“Jack!”
He shook his friend, his best friend. The only real friend he’d ever had. Shook him like he could stop him from dying, his startled eyes staring through shattered branches at the darkening sky overhead, the clouds turning pink from the setting sun. Red sky at night, sailor’s delight . . . “Damn it.”
But it was too late for Jack.
Too damned late . . .
“Mr. Greaves.” He heard pounding. It echoed in his head. “Mr. Greaves.”
Nick sat bolt upright in the chair he’d fallen asleep in, the glass of whiskey that had been resting on his lap rolling off onto the floor.
“Mr. Greaves! Are you in there?” His landlady pounded on the door to his rooms, setting Riley to barking. “You’re wanted at the station right now.”
He scrubbed his hands over his face, a spasm of pain shooting through his left arm, down from the wound that never let him forget that day.
“Mr. Greaves!”
“Yes, yes, Mrs. Jewett. I’m in here,” he said over his dog’s barking. “That’s enough out of you, Riley.”
The dog, half greyhound, half setter, retreated from the door and came to Nick’s side.
“Should I tell them you’ll be at the station right away?” Mrs. Jewett asked through the closed door. There was no mistaking the concern in her voice, and he could picture the look on her face at that moment, the lopsided furrow she’d get in her forehead. She’d lost her only son at Shiloh and had transferred all of her motherly worries to Nick, the replacement for the boy who’d never come home.
What a replacement.
“Yes. Tell them I’ll be right there,” he answered. “Right there.”
CHAPTER 2
For the third or fourth time, Celia offered a smile to the booking sergeant leaning against his desk in the corner of the main police station, located in the bowels of city hall. Down here, the air was stagnant and reeked of cigar smoke and the stench that drifted from the jail cells accessed through a barred door. The smells were enough to upset a person’s stomach, which might explain why the sergeant didn’t return her smiles. Instead, he turned to watch Owen, who had found entertainment while they waited for Nicholas Greaves by rifling through the papers atop the desk belonging to the detective’s assistant, Officer Taylor.
“Hey, kid!” yelled the sergeant. “Get outta that stuff. It’s none of your business.”
“Mr. Taylor won’t mind,” Owen had the temerity to claim. “He knows me.”
“Owen, perhaps you should—,” Celia began just as the door that led to the side alley banged open and Nicholas Greaves stomped down the short flight of stairs and into the room.
His eyes met hers. They were bloodshot, and he looked very tired. Or inebriated. Or both.
But he was still handsome. And she still wanted to sweep the errant strand of dark hair off his face and see welcome in his gaze. But there was no welcome; in fact, he looked rather angry. Had she honestly expected he would be happy to see her, or repentant for not having contacted her for weeks and weeks even though he had asserted that he would?
Yes, Celia, you had.
“Why am I not surprised it’s you, Mrs. Davies?” he said.
Owen bounded up from Mr. Taylor’s chair. “Hey there, Mr. Greaves!”
“And you, Cassidy,” said the detective. “The two of you have managed to get into trouble again, haven’t you? Just wish you could do it at a more reasonable time of day.”
“It is only ten,” said Celia, taking a look at the clock ticking on the wall. “Is this an unreasonable time for a police detective?”
“It is today.”
“Then pardon the lateness of the hour, but it could not be helped.” She twisted her hands in her lap; she would ask what she’d been promising herself she would not. “Have you been well? It has been so long, I’d begun to fear you had come to mortal harm.”
He reached for his left arm and the old war wound that pained him when he was anxious.
Good. At least he is anxious and perhaps a trifle guilty.
“No harm, ma’am. I’ve just been busy.”
“Busy, then. I see.”
“Since I suspect this isn’t a social call,” said Nicholas Greaves, his expression darkening, “can I ask why you sent an officer to my rooms to drag me here?”
“I found a dead body, Mr. Greaves!” exclaimed Owen.
“I wouldn’t sound so proud of that if I were you, Cassidy,” said Mr. Greaves. “Does this have anything to do with your clinic, ma’am?”
“Nope,” Owen replied for her. “I found the body at the place where I work. But you’re not gonna lock me in the calaboose, are you, Mr. Greaves?”
“Why would I do that?”
“Because of what he was doing when he found the body,” responded Celia. “Owen, you need to explain everything to the detective. From the beginning. And do not worry. Mr. Greaves will not be so crass as to throw you in the calaboose.”
She slid Mr. Greaves a glance that indicated just how much she doubted that he would not be crass, then gestured for Owen to begin his story.
* * *
“I’m guessing this Jasper Martin won’t be so happy to learn that you and”—Nick consulted the notebook he’d borrowed from atop Taylor’s desk—“Dan Matthews were digging around looking for gold.”
Cassidy’s shoulders sagged, and he glanced over at Mrs. Davies, whose posture had maintained an uprightness that owed only part of its rigidity to a corset. “He is gonna arrest me, ain’t he?”
“Mr. Greaves, it is clear that Dan Matthews coerced Owen into participating in this escapade,” she said. “I know Mr. Matthews’ sister—Mrs. Kelly is a patient of mine—and she has often despaired of her brother’s impetuousness. But it seems unlikely he would wish to risk his employment at Martin and Company by murdering a man and then burying him—”
“Wait, wait, wait. You’re claiming this was all some sort of escapade?” Nick interrupted. He understood why she wanted to protect the scruffy Irish kid she’d taken under her wing, but some fellow who was the brother of a patient, too? Was she hoping to act as a guardian angel for the entire blasted city?
The way she was staring at him with her icy pale eyes suggested precisely that. Things never changed with her.
“Dan Matthews was excited by the possibility of finding gold, nothing more,” she replied. “And as I said, he gained Owen’s cooperation through coercion. I wish to be certain that Owen does not take any blame for another man’s impetuousness.”
When she was on edge, her accent always did take to sounding like what Nick imagined Queen Victoria’s might be. “I’d guess that’s up to Mr. Martin, whether or not he wants to press charges on Mr. Matthews or Mr. Cassidy.”
“However, you could influence his decision in that regard?” she asked. “Unless that is something else that inconveniences you.”
And sarcastic. Celia Davies was really good at sounding sarcastic.
Okay, so she blamed him for not keeping in touch these past three months and one week. He’d thought about contacting her, though, lots of times. Had trailed her as she moved about the city, watched her house, trying to work up the nerve to climb the steps and knock on the door, listened for any news on her. Did all that even though Nick had decided that a woman who continued to search for her missing husband, despite the man’s having abandoned her, wanted the fellow back.
She was waiting for his response. Meanwhile, the station room had settled into an uncomfortable quiet, which was broken by a drunk in the adjoining cell bellowing for a lawyer and the warden shouting at the man to be quiet.
“See her safely back home, Mr. Cassidy.” Nick tucked Taylor’s notebook into a coat pocket. “I’ll contact the coroner and see what there is to discover at Martin and Company.”
Mrs. Davies opened her mouth, but he cut her off. “An
d I’ll relay your concerns about Owen Cassidy’s role in this little ‘escapade’ to Mr. Martin.”
“Promise, Mr. Greaves?” asked Owen.
“I promise,” he said, and shot Celia a glance. Her mouth quirked over the irony of his making—and keeping—promises to anybody. But in her eyes, he saw that she still trusted in his abilities. Believed in him.
She’s made me realize how much I’ve missed her.
Celia Davies was really good at that, too.
* * *
“What am I to do now, Uncle?” asked Celia, looking up at the portrait of Barbara’s father that hung above the parlor settee. “I can hardly step aside in this affair when Owen and Frank Hutchinson and Maryanne’s brother are involved.”
Uncle Walford’s image grinned down at her. He’d been deceased two years now, and with each passing day, Celia believed she missed him more.
“And to have needed to encounter Nicholas Greaves again . . .”
There. That was what troubled her nearly as much as the thought that Maryanne’s brother had encouraged Owen to dig for gold and that Frank Hutchinson had been seen fighting with a man who might have ended up dead and buried in a cellar. She was troubled by the fact that she had encouraged Detective Greaves to investigate, and there would be no avoiding him while he did so.
“Heavens, Celia, be honest with yourself. You are looking forward to this.”
The painted image did not chuckle over her quandary, but if Uncle Walford had been there in the flesh, he would have done.
Celia hugged her mother’s shawl around her shoulders, the consoling softness of the crimson cashmere brushing against her chin, and heaved a great sigh. She was talking to a painting. Surely, she had cracked. Thank goodness Addie had gone to bed soon after Celia had returned from the police station. If she observed her mistress conversing with the artwork, she’d likely take the next ship back to Scotland.
This is what Nicholas Greaves does to you, Celia. He makes you stark staring mad.
However, there were questions that required answers. Such as who was buried in that cellar? The man Owen had witnessed fighting with Frank Hutchinson?
Celia felt a pang of guilt for not pressing Owen to inform Mr. Greaves of the argument he’d witnessed. The detective would eventually find out about it, and she had gained little by withholding information simply because she wished to protect Jane and Frank from scandal for as long as possible.
She had once told Nicholas Greaves that she wanted to see justice served, proper justice. Perhaps when it came to the Hutchinsons, her dedication to that cause rested upon shaky ground.
With another sigh, Celia turned away from Uncle Walford’s portrait and fetched the empty teacup and saucer she’d left on one of the side tables. The figure in the parlor doorway startled her, the cup rattling against the saucer.
“Barbara! I did not hear you come down.”
Her cousin had thrown her cotton wrapper over her nightgown and was tightly clutching the ties trailing down its front. “What did Owen mean by ‘He’s dead’?”
“Please do not worry yourself about that,” said Celia, heading for the kitchen. Barbara hobbled after her.
“I heard you go out with him, though,” said her cousin. “Did you go to see the body in the cellar?”
“Barbara, I really do not want you fretting over this.” Celia deposited the teacup in the wet sink in the corner of the room. “Please go back to bed before Grace notices that you’re missing and gets alarmed.”
“She’s snoring away. She’ll never notice.” Barbara snagged Celia’s sleeve. “You promised me you’d never get involved in another murder.”
I did? “Who said anything about murder?”
Barbara released her grip on Celia’s blouse. “Owen wouldn’t have come to you about a dead body for any other reason. He thinks you work miracles. Since you cleared your brother-in-law of murder charges, Owen believes you’re better than the police.”
“Mr. Greaves was responsible for clearing my brother-in-law,” said Celia, heading into the dining room.
Barbara followed her. “That’s not how Owen sees it.”
Celia tugged the chain on the overhead chandelier, shutting off the gas and snuffing the mantle’s flame. “But that is the way it is.”
“Does the dead man have anything to do with Mr. Hutchinson’s business?”
Celia stopped and faced her cousin. “What did you hear? And did Grace hear as well?”
“We didn’t hear much. But I figured, since Owen is working at Mr. Hutchinson’s office, that has to be where the cellar with the dead body is.” Barbara peered at her. “I’m right, aren’t I?”
“We do not know that this has anything to do with Mr. Hutchinson,” said Celia, though she herself already suspected him.
“But if Owen found a body at Martin and Company, it will involve Mr. Hutchinson,” said Barbara. “His name and the names of the other men he works with will probably be in every newspaper in town.”
“I am aware of that eventuality,” said Celia. “But please do not speak to Grace about this matter until I’ve had an opportunity to talk to Jane. She is the proper person to break the news to her stepdaughter. Not either of us.”
“I can’t keep a secret from Grace!”
“I assure you, you shan’t have to for long.”
Barbara rolled her lips between her teeth. “I don’t like this. The last time you got involved in a murder investigation, Owen nearly got killed.”
“I have hardly forgotten, Barbara,” Celia responded. She would never forget Owen’s blood splattered across the kitchen floor, seeping into her gown. Never. “And I do not intend to become involved, unless Jane requests my help.”
“Do you think she’s going to ask?”
Yes, she did. Once the police came to question Frank. “We shall see tomorrow.”
“I hope she doesn’t.”
“So do I,” said Celia.
* * *
Well, well. Frank.
The silver-plated plaque hanging next to the front door of Martin and Company reflected the streetlamp’s muted glow, which picked out the names engraved upon its surface—JASPER MARTIN; ABRAM RUSSELL; FRANK HUTCHINSON.
Neither Owen nor Celia Davies had mentioned that Frank was one of the partners. Would he have decided against taking the case if he’d known? No. Not in the least.
But he had hoped like hell to never see Frank’s face again.
“Mr. Greaves,” shouted his assistant, J. E. Taylor, running up the street through the fog. “Sorry I’m late. Just got your message.”
He’d put on his gray policeman’s coat in a hurry, the black buttons misaligned with their proper buttonholes. Beneath his hat, his hair was slicked into place, and he’d recently received a close shave. Nick sniffed the air. Definitely shaving lotion. Lime, to be exact.
“Did I interrupt your evening plans, Taylor?” Nick asked him.
Taylor, pale and freckled, flushed. “I was at Maguire’s with a lady friend. The Martinetti Troupe was there along with some female gymnasts doing the Niagara Leap. It was a lot of fun.”
“My apologies, in that case.”
“What’re we doing here?” Taylor looked over at the front door of Martin and Company. The local cop, whom the property owners along this stretch of Montgomery paid to patrol, was making a show of guarding the door and stared back at Taylor. An effort coming a little too late for this particular property. Nick had asked the man if he’d seen anyone suspicious fleeing the store, and he’d fumbled for an answer, explaining that he patrolled this stretch of road only at the top of the hour. Nick decided the property owners paying the man weren’t getting their money’s worth. At least the local had known how to reach Martin to tell him to get here as quickly as possible.
“We’re here, Taylor, because earlier this evening Owen Cassidy di
scovered a body in the cellar of this building.”
Taylor whistled, his breath misting in the damp air. “The Irish kid who hangs around Mrs. Davies’ house?”
“The same.”
“Who’s the dead person?” Taylor asked, stepping over to the front windows to try to get a look around the closed shades. The local glared at him. “Sheesh, I’m with the detective there. I’m not going to disturb anything.” Taylor flashed his badge, and the man relaxed.
Inside the main floor office area, a light bobbed. The coroner, who’d arrived a few minutes earlier, had brought a beat cop with him to poke around.
Taylor returned to where Nick stood at the edge of the sidewalk. “No idea who it is,” said Nick. “Let’s go in and see what Dr. Harris has learned so far.”
“Um . . .” Taylor swallowed. “You need me to go see the body with you, sir?”
Taylor had a weak stomach; a corpse buried in a cellar wouldn’t be all that fresh, and it would be far more than Taylor could handle.
“I can manage on my own.”
“What do you need me to do, then, sir?” Taylor felt his coat pockets, looking perplexed. “Shoot. I left my notebook at the station.”
“Here. I brought it with me,” said Nick, handing it over. He recounted what Cassidy and Mrs. Davies had told him.
“They interrupted a man trying to dig up the body?” asked Taylor.
“Yes,” said Nick, “and in the morning, I need you to locate the fellow who’d been working with Cassidy. A laborer named Dan Matthews. Bring him into the station and see what he has to say. He convinced Cassidy to help him look for gold in the basement, and I want to know who gave him that idea. As well as who he thinks the dead body belongs to, because it seems he recognized the man. He might also have some ideas about who might’ve wanted the man dead.”
“Searching for gold in somebody’s basement? Ain’t heard that one in a while.” Taylor chuckled, licked the tip of the pencil, and jotted down details.
“Next, I’d like you to learn everything you can about the partners at Martin and Company. Details about their business dealings. Who their enemies might be. Especially Frank Hutchinson’s enemies.”
No Pity For the Dead Page 3
