Nick removed his coat and draped it over the girl. The gawkers had seen enough. “Bring that one”—he gestured at the customhouse inspector who had found the body—“into the station as soon as you can get him there. Send for the coroner, if you haven’t already. He’ll need to assemble a jury for his inquest, and they’ll want to see the body. Also, put the news out on the street that we’re looking for information about her. Somebody will claim her and then we’ll learn more.”
“No Chinaman’s gonna claim one of his girls. They don’t care once they’re done with them.”
Nick glanced over, the raw sea breeze piercing his shirtsleeves.
“This one’s different, Taylor,” he said, wanting to believe it. “Trust me. Someone will turn up for her.” Because they had to.
Because he needed them to.
CHAPTER 2
“You did your best Monday evening to be persuasive, Mrs. Davies. I appreciate that,” Mrs. Douglass said, perching her cup of pekoe tea atop her melon-and-maroon plaid skirt. She regarded Celia with the intense gaze that had made her such a successful chairwoman. “But you saw how some of the ladies feel.”
Celia tapped a fingernail against her own teacup and glanced up at the portrait of Barbara’s father that hung above the brocatelle-covered settee. The artist had captured him with a grin on his mustachioed face, his thumbs tucked into the pockets of his silk waistcoat. Plump and prosperous and pleased, he’d been a successful miner who had married a Chinese woman, only to lose her when Barbara was nine years of age. Celia knew what he would say about how “the ladies feel,” and the words would not be complimentary.
I miss you, Uncle. Nearly as much as Barbara does.
“Indeed, I did see how they feel, Mrs. Douglass. As did my cousin.”
“I am sorry if Miss Barbara was uncomfortable.”
Was she sorry? Celia wondered. “Nonetheless, I am surprised the ladies have permitted current sentiment to affect them.”
Hardly a day passed without a newspaper article calling for men and women to join anti-coolie groups that were organizing to stem the flow of Chinese immigrants into California. People had had few concerns so long as the Chinese stayed within their own communities. But when the woolen mills had begun replacing white laborers with cheaper Chinese workers, anger and hatred had started to swell.
The anger had spilled out a few weeks ago. A mob of unemployed men, primarily Irish, had assaulted dozens of Chinese laborers who were grading a road and burned their temporary shelters to the ground. Only through the intervention of the police had no one died. Barbara had been afraid to leave the house for days afterward, in case the rage was turned toward every Chinese person.
“I expect,” said Mrs. Douglass, “and the ladies expect, that there will be more violence.”
“The men responsible for that riot were punished, Mrs. Douglass.” Three months in jail and a five-hundred-dollar fine had been handed out, inflaming the locals who had sympathized with the men. “The Chinese of this city stand nothing to gain by retaliating.”
“I am not speaking of the Chinese causing violence, Mrs. Davies.”
“Then what are you speaking of?”
“I was approached after the meeting and yet again yesterday afternoon by a number of women whose husbands own businesses in this city. I won’t share their names; it’s not necessary.” Mrs. Douglass set her cup of cold tea on a side table. “Their husbands have been visited by members of an investigating committee. This committee has been given the task of collecting the names of any white men found employing Chinese labor. As I’m sure you know, several of our members’ husbands utilize Celestials. They are good workers.”
“And inexpensive.”
Mrs. Douglass ignored Celia’s comment. “But now these same members are alarmed. This is not the time for the society to provide financial assistance to your work with the Chinese . . . females of this town, Mrs. Davies. We shouldn’t be drawing attention to ourselves in this fashion. It is simply too dangerous. Perhaps in a few months, once the situation has had a chance to calm. It is a worthy cause, but let us wait for a better time.”
“A few months, Mrs. Douglass? Do you honestly believe that the workingmen behind these attacks, these meetings, this intimidation, will be pacified in a few months? The women need our help now, not when these men finally decide to stop rioting and assaulting the Chinese.”
“I have informed you of the situation, Mrs. Davies,” said Mrs. Douglass, rising to her feet. “I won’t be scheduling you to speak again on this topic for the near future.”
Celia stood as well. “I also presume these same ladies will no longer be providing support for my clinic.” She couldn’t afford to lose their donations; Uncle Walford had left her a stipend for the clinic in his will, but the money never went far enough.
“How they decide to distribute their charity is up to them, Mrs. Davies. Good—”
“Cousin!” Barbara burst into the parlor, her face as white as chalk, startling Celia, who spilled tea onto the red-and-gold-patterned carpet beneath her feet. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but there’s awful news in the paper.”
She thrust the newspaper into Celia’s hands. “There. Right there.” Barbara jabbed a trembling forefinger at an article. “It’s got to be Li Sha. It’s got to be!”
The headline screamed CHINESE GIRL FOUND DEAD.
Celia lifted her gaze to an ashen Barbara. “Dear God, no.”
• • •
“Here he is, Mr. Greaves,” announced Officer Mullahey.
Nick looked up from his desk. Mullahey pressed a beefy hand to the back of the customhouse worker, thrusting him into the office Nick shared with one other detective. Who, thankfully, was currently away.
“Glad you could come talk to us again, Mr. Wagner,” said Nick, gesturing for the man to take a seat. Thomas Wagner. Average height, average weight, average looking. Above-average temper. Already, a vein in his neck was bulging. He wore a black suit of high quality over all that averageness. Working as an inspector for the U.S. Custom House must pay better than Nick realized.
“Didn’t give me much choice, Detective Greaves,” Wagner muttered, dropping into the chair.
“Need me to stay?” asked Mullahey.
“No. Thank you,” said Nick, waiting to proceed until the officer had closed the door once again.
He leaned back in his chair and stared at Wagner, the rattle of carriage wheels on the street outside the basement-level office the only sound in the room. That and the whistle of Wagner’s breathing, which was getting louder and more rapid as each second ticked past.
“Well?” the man asked. “Are you just going to stare at me?”
“I might.”
“I already told you people all I did was spot that Chinese girl in the water. And then that dockworker came along to help me pull her out. That’s it! I didn’t have anything to do with killing her.”
“Yes, I know that’s what you said to Officer Taylor.” Wagner had claimed to have never seen the girl before he’d arrived at work Tuesday morning to inspect a vessel and found her bobbing in the water. It might be the truth. Might not.
“So you don’t need to talk to me anymore,” said Wagner.
“What did she do?” asked Nick. “Did the girl spurn your advances, and you got angry?”
“I don’t go to Chinese prostitutes.”
“Ah, I see. Of course not. It’s also come to my attention”—Nick consulted a paper on his desk—“that you were arrested last year for assaulting a Mexican sailor. Not far from the wharf where that Chinese girl was dumped.”
“I was let off. Besides, he started it,” he answered, sounding like an eight-year-old accused of a spat with a neighbor kid.
“Still, it seems you don’t much care for foreigners. Maybe you can tell me how much you hate the Chinese. All that grumbling among the Irish labo
rers. Lots of folks agree with them. Maybe you do, too.”
“Unlike those Paddies, I’ve got a job, a good one. I don’t hate Celestials. Don’t have any reason to.”
“You sure?”
“You think I’d kill that girl?” Now Wagner was sweating. He yanked a handkerchief from an inner coat pocket and mopped his forehead. “I was home with my wife. Didn’t your officer talk to her? She’ll tell ya!”
“She did say something to that effect. But my officer also spotted a newspaper on a table at your place. Open to an article about an anti-coolie meeting planned for a few days from now.” Nick rested his elbows on his desk and leaned over them. “So perhaps you can tell me just how much you hate the Chinese.”
• • •
“When will you be back from the police station?” asked Barbara, looking over at Celia from where she sat at the dining room table.
“As quickly as I can,” said Celia, tying the ribbons of her low-brim spoon bonnet beneath her chin. “Get back to your sums. The work should distract you while I am gone.”
Barbara scowled at her workbook of mathematical computations. “But I can’t concentrate.”
“Miss Barbara, ’tis best to carry on when awful things happen,” said Addie, who was cleaning the walnut sideboard, the feather duster repeating its circuit across the polished surface for the third or fourth time. She seemed adhered to her spot on the dining room rug, as if moving too far might disturb the heavens and cause more unhappiness to rain down. “As my father would say, nothing is so difficult but may be overcome with perseverance. And that includes sorrows.”
“The Palmers would never make Em do schoolwork if she was upset,” retorted Barbara.
“They might do,” said Celia. Invoking the wisdom of the wealthy and influential Palmers, acquaintances who had befriended Barbara, was one of the girl’s favored tactics. And tiresome, at a time like this. “They dote on Emmeline, but not at the expense of her education.”
Barbara sighed loudly but picked up her pencil.
“I was thinking mulligatawny for supper, ma’am. Something light,” said Addie. The feather duster made another pass across the sideboard.
“A good idea, Addie,” Celia said. “Here is hoping I have good news when I return.”
Celia set out for Portsmouth Square, where city hall and the police station were located. It was a short walk, all downhill, and she arrived within minutes. She dodged the traffic along Kearney, the hackney carriages discharging passengers, others waiting for fares near the iron fence that surrounded the square. The wind whirling across the road snatched at the ribbons of Celia’s bonnet, and she caught her breath as a gust spat sand against her cheek.
Pausing, she stared up at the three-story, sandstone-fronted structure that housed both city hall and the police station, gathering her nerve against what she might learn inside its walls.
Please, let it not be Li Sha.
She climbed the short flight of steps at the same time that a woman in a striped dress with a low-cut bodice strolled through the front doors.
“What’s your hurry, darlin’?” she asked Celia, wafting the aroma of alcohol.
Celia brushed past her and stepped inside. The entry area was dim and quiet and retained vestiges of the building’s past life as the Jenny Lind Theatre, though most of the interior had been gutted during the renovation. Ornate moldings decorated doors and ceilings, and a broad staircase led to other floors. Hallways sprouted offices with closed doors, the sounds of a commotion coming from behind one of them. Three men in black frock coats exited a room to her right and crossed to climb the stairs, their footfalls echoing. They didn’t halt their conversation or notice her attempts to hail them. Frowning, she examined the signs tacked to the farthest wall and realized the police station was located in the basement with the jail cells.
The staircase descended into an open room jammed with chairs and desks, gas lamps flickering to chase away the gloom. Cigar smoke hung in the air, the source of the smoke hunched over a desk shoved into the farthest corner, his gray policeman’s coat with its black buttons and velvet collar and star thrown over his chair. Though every window was propped open, Celia could hardly breathe for the appalling stench coming from the direction of the jail cells, guarded by a barred door. The stink likely explained why most of the room was empty.
Off to one side, a man argued with an officer, stammering on about not being involved in smuggling. At the nearest desk, another policeman glanced up, his eyes widening. She suspected it was not every day that a reasonably well-dressed woman found her way here.
“Ma’am?” he inquired, her wedding ring having been observed.
“I need to speak to an officer.” She took a quick, small breath; the stink made her head swim. “About the Chinese girl discovered dead yesterday morning.”
“Detective Greaves is busy.”
Detective. If a detective was involved, Li Sha had not met with some sort of accident, as she’d hoped despite what the newspaper article had implied.
She felt light-headed. She should sit and collect herself. She reached for the nearest chair and collapsed onto it, a mound of crinoline and heavy skirts. The alleged smuggler stopped arguing to gawk.
The policeman jumped up. “Ma’am?”
“I shall be fine,” she assured him.
“I’ll fetch water anyhow,” he said, and scurried off through a side door, leaving it ajar.
To ease light-headedness, she would advise a patient to put her head between her knees, but Celia’s corset kept her as upright as if she had been strapped to the chair back. Wretched cage.
She breathed in carefully. She had fainted only once before, even through everything she had experienced in the army hospitals—the putrefying wounds, the hacked-off limbs, the sickness and disease that took as many as the damage caused by men’s bullets and bayonets. Only once, and that had been when they had brought in Harry, her brother, delirious from fever. She must not faint now. They would never take her to see Li Sha if she fainted.
The policeman returned and thrust a chipped glass at her. “Here.”
“Thank you, Officer . . .”
“Mullahey.”
“Thank you, Officer Mullahey. I’m sorry to have alarmed you.” Celia took a sip and handed back the glass. “So, might I see the detective?”
The officer scrunched his nose, which was crooked from a long-ago break. “Detective Greaves don’t take to bein’ disturbed when he’s interviewin’ folks.”
“In that case, is there someone else I might speak to?” When he hesitated, she sat taller and looked him straight in the face. “I shall wait here as long as is required.”
“I kin tell.”
“Then you have no reason not to permit me to speak with someone immediately.”
The smuggler, eavesdropping, laughed aloud. His enjoyment of the spectacle she was making prompted a cuff on the shoulder from the constable beside him, which generated another argument.
“Hey, Taylor, you busy?” the officer called to the policeman smoking in the corner. “This here lady wants to talk to someone about that Chinese prostitute—”
“If the girl is who I think she is,” Celia interrupted, “she was not a prostitute.” Not any longer.
He smirked. “Anyways, Taylor, can you talk to her about that girl found on the wharf? While she waits for your boss. If’n he even agrees to meet with her.”
Officer Taylor glanced over, his eyebrows lifting, and hastily stubbed out his cigar. He stood and pulled a second chair close to his desk. “Miss.”
Celia crossed the room while Officer Mullahey went in search of the uninterruptible Detective Greaves. The smuggler lost his argument and was hauled off through the door with the barred window. The portal thudded shut behind him, settling the room into a sudden quiet.
“Not miss,” she said. “Mrs. Davi
es.”
“Sorry, ma’am.” With a gentle smile, Officer Taylor waited until she seated herself to retake his chair. “So, you think you might know the girl who was found yesterday?”
“I would have to see the body, obviously, to be certain.”
He went crimson, having the sort of pale skin that reddened easily. “Well, now, ma’am, that’s a mighty unpleasant thing you’re suggesting—”
“I have seen dead bodies before, Officer Taylor. More than you can imagine.” She must see the girl they had found. “More than you likely have, unless you served during your war.”
His blush spread across his face, and he jutted out his chin. The gesture made him look far younger than her own nine-and-twenty years. “I didn’t have a chance to fight, but I would’ve if I could’ve.”
“I am sorry. I did not mean to question your patriotism or your courage,” she replied, regretting her brusqueness. “I still insist, however, on seeing the body. I must know whether or not it is Li Sha.”
“A dead body isn’t a sight for any lady,” he said curtly, her apology rebuffed. “She was cut all over. It was awful.”
Murdered?
“If she was murdered, then I absolutely insist on seeing the body. I must know.”
“Detective Greaves won’t—”
“I shall speak to him myself.”
She stood and marched back across the station room, headed for the door through which Officer Mullahey had vanished.
“Ma’am!” Officer Taylor shouted. “Come back here!”
With one motion, Celia stepped over the threshold and plowed straight into a very solid chest.
• • •
Nick grabbed the woman’s arms before she lost her balance.
“I told you she was obstinate as all get-out,” said Mullahey from within the office.
“I see that.”
“You may let go,” the woman said, her voice as cultured and smooth as English cream. The impact with his chest had dislodged her bonnet, which tilted on her honey-colored hair.
She had even features and was as pretty as Mullahey had also claimed. She smelled good, too, fresh with the scent of strong soap and lavender, though any scent was better than the station’s reek. The beat police, who worked out of their homes, were lucky they hardly ever had to come here.
No Comfort for the Lost Page 3
