She looked startled. “Why do you ask such a thing? What possible difference does it make now that he is dead?”
“It might help me find his killer,” I said. “Please, Madame Karpova, just answer the question,.”
She sat very still on the edge of the cot, regarding me with slightly veiled eyes. “He would tell me only that he was going for a walk.”
“Come now, Madame, the two of you were very close,” I chided, not bothering to hide my incredulity. “You must have some idea where he went and what he was doing for all those hours. It can’t hurt him now, and it might help solve his murder.”
Still, she hesitated to speak. Why, I wondered, was the woman being so obstinate? I was about to take her to task, when she let out a long breath and said, “He followed people, Miss Woolson. I am not proud of it, but in hard times it put food on the table and a roof over our heads.”
“ ‘Followed people’?” I repeated. “You mean in order to rob or blackmail them?”
She nodded. “I made him stop thieving when we left Russia, but some habits are difficult to change. Sometimes he would eavesdrop when I did private readings. If he heard something promising, he would follow the person to see what else he could discover.”
“And who was he following here in San Francisco?”
“I do not know,” she said. “No, truly, Miss Woolson, he wouldn’t tell me. All I know is that he was watching two men, both of them prominent and possessing political power.”
“But you don’t know their names?” I urged in growing frustration.
“No. Dmitry would not tell me.” I was watching her face, and I thought she was telling me the truth. “We spoke freely about everything, except that. But he gave me money every week,” she continued, a note of pride in her deep voice. “He always ensured that Yelena and I were well cared for.”
“Do you think Dmitry was counting on one of these men to get him out of jail?”
“Yes, I am sure he was. I tried to get him to tell me the mark’s name, but he refused. All he would say was that the man was in a position to have him released.”
“It seems he was also in a position to have Dmitry killed,” I said, letting out my breath. “I fear we’re up against a ruthless and very clever villain, Madame Karpova, a man who will stop at nothing to attain his goal.”
“Which is what, Miss Woolson?” Her husky voice was raised in anger. “Why has he chosen to do these terrible things to us?” She rose from the cot in sudden agitation and began pacing back and forth across the cell. “My poor, foolish lubovnik. I warned him that he was playing with fire, but he would not stop. Now he has been taken him from me.”
I was struck by a sudden thought. “Madame Karpova, you somehow knew that I’d been in an accident this past Tuesday. You even knew where I’d been injured. Why couldn’t you foresee when Dmitry would be killed, and by whom?”
“You do not know how many times I have longed to possess the ability to foretell these things,” she said unhappily. “Unfortunately, that which I can see in other’s lives, I cannot see in my own. It is as if a heavy black curtain hangs before my eyes whenever I attempt to look into my own future, or that of my daughter. I sit here in my cell waiting for the madman to strike again. I am like the defenseless mouse who is dropped into the snake’s cage, with nowhere to hide.”
I regretted that I had no comforting words to offer. Clearly, the only way I could get my client out of this cell was to see that Dmitry’s real murderer was arrested. In growing desperation, I begged her to try to remember the names of the two men Dmitry had been following here in San Francisco.
She was near tears, and I was no closer to identifying the men, when Yelena arrived half an hour later. Taking my leave of my client’s cell, I sought out Sergeant Jackson to ensure he’d remain vigilant in seeing to my client’s safety.
After that, I traveled by hansom cab to Annjenett’s safe house. The next morning was Alexandra Sechrest’s divorce hearing, and I wanted to reassure her and answer any questions she might have. I was relieved to hear that her mother and sister had arrived that afternoon from Sacramento, and were staying at a local hotel. Mrs. Jane Hardy, the neighbor who had taken her in the last time she’d been beaten by her husband, had also promised to be present.
Finally, I went to my office to gather up all the pertinent paperwork I would need for the hearing. As I was leaving some two hours later, my head once again pounding, Fanny Goodman invited me in for tea and a slice of apple pie still hot from the oven. I tried to tell her I must be getting home, but she refused to take no for an answer.
“Where in the world did you get that horrible hat?” she asked as I sat down at her kitchen table.
“It’s an old hat of my mother’s,” I explained. “I chose it because it covers my bandages.”
“Well, you can’t wear a thing like that to court tomorrow morning,” she said, motioning for me to take it off.
Dutifully, I handed it over, and she disappeared into her shop. A few minutes later, she bustled back carrying a dark gray velvet hat, subtly decorated with feathers and two or three small artificial flowers. It had a full crown, which would easily cover my bandages, but the brim was less extreme than the one on Mama’s hat and turned up at a jaunty angle on one side.
“This is the latest style from Paris,” Fanny said, fitting the hat expertly onto my head. She handed me a mirror. “There now, that’s much better, don’t you think?”
She was right. Even I had to admit that Fanny’s hat was most becoming. “It’s lovely, Mrs. Goodman,” I told her, tilting my head this way and that to make sure the bandages were well hidden. “But I can’t possibly afford it.”
“Don’t worry about that, dear. I’m simply lending it to you to wear to court tomorrow. You can return it to me on Monday morning.”
In spite of my protests that I couldn’t borrow anything so expensive, she carefully removed the hat from my head and placed it in a hatbox.
“Nonsense, of course you can. It does my heart good to see you dressed like the fine, lovely lady you are. With your face and figure, I swear you could outshine Lillie Langtry herself. Now, why haven’t you started on that pie?”
In truth, I’d become so absorbed with hats—which was most unlike me—I’d forgotten all about eating. Picking up my fork, I cut into the delicious apple pastry. As usual, it was excellent. Regrettably, my injury and fatigue seemed to have robbed me of an appetite.
I looked up, to find Fanny studying me speculatively. “Your head is aching, isn’t it, Sarah? Too much work and too little food and rest. I think I can help with that, as well.”
Leaving me to pick at my pie, she bustled over to one of her cupboards, took out several small tins, and placed some of their contents in a square of cheesecloth. She tied off the cloth and placed it in a pan of hot water to steep.
“My mother brought this recipe with her from West Virginia,” she said, placing the pan and a fresh cup on the table. “Willow bark, chamomile, and peppermint leaf, with a touch of honey. It helps a headache every time.”
I was pleasantly surprised to find that she was right; my head felt considerably better when I left her cozy kitchen for home, although whether it was due to the apple pie or the willow-bark tea, I’d probably never know. Fanny had also tucked a small package of the ingredients for the tea into the hatbox for me to use over the next few days.
It was as well that my head had ceased throbbing by the time I reached my home, since Papa greeted me with stunning news: That afternoon, in the course of a routine hearing for a boy caught shoplifting, Judge Mortimer Raleigh had keeled over on the bench, dead of an apparent heart attack.
“Wasn’t he the presiding judge at Madame Karpova’s arraignment a few days ago?” Papa asked. At my bewildered nod, he continued: “The courthouse has been buzzing about how she ranted at Raleigh, telling him he’d die before the week was out.” He eyed me in obvious bemusement. “If I didn’t know for a fact that your client was locked up in a ja
il cell, I’d say she’d found some way to kill off old Mortimer, using some kind of Gypsy herbs to make it appear as if it were his heart.”
“I don’t understand it, either, Papa,” I said, still in a state of shock. “It’s uncanny, but most of the time Madame Karpova is right. She prophesied that Judge Raleigh would be greeting his Maker before the week was out. Apparently, that’s precisely what he’s doing.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Because I was due in court the following morning, I had no opportunity to speak to Madame Karpova about Judge Raleigh’s death. Frankly, I wasn’t sure what to make of it. If this had been her first prediction to come true, I could have attributed it to coincidence. But it was not her first. I had never been a believer in psychic phenomenon, but this gave me pause.
I’d spent a restless night, too keyed up over the impending divorce hearing to sleep. Toward morning, I’d finally dozed off for an hour or two, then awakened with another throbbing headache. After Charles changed my bandages, I brewed a cup of Fanny’s willow-bark tea and set about preparing myself for court. My spirits lifted as the headache gradually receded. I wouldn’t have hurt Charles’s feelings for the world, but I was convinced Fanny’s tea worked better, and faster, than my brother’s headache powders. And with the day I had before me, I could only say a silent thanks to my neighbor’s mother for bringing the remedy with her from West Virginia.
Fanny had also been correct about the hat she’d lent me. It not only worked well with my bandaged head but was the perfect accessory for the light gray plain-cut suit I planned to wear for the proceedings.
The Sechrest divorce hearing was scheduled to begin at nine o’clock. Arriving at the courthouse, I was pleased to see Alexandra’s mother and sister waiting with her outside the main entrance. There was a strong family resemblance, perhaps intensified at the moment by the state of their nerves. All three looked as if they were on their way to the gallows, rather than entering a court of law.
Also standing with them was Alexandra’s neighbor and friend Mrs. Jane Hardy. I had spoken to Alexandra’s maid, but the woman stubbornly refused to step foot inside a courtroom. Nor did she care to become involved in a divorce, since she had been raised to believe the disintegration of a marriage was contrary to church law. I wasn’t unduly concerned about this. I was fairly certain the judge would grant my client a divorce. Gaining custody of her children, however, would be an entirely different matter.
As I led the four women into the courtroom, it seemed strange to see Robert sitting at the respondent’s table across the aisle. The one time we had appeared in court together, it had been as colleagues fighting to save an innocent, if eccentric, man from the gallows. Now we were adversaries in a case that would decide the fate of a mother and her two small boys. Judging by the look on his face, Robert felt as uncomfortable with the situation as I did. Upon our arrival, he nodded his head rather stiffly and bade me a staid good morning. I replied with equal formality.
I gathered that the man sitting next to Robert was Luther Sechrest. This was my first glimpse of Alexandra’s husband, and I covertly studied him as I opened my briefcase and arranged my papers on the table. Although he was seated, I judged him to be of average height, and handsome enough, in a cocky sort of way. He had longish brown hair, combed back from his brow, and a neatly trimmed mustache. His eyes slanted slightly upward and were golden brown, reminding me of a wolf I had once seen in the zoo. I was sad to see that the look he gave his wife, who was seated next to me at the petitioner’s table, was one of ownership, rather than love or sorrow that their marriage had come to this unhappy end.
Behind Robert and Mr. Sechrest sat a group of men, all well groomed and smartly dressed. Quietly, my client identified the Reverend Henderson, the pastor of their church; Mr. Leighton, the elderly owner of Leighton Mining; and three of Luther’s employees, or “ruffians,” as Alexandra had described them.
“I don’t know how Luther convinced Reverend Henderson to testify on his behalf,” she whispered, looking hurt. “We’ve always been on excellent terms. I can’t imagine he would say anything derogatory about me.”
“Does your husband contribute to the church?” I asked, hating my suspicions even as I sought to confirm them.
“Actually, Luther is one of the parish’s most generous benefactors.” Her eyes lit with sudden understanding. “Oh, Sarah, this is going to be much worse than I anticipated.”
I patted her arm and tried to look optimistic. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. In cases like this, you never know what might happen.”
As we were speaking, Gideon Manning hurried into the courtroom. “I’m sorry to be late,” he said softly, slipping in beside my other witnesses in the row directly behind our table. “I . . .” he paused, and his gaze flickered across the aisle to Luther and his cronies, most of whom were now staring in our direction. Robert, in particular, appeared interested in what we were whispering about. I saw him shake his head in answer to some question asked by his client; then I turned my back to him, the better to hear what Gideon had to say.
Leaning over the wood panel that divided us, Gideon Manning said in a soft, faltering voice, “I’m afraid I did something illegal. I was just so afraid Alexandra—er, Mrs. Sechrest—would lose custody of those boys, I had to try.”
“What have you done?” I demanded, fear forming a knot in my stomach at the word illegal.
“I waited until Sechrest and his men left the house for court; then I sneaked inside.” He held one hand against the side of his mouth so that those on the other side of the aisle could not make out his words. “I still had a spare key to the front door, you see.”
Beside me, Mrs. Sechrest sucked in her breath. “You shouldn’t have taken such a chance, Gideon. You might have been caught, or even arrested.”
He smiled grimly. “Only the servants were home, and I know their routines well enough to keep out of sight. What I wanted was in Luther’s office.”
“And what was that?” I asked, wishing he would get to the point before the judge arrived to start the hearing.
“These,” he said, pulling some letters just far enough out of his pocket so that they were visible to my client and me but not to the “enemy camp” across the aisle.
“Are those the letters you wrote for Mr. Sechrest?” I asked in growing excitement.
“Yes, at least the few I could find. These were in the locked drawer of his desk.” I could tell by his sheepish expression that he had jimmied the lock to pull it open. “He either destroyed the rest or they’re in his safe.”
“To whom were they sent?” I asked.
Without answering, he spread out the half dozen letters so I could see the addressees’ names. I didn’t recognize the first few names, but the fourth letter brought me up short. It was addressed to Senator Percival Gaylord!
I took it from his hand and examined it carefully. On the surface, it appeared innocent enough, but upon reading it a second time, I detected a more sinister intent. It read:
Senator Gaylord,
Your order has been arranged and is being processed by a trustworthy man long in my employ. I will notify you when the order has been executed according to your instructions.
Your faithful servant,
Luther P. Sechrest
“This letter refers to an order,” I whispered to Gideon. “What sort of business does Sechrest do with Senator Gaylord?”
Manning opened his mouth to answer but was cut off as the clerk of the court announced the arrival of Judge Phillips. Whatever he’d been about to say would have to wait until later.
The hearing went much as I’d expected. After I had suffered the by now customary stares and murmurs of those individuals who had never before seen a female attorney, Judge Phillips called upon my client to state her reasons for requesting a divorce. As planned, I asked Alexandra’s mother and sister to bear witness to Luther’s brutality toward his wife, as well as Alexandra’s superior attributes as a mother. Although their t
estimony was hesitant and somewhat timid, I thought Judge Phillips seemed disposed to believe their sworn statements.
Beside me, Alexandra tensed and grabbed my hand when it was time for her mother and sister’s cross-examination. I murmured encouraging words, but in truth I wasn’t sure how they would bear up under rigorous questioning. I caught Robert’s expression as he stood, and read honest regret at his having to subject these gentle-women to such an ordeal. I also read blame that I hadn’t persuaded my client to accept her husband’s offer, and thereby avoided all this grief.
Robert truly was a gifted courtroom attorney. He had once confided to me that this was his dream, the reason he had left Edinburgh and come to America. He’d said he’d known that, as long as he stayed in Scotland, he would always remain in the shadow of his father, who was one of Scotland’s leading defense attorneys. Now it seemed that dream was coming true, albeit at my expense. He framed his queries so cleverly that Alexandra’s mother and sister soon grew muddled and began to contradict their own testimony. Both women left the stand in tears, and my hand bore the marks of my client’s fingernails where they had dug into my palm.
Next, I called my client’s neighbor, Mrs. Jane Hardy, to the stand. To my intense relief, she made a far better witness than her predecessors, boldly describing Mrs. Sechrest’s bruises and ill treatment at the hands of her drunken husband. Robert utilized all his considerable skills, but he was unable to shake one word of her testimony. As far as Mrs. Hardy was concerned, Mrs. Sechrest was a virtuous, loving wife and mother. The very idea that she might be a slave to the bottle was ludicrous.
After Gideon Manning had his turn describing the troubled marriage, I called a very nervous Alexandra Sechrest to the stand. As I led my client through her tearful testimony, I caught the judge glancing at Luther in ill-disguised censure. For the first time, I allowed myself to hope that he might award her the children after all.
My brief moment of optimism was quashed when it came time for the respondent to refute our case and Robert called Luther Sechrest as his first witness. Sechrest slowly rose to his feet, a faint smile on his lips and a swagger in his step as he approached the witness stand. His entire demeanor radiated an easy self-confidence and the assurance that he held all the trump cards needed to win the case.
The Cliff House Strangler Page 29
