The Russian Hill Murders

by Shirley Tallman

  “Have you any more witnesses to present, Mr. Dormer?” he asked the prosecuting attorney.

  “No, sir,” Dormer informed him, looking serenely confident that he had already presented far more evidence than was necessary to prove the defendant’s guilt.

  The judge turned to me, saying in a clipped voice, “When you have concluded your cross-examination of this witness, Miss Woolson, I expect you to be prepared to open the defense’s case. Is that understood?”

  “Yes, sir,” I answered, keeping my tone civil. “We’ll be ready.”

  “You’d better be,” came his ill-mannered reply. His skeptical expression proclaimed his grave doubt that I was capable of any such feat. With a dismissive shake of his head, Judge Carlton banged his gavel. “Court is adjourned.”

  As we had arranged the night before, Papa, Samuel, Robert and

  I met at our house that night to discuss last-minute strategies for Chin’s defense. Robert and I brought my father up to date on the day’s court session, after which Samuel related visiting the Godfrey house that morning. As planned, he’d chosen a time when neither brother was present, and in their absence he’d been able to question half a dozen servants. No one remembered seeing Dora Clemens the morning of her death.

  “What about you, Papa?” I asked, praying he had something more substantial to report.

  Papa didn’t answer for several moments. His face was gray and somber, his lips drawn into a tight thin line.

  “Papa? Are you all right?” Samuel asked.

  “No, Samuel, I’m not. At the moment, I hardly feel I shall ever be all right again. According to one of the Barlows’ maids, Dora Clemens visited the judge’s house the morning of her death.”

  It took Samuel, Robert and me a moment to absorb this bombshell. I was the first to recover my wits.

  “Whom did she ask to see?”

  “No one seems to know. The servants were preparing for a dinner party that night, and the household was in some disorder. The maid I spoke to hadn’t actually let Miss Clemens into the house, but she remembered seeing a girl of Dora’s description entering the morning room. I questioned a footman and several other maids, but no one else remembered seeing her.”

  “What if the maid is mistaken?” Robert wanted to know.

  “I only wish she were,” was Papa’s quiet reply. “But she described Dora’s hat and coat—the same costume Sarah said she was wearing when she arrived at the hospital. And the girl’s bright red hair was unmistakable.”

  “Well, then,” Samuel said. “It looks as if we just narrowed the field down to three suspects: Judge Barlow, his wife and Reverend Prescott.”

  We sat silently for several minutes, each of us lost in our own thoughts.

  “Sarah had lunch with Pierce Godfrey on Friday,” Robert announced, breaking the silence. “Although so far she hasn’t seen fit to tell me what they talked about.”

  “Don’t be overdramatic, Robert.” Ignoring his sputtered protests, I related my conversation with Pierce the previous afternoon, including his explanation for why he had met with Lucius Arlen that fatal Monday night.

  “Likely story,” Robert grumbled when I’d finished.

  “Actually, it is.” I reached inside my briefcase and pulled out the business cards I’d taken from Arlen’s office. “Pierce said Arlen dealt directly with Matthew Grady, the president of the Gold Bank. I found this card behind the accountant’s desk. It’s embossed with Grady’s name and position at the bank, and it bears the handwritten notations ‘PG’ and ‘Tues. 3:30.’” I handed it to my father.

  “I suppose the initials could stand for Pierce Godfrey,” Papa commented, examining the card. “There’s only one way to know for sure. I’ll arrange to meet with Grady tomorrow. He won’t be free to discuss details of the meeting, of course—assuming it took place as young Godfrey claims—but at least we’ll know one way or the other.”

  We spent some time going over the pros and cons concerning the guilt of each suspect, but we kept coming back to Margaret Barlow. We all agreed she had motive; once Margaret took Caroline Godfrey’s place as chairwoman of the board, it would have been simplicity itself for her to embezzle money from the hospital fund. When Reverend Halsey became a threat to the project—and consequently to her pilfering—he, too, had to be eliminated. Arlen’s insistence on speaking to no one but Margaret the day of our tour also pointed to her culpability. And if Dora Clemens witnessed Margaret poisoning Arlen’s coffee, it would explain her reason for visiting the Barlows’ house the morning of her death—to demand blackmail!

  Mrs. Barlow also possessed the means to commit the crimes. Margaret’s biological father had been a chemist—very likely, the “dear friend” she admitted helping as a young girl. What better way to learn about medicines—and poisons—than from a chemist? Then there was the proficient manner in which she’d treated my facial lacerations after I was hit by Bert Corrigan’s rock.

  As for opportunity, well, Margaret had as much chance to poison the four victims as any of our other suspects. She was at Caroline Godfrey’s house the night of the charity dinner, and she was seen at the hospital the night Arlen was poisoned. Most damaging, of course, was Dora Clemens’s visit to Margaret’s home that morning.

  Taken as a whole, the evidence against Margaret was compelling. Still, I found it difficult to cast her in the role of murderer.

  “What about Judge Barlow?” I asked, feeling obliged to play devil’s advocate. “The fact that he owns a string of sweatshops confirms his greed. And it will require a great deal of money to build their lavish home in Menlo Park.”

  “Good points, Sarah,” Samuel agreed. “Except that Tobias wasn’t seen at the hospital the night Arlen was poisoned. His wife was.”

  Papa stirred. “I’ve known Tobias for years, and I doubt he’d know a poisonous plant if one were thrust in his face.”

  “Perhaps not, but there are any number of books on the subject,” I replied. “Anyone who puts his mind to it can easily learn. I did. And we don’t know for a fact he wasn’t at the hospital that night, only that no one saw him there.”

  “You’re both forgetting Prescott,” Robert remarked. “I wouldn’t call his reputation exactly sterling.”

  This set off yet another round of discussion, which got us nowhere. When all was said and done, Margaret Barlow remained our primary suspect. I didn’t like it, but my job was to defend my client, and that meant utilizing every means at my disposal. Somehow I had to offer the jury an alternative theory for how Lucius Arlen met his death, hopefully creating enough uncertainty in their minds that they would return a verdict of not guilty.

  I didn’t deceive myself; there was little likelihood this strategy would succeed. After all, I’d be asking the jury to chose between a belligerent Chinese cook and a respected society matron. Yet I had little choice. Margaret Barlow represented my best, perhaps my only, hope of clearing my client. In all good conscience, I could not allow my respect, and genuine affection, for the woman to deter me from my duty.

  As I took my seat at the defense table on Monday morning,

  Robert met my somber gaze with one of his own. “Are you ready?” he asked.

  “Yes, I’m ready,” I told him with resolve. “I take no pleasure in what I must do, but I’m prepared to see it through to the end.”

  Although Mama and Celia were, as far as I knew, unaware of our defense strategy, they both bore grim expressions. As each of them caught my eye, they made a gallant effort to smile encouragingly. I wasn’t fooled for one moment. Even they knew the bleakness of our position.

  I turned toward the front of the room as Chin was led to our table. This morning, I sensed a new tension to his body as he took his usual seat. Even he seemed to appreciate that today was different: this morning his life hung in the balance. I leaned over to whisper words of encouragement, but he shook his head.

  “Those men,” he said, nodding toward the jury. “They no believe you. Think Chinaman guilty no matter w
hat you say.”

  “That remains to be seen,” I told him with a confidence I was a long way from feeling. “I can promise you one thing: we won’t give up without a fight.”

  The clerk recalled Mrs. Tobias Barlow to the stand, and again the courtroom buzzed with anticipation. Today, Mrs. Barlow wore a dark gray gown with far less bustle than the dress she’d worn the previous Friday. Evidently, the expediencies of the courtroom—and her comfort on the witness stand—had won out over fashion.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Barlow.” I said, rising to begin my cross-examination. I repressed a stab of guilt as she responded with an innocent, even trusting, smile. “Regarding your testimony last Friday afternoon, were you able to meet with Mr. Arlen the day after you and Judge Barlow consulted with your architect?”

  Margaret’s gaze dropped to her lap. “No, Miss Woolson. Mr. Arlen did not come to the hospital the next morning. He’d seemed so upset the previous day that I considered visiting him at his rooms, but my mother was ill and I was reluctant to leave her. I thought I might see him at your parents’ dinner party that evening, but of course he was too ill to attend.”

  “So, Mr. Arlen never had an opportunity to tell you the cause of his concern.”

  “No, he didn’t. And I will regret it for the rest of my life. If only I had—”

  “Perhaps you would be so kind as to relate your reasons for hiring Mr. Chin for the position of hospital chef?”

  She looked startled at this abrupt change of subject but obligingly listed Chin’s references, including his employment as cook for some of San Francisco’s finer restaurants. As she did, I noticed several jurors raise questioning eyebrows, as if they found it difficult to picture the truculent cook actually working in such establishments. Mrs. Barlow admitted that although Chin’s temper was notorious, no one took it seriously.

  “Then you weren’t overly alarmed when Mr. Arlen and Mr. Chin threatened each other that afternoon?” I asked.

  “It was unsettling, of course. But it never occurred to me that Mr. Chin might actually harm Mr. Arlen. They were always bickering. It meant nothing.”

  “I’m pleased to hear you say so, Mrs. Barlow.” I made a pretense of examining my notes. “Now, I believe you stated that you and your husband met with your architect at his Kearney Street office that afternoon. Would you please tell the court what time you concluded your business?”

  Once again, she looked taken aback. “Let me see. As I recall, the judge and I left sometime after six.”

  “And where did you go from there?”

  At this, her green eyes grew wide. “I don’t understand. What can that have to do with Mr. Arlen’s death?”

  “I agree,” Dormer said, rising to his feet. “Your Honor, where Judge and Mrs. Barlow went after their appointment is none of Miss Woolson’s business.”

  “I concur, Mr. Dormer. Is there a purpose behind these questions, counselor?” Judge Carlton asked, embellishing the word counselor with sarcastic emphasis.

  “Yes, Your Honor, there is. If you’ll be patient—”

  “I have little patience when it comes to wasting the court’s time, Miss Woolson,” he interrupted sourly. “Please come to the point—if there is one.”

  “Yes, sir.” I turned back to Margaret. “Mrs. Barlow, please tell us where you went after leaving your architect’s office that evening.”

  “Why, I went home, of course.”

  “And Judge Barlow? Did he return home with you?”

  “No. After dropping me off, I believe he went on to his club.”

  “I see. And what did you do after you arrived home?”

  “Your Honor, objection!” Dormer called out in an aggrieved tone. “This line of questioning is inexcusable!”

  “What do you have to say for yourself, madam?” the judge demanded, subjecting me to a withering glare.

  “I assure Your Honor that Mrs. Barlow’s actions that evening are pertinent to my client’s case. If you’ll allow me a few more questions, I promise it will become clear.”

  “I’ll give you five more minutes,” the judge spat. “Not one second longer. Now, get on with it.”

  “I went to my boudoir,” Margaret said, no longer bothering to hide her anger at what must have seemed a cruel betrayal of our friendship.

  “Did anyone see you? Your mother, or your maid, perhaps?” She took a deep breath. “No, I saw no one. I rested in my room until dinner was served around eight-thirty.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Dormer beginning to stand. Before he could object, I hurried on.

  “As it happens, someone did see you that night, Mrs. Barlow—actually the head nurse at the Women and Children’s Hospital. You were observed going into the hospital kitchen around seven-thirty, the time the police believe Lucius Arlen was poisoned. It has also come to my attention that you are well versed in herbal medicines and that you had good reason to wish Mr. Arlen dead.”

  The courtroom sat in stunned silence, then suddenly erupted with noise. I heard a woman cry out and realized Mrs. French was on her feet. Beside her, Reverend Prescott was regarding me with incredulity, then growing anger.

  Carlton banged his gavel but seemed unable to restore order. Angrily, he called for a brief recess, warning there were to be no further outbursts when court resumed.

  I had just returned to the defense table when a shrill voice called out, “How could you do that to my daughter? You are trying to destroy her!”

  Adelina French was standing behind me, so distraught she was shaking. Her beautiful eyes were filled with tears. “I never thought you capable of such cruelty!”

  Adelina’s outcry had drawn the attention of several reporters. An irate Reverend Prescott was also approaching us.

  I took the agitated woman’s arm. “Please, Mrs. French, allow me to buy you a cup of coffee. It would be best if we discussed this privately.”

  As I led Mrs. French out of the courtroom, I noticed Reverend Prescott being waylaid by the members of the press. Hurrying outside, I took Margaret’s mother to the same patisserie across the street where Pierce and I had lunched the previous Friday, and I hastily ordered coffee and pastries. To my dismay, Adelina continued to cry into a lace handkerchief.

  “I don’t see why you brought me here,” she said, dabbing at her eyes. “There is nothing you can say that can undo the damage you inflicted in that courtroom.”

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. French, truly I am.” I felt like a perfect villain. “I know I’ve caused you and your daughter a great deal of pain. Please, try to understand: my first duty is to my client—and his life is at stake.”

  We stopped speaking as the waiter delivered our coffee and pastries. I had ordered the food for Mrs. French’s sake, but I had to admit it looked tempting, especially as I had not taken time for breakfast that morning.

  “What if your client isn’t innocent?” Adelina asked when the waiter left. “Have you thought of that? If he is guilty—as everyone but you believes—then a good, honest woman’s reputation will have been ruined for no reason whatsoever.”

  I understood her distress. She was a mother, and I was destroying her child. If the situation were reversed, I knew I would feel the same anger and helplessness.

  “I’m simply searching for the truth, Mrs. French.”

  “No! That’s a lie! All you care about is saving the life of that wretched Chinaman. But why you’ve chosen my daughter as your scapegoat, I will never understand or forgive. The very idea of Margaret murdering someone is ludicrous. She can hardly bear to kill a fly. And she wouldn’t know baneberry or jimsonweed if they were served to her on a platter.”

  “Please, Mrs. French,” I said, aware we were beginning to annoy other patrons. Looking around, my companion noticed the unwelcomed attention we were receiving and self-consciously reached for her coffee cup. I noticed her hands were shaking as she lifted it to her lips.

  “It’s rather strong,” she said with a little grimace. Adding more cream and sugar, she to
ok another sip, then returned the cup to its saucer. “Please, Miss Woolson, I beg you to cease this terrible attack on my daughter. It is entirely without foundation. What possible reason could Margaret have for killing Mr. Arlen?”

  “Whoever poisoned him did it for money and to save themselves from exposure. When I went over the books, I found the same discrepancies Mr. Arlen must have discovered. Believe me, they were far more serious than the paltry entries made in my client’s name. Thousands of dollars are missing from the hospital fund, none of which could have been stolen by Mr. Chin, since he had no access to the books.”

  “I don’t believe you! This is the first time I’ve heard of missing money. Besides, my daughter has no need to steal. The judge has provided her with a fine home, servants, even a new country residence. Margaret lacks for nothing.” She lifted her chin in a defiant challenge. “I would like to see these so-called discrepancies for myself—if they actually exist.”

  I silently bent down to where I had placed my briefcase beside my chair, searching until I found the entries I’d copied from Arlen’s ledgers. Straightening, I handed her the documents, then took a sip of my own coffee. Adelina was right, it was strong. While she scanned the papers, I added sugar and cream to my cup, then succumbed to an apple dumpling, which was every bit as delicious as it appeared.

  Shaking her head, Adelina handed back the papers. “I have no head for figures, but if, as you say, funds are missing, Margaret cannot possibly have taken them. You do not truly know her, Miss Woolson, or you would appreciate that her honesty is beyond reproach.”

  “Mrs. French,” I said, washing down the last of my apple dumpling with more coffee. “I’m an attorney, bound by the rules of my profession to do everything possible to save my client. I know the murderer isn’t Mr. Chin, and I sincerely hope it isn’t Margaret. If she truly is innocent, I promise to do everything in my power to restore her good name.”

  “By then it will be too late! Her reputation will be ruined. There will always be doubts, whispers behind her back, cruel gossip.” She looked at me pleadingly. “If it’s a matter of money, Miss Woolson, I am well able to—”