Before I could set out on my adventure the following afternoon, Charles returned from his Saturday morning surgery. Motioning me into the library, he told me he had just learned the results of Mrs. Godfrey’s autopsy.
“Death was caused by an overdose of nitroglycerin,” he said, looking vaguely disturbed.
“Nitroglycerin! Isn’t that an explosive?”
“When used with ethylene glycol nitrate it makes dynamite. Medical nitroglycerin, on the other hand, is used to dilate coronary vessels and reduce blood pressure. It’s an effective drug for the treatment of angina.”
“That was what was in those little pills you and Mr. Godfrey put under Caroline’s tongue?”
“Exactly.”
“I don’t understand. How could she die from a drug that was supposed to help her?”
“Too much of a good thing can be dangerous, Sarah. And there was a great deal of nitroglycerine in Mrs. Godfrey’s system.” He shook his head. “It just doesn’t add up, and I mean that literally. Godfrey said his wife hadn’t had a spell in weeks, which means there was no nitroglycerin in her system that evening. I administered four pills before we went in to dinner, a normal dose for a patient suffering an angina attack. During her second spell, she ingested only one pill. I’ve never heard of five nitroglycerine tablets being anywhere near enough to cause an overdose.”
“Then how do you explain the autopsy finding?”
“That’s just it, I can’t explain it. There’s a theory that if alcohol is consumed with nitroglycerine, it can result in a severe drop in blood pressure. But I don’t remember Mrs. Godfrey drinking more than a glass or two of wine. Do you?”
I thought back, trying to recall the details of that fatal dinner. “I don’t think she had time to drink much. As I recall, they’d just started serving the third course when she stood up, complaining of a headache.”
“That’s a common side effect of too much nitroglycerine. In fact, she exhibited several symptoms of overdose—headache, vomiting, respiratory paralysis, cyanosis—”
“Cyanosis? You mean when her skin turned blue?”
He nodded.
“So that’s why you were so keen on ordering an autopsy.”
“Her symptoms point more to an overdose than an angina attack. Yet I don’t see how that’s possible given the small dosage she received. The Godfreys’ doctor agreed that an autopsy was in order.”
“Is the coroner troubled by the postmortem results?”
“Apparently not. He’s ruled it death by natural causes.” He sighed. “So, I suppose that’s that.”
“Yes, I suppose it is.” Charles was a cautious man, a vigilant doctor. He would never suggest foul play without serious provocation. Yet if the coroner was satisfied with the postmortem results, what recourse did he have?
“I’ve done everything I can,” Charles said, as if reading my thoughts. “No sense dwelling on it now.” He turned to open the library door. “It was a terrible way to go, though.”
CHAPTER THREE
Shortly after my talk with Charles, I received a surprise visitor. When our butler, Edis, announced that a Mr. Pierce Godfrey wished to see me, I thought I’d misheard. What on earth could he be doing here?
As fate would have it, Mama crossed the hall to see Pierce waiting for our butler’s return. Naturally, nothing would do but that she show him in herself. I could tell by her expression she was already planning the wedding. Her only daughter, having reached the ripe old age of twenty-seven, finally had a living, breathing prospect. And, glory be, a dashing one at that!
After my mother withdrew—parlor door left discreetly ajar—I offered Pierce refreshments. He requested coffee and I sent our maid, Ina Corks, to fetch a fresh pot from the kitchen. While we waited, I expressed my sympathy at his sister-in-law’s premature death.
He seemed unusually somber. I suspected the relationship between Pierce and Caroline had been strained, but I sensed that on some level he mourned her passing.
“My brother is taking it very hard,” he said. “He wanders about the house like a lost soul.”
“He’s fortunate to have you.”
Pierce’s gaze grew thoughtful. “What do you say to a man who has just lost his wife? And so young. Caroline was only forty-one, you know.”
Ina came in at that moment with the coffee. I knew it was Mama’s doing that the tray contained our best silver set. Cook had included some small cakes and freshly baked cookies, as well as several of her delicious fruit tarts.
“I’m sure your presence is very consoling, Mr. Godfrey,” I said, pouring the coffee. “Do you have family on the West Coast?”
“No. Just an uncle who lives in Australia and several distant cousins back east. Our parents died years ago.”
“I’m sorry. But that’s even more reason not to discount your importance to your brother during this trying time.”
He smiled, and again I was taken aback by the man’s charisma. Few women, I imagined, would be able to resist such appeal. I was happy to count myself a member of this select group.
“You’re a study in contradictions, Miss Woolson.” He eyed me candidly. “You portray yourself as a self-assured woman, in control of her life. But I suspect beneath that no-nonsense exterior, you possess a compassionate and gentle heart.”
“Mr. Godfrey,” I protested. “You hardly know me. It’s presumptuous of you to venture such a personal, and unsolicited, observation.”
“I apologize if I’ve offended you,” he said, although I was irked to notice the smile hadn’t left his eyes. “Most women would consider compassion a virtue.”
“The nature of compassion has nothing to do with it.” I shifted in my chair until I was facing him. “See here, Mr. Godfrey, I’m sure you haven’t called this afternoon to exchange platitudes. At the risk of appearing inhospitable, why are you here?”
The man had the impertinence to laugh. “San Francisco society must consider you a real poser, if you always speak your mind so freely.”
“I have little time for society, so their opinion of me is of no consequence. Now, kindly tell me the purpose of your visit.”
I’d made my words deliberately harsh, trying to get a rise out of this annoyingly self-possessed man. To my irritation, he seemed unperturbed as he finished his coffee, placed the cup and saucer on the table, then crossed his long legs in their perfectly creased trousers.
“I’ve come to see you on business, Miss Woolson.”
I stared at him in surprise. “On business?”
“Yes. You see, I own a shipping line—or rather Leonard and I own Godfrey Shipping in partnership. We run routes to the Orient, as well as to Sacramento and up and down the Pacific Coast. As part of a planned expansion, we’re placing a substantial order with a local shipbuilding firm. We’ve met to draft the preliminary papers, but I’d like you to act as our legal representative to draw up the final contracts.”
“I see.” Stalling for time, I refilled his coffee cup and decided upon a direct approach.
“Forgive my bluntness but why me? Why not consult with one of the senior partners at my law firm? Any one of them would be delighted to represent you.”
Taking up his coffee, he regarded me with equal candor. “Time is money, Miss Woolson, and I don’t believe in wasting either. Why bother interviewing someone else when I’ve made up my mind to hire you?”
“Mr. Godfrey, as much as I appreciate the honor, it’s only fair to tell you that I’ve been working as an associate attorney for less than six months. There are many lawyers in San Francisco with far more experience, especially with business and partnership law.”
Again, that wicked little smile. “I’m sure there are. Nevertheless, I trust you, Miss Woolson. You don’t play games, a trait I find refreshing and rare. What you lack in experience, you more than make up in intelligence and fortitude.” The smile widened. “And, shall we say, the ability to take people’s measure?”
I studied his face, wondering what really l
ay behind this remarkable offer. I admit I was flattered by the opportunity to represent one of the leading shipping companies on the West Coast. On the other hand, I was realistic enough to know that, in all probability, Pierce Godfrey had ulterior motives.
“Well, Miss Woolson?” he prodded. “I can promise you a generous fee for your services.”
“What does your brother think of this?”
If I hadn’t been watching him so closely, I might have missed the way his fingers tightened on the coffee cup. The move was reflexive, relaxing as quickly as it appeared. But it added one small piece to the puzzle: Leonard Godfrey knew nothing of his brother’s offer to me. It was interesting to note that Pierce’s expression never altered. He must be an amazing poker player, I thought.
“Leonard leaves day-to-day operation of the company to me,” he explained smoothly. “In fact, you might call him a silent partner. He has numerous other business ventures, as you probably know. As long as Godfrey Shipping shows a profit, he’s content to play a passive role.”
“I see,” I replied. I would have preferred Leonard Godfrey’s approval of his brother’s offer.
At that moment, Edis entered the parlor to announce yet another visitor. “Mr. Robert Campbell to see you, miss,” he said in his usual, sonorous tone.
Robert! What in the world was he doing here? I started to tell Edis that this was not a convenient time, when the annoying Scot burst into the room.
“Hello, Robert,” I said, not bothering to hide my irritation. “This is an unexpected visit.”
As he was about to stare a hole through Pierce’s head, I performed the introductions. Robert nodded a curt acknowledgment then, without being asked, took a seat.
“I’m not here alone,” he announced without preamble.
I looked around, bewildered. “Unless your companion is invisible, you certainly appear to be alone.”
“She’s waiting outside.”
“She? Who do you—?”
“For the love of heaven, be quiet and listen. I was catching up on some work at the office, when a Mrs. Mankin came pounding on the door declaring she had to see you.”
“Mankin?” I said. “You mean Lily Mankin?”
“Of course I mean Lily Mankin. She’s standing outside on the street. Seems to be afraid of disturbing you, the silly woman.”
“What does she want?”
Before Robert could answer, Pierce stood up and reached for his hat. “Miss Woolson, please think over what we discussed. It could be a satisfactory arrangement for both of us.” He turned to Robert. “Glad to have met you, Campbell. No, don’t get up, Miss Woolson. I can see myself out. I look forward to hearing from you soon.”
“What was that all about?” Robert asked after Godfrey left the room.
“He wants me to act as legal counsel for his company,” I said, as if this sort of thing happened to me every day.
“He what?” Robert’s eyebrows flew up so high they nearly got lost in his riotous hair. “But you’re a—”
“Don’t you dare say it! I get more than enough bigotry at work. The last thing I need is to be insulted in my own home.” I took myself in hand, then asked more calmly, “Why didn’t you ask Mrs. Mankin to come inside?”
“Don’t be thickheaded. Of course I asked her to come in. She refused. What am I supposed to do, drag her in?”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake.”
Ignoring Robert’s sputters, I went out to the foyer and opened the door. Sure enough, Mrs. Mankin stood diffidently on the street, looking like a frightened rabbit.
“Mrs. Mankin, how nice to see you. Please, come in. I was just having a cup of coffee. Won’t you join me?”
“I, ah—I’m not sure I should.”
“Of course you should.” I took her by the arm, and gently but firmly led her inside. “I don’t see your children. I trust they’re all right?”
“They’re fine, thank you, ma’am. A neighbor friend is watching them.”
“Mr. Campbell says you were looking for me at the office,” I said, leading her into the parlor. Ringing for Ina, I requested fresh coffee and two additional cups.
Lily Mankin sank timidly into her seat, perching on the edge as if she might bolt at the slightest provocation. She stared about the room, her wide eyes taking in the furniture, Mama’s bric-a-brac, as well as the prized silver tea service. Poor Lily, I thought. I’d had no idea my simple invitation would make her so uncomfortable.
“Relax, Lily, please,” I said, after I’d served the coffee and offered Cook’s excellent tarts. “Tell me what this is all about.”
Lily reached a hesitant hand toward the dainty china cup I’d set before her, then pulled it back, as if afraid it might bite. “I got to be out of my rooms by the end of the month,” she blurted.
“What?” I asked in surprise. “You’ve paid your rent, haven’t you?”
“Yes. Thanks to you I paid two weeks in advance.”
“Then why—?”
“A man came askin’ my landlady about me. Said I was causin’ trouble for his master. He told her if she knew what was good for her, she’d get rid of me. He wanted me out that day, but my landlady said I paid for two more weeks and I had a right to stay ’til then.”
“That’s preposterous! Who was this man? And who is his master?”
“My landlady was too scared to ask. But I think it’s gotta have something to do with the fire—and the lawsuit.”
“I wonder,” I said thoughtfully.
“You can’t blame my landlady, Miss Woolson. Things happen—you know, things no one can explain. She’s worried, is all. I’d be, too, if I was in her place.”
Robert broke in before I could reply. “Now you see where all your confounded meddling has led, Sarah? I warned you to let things be.”
Robert knew I’d been trying to locate Paddy McGuire. In fact, I’d tried to elicit his help, but he’d flatly refused to participate in what he termed a “lost cause.”
Ignoring him, I turned back to Mrs. Mankin. Already I had the glimmering of an idea how I might at least be able to solve her immediate problem.
“My dear,” I told her, “I think I know a place where you can stay, at least for the time being. One where you’ll be safe from this man and whoever he’s working for.”
“There you go again,” Robert interrupted. “Don’t build up her hopes making promises you can’t keep.”
Mrs. Mankin looked hesitantly between Robert and me. Her frightened face showed cautious optimism. “You really know a place like that? Where that man won’t find me?”
“I promise you’ll be perfectly safe,” I said, darting Robert a warning look. “I must, however, understand your intentions about the lawsuit. Under the circumstances, do you still wish to pursue it?”
I waited while she thought about this, pleased she was giving it the serious consideration it deserved. Robert started to say something, but at a slight shake of my head, he reluctantly kept his opinions to himself. At length, she seemed to make up her mind.
“Yes, ma’am,” she said firmly. “I want to go through with it. You and your mother have been real kind, but getting money from the man who caused my Jack’s death is all I got to give my children. I know the chance of winning isn’t good, but I want to at least try.”
“Good,” I said before Robert could lecture me yet again on the futility of little Sarah Woolson taking on Goliath. “If you’ve finished your coffee, let’s be off. There’s no time like the present to begin.”
Pacific and Kearney streets presented an intriguing contrast: a seedy, if exotic, Chinatown, and the notorious Barbary Coast, populated by sailors, cutthroats, crimps—who supplied ship crews by whatever means necessary—bars, prostitution and gambling houses. The one quality both areas shared was a general villainy and squalor that was becoming famous, or infamous, around the world.
With so many Chinese and other immigrants competing for jobs, a number of San Francisco’s sweatshops were located in or around th
is area. Samuel had penned several stories about these districts for local newspapers, and I knew many of the establishments were run by the Chinese. If that was the case, it might be next to impossible to locate the owner of the building where Jack Mankin died.
Not long ago, I’d shared an adventure with Margaret Culbertson, the dedicated and fearless woman who ran the Presbyterian Mission on Sacramento Street. While trying to rescue a young Chinese girl from white slavery, I’d met Li Ying, the most powerful of all the Chinatown tong leaders.
Through Li Ying, I’d learned much about the secret way of life that existed within Tangrenbu, or Port of the People of China. The Chinese, largely to defend themselves against increasing anti-Chinese attitudes, had banded together to form tongs, groups organized along the general lines of kinship and geographical origins. The result was a unique and intensely private subculture that protected its own. If the owner of the sweatshop where Jack Mankin died was indeed Chinese—and he wished to disappear—there was hardly a better place to accomplish that purpose than the dense ten-block-square area of Chinatown.
The same situation, of course, would not apply to Paddy McGuire. As a poor Irish laborer with no tong to protect him, he’d be forced to find a new job as soon as possible, probably in another sweatshop. Which was why I’d decided to start my search around Pacific and Kearney. If anyone knew Paddy’s whereabouts, it would likely be people he had seen on a regular basis.
Robert and I dropped Mrs. Mankin off at her lodgings before going on to the scene of the fire. Not surprisingly, my colleague grumbled incessantly as our hansom cab plodded along, protesting he’d been tricked into accompanying me on yet another wild goose chase. Thankfully, I’d perfected the ability to block out his complaints, and I occupied myself by wondering what we would find.
To my surprise, instead of the mess of soggy, charred debris I’d expected, most of the rubble from the fire had been cleared away and men were already at work erecting a new building. Robert noted that the materials they were using probably wouldn’t pass the city’s new building codes, but I doubted that would matter. It was no secret that construction regulations were not as closely monitored in some San Francisco districts as they were in others.
The Russian Hill Murders Page 4
