The Russian Hill Murders

by Shirley Tallman

  Lily insisted I take this chair, then bustled to the stove to fetch tea. She returned bearing a pretty, though slightly chipped, porcelain pot and several matching cups, along with a modest selection of cookies, which the children eyed eagerly. Despite the widow’s objections, Robert and I professed not to be hungry and urged her offspring to help themselves to the unexpected treat.

  While they munched happily in a corner, I informed Lily of the board’s decision to allow her rooms in the new hospital. As I spoke, her eyes filled with tears and, to my embarrassment, she impulsively threw her arms about my neck.

  “Oh, miss, I don’t know how to thank you. You and your mother have been that good to us. And now this, when I thought for sure we’d be thrown out onto the street.”

  “Mrs. Mankin, there’s no need to—” I stopped for air and to extract several strands of her hair from my mouth.

  As if realizing from my choked voice that she was impeding my breath, she drew back a step. I was unnerved to see that her expression bordered on adulation.

  “You’re too modest, miss, and that’s a fact. You’ve done more for us than you’ll ever—”

  “Then you’re agreeable to the board’s offer of a room at the hospital?” Robert broke in. His tone, although abrupt, was not unkind. I had to smile. Like most men, he was embarrassed by such an unabashed display of emotion.

  “Yes, sir, I surely will. And I won’t let the hospital down, neither. I’ve heard of that woman with the lamp—I forget her name—what nursed them soldiers in the Crimean—”

  “Florence Nightingale,” I told her.

  “Yes, ma’am, Miss Nightingale.” Her face glowed. “Do you think—? I mean, is there a chance I could learn enough to be like her? You know, nurse sick people and all?”

  I regarded this brave young mother. “Yes, Mrs. Mankin, I think you would make a fine nurse. I have no doubt that you’re going to be a very valuable asset to the hospital.”

  When we’d finished our tea, we said our goodbyes and stepped outside to find our cab waiting for us as instructed. Frankly, I hadn’t expected the visit to take so long, or we would have discharged the driver upon our arrival. Despite the added expense, I was secretly pleased to have the brougham at hand. Darkness was approaching, and the late afternoon air was unseasonably chilled.

  Robert had just assisted me into the four-seat hack when, out of nowhere, something large and sharp came hurtling through the open door, hitting me in the face and throwing me onto the carriage floor.

  “Sarah, are you all right?” Robert hovered above me, face white with concern. He tried to raise me up, while at the same time he felt about the floor for the object that had hit me. After a moment, he held up a large rock, a piece of paper attached to it with a string.

  “What in the name of—”

  I scrambled to my knees and leaned out of the open door. I was in time to see a tall, beefy figure run toward the corner. Before he turned onto the next street, I caught a glimpse of his face. Granted, the light was poor, but there was no disguising that face—it was one I would never forget.

  “Follow that man!” I commanded our driver, who was perched in his seat at the front of the carriage. “He just turned right at the corner. There’s a bonus for you if you keep him in sight.”

  “Right-oh, miss,” the driver called out, and he clicked his dappled-gray horse into such violent acceleration that I barely had time to close the carriage door before we were off at breakneck speed. Our cabbie took the corner so fast I feared the carriage was going to veer over onto its side.

  “Have you gone mad?” Robert yelled from where he’d been thrown to the floor. “You’re going to get us killed!”

  “I recognized the man who threw the rock,” I said, keeping my eyes glued to the street. “It’s Bert Corrigan, the thug who threatened me that day on Kearney Street.”

  Uttering a curse, Robert pulled himself onto the seat, then untangled the note from the rock. Holding it close to the window, he squinted to make out the writing.

  “What does it say?” I called back over my shoulder.

  “It says if you don’t stop asking questions about the sweatshop fire, you’ll live to regret it. I knew your infernal meddling would bring us nothing but—”

  “There he is!” I called up to our driver. “He got into that cab. Whatever you do, don’t lose him.”

  The driver’s words were lost in the rattling of our cab’s wheels as they negotiated bumps and fissures in the street. Face pressed to the window, I watched Corrigan’s hack dart in and out of traffic, causing pedestrians to shake their fists and horses to rear with fright. We followed close behind, adding our own disorder to the general mayhem. Instead of slowing down, our driver clicked his horse into a fast trot as he endeavored to keep the other carriage in sight.

  “This is insane!” Robert shouted above the clatter. “Whoever this fellow is, he must know we’re after him. The only place he’s going to lead us is on a wild goose chase.”

  I swallowed an angry retort. What Robert said made sense. Bert Corrigan wouldn’t knowingly take us to his boss. But if he thought he’d given us the slip—

  Once again I called to the cabbie, “Stay as far back as you can without losing sight of him.”

  I caught a brief glimpse of our driver’s broad grin and realized he was just a boy—a boy having the time of his life. It was doubtful he owned the brougham himself; more likely he was one of a stable of drivers. The man who did own the cab was not going to be happy if we caused damage to his carriage. More important, I would never forgive myself if we injured an innocent pedestrian or precipitated a traffic accident.

  “Please, slow down,” I repeated, as the lad seemed disinclined to give up the chase. “I don’t want our quarry to know he’s being followed.”

  At this, our driver gave me a knowing wink and reined in his horse until we were traveling at a more sedate pace. Adroitly, he maneuvered the cab until we were partially hidden behind a delivery wagon. We could still see our prey, but Bert would find it difficult to spot us. Sure enough, after several blocks—and as many evasive twists and turns—Corrigan must have thought he’d lost us, because his hack slowed until it, too, blended into the flow of traffic.

  Leaning back, I released my breath in a deep sigh. Only then did I notice a warm liquid flowing down my face.

  “Good God, Sarah, you’re bleeding.” Robert fished a handkerchief out of his pocket and dabbed at my forehead. It came away dark and sticky. “That damn rock! We’ve got to get you to a doctor.”

  “Don’t be silly, it’s just a scratch. And I have a perfectly good doctor in my own home.”

  “Sarah, this isn’t a game. You’ve managed to make someone very angry. As usual, you’re in over your head.”

  “I don’t plan to confront Bert Corrigan personally. I just want to find out who he’s working for.”

  “And in the unlikely event you do find out? What then?”

  Before I could answer, Corrigan’s carriage pulled to a stop in front of a small redwood house on the corner of California and Union streets. It was a solid, middle-class neighborhood of wood-framed houses, most boasting the ever-present bay window. Somewhat surprised that Corrigan would be paying a call on such a street, I instructed our driver to rein up midway down the block.

  “The gent’s gettin’ out,” the lad said.

  “Shh,” I called up to him, although I doubted Corrigan could hear our voices from where we were parked.

  We watched Corrigan get out of the cab and walk to the house. He rang the bell, and after a moment the door was opened by a large, nattily attired man smoking a cigar. Despite the man’s ample girth, he was not unattractive, although at the moment he appeared furious to see Bert Corrigan at his door. Stepping outside, he looked hastily up and down the street, then, with a curse, yanked Corrigan inside and slammed the door behind them.

  “I think that’s Killy Doyle,” I said eagerly.

  “Why? Because he was smoking a ciga
r?”

  “No, of course not. But if the man was a friend of Corrigan’s, why was he so upset to see him? Then there’s the way he was dressed. Paddy said Killy Doyle considers himself a lady’s man. Well, that fellow is a dandy if I ever saw one. Besides, Bert Corrigan’s a street rough. I doubt he has social acquaintances living on a street like this. An employer, yes, but hardly a friend.”

  Without waiting for Robert to reply, I fished a pencil and notebook out of my reticule and copied the address.

  Robert still looked doubtful. “All right, assuming you’re right—just assuming, mind you—what now?”

  “I’m going to pay a little call,” I said, allowing our young driver to help me out of the carriage.

  “You ain’t goin’ up to that door by yerself, are you?” the lad asked, his brown eyes large with concern.

  “No, of course not,” Robert growled, coming to stand beside me. “God only knows what mischief she’d get into if left to her own devices.”

  “Want me to go with you?” the boy asked hopefully.

  “Certainly not,” Robert told him, rather more severely than I thought necessary.

  I smiled at the lad. “You’ve done very well, er …”

  “Eddie,” he said, beaming. “Eddie Cooper.”

  “Well, Eddie, why don’t you wait here? If for any reason we’re not out of that house in half an hour, ride like the wind to the nearest police station for help.”

  Eddie’s smile grew so wide I thought his face might split in two. “Yes, ma’am. I will. You can count on me.”

  “A little melodramatic, don’t you think?” Robert said as we approached the redwood house.

  I gave a low chuckle. “That boy is having a grand time. I see no reason to dampen his fun.”

  “Why not, indeed. Your forehead is still bleeding, Sarah. I don’t think you begin to grasp the seriousness of this business.”

  Without replying, I rang the bell. A thin, middle-aged woman wearing an apron and cap answered the door.

  “Yes?” she said. “What do you want?”

  Robert shot me a look that said he wished nothing to do with the interview, then pointedly raised his face to stare at the carvings above the door.

  I restrained my instinct to give him a good kick.

  “We’re here to see Mr. Corrigan.” I tried to sound friendly, but it was difficult with blood trickling down my face. The woman stared at my wound, and I increased the pressure of the handkerchief on the laceration.

  “I don’t know any Corrigan,” she said brusquely. “You have the wrong house.”

  “Perhaps you were unaware that Mr. Doyle let Mr. Corrigan into this house not five minutes ago,” I persisted, letting slip Killy’s name to see her reaction. When she said nothing to correct me, I stepped forward just far enough to peek inside the house.

  “I told you Mr. Doyle doesn’t know anyone by that name. You have to leave now. I have work to do.”

  Before I could draw breath to try another tack, the woman slammed the door with so much force that if I hadn’t jumped backward, I’d have been hit squarely in the face.

  “Good heavens,” I cried, realizing that in my haste to retreat, several drops of blood had dropped onto my bodice.

  “Well, you were right,” Robert admitted. “It seems we’ve found Killy Doyle. Here, you’re making a mess of that.” Taking the handkerchief, he dabbed more or less ineffectively at the stains on my dress, but their position just above my bosom made this task all but impossible for him to perform.

  “Oh, for pity’s sake, give me that.” I took the cloth and started back to the carriage. “This gown is ruined at any rate. Let’s get home and try to make sense of this.”

  Young Eddie looked almost disappointed to see us return to the carriage so quickly and with no new wounds to show for our efforts. I gave the lad my home address, then leaned back in the seat and resumed pressing Robert’s now blood-soaked handkerchief against my wound.

  “I hope your brother Charles is at home,” Robert said. “That wound needs attention.”

  “If he’s not, I’m sure a simple plaster will do. Head wounds always appear more serious than they actually are. For heaven’s sake, Robert, stop fussing like an old woman.”

  This last comment managed to insult my companion sufficiently so that we passed the remainder of the journey to Rincon Hill in silence.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Naturally, Robert insisted on helping me inside the house and I, noting the time, invited him to join us for dinner. It was only when I heard laughter coming from the parlor that I realized my mistake—I’d completely forgotten my parents were hosting a dinner party that night to celebrate the opening of the new hospital.

  Before I could explain this to Robert, Mama came hurrying toward us.

  “Sarah, you’re late,” she said, then noticing the blood on my face, cried, “Good heavens, you’re injured!”

  “Mama, please, it’s nothing,” I protested. “Your guests will hear.”

  It was too late. My father was already advancing toward us, closely followed by Celia and Judge and Mrs. Barlow.

  “Sarah, my girl, how did this happen?” Papa exclaimed, his shocked eyes taking in my battered head and blood-spattered dress.

  I searched for an explanation that wouldn’t reveal our true business that afternoon. Robert forestalled me.

  “Some hoodlum threw a rock into our cab. I don’t know if he meant to hit Sarah, but—”

  “A rock?” Mama gasped, clasping a hand over her mouth. “Sarah, you might have been killed!”

  Papa fixed hard eyes on my associate. “Mr. Campbell, do you know the identity of this hoodlum?”

  “Yes, sir. Sarah thinks his name is Bert Corrigan.” Robert caught the warning look on my face, but again it was too late. Papa’s face had suffused with rage.

  “And who is this Bert Corrigan?” he demanded.

  “He’s just a man we met when we were looking for Paddy McGuire,” I said, playing down the affair. “He doesn’t seem pleased we’re investigating that sweatshop fire I told you about, Papa.”

  “Doesn’t seem pleased!” Robert exploded. “He threatened you with bodily harm if you didn’t stop your confounded interference. And by God, you would have done well to heed his warning. Now look what’s happened. An inch more to the right and there’s no telling how much damage that rock might have done.” Despite my glare, his square, stubborn chin jutted out defiantly, as if challenging me to deny the truth of this statement.

  My mother placed shaking hands on my shoulders, scrutinizing the wound with horrified eyes. “Sarah, it’s still bleeding.” She turned to Papa. “Horace, hurry and send someone to find Charles. He went out on a call about an hour ago, but he must come home at once.”

  “That may not be necessary, Mrs. Woolson,” Margaret Barlow said in a quiet voice. “I have some practice treating wounds of this sort. Let me have a look.” She stepped forward and examined my laceration with a critical eye. “The cut is fairly deep, but I don’t think it requires stitches. I’ll need soap and a basin of hot water, then when the wound is clean, I’ll apply one of my mother’s herbal creams. It’s soothing and will facilitate healing.”

  Mama hesitated. I knew she would prefer to have Charles care for my wound. On the other hand, who knew how long it would take to find him?

  “Yes, all right,” she said at last, giving Mrs. Barlow an uncertain smile. “I appreciate anything you can do for her, Margaret.”

  Torn between accompanying us and attending to her guests, Mama stood wringing her hands in the foyer. When Robert remained beside her, Papa motioned him to follow us upstairs.

  “You might as well come, too, Campbell,” he told my colleague. “With your help maybe I can make sense of what happened to my foolish daughter.”

  Robert reluctantly complied, standing awkwardly just inside my bedroom door as Papa fetched the items required to tend my head.

  “As a child I used to assist a dear friend who was a ch
emist and who occasionally tended minor injuries,” Margaret explained. “I was probably more of a nuisance than a help, but I learned a great deal from watching him.” She searched through her reticule until she found a small vial of what looked like some sort of white ointment. “Ah, we’re in luck,” she said with a smile. “As it happens, I have some of my mother’s excellent herbal salve with me tonight. I used some to nurse a small cut my husband suffered earlier this evening.”

  A quarter of an hour later I sat on the edge of my bed, skillfully swathed with Adelina French’s herbal ointment, patched with plaster and sipping a cup of Cook’s strong black tea. After receiving our profound thanks, Margaret returned downstairs, leaving Papa free to demand that Robert and I give him the full story of our afternoon’s adventure. Realizing he wouldn’t rest until I gave in, I grudgingly related all that had transpired, including our discovery of Killy Doyle.

  “I don’t think Doyle actually owns the shop,” I ended, “but I’m hoping he’ll lead us to the man who does.”

  “Us?” Robert broke in. “By us I assume you’re including me in your nefarious plans?”

  Papa made an exasperated sound that caused us both to fall silent. “You’re dealing with dangerous people, Sarah. Tell the police what you’ve learned, and let them make of it what they can. Because of the ‘fellow servant rule,’ it will be next to impossible to file suit on behalf of the victims who lost their lives in that fire, anyway. You’d be much wiser to channel your efforts into changing the law, instead of placing yourself in harm’s way.”

  He took hold of my shoulders, until I was forced to meet his eyes. “I want you to promise me you’ll stay out of this, Sarah.”

  I met his stern gaze, but I was at a loss as to what to say. Much as I loved and respected my father, I’d given my word to a woman who had no place else to turn.

  “Papa, I—”

  At that moment, Mama appeared to announce dinner. With worried eyes, she inspected my forehead. Now that she realized I would live to see another day, her earlier fear had turned to angry exasperation. Proclaiming that I had frightened her half to death, she threatened a litany of dire consequences if I did not come to my senses and behave like a proper young lady.