Death on Telegraph Hill

by Shirley Tallman

  “I couldn’t have dealt better with Frederick myself, Elizabeth,” he told her with loving pride. “And I’m sure it made considerably more of an impression on him coming from you.” He turned to me. “Sarah, would you please see if you can find your mother a glass of water?”

  I nodded and left the room, still marveling that my mother had finally put my pompous brother in his place. I vowed to describe the scene in every detail to Samuel when he awoke. If he awoke, I thought, then immediately gave myself a mental shake. Not if, but when he awoke, I told myself defiantly. He would return to us, even if I had to pull him back from the gates of heaven myself!

  Recalling my errand, I located the matron who had been attending Samuel. She was speaking to a young boy in the corridor, a street urchin, I guessed, from the way he was dressed. Hearing my approach, she turned to look at me, and I recognized the waif to be none other than my young cabbie friend Eddie Cooper. Cap in hand, he had obviously been doing his utmost to charm his way into the hospital. When he saw me, his thin face broke into a broad grin.

  “Miss Sarah,” he said, circling quickly around the surprised matron, “I’ve been trying to tell this lady that Mr. Samuel is my friend.” When he saw my face, his smile vanished, and I realized that after all that had happened, I must look a sight. “I been real busy all day. Didn’t find out what happened till I come to your office and Mrs. Goodman showed me the newspapers. I got here quick as I could. Do you know who done it? Is he … I mean—”

  “He’s resting,” I told him, experiencing a pang of remorse. I should have sent word to him during the day, as well as to Fanny Goodman, the woman who ran the millinery shop situated below my office. Eddie idolized the ground Samuel walked upon, while Fanny had long since succumbed to my brother’s considerable charms. It was unforgivable that they had had to learn of his attack in the newspapers. I had sent a note to my friend and colleague Robert Campbell, only to learn that he was out of town until this evening.

  “We can’t disturb him, Eddie,” I said. “But if you’d like to take a quick peek in his room…”

  His dirty face lit with relief. “Yes, ma’am, I’d like that a lot.”

  Ignoring the matron’s frown of disapproval, I requested that she bring a glass of water to my mother, then led the lad down the hall and quietly opened Samuel’s door. Mama and Papa looked up, startled to see Samuel’s unexpected visitor, his brown eyes huge with fear.

  “You remember Eddie Cooper,” I told them quietly. “I told him it would be all right if he came in for just a few minutes to see Samuel.”

  My father looked none too pleased, but my mother instantly understood the boy’s helpless expression. She rose from her chair and led Eddie to her son’s bedside.

  “He’s just asleep, dear,” she told the boy gently, causing me to marvel yet again at Mama’s kind nature. In spite of all she had been through, she could still find a place in her heart for this distraught young boy.

  If possible, Eddie’s eyes had grown even larger, and he stared down at Samuel as if unsure that he truly was alive.

  Mama put her arm around the lad’s thin shoulders and gave them a little squeeze. “Sleep is the best way for the body to heal, Eddie. Tomorrow…” She swallowed, then managed a wan smile. “Tomorrow I’m certain he will be much improved. You must return then to visit.”

  “Yes, ma’am, I’ll come back,” Eddie told her, careful to keep his voice equally quiet. “Mr. Samuel’s a real rip-staver. He’s not gonna let a little bullet stop him. Not in a month of Sundays.” He nodded politely to my parents, then turned and tiptoed toward the door. As if remembering something, he stopped. “Dang it all, Miss Sarah, I almost forgot. Mrs. Goodman said I was to give you a message.”

  I motioned the boy out into the hall. “What is it, Eddie?”

  “She says a man and woman come to yer office this morning sayin’ they wanted to see you right away. She told ’em to come back this afternoon, and wants to know if you’ll be comin’ in today.”

  “Did the couple leave their names? Or state the nature of their business?” I asked, surprised by this news. I had not been expecting any clients this morning, or anytime in the near future, for that matter. As usual, my law practice was perched precariously on the brink of financial disaster.

  Eddie shook his head. “Mrs. Goodman only said they didn’t look like no mudsills.” At my bewildered expression, he added, “They weren’t no tinkers. They got the money to pay yer fee, Miss Sarah,” he finally explained, appearing a tad exasperated.

  “Oh,” I replied rather lamely. Just when I thought my knowledge of the vernacular was fairly comprehensive, Eddie once again broadened my education.

  “So, kin I tell her yer gonna be comin’ in this afternoon?”

  I thought about this for a long moment. While I was loath to leave Samuel, there was little I could do here while he slept. I knew that he would be the first person to tell me not to squander the prospect of new clients, especially those with the wherewithal to pay.

  I made up my mind. “Yes, Eddie,” I told him, ignoring my weariness. “Give me a few minutes to inform my parents, then I would be grateful if you would drive me to Sutter Street.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Eddie reined to a stop in front of my office, assisted me out of the brougham, and then took off at his usual breakneck speed to catch as many fares as possible before the end of the day. Eddie was the eldest of four children. His sickly, overworked mother tended her brood as best she could—cursed as she was with a husband who drank away any money that came into his hands. Eddie did his best to keep his own slim wages out of his father’s clutches, paying the rent himself and whenever possible purchasing the family’s groceries. Any small cash that might be left over he kept stashed beneath a loose floorboard behind his cot. Despite these precautions, his drunken father had more than once waylaid him before he’d had an opportunity to hide his earnings, leaving the family with a threatening landlord and empty cupboards until the lad’s next payday. Not for the first time, I heartily wished that my business were on a firm financial footing so that I might more adequately reimburse Eddie for his services.

  I was still pondering the unfortunate plight of the Cooper family when I spied my downstairs neighbor, Fanny Goodman, standing just inside the entrance to her millinery store. Strands of gray hair had escaped her usually neat bun, and her eyes were red-rimmed from crying. At my approach, she rushed outside to pull me into her ample arms.

  “Sarah, I’m so glad to see you,” she exclaimed, giving me a ferocious hug, then pulling away far enough to study my face with an anxious expression. “How is poor Samuel? How badly was he hurt? Those horrible newspapers said next to nothing, only that Judge Horace Woolson’s youngest son had been shot last night.” She took my arm and tugged me inside her shop. “Come in, dear, please. I’ve been worried half out of my mind. Tell me how such an awful thing could have happened. There’s a fresh pot of coffee on the stove.”

  “I’m so sorry, Fanny,” I said, following her into the homey kitchen that was the heart of the small apartment behind her shop. “I should have sent you a message from the hospital. It was extremely thoughtless of me.”

  “Oh, but I don’t blame you, dear, not for one moment,” she said, looking abashed to think she might have given me such an impression. “It must have been horrible for you. My goodness, Sarah, you had far more important matters to think about than getting word to me.” She pulled out a chair. “Sit down, dear. I want to hear every word of what happened, especially how that dear boy is doing. I’ll just pour the coffee.”

  With a contented sigh, I took my usual seat at Fanny’s small table. Being here always had a calming effect on my nerves; her kitchen was a peaceful refuge where I was treated as a beloved member of my friend’s own family. A meticulously clean and pressed, if much mended, red-and-white cloth covered the table, and a simple spray of wildflowers, arranged in a preserves jar, had been placed in the center. Their homey colors, and the warmt
h from the woodstove, added to the tranquil atmosphere, as did the ever-present mouthwatering smells of home-baked confections emanating from Fanny’s oven.

  As she placed a cup of steaming coffee and a plate of shortbread cookies in front of me, I remembered Eddie’s message.

  “I hear that I had visitors this morning,” I said, stirring cream and sugar into my cup. “Eddie said some people were here seeking my help. Do you know if they’re coming back?”

  “Good gracious,” she exclaimed, taking a seat across from me at the table. “In all the excitement I completely forgot about them. It was a couple in their fifties, and they did seem eager to see you. I suggested they return here this afternoon at three o’clock.”

  I checked my timepiece. It was nearly two thirty. “It appears that I had arrived just in time.”

  “I wasn’t sure if you would even be here, after what happened to Samuel.” She stirred cream and sugar into her own coffee. “But they were nicely dressed and seemed well-off, so I hated to send them away. I know you need the business.”

  “I certainly do,” I admitted. “Did they happen to mention the reason for their visit?”

  “All they said was that their situation was a matter of some urgency.” She gave a little harrumph. “Truth to tell, they were a bit uppity. You know the type, act as if they’re just a little better than the rest of us ordinary folk. Not that they put it in so many words, mind you, but I understood well enough what they were thinking. Especially the wife.”

  “That’s interesting.” I sipped my coffee, thinking it was strange that people of that caliber would choose to see me at all, not when there were dozens of better-known law firms in town. Firms run by male attorneys.

  As if reading my mind, Fanny smiled. “Like I said, I could tell right off that they weren’t the sort to trust their business with a lowly shopkeeper.” She pushed the cookie plate closer to me. “I’ll wager you haven’t had a bite to eat since Samuel was…” She hesitated, as if finding it impossible to put what had happened into words. “Eat up, Sarah. You’ve got to keep up your strength. And don’t you mind about those two, you’ll meet them soon enough. First, tell me about Samuel. I thought I would die when I saw the article this morning. Went right out and bought two more newspapers, but as usual none of them had any real details to report. How is he doing? Where was he shot? Dear Lord, who could have done such a monstrous thing?”

  “My goodness, Fanny,” I protested. “I can only answer one question at a time.”

  “I’m sorry, Sarah, it’s just that I’ve been so—”

  “I know,” I said. “I’m truly sorry you had to read about it in the newspapers.”

  “Never mind that, dear. Just tell me how the dear boy is doing. That’s all that matters.”

  Briefly I described the events of the night before. “The doctor says the bullet missed any vital organs, but he lost a great deal of blood, and he’s very weak. We hope to know more by this evening.”

  “But who could have shot him? And why?”

  “I wish I knew,” I answered grimly, a shiver sliding down my spine. I feared that the sight of my brother lying there so pale and still, with all that blood pouring from his chest, would be forever etched into my memory.

  Fanny put a plump hand over mine. Not until I felt the warmth of her skin did I realize how cold my own flesh was.

  “It must have been terrifying,” she said, an expression of profound sympathy filling her eyes. “I swarn I don’t know what this city is coming to. I just can’t understand anyone wanting to hurt that dear boy. Do the police have any idea who was responsible?”

  “Sergeant Lewis came to the hospital last night, but there was little I could tell him. We could see little beyond the light cast by our lantern as we made our way down the hill.”

  I started to tell her about Oscar Wilde’s kindness in driving us to the hospital in his carriage, but I was interrupted by the sound of the bell atop the millinery shop door jingling, indicating that a customer had entered Fanny’s store.

  Both of us stood. “I’ll tell you more later,” I promised. “Thank you for the coffee. Perhaps it will help keep me awake when I meet with the couple who visited this morning. That is, if they return.”

  Once upstairs in my office, I had barely time to remove my wrap and settle down behind my cherrywood desk when there was a sharp knock on the door.

  “Come in,” I answered, rising and preparing to greet my visitors.

  The door opened and a plump, tightly corseted woman entered my office. I heard a noisy yip as she stepped inside and was surprised to see that she was holding a tiny brown dog tucked against her ample bosom. I could make out little of the dog except for its face, but I doubt that I would have recognized the breed even if it had been in full view. I could, however, clearly make out two button-black eyes regarding me suspiciously from over the woman’s left sleeve. Perhaps I imagined it, but the dog seemed to regard me with as much disapproval as did its mistress.

  The woman appeared rather too formally attired for an afternoon call, wearing a gown of deep blue cashmere and satin merveilleux, which must have cost more money than I had earned since opening my law practice. Her matching blue hat was so large, and so overcrowded with feathers, ribbons, and stuffed wildlife, that it completely overwhelmed her sadly fleshy face.

  Her most commanding—nay, unsettling—feature, however, were her steel-gray eyes, which, like her pet’s, seemed to fasten on to me like a predator about to pounce on its prey. She looked me over with barely disguised disdain, her expression uncompromising in its implied superiority, as if I were hardly worth the effort of an acknowledgment.

  A tall man with thinning hair and a wiry graying mustache followed in her wake, closing the door quietly behind him. Like the children’s nursery rhyme “Jack Sprat,” he was as thin as his wife was stout. His large brown eyes darted quickly about the room, then rested on me as I once again took my seat behind the desk. He made no move to advance farther into the room, as if unsure whether his wife would decide to stay.

  The woman showed no such reserve. Marching over to my desk, she announced in a loud, commanding voice, “We are here to see Mr. S. L. Woolson. The shopkeeper downstairs said he would be available for consultation at three o’clock.” She consulted the gold watch pinned to her shirtwaist and nodded, as if pleased to find the time to be exactly as it should be. “We were informed that Mr. Woolson’s father is a noted San Francisco judge.”

  “That is correct,” I told the woman courteously. “Horace Woolson is superior court judge for the county of San Francisco. However, I am the S. L. Woolson you are seeking.”

  The man gave a little start, blinking at me in surprise. “I beg your pardon?”

  It seemed he was about to say more when his wife gave him a silencing look. She eyed me frostily. “If that is intended as a joke, it is not in the least humorous, young woman. Moreover, my husband and I are in no mood for levity.” She stared pointedly at the door leading into the second room of my compact suite, which was currently utilized as a small law library and sitting room. “Will you kindly inform Mr. Woolson that Mr. and Mrs. Bernard Dinwitty are waiting to consult him on a matter of some importance.”

  “Mrs. Dinwitty,” I said, making an effort to keep my voice gracious, “I assure you that I am the only attorney on these premises. My name is Sarah Woolson, and my father is the Judge Woolson you mentioned upon your arrival.” I nodded to the two chairs positioned in front of my desk that I reserved for clients. “If you’d care to take a seat and tell me how I may—”

  “A female attorney!” she exclaimed, looking aggrieved that I should make such an outlandish claim. “Well, I never. The woman downstairs referred to you once or twice as a woman, but since that was clearly impossible, I assumed she was addlebrained.”

  “Believe me, Mrs. Dinwitty, Fanny Goodman is anything but addlebrained.” Sadly, I was all too accustomed to this reaction when people first learned of my profession—and it pained me to f
ind that women were every bit as guilty of this prejudice as were men. “I am indeed a licensed attorney. In fact, I am one of three female lawyers currently practicing law in this state. Now if you will please tell me why you have come to my office, I’ll—”

  “That is out of the question!” Mrs. Dinwitty arched her back until it became so erect, I feared she might snap in two at the waist. After subjecting me to a final disdainful look—delivered down an unfortunately pudgy nose, which rather spoiled the effect—she made a move toward the door. “Come, Mr. Dinwitty. We shall go elsewhere.” Once again, the little dog gave a loud yip, as if heartily endorsing its mistress’s command.

  Her husband, who had observed this exchange with a worried look on his long, thin face, finally came to life. Taking hold of her arm, he said, “Be reasonable, Celestia. There is nowhere else to go. We have exhausted the possibilities.” Turning to me, he explained, “The truth is that my wife and I have already been to half a dozen law firms in the city. Every one of them has declined to represent our case. If you will permit, we would like to discuss this business with you.”

  “Mr. Dinwitty!” his wife protested, pulling her arm out of his grip and causing the dog to wriggle and whine its objection. “I’ll have no truck with a woman who has the temerity to pawn herself off as an attorney. We have been cruelly misled by Mrs. Hardy.”

  “Mrs. Hardy?” I inquired, the name sounding a bell in my memory.

  “Mrs. Jane Hardy,” Mr. Dinwitty answered. “She claims to have made your acquaintance several months ago, in connection with a neighbor of hers whom you were representing.”

  “Ah, yes,” I said, able now to put a face to the name. Jane Hardy was the kindly woman I had met during the case I have come to refer to as the Cliff House Strangler. She had generously offered sanctuary to one of my clients, who was being physically abused by her husband. Although I could not understand why Jane chose not to clarify the Dinwittys’ misconception concerning my gender. “You say Mrs. Hardy suggested that you consult me? About what, may I ask?”