Scandal On Rincon Hill

by Shirley Tallman

  The man was a bit overweight, and he was breathing heavily when we reached the second-floor landing.

  “I can open every door on this floor,” I told him, starting down the dimly lit hall. “Or you can point out the Major's bedroom. I would prefer not to wake the children, or their nanny, but it is your choice.”

  To prove my point, I gave a little knock, then opened the first door to the right of the landing. The room was dark, but I could make out enough detail from the faint spill of light coming from the hall, to see that it was a very feminine room, probably Melody's. I closed the door and proceeded on to the next.

  “Wait, miss, please,” the butler pleaded. “You will wake the entire household.”

  “Then show me which room belongs to the Major,” I retorted, knocking on the second door and throwing it open.

  It, too, was decorated in feminine colors, with a good deal of lace and a number of dolls piled high in a basket by a wall. I could just see a small form curled up beneath the covers in the room's only bed. This must be little Carolyn's room, I surmised.

  I was about to try the third room, when the butler came up behind me, clearly at a loss as to what to do with this crazy woman who had invaded his well-ordered house.

  “Miss, wait,” he cried out, as I raised my hand to knock. “The Major's room is the last one on the opposite side of the hall. Although what he will think of a strange woman entering his bedchamber at this time of night, I cannot imagine. Won't you please leave off this business until tomorrow?”

  “I am truly sorry,” I said, wishing with all my heart that I could do just that. “But it cannot wait.”

  With a great deal of apprehension, I approached the room the butler had pointed out as belonging to Major Tremaine. Light from the few gas lamps fitted upon the walls was more faint at this end of the corridor, and I slowed my step. It pains me to admit to such weakness, but my heart was pounding so hard in my chest I was surprised it was not audible to the butler.

  I looked back to where he stood midway down the corridor. He probably wanted to be well out of shouting range, if the Major objected to his allowing a madwoman to assault his bedroom

  “Would you please accompany me?” I asked him, angry that I felt obliged to request the man's help. “I—I know this is very irregular, but I would appreciate having you by my side.”

  The butler appeared taken aback by this request, but he reluctantly came to stand behind me as I knocked softly on the Major's door. When there was no response, I pushed it open. The first thing I noticed was a strong odor permeating the air. I was at a loss to identify the smell, but the butler recognized it at once.

  “That's cordite.”

  “You mean from a gun?”

  “Yes, miss. A gun that has recently been fired.”

  His reply sent shivers racing down my spine. The room was dark and silent. I listened, but could detect no sound, not even of breathing. All was ominously quiet.

  With great force of will, I made my way with slow reluctance across the room to the bed. When I was closer, I could see the figure of a man partially propped up by pillows. Even in the dim light it was obvious that his body had slumped to the side at an awkward angle. I could make out something shiny on the white pillows. Tentatively, I reached out a hand and touched the substance. My fingers came away wet and sticky. I was sure it was blood.

  “Is he—?” The man's voice behind me was none too steady.

  “What is your name?” I asked, fighting to keep my voice steady.

  “Arlott, miss.”

  “Arlott, would you please fetch some candles? I think Major Tremaine may be in need of medical assistance.”

  The butler needed no further urging to flee from the room. He returned in no more than five minutes, carrying a candelabrum which clearly illuminated the poor Major's inert body on the bed. I experienced a moment's light-headedness to see so much blood, not only on the bed coverings, but on the walls and floors. The Major had obviously shot himself through the head with what I took to be an old service revolver.

  “Dear Lord,” the butler gasped, clapping his free hand to his mouth.

  Taking hold of my emotions, I forced myself to look around the room. Atop the Major's bureau I spied a white envelope. I assumed it was a suicide note, and very probably a confession accusing himself of the four Rincon Hill murders.

  “Before we notify the police,” I told the butler, “please show me to young David's room.”

  “Oh, miss, you don't think something terrible has happened to the boy, as well?”

  His hand began to shake so badly I took the candelabrum from him. “Would you please lead the way to David's room?”

  The boy's room was several doors down the hall from his grandfather's. When we reached it, the butler fell in behind me, obviously not wishing to enter first. I took a deep breath and opened the door.

  David's room, too, was ominously quiet. Even as I entered, I could make out his still form lying beneath the bed coverings. Holding up the candelabrum, I saw that he looked quite peaceful; it would be easy to assume he was just sleeping. But of course he wasn't. An empty bottle of laudanum sat on a bedside table. Just to be certain, I placed my fingers on his neck, searching for a pulse. There was none.

  I continued to study the boy's serene face for several minutes. He looked so young and so very handsome. I had become acquainted with David and the Major less than two weeks ago, yet in that time I had grown to know something of their feelings, of the kind of people they were inside. It seemed impossible that he and his grandfather could be in my life and then gone within the space of ten short days. What had snapped in this poor boy's head that he felt compelled to kill every man who seemed even casually interested in his sister? Perhaps some bonds between people could be too strong, I thought, too unyielding not to eventually lead to tragedy.

  I handed the candelabrum back to the butler. “Would you please escort me to the front door, and then return to keep watch over David and the Major until I come back with the police? Mr. and Mrs. Tremaine are still at my home and they will need to be informed.” I swallowed hard, fighting back tears. “As will David's sister, Melody.”

  “Miss Melody will be devastated,” he said miserably. “I cannot imagine how she will manage without her brother.”

  “It will be very difficult, especially at first,” I said wearily as we descended the stairs. “But unless I am mistaken, that young woman is made of stronger stuff than we imagine. I have every confidence that she will survive.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  New Year's Day was cold and damp, an inauspicious beginning for 1882. It had been two weeks since David's and Major Tremaine's deaths, but the shock of that night still cast a long shadow on everyone involved. The authorities seemed satisfied by the Major's confession, and reluctantly freed my clients, as well as the suspect in Patrick O'Hara's case. Young David was deemed to have died from an accidental overdose of laudanum, taken to relieve the pain of a migraine headache.

  Melody Tremaine left her room only long enough to lay her beloved brother to rest. Since then, she had remained isolated and inconsolable. Joseph Kreling, with a little help from Faith Tremaine—who had become one of his steadfast admirers—had finally convinced Reginald to allow his daughter to appear at the Tivoli Opera House for a limited engagement. At the end of one month, all parties involved would revisit the contract, based upon the girl's success and her continuing desire to pursue a career on the stage. Although Melody was too heartbroken to appreciate this victory so close to her brother's death, I had faith that music would, in the end, be her salvation.

  Interestingly, Madam Valentine wrote to thank me for the publicity I had inadvertently generated for her brothel thanks to Ozzie Foldger's article. It seems that an unflattering exposé for one individual can be an excellent advertisement for another. Even though the famous madam publicly denied my presence at her parlor house, she privately admitted that business had never been so brisk!

  P
erhaps the most unexpected, and certainly the nicest, surprise to come out of the tragic happenings on Rincon Hill was Mrs. Lily Knight's generosity toward her husband's mistress. It seemed the visit Brielle and I paid to Gerald Knight's newspaper had not been in vain after all. According to Mrs. Knight's attorney, Brielle Bouchard and her small daughter were to receive, all expenses paid, a small apartment on Union Street near Washington Square, where the child might spend happy hours frolicking in the park. Although I doubt it was part of the widow's plan, Brielle's new home would also be within blocks of Madam Valentine's parlor house on Montgomery Street. Very handy, according to the former Matilda Abernathy, for visiting little Emma, who had become the darling of the brothel.

  A few days after Christmas, Pierce fulfilled his promise to take Eddie aboard one of his ships for a grand tour. The day was clear and warmer than usual for that time of year; perfect weather for an afternoon on the Bay. Pierce chose a large, four-masted schooner, a powerful ship that regularly made the voyage from San Francisco to the Orient. To Eddie's delight, Pierce even arranged for a picnic lunch to be brought up from the galley. After showing the boy every nook and cranny on the ship, demonstrating how the sails were rigged, giving him a turn at the wheel, and answering a seemingly endless stream of questions, we finally called it a day as the sun began to set.

  Riding home in Pierce's carriage, the lad seriously reconsidered his ambition to become a crime reporter like Mr. Samuel, in favor of a life on the sea.

  “I reckon you got the beatenest job a body could have, Mr. Godfrey,” the boy declared, the fire of adventure blazing brightly in his eyes. “A feller could go like greased lightning on a ship like that.”

  “He could indeed, Eddie,” Pierce said, covering a smile. He gave me a significant look. “I've been trying for some time to talk a friend of mine into just such a life.”

  “Well, if he don't hanker to join you, then he ain't worth shucks,” the boy pronounced, appearing incredulous that any sane man might reject such a grand offer.

  “My thoughts exactly,” Pierce agreed, but he wasn't speaking to Eddie. His eyes remained fixed on me.

  To Mama's delight, I saw Pierce once or twice between Christmas and New Year's. We dined together on New Year's Eve, and then took in a play recently opened at the Baldwin Theater. The play was undoubtedly entertaining, but to be honest I saw little of it. Pierce's presence in the next seat was too distracting. I had worn the exquisite silver earrings he had given me for Christmas, and he used them as an excuse to kiss me behind each ear. I did my utmost not to reveal how this caused my pulse to race, but judging from his expression I do not believe I was entirely successful.

  “I have enjoyed our time together immensely, Sarah,” he said, as his carriage pulled up in front of my house. “I'm leaving for Hong Kong in a couple of days. From there, who knows?” His voice grew very soft. “My offer still stands, my dear. I would love to have you by my side. It would be an amazing adventure.”

  “You make it sound so wonderful,” I replied, and it was nothing less than the truth. Part of me longed to join Pierce on the deck of his ship, bound for lands I had only read about in books. He made it appear so real I could almost smell the sea air and feel the ocean winds in my hair. I thought back to the week before when Eddie and I had spent such a delightful day on the schooner, and wondered what it would be like to sail aboard such a ship to China, Japan, or India.

  “At least this time you're considering it,” he said, when I didn't immediately answer.

  “How can I not? As Eddie said, anyone who wouldn't jump at the chance isn't worth shucks. But—”

  “But what? Just think, my darling, we'd be free to explore all the wonders of the world.”

  For a moment, I allowed myself to imagine what it might be like to lead the life of an adventurer. There would be no one to satisfy but ourselves, no arbitrary strictures of society to adhere to, just the blessed freedom to go wherever we pleased and do whatever suited us.

  Then again, freedom always came at a price, I reminded myself. How would I feel after ten or twenty years spent enjoying a life of such self-indulgence, without ever accomplishing the dreams I had vowed to achieve? And how long would it take before I tired of the weeks, even months, I'd be forced to spend aboard a ship? Could my affection for Pierce survive such unremitting intimacy? And what about his feelings toward me? When all was said and done, would familiarity breed love or contempt?

  “I don't like that expression on your face,” Pierce said. “You look entirely too solemn.”

  “I can't do it, my dear,” I said with true regret. “I don't doubt that it would be great fun for a while, but then I would surely begin to miss my work. I've dedicated my entire adult life to the law. I'd feel incomplete without it, like only half a person.”

  “Are you so certain about that?” He placed his hands on my shoulders, gently turning me in my seat until he could look into my eyes. “Marry me, Sarah. Marry me and we'll sail to Hong Kong for our honeymoon. Then you can decide how you feel about such a life.”

  “What will we do if I decide that it isn't for me? As your wife, it will be my duty to follow you whether it's what I desire or not.”

  “In that case I could stay here in San Francisco and run the company. Leonard could attend to our affairs in the Orient.”

  “That's very good of you to offer, Pierce, but then we would both be unhappy, you for giving up the life you love, and me for forcing you to do so.” I sighed. “No, it's better this way. We can remain good friends and still be free to follow our own paths in life.”

  He studied my face as if he were memorizing my features. “The reasons I fell in love with you are the very ones that are keeping us apart. You're beautiful, intelligent, dedicated, all the qualities I most admire in a woman.” He sighed. “You're one of a kind, my darling.”

  There was a catch in my throat as I whispered, “I don't know what to say, Pierce. You must know how much I admire you.”

  “Admire, but not love.” His voice was soft and held an edge of sadness. “There's a world of difference between those two small words.”

  His hands cupped my face and suddenly his lips were on mine, gently at first, then with more urgency. As if driven by a will of their own, my lips responded with an intensity that shocked me, as did other unexpected sensations stirring my body. This involuntary response caused me a moment's panic, and I pushed against his chest with my hands. Reluctantly, he broke off the embrace, leaving me breathless and confused.

  “Pierce, please, I—”

  Once again his lips touched mine, this time with a tenderness that left me weak. “You say you admire me, but I think your lips care rather more for me than that.”

  When I once again tried to speak, he said, “No, darling, don't say anything. We'll see how your lips feel about me when I return from my next voyage. I'm beginning to think that admiration isn't such a bad place to start, after all.”

  We invited Robert to join us for our New Year's Day dinner. As usual, he was a bit uncomfortable in my father's presence, obviously unable to forget that Horace Woolson was a superior court judge for the county of San Francisco. As the meal progressed, however, my colleague began to relax, and toward the end he was actually enjoying Papa's company.

  There was a new painting hanging in our dining room, a late seventeenth-century ink and colors on silk of a beautiful peony. It was a gift from Li Ying, delivered to our house on Christmas Day. The peony, he explained, was regarded by the Chinese as being a symbol of feminine beauty, which he insisted—to my embarrassment—I possessed in abundance.

  The remainder of the note expressed his gratitude for my securing the release of his two young countrymen, and forbade me to return the retainer I received upon my visit to his home. The end of the missive read:

  Once again you place too small a value on your dedication to champion all races, creeds, and genders with equal courage and resolve. This is a rare quality, indeed, and much to be prized. I am yet ag
ain in your debt.

  I look forward with much anticipation to our next visit.

  As was his custom, there was no signature or return address affixed to the letter.

  Mama had the painting hung above the dining room buffet, where the stunning antique Chinese tea service Li had given me following the Russian Hill affair was displayed. Papa had remarked that if I continued to represent Li Ying and his countrymen, we might one day be able to dedicate an entire room to Chinese artifacts!

  After a fine dinner of mulligatawny soup, fried codfish, Papa's favorite fried oysters, roast lamb, roast turkey, vegetables, fruit, cheese, and a wide selection of desserts, we sat about the table, satiated and content.

  “Shall we take coffee in the parlor?” Mama inquired, pleased to be surrounded by her entire family.

  There were nine of us, including Robert, sitting around the table: Mama, Papa, Samuel, Charles, Celia, and myself. Even my eldest brother, Frederick, and his wife, Henrietta, were in attendance.

  “In a moment, my dear,” replied my father. He turned to his youngest son. “Well, Mr. Fearless, I see that you've signed up to take your bar examinations next month.”

  “I have indeed, Father,” Samuel replied with a smile, then stopped short, belatedly registering what Papa had just said. He tried to arrange his features into the innocent façade he was so good at assuming, but this time he failed miserably. “Mr. Fearless? Why—why ever would you call me that?”

  Papa looked at him with steely eyes. “I'm sorry if I got it wrong, Ian. I thought that was the name you use in journalistic circles.”

  Everyone but Robert and I stared at Samuel in disbelief.

  “Samuel,” Mama exclaimed in distress. “Why didn't you tell us?”

  “I thought you worked as a paralegal,” Frederick said. “And who is Ian Fearless?”

  “Evidently, your brother Samuel writes true crime stories under that pseudonym,” Papa explained, his eyes never leaving his youngest son's face. “I hear that they appear frequently in a number of San Francisco newspapers.”