. “It was amusing to see how eager those two jurors were to reprise their roles in the famous Laura Fair murder case. they've been milking that trial for over ten years now, and receiving God only knows how many invitations to partake of a weekend in the country.”
“But other than that?” I asked, sitting down on the bed.
“Unutterably dull.” He unsnapped the largest bag and flung it open. “Of course, the almost constant rain did nothing to help. The Talbots had planned some outdoor activities which had to be canceled. That meant we were all trapped together inside the house for most of the weekend.” His look grew teasing. “Are you certain I haven't been gone for an entire week instead of only two days?”
I laughed. “At times it's seemed that long to me, too. I've been dying to talk to you.”
He rather carelessly emptied the contents of the case into some bureau drawers, snapped the bag shut, then dropped down beside me on the bed.
“Did you now. Tell all, little sister. Lord knows I could do with some interesting news after enduring two days of dreary weather and even drearier company.”
“Well, to begin with George came here looking for you yesterday afternoon,” I began. “It seems the police arrested two Chinese men for Dieter Hume's murder.”
Samuel looked genuinely surprised. “Good Lord! On what grounds?”
“Some people claimed to have seen the men loitering about near the Harrison Street Bridge the night Hume was killed. They maintain it's the same two men the police arrested. Mind you, it was after midnight and evidently they observed the men from some little distance away.”
“Not to mention that most white people rarely make the effort to distinguish one Chinese from another.” He eyed me questioningly. “Did George say that the police actually believe these witnesses?”
“I don't think it's a matter of whether they believe their stories or not,” I answered grimly. “People in the city are growing increasingly frightened. According to George, City Hall is exerting a great deal of pressure on the police to solve the murders.”
“When did the police arrest these men?”
“I think they had just taken them into custody when George came looking for you yesterday afternoon. According to him, the men are very young and speak next to no English.”
“Surely they've assigned them an interpreter.”
“No, impossible as it seems, they haven't. Those poor boys probably have no idea why they've been arrested. And heaven alone knows how they're being treated at the jail.”
My brother was eyeing me warily, and I attempted to smooth my face into a more neutral expression. Clearly, my effort was not entirely successful.
“You haven't gone and done anything foolish, have you, Sarah?”
“That rather depends upon what you consider foolish,” I answered evasively.
“Good Lord!” he exploded. “You really can't be left alone for five minutes without involving yourself in some trouble or other. What have you done?” His face suddenly cleared as he guessed at what I had been unwilling to tell him. “Oh, no, Sarah. You went to see Li Ying, didn't you?”
“As it so happens, I did,” I admitted a bit defensively. “Which was just as well, since Mr. Li hadn't been informed of his countrymen's arrest.”
“Those boys must be very new to San Francisco, if Li didn't know they'd been taken into custody,” Samuel stated dryly. “He usually knows everything that goes on in San Francisco, not to mention Chinatown.” He gazed at me with weary resignation. “Don't tell me, Sarah. Li has asked you to represent the men. And naturally, you've accepted.”
I nodded, but did not elaborate.
“You realize, of course, that defending two Chinese men of committing such a brutal murder will do nothing to help your practice, which, I might add, is hardly flourishing as it is.”
I did not appreciate being reminded of my precarious financial situation. “I can hardly stand by and do nothing while two frightened young men are accused of crimes they didn't commit.”
“Oh? And how do you know they're not guilty? Have you suddenly acquired a crystal ball? What if the witnesses actually can place those two at the scene of the crime?”
“Given the circumstances, that's most improbable.”
“But not impossible,” insisted my brother. “Listen, Sarah, even if you're right and those men really are innocent, how can you possibly prove it? As a female attorney, you'll be going up against white eyewitnesses, male eyewitnesses. Whose side do you think the jury will take?”
“I'll have to cross that bridge when I come to it.” I was determined not to allow my brother to sense my own doubts concerning the case. “Mr. Li is sending an interpreter to meet me at the jail tomorrow morning. I'll have a better idea of what I'm up against after I've spoken to my clients.”
He sighed. “I know better than to try to change your mind once you've got it set on something. Still, considering the public furor surrounding these murders, you may be biting off more than you can chew. And you could be placing your own life in danger. Have you thought of how much public animosity you'll be facing, especially from Dennis Kearney and his party of bigots?”
I stiffened my chin. If I was being subjected to this much resistance from my staunchest ally in the family, I dreaded to think what my father would say when he found out about my new clients.
“I'm well aware of what I'm up against, Samuel. Nevertheless, I have given Mr. Li my word.”
“Oh, yes, I forgot.” His tone was rich with sarcasm. “You've given your word to one of Chinatown's most notorious tong lords. Of course you're duty bound to honor such an admirable agreement.”
He rose from the bed and unlatched the smaller of his two cases. “So be it, then. Just don't expect me to take your side when Papa finds out what you've done.”
“Don't worry, I wouldn't dream of it.”
He must have caught my injured tone, and regretted his harsh words. After all, I had kept Ian Fearless a secret for over five years.
He could hardly do less than support me when it was my turn to undergo one of Papa's cross-examinations.
Perhaps in an effort to smooth things between us, he said, “I haven't forgotten my promise to visit Madam Valentine's brothel with you, by the way. Tomorrow is going to be pretty busy for me, but I could take you on Tuesday morning.”
Something in my face must have given me away, for he closed the bag and once again sat down on the bed. “You did stick to our bargain, didn't you, Sarah? You promised you would stay away from any brothels or parlor houses until I returned
from my trip.”
At my sheepish look, he threw up both hands in obvious disgust and not a little anger. “Sarah Louise Woolson. You gave me your word!”
“Calm yourself, Samuel. I promised that I wouldn't go to a brothel alone. And I didn't. Robert accompanied me, and Eddie, too, as it happens. In fact, it was Eddie who managed to gain us entry into the house. We arrived a bit earlier than was civil, I'm afraid, given the late hours that sort of business must keep.”
“You say Robert went with you?” His bad temper abruptly deserted him at the mention of my erstwhile colleague. “Good Lord, that must have completely beat the Dutch. How in God's name did you get him to agree to go there with you?” His eyes widened as he suddenly figured it out. “Wait a minute, you didn't tell him where you were going until You'd arrived, did you?”
“Of course I didn't. If he'd known he would have become as immovable as a mountain. As it was, it was all I could do to prevent him from bolting out of there like a greased pig when the first girl came at him dressed in nothing but a flimsy, see-through nightgown.”
The image of this scene caused my brother to erupt with laughter. “This gets better and better! I just wish I could have been a fly on the wall to see poor Robert's reaction when he discovered you'd lured him inside a brothel.”
Remembering the look on the Scot's face, I could not repress a smile of my own. “I must admit the visit had its humorous moments. For some reason, Madam Valentine's ladies found him wholly irresistible.”
I went on to describe the details of our visit to the parlor house, including the new information about how Brielle had come to be Gerald Knight's mistress. Samuel raised one sandy-brown eyebrow, when I mentioned the constant watch Knight kept on the girl.
Scandal On Rincon Hill Page 20
