A Bitter Draught

by Sabrina Flynn

  Isobel waited.

  “What’s more shocking: discovering a man dressed as a woman or a woman dressed as a man?”

  “I think it would depend on the situation.”

  “Hmm,” Lotario agreed. “Do you know, I was once taken to the station by an overzealous patrolman who thought I was a woman disguised as a man. You should have seen the look on the matron’s face when she had me disrobe for proof.” Isobel laughed, and Lotario’s eyes danced. “Admit it, you’ve missed me,” he said.

  “Was that ever in question, my dear brother?”

  8

  Masquerade

  THE HACK ROLLED TO a stop in front of a slim, two-story house with a cheerful conical roof on its tower. Isobel stepped down, and turned to help her companion, Madame Lucie de Winter. The lady alighted with prim grace and a silky voice. “Wait for us,” she said. Her voice was heavenly, and she could afford the luxury of a waiting hack. Whenever Lotario donned a costume, he preferred to be addressed by his chosen name, and in truth, Isobel could not think of Lotario as a man, but then she never did—he was simply her twin who changed faces like the wind.

  Lucie paused to open her parasol, and Isobel jabbed a pointed elbow into her side, but there was no rushing the fashionably dressed opera diva.

  “Try to behave,” Lucie said, frowning at Isobel’s choice of clothing: flat straw hat, tie, blouse, and dark skirt, with blissfully comfortable boots. A pair of costume spectacles completed her scholarly disguise.

  Lucie stopped to admire the roses, commented on the lovely lattice-work, and turned to exclaim over the view as if they had all the time in the world.

  Rather than drag her twin along, Isobel climbed the steps, and waited. Light piano music and a dreadful wailing beat on the bay windows. When Lucie and her swishing skirts deigned to join her on the porch, Isobel stabbed the bell button with the tip of her umbrella.

  A harried, grey housekeeper opened the door. The moment she caught sight of the elegant caller, her face softened to polite formality. “I’m afraid Mr. Bolden is with a student.”

  Lucie supplied her calling card. “I’ll wait.”

  The housekeeper showed them into the entrance hall, but instead of following the woman into the front parlor, Lucie swished down the hallway.

  “Madame,” the housekeeper’s scots accent came through, and she hurried after, but before she could reach the rude guest, Lucie opened the sliding doors to the center parlor. The music cut off and the braying donkey raised her voice to compensate. Mr. Bolden gathered himself up from the piano to be outraged, but one look at the intruder transformed him into a jovial bear. The music teacher’s height rivaled his girth and his sideburns connected with his jowls, curling into a waxed mustache.

  Mr. Bolden slashed a hand across his throat. The student fell silent, but the echo of her screeching lingered. She was a willowy young woman, with hair piled atop her head and frills cascading down her long body.

  “Madame de Winter,” Mr. Bolden swept forward. “What an honor.”

  Lucie offered a bored hand, and the tutor kissed it with noisy lips. When he straightened, Lucie stepped forward, kissing the air over the man’s cheeks. “You are looking well, Leo.”

  “Life is good,” Mr. Bolden agreed. “And even better now. I don’t suppose you’ve graced me with your presence to show my student the difference between an angelic voice and hell on earth?”

  The student blushed, not in shame, but in fury. Isobel half expected the butcheress of the arts to stomp her foot and leave in a huff. When she did not, Mr. Bolden looked disappointed.

  “I’m afraid not,” Lucie replied, barely glancing at the student. “I wish a moment of your time.”

  “In the middle of the day?” Mr. Bolden raised his bushy brows twice.

  The housekeeper scowled, and when the full weight of her gaze fell on the man, he cleared his throat and guided Lucie into the front parlor. Largely ignored, Isobel followed, blending into the wall paper.

  Before the housekeeper slammed the sliding doors shut, Mr. Bolden ordered the butcheress to practice her scales. The wailing commenced.

  According to Lotario (currently Lucie), Emilio Bolden was the premier music tutor in San Francisco. Isobel wondered how much the student’s parents were paying him to tutor their ungifted daughter.

  Sunlight bathed the front parlor, pouring through the ceiling to floor bay window. The African marble hearth, redwood paneling, and velvet chairs were a testament to Mr. Bolden’s tutoring, if not his manners. He slid open the hallway doors, stuck his head out, and hollered for tea. When he shut the door again, he noticed Isobel.

  “Pardon me, Mademoiselle!” His eyes flickered over her with an assessing gleam. “A protege of yours?”

  Lucie laughed softly. “Charlotte sings like a donkey. And dresses the part,” she added distastefully. “But she can act, Leo.”

  Mr. Bolden studied Isobel with renewed interest, circling her like a purveyor of horses.

  “I’m pleased to meet you, Mr. Bolden,” Isobel said, taking a seat on the settee near the hearth. “Lucie says that you are the best tutor in California.”

  “The lady never exaggerates,” the tutor boasted.

  “Was that ever in question?” Lucie asked, settling on a chair by the window. The sun made her glow, demanding attention. Isobel admired her twin’s ability. When Lotario wished it, he could captivate a room.

  “If you ladies continue, I will burst from praise,” Mr. Bolden preened.

  “Or sweet cakes,” Lucie quipped.

  Mr. Bolden guffawed like a canon boom, momentarily silencing the donkey in the adjoining room. No doubt, he was an impressive baritone.

  “I have missed singing with you,” Mr. Bolden said, earnestly, perching his bulk on the chair opposite. “We make such beautiful music together.”

  “As have I, Leo, but you are training the next generation. There’s a lot to be desired.”

  “Few have ever come close to you,” Mr. Bolden confided, reaching for Lucie’s hand. She summoned an artful blush.

  “Charlotte has a friend who studied with you.”

  “Oh?”

  “What is her name, dear?”

  “Violet Clowes,” Isobel supplied.

  Mr. Bolden repeated the name, staring at the inside of his head. “Oh yes, Violet,” he murmured. “A fair soprano and a talented soubrette.”

  “Did she find employment after your tutoring?” Isobel ventured. “I lost contact with her.”

  The tutor looked down his wide nose at her. “All of my students find employment.”

  “Even the donkey braying in the your music room?” Lucie deflected the slight with an undeniable one.

  Mr. Bolden raised his eyes heavenward. “Perhaps not all,” he admitted, leaning back in his chair.

  The door slid open and the housekeeper rattled in with tea. As the woman arranged the tray, Mr. Bolden turned his gaze on Isobel, studying her with far more intelligence in his eyes than she would have credited him. Isobel tilted her eyes down, and reached for a cake. An observant person would not miss the resemblance between the two women.

  Lucie took a dainty sip of her tea. “I would like to meet this promising student of yours, Leo. Not everyone earns your praise.” Isobel marveled at Lucie’s ability to keep the china free of rouge.

  “I hadn’t seen her for some time, not since an unfortunate accident, but she recently called last month. She came for a reference.”

  “Oh? And did you give her one?”

  “Of course,” he huffed. “She’s singing at the Tivoli.”

  “How convenient,” Lucie said. “I have two evening performances there a week. A lovely venue, but you know I don’t mingle back stage. Do you have an address?”

  “Mrs. Cook will have it,” he said.

  Isobel stood. “I’ll fetch it.” She slipped into the hallway as the two friends dove into the latest theatre gossip. All of Isobel’s instincts were prickling. A woman of talent and employment hardly sound
ed desperate.

  Upon request, Mrs. Cook consulted Mr. Bolden’s appointment book, located Violet’s name and gave her an address—no telephone number. As Isobel wrote it down, she took note of an older address. The listing was in the Pacific Heights area. Violet, it seemed, had begun singing lessons while she was working as a caretaker. The tutor’s fees were extravagant. How on earth did Violet afford such lessons? Did Leo make an exception for the truly gifted, or did he make other arrangements with his pretty young students?

  Isobel flipped to the current day, memorizing the braying singer’s name. If the woman should ever buy her way into a role, she’d be sure to skip that opera. Before Mrs. Cook could snatch the book out of her hands, Isobel closed it with a thump.

  “Are you on the telephone?”

  Mrs. Cook scowled.

  “Madame de Winter has an appointment,” Isobel explained. “I can certainly interrupt her visit with Mr. Bolden, or I can ring her next appointment and move it to a more convenient time.”

  The Scots woman cocked an ear towards the parlor. Good-humored laughter bellowed from the room. Since an employer in a good mood was better than a grumpy one, Mrs. Cook showed Isobel to the telephone nook in the hallway.

  When the housekeeper left, Isobel rang the Cliff House Railway. Her messages had reached the evening shift conductor, but no one had reported finding a handbag and the conductor did not remember a woman with red hair wearing a grey dress.

  She thanked the office, and requested the cable car building. “Hello there, I called this morning about my missing handbag. The evening conductor left a message?”

  A thrill zipped through her like an electrical charge. It was the same feeling she had whenever an opponent was cornered and the King was within reach. She swallowed down her excitement, and concentrated on the voice in the earpiece.

  The conductor remembered Violet; however, there was no handbag, and he was sorry to say that he did not deliver her note, but was glad to hear that she was well.

  “Note?” Isobel asked in surprise. “Did the conductor, Humphrey, say what it was about?”

  “Well you handed it to him, didn’t you?” the man asked.

  “Oh,” Isobel cleared her throat. “Yes, of course.” Absentmindedly, she hung the earpiece on its hook, and considered the wallpaper in silence.

  Violet’s last known residence was on Jones Street, the Sapphire House. It wasn’t far from here. On the other hand, The Park and Ocean line was a good ways, and she would have to transfer at Golden Gate Park.

  Decided, Isobel plucked up the line and asked to be connected with the morgue building. After long minutes, an inquiring voice crackled over the line. “Can you deliver a message to Deputy Coroner Duncan August? Yes, tell him Charlotte Bonnie called. The woman’s name is Elizabeth Foster, her stage name is Violet Clowes. She resided at 415 Jones Street, the Sapphire House. Thank you.”

  With a thrill of triumph, Isobel stood and consulted the watch that hung from a chain around her neck. Four o’clock. She had tracked down an unknown woman’s name in a matter of hours. Truly, a far better detective than actress.

  Humming tunelessly, she went to extract Lucie from her social call.

  ✥

  “Why would Violet leave a note with a conductor?” Lucie asked as they bumped and rattled towards Jones street.

  “Perhaps it was her intended suicide note,” Isobel mused. “But it doesn’t explain the message carved into the sand.”

  “Makes it even stranger.”

  The thought considerably cheered her.

  “Will you ask around the theatre with your usual discreetness?”

  Lucie laughed, a note of music in their rattling world. “Am I ever discreet?” she asked, leaning into Isobel.

  “You’re utterly indiscreet. I’m hoping that it will mask your careful inquiries.”

  “I swear I won’t let anyone coerce me into walking onto a pier and jumping into the water. Besides,” Lucie waved a languid hand, “I can swim.”

  Isobel was uneasy. The theatre world was a small one. Infiltrating the theatre and asking after Violet would attract attention; fortunately, it was also her twin’s domain. “When is your next performance?”

  “I’m dancing at a hall tonight at ten. I sing at the Tivoli tomorrow.”

  “Be careful, regardless. I can bear Curtis’ blood on my hands, but not yours.”

  Grey eyes turned on Isobel in surprise. The eyes shimmered for a moment, but thankfully, Lucie recovered before she burst with sentiment. “Where are you lodging and what have you done with my Lady?”

  “I’m sleeping on her,” Isobel answered.

  “She does have a soothing affect on the body,” Lucie mused. “Where are you berthed?”

  “Folsom Street Pier.”

  Lucie wrinkled her nose. “Definitely no place for my Ladies. I worry about you.”

  Isobel straightened, turning away to watch the passing houses. “You shouldn’t. I’ve always been better off alone. You know how I loathe looking after others. It only distracts.”

  “I could have helped with Kingston,” Lucie returned.

  “You would have been a liability.” Isobel looked at her twin, leaving no room for argument. “It was better to convince Kingston that we were estranged; that the last I saw of you was in Europe. He’s a blackmailer and murderer. I don’t want you anywhere near the man.”

  “And the thought of you married to a blackmailer and a murderer is supposed to comfort me?”

  “You live in a brothel,” she pointed out.

  “It’s a bathhouse, and I like it,” Lucie preened.

  Isobel had never understood her twin’s living arrangements, but she left it alone, pressing her point. “It was a game; simple maneuvering, that’s all. I played my part like you play yours in the theatre. And now I have the advantage. Kingston doesn’t know I’m alive, he’s left off our family, and I discovered Curtis’ true colors. I won.”

  “Then why are you still after Kingston?”

  “Before I—killed Curtis,” her voice shook, and she cleared the grit from it, “he said that Kingston moved in the same circles. That there were powerful men in the shadows, and that he was an Engineer, like Kingston, but not so clumsy. I think that Kingston is more blunt tool than Engineer.”

  “So you’re swimming into deeper waters?”

  “Don’t I always?”

  “You do, that’s the problem. And you leave me behind to worry.”

  “I don’t want to see you hurt.”

  “Bel, do you imagine that I want to see you hurt?” Lucie asked, softly.

  Isobel was quickly regretting her choice to confide in her twin. “You shouldn’t come with me to Violet’s residence.”

  “But I’m intrigued.”

  “You’re too noticeable.”

  “I could be Violet’s friend from the theatre.”

  “True,” Isobel admitted.

  “I might as well bask in your presence until you sail off to China.”

  Isobel sighed. “It’s always tempting.”

  “How will I reach you if I discover something?”

  Isobel considered her options. She may, or may not have a desk at the Call, and there was always a chance that a message would be intercepted by her competition. Unfortunately, the Deputy Coroner wouldn’t do for Lotario and his many faces.

  “Send whatever information you uncover to Ravenwood Agency—until I can find a more permanent address.” The delay was entirely due to her lack of funds. Isobel had spent the last of her money on dock fees, but she wasn’t about to tell Lucie; twin, or no. Isobel did not like for others to pay her way, unless she was shamelessly spending the funds of a criminal husband.

  “Ravenwood Agency? Isn’t that the name of the agency where Riot is employed?”

  “It is,” confirmed Isobel. “You can trust him.” The words slipped past her lips without thought—as sure as she knew she was breathing. The realization startled her.

  “Trust?” Lucie
asked, surprised. “I didn’t think you trusted anyone but yourself.”

  “I’m talking with you, aren’t I?”

  “My dear sister,” her twin drawled in a masculine voice, “I don’t even trust myself. Madame de Winter is a shameless flirt and gossip.”

  “Madame de Winter will find her balls kicked if she so much as breathes a word about this business to anyone.”

  “Your diplomacy has always been intolerable.”

  9

  Sapphire House

  A STURDY WOMAN WITH a mop of old-fashioned curls and small beady eyes opened the door. She squinted at the two women on her step. The woman’s gaze settled on Lucie, who smiled pleasantly in return.

  “Charlotte Bonnie,” Isobel introduced, catching the woman’s attention. “I’m with the coroner’s office.” In one sweep, Isobel took in the woman’s expensive earrings, out of date clothes, and rough hands. She spoke her conclusion out loud. “You’re the landlady of Sapphire House.”

  “That I am. Mrs. Kathy Beeton, and a fine clean house I run. No trouble here.”

  “I’m afraid one of your residents found trouble elsewhere. Does a Violet Clowes rent a room from you?”

  The landlady sighed, turned and walked away.

  Isobel looked at Lucie, who lifted a shoulder. She had expected some suspicion over her investigating claim.

  Mrs. Beeton walked passed the parlor and led them upstairs. The floorboards creaked under her weight. The railing was polished, the rails dusty, and the runners worn. The same could be said of the rest of the hallway. The door knobs gleamed, but the small table holding a vase had not been dusted for sometime.

  “Do you employ a housekeeper?” Isobel asked.

  Mrs. Beeton stopped in front of a door, and drew herself up. “I do all the cleaning myself. Always have.” She fiddled with her key ring, trying each key twice before coming back to the first and inserting it into the lock again. “What’s the girl done, then?”

  Isobel raised her voice in case the woman was hard of hearing. “We’re with the coroner’s office, Mrs. Beeton.”