I started to correct the lad’s misuse of the Lord’s name, but when I saw the pleasure in Fanny’s warm gray eyes, I decided to let it rest.
“Sit down, sit down,” she said, fairly beaming with delight to have so much company in her small kitchen. “I have just brewed fresh coffee, and there is a second pie to cut into.” She gazed fondly at Samuel. “What a surprise it was to see this dear boy walk into my shop. And about time, too. He looks far too thin and pale.”
Having not been blessed with children of her own, my grandmotherly neighbor had all but adopted the young cabbie, taking him under her wing as if he were a long-lost grandson. The friendship had done wonders for the lad. Since meeting Fanny, he had grown at least two inches taller, and his painfully thin body had started to fill out. Even his pallid skin had taken on a healthier glow and was less marked with outbreaks of unsightly spots.
I feared Robert might decline her invitation to sit down and join them, but he smiled and relaxed his tall, muscular body into a chair. Although he was loath to admit it, Robert was fond of Fanny, and even Eddie. For my part, I was so pleased to be sitting here with my friends, and especially my brother after he had given us all such a terrible scare, that a cup of coffee struck me as just the thing before returning home.
“You look a good deal better than the last time I saw you, Samuel,” Robert said, eyeing his immobilized arm. “How is your shoulder healing?”
“Much better than anyone expected, I’m happy to say,” my brother answered, gently moving his left arm as if to demonstrate the improvement. “At least that’s what Charles told me. Incidentally, he said last night that I could start back to work as long as I didn’t overdo it. Which was the best news I’ve heard in over two weeks.”
“Samuel, that’s wonderful,” I exclaimed, sharing his excitement.
“Which brings me to some disturbing news,” he said, his smile fading. “Jonathan Aleric has mysteriously disappeared. I dropped by to see George at his station on my way here, and he told me Aleric hasn’t been seen for two days.”
“Good Lord,” Robert said. “Is it possible he was called out of town unexpectedly, and failed to tell anyone?”
“That’s unlikely,” said Samuel. “Don’t forget, he owns and runs a newspaper. Believe me, if he’d had to leave the city, he would have informed his editors and made plans to ensure that the Bay Area Express came out on schedule.”
“Does George have any reason to suspect foul play?” I asked, feeling a stab of fear.
“I don’t think so,” he replied. “At least he didn’t mention any strange circumstances. Aleric was in his office most of the day on Wednesday, then that evening he attended the theater with friends, after which they had a late supper. Evidently, he hasn’t been seen or heard from since.”
Dear Lord, I thought in growing alarm. I did not particularly care for Aleric and normally would pay little attention to his whereabouts. After what had been happening over the past two weeks, however, it was too much to suppose that his disappearance was simply a coincidence.
“What are the police doing about it?” asked Robert. He, too, was looking concerned.
“They’re making inquiries, as George put it. Naturally they’ve questioned his employees at the newspaper, and spoken to the friends he went out with that night. He has a manservant to see to his personal needs, a cook, and a maid. They claim not to have seen him since he left to join his friends at the theater.”
“Oh, my,” said Fanny. “Sarah, didn’t you say he was with you on Telegraph Hill the night Samuel was shot?”
I nodded. “Aleric, Samuel, and I were walking down the hill with Oscar Wilde when the gun was fired.”
“If I recall correctly, there was even talk that he was the intended victim, and not Samuel,” she said somberly. “Then Mr. Dunn died and you were shot, so I just assumed that wasn’t the case after all.”
“I don’t mean this as a reflection on your friend Mortimer Remy,” said Robert, “but after that fracas at the train depot the day Wilde left town, everyone knows that there’s no love lost between the two men.”
I didn’t care for the look on his face. “You aren’t suggesting that Mortimer had something to do with Aleric’s disappearance, are you, Robert?”
“I’m not suggesting anything,” he answered. “I’m simply pointing out that Aleric was Remy’s archenemy. The police may not be overly bright, but even they can’t fail to put two and two together. And come up with your friend’s name.”
“There’s always the chance that Mr. Aleric really did leave town for a day or two,” Fanny pointed out, trying to find a less drastic explanation. “Perhaps there was a family emergency, and he didn’t have time to tell anyone.”
We all nodded, but clearly no one actually believed this explanation, not even Fanny, judging by the troubled look on her face. Samuel was right. Aleric would not suddenly disappear without informing at least one of his editors at the newspaper. The Bay Area Express was too important to him.
“Have the police inquired to see if any clothes are missing from his room?” I asked Samuel.
“That was one of the first things George asked Aleric’s manservant,” he told us. “Apparently everything is accounted for.”
The bell above Fanny’s door rang, and she rose from her chair and hurried into the shop. A moment later she returned, leading a uniformed George Lewis into the kitchen. There was a somber expression on his normally boyish face.
“I thought I might find you here, Samuel,” he said, appearing a bit taken aback to see so many of us gathered around Fanny’s table. “You mentioned you might stop by to see Miss Sarah when you left the station.”
“Has something happened, George?” my brother asked, rising from the table. “Do you have news about Aleric?”
Lewis looked from Samuel to Fanny and then to me, uncertain whether or not he should speak frankly in front of ladies.
“Out with it, man,” Robert prompted impatiently. “What’s wrong?”
George combed his fingers through the lock of light brown hair that habitually fell across his brow. “We, ah, found Mr. Aleric. Dead, I’m afraid, and buried in a shallow grave on the east side of Telegraph Hill. Not too far from the Filbert Street Steps.”
Robert gasped, staring at George in disbelief. “Good heavens! How did you ever find him there?”
Once again George shuffled unhappily, continuing to regard Mrs. Goodman as if still unsure how she would react to such lurid news. “After all that’s happened on that Hill, I had my men out searching, more to be thorough than in any real hope of finding him. It turns out a fox happened upon the body while it was, er, scavenging for food.”
Fanny blanched and sat down heavily in her chair. She looked so pale, I feared she might be ill. Instinctively, I reached for my reticule, but she forestalled me by raising a hand.
“No, dear, I’m quite all right,” she said weakly, then looked at the men in embarrassment. “Forgive me, please. It was just the mental image of that fox digging up— Oh, my, I’m afraid it rather unsettled me for a moment.”
“There is no need to apologize, ma’am,” Lewis said. Guiltily, he studied the woman to ensure that she truly was recovered. “It gave my men a turn, I can tell you. As well as me, if I’m to be honest. I’m sorry to have distressed you, though, Mrs. Goodman.”
“Were you able to determine how he died?” I asked.
“He’d been shot,” said Lewis. “We won’t be able to tell the approximate time until the coroner’s examination is completed. From the condition of the remains, though—” His eyes again flew to my neighbor. “That is, if I were to hazard a guess, I’d say he was killed sometime Wednesday night or yesterday morning.”
“In other words, shortly after he was last seen with his friends having a late dinner on Wednesday night,” I observed.
“I suppose it’s too much to hope that someone witnessed the attack,” said Robert, “or that you and your men found some evidence. For a change.”
George’s face flushed and he lowered his eyes, obviously chagrined by this not wholly undeserved indictment.
Noticing his friend’s discomfort, Samuel asked, “Perhaps someone happened to see whoever disposed of the body? People going up or down the stairs, or a neighbor?”
Lewis shook his head. “We’ve questioned nearby houses, but so far we’ve found no one who saw anything out of the ordinary.”
“No one ever seems to see anything out of the ordinary on that blasted Hill,” Robert grumbled. “Yet people keep dropping like flies. It wouldn’t surprise me if half the neighborhood was acting in collusion. Lying through their teeth, the lot of them.”
I shot Robert a look, indicating that he was not helping matters. “You said that you’d questioned Aleric’s friends, George. Did any of them notice where he went after leaving the restaurant?”
“It seems that they said good night outside, then went their separate ways,” George told us. “That was the last time he was seen. By anyone.”
“So there are no suspects,” I mused aloud.
George hesitated, regarded me awkwardly, then said, “I wouldn’t go so far as to say that, Miss Sarah.”
Samuel looked at his friend, then at me. I think we both had a good idea to whom he was alluding. “Go on, George. Who do you believe did this?”
Again, Lewis shifted his weight uncomfortably. “Lieutenant Curtis is convinced that only one person could have killed Jonathan Aleric.” He looked at Samuel and then at me, as if wishing he did not have to be the one to deliver such distressing news.
“He’s planning on obtaining a warrant for Mortimer Remy’s arrest.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
Lieutenant Curtis was as good as his word. Mortimer Remy was arrested the next morning as he worked at his desk in the offices of the San Francisco Weekly. According to George, the publisher vehemently proclaimed his innocence, insisting he knew nothing about Aleric’s death. Unfortunately, he could provide them with no alibi for the previous Wednesday night. Moreover, several dozen people—including Robert and me—had heard him threatening Jonathan Aleric’s life less than a week before the publisher disappeared. The final disastrous blow was the fact that he owned a revolver of the same caliber as the one that had killed Aleric.
“I could name any number of people who own that same revolver,” Samuel said as we rode in Eddie’s brougham to visit Mortimer at the jail later that afternoon. “It’s a Colt forty-five-caliber, one of the most common guns in the city, probably in the entire West.”
“Do they have any way of proving that Mortimer’s revolver was the one that shot Aleric, though?” I asked, anxious to find some way to demonstrate the newspaper man’s innocence.
“Not really. They can identify the caliber of the bullet, along with the type and model of revolver it was fired from. Some methods are even being used to establish when a gun was last discharged, but it’s nearly impossible to tell with any certainty if a bullet came from any particular revolver.”
“Perhaps that will work to Mortimer’s advantage,” I said hopefully.
He did not appear to share my optimism. “The police may not be able to prove the bullet came from his gun, but his defense attorney won’t be able to prove that it didn’t. Of course, right now his public threat on Aleric’s life is weighing most heavily against him. And of course his lack of an alibi. Remy claims he was at his home alone last Wednesday night. Since he has no live-in household staff, there’s no one to confirm his story.”
I sighed, then held on to my seat as Eddie took a corner too fast. A horse whinnied in protest, and several men shouted out curses. All of which Eddie blithely ignored as he continued on at full tilt.
“That boy is going to be the death of me yet,” I protested, straightening my hat, which had tilted to the side of my head during the turn.
“What amazes me is that he never seems to get into an accident,” Samuel said in obvious admiration. “In this city, that’s quite an accomplishment.”
“Don’t you dare think to compliment him on his driving skills,” I warned my brother. “There is always a first time for everything. Eddie’s luck cannot last forever.” After a brief silence, I said, “That threat Mortimer made at the train depot angers me. It was spoken in the heat of the moment. I’m sure he didn’t mean a word of it.”
“You said that Aleric deliberately set out to provoke him. If that’s true, what did he have to gain?”
“He mentioned something about suing Mortimer if he resorted to violence. He seemed almost disappointed when Mortimer backed down.”
When afternoon traffic along the street caused Eddie to come to a near halt, I looked out the window to see a newsboy hawking newspapers. The huge black headlines caused me to cringe: FAMOUS AUTHOR KILLED BY NEWSPAPER PUBLISHER!
“Oh, dear Lord, Samuel,” I said, nudging my brother as we once again began to move. “Look.”
He leaned across me to peer out the window. After uttering a low (and unrepeatable) curse, he said, “I hate to admit it, but I sometimes think Papa isn’t that far off the mark when he denigrates today’s journalism. Every newspaper in town—excluding the San Francisco Weekly, of course—is vilifying Remy and naming him as Aleric’s murderer. Whatever happened to innocent until proven guilty?”
I was outraged. “How can he receive a fair trial with all this adverse publicity? The poor man was only arrested this morning. They haven’t yet heard his side of the story.”
“No,” he said, taking up his hat. “But we soon will.”
Looking out, I saw that Eddie had turned onto Broadway and was reining up in front of the two-story brick structure that housed the city jail, a building I had grown to know and abhor over the past year. Exiting the carriage, we instructed Eddie to wait, then passed through the huge iron gate and up the stone steps leading to the entrance. Inside, we found a uniformed officer on duty at his usual station. Owing entirely to my gender, I was commonly required to argue my credentials when visiting a prisoner; consequently I allowed my brother to provide the necessary explanations concerning who we were and whom we wished to see. Not surprisingly, he was allowed to pass inside with no difficulty.
A taciturn jailer led us down the all-too-familiar corridor containing cells to either side. He finally halted in front of a door midway down the hall. After turning a large key in the lock, he pulled it open, then stepped back to allow us to enter. As soon as we were inside, he slammed the iron door shut behind us.
Mortimer Remy’s cell had brick walls and was the standard size of twelve feet long by five feet wide. It contained a single cot for a bed, a chamber bucket covered with an old rag, and a small grated window located high up one of the walls. The window allowed in little light and even less air. As usual, the smell in the claustrophobic room was foul beyond description.
Mortimer sat upon the cot, looking miserable. His usual steady brown eyes appeared dull and glazed. I had never seen the man looking anything but meticulously dressed and groomed. Today, his full head of white hair was more untidy than usual, his brown trousers and day coat wrinkled. He appeared as if he had been languishing in this terrible place for days rather than just a few hours.
The smile that lit Remy’s face when he saw Samuel quickly faded as I followed my brother inside the cell.
“Miss Woolson!” he exclaimed, leaping to his feet in obvious distress. “You should not have come. This is no place for a lady.”
“In my opinion, it isn’t a fit place for anyone,” I said, covering my nose with a handkerchief. “Man or woman.”
“Then why…?”
“Do not distress yourself, Mr. Remy,” I said, lowering the cloth to attempt what I hoped was a reassuring smile. “I have visited city jail more times than I care to remember.”
“That’s right, I remember now,” he said, still looking ill at ease. “You have represented several people who have been imprisoned here, have you not? One of them a woman?”
“Unfortunately, two of my
clients who have been incarcerated in this miserable place were women—with no more amenities than you have been afforded,” I told him. Resisting the urge to once again employ my handkerchief, I returned it to the pocket from whence I had removed it upon entering the cell. If he and Samuel could stand the ghastly odor, then so could I. Moreover, it was difficult to carry on a sensible conversation with one’s mouth covered.
Looking embarrassed, Remy moved away from the cot, indicating that I should take his place. I eyed the straw mattress with instinctive aversion, then quickly masked my distaste so as not to offend the poor man. Despite its shabby appearance, it was the only available seat in the room. Smiling my thanks, I accepted his offer.
“You just missed seeing my nephew, Emmett,” Remy told us. “He was understandably upset to see me like this.”
“I’m sure he was,” I said, regarding the poor man with sympathy.
“When is your arraignment?” Samuel asked. Both he and Remy had moved to stand beneath the window in a mostly futile attempt to take advantage of what little fresh air circulated in the tiny cell.
“I believe it will be on Monday,” said Remy, his present circumstances seeming to accentuate his southern drawl. “My attorney is visiting me again tomorrow morning. He promised to give me the details at that time.”
“Who is representing you?” asked Samuel.
“Mr. Arthur Sanderson,” he said, his tone sounding doubtful. “Actually, he’s the attorney who represents the newspaper. I’m not certain how much experience he’s had in criminal law.”
“Then you must find a lawyer who is qualified,” Samuel declared. “You’ve been accused of murder, man. You must mount the best possible defense.”
Remy nodded gloomily. “That’s what Sanderson told me. But it’s all happened so quickly, I’ve hardly had time to think. Can you suggest anyone?”
Death on Telegraph Hill Page 27
