Death on Telegraph Hill

by Shirley Tallman

  “I understand they wanted to know if you saw Mr. Mortimer Remy last Friday night,” I said.

  She regarded me nervously. “The thing is, Miss Woolson, I did see somethin’ that night, but it warn’t Mr. Remy. Leastwise, I don’t think it were him. ’Course, it was dark, so I can’t be sure.”

  My pulse quickened, but I kept my voice calm. “What did you see, Mrs. Sullivan?”

  “Mr. Sullivan said I wasn’t to say nothin’,” she told me, pitching her voice so low that I had to lean closer in order to hear. “He don’t hold with coppers. He’d be right huffy if he knew I were tellin’ you what I seen. But it don’t seem right not to tell someone, you know?”

  “I think you’ll feel a good deal better once you have, Mrs. Sullivan. And I promise that I won’t tell your husband about our conversation.”

  “I had a feelin’ you was to be trusted, Miss Woolson, and my feelin’s is usually right.” Once again she lowered her voice. “I seen two men diggin’ over there past Tull O’Hara’s place that night. I knew the minute I seen ’em they was up to no good. They had a lantern, but had covered it with somethin’, so it didn’t give off much light. But I was up feedin’ our little Gracie, and I seen it bobbin’ around over there like a big firefly.”

  “Do you have any idea what they were digging?” I asked.

  “Not at first, then I seen ’em lug over somethin’ heavy, like a man’s body, drop it in the hole, and throw dirt onto it.” She stopped to yell at two of the boys, who were teasing one of the dogs with a stick. “Pulled me curtains shut real quick, so they wouldn’t see me watchin’ ’em.”

  “Do you have any idea who the men were, Mrs. Sullivan?”

  She shook her head. “Like I said, it were too dark to tell for sure. I remember thinkin’ at the time that one of ’em might be Tull O’Hara, but I got no idea about the other feller. Both were wearin’ dark clothes, and their caps was pulled down low so it were hard to see their faces.”

  “Did you by any chance see a Dearborn carriage parked near the men, Mrs. Sullivan?”

  She thought for a moment, no easy task with children running and shrieking all around us. Suddenly a baby started to cry in another room, and Mrs. Sullivan wearily got to her feet.

  “Now you mention it, seems to me I did see a carriage parked out on the road,” she said, starting toward what I assumed was a bedroom. “Can’t rightly say if it were a Dearborn, but it were small and black, and pulled by just the one horse.”

  “Could you make out any design on the side of the carriage?” I asked.

  She shook her head, obviously anxious to get to her baby. “It were too dark to see much more than just the shape of the buggy. I’m sorry, Miss Woolson, but I gotta tend to little Gracie.”

  * * *

  I had barely stepped outside when I was hit by the strong smell of smoke. It seemed to be billowing in from across the road in waves so dense that my eyes began to sting. Holding my handkerchief over my nose, I turned back and banged on Mrs. Sullivan’s door, warning her of the fire and saying she should gather up the children and take them down the hill.

  Once the terrified woman and her brood were safely out of the house, I was at last able to make out the source of the fire: Tull O’Hara’s house was ablaze!

  Coughing, I made my way closer to the shack, my first thought to find Samuel, George, and Eddie.

  “Miss Woolson,” a voice called out. I saw a man approaching me from down the hill. He was almost upon me before I saw through the smoke that it was Emmett Gardiner. “Do you know if they were able to get Tull O’Hara out of the house?”

  “I didn’t know he was in there,” I said, my heart catching in my throat at the thought of the typesetter being trapped inside that inferno.

  “I saw him about an hour ago when I was going down the hill. He…” He paused, then went on, “He was pretty drunk, I’m afraid. Perhaps that’s how the fire started, a cigarette or cigar left unattended.”

  Three more figures were appearing out of the smoky haze, and I was grateful to recognize them as my brother, George, and Eddie. Their faces were blackened with soot, their eyes red-rimmed and watering, their clothes torn and soiled beyond repair. They were coughing and gasping to draw in air. I ran over to my brother.

  “Samuel, are you all right?”

  He wiped a hand across his forehead, succeeding only in creating a fresh trail of grime across his face. The sling on his left arm was torn away, and he was holding his injured arm tightly across his chest. I could see that he was in pain.

  Catching my worried look, he protested, “I’m fine, Sarah. Don’t fuss. We tried to see if anyone was inside, but—” Once again he started to cough, then went on, “It was useless. The place went up like a tinderbox.”

  Poor Eddie looked as though he had gone swimming in a bin of coal dust. Even through the black grime staining his face, however, I saw the glint of excitement in his eyes.

  “It were hotter’n blazes in there, Miss Sarah. We done our best to get to the old geezer, but you couldn’t see nothin’ but fire and smoke. And the roof was fallin’ down on our heads.”

  I looked from Samuel to George. “You think Mr. O’Hara was in there?” I asked, raising my voice to be heard above the shouting, falling debris, and whinnying of frightened horses.

  The welcome clanging of a fire engine could be heard coming up the hill, thankfully pulled by two strong horses. Mere minutes after its arrival, men were passing buckets of water hand to hand and throwing them onto the blaze, but it was obviously too late. O’Hara’s dwelling was doomed; the firemen were laboring now to prevent the inferno from spreading to other houses on the block.

  My brother shook his head. “If O’Hara was in there when it started, he’s gone now. No one could have lived through that conflagration.” He nodded a hasty greeting to Emmett Gardiner, then indicated that George wanted to talk to me in private.

  “Excuse me, Mr. Gardiner,” I said, and followed Samuel and George up the street until we were far enough from the fire to find a faint stir of fresh air and could be heard above the din without shouting.

  “What did you learn from Mrs. Sullivan?” George asked, wiping rather futilely at his eyes. “Did she really see two men digging on the hill last Wednesday night?”

  “She insists she did, and I believe her. She was up feeding her baby and saw the light from a lantern across the way. According to her, the two men dropped something heavy into the hole, then covered it up again.” I hesitated. “She thinks one of the men might have been Tull O’Hara.”

  George grunted in disgust. “Why in tarnation didn’t the woman tell us this a week ago? We might have been able to catch the devils then and there.”

  “Her husband didn’t want to have anything to do with the police,” I told him. “But when your men came to her door today and started asking questions, she felt guilty about keeping what she’d seen a secret. And that’s not all, George,” I hurried on. “She claims to have seen a small black carriage parked near the men. It was too dark to tell if it was a Dearborn, or to make out any design, but it seems too much of a coincidence not to assume it’s the same one Eddie’s friend saw abducting Aleric.”

  George nodded. “You’re probably right. That would be how they brought the body here. You say she thinks one of the men was O’Hara? What about the other bloke?”

  “Unfortunately, it could be anyone,” I said grimly. “According to her, he was completely average looking.”

  “You realize, of course, that she could be describing your client,” George said. “He and his typesetter burying their archenemy. It makes sense.”

  Naturally, I had already thought of this. Still, no matter how well it might seem to fit together for George, I would never believe that Remy could commit cold-blooded murder, not just once but three times! Not to mention shooting at Samuel and me.

  “I think this damn hill is cursed,” Samuel said, staring at the furor going on down the road. “Starting the night I was shot marchin
g down the hill after Wilde’s reading.”

  “Oh, dear Lord!” I interrupted, staggered by the realization that had flashed into my mind. This was what I had been struggling all day to remember. And now that I had finally put it together, it seemed too horrible to countenance. Three murders. No, I thought, four murders, for surely Tull O’Hara’s death was no accident. Despite the heat from the fire, I felt an icy shudder. Samuel and I could have easily been included in that number.

  “What is it, Sarah?” my brother said, staring at me. “You look as if you’d just seen a ghost.”

  “Oh, Samuel, I think—I truly think I may have done just that.”

  George had also seen the look on my face, but before I could say anything else, Stephen Parke came running down the hill, his eyes wide with fear.

  “Whose house is on fire?” he cried. “Was Isabel— Has anyone seen Isabel?”

  “It’s Tull O’Hara’s house,” I told him. “And we haven’t seen Isabel. Isn’t she at her home?”

  “No, she’s not,” he said, some relief showing on his face, but not enough to erase the lines of concern. “She should have been home over an hour ago. There are piano students waiting inside for their lessons. Her father came to my house looking for her. Then when we saw the smoke—we feared she might be down here.”

  I felt a stab of my own fear. “Did Mr. Freiberg see where she went after she left the house?”

  “No, he didn’t.”

  “Did she mention why she was leaving when she had students arriving?”

  “A policeman came to the house asking questions,” Stephen said. “Something about seeing Mortimer Remy last Wednesday night. According to Mr. Freiberg, she rushed out shortly after he left.”

  “And she said nothing about where she was going?” I could no longer hide my trepidation. “Think, please. It’s important.”

  He stared at me as if just now comprehending that something was very wrong, and that it concerned Isabel. “Miss Woolson, you’re frightening me. Why are you asking all these questions?”

  “Just tell me if she said anything to her father before running off,” I all but shouted.

  “I don’t think so.” He hesitated, then said, “Hold on, I think he said she mentioned something about a carriage, although I don’t see what that can have to do with—”

  But I had heard enough. More than enough to have my worst fears verified. “Hurry, all of you. There’s not a minute to lose!”

  “Wait, Miss Sarah,” George called out. “Where are you going?”

  “This way, George,” I threw back to him over my shoulder. “And bring some of your men.”

  Without waiting for a reply, I started half running up the hill, praying that we would not be too late. I could hear the men following behind me, some of them still asking questions. I ignored them all. I had but one focus, to reach Isabel Freiberg before she came to harm!

  I slowed down when we reached her house, telling myself there was still a possibility I could be wrong. Perhaps Isabel had returned and even now was inside conducting a piano lesson. One look at her father’s frightened face, however, told me that I was not wrong. She had not come back, and she was still in mortal danger. Without stopping, I hurried on.

  Everything appeared so normal when we reached the top of Telegraph Hill that once again I experienced a flicker of doubt. It was nothing more than wishful thinking, of course, but I so desperately wanted to believe that I was imagining things too horrible to be true.

  Out of breath, I stood for a moment looking up at the lovely mansion, perfectly situated with majestic views of the San Francisco Bay, Alcatraz and Angel Islands, and Marin County beyond. Even after several trips to the Hill, I realized this was the first time I had actually been to Mrs. Montgomery’s home. It was built in the Italianate style, with a Corinthian column–supported central porch flanked on either side by stone stairs, a wide balcony, and double-hung windows perched above.

  By now, I had a considerable group following in my wake: Samuel, Eddie, Stephen Parke, Solomon Freiberg, Emmett Gardiner, and of course George Lewis and several of his men. Other neighbors had also joined the procession, until I was reminded of the Pied Piper of Hamelin.

  There was no need to mount the stairs and knock on the elegant front door. Abigail Forester swept out of the house and onto the porch as if she had somehow anticipated our arrival. I was shocked by her appearance: her face was chalk white, her mouth opened as if she wanted to scream but could not find the necessary breath, her pale eyes wide in horror. The house cap she wore was tilted to one side, and wisps of white hair flew in disarray about her head. Her small hands fluttered to her mouth and then to her bosom, unable to remain still.

  “Oh, my, Miss Woolson,” she cried, then stopped when some of the men started toward her. “No, don’t, please, stay where you are. Oh, dear. What am I to do?” With a flurry of skirts, she disappeared back inside the house.

  “Why did you bring us up here?” George asked. “And who was that?”

  “That’s Abigail Forester, Mrs. Montgomery’s sister,” I told him. “And we came here because Isabel Freiberg is somewhere inside that house.”

  He looked surprised. “What leads you to think that?”

  “There’s no time to explain now, George,” I told him, keeping my eye on the door. “We must find some way to get inside before Studds harms her.”

  Samuel took hold of my arm. “Sarah, you can’t possibly think Mrs. Montgomery has anything to do with this. What reason could she have for killing Aleric, or Dunn and Foldger, for that matter?”

  “The only one she truly wished to kill was Jonathan Aleric. You weren’t the target the night of Wilde’s reading, Samuel, he was. But he stumbled, remember? And when you bent over to help him, the shot hit you instead. We can only be grateful that it didn’t kill—”

  Mrs. Forester once again appeared at the mansion door. She was pushing her sister, who was seated in her wheelchair, holding little Billy in her lap. Abigail did not attempt to wheel the chair down the ramp that had been built into one side of the stairs, but instead the two women remained on the porch, posed dramatically above us like players on a stage.

  At once, every eye fastened on to Katherine Montgomery; her strong, assertive presence was always the more dominant of the two women. Today, however, the elderly widow’s face was scarcely less pale than her sister’s, and her usually clear eyes appeared distant and dull with resignation.

  She surveyed the crowd gathered before her, then said, “It has gone too far. Tull O’Hara should not have died. He was a stupid man, but no one deserves to die like that.” She did not raise her voice, but somehow her words carried across the front garden so that everyone could hear.

  At the moment, I was not interested in Tull O’Hara, grisly as the fire had been. “Where is Isabel, Mrs. Montgomery?” I demanded.

  The old woman sighed. “She is here. Inside the house with Bruno.”

  “Is she all right?” Stephen started to move forward despite Abigail’s appeal to stay back.

  “She is fine, Mr. Parke,” the widow told him. “For the moment, at least. But my poor Bruno—I fear Bruno is not himself.”

  “What does that mean?” I, too, had walked closer to the stairs, fighting the urge to take them at a rush and see for myself that Isabel was indeed all right. For her sake, I had to remain calm. “It’s over now, Mrs. Montgomery. Surely you must see that. You cannot allow Bruno to hurt her. It will only make matters infinitely worse for him.”

  She sighed. “I am aware of that, Miss Woolson.” There was a sound from above her head, and she turned to look up as one of the balcony windows opened. “Unfortunately, I seem unable to convince him of this inevitability.”

  “I don’t understand,” Stephen said, his face twisted in anxiety. “What’s all this about Bruno Studds? And why is he holding Isabel in there?”

  “She remembered the Dearborn,” I told him, never taking my eyes off Katherine Montgomery and the baby. I did not da
re attempt to pull him from her arms. “Bruno is afraid that she’ll tell the police what she knows about the carriage, and who owns it.”

  Stephen looked at me, panic growing in his eyes as he struggled to comprehend what I was saying. “The Dearborn? For God’s sake, woman, what are you talking about?”

  “Miss Freiberg evidently saw our carriage during one of her visits to our home, Mr. Parke,” Katherine Montgomery said, her voice uncharacteristically flat and devoid of emotion. “She came here to inquire if one of our neighbors might have borrowed, or perhaps even stolen, the buggy. It sounded exactly like the one the police were describing, you see, and she feared they might think we had been involved in Mr. Aleric’s murder. Which, of course, we were.”

  “Katherine, please,” begged Abigail, wringing her hands in distress. “You can’t have had any part in this dreadful business. Tell them it’s all a terrible mistake.”

  “But it’s not a mistake, dear,” Mrs. Montgomery told her sister quietly. “Bruno merely acted as my arms and legs, since they have been useless for so many years. He has always been fiercely protective of me, and of course of my dear son, Lawrence. I don’t think it has occurred to him yet that I will be hanged. As will he, of course.”

  “It’s unfortunate that Claude Dunn proved to be such a poor shot with a revolver,” I said.

  George was staring at me. “Are you saying that Claude Dunn shot Samuel? But why?”

  “Because he needed money to tide them over until Lucy could go back to work after the baby was born,” I said. “I assume Dunn must have performed other ‘jobs’ for you at one time or another?”

  She nodded. “He was an exceedingly greedy and selfish man, unfit as a husband, and already demonstrating that he would be equally unfit as a father.”

  “Everything seemed to go wrong for you from the beginning, didn’t it?” I said.

  She gave a rueful smile, the merest curve of her thin lips. “Yes, perhaps I should have aborted my plan the night your poor brother was shot instead of Aleric. But I had waited so many years to punish that dreadful man for stealing my son’s brilliant book. An Uncivil War—my lovely boy had mailed me excerpts during his time with General Grant, so I knew that it was his work.”