Conspiracy of Silence (Ravenwood Mysteries #4)

by Sabrina Flynn

  "I'm a faan tung," Isobel answered. A rice bucket. She felt as worthless as its meaning.

  "That's Captain Faan Tung," Jin corrected.

  "Not tonight."

  The girl cocked her head, but remained silent. It was just as well. The tornado pounding down the stairway would have drowned a scream. Tobias darted into the barn. "Did you find her? Did you find Sarah?" the boy demanded.

  Isobel shook her head.

  "Leave her be, boy," Tim said.

  Mr. Payne poked his head in the barn to mumble something.

  "Might be," Tim answered.

  Another indecipherable reply.

  Tim nodded. "Will do."

  Mr. Payne disappeared back into the fog.

  "I need to find Riot," she said.

  Lotario frowned. "You are not going back out there."

  "You're dead on your feet," Margaret agreed.

  "Tobias and Jin, make sure these three get inside. If they put up a fight, holler your heads off." Tim took the reins from her. "I'll get A.J."

  Isobel opened her mouth to protest.

  "Whatcha gonna do, limp after someone?"

  She shut her mouth with a click.

  Tim clucked, and his mare followed him back out into the early morning.

  Confronted with stinging reason, she submitted to Lotario's lead. Her thoughts spun. Where was Sarah? The answer sickened her. As long as Riot wasn't back, there was hope, but it was a fragile thing.

  As always, when she limped into the kitchen, she was greeted by warmth. Miss Lily stood in dressing gown and cap. She looked from one twin to the other, a thoughtful look in her eyes. They wore nearly identical clothing.

  Lotario took off his cap, and his golden hair tumbled free. "This should help."

  Jin narrowed her eyes at him.

  "I had it figured out," Lily said. "Mr. Morgan will be the one who is battered. You're as bad as Tobias."

  "And he's in need of ice," Lotario added.

  "Hmm." Lily turned to the ice box.

  Margaret ushered Isobel to a chair. Grimm walked into the kitchen, took in the crowd, and hoisted his suspenders over his shoulders while heading for the stove.

  Lotario bent over her laces. "Do you think it's broken?"

  Isobel hardly heard his words. Her thoughts were elsewhere, examining the past three months from every angle.

  At Tobias' urging, Margaret told them what happened. The kitchen filled with conversation, speculation, and wild ideas that made more sense than the truth. Words flowed over Isobel's head. Ice took the sting out of her ankle, but it was a distant feeling. Her head swam—facts tumbling inside, clattering against one another.

  Isobel snapped back to the present. The family sat around the big table, and Isobel's leg was propped on a chair with a bag of ice on her ankle.

  "Jin," she said suddenly. At the sound of her name, the girl sat up straight.

  Carefully, Isobel removed the handkerchief from her pocket, set it on the table, and unfolded it. Blood had dried on the white token. "What does red symbolize in your culture?"

  "I am American," Jin growled.

  Isobel rubbed her temple.

  Tobias sighed. "Just answer the question."

  The girl relented. "It means good fortune."

  "And white?"

  "It is death. The color of mourning."

  I question your resolve. The shot echoed, and blood and brains misted the window. Isobel shuddered. A hand gripped her own. "You need rest." It was Lotario; concern filled his every word. As sensitive as he was to her moods, she may as well have just screamed.

  She opened her eyes. "Not yet." Isobel pushed herself out of the chair. "I need your help, Jin."

  The girl hopped to her feet, and rushed to her side to act as a support. Isobel blinked down at the girl. "Erm, no. Thank you, though." She patted the girl's shoulder awkwardly, and drew her away from the rest. "The Master… The blond fellow you saw at the brothel. Did he look anything like Lotario?"

  Jin glanced his way. "A little."

  Isobel straightened. "Ari, do your impression of Curtis." As children, the twins had mimicked all of their older siblings, driving them to rage.

  Lotario gaped at her. "Even I don't mock the dead." There wasn't a hint of grief in his voice, but respect was ingrained.

  "Please."

  Lotario turned away. He ripped off his tie, retied it into a crude bowtie, then pulled his blond hair back. With a shift of shoulders, he turned back around. Lotario was transformed. His eyes were cheerful, and he gave Jin a friendly smile. "By God, you've grown. I told you to eat that broccoli, didn't I? Have you got hair on your chest yet?" It was pitch perfect, and he shrugged, not with his shoulders, but with his eyebrows and hands.

  Jin glanced at Isobel. "This is not him."

  "Do his other personality," Isobel ordered.

  Lotario rolled back his shoulders, and snapped his head from side to side, loosening up. He cleared his throat. Eyes became hard, creases lined his lips and forehead, and he seemed larger, looming over Jin. "You two are miscreants. You're going to give mother a heart attack, and don't think you can run to father for sympathy. This is the final straw."

  Jin took a step back.

  "Walk," Isobel ordered.

  Lotario turned, and walked through the doorway.

  Jin inhaled sharply. "Fahn Quai." White Devil.

  Isobel had her answer. She sat down before her legs gave way. Half aware of a number of eyes on her, she cleared her throat, and looked at her surroundings for the first time.

  Candles flickered on the table, and Grimm was crouched in front of the second stove, an older one, stoking the wood in its chamber.

  "Why aren't you using the gas stove and lamps?"

  "It's nothing to concern yourself with, Mr. Morgan. I'll have it sorted out tomorrow."

  "Miss Lily, I need to know. Yesterday, when Riot and I were here, you thought it was a maintenance issue and you had someone coming by."

  Grimm closed the door with extreme care. His mother sighed. "A man from the Gas Light Company did come by, but it wasn't a mechanical issue. The Gas Light Company shut off our line. They claimed I didn't settle the bill."

  There was no doubt in Isobel's mind that Lily had settled the bill. The landlady managed this house with an expert hand. This had Alex's stink all over it. With yet another blow delivered, Isobel placed her elbows on the table, and dropped her head into her hands.

  "You're not supposed to have your elbows on the table," Tobias said.

  His mother swatted his head with a rag. "Go to bed."

  For the first time in her life, Isobel listened to that command.

  Defeated, exposed, standing at the gallows, sleep seemed the only option left to her. But it eluded her when she finally dragged herself to Riot's room. She sat in Ravenwood's chair, staring at the wall of information. It ran together. Her vision blurred. Sarah was lost.

  The door opened, and Isobel stirred. Her hand had left an imprint on her cheek. In the early morning light, she watched Riot shed his hat and coat. The tilt of his shoulders told everything. He had not found Sarah.

  As he walked towards the bathroom, he touched her shoulder, and she reached for his hand. He answered her silent question with a shake of his head. "Gray has no idea where she is."

  "Where is he now?"

  "I took him to the police department. They slapped him with a pimping fine and sent him on his way."

  "But…" she stuttered to a stop. "Without an investigation? Without a trial?"

  "Inspector Coleman argued it with Chief Esola. But I'm not surprised. It's no secret that Mayor Phelan forced the old police chief into retirement to make way for Esola."

  That scandal had hit newspapers in January. Isobel remembered a blurb published in the Call: 'We predict that the man elected will be Lawrence's Esola—and then may the Lord have mercy on everybody in that great city who is innocent.'

  "Mayor Phelan is a strong supporter of Chinese exclusion." And Chinato
wn was sitting on prime real estate. The elite considered Chinatown a blight, even as they profited from it.

  Riot nodded. "But mayors are never elected without help. He's likely a puppet, too—the same as his police chief."

  How could there be justice when the city ran on graft? San Francisco was a warring snake pit of greed. Even with honest men in power, what witnesses did they have? Only a Chinese girl, a missing white girl, and a dead woman.

  His gaze fell to her ankle.

  "I suppose Tim told you what happened?"

  Riot gave a slight nod. "I think it was the same man who was lurking in front of our house two weeks ago." He hadn't seemed to notice his choice of words, and that made it all the more touching.

  Isobel shuddered, and pushed the 'average' killer to the side—he'd find them or not. There were more important things to worry about—Sarah.

  "We'll question the neighbors. We'll find her." The other possibility—the logical conclusion—stuck in her throat. That Sarah hadn't escaped, that her bones were somewhere in the charred house.

  Exhaustion and grief lined Riot's face. One eye was swollen, and his cheek bruised. She wondered what injuries his beard concealed. Riot walked stiffly towards the bathroom. When she heard running water, she pushed herself out of the chair, and hobbled to the doorway.

  Isobel sucked in a breath. Shirtless, he bent over the sink, scrubbing his face. Mottled bruising covered the muscles of his lower back. She limped forward and placed a hand over the bruises.

  Riot straightened, and turned. Water dripped from his hair, over his face, and down his chest. His skin was cold to the touch. She reached for a washcloth, and dabbed at a cut on his cheek.

  "The man who shot Punt… he's quick. Faster than you, even."

  "There's always someone quicker," Riot murmured.

  "The white token was a death sentence. I think William Punt was supposed to take his own life. One moment they were standing there, and the next…" A gun's bark. Blood on the window pane. His fingers curled around her wrist, and he took her hand in both of his, pressing his lips to her knuckles.

  Isobel swallowed. "I think Alex might have her."

  "Why? How? There's no reason. It makes no sense."

  "What else makes sense?"

  "That Sarah died in the fire." His voice cracked.

  She squeezed his hand. "Until we find her bones, I won't stop looking."

  "Nor I, Bel."

  Isobel searched his eyes, then let her forehead fall against his chest. "I'll visit Alex tomorrow—today," she corrected. Riot's arms came around her. He didn't protest. Didn't say a word, but his arms stayed wrapped around her long after they'd both succumbed to exhaustion.

  33

  Ace of Spades

  A FIRM KNOCK JERKED her awake. And her bedmate. Atticus Riot sat bolt upright, revolver cocked and ready in his hand. Isobel didn't dare move. He was not a man to startle. Another knock, and her ankle throbbed, clearing away the wool in her head. Memory of the previous day snapped her into focus.

  Riot reached for his spare spectacles that had a crack in the lens. Hair askew, gun pointed towards the floor, and clad only in long underwear, he opened the door.

  Miss Lily stood outside. She kept her eyes on his face. Recalling his state of undress, he stepped partly behind the door.

  "This was in the grocer's delivery basket, and a messenger came with a telegram."

  She handed both off. "And Mr. Riot?"

  He waited.

  "The water has been disconnected, too."

  A crude oath slipped from Isobel's lips. Lily pretended not notice—both the cuss word and Isobel's presence in the big bed. "Mr. Tim went off to see what he could do."

  "I doubt there is anything to be done, Miss Lily. We're the victims of a cruel and powerful man."

  Lily's brows drew together. "Who?"

  "My husband," Isobel growled. "I intend to kill him."

  "It's complicated," Riot explained to Lily's surprise.

  "I disagree, Mr. Riot, there's nothing complex about cruelty." Her eyes were distant, voice fragile. "You'll let me know if I can help?"

  "Keep the children close."

  She dipped her head.

  "Thank you." He closed the door, and ripped open the envelope. Isobel ignored her throbbing ankle as she limped across the room to read over his shoulder.

  She is alive. And safe.

  Take the Chinatown tour this afternoon.

  Follow the blue ribbon.

  A shudder traveled from Riot's hands to his feet. Isobel steered him towards the bed, where his legs gave out, and he sat down. She took the paper from his shaking hand, and turned it over. No name. Why had she expected a name? It was written on cheap paper. The handwriting was neat and square. It smelled of broccoli and garlic. If ever there were a vegetable to overpower every other scent, it was broccoli or garlic. Dumb luck or purposeful?

  "It could be a trap," she said. Although, broccoli-scented paper hardly screamed trap.

  Riot didn't answer. The bait was irresistible, and Sarah's unknown fate was already inflicting far more pain than any trap that might be waiting.

  She sat down next to him. "None of this makes sense."

  Riot adjusted his spectacles, and set aside his revolver. He looked to the wall of information. "Perhaps we're not the only ones fighting shadows," he said after a time.

  "I don't dare hope." Isobel reached for the forgotten Western Union telegram. She realized what she had done after she ripped it open. "I do apologize, Riot. I've just opened your missive."

  She handed it over.

  "Take all the liberties you like with me."

  "Hmm." She gave him a smile that only he was privy to, and turned her eyes on the telegram.

  One hundred and fifty-two centimetres. Ten stone. Brown hair. Mole on right thumb. Scarlet fever scarring across cheeks from childhood. Tilts head to right when speaking. Glad you are back. -H

  "Does your colleague know Lincoln Howe?"

  "Doubtful."

  "How could he possibly know that Lincoln Howe tilts his face to the right while speaking?" Isobel asked.

  "He has his methods."

  That, or Riot's colleague had a very high opinion of himself, she thought. Isobel glanced at the clock. "No water, no gas. Shall we visit the morgue and your optometrist before our tour?"

  "You've read my mind, Bel."

  34

  The Storm

  Tuesday, April 17, 1900

  THE SCRATCH OF PENS grated on Riot's ears. Every newspaper in the city was represented, poised to hit the evening edition when the court closed session for the day. But would it work?

  Riot caught Isobel's eye, and she stared back, lips pressed together. She'd been in jail twenty-one days already. He tried not to think of the years that would separate them.

  "Are you saying Sarah Byrne is alive?" Farnon asked.

  "Yes."

  Every sentence he uttered produced a ripple from the audience. Lunch had either subdued Judge Adams' enthusiastic gavel, or he had given up trying to silence the crowd. During this afternoon session, he'd reserved his cries of Order! for only truly loud outbursts.

  "A death certificate was issued for Sarah Byrne. Another faked death, Mr. Riot?" Judge Adams inquired.

  "Mrs. Kingston and I only discovered Sarah's whereabouts after it was signed. Considering the circumstances, we thought it best to keep the child hidden."

  Judge Adams grunted. He did not voice an objection.

  The prosecution stood. "Your honor, circumstances aside, Mr. Riot has admitted to abduction, trespassing, and vandalism."

  "Let us not forget that the prosecution has granted Mr. Riot immunity for the duration of this trial," Farnon said.

  "The stenographer will make a note of that," Judge Adams said. He waited until the note was made, and then asked, "What happened to Sarah Byrne?"

  "When William Punt came for her, she had climbed through the skylight. She was frightened, rightly so, and hid in a b
asement." Riot had left out a good many things in his narration, including the note in the grocer's basket.

  "And where is she now?"

  "Until she's summoned to testify against Parker Gray, her location will remain a mystery."

  Farnon nodded his approval. "With men like Gray roaming our streets, a wise precaution. Were you able to discover the whereabouts of Lincoln Howe?"

  "Yes."

  "Where?"

  "Mrs. Kingston and I visited the city morgue. We relayed the telegram description to the assistant, Mr. Sims. He remembered an unidentified body with a mole on the right thumb. The man appeared to be a robbery victim. His face had been bashed in, his features unrecognizable. Without identification, he was buried nameless at Odd Fellows Cemetery. As it turned out, he had shared the morgue with his murderer for a time—Andrew Ross. Police Surgeon Wilson and Dr. Kellogg had the body exhumed and performed a postmortem. The body showed signs of further abuse—including marks indicative of shackles around his ankles.

  "We then checked the SS Australia passenger list, and confirmed that Lincoln Howe arrived on that steamer. According to Doctor Kinyoun, he was carrying plague samples from Honolulu. I believe Lincoln Howe climbed into a hack straight off the steamer, and was taken to a basement near The Drifter, where he was kept in the cell and forced to…harvest the plague. Meanwhile, health officers can confirm that a man of Andrew Ross' description worked as a health inspector under the name of Lincoln Howe. When Andrew Ross and William Punt learned the harvesting technique, they disposed of Howe."

  "And what of the murder of William Punt? Did you identify the gunman?"

  "Not yet."

  35

  Slum Tours

  I leave pain. I leave turmoil. I leave a son.

  —Z.R. (last known journal entry)