“Good Lord, Sarah,” Robert exclaimed, darting me a reproachful look of his own. “If there is something bothering Mr. Parke, then it is patently none of our business.”
“That’s all right, Mr. Campbell,” Stephen told him. He eyed me silently for a moment, then sighed. “Isabel told me that she had spoken to you about us … that is, the fact that we have fallen in love and would like to marry. Unfortunately, Mr. Freiberg has chosen another man for his daughter, a man from their synagogue.”
“Yes, she did tell me,” I replied. His face appeared so crestfallen that my heart truly went out to him.
“Please don’t misunderstand me, Miss Woolson. I don’t blame the man. He loves Isabel very much, and feels that it would be best if she married someone of her own faith.”
Robert started to say something, then seemed to think better of it. He covered this change of heart by clearing his throat.
“I think I know what you were about to say, Mr. Campbell,” Parke told him. “You believe Isabel’s father is right, and that she should marry another Jew.”
“No, Mr. Parke,” Robert stammered. “I’m sorry. I assure you—”
Stephen held up a hand, forestalling further apologies. “Actually, you are probably correct. In most cases, I believe it is prudent to marry someone of your own faith.” He regarded us through miserable eyes. “But you see, we love each other. And I care very little about religion. I’d be more than willing to convert to Judaism, if that would solve the problem. But Mr. Freiberg will have none of it. He maintains that I would be changing my religion for the wrong reasons. He informed me not five minutes ago that he has made his decision, and that is an end to it.”
“You have just left him, then?” I asked.
He nodded. “He attended a meeting at his synagogue tonight. We, that is, Isabel and I, believed he would be out until late this evening, which is why she dared to slip out to attend the lecture at Platt’s Hall with me. Neither of us cared a whit to hear Wilde go on about that aesthetic nonsense, but it was an opportunity to be alone. And we took it. Our mistake was going on to the Baldwin Hotel afterwards. Mr. Freiberg arrived home earlier than planned and was waiting for us. He was furious, and has forbidden us to see or speak to each other again.”
“Oh, Mr. Parke, I’m so sorry,” I said, realizing that my words were less than useless.
He attempted a smile, but it failed utterly. “Her engagement to this Josephs fellow is to be formally announced this Saturday at the synagogue. And that will be that.” He paused, looking suddenly embarrassed that he had shared so much personal information with near total strangers.
Robert shifted his tall body uneasily. We looked at each other, searching for something to say that might console the unfortunate man. But of course we could find no suitable words; what could one possibly say in the face of such unhappiness? It was a Shakespearean tragedy, in every sense of the word. One, moreover, just as unlikely to result in a happy ending.
Perhaps to cover the awkward moment, Stephen cleared his throat. He started to don his hat when he appeared struck by a thought.
“Excuse me, but may I inquire what brought you to the Hill at this late hour? Since you were at Platt’s Hall, I assume you did not attend Mrs. Montgomery’s birthday dinner.”
“No, we didn’t,” I answered, then hesitated. Given his wretched frame of mind, I hated to burden him with more bad news. Still, word of Claude Dunn’s death would be all over town tomorrow, and certainly the residents here on Telegraph Hill would be among the first to know. “I’m afraid Claude Dunn died earlier this evening.”
“Died?” He looked at us uncomprehendingly. “But that’s impossible. I saw him earlier tonight on my way down to Isabel’s house.”
“You saw him?” I asked, feeling a rush of excitement. “What time was that, Mr. Parke?”
“Let me see, it must have been shortly after six thirty,” he answered. “Why do you ask?”
“You may have been the last person to see him alive,” I told him. “What was Mr. Dunn’s manner? I know he’s been behaving, er, rather moodily since his wife’s death, but did he appear different this evening? Perhaps more morose, or unusually bleak about his future?”
Stephen thought for a moment. “No, I don’t think so. But then we only talked for a minute or two. He seemed excited about an article he was submitting to the Overland Monthly tomorrow, and another he planned to write for the Daily Alta California.”
“Did he really?” I gave Robert a significant look.
“Mr. Parke,” I said, “it’s extremely important that you inform Sergeant Lewis about meeting Mr. Dunn earlier this evening, especially the exact time you saw him, and your discussion concerning his newspaper articles.” I gave him the address of George’s station, then instructed him to give the information to George Lewis and no one else.
He looked confused but nodded. “All right, Miss Woolson, I’ll see this Sergeant Lewis first thing tomorrow morning, if you feel it’s that urgent. But what is this all about? And how did Claude die? He was so young, and I assumed he was in good health.”
I sighed. “I’m afraid he hanged himself, Mr. Parke. A neighbor discovered his body shortly after seven o’clock.”
Stephen opened his mouth as if to speak, but apparently he found words impossible.
Eddie, who had been blessedly quiet for most of our conversation, pushed toward Stephen, his eyes bright with eagerness. “Dash it all if Sergeant Lewis don’t think—”
Before the boy could blurt out anything else, I cut him off. “The police have ruled it a suicide, Mr. Parke. Brought on, of course, by grief over his wife’s sudden death in childbirth. Sadly, his despair has rendered his poor infant son an orphan.”
If nothing else, it appeared we had given Stephen Parke something else to think about than his misery over Isabel Freiberg. He was still shaking his head over Dunn’s inexplicable death as he turned to continue his walk up the hill.
“How fortunate that we chanced upon Mr. Parke,” I said, energized by this new information. “Now George will know within half an hour when Dunn died. And if he was about to have an article published, and was planning more in the future, it hardly sounds like he said good-bye to Stephen, marched into the house, took out a rope, and hanged himself.”
Eddie slapped his leg and guffawed. “By gum, I reckon you got the grist of it, Miss Sarah. Sure as thunder that feller was done in, like Sergeant Lewis said.”
“Do you think he’ll keep his promise to see Lewis in the morning?” Robert said, ignoring the boy’s comment.
“I think so, but I don’t plan to take any chances.” I turned to Eddie. “I’d like you to take us to Sergeant Lewis’s police station as soon as we get down the hill. I doubt he’ll be there, but I can at least leave him a note. That way we can be certain he’ll receive the information the minute he arrives in the morning.”
* * *
Robert and I spoke little during the carriage ride to my home on Rincon Hill. As I expected, George had not been at his station, but I had written a note explaining that Stephen Parke claimed to have seen Dunn alive at six thirty that evening, placed it in a sealed envelope, and signed it to him personally. The lone officer on night duty promised to leave it on Sergeant Lewis’s desk.
After that, I requested that Eddie take me home, after which he could deliver Robert to his boardinghouse. It had been a long, eventful evening, and both of us were wearily immersed in our own thoughts. The only sounds at that late hour were the carriage wheels rolling over the poorly paved streets and the clap-clap of the dappled-gray’s hooves. It was one o’clock, and San Francisco was as quiet and peaceful as it ever became. Even the ever-present smells of coal smoke and uncollected horse paddies seemed less objectionable at this early hour of the morning. A gentle breeze swirled fog in and out of doorways and floated it in ghostly tentacles past gas lamps and street signs. The city seemed determined to snatch all the sleep it could before awakening to yet another bustling day.
Eddie reined up in front of my house, but before he could spring down from his perch, Robert had opened the carriage door and stepped onto the pavement. He signaled for the boy to stay where he was and helped me to descend.
After walking me up the stairs to my home, he paused when we reached the front door. “I know I’m probably wasting my breath, but I beg you to please let the police do their job. Whether Dunn’s death was a suicide or murder, it does not concern you.”
“Whatever makes you think I plan to involve myself in this affair?” I asked him with understandable pique. It never failed to annoy me when Robert took it upon himself to read my mind.
He harrumphed. “Sarah Woolson, your thoughts pass across your face like words printed on a page. I definitely do not like what I am reading there at this moment. Your brother was shot while on that blasted Hill, and now Claude Dunn has been found dead there. I realize that it is not in your nature to heed any sort of practical advice, but whatever is going on there, you need to stay well out of it, whatever your devious plans.”
“You are mistaken, Robert,” I told him, fumbling inside my reticule for my house key. “I am fatigued, as I daresay you are as well. Right now I have no plan other than to retire to the comfort of my bed and get some sleep.”
“For tonight, yes. But what about tomorrow? Damn it all, Sarah, why must you be so pigheaded?”
“And why must you continue to fuss over me like a—like an overwrought mother hen? Really, it’s exasperating.” Having located my house key, I attempted to insert it into the lock, but it was too dark to see the latch. “Robert, you are blocking what little light is issuing from that gas lamp.”
Instead of moving, he exclaimed, “I insist that you give me your word to stay away from that cursed Telegraph Hill until this grisly matter is settled.”
I turned and looked up at him in surprised anger. If the heat I felt flooding my cheeks was any indication, my eyes must have been blazing. “You insist? Is that really what you just said?”
“Well, I … that is…,” he stammered. Then, meeting my direct stare, he drew himself up to his full, considerable height. “Yes, Sarah, that is exactly what I said. You must not become any further involved in this damnable matter.”
“Insist? Must?” Despite my anger, I attempted to keep my voice low so as not to awaken the entire household, or the entire street, for that matter. “You overstep yourself, Robert.”
“How, by trying to keep you safe?”
“May I remind you that my safety is not your concern.”
“It most certainly is my concern,” he snapped, his voice so loud that lights began to go on in a neighboring house. He clamped large hands on my shoulders and pulled me against his chest so hard that the air was expelled from my lungs in a rush. “Damn it all, woman, I lo— That is, I am extremely fond of you. Can’t you see that? Your foolhardiness is driving me beyond the boundaries of human endurance.”
Before I could prevent what happened next—indeed, before I even realized it was coming—his lips were pressing on mine with fierce insistence. After my initial surprise, reason told me that I should be resisting his embrace. But my body didn’t appear to be listening. Indeed, it seemed to have developed a will of its own, and the unexpected and, if I am to be entirely candid, exhilarating heat coursing through me had nothing whatsoever to do with reason.
He had kissed me once or twice before, but never with such hunger. (I am, of course, aware of the dramatic connotations this word inspires, yet I cannot think of one which more accurately describes the fervor he demonstrated upon this occasion.)
As suddenly as the kiss had begun, it ended. He continued to hold me fast in his arms for a long moment, staring down at my upraised face. Since the feeble light spilling from the gas lamp was behind him, I could not read his expression. Even in the gloomy recesses of the front stoop, however, I could not fail to recognize the intense gleam in his eyes.
“Blast it all, Sarah, this can’t go on,” he said, his mouth still so close that I could feel his warm breath on my lips. “When I am with you I am driven to— Oh, hell and damnation!”
He jumped a good foot off the ground as a neighbor’s tabby cat brushed between his trouser legs, giving a loud yowl of indignation, and surely pain, when Robert’s foot landed on its tail.
With another curse, this one thankfully beneath his breath, he released me so abruptly that I nearly lost my balance and fell. By the time I had righted myself, he was disappearing into the brougham and slamming the door behind him.
With a series of clicks, Eddie urged the dappled-gray into the street and pulled away from my house.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Rising shortly after dawn the next morning was scarcely a hardship. In truth, I had hardly slept all night. I would like to claim that the tragedy of Claude Dunn’s death was responsible for my restlessness, but while it was a contributing factor, Robert was the primary cause of my distress. His actions mere hours ago had been so utterly unexpected that I hardly knew what to think.
The kiss we had shared played over and over in my head, long after I should have been asleep—especially the surprisingly enthusiastic way my body had reacted to the embrace. All this fitful ruminating despite my best intentions, for I truly did try to divest myself of these unsettling thoughts. I have always scoffed at the nonsensical idea of counting sheep as a means of lulling oneself to sleep, but I gave even that a try. Without success, I need hardly add. Robert’s words could not be banished from my mind. Had he really been about to proclaim his love for me? Surely I must be mistaken. It was true that despite our occasional disagreements we had become fast friends. But love? Romantic love? I could not bring myself to credit it.
I finally gave up my futile attempts at sleep as the first signs of daylight began to peek out from behind my bedroom drapes. I rose and dressed in one of the suits I had specially ordered for my law practice. Although differing in color, they were cut along similar lines, each designed to achieve a delicate balance between contemporary feminine fashion and office practicality. In truth, any woman attempting to succeed in what was universally considered to be a man’s profession was forced to stoop to any number of these ridiculous contrivances.
The delicious smell of fresh bread wafting up from the kitchen told me that our cook, Mrs. Polin, was busy with her day’s baking. It would still be nearly an hour, however, before our Irish maid, Ina Corks, had prepared the dining room for the family’s first meal of the day. Ample time for me to visit Samuel’s room before the others made their way downstairs. I had to smile as I slipped out of my room and moved quietly down the hall toward the rear of the house. Yesterday he had moved back upstairs and into his own bedroom, which made it a great deal more convenient to keep my visit free from prying ears.
To my surprise, my brother was already up when I knocked softly on his door. I entered the room to find it in some disarray. Several shirts had been tossed untidily atop the unmade bed, and my brother’s handsome face was drawn tight in pain. It appeared that he had been struggling unsuccessfully to ease one of the shirts over his injured shoulder, but it kept catching on the bandages binding his wound.
“Good,” he exclaimed, eyeing me with relief. “You’re just in time to help me into this blasted shirt.”
I regarded him in surprise. “What are you doing up so early?”
He gave me a guilty look. “I have to go out for perhaps an hour or two this morning. John Frisk, a gentleman from my club, is picking me up in his carriage.”
“Picking you up to go where?” I pressed, moving closer to help him on with his shirt.
I caught his quick glance at the writing desk. A thick brown paper package bound in string lay on top of the blotter.
“Is that your manuscript?” He did not answer, but I knew him too well not to guess his secret. “I see that it is. You’ve worked on it since you returned from the hospital, haven’t you? Even after Mama expressly forbade it.”
Somehow he was able to look s
heepish and defiant at the same time. “It was either that or go crazy. Our mother missed her calling, little sister. She should have been a nurse—or even a jailer. All day long she fusses over me as if I’m a child, incapable of doing anything for myself. My left arm may be incapacitated, but there’s nothing wrong with my right hand, and I certainly don’t need her help to do everything from eating to using the—” His face reddened and he looked away. “Well, you get the idea.”
I stifled a laugh. “Yes, I’m afraid I do.” I crossed to the desk and picked up his manuscript. It had grown heavier since the last time I had seen it. “Good heavens, Samuel. You’ve finished it! Although how you managed it with Mama hovering over you, I can’t imagine.”
“I’ve become adept at hiding parts of it under pillows, bedcovers, newspapers, magazines, even my dirty clothes. Ina’s been a wonderful partner in crime,” he added. “She seems to find it all a splendid adventure.”
This time I couldn’t repress my laughter. “Yes, she would. So, where are you submitting the book?”
“To Moure and Atkins Publishing House on Market Street. I thought I might as well start with the most prestigious house in town, then work my way down if need be.” His expression said that he hoped working his way down would not prove necessary. He eyed me curiously. “Speaking of being up early, what brought you to my room before breakfast? Considering how late you got in last night, I’m surprised you didn’t sleep in this morning.”
“How do you know what time I returned home?” I asked suspiciously, wondering if he’d been spying on me.
He gave a little laugh. “Oh, you were quiet enough, but at one point Campbell bellowed loud enough to wake the dead. I’m surprised Papa didn’t descend on you both like an avenging angel. Their room is at the front of the house, remember.”
“Oh,” I said rather feebly, remembering the neighbor’s lights going on as Robert and I stood arguing on the front stoop.
“So, I repeat, what got you up at this ungodly hour?”
Death on Telegraph Hill Page 15
