Miss Triple opened up a black ledger she’d gotten down from the shelf and said, “The number written on the end of that bolt, matched to the number in this book, says it was part of an order of linen that came through Ralston and Lancaster, local merchants.”
Biddy said, “What does that mean? Do they make the cloth?”
Annie shook her head. “No. I’ve heard of them. They are pretty prominent commission merchants who work out of San Francisco. Like Mr. Stein, who boards with us. This means they buy and sell all sorts of goods. They might have bought this linen from a local wholesaler who had too much inventory, or bought it back east directly from the manufacturer, or got it from a foreign importer.”
“That won’t help us much, then,” said Miss Minnie. “We try not to use commission merchants, even when they seem to have a very good price. We learned the hard way that a bargain that seems too good to be true, probably is too good to be true. Didn’t we, Millicent? Now, Miss Triple, could you see if you can find any of the silk or wool that Mrs. Fournier ordered for her custom dresses that seemed of lesser quality?”
“Yes, I know just what to show you. Most of the time the problem was with the consistency of the dye, rather than an inferior weave. Marie could be very clever in how she cut the pieces, to salvage as much as she could. But there was one order of a navy wool that was simply not what was ordered. It was supposed to be a navy cashmere, but it wasn’t close to that. Come I will show you. Marie put it aside and said that we might be able to use it for one of the ready-made designs after the holidays.”
The Moffets “tsk-tsked” when shown the material, while Biddy looked the order number up and said, “Oh my, Mrs. Dawson. This came from the Larkson Woolen Mills, where I worked before I came to the Silver Strike. It’s written up as a cashmere, which means it should have been made with at least two-thirds Australian wool. Which is why cashmere is so expensive. But I can tell just by looking, this is just plain old wool, probably from one of the sheep farms in Oregon.”
Annie, who’d had her own dealing with the Larkson family, asked Biddy, “Do you think it is possible that the owner, William Larkson, might purposely be defrauding the Silver Strike? Charging them full price for inferior goods?”
“Not the old man. He’s as righteous as they come. But that Jack Sweeter, who’s Mrs. Larkson’s cousin, finally finagled his way into a position with the company. I wouldn’t put anything past him.”
“I just don’t understand how someone would expect to get away with this,” Annie said. “And why didn’t Mrs. Fournier complain?”
“Maybe she did, ma’am,” Biddy said. “And much as I hate to even think it, maybe whoever at the store was making money off this swindle paid her to keep quiet.”
And decided to kill her to keep her permanently quiet?
Chapter 23
“The Arcade: We are offering this week SPECIAL and EXTRAORDINARY INDUCEMENTS to buyers of HOLIDAY PRESENTS, especially in our SILK DEPARTMENT”––San Francisco Chronicle December 19, 1880
Monday mid-day, December 13, 1880
“What are you all doing in here? Miss Triple, get back to the workroom this minute. One of the machines in the men’s clothing workshop has jammed, and for some reason everyone thinks you are the only one who can fix it.” Robbie Livingston stood at the door to the storeroom, his face flushed with anger. “And give me that ledger; I need it.”
Miss Triple went rigid, then she calmly handed the ledger over. She said, “Miss Bridget, if you would accompany me,” and she swept Biddy out the door and away from any further attention by the owner’s son.
While Robbie Livingston glared at Biddy and Miss Triple as they left, Annie surreptitiously folded the paper she’d been writing on and put it in her purse. It contained a list of the order numbers of the inferior cloth the Silver Strike had received in the past month, with the date and source of the material. They’d found the bulk of the cloth came from three sources––the commission merchants Ralston and Lancaster, Larkson’s Woolen Mills, and a wholesale merchant who imported expensive silks and satins. Annie’s next task was to check with Miss Birdsoll to see if these companies used their own delivery services or hired out. If they hired out, she had a suspicion they might be using the company that Miss Voss had found “unsatisfactory.”
She said, “Mr. Livingston, I am so sorry I took Miss Triple away from her duties. I would like to introduce you to the Misses Moffet. They are quite famous dressmakers in the city and your father was kind enough to invite them to tour your workrooms. Monsieur Villeneuve asked Miss Triple to complete the tour when he was called away. Miss Minerva, Miss Millicent, this is Robert Livingston’s son, and he has a very important role as one of the Silver Strike’s managers. I do believe you are also the chief buyer for the ready-made and custom clothing the store makes. Is that not so, Mr. Livingston?”
“Yes, I am,” he replied in a more moderate tone, “and it seems Mr. Villeneuve doesn’t always understand the pressure we managers are under in the weeks leading up to Christmas. However, I do apologize if I sounded rude, Mrs. Dawson, ladies.” The last statement was given with the briefest of bows.
“It can’t be easy with your chief designer gone,” Annie replied. “I did want to extend my condolences. I gather you worked closely with Mrs. Fournier. Her death must be very upsetting.”
This was the first time that Annie had seen Robbie Livingston since the day before Marie’s death, and his appearance supported the truth of her words. He looked terrible. His coat hung from him as if he’d lost weight, and he hadn’t taken the time to get to a barber. He also didn’t seem very pleased by her asking about his relationship with the dead designer.
“Yes, a great tragedy. Now if you will excuse me, I have pressing business.”
While he bowed again, this time more politely, his meaning was clear. They were to leave the storeroom ahead of him. Miss Minnie was uncharacteristically silent, simply taking her sister’s arm and leaving the room. When they had all exited, Robbie closed the door and actually locked it, further raising Annie’s suspicions. This was a young man who was severely unsettled by something.
“My goodness, Mrs. Dawson. That young gentleman reminds me of our younger brother Jasper when he was feeling guilty about something,” Miss Minnie said as soon as Robbie Livingston disappeared into the fourth floor corridor. “I remember one time when he broke Mother’s favorite vase. While he’d never admit he did it, he was in such a temper for weeks. Even got in a fight with Gus, who was one of Aunty’s sons. He was Jasper’s milk brother, and they were usually great friends, being the same age and all. Well, never mind, you got what you needed, didn’t you, Mrs. Dawson?”
“Yes I did, and you were a great help. If you don’t mind, I would like to take this information to Miss Birdsoll, Mr. Livingston’s assistant. Her office is just down the hall. Do you mind staying here while I go? I won’t be but a minute.”
“Certainly, in fact we would like to go back and take a longer look at the next workshop where they are working on the ready-made clothes,” said Miss Minnie. “Millicent is curious about how they standardize sizes.”
Annie would have assumed that Miss Minnie was really the one who was curious, if her sister hadn’t been nodding in enthusiastic agreement, so she told them to go on and she would find them there.
Just a few minutes later she returned to the middle workroom and saw that the two elderly seamstress were standing in a corner of the room, speaking with Emmaline and Madame Villeneuve. As she made her way over, she saw the Frenchwoman say something to the young girl, who curtsied to the Moffets, then followed Madame Villeneuve who’d turned to leave. When the two of them crossed Annie’s path, Emmaline hesitated, but Madame Villeneuve only said a brief “Bonjour” and herded the child toward the workroom door.
Annie reminded herself that she really needed to find a way to see Emmaline alone to ask her about the photographs in the box and see if the girl would like her to take her back to the dress shop so s
he could decide if she wanted anything else from the room. Miss Birdsoll had informed her that she had found several candidates to act as Emmaline’s governess but that she was having difficulty scheduling a time when Madame Villeneuve could attend the interviews.
She’d said, “I am afraid that Madame didn’t feel that Emmaline’s mother was providing an adequate level of education, both academic and spiritual. I believe she hopes to enroll her in the exclusive Catholic school in the city once she and her husband have gained guardianship.”
Coming up to the Moffets, Annie said, “So you have met Emmaline, Mrs. Fournier’s daughter, and Madame Villeneuve, Monsieur’s wife and the woman who runs the millinery department?”
“What an extraordinarily beautiful child,” Miss Minnie said. “But Madame was in such a hurry I didn’t get a chance to ask her or the child about this doll and its clothes.”
Annie saw the two women were looking at a table, where a china-faced doll lay face down, surrounded by tiny pieces of dark blue satin cut up in shapes that were clearly destined to become a dress. Miss Millie picked up the doll, who was wearing a blue and maroon plaid satin dress and a white pinafore, and looked closely at the seams and hem. Then she handed the doll to Miss Minnie.
After making her own examination, Miss Minnie said, “When we have visited the store before, we looked at some of the dolls sold in the toy department, and they all seemed to be wearing fairly shoddy machine-produced clothing. Nothing with this flair or workmanship.”
Biddy, who had just come back from the next room, said, “It’s Emmaline’s doll and her ma was teaching her how to design and sew outfits for it. I heard Mrs. Fournier say once that her grandmother taught her the same way…on doll clothes.”
Miss Minnie nodded. “Yes, that was the common way of teaching girls to sew in our day. Our dolls had very elaborate wardrobes, even the rag dolls Aunty made for us. I wonder if that’s going to be a skill that’s lost with the convenience of getting ready-made doll clothing in stores.”
Biddy laughed and said, “Well, I learned how to sew by helping my ma make shirts for the jobbers. If the stitches weren’t right, they would take it out of her pay and there wasn’t any meat in the stew that night. But I was thinking I might save up to buy one of those dolls from downstairs for my youngest sister, Alice. She’s six. Miss Triple lets the seamstresses take scraps of material home. Some of them use them to make quilts, but I could teach Alice how to make outfits for the doll. Lots cheaper than even store-bought and it would teach her a heap more than sewing men’s shirts over and over did for me.”
Annie said, “That’s an excellent idea. But we need to get you back down to the first floor so Mr. Jenkins won’t be cross with you.”
Hearing a soft cry, she turned and saw Miss Millie had picked up what looked to be a quilt for a doll’s bed, made of vivid blue and brown stars. Her sister reached out and took the quilt out of her younger sister’s hands and brought it up close to her eyes. “Yes, Millicent, you are quite right; it is the Evening Star pattern. My, it does bring back memories of home. Mrs. Dawson, you know that my eyesight’s not so strong as it used to be…the reason Millicent does most of the fine sewing. Not that I am complaining. With that lovely Singer machine Mrs. Stein gave us last Christmas, I can do the straight seams just fine. But hearing Biddy talk about making quilts, it occurs to me just now, making a quilt like this—of course larger––might be something I could do in the evenings. I do hate to be idle. Yes, I think I might start on one for the boy. Jamie is such a good lad, running errands up and down those stairs for us. Oh, and little Tilly. Miss Bridget, do you think your cousin would like one? I’ll have to think of some of the Irish patterns old Mrs. Murphy showed us. You remember, Millicent? Mrs. Murphy who had the farm we bought our eggs from. Then there is Kathleen’s brother, Ian…”
Annie shook her head. The dear woman wouldn’t stop until every child they knew had one of her quilts. And maybe one day soon my own little lad or lassie will get one as well.
Chapter 24
“GOOD DETECTIVE WORK: Extensive Jewelry robbery and Recover of the Plunder”––San Francisco Chronicle May 27, 1880
Monday, late evening, December 13, 1880
Kathleen stood at the kitchen door and watched an almost full moon peep momentarily through the gathering clouds. A winter storm was coming. Not the light morning drizzle that had been falling the past two weeks, but, given the way the wind was bending the bare branches on the apricot tree, this was going to be one of those rare storms filled with thunder and lightning and cold pounding rain.
She better bring in more wood before going to bed since washday had depleted the bin beside the kitchen stove. She pulled her thick wool shawl across her chest and tied the ends behind her back, then picked up the lantern in one hand and the handles of the canvass hold-all in the other. Once she left the protection of the house and started across the yard to the woodshed, she could feel the wind tugging at her hair and the hint of cool moisture on her cheeks, which actually felt good.
The kitchen was still hot from a day with the stove going full bore to heat enough water for the laundry, and she’d almost fallen asleep a few minutes ago folding the towels that had been hanging on the drying racks next to the oven. Tilly had gone home right after the dinner dishes were washed, and Mrs. O’Rourke retired to her room in the attic around nine-thirty. That was an hour ago, and Kathleen should be in bed herself. She was certainly tired enough, and tomorrow she would have to finish the rest of the ironing. She’d gotten most of the men’s shirts done this evening, but she still had to do all the women’s delicate undergarments and nightgowns, as well as the sheets and table linens that hadn’t dried in time for the laundress to finish today.
Yet it had felt so glorious to have some time to herself…to just sit and think. Now, however, it was time to finish this last duty and fall into bed. Four-thirty, which was when she rose on wash and ironing days, would come all too soon.
About twenty minutes later, she brought in the last load of wood from the shed, not a minute too soon. The clouds had completely gobbled up the moon, large fat drops began to splash on the flagstones, and the wind was now ratcheted up to a howl. That’s why she didn’t hear the knocking on the back door at first. She was dampening down the fire in the stove so that there would be just enough residual heat to help the dough for morning rolls to rise when she thought she heard her name called. Looking around to see if someone had come into the kitchen, she finally realized that someone was knocking softly on the back door.
“Who is it?” she said, leaning her ear against the door.
“Patrick. Can I come in for a moment?”
She quickly unlocked and opened the door, and Patrick stepped into the kitchen, bringing in a swirl of leaves and rain.
“Patrick, you can’t stay. It’s too late.”
“I know; I’m sorry, but when I looked over the back gate and saw there were still lights on in the kitchen, I took a chance. I won’t stay long…but I just had to tell you!”
“Tell me what…oh, saints preserve us, you’re soaked! And you’ve dripped all over the floor. Take off your hat and coat and let me hang it on this rack by the stove before you tell me anything.”
Patrick was out of uniform, wearing his brown wool suit, but instead of his usual derby, he was sporting a ridiculous tweed cap, now sodden with rain, as was his shirt. She resisted the impulse to insist he take that off as well, knowing that he was just going to get wet again when he left. And it was going to be embarrassing enough if anyone came down to the kitchen, much less found them alone together with him in his undershirt.
“Now Patrick, tell me what’s got you so excited, then be on your way. And keep your voice down. Won’t do if anyone hears you.”
“Now darling, don’t be crotchety,” he said, pinching her cheek. “You’re looking at the man who cracked the case and helped roll up a serious shoplifting gang, what’s been stealing from all the big stores. With your help, of course.�
� He gave her a cheeky smile.
“Patrick, really? The police made arrests already? I thought you were supposed to just follow that man I saw at the Silver Strike, not actually bring anyone in. What happened?”
“Well, that was the plan, but Bertie…that’s the name of the man you saw nick all that stuff on Saturday…Bertie Throckmorton. Anyways, I was at his lodgings at seven this morning. He came out about eight, went down the street to a local cafe and had breakfast with two other men…dressed just like him. Fancy duds, stick pins and such…looking like some young dandies. While they were eating, I grabbed the local constable and asked him to get their names from the cafe owner after I left to continue tailing old Bertie. He found out all three were regulars at the cafe.”
“So these other two men were going into stores and stealing like the man I saw?”
“Seems like it. We learned later they met up each morning to divide up the stores so they weren’t all hitting the same place at the same time.”
“Ah, clever. Did someone catch them stealing like I did?”
“No, we didn’t have to. But you’re getting ahead of the story.”
Kathleen knew that she wasn’t going to be able hurry him, so she got up and put on the kettle, saying, “All right, go on.”
“So I trails Bertie, and by noon he’d made stops at the City of Paris and the White House. Same story as the Silver Strike. He’d wander around, even make a few small purchases, then some young looker working in the store would create a ruckus. At the City of Paris, the girl dropped change just like you saw Cherry do. At the White House, a clerk knocked over a display of books, and Bertie, a few counters away, slipped a fortune of small items into his coat.”
Pilfered Promises Page 23
