“That need not concern you,” Mrs. Dinwitty said, moving toward the door. “We shall entrust this matter to a proper attorney.”
“Please, Celestia, we are here now. We can at least describe the situation to Miss Woolson,” Mr. Dinwitty implored.
Almost tentatively, he took his wife’s arm and guided her to one of the chairs. Reluctantly, she complied, rearranging the dog against her protruding bosom until both of them were in a position to fix me with baleful eyes. Obviously relieved that she had allowed herself to be seated, the man sank his long frame into the second chair. He regarded me expectantly, but when I said nothing he seemed to realize that it was up to him to begin the conversation.
“My wife and I are members of the San Francisco Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals,” he said a bit self-consciously, as if not accustomed to taking control of a discussion when his wife was present. “You have perhaps heard of us?”
“I have indeed,” I replied, aware that the much-needed group had been founded in the city some fourteen years earlier. “I am an admirer of the organization. It provides a valuable service to the community.”
He smiled, looking pleased with this praise. “We like to think that we have made a difference in the lives of countless mistreated animals in San Francisco. Until our group was established, unscrupulous owners savagely beat their horses on these very streets. Not to mention the cruelty inflicted on dogs—”
His wife shifted in annoyance. “Oh, do get on with it, Mr. Dinwitty. If you insist on consulting with this … woman”—she shot me a distasteful look—“then by all means get to the point.”
“Yes, my dear, quite right,” he murmured, and cleared his throat. Regarding me with large, solemn eyes, which I realized somewhat humorously reminded me of the very dogs he was pledged to protect, he said, “When it became apparent that our society required legal representation, Mrs. Hardy, who is a volunteer member of our group, suggested we seek your services.” Dropping his gaze, he once again cleared his throat. “She neglected to inform us that you were a woman.”
“I see,” I said, and waited patiently for him to go on.
He glanced at his wife, but when she stonily refused to return his look, he continued. “As I said, circumstances have left us with little choice but to consult an attorney.”
“Yes?” I prompted. Would this man ever come to the point? On this matter, at least, I was forced to agree with Mrs. Dinwitty. “May I inquire the nature of these circumstances?”
Once again, the man shot his wife an imploring look. This time she made a disgusted sound and said, “Oh, for heaven’s sake. It has recently come to our attention that a Mexican landowner is planning to build a bullring here in San Francisco. Our organization has vowed to fight the construction of this atrocity, and we are seeking legal representation to guide us in this endeavor.”
I stared at the woman; surely I could not have heard her correctly. “Excuse me, Mrs. Dinwitty, did you say a bullring?”
“That is exactly what I said, Miss Woolson,” she replied, her look indicating that she would be more than pleased to add the sin of stupidity to that of my having claimed to be an attorney.
“Actually, it would not be the first bullring to be housed in San Francisco,” her husband put in. “Some forty years ago, a similar arena was erected opposite the Mission Dolores, where it remained until the early 1850s.” He gave a wry smile. “One can only imagine the reaction of churchgoers as they departed Sunday services, to be subjected to such a drunken spectacle.”
“I had no idea,” I admitted, still trying to digest the astonishing notion that a bullring had ever been allowed to exist within the city of San Francisco. “And now you say that a group wants to erect a second bullring?”
“Unfortunately, that is true,” he said, his long, angular face once again solemn. “We have it on good authority that City Hall is seriously considering approving the plan.”
“This is the first time I’ve heard about such a project,” I replied. “Certainly nothing has been written about it in the newspapers.”
“No, you wouldn’t have read about it in the papers,” Mrs. Dinwitty put in, a sour expression pinching her thin lips. “The forces behind the plan have gone to great lengths to keep the nasty affair hidden behind closed doors. In fact, our organization first heard about it only last week. We have attempted to speak to Mr. Ruiz, but our efforts have been shamelessly thwarted.”
“Mr. Ruiz?” I inquired.
“Ricardo Ruiz,” Mr. Dinwitty explained. “He is the gentleman behind the scheme.”
His wife gave him a disparaging look. “I would hardly call the brute a gentleman, Mr. Dinwitty. He is a crude, ruthless, arrogant Mexican.”
Her gray eyes narrowed and glinted like tempered steel. “Unfortunately, although the man is dreadfully common, he comes from a family of vulgar, suspiciously obtained wealth. From what we have been able to ascertain, the Ruiz dynasty wields nearly absolute power in their native Mexico, including a disgraceful group of corrupt government officials. Ricardo Ruiz is using that ill-gained money to buy our own City Hall, in order to erect this temple dedicated to the worship of pagan atrocities.” She gave a nod of self-satisfaction, as if pleased to have presented such an accurate and succinct account of the situation.
I found myself at an unusual loss for words. Although I could well understand the SPCA objecting to the construction of a bullring in the city, I was unnerved that Mrs. Dinwitty appeared more displeased by Ricardo Ruiz’s ethnicity than by the cruelty the project would inflict on the poor bulls.
As if sensing the reason for my hesitation, Mr. Dinwitty hurried to explain, “What my wife means is that our group finds it incomprehensible that City Hall would approve a project which would result in the butchering of innocent animals.” He patted her hand. “Isn’t that right, my dear?”
His wife did not reply; she merely moved her arm out of his reach and rolled her eyes as if such a statement completely missed the point.
“You say that you’ve attempted to speak to Mr. Ruiz?” I asked, directing my question to Mr. Dinwitty.
“Yes, several times. As my wife mentioned, each time we try to see him we are subjected to a long, and frankly unsatisfactory, list of excuses why the man is unavailable to meet with us. All of them undoubtedly duplicitous.”
“What about City Hall?” I asked. “Have you made inquiries there concerning Mr. Ruiz’s project?”
Before her husband could respond, Celestia Dinwitty made a contemptuous gesture with her bejeweled hands. “Of course we have, although not surprisingly it has gotten us nowhere. It’s obvious that you know little about the nature of politics, Miss Woolson, but our city government is composed of fools and lackeys who will sign their name to any scheme which will pad their own pockets.”
“Celestia, please,” protested her husband, regarding me in embarrassment. “Miss Woolson is an attorney. I’m sure she is accustomed to dealing with—”
“Don’t be obtuse,” his wife declared, cutting him off. “Just because a donkey calls itself a horse, that doesn’t make it one.” Abruptly, she rose from her chair, rearranged the dog in her arms, and motioned to her husband. “Come, Mr. Dinwitty, we have wasted more than enough of our valuable time here.”
The poor man’s face suffused with color, but he dutifully prepared to take his leave of my office.
“When it comes to your assessment of city government, Mrs. Dinwitty,” I said calmly, “I’m inclined to agree with you. I’m sure there are many honest politicians, but I fear the few bad apples tend to ruin the barrel.”
I rose from my seat and circled my desk. Clearly this meeting was over. Although I felt a profound sympathy for Mr. Dinwitty, and more than a little empathy for their cause, I had had my fill of his wife. If City Hall were truly committed to Ricardo Ruiz’s planned bullring, I feared there was little the SPCA would be able to do to halt the proposed construction.
“I wish you well in finding satisfactory lega
l representation for your case,” I told them civilly enough, although I doubted any law firm in town would take what appeared to be a hopeless case.
Ignoring Mrs. Dinwitty’s derisive sniff, as well as her dog’s menacing growl as I moved past her to open the door, I saw the couple firmly out of my office.
CHAPTER FOUR
After my meeting with the Dinwittys, I succumbed to a brief nap, then returned to St. Mary’s Hospital shortly after eight o’clock that evening. My parents and Celia were keeping a quiet vigil by my sleeping brother’s bedside when I arrived. Hoping to find that Samuel had awakened from the surgery, I was disheartened to learn that his condition had not improved since I’d left for my office that afternoon.
Papa, Celia, and I were trying to convince my mother that she should return home for a good night’s sleep when we heard the sound of a booming voice loud enough to carry through my brother’s open door. I would have recognized that Scottish burr anywhere: Robert Campbell had arrived!
A string of rolling r’s reached us several moments before my friend and colleague actually entered Samuel’s room. Behind him marched the matron, her equally strident tones admonishing him to kindly lower his voice. Between the two of them, I daresay they had managed to arouse every patient on the floor.
“No one will tell me a bloody thing,” Robert declared, glaring at the matron’s retreating back. “What the blazes has happened to Samuel?” He came to an abrupt halt as he spied my mother and Celia, his sunburned face turning an even darker shade of red at his unfortunate choice of language.
“That’s what—I’d like to know,” came a weak voice from the bed.
As one, five sets of eyes flew to my brother’s bed. To our amazement, he was gazing at Robert, a bewildered expression on his pale face. His blue eyes were slightly unfocused and rimmed with dark circles, but thank God, they were open! Several locks of blond hair covered his damp forehead, and deep creases were etched between his brows. But as far as I was concerned, no angel in all the heavens was nearly as beautiful.
When he attempted to lift his head off the pillow, he gasped and winced in sudden pain. Mama and Celia instantly flew to his bedside.
“Don’t try to move, dear,” my mother told him, examining his bandages to ensure that the movement hadn’t opened the wound.
“Yes, Samuel,” Celia said, tears of relief coursing down her cheeks. “You must lie still.” Gently, she plumped his pillow while my mother wiped the strands of hair off his brow.
“But what hap—” he again attempted, but couldn’t find the breath to finish.
“You were injured, my darling,” Mama told him, smiling at him through her tears. This time, happily, they were tears of joy. “But thank God, you’re going to be all right—” Despite her obvious efforts to remain calm, her voice broke. “You had us all so worried.”
Unable to move his head, my brother attempted as best he could to take in the group gathered around his bed. He looked very weak and still confused. “Where am I?”
“You’re in the hospital, son,” Papa told him, coming to stand next to my mother. “You were hurt last night, and Sarah brought you here, to St. Mary’s.”
If anything, this seemed to deepen Samuel’s puzzlement. The two furrowed lines between his brows grew more pronounced as he fought to make sense of what had happened to him. “St. Mary’s? But why?” With growing agitation, he again tried to raise his head.
“Shh,” Mama soothed, lightly pushing his head back onto the pillow. “There’s no need to talk about that now. Please, dear, you need your rest.”
I couldn’t resist a smile of relief when I saw that stubborn look come over my brother’s wan face, the one I’d known so well since childhood. It would require more than Mama’s determined coddling to overcome her youngest son’s obstinacy. He turned his eyes on me. “Need to know—what happened. Sarah?”
I glanced at my father, who sighed, then gave a resigned nod of his head. “I suppose he’ll refuse to rest until he knows. You might as well tell him, my girl.”
“Finally,” Robert said, drawing closer to the bed. “There are all sorts of crazy rumors circulating around town. One even claims you were mauled by a mountain lion!”
Despite the seriousness of the occasion, I found myself giggling at this. Dear Lord! I never giggled. Clapping a hand over my mouth, I looked at the others in chagrin. To my surprise, everyone except Robert—who clearly had no idea what he had said that was so amusing—was also smiling.
“Can’t—remember much,” my brother said haltingly, struggling with every breath he drew, “but—don’t think it was a lion.” His pleading eyes once again met mine.
Gently, I took a seat on the edge of Samuel’s bed. Taking his hand, which was frighteningly cold, I said, “We attended a poetry reading at Mortimer Remy’s house on Telegraph Hill last night, Samuel. We were making our way back down the hill when—”
I was interrupted as a tall, flamboyant figure swept into the room, followed by the protesting matron. I was surprised to recognize the newcomer as Oscar Wilde, outrageously decked out this evening in a purple velvet smoking jacket, matching turban, knee breeches, and black silk stockings.
“I tried to stop this—this man,” the matron complained, eyeing Wilde’s eccentric attire with obvious skepticism, “but he refused to be turned away. Claims he’s a poet, or some such nonsense, as if that gives him the license to barge in wherever he pleases.” She unhappily took in the five people already gathered around my brother’s bed and gave a snort of annoyance. “No. Absolutely not! This will never do. This is a hospital, not a meeting hall. Mr. Woolson needs his rest.”
“It’s—all right,” came my brother’s weak voice.
The woman opened her mouth to argue, then suddenly realized that this comment had come from her patient. A gratified expression softened the stern lines of her face, and she elbowed her way to the bed, felt my brother’s pulse, and examined his eyes.
“Well, that’s better,” she proclaimed, straightening his already perfectly arranged pillow and bedcovers. “I’ll tell Dr. Ludlum you’re awake.”
With that, she hustled from the room, stopping only long enough to announce over her shoulder that she would give all of us exactly fifteen minutes to vacate the room. And that meant every one of us. Even the poet!
I turned from watching the matron’s retreating back to find my parents eyeing Wilde with expressions ranging from astonishment to outright disbelief. Robert looked as if a wild peacock had pranced into the room and needed to be shooed straight out again. Before my outspoken friend could blurt out something we all might regret, I hastened to introduce my family and Robert to the newcomer.
“Everyone, this is Mr. Oscar Wilde, the Irish poet who addressed us last night at Mr. Remy’s house. After Samuel’s, er, injury, he kindly offered his carriage to transport him to the hospital. It is thanks to him that Samuel received such prompt medical care.”
Wilde bowed with flowery courtesy, then reached for my mother’s hand, bringing it to his lips for a decidedly overdramatic (to my mind, anyway) kiss. Mama’s face turned pink, but I could tell that she was impressed by this gallant, if theatrical, gesture. Papa’s eyes lingered perhaps several moments longer than was polite on the Irishman’s turban and then he held out his hand.
“My wife and I are in your debt, Mr. Wilde,” he told him, his voice sincere despite any misgivings he might entertain about the headgear. “Your generosity may well have saved our son’s life.”
“Indeed, Mr. Wilde,” my mother put in, her eyes once again filling with tears. “I hardly know how to thank you. If it hadn’t been for your kindness, Samuel might have…”
I was surprised to see the poet’s customary sardonic expression soften as my father placed his arm around Mama’s shoulder, offering her a handkerchief and a gentle kiss on the cheek. Wilde appeared touched, if a bit uncomfortable, by this display of self-effacing affection.
Clearing his throat, he walked to my brother’s beds
ide. “I am relieved to see you looking much improved, Mr. Woolson. I admit that I was more than a little concerned by your condition when I took my leave of the hospital last night—or should I say early this morning?” His gaze traveled around the room, stopping at me. “I heard stories about the American ‘Wild West’ before my departure from London, Miss Woolson, but I hardly credited them with any substance. I must say that your city has far exceeded my expectations. Is it common for ordinary citizens to be shot at of an evening?”
“It certainly is not,” Robert said, taking umbrage at this remark. “For all the ridiculous rumors you’ve heard concerning what you term ‘the Wild West,’ San Francisco is as cultured and civilized a city as you’ll find anywhere in your travels.”
I regarded my friend in surprise. Robert had immigrated to San Francisco six years earlier from Edinburgh, Scotland, primarily to escape being constantly compared with his father, who was one of the country’s premier trial attorneys. I assumed he bore some degree of fondness for his new home, but I had never before known him to defend it quite so vehemently.
Wilde gave him an apologetic little bow. “I am sorry if I have offended you … Mr. Campbell, was it? I meant no disrespect. Indeed, for the most part I have found your fair city to be most urbane. You must forgive me if I overreacted to Mr. Woolson’s ordeal, but I confess that I have never before witnessed an actual shooting.”
This apology did not completely mollify Robert, but at my father’s look, he refrained from saying anything else, simply offering a curt nod of acknowledgment.
Always the peacemaker, Celia smiled at the poet, clearly deciding a change of subject was in order. “I understand you have been in our country three months now, Mr. Wilde. How are you enjoying America?”
“Actually, it has been most enlightening, Mrs. Woolson,” he said, returning her smile. “When I was in Leadville, a mining town in the Rocky Mountains, I spoke of the early Florentines, and the town slept through it as though no crime had ever stained the ravines of their mountain home.”
Death on Telegraph Hill Page 5
