My brother appeared to have no ready answer, but at least I had managed to capture his attention. “Are you certain that’s what he told you? I find it exceedingly hard to believe. That annoying little weasel wouldn’t have the nerve!”
“Well, apparently he does.” I eyed him squarely. “Now, what have you been up to that Lieutenant Ahern would make such a threat?”
Frederick drew himself up, indignant and very angry. “I have been performing my duties as a California state senator, that’s what I’ve been ‘up to.’ ” He glared down at me. “I think you’ve made up this entire thing just to aggravate me.”
“Why in the world would I do that? According to Ahern, you’ve been associating with people who are questionable, or who may be operating outside the law. I only came here to warn you.”
“Next time, stay home,” Frederick snapped. “And keep your nose out of affairs you know absolutely nothing about. You are a woman, Sarah, and, contrary to what Father has led you to believe, women are physically and emotionally incapable of comprehending such matters. Go home and knit something and leave business like this to your betters.”
“Frederick,” an angry voice interrupted. I looked over, to find Henrietta glaring at us from the doorway. “I have been searching all over for you. Dinner will be served in ten minutes and you are neglecting our guests.”
“I’ll be right there,” Frederick replied. “Sarah is just leaving.” Moving with unusual alacrity, my brother helped me on with my wrap and, while Henrietta returned to her company, walked me to the door—probably to ensure that I actually left. He had started back to the parlor, and I was halfway out the door, when Nicholas Bramwell hurried down the hall.
“Miss Woolson,” he said softly. “Might I have a quick word with you before you leave?”
“Yes, of course,” I replied curiously.
“I saw you at the theater last night,” he began. “You must wonder why I was escorting Miss Karpova when I’m engaged to another woman.”
“It’s none of my business, Mr. Bramwell. However, I hope you won’t do anything to hurt Miss Karpova. She’s very young, and hardly sophisticated in matters of the heart.”
The young man drew himself up, looking wounded that I would suggest such a thing. “Please believe me, Miss Woolson, that’s the last thing I would ever do.”
“Then you must be honest with both young women. Miss Radburn seems very fond of you. This kind of deception all too often leads to disaster.”
He looked crestfallen. “Yes, I know. It’s an awkward situation. You see, Mother has her heart set on my marrying Miss Radburn. She feels it would be an advantageous match—for my political career. The problem is that I care very deeply for Yelena and—”
“Nonsense! Of course you don’t care for that girl. She is nothing more than a common Gypsy.”
Nicholas and I turned, startled to find that Mrs. Bramwell had come upon us from behind. For such a large woman, I was amazed she could move so noiselessly.
“Mother, I—”
“Nicholas, come to your senses. Any alliance with that girl is out of the question. It would result in your political ruin. I have sacrificed far too much to allow such a catastrophe to happen.”
“You misunderstood, Mother. I was merely telling Miss Woolson that I found the Karpova girl attractive. Nothing more.”
“Of course there will be nothing more,” his mother stated with finality. “I will see to that. Now you will return to the parlor at once. You must escort Miss Radburn in to dinner.”
She turned to me, a spurious smile pasted on her fleshy face. “Miss Woolson, I wish you good night.” And with that, she took her son by the arm and led him back to the parlor.
I hurriedly slipped out the door, grateful to be out of my brother’s home and free to breathe deeply of the clean night air.
After a light supper Cook had kept warm for me in the kitchen, I joined my father in his study for an after-dinner coffee, which, as was his custom, he generously laced with brandy. Everyone else was out of the house except Charles and Celia’s children, who were snugly tucked in their beds.
I treasured these rare evenings alone with Papa, both of us comfortably ensconced in front of the fire, sipping our coffee and chatting, or simply enjoying a companionable silence.
Tonight, however, Papa was not in a good mood. Slapping a copy of that morning’s San Francisco Chronicle on the table between our chairs, he proceeded to describe yet another derogatory article that had been written about my brother Frederick.
“It’s that Rudolph Hardin again,” Papa said, showing me the story he’d circled in pencil. “Damn the man! Now he’s accusing Frederick of catering to special-interest groups, at the expense of his own constituents. I happen to know that it’s all a pack of lies.
Blast it all, anyway, I’d give my best putter if Frederick could sue the blackguard for slander.”
I took the paper and glanced over the piece. True enough, my brother’s old nemesis from law school had once again fabricated an accusation against Frederick which, as far as I could tell, seemed mainly comprised of supposition and innuendos. Unfortunately, Hardin had worded the statement very cleverly, ensuring that Frederick would have a difficult time suing him for liable.
I patiently listened while Papa raged on about the iniquities of the press in general and Rudolph Hardin in particular, until he finally wound down and seemed to tire of the subject. Appearing far more relaxed, he poured out the last of the coffee—naturally adding a generous allotment of brandy—and inquired how my new law practice was coming along.
Sipping my coffee, I told him about Mrs. Sechrest and her determination to divorce her abusive husband, after which we spent some time discussing the child-custody issues we were certain to face when the case came to court.
“It’s all going to boil down to whether Mrs. Sechrest can prove her husband to be an unfit father,” Papa said, filling his pipe and striking a match to the bowl. “You realize that won’t be easy.”
“Yes, that’s what I tried to tell her. I don’t think we’ll have any difficulty proving Mr. Sechrest to be an abusive and drunken husband. But even Mrs. Sechrest admits that to date he hasn’t ill-treated their two young sons.”
“Hmmm.” Papa pulled contentedly on his pipe and considered the problem. “Is there any way your client can demonstrate that her husband’s drinking or violent tendencies are escalating? So much so that she fears her boys may be in danger?”
“That’s our plan,” I said, “although I’m not sure it’s going to work. The problem is that Sechrest surrounds himself with lackeys who will undoubtedly swear to anything he asks them to. It may well turn out to be her word against his.” I drained the last of my coffee. “Then, too, the case is further complicated by the children’s gender. If they were girls instead of boys, we might stand a better chance of gaining custody. But two boys, both of them over seven—” I let my words hang between us.
“You have your work cut out for you, my girl. No doubt about it.”
Papa rang for our butler, Arthur Edis, and requested more coffee. I watched as our old retainer carried in a fresh pot and set it down on the table. Suddenly, I was struck by how much the man had aged over the past few years. It’s funny, I thought, but when we see someone every day of our lives, we tend not to notice the graying hair, the stiffening gait, or even the new wrinkles. Edis had been with my parents since well before I was born, quietly seeing to the family’s comfort and anticipating our needs. He must be over seventy by now, I thought, and with a little start, I realized how different the house would seem if he were not there anymore.
Papa regarded me after Edis had left the study, the old servant silently closing the door behind him, as always. He must have guessed my thoughts, for he said, “Edis is beginning to show his age, isn’t he? Mind you, the man has only five or six years on me, so I suppose the same thing can be said in my case.” He chuckled. “Of course, growing old is infinitely better than the alternative.�
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Papa freshened our coffee cups from the new pot, then added another generous dollop of brandy to each. “Now then, my girl, why don’t you tell me all about that séance you and Robert attended. And how that journalist fellow happened to end up with a guitar string around his neck.”
I had told the story so many times by now that I was surprised to realize Papa hadn’t yet heard it, at least not with all the details. But then we’d had little time alone together for the past few weeks, and I was reluctant to go into it in front of Mama, who tended to take the subject of murder very much to heart. Taking my time—for I trusted my father’s judgment and was eager to hear his opinion—I started the tale from our arrival at the Cliff House. I included Lieutenant Ahern’s interrogation, both that night and the next morning, and finished by describing the attack on Yelena Karpova in the room I later learned had originally been assigned to Theodora Reade.
Papa did not immediately respond to my account. He seemed to be quietly contemplating my narrative as he repacked his pipe bowl and once again lit it with a match.
“A strange story,” he said at length. “Sounds like something out of a dime novel. I gather you believe Mrs. Reade saw the killer during that flash of lightning before the candle was relit.”
“Yes. I’m sure that’s why she was murdered.”
“I used to be good friends with her late husband, Ralph Reade. We played chess by the hour at our club. Got to be quite a competition between us.”
“Yes, that’s what she told me.” “I met Mrs. Reade only once or twice, but she seemed a nice woman, if a bit on the quiet side. Why do you suppose she didn’t tell Lieutenant Ahern immediately what she’d seen? That is, if you’re right and she really did witness the reporter’s death.”
“I’ve asked myself the same question,” I replied, sipping my coffee. “She fainted almost immediately after we discovered Moss’s body sprawled in his chair, and she appeared confused and disoriented when I spoke to her later that night. When she was leaving for home the next morning, she said something about her eyes not being as good as they used to be.”
Papa thought about this. “It almost sounds as if she knew the killer. Perhaps it was someone she trusted. If she’d told Ahern what she thought she’d seen and it turned out she was wrong, she would have seriously maligned her friend.”
“Exactly. Which means if our assumptions are correct—”
“Then it’s unlikely that Russian fellow is the killer.” Papa smiled at me over his pipe. “I doubt that Mrs. Reade would have been reluctant to tell the police about a sinister-looking foreigner.”
I nodded. “That’s one of the reasons I question Serkov’s guilt.”
“From what you’ve told me, there’s a lot of evidence against the man, including motive and opportunity. And you say witnesses actually claim they saw him in Washington Square just before Mrs. Reade was killed?”
“That’s what they say,” I told him. “But I don’t think they could have gotten a very good look at his face. It would be easy enough to wear an old black suit, glue on a black beard and wig, and cover your head with a hat. From a distance, the disguise would be pretty convincing.”
“And just about everyone at the séance had a motive to kill that pesky reporter, not just the Russians.” He reached for a pad and pencil. “I’ll tell you what. Why don’t you take me through the list of people who were at the Cliff House that night. Only go more slowly this time. Let’s see if we can’t fit a few more pieces into this puzzle.”
I did as he asked, describing everyone at the table, starting with Senator Gaylord and his wife. As I did, Papa drew a rectangle on the page and jotted down names in the order of where they sat. When I was finished, he silently studied his diagram.
“Senator Gaylord,” he said thoughtfully. “He’s the one who’s taken a shine to Frederick, isn’t he?” I nodded but didn’t speak, not wishing to disrupt his concentration. “I’ve never known a politician who didn’t have at least one skeleton in his closet. On the other hand, I haven’t heard anything specific about Gaylord.” He looked down at the page and made a tiny check next to the senator’s name. “Let’s see, you say Nicholas Bramwell sat next to Mrs. Gaylord?”
I didn’t even have to think about it; the seating at the séance table was etched in my mind. “That’s right. And Nicholas’s mother, Philippa, sat to his left.”
“Bramwell,” Papa repeated, tapping his pencil on the pad. “Is she by any chance married to Edgar Bramwell, of Bramwell and Sons Construction?”
“As a matter of fact, she is,” I replied. “Can you tell me anything about the company? I’ve met Mr. Bramwell, but he seems to be a man of few words.”
“But a man of decisive action,” Papa said with a smile. “He started the company about twenty-five years ago, and built it up through hard work and shrewd management. He seems honest enough. At least the mayor seems to think so. Bramwell and Sons does a good deal of work for the city.”
“Have you ever had business dealings with him, Papa? Or met with him socially?”
“Actually, I first met Edgar Bramwell and his elder son, Lyle, a couple of years ago when they added a new wing onto the courthouse. I gather it was the younger son, Nicholas, you met at the séance, the one who recently passed his bar examination?”
“Yes, I think Nicholas’s mother is determined that he take up a career in politics. This is the first time I’ve heard the elder son’s name mentioned.” I thought over what my father had just said about their family business. “Papa, do you know if Edgar Bramwell’s company is involved with the new City Hall project?”
“As a matter of fact, they’re one of the major contractors the city’s hired to put up the cursed thing. Why do you ask?”
“Samuel heard that Darien Moss was planning an exposé on the scandal surrounding the new City Hall—you know, who might be taking bribes or padding their pockets at the city’s expense. He seemed certain that Moss was planning to name names.” To protect my brother’s journalistic anonymity, I did not mention that his source was Sergeant George Lewis.
Papa looked amused. “And you think Edgar Bramwell asked either his wife or his son to strangle Moss before he could write these articles?”
I felt a flush of embarrassment. When put like that, the possibility did sound far-fetched. “I don’t know what to think,” I admitted. “It’s hard for me to believe that anyone at that table was desperate enough to risk killing Moss in front of eleven possible witnesses.”
“I agree. Yet it seems someone did just that.” Papa again studied his drawing, checking off both Bramwells. “All right then, to Mrs. Bramwell’s left was Mrs. Reade, with Yelena next to her. At the far end of the table, sat Madame Karpova herself.” He looked at me. “Do you think it’s possible the medium could have left her seat without being noticed?”
“You know, she seems to be the only person at the table who couldn’t have gotten up without being seen. She’d just conjured up some kind of flimsy white apparition when the candle went out. Everyone claims they were staring at Madame Karpova and whatever it was she’d materialized. I know she was still in her seat when the candle was relit.”
“Hmmm. That doesn’t completely rule her out, though, does it?” Papa said thoughtfully. “It would have been damn tricky, but performing tricks is what the woman does for a living. What about the daughter, Yelena?
“I suppose it’s possible, but I’d say it’s extremely unlikely. She’s such a timid little creature. And Moss was very large. I don’t see how Yelena could have put that wire around his neck without him overpowering her.”
Papa sighed and checked off the two Karpova women. “At least for now,” he said. “Let’s see, Lieutenant and Mrs. Ahern were to the clairvoyant’s left. Logistically speaking, they were closest to Moss—except for you and Robert, of course. I suppose Moss could have had something on one of the Aherns and had threatened to expose them in his paper.”
“He’d written negative articles about the p
olice before,” I said. “But I don’t believe any of them specifically targeted Lieutenant Ahern.”
“There’s always a first time, my girl. By the way, what about this Serkov fellow? You say he left the room when Moss arrived?”
“Yes, but I suspect he came back in later and helped his sister with her special effects, like the flying trumpet and balalaika, as well as that filmy apparition.”
“Did Lieutenant Ahern check everyone there for signs of blood on their clothes or hands?” Papa asked.
“He didn’t come right out and have everybody hold out their hands. But I noticed he was watching everyone closely during our interrogation. Besides, the murderer could have wiped any blood off his hands afterward, and no one would have been the wiser.”
Papa put down his pad and pencil, gave a long sigh, and relit his pipe. By now, what was left of our coffee had turned cold, and neither of us wished to bother Edis by requesting yet another pot.
“Seems to me you’ve got a real mystery on your hands,” Papa said. “Do you think Serkov will change his mind and ask you to represent him?”
“That’s another mystery, Papa. For some reason, he seems convinced the police are going to let him go free without his having to step inside a courtroom. Ahern had a good laugh when I told him about that. He claims he hasn’t a doubt that Serkov’s their man.” I thought back to the scene in the Russian’s cell. “Serkov is a stubborn, feral-looking creature, but I don’t think anyone would consider him fanciful. Yet he is utterly certain he has no need for an attorney.”
“Because the police are going to realize he’s innocent and just let him go?” Papa said. “Do you think he fully understands the gravity of his situation? You said he speaks broken English. Have the police called in an interpreter?”
“Not as far as I know. But I don’t think language is the problem. Serkov seems to comprehend why he’s been arrested, yet he honestly believes that the doors to the city jail are going to fly open at any moment and he’s going to walk out of there a free man. It’s—it’s insane.”
The Cliff House Strangler Page 15
