The Russian Hill Murders

by Shirley Tallman

  “No, Mrs. French, it’s not a matter of money.” I knew she was too distressed to realize she had just offered me an illegal bribe. “As I said, it’s about finding the truth.” I glanced at my timepiece. “Oh my, I didn’t realize it was so late. I have to get back to court.”

  I picked up my briefcase and, looking again into those sad green eyes, added, “I’m sorry, Mrs. French. Believe me it was never my intention to hurt you—or Margaret.”

  I paid the bill and was walking out the door when I bumped headlong into Reverend Prescott.

  “Oh, it’s you,” he said, favoring me with a sour look. “I’m trying to find Mrs. French.”

  “We had coffee,” I said and motioned to the table I had just vacated. When I would have passed by him through the door, he blocked my way.

  “You were very hard on Margaret, Miss Woolson. I can think of no excuse for bullying her in that manner.”

  “I realize it seems cruel, Reverend Prescott, but I must do what I feel is best for my client.”

  I was taken aback when the minister’s normally pleasant face twisted into something far more menacing. “You would destroy Mrs. French’s daughter because of a—a worthless Chinaman? What kind of a person are you, Miss Woolson, that you could stoop so low?”

  I felt my hackles rise at this blatant display of prejudice. “I understand your distress, Reverend Prescott, but that’s no excuse for you to—”

  Suddenly, he moved closer, and I retreated several steps back into the pastry shop. “I’m warning you, Miss Woolson,” he said, his compelling eyes dark with fury. “I will not stand by and allow you to badger Mrs. Barlow. Margaret is the only family Mrs. French has left. I won’t see her destroyed by a stupid, callous woman who fancies herself an attorney.”

  With that, he pushed by me to join Adelina, who sat weeping at the table. I watched as he put a consoling hand on her shoulder and whispered something in her ear, then I turned and hurried from the shop.

  As I crossed the street, I wondered if ensuring that justice was served would always entail enraging and, in some instances, injuring the innocent. Then I realized true blame must lie with individuals who choose to break the law. Their actions inevitably affect their family and friends. If Margaret did turn out to be the killer, she was the one responsible for her mother’s pain and suffering, not my efforts to defend my client.

  It wasn’t until I stepped inside the courthouse that it hit me. I’d been so distracted by Adelina’s distress, the significance of our conversation had not occurred to me until that moment. Now the answers I’d been struggling to find struck me like a physical blow. And, heaven help us, what a blow it was!

  Ignoring the bustle of people around me, I sank onto a bench inside the domed entry hall. Leaning back my head, I closed my eyes and shuffled facts, ideas, assumptions around in my mind, adding the bits I’d just discovered to others I’d previously discarded as unimportant. I forced myself to think objectively, to concentrate on the details of the four murders as I now knew them to be. No matter how I looked at it, I continued to come up with the same answer. But, dear Lord, could it possibly be true?

  Try as I might, I could detect no holes in my theory. An explanation for such appalling wickedness—yes, that remained to be revealed, if never to be completely understood. But the motive, means and opportunity all fit neatly into place. This time, I was confident there could be no mistake.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  “Where the devil have you been?” Robert demanded, as I took my seat beside him at the defense table. “You tore out of here so fast I didn’t have time to ask where you’re going with this cross-examination. I know we agreed to target Margaret Barlow, but this is no way to get her to confess, if that’s what you’re trying to do.”

  Before I could answer him, Chin arrived, silently taking his usual seat at our table. If anything, his expression looked even more grim than it had earlier that morning. I wondered if he could already feel the noose tightening around his neck. I was tempted to share my discovery with him, then reminded myself there was a wide chasm between knowing the truth and proving it in a court of law. It was far too premature to tell anyone, even Robert, until I was certain I could prove my suspicions.

  I took a long sip of water from one of the glasses the bailiff regularly placed on our table, then rose as Margaret Barlow was called back to the stand. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Adelina French and Reverend Prescott taking their seats in the gallery. Adelina’s red eyes stood out against her pale face, and she leaned heavily on Prescott’s arm. Several rows behind them, Pierce Godfrey sat with his brother, Leonard. Catching my eye, Pierce surprised me by smiling. After our less than cordial lunch the previous afternoon, I hadn’t expected pleasantries from a man I’d all but accused of being a murderer. But this was hardly the time to speculate on the eccentricities of the male mind.

  As I put down my water glass, I spied Papa, Samuel and Charles entering the courtroom. My father gave me a encouraging wink, as he and my brothers took seats by Mama and Celia, but he couldn’t totally mask his concern. More than anyone else, Papa recognized the hopelessness of our cause. He would never come right out and say it, but I knew he felt I had little, if any, chance of winning Chin’s case.

  “Miss Woolson?” Judge Carlton said impatiently. “The court is waiting.”

  “I’m sorry, Your Honor,” I answered, and turned to face Mrs. Barlow.

  Further delay was pointless, I told myself. Even if I had hours to come up with a strategy, it wouldn’t change the fact that I lacked one shred of evidence to prove my theory. That being the case, there was only one possible course open to me. For Chin’s sake I prayed it would work!

  Margaret watched me warily from the witness stand, no doubt terrified of what I might say. I smiled in an attempt to put her at ease but was not wholly surprised when she didn’t return the gesture. Plainly, Margaret Barlow no longer considered me a friend.

  “Your Honor, I have no further questions for this witness,” I announced, shocking my second chair as much as assistant district attorney Dormer and the judge. “I would, however, like to reserve the right to call Mrs. Barlow back at some future point in the trial.”

  Judge Carlton eyed me suspiciously. “Very well, Miss Woolson, you may reserve that right.” He turned to Dormer. “Does the prosecution wish to call any more witnesses?”

  Dormer was clearly baffled. “No, Your Honor. The prosecution rests its case.”

  “Miss Woolson, are you prepared to present your defense?” he queried, regarding me doubtfully over his thick spectacles.

  “I am, Your Honor,” I answered, displaying what I hoped was an air of confidence. “The defense calls as its first witness Mr. Kin Tsau.”

  “What in the name of all that’s holy are you up to?” Robert whispered, as I walked over to glance at my notes.

  “If all goes well, you’ll know soon enough,” I told him, refusing to be drawn into further conversation. I had noticed a dull ache developing between my eyes, and I took another long drink of water. Strange, it seemed to be growing uncomfortably stuffy in the usually chilly courtroom. Now, of all times, I could not allow nerves to get the better of me!

  An anxious Kin Tsau took the stand and was sworn in. After attesting to his occupation as laundryman for the new Women and Children’s Hospital, he obediently related his conversation with the cook the night Lucius Arlen had been poisoned. I was pleased when he went out of his way to emphasize the fact that Chin had left the hospital by seven o’clock.

  I watched the jurors while Kin spoke, dismayed, if not surprised, to read distrust, skepticism and even outright amusement on their faces. I was certain not one of them believed a word of the laundryman’s account.

  When Dormer rose to conduct his cross-examination, it was all too obvious he shared the jury’s opinion of my witness. With the court’s permission, I’d asked the tong leader, Li Ying, to provide an interpreter to avoid misunderstandings by either side. Even this precaution
was not enough to prevent Dormer from twisting Kin’s words into pretzels.

  With discouraging ease, he proceeded to inflict the same fate on my next four witnesses. These were the Chinese men Samuel and I had found in Chin’s favorite gambling dens. One after another they testified the cook was with them at the time Arlen was supposedly being poisoned. One after another, Dormer distorted their words until the poor men were no longer sure what they’d seen.

  So rapidly did Dormer dispatch my unfortunate witnesses, their combined testimony lasted barely more than an hour. The fact that he seemed to be having such a good time doing it fueled my anger, as well as my escalating headache. Every time one of his disparaging comments brought a titter from the spectators, he would dart a smile at the jury as if to say, What can you expect when your opponent puts imbeciles like this on the stand?

  It was no more than I’d expected, but it rankled nonetheless. I’d called upon these men hoping their honest stories would spark even a tiny glimmer of conscience within the twelve jurors. I had failed. Now I had no choice but to play my last and most perilous card. I refused to be deterred by the fact that I could be sanctioned—or even disbarred—for such behavior by the recently formed San Francisco Bar Association.

  Before calling my next witness, I went back to the table for more water, only to find my glass empty.

  “Here, drink mine,” Robert said, handing me his glass. He examined me warily. “Sarah, are you ill? You look flushed.”

  “Don’t be silly, Robert, I’m fine.” Turning back to the judge, I said, “The defense calls upon Mr. Harold Peterson.”

  The Barlow’s architect, a pale, pencil-thin man of about forty, looked uneasily about the courtroom as he took the stand. Speaking in short, clipped sentences, Mr. Peterson described his meeting with the Barlows on the Monday afternoon in question. He had spent about two hours with the couple, he testified, going over plans for their new country home. To the best of his recollection, they had left his office just before six o’clock. Mr. Peterson explained that he’d had an appointment with another client at six, so Dormer had little hope of shaking his testimony. After one or two attempts, the prosecutor excused Peterson without further cross-examination.

  Again, I returned to the table for another drink of water from my glass—which the bailiff had by now kindly refilled. When I turned back to call my next witness, I suddenly lost my balance and would have fallen if Robert hadn’t bolted forward to give me a helping hand. By now, concern was written all over his broad, open face. Hastily pulling myself together, I ordered my second chair back to his seat, lest the prosecution think I’d imbibed during the recess.

  Baffled by my unexpected dizzy spell, I took care to plant my feet firmly on the floor as I called Miss Emily Harbetter as my next witness.

  Nurse Harbetter—neatly attired in a dark blue muslin gown, a small, matching straw hat perched atop her graying hair—entered the courtroom and took her place on the stand. Unhampered by a cumbersome bustle, she was able to sit bolt upright in the chair, gazing at the spectators much like a school headmistress might examine her pupils.

  Succinctly, the head nurse told of seeing Pierce Godfrey enter Mr. Arlen’s office around seven o’clock the night the accountant was poisoned. She went on to describe how she had observed Mrs. Margaret Barlow entering the hospital kitchen some fifteen to twenty minutes later. Not surprisingly, this was greeted by exclamations from the spectators, as well as incredulous looks from the judge and both prosecutors.

  Miles Dormer did his utmost to shake Nurse Harbetter’s testimony, but about all he obtained was her reluctant admission that she’d seen little more than Mrs. Barlow’s profile as she’d entered the kitchen that Monday night. On all other points, the head nurse not only proved Dormer’s equal—deflecting those questions she obviously considered mindless—but once or twice using his own words to make him out a fool. These instances elicited so much laughter from the gallery—and even worse, the jury—that a very pink-faced Dormer could hardly get Nurse Harbetter off the stand quickly enough.

  “So far so good,” I told Robert, as I returned to my seat for yet another drink of water. Where in the world had this insatiable thirst come from? I wondered. And why did the room seem to be growing warmer by the minute?

  Using a handkerchief to dab at the perspiration on my forehead, I started to call out my next witness, when the room unexpectedly tilted to one side. Holding fast to the edge of the table, I closed my eyes to stem a sudden rise of bile in my throat. When I opened my eyes again, Robert was trying to assist me into my chair.

  “Robert, let go!” I told him under my breath, as the room finally righted itself. “It was just a momentary dizziness. I’m fine now.”

  Ignoring the fear on my colleague’s face, I requested that Mrs. Tobias Barlow be called back to the stand.

  Oddly, the murmurs of expectation that filled the room seemed to be coming to me from a great distance. Stranger still, I found it necessary to blink several times before Margaret came into clear focus as she entered the courtroom. I watched Judge Barlow sit forward in his seat as his wife walked toward the witness chair. Even Pierce and Leonard Godfrey’s interests seemed to have been piqued. A few rows ahead of them, a pale Adelina French leaned closer to Reverend Prescott. He patted her hand as if in reassurance, then whispered something in her ear which seemed to ease her perturbation.

  My family were all regarding me apprehensively. Indeed, Mama looked so upset I feared she might actually order the judge to stop the trial while she saw to her daughter’s well-being. I gave her a confident smile, or at least I think I did. To be honest, everything seemed a bit fuzzy. I had the odd sensation I was seeing the room through someone else’s eyes.

  Very deliberately, I turned to face my witness. “Mrs. Barlow, you told the court earlier that you went directly home after your meeting with Mr. Peterson. Is that correct?”

  “It is,” she responded guardedly.

  “Yet Nurse Harbetter testified she saw you enter the hospital kitchen that very evening. Would you please tell us how you managed to be in two places at the same time?”

  Mrs. Barlow’s eyes flew open in surprise. “But I didn’t! I wasn’t at the hospital that night. It isn’t true!”

  “Isn’t it, Mrs. Barlow? Miss Harbetter was a nurse in the Crimean War. She’s an intelligent, trained observer. Why would she lie about seeing you if it weren’t true?”

  “I don’t know why she would say such a thing. I have the utmost respect for Miss Harbetter. I cannot imagine why she would make up such a story.”

  “My point exactly. Do you know what I believe, Mrs. Barlow? I believe you walked into the hospital kitchen that night to keep the meeting you’d arranged with Mr. Arlen earlier that day. While you waited for him to arrive, you brewed a pot of fresh coffee to mask the taste of the poisonous baneberry roots and berries you planned to slip into his cup.”

  “Objection!” Dormer cried out. “This is outrageous! Miss Woolson is attacking the witness.”

  Judge Carlton looked sharply at me, then at the prosecuting attorney. For the first time since the trial began, I saw a flicker of interest—and doubt—cross his granite-hard face.

  “I will allow Miss Woolson to continue, Mr. Dormer,” he pronounced. “At least for another question or two.”

  “Thank you, Your Honor,” I said. I placed a hand over the right side of my face. That was peculiar—my voice had begun to echo in my ears. Perhaps Robert was right, I thought. I did feel slightly off color. Just a few more questions, I promised myself, and the entire matter would be settled one way or the other. Then I could go home, lie down in my bed, and place a cold cloth on my pounding forehead.

  Once again the spectators were murmuring in the gallery, and I saw Robert lean forward in his seat, his face creased with worry. I tried to give him a reassuring nod, but my head felt as if it were made of lead; it simply did not want to move. Robert must have caught the startled expression on my face, because he rose suddenly
from his chair. I finally managed a weak shake of my head, and he unwillingly sank back into the seat.

  A soft cry from the witness stand tore my attention back to Margaret Barlow. The tears she’d been fighting to hold back were coursing down her paper-white face. I had to finish this now, I told myself. I had to keep applying pressure.

  “While you waited for Mr. Arlen, you hid some baneberry in one of Mr. Chin’s cupboards,” I said. “You knew the police would find the poison when they searched the kitchen, didn’t you, Mrs. Barlow?”

  “No,” Margaret cried, looking desperately around the room for support. Her eyes fastened pleadingly upon her husband. He started to get to his feet, then, at a warning look from Judge Carlton, sank angrily back down again.

  “Your real father was a chemist, wasn’t he, Mrs. Barlow? You gained your knowledge of poisonous herbs from him—an adoring father introducing his only child to the wonders, and dangers, of nature.”

  By now, Margaret was weeping so hard I doubt she heard a fraction of what I was saying. Still, I kept up my attack, ruthlessly spewing out accusations. Behind me, I heard the rush of newspaper reporters pushing their way to the front of the courtroom. From the corner of my eye I saw Dormer stand and protest, but for some reason I couldn’t make out his words. Indeed, my own voice was almost unrecognizable. It was as if I were listening to someone else standing at the front of the courtroom pretending to be me.

  “You used that knowledge to collect the plants you needed to poison Caroline Godfrey, Josiah Halsey, Lucius Arlen and Dora Clemens,” I pressed on. “You deliberately ended the lives of four human beings—causing them to suffer a horrible, agonizing death.”

  From a great distance, I heard a woman scream. With enormous effort, I managed to turn my head toward the gallery. There, I saw Adelina French on her feet. Or was it Margaret? I couldn’t tell—the two women were so alike.